“What else did he say?”
“He thanked me, quite effusively. That’s all. About five minutes after that I saw him drive away in the direction of the highway. He took off like jets.”
“And you say he seemed pleased or excited?”
“Very excited.”
“In a good sense? Or was he high?”
She pondered. “I don’t really know. Bobby’s been so low all winter, it’s hard to say what’s natural for him. He was pretty tense tonight. But happy, too – out of this world, sort of. As if he was off to seek the Holy Grail.” She looked up at the moon, which had become hardly more than a dimness in the darkness. She shivered, and hugged herself. “I’m cold, Mr. Archer. And I don’t even know what this is all about.”
“Neither do I, Dolly. Give me another minute or two, though, will you?”
“Certainly, if it’s any help.”
“You’re being a great help. Tell me – you’re a sociologist – has Bobby ever shown signs of neurotic or emotional trouble?”
“Of course, he’s very neurotic. Who isn’t? Phoebe and I used to talk about his mother-fixation. He’s got a bad one, but he’s been fighting it.”
“How?”
“By growing up. You know, untentacling the tentacles, living his own life. He’s had some terrific fights with his mother this year. They come up through the floor.”
“Physical fights?”
“I don’t mean that. Just words.”
“Does he threaten her?”
“Not that I know of. It’s mostly about quitting school I and going off on his own.”
“Is that what he’s done, do you think?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Did he ever threaten anyone with physical harm? You or Phoebe, for instance?”
Dolly giggled cheerlessly. “Of course not. Bobby’s always been fantastically meek and mild. That was one of | Phoebe’s objections to him. She used to call him Christian Slave, from ‘When I was a king in Babylon you were a Christian slave.’ ”
“Would you consider him capable of violence?”
“Violence to Phoebe?” she said with her hands at her I breast. “Is that what you’re getting at?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head in a narrow jerky movement. “He would never hurt Phoebe, you can be sure of that. I never saw a fellow so gone on a girl. Honestly.” But she touched my arm for reassurance. “Has something happened to Phoebe?”
“I’m afraid so, Dolly.”
“Is she dead?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She pulled back her hand as if she had burned it on me. At the same time she fell towards me, literally fell. I found myself holding her up, stroking her tousled head. It was not a sexual occasion.
“God damn it,” she said in a very young voice. “I gave up praying when I was a kid. For Lent. I took it up again last November. I prayed every night for two months. And Phoebe is dead anyway. There is no God.”
I said she could be right, she could be wrong. If there was a God, He worked in mysterious ways. Like people. She turned away from me and my platitudes and leaned on the door, her forehead against the wood. Her hand was on the doorknob. She seemed to lack the will or strength to turn it.
“I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you,” I said. “Still it’s better than reading it in the newspapers.”
“Yes. Thank you. How did she die?”
“We don’t know yet. But she’s been dead for two months.” I touched her shoulder. “Will you do one other thing for me?”
“If I can. I don’t feel well.”
“Just let me use your phone.”
“But my roommate’s sleeping. She hates when I wake her up.”
“I’ll keep my voice down.”
“All right.”
She let me in. A girl with pull-taffy hair lay huddled under a blanket on the studio bed. The telephone stood on the desk beside the big old typewriter. The same half-filled sheet of typescript was in the machine. I sat in front of it and reread Dolly’s unfinished sentence:
“Many authorities say that socio-economic factors are predominate in the origins of antisocial behaviour, but others are of the opinion that lack of love…”
The e’s were out of alignment. The e’s were out of alignment, and it was an old Royal typewriter. I took out the letters that Willie Mackey had given me and made a quick comparison. They checked. Homer Wycherly’s original letter to Mackey, the threatening letters, and Dolly’s essay, had all been written on the same typewriter. This one.
“What are you doing?” she whispered at my ear.
“I just discovered something. Where did you get this typewriter?”
“Phoebe lent it to me. When she didn’t come back, I went on using it. Is that all right?”
“It was until now. I’m going to have to take it with me now.”
“What for?”
“It’s a clue,” I said. “Do you know where Phoebe got hold of it?”
“No. It’s an old one, though, it must be twenty years old. She must have bought it secondhand. But that isn’t like Phoebe. She bought things new.”
The girl on the studio bed turned over and called in a sleep-filled voice: “What are you doing, Dolly? Go to bed.”
“You go back to sleep.”
The girl turned her face to the wall and complied.
“What does the clue mean?” Dolly said.
“I couldn’t begin to guess.” I glanced up at her tense small face: she looked like a bunny after a hard Easter. “Why don’t you settle down now and take your friend’s advice. Warm yourself some milk and drink it down like a good girl and by that time I’ll be out of here. You can get some sleep.”
“I guess it’s worth trying,” she said in a doubtful voice. She went into the kitchen and rattled pans.
I dialled the long-distance operator and told her: “This is Robert Doncaster. I had a person-to-person call from Palo Alto last evening shortly before six. Can you tell me what number in Palo Alto the call was placed from?”
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have a record of that. On incoming calls, we only keep a record of the numbers called at this end.”
“Is there any way I can find out who called me?”
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll put you in touch with my supervisor.”
There was a click and a wait. An older, brisker, female voice said: “This is the long-distance supervisor. Can I help you?”
“I hope so. This is Robert Doncaster speaking. I received a person-to-person call from Palo Alto at this number around six o’clock last evening. I’m trying to find out what number called me.”
“Was it a direct-dial call? If so, we have no way of knowing.”
“It was handled by an operator,” I said.
“In that case, Palo Alto will have a record of it.”
“Can you get the number from them?”
“We don’t do that except in case of emergency.”
“This is a very serious emergency.” She took my word for it. “Very well, I can try. What was your name again, sir?”
“Robert Doncaster.”
“And the number?” I read it to her off the dial.
“Do you wish me to call you back, or will you hold?”
“I’ll hold on, thanks.”
I sat and listened to faint fragments of conversation dangling at the verge of intelligibility; names of places, Portland, Salt Lake City; wisps of thought in the great empty mind of the night. The brisk voice drowned them out:
“I have your number, Mr. Doncaster. It’s Davenport 93489 in Palo Alto.”
“Whose number is it?”
“We don’t give out that information even in an emergency. The Palo Alto office might tell you if you contacted them in person. That would be up to them.” She added: “Or you could call the number.”
“Of course. Do that, will you?”
The early-morning circuits were open, and the call went through right away. The telephone at the other end of the line rang in its unknown place. It rang sixteen times.