Margaret didn’t ask how he knew; his voice was too flat and certain for that. “But she came from the East— she might. . .”
The clothes, possibly, the visit to a beauty salon. But the passport shots, while her husband was dying? And anyway there was a certain time limit on shots. Hilary’s voice came back, saying sombrely, “Maybe she’s shut up somewhere,” and Margaret shook it off with difficulty.
“She is in Europe, she must be. She sent Elizabeth Honeyman for her mail and address book.”
“Did she?”
Although he didn’t move, he gave an impression of having spun argumentatively on her. Margaret said, “All right, then, you don’t believe she’s in Europe. Where do you think she is?”
He got up and walked to the windows. “I don’t know.”
(. . . Shut up somewhere.) Margaret forced her mind past that and gazed steadily at Kincaid’s tall uncommunicative back. If he had gone to the trouble of finding out her father’s name, the elementary school she had attended, a single memorable event in Cornelia’s youth, he certainly knew about her past relationship with Philip. The reminder hardened her voice. “But you think Philip may know.”
One shoulder lifted and dropped, dark against the shrill gold light. Kincaid said again, “I don’t know,” but he said it late.
“But it’s Philip you’re after,” said Margaret persistently. After, not interested in; the choice of words was instinctive, because in spite of his ease—gone, now—and his almost musical voice, this man was a hunter.
“In a way, yes.”
“You can’t be after somebody in a way,” said Margaret irritably. “You are or you aren’t.”
The little silence was taut, something bent almost to the breaking point. She realized with a surprise that made her flush that it was exactly because Kincaid did know about her past attachment to Philip that he didn’t trust her. Did he think she would refuse to believe whatever he had to say, and find some means of warning Philip? Margaret said through stiff lips, “You can tell me. It can’t possibly be worse than what I’m thinking.” At that he turned, and at something in her face he made up his mind. An edge of Margaret’s attention registered his silent wish that it were a respectable hour for a drink. He said, “I don’t suppose Byrne told either of you he had been married before.”
Byrne: suddenly brusque, impersonal. And bigamy. It seemed just now the most trifling of offenses, but before Margaret’s heart had time to lift Kincaid said with a quiet finality, “Twice. Once while he was in college, again three years ago.”
There was something infinitely chilling about the use of the word “again.” Margaret knew at once that Philip had not divorced his wives, but she could only gaze at Kincaid through the pounding heat of her body, and wait.
“He seems to be unlucky. He was left a widower both times,” said Kincaid, still in an almost casual voice. “His only consolation being that both women had a little something to leave him. Margaret. . . Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t . . . Margaret!”
Twelve
MARGARET hadn’t fainted; had, in fact, met the shock with the head-on but expected crash of a towering, watched-for wave. What had alarmed Kincaid was a series of raking chills, close on the heels of peeling layers of heat, that shook her visibly. She said helplessly, “I’m just—I think I’m coming down with something,” and felt his hand on her forehead, surprisingly gentle.
“What doctor did you have for Hilary?”
“Wimple. But I can’t—”
“You’ve got to.”
She heard his voice at the telephone, and then it dimmed as she went, shoulder-blades shrinking against the rippling cold, in search of a sweater. She tiptoed in vain; Hilary’s roused and neglected voice said from behind her door, “Who’s here?”
“Mr. Kincaid.”
“Will you shuffle my cards for me?”
“Yes, just a minute.”
She was so cold that she couldn’t think, welcomely, and her flesh crept irritably when she put the sweater on. She went back to Hilary’s room and shuffled the cards so wildly that they kept skidding out of her fingers. Hilary said, “When is he going?”
“I don’t know . . . there.”
Hilary seemed to divine that Margaret could not bear another question, or indeed another word. She said promptly, “You said you’d show me how to play clock solitaire. Will you?”
“Later.”
“Then can I have some ginger ale?”
“In a few minutes.”
“But I have nothing to do.”
“Hilary,” said Margaret with great effort, “I do not feel well and I am very busy. You’ll just have to play cards some more, or draw or go to sleep or something.” Hilary began a long complaint about her crayons, which Margaret closed the door on. She did not mean to be sharp with Hilary, who didn’t feel well either, but somehow the thought of how a child was to amuse herself, while Cornelia—
She said to Kincaid, in the library, “What are we going to do? Are you sure?”
Foolish, blindly hopeful question, when her own mind had been leading her to just this unthinkable place in time—but Kincaid answered her soberly.
“Have I proof, you mean? No, if I had, the police could have taken over long ago. As it is, Byrne could sue for false arrest, raise hell generally—and bide his time.”
“And because he might raise hell,” said Margaret, still bound in her unnatural calm, “we have to let Cornelia—”
“You said they had a marked tour book, and that your sister wanted swimming. If you knew it was marked, you must have seen it. Not every place has a swimming pool. I’ve got a tour book in the car, let’s look at it.”
In the moments that he was gone, Margaret sat perfectly still, willing Cornelia to remain what she was through the veil of fever, simply someone who had to be found. Mrs. Foale had dropped into dimness, so had Julio Garcia. She would have to find out, later, why Kincaid was so sure Philip
