“I see.” We were getting off the track into territory where I felt lost. “Did you ever meet any of his women?”
“Oh, no.” She seemed shocked at the idea. “He never brought any of them here.”
“He brought his wife home.”
“Yes, I know. I was away at school when it happened.”
“When what happened?”
“The big explosion,” she said. “Mr. Galton told him never to darken his door again. It was all very Victorian and heavy-father. And Tony never did darken his door again.”
“Let’s see, that was in October 1936. Did you ever see Tony after that?”
“Never. I was at school in the east.”
“Ever hear from him?”
Her mouth started to shape the word “no,” then tightened. “I had a little note from him, some time in the course of the winter. It must have been before Christmas, because I got it at school, and I didn’t go back after Christmas. I think it was in the early part of December that it came.”
“What did it say?”
“Nothing very definite. Simply that he was doing well, and had broken into print. He’d had a poem accepted by a little magazine in San Francisco. He sent it to me under separate cover. I’ve kept it, if you’d like to look at it.”
She kept it in a manila envelope on the top shelf of her bookcase. The magazine was a thin little publication smudgily printed on pulp paper; its name was Chisel. She opened it to a middle page, and handed it to me. I read:
“Did Tony Galton write this? It’s signed ‘John Brown.’ ”
“It was the name he used. Tony wouldn’t use the family name. ‘John Brown’ had a special meaning for him, besides. He had a theory that the country was going through another civil war – a war between the rich people and the poor people. He thought of the poor people as white Negroes, and he wanted to do for them what John Brown did for the slaves. Lead them out of bondage – in the spiritual sense, of course. Tony didn’t believe in violence.”
“I see,” I said, though it all sounded strange to me. “Where did he send this from?”
“The magazine was published in San Francisco, and Tony sent it from there.”
“This was the only time you ever heard from him?”
“The only time.”
“May I keep these pictures, and the magazine? I’ll try to bring them back.”
“If they’ll help you to find Tony.”
“I understand he went to live in San Francisco. Do you have his last address?”
“I had it, but there’s no use going there.”
“Why not?”
“Because I did, the year after he went away. It was a wretched old tenement, and it had been condemned. They were tearing it down.”
“Did you make any further attempt to find him?”
“I wanted to, but I was afraid. I was only seventeen.”
“Why didn’t you go back to school, Cassie?”
“I didn’t especially want to. Mr. Galton wasn’t well, and Aunt Maria asked me to stay with her. She was the one sending me to school, so that I couldn’t very well refuse.”
“And you’ve been here ever since?”
“Yes.” The word came out with pressure behind it.
As if on cue, Mrs. Galton raised her voice on the other side of the walclass="underline" “Cassie! Cassie? Are you in there? What are you doing in there?”
“I’d better go,” Cassie said. She locked the door of her sanctuary, and went, with her head down. After twenty-odd years of that, I’d have been crawling.
Chapter 5
I MET the doctor’s daughter on the stairs. She gave me a tentative smile. “Are you the detective?”
“I’m the detective. My name is Archer.”
“Mine’s Sheila Howell. Do you think you can find him for her?”
“I can try, Miss Howell.”
“That doesn’t sound too hopeful.”
“It wasn’t meant to.”
“But you will do your best, won’t you?”
“Is it important to you? You’re too young to have known Anthony Galton.”
“It’s important to Aunt Maria.” She added in a rush of feeling: “She needs somebody to love her. I try, honestly, but I just can’t do it.”
“Is she a relative of yours?”
“Not exactly. She’s my godmother. I call her aunt because she likes me to. But I’ve never succeeded in feeling like a niece to her.”
“I imagine she makes it hard.”
“She doesn’t mean to, but she simply doesn’t know how to treat people. She’s had her own way for so long.” The girl colored, and compressed her lips. “I don’t mean to be critical. You must think I’m an awful person, talking about her to a stranger like this. I really do wish her well, in spite of what Dad thinks. And if she wants me to read Pendennis to her, I will.”
“Good for you. I was on my way to make a phone call. Is there a telephone handy?”
She showed me the telephone under the stairs. It was an ancient wall telephone which nobody had ever bothered to change for a modern one. The Santa Teresa directory lay on a table under it. I looked up Sable’s number.
He was a long time answering. Finally, I heard the receiver being lifted at the other end of the line. After another wait, I heard his voice. I hardly recognized it. It had a blurred quality, almost as if Sable had been crying:
“This is Gordon Sable.”
“Archer speaking. You took off before we could make definite arrangements. On a case like this I need an advance, and expense money, at least three hundred.”
There was a click, and then a whirring on the wire. Someone was dialing. A woman’s voice said: “Operator! I want the police.”
“Get off the line,” Sable said.
“I’m calling the police.” It was his wife’s voice, shrill with hysteria.
“I’ve already called them. Now get off the line. It’s in use.”
A receiver was fumbled into place. I said: “You still there, Sable?”
“Yes. There’s been an accident, as you must have gathered.” He paused. I could hear his breathing.
“To Mrs. Sable?”
“No, though she’s badly upset. My houseman, Peter, has been stabbed. I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“Who stabbed him?”
“It isn’t clear. I can’t get much out of my wife. Apparently some goon came to the door. When Peter opened it, he was knifed.”
“You want me to come out?”
“If you think it will do any good. Peter is past help.”