“Now, Margaret, try to calm down, dear.” Lawrence Drayfus met his daughter’s eyes in helpless appeal. “Your mother is upset, Joan. If she asks you to stay home tonight, surely you can humor her. You can go to the library in the morning. Call the Cotwell boy and tell him your plans have changed. There shouldn’t be any difficulty about that.”
“I can’t,” Joan had said, her eyes moving from her mother’s face to her father’s, feeling the tight fingers of panic clutch at her heart. There must not be a scene—not with her mother as she was now—and yet, she could not give in! She had to be at the library at eight!
“Please,” she said desperately, “I won’t be late, I promise! I’ll be back so soon you’ll hardly know I’m gone! Mother—Daddy—I have to go!”
Her mother had burst into tears. Even now, hours later, she could hear the rasping sound of the sobs, could see the strained, exhausted look of her father’s face, as he stood, torn between them, trying to mediate what was not even an argument but a scene of such emotional chaos that there was no reasonable end for it.
At last, it had been decided that Joan would go to the library “this once.” Her father would drive her over and she would return by bus. She would be at home by nine-thirty.
“No later,” her father had said. “Not even one minute later. Your mother isn’t in a state to be made to worry.”
“I know.” She could not bear to see the pain in his eyes.
“She’s not well, Joan. She’ll be better soon. When the shock wears off, she’ll be her old self again. Just be patient.”
“Sure, Daddy. I’m sorry about tonight. I’ll—this won’t happen again.” She reached over and touched the hand that was clenched so tightly around the steering wheel. “I’ll be home at nine-thirty. Honestly.”
It was a little after nine when the bus pulled to a stop at her corner.
Joan got to her feet, realizing suddenly that she had not thought to check out a book. Her parents would think it strange that she had returned without one. Still, it was too late now.
Perhaps they would not even notice. Perhaps her mother had the television on and would not even raise her face from its intent gaze upon the flickering screen. Everything was so strange now. Home was no longer home, her parents were no longer the people she had loved and depended upon for so many years. A shadow lay upon all of them.
Beside her, Frank had risen too.
“You don’t have to get off here,” Joan said. “You can ride a couple of blocks farther and get off at Maple.”
“I’ll walk you home.”
“You don’t have to do that. It’s only a block.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, really, Frank.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back into the seat. The one thing of which she was certain was that she could not allow him to see her to her door. Perhaps her mother would be buried in television, but there was the chance that she would not be. She might be there in the living room, her eyes fastened on the hands of the clock, watching nine-thirty grow nearer and nearer. If she saw Frank, appearing with Joan in the doorway, there might be another scene, even worse than the one at dinner. The tears, the hysterical accusations might come bursting forth with renewed violence.
“Thank you,” she said now, quickly, “for meeting me there tonight. I wish I knew what happened.”
“Maybe he’ll call you again. If he does, you’ll let me know?”
“Yes, of course.”
The driver was regarding her impatiently.
“Thanks again, Frank,” she said and hurried down the steps to the street.
What could have gone wrong? She asked herself the question again as she began the walk along the sidewalk toward her house. None of the explanations she and Frank had offered each other were sound when you really examined them. It was all very well to say “things got twisted,” but it was difficult to see how this could have happened.
She had not misunderstood either the time or the place. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was of this. Had the man changed his mind? Had he decided, upon second thought, that it would be a waste of time to meet with a teenage girl about such a large sum of money? Had he decided to go to her parents as he had first intended? Perhaps this very moment the telephone in the living room was ringing.
The thought of this lent speed to her feet. Her footsteps clicked faster and faster on the empty sidewalk until she was almost running. If the phone did ring, who would take it, her father or her mother? What would they say? How would they react?
“Miss Drayfus?”
The voice spoke quietly, but the words shot out to her through the darkness. Joan felt her heart give a leap of startled terror.
Where? How?
Then she saw the dark shape of the automobile parked beside the curb.
Her first impulse was to run. She could feel the muscles in her legs involuntarily contracting in preparation for flight.
“Miss Drayfus?” the voice said again. She recognized it now, or thought she did.
Slowly she turned to face the car.
“Mr. … Brown?”
“That’s right.”
The man in the automobile reached across from the driver’s seat and opened the door next to the sidewalk. It was like an invitation, and Joan took an automatic step backward. Hurriedly she glanced about her. The street was empty, but lights blinked comfortingly from the front windows of houses both before and behind her. It was still early enough in the evening so that people had not settled themselves for sleeping. Windows were open to catch the movement of air; people would be reading and chatting, playing cards, watching television.
If she called for help, she would be heard, not by one person but by many. The whole neighborhood would hear her. As long as she stayed here on the sidewalk she was in no immediate danger.
“You weren’t there,” she said as steadily as she could. “I went to the library. I waited half an hour. You didn’t come.”
“You weren’t alone,” the man’s voice said. “I had an appointment with you. I expected this to be a private discussion.”
“You didn’t tell me not to bring anybody,” Joan said.
“I didn’t think I had to. I couldn’t imagine your being foolish enough to want your brother’s—unorthodox—behavior spread all over the place.” He sounded impatient. “Well, now you’re rid of the boy friend, climb in. I’ll show you the paper your brother signed.”
“No.” Joan backed away another step. “I’m not getting in the car. If you have something to show me, bring it out here. We’ll walk down to the street light.”
“What do you think I’m going to do, kidnap you?” The voice from the darkness of the car was thick with anger.
“I’m not getting into a strange car.”
Turning on her heel, she began to walk toward the street light in the middle of the block. She kept her shoulders set, her eyes straight ahead. Behind her, she heard the slam of a car door. Had he gotten out, or was he preparing to drive away?
Her ears strained for the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk behind her.
She did not turn until she reached the pool of light. Then she did so, slowly, and he was there.
He was not a large man; in fact, he stood shorter than she. He had a thin, dark face behind metal-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a business suit, much like those her father wore when he went each morning to his job in the trust department of the bank.
“Look,” Mr. Brown said quietly, “this is enough dramatics. I don’t make a business of grabbing young girls. I’m here for one reason, to collect the money I have coming to me. Your brother disappeared owing me over fifty thousand dollars, and I intend to have it.”
Joan pressed her hands tightly against her sides to keep them from trembling. She drew a deep breath.
“How do I know that Larry really owed you that much money?”
“That’s simple to prove. I have his signature.”
The man reached into his coat pocket and drew out a paper. He held it out to her, keeping at the same time a firm grip on the corner. The glow of the street light fell full upon the page.
Leaning forward, Joan read the printed words:
Receipt for merchandise received. Paid in full, $50,150.
Signed—Lawrence Drayfus, Jr.
It was Larry’s signature. A glance was enough to tell her that. When she leaned closer, there was absolutely no doubt. She knew that writing, the way his “L” looped up in a high, easy wave and the odd, sharp points on the “r”s.
“What merchandise?” she asked. “What kind of business deal was this?”
“Miss Drayfus, I am in the jewelry business.” He showed no hesitation at the question. “Your brother was working for me as a glorified delivery boy. Every other week he exported sample pieces of jewelry and designs from Mexico.”
“Larry was doing that!” Joan exclaimed in astonishment. “He never mentioned it at home!”
“He had instructions not to,” Mr. Brown told her. “This business is being conducted privately and as quietly as possible. Briefly, Miss Drayfus, the situation is this. Mexican-style jewelry is very much in demand in this country. Shops in the North and East will retail it at a very high markup. The problem is the duty that has to be paid when it is brought in quantity across the border.
“Here in New Mexico we have our own Pueblo Indians, many of whom are excellent silversmiths. Their labor is cheap, and the results very good. By having the Indians manufacture Mexican-style jewelry here in the States, we eliminate the duty, and out-of-state shops don’t know the difference. This is not illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking. …” He caught the look on her face. “This is what is known as good business. The Indians are paid, I am paid, and the shops make a good profit.”
Joan regarded him with bewilderment.
“What did Larry have to do with all this?”
“It was Larry’s job to drive down every other week to pick up new designs and sample pieces of jewelry from our agents in Juarez. He delivered them to me, and I, in turn, distributed them among the Indian craftsmen. It was a simple job, it was good pay for a teenager.”
“But, I don’t understand,” Joan said slowly. “Where did the fifty thousand dollars come from? Why would Larry have that kind of money in his possession?”
“That was because of my own bad judgment,” Mr. Brown said wryly. “The boy had worked for us for a number of months, and he seemed honest and responsible. In early April, I offered him an opportunity for higher earnings by taking over the second leg of the job—delivering the samples to the Pueblo and bringing back their finished replicas. In the course of this, he was responsible for carrying the money to pay the Indians for their work, plus the raw materials, silver and turquoise.”
“Fifty thousand dollars,” Joan exclaimed.
“This is a business, Miss Drayfus. We deal in sums that far exceed that. In this case, however, the sum is sufficient for me to be very unhappy about the possibility of losing it. Your brother picked up the money from me at the end of the school week, with the understanding that he would make the trip to the Pueblo with it over the weekend. He never got there. Instead, according to the newspapers, he went camping in the Mogollons.”
“He couldn’t have made the trip that weekend,” Joan said defensively. “My father wouldn’t let him have the car. He didn’t have any choice.”
“Whatever the circumstances, Miss Drayfus, he managed to disappear with the money.” The meaning in Mr. Brown’s voice was clear.
Joan stared at him incredulously.
“Do you mean—are you trying to say—that Larry didn’t go on a camping trip at all? That he stole that money and—and ran away with it?”
“From what I understand, a thorough search was made in the mountains. No trace of him was found.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing,” Joan said angrily. “Those are wild mountains. They’re part of the Wilderness Area! Other hikers have been lost up there and never found. What you’re saying—that Larry is a thief—that he ran off—it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! He would never do a thing like that, never!”
“In that case,” Mr. Brown said quietly, “the money must be somewhere among his possessions.”
“I suppose it must be. He certainly wouldn’t take it on a camping trip with him.”
“Then, Miss Drayfus, may I suggest that you make a search of his things and see if you can locate it?”
“Yes,” Joan said, “I will. I’ll go through everything. I can’t imagine his leaving that large a sum just sitting around though. Perhaps he deposited it in the bank for safekeeping until he could make the trip to the Pueblo.”
“That’s a possibility,” Mr. Brown agreed. “I’ll give you a chance to check. If, however, you are unable to locate the money, I’m afraid I’ll have no choice but to talk to your parents.”
“My parents!” Those were the words that brought her back to reality. “Nine-thirty! I told them …” She raised her left wrist, trying to focus in the dim glow of the street light.
She caught her breath sharply.
“I’ll look,” she told the man with the glasses. “If it’s there, I’ll find it.”
Without another word, she turned and began to run the distance of the half block that would take her home.
SIX
BECAUSE BOTH SHE AND Larry, at twelve and ten years of age, had established savings accounts at the bank in whose trust department their father worked, it was here that Joan called first on the following Monday morning. She realized when she did so that she might very well be refused information concerning the balance of her brother’s account.
She was unprepared, however, to find that the account had been closed out completely.
Why would he do that? She replaced the receiver in bewilderment. What had he done with the money the account contained? Perhaps, she thought suddenly, he had opened another account elsewhere. It was the sort of thing a teenage boy might do in a moment of rebellion, establish his finances as far as possible from the association that represented his father. The possibility was at least worth investigation.
Twenty minutes later she had completed her calls. Not one of the banks listed in the Yellow Pages held an account, either checking or savings, for Lawrence Drayfus, Jr.
He probably closed it, Joan decided at last, because he spent all the money in it. This was in character, for to Larry, money had always been for spending. It was for this reason that Mr. Drayfus had insisted on the children’s opening savings accounts in the first place. Birthday and Christmas checks from aunts and grandparents sifted through Larry’s fingers in what seemed a matter of minutes. There was always “something special” upon which he needed to spend it—first candy and toys—then, as he grew older, shoes and clothing. Larry was a clotheshorse, and his wardrobe of slacks and sweaters and sports jackets was of excellent quality and infinite variety.
Although he enjoyed spending money, Larry had never held much interest in the prospect of earning it. While Joan systematically supplemented her allowance with earnings from baby-sitting and her summer job as camp counselor, Larry did not seem to worry about increasing his income. When he was fourteen, his father had insisted on his taking a job as a paper boy, mostly because Mr. Drayfus himself had held such a job in his teens.
“It’ll be good for the boy,” he had said firmly. “Get him outside in the fresh air—give him a feeling of accomplishment. There are a lot of opportunities connected with this sort of thing, all kinds of contests and things where newsboys win trips to Europe.”
The job had not worked out. Larry had stuck with it for less than a month, complaining bitterly the entire time. In the end it had turned out to be Mrs. Drayfus who did the major part of the paper delivery, driving Larry along his route because the weather was “wet” or “cold” or Larry wasn’t “feeling well,” and sometimes taking over the morning delivery entirely because Larry’s ala
rm clock “did not go off” in time for him to get the job completed before school.
Larry’s job with Mr. Brown was the first Joan had ever known of his finding work for himself.
Because of these things, it was not, she told herself, surprising that her brother should close out his savings account. He had probably spent what was in it and had no inclination to continue with a savings program. The money from Mr. Brown must, therefore, if it existed at all, be someplace among his possessions in his room.
To search Larry’s room was a simple enough decision. It was less simple, Joan discovered, to force herself to turn the door knob and walk inside. Larry’s room had always been his own and no one else’s. He had had a special sense of privacy about his things, which the rest of the family, from long experience, respected. He had kept his door closed at all times, and, as far as Joan knew, even their mother had ventured inside only to bring clean laundry and make up his bed for him.
“Well, Larry’s gone now,” Joan told herself firmly, “and there’s no helping this. It’s something I have to do.”
Bracing herself, she turned the knob and opened the door, stepped through, and drew it closed behind her.
Larry’s room, as it lay before her, was as neat and well kept as the boy himself had been. It had not been touched in any way since his departure for the fatal camping trip, and there was a waiting, expectant feeling about it, as though Larry might be returning to it at any moment. The bed was neatly made; the alarm clock on the bedside table was set for seven-thirty, the usual rising time for a school morning. The bureau top was immaculate, with comb and brush arranged there at a precise angle, and a framed photograph, an enlargement of Larry’s junior class picture, set to the left of the mirror. It was the only picture in the room.
Looking around her at the sterile neatness, Joan found herself contrasting it with the cluttered warmth of her own room down the hall. School posters, colored throw pillows, souvenirs and pennants seemed to blossom from every corner. Pictures looked out at one from all angles—a bulletin board, the desk, the bureau top—formal photographs of her parents and of Larry, snapshots of school friends, Scouts she had counseled the previous summer, pets from years back, barking and mewing and quacking in various poses in the back yard.