“Oh, but there is. I’d like to tell you a lot of things, I’d like to tell you the whole messy story of my life.” She laughed, sharply, as if it hurt. “But I’m not going to. It’s so futile, don’t you see? There’s nothing I can do for my mother-in-law now, nothing I can do for anybody, really. I’m completely, utterly, absolutely useless. My sole function is to shut up and play dead like a possum and I don’t even do that very well.”
“Well enough. You had me fooled for awhile.”
“I ruin things by talking too much, don’t I? I can’t help it, I’m lonely, I like to talk to people. Normal people. Not Goodfields. For years I haven’t talked to anybody but Goodfields, and all they ever cared about was their stinking money and their stinking hides. Well, now there’s a lot less money and a lot less hide.”
“What happened to the money?”
“Nothing drastic. It just keeps getting less. And less. The factory’s going downhill and nobody seems able to stop it. Neither Jack nor Willett could operate a popcorn stand without losing their shirts.”
“Thank you, Ethel,” Willett said from the doorway.
She was not startled. She didn’t even turn to look at him. “You’re welcome.”
“What have you been telling this policeman?”
“The story of my life.”
“Is it as dull as you’ve always led me to believe?”
“Duller. Much, much duller. Especially the last ten years. I wouldn’t wish the last ten years of my life on a dog.”
“I suggest that if you can’t control your emotions in front of strangers, you go up to your room.”
“You suggest. Well, I suggest that you go jump in the lake. There’s a lake back home near the farm, only a small lake but it has a quicksand bottom. When you go down, you stay down. So I suggest—”
“Ethel, are you drunk or something?”
“I’m something but I’m not drunk. I wanted a drink, I went to get one, only there isn’t any.”
“That’s absurd. I bought a whole case of Scotch when we moved in. What happened to it?”
“I suggest that you ask your old lady.”
“Don’t talk like that.” He advanced on her, his chubby hands clenched into fists, held tightly against his ribs. “She couldn’t have— She never left her room.”
“She didn’t have to. She sent Murphy to get it for her.”
“When?”
“How should I know when? All I know is, the liquor’s gone.”
“Ortega might—”
“He’s never been inside the house.”
“Murphy took it for herself, not for—”
“Let’s not kid ourselves.”
“But she promised.”
“Her promises aren’t worth the oxygen they use up.”
“Ethel, I’ve got to talk to you alone.” He took a tentative step toward Greer. “Would you excuse us, Captain? We... this is a private matter, nothing to do with your investigation. Would you mind if we just stepped out for a minute?”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait here. I have to make a phone call.”
“The telephone is right there by the—”
“I see it.”
“I... come on, Ethel.”
She didn’t move.
“Ethel, please.”
He stretched out a hand to touch her shoulder. With a swift, neat movement she ducked out of his way and strode ahead of him through the swinging door. The door swung shut in his face. He pushed it open again, slowly, as if against the pressure of Ethel’s weight.
Greer went over to the telephone and dialed a number.
A man’s voice answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”
“Dr. Severn?”
“Yes.”
“Jim Greer. Are you busy?”
“I’m not in the middle of an autopsy if that’s what you mean. I’m always busy.”
“Have you got your notes handy on the Rose French case?”
“Why?”
“I’m rechecking.”
“Why all this sudden new surge of interest in poor old Rose?”
“What do you mean, all?”
“I’ve had several calls about her this morning, one of them from the local paper, the other two anonymous. And Frank Clyde’s right here in my office now. You know Clyde, he’s one of the Psych boys.”
“The name,” Greer said, “sounds familiar.”
“A lot of people seem to be getting back to the idea that Rose was murdered. You, too?”
“I tell you, I’m just rechecking.”
“Well, you heard my testimony at the inquest. I’m not changing it.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“You know how I work, Greer. I commit nothing to memory; everything is written down on the spot. I’ve done over two thousand autopsies, counting those I did in the army.”
“I realize all this. So?”
“So I repeat, it’s my conviction that Rose died a natural death that was, to be blunt, overdue. Probably the only thing that kept her alive with a heart in that condition was the fact that she was slender, had no excess weight to haul around. She certainly had at one time — there were unmistakable evidences of obesity. Very likely her physician spotted her heart condition and put her on a rigid diet. Speaking of diets, Greer, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you—”
“All right, all right. Starting tomorrow.”
“No need to get huffy about it. Wait a minute, Clyde wants to talk to you.”
“Put him on.” Greer waited, tapping the stem of his pipe against the phone. The noise sounded like the rattle of bones. “Clyde? I thought you had a living to make.”
“I worked this morning,” Frank said. “These are my lunch hours.”
“Hours?”
“I’m taking a little extra time off.”
“It seems to me you’ve been taking a lot of extra time off. Better watch it or they’ll toss you out.”
“They can’t toss me out until they have somebody to toss in.”
“You’re invaluable, are you?”
“No. Merely valuable.”
“Well, you’re not so valuable to me, Clyde. You might just as well carry on with your own job and let me do mine.”
“You may regret those words,” Frank said. “I found out something very interesting this morning about a friend of yours.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Dalloway.”
“Spill it.”
“Not over the phone. Why not pick me up and we’ll pay Dalloway a visit?”
“It’s that interesting, is it?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Greer said.
21
It wasn’t twenty minutes, it was fifteen; and Greer had to wait. He parked at a red curb and pressed on the horn, hard and long.
Frank came hurrying out of the side door and climbed into the front seat of the car. “Why all the noise, Greer? This is a hospital; people are sick in there.”
Greer made a sound of disgust. “People are sick out here, too.”
“What’s the peeve?”
“I’m sick of liars. I’ve heard them all, fat liars, skinny liars, blonde liars, cross-eyed liars, the whole caboodle.”
“How about one-armed liars?”
“Them, too.” He pulled away from the curb carefully, letting none of his impatience spill over into his driving. Cars were to Greer what people were to Frank: each was different and each commanded respect. “What’s the story on Dalloway?”
“Do I tell it my way or yours?”
“Tell it any damn way you please.”
“All right. This morning I was looking over my files. I have to give a report next month to the state board about the progress the clinic has made during the past year — how many patients we’ve handled, how many cures and commitments, etcetera. One of the files I came across was that of a man called Rudolph Fenton who was discharged as cured about six months ago.”