'My mother,' Glynis said. Her voice was low-pitched, husky, and almost toneless.
'Mrs Stonehouse,' I said, making a little bow. 'I'm Joshua Bigg from Mr Teitelbaum's office. I'm happy to meet you.'
'My husband's dead, isn't he?' she said. 'I know he's dead.'
I was startled by her words, but even more shocked by her voice. It was trilly and flutelike.
'Mother,' Glynis said, 'there's absolutely no evidence of that.'
'I know what I know,' Mrs Stonehouse said. 'Do sit down, Mr Bigg. Over there, where I can look at you.'
'Thank you.' I took the chair she had indicated. I was thankful that my feet touched the floor, though only just.
'Have you dined?' she asked.
'Yes, ma'am, I have.'
'So have we, she said brightly, 'and now I'm having a glass of sherry. Glynis isn't drinking. Glynis never drinks.
Do you, dear?'
'No, Mother,' the daughter said patiently. 'Would you care for something, Mr Bigg?'
'A glass of sherry would be welcome,' I said. 'Thank you.'
Glynis got a glass from a bar cart and filled it from her mother's bottle. She handed it to me, then seated herself at the opposite end of the couch. She was graceful and controlled.
'Mr Teitelbaum told Mother you will be investigating my father's disappearance.'
'Yes,' I said. 'We believe the police have done everything they possibly can, but surely it will do no harm to go over it again.'
'He's dead,' Mrs Ula Stonehouse said.
'Ma'am,' I said, 'according to Mr Teitelbaum, you believed your husband had met with an accident and was suffering from amnesia.'
'I did think that,' she said, 'but I don't anymore. He's dead. I had a vision.'
Glynis Stonehouse was inspecting her fingernails. I took out a notebook and pen. 'I hate to go over events which I'm sure are painful to you,' I said. 'But it would help if you could tell me exactly what happened the evening the Professor disappeared.'
Mrs Stonehouse did most of the talking, her daughter correcting her now and then or adding something in a quiet voice. I took notes as Mrs Stonehouse spoke, but it was really for effect, to impress them how seriously Tabatchnick, Orsini, Reilly, and Teitelbaum regarded their plight.
I glanced up frequently from my scribbling to stare at Mrs Stonehouse.
As she talked, sipping her sherry steadily and leaning forward twice to refill her glass, her eyes, as pale as milk glass, flickered like candle flames. She had a mop of frizzy blonde curls, a skin of chamois, and a habit, or nervous tic, of touching the tip of her retrousse nose with her left forefinger. Not pushing it, just touching it as if to make certain it was still there.
She had fluttery gestures, and was given to quick expressions — frowns, smiles, pouts, moues — that followed one another so swiftly that her face seemed in constant motion. She was dressed girlishly in chiffon. In her tucked-up position she was showing a good deal of leg.
She spoke rapidly, as if anxious to get it all out and over with. That warbling voice rippled on and on, and after a while it took on a singsong quality like a child's part rehearsed for a school play.
On the 10th of January the Stonehouse family had dinner at 7.00 p.m. Present were Professor Yale Stonehouse, wife Ula, daughter Glynis, and son Powell.
The meal was served by the live-in cook-housekeeper, Mrs Effie Dark. The maid, Olga Eklund, was away on her day off.
Glynis Stonehouse left the dinner table early, at about 8.00, to get to a performance of Man and Superman at the Circle in the Square. After dinner the family moved into the living room. At about 8.30, Professor Stonehouse went into his study. He came back to the living room a few minutes later and announced he was going out. He walked down the long corridor to the foyer. Later it was determined he had taken his hat, scarf, and overcoat. Mrs Stonehouse and her son heard the outer door slam. The deskman in the lobby remembered that the Professor left the building at approximately 8.45.
He was never seen again.
This recital finished, mother and daughter looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for an instant solution.
'Has Professor Stonehouse attempted to communicate with you since his disappearance?'
'No,' Glynis said. 'Nothing.'
'Was this a common occurrence — the Professor going out at that hour? For a walk, say?'
'No,' Mrs Stonehouse said. 'He never went out at night.'
'Rarely,' Glynis corrected her. 'Once or twice a year he went to a professional meeting. But it usually included a dinner, and he left earlier.'
'He didn't say where he was going when he left on the evening of 10th January?'
'No,' Mrs Stonehouse said.
'You didn't ask, ma'am?'
The mother looked to her daughter for help.
'My father was — ' she began, then said, 'My father is a difficult man. He didn't like to be questioned. He went his own way. He was secretive.'
'Would you say there was anything unusual in his behaviour at dinner that night?'
This time daughter looked to mother.
'Nooo,' Mrs Stonehouse said slowly. 'He didn't say much at the table, but then he never said much.'
'So you'd say this behaviour that evening was entirely normal? For Professor Stonehouse,' I added hastily.
They both nodded.
'All right,' I said. 'There are a few things I'd like to come back to, but first I'd like to hear what happened after the Professor left.'
At my request Mrs Stonehouse took up her story again.
She and her son, Powell, stayed in the living room, watched a Beckett play on Channel 13, had a few drinks.
Mrs Dark came in about 10.30 to say goodnight and went to her room at the far end of the apartment.
They did not begin to become concerned about the Professor's whereabouts until 11.00 p.m. They called the deskman in the lobby, who could only report that Stonehouse had left the building at 8.45 and hadn't returned.
They awoke Mrs Dark to ask if the Professor had mentioned anything to her about where he was going. She said he hadn't, but she shared their concern and joined them in the living room, wearing a robe over her nightgown. They then called some of the Professor's professional associates, apologizing for the lateness of the hour. No one had seen him or heard from him. He had no friends other than professional associates.
By 11.30 they all were worried and uncertain what they should do. They were hesitant about calling the police. If they called and he walked in a few minutes later, he'd be furious.
'He had a violent temper,' Glynis said.
Glynis returned from the theatre a little after midnight and was told of her father's absence. She suggested they call the garage to see if Stonehouse had taken out his car.
Powell called and was informed that the car was still parked there.
The four of them waited until 2.00 a.m. and then called the local precinct. The officer they spoke to told them that it would not be a matter for the Missing Persons Bureau until the Professor was absent for 24 hours, but meanwhile he would check accident reports and hospital emergency rooms. He said he'd call them back.
They waited, awake and drinking coffee, until 3.20
when the police officer called and told them there were no reports of accidents involving Professor Stonehouse or anyone answering his description.
There seemed to be nothing more they could do. The next day they made more phone calls, and Powell rang the bells of neighbours and even walked around the neighbourhood streets, asking at newsstands and all-night restaurants. No one had seen his father or anyone like him.