No response.
“Did you visit him there, Mrs. Brown?”
She got up on her feet, a little awkwardly because of her bulk and age, and gestured toward the entrance hall. “Get out of my house,” she said. “This minute, or I'll call the police.”
I stayed where I was. “Why? What are you afraid of?”
“I'm not afraid,” she said. “You and I have nothing more to say to each other. And my husband is due home from the country club any time; I don't want you here when he arrives.”
“No? Why not?”
“You'll upset him. He has a heart condition.”
“Maybe I ought to talk to him just the same.”
“You wouldn't dare.”
She was right: I wouldn't, not if he had a heart condition. But I said, “He might be more cooperative than you've been,” and I felt like a heel for badgering an old lady this way, even an unlikable old lady like Ellen Corneal Brown. But playing the heel is part of the job sometimes. Nobody ever said detective work was a gentleman's game, not even the coke-sniffing master of 221-B Baker Street himself.
“Randolph knows nothing about that part of my life,” Mrs. Brown said. She was standing next to one of the antique globes; she reached down and gave it an aggravated spin. “And I don't want him to. You leave him alone, you hear me? You leave both of us alone.”
“Gladly. All you have to do is tell me the truth. Did you see Harmon Crane during the two months prior to his death?”
“All right, yes, I saw him.”
“Where?”
“In San Francisco, at a tavern we frequented while we were married—a former speakeasy on the Embarcadero. I … well, we bumped into each other there one afternoon.” That last sentence was a lie: she didn't look at me as she said it.
“Where else did you see him? At Tomales Bay?”
“… Yes, once.”
“Did he invite you up there?”
“No. I … knew he'd be there and I decided to drive up.”
“For what reason?”
No response.
Money, I thought. And she just wasn't going to talk about money. I asked her, “Did anything happen on that visit? Anything unusual?”
“Unusual,” she said, and her mouth quirked into an unpleasant little sneer. “He had a woman with him.”
“His wife, you mean? Amanda?”
“Hardly. Another woman.”
“Do you know who she was?”
“No.” The sneer again. “He didn't introduce us.”
“Maybe she was just a casual visitor.…”
“They were in bed together when I arrived,” Mrs. Brown said. “I wouldn't call that casual, would you?”
“No,” I said, “I wouldn't.”
“My Lord, the look on Mr. Crane's face when I walked in!” There was a malicious glint in her eyes now; you could tell she was relishing the memory. “I'll never forget it. It was priceless.”
“What happened after that?”
“Nothing happened. Mr. Crane took me aside and begged me not to tell anyone about his sordid little affair.”
“Is that the word he used, ‘affair’?”
“I don't remember what he called it. That was what it was.”
“Did he offer any explanation?”
“No. The explanation is obvious, isn't it?”
“Maybe. Did you agree not to tell anyone?”
“Reluctantly.”
“Did you keep your promise?”
“Of course I kept it.”
“Do you remember what day this happened? The date?”
“No, not exactly.”
“The month?”
“October, I think. Several weeks before his suicide.”
“Before or after the big earthquake?”
“… Before. A day or two before.”
“Did you see or talk to Crane again after that day?”
Hesitation. “I don't remember,” she said.
The money again, I thought. “What about the woman? Did you see or talk to her again?”
“I never spoke to her, not a word. Or saw her again.”
“Can you recall what she looked like? I assume you saw her up close that day.”
“I saw all of her up close, the little tart,” Mrs. Brown said. She laughed with malicious humor. “Red hair, white skin with freckles all over … hardly any bosom. I can't imagine what Mr. Crane saw in her.”
I could say the same about you, lady, I thought. “How old was she, would you say?”
“Under forty.”
“Had you ever seen her before that day?”
“No.”
“So you don't know where she lived.”
“I have no idea. Nor do I care.” She glanced at a map-faced clock on the mantel above the fireplace and then gave the globe another aggravated spin. “I've said enough, I'm not going to answer any more of your questions. Please go away.”