went through the drawers.
At first he found only the slightly too expensive but unmonogrammed shirts and underwear that Charles had affected. Then, under some pyjamas, he found a roll of ten dollar bills shoved into a handkerchief case, and under the case a picture frame. It was small, of brown leather, and when he opened it he saw that there was a fresh tear on the leather and that the celluloid protector was cracked. There was no picture in it, but if it had been hidden, then it must have been something that had some meaning for Charles. And there were so few things that had any meaning for Charles. Thoughtfully Luke slipped the frame into his pocket. It seemed safe to do so, for he did not think that many people could know that it even existed. He put everything else back as carefullyas he could and let himself out of the house. He did not close the front door. He superstitiously left it open, as though closing it confirmed Maggie’s guilt.
Certainly she was guilty by intent.
He hurried down the drive with the obscure sensation that they must leave as soon as possible. He found Maggie sitting blankly in the car. She asked no questions.
Neither did he. Maggie probably knew as little of Charles as he did, and nothing about this house. Maybe there was nothing to know. He turned on to the highway , relieved when they had passed the indicative crossroads unobserved, and so might have come from anywhere . It was a clear morning now. The sea was a blue-grey mirror and the world had an innocent look. The air was still enough for them to hear a bird call three pastures away, in the salt marshes by the sea.
The police car passed them on the upgrade to Tamalpais , its siren uselessly blaring. Maggie flinched, but Luke had seen it coming and his touch did not alter on the wheel.
“They’ve found out,” she whispered.
“The house was searched.”
“That means somebody knows,” she said. He saw that she was beginning to realize that she was in a trap, but he could not help her there, except to try to get her out of it. And Charles’s death had locked her away from him far more than her marriage to Charles had done. “But who?” she asked.
“You haven’t any idea?”
“I don’t know anything,” she said. “That was what was so horrible. He wouldn’t let me know anything at all.”
He felt the picture frame in his pocket. “Did Charles have a picture of you?” he asked.
She was surprised. “No,” she said. “Not that I know of. He never wanted one.”
He felt, somehow, that this was true and that Charles never had wanted one. He turned the car towards San Francisco and was silent, trying to think. Far more than of the police he was afraid of the newspapers. Friendliness did not go with righteousness, and at the moment the papers were being righteous. They had exhausted the sex scare, the bomb scare, and the Russians, and that left them righteousness.
V
T HE SHANNON HOUSE WAS NEAR Alta Plaza, but nobody called it that. They called it the Barnes house, for it had belonged to Jerome Barnes, Maggie’s father. Luke did not know anything about Jerome Barnes. Of Alta Plaza he knew slightly more.
It was that residential section of the city that lay along a ridge of hills which rose from the yachted Marina, running between that once fashionable Van Ness Avenue on one side and the sombre promontory of the old Spanish Presidio on the other. It had a fine view of Alcatraz, the island prison in the bay.
In the old days, before the city expanded, Alta Plaza had been a pleasant wild place, from whose heights one could watch the four-masted ships clogging the bay. Later, until the fire of 1906, it had been on the fringes of fashion. But a city is always restless. It moves ceaselessly from one side of itself to the other; and its social life inexplicably takes off in a swarm, after its regnant bee, for no other reason than that it is the season for swarming .
So that was Alta Plaza, a quiet, steep neighbourhood with
At first he found only the slightly too expensive but unmonogrammed shirts and underwear that Charles had affected. Then, under some pyjamas, he found a roll of ten dollar bills shoved into a handkerchief case, and under the case a picture frame. It was small, of brown leather, and when he opened it he saw that there was a fresh tear on the leather and that the celluloid protector was cracked. There was no picture in it, but if it had been hidden, then it must have been something that had some meaning for Charles. And there were so few things that had any meaning for Charles. Thoughtfully Luke slipped the frame into his pocket. It seemed safe to do so, for he did not think that many people could know that it even existed. He put everything else back as carefullyas he could and let himself out of the house. He did not close the front door. He superstitiously left it open, as though closing it confirmed Maggie’s guilt.
Certainly she was guilty by intent.
He hurried down the drive with the obscure sensation that they must leave as soon as possible. He found Maggie sitting blankly in the car. She asked no questions.
Neither did he. Maggie probably knew as little of Charles as he did, and nothing about this house. Maybe there was nothing to know. He turned on to the highway , relieved when they had passed the indicative crossroads unobserved, and so might have come from anywhere . It was a clear morning now. The sea was a blue-grey mirror and the world had an innocent look. The air was still enough for them to hear a bird call three pastures away, in the salt marshes by the sea.
The police car passed them on the upgrade to Tamalpais , its siren uselessly blaring. Maggie flinched, but Luke had seen it coming and his touch did not alter on the wheel.
“They’ve found out,” she whispered.
“The house was searched.”
“That means somebody knows,” she said. He saw that she was beginning to realize that she was in a trap, but he could not help her there, except to try to get her out of it. And Charles’s death had locked her away from him far more than her marriage to Charles had done. “But who?” she asked.
“You haven’t any idea?”
“I don’t know anything,” she said. “That was what was so horrible. He wouldn’t let me know anything at all.”
He felt the picture frame in his pocket. “Did Charles have a picture of you?” he asked.
She was surprised. “No,” she said. “Not that I know of. He never wanted one.”
He felt, somehow, that this was true and that Charles never had wanted one. He turned the car towards San Francisco and was silent, trying to think. Far more than of the police he was afraid of the newspapers. Friendliness did not go with righteousness, and at the moment the papers were being righteous. They had exhausted the sex scare, the bomb scare, and the Russians, and that left them righteousness.
V
T HE SHANNON HOUSE WAS NEAR Alta Plaza, but nobody called it that. They called it the Barnes house, for it had belonged to Jerome Barnes, Maggie’s father. Luke did not know anything about Jerome Barnes. Of Alta Plaza he knew slightly more.
It was that residential section of the city that lay along a ridge of hills which rose from the yachted Marina, running between that once fashionable Van Ness Avenue on one side and the sombre promontory of the old Spanish Presidio on the other. It had a fine view of Alcatraz, the island prison in the bay.
In the old days, before the city expanded, Alta Plaza had been a pleasant wild place, from whose heights one could watch the four-masted ships clogging the bay. Later, until the fire of 1906, it had been on the fringes of fashion. But a city is always restless. It moves ceaselessly from one side of itself to the other; and its social life inexplicably takes off in a swarm, after its regnant bee, for no other reason than that it is the season for swarming .
So that was Alta Plaza, a quiet, steep neighbourhood with
Similar Books
