He spoke in a tight, controlled voice. “So she was afraid of Dalloway.”
“Oh, you mustn’t take that too seriously,” Miriam said.
He paid no attention to her, keeping his eyes fixed on Frank. “I’d like to read that report, all of it.”
“I’m sorry, you can’t.”
“Professional ethics?”
“Partly that. Mainly, though, because I think it might be harmful to you.”
“I’m not a vulnerable child, you know.”
“None of us knows how vulnerable we are until we’re tested.”
“I’ve been tested by experts.”
Frank didn’t reply. He simply replaced the report in the manila folder and tied the tapes.
Watching him, Dalloway realized that it was useless to continue the subject. Frank wasn’t merely stubborn, he was right, and the combination was like steel and concrete. Dalloway thought savagely, he’s used to handling mental patients. I must be a cinch.
He forced a smile on his face, hoping it made him look friendly and unconcerned. “You’re right, of course, Clyde. I may be more vulnerable than I think. Naturally, I was curious as to what Rose had to say about me. Funny, after all these years that I should be interested, isn’t it?”
“You’re still interested in her.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“So is Frank,” Miriam said with a brief, mirthless laugh. “It’s all we’ve talked about for a week now. I’d like a good long discussion about the weather for a change.”
“The weather,” Dalloway said, “has been perfect. If we suddenly had twelve inches of rain or a tornado, we might work up a lively conversation. As it is” — he shrugged — “what can you say or do about anything perfect? It’s the squeaky wheel, like Rose, that gets the oil.”
Miriam went and sat on the piano bench, her hands folded on her lap in a limp and resigned way.
“There are,” Dalloway added, “other squeaky wheels besides Rose, but so far no one’s paid any attention to them except me.”
“The Goodfields,” Frank said.
“Of course. I talked to Captain Greer about them this morning. He claims that they’re more along your line than his. You’ve seen them?”
“Not the old lady. I’ve heard about her, though, from Greer.”
“You’ve seen Willett and his wife?”
“Yes. At the inquest and at the funeral.”
“What do you make of them?”
Frank smiled. “Well, that’s a pretty big question. I haven’t formed any conclusions.”
“I don’t agree. I think that a man like you forms a conclusion every time he even looks at a person. Of course he may change the conclusion later, but he forms one.”
“You’re half-right anyway. I can’t avoid recognizing types of people and of families.”
“What about the Goodfield family?”
“It’s fairly standard. Much too standard. Dominant mother, rebellious daughter, weak sons.”
“And the wife, Ethel?”
“Probably picked out by the mother.”
“Greer thinks she’s feeble-minded.”
“She may give that impression now — she’s still under Mrs. Goodfield’s thumb. When the old lady dies, Ethel will come into her own.”
“Willett won’t?”
“Afraid not, if he follows the usual pattern. Ethel will simply assume Mrs. Goodfield’s role.”
“An odd set-up.”
“Not nearly odd enough,” Frank said. “There are many families like the Goodfields.”
“Not many who have a dead woman found in their backyard.”
“No.”
“I’m thinking it, you’re thinking it, we may as well say it. Those Goodfields had better be investigated, from top to bottom.”
“By whom?”
“I’ve done what I could. The trouble is, I can’t go around trailing people and asking them questions. I’m too conspicuous for one thing.” He gave his artificial arm a contemptuous tap. “For another, I’ve had no experience in investigation work.” Dalloway paused. “You have.”
Miriam made a sound of protest though she formed no actual words.
“Why are you anxious to get something on the Goodfields?” Frank said.
“If you’ll re-phrase that, I might be able to answer.”
“All right. What’s your interest?”
“You might call it curiosity.”
“I might.”
“Or sentiment. Or boredom. Give it any name you choose. I’d just like to find out for certain if Rose was connected in any way with the Goodfields. If she was, maybe Lora was, too.”
“Was?”
“Was,” Dalloway repeated, grimly. “I have a feeling that my daughter is dead.”
“Have you any reason for thinking that?”
“One. But it’s a good one. She hasn’t written to me asking for money. No, I’m not being humorous. Lora is incapable of supporting herself. She’s never had a job that lasted more than a day, and in spite of her fancy talk she’s as incompetent as a three-year-old.” Dalloway paused again and cleared his throat. “I’m willing to pay you liberally for your services.”
Frank and Miriam exchanged glances. Frank turned away and looked out of the window. The two boys were wrestling on the front lawn while the little black spaniel yipped furiously at the excitement, not sure whether the wrestling was playful or serious. Happy children, Frank thought. But even happy children needed new shoes and jeans and haircuts.
He knew Miriam was thinking the same thing: clothes for the children, maybe a bicycle for John or a rubber wading pool for Peter.
“You have,” Frank said at last, “touched us in a tender place.”
“I was hoping so.”
“It’s not tender enough, however, for me to accept any compromise with my conscience.”
“I’m not asking you to do anything wrong.”
“What are you asking me to do and for how much?”
“For a hundred and fifty dollars go up to San Francisco and find out everything you can about the Goodfield clan. The price I’m willing to pay doesn’t include any expense account, so you can go up any way you choose — train, plane, car, with or without Mrs. Clyde — depending how much of that hundred and fifty you want to save.”
“Frank’s always liked walking,” Miriam said. She meant the remark to be funny, but neither of the men seemed amused. Money was a serious business, to Dalloway who remembered the times when he hadn’t any, and to Frank who had no need to refresh his memory.
“I can’t get more than one day off,” Frank said.
Dalloway nodded. “One day should do it.”
“I’ll drive up tomorrow.”
“It’s Sunday, you won’t be able to get much done.”
“Why not?”
“The factory will be closed.”
“Factory?”
“The Horace Goodfield Doll Corporation. I’d like you to take a look at it, see who’s running it and how.”
“I know nothing about factories, Dalloway. My business is people.”
“People make factories.”
“Well, I’ll do my best.” Frank sounded puzzled. “I wish my instructions were a little more specific.”
“If I knew how to make them more specific I wouldn’t have to ask you to go. I have a vague, general suspicion about that family. I want it confirmed.”
“Or denied?”
“Preferably confirmed.”
“Why preferably?”
“I hate to be wrong, that’s all.” Dalloway made it sound quite convincing. “Well, I must be leaving. I’ll hear from you Tuesday then?”
“Yes.”
Dalloway’s departure was carefully polite. He told Miriam it had been a pleasure to meet such a charming woman, he shook hands with the two little boys, patted the dog’s head, and drove off in his Packard with a smile and a friendly wave.
Frank and Miriam looked at each other in silence for a moment.