After twenty-four hours had passed, they reported the Professor as a missing person to the New York Police Department, and that was that.
I took a deep breath.
'I don't like to take so much of your time on this first meeting,' I said. 'I hope you'll allow me to come back again, or call as questions occur to me.'
'Of course,' Glynis Stonehouse said. 'And take as much time as you like. We're anxious to do anything we can to help.'
'Just a few questions then,' I said, looking at her. 'Did your father have any enemies? Anyone who might harbour sufficient ill-will t o. . '
I let that trail off, but she didn't flinch. Then again, she didn't look like the flinching type.
Glynis Stonehouse was taller than her mother. A compact body, curved with brio. Tawny hair hung sleekly to her shoulders. She had a triangular face with dark eyes of denim blue. Wide, sculpted lips with a minimum of rouge.
She was wearing a simple shift, thin stuff that touched breast, hip, thigh. No jewellery.
I had the impression of a lot of passion there, kept under disciplined control. The dark eyes gave nothing away, and she rarely smiled or frowned. She had the habit of pausing, very briefly, before answering a question. Just a half-beat, but enough to convince me she was giving her replies extra thought.
'No, Mr Bigg,' she said evenly. 'I don't believe my father had enemies who hated him enough to do him harm.'
'But he did have enemies?' I persisted.
'There are a lot of people who disliked him. He was not an easy man to like.'
'Oh, Glynis,' her mother said sorrowfully.
'Mr Bigg might as well know the truth, Mother; it may help his investigation. My father was — is a tyrant, Mr Bigg. Opinionated, stubborn, dictatorial, with a very low boiling point. Constantly suing people for the most ridiculous reasons. Of course he had enemies, at the University and everywhere else he went. But I know of no one who disliked him enough to — to do him injury.'
I nodded and looked at my notes.
'Mrs Stonehouse, you said that just before leaving the apartment, Professor Stonehouse went into his study?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'Do you know what he did in there?'
'No. The study is his private room.'
'Off-limits to all,' Glynis said. 'He rarely let us in.'
'He let you in, Glynis,' her mother said.
'He even cleaned the room himself,' Glynis went on. 'He was working on a book and didn't want his papers disturbed.'
'A book? What kind of a book?'
'A history of the Prince Royal, a famous British battleship of the seventeenth century.'
'Has your father published anything before?'
'A few monographs and articles in scholarly journals.
He's also an habitual writer of letters to the newspapers.
Would you care for more sherry, Mr Bigg?'
'No, thank you. That was delicious. Mrs Stonehouse, your son is not here tonight?'
'No,' she said. 'He's…'
She didn't finish that, but leaned forward to fill her glass.
'My brother doesn't live here,' Glynis said evenly.
'Powell has his own place in the Village. He stayed over the night Father disappeared because we were all so upset.'
'Your brother and father didn't get along?' I asked.
'Well enough,' she said. 'Powell comes to dinner two or three times a week. In any event, the relations between my father and brother have nothing to do with your investigation.'
'Powell tried so hard,' her mother mourned.
Glynis leaned far across the couch to put a hand on her mother's arm. Her body was stretched out, almost 60
reclining. I saw the bold rhythm of thigh, hip, waist, bosom, shoulder…
'We all tried hard, Mother,' she said softly.
I closed my notebook, put it away. 'I think I've asked you ladies enough questions for one evening. But before I leave, if I may, I'd like to see Professor Stonehouse's study, and I'd like to talk to your housekeeper for a few minutes.'
'Of course,' Glynis said, rising. I followed her over to a door on the far side of the room. It opened into a dining room, cold and austere, lit dimly.
There were two doors in the opposite wall, one the swinging type used in kitchens.
'That one to the kitchen?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'And the other one to your father's study?'
'That's correct.'
'Your mother told me that your father went into his study before he went out. But they couldn't have seen where he went. He might have gone into the kitchen.'
'You're very sharp, Mr Bigg,' she said. 'Mrs Dark was still cleaning up in here after dinner, and she saw him go into his study.'
Glynis opened the study door, reached in to turn on the light, then stood aside. I stepped forward to look in. For a moment I was close to her. I was conscious of her scent. It wasn't cologne or perfume; it was her. Warm, womanly, stirring. I walked forward into the study.
'I won't disturb anything,' I said.
'I'm afraid we already have,' she said. 'Looking for Father's will.'
'You didn't find it?' I said.
She shook her head, shiny hair swinging. 'We found his passbook and cheque book, but no will.'
'Did your father have a safe deposit box?'
'Not at either of the banks where he has his savings and cheque accounts.'
'Miss Stonehouse, are you sure a will exists?'
'Oh, it exists,' she said. 'Or did. I saw it. I don't mean I read it. I just saw it on his desk one night. It was four or five pages and had a light blue backing. When Daddy saw me looking at it, he folded it up and put it in a long envelope. "My will," he said. So I know it did exist.'
'Does your mother know what's in it?'
'No. Father never discussed money matters with her. He just gave her an allowance and that was that.'
'Did your father give you an allowance, Miss Stonehouse?'
She looked at me levelly.
'Yes,' she said, 'he did.'
'And your brother?'
'No,' she said. 'Not since he moved out.' Then she added irritably, 'What has all this to do with my father's disappearance?'
'I don't know,' I said truthfully, and turned back to the study.
It was a squarish chamber with a high-beamed ceiling.
There was another tiled fireplace, built-in bookcases, large cabinets for oversized books, magazines, journals, rolled-up maps.
There was a club chair upholstered in maroon leather, with a hassock to match. Alongside it was a drum table with a leather top chased with gold leaf. A silver tray on the drum table, bearing a new bottle of Remy Martin cognac, sealed, and two brandy snifters. A green-shaded floor lamp stood in back of the chair.
In the centre of the study was a big desk with leather top and brass fittings, littered with papers, charts, maps, books, pencils and pens in several colours. Also, a magnifying glass, a pair of dividers, and a device that looked like an antique compass.
But it was the far wall that caught my eye. It was covered, from chair rail to ceiling, with model hull forms. I don't know whether you've ever seen hull models. They're made of hardwood, the hull sliced longitudinally. The flat side is fixed to the plaque. Each plaque bore a brass plate with the ship's name and date of construction. I stepped closer to examine them. I had never seen so many in one place, and never any as lovely.
Glynis had noted my interest. 'Father had them made by a man in Mystic, Connecticut. When he dies, there won't be anyone left in the country who can carve hull models from the plans of naval architects.'
'They're handsome,' I said.
'And expensive.'
But if that room had something to tell me, I couldn't hear it. I turned towards the door.
'Your father didn't have a safe?' I asked.
'No,' she said. 'And the drawers of his desk were unlocked.'
'Did he usually leave them unlocked?'
'I really don't know. Mrs Dark might.'