Mrs. Kirby uncapped a bottle of nail polish on the butterfly-shaped glass table beside her and began to use it dexterously. Torrant said inquiringly, “Recuperating?”
“From the shock when the Mallows were killed. It happened late at night, you see, and when the doctor went to the house to tell her, she collapsed. Utterly,” said Mrs. Kirby, looking up from her nails with an air of critical approbation. “As a matter of fact, the doctor wouldn’t let a soul except the nurse come near her for twenty-four hours—not even,” the stripes swelled slightly, “me.”
Twenty-four hours of isolation, under official sanction-ample time for Annabelle to gather herself together and assume a face of quiet grief. The first buzz of town interest would have begun to dim after that, because they had arrived in Chauncy only three weeks before and speculation needed a few shreds of knowledge to feed on. And the benumbed secretary played her part so completely . . . but then, she had had practice. She had practiced on Martin.
Mrs. Kirby was still bridling. “Naturally, having handled the sale of the house and made arrangements for them to occupy it, I felt a rather personal interest. And you could see that Annabelle—Miss Blair—needed a friend.”
Now we come to it, Torrant thought, quickening; the groundwork. He looked his question, and Mrs. Kirby painted another nail and said, “I mean, it was lonely for her. She had her work, of course, but the correspondence on this particular deal couldn’t have amounted to much. It turns out that Mr. Mallow bought the property in the first place in order to sell it to a Boston housing syndicate—there are thirty acres with the place—but they were still negotiating at the time of the accident. He must have known in advance about the branch bottling plant going up here in the fall.”
Mrs. Kirby’s right hand was giving her trouble. She used the brush absorbedly, and said, “Then, Mr. and Mrs. Mallow went out a good deal, particularly in the evenings. My own idea is that they turned Miss Blair into chief cook and bottle-washer—a man wouldn’t begin to know the work there is in a house that size, with three people to clean up after. I must say I felt for her.”
Torrant was beginning to reach out for something he couldn’t quite grasp. He said, “Was Mrs. Mallow attractive?”
“Oh, stunning,” said Mrs. Kirby. Her eyes were hard. “They made a striking couple . . . but we’re getting off the subject, aren’t we? The house definitely isn’t on the market, so—My God, look at the time. Tell you what, Mr. Torrant, drop around when you can and I might be able to show you something else your friends might be interested in.”
She was jaunty again, her bold smiling face acknowledging Torrant’s friends for the mythical things they were. He thanked her and took his leave; he wondered as he walked down the snowy path why she had frozen at the mention of the dead Mrs. Mallow.
It was five o’clock when he got back to his room. Much too early for dinner, possibly too early for the drink he presently made himself from the flask that had travelled with him ever since Martin had given it to him at the airport nearly three years ago. Torrant weighed the silver curve in his hand, remembering that and a hundred other things, and then he crossed to the bed, beat Mrs. Judd’s supine pillows into some form of support, and stretched out against them.
Had Mrs. Kirby really told him anything, apart from her own odd reaction at the end? Yes, in a way. Acting as a broker’s secretary was one thing; being reduced to household errands in his temporary home was another. Annabelle Blair, who wasn’t a child and who must have put away a good part of the thirty thousand dollars she had gained at Martin’s death, couldn’t have liked that. How had she felt, washing dishes for her employer’s attractive wife?
Something there, somewhere . . . a corollary that stayed teasingly on the edge of his mind. He chased it briefly and gave it up.
The Mallows were no concern of his—that was Maria Rowan’s bailiwick, apparently—except as they related to the woman he wanted to unmask and destroy. Had the same quality that had drawn Martin to her persuaded Gerald Mallow to alter his will in her favor shortly after they arrived in Chauncy?
It wasn’t impossible; no one could ever blueprint the woman who would attract a given man. It was the kind of thing the Greeks had kept themselves busy writing proverbs about, and Torrant gave it its due.
He finished his drink and swung abruptly off the bed; ten minutes later, warming the Renault’s motor, he had to force himself not to drive out through the storm at once and confront Martin Fennister’s widow.
The Bluebird Cafe was crowded. As he entered Torrant looked for Maria Rowan, but none of the dark-haired women he glanced at had her particular poise of the head or her sure clear profile. He was conducted to the last available booth, and he had ordered a drink and dinner when there was a stir behind him. A rain-coated man rounded the edge of the booth and said in the deep fluid voice Torrant had listened to once before, “You’re Mr. Torrant, aren’t you? My name is Simeon, and I believe we share the top floor at Mrs. Judd’s house. They seem to be hard up for tables here—may I join you, or are you expecting someone?”
Torrant said, “Not at all,” and shook hands. Seated again, he caught a passing waitress and leaned casually back, assimilating shock, while Simeon began complicated instructions for a Martini.
This was the man who had almost certainly been a factor in Martin’s death; this was the man
