Rose's Last Summer [= The Lively Corpse]

12

The noon traffic was heavy, slowed by fog and lunch-hour pedestrians, and cable cars that moved up and down the impossibly steep and narrow streets with slow, staggering dignity like drunken duchesses.

Frank drove up Powell Street. With each hill the traffic lessened and the street changed. Cigar and candy shops gave way to hotels and nightclubs and finally apartment houses jammed so close together that they seemed to be one continuous building. There were no lawns, no flowers. Land was too scarce and expensive to use for anything but shelter. People stepped down directly from their vestibules or parlors to the sidewalk, and stepped back up again with no contact with the growing things that were buried under concrete.

What Charley had called the old Goodfield mansion was at the top of the last hill. It may have been a mansion once but now it was curiously dwarfed by the apartment houses that towered above it on each side. It still had its distinction, though — two patches of lawn like green scatter rugs, and, flanking the sidewalk and front steps, a hundred or more potted plants of all colors and all sizes. They lent an air of welcome to the forbidding Gothic door. There was no chime or bell at the door, only a little silver Buddha with jeweled eyes. Frank raised the Buddha’s folded arms and let them fall again. They fell with a soft musical twinkle and the little jeweled eyes flashed as if in anger at this invasion of his privacy.

The heavy door opened inward two or three inches and a woman spoke through the crack: “Who is it, please?”

“Miss Goodfield?”

The woman laughed. In contrast to her voice, which sounded tired, her laugh was gay and full of genuine amusement. “Heavens, I almost said yes. That’s what comes of returning to the old homestead.”

“Sorry I don’t know your married name. I’m Frank Clyde.”

“I’m Shirley Gunnison, the Miss-Goodfield-that-was, as a maid of ours used to say.” She mentioned the maid with intentional casualness as if to make it clear that she hadn’t always had to answer the door herself. “If you’re working your way through college, don’t count on me to help.”

“I worked my way through college some time ago.”

“Selling subscriptions?”

“Diving for abalone.”

There was a pause. Then, “Well, that’s different, I must say. I don’t want to buy any old abalones, however.”

But she opened the door wider as if her curiosity, or her desire to talk to someone, had overridden her judgment.

She turned out to be a short stockily built woman in her late twenties. Though there were lines of strain and weariness around her eyes, she seemed essentially a cheerful and gregarious person. Her features were too large for prettiness, but her face and body had a vital quality. Even in the way she stood, with one arm resting on the doorjamb, there was a subtle air of victory, an inconclusive victory after a battle of guerrillas.

She said, “Since you’re not selling anything and I’m not buying anything, won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.”

She stood aside to let him enter. As he passed her Frank was aware of her very careful scrutiny. It didn’t fit in with the rather casual way she talked and her informal manners. He wondered whether she frequently invited strangers into her home, or whether he was an exception; if he was, why?

The hall was vast and cold. Its high, narrow windows didn’t let in enough sun to dispel the dampness from the corners. It was more like a museum than a place where people lived. Horace’s “valuables and antiques” lined the room; everything from a huge bronze statue of the goddess of plenty to tiny coins and medallions in glass cases, and silk prints in lacquered frames on the walls.

“Junk,” Shirley said. “Most of it.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I wouldn’t either. But Mother had an appraiser from Gump’s up one day and he wasn’t very enthusiastic. Come in here, won’t you?”

She led him into a small library with a wood fire burning in the grate. There was nothing Chinese or Eastern in the room except a pair of backscratchers lying on a table, tiny ivory hands with sharp, carved fingernails on the ends of two long sticks.

Shirley picked them up with a disdainful glance and put them away in a drawer.

“I don’t mind Chinese people but they certainly have some macabre ideas.” She sat down on a low, leather hassock in front of the fire. “The children are at a movie today. It’s lonesome around here. I’ve got to the point where I can’t stand silence anymore.”

“Is that why you invited me in?”

“No. I had a reason, though.”

“I’d like to know what it is.”

Shirley reached in her pocket for a cigarette and lit it before she answered. “Jack phoned from the factory and said you’d probably come here looking for him. He told me not to let you in and not to answer any questions. So—” she moved her shoulders in an eloquent shrug — “naturally, my curiosity was aroused.”

“Naturally it would be.”

“Are you going to ask me any questions?”

“Are you going to answer?”

“That depends,” Shirley said. “I might answer some and I might refuse to answer others. Jack said you were a detective. Are you?”

“No.”

“He’s got detectives on the brain. You’re the third this week.”

“Why?”

“Why are you the third? I don’t know. Maybe he has a guilty conscience. Or maybe the other two were real.”

“Did they come here?”

“No. Jack spotted them downtown and got away by mingling with the lunch crowd in the lobby of the St. Francis and then walking out through the kitchen. That’s his story. I think he went out through the kitchen all right. But as far as the two men are concerned, they were probably a couple of convention delegates looking for the lavatory. After all, why should detectives be following Jack? He hasn’t done anything — has he?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Well, if he has, you can bet your bottom dollar he’ll be caught.” Picking up the brass poker, she gave the log burning in the grate a vicious little prod. Sparks streamed up the chimney.

“Your brother lives here?”

“Yes. On the second floor.”

“Is he in?”

A slight hesitation. “I didn’t hear him come in. He never comes home at noon. Why?”

“I’m interested.”

“Why should you be, if you’re not a detective?”

“I met Willett Goodfield and his wife in La Mesa. I had to come north on business, so I thought I’d look up Jack and yourself while I was here.”

“You mean you took such a profound liking to Willett and Ethel that you wanted to enlarge your circle of Goodfields?”

“Ah... in a way.”

“Honestly.” Shirley was laughing. “I never heard a sillier explanation.”

“I can do better.”

“I hope so.”

“The fact is that a woman called Rose French was found dead on your brother’s property. You probably know about it.”

“Yes. I read it in the paper, and also Mother wrote to me about it, or at least dictated a letter to someone called Murphy. It was the first letter I’d had from her in months. Ethel is the one who usually writes.”

“What was your mother’s reaction?”

“She was thrilled to pieces. Contrary to Willett’s opinion, Mother thrives on excitement, especially if it brings disaster to someone like a loose woman. She was a loose woman, wasn’t she?”

“Not in my opinion.”

“Well anyway, Mother was thrilled. It seemed to pep her up.”

“I don’t suppose you still have that letter.”

“I don’t suppose I’d let you read it if I had.”

“I think you would.”

Shirley laughed again. “I guess I would. But as a matter of fact, I never keep letters. I chuck them out right away because I never have time to answer them and I hate them hanging around weighing on my conscience.”

“Did you know Rose French?”

“I knew of her. Everyone did.” A pause. “I think I’m beginning to see the light. You’re trying to connect us with her.”

“It would be an interesting connection.”

“Would it?” she said shortly. “Not to me. I have no concern with a woman dropping dead four hundred miles away. I’m just glad that it wasn’t Mother. I am not,” she added, “very fond of my mother, but I like the idea of her living to a ripe old age.”

“Why?”

“She keeps Jack and Willett in line. If it weren’t for Mother, neither of them would go near the factory. Even as it is, things are getting pretty run down. You must have seen that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’ve thought of taking it over myself. I’m a pretty good businesswoman, I think. Maybe when the children are a little older, I will. If it’s still there and if I care.”

She gave her head a sudden, almost violent shake, as if she felt herself sinking into a dream of despondency and had to wake herself up before she sank too far. The existence of the factory, though it was essential to their own existence, seemed to irritate and depress the Goodfields, like a gifted child that had failed to live up to expectations.

Shirley poked at the fire again. Her cheeks had taken on the deep flush of suppressed aggression, and Frank knew now that his first estimate of her as an essentially cheerful person had been too hasty. She had in her all the force and drive that should have been allotted to her brothers. Physically she was a very feminine woman devoted to her children; morally she was the head of the Goodfield clan. It was Shirley who should have been running the factory, keeping Willett and Jack in line, and ordering the new paint job for Sweetheart. As Charley had pointed out, Shirley was the only one with a head on her shoulders.

The head was still here, all right, but Frank had the impression that it wasn’t held as high as it used to be.

Shirley lit a second cigarette from the final half-inch of the first. “Well, have I answered all your questions, Mr. Clyde?”

“I have no complaint with your answers. Just the questions. Frankly, I didn’t know, and don’t know, what to ask.”

“In other words, you had no specific object in coming here at all?”

“No.”

“Afraid I don’t believe that. However—” She rose from the hassock, taking a long, deep pull on her cigarette. It was clear to Frank that she was disturbed, but she covered her nervousness well, keeping her hands active to conceal their trembling, and smiling with her mouth to distract attention from her worried eyes. “You must excuse me now, Mr. Clyde. I don’t very often have an afternoon free from the children. I think I’ll use it to — better advantage.”

She led Frank back through the long, damp hall to the front door. A dismal ending for such a promising beginning, Frank thought, certain that it was the mention of the factory that had changed Shirley’s attitude. When the Goodfield children were young, the place must have seemed to them an enchanted toyland, and the great wooden doll, Sweetheart, a symbol of magic and a figurehead of grandeur and privilege. He wondered how often Sweetheart turned up in Shirley’s dreams.

The door opened and a gauze curtain of mist blew delicately down the hall and disappeared.

Shirley rubbed her hands together, shivering. “Gloomy climate. It’s a wonder anyone stays here. I guess they stay for the same reason as I do, they have to. It’s all very well for Willett to travel around the country. But I have children, I can’t take them away from their school and their friends. I must give them some kind of continuity in their lives.” She seemed to be talking not to Frank but to herself, arguing over a point that she had argued over many times before. “They need security. How can you give anyone security when you have none yourself? But you wouldn’t know. You’re loaded with the stuff, aren’t you?”

The question was deliberately offensive. Frank walked out without answering.

This time it wasn’t Sweetheart who watched him leave, it was the little silver Buddha on the front door. His jeweled eyes twinkled. He looked more interested in the departure than Sweetheart.

Shirley waited in the hall until she heard the sound of a car starting. Then she walked briskly down to the end of the hall and called up the wide, marble staircase. “Jack?” Her voice echoed faintly and somberly against the high walls. “Jack.”

Jack appeared at the head of the stairs, white-faced and nervous. “Has he gone?”

“He’s gone.” She watched him with a kind of cynical detachment as he descended the stairs. He was wearing a hat and topcoat, and carrying a Gladstone bag in one hand and a large briefcase in the other. “Why all the panic?”

“For God’s sake, I told you, he’s a detective. He was asking Charley all kinds of questions about me. What did you tell him?”

“Oh, I was very ingenuous. Or is it ingenious? Probably both. I pretended I wasn’t on your side.”

“Pretended. That’s a laugh.”

“My dear Jack, please stop fluttering like a nervous bride. Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away. I can’t stand being hounded like this.”

“Who’s hounding you?”

“Hiller. Evangeline’s husband. He’s hired detectives to get something on me.”

“What a waste of time and money when all he’d really have to do is peek over the transom sometime when you’re giving dictation.” Her smile was full of contempt. “If you must indulge in these sordid little affairs, you must expect to have sordid little men following you around.”

He was too disturbed to take offense at her words and tone. “Evangeline says he’s got a terrible temper. She says he may kill me.”

“Well, if he does I’ll do everything in my power to see that he pays the penalty.”

“My God, will you quit making a joke of this? I’ve got to get out of town, I tell you.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Jack hesitated for a moment, looking down at the floor. “Well, frankly, old girl, I was counting on you for—”

“Well, frankly, old boy, you’re not getting any because I haven’t got any.”

“You must have something.”

Shirley laughed. “Must I?”

“What do you do with your money?”

“I feed and clothe my children, which is somewhat more commendable than your practice of feeding and clothing every blonde floozy who walks across your path.”

“Evangeline happens to be a natural brunette.”

“No doubt you’ve examined the roots of her hair. Revolting thought.”

“Don’t you talk like that about Evie. I love her. This is the first time I’ve ever been in love.”

“First time since last Tuesday, anyway. Are you going to take the girl with you, wherever you go?”

“No. She says she can handle Hiller all right.”

“I’ll bet she can. He probably examines the roots of her hair, too.”

He was quiet a moment. Then he said, painfully, “You have a nasty tongue.”

“It has quite a lot to be nasty about.”

“I had no idea until recently that you had become such a... shrew.”

“Shrews are made, not born. Maybe you had a hand in the making, Jack.”

“I hope not,” he said in a sober voice. “I really hope not.”

“As for money, much as I’d enjoy speeding your departure, I’m afraid I can’t. Try Mother. Or Willett. You and Willett have always been such pals, I’m sure he wouldn’t let you down. Except into a nice, deep hole.” She turned away, adding, over her shoulder, “I wrote Willett’s number on the phone book under Mother’s name.”

“Shirley. Wait.”

“Why?”

“I guess I said some unpleasant things. I apologize. I’m sorry.”

“Really?” She flashed him a steely smile. “The answer is still no. You’re not getting any money from me because I haven’t any.”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“Don’t be silly, Jack, I know what you meant. I’ve been on to you since I was three.”

“Shirley, listen. Do you suppose — would it be possible to sell some of this museum ware?”

“Mother would miss it when she comes back.”

“If. If she comes back.”

Shirley’s face had turned a dusty pink. “She’ll be back, she’s got to be.”

“Just don’t bet on it, old girl.”

“She’s got to be back,” Shirley said again, and stood directly in front of him with her chin out and her feet planted squarely as if daring him to knock her off balance.

Jack took a backward step, propping himself against the banister for support. Though he was two years older than Shirley he had always been a little afraid of her. Even when they were children, she had exercised a power over him which he resented but couldn’t understand or explain.

“There’s always one way of raising money,” he said. “Isn’t there?”

“Borrow from the bank.”

“I have borrowed from the bank. Ad nauseam. It’s reached the point where they lock the place up when they see me coming. No, the bank is out. I was thinking of something a little more drastic.”

“Pandering for Evangeline?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean, and don’t pretend you don’t care. If Willett won’t lend me enough money to get to Mexico or perhaps Hawaii, I’ll sell my stock in the factory.”

“You’ll sell that stock over three dead bodies, mine and Willett’s and Mother’s.”

“That’s an interesting thought, but it’s not very realistic. That stock happens to be mine, an outright gift from my unsainted mother.”

“On condition that you keep it in the family.”

“All right, I’ll keep it in the family. Want to buy it, old girl?”

The only sign of her anger was the sudden and violent clenching of her fists. Her voice was steady. “You know I can’t raise that much money.”

“Perhaps Willett can.”

“And if he can’t?”

“I’ll sell to someone else.”

“Mother will kill you if you do that.”

“Mother’s not in a position to kill anyone.”

“I am.”

“You’re a violent little thing, aren’t you?” he said with a lightness he didn’t feel.

“I can be, if I have to. You’re not selling that stock, Jack.”

“No?”

“No. The factory is outs, it always has been and it always will be.”

“You’re living in a dream.”

“It’s a good solid dream with an income attached.”

“I don’t see it that way.”

“Then you’re a fool. Where would you be without an income? What kind of a job could you hold? Sell your stock and you’ll piddle the money away in a year. Evangeline will be wearing mink but you’ll be wearing a barrel.”

It was calculated to strike hard and it did. Jack was extremely particular about his clothes, and the image of himself clad in a barrel, even a well-tailored barrel, shook him to the very core. All sorts of ghastly pictures ran through his mind: escorting Evangeline to the Top of the Mark and being refused a table because of his costume; trying to board a cable car and being unable to squeeze inside; Evangeline, haughty in mink and diamonds, rejecting him openly in the Embassy Club; small boys and large dogs chasing him down the street, and medium-sized women jeering at him from windows and doorways.

“Well?” Shirley said.

“I—” He wiped the sweat off his forehead with a shaking hand. “I guess I’ll phone Willett.”

“Do that.”

“Maybe if he can’t lend me a few thousand to get away until things cool off, he’ll let me stay with him in La Mesa for a while.”

“Don’t count on it.”

“After all, blood’s thicker than water.”

My blood is, Shirley thought. She wasn’t sure about Jack’s or Willett’s. She said, “Actually there’s no hurry about your leaving, is there? If this man Clyde really is a detective, that may be exactly what he expects you to do. He’s probably parked around the corner waiting for you to make the next move.”

“My God. Then what’ll I do?”

“Sit tight. He’s human, he can’t stay there all night. Wait until it gets dark, take your car over to the garage and leave it there, and then first thing in the morning slip out the back way, pick up your car and start moving.”

“That sounds all right. In fact—”

“And above all, stay away from Evangeline. Don’t even phone her.”

“I won’t. I mean, we’ve already said goodbye and all that. She understands, is what I mean.”

“I bet.”

Now that the decision had been made and the pictures of himself wearing a barrel had faded from his mind, Jack felt quite optimistic. On his way to the telephone in the library, he began to make plans. He would drive down to La Mesa early in the morning by the coast route which was slower but more scenic; lunch at Cambria Pines; and then, possibly around five or six in the afternoon, arrival in La Mesa and reunion, after six months’ separation, with good old Willett. Willett would rush out to greet him and with lavish hospitality offer him a haven from the storm or enough cash to seek another haven. Good old Willett.