before confronting a widow on the day of her husband’s funeral. Which Alice was sure he wouldn’t conceivably have done.
There were three doors off the corridor in which she was standing but she knew from John that the one into the apartment was directly ahead, at the corridor’s end. It was pale green, Jane’s favourite colour. Chosen by her, like the decor inside, pale green offset by cream, dark green for contrast in the carpets and drapes. John had liked it, too. Called Jane artistic. She should leave, Alice told herself. Call the elevator back and get out, before she was trapped by whoever else was expected. She couldn’t have gained more than fifteen minutes, leaving the wake early. Insane to be here like this.
She had to take a chance with the FBI agent. It was her only chance. It might have helped if she’d brought the IRS printouts from the cabin. Insufficient by themselves, but at least something. Perhaps not go to the FBI at all, not yet. But when? She wouldn’t be gaining anything by waiting to get any more tax records. So she wouldn’t wait. She had to live – survive – not wait.
The pale-green door was opened by Manuel, whom she recognized from John’s description of the dark-haired, dark-skinned butler. A Mexican with a Mexican wife. Resenting the intrusion of others.
Alice said: ‘The lobby called up.’
Manuel nodded and said: ‘Rosemary Pritchard?’
‘Mrs Carver’s expecting me.’
‘I was expecting Dr Mortimer. People from the firm.’
‘I’ve come direct from the funeral.’ Get out of the way, let me in!
As if aware of Alice’s thoughts, Manuel stood aside, gesturing Alice towards a door to the right. The drawing room, Alice knew, holding back for the butler to open it for her but immediately thrusting past before he could block her way.
Jane Carver was in a chair by the window, looking across the verandah in the direction of the park. She turned at Manuel’s voice, her features more squinting than frowning because at that moment Jane’s vision was blurred, as much from a close-to-exhaustion half doze as from the persistent hangover from chlorpromazine. ‘What…? Who …?’
‘Jane, we talked back at the hotel.’ How long would it be before the others arrived, behind her? Minutes. Probably no more than minutes.
Jane’s vision cleared. ‘Yes?’ She said, doubtfully. Something about her father. John. She wished she didn’t feel so tired: so disorientated.
Alice was conscious of Manuel, hovering at the door, face creased in uncertainty. He said: ‘Are you all right, Mrs Carver? Dr Mortimer’s on his way.’
Jane roused herself, physically straightening in her chair. ‘It’s OK. I dozed off. I don’t want anything, thank you.’ As Manuel closed the door after himself, still frowning, Jane looked back to Alice and said: ‘I’m sorry…?’
It had to be the FBI, Alice decided. There was no other choice. Somehow, anyhow, she had to get Jane to Federal Plaza, talk and plead there until they took her seriously enough to put them both under some sort of protection until Jane could get the documents that were going to save them from Citibank on Wall Street. It could be done by tomorrow. By tomorrow they could be out of danger. ‘I want you to come somewhere with me… it’s very important… it’s to do with…’
‘Rosemary Pritchard!’ exclaimed Jane, triumphantly. ‘Yes, of course!’
Until that moment Alice had been unaware of the depth of Jane’s confusion. She’d dismissed as understandable Jane’s strangeness during their brief encounter at the Plaza, the bewilderment of grief and of being among too many people too soon, engulfed in that grief. But now it was obviously something else, something she’d been given to help her get through the ordeal. Dr Mortimer’s on his way, Manuel had said. They’d be here soon, the prescribing doctor and people from the firm. She couldn’t possibly explain to them: convince them. She couldn’t be here when they arrived. ‘Yes, Rosemary Pritchard.’
‘Are you taking me to her?’
‘Yes. That’s what I want to do. Will you come with me now, right away?’
‘Of course. I’ve been waiting.’ Jane rose but swayed slightly, needing the support of the chair back. ‘Still a bit fuzzy.’
‘We’ve got to hurry, Jane.’ How long had she been in the apartment? Five minutes, ten minutes? They had to get out. She was taking advantage of someone who didn’t know what they were doing. She thought, forgive me, John. And then, forgive me, Jane. What she was doing was right, Alice told herself. It had to be.
Manuel must have used one of the side doors to get into the entrance lobby of the apartment. As they came out of the drawing room he said: ‘People are on their way, Mrs Carver.’
‘I need a coat, Manuel. We’re going to see Dr Pritchard.’
‘The others are coming,’ the butler insisted. ‘You should wait.’
‘They can wait. Tell them that. Tell them to wait. Could you get my coat, please?’
The man didn’t immediately move. He said to Alice: ‘I thought you were Rosemary Pritchard?’
‘No.’
‘Who are you?’
‘A friend.’
‘Manuel! My coat please!’ demanded Jane.
Alice couldn’t believe the sudden lucidity: was worried it might suddenly bring Jane back into proper, questioning awareness.
Manuel said: ‘I think you should wait, Mrs Carver. There are people…’
‘Who can wait. I’ll get my damned coat myself!’
Manuel got to the closet first. The coat was black, to match Jane’s funeral clothes. Jane took it but didn’t try to put it on, instead throwing it over her arm. Alice’s concentration was on the indicator board as they went down the outside corridor, alert for an ascending elevator, jabbing at the summoning button the moment she reached it. Manuel was at the still open door of the apartment, watching them.
‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ said Jane, obscurely.
‘I know it will be,’ said Alice, who didn’t.
The lobby was empty. The man at the reception desk smiled and said something Alice didn’t hear. Jane smiled back at him but didn’t say anything. Outside, Alice said: ‘I’ve got a car,’ and quickly turned Jane away from the direction from which vehicles would approach. Alice wanted to move faster but Jane was unsteady, scuffing her feet, needing a supporting arm. Alice could see the Volkswagen tantalizingly ahead, like a mirage, and for a moment, like a mirage, it didn’t seem to be getting any nearer. But then it did and she bustled Jane into the passenger seat and tightened the safety belt around her. As she did so, close to the other woman, Alice saw Jane’s eyes droop, then blink open, her head jerking back. Then it fell again.
Alice drove initially without thought, grateful she’d been facing east, making the right on Second Avenue and staying on it through four intersections before making the cross-town turn, wanting to avoid going close to the Plaza. She’d done it! She’d got Jane – poor, momentarily bewildered and confused Jane – and through Jane the FBI could get what George Northcote was murdered for and what Janice Snow was murdered for and what John had finally – too late – been so desperately running to the police to preserve. Which they could get now. Alice couldn’t think, didn’t want to think, beyond that. Whatever the uncertainties ahead, things were going to happen and when they did she had to face them, adjust to them.
It was when Alice was actually making the cross-town turn that Jane slumped heavily against her and when she was fully halted by the jam at the Fifth Avenue junction Alice turned to see Jane’s head sunk deeply on to her chest, bubbling faint snores.
Loudly she said: ‘Jane!’ but Jane didn’t stir.
‘Jane!’
There was still no response.
It would be whatever Jane had been given, to get her through the funeral. That and the trauma of it all. Total exhaustion, as well. Alice felt close to total exhaustion herself. She wouldn’t get what she wanted the acceptance she wanted – taking a completely incomprehensible woman to the FBI. They’d most likely hospitalize Jane, separating them before there was any chance of even attempting to explain, which would make everything impossible.
Alice didn’t turn downtown on Broadway but continued on straight across to Twelfth Avenue to go north, on
