Elegy For April Part 3

"How are you?" Phoebe asked him.

He shook his head. "I don't know yet, it's too early in the day."

"I mean, since you * since you came home."

"I bought a car."

"You did?"

"I told you I was going to."

"Yes, but I didn't believe you."

"Well, I did." He looked at her. "Don't you want to know what it is?"

"What is it?"

The nurse with the nose put her head in at the door* it was as if a hummingbird had darted in its beak* and told them Mr. Latimer would see them now. They followed her up the stairs to the first floor, where her master had his rooms.

"An Alvis," Quirke said to Phoebe, as they climbed. "I suppose you've never heard of an Alvis."

"Have you learned to drive?"

He did not answer.

Oscar Latimer was a short, slight, brisk young man, smaller somehow than it seemed he should be, so that when she was standing in front of him, shaking his hand, Phoebe had the peculiar impression that she was seeing him at some distance from her, diminished by perspective. He had an air of extreme cleanliness, as if he had just finished subjecting himself to a thorough going-over with a scrubbing brush, and exuded a sharp, piney scent. His hand in hers was neat and warm and soft. He had freckles, like April, which made him seem far younger than he must be, and his boyish fair hair was brushed sharply away on both sides from a straight, pale parting. He had the beginnings of a mustache, it was no more than a few bristling, ginger tufts. He glanced at Quirke with faint surprise. "Dr. Quirke," he said. "I didn't expect you this morning. You're well, I hope?" He had stepped back and with an adroit little dive had got in behind his desk and was already settling himself before he had stopped speaking. "So, Miss * Griffin," he said, and she caught the slight hesitation; she had never considered abandoning the name Griffin and calling herself Quirke instead*why should she have, when Quirke had not given her his name in the first place? "What can I do for you?"

She and Quirke had seated themselves on the two small chairs to the right and left in front of the desk. "It's not about me that we've come," she said.

The little man looked sharply from her to her father and back again. "Oh? Yes?"

"It's about April."

Quirke was smoking the last of his cigarette, and Latimer with one finger pushed a gla.s.s ashtray forward to the corner of the desk. He was frowning. "About April," he said slowly. "I see. Or rather I don't see. I hope you're not going to tell me she's in trouble again."

"The thing is," Phoebe said, ignoring the implications of that word again again, "I haven't heard from her, and none of her other friends have either, since a week from last Wednesday. That's nearly * what is it? * nearly twelve days."

There was a silence. She wished that Quirke would say something to help her. He was studying a large photograph hanging among framed degrees on the wall behind the desk, showing Oscar Latimer, in a dark suit and wearing some kind of sash, shaking hands with Archbishop McQuaid. What was it Jimmy Minor had called McQuaid? That whited sepulchre in his palace out in Drumcondra That whited sepulchre in his palace out in Drumcondra. The Archbishop wore a sickly smile; his nose was almost as sharp and bleached as that of Latimer's nurse.

Oscar Latimer drew back the cuff of his jacket and looked pointedly at his watch. Sighing, he said, "I haven't seen my sister since* well, I don't remember when it was. She long ago cut herself off from the rest of us and*"

"I know there was* there was tension between her and your mother," Phoebe said, in an effort to sound conciliatory.

Latimer gave her a look of cold distaste. "She as good as disowned her family," he said.

"Yes, but*"

"Miss Griffin, I don't think you understand what I'm telling you. As far as we're concerned, I mean the family, April is a free agent, beyond our influence, outside of our concern. She's gone twelve days, you say? For us, she left much longer ago than that."

The room was silent again. Quirke was still gazing distractedly at the photograph.

"I didn't say she was gone," Phoebe said quietly, "only that I haven't heard from her."

Latimer let fall another sharp little sigh and again consulted his watch.

Quirke at last broke his silence. "We wondered," he said, "if April might perhaps have been in touch with her mother. Girls tend to cleave to their mothers, in times of difficulty."

Latimer regarded him with amused disdain. "Difficulty?" he said, as if holding the word up by one corner to examine it. "What do you mean by that?"

"As Phoebe says, your sister hasn't been heard from, that's all. Naturally her friends are worried."

Latimer fairly hopped where he sat. "Her friends?" he cried* it was almost a bleat. "Don't talk to me about her friends! I know all about her friends."

Quirke let his gaze wander again over the walls and then refixed it on the little man behind the desk. "My daughter is one of those friends," he said. "And your sister is not beyond their their concern." concern."

Latimer set his small, neat hands flat before him on the desk and took a long breath. "My sister, since she became an adult, and indeed for long before that, has caused nothing but distress to our family, and to her mother in particular. Whether she's in difficulty, as you put it, or just off somewhere on one of her periodic romps I frankly don't care. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a patient waiting." He stood up, making two tripods of his fingers and pressing them to the desk and leaning forward heavily on them. "I'm sorry, Miss Griffin, that you're worried, but I'm afraid I can't help you. As I've said, my sister and her doings stopped being of any consequence to me a long time ago."

Quirke rose, turning his hat slowly in his hands. "If you do hear from her," he said, "will you call us, either Phoebe or me?"

Latimer looked at him again with that disdainful almost-smile. "I won't be the one to hear from her," he said purringly. "You can be certain of that, Dr. Quirke."

On the step outside, Phoebe violently pulled one glove and then the other. "Well," she said through her teeth to Quirke, "you were a great help. I don't think you even looked at him."

"If I had," Quirke said mildly, "I think I'd have picked up the little squirt and thrown him out of the window. What did you expect me to do?"

They walked along the square under the silent, dripping trees. There was some morning traffic in the street now, and m.u.f.fled office workers hurried past them. The dawn seemed to have staled before it had fully broken, and the gray light of day seemed more a dimness.

"Is he a good doctor?" Phoebe asked.

"I believe so. Good doctoring doesn't depend on personality, as you've probably noticed."

"I suppose he's fashionable."

"Oh, he's that, all right. I wouldn't care to have him pawing me, but I'm not a woman."

They stopped on the corner. "Malachy is going to give me a driving lesson today," Quirke said. "In the Phoenix Park."

Phoebe was not listening. "What am I going to do?" she said.

"About April? Look, I'm sure Latimer is right; I'm sure she's off on an adventure somewhere."

She stopped, and after walking on a pace he stopped too. "No, Quirke," she said, "something has happened to her, I know it has."

He sighed. "How do you know?" do you know?"

She cast about, shaking her head. "When we went in there first, into that room of his, I felt such a fool. The way he looked at me, I could see he thought I was just another hysterical female, like the ones I suppose he sees every day. But as he talked I became more and more* I don't know* frightened."

"Of him?" Quirke sounded incredulous. "Frightened of Oscar Latimer?"

"No, not of him. Just* I don't know. I just had this feeling, I've had it all week, but in that room it became* it became real real." She looked down at her gloved hands. "Something has happened, Quirke."

He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and looked at the toe caps of his shoes. "And you think Latimer knows what it is that's happened?"

She shook her head. "No, it's nothing to do with him, I'm sure it's not. It wasn't anything he said or did. Just this certainty got stronger and stronger inside me. I think*" She stopped. A coal cart went past, drawn by an old brown nag, the black-faced coalman with his whip perched atop the piled, full sacks. "I think she's dead, Quirke."

6.

THE LOUNGE OF THE HIBERNIAN HOTEL WAS ALMOST FULL AT MID-morning, but Quirke found a table in a corner, beside a palm in a tall, Ali Baba urn standing on the floor. He was ten minutes early and was glad he had brought a newspaper to hide behind. After only six weeks in the cotton-wool atmosphere of St. John's he had become accustomed to the regulated life there, and now he wondered if he would ever readjust to the real world. Two pinstriped businessmen at a table next to his were drinking whiskey, and the sharp, smoky smell of the liquor came to him in repeated wafts, suggestive and blandishing. He had not thought of himself as an alcoholic, just a heavy drinker, but after the latest, six-month binge he was not so sure. Dr. Whitty at St. John's would offer no judgment*"I don't deal in labels"* and probably it did not matter what his condition was called, if it was a condition. Only he was afraid. He was already past the middle of his life; up to now there had seemed nothing that he could not influence or alter, with more or less effort; to be an alcoholic, however, was an incurable state, whether he were to drink or not. That is a sobering thought, he told himself, and grinned behind his paper and bared his teeth.

When he saw Inspector Hackett come into the lounge he knew he had chosen the wrong meeting place. The detective had stopped just inside the gla.s.s doors and was scanning the room with an air of faint desperation, nervously clutching his old slouch hat to his chest. He was wearing a remarkable overcoat, more a longish jacket, really, black and shiny, with toggles and epaulets and lapels six inches wide with sharp tips. Quirke half rose and waved the newspaper, and Hackett saw him with evident relief and made his way across the room, weaving between the tables. They did not shake hands.

"Dr. Quirke* good day to you."

"How are you, Inspector?"

"Never better."

"I wish I could say the same."

They sat. Hackett put his hat on the floor under his chair; he had not taken off his coat, which at close quarters was even more extraordinary; it was made of a synthetic, leather-like material and squeaked and creaked with every move he made. Quirke signaled to a waitress and ordered tea for them both. The detective had begun to relax, and sat with his knees splayed and his hands clamped on his thighs, regarding Quirke in that familiar, genially piercing way of his. These two had known each other for a long time.

"Were you away, Doctor?"

Quirke smiled and shrugged. "Sort of."

"Have you not been well?"

"I was in St. John of the Cross, since Christmas."

"Ah. That's a hard place, I hear."

"Not really. Or at least it's not the place that's hard."

"And you're out, now."

"I'm out."

The waitress brought their tea. Hackett looked on dubiously as she set out the silver pots, the bone-china cups, the plates of bread-and-b.u.t.ter, and an ornamental stand of little cakes. "By the Lord Harry," he said, "here's a feast." He stood up and struggled out of his coat; when the waitress made to take it from him he instinctively resisted, clutching it to him, but then bethought himself and surrendered it, his forehead reddening. "Herself at home makes me wear it," he said, sitting down again, not looking at Quirke. "The son sent it to me for a Christmas present. He's in New York now, making his fortune among the Yanks." He picked up the silver tea strainer and held it gingerly between a finger and thumb, inspecting it. "In the name of G.o.d," he murmured, "what is this yoke?"

In all the time that Quirke had known Inspector Hackett he had not ever been able to decide if what he presented to the world were truly himself or an elaborately contrived mask. If it was, then it was fashioned with cunning and subtlety* look at those boots, those farm laborer's hands, that shiny blue suit of immemorial provenance; look at those eyes, merry and watchful, that thin-lipped mouth like a steel trap; look at those eyebrows. Now he lifted his teacup with a little finger c.o.c.ked, took a dainty slurp, and set it down again in its saucer. There was a shallow pink dent across his forehead where his hatband had pressed into the skin. "It's grand to see you, Dr. Quirke," he said. "How long has it been now?"

"Oh, a long time. Last summer."

"And how is that daughter of yours?* I've forgotten her name."

"Phoebe."

"That's right. Phoebe. How is she getting on?"

Quirke stirred his tea slowly. "It's her I wanted to talk to you about."

"Is that so?" The policeman's tone had sharpened, but his look was as bland and amiable as ever. "I hope she's not after getting herself into another spot of bother?" The last time Hackett had seen Phoebe was late one night after the violent death of a man who had been briefly her lover.

"No," Quirke said, "not her, but a friend of hers."

The detective produced a packet of Player's and offered it across the table; the look of the cigarettes, arrayed in a grille, made Quirke think, uneasily, of the Alvis.

"Would that," Hackett asked delicately, "be a female friend, now, or * ?"

Quirke took one of the offered cigarettes and brought out his lighter. The men at the next table, who had been sitting forward almost brow to brow and murmuring, suddenly threw themselves back in their chairs, purple-cheeked and raucously laughing. One of them wore a bow tie and a wine-colored waistcoat; both had a shady look about them. Strange to think, Quirke thought, that the likes of these two were free to knock back all the whiskey they wanted, in the middle of the morning, while he was not to be allowed a single sip.

"Yes," he said to the policeman, "a girl called April Latimer* well, a woman, really. She's a junior doctor at the Holy Family." The frond of palm leaning beside him was distracting, giving him the sense of an eavesdropper attending eagerly at his elbow. "She seems to be * missing."

Hackett had relaxed now and seemed even to be enjoying himself. He had eaten four fingers of bread-and-b.u.t.ter and was eyeing the stand of cakes. "Missing," he said, distractedly. "How is that?"

"No one has heard from her in nearly a fortnight. She hasn't been in contact with her friends or, it seems, anyone else, and her flat is empty."

"Empty? You mean her stuff is cleared out of it?"

"No, I don't think so."

"Did someone get in to have a look?"

"Phoebe and another friend of April's got in* April leaves a key under a stone."

"And what did they find?"

"Nothing. Phoebe is convinced that her friend is* that something has happened to her."

The detective had started on a cream cake and ate as he spoke. "And what about * um * this girl's * ah * family?" A dab of whipped cream had attached itself to his chin. "Or has she any?"

"Oh, she has. She's Conor Latimer's daughter* the heart man, who died?* and her uncle is William Latimer."

"The Minister? Well." He wiped his fingers on a napkin. The fleck of cream was still on his chin; Quirke was wondering if he should point it out. "Have you talked to him* to the Minister* or to her mother? Is the mother alive?"

"She is." Quirke poured more tea and gloomily added milk; he could still smell that whiskey from the next table. "I went with Phoebe to see her brother this morning* Oscar Latimer, the consultant."

"Another doctor! Merciful G.o.d, they have the market cornered. And what had he to say?"

The whiskey drinkers were leaving. The one in the bow tie gave Quirke what seemed to him a smirk of pity and contempt; were his troubles written so starkly on his face?

"He said nothing. It seems his sister is the black sheep of the family, and there's little contact anymore. Frankly, he's a sanctimonious little b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but I suppose that has nothing to do with anything."

Hackett had at last located the cream on his chin and wiped it off. His tie, Quirke noted, was a peculiar, dark-brown color, like the color of gravy. The hat-line across his forehead had still not faded. "And what," he asked, "would you be expecting me to do? Would your daughter, maybe, want to report her friend to us as missing? What would the family think of that?"

"I strongly suspect the family would not like that at all."

They pondered, both of them, in silence for a time.