“I sent her back home with the boy. She’s been singing your praises, incidentally.”
My knees softened, threatening to let me down onto the concrete terrace. I turned and braced my back against the stone wall. The shimmering plain divided like curtains blown by a wind, and I saw the more desolate reality behind them: the mask of a woman’s face reflected in murky green water.
Seeing that I was in trouble, Forest pushed through the screen door and lent me his shoulder. “Come in, Cross. You’ve had a rugged twenty-four hours. What you need is a rest and a nice cold drink. Mrs. Johnson made iced tea before she left.”
We descended into a room with a low, beamed ceiling and heavily curtained windows. After the outside dazzle, it seemed as dark as a cave. I sat in a creaking cowhide chair. Forest introduced me to a colleague whose name I didn’t hear. We agreed that it was hot outside, but comparatively cool inside on account of the thick walls and the cooling system. Forest busied himself in another room and came back with a drink for me. When I had drunk it, I was able to distinguish between the sound of the air-conditioner and the whirring sounds in my head.
Forest gave my shoulder a friendly tap. “Feeling better now?”
“Much better. Thanks.”
“This heat is hard on a man when you’re not used to it.”
“It’s cool enough in here,” his colleague insisted.
Forest turned to him. “That reminds me, Eddie, we better call Pacific Point and ask them to send a hearse. Cross has Miner’s body in the trunk of his car.”
“We means me, as usual?”
“What do you think? The telephone’s in the kitchen.”
Eddie went out. Forest sat down opposite me on a Navajo-blanketed couch. “Miner died without talking, I suppose?”
“He said a little. His head was injured and he may have been irrational. He seemed to think I wanted him for violating probation.”
Forest began to laugh, but stopped when I didn’t join in. “Is that all he said?”
“He claimed that he was protecting the boy.”
“That’s what he told the boy.” A trace of Forest’s derisive laughter persisted in his voice. “He told the youngster he brought him out here for safety’s sake. Is that what he said to you, that the whole thing was done on Mrs. Johnson’s orders?”
“Yes, and I got the impression that he was sincere. When a man is dying—”
“Nonsense. He didn’t know he was dying.”
“I believe he did.”
“Even so, I don’t attach any special sanctity to a deathbed statement. A liar is a liar, under any circumstances.”
“I don’t believe he was lying.”
“It’s his word against Mrs. Johnson’s. She denies that she gave him any such orders.”
“Naturally she denies it.”
Forest changed his position on the couch, regarding me with a hard and curious eye. “Correct me if I’m wrong. I had a peculiarly vivid impression that you were one of Mrs. Johnson’s admirers.”
“I am. I’m not sure yet what I admire her for.”
He jerked his head impatiently, and rose. “I don’t know what you have in mind, Cross. It’s just not plausible that any mother would connive at the kidnapping of her own son. You ought to see them together, man. She worships that little kid. She wouldn’t let him out of her sight.”
“She did yesterday.”
“So?”
“I don’t pretend to understand this thing. But I’m half inclined to think that Miner is innocent.”
“You’re crazy with the heat.” Forest walked the length of the room and kicked the dead log in the fireplace, violently. He came back, limping slightly, and sat down again: “Forgive the expression, Cross.”
“All right.”
“I simply meant to say, I think you’re dead wrong. Now you may have facts I don’t have. If there’s any evidence you know of, confirming the dead man’s allegation, it would be a good idea to lay it out in plain view.”
Two things rose in my mind and dovetailed. Molly had spoken of a red-haired woman who fingered Kerry Snow for the federal men. Seifel claimed that Helen had given him Snow’s address in 1946. It would be Molly’s word against Helen’s, Seifel’s word against Helen’s, Miner’s word against Helen’s. Like an after-image of what I had seen on the terrace, I saw her face threatened by darting, barbed tongues.
Forest was watching me. “Well?”
“I have no evidence.”
“Then let’s forget it, at least until or unless something does turn up. I don’t know how you have this thing figured out. Here’s the picture that presents itself to me:
“Miner and Snow were buddies aboard ship. Perhaps they were mutually involved in a racket of some kind—I’ve never heard of a large Naval vessel that didn’t have its rackets. Miner was never caught. Snow was, after the two fell out. Do you know who gave us the information on Snow’s whereabouts, when we arrested him in 1946?”
“You told me last night. Larry Seifel.”
“He was just the errand-boy. I got it out of him this morning, before they left. Apparently he held back on me because he was afraid of damaging Mrs. Johnson.”
“She gave him the information?”
“She passed it on to him, yes, but it didn’t originate with her. I questioned her about it. It developed that Miner was her patient at that time, in the San Diego Naval Hospital. It was Miner who gave her Snow’s address in the first place. He asked her to turn Snow in without bringing his name into it. Naturally she went to Seifel about it. They were friends, and it was in his line.”
“So it all comes back to Miner?”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I am. But I’m more relieved.”
“It’s a rough deal when any man goes rotten,” Forest said sententiously. “But everything comes back to Miner, according to my picture. Snow sweated out his years in the pen, and came out looking for Miner. Miner saw him first. He ran Snow down, removed identification, converted himself from a murderer into a hit-run driver. Everybody was taken in except Snow’s pal, Arthur Lemp. Lemp may have witnessed the killing.”
“It’s possible. I thought of that.”
“But Lemp wasn’t the sort of man to go to the police. Not Lemp. We’ve filled out part of his record, on the basis of the material you dug up, and it goes back a long way. In fact it probably goes back further than we’ve been able to trace it. He turned up in San Francisco in the early twenties, aged about thirty or so, and got himself a job on the police force. I don’t have to tell you the city administration then was sour. Lemp rose to inspector in a very few years but when the city government was reformed—I think it was the third or fourth time it was reformed—Lemp went out. Since then he’s scrounged a living at half a dozen trades and petty rackets. He’s been arrested for pigeon drop, Mann Act violation, blackmail, and served a total of seven years in Folsom and San Quentin. Blackmail was his specialty, when he could find a victim soft enough—”
“I know enough about Lemp.”
“There’s more, plenty more.”
“I don’t doubt it. Go on with your reconstruction.”
“Well, he would have liked to blackmail Miner, but Miner lacked the wherewithal. The question for Lemp became: how could his knowledge of Miner’s crime be turned into cash? He tried to interest Seifel, without success, or perhaps he was simply trying to pump Seifel for information. In any case, we know the final answer he arrived at. He forced Miner to fall in with his kidnap plans: I maintain that that’s the only possible way these things could have happened.”
“It’s possible. It leaves out a primary fact, though. Who stabbed Lemp in the neck?”
“It has to be a third party,” Forest said. “I questioned the boy—he’s a smart boy—and he says they drove straight out of town yesterday morning, right after they met you.”
“So that lets Miner out.”
“Yes. It has to be somebody else, somebody who wanted that fifty thousand dollars. Any ide
as?”
“Not one.”
“I thought perhaps you were going to suggest that Mrs. Johnson stole her own money back.” Forest showed his wide white teeth in a grin. “Anyway, we’ve got the weapon to work on.”
Eddie returned from the kitchen, complaining about the lousy telephone-service and the heat. We played three-handed bridge, Eddie winning consistently, until the hearse arrived from Pacific Point. Then Forest turned off the air-conditioner, locked the doors, and handed me the keys. “Are these symbolic?” I said.
“Maybe they are. Whenever I mention the lady, your eyes glaze, if that’s significant. You’re just fighting off the idea, old boy. But why fight it?”
His insight was disturbing. I turned away.
The Lincoln led the three-car cortege across the desert, over the snow-blotched pass, down into the green valley. I suppose I was driving it. I hardly remember.
CHAPTER 24: A plainclothesman challenged me at the entrance to the Johnson drive, and let me pass. My car was standing in the turnaround, where I had left it early in the morning. I swung the Lincoln around it and into the garage. As I got out, Helen opened the inside door of the garage. There were shouts and splashes behind her in the pool where the boy was playing.
She looked pleased to see me. Her smile had lost its dangerous brittleness:
“Come in, Mr. Cross. I’m so glad you’re safe and sound.” I could feel the warmth of her hand through my sleeve. “You’ll forgive my running out on you in the desert. I couldn’t feel quite secure until I had Jamie home with me.”
“You did the wise thing. I notice you have a police guard out front.”
“I didn’t ask for one, but they thought it best for the present, since there’s no man here.” She frowned slightly. “Surely nothing else is going to happen to us.”
In the green planted enclosure of the patio, it was hard to believe that anything had happened. The flowers in the planters gazed up like innocent eyes into the depthless blue sky. At the shallow end of the pool the boy was frolicking in water up to his waist, chasing a red plastic beach ball brighter than his hair. There were the remains of a cold lunch on the umbrella table at the far end.
“Isn’t he wonderful?” she said. “He hasn’t the faintest notion that he was kidnapped, or even that there was anything amiss. The whole thing’s been a picnic to Jamie.”
“He’s been a lucky boy.”
Her deep green glance sought mine and held it. “You were his luck, Mr. Cross. I’m grateful to you, forever.”
Something inside of me spoke, surprising my consciousness: “I wish he were my boy.”
It was the wrong thing to say, and the wrong time to say it. She didn’t answer. I turned away. Jamie was jumping up and down in the water, beating its surface with his palms.
“Hi!” he sang out. “I’m a sea-lion. These are my flippers. Where’s Fred?”
“He’s gone on a trip,” I said.
“With Daddy? Did Fred go with Daddy?”
“That’s right. They went away together. Fred asked me to say good-bye to you for him.”
“Good old Fred,” the boy said earnestly. “I’ll miss Fred.”
His mother spoke softly at my shoulder: “Is he dead, too?” There was a kind of awe in her voice.
“He crashed in the mountains. I was with him when he died.”
“It seems so many have died.”
“Four men,” I said. “Two of them at least were no great loss to anybody.”
She made a visible effort to pull herself together, and changed the subject: “You must be tired and hungry, Mr. Cross. Please sit down. Let me give you something to eat.”
“I’m tired, but I bet you’re tireder.”
“Not really. I was on my last legs this morning, I admit. Now that Jamie’s back, I feel almost good. Anyway, the sandwiches are already made. Permit me to minister to you with sandwiches. It’s the least I can do.”
“You’re very kind.”
I sat by the pool with her and ate her sandwiches and watched her boy and became permeated with a sense of what I had been missing. And would doubtless continue to miss.
“Mrs. Johnson.”
She turned her head against the canvas back of her reclining chair. A lock of hair fell forward over one eye. She blew at it, without effect, and laughed. “Lord, I feel lazy.” She raised her bare brown arms and stretched, arching her body. “I’d just about dozed off.”
“I know you’ve had your fill of questions today.”
“Indeed I have. Did I tell you the reporters were here when I got home? And photographers. I want to sink back into anonymity, permanently.” She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes and smiled.
“Mrs. Johnson.”
“I’m listening. You called me Helen last night. I didn’t mind.”
“Helen, then.”
“Your first name is Howard, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She opened her eyes. They were grave. “Hello, Howard.” Jamie was lying face down by the pool, near her feet. He raised his head and echoed her: “Hi, Howard.”
“Hi, Jamie.”
“Hi, Howard.”
I went on in a softer voice, hoping he wouldn’t hear me:
“Mrs. Johnson—Helen.”
“Is something the matter?” She lifted one hand and waved it nervously. “I mean apart from the obvious things, like Abel.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you—well, you know my job. I’m not exactly a cop, but sometimes, in the clutch, I have to act like a cop. There are several questions that need to be answered.”
“By me?”
“They concern you.”
She sat up, rigid. “Do you suspect me of doing something wrong?”
“It’s not a question of suspicion. There are certain facts—”
“You do, then.” Her eyes narrowed. “Fire away, Mr. Cross.”
The boy looked up: “You called him Howard a minute ago.”
“I know I did.” She relaxed a little. “Do me a favor, Jamie.”
“Go into the house?”
“That’s right. I want you to put dry clothes on now. They’re on your bed. And don’t try to go into Daddy’s room. It’s locked up.”
“Why is it locked up? Daddy isn’t in there, is he?”
“No, he’s not in there.”
She kissed him, suddenly and passionately. He disengaged himself and trotted away, leaving wasp-waisted footprints on the tile.
“I don’t know what to tell him,” she said.
“Tell him the truth—that your husband died a natural death. That is the truth, isn’t it?”
Her face hardened. “Ask Dr. Campbell. Don’t ask me. I’m not a physician. I only know what I told you last night. I was quoting Dr. Campbell.”
I was off to a bad start, but I blundered on: “You mustn’t take offense. I have to ask these questions. Fred Miner said a strange thing this morning, before he died. He said that he was protecting Jamie, that you had ordered him to take Jamie into the desert.”
“That I had?”
“Yes. I asked him who told him to do it. He answered: ‘Mrs. Johnson. She’s the boss.’ ”
“He was lying,” she whispered harshly.
“Are you sure?”
She waited a long time before replying. Her oiled face was like a mask gleaming metallically in the sun. “I thought you were my friend.”
“I’m trying to be.”
“By making covert accusations against me? Is that what you call friendship?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to either clear Miner, or pin the kidnapping on him. I feel an obligation towards the law, the truth, whatever you want to call the abstractions that keep us going, keep us human. There’s nothing personal in this.”
“Obviously there isn’t. I don’t suppose you’ll take my word that I’ve done nothing wrong?”
“Not on a blanket denial, no. I’d like something more specific.”
“All right the
n, fire away, and make it fast. I don’t want Jamie to hear his mother being cross-questioned.”
“You’re making it difficult for me.”
“I hope so, Mr. Cross. First of all, you’ll naturally want to know how long and how well I knew this chap Kerry Snow.”
“You’ve asked the question. Will you answer it?”
“I answered it this morning, to the F.B.I. That tale-bearing little wretch of a Larry Seifel—” She broke off. “All I can tell you is the truth. I never heard of Kerry Snow until Fred Miner gave me his name. It was in January 1946, I believe, a Monday morning. Fred was ambulatory by then. He’d had a weekend convalescent leave, and he came back to the hospital in a bad mental condition, at least it seemed so to me. I asked him what the trouble was. He wouldn’t tell me, of course—he never has—but he made me promise to do something for him. He gave me this man’s name, and his address in Los Angeles, and asked me to pass the information on to the F.B.I. I said I would. All it amounted to was phoning Larry Seifel down at District headquarters.”
“Did you know Seifel well?”
“We’d gone dancing a few times. Is it important, in the abstract?”
“What about Miner?”
“What about him? He was my patient. I liked him. I always have, until yesterday.”
“Did he tell you what Snow was wanted for?”
“I think he mentioned desertion. I got the impression that he’d run across Snow by accident, over the weekend, and recognized him as a wanted man. They served on the same ship, didn’t they?”
“Yes. You say you never met Snow, or heard of him before that?”
“I not only say it. It’s the truth.”
“I believe you.”
“You are too kind.”
“There’s still another point that needs to be cleared up.”
She sighed. “There would be. But go ahead.”
“I’m not sure I can explain it properly. Kerry Snow left a girl behind him, a young creature named Molly Fawn who claims to be his widow.”
“Do you distrust all widows?”
“Please,” I said. “I’m trying to do my job.”
“I’m trying to survive.”
“Shall I drop it for now?”
“No, let’s get it over with.” She smiled bleakly. “You have that abstract gleam in your eyes. Follow the gleam. I can take it, I hope.”
Meet Me at the Morgue Page 16
