by M. K. Wren
Conan asked patiently, “Why shouldn’t I worry about him?”
“Because he wasn’t anywhere near Silver when Lee got murdered. Poor Will had a heart attack ’bout a week before. He was down to the hospital in Homedale. Didn’t come back to work at the mill for—oh, nearly six months.”
And that took care of Will. Conan leaned forward to study the drawing. “Where was the safe?”
“Right here in Tom’s office.” She penciled in a small square in the corner where the mill wall and the interior wall of the office met. “Tom’s desk was kind of in the middle facin’ the front of the building. Liked to have his back to a wall. Inter-estin’ about that. So’d Lee and Will, but Dex Adler—he had to have his back to the window. Said he didn’t like distractions.”
The drawing was becoming more muddled with every word, but Conan persevered. “Where were the windows?”
“Oh, there was windows on every outside wall. These front offices—mine and Lee’s—had two: one on the front of the building, the other on the side. The back offices just had the one.”
He pointed to the wiggly line she had drawn in the exterior wall of Starbuck’s office. “If someone were standing outside this window, could they see into the office?”
“Sure.” She puffed on her cigarette, squinting at him through a cloud of smoke. “The ground sloped up at that end. Wouldn’t be no trouble at all.”
“When did you see the office—I mean, after the murder?”
“The very next mornin’. Course, we just thought it was a robbery.” Then she leaned toward Conan. “Ever’body always made out like nothin’ was touched in there ’cept the safe, but I can tell you, that wasn’t the way it was. I told Sheriff Kenny then, and Andy Newbolt again after they found Lee’s body, but neither one of ’em paid any attention. Ol’ Lathe Kenny figgered all women was blind and dumb, and Andy—well, he said it all happened so long ago, like maybe my memory was gone.”
Conan frowned sympathetically. “How was it, then?”
She leaned back, apparently prepared to give the devil its due now that she had a willing listener. “Matter of fact, there wasn’t a lot to see. Just little things. Like Tom had one of them appointment calendars on his desk, and it was open to the wrong date, and it was on the right side of the desk, when he always kept it on the left side. Then I’d put a bunch of letters on his desk for him to sign, and they was all out of order, and there was a pile of maps on the table between the extra chairs by the hall door, and I knew I put them on top of the file cabinet the day before.”
Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Do you think the office might have been searched?”
She gave that some thought, then shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Nothin’ in the files was out of order, and the desk drawers—well, after the sheriff finished, I started lookin’ for that knife. I noticed it was gone right off, but nobody else was interested, least of all poor Tom. He was just plain frantic, it bein’ payday and no money for the men. Anyhow, I looked in the desk for the knife, and ever’thing was just like it always was. Tom was neat about his desk, so if anybody’d been riflin’ through it, I would’ve known. No, I don’t think anybody searched the place, but I do think things got moved around in there. Somethin’ else, too.” She glanced out the window, as if someone might be clinging to the sill eavesdropping. “One thing in particular I noticed: there was a little rug by the hall door—least, that’s where it usually was—but when I come in on the day after the murder, that rug was over in front of Tom’s desk. Well, I started to put it back where it belonged, and that’s when I saw the stain.” She paused for effect.
Conan took his cue. “What kind of stain?”
“Don’t know for sure. A big, dark spot. The floor was just oiled boards, y’know, and whatever it was had soaked in. Anyhow, somethin’ really queer happened then.” Her eyes went to bright, cold slits. “Dex Adler happened to see what I was doin’—Tom wasn’t there; out talkin’ to the men, I think—and Dex told me to leave the rug alone. Just like that. Never saw him—what is it they say?—so uptight. Said he spilled some ink on the floor and didn’t want to bother Tom about it. So, I left the rug where it was. Next day, it was back where it belonged, and the spot had been scrubbed out.”
Conan took time for a long drag on his cigarette, then, “Did Adler do the scrubbing?”
She raised an eyebrow and gave Conan an oblique look. “Well, I sure didn’t, and I don’t figger Tom even noticed it. Now that it turns out Lee was stabbed with that knife—the one that was right there on the desk—well, it don’t seem very likely to me it was an ink stain.” Conan waited, and she added portentously, “More like a blood stain. And the way things was moved around, well, I think there’d been a fight in that office, and somebody tried to cover it up and put ever’thing back like it was—or like they thought it was.”
Conan smiled as he crushed out his cigarette in the ashtray. At least now he could be relatively sure of the site of this murder, even if nothing was left of it except a mound of tailings and Lettie’s enigmatic drawing. “Why would Dex be so concerned about that stain?”
She replied archly, “Makes you wonder, don’t it, Conan?”
It did indeed. Not only about Dex Adler as a suspect, but why Lettie was so willing to present him as such. Lettie went on, “Dex was a quiet one, but like they say, still waters run deep. Him and Irene come here, oh, about in thirty-five from back east somewhere; Illinoys or Indiana. Saved all the money they could and put it into real estate. Dex was smart; buy cheap and sell dear, that was his idea, and land was damn sure cheap back then. Course, you couldn’t sell it; nobody had any money. But Dex figgered if he could hold on long enough, we was bound to pull out of the Depression, then that land would be worth a fortune. He was right, too. But I happen to know that in nineteen-forty he run into some real trouble. Irene got sick, y’know.”
“Delia said she died in forty-two.”
“Yes. Poor thing. She got leukemia, and the doctor bills kept pilin’ up. That’s how Dex got into trouble. Overextended himself. About a month before the robbery, he got foreclosure notices on practically all his property.”
“How did you find out about that?”
She eyed him sharply, then shrugged. “Oh, I always had good ears, and I used ’em. But I didn’t use my mouth ’less there was damn good reason to. Now, the inter-estin’ thing about Dex’s money troubles is that right after the robbery, he got out of trouble. Then about a year later, he made his first big sale, and it was easy goin’ for him from then on. Why, that man’s a millionaire now. Has himself a big, fancy house in Boise and his own airplane, yet.”
“But he never remarried?”
“No. Guess he just never got over Irene.”
Conan gave that a moment of respectful silence while he lighted another cigarette, then when Lettie took out a Camel, he leaned forward to light hers. “Tell me about Lee.”
“Oh, my God!” She blew out a puff of smoke, her thin mouth twitching in disgust. “That man made a martyr out of poor Clare. He chased after anything in skirts. All a woman had to do was smile at him, and he’d be off and runnin’. You can bet your boots he never started after me. I never even let him get to the smilin’ stage.”
She put her long nose in the air with that, and Conan sensed a hint of pique. Lettie had been a relatively young woman when she went to work at Lang-Star, newly widowed and no doubt lonely. He wondered if she’d had as much difficulty fending off Lee’s advances as she liked to believe.
“Lettie, Delia seemed to think Lee was serious about Amanda Count. I mean, she was more than a passing fancy.”
“Oh, he was serious about her,” she said with a fastidious sniff. “Lee was at that dangerous age for a man when Amanda come into his life. Middle age was creepin’ up on him, and Amanda was a beautiful young woman. And she could give him children. Delia tell you about Clare?” Then at Conan’s nod, “’Nother thing, Amanda—well, she was soft and pretty to look at, but hard as nails on the inside. She knew what
she wanted, and nothin’ in the world was goin’ to keep her from gettin’ it.”
“Why did she want Lee so much?”
Lettie paused with her mouth open, and when she replied it was with pained patience. “Well, he was a big, good-lookin’ man just oozin’ charm. Besides, he treated her like a princess. Fancy gifts and things. Oh, she liked that.”
Conan took a puff on his cigarette to mask his amusement. “Yes, I suppose any woman would like that.”
Lettie’s reaction was a brief, uncharacteristic hesitation, then a nervous shrug. “Well, I s’pose so.”
“Was Lee at all secretive about his relationship with Amanda?”
“Secretive! He didn’t seem to give a damn who knew. Even around the office—why, you should’ve seen them two, givin’ each other looks, slippin’ behind a closed door whenever they could. He even used to call her by his pet name for her once in a while. ‘Mimi.’ Silly, if you ask me.”
“Mimi? Maybe he was a Puccini fan.”
“A what?”
“Uh…nothing. It seems strange—especially in a small town—that Clare wouldn’t hear about Lee’s extracurricular activities sooner or later.”
“She heard about it. Course, that wasn’t till about a week before Lee and Amanda was plannin’ to run off together. Trouble with Clare, she really didn’t want to know. Jest kept her head in the clouds most of the time.”
Conan leaned back, eyes narrowing. “But she did know about Amanda?”
“Sure, she did. I told her.” Then she added defensively, “Well, I figgered she deserved to know what was goin’ on. Ever’body else kept quiet about it to her, as if that was doin’ her a favor. Mind you, I didn’t say a word till about a week before. That’s when Amanda come back from a trip to Boise with a set of luggage—real leather—and enough clothes and lacy underwear to open a dry goods store. She showed it to Mrs. Sparrow, her landlady. I knew good and well she didn’t pay for that stuff out of her own salary, and luggage meant she was plannin’ on a trip. That’s when I told Clare. I figgered she had a right to know.”
“What was her reaction?”
“Oh, she jest got real quiet, then she sort of laughed. Told me not to worry about Lee; he’d get tired of Amanda and come back to her. ‘He’ll come back,’ she said. ‘He always has.’ Oh, there’s that California woman. The photographer.” Lettie was looking out the window, and Conan, following the direction of her gaze, saw Mrs. Bonnet, camera in hand, a leather case over her right shoulder, walking away from the school down Morning Star.
He asked, “Have you met Mrs. Bonnet, Lettie?”
“Nope. Hasn’t been in to see the museum yet. Odd, too. Most of the newspaper and magazine people start out here.”
“It seems a logical starting point. How long has she been in Silver?”
“Three or four days, I think. Oh-oh, here comes a bunch with kids. Y’know, I like kids, and I figger it’s good for ’em seein’ what we got here, but I sure wish their folks would teach ’em some manners.”
Conan watched the family—with their three under-ten children—ambling toward the school from the north. “Lettie, what can you tell me about Reuben Sickle?”
“Reub?” She turned and looked at Conan curiously. “Well, not much. Don’t think anybody really knows much about him. You hear about him and Clare?”
“You mean his unrequited love for her?”
“Whatever. He’s a real nice fella, always has been, and Lee used to have ever’body in town laughin’ at poor ol’ Reub ’cause of the way he felt about Clare. Too bad Lee didn’t feel half of what Reub did for her.” Lettie paused, brow ridged in thought. “Y’know, I seem to remember some sort of run-in Reub had with Lee a little while before the murder. Yep, those folks are comin’ in. Tell you what, you ask the Roseberrys about Reub. They know him better’ll anybody else. He gets all his supplies from them.”
Conan heard voices from downstairs and rose. “The store is my next stop any way.”
“Here—you might as well take this.” She handed him her muddled version of a floor plan.
“Oh, yes.” He mustered an appreciative smile as he folded it and put it in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, Lettie. You’ve been a great help.”
“Hope so. ’Bout time this thing got settled, after all these years.”
As Conan walked down Morning Star toward the bridge, he was considering Lettie’s helpfulness and thinking ruefully that the investigation business had an unfortunate tendency to nurture cynicism. Whenever he encountered witnesses who seemed too eager to help, he found himself wondering about their motivation.
Chapter 9
When Conan walked into the General Store he had first to adjust his eyes to the dim light, then to adjust his consciousness to the out-of-time feeling of the place, which, apparently more by unconcern than intention, was so much a period piece. The uneven floor was of unvarnished planks, the advertisements on the walls vintage style and yellow with age. The limited stock included items such as lamp chimneys and washboards. The modernity of familiar brands of canned foods, soft drinks, beer, candy, and prepared meats somehow failed to update their surroundings.
He had also to adjust to finding himself confronted with a living Tweedledee and Tweedledum, one of whom happened to be female. The Roseberrys, Vernon and Margaret, were short of stature and broad of girth, with white hair, pink faces, and bright blue eyes, and so similar in appearance it was as if during their many years of constant proximity, they had molded themselves in each other’s image.
They were behind the counter, side by side, when Conan entered, and both wished him a good afternoon almost in unison, then Maggie got in first with, “You must be Mr. Flagg.”
He crossed to the counter. “Yes, I am. And you are none other than the Roseberrys.”
They laughed, and Vern said, “Sure are. By the way, we was wonderin’…”
“Yes,” Maggie chimed in, “about Clare. Why, she took out of here like she’d seen a ghost.”
Conan said guardedly, “Well, Delia told me Clare’s been under quite a strain lately.”
Maggie pursed her cherubic lips. “Oh, she has, poor thing.…”
“What with Lee bein’ found dead, y’know,” Vern augmented. “Well, what can we do for you, Mr. Flagg?”
“I have a grocery list from Delia,” Conan said, “and I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Maggie’s eyes flashed. “’Bout the murder? Well, you just ask away…”
“Right,” Vern put in with a decisive nod, “we’ll help any way we can. Told Delia that. We knew Tom Starbuck, and sayin’ he killed Lee—that’s just all wrong.”
Conan nodded. “I’m working on that premise.” Then before they could comment on that, he began asking his questions, and in light of their willingness to answer any and all of them, it was doubly disappointing that they knew so little about what had actually transpired on the night of September 22, 1940. Their information was entirely in agreement with what he had already learned but added nothing new.
Not until he brought up Reuben Sickle. The Roseberrys had served as Reub’s source of supplies and as a bank of sorts for years; Reub seldom ventured out of the Owyhees—although Vern reported that he had bought a Jeep ten years ago after his last burro died—and Vern regularly took Reub’s monthly collection of gold from his placer operations to the bank in Homedale to exchange for cash. “Why, ol’ Reub’s got nearly fifty thousand socked away in the bank, but I don’t think he has any idea how much is there.…”
Maggie concluded, “Or what to do with it. The state’ll end up with it, probably. Don’t figger he has a will, nor a soul to will it to.”
Conan shook his head in commiseration, then, “I understand Reub and Lee Langtry didn’t get along well, that there was some sort of disagreement between them not long before the murder.”
Maggie’s pink face compressed with a scornful grimace, and Vern nodded portentously as he said, “You bet there was.”
“Just an awf
ul thing,” Maggie declared. “That’s how Reub got that terrible scar on his face.”
“Broken bottle,” Vern added. “That’s the sort of fella Lee Langtry was.…”
“As if his fists wasn’t enough! You should’ve seen Clare, Mr. Flagg, after what Lee done to her that last night.”
Conan felt the conversation slipping out of his control and asked, “Lee and Reub had a fight, then?”
Vern nodded, leaning across the counter. “They sure as heck did. Over Clare, really, ’cept it was Amanda set the thing off. Well, not direc’ly…”
“But it was all on her account.…”
“Right. Well, what happened is Reub come into town to pick up supplies, and he usually stayed for a few beers at the Idaho Hotel and didn’t head home till after dark.”
“Then he had to chase after that critter of his,” Maggie reminded Vern. “His burro. That was…”
“Deluxe,” Vern supplied with a musing smile. “Reub called him Deluxe. Fool thing’d never stay put, even when he was tied down. Chew right through the tether. Anyhow, that night Reub found Deluxe over on Washington Street chompin’ on Mrs. Sparrow’s marigolds.”
“And that’s when the trouble commenced,” Maggie said, taking up the narrative. “Reub saw Lee and Amanda on the back stairs of the boarding house smoochin’ up a storm. Well, Reub flew mad and started callin’ Lee names.…”
“Couldn’t’ve called him nothin’ he didn’t deserve,” Vern assured Conan. “I guess Lee didn’t pay much attention to him then. Amanda went on inside, and Lee headed over to the Idaho, with Reub right after him.…”
“Course, Reub had a lot of beer in him.…”
“Or he would’ve done better when the fight started. That wasn’t till they was both in the bar at the hotel. Even then, the way I heard it, Reub got a few good licks in.”
Maggie sighed gustily. “That prob’ly just got Lee all the madder. He took after Reub with a broken bottle.…”
“Slashed him right across the face. Well, you seen him, didn’t you, Mr. Flagg? Just missed blindin’ him.”
