“Try refreshing your memory.” Greer took from his billfold the picture of Murphy gazing into the store window. In the imposed snapshot Murphy’s characteristics stood out with sharp distinction. Her posture was arrogant, her face determined, as if she had spotted in the store window an object that she wanted and meant to have at any cost. “Recognize her, Dalloway?”
“No,” Dalloway whispered, and then, realizing that his voice was barely audible he cleared his throat and said again, “No.”
“She’s not the lady you picked up in a bar last night? And she didn’t give you this three thousand dollars to keep for her or split with her?”
“No.”
“You’re a liar, aren’t you, Dalloway?”
“No. I want a lawyer.”
“You’re not even a good liar. A good liar has sense enough to admit facts that can be proven. I can prove this woman’s identity.”
“Not through me.”
“No. In spite of you.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Your needle’s stuck,” Greer said. “Besides, I don’t carry a supply of lawyers in my pocket like Lifesavers. Come on, Dalloway, have another look at this picture. Here, take it right in your hand and study it. Has she changed much since you’ve seen her? Put on a little weight, maybe? — showing her age a little more? How old is she now, Dalloway? How many years since you left Boulder Junction?”
Slowly, wordlessly, Dalloway crushed the snapshot in his fist and threw it over his shoulder. It struck the window sharply and fell on the floor like a stunned insect.
“How many years since you left Boulder Junction, Dalloway?”
There was no answer.
“It must have been tough for you being both a mother and a father to a girl like Lora. You have my sympathy.”
“I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole,” Dalloway said. “You—”
“Watch your language, mister, or you’re going to have to depend on your age to get you out of here in one piece.”
Dalloway repeated the words with deliberate emphasis.
“I warn you, Dalloway.”
“You talk a good fight.”
Frank stepped between the two men. “Take it easy. There’s a lady coming.”
The lady, a platinum blonde wearing enormous jeweled sunglasses, teetered into the waiting room on four-inch heels. She was obviously in a hurry, but the high heels and the sunglasses held her back; she couldn’t balance herself properly and she couldn’t see too well in the gloom of the waiting room after the bright sunlight outside. She hesitated, peered with nervous uncertainty at the three men and then made her way with little running steps toward the exit door.
Greer reached the door before she did. “Wait a minute, please.”
“Just what do you think you’re doing? Get out of my way. That’s my plane. I’m late.”
“You’re later than you think, Murphy.”
“My name’s Johnston.”
“The wig is becoming, but a little theatrical. Where did you get it — from Rose?”
“Let me out of here.”
“You’ll get out but not through that door.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Try me.”
But she didn’t try. Instead, she reached up, slowly, and took off the jeweled sunglasses. She looked first at Greer, then at Frank, and finally at Dalloway.
It was Dalloway she addressed. “You lousy stool pigeon.”
Dalloway got up and walked toward her in an easy, sauntering way as if he was going to greet an old friend. “What did you call me, my dear?”
“I suppose you’ve blabbed everything.”
“What did you call me?”
“You heard me. Surely you’re not deaf as well as cripp—”
The word was never finished because the flat of his hand struck her across the cheek. The force of the blow staggered her but she didn’t fall, didn’t cry out. Only the gradual reddening of her cheek indicated that anything had happened.
“Would you care to repeat the epithet, Lora?”
“I don’t mind,” she said with a little shrug. “You’re a lousy stool pigeon.”
Dalloway struck her again. This time Greer tried to stop him but he wasn’t fast enough. Lora fell against the door. Still she made no outcry, gave no indication of the blow. It was as if he had lost his power to hurt her and she derived a certain pleasure from having him try and seeing him hurt himself instead.
She picked herself up. Her wig had slipped a little so she took it off entirely, yanked it away from her real hair with a spill of bobby pins and tossed it on the floor.
Dalloway watched her. His face had gone livid and he was swaying slightly as if on the verge of collapse.
“Think how tough you could get if you had two arms,” Lora said. “As it is you merely bore me.”
Dalloway covered his eyes with his one hand. “What did I do, what have I ever done to deserve you?”
“You not only deserve me, you made me. I am your little girl, strictly your product. Maybe I should have it tattooed across my back — Made by Haley Dalloway.”
“I can’t... Lora—”
“Let’s not get maudlin. Things are bad enough.” She turned to Greer. “I suppose you’re going to arrest me.”
Greer nodded.
“Him, too?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the charge? Against me, I mean.”
“Kidnapping. Extortion. Felonious assault. Forcible entry. And maybe murder.”
“I haven’t done any of those things, not really.”
“Really enough for me,” Greer said. “Shall we go?”
“I don’t seem to have a choice right now. But I’m not worried. None of those charges will stick.”
“We’ll see.”
“If I committed a murder, where’s the body? If I kidnapped anyone, where’s the victim? If I extorted money, where is it?”
“In your father’s briefcase.”
“That’s his briefcase, not mine. Really, Sergeant—”
“Captain.”
“Sergeant, Captain, what’s the difference? You’re just a cop.”
“I’ll try to show you the difference someday.”
“Lora, for God’s sake,” Dalloway interrupted. “Don’t antagonize him.”
Lora looked very surprised at the notion that she could antagonize anyone. “I’m not.”
“Cooperate with him. Whatever you’ve done, admit it. Tell him what he wants to know.”
“Such as?”
“Such as,” Greer said, “where’s Mrs. Goodfield?”
She answered without hesitation. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for some time.”
“What time?”
“Oh, about noon yesterday or a little after.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. She had a grouch on and didn’t want to talk.”
“Did you do anything to help the grouch?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ethel Goodfield claims there’s quite a bit of liquor missing.”
“Oh that,” Lora said casually. “Sure, I took her up a bottle when she asked me to. She got the blues sometimes just sitting around in her room.”
“A case of Scotch dissolves a lot of blues.”
“I drank with her sometimes when she asked me to. We had some laughs together.”
“Where is she now?”
“I told you I didn’t know.”
“Where were you at six o’clock last night?”
“Six? I guess I was having dinner.”
“You were in a drugstore at Anacapa and Fifth buying six ounces of ether under a false name.”
“If you know, don’t ask.”
“Where were you during the early hours this morning, say between three and six?”
“You tell me.”
“You were in Mrs. Goodfield’s bedroom. Why?”
“I was in a jam,” Lora said. “I was sick of the whole business. That’s why I bought that ether — I thought perhaps I’d kill myself. But then it occurred to me that the old lady might lend me some money to get out of town and start all over again.”