Part 12 (2/2)

”If you could just tell me the color of Maureen's eyes- ”Blue, sky blue, with dark hair.”

This time there was an intake of breath. ”I am so glad to hear from you at last, Jack. My name is Gaylen Dumont and I would like very much to meet you.”

”Where is Maureen? Do you know?”

It was as though she hadn't heard me. ”I am so very glad you called, but it's difficult for me to talk over the phone. Could you come over?”

There was no other answer but yes. I got her address and promised to be there within half an hour. She thanked me and hung up. I stared at the earpiece and wondered suspiciously what her game was.”She wasn't too talkative,” I told Escott.

”Some people don't like to use the phone.”

I was more inclined to think some people don't like to deliver bad news on the phone. Maybe I could have stayed on longer and tried to get more information. I was vulnerable to making mistakes because of my emotional involvement and was very glad Escott was coming. He might help me to think straight. As we drove over, half- formed thoughts and questions and alternatives to what I should have said were running through my mind like insane mice.

The West Star Hotel was nothing to write home about; neither old or new, flashy or drab, there were hundreds like it all over. We parked, went in past the front desk and elevator, and walked straight up the stairs to the right room. I hesitated before knocking.

Escott noticed my nerves. ”Steady on,” he said under his breath.

I nodded once, shook my shoulders up, and tapped on the door. No immediate answer came from within. I knocked again and heard faint movements now: a shuffling, a muted thump, the k.n.o.b turned, and the wood panel squeaked open.

The voice was softer and less reedy than it was on the phone. ”Jack?”

I swallowed. ”Yes, I'm Jack Fleming.”

The small shadowy figure in the dark dress stepped away, turned slowly, and retreated into the room. Her heart and lungs were laboring. She was either very excited, very ill, or both. I stepped forward and Escott followed quietly, taking his hat off with a smooth and automatic movement and nudging me to do the same.

We took in her plain impersonal room with a quick glance. The window was open only a crack, and the air well tainted with the smell of soap and strong liniment. A radio on a table crackled out the news of the day. She hobbled to it, using a cane for balance, and turned it off, then sat down with obvious relief.

”I'm so glad you could come over to talk,” she said. ”I did so want to meet you, and it is difficult for me to get around.”

A suitcase stood at the foot of the bed and beyond that a stiff and ugly-looking wheelchair. She noted where my eyes went.

”That's for my bad days. They come more and more often, especially when it's damp. I have arthritis in my legs and it gives me a lot of trouble.”

”Miss Dumont, this is my friend, Charles Escott.”

She extended a frail, yellow hand. ”How do you do?”

Escott took it and said something polite, making a little bow that only the English can do without looking self-conscious. She smiled, pleased at the gesture. ”I'm glad to meet you, both of you, but you must call me Gaylen, everybody does. Pull those chairs a little closer to the light so we may have a good look at each other.”

We did as she said and sat down. Maureen's eyes looked back at me, but the dark hair and brows had faded and gone white. The angle of her jaw was the same, and there were a hundred other similarities too subtle for immediate definition. Her face was scored with wrinkles, the skin puffy and gone shapeless with age-a face like and unlike Maureen's. It was an agony to look at it.

She was smiling. ”I can hardly believe you're here. I hardly dared hope you would see my notice, especially after yours stopped. I was afraid you'd moved again.”

I explained how Escott had pointed it out to me.

”How very fortunate. You see, it was only a few days ago that I saw it. I live in upstate New York, pretty much by myself, and don't read the papers often. My housekeeper had a stack of them for her ch.o.r.es, though, and I saw one opened to the right page, and Maureen's name caught my eye. I remembered she once knew someone named Jack years ago, and I had to find out. I called the paper and they said you'd moved to Chicago. By then I'd found some of her letters to me and I knew you were the right person, so I came out.”

”Gaylen, do you know where she is?”

She bowed her head. ”I'm sorry, I am so dreadfully sorry to disappoint you.”

Everything inside me twisted sharply. ”Is she dead?”

”I don't know,” she whispered. ”I haven't heard from her for nearly five years.”

The twisting got tighter. ”When did you last see her? What did she say?”

”I didn't see her, she called me. I don't know from where. She said she was going to be gone on a long trip and not to worry if she didn't write for a while.”

I shut my eyes for a moment. When I opened them, I was able to speak quietly, lucidly. ”Gaylen, tell me the whole story, tell me everything you know.”

”I'm not sure that I know very much. I only wanted to see someone else who knew her, who could remember her with me. I'd hoped you may have seen her in the last five years.”

I felt sorry for both of us. ”You have the same name. How are you related to her?”

She seemed surprised. ”I thought you knew. Surely she mentioned me?”

”She never talked about her past.”

”How very unlike her... Are you certain? Well, I am her sister-her younger sister, Jack.””Younger,” I echoed back softly.

”I'm seventy-two, Maureen seventy-six-did she tell you nothing?”

Her look made me acutely uncomfortable. ”No, I'm afraid not.”

She shook her head. ”You poor young man, you must be starved for information.

I'll try my best, but I hope you'll be as frank with me.”

”How so?”

”When I told you her age, you were startled, but not incredulous. You are aware of her-her unusual state?” Her eyes went from me to Escott inquiringly.

Escott cleared his throat. ”Please feel free to speak openly about your sister. Jack has made me acquainted with the facts. All the facts.”

She regarded him soberly, pursing her lips. ”Your accent, you're from England?”

He nodded once.

Gaylen's eyes were lighter in color than Maureen's. Now they faded to pale gray as she thought things over and made up her mind. ”If it's all right with Jack... but some of my questions might be too personal.”

”Questions?” I said. ”No, Charles, stay, it's all right. What questions?”

She hesitated, struggling with something difficult within. She finally took a deep breath and said: ”How close were you to Maureen?”

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