The Instant Enemy

chapter 2

THE FRICTION BETWEEN the two was starting to rasp on my nerves. I asked Sebastian to show me his gun cabinet. He took me into a small study which was partly library and partly gun room.

There were light and heavy rifles standing upright behind glass in the mahogany gun cabinet, and an empty slot where a double-barreled shotgun had fitted. The bookshelves held a collection of best sellers and book-club editions, and one drab row of textbooks in economics and advertising psychology.

“Are you in advertising?”

“Public relations. I’m chief PR officer for Centennial Savings and Loan. Actually I should be there this morning. We’re deciding on our program for next year.”

“It can wait one day, can’t it?”

“I don’t know.”

He turned to the gun cabinet, opening it and the drawer under it where he kept his shells. They unlocked with the same brass key.

“Where was the key?”

“In the top drawer of my desk.” He opened the drawer and showed me. “Sandy knew where I kept it, of course.”

“But anybody else could easily have found it”

“That’s true. But I’m sure she took it.”

“Why?”

“I just have a feeling.”

“Is she gun-happy?”

“Certainly not. When you’re properly trained in the use of guns, you don’t become gun-happy, as you call it.”

“Who trained her?”

“I did, naturally. I’m her father.”

He went to the gun cabinet and touched the barrel of the heavy rifle. Carefully he closed the glass door and locked it. He must have caught his reflection in the glass. He backed away from it, scouring his bearded chin with his cupped palm.

“I look terrible. No wonder Bernice has been picking at me. My face is coming apart.”

He excused himself and went away to put his face together. I took a peek at my own face in the glass. I didn’t look too happy. Early morning was not my best thinking time, but I formulated a vague unhappy thought: Sandy was middle girl in a tense marriage, and at the moment I was middle man.

Mrs. Sebastian came softly into the room and stood beside me in front of the gun cabinet.

“I married a boy scout,” she said.

“There are sorrier fates.”

“Name one. My mother warned me not to take up with a good-looking man. Marry brains, she told me. But I wouldn’t listen. I should have stuck with my modeling career. At least I can depend on my own bones.” She patted the hip nearest me.

“You have good bones. Also, you’re very candid.”

“I got that way in the course of the night.”

“Show me your daughter’s diary.”

“I will not.”

“Are you ashamed of her?”

“Of myself,” she said. “What could the diary tell you that I can’t tell you?”

“If she was sleeping with this boy, for instance.”

“Of course she wasn’t,” she said with a little flash of anger.

“Or anybody else.”

“That’s absurd.” But her face went sallow.

“Was she?”

“Of course not. Sandy’s remarkably innocent for her age.”

“Or was. Let’s hope she still is.”

Bernice Sebastian retreated to higher ground. “I– we didn’t hire you to pry into my daughter’s morals.”

“You didn’t hire me, period. In a chancy case like this, I need a retainer, Mrs. Sebastian.”

“What do you mean, chancy?”

“Your daughter could come home at any time. Or you and your husband could change your minds–”

She stopped me with an impatient flick of her hand. “All right, how much do you want?”

“Two days’ pay and expenses, say two hundred and fifty.”

She sat at the desk, got a checkbook out of the second drawer, and wrote me a check. “What else?”

“Some recent pictures of her.”

“Sit down, I’ll get you some.”

When she was gone, I examined the checkbook stubs. After paying me my retainer, the Sebastians had less than two hundred dollars left in their bank account. Their smart new house cantilevered over a steep drop was an almost perfect image of their lives.

Mrs. Sebastian came back with a handful of pictures. Sandy was a serious-looking girl who resembled her mother in her dark coloring. Most of the pictures showed her doing things: riding a horse, riding a bicycle, standing on a diving board ready to dive, pointing a gun. The gun looked like the same .22 rifle as the one in the gun cabinet. She held it as if she knew how to use it

“What about this gun bit, Mrs. Sebastian? Was it Sandy’s idea?”

“It was Keith’s. His father brought him up to hunt. Keith passed on the great tradition to his daughter.” Her voice was sardonic.

“Is she your only child?”

“That’s right. We have no son.”

“May I go through her room?”

The woman hesitated. “What do you expect to find? Evidence of transvestitism? Narcotics?”

She was still trying to be sardonic, but the questions came through literally to me. I’d found stranger things than those in young people’s rooms.

Sandy’s room was full of sunlight and fresh sweet odors. I found pretty much what you’d expect to find in the bedroom of an innocent, serious high-school senior. A lot of sweaters and skirts and books, both high-school books and a few good novels like A High Wind in Jamaica. A menagerie of cloth animals. College pennants, mostly Ivy League. A pink-frilled vanity with cosmetics laid out on the top of it in geometrical patterns. The photograph of another young girl smiling from a silver frame on the wall.

“Who’s that?”

“Sandy’s best friend, Heidi Gensler.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

Mrs. Sebastian hesitated. These hesitations of hers were brief but tense and somber, as if she was planning her moves far ahead in a high-stakes game.

“The Genslers don’t know about this,” she said.

“You can’t look for your daughter and keep it a secret both at the same time. Are the Genslers friends of yours?”

“They’re neighbors. The two girls are the real friends.” She made her decision suddenly. “I’ll ask Heidi to drop over before she goes to school.”

“Why not right away?”

She left the room. I made a quick search of possible hiding places, under the pink oval lamb’s-wool rug, between the mattress and springs, on the high dark shelf in the closet, behind and under the clothes in the chest of drawers. I shook out some of the books. From the center of Sonnets from the Portuguese a scrap of paper fluttered.

I picked it up from the rug. It was part of a lined notebook page on which someone had written in precise black script:

Mrs. Sebastian was watching me from the doorway. “You’re very thorough, Mr. Archer. What is that?”

“A little verse. I wonder if Davy wrote it.”

She snatched it from between my fingers and read it. “It sounds quite meaningless to me.”

“It doesn’t to me.” I snatched it back and put it in my wallet. “Is Heidi coming?”

“She’ll be here in a little while. She’s just finishing breakfast.”

“Good. Do you have any letters from Davy?”

“Of course not.”

“I thought he might have written to Sandy. I’d like to know if this verse is in his handwriting.”

“I have no idea.”

“I’m willing to bet it is. Do you have a picture of Davy?”

“Where would I get a picture of him?”

“The same place you got your daughter’s diary.”

“You needn’t keep flinging that in my face.”

“I’m not. I’d simply like to read it. It could give me a lot of help.”

She went into another of her somber hesitations, straining her eyes ahead over the curve of time.

“Where is the diary, Mrs. Sebastian?”

“It doesn’t exist any longer,” she said carefully. “I destroyed it.”

I thought she was lying, and I didn’t try to conceal my thought. “How?”

“I chewed it up and swallowed it, if you must know. Now you’ve got to excuse me. I have a dreadful headache.”

She waited at the doorway for me to come out of the room, then closed and locked the door. The lock was new.

“Whose idea was the lock?”

“Actually it was Sandy’s. She wanted more privacy these last few months. More than she could use.”

She went into another bedroom and shut the door. I found Sebastian back at the kitchen counter drinking coffee. He had washed and shaved and brushed his curly brown hair, put on a tie and a jacket and a more hopeful look.

“More coffee?”

“No thanks.” I got out a small black notebook and sat beside him. “Can you give me a description of Davy?”

“He looked like a young thug to me.”

“Thugs come in all shapes and sizes. What’s his height, approximately?”

“About the same as mine. I’m six feet in my shoes.”

“Weight?”

“He looks heavy, maybe two hundred.”

“Athletic build?”

“I guess you’d say that.” He had a sour competitive note in his voice. “But I could have taken him.”

“No doubt you could. Describe his face.”

“He isn’t too bad-looking. But he has that typical sullen look they have.”

“Before or after you offered to shoot him?”

Sebastian moved to get up. “Look here, if you’re taking sides against me, what do you think we’re paying you for?”

“For this,” I said, “and for a lot of other dull interrogations. You think this is my idea of a social good time?”

“It’s not mine, either.”

“No, but it belongs to you. What color is his hair?”

“Blondish.”

“Does he wear it long?”

“Short. They probably cut it off in prison.”

“Blue eyes?”

“I guess so.”

“Any facial hair?”

“No.”

“What was he wearing?”

“The standard uniform. Tight pants worn low on the hips, a faded blue shirt, boots.”

“How did he talk?”

“With his mouth.” Sebastian’s thin feelings were wearing thinner again.

“Educated or uneducated? Hip or square?”

“I didn’t hear him say enough to know. He was mad. We both were.”

“How would you sum him up?”

“A slob. A dangerous slob.” He turned in a queer quick movement and looked at me wide-eyed, as if I’d just applied those words to him. “Listen, I have to get down to the office. We’re having an important conference about next year’s program. And then I’m going to have lunch with Mr. Hackett.”

Before he left, I got him to give me a description of his daughter’s car. It was a last year’s Dart two-door, light green in color, which was registered in his name. He wouldn’t let me put it on the official hot-car list. I wasn’t to tell the police anything about the case.

“You don’t know how it is in my profession,” he said. “I have to keep up a stainless-steel front. If it slips, I slip. Confidence is our product in the savings and loan industry.”

He drove away in a new Oldsmobile which, according to his check stubs, was costing him a hundred and twenty dollars a month.