“It looks like a well-run place.”
“Oh, it is. I’ve lived here since the beginning of the spring semester — we have loads of fun.”
“I’d like to leave my name with Mrs. Cushman.”
“That’s a good idea. Just a sec and I’ll call her. Oh, Blanche. Blanche? Come here, will you? Someone to see you.”
The plump brunette in the blue dress came into the hall, still holding the bag of potato chips as if she didn’t trust the discretion or appetite of her friends in the front room. When she saw Lora she put the bag on the seat of the hall rack and wiped her hands unobtrusively on the back of her dress.
The thin woman looked at her questioningly. “Did we—?”
“We lost,” Mrs. Cushman said.
“Oh dear.”
“It wasn’t my fault, Madeleine. You had no cards.”
“If you only wouldn’t bid so wildly.”
Madeleine returned to the game, shaking her head in sorrow at the folly of wild bidding.
Mrs. Cushman, too, shook her head. “I can’t stand a bum sport.”
“Nor can I.”
“After all, it’s only a game.”
“You don’t play for money?”
“No.”
“I do,” Lora said. “I play for money.”
Mrs. Cushman began to look a little uneasy. “That’s very interesting, I’m sure. I... are you selling something?”
“No.”
“If it’s a room you want, sorry, we’re all filled up.”
“As of this morning, in fact.”
“That’s right.”
“Who moved in here this morning?”
“I can’t see it’s any of your business.”
“It’s my business, believe me,” Lora said. “What room is she in — the front room on the left — Rose’s room?”
Mrs. Cushman was breathing heavily and noisily through her mouth. “It isn’t Rose’s room anymore. Rose is dead. Her stuff was all taken out days ago. I’ve got a perfect right to rent it again.”
“Who rented it?”
“Say, I don’t like the way you’re acting, young woman. You better get out of here.”
“I’ll get out after I see your new boarder.”
“You can’t see her. She’s sleeping. She wasn’t feeling so well.”
“She’ll feel a lot worse when the police arrive.”
“Police?”
“The police are looking for her. So am I. I got here first.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Cushman said heavily. “Yes, I see you did. You’re Rose’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I should of guessed it right away. There’s a resemblance around the eyes and mouth. You’re not as pretty as Rose was in her youth.”
“My mother’s looks never did her much good.”
“No.” Mrs. Cushman turned with a sigh and started up the steps, leaning her weight on the banister. “No, they never did.”
The door of the front room on the left was closed. On the other side of it someone was humming softly and off-key.
Lora looked grimly at Mrs. Cushman. “Sounds happy, doesn’t she?”
“She is happy. Seems like a cruel shame to bust it up.”
“She’d bust it up herself if nobody else did.”
“You want me to stick around?”
“I can handle her myself.”
“I feel,” Mrs. Cushman said, “I just feel like crying, I do. She came to me for help, poor soul. I didn’t know the police were after her. How was I to know?”
“I wish you’d go downstairs.”
“Well, all right, but you got a real rude way of expressing yourself. Like your mother.”
“I’m tired of being compared with my mother.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Cushman headed for the stairs. “I can see you are.”
On the other side of the closed door the humming had stopped. A woman’s voice, husky and slightly slurred, called out, “Who’s there? That you? Blanche?”
“Yes,” Lora said.
“Come in.”
“I’m coming.” She went into the room, closing the door swiftly behind her as if she was afraid that the older woman would make some protest or outcry.
There was neither. “So you found me. Aren’t you smart!”
“You’re potted.”
“The cup that cheers, Murphy, old girl, the cup that—”
“You can stop calling me Murphy. Everybody knows.” She picked up a black wool coat that was lying across a chair. “Put it on.”
“Why?”
“Every cop in town is looking for you. We’ve got to get out of here.”
The old woman chuckled and clapped her hands like a delighted child. “They’ll never think of looking here.”
“I thought of it.”
“That’s because you’re so smart. I said that before, didn’t I? You’re smart.”
“Put your coat on.”
“All right, all right, don’t nag.” She struggled out of the rocking chair, using her arms like a tightrope walker to keep her balance. “Who’s potted? I’m not.”
“Hurry up, Willett’s waiting for us at home.”
“Is he — mad?”
“What do you think?”
“All right, let him be mad. I can be mad, too.” She managed to get the coat on by herself. Lora didn’t offer to help. “Murphy, listen. I’ve got an idea.”
“Don’t even bother to tell me.”
“Listen. Let’s not go back to that house at all. Let’s run away.”
“Where?”
“Oh, anywhere. Mexico City.”
“How are we going to get there, hitchhike?”
“I don’t want to go back to that house. It’s depressing. I can’t bear it, the two of them watching me all the time.” But even while she was protesting, she was buttoning her coat getting ready to leave. “How much longer will I have to stay there?”
“Two months, maybe a week longer than that so nobody will get suspicious.”
“And then?”
“Then you see a lawyer. Willett will bring him out to the house, and you’ll make a will.”
“I haven’t anything to leave.”
“It isn’t the bequests that are important, it’s the fact that— Oh, for heaven’s sake, we’ve gone into this a dozen times before. We haven’t time right now. Where’s your purse?”
“On the bed.”
“Did you bring anything else? A hat?”
“No.”
“Come on, then.” Lora took her by the arm. “You feel all right?”
“I wish I was dead.”
“You can’t die for two months yet.”
“I wish I was—”
“Stop acting like a baby. Wait.” Lora paused in the middle of the room and listened. From the hall came the sound of heavy footsteps, men’s footsteps, punctuated by the sharp clicking of a woman’s high heels on the hall linoleum.
Then Mrs. Cushman’s voice, swollen with tears: “That’s the room. They’re in there, both of them. How was I to know anything was wrong? Frank, you tell him, tell him I only did my duty, so help me.”
“It’s the police,” Lora said rapidly. “Now listen. You don’t know why you ran away. You didn’t remember a thing until you suddenly recognized me. I persuaded you to go home. Got that?”
“I didn’t remember a thing. Not a thing.”
“That’s right.”
Lora crossed the room and opened the door, adjusting her face to what she hoped was an expression of innocent surprise. “Why, it’s Captain Greer. Isn’t this a coincidence? I was just going to call you and tell you that I’d found her.”
“Thoughtful of you,” Greer said. “Come in, Frank.”
Frank came in, looking pale and embarrassed.
“You’ve been in this room before, haven’t you, Frank?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time?”
“The last time was after Rose’s funeral.”
“And the time before that?”
“It was a week ago last Sunday.”