"I was fond of her."

"Why didn't you go back for the picturethen?"

He went into a long silence. I becameaware of something impressive in the man, the untouchable still quality of anaging animal.

"I was afraid that Madge would bejealous," he said. "I happen to be living on Madge."

I suspected he was using the baldstatement to tell a lie. But it may have come from a deeper source. Some menspend their lives looking for ways to punish themselves for having been born,and Begley had some of the stigmata of the troubleprone. He said:

"What do you think happened to Mrs.Kincaid?" His question was cold and formal, disclaiming all interest inthe answer to it.

"I was hoping you'd have some ideason the subject. She's been missing for nearly three weeks. I don't like it.It's true that girls are always disappearing, but not on their honeymoons—notwhen they love their husbands."

"She loves hers, does she?"

"He thinks so. How was she feeling when you sawher? Was she depressed?"

"I wouldn't say that. She was surprised to seeme,"

"Because she hadn't seen you for so long?"

He sneered at me hairily. "Don't bothertrying to trap me. I told you she wasn't my daughter. She didn't know me fromAdam."

"What did you find to talk about with her?"

"We didn't talk." He paused. "Maybe Iasked her a few questions."

"Such as?"

"Who her father was. Who her motherwas. Where she came from. She said she came from Los Angeles. Her maiden namewas Dolly something—I forget the name. Her parents were both dead. That's aboutall."

"It took you quite a while to get that much outof her."

"I was only there five or ten minutes, maybefifteen."

"The desk clerk said an hour."

"He made a mistake."

"Or maybe you did, Mr. Begley. Time passes veryrapidly sometimes."

He clutched at this dubious excuse."Maybe I did stay longer than I realized. I remember now, she wanted me tostay and meet her husband." His eyes held steady, but they had taken on afaint lying sheen. "He didn't come and didn't come, so I left."

"Did you suggest seeing her again?"

"No. She wasn't that interested in mystory."

"You told her your story?"

"I told her about my daughter, naturally, justlike I told you."

"I don't understand it. You say you were out ofthe country for ten years. Where?"

"In New Caledonia, mostly. I worked for a chromemine there. They shut it down last spring and shipped us home."

"And now you're looking for your daughter?"

"I'd certainly like to put my hands on her."

"So she can be a bridesmaid at yourwedding?" I wanted to see how sharp a needle he would take.

He took this one without a word.

"What happened to your wife?"

"She died." His eyes were nolonger steady. "Look, do we have to go into all this? It's bad enoughlosing your loved ones without having it raked up and pushed in yourface." I couldn't tell if his self-pity was false: self-pity always is tosome extent.

"It's too bad you lost your family," I said."But what did you expect when you left the country for ten years?"

"It wasn't my choice. How would you like to getshanghaied and not be able to get back?"

"Is that your story? It isn't a likely one."

"My story is wilder than that, but we won't gointo it. You wouldn't believe me, anyway. Nobody else has."

"You could always try me."

"It would take all day. You've got better thingsto do than talk to me."

"Name one."

"You said there's a young lady missing. Go andfind her."

"I was hoping you could help me. I still amhoping, Mr. Begley."

He looked down at his feet. He was wearinghuaraches. "I've told you all I know about her. I should never have goneto that hotel in the first place. Okay, so I made a mistake. You can't hang aman for a little mistake in judgment."

"You've mentioned murder once, andhanging once. I wonder why."

"It was just a manner ofspeaking." But the confidence was seeping out of him through the holes myneedle had made. He said with a rising inflection: "You think I murdered

© Alexander Sviyash, 2009