As to that other matter I can only say that you shall be obliged

Of course I’m very glad. You have known my mind from the first to the last, and, therefore, what would be the good of my mincing matters? No woman wishes her dearest friend to marry a man to whom she herself is antipathetic. You would have been as much lost to me, had you become Mrs Grey of Nethercoats, Cambridgeshire, as though you had gone to heaven. I don’t say but what Nethercoats may be a kind of heaven — but then one doesn’t wish one’s friend that distant sort of happiness. A flat Eden I can fancy it, hemmed in by broad dykes, in which cream and eggs are very plentiful, where an Adam and an Eve might drink the choicest tea out of the finest china, with toast buttered to perfection, from year’s end to year’s end; into which no money troubles would ever find their way, nor yet any naughty novels. But such an Eden is not tempting to me, nor, as I think, to you. I can fancy you stretching your poor neck over the dyke, longing to fly away that you might cease to be at rest, but knowing that the matrimonial dragon was too strong for any such flight. If ever bird banged his wings to pieces against gilded bars, you would have banged yours to pieces in that cage.
You say that you have failed to make him understand that the matter is settled. I need not say that of course it is settled, and that he must be made to understand it. You owe it to him now to put him out of all doubt. He is, I suppose, accessible to the words of a mortal, god though he be. But I do not fear about this, for, after all, you have as much firmness about you as most people — perhaps as much as he has at bottom, though you may not have so many occasions to show it.
As to that other matter I can only say that you shall be obliged, as far as it is in my power to obey you. For what may come out from me by word of mouth when we are together, I will not answer with certainty. But my pen is under better control, and it shall not write the offending name.
And now I must tell you a little about myself — or rather, I am inclined to spin a yarn, and tell you a great deal. I have got such a lover! But I did describe him before. Of course it’s Mr Cheesacre. If I were to say that he hasn’t declared himself, I should hardly give you a fair idea of my success. And yet he has not declared himself — and, which is worse, is very anxious to marry a rival. But it’s a strong point in my favour that my rival wants him to take me, and that he will assuredly be driven to make me an offer sooner or later, in obedience to her orders. My aunt is my rival, and I do not feel the least doubt as to his having offered to her half a dozen times. But then she has another lover, Captain Bellfield, and I see that she prefers him. He is a penniless scamp and looks as though he drank. He paints his whiskers too, which I don’t like; and, being forty, tries to look like twenty-five. Otherwise he is agreeable enough, and I rather approve of my aunt’s taste in preferring him.
But my lover has solid attractions, and allures me on by a description of the fat cattle which he sends to market. He is a man of substance, and should I ever become Mrs Cheesacre, I have reason to think that I shall not be left in want. We went up to his place on a visit the other day. Oileymead is the name of my future home: not so pretty as Nethercoats, is it? And we had such a time there! We reached the place at ten and left it at four, and he managed to give us three meals. I’m sure we had before our eyes at different times every bit of china, delf, glass, and plate in the establishment. He made us go into the cellar, and told us how much wine he had got there, and how much beer. ‘It’s all paid for, Mrs Greenow, every bottle of it,’ he said, turning round to my aunt, with a pathetic earnestness, for which I had hardly given him credit. ‘Everything in this house is my own; it’s all paid for. I don’t call anything a man’s own till it is paid for. Now that jacket that Bellfield swells about with on the sands at Yarmouth — that’s not his own — and it’s not like to be either.’ And then he winked his eye as though bidding my aunt to think of that before she encouraged such a lover as Bellfield. He took us into every bedroom, and disclosed to us all the glories of his upper chambers. It would have done you good to see him lifting the counterpanes, and bidding my aunt feel the texture of the blankets! And then to see her turn round to me and say: ‘Kate, it’s simply the best furnished house I ever went over in my life!’ — ‘It does seem very comfortable,’ said I. ‘Comfortable!’ said he. ‘Yes, I don’t think there’s anybody can say that Oileymead isn’t comfortable.’ I did so think of you and Nethercoats. The attractions are the same — only in the one place you would have a god for your keeper, and in the other a brute. For myself, if ever I’m to have a keeper at all, I shall prefer a man. But when we got to the farmyard his eloquence reached the highest pitch. ‘Mrs Greenow,’ said he, ‘look at that,’ and he pointed to heaps of manure raised like the streets of a little city. ‘Look at that!’ ‘There’s a great deal,’ said my aunt. ‘I believe you,’ said he. ‘I’ve more muck upon this place here than any farmer in Norfolk, gentle or simple; I don’t care who the other is.’ Only fancy, Alice; it may all be mine; the blankets, the wine, the muck, and the rest of it. So my aunt assured me when we got home that evening. When I remarked that the wealth had been exhibited to her and not to me, she did not affect to deny it, but treated that as a matter of no moment. ‘He wants a wife, my dear,’ she said, ‘and you may pick him up tomorrow by putting out your hand.’ When I remarked that his mind seemed to be intent on low things, and specially named the muck, she only laughed at me. ‘Money’s never dirty,’ she said, ‘nor yet what makes money.’ She talks of taking lodgings in Norwich for the winter, saying that in her widowed state she will be as well there as anywhere else, and she wants me to stay with her up to Christmas. Indeed she first proposed the Norwich plan on the ground that it might be useful to me — with a view to Mr Cheesacre, of course; but I fancy that she is unwilling to tear herself away from Captain Bellfield. At any rate to Norwich she will go, and I have promised not to leave her before the second week in November. With all her absurdities I like her. Her faults are terrible faults, but she has not the fault of hiding them by falsehood. She is never stupid, and she is very good-natured. She would have allowed me to equip myself from head to foot at her expense, if I would have accepted her liberality, and absolutely offered to give me my trousseau if I would marry Mr Cheesacre.

There’s not an acre that won’t do me a bullock and a half

“Isn’t there though? I’ll tell you what, Mrs Greenow; I’m in earnest, I am indeed. If you’ll inquire, you’ll find there isn’t a fellow in Norfolk pays his way better than I do, or is better able to do it. I don’t pay a sixpence of rent, and I sit upon seven hundred acres of as good land as there is in the county. There’s not an acre that won’t do me a bullock and a half. Just put that and that together, and see what it comes to. And, mind you, some of these fellows that farm their own land are worse off than if they’d rent to pay. They’ve borrowed so much to carry on with, that the interest is more than rent. I don’t owe a sixpence to ere a man or ere a company in the world. I can walk into every bank in Norwich without seeing my master. There ain’t any of my paper flying about, Mrs Greenow. I’m Samuel Cheesacre of Oileymead, and it’s all my own.” Mr Cheesacre, as he thus spoke of his good fortunes and firm standing in the world, became impetuous in the energy of the moment, and brought down his fist powerfully on the slight table before them. The whole fabric rattled, and the boat resounded, but the noise he had made seemed to assist him. “It’s all my own, Mrs Greenow, and the half of it shall be yours if you’ll please to take it;” then he stretched out his hand to her, not as though he intended to grasp hers in a grasp of love, but as if he expected some hand-pledge from her as a token that she accepted the bargain.
“What difference would that make? My idea is that care killed a cat, as I said before. I never knew what was the good of being unhappy. If I find early mangels don’t do on a bit of land, then I sow late turnips; and never cry after spilt milk. Greenow was the early mangels; I’ll be the late turnips. Come then, say the word. There ain’t a bedroom in my house — not one of the front ones — that isn’t mahogany furnished!”
“What’s furniture to me?” said Mrs Greenow, with her handkerchief to her eyes.
Just at this moment Maria’s mother stepped in under the canvas. It was most inopportune. Mr Cheesacre felt that he was progressing well, and was conscious that he had got safely over those fences in the race which his bashfulness would naturally make difficult to him. He knew that he had done this under the influence of the champagne, and was aware that it might not be easy to procure again a combination of circumstances that would be so beneficial to him. But now he was interrupted just as he was expecting success. He was interrupted, and felt himself to be looking like a guilty creature under the eye of the strange lady. He had not a word to say; but drawing himself suddenly a foot and a half away from the widow’s side, sat there confessing his guilt in his face. Mrs Greenow felt no guilt, and was afraid of no strange eyes. “Mr Cheesacre and I are talking about farming,” she said.
“I prefer the early mangels,” said Mrs Greenow. “I don’t think nature ever intended those late crops. What do you say, Mrs Walker?”
“I daresay Mr Cheesacre understands what he’s about when he’s at home,” said the lady.
“I know what a bit of land can do as well as any man in Norfolk,” said the gentleman.
“It may be very well in Norfolk,” said Mrs Greenow, rising from her seat; “but the practice isn’t thought much of in the other counties with which I am better acquainted.”
“I’d just come in to say that I thought we might be getting to the boats,” said Mrs Walker. “My Ophelia is so delicate.” At this moment the delicate Ophelia was to be seen, under the influence of the music, taking a distant range upon the sands with Joe Fairstairs’ arm round her waist. The attitude was justified by the tune that was in progress, and there is no reason why a gallop on the sands should have any special termination in distance, as it must have in a room. But, under such circumstances, Mrs Walker’s solicitude was not unreasonable.

or Mr Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant

“No, I’m not. I very seldom go into raptures about anything. But he talks in the way I like a man to talk. How he bowled my uncle over about those actors; and yet if my uncle knows anything about anything it is about the stage twenty years ago.” There was nothing more said then about John Grey; but Kate understood her brother well enough to be aware that this praise meant very little. George Vavasor spoke sometimes from his heart, and did so more frequently to his sister than to any one else; but his words came generally from his head.
On the day after the little dinner in Queen Anne Street, John Grey came to say goodbye to his betrothed — for his betrothed she certainly was, in spite of those very poor arguments which she had used in trying to convince herself that she was still free if she wished to claim her freedom. Though he had been constantly with Alice during the last three days, he had not hitherto said anything as to the day of their marriage, He had been constantly with her alone, sitting for hours in that ugly green drawing-room, but he had never touched the subject. He had told her much of Switzerland, which she had never yet seen but which he knew well. He had told her much of his garden and house, whither she had once gone with her father, whilst paying a visit nominally to the colleges at Cambridge. And he had talked of various matters, matters bearing in no immediate way upon his own or her affairs; for Mr Grey was a man who knew well how to make words pleasant; but previous to this last moment he had said nothing on that subject on which he was so intent.
“Well, Alice,” he said, when the last hour had come, “and about that question of home affairs?”
“No; you haven’t started. But we’ve had the discussion. Is there any reason why you’d rather not have this thing settled?”
“Then why not let it be fixed? Do you fear coming to me as my wife?”
“I cannot think that you repent your goodness to me.”
“No; I don’t repent it — what you call my goodness! I love you too entirely for that.”
“My darling!” And now he passed his arm round her waist as they stood near the empty fireplace. “And if you love me — ”
“Nay, but it is, love. Grant it, and I will swear that you have granted me everything.”
She was silent, having things to say but not knowing in what words to put them. Now that he was with her she could not say the things which she had told herself that she would utter to him. She could not bring herself to hint to him that his views of life were so unlike her own, that there could be no chance of happiness between them, unless each could strive to lean somewhat towards the other. No man could be more gracious in word and manner than John Grey; no man more chivalrous in his carriage towards a woman; but he always spoke and acted as though there could be no question that his manner of life was to be adopted, without a word or thought of doubting, by his wife. When two came together, why should not each yield something, and each claim something? This she had meant to say to him on this day; but now that he was with her she could not say it.
“John,” she said at last, “do not press me about this till I return.”
“But then you will say the time is short. It would be short then.”

The light in the garden told her that

　　"Then he put on his trousers and ran away like a madman," she read.
　　"But outside a great storm was raging and blowing so hard that he couldscarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the mountains trembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch black, and itthundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black waves as highas church towers and mountains, and all with white foam at the top."She turned the page; there were only a few lines more, so that shewould finish the story, though it was past bed-time. It was getting late.
　　The light in the garden told her that; and the whitening of the flowersand something grey in the leaves conspired together, to rouse in her afeeling of anxiety. What it was about she could not think at first. Thenshe remembered; Paul and Minta and Andrew had not come back. Shesummoned before her again the little group on the terrace in front of thehall door, standing looking up into the sky. Andrew had his net and basket.
　　That meant he was going to catch crabs and things. That meant hewould climb out on to a rock; he would be cut off. Or coming back singlefile on one of those little paths above the cliff one of them might slip. Hewould roll and then crash. It was growing quite dark.
　　But she did not let her voice change in the least as she finished thestory, and added, shutting the book, and speaking the last words as ifshe had made them up herself, looking into James's eyes: "And therethey are living still at this very time.""And that's the end," she said, and she saw in his eyes, as the interestof the story died away in them, something else take its place; somethingwondering, pale, like the reflection of a light, which at once made himgaze and marvel. Turning, she looked across the bay, and there, sureenough, coming regularly across the waves first two quick strokes andthen one long steady stroke, was the light of the Lighthouse. It had beenlit.
　　In a moment he would ask her, "Are we going to the Lighthouse?"And she would have to say, "No: not tomorrow; your father says not."Happily, Mildred came in to fetch them, and the bustle distracted them.
　　But he kept looking back over his shoulder as Mildred carried him out,and she was certain that he was thinking, we are not going to the Lighthousetomorrow; and she thought, he will remember that all his life.

As she spoke she had an ominous sense of impending peril

It was barely a week ago that her husband had been called to Paris to straighten out a fresh tangle in the affairs of the troublesome brother whose difficulties were apparently a part of the family tradition. Raymond's letters had been hurried, his telegrams brief and contradictory, and now, as Undine stood watching for the brougham that was to bring him from the station, she had the sense that with his arrival all her vague fears would be confirmed. There would be more money to pay out, of course--since the funds that could not be found for her just needs were apparently always forthcoming to settle Hubert's scandalous prodigalities--and that meant a longer perspective of solitude at Saint Desert, and a fresh pretext for postponing the hospitalities that were to follow on their period of mourning. The brougham--a vehicle as massive and lumbering as the pair that drew it-- presently rolled into the court, and Raymond's sable figure (she had never before seen a man travel in such black clothes) sprang up the steps to the door. Whenever Undine saw him after an absence she had a curious sense of his coming back from unknown distances and not belonging to her or to any state of things she understood. Then habit reasserted itself, and she began to think of him again with a querulous familiarity. But she had learned to hide her feelings, and as he came in she put up her face for a kiss.
"Yes--everything's settled--" his embrace expressed the satisfaction of the man returning from an accomplished task to the joys of his fireside.
"Settled?" Her face kindled. "Without your having to pay?"
He looked at her with a shrug. "Of course I've had to pay. Did you suppose Hubert's creditors would be put off with vanilla eclairs?"
"Oh, if THAT'S what you mean--if Hubert has only to wire you at any time to be sure of his affairs being settled--!"
She saw his lips narrow and a line come out between his eyes. "Wouldn't it be a happy thought to tell them to bring tea?" he suggested.
"In the library, then. It's so cold here--and the tapestries smell so of rain."
He paused a moment to scrutinize the long walls, on which the fabulous blues and pinks of the great Boucher series looked as livid as withered roses. "I suppose they ought to be taken down and aired," he said.
She thought: "In THIS air--much good it would do them!" But she had already repented her outbreak about Hubert, and she followed her husband into the library with the resolve not to let him see her annoyance. Compared with the long grey gallery the library, with its brown walls of books, looked warm and home-like, and Raymond seemed to feel the influence of the softer atmosphere. He turned to his wife and put his arm about her.
"I know it's been a trial to you, dearest; but this is the last time I shall have to pull the poor boy out."
In spite of herself she laughed incredulously: Hubert's "last times" were a household word.
But when tea had been brought, and they were alone over the fire, Raymond unfolded the amazing sequel. Hubert had found an heiress, Hubert was to be married, and henceforth the business of paying his debts (which might be counted on to recur as inevitably as the changes of the seasons) would devolve on his American bride--the charming Miss Looty Arlington, whom Raymond had remained over in Paris to meet.
"An American? He's marrying an American?" Undine wavered between wrath and satisfaction. She felt a flash of resentment at any other intruder's venturing upon her territory--("Looty Arlington? Who is she? What a name!")--but it was quickly superseded by the relief of knowing that henceforth, as Raymond said, Hubert's debts would be some one else's business. Then a third consideration prevailed. "But if he's engaged to a rich girl, why on earth do WE have to pull him out?"



Her husband explained that no other course was possible. Though General Arlington was immensely wealthy, ("her father's a general--a General Manager, whatever that may be,") he had exacted what he called "a clean slate" from his future son-in-law, and Hubert's creditors (the boy was such a donkey!) had in their possession certain papers that made it possible for them to press for immediate payment.
"Your compatriots' views on such matters are so rigid--and it's all to their credit--that the marriage would have fallen through at once if the least hint of Hubert's mess had got out--and then we should have had him on our hands for life."
Yes--from that point of view it was doubtless best to pay up; but Undine obscurely wished that their doing so had not incidentally helped an unknown compatriot to what the American papers were no doubt already announcing as "another brilliant foreign alliance."
"Where on earth did your brother pick up anybody respectable? Do you know where her people come from? I suppose she's perfectly awful," she broke out with a sudden escape of irritation.
"I believe Hubert made her acquaintance at a skating rink. They come from some new state--the general apologized for its not yet being on the map, but seemed surprised I hadn't heard of it. He said it was already known as one of 'the divorce states,' and the principal city had, in consequence, a very agreeable society. La petite n'est vraiment pas trop mal."
"I daresay not! We're all good-looking. But she must be horribly common."
Raymond seemed sincerely unable to formulate a judgment. "My dear, you have your own customs..."
"Oh, I know we're all alike to you!" It was one of her grievances that he never attempted to discriminate between Americans. "You see no difference between me and a girl one gets engaged to at a skating rink!"
He evaded the challenge by rejoining: "Miss Arlington's burning to know you. She says she's heard a great deal about you, and Hubert wants to bring her down next week. I think we'd better do what we can."
"Of course." But Undine was still absorbed in the economic aspect of the case. "If they're as rich as you say, I suppose Hubert means to pay you back by and bye?"
"Naturally. It's all arranged. He's given me a paper." He drew her hands into his. "You see we've every reason to be kind to Miss Arlington."
"Oh, I'll be as kind as you like!" She brightened at the prospect of repayment. Yes, they would ask the girl down... She leaned a little nearer to her husband. "But then after a while we shall be a good deal better off--especially, as you say, with no more of Hubert's debts to worry us." And leaning back far enough to give her upward smile, she renewed her plea for the premier in the Hotel de Chelles: "Because, really, you know, as the head of the house you ought to--"
"Ah, my dear, as the head of the house I've so many obligations; and one of them is not to miss a good stroke of business when it comes my way."
Her hands slipped from his shoulders and she drew back. "What do you mean by a good stroke of business?
"Why, an incredible piece of luck--it's what kept me on so long in Paris. Miss Arlington's father was looking for an apartment for the young couple, and I've let him the premier for twelve years on the understanding that he puts electric light and heating into the whole hotel. It's a wonderful chance, for of course we all benefit by it as much as Hubert."
"A wonderful chance... benefit by it as much as Hubert!" He seemed to be speaking a strange language in which familiar-sounding syllables meant something totally unknown. Did he really think she was going to coop herself up again in their cramped quarters while Hubert and his skating-rink bride luxuriated overhead in the coveted premier? All the resentments that had been accumulating in her during the long baffled months since her marriage broke into speech. "It's extraordinary of you to do such a thing without consulting me!"
"Without consulting you? But, my dear child, you've always professed the most complete indifference to business matters--you've frequently begged me not to bore you with them. You may be sure I've acted on the best advice; and my mother, whose head is as good as a man's, thinks I've made a remarkably good arrangement."
"I daresay--but I'm not always thinking about money, as you are."
As she spoke she had an ominous sense of impending peril; but she was too angry to avoid even the risks she saw. To her surprise Raymond put his arm about her with a smile. "There are many reasons why I have to think about money. One is that YOU don't; and another is that I must look out for the future of our son."
Undine flushed to the forehead. She had grown accustomed to such allusions and the thought of having a child no longer filled her with the resentful terror she had felt before Paul's birth. She had been insensibly influenced by a different point of view, perhaps also by a difference in her own feeling; and the vision of herself as the mother of the future Marquis de Chelles was softened to happiness by the thought of giving Raymond a son. But all these lightly-rooted sentiments went down in the rush of her resentment, and she freed herself with a petulant movement. "Oh, my dear, you'd better leave it to your brother to perpetuate the race. There'll be more room for nurseries in their apartment!"
She waited a moment, quivering with the expectation of her husband's answer; then, as none came except the silent darkening of his face, she walked to the door and turned round to fling back: "Of course you can do what you like with your own house, and make any arrangements that suit your family, without consulting me; but you needn't think I'm ever going back to live in that stuffy little hole, with Hubert and his wife splurging round on top of our heads!"
"Ah--" said Raymond de Chelles in a low voice.

Yet now it had become suddenly different

NICK Lansing arrived in Paris two days after his lawyer hadannounced his coming to Mr. Spearman.
　　He had left Rome with the definite purpose of freeing himselfand Susy; and though he was not pledged to Coral Hicks he hadnot concealed from her the object of his journey. In vain hadhe tried to rouse in himself any sense of interest in his ownfuture. Beyond the need of reaching a definite point in hisrelation to Susy his imagination could not travel. But he hadbeen moved by Coral's confession, and his reason told him thathe and she would probably be happy together, with the temperatehappiness based on a community of tastes and an enlargement ofopportunities. He meant, on his return to Rome, to ask her tomarry him; and he knew that she knew it. Indeed, if he had notspoken before leaving it was with no idea of evading his fate,or keeping her longer in suspense, but simply because of thestrange apathy that had fallen on him since he had receivedSusy's letter. In his incessant self-communings he dressed upthis apathy as a discretion which forbade his engaging Coral'sfuture till his own was assured. But in truth he knew thatCoral's future was already engaged, and his with it: in Romethe fact had seemed natural and even inevitable.
　　In Paris, it instantly became the thinnest of unrealities. Notbecause Paris was not Rome, nor because it was Paris; butbecause hidden away somewhere in that vast unheeding labyrinthwas the half-forgotten part of himself that was Susy .... Forweeks, for months past, his mind had been saturated with Susy:
　　she had never seemed more insistently near him than as theirseparation lengthened, and the chance of reunion became lessprobable. It was as if a sickness long smouldering in him hadbroken out and become acute, enveloping him in the Nessus-shirtof his memories. There were moments when, to his memory, theiractual embraces seemed perfunctory, accidental, compared withthis deep deliberate imprint of her soul on his.
　　Yet now it had become suddenly different. Now that he was inthe same place with her, and might at any moment run across her,meet her eyes, hear her voice, avoid her hand--now thatpenetrating ghost of her with which he had been living wassucked back into the shadows, and he seemed, for the first timesince their parting, to be again in her actual presence. Hewoke to the fact on the morning of his arrival, staring downfrom his hotel window on a street she would perhaps walk throughthat very day, and over a limitless huddle of roofs, one ofwhich covered her at that hour. The abruptness of thetransition startled him; he had not known that her meregeographical nearness would take him by the throat in that way.
　　What would it be, then, if she were to walk into the room?
　　Thank heaven that need never happen! He was sufficientlyinformed as to French divorce proceedings to know that theywould not necessitate a confrontation with his wife; and withordinary luck, and some precautions, he might escape even adistant glimpse of her. He did not mean to remain in Paris morethan a few days; and during that time it would be easy--knowing,as he did, her tastes and Altringham's--to avoid the placeswhere she was likely to be met. He did not know where she wasliving, but imagined her to be staying with Mrs. Melrose, orsome other rich friend, or else lodged, in prospectiveaffluence, at the Nouveau Luxe, or in a pretty flat of her own.
　　Trust Susy--ah, the pang of it--to "manage"!
　　His first visit was to his lawyer's; and as he walked throughthe familiar streets each approaching face, each distant figureseemed hers. The obsession was intolerable. It would not last,of course; but meanwhile he had the exposed sense of a fugitivein a nightmare, who feels himself the only creature visible in aghostly and besetting multitude. The eye of the metropolisseemed fixed on him in an immense unblinking stare.

But why did the unfortunate girl marry him

"Its destinations," corrected Beale cheerfully. "I released thirty pigeons with the magic word. The agents have been arrested," he said; "we notified the Government authorities, and there was a sheriff or a policeman in every post office when the code word came through--van Heerden's agents saw some curious telegraph "What are you going to do now?" asked the girl, with a light in her eyes. "You must feel quite lost without this great quest of yours."
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I don't exactly know what I've got to do or what sort of figure I shall cut. I have never been in the Divorce Court before."
"Divorce Court?" she said, puzzled, "are you giving evidence? Of course I know detectives do that sort of thing. I have read about it in the newspapers. It must be rather horrid, but you are such a clever detective--oh, by the way you never told me how you found me."
"It was a very simple matter," he said, relieved to change the subject, "van Heerden, by one of those curious lapses which the best of criminals make, left a message at the pawnbroker's which was written on the back of an account for pigeon food, sent to him from a Horsham tradesman. I knew he would not try to dispatch his message by the ordinary courses and I suspected all along that he had established a pigeon-post. The bill gave me all the information I wanted. It took us a long time to find the tradesman, but once we had discovered him he directed us to the farm. We took along a couple of local policemen and arrested Bridgers in the garage."
"It was rather dreadful, but it might have been very much worse," he added philosophically.
"But how wonderful of you to switch yourself from the crime of that enthralling character to a commonplace divorce suit."
"This isn't commonplace," he said, "it is rather a curious story."
"Do tell me." She made a place for him on the window-ledge and he sat down beside her.
"It is a story of a mistake and a blunder," he said. "The plaintiff, a very worthy young man, passably good looking, was a man of my profession, a detective engaged in protecting the interests of a young and beautiful girl."
"I suppose you have to say she's young and beautiful or the story wouldn't be interesting," she said.
"It is not necessary to lie in this case," he said, "she is certainly young and undoubtedly beautiful. She has the loveliest eyes----"
"The detective," he resumed, "hereinafter called the petitioner, desiring to protect the innocent maiden from the machinations of a fortune-hunting gentleman no longer with us, contracted as he thought a fraudulent marriage with this unfortunate girl, believing thereby he could choke off the villain who was pursuing her."
"But why did the unfortunate girl marry him, even fraudulently?"
"Because," said Beale, "the villain of the piece had drugged her and she didn't know what she was doing. After the marriage," he went on, "he discovered that so far from being illegal it was good in law and he had bound this wretched female."
"He had bound this wretched female to him for life. Being a perfect gentleman, born of poor but American parents, he takes the first opportunity of freeing her."
"As to the poor misguided lad," he said firmly, "you need feel no sympathy. He had behaved disgracefully."
"Well, you see, he had already fallen in love with her and that made his offence all the greater. If you go red I cannot tell you this story, because it embarrasses me."
"I haven't gone red," she denied indignantly. "So what are you--what is he going to do?"
"Well"--she shrugged her shoulders slightly and smiled in his face--"it seems to me that it is nothing to do with him. It is the wretched female who should sue for a divorce, not the handsome detective--do you feel faint?"
"I agree with you," said the incoherent Beale. "But suppose her guardian takes the necessary steps?"
"The guardian can do nothing unless the wretched female instructs him," she said. "Does it occur to you that even the best of drugs wear off in time and that there is a possibility that the lady was not as unconscious of the ceremony as she pretends? Of course," she said hurriedly, "she did not realize that it had actually happened, and until she was told by Apollo from the Central Office--that's what you call Scotland Yard in New York, isn't it?--that the ceremony had actually occurred she was under the impression that it was a beautiful dream--when I say beautiful," she amended, in some hurry, "I mean not unpleasant."
"Then what am I to do?" said the helpless Beale.
"Wait till I divorce you," said Oliva, and turned her head hurriedly, so that Beale only kissed the tip of her ear.

In the meantime he was in the hands of Moss Ibramovitch

Mr. White, managing director of Punsonby's Store, was a man of simple tastes. He had a horror of extravagance and it was his boast that he had never ridden in a taxi-cab save as the guest of some other person who paid. He travelled by tube or omnibus from the Bayswater Road, where he lived what he described as his private life. He lunched in the staff dining-room, punctiliously paying his bill; he dined at home in solitary state, for he had neither chick nor child, heir or wife. Once an elder sister had lived with him and had died (according to the popularly accepted idea) of slow starvation, for he was a frugal man.
It seems the fate of apparently rich and frugal men that they either die and leave their hoardings to the State or else they disappear, leaving behind them monumental debts. The latter have apparently no vices; even the harassed accountant who disentangles their estates cannot discover the channel through which their hundreds of thousands have poured. The money has gone and, if astute detectives bring back the defaulter from the pleasant life which the Southern American cities offer to rich idlers, he is hopelessly vague as to the method by which it went.
Mr. Lassimus White was the managing director and general manager of Punsonby's. He held, or was supposed to hold, a third of the shares in that concern, shares which he had inherited from John Punsonby, his uncle, and the founder of the firm. He drew a princely salary and a substantial dividend, he was listed as a debenture holder and was accounted a rich man.
But Mr. White was not rich. His salary and his dividends were absorbed by a mysterious agency which called itself the Union Jack Investment and Mortgage Corporation, which paid premiums on Mr. White's heavy life insurance and collected the whole or nearly the whole of his income. His secret, well guarded as it was, need be no secret to the reader. Mr. White, who had never touched a playing-card in his life and who grew apoplectic at the sin and shame of playing the races, was an inveterate gambler. His passion was for Sunken Treasure Syndicates, formed to recover golden ingots from ships of the Spanish Armada; for companies that set forth to harness the horse-power of the sea to the services of commerce; for optimistic companies that discovered radium mines in the Ural Mountains--anything which promised a steady three hundred per cent. per annum on an initial investment had an irresistible attraction for Mr. White, who argued that some day something would really fulfil expectations and his losses would be recovered.
In the meantime he was in the hands of Moss Ibramovitch, trading as the Union Jack Investment and Mortgage Corporation, licensed and registered as a moneylender according to law. And being in the hands of this gentleman, was much less satisfactory and infinitely more expensive than being in the hands of the bankruptcy officials.
In the evening of the day Oliva Cresswell had started working for her new employer, Mr. White stalked forth from his gloomy house and his departure was watched by the two tough females who kept house for him, with every pleasure. He strutted eastward swinging his umbrella, his head well back, his eyes half-closed, his massive waistcoat curving regally. His silk hat was pushed back from his forehead and the pince-nez he carried, but so seldom wore, swung from the cord he held before him in that dead-mouse manner which important men affect.
He had often been mistaken for a Fellow of the Royal Society, so learned and detached was his bearing. Yet no speculation upon the origin of species or the function of the nebulae filled his mind.
At a moment of great stress and distraction, Dr. van Heerden had arisen above his horizon, and there was something in Dr. van Heerden's manner which inspired confidence and respect. They had met by accident at a meeting held to liquidate the Shining Strand Alluvial Gold Mining Company--a concern which had started forth in the happiest circumstances to extract the fabulous riches which had been discovered by an American philanthropist (he is now selling Real Estate by correspondence) on a Southern Pacific island.

Marginal images often provoke smiles

“I hope my words did not anger you,” the old man said in a curt tone. “I heard persons laughing at laugh?able things and I reminded them of one of the princi?ples of our Rule. And as the psalmist says, if the monk must refrain from good speech because of his vow of silence, all the more reason why he should avoid bad speech. And as there is bad speech there are also bad images. And they are those that lie about the form of cre?ation and show the world as the opposite of what it should be, has always been, and always will be through?out the centuries until the end of time. But you come from another order, where I am told that merriment, even the most inopportune sort, is viewed with in?dulgence.” He was repeating what the Benedictines said about the eccentricities of Saint Francis of Assisi, and perhaps also the bizarre whims attributed to those friars and Spirituals of every kind who were the most re?cent and embarrassing offshoots of the Franciscan order. But William gave no sign of understanding the insinuation.
“Marginal images often provoke smiles, but to edify?ing ends,” he replied. ‘As in sermons, to touch the imagination of devout throngs it is necessary to intro?duce exempla, not infrequently jocular, so also the discourse of images must indulge in these trivia. For every virtue and for every sin there is an example drawn from bestiaries, and animals exemplify the hu?man world.”
“Ah, yes,” the old man said mockingly, but without smiling, “any image is good for inspiring virtue, provid?ed the masterpiece of creation, turned with his head down, becomes the subject of laughter. And so the word of God is illustrated by the ass playing a lyre, the owl plowing with a shield, oxen yoking themselves to the plow, rivers flowing upstream, the sea catching flue, the wolf turning hermit! Go hunting for hares with oxen, have owls teach you grammar, have dogs bite fleas, the one-eyed guard the dumb, and the dumb ask for bread, the ant give birth to a calf, roast chickens fly, cakes grow on rooftops, parrots hold rhetoric lessons, hens fertilize cocks, make the cart go before the oxen, the dog sleep in a bed, and all walk with their heads on the ground! What is the aim of this nonsense? A world that is the reverse and the opposite of that established by God, under the pretext of teaching divine precepts!”
“But as the Areopagite teaches,” William said humbly, “God can be named only through the most distorted things. And Hugh of St. Victor reminded us that the more the simile becomes dissimilar, the more the truth is revealed to us under the guise of horrible and indecorous figures, the less the imagination is sated in carnal enjoyment, and is thus obliged to perceive the mysteries hidden under the turpitude of the images. …”
“I know that line of reasoning! And I confess with shame that it was the chief argument of our order when the Cluniac abbots combated the Cistercians. But Saint Bernard was right: little by little the man who depicts monsters and portents of nature to reveal the things of God per speculum et in aenigmate, comes to enjoy the very nature of the monstrosities he creates and to delight in them, and as a result he no longer sees except through them. You have only to look, you who still have your sight, at the capitals of your cloister.” And he motioned with his hand beyond the window, toward the church. “Before the eyes of monks intent on meditation, what is the meaning of those ridiculous grotesques, those monstrous shapes and shapely mon?sters? Those sordid apes? Those lions, those centaurs, those half-human creatures, with mouths in their bellies, with single feet, ears like sails? Those spotted tigers, those fighting warriors, those hunters blowing their horns, and those many bodies with single heads and many heads with single bodies? Quadrupeds with serpents’ tails, and fish with quadrupeds’ faces, and here an animal who seems a horse in front and a ram behind, and there a horse with horns, and so on; by now it is more pleasurable for a monk to read marble than manuscript, and to admire the works of man than to meditate on the law of God. Shame! For the desire of your eyes and for your smiles!”
The old man stopped, out of breath. And I admired the vivid memory thanks to which, blind perhaps for many years, he could still recall the images whose wickedness he decried. I was led to suspect they had greatly seduced him when he had seen them, since he could yet describe them with such passion. But it has often happened that I have found the most seductive depictions of sin in the pages of those -very men of incorruptible virtue who condemned their spell and their effects. A sign that these men are impelled by such eagerness to bear witness to the truth that they do not hesitate, out of love of God, to confer on evil all the seductions in which it cloaks itself; thus the writers inform men better of the ways through which the Evil One enchants them. And, in fact, Jorge’s words filled me with a great desire to see the tigers and monkeys of the cloister, which I had not yet admired. But Jorge interrupted the flow of my thoughts because he re?sumed speaking, in a much calmer tone.
“Our Lord did not have to employ such foolish things to point out the strait and narrow path to us. Nothing in his parables arouses laughter, or fear. Adelmo, on the contrary, whose death you now mourn, took such pleasure in the monsters he painted that he lost sight of the ultimate things which they were to illustrate. And he followed all, I say all”—his voice became solemn and ominous—“the paths of monstrosity. Which God knows how to punish.”
A heavy silence fell. Venantius of Salvemec dared break it.

But they are not coming till about the middle of the month

August 25th. - I am now quite settled down to my usual routine of steady occupations and quiet amusements - tolerably contented and cheerful, but still looking forward to spring with the hope of returning to town, not for its gaieties and dissipations, but for the chance of meeting Mr. Huntingdon once again; for still he is always in my thoughts and in my dreams. In all my employments, whatever I do, or see, or hear, has an ultimate reference to him; whatever skill or knowledge I acquire is some day to be turned to his advantage or amusement; whatever new beauties in nature or art I discover are to be depicted to meet his eye, or stored in my memory to be told him at some future period. This, at least, is the hope that I cherish, the fancy that lights me on my lonely way. It may be only an ignis fatuus, after all, but it can do no harm to follow it with my eyes and rejoice in its lustre, as long as it does not lure me from the path I ought to keep; and I think it will not, for I have thought deeply on my aunt's advice, and I see clearly, now, the folly of throwing myself away on one that is unworthy of all the love I have to give, and incapable of responding to the best and deepest feelings of my inmost heart - so clearly, that even if I should see him again, and if he should remember me and love me still (which, alas! is too little probable, considering how he is situated, and by whom surrounded), and if he should ask me to marry him - I am determined not to consent until I know for certain whether my aunt's opinion of him or mine is nearest the truth; for if mine is altogether wrong, it is not he that I love; it is a creature of my own imagination. But I think it is not wrong - no, no - there is a secret something - an inward instinct that assures me I am right. There is essential goodness in him; - and what delight to unfold it! If he has wandered, what bliss to recall him! If he is now exposed to the baneful influence of corrupting and wicked companions, what glory to deliver him from them! Oh! if I could but believe that Heaven has designed me for this!
To-day is the first of September; but my uncle has ordered the gamekeeper to spare the partridges till the gentlemen come. 'What gentlemen?' I asked when I heard it. A small party he had invited to shoot. His friend Mr. Wilmot was one, and my aunt's friend, Mr. Boarham, another. This struck me as terrible news at the moment; but all regret and apprehension vanished like a dream when I heard that Mr. Huntingdon was actually to be a third! My aunt is greatly against his coming, of course: she earnestly endeavoured to dissuade my uncle from asking him; but he, laughing at her objections, told her it was no use talking, for the mischief was already done: he had invited Huntingdon and his friend Lord Lowborough before we left London, and nothing now remained but to fix the day for their coming. So he is safe, and I am sure of seeing him. I cannot express my joy. I find it very difficult to conceal it from my aunt; but I don't wish to trouble her with my feelings till I know whether I ought to indulge them or not. If I find it my absolute duty to suppress them, they shall trouble no one but myself; and if I can really feel myself justified in indulging this attachment, I can dare anything, even the anger and grief of my best friend, for its object - surely, I shall soon know. But they are not coming till about the middle of the month.
We are to have two lady visitors also: Mr. Wilmot is to bring his niece and her cousin Milicent. I suppose my aunt thinks the latter will benefit me by her society, and the salutary example of her gentle deportment and lowly and tractable spirit; and the former I suspect she intends as a species of counter-attraction to win Mr. Huntingdon's attention from me. I don't thank her for this; but I shall be glad of Milicent's company: she is a sweet, good girl, and I wish I were like her - more like her, at least, than I am.
19th. - They are come. They came the day before yesterday. The gentlemen are all gone out to shoot, and the ladies are with my aunt, at work in the drawing-room. I have retired to the library, for I am very unhappy, and I want to be alone. Books cannot divert me; so having opened my desk, I will try what may be done by detailing the cause of my uneasiness. This paper will serve instead of a confidential friend into whose ear I might pour forth the overflowings of my heart. It will not sympathise with my distresses, but then it will not laugh at them, and, if I keep it close, it cannot tell again; so it is, perhaps, the best friend I could have for the purpose.

My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo

Jacalyn Vasquez, minus three kids and makeup and jewelry, looked even youngerthan when I’d seen her on Sunday. Streaked hair was tied back in a somberponytail. She wore a loose white blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers. Florid acneplayed havoc with her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had regressed into sootysockets.
A tall honey-haired woman in her twenties held Vasquez’s arm. The blonde’slocks were long and silky. She wore a tight black suit that showcased a bikinifigure. A ruby stud in her left nostril fought the suit’s conservative cut. Thepretty hair and tight body sparred with a monkeyish face the camera wouldsavage.
She surveyed the tiny space and frowned. “How’re we all going to fit inhere?”
Milo smiled. “And you are?”
“Brittany Chamfer, Public Defender’s Office.”
“I thought Mr. Vasquez’s attorney was Kevin Shuldiner.”
“I’m a third-year law student,” said Brittany Chamfer. “Working with theExoneration Project.” She amplified her frown. “This is like a closet.”
“Well,” said Milo, “one less body shouldhelp. Enjoy the fresh air, Ms. Chamfer. Come on in, Ms. Vasquez.”
“My instruction was to stay with Jackie.”
“My instruction is that you enjoy the fresh air.” He stood and the chairsqueaked. Silencing it with one hand, he offered the seat to Jacalyn Vasquez.“Right here, ma’am.”
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’m supposed to stay.”
“You’re not an attorney and Ms. Vasquez hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Still.”
Milo took one big step that brought him tothe doorway. Brittany Chamfer had to step back to avoid collision, and the armshe’d used to support Jacalyn Vasquez pulled free.
Vasquez looked past me. The office could’ve been miles of glacier.
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’ll have to call the office.”
Milo ushered Vasquez in, closed the door.
By the time she sat down, Jacalyn Vasquez was crying.

“What?”
“Meserve thinks he’s an actor,” I said. “Actors do voice-overs.”
“The Infernal Whisperer? I can’t get distracted by that kind of crap, Alex.Still have to check out all those buildings Peaty cleaned, stuff could behidden anywhere. Can’t ignore Billy either, because he hung with Peaty and Iwas masochistic enough to find out.”
He passed the receiver from hand to hand. “What I’d love to do is get toBilly in his apartment, away from Brad, and gauge his reaction to Peaty’sdeath.” He huffed. “Let’s take care of this whispering bullshit.”
He called the phone company, talked to someone named Larry. “What I need isfor you to tell me it’s crap so I can avoid the whole subpoena thing. Thanks,yeah…you, too. I’ll hold.”
Moments later, his faced flushed and he was scribbling furiously in his pad.“Okay, Lorenzo, thanko mucho…no, I mean it…we’ll forget this conversation tookplace and I’ll get you the damned paper a-sap.”
The receiver slammed down.
He ripped a page out of the pad and shoved it at me.
The first evening call to the Vasquez apartment had come in at fivefifty-two p.m. and lasted thirty-two minutes. The caller’s mid-city number wasregistered to Guadalupe Maldonado. The call from Jackie Vasquez’s mom at “likesix.”
Milo closed his eyes and pretended to dozeas I read on.
Five more calls between seven and ten p.m., all from a 310 area code that Milo had notated as” stolen cell.” The first lasted eightseconds, the second, four. Then a trio of two-second entries that had to behang-ups.
Armando Vasquez losing patience and slamming down the phone.
I said, “Stolen from who?”
“Don’t know yet, but it happened the same day the call came in. Keep going.”
Under the five calls was the doodle of an amoebic blob filled with crosses.Then something Milo had underlined so hardhe’d torn paper.
Final call. 10:23 p.m. Forty-two seconds long.
Despite Vasquez’s anger, something had managed to hold his interest.
Different caller, 805 area code.
Milo reached over and took the page,shredded it meticulously, and dropped it in his trash basket. “You have neverseen that. You will see it once the goddamn subpoena that is now goddamnnecessary produces legit evidence.”
“Ventura County,” I said. “Maybe Camarillo?”
“Not maybe, for sure. My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo.”
“Near the outlets?”
“He wasn’t able to be that precise, but we’ll find out. Now I’ve got apossible link to the Gaidelases. Which should make you happy. All along, younever saw Peaty for them. So what’re we talking about, an 805-based killer whoprowls the coast and I’ve gotta start from scratch?”
“Only if the Gaidelases are victims,” I said.
“As opposed to?”
“The sheriffs thought the facts pointed to a willful disappearance and maybethey were right. Armando told his wife the whispering made it impossible toidentify the sex of the caller. If it’s amateur theater we’re talking about,Cathy Gaidelas could be a candidate.”
His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. Ithanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psychomurderers ?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rentalcar was left in Camarillobecause the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better tocancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities tocall back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why wouldthey home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There arestill places in Oxnardwith low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell didall this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’veconsidered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister describedthem that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side—drug use,years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay.There’s some complexity there.”

My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo

Jacalyn Vasquez, minus three kids and makeup and jewelry, looked even youngerthan when I’d seen her on Sunday. Streaked hair was tied back in a somberponytail. She wore a loose white blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers. Florid acneplayed havoc with her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had regressed into sootysockets.
A tall honey-haired woman in her twenties held Vasquez’s arm. The blonde’slocks were long and silky. She wore a tight black suit that showcased a bikinifigure. A ruby stud in her left nostril fought the suit’s conservative cut. Thepretty hair and tight body sparred with a monkeyish face the camera wouldsavage.
She surveyed the tiny space and frowned. “How’re we all going to fit inhere?”
Milo smiled. “And you are?”
“Brittany Chamfer, Public Defender’s Office.”
“I thought Mr. Vasquez’s attorney was Kevin Shuldiner.”
“I’m a third-year law student,” said Brittany Chamfer. “Working with theExoneration Project.” She amplified her frown. “This is like a closet.”
“Well,” said Milo, “one less body shouldhelp. Enjoy the fresh air, Ms. Chamfer. Come on in, Ms. Vasquez.”
“My instruction was to stay with Jackie.”
“My instruction is that you enjoy the fresh air.” He stood and the chairsqueaked. Silencing it with one hand, he offered the seat to Jacalyn Vasquez.“Right here, ma’am.”
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’m supposed to stay.”
“You’re not an attorney and Ms. Vasquez hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Still.”
Milo took one big step that brought him tothe doorway. Brittany Chamfer had to step back to avoid collision, and the armshe’d used to support Jacalyn Vasquez pulled free.
Vasquez looked past me. The office could’ve been miles of glacier.
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’ll have to call the office.”
Milo ushered Vasquez in, closed the door.
By the time she sat down, Jacalyn Vasquez was crying.

“What?”
“Meserve thinks he’s an actor,” I said. “Actors do voice-overs.”
“The Infernal Whisperer? I can’t get distracted by that kind of crap, Alex.Still have to check out all those buildings Peaty cleaned, stuff could behidden anywhere. Can’t ignore Billy either, because he hung with Peaty and Iwas masochistic enough to find out.”
He passed the receiver from hand to hand. “What I’d love to do is get toBilly in his apartment, away from Brad, and gauge his reaction to Peaty’sdeath.” He huffed. “Let’s take care of this whispering bullshit.”
He called the phone company, talked to someone named Larry. “What I need isfor you to tell me it’s crap so I can avoid the whole subpoena thing. Thanks,yeah…you, too. I’ll hold.”
Moments later, his faced flushed and he was scribbling furiously in his pad.“Okay, Lorenzo, thanko mucho…no, I mean it…we’ll forget this conversation tookplace and I’ll get you the damned paper a-sap.”
The receiver slammed down.
He ripped a page out of the pad and shoved it at me.
The first evening call to the Vasquez apartment had come in at fivefifty-two p.m. and lasted thirty-two minutes. The caller’s mid-city number wasregistered to Guadalupe Maldonado. The call from Jackie Vasquez’s mom at “likesix.”
Milo closed his eyes and pretended to dozeas I read on.
Five more calls between seven and ten p.m., all from a 310 area code that Milo had notated as” stolen cell.” The first lasted eightseconds, the second, four. Then a trio of two-second entries that had to behang-ups.
Armando Vasquez losing patience and slamming down the phone.
I said, “Stolen from who?”
“Don’t know yet, but it happened the same day the call came in. Keep going.”
Under the five calls was the doodle of an amoebic blob filled with crosses.Then something Milo had underlined so hardhe’d torn paper.
Final call. 10:23 p.m. Forty-two seconds long.
Despite Vasquez’s anger, something had managed to hold his interest.
Different caller, 805 area code.
Milo reached over and took the page,shredded it meticulously, and dropped it in his trash basket. “You have neverseen that. You will see it once the goddamn subpoena that is now goddamnnecessary produces legit evidence.”
“Ventura County,” I said. “Maybe Camarillo?”
“Not maybe, for sure. My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo.”
“Near the outlets?”
“He wasn’t able to be that precise, but we’ll find out. Now I’ve got apossible link to the Gaidelases. Which should make you happy. All along, younever saw Peaty for them. So what’re we talking about, an 805-based killer whoprowls the coast and I’ve gotta start from scratch?”
“Only if the Gaidelases are victims,” I said.
“As opposed to?”
“The sheriffs thought the facts pointed to a willful disappearance and maybethey were right. Armando told his wife the whispering made it impossible toidentify the sex of the caller. If it’s amateur theater we’re talking about,Cathy Gaidelas could be a candidate.”
His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. Ithanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psychomurderers ?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rentalcar was left in Camarillobecause the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better tocancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities tocall back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why wouldthey home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There arestill places in Oxnardwith low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell didall this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’veconsidered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister describedthem that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side—drug use,years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay.There’s some complexity there.”

My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo

Jacalyn Vasquez, minus three kids and makeup and jewelry, looked even youngerthan when I’d seen her on Sunday. Streaked hair was tied back in a somberponytail. She wore a loose white blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers. Florid acneplayed havoc with her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had regressed into sootysockets.
A tall honey-haired woman in her twenties held Vasquez’s arm. The blonde’slocks were long and silky. She wore a tight black suit that showcased a bikinifigure. A ruby stud in her left nostril fought the suit’s conservative cut. Thepretty hair and tight body sparred with a monkeyish face the camera wouldsavage.
She surveyed the tiny space and frowned. “How’re we all going to fit inhere?”
Milo smiled. “And you are?”
“Brittany Chamfer, Public Defender’s Office.”
“I thought Mr. Vasquez’s attorney was Kevin Shuldiner.”
“I’m a third-year law student,” said Brittany Chamfer. “Working with theExoneration Project.” She amplified her frown. “This is like a closet.”
“Well,” said Milo, “one less body shouldhelp. Enjoy the fresh air, Ms. Chamfer. Come on in, Ms. Vasquez.”
“My instruction was to stay with Jackie.”
“My instruction is that you enjoy the fresh air.” He stood and the chairsqueaked. Silencing it with one hand, he offered the seat to Jacalyn Vasquez.“Right here, ma’am.”
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’m supposed to stay.”
“You’re not an attorney and Ms. Vasquez hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Still.”
Milo took one big step that brought him tothe doorway. Brittany Chamfer had to step back to avoid collision, and the armshe’d used to support Jacalyn Vasquez pulled free.
Vasquez looked past me. The office could’ve been miles of glacier.
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’ll have to call the office.”
Milo ushered Vasquez in, closed the door.
By the time she sat down, Jacalyn Vasquez was crying.

“What?”
“Meserve thinks he’s an actor,” I said. “Actors do voice-overs.”
“The Infernal Whisperer? I can’t get distracted by that kind of crap, Alex.Still have to check out all those buildings Peaty cleaned, stuff could behidden anywhere. Can’t ignore Billy either, because he hung with Peaty and Iwas masochistic enough to find out.”
He passed the receiver from hand to hand. “What I’d love to do is get toBilly in his apartment, away from Brad, and gauge his reaction to Peaty’sdeath.” He huffed. “Let’s take care of this whispering bullshit.”
He called the phone company, talked to someone named Larry. “What I need isfor you to tell me it’s crap so I can avoid the whole subpoena thing. Thanks,yeah…you, too. I’ll hold.”
Moments later, his faced flushed and he was scribbling furiously in his pad.“Okay, Lorenzo, thanko mucho…no, I mean it…we’ll forget this conversation tookplace and I’ll get you the damned paper a-sap.”
The receiver slammed down.
He ripped a page out of the pad and shoved it at me.
The first evening call to the Vasquez apartment had come in at fivefifty-two p.m. and lasted thirty-two minutes. The caller’s mid-city number wasregistered to Guadalupe Maldonado. The call from Jackie Vasquez’s mom at “likesix.”
Milo closed his eyes and pretended to dozeas I read on.
Five more calls between seven and ten p.m., all from a 310 area code that Milo had notated as” stolen cell.” The first lasted eightseconds, the second, four. Then a trio of two-second entries that had to behang-ups.
Armando Vasquez losing patience and slamming down the phone.
I said, “Stolen from who?”
“Don’t know yet, but it happened the same day the call came in. Keep going.”
Under the five calls was the doodle of an amoebic blob filled with crosses.Then something Milo had underlined so hardhe’d torn paper.
Final call. 10:23 p.m. Forty-two seconds long.
Despite Vasquez’s anger, something had managed to hold his interest.
Different caller, 805 area code.
Milo reached over and took the page,shredded it meticulously, and dropped it in his trash basket. “You have neverseen that. You will see it once the goddamn subpoena that is now goddamnnecessary produces legit evidence.”
“Ventura County,” I said. “Maybe Camarillo?”
“Not maybe, for sure. My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo.”
“Near the outlets?”
“He wasn’t able to be that precise, but we’ll find out. Now I’ve got apossible link to the Gaidelases. Which should make you happy. All along, younever saw Peaty for them. So what’re we talking about, an 805-based killer whoprowls the coast and I’ve gotta start from scratch?”
“Only if the Gaidelases are victims,” I said.
“As opposed to?”
“The sheriffs thought the facts pointed to a willful disappearance and maybethey were right. Armando told his wife the whispering made it impossible toidentify the sex of the caller. If it’s amateur theater we’re talking about,Cathy Gaidelas could be a candidate.”
His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. Ithanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psychomurderers ?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rentalcar was left in Camarillobecause the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better tocancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities tocall back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why wouldthey home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There arestill places in Oxnardwith low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell didall this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’veconsidered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister describedthem that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side—drug use,years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay.There’s some complexity there.”

My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo

Jacalyn Vasquez, minus three kids and makeup and jewelry, looked even youngerthan when I’d seen her on Sunday. Streaked hair was tied back in a somberponytail. She wore a loose white blouse, blue jeans, and sneakers. Florid acneplayed havoc with her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes had regressed into sootysockets.
A tall honey-haired woman in her twenties held Vasquez’s arm. The blonde’slocks were long and silky. She wore a tight black suit that showcased a bikinifigure. A ruby stud in her left nostril fought the suit’s conservative cut. Thepretty hair and tight body sparred with a monkeyish face the camera wouldsavage.
She surveyed the tiny space and frowned. “How’re we all going to fit inhere?”
Milo smiled. “And you are?”
“Brittany Chamfer, Public Defender’s Office.”
“I thought Mr. Vasquez’s attorney was Kevin Shuldiner.”
“I’m a third-year law student,” said Brittany Chamfer. “Working with theExoneration Project.” She amplified her frown. “This is like a closet.”
“Well,” said Milo, “one less body shouldhelp. Enjoy the fresh air, Ms. Chamfer. Come on in, Ms. Vasquez.”
“My instruction was to stay with Jackie.”
“My instruction is that you enjoy the fresh air.” He stood and the chairsqueaked. Silencing it with one hand, he offered the seat to Jacalyn Vasquez.“Right here, ma’am.”
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’m supposed to stay.”
“You’re not an attorney and Ms. Vasquez hasn’t been charged with anything.”
“Still.”
Milo took one big step that brought him tothe doorway. Brittany Chamfer had to step back to avoid collision, and the armshe’d used to support Jacalyn Vasquez pulled free.
Vasquez looked past me. The office could’ve been miles of glacier.
Brittany Chamfer said, “I’ll have to call the office.”
Milo ushered Vasquez in, closed the door.
By the time she sat down, Jacalyn Vasquez was crying.

“What?”
“Meserve thinks he’s an actor,” I said. “Actors do voice-overs.”
“The Infernal Whisperer? I can’t get distracted by that kind of crap, Alex.Still have to check out all those buildings Peaty cleaned, stuff could behidden anywhere. Can’t ignore Billy either, because he hung with Peaty and Iwas masochistic enough to find out.”
He passed the receiver from hand to hand. “What I’d love to do is get toBilly in his apartment, away from Brad, and gauge his reaction to Peaty’sdeath.” He huffed. “Let’s take care of this whispering bullshit.”
He called the phone company, talked to someone named Larry. “What I need isfor you to tell me it’s crap so I can avoid the whole subpoena thing. Thanks,yeah…you, too. I’ll hold.”
Moments later, his faced flushed and he was scribbling furiously in his pad.“Okay, Lorenzo, thanko mucho…no, I mean it…we’ll forget this conversation tookplace and I’ll get you the damned paper a-sap.”
The receiver slammed down.
He ripped a page out of the pad and shoved it at me.
The first evening call to the Vasquez apartment had come in at fivefifty-two p.m. and lasted thirty-two minutes. The caller’s mid-city number wasregistered to Guadalupe Maldonado. The call from Jackie Vasquez’s mom at “likesix.”
Milo closed his eyes and pretended to dozeas I read on.
Five more calls between seven and ten p.m., all from a 310 area code that Milo had notated as” stolen cell.” The first lasted eightseconds, the second, four. Then a trio of two-second entries that had to behang-ups.
Armando Vasquez losing patience and slamming down the phone.
I said, “Stolen from who?”
“Don’t know yet, but it happened the same day the call came in. Keep going.”
Under the five calls was the doodle of an amoebic blob filled with crosses.Then something Milo had underlined so hardhe’d torn paper.
Final call. 10:23 p.m. Forty-two seconds long.
Despite Vasquez’s anger, something had managed to hold his interest.
Different caller, 805 area code.
Milo reached over and took the page,shredded it meticulously, and dropped it in his trash basket. “You have neverseen that. You will see it once the goddamn subpoena that is now goddamnnecessary produces legit evidence.”
“Ventura County,” I said. “Maybe Camarillo?”
“Not maybe, for sure. My man Lawrence says a pay phone in Camarillo.”
“Near the outlets?”
“He wasn’t able to be that precise, but we’ll find out. Now I’ve got apossible link to the Gaidelases. Which should make you happy. All along, younever saw Peaty for them. So what’re we talking about, an 805-based killer whoprowls the coast and I’ve gotta start from scratch?”
“Only if the Gaidelases are victims,” I said.
“As opposed to?”
“The sheriffs thought the facts pointed to a willful disappearance and maybethey were right. Armando told his wife the whispering made it impossible toidentify the sex of the caller. If it’s amateur theater we’re talking about,Cathy Gaidelas could be a candidate.”
His jaws bunched. He scooted forward on his chair, inches from my face. Ithanked God we were friends.
“All of a sudden the Gaidelases have gone from victims to psychomurderers ?”
“It solves several problems,” I said. “No bodies recovered and the rentalcar was left in Camarillobecause the Gaidelases ditched it, just as the company assumed. Who better tocancel credit cards than the legitimate owners? And to know which utilities tocall back in Ohio?”
“Nice couple hiding out in Ventura County and venturing into L.A. to commit nasty? For starts, why wouldthey home-base out there?”
“Proximity to the ocean and you don’t have to be a millionaire. There arestill places in Oxnardwith low-rent housing.”
He yanked his forelock up and stretched his brow tight. “Where the hell didall this come from, Alex?”
“My twisted mind,” I said. “But think about it: The only reason we’veconsidered the Gaidelases a nice couple is because Cathy’s sister describedthem that way. But Susan Palmer also talked about an antisocial side—drug use,years of mooching off the family. Cathy married a man people suspect is gay.There’s some complexity there.”