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He got up out of a shabby green plastic armchair and shook hands formally with Mrs. Hoffman.

“I see that you’ve arrived safely. How are you?”

“I’m all right, thanks.”

“Your daughter’s unexpected demise came as quite a blow to us.”

“To me, too.”

“In fact I’ve been endeavoring all day to find a replacement for her. I still haven’t succeeded. This is the worst possible time of year to try to recruit teaching personnel.”

“That’s too bad.”

I left them trying to breathe life into their stillborn conversation and went into the bar for a drink. A single customer sat trading sorrows with the fat lugubrious bartender. Her hair was dyed black, with a greenish sheen on it like certain ducks.

I recognized the woman – I could have spotted Mrs. Perrine at a thousand yards – and I started to back out of the room. She turned and saw me.

“Fancy meeting you here.” She made a large gesture which almost upset the empty glass in front of her, and said to the bartender: “This is my friend Mr. Archer. Pour my friend a drink.”

“What’ll you have?”

“Bourbon. I’m paying. What is the lady drinking?”

“Planter’s punch,” she said, “and thanks for the ‘lady.’ Thanks for everything in fact. I’m celebrating, been celebrating all day.”

I wished she hadn’t been. The granite front she had kept up at her trial had eroded, and the inner ruin of her life showed through. While I didn’t know all of Mrs. Perrine’s secrets, I knew the record she had left on the police blotters of twenty cities. She had been innocent of this one particular crime, but she was a hustler who had worked the coasts from Acapulco to Seattle and from Montreal to Key West.

The bartender limped away to make our drinks. I sat on the stool beside her. “You should pick another town to celebrate in.”

“I know. This town is a graveyard. I felt like the last living inhabitant, until you sashayed in.”

“That isn’t what I mean, Mrs. Perrine.”

“Hell, call me Bridget, you’re my pal, you’ve earned the right.”

“Okay, Bridget. The police didn’t like your acquittal, you couldn’t expect them to. They’ll pick you up for any little thing.”

“I haven’t stepped out of line. I have my own money.”

“I’m thinking about what you might do if you go on celebrating. You can’t afford to jaywalk in this town.”

She considered this problem, and her twisting face mimicked the efforts of her mind. “You may be right at that. I been thinking of going to Vegas in the morning. I have a friend in Vegas.”

The bartender brought our drinks. Mrs. Perrine sipped at hers, making a sour face, as if she’d suddenly lost her taste for it. Her gaze strayed to the mirror behind the bar.

“My gosh,” she said, “is that me? I look like the wrath of God.”

“Take a bath and get some sleep.”

“It isn’t so easy to sleep. I get lonely at night.” She ogled me, more or less automatically.

She wasn’t my baby. I finished my drink and put two dollar bills on the bar.

“Good night, Bridget. Take it easy. I have to make a phone call.”

“Sure you do. See you at the Epworth League.”

The bartender limped toward her as I walked out. Mrs. Hoffman and Dr. Geisman were no longer in the lobby. I found the telephone booths in a cul-de-sac behind the main desk and called the Bradshaw house.

Before the phone had rung more than once, the old lady’s voice came quavering over the line. “Roy? Is that you, Roy?”

“This is Archer.”

“I was so hoping it would be Roy. He always telephones by this time. You don’t suppose something has happened to him?”

“No. I don’t.”

“Have you seen the paper?”

“No.”

“There’s an item to the effect that Laura Sutherland went to the Reno conference with him. Roy didn’t tell me that. Do you suppose he’s interested in Laura?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“She’s a lovely young woman, don’t you think?”

I wondered if she’d had some wine at dinner that made her silly. “I have no opinion on the subject, Mrs. Bradshaw. I called to see if you’re willing to follow through on our conversation this afternoon.”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly, not without Roy’s consent. He handles the money in the family, you know. Now I’m going to ask you to cut this short, Mr. Archer. I’m expecting to hear from Roy at any moment.”

She hung up on me. I seemed to be losing my touch with little old ladies. I went into the washroom and looked at my face in the mirror above the row of basins. Someone had written in pencil on the walclass="underline" Support Mental Health or I’ll kill you.

A small brown newsboy came into the washroom and caught me grinning at my reflection. I pretended to be examining my teeth. He looked about ten years old, and conducted himself like a miniature adult.

“Read all about the murder,” he suggested.

I bought a local paper from him. The lead story was headlined: “PPC Teacher Shot,” with the subhead: “Mystery Student to be Questioned.” In effect, it tried and convicted Dolly. She had “registered fraudulently, using an alias.” Her friendship with Helen was described as “a strange relationship.” The S and W thirty-eight found in her bed was “the murder weapon.” She had “a dark secret in her past” – the McGee killing – and was “avoiding questioning by the police.”

No other possible suspect was mentioned. The man from Reno didn’t appear in the story.

In lieu of doing something constructive I tore the paper to pieces and dropped the pieces in the trash basket. Then I went back to the telephone booths. Dr. Godwin’s answering service wanted to know if it was an emergency.

“Yes. It has to do with a patient of Dr. Godwin’s.”

“Are you the patient, sir?”

“Yes,” I lied, wondering if this meant I needed help.

The switchboard girl said in a gentler voice: “The last time the doctor called in he was at home.”

She recited his number but I didn’t use it. I wanted to talk to Godwin face to face. I got his address out of the directory and drove across town to his house.

It was one of a number of large houses set on the edge of a mesa which normally overlooked the harbor and the city. Tonight it was islanded by the fog.

Behind the Arizona fieldstone front of the house a tenor and a soprano were singing a heartbreaking duet from La bohème.

The door was answered by a handsome woman wearing a red silk brocade coat and the semi-professional smile that doctors’ wives acquire. She seemed to recognize my name.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Archer. My husband was here until just a few minutes ago. We were actually listening to music for a change. Then a young man called – the husband of one of his patients – and he agreed to meet him at the nursing home.”

“It wasn’t Alex Kincaid who called?”

“I believe it was. Mr. Archer?” She stepped outside, a brilliant and very feminine figure in her red coat. “My husband has spoken of you. I understand you’re working on this criminal case he’s involved with.”

“Yes.”

Her hand touched my arm. “I’m worried about him. He’s taking this thing so seriously. He seems to think that he let the girl down when she was his patient before, and that it makes him responsible for everything that’s happened.” Her fine long eyes looked up at me, asking for reassurance.

“He isn’t,” I said.