“I’m not worried, my dear. Not for myself. I’m only thinking of your welfare.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll be with you all the time, supporting you, and I’m sure there’s nothing to be concerned about. Shall we go in together?”
“Yes.”
She got up and smoothed the skirt of her dress and pushed back the heavy side of her hair. She did not look at Oliver at any time. Walking with a kind of rigidity, as if she had been drinking too much and were exercising the greatest effort to conceal it, which was not true, she walked out of the bedroom and down the hall into the living room, where a man rose at once from a chair to meet her. He was slender, below average height, with sparse, sandy hair brushed straight back from a high forehead, and his eyes were covered with thick, rimless lenses. He leaned slightly forward from the hips, which gave him the appearance of peering intently at whomever he was merely looking, and he had, she learned after a moment, an odd habit of pinching the lobe of his right ear with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He did not conform at all to her idea of a policeman. To her, he looked much more like a clerk in a department store, although he was not dressed quite well enough for it, and he was so palpably uneasy that she felt sorry for him and wanted immediately to say something to reassure him.
“My dear,” Oliver said, “this is Mr. Bunting of the police.”
“Lieutenant,” Bunting said.
“Excuse me. Lieutenant Bunting. He would like to ask you some questions.”
“How do you do,” Charity said. “I’m sure I can’t imagine what I could tell you that would be of any help to you.”
“Well, it’s just routine, Mrs. Farnese.” Bunting sounded apologetic. “You know how these things are.”
“No, I don’t,” Charity said. “What things?”
“Oh, police matters in general. It’s necessary to investigate them, you know. I’ll not disturb you any longer than necessary. Perhaps it would be better if we sat down.”
“Certainly. Please sit down, Lieutenant.”
Bunting hesitated with an air of desperation and then sat down slowly in the chair from which he had risen. Afterward, Charity went to another chair and sat down too. They faced each other across five feet of deep pile. Oliver continued to stand.
“I understand that you knew a man named Joseph Doyle,” Bunting said.
“Do you?” Charity said.
“Yes. He played the piano in a nightclub called Duo’s. You’re familiar with the place, I believe. The bartender there told me that you and Doyle became acquainted there one night about a week ago and later left the club together. He said you saw each other at other times.”
“Is he certain of that? That we saw each other at other times afterward?”
“Well, no, he isn’t, as a matter of fact. He can’t prove it, that is. He assumes it, but he feels sure you did.” Bunting shot a glance at Oliver Farnese and looked more apologetic than ever. “I don’t want to embarrass you, of course.”
“I am not embarrassed, Lieutenant. I only want to know if you are accusing me of something just because someone chooses to make assumptions.”
“I am not accusing you of anything for any reason.” Bunting pinched the lobe of his ear, glanced at Oliver Farnese and back to Charity. “I thought it was understood that I’m only after information. I’m not very good at saying things, however, and maybe I didn’t make my position clear. What do you say we start over? Joseph Doyle is dead. Maybe it was murder, but more likely it was manslaughter. He was found yesterday morning in an alley. His jaw was broken and his face and lips lacerated, and several teeth were loosened. He had been struck, from the evidence, by the fist of a strong man. But it wasn’t this blow that killed him. He had been struck a second time in the body. Above the heart. Post mortem showed that he had a bum heart, and it was the body blow that he didn’t survive.”
“He had rheumatic fever as a boy,” Charity said.
Bunting smiled at her, pinching the ear lobe, and silence stretched out for seconds. His attitude seemed suddenly more relaxed, suggesting that everything would now surely be pleasant and productive for everyone since he had clarified his position and his problem.
“That’s fine, Mrs. Farnese,” he said finally. “I knew you would want to cooperate with us when you understood the circumstances.”
“I’m willing to cooperate,” she said, “but I still don’t understand how I can help you.”
“You do admit that you knew Joseph Doyle?”
“What do you mean, admit it? I don’t like the way that sounds. You make it sound as if it were something shameful or incriminating or something.”
“No, no. I’m sorry if I gave that impression. I only want a statement as to whether you knew him or not.”
“It has been established that I knew him, and it is perfectly clear that you know all about it. I don’t see why you keep going over and over it.”
“Sorry. If you will only be patient a little longer, I’ll appreciate it. Was this night at the Club about a week ago the first time you met Doyle?”
“Yes. I had been somewhere else and went in there to have a Martini and think about things. He was playing the piano, and someone else was playing a drum. It was quite clever, like a conversation that you kept trying to understand. Afterward, when it was quite late, Joe Doyle played requests on the piano, and I asked him to play a particular song. I thought he was very good, but he said that he wasn’t. We had Martinis together at the bar. At least, I had a Martini. He may have had something else.”
“I see. Did you leave the Club with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see him again after that night?”
“I don’t know that I should answer that. I can’t see that it makes any difference.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Bunting looked miserable, and the lobe of his ear was red from the mauling of thumb and finger. “I hope you believe that I have no desire to embarrass you, and that I have no interest at all in your personal affairs. Let me come to the point directly. Do you have any idea who might have killed Doyle?”
She was silent, sitting with her hands folded and her bead bowed. She wondered if he would hear, as she did, from some remote and indeterminable source, the soft, incessant sound of cosmic weeping.
“No,” she said at last. “How could I?”
“I thought he might have mentioned someone who held a grudge against him. Something like that.”
“No. Nothing of the sort. He didn’t talk about other people he knew or what had happened to him before we became acquainted. As you see, I learned practically nothing about him.”
“Except that he had had rheumatic fever as a boy.”
“Yes, of course. He told me that. Also that he wanted to be an exceptional pianist, but didn’t have the ability. I thought that he was very sad about it, not having the ability and all, and I felt sorry for him and tried to make him feel that it was still possible, but he didn’t believe me.”
“I see. It’s tough, sometimes, learning to accept our limitations.” Bunting looked embarrassed again, as if he were suddenly aware that his remark sounded presumptuous. He had not looked at Oliver Farnese since his one previous glance, but at this moment he somehow gave the impression that he was deliberately, with an effort, refraining from looking. “There is one other point I’d like to mention, Mrs. Farnese, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. You may mention whatever points you choose.”
“Thank you. According to my information, you had arranged to see Joseph Doyle at the club where he worked on the night he was killed. Night before last, that was. Between six and seven o’clock, you called the Club and talked to the bartender and asked him to relay the message that you would be unable to come. Is that true?”