sat down on the bed and bent to work on her shoes. I took them off for her, and then swung her legs onto the bed and propped her against the headboard with pillows.
“I’m so tired,” she whimpered.
I lit a cigaret and offered her one. She shook her head. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her. The siren was coming closer. If I got anything out of Daisy Willow it would have to be now. Not even an old friend like Jocko would permit me to question people privately. And I doubted if the usual rough and ready methods of questioning used by the Teneskium sheriff’s office would get anything but hysterics out of this child.
“Do you know anyone with a felt hat like this one?”
Some of the weariness left her and wariness crept in. Her little chin went stubborn. “Most men wear felt hats,” she said.
“Do you faint every time you see one?”
She had enough energy to flush. “I don’t see what business that is of yours,” she said. She was trying the icy attitude on me. But I remembered just how little-girlish she had looked.
I stood up. “My business or the police’s business,” I said disinterestedly. The flush was draining fast from her now. She looked scared again. “Don’t make of a fool of yourself.” I started for the door.
I had my hand on the knob when she said, “Please, Miss O’Hara …”
I went back. “I was a sergeant,” I said. “The company mother confessor. Maybe because I radiate sympathy and kindness. Maybe because I look like someone’s grandma.”
She had to smile at that, feebly though. “I like you,” she said childishly. Her dark eyes were big and a little wet. “I’m awfully scared.”
“Because of yesterday? Or the felt hat?”
Her lips trembled. “People are beastly,” she whimpered. She put her hands out appealingly. “I—I’d rather not talk now. I’m so sleepy. I just didn’t want you to go away mad at me.”
I patted her hand and felt ancient. “Okay,” I said. “Sleep on it.” The sirens were right outside now, dying out in a long, mournful wail. “By the way, what kind of hats does Arthur Frew wear?”
She might be childish but she was sharp enough. “Arthur doesn’t wear a hat. Now, please …”
I could hear people tramping about downstairs. “Your father does, though.” I was watching her carefully.
Daisy fooled me. She said quickly, too quickly, “Daddy wouldn’t wear an
old
hat.” Reaction was nil. Whatever it was that made her faint, the child had it under control. She was standing up to me. That was all I was going to get. I had interviewed enough people to know when to say goodbye.
“Get some sleep,” I told her, and left.
I went downstairs quietly. Not that it would have made any difference. The rumble of voices in the living room was loud enough to drown out any sound I might have made short of falling down the stairs. They opened into the hallway by the kitchen door. I saw a light in there now, and the door was propped open. It looked warm and inviting. Instead of going into the living room I turned into the kitchen.
Mrs. Larson was there, working at the stove. “Hi, Ma,” I said. She turned her broad red Irish face to me. She was usually as happy looking as her husband, Big Swede. Now, though, I could see she had been crying. She was alone in the room.
“You’re a sight, Adeline.” She reached for the coffee cup and the pot. I took the coffee, thanking her.
“Did they …?” I began. Someone came in. It was Hilton.
He looked pale and tired and upset. His hair was awry and his neat clothing wet and muddy with fir and pine needles clinging to his trouser legs. He dropped into a kitchen chair with a brief, “May I?”
He gave me the answer. “We found him,” he said. I sat down, too. The tone of his voice sent little shivers up my backbone. It was so dull and dead and yet so descriptive to me. I could see them wandering through those woods, searching in that awful blackness, having the endless sound of
“I’m so tired,” she whimpered.
I lit a cigaret and offered her one. She shook her head. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her. The siren was coming closer. If I got anything out of Daisy Willow it would have to be now. Not even an old friend like Jocko would permit me to question people privately. And I doubted if the usual rough and ready methods of questioning used by the Teneskium sheriff’s office would get anything but hysterics out of this child.
“Do you know anyone with a felt hat like this one?”
Some of the weariness left her and wariness crept in. Her little chin went stubborn. “Most men wear felt hats,” she said.
“Do you faint every time you see one?”
She had enough energy to flush. “I don’t see what business that is of yours,” she said. She was trying the icy attitude on me. But I remembered just how little-girlish she had looked.
I stood up. “My business or the police’s business,” I said disinterestedly. The flush was draining fast from her now. She looked scared again. “Don’t make of a fool of yourself.” I started for the door.
I had my hand on the knob when she said, “Please, Miss O’Hara …”
I went back. “I was a sergeant,” I said. “The company mother confessor. Maybe because I radiate sympathy and kindness. Maybe because I look like someone’s grandma.”
She had to smile at that, feebly though. “I like you,” she said childishly. Her dark eyes were big and a little wet. “I’m awfully scared.”
“Because of yesterday? Or the felt hat?”
Her lips trembled. “People are beastly,” she whimpered. She put her hands out appealingly. “I—I’d rather not talk now. I’m so sleepy. I just didn’t want you to go away mad at me.”
I patted her hand and felt ancient. “Okay,” I said. “Sleep on it.” The sirens were right outside now, dying out in a long, mournful wail. “By the way, what kind of hats does Arthur Frew wear?”
She might be childish but she was sharp enough. “Arthur doesn’t wear a hat. Now, please …”
I could hear people tramping about downstairs. “Your father does, though.” I was watching her carefully.
Daisy fooled me. She said quickly, too quickly, “Daddy wouldn’t wear an
old
hat.” Reaction was nil. Whatever it was that made her faint, the child had it under control. She was standing up to me. That was all I was going to get. I had interviewed enough people to know when to say goodbye.
“Get some sleep,” I told her, and left.
I went downstairs quietly. Not that it would have made any difference. The rumble of voices in the living room was loud enough to drown out any sound I might have made short of falling down the stairs. They opened into the hallway by the kitchen door. I saw a light in there now, and the door was propped open. It looked warm and inviting. Instead of going into the living room I turned into the kitchen.
Mrs. Larson was there, working at the stove. “Hi, Ma,” I said. She turned her broad red Irish face to me. She was usually as happy looking as her husband, Big Swede. Now, though, I could see she had been crying. She was alone in the room.
“You’re a sight, Adeline.” She reached for the coffee cup and the pot. I took the coffee, thanking her.
“Did they …?” I began. Someone came in. It was Hilton.
He looked pale and tired and upset. His hair was awry and his neat clothing wet and muddy with fir and pine needles clinging to his trouser legs. He dropped into a kitchen chair with a brief, “May I?”
He gave me the answer. “We found him,” he said. I sat down, too. The tone of his voice sent little shivers up my backbone. It was so dull and dead and yet so descriptive to me. I could see them wandering through those woods, searching in that awful blackness, having the endless sound of
Similar Books
