by Held, Peter
"You're the man Mr. McDermott engaged?"
Brevis nodded. "I'd appreciate it, Mrs. Hovard, if you mentioned my connection with this case to no one."
"Naturally not."
"I'd like to talk to your daughter, if you'll permit me."
"As you wish," said Mrs. Hovard. "Though I don't see how she can help you." Margaret went to the foot of the stairs. "Julie!"
Julie came down from her room.
"This is Mr. Brevis, dear," said Margaret. "He's a detective, and he wants to talk to you."
Julie nodded. She stood looking at him.
"I think it would be better to talk privately," said Brevis.
Before Margaret could protest, Julie said, "Let's go out here on the terrace." She led the way, Brevis followed.
Julie and Brevis talked almost an hour, then joined Margaret and Carr.
"Well, Brevis," Carr said bluffly, "did you learn anything?"
"I think I have a general idea of the situation," said Brevis.
Carr cleared his throat. "Was Julie able to help you in any way?"
Brevis shrugged. "We discussed the case ..."
Brevis stood in the front office of the Las Lomas Detention Home.
"Well, well," he said. "That's very interesting, but—"
"It's all I can tell you, and it's exactly what I told your office over the telephone. I spoke to the sheriff myself. Sheriff Hartmann." She eyed him quizzically, a stout, intelligent woman in a brown tweed suit. "Peculiar they'd send you down and then call, too."
Brevis made a noncommittal gesture. "Perhaps there's someone here who knew Robert Struve particularly well? A matron, perhaps?"
The woman nipped pages in a ledger, ran her finger down a list of names. "That would be Mrs. Fador." She picked up a phone, dialed.
"Mrs. Fador, please . . . Mrs. Fador, this is Anna. There's a man here from San Giorgio, making inquiries about Robert Struve. He wants to speak to someone who knew Robert well . . . Dr. O'Brien. Thank you." She pressed down the bar, released it, dialed again.
She held a brief conversation with Dr. O'Brien, then made a sign to Brevis. "Down the corridor, turn to the right, cross the courtyard. Ask for Dr. O'Brien. He knew Robert Struve as well as anyone here."
Dr. O'Brien's office was a large room cluttered with miscellaneous furniture: odd bookcases, a big table, chairs. O'Brien sat in a swivel chair, with books on one side of him, a basket of papers on the other. His face was sunburned a fire-red, and glistened with oil.
"Excuse me for not getting up," he said to Brevis. "I fell asleep in the sun this morning. Stupid thing to do . . . Won't you sit down?"
Brevis slipped into a chair beside the desk.
"My name is Brevis. I'm a detective."
"Oh, yes," said O'Brien. "With the San Giorgio police."
"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," said Brevis. "I am a private detective." He
showed O'Brien his credentials. O'Brien became quizzical. "Oh. Just what's the trouble?"
Brevis straightened. "Well, sir, frankly, I'm rather at sea. I'm confused by the whole situation; I thought perhaps you'd be able to straighten me out." O'Brien relaxed in his chair and frowned thoughtfully.
"Robert Struve, eh? Exactly what kind of trouble has he got himself in?"
"Perhaps you've read about the San Giorgio mutilation murders."
"Oh, yes," said O'Brien. "Do you think—I mean, you have some idea that Struve is responsible?"
Brevis shook his head. "That's what I'm here to find out—if there's any chance that Struve could be the murderer."
O'Brien shrugged, and winced at the pain. "It's hard to say. Robert—well, there's a great deal to him—an extraordinary persistence, direction. But I've never been quite sure just where this direction led."
"What sort of boy was he?"
O'Brien rose gingerly to his feet, moved across the room to a filing cabinet, rummaged through the contents, returned with a manila folder. "Here's the folder on Robert Struve," he said. "Here's his picture—before plastic surgery, of course."
Brevis took the photograph. "Mmmph . . . Not a pretty sight."
"No," said O'Brien. "As nasty a wad of tissue as I've ever seen. Luckily, it lifted clear. They did a splendid job of repair."
"Do you have a picture of Struve after the operation?"
Dr. O'Brien looked uncomfortable. He laughed. "Struve was photographed upon his entrance, as per regulations. After the operation, no one had the responsibility to photograph him ... I guess it just never got done."
Brevis studied the photograph. "The change in his face presumably changed his character?"
O'Brien shrugged. "It certainly affected his behavior."
"Well, let me put it this way. Can you see Robert Struve nursing a grudge for five years, then performing horrible crimes to satisfy this grudge?"
"I can't give you an honest answer. I've always thought of him as a lad with a terrible burden. I don't think he ever had a childhood. His mother was a rather weak woman who apparently made him the man of the family at the age of nine. When he left us—well, I confess I didn't know how he'd make out. I recommended his discharge because I felt that the Army would be much better therapy than the Home."
"He enlisted?"
"No. His draft number came up. We had the option of releasing him to the Army or holding him here till he was twenty-one. We chose the Army. There seemed to be no question of moral turpitude; we felt the boy was the victim of circumstances, and he was inducted on this basis."
"Do you know where he reported for induction?"
"Sacramento, I believe."
"I see . . . May I trouble you for Robert's fingerprint classification?"
O'Brien tossed across Robert Struve's file card.
Brevis made a quick note. "You've been very helpful, Doctor."
"Perhaps," said Dr. O'Brien, "you'll tell me just how Robert Struve is involved in this affair."
"Frankly, Doctor, it's what I'm trying to find out."
"I see . . . Well, it's always disturbing to hear of our boys getting in trouble."
"Don't misunderstand me, Doctor. He's not in trouble. There's only a hint that he's connected so far. It's quite possible that I'm proving him innocent."
Dr. O'Brien seemed to lose interest in the subject. "Well, I can't tell you anything more. Some of the boys we get to know pretty well. Others
we don't. Robert Struve was one of those we didn't."
Brevis returned to San Giorgio two days later and drove to the San Giorgio Building and Loan Association.
McDermott was sitting behind his desk, hands folded on the green blotter. Brevis came quietly into the room.
McDermott motioned to a chair. "What did you find out?"
"Nothing conclusive," said Brevis. He reached in his pocket, produced a notebook. "What there is took some ungodly digging to get. I've been to half a dozen different bureaus and record offices. I've cost you thirty-five dollars in bribes."
McDermott waited. Brevis consulted the notes which he already knew by heart.
"On January 12, 1950, Robert Struve was inducted into the Army. He was assigned to the Engineers, and shipped overseas—first to the Philippines, where he was promoted to corporal; then to Japan, then to Korea.
"In July, 1951, his unit was ordered into frontline duty. On November 1, 1951, Corporal Robert Struve was killed in action, along with his entire platoon."
"Well, well," said McDermott "There's no possibility of a mistake?"
"I saw the official list."
McDermott rubbed his forehead, sank back into his chair.
"I ran into something else," said Brevis casually.
McDermott looked at him vacantly. "Eh?"
"As I reported to you, Struve's entire platoon were casualties. I believe a mortar shell fell among them. There was a single exception, a man who was not killed, but captured by the Chinese."
"Well?"
The telephone rang.
"Excuse me," said
McDermott. He lifted the receiver. "Hello?"
"This is Carr Pendry, Mr. McDermott. I've got some news. I thought I'd better let you know."
"What's the news?"
"I've just come from talking to Sheriff Hart-mann. He's traced Robert Struve."
McDermott looked across the room to Brevis. "Where is he?"
"He's dead."
"Oh, yes. I knew that already."
"Oh." Carr came to a lame halt. "Well, I thought I'd let you know."
McDermott hung up, reached for his checkbook. "How much do I owe you?"
Brevis compressed his lips. "There's one more item of information which may interest you."
McDermott leaned back. "Go ahead."
"One man from Struve's platoon escaped death, as I said."
"Yes. What about him?"
"It may be no more than a farfetched coincidence—but isn't the chap who goes around with Julie Hovard named Joe Treddick?"
"Why, yes," said McDermott. "I believe so."
"That was the name of the man who survived from Robert Struve's platoon. Joe Treddick."
"You don't say . . ." McDermott reflected for a moment. "What do you think?"
"Personally, I think it's a matter for the sheriff."
Sheriff Hartmann knocked at the door of the Fair Oaks Guest House. Mrs. Tuttle appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. "Yes?"
"I'm Sheriff Hartmann, Mrs. Tuttle. Is this where Joe Treddick lives?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Tuttle. "But he's not here just now. You'll have to call back."
"Do you know where he is?"
"I've no idea," said Mrs. Tuttle. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
"Thank you, Mrs. Tuttle."
Sheriff Hartmann returned to his car. On Con-roy Avenue, Carr Pendry's Jaguar appeared in the rearview mirror. And when Sheriff Hartmann swung into the Hovard driveway, Carr whipped the Jag smartly in after. He joined Sheriff Hartmann on the porch.
"Hello, Sheriff. What's up?"
Hartmann hesitated. "Well, Carr—in confidence, there's been a break in the case. Have you seen Joe Treddick around anywhere?"
"Joe? Not today. What do you want with Joe?"
Sheriff Hartmann hesitated once more, then said, "We've got the idea that Treddick possibly knew Robert Struve in Korea."
Carr digested the information. "Golly, if Struve is dead—and Treddick shows up here— what does it mean?"
"That's what we intend to find out," said Hartmann.
Carr opened the door. "Hello," he called. "Anybody home?"
"In here," came Darrell Hovard's voice from the living room. "Who is it? Carr?"
"Carr and Sheriff Hartmann."
Darrell and Margaret were sitting quietly at the far end of the room.
"Come on in . . . Sit down." Darrell made a
move toward the sideboard. "What'll it be—a Martini?"
"Not just now, thanks," said Hartmann. "I'm looking for Joe Treddick. Is he here?"
"Joe? What do you want Joe for?"
"Just a question or two. Is he around?"
"No," said Darrell. "He and Julie went out riding—an hour or two ago. They said they'd be back for dinner."
"Where did they go?" asked Hartmann.
"Is it—urgent?" Darrell asked in a husky voice.
"Yes, very urgent. May I use your telephone?" Hartmann asked.
CHAPTER XIV
Joe Treddick and Julie drove up the road past secluded ranches, a rambling old roadhouse. They angled up over the ridge and the setting sun shone point-blank into their faces. Joe slowed. They looked out over vast Silverado Valley, now swimming with golden murk.
A truck chugged up the road, passed, whined down the grade in second. The sound died away.
Joe turned into a side road leading out on the spur of a hill.
"Joe," said Julie, "Mother'11 be furious if we're late for dinner."
Joe nodded, and stopped the car. They sat looking at the sunset.
A buzzard floating far out over the valley swept closer and closer, circled, slanted down and away.
Joe was holding Julie's hand. There was pulse in the grip, a warmth.
"Do you feel that?" Joe asked in strange ex-180
citement. "It's like a spark that jumps. Do you feel it?"
"Oh—more or less."
"That's life. You and I are alive."
Julie stirrred, looked away, a yeasty unrest inside her. They sat in silence while the sun sank behind the hills. Julie stole a look at Joe; he was staring into the west as if he had never before seen the sun go down.
"Joe—what's worrying you?"
Joe smiled faintly, as she knew he would; he always kept his troubles to himself. "Why do you ask that?"
"You're acting so strangely. I hardly know you."
"Who knows anybody?"
"Now, Joe. For all practical purposes, I know you very well."
Joe was smiling again. "You're on the verge of knowing me better."
Julie laughed uneasily. "Maybe I'd rather keep my illusions." She looked at her watch. "Also, Mother's going to skin us both when we wander in an hour late for dinner."
Joe made no move to start the car.
Julie compressed her mouth in exasperation, then felt sudden compassion. Whatever was on Joe's mind must be very important to him; us-
ually he went out of his way to be considerate. "Bother Mother. I don't care if we are late."
Joe put his arm around her, drew her toward him; but she held back. She felt nervous and tense.
"Please, Joe. Not now."
They looked into each other's faces. Joe opened his mouth, closed it; it was as if he were struggling to speak against an impediment. Julie was puzzled.
"Julie," said Joe, "I've loved you from the first day I set eyes on you."
"That's nice." Laughing uneasily, Julie tried to pry loose from his arm. "Let go, Joe! I don't like to be clamped like this."
His face was pale, set; his eyes shone.
She finally squirmed out from under his arm. From opposite sides of the car, they looked at each other.
Julie turned away. He kept sitting against the door on his side of the car, watching her. The silence between them grew tauter by the minute. What's wrong with him? Julie thought fretfully. She reached forward, turned on the radio.
"Joe," said Julie, "let's go home."
Joe was looking in the rearview mirror. "Yeah," he said. "That's a good idea." He started the car, backed around. A white and black sedan
was in their way—the highway patrol. An officer jumped out, waved them to a halt. He looked into the car.
"You're Joe Treddick?"
"That's right."
"And you're Miss Julie Hovard?"
"Yes."
"What's the trouble?" asked Joe.
"No trouble," said the patrolman. "Would you mind waiting here just a few minutes?"
"I should be getting home," said Julie.
The patrolman returned to his car, got inside, spoke into his mike. A hollow voice rattled back. The patrolman hung up the mike.
Joe started to open the door; Julie caught his arm. "What are you going to do?"
"I want to find out what's going on."
"Wait, Joe . . . Let's just wait . . ."
He relaxed into the seat.
"What on earth could they want?" Julie asked.
Joe shrugged. Julie looked at him in sudden speculation.
Five minutes passed. A second patrol car nosed down the road, stopped beside the first. Two more patrolmen got out, conferred briefly with the first; then all three came over to Joe's car.
"Mr. Treddick," said the sergeant who had arrived in the second car, "if you don't mind, I'll ride with you back to San Giorgio. Miss Hovard
will go in the patrol car. Something's come up the sheriff wants to ask you about."
"What are they talking about?" Julie asked. "Please, Miss Hovard. Out of the car." Julie got out; the sergeant slipped into her place. "Now, Treddick, back to San Giorg
io, and take it easy."
Joe started the car. "Am I under arrest?" "You're not under arrest. Get moving." Nineteen minutes later the patrol car delivered Julie to her front door. She jumped out and ran up the front steps. Darrell and Margaret came out; Margaret folded her in her arms. "Julie, darling, thank God you're all right." "Of course I'm all right," Julie snapped. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"Come in the house," said Carr, taking her arm. "I'll tell you all about it."
"Stop tugging at me," said Julie. She marched into the house. "I wish I knew what all this fuss is about . . ."
Sheriff Hartmann was leaning back in his swivel chair, teetering placidly, his hat on his head.
Joe came stiffly into the room. The deputy stood in the doorway. "This is Joe Treddick, Sheriff."
"Good," said Hartmann, hunching forward in
his chair. "Send in some coffee, will you, Howard? How about you, young fellow?"
"Black," said Joe. "No sugar."
"Okay. Two Java." The deputy started to close the door.
"Hey!" the sheriff called. "Send Sid in to take a statement."
"Anything else? Need the rubber hose?"
Sheriff Hartmann smiled. "Not tonight. We're going to get along, Joe and me."
The door closed. "Sorry to have made such an all-fired production of this, Joe—but we got an idea you can help us out."
"How?"
"Just answering a few questions . . . Have a cigarette?"
Joe accepted one with a saturnine grin.
The sheriff held out a match. "How do you like your job, Joe?"
"It's a little monotonous."
"You get a veteran's pension, don't you?"
"Not that I know of."
"I thought all prisoners-of-war got a pension."
"I suppose some do, some don't . . ."
A thin man with black hair parted in the middle slipped into the room, took a seat at a desk, arranged a pad.
"That's Sid," said the sheriff. "He's taking down your statement."
"Statement about what?"
"There's been a couple nasty killings around town. We're anxious to get to the bottom of them."
"I imagine you would be."
"Know anything about these killings?" asked Hartmann.
