and began to shower me with fine clothes, costly presents.”
“And these attentions didn’t bring you closer to him?”
“No. If anything, I resented him more, became more afraid. The clothes were far too grown-up, too sophisticated, for my age. I was fourteen, and there were negligées, gowns made by Parisian couturières. I felt indecent in them, and finally burned them in the school incinerator when my teachers began to look strangely at me, when my classmates began to whisper about me.” She shuddered, and her voice seemed to shrink. “There were imported perfumes when I was fifteen. And with every birthday there were hideously gaudy shoes with higher heels than before. I remember monstrous six-inch spikes that came on my sixteenth birthday.”
Devereaux interrupted the disturbing memories. “And these things made you suspect that he wasn’t really your father?”
“Does it sound like what a father would do?”
“Not the, er, usual father. What about your mother? Know anything about her?”
She shook her head. “He says she ran off when I was a baby, and was never heard from since. Before my tenth birthday, I had some attachment for a woman who ran a private home for waifs. I lived with her for a while, somewhere in the outskirts of a city, before I was placed in boarding school.”
“Remember her name?”
“I remember her as a Mrs. Jennings,” she said doubtfully.
“Can’t remember the whereabouts of that private home, I suppose?”
“No. But I’ve seen Mrs. Jennings. Anyhow, I think it was Mrs. Jennings.”
“Where?”
“Visiting my father. About a week ago.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No. My father prevented that. He shouldered me out of the library quite obviously. I’d come upon them unexpectedly.”
Devereaux sighed involuntarily. It was his first feeling of solid ground. “Get any impressions from what you saw of them together?” he asked.
“Yes. There was hostility between them. I heard nothing said, but Father seemed barely able to control his rage.”
Devereaux said reflectively, “I don’t suppose you’d know where to locate this Mrs. Jennings—if she is your Mrs. Jennings?”
“I do,” she said, and Devereaux looked his surprise. “She’s registered at the Hotel Orleans as Mrs. Minna Gordon.”
“How do you know?”
“I followed her home that night.”
“Why haven’t you visited her, spoken to her?”
“I lack the courage.”
“But to inquire into your background, prove or dissolve your doubts?”
“I’m afraid. And I’m alone.” Her voice dropped to a barely audible key. “I’m just frightened all the time —as though something terrible was going to happen. To me.”
A silence fell. Devereaux reached into a dashboard compartment, found his cigarette pack, extracted one, gestured the pack at the girl, and then, surprised at her eager nod, held it closer to her. He worked an enameled lighter and held the flare out to her, letting the illumination linger for an instant.
She was more composed now; talk and tears had been a catharsis. Her eyes were bright, their depths unrevealed. They seemed remarkably free of their earlier pain; seemed curiously flat as they fixed upon his face expectantly, as if their burden had passed to him in some mystical transference.
Devereaux withdrew the flare and brought it to his own cigarette. He drew in smoke and exhaled it, thinking. Should he really involve himself? Sucker, he thought irritably, as the awareness grew that the decision had already been made for him. His first busy-body peek inside her had borne an implicit offer of help. That was how it was with him. Would he, he wondered, eyeing her in a lingering sidelong look, ally himself with her need if she were fat and fifty?
“No birth certificate?” he asked suddenly, taking charge of her problem.
“No. It was destroyed in a fire. This was in St. Paul. I’ve only school certificates as proof of birth.” Her tone now took his stewardship almost for granted.
“How do you know a fire destroyed your birth record?”
“He told me so.”
“Did you check?”
“Yes. I wrote the Town Clerk. He wrote back that the Hall of Records had burned to the ground fifteen years ago.”
After a moment, Devereaux said, “I suppose it’s idiotic of me to ask whether you bear the same name as this man—your father.”
“We bear the same name, of course.”
Devereaux puffed rapidly, then flipped the cigarette into the street. “I might be able to help,” he began slowly, facing her. “Maybe let you lean a little.” His eyes pinched at the corners in a shrewd, searching look. “If you were completely honest.”
There was a betraying start, then a look of bewilderment that was palpably forced came into her face. Devereaux said forbiddingly, “Lie, and I’ll dump you into the street on your lovely, lovely bottom.” His tone softened. “Now, how did you happen into the back of my car?”
“Why, I—I left the Club Fifty-Two so hurriedly, in panic.” She stopped, staring at his warning look. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
“No, I don’t. Furthermore, I don’t believe anyone was after you, or that you were running from anyone, or that you were out with a boy friend, or that you were even at the Club Fifty-Two. And I do believe you landed in my car according to plan, by design, and by choice.”
He saw the awe filling her face, and for the life of him he couldn’t help chuckling. “Nothing really uncanny, nor is it any extrasensory perception, believe me. It’s a simple matter of propriety and twenty yards. Propriety wouldn’t permit an obviously proper young lady to enter a stranger’s automobile, whatever her haste and panic. And there was a taxicab parked twenty yards closer to the door of Club Fifty-Two than my car. Any fugitive, especially a frightened young lady handicapped by high heels, would run into the nearest available taxicab.” He looked at her for confirmation, watched her nod miserably, then resumed. “Those twenty yards and ordinary propriety, plus your great readiness to confide in me, make me certain that you picked my car, picked me, deliberately.”
“You’re right, in everything you’ve said,” she finally conceded in wilted tones. “I did pretend to run out of Club Fifty-Two, and I did pick you deliberately.” She seemed to droop. “I suppose you disbelieve everything I’ve told you now.”
“Shouldn’t I?”
“It’s all true,” she said hollowly.
“All
