The Wycherly Woman by Ross MacDonald Page A

and held silent communion with it. There were fresh marks on the knuckles, which looked like tooth-marks. His blue eyes were mean. He brushed his goatee with his fist:
    “It isn’t the first time he made a pass at her. I didn’t tell you before. I’m telling you now. If you can’t stop him, I will. With what I’ve got on him—”
    “You lay off Ben,” she said.
    “Then make him lay off Jessie. What’s the matter? Aren’t you getting along?”
    “Oh, sure,” she said with bitter irony. “Everything’s coming up dandelions. Go away now, will you? I’m with a customer.”
    “Since when are you working nights for Ben?”
    “I told you he left me waiting here. We were going to go out on the town for a change.”
    “When do you expect him back?”
    “I don’t, now. I guess he decided he’d have more fun by himself.”
    “Yeah. Well, he better keep his hands off my pig.”
    “Tell
her
to stop wiggling her fat little rump at him.”
    They grinned at each other like old enemies. He slammed out. She sat forgetful of me, her eyes focused on something between us, invisible in the air.
    “The dirty son of a bitch,” she said between her teeth. “Two can play at that game.” Then she remembered me, and said in a more human voice: “Don’t pay any attention to me. I’ll be all right in a minute. Give me a minute, will you?”
    It was the least I could give her. She went into the back room and closed the flimsy door. I heard the clink of a bottle on a glass, the distinct pouring sound which solitary drinkers imagine nobody can hear.
    She came out wearing fresh lipstick on a muzzy gin smile. “I’ve been looking at the figures on the Mandeville house. If you’re
really
interested, we might be able to work something out with the new owners. They got such a
terrific
buy, they could sell to you at a profit and still give you a bargain. Even at sixty thousand it’s a steal. It was originally listed at eighty, and it would cost a hundred and twenty to replace at today’s building costs.”
    I said with the necessary smile: “For a girl who doesn’t work here, you put out a good spiel.”
    “Thank you, sir. I used to sell for Ben.” She leaned across the desk, offering me her full white décolleté as a sort of bonus. “Seriously, are you interested in the property?”
    “Very interested. Why don’t you show it to me, then well talk about the deal?”
    “Tonight?”
    “Why not?”
    She looked past me at the moving traffic in the street. “I better not leave, he might come back. Miracles can happen. If you can’t wait till morning, I’ll give you the keys. The electricity is on in the house, I think.”
    She went into the back room again and came out looking flustered. “Ben must have taken the keys. I’m sorry.”
    “That’s all right. I’ll come back in the morning.”
    Whiteoaks Avenue was less than a mile from Camino Real. I found the moulded iron gates standing open, the padlock gaping on its chain. I gathered up the rest of the scattered newspapers and looked at the date lines. The latest was November 17. The earliest was November 3, the day after Phoebe disappeared.
    The bellying gray sky above the trees was expectant with moon. The house seemed to grow before me as I trudged up the driveway. Its façade returned the glare of my flashlight like a blank white sepulchre.
    The ornate front door was closed but unlocked. I went in and found a light switch beside the door. The parquetry floor of the hallway was tracked with old mud and sprinkled with the cards of real-estate salesmen. From the rear of the hallway a white-banistered staircase curved gracefully upward into darkness.
    I entered the main room to the right, and touched the switch. A yellowing crystal chandelier lit up incompletely. Most of the furnishings went with the chandelier: old striped English sofas facing each other from opposite ends of the room, a white marble fireplace containing a gas heater, over the mantel a bad oil