On Friday morning it was not until I opened the bureau drawer to take
out a clean shirt that I knew somebody had been in the room. I had
stacked the clean shirts neatly in one corner of the big middle drawer.
They were scattered all over the drawer as if stirred by a hasty hand.
I went over all my things and saw more and more evidence of quick,
careless search. There was nothing for anyone to find. I had written
down nothing about the elusive Cindy.
It did not seem probable that the maid or the woman who had rented me
the room had done this. Nor did it seem probable that it had occurred
on the previous day while I was out. I checked the door. I distinctly
remembered locking it. It was unlocked. That meant someone had come in
while I had slept. Fortunately, from long habit, I had put my wallet
inside the pillowcase. My money was safe. Some cool morning air came
through the door, chilling my face and chest, and I realized I was
sweating lightly. I remembered how Fitz could move so quietly at night.
I did not like the thought of his being in the room, being able to
unlock the door. I did not see how it could have been anyone else. I
wondered how he had found the motel so easily. I had given the address
to no one. Yet it could not have taken too long on the phone. Maybe an
hour or an hour and a half to find where I was registered. It would
take patience. But Fitzmartin had waited over a year.
I had breakfast, looked up an address and drove off to see the girl of
the cracked, treasured picture--the girl who, unknown to herself, had
eased great loneliness, and strengthened frail courage.
Dr. Buck Stamm was a veterinary. His home and place of business was
just east of town, a pleasant old frame house with the animal hospital
close by. Dogs made a vast clamor when I drove up. They were in
individual runways beside the kennels. There were horses in a corral
beyond the house.
Dr. Stamm came out into the waiting-room when the bell on the door
rang. He was an enormous man with bushy red hair that was turning gray.
He had a heavy baritone voice and an impressive frown.
"We're not open around here yet unless it's an emergency, young man."
"No emergency. I wanted to see your daughter for a minute."
"What about?"
"It's a personal matter. I was a friend of Timmy Warden."
He did not look pleased. "I guess I can't stop you from seeing her.
She's at the house, wasting time over coffee. Go on up there. Tell her
Al hasn't showed up yet and I need help with the feeding. Tell her
Butch died in the night and she'll have to phone the Bronsons. Got
that?"
"I can remember it."
"And don't keep her too long. I need help down here. Go around to the
back door. She's in the kitchen."
I went across the lawn to the house and up the back steps. It was a
warm morning and the door was open. The screens weren't on yet. The
girl came to the back door. She was medium tall. Her hair was dark red,
a red like you can see in old furniture made of cherry wood, oiled
and polished so the sun glints fire streaks in it. She wore dungarees
and a pale blue blouse. Her eyes were tilted gray, her mouth a bit
heavy and quite wide. She had good golden skin tones instead of the
blotched pasty white of most redheads. Her figure was lovely. She was
twenty-six, or perhaps twenty-seven.
There are many women in the world as attractive as Ruth Stamm. But
the expression they wear for the world betrays them. Their faces are
arrogant, or petulant, or sensuous. That is all right because their
desirability makes up for it, and you know they will be good for a
little time and when you have grown accustomed to the beauty, there
will be just the arrogance or the petulance left.
But Ruth wore her own face for the world--wore an expression of
strength and humility and goodness. Should you become accustomed to her
loveliness, there would still be all that left. This was a for-keeps
girl. She couldn't be any other way because all the usual poses and
artifices were left out of her. This was a girl you could hurt, a girl
who would demand and deserve utter loyalty.
"I guess I'm staring," I said.
She smiled. "You certainly are." She tried to make smile and words
casual, but in those few moments, as it happens so very rarely, a sharp
awareness had been born, an intense and personal curiosity.
I took the picture out of my pocket and handed it to her. She looked
at it and then looked sharply at me, eyes narrowed. "Where did you get
this?"
"Timmy Warden had it."
"Timmy! I didn't know he had this. Were you at--that place?"
"In the camp with him? Yes. Wait a minute. Your father gave me some
messages for you. He says Al hasn't showed up and he needs help with
the feeding. And you're to phone the Bronsons that Butch died during
the night."