They certainly will, Hearst thought, watching them troop across the street.
“You’re some liar,” he said.
“Sure,” George said. “But look at my results. They’re happy as hell because they got something to tell their friends when they get back.”
Mackay came to the door. He handed Hearst the boots. “I’m going back to the office. Everything’s settled. I’ve got someone tracing the bus and I know who one of your two friends is.”
He smiled and walked out.
“Hey,” Hearst shouted, but the door had closed again.
“How do you like that?” George said. “No gratitude in him. Wouldn’t even give us a clue.”
He took one of the boots and examined it but it seemed an ordinary boot. He tossed it back to Hearst who put it on. They went back to the office.
Hearst picked up the telephone directory and turned to the page Mackay had been looking at. At the approximate place where Mackay’s finger had stopped were three private numbers and the number of a boys’ reform school.
“For God’s sake,” Hearst said in disgust. “A reform school!”
“What’s that?” George said quickly, and Hearst told him.
“It’s a clue!” George yelped. “Oh boy, a clue!”
“A clue, hell,” Hearst said. “If either of those guys came from a boy’s reform school I should be in diapers.”
11
“My heart,” said Mrs. Vista, “is not what it used to be. I feel I must have a cup of good strong tea.”
Mrs. Vista’s heart had never been what it used to be and this announcement failed to electrify anyone. Only Joyce Hunter bothered to reply, and then it was the kind of reply that Mrs. Vista found most unsatisfactory.
“If you want some tea,” Joyce said moodily, “make it yourself.”
Mrs. Vista, still seated at the head of the dining-room table, surveyed her regally.
“You are a rude young snippet.”
“I don’t know what a snippet is,” Joyce said coldly.
“You don’t have to know, you are one.”
“Well, if I’m a snippet, you’re a... a paramour.”
“A paramour!” Mrs. Vista clapped a hand to her heart and made a little bleating noise. This forced Maudie to make a little bleating noise, too, since she had her status as invalid of the party to maintain. The competition was getting lively when Isobel precipitated herself into the room and slammed the door violently behind her.
Chad Ross said, “I told you you shouldn’t go out. We’ll all have to stay here until she’s moved into the library.”
Mr. Hunter rose from the table and helped Isobel to a chair. Then he sat down beside her and patted her hand and made soothing sounds of sympathy.
“Was it terrible?” he whispered.
She nodded, half-angrily, and took her hand away. “They’re all taking it so... so calmly. No, not calmly, but as if they don’t care what’s happened.”
“Why should we?” Mr. Hunter said in surprise.
“But she’s dead — murdered! Don’t you feel anything at all?”
“It’s a pity, of course, but I barely knew the woman, and one can’t expect total strangers...”
“But if you saw her?”
“Precisely,” said Mr. Hunter dryly, “why I don’t want to see her. It’s not unlikely that you’re the one who is wrong. You are making the worst of a bad situation by allowing yourself to become emotional about something you can’t do anything about.”
He coughed primly and stroked his mustache. “It is far, far better to spend one’s emotions on oneself, like Mrs. Vista and Mrs. Thropple, or not to have any emotions, like Joyce.”
“Or to close your eyes, like Mr. Hunter,” Isobel added.
Mr. Hunter smiled benignly and said nothing.
“And I can do something about the situation,” Isobel said. “Perhaps you’d like to come into the library with me?”
“No, no thanks. I am happier here. What do you want in the library?”
“There’s a book there I’d like to see. It’s on local geography and we might be able to figure out exactly where we are and do something about it.”
“I prefer to wait for the rescuers,” Mr. Hunter said blandly.
Isobel glanced at her watch. “It’s ten o’clock. The rescuers are taking their time, aren’t they?”
Mr. Hunter was beginning to be annoyed. “Kindly lower your voice. You wouldn’t like to put the women in hysterics, would you?”
“I’d love it,” Isobel said through her teeth.
“You’re a very odd woman,” Mr. Hunter said. She had gotten up from the chair and was looking down at him with contempt. “I earnestly advise you to stay in here with the rest of us.”
“Your daughter has more spunk than you have,” Isobel said witheringly.
“I’m sure of it,” Mr. Hunter replied with sorrow. He watched Isobel move towards the door. There was a noticeable reluctance in her step, but once the door was opened she swung out into the hall, almost gaily.
She felt better in the hall, even with Floraine there, even with Crawford in a savage mood.
The others, encased in their four stone walls of indifference, irritated her. They aren’t human, she thought, except Gracie and Miss Rudd and maybe Crawford. Even Paula Lashley, who seemed like a nice girl, could not disentangle herself from her own mesh of problems long enough to act human.
“You back again?” Crawford said. He had propped a kitchen chair against one wall and was leaning back, with the bottle of brandy in one hand. Isobel saw with a shock that the brandy was nearly half gone and that Crawford was actually smiling.
Crawford noticed her glance. “I am quietly getting a snootful, Isobel. I’d ask you to join me but I have already drunk from the bottle and I don’t approve of women drinking. Cuts down my supply.”
Isobel edged along the opposite wall, carefully avoiding Floraine’s body.
“Where are you going, Isobel?”
“To the library,” Isobel said coldly.
“For a good book to read. I agree, there’s nothing like a good book when you find yourself cooped up with one, maybe two, homicidal maniacs, and a cold-storage corpse.”
“Getting drunk isn’t going to help.”
“Sure it’s going to help, it’s going to help me. The rest don’t matter.”
“A very refreshing viewpoint,” Isobel said and turned her back on him. But she didn’t hurry into the library.
“Except possibly,” Crawford added thoughtfully, “you. You may matter. I shall try to find out.”
“Don’t bother.”
“No bother at all,” Crawford said graciously, and took another drink. “I have always had difficulty with my women. I think the reason is that I’ve never done enough reconnoitering. Take a gun, for instance. When you buy a gun you don’t go into a store and pick out one because it has such a cute little trigger. No ma”am. You scout around first.”
“Thanks,” Isobel said. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do.”
“By the way, where is your gun?”
“Here.” He patted his pocket. “Snug as a bug.”
“What’s your real name?”
He grinned and looked at her owlishly. “Now, Isobel. You’re plying me with liquor to make me talk. I won’t talk, Isobel, but you may have my card. Have a bunch of them, take them home to your friends.”
He tossed some cards across to her. She stooped and picked them up. The first one said, “M. R. MacTavish, Insurance Adjustor.” The others included an Oriental Rug Dealer called Marink, a Mr. Kelly who ran a Finance Company, and a Mr. Hugh Henderson whose business was not stated.
Isobel let the cards fall to the floor. She said dryly, “A man of many moods, apparently.”