What they do on their own time is their own business.'
'Did he have any friends that you knew of?'
'Not that I knew of, no. He kept to himself most of the time.'
'And he was a good worker.'
'Very good. Very conscientious, and he had a feeling for the business.' He fixed his eyes on the ceiling. 'I sensed that he had personal problems. He never talked about them, but he was, oh, how shall I put it? High- strung.'
'Nervous? Touchy?'
'No, not that, exactly. High-strung is the best adjective I can think of to describe him. You sensed that he had things weighing him down, keying him up.
But you know, that was more noticeable when he first started here. For the past year he seemed more settled, as if he had managed to come to terms with himself.'
'The past year. Since he moved in with the Hanniford girl, in other words.'
'I hadn't thought of it that way, but I guess that's right.'
'You were surprised when he killed her.'
'I was astonished. I simply could not believe it. And I'm still astonished.
You see someone five days a week for a year and a half, and you think you know them. Then you find out you don't know them at all.'
On my way out the young man in the turtleneck stopped me. He asked me if I had learned anything useful. I told him I didn't know.
'But it's all over,' he said. 'Isn't it? They're both dead.'
'Yes.'
'So what's the point in poking around in corners?'
'I have no idea,' I said. 'Why do you suppose he was living with her?'
'Why does anybody live with anybody else?'
'Let's assume he was gay. Why would he live with a woman?'
'Maybe he got tired of dusting and cleaning. Sick of doing his own laundry.'
'I don't know that she was that domestic. It seems likely that she was a prostitute.'
'So I understand.'
'Why would a homosexual live with a prostitute?'
'Gawd, I don't know. Maybe she let him take care of her overflow. Maybe he was a closet heterosexual. For my own part, I'd never live with anyone, male or female. I have trouble enough living with myself.'
I couldn't argue with that. I started toward the door, then turned around again. There were too many things that didn't fit together, and they were scraping against each other like chalk on a blackboard. 'I just want to make sense out of this,' I said, to myself as much as to him. 'Why in hell would he kill her? He raped her and he killed her. Why?'
'Well, he was a minister's son.'
'So?'
'They're all crazy,' he said. 'Aren't they?'
Chapter 6
The Reverend Martin Vanderpoel didn't want to see me. 'I have spoken with enough reporters,' he told me. 'I can spare no time for you, Mr. Scudder. I have my responsibilities to my congregation. What time remains, I feel the need to devote to prayer and meditation.'
I knew the feeling. I explained that I wasn't a reporter, that I was representing Cole Hanniford, the father of the murdered girl.
'I see,' he said.
'I wouldn't need much of your time, Reverend Vanderpoel. Mr. Hanniford has suffered a loss, even as you have. In a sense, he lost his daughter before she was killed. Now he wants to learn more about her.'
'I'd be a poor source of information, I'm afraid.'
'He told me he wanted to see you himself, sir.'
There was a long pause. I thought for a moment that the phone had gone dead. Then he said, 'It is a difficult request to refuse. I will be occupied with church affairs this afternoon, I'm afraid. Perhaps this evening?'
'This evening would be fine.'
'You have the address of the church? The rectory is adjacent to it. I will be waiting for you at-shall we say eight o'clock?'
I said eight would be fine. I found another dime and looked up another number and made a call, and the man I spoke to was a good deal less reticent to talk about Richard Vanderpoel. In fact he seemed relieved that I'd called
