The John L. Davis School was an ancient red-brick building with an
iron picket fence enclosing the schoolyard. As I went up the steps to
the door, I could hear a class of small voices chanting something in
unison. It was a sleepy, nostalgic, afternoon sound.
In the wide wooden hallway there were drinking fountains which looked
absurdly low. A small boy came down the hall, tapping himself gently
and wistfully on the head with a ruler. He gave me an opaque stare and
continued on his way.
There was a nervous young woman in the outer office of the principal's
office. She was typing and chewing her lip and when she looked up at me
she was obviously irritated by the interruption.
"I'm trying to find a Miss Major who used to teach here. She taught
eighth-grade subjects, I believe."
"We only go through the sixth. Then the children go to the junior high."
"I know that. But you used to have the seventh and eighth here."
"Not for a long time. Not since I've been here."
"Aren't there any records? Isn't there any place you could look?"
"I wouldn't know where to look. I wouldn't know anything like that."
"Are there any teachers here who would have been here when Miss Major
was here?"
"I guess there probably are. I guess there would be some. How long ago
was she here?"
"About twelve years ago."
"Mrs. Stearns has been teaching here twenty-two years. Third grade.
Room sixteen. That's on this floor just around the corner."
"I wouldn't want to interrupt a class."
"Any minute now they'll all be going home. Then you could ask her. I
wouldn't know anything like that. I wouldn't know where to look or
anything."
I waited outside room sixteen. There was a lull and then somebody
started a record player. Sousa filled the halls with brass, at peak
volume. There was a great scurrying in all the rooms. The doors opened.
All the small denizens marched into the hall and stood in impatient
ragged double lines, stomping their feet in time to the music. The
floor shook. Weary teachers kept a cautious eye on the lines. The
upstairs rooms marched down the stairs and out the double doors. Then
the main floor marched out, yelling as soon as they hit the sunlight.
The school was emptied. Sousa blared on for a few moments and died in
the middle of a bar.
"Mrs. Stearns?"
"Yes, I'm Mrs. Stearns." She was a round, pale woman with hair like
steel wool and small, sharp, bright dark eyes.
"My name is Howard, Talbert Howard. Did you know a Miss Major who used
to teach here?"
"Of course. I knew Katherine very well. That reminds me, I should stop
by and see how she's getting along these days."
"She's in town?"
"Oh, yes, the poor thing."
"Is she ill?"
"Oh, I thought you knew. Katherine went blind quite suddenly about ten
years ago. It was a shock to all of us. I feel guilty that I don't call
on her more often. But after a full day of the children, I don't feel
like calling on anyone. I don't seem to have the energy any more."
"Could you tell me where she lives?"
"Not off hand, but it's in the phone book. She's on Finch Avenue, in an
apartment. I know the house but I can't remember the number. She lives
alone. She's very proud, you know. And she really gets along remarkably
well, considering."
It was a small ground-floor apartment in the rear of an old house.
Music was playing loudly in the apartment. It was a symphony I didn't
recognize. The music stopped moments after I knocked at the door.
Miss Major opened the door. She wore a blue dress. Her hair was white
and worn in a long page boy. Her features were strong. She could have
once been a beautiful woman. She was still handsome. When I spoke to
her, she seemed to focus on my face. It was hard to believe those eyes
were sightless.
I told her my name and said I wanted to ask her about a student she had
had in the eighth grade.
"Please come in, Mr. Howard. Sit there in the red chair. I was having
tea. Would you care for some?"
"No, thank you."
"Then one of these cookies. A friend of mine bakes them. They're very
good."
She held the plate in precisely the right spot. I took one and thanked
her. She put the plate back on the table and sat facing me. She found
her teacup and lifted it to her lips.
"Now what student was it?"
"Do you remember Timmy Warden?"
"Of course I remember him! He was a charmer. I was told how he died.
I was dreadfully sorry to hear it. A man came to see me six or seven
months ago. He said he'd been in that prison camp with Timmy. I never
could quite understand why he came to see me. His name was Fitzmartin
and he asked all sorts of odd questions. I couldn't feel at ease with
him. He didn't seem--quite right if you know what I mean. When you lose
one sense you seem to become more aware of nuances."
"I was in that camp too, Miss Major."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. Probably Mr. Fitzmartin is a friend of yours."
"No, he's not."
"That's a relief. Now don't tell me you came here to ask odd questions
too, Mr. Howard."
"Fairly odd, I guess. In camp Timmy spoke about a girl named Cindy.
I've been trying to track her down for--personal reasons. One of your
other students, Cindy Kirschner, told me that you wrote a skit based on
Cinderella for the eighth grade when you had Timmy in the class. Timmy
wasn't--very well when he mentioned this Cindy. I'm wondering if he
could have meant the girl who played the part in the play."
"Whatever has happened to Cindy Kirschner, Mr. Howard? Such a shy,
sweet child. And those dreadful teeth."
"The teeth have been fixed. She's married to a man named Pat Rorick and
she has a couple of kids."
"That's good to hear. The other children used to be horrible to her.
They can be little animals at times."
"Do you remember who played the part of Cindy in the skit?"
"Of course I remember. I remember because it was sort of an experiment.
Her name was Antoinette Rasi. Wait a moment. I'll show you something."
She went into the other room. She was gone nearly five minutes. She
came back with a glossy photograph.
"I had a friend help me sort these out after I learned Braille. I've
marked them all so I know this is the right one. It's a graduation
picture. I've kept the graduation pictures of all my classes, though
what use I have for pictures, I'll never know."
She handed it to me and said, "I believe Antoinette is in the back row
toward the left. Look for a girl with a great mass of black hair and a
pretty, rather sullen face. I don't imagine she was smiling."
"I think I've found her."
"Antoinette was a problem. She was a little older than the others. Half
French and half Italian. She resented discipline. She was a rowdy, a
troublemaker. But I liked the child and I thought I understood her. Her
people were very poor and I don't think she got much attention at home.
She had an older brother who had been in trouble with the police and I
believe an older sister. She came to school inadequately dressed when
the weather was cold. She had a lot of spirit. She was a very alive
person. I think she was sensitive, but she hid it very carefully. I
can't help but wonder sometimes what has happened to the child. The
Rasis lived north of the city where the river widens out. I believe
that Mr. Rasi had a boat and bait business in the summer and did odd
jobs in the wintertime. Their house was a shack. I went out there
once after Antoinette had missed a whole week of school. I found she
hadn't come because she had a black eye. Her brother gave it to her. I
gave her the part of Cinderella in an attempt to get her to take more
interest in class activities. I'm afraid it was a mistake. I believe
she thought it was a reflection on the way she lived."
"Was Timmy friendly with her?"
"Quite friendly. I sometimes wondered if that was a good thing. She
seemed quite--precocious in some departments. And Timmy was a very
sweet boy."
"He could have called her Cindy because of the skit?"
"I imagine so. Children dote on nicknames. I remember one poor little
boy with a sinus condition. The other children made him unhappy by
calling him Rumblehead."
"I want to thank you for your help, Miss Major."
"I hope the information is of some use to you. When you find
Antoinette, tell her I asked about her."
"I'll do that."
She went with me to the door. She said, "They're bringing me a new
Braille student at four. He seems to be a little late. Mr. Howard, are
you in some kind of trouble?"
The abrupt _non sequitur_ startled me. "Trouble? Yes, I'm in trouble.
Bad trouble."
"I won't give you any chin-up lecture, Mr. Howard. I've been given too
much of that myself. I was just checking my own reactions. I sensed
trouble. An aura of worry. As with that Mr. Fitzmartin I detected an
aura of directed evil."
When I got out in front, a woman was helping a young boy out of a car.
The boy wore dark glasses. His mouth had an ill-tempered look, and I
heard the whine in his voice as he complained about something to her.
I felt that I had discovered Cindy. There had been a hint as to what
she was like in the very tone of Timmy's voice. Weak as he was, there
had been a note of fond appreciation--the echo of lust. Cindy would
know. The phrasing was odd. Not _Cindy knows_. _Cindy would know._ It
would be a place known to her.
I sat in my car for a few moments. I did not know how long my period of
grace would last. I did not know whether I should continue in search of
the elusive Cindy or try to make sense of the relationship between Fitz
and Grassman. It came to me that I had been a fool not to search the
body. There might have been notes, papers, letters, reports--something
to indicate why he had been slain. Yet I knew I could not risk going
back there, and it was doubtful that the murderer would have been so
clumsy as to leave anything indirectly incriminating on the body itself.
I did not know where to start. I didn't think anything could be
gained by going to Fitzmartin, facing him. He certainly would answer
no questions. Why had it been necessary to kill Grassman? Either it
was related to Grassman's job, or it was something apart from it.
Grassman's job had apparently been due to Rose Fulton's conviction that
her husband had come to some harm here in Hillston.
Prine's investigation had evidently been thorough. He was satisfied
that Fulton and Eloise Warden had run off together. He had a witness to
the actual departure. Yet Grassman had been poking around the cabin the
Wardens used to own. I could not imagine what he hoped to gain.
I could not help but believe that Grassman's death was in some way
related to the sixty thousand dollars. I wondered if Grassman had
somehow acquired the information that a sizable sum had disappeared
from the Warden business ventures over a period of time, and had added
two and two together. Or if, in looking for Fulton's body, he had
stumbled across the money. Maybe at the same time Fitz was looking for
it. Many murders have been committed for one tenth that amount. There
was only one starting place with Grassman. That was Rose Fulton. Maybe
Grassman had sent her reports. She was probably a resident of Illinois.
I wondered who would know her address. It would have to be someone
whose suspicions would not be aroused. I wondered if there was any way
of finding out without asking anyone. If the police investigation had
been reported in the local paper, Fulton's home town would probably
have been given, but not his street address.
I realized that I did not dare make any effort to get hold of Mrs.
Fulton. It would link me too closely to Grassman.
Antoinette Rasi then. I would look for her.
* * * * *
The shack was on the riverbank. It had a sagging porch, auto parts
stamped into the mud of the yard, dingy Monday washing flapping on
a knotted line, a disconsolate tire hanging from a tree limb, and a
shiny new television aerial. A thin, dark boy of about twelve was
carefully painting an overturned boat, doing a good job of it. A little
dark-headed girl was trying to harness a fat, humble dog to a broken
cart. A toddler in diapers watched her. Some chickens were scratching
the loose dirt under the porch.
The children looked at me as I got out of the car. A heavy woman came
to the door. She bulged with pregnancy. Her eyes and expression were
unfriendly. The small girl began to cry. I heard her brother hiss at
her to shut up. The woman in the doorway could have once been quite
pretty. She wasn't any more. It was hard to guess how old she might be.
"Is your name Rasi?" I asked.
"It was once. Now it's Doyle. What do you want?"
"I'm trying to locate Antoinette Rasi."
"For God's sake, shut up sniveling, Jeanie. This man isn't come to take
the teevee." She smiled apologetically at me. "They took it away once,
and to Jeanie any stranger comes after the same thing. Every night the
kids watch it. No homework, no nothing. Just sit and look. It drives me
nuts. What do you want Antoinette for?"
"I've got a message for her. From a friend."
The woman sniffed. "She makes a lot of friends, I guess. She doesn't
hang around here any more. She's up in Redding. I don't hear from her
any more. She never gets down. God knows I never get up there. The old
man is dead and Jack is in the federal can in Atlanta, and Doyle can't
stand the sight of her, so why should she bother coming down here.
Hell, I'm only her only sister. She sends money for the kids, but no
messages. No nothing."
"What does she do?"
She gave me a wise, wet smile. "She goes around making friends, I
guess."
"How do I get in touch with her?"
"Cruise around. Try the Aztec, and the Cub Room. And try the Doubloon,
too. I heard her mention that. You can probably find her."
* * * * *
It was sixty miles to Redding, and dark when I got there. It was twice
the size of Hillston. It was a town with a lot of neon. Lime and pink.
Dark, inviting blue. Lots of uniforms on the night streets. Lots of
girls on the dark streets. Lots of cars going nowhere too fast, horns
blowing, Bermuda bells ringing, tires wailing. I asked where the Aztec
and the Cub Room and the Doubloon were. I was directed to a wide
highway on the west edge of town, called, inevitably, the Strip. There
the neon really blossomed. There wasn't as much sidewalk traffic. But
for a Monday night there were enough cars in the lots. Enough rough
music in the air. Enough places to lose your money. Or spend it. Or
have it taken away from you.
I went to the Aztec and I went to the Cub Room and I went to the
Doubloon. In each place I asked a bartender about Antoinette Rasi. On
each occasion I received a blank stare and a shrug and a, "Never heard
of her."
"Dark-haired girl?"
"That's unusual? Sorry, buster."
The cadence of the evening was beginning to quicken. All three places
were glamorous. They were like the lounges of the hotels along Collins
Avenue on Miami Beach. And like the bistros of Beverly Hills. The
lighting was carefully contrived. There was a Las Vegas tension in
those three places, a smell of money. Here the games were hidden. But
not hard to find.
The way Mrs. Doyle had spoken of her sister gave me reason to believe
I could get assistance from the police. They were in a brand new
building. The sergeant looked uncomfortable behind a long curve of
stainless steel.