The Secret History - Donna Tartt [259]
“When do you think is the last time he had a bath?” Francis whispered to me.
He lost all interest in the cat. Francis sent Mr. Hatch out for some cat food and each morning and evening Francis let himself in the bathroom to feed it (“Get away,” I heard him muttering, “get away from me, you devil.”) and came out again with a fouled crumple of newspaper, which he held from his body at arm’s length.
About six o’clock in the afternoon of our third day there, Francis was up in the attic digging around for a jar of old coins his aunt had said he could have if he could find it, and I was lying on the couch downstairs drinking iced tea and trying to memorize the irregular subjunctive verbs in French (for my final exam was in less than a week) when I heard the phone ringing in the kitchen. I went to answer it.
It was Henry. “So there you are,” he said.
“Yes.”
There was a long, crackly silence. At last he said: “May I speak to Francis?”
“He can’t come to the phone,” I said. “What is it?”
“I suppose you’ve got Charles out there with you.”
“Look here, Henry,” I said. “What’s the big idea giving Charles those sleeping pills?”
His voice came back at me brisk and cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes you do. I saw them.”
“Those pills you gave me, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, if he has them he must have taken them from my medicine cabinet.”
“He says you gave them to him,” I said. “He thinks you’re trying to poison him.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“Is it?”
“He is there, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said, “we brought him out the day before yesterday …” and then I stopped, because it seemed to me that somewhere towards the beginning of this sentence I had heard a stealthy but distinct click, as of an extension being picked up.
“Well, listen,” Henry said. “I’d appreciate it if you could keep him out there a day or two longer. Everyone seems to think this should be some big secret but believe me, I’m happy to have him out of the way for a while. If he doesn’t come to court he’ll be guilty by default, but I don’t think there’s an awful lot they can do to him.”
It seemed I could hear breathing on the other end.
“What is it?” said Henry, suddenly wary.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
“Charles?” I said. “Charles, is that you?”
Upstairs, the telephone slammed down.
I went up and knocked on Charles’s door. No answer. When I tried the knob, it was locked.
“Charles,” I said. “Let me in.”
No answer.
“Charles, it wasn’t anything,” I said. “He called out of the blue. All I did was answer the phone.”
Still no answer. I stood in the hall for a few minutes, the afternoon sun shining golden on the polished oak floor.
“Really, Charles, I think you’re being a bit silly. Henry can’t hurt you. You’re perfectly safe out here.”
“Bullshit,” came the muffled reply from within.
There was nothing more to say. I went downstairs again, and back to the subjunctive verbs.
I must have fallen asleep on the couch, and I don’t know how much later it was—not a whole lot later, because it was still light out—when Francis shook me awake, not too gently.
“Richard,” he said. “Richard, you’ve got to wake up. Charles is gone.”
I sat up, rubbed my eyes. “Gone?” I said. “But where could he go?”
“I don’t know. He’s not in the house.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve looked everywhere.”
“He’s got to be around somewhere. Maybe he’s in the yard.”
“I can’t find him.”
“Maybe he’s hiding.”
“Get up and help me look.”
I went upstairs. Francis ran outside. The screen door slammed behind him.
Charles’s room was in disarray and a half-empty bottle of Bombay gin—from the liquor cabinet in the library—was on the night table. None of his things were gone.
I went through all the upstairs rooms, then up to the attic. Lampshades and picture frames, organdy party dresses yellowed with age.