I decided that I would run out to 15 Corning Place and apply for the job. I put on my hat and went.
* * * *
Corning Place was a long ellipse with an end cut off. The street entered at one side of the truncated end and came out the other side of the same end. In the center of the ellipse was a wide area of lush grass and evergreen shrubs, and here and there a stone bench. Outside the ellipse, forming an elegant perimeter, were the deep lawns and fancy houses of the people who could afford to live there.
Number fifteen was as fancy as any, two and a half stories of gray stone, with a wide portico protecting a section of the drive on the south end. I drove my clunker boldly up the drive and left it, without apology, under the portico. Farther back, I could see, the drive flared out in a wide concrete apron in front of a garage big enough for four cars below, and a servant or two in quarters above. I went up shallow steps from the portico and along a wide veranda to the front door. I rang and waited. Pretty soon the door was opened by a maid who asked me what I wanted.
“I’d like to see Mrs. Benedict Coon III,” I said. “Mr. Percy Hand calling.”
The maid was sorry, but Mrs. Benedict Coon III was seeing no one. She was lying down.
“It’s very important,” I said, exaggerating a little. “It’s urgent that I see Mrs. Coon at once.”
The maid hesitated, her expression indicating polite skepticism. It was evident that she had never seen anything important come wrapped in wilted worsted with frayed cuffs. There was always, however, an outside chance that I was legitimate. The maid finally said she would inquire, which was all the concession I could expect. I was permitted to stand in the hall with my hat in my hands while she went up a wide flight of stairs, elegantly curving, to make the inquiry.
The house was still. In the stillness, a stern citizen in oils looked down upon me with hard blue eyes. Benedict I or II, I guessed. I took two steps forward, and he was still looking at me. I backed up, and the eyes followed. Annoyed by my evasive maneuvers, the eyes were frigidly critical. The maid came down the stairs, fortunately, and rescued me.
Mrs. Coon had consented to see me. Would I please wait in the library?
I would, and I did, after the maid had shown me where it was. I waited in the midst of a dozen high windows, most of them draped, and several thousand shelved books, most of them, judging by their orderly arrangement against the walls, seldom or never read. A blond head appeared suddenly around the high, winged back of a chair near a window. The head was followed into view by a body, and they both belonged, head and body, to a young man wearing glasses, and holding a book folded over an index finger. With his free hand, the young man removed his glasses, and examined me curiously.
“Who are you?” he asked, as if he found me somehow incredible.
“Percy Hand,” I said. “Mrs. Coon asked me to wait for her in here.”
“Really? I didn’t think Dulce was seeing anyone. The police have been here, you know. They took her downtown to identify old Benny. A grim business. Very exhausting.”
“I know. I won’t disturb her very long.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. Dulce’s taking it calmly enough, but you never know how close she may be to breaking. A remarkable woman, Dulce. You know what happened?”
“Yes. As you said, a grim business.”
“Well, old Benny asked for it, I guess. He who dances and all that. Whoever would have dreamed that he was playing around? My name is Martin Farmer, by the way. I’m a kind of shirttail cousin. Remotely related.”
I said I was glad to know him, which was a polite way of saying that I didn’t give a damn one way or another. The hall door opened, and Dulce Coon came in. She was wearing a simple black dress and had slipped her feet into soft-soled flats for comfort. Her dark hair, presumably just off the pillow, was still slightly tousled, as if she had done no more to repair it than comb it with her fingers. She didn’t offer me her hand, but neither did she seem to hold a grudge.
“How are you, Mr. Hand?” she said. “Marty, what are you doing here? I thought you had gone out.”
“I’ve been reading.” Martin Farmer lifted the book, still marked at his place with an index finger, as evidence. “Are you feeling better, Dulce?”
“Somewhat. Don’t worry about me, Marty. I’ll be all right.” She turned back to me. “I assume that you two have met.”
“Yes, we have.”
“In that case, what can I do for you? I thought that our business was ended.”
“Not very satisfactorily, I’m afraid. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. One can’t be called to account for every mistake. Did you come here just to apologize?”
“Partly. Not entirely.”
“Why, then?”
“You paid me a large fee for something I didn’t do. An excessive fee. If there’s anything I can do, I’d like to earn it.”
“There’s nothing to be done. Nothing at all.”
“This woman your husband was with. Myrna, you called her. I’ve been thinking that I might help to find her.”
“Surely the police have far greater facilities for that than you have. Let the police find her.”
“I have one advantage. I’ve seen her. I might recognize her if I saw her again.”
“It’s doubtful that you will see her again. It’s probable that she has run away. If so, the police will follow her, or have her picked up and returned, if they can find her trail. I don’t want to
