Tightrope Walker Read online

  “Okay, show me what you’ve got,” he said, carrying his plate of scrambled egg to the desk and sitting down.

  I brought out my envelope, shook the pieces of cut paper out of it, and arranged them in front of him. He looked at them over his egg and then he turned and looked at me. “Photostats!” he said scornfully. “Bits and pieces … what kind of job do you think I can do with that?”

  “It’s handwriting,” I protested.

  “If you want your money’s worth—I charge fifteen dollars—I’ll need the original.”

  I said coldly, “I’d rather not show the original.”

  The telephone on the desk rang. He gave me a curious look as he reached for it and answered. He listened a minute, his face thoughtful. “No, I’d disagree with that, I think the child needs professional help. Right. Juvenile Court at 2 P.M., I’ll be there.”

  He hung up and, seeing the look on my face, he smiled. “I hope you don’t assume handwriting analysis is fortunetelling,” he said. “I have a degree in psychology and I work with the courts and with the schools, Miss—Miss—”

  “Jones. Amelia Jones. If I thought it was fortunetelling I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Good.” He turned in his chair and gave me his full attention, his egg only half-eaten. “I don’t know why you don’t want me to see the original, Amelia, but I have to have more lines for evaluating, I really do.” He must have seen the stubbornness in my face because he added patiently, “I need a look at connective forms to see whether they’re garlands or arcade, angled or filiforms. I have to look for the constellations or clusters of traits, and laterals. The dotting of i’s and crossing of t’s is terribly important, and so are the marginal patterns, and then there are the zones—bizonal, trizonal, unizonal. There’s the slant of the writing, and fluctuations that might suggest ambivalence, the pressure of the pen on paper, the strokes—ascending, descending or lateral, and whether they’re broken or interrupted or fractured. Then there are counterstrokes and endstrokes—protective or directive—and interspaces …”

  “Oh,” I said, blinking.

  “… and with what you’ve given me—only two lines, I see—I can’t do a decent job.”

  I sighed and reluctantly groped in my shoulder bag, brought out the original letter and gave it to him.

  “Thanks,” he said and bent over it. “Written under some pressure,” he murmured, pointing vaguely at the middle of the paper. “Interesting handwriting.”

  “Man or woman?” I asked.

  But he had begun to read the letter now, I could see that. I dropped my eyes and stared intently at his egg, which lay on his plate cooling and congealing. After a moment he said in an astonished voice, “Where on earth did you get this? Who wrote it?”

  “I found it,” I said, my eyes remaining fixed on his egg. “I don’t know who wrote it.”

  “But shouldn’t you take this to the police?”

  I hated explaining. When you’re not too strong a person, people can take things away from you so easily. I said, “I happen to own the Ebbtide Shop at 688 Fleet Street, and when I bought the shop there was an old hurdy-gurdy included. Last night I was playing the hurdy-gurdy and it got stuck, and I found the note inside. That’s two months it’s been there. At eight this morning I visited the former owner and he looked up his records and found that he’d bought the hurdy-gurdy six months ago. That’s a long time. I don’t see what the police could do, do you?”

  “No,” he said, sounding stunned. “But then what do you have in mind?”

  I wrested my gaze from his egg and found him looking baffled but kind. I said, “From Mr. Georgerakis I have the name of the man who sold it to him. If I go and see him he may know who Hannah is. Or was. Or he may give me another name.”

  “You believe the note is authentic?”

  I nodded. “It feels authentic. I’m hoping you’ll tell me more about the person who wrote it.”

  “Even if they’re dead?”

  “Even if they’re dead.”

  He looked at me for a long time. He seemed to be having trouble remaining professional. “Right,” he said. “None of my business, either, is it. Except—” He turned on me angrily. “But if the note should be real, the operative word here is murder, have you thought about that?”

  I flushed. “I can’t really explain, it’s just something I feel I have to look into. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking young again and unprofessional. “Amelia, is it? Amelia, will you for heaven’s sake—” He stopped. “Damn it, my egg’s cold.”

  I giggled. “I know.”

  “Coffee?”

  “All right.”

  I sat and drank coffee while he studied the letter and made a great many notes on a sheet of paper next to it. I learned that graphology couldn’t determine the sex of a person but only their masculine and feminine qualities. Hannah appeared to have a fairly equal proportion of each, with perhaps the feminine a shade more persistent. I learned that Hannah was somewhat introverted, and definitely a reclusive type. Her writing—until she was proven to be otherwise I had to consider her a woman—was sensitive and artistic. She was basically a generous person, and reliable. There was some sexual repression but nothing abnormal there. She was healthy and educated, had a strong vein of common sense, and along with her flair for the artistic she had considerable executive capabilities.

  “No fool, your Hannah,” said J. Osbourne, putting down his pen. “I can type up a detailed analysis for you tonight, giving you the full picture, but I’d say she’s a perfectly sane person—assuming she’s female—who ran her life well, would be generous with those closest to her but not overly outgoing with people in general, preferring a quiet orderly life. She’d insist on privacy—it would mean a great deal to her, perhaps be something of a fetish with her. But except for these tendencies toward withdrawal, and a preference for control over spontaneity, this is a balanced, reliable, fairly realistic person, with no signs of abnormality, psychosis, disease, or hysteria. This note was written under pressure but the pressure is muted at the beginning. Actually the first few lines are more reflective than agitated. As the note progresses you can see by the pressure of the pen on the paper that there’s a growing anger, a growing haste, a sense of being—well, pressured.”

  “Or frightened,” I said quietly. “You make her sound—nice.”

  He nodded. “I think she was. And I wish like hell I could have told you she was unbalanced, sick, or mad, the sort who writes notes and hides them in hurdy-gurdies every day. Then, damn it, you’d go home and forget about her, which I hope you’ll do, anyway. If you don’t, you’ve placed me in a lousy position, you know.”

  “How so?” I asked curiously.

  His lips tightened. “I’ll have to worry about you.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t,” I said earnestly. “It’s very nice of you but you mustn’t feel that way. An hour ago you didn’t even know I existed. It wasn’t your fault I brought you a letter like this, although I did try to keep you from seeing it,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, you did,” he agreed dryly. “Where are you off to now?”

  “To see Oliver Keene, who used to own the hurdy-gurdy.”

  “Look, you live with your parents?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Close friends?”

  I shook my head.

  “Hell,” he said, running a hand through his hair again, “then do me one favor, will you? Call me tonight and tell me you’re all right.” He rummaged in his desk and produced a card. “This is my number, I’ll be here.” When I looked surprised he smiled faintly. “Look, it isn’t only that, I’m curious, I want to know what you find out, okay? I begin to feel I know Hannah myself.”

  “All right,” I said. “I will.” But of course I wouldn’t. I counted out fifteen dollars and placed them on his desk.

  I’d reached the door when he said, looking after me, “My friends call me Os, by the way. Short for Osbourne.” />
  Struck shy by this I said inanely, “I’m called Amelia,” and fearing this sounded flippant I turned scarlet and fled.

  3

  Danson Street was in the warehouse district over by the river. I caught a bus across town that deposited me in front of a store with a brand-new window and the name S. S. Schwarz, Skull Cap Mfr., overhead. In the window, on shelves, sat tall, conical spools of thread like so many Turkish fezes, and under them a pile of completed yarmulkes. I crossed the street to number 305, where there was also a new window set into a dingy wooden front. A really good painting hung there: palette-knife work, the paint thick and juicy and clotted with dizzying whorls of blue that sucked the eye round and round and down into the vortex where a single eye stared at me unblinkingly, The hand-printed card at its base read COMPULSION by Oliver Keene. I rather liked that. I have my compulsive moments, too: I get sucked into maelstroms of frenetic activity that keep me from sitting down and giving up, which happens when I experience feelings of total inadequacy. I sometimes think if you harnessed enough compulsive people together their tensions could probably supply energy to a fair-sized city.

  It was possible, although I didn’t care to admit it, that I would presently find myself growing compulsive about this unknown and mysterious Hannah.

  I pushed the buzzer and the woman who opened the door at number 305 looked as if she’d never experienced an inadequate moment in her life. She was easily six feet tall, an Amazon of a woman with a face like a Barbie doll. She wore jodhpurs and a white shirt open almost to her navel, and her curves were breakneck; I must have said “wow” without realizing it, or perhaps my eyes did, because she grinned.

  “Honey,” she said, “it’s God-given and there’s nothing I can do about it except hold out for a man with a million bucks. What do you want?”

  “I’m looking for Oliver Keene.” Her grin was as wholesome as cornflakes but it still left me feeling I’d been a fool to stop my chest exercises.

  “Ollie? You’d better come in and wait, he’s dashed out for some alizarin crimson.” She pushed the door wider and I followed her inside. “I’m Daisy,” she called over her shoulder.

  “I’m Amelia Jones,” I answered politely, feeling about ten years old, and 20–18–20 next to those curves.

  It was a nice studio. It was the first one I’d ever seen outside of films, and Oliver Keene must have seen the same films I did, because it matched. There was a huge wooden easel under the skylight, a circular model stand nearby, and paintings stashed in cubbyholes and leaning against walls. The room held a pungent odor of turp and paint and mildew that tickled my nostrils. The easel was empty but there were drawings all over the drafting table in the corner, and out of curiosity I walked over and looked at them. Not exactly porno but cheap, I thought, all of them lascivious nudes, and all of them Daisy: wearing only a shawl, riding a bicycle under a floppy hat, or naked in the sand. They probably paid well.

  “So what did you want to see him about?” Daisy asked, looking me over. “If you came to ask about modeling, honey, your bones are great but this week he’s doing sexy calendars. Twelve undressed girls, all of them me, and I don’t think—” She had perched on a tall stool, where she towered over me.

  “I appreciate your tact,” I told her, smiling—it was impossible not to like her—“but I came to ask about a hurdy-gurdy he sold to the Ebbtide Shop in November. I’m tracing it for a customer.”

  “Oh,” she said, thinking about this and nibbling on her index finger. “Yeah, he told me he sold it, the bastard. It was mine, not his, we had a fight and he sold it.”

  I brightened. “You mean it was yours?”

  She nodded.

  “But that’s great, I don’t have to see him at all, then. Could you tell me where you bought it?”

  “I didn’t buy it, it was a gift.”

  “Then who—”

  But Daisy was regarding me now with caution. “So if I told you the guy’s name what would you do?”

  “Pay a call and ask him where he bought it.”

  She shook her head. “No way, kid.”

  “Why?”

  She shook her head again. “No way.”

  “I don’t understand,” I pleaded. “I’m just tracing it for a customer, it’s all perfectly innocent.”

  “It may be as innocent as a meadow of clover,” she said, looking amused, “and I can see innocence is your bag, honey—I’ll bet you’re still a virgin—but a girl’s got to think of her future.”

  “But this is important—”

  “Like I told you—the hurdy-gurdy was a present. Along with a diamond clip and earrings, and a cash award for services rendered.”

  “Oh,” I said, blinking. “I don’t have to know that, do I?”

  “Don’t be dumb,” she said. “If I told you the guy’s name he’d assume I’d just as easily tell his wife or anybody else who comes asking. A girl’s got to think about these things. I’m really fond of Ollie, I live with him, he’s a great guy, but Ollie’s going to be doing porno calendars twenty years from now and taking empties to the store for pocket money. Sorry, honey. Cheat a little. Make up some names for your silly customer, I’ve got to protect my friends. You think this is going to last?” she demanded, with a glance downward, at her voluptuous body.

  “You’d still be six feet tall,” I pointed out dryly. I hated her stubbornness but it equaled mine. I drew the letter out of my shoulder bag and handed it to her. “Before you say no again, at least know what the real story is. I’m not tracing the hurdy-gurdy for a customer, the hurdy-gurdy belongs to me and I found this inside of it last night.”

  “Holding out on me, kid?” she said good-naturedly, but she was curious enough to take it. She moved closer to the light and read it, and then she read it again. “What is this, anyway! Who’s this Hannah?”

  “That’s what I want to find out,” I told her. “Does your friend—has he mentioned anyone named Hannah?”

  She frowned. “His wife’s name is Sylvia, I know that. God how I know it. Sylvia doesn’t understand him, Sylvia’s frigid, Sylvia’s this and Sylvia’s that.” But she was interested, I could see that. “Look, whoever this is, she has to be dead now.”

  “Not just dead,” I pointed out. “Murdered.”

  She was nibbling on her finger again, her eyes on the note. “Which makes you some kind of a nut, doesn’t it?” But she said it idly, without force.

  “Someone locked her up in her own house,” I said, watching her. “They didn’t give her food or let her sleep until she signed something. She was a woman and you’re a woman.”

  She shrugged. “There’s a lot of stuff like that going on now,” she said vaguely.

  “This had to be for money.”

  “Lucky Hannah, to have some.”

  “They got away with it.”

  “I’d sure be interested in what you figure you could do about it,” she said.

  The door opened and closed behind us sharply, and abruptly the atmosphere changed. It had been good until then, the two of us drawn together over the note, a fleeting intimacy between us as we thought about Hannah, but now I felt Daisy’s withdrawal. She said, not looking up, “Hi, Ollie.”

  I turned to look at Oliver Keene. He was big and good-looking, and as dramatic as Daisy in his own way: they matched. But a grain of coarseness had settled over him like silt, a coarseness that my Amazon friend could easily acquire, too, in a few years. His hair was thick and wavy, a brassy blond color, and his eyes a startling blue in a leathery tanned face. He looked about forty or forty-five. He wore a windbreaker over dirty corduroys, and when he smiled there was a gap in his teeth on one side. Although his smile was warm and hearty I thought he looked tired, as if he knew that his girl slept around and nobody was ever going to buy the painting in the window. “So hello,” he said. “Company, I see.”

  “Not really,” Daisy said, nibbling her finger. “She got lost, she was asking directions so I brought her in. She’s just going now, aren
’t you, kid?”

  “Reluctantly,” I said, giving her an unforgiving glance.

  “You can’t win ’em all,” she said with a shrug, deliberately looking me in the eye. “Nice meeting you, kid,” she said. “So long.”

  I put the letter back in my shoulder bag and there were tears of frustration in my eyes. I walked out with the taste of rejection in my mouth, and I’ve never handled rejection well. I crossed the street to the bus stop, trying not to think what this meant, trying to postpone the failure of it until I got home and could really cry. Through my tears I saw the door to the studio open across the street and a blurred Daisy appear. She waved and called, “Hey, kid!”

  She crossed the street calmly, not hurrying at all, until she reached my side and looked down at me. “Of course you’re a kook, you know that,” she said.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Okay, kid, I’ll throw in the towel, but on conditions. Conditions, you understand? I hope you’ve got paper with you.”

  I dug out my notebook, my hands trembling.

  “The conditions are as follows,” she said. “You tell him Miss Doris Tucci sent you. We keep it formal, very formal. And I bought the hurdy-gurdy from him, you hear? I don’t even know the man, I don’t know him from a hole in the wall. Promise?”

  “Promise,” I said, smiling at her through my tears. “What changed your mind?”

  A truck passed, and the driver nearly fell out of his front seat staring at her but she’d probably stopped noticing this sort of thing. When she’d written the name and address in my notebook she looked down at me and grinned. “What the hell,” she said humorously, “I figure if I’m ever in the same situation—locked up by a guy but not for my jewels, honey—it’s nice to know I can call on you. And let me know sometime what you dig up.”