had forced us to raise our voices. I went on writing, '-Finnish, 6 yrs, NY agcy, sgl,' and then looked at her.
Her head was way back showing all her throat, with her gaze straight above, and one arm was up waving a handkerchief back and forth. I jumped out from under the trees and cocked an eye at the airplane. It was right over us, down low, and two arms could be seen extended, one from one side and one from the other, waving back at her. The plane dipped a little, then swung around and headed back, and soon was out of sight behind the trees. She went back to the bench and I joined her; she was saying: 'That was my brother. This is the first time he has been up since my father-'
'He must be pretty reckless, and he certainly has long arms.
'He doesn’t fly; at least, not solo. That was Manuel Kimball with him, it’s Mr. Kimball’s plane.'
'Oh. One of the foursome.'
'Yes.'
I nodded and went back to facts. I was ready for golf. Peter Oliver Barstow had not been a zealot, she said. He had rarely played at the university, and not oftener than once a week, occasionally twice, during the summer. He had nearly always gone to Green Meadow, where he was a member; he of course had had a locker and kept his paraphernalia there. He had been quite good, considering the infrequency of his play, averaging from ninety-five to a hundred. He had played usually with friends his own age, but sometimes with his son and daughter. His wife had never tried it. The foursome of that fatal Sunday, E.D. Kimball and his son Manuel and Barstow and his son Lawrence, had never before played together, she thought. Probably it had been an accident of propinquity; her brother had not mentioned whether it had been prearranged, but she knew that he did sometimes have a game with Manuel. She especially doubted that the foursome had been arranged beforehand because it had been her father’s first appearance at Green Meadow that summer; the Barstows had come to Westchester three weeks earlier than their custom on account of Mrs. Barstow’s condition, and Barstow had expected to return to the university that Sunday night.
When she had said that Sarah Barstow stopped. I glanced up from my notebook. Her fingers were twisted together and she was staring off at the path, at nothing. She said, not to me, 'Now he will not return there at all. All the things he wanted to do-all he would have done-not at all-'
I waited a little and then shook her out of it by asking, 'Did your father leave his golf bag at Green Meadow all year?'
She turned back to me. 'No. Why-of course not, because he sometimes used them at the university.'
'He had only the one bag of clubs?'
'Yes!' She seemed emphatic.
'Then he brought them with him? You only got here Saturday noon. You drove down from the university and the luggage followed in a truck. Was the bag in the car or in the truck?'
It was easy to see that I was touching something raw. Her throat showed muscles and her arms pressed p ever so little against her sides; she was tightening up.
I pretended I didn’t notice it, just waited with my pencil. She said, 'I don’t know. Really I don’t remember.'
'Probably in the truck,' I said. 'Since he wasn’t much of a fan he probably wouldn’t bother with it in the car. Where is it now?'
I expected that would tighten her up some more, but it didn’t. She was calm but a little determined. 'I don’t know that either. I supposed you knew it can’t be found.'
'Oh,' I said. 'The golf bag can’t be found?'
'No. The men from White Plains and Pleasantville have searched everywhere, this whole house, the club, even all over the links; they can’t find it.'
Yes, I thought to myself, and you, young lady, you’re damn well pleased they can’t! I said, 'Do you mean to say that no one remembers anything about it?'
'No. That is, yes.' She hesitated. 'I understand that the boy who was caddying for Father says that he put the bag in the car, by the driver’s seat, when they-when Larry and Dr. Bradford brought Father home. Larry and Dr. Bradford do not remember seeing it.'
'Strange. I know I am not here to collect opinions, only facts, Miss Barstow, but if you will permit me, doesn’t that strike you as strange?'
'Not at all. They were not likely to notice a golf bag at such a time.'
'But after they got here it must have been removed sometime-some servant, the chauffeur…'
'No one remembers it.'
'I may speak with them?'
'Certainly.' She was scornful. I didn’t know what kind of a career she had mapped out, but I could have warned her not to try the stage.
That was that. It looked to me as if the kernel was gone, leaving practically no nut at all. I switched on her.
'What kind of a driver did your father use? Steel shaft or wooden?'
'Wood. He didn’t like steel.'
'Face plain or inset?'
'Plain, I think. I think so. I’m not sure I remember. Larry’s has an inset, so has mine.'
