She looked that sort of girl.
Annie ushered her in, said that she would bring fresh tea, and closed the door silently. Miss Harbottle advanced with outstretched hand. Crane took it, looking at her, suddenly and disastrously uncomfortable.
Miss Harbottle’s fair wavy hair had been cut murderously short. She had a face that could find a match only in those old books of high romance that Crane had read and pored over as a child, a face that made the faces of modern magazine advertisement girls look the vapid blanks they were. She wore slacks and a short leather coat, an attire for which she apologized at once.
“Felt it more suitable for the weather. Filthy ride.”
“Yet you came anyway,” Crane said, showing her to a chair. “It must be very important.” He looked vainly for a case.
She laughed, sitting down. “I’m afraid I played a little deception on you, Mr. Crane. I have no maps to sell.”
Crane sat up. “Well, what on earth—?” he began.
Her face, while still retaining all its vitality and vivacious radiation of breeziness that had so befuddled Crane, became at once somber, penetrating and intelligent. The impression she gave Crane was of an elfin sprite full of feminine loveliness and charm barely concealing the practical toughness of a dynasty-toppling Empress. She leaned forward.
“I’m not selling maps, Mr. Crane. But I am interested in acquiring a map—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Harbottle.” Crane was brusque and annoyed. “If you knew I collected maps you should also have known I do not-sell. I—”
“I know, Mr. Crane. I am interested in one special map. A map which I believe, you, also, do not have.”
“Oh?”
Her eyes were hidden now behind down-dropped lids. He wondered for a panic-stricken instant what she was thinking; then he rallied. That was between him and his memories alone.
“Well, Miss Harbottle—”
“And my name isn’t Harbottle. That happens to be the nam? of the proprietor of the Royal Garage. I used it on the spur of the moment.”
“But why—?”
“Mr. Crane. If I told you that I am looking for a certain map and came to you for assistance, what would you say?”
“Well… only that if I could help you, I would, of course. But I think it very unlikely.”
“So do I.”
“What! Well, then?” Crane was exasperated.
“Mr. Crane.” The girl whose name was not Harbottle spoke with concentrated seriousness.
Her eyelids rose and her eyes — of a deep and disturbing blue — held Crane’s hypnotically. “I am interested in a map — a map that has been torn down the center.”
“Ah!” said Crane, and was silent.
In the room the feeling of tension was as strong a reality as the wind that clawed at the windows and buffeted the walls outside. A door banged somewhere far off above; probably the beds were being turned down. Annie must have assumed that Miss Harbottle who was not Harbottle would be staying the night. It would be a charitable gesture to offer and everyone knew that Crane was not the man for monkey tricks with females. Crane ignored all these outside unimportant sounds.
A map, torn down the center!
An old map, on thick curling paper with print that was difficult to read. Yet not too old. Young enough to be used by a motorist wanting to find his way along mainroads in the country. Along roads that had run in the same grooves since the time men traversed them searching for fresh flints long before the Romans came. A map that did exist — or had existed — an ordinary map, a cheap mid-nineteenth century map printed all in black.
Yes, Crane knew of a map that had been torn down the center.
But was that map the one this girl was talking about?
The answer to that question could only be: “yes!”
Crane composed himself. He poured more tea. His hand trembled so slightly that the tea fell neatly enough into the cup; its scatter would have covered half a crown.
“You’d better tell me the rest of it, Miss Har — I beg your pardon…”
“Polly Gould.”
“Miss Gould, then perhaps we can — Polly Gould? You’re not Allan Gould’s sister?”
“No.” Then, at his expression, she said flatly: “I’m his cousin.”
“Most odd. I mean, ringing me up and spinning a yarn about having a map to see and being a Miss Harbottle…. Why didn’t you try to see me in the ordinary way?”
Her expression baffled him; but for a fleeting instant he didn’t like what he saw. Then she said: “You’re a rich man, Mister Crane. From all accounts, very rich. You live alone with a few servants, stuck out in the middle of this bleak moorland. I’ve had dealings with very rich people a few times before and I can say candidly that I do not like them. They’ve fallen into the trap of believing that money compensates for the lack of normal human qualities—”
“Please, Miss Gould—”
“Oh, I’ve heard about your archaeological pursuits and no doubt you feel you are doing a good job — but that’s purely relative. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d be like all the rest and refuse, offhandedly and offensively, to see me.”
“But you’re Allan Gould’s cousin!” Crane was determined not to become annoyed. “Surely that must have made you understand I’d see you—”
“Allan told me what an odd fish you were — his expression, I’m merely reporting — and how damned glad he was he hadn’t been born with all your inherited wealth. No, Mr. Crane. Subterfuge it had to be. You rich and we ordinary people inhabit two different dimensions.”
“I remember Allan being a wild one. Always dissatisfied with what he had, always reaching out after fresh experiences. He even bucked army tradition to the extent of volunteering for any crazy scheme that came along….” Crane had been shaken by this girl’s verbal bludgeoning. He knew rich people were disliked as a matter of principle; but she seemed so cold-blooded about it all. But he had to know what she knew about a map that had been torn down the center. He shifted in his armchair and said: “Well, then — can you tell me if there is any more news about Allan?”
“None.” Polly Gould’s manner subtly changed, as though through her tough matter-of-factness she had remembered an old and painful wound. “Since he disappeared no one has heard a word. And that was five years ago. So we’re not likely to hear anything now.”
“No. I’m sorry. You were fond of him?”
“Pretty much.” She was offhanded about it now; it cut deep. “He was in love with me. Wanted to marry me. I wasn’t and didn’t. I sometimes wonder if — but then — what with the map and all I just can’t make up my mind….”
Her distress was obvious.
Crane felt unnecessary.
He realized that she’d spoken as she had earlier to show him how she felt, to put her cards on the table, to be honest with him. But this, this about Allan Gould — this meant much more to her.
“Well, anyway,” he said brusquely, “perhaps you’d care to tell me why you’ve come to see me.”
“The other day I was speaking to Tom Bowles — you don’t know him and, anyway, he isn’t important.”
Crane felt sorry for poor Tom Bowles. Being so summarily dismissed by this girl was something like the end of the world. Her dismissal of him — well, now, that was a different category of Armageddon.
“He mentioned that he’d heard a funny story from friends and they’d picked it up from overhearing an Admiral talking in his club.” She shot him an oblique inquiring look, as though weighing him afresh. “The story was so odd that it was worth repeating.”
Crane nodded. “You can spare me the story. I know.”
Polly Gould put down her cup and stared directly at Crane. “I don’t know it all, not the details. But I want you to tell me. It is very important that you do so, Mr. Crane.”