“I meant it kindly as a fact, ma’m.”
“Do you know something, Chauncy? I have a notion that you are an exceptional person. Do you mind my calling you Chauncy?”
“No, ma’m. Chauncy’s my name, and I expect to be called by it.”
“I’ve often heard my husband speak highly of you, and now I can understand why.”
“Mr. Gideon Jones is a generous gentleman. We’ve had many pleasant discussions.”
“I suppose you know that he’s been put into jail.”
“I’m sorry, ma’m. An egregious error, I’m sure.”
“Did you know the lady he’s suspected erroneously of killing?”
“Only by name and reputation. I remember her from years ago and from the recent evening she was here.”
“The evening she drank gimlets with Mr. Jones?”
“Yes, ma’m. An innocent episode, I assure you. She asked Mr. Jones to buy her the gimlet, which he did. They talked a while at a table, and Mr. Jones left alone.”
“I know. I don’t suspect Mr. Jones of any thing more than a kind of amiable and temporary soft-headedness, Chauncy, and so you needn’t try to protect him. The lady is the one I’m interested in at the moment, and I wonder if you can remember how long she was here after Mr. Jones left.”
“I can estimate, if you like.”
“Please do.”
“Between half an hour and an hour. I regret that I can’t be more exact.”
“When it comes to that, Chauncy, you are a good deal more exact than doctors and coroners. Thank you very much.”
“I’m pleased to be of help, ma’m.”
“Do you remember if she was alone all that time?”
“Oh, no. She was not alone. Several people stopped at her table to speak with her, and one or two, as I recall, sat with her until she left.”
“When she left, did she leave alone?”
“I think not. I have a vague remembrance of someone accompanying her.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“That’s correct. I’m not sure.”
“That’s too bad, Chauncy. I wish you could be.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, ma’m.”
“You shouldn’t be. I have no right to expect too much, and you are doing wonderfully well as it is. Does your vague remembrance of someone accompanying her include a vague remembrance of who that someone might have been?”
“No, ma’m. It doesn’t, and it’s odd, for you’d think it would.”
“How do you explain that it doesn’t?”
“As I said, some faces you remember easy and some you remember hard. This is due, I believe, to the nature of pleasure. Your face, for example, if you will excuse me, is a face that gives one pleasure to remember, and it is therefore remembered easily and easily visualized, so that it can be seen at will in the imagination when one needs the refreshment of something good to look at.”
“It’s wholly unnecessary, Chauncy, to ask to be excused for saying something like that.”
“I’m happy that you’re not offended, ma’m.”
“On the contrary, I’m delighted. Are you sure you’re not just being exceptionally nice? Do you actually sometimes look at my face in your imagination?”
“I have done so in the past, and I hope I may be permitted to continue.”
“Not only are you permitted, Chauncy, you are urged. Here and now you have permission to look at my face in your imagination whenever it pleases you.”
“Thank you. I’ll be most circumspect as to time and place.”
“Is it your judgment, then, that you may not remember the person who may have left here with Beth Thatcher because the person may have a face that it doesn’t please you to remember?”
“That’s my judgment, ma’m, for what it’s worth. I call it selective memory, and I believe that it becomes highly developed in certain of us who serve in positions that deny us the right to be discriminatory in our contacts. If I may say so, I would bear a heavy burden if I were unable to expunge immediately from my memory about 90 percent of the people I serve.”
“You may certainly say so, Chauncy, and I admire you for saying it. You’re a gentleman and a philosopher of the highest order, and it has been a pleasure to talk with you.”
“The pleasure was mine, ma’m, and I hope Mr. Gideon Jones is soon released from jail.”
On this elevated plane of mutual respect, which was genuine, Sid and Chauncy parted, and Sid came on over to the county jail to see me. It was almost one o’clock when she got there, and I was full of chicken-fried steak and cream gravy when she arrived. I won’t go into the details of what was said and done, the little of either that was possible under the imposed conditions, except that it was permitted to go on for quite a long time, thanks to a feeling of prejudice in our favor held by Harley Murchison, who had beat me at dominoes last night and was looking forward to beating me again after supper was served later. She reported the events of the day, which I have set down in action and dialogue dressed up a little by imagination within the bounds of possibility, if not probability, and then, after a eulogy of Chauncy’s superior character and intellect, we said good-by again with restrained fervor, and she went home.
She was tired and sticky after a busy time on a hot day, and she went upstairs and had a shower and lay down on the bed in our room to think about what she had learned and where she now was in relation to it, and where she was, so far as she could see, was somewhat behind where she had been when she started. As stated, she was convinced that Thelma Thatcher had told the truth, inasmuch as it confirmed Sid’s own notions. She was also convinced that Wilson Thatcher had not been foolish enough to kill anyone over a matter that could have been settled much less dangerously otherwise, although Wilson’s potential for foolishness was demonstrably considerable, and that left me out in front all alone, in jail and available. This
