The Cry of the Owl (11 page)

“No, I haven’t seen her,” Susie said, speaking in a whisper, because her family was asleep, she said, and the telephone was in the hall.

“I’ve got a feeling she’s with Robert. Who else? Even the movie lets out at eleven-thirty, even in Langley. She’s never out this late on a weekday night.”

“I thought Robert went back to New York.”

“New York’s only two hours away, isn’t it?”

“How about the Tessers?”

“I don’t feel like calling them to find out.”

“Want me to?”

“Mm-m, no, thanks, Susie,” Greg said miserably.

“Gee, Greg, I wish I could help you. You really love her, don’t you?”

“I certainly do.”

Three minutes later, he was talking to the former Mrs. Forester in New York. From her he learned that Robert was still in Langley and still working for Langley Aeronautics.

“He told me he was leaving town,” Greg said. “Did he tell you he was staying on in Langley?”

“No, but that’s my guess. He was in New York a few weeks ago to sign the divorce papers, but I didn’t see him. My lawyer didn’t say anything about his moving,” she said languidly. She had said she was in bed, but that she hadn’t minded at all being awakened.

“You don’t know where he lives in Langley, do you? He changed his phone number and they won’t give it out.”

“I haven’t the foggiest and I couldn’t care less,” she said, blowing smoke into the telephone. “But the situation interests me. Absolutely typical of something Robert would get himself into. A sloppy, sneaky love affair.”

“Well, I hope it hasn’t gone that far. I love that girl. If I get my hands on that guy … I know Jenny and she’s got a crazy crush on him and—I don’t know how to put it, but she’s such a romantic kid. When she gets her mind made up about something—”

“He’s a maniac. She’d better watch out.”

“So you said. That’s got me worried. And with him in
Langley
—”

“Listen, Greg, keep me posted, will you? And anything I can do to help I’ll be glad to. O.K.?”

Greg was much reassured by the conversation. He felt he had an ally in the former Mrs. Forester and the best possible source of information about Robert. The first time he had called her she had asked him to call her Nickie. Nickie Jurgen now. She had married again. Greg had the feeling it might be a long tough fight to get Jenny back, but that he’d win—whether she was with Forester tonight or not. He turned on his radio, lit a cigarette and pushed off his shoes. Did Langley Aeronautics have a night shift? It was worth a try. He looked up the number in his telephone book and called it. There was no answer. Tomorrow morning he’d call them and ask for Forester’s address. If they wouldn’t give it out, there were other ways—dry cleaners’ shops, for instance, dairy companies in Langley who would know where he lived. Greg rubbed his big right fist and got up from the couch. A good sock on the jaw might provide the kind of discouragement Robert Forester needed. It had worked for Greg before—not really worked, he had to admit, with the two girls in Philly, but it had given him a great satisfaction to knock his two rivals out cold.

Greg tuned the radio station in properly, then started to undress. His closet was too small, and it had annoyed him the whole ten months he had been living here. Lately, he had thought, every time he put a suit on a hanger and squeezed it in, that in another few weeks he’d be living with Jenny in the house in Trenton, which had spacious closets in every room, even the kitchen. Tonight he felt a little shaky about the house, and it maddened him. To let a punk, a
nut like Robert Forester upset his life so! Nearly every evening, he drove past Jenny’s house to see if her car was there, and the couple of evenings it had been gone, he had thought she might have been at the Tessers’ or with Rita, because she’d come back before midnight those nights. Now he felt she had spent those evenings with Forester, and last night might not have been the first or the only whole night she had spent with him, because he hadn’t been driving by her place every night.

At nine-thirty the next morning, in a roadside restaurant about forty miles from Langley, Greg called Langley Aeronautics. The woman who answered the telephone said very calmly that they did not give out the addresses of employees. He called again from a different place half an hour later, and asked to speak to Robert Forester. It took three minutes or so to find him, as Greg did not know what department he worked in. At last, Robert’s voice said, “Hello.”

“This is Greg Wyncoop. I’d like to see you after work today.”

“What about?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. What time are you off?”

“I get off at five. But it’s not convenient today.”

“It won’t take long, Mr. Forester. See you at five. O.K.?”

“All right. At five.”

Greg was there at five, and when he tried to get in through a gate where cars were already trickling out, a guard stopped him and asked for a pass. Greg said he was meeting one of the employees. He was asked to put his car in a certain spot near the main building that was marked “
DELIVERIES
—
NON
-
PERSONNEL
.” Greg smiled slightly. They ran the place like a top-secret organization, whereas all they made was parts for silly little planes for private citizens. Greg got
out of his car and walked around on the parking lot, looking for Robert. He looked also at the cars coming and going along the road, thinking he might see Jenny’s blue Volkswagen. Why had today been inconvenient for Mr. Forester? Greg threw his cigarette down as he saw Forester approaching. Forester had a roll of paper in his hand.

“Hi,” Greg said with a curt nod.

“Evening.”

“I suppose you know why I wanted to see you.”

“Not exactly,” Robert said.

“Were you with Jenny last night? I should say was she with you?”

Robert held the roll of paper lightly in both hands. “I suggest you ask Jenny.”

“I’m asking you. Where do you live, Mr. Forester?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“There’re all sorts of ways of finding out. Just tell me, were you with her last night?”

“I think that’s Jenny’s business or my business.”

“Oh, you do? I still consider myself engaged to her, Mr. Forester. Did you forget that? In January you announced your ‘intentions,’ said you had none in regard to Jenny. Is that still true?”

“That’s still true.”

His calm made Greg feel angrier. It wasn’t natural. He remembered what his ex-wife had said: he wasn’t normal. “Mr. Forester, I don’t think you’re fit company for any girl, let alone mine. I’m giving you a warning. Don’t see her and don’t try to see her. Understand?”

“I understand,” Robert said, but in such a matter-of-fact way, Greg got no satisfaction from it.

“It’s a warning. I’ll break your neck if you touch her.”

“All right,” Robert said.

Greg stepped around him and strode off. His blood was tingling with anger. He hadn’t seen the fear he had hoped for in Forester’s face, but he had won the first round, he felt. He had been brief and to the point. Greg turned around with a sudden inspiration, looked for Robert’s dark overcoat, but didn’t see it. Oh, well, he’d said enough. Then he watched for Forester’s car, which he remembered was a dark two-door convertible, thinking he could follow it and find out where Forester lived, but there were so damned many cars he couldn’t spot it.

Greg drove directly to Jenny’s house. By the time he got there, it was a quarter to six, and her car was not there. She was usually home by five or five-thirty. He drove back to Langley, knowing it was probably hopeless tonight, but that he would be angry with himself if he went home without giving it a try. He stopped at a dry cleaner’s in Langley that was still open. They didn’t know Forester’s address and didn’t know of Forester, but they asked him why he wanted the address.

“A package,” Greg said. “I’ve got a package to deliver to him.”

“Post office could tell you, but it’s closed now.”

So was the only drugstore that Greg saw. Seventeen wasted miles he had driven. Doubled made thirty-four. Never mind, he’d find out tomorrow.

The next morning, Greg was at the Langley post office as soon as it opened. He said he had a package to deliver to Robert Forester, asked his address and was given it: Box 94, R. D. 1, which was on Gursetter Road about two miles out of town. The clerk told him how to get there. Greg was already late for an appointment, but he took off for Forester’s house just to see it.

He watched the mailboxes along the road, and at last saw Forester’s name written on one in white paint. It was a silly-looking house with a high steep-pitched roof, just the sort of house an oddball would choose to live in, Greg thought. It was also gloomy-looking. Greg stopped his car in the driveway, glanced around, and seeing no one, got out and looked through the glass of the door. The place gave him the creeps. It looked like a dungeon or part of a castle. He went to another window, looked through it into a kitchen, and then on the window sill saw something that made his heart jump and begin pounding with anger. It was one of Jenny’s plants. He knew the pot and the plant, and there was no mistake. He thought it was one she called mother-in-law’s tongue, and the pot was of white glass with knobs on it. Greg went back to his car, backed fast out of the driveway, and headed for his appointment.

At six o’clock, precisely at six because he had made himself wait until then, Greg drove past Forester’s house again. Jenny’s car was there, and so was Robert’s. She was blatantly spending nights there. This might be the seventh, the tenth, for all he knew. Lights were blazing in the house now. He imagined them laughing and talking and fixing dinner, Jenny making one of her big salads, and then—Greg couldn’t bear to imagine any more.

He stopped at a roadside bar that was appropriately depressing, he felt, with its three male customers hunched over beers watching television. He ordered a rum, not that he cared for it much, but he liked the sound of the word in the mood he was in.
Rum
. He tossed the jigger down, then paid for it and got some change for a call to New York.

Nickie Jurgen’s telephone did not answer.

Greg drove to his apartment and tried the New York number at intervals all evening. It was ten of midnight before anyone answered. A man answered, and Greg asked to speak to Mrs. Jurgen.

“Hello, Greg,” Nickie said. “How are you?”

“Well, not so good,” Greg said, though he already felt better because of her friendly tone. “I guess—I think—Well, my worst fears have been confirmed, as they say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, my girl—my fiancée—she seems to be spending her nights at Robert’s now.”

“What? Why, that’s awful.”

Nickie could not have been more sympathetic. She asked for Robert’s address and wrote it down. She advised Greg “to take Jenny in hand,” and she warned Greg again that Robert was not to be relied on for anything except erratic and possibly dangerous behavior.

“I’m sure it’s going to end soon,” Nickie said, “unless your fiancée is off her own rocker, which I doubt. Any girl can see what Robert’s all about before too long.”

“You don’t think he’d harm her, do you?” Greg asked, suddenly alarmed.

“There’s no telling.”

“I asked him to keep his hands off. I talked to him a couple of nights ago. Then, the same damned evening, she sees him.”

“I understand how you feel. Robert’s always doing this, having a fling with some woman, preferably a young and innocent one, then dropping her when he’s tired of her, which is usually in six weeks or less. This is the first time I’ve had a chance to talk to one of the unhappy—”

“Dirty so-and-so,” Greg muttered. “I’m going to see Jenny tomorrow and talk to her. She’s in such a state lately, she doesn’t want to see me, so I didn’t want to annoy her, but I can see that’s the only thing to do.”

“Take her home with
you
.”

Greg tried to laugh. “Yeah, that’s it. I wish there was some way I could scare him out of town. Just how much off his nut is he? Did he ever have to be under psychiatric care or anything?”

“Did he? I should say. Twice at least. He’s one of those people who aren’t quite crazy enough to be locked up, just sane enough to go around messing up other people’s lives. Why don’t you threaten to beat him up? He’s a terrible coward, and you sound like anything but.”

“You’re right about that. O.K., I’ll think it over, but I’ll try seeing Jenny first.”

“Good luck, Greg.”

And Greg intended to see Jenny the next morning, Saturday, or if she wasn’t there in the morning, then in the afternoon. But she did not come home at all on Saturday or Saturday evening. Her car was at Forester’s. She might as well have moved in with Forester, but Greg couldn’t quite get himself to bang on Forester’s door and ask to see her. She was not at her house Sunday either. If she came home to change her clothes or water her plants before she went to work on Monday morning, he missed her.

As soon as Jenny walked in the door Monday evening, Robert knew something had happened with Greg.

“I just saw Greg,” she said, and let her pocketbook and a paper bag slide onto the chair by the door.

Robert helped her off with her coat and hung it. “At your house?” He knew she had gone by her house after work to pick up something.

“He came by at five-thirty. He’s been calling your wife again. He said your wife said you were a psychopath.”

Robert groaned. “Jenny, what can I do about that? She’s not my wife any more, don’t forget that.”

“Why can’t they leave us alone?” Jenny asked him as if she expected an answer from him.

“What else did Greg say?”

Jenny sat down on the red couch, her shoulders bent, her hands limp in her lap. “He said you’ll get tired of me in a couple of weeks and that’s what your wife said. Gosh, is it so much to ask for—
privacy
?”

Robert went into the kitchen, finished emptying an ice tray into the ice bucket, and came back into the living room with it. “Well, Jenny, let’s face it, spending four or five nights here—what do you expect Greg to think? That we’re spending those nights like a couple of monks, me upstairs and you down?”