by M. K. Wren
“Yes.” He looked down at his tensely interlocked hands. “Odd, the insights that come when you’re afraid you might die. I was thinking of another death, and the keystone fell into place; the one fact on which the whole scheme depends. But I won’t tell you who it is. That way, neither of you can inadvertently alert the killer. Aaron, don’t start protesting. Acting isn’t your forte, and you’ll have your hands full with the role I’m going to ask you to play.”
Aaron had roused himself enough to display some of his accustomed obduracy, but at that he hesitated, the flame-blue of his eyes banked in a dubious squint.
“You…got some sort of plan?”
“Some sort. I have no proof; nothing that would stand up in court. My only hope for real justice is to force the killer into an admission of guilt. I could blow this thing wide open with a few words to Tate, but before I’m reduced to that, I want to try to get that confession.”
Aaron asked flatly, “How?”
“First we’ll have to reassure the killer. You’ll go into the hospital tonight with a ‘heart attack.’ Doctor, we can’t pull that off without your help. For one thing, Aaron will need coaching. He’ll have to play his role well enough to convince a trained nurse.”
“Laura?” Maxwell frowned. “You don’t think—”
“Did I say it was her conscience I hope to catch with our play? Are you willing to take a role?”
He mulled over his decision, but only briefly.
“Yes, I’m willing. Having somebody make a poison of a medicine I prescribed rankles, Mr. Flagg.”
“Aaron, what about you? I’m asking a great deal, I know. I’m asking unquestioning faith.”
He folded his arms and scowled at the floor.
“I guess…well, you was right, y’know. I owe you. And anyhow, George must’ve had a lot of faith in you, Conan, or he never would’ve hired you on, and I always trusted his judgment. All right, I’ll go along with you. At least…” A hesitation, then he added firmly, “I’ll go along.”
It was a remarkable testament, and Conan was assured, particularly by Aaron’s use of his given name. It was the first time.
“All right, then, the play’s the thing.”
CHAPTER 22
“’Bout a mile to go, Conan. You asleep?”
He raised his head. “No, Jesse, I’m awake.”
The road ahead was a brown blur sweeping into the car lights. He turned and looked out the rear window, where another pair of headlights bobbed in a haze due as much to his impaired vision as the dust.
Abe. The faithful Abe following in Jesse’s car. Conan wasn’t happy about that in spite of Jesse’s assurances of Abe’s trustworthiness, but she couldn’t very well walk back to town.
Necessity was the mother of this expedient. Conan had to get back to the ranch tonight because the next act of the drama he was directing must take place there. And he had to get back with the ranch car, or its absence might raise questions that could betray the entire scenario. But he was incapable of driving himself; he couldn’t see past the steering wheel. So, Jesse was chauffeuring him, with Abe tagging along to provide her return transportation.
It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Jesse. She too had a part to play in his drama, and he welcomed the opportunity to explain it; at least, what he felt free to explain. He balked most at having Abe trailing behind, but only because it increased the risk that someone at the ranch might realize all was not what he wanted it to seem.
Still, the ranch hands were accustomed to line and Potts driving in at late hours, and it was nearly eleven, Laura and Ted’s usual time of arrival. He could only hope that his own arrival—and Abe’s—would attract no attention.
The gate was open; Aaron hadn’t stopped to close it on his way to Maxwell’s. Conan strained his eyes toward the bunkhouse, but saw no lights go on as Jesse swung left into the garage, where the bulk of the house blocked the view from the bunkhouse. Abe was right behind her, and, as instructed, turned off his lights and waited with the motor running.
“Conan, you gonna be all right?”
He put aside the heavy coat Jesse had provided as a makeshift blanket.
“Yes. Doc said I should be back to normal by morning.”
“I hope he’s right.” She got out, closing the door quietly, and came around to meet him at the back fender. “Here’s the keys. I’ll be out to pick you up in the momin’. ’Bout nine?”
“That’s plenty of time. Thanks, Jesse. Just leave the gate open when you go. I’d rather have the hands complain about my greenhorn negligence than get a look at you or Abe closing the gate.”
“Okay. You take care of yourself.”
He heard their departure as he stumbled to the house and faced the ascent to the porch, then the Everest of the stairs to the second floor. Despite his hurry to get to his room, he stopped halfway up; it was either that or make a sudden descent backward. And he knew he’d never laugh at the plight of the seriously myopic.
When at length he reached his bedroom, he went first to the south window. Ten people might be standing in the shadow of the bunkhouse porch and he wouldn’t have seen them, but no lights had been turned on and nothing seemed to be moving.
Satisfied that his return—and Jesse’s car—had gone unnoticed, he began setting the stage for the next act.
*
It was midnight when the sound of motors brought him to the front windows. His vision had improved enough for him to read his watch, and his general condition had improved enough for him to enjoy a cigarette. Still, he had spent most of the last hour resting in one of the chairs drawn up by the table in front of the windows. Not on the bed. It was hard enough to stay awake in a sitting position.
There were two cars: Laura’s Buick and Linc’s Mercedes. Apparently, Tate had succeeded in finding Linc and Potts to notify them of Aaron’s critical condition. But Laura didn’t drive home with Ted; she emerged with Linc from the Mercedes. After a brief conference, Ted and Potts walked together around the side of the house, probably to the bunkhouse to break the news to the buckaroos, while Linc accompanied Laura into the house. Conan went back to his chair to wait. The small light by the bed was on, but not the overhead light; his luggage was placed conspicuously near the door, which was half open.
He could hear their voices as they came upstairs, but no words until just before Linc’s bedroom door closed, and Laura admonished him, “Linc, just don’t worry—please.”
Then the sound of her footsteps approaching his door.
“Conan?”
He rose and put out his cigarette. “Come in, Laura.”
“Conan, Aaron’s in the hospital. He—it’s his heart.”
“Yes, I know,” he said tightly.
“You—oh, yes. Doc said you brought him in. I—I’m not thinking too well. Funny, I should’ve expected this. He wouldn’t take the Digoxin, and diet—he doesn’t even know what that means. Then with George…What—what’s all this?” She was looking down at his luggage as if confronted with something alien and inexplicable.
“I’m leaving in the morning, Laura. At least, I’m leaving the ranch. My pilot is busy with Avery tomorrow, so he can’t come for me until the next day, but I’ll wait it out in Burns.”
She turned her uncomprehending gaze on him.
“You…you’re leaving? Now?”
“Yes, I’m leaving,” he replied impatiently. “I’ve been ordered to leave. Ordered off the case and off the ranch.”
“Ordered? But…I—I don’t understand.”
At the note of appeal in her voice, his tone softened.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be short with you. Come, sit down; you look exhausted. Did you see Aaron?”
She sagged into a chair, eyes closing briefly.
“Yes, I saw him. It’s serious, Conan. Doc’s worried. You can always tell when he gets quiet and absentminded.” Then she pressed her hands to her forehead distractedly. “Oh, I don’t know why I should give a damn. He—he’s so…
these last couple of years, I’ve come to—to hate him. But when Doc called me at the school and told me…” A long pause, then she sighed. “I guess I do give a damn.”
“Of course you do, Laura.” Then he turned hesitant. “Did you…talk to Aaron?”
“Yes. Only for a couple of minutes. Doc didn’t want him to see anyone, but Aaron was working himself into such a state, he decided it would be better to humor him.”
“He asked to see you? Not Ted or Linc?”
She averted her eyes. “Just me. He didn’t even want Doc to stay in the room, but he put his foot down at that. He stood by with the oxygen ready.”
“Why did Aaron want to talk to you?”
“Oh, I—I don’t think he was tracking very well, and you know how he is when he gets something in his head.”
“All too well. What did he have in his head?”
Her attempt at a nonchalant shrug was negated by the nervous working of her hands.
“Nothing, really. Nothing…important.”
At that, Conan made a show of annoyance, lighting a cigarette with a hard snap of the lighter.
“Laura, why are you being so evasive? Will I have to go to Dr. Maxwell to find out?”
Her eyes flashed, then she brought out a smile.
“No, of course not. I guess I thought he was only—I mean, it didn’t make much sense.”
“What didn’t? What did he tell you?”
“Well, he said he’d hidden a—a strongbox in his room.”
“Hidden it? Where?”
“I don’t know exactly. He just said it was in his bedroom, and no, he didn’t tell me what was in it.”
“What did he tell you about it?”
“Nothing, except that if he…died, I was to find the box and dispose of it. Bury it, drop it in the ocean, anything, just so no one would ever find it. But if he lived, I was to forget about it He said he’d…take care of it himself. I don’t know what he meant by that.” Then she looked directly at him. “Do you, Conan?”
He turned and went to the window as if driven by impatience, eyes hooded and oblique as he took a long drag on his cigarette.
“I’m not impressed with the way Aaron ‘takes care’ of things. Damn, I just handed it to him; dropped it right in his lap. Evidence, Laura. A ray of light in the murk of ignorance and prejudice. But he didn’t like the way the light was turned. It didn’t shine directly on Alvin Drinkwater.”
“Evidence?” She was watching him intently. “What kind of evidence?”
That seemed to rouse him; he shrugged uneasily.
“It doesn’t matter. Aaron wants the case closed, and I can’t keep it open without his cooperation. He ordered me off the ranch and even threatened to press trespassing charges, and I wouldn’t put it past him to do it. We…had quite an argument. That’s probably what triggered the heart attack. I won’t enjoy having that on my conscience if he doesn’t recover.”
“Oh, Conan, you can’t blame yourself. Anything might have triggered it.”
He studied her skeptically for a moment, then nodded.
“Will he recover, Laura?”
“I don’t know. Doc kept saying he’s a tough old man, but I think he was trying to convince himself.” She paused thoughtfully. “But, you know, when I saw him, he looked better than I expected. His color was quite good. Maybe Doc’s just being pessimistic. I hope so; I really do.”
“So do I.” He didn’t want her to dwell too long on Aaron’s apparent symptoms, and went on quickly, “But I’m formally washing my hands of the whole affair. Ecce Aaron. Let him take care of it. I’m only sorry I let you down. And George.”
“Well, I think it was hopeless to begin with. Thanks for trying, anyway.”
She seemed to accept his capitulation with more relief than regret. Conan jabbed out his half-smoked cigarette.
“Maybe it was hopeless. At least, that’s a salve for my bruised ego.”
She laughed weakly and came to her feet.
“I’m sorry about your ego, but only the hardiest egos survive here.” She looked over at his luggage, her smile fading. “When are you leaving? I can drive you into town.”
“Thanks, but you’ll have enough to worry about I called Jesse Broadbent; she’ll pick me up about nine.”
“Jesse? Oh. Well, I’ll see you before you leave. I guess I’d better get to bed now. I’m tired and…oh, God, I need a drink.”
She tempered that fervent declaration with a brittle laugh as he walked with her to the door. There he paused, looking across to Aaron’s bedroom, frowning slightly.
“Aaron said he hid the strongbox in his room?”
“What? Why, yes. Conan? What are you going to do?”
He turned abruptly and crossed to the bed to pick up his robe, then to the table for his cigarettes. She was still staring at him perplexedly when he went out the door with her and shut it behind them.
“I’ll consider the case closed when I go out the front gate in the morning. Tonight I’ll sleep in Aaron’s room.”
“Why? To guard the…whatever he’s hidden there?”
“I guess so. It won’t matter a damn in the end, but I can look back on a total failure and say I did all I could. Good night, Laura. Sleep well.”
“Yes. You, too.” She studied him in the brighter light of the hallway. “You look…tired, Conan.”
“I am. It’s been a long day for everyone. And, Laura, I think it would be best for all concerned if you kept what Aaron told you to yourself.”
Her flushed cheeks and averted gaze gave silent testimony that the warning came too late, but she only nodded and started for the stairs.
“Good night, Conan.”
He went into Aaron’s room and closed the door, listening to her retreating footsteps, hearing them stop outside Linc’s door. Then a light knock, the door opening and closing on a whispered exchange.
Conan took a deep breath, enduring a brief resurgence of nausea, then secured the bathroom and hall doors with straight chairs propped under the knobs. It was all he could do. He stripped off his clothes and all but fell into bed, sinking immediately into a deep sleep.
He was a worthless sentry this night, but only he knew it, and that was what counted.
CHAPTER 23
When Jesse dropped him off at the bus depot the next morning, Conan was carrying his suitcase and had reverted sartorially to dude status. His boots, Stetson, and the briefcase he’d left in Jesse’s keeping.
He wasted little time at the depot; only enough to pay for a locker, which he left empty, putting the key in his pocket. Then he walked the two blocks to the Arrowhead Hotel, still carrying his suitcase.
He didn’t make a friend of the hotel clerk, insisting on a room on the top floor in the corner away from Broadway, but facing the side-street; he didn’t like his sleep disturbed by highway traffic, but he despised looking out on an alley. And he wanted the room next to his, too; he objected to strangers behind his walls. The clerk sighed and frowned, but found his foibles tolerable when recompense appeared in the form of cash.
Room 410 had been modernized perhaps thirty years ago; that is, it had a private bath with appropriate fixtures. But the walls were bedecked with baroque peonies, and the bleached-oak bedstead was built before the era of queen- and king-size. Still, the room was scrupulously clean and comfortably airy with its high ceiling and big double windows.
He took the reproduction of covered wagons retreating into an unlikely sunset off the wall, then went to the windows. Centered under them was a table on which the inevitable Gideon was piously displayed; to the left, a tired armchair sulked. He opened the windows and looked down at the junction of Third Street and the alley backing the hotel.
There were two ways to reach this room from the alley. A closed hallway connected the alley and the lobby, from whence the elevator, whose shuddering workings would send a victim of claustrophobia into hysterics, rose. Of more interest to him were the service stairs at the back of the building. Anyone
using them ran virtually no risk of observation. Jesse had provided that information, saving him the time and effort of personal exploration.
But he had other preparations to make; another stage to set. He opened his suitcase and went to work.
Most of the preparations were made in the next room, where he set up a tape-recorder equipped with earphones, ran an extension into his room, concealing it under the hall carpet, then secured a mike in the molding behind his door. He turned on the television in his room to test his electronic eavesdropper; then, satisfied that it was functional, delved into his suitcase again for the compact Zeiss binoculars and a fifth of Jack Daniels. These he put on the table under the window, with two glasses from the bathroom. The last thing he took out was the Mauser automatic. He flipped off the safety, snapped a bullet into the chamber, and put it on the table. In plain sight, but ready.
The knock came as he was putting the suitcase into the closet. He checked his watch before he opened the door.
“Jesse, you’re early. It’s only ten till eleven.”
She was breathing hard, a hand pressed to her bosom. When she saw the gun, she paused, but didn’t comment on it.
“Lordy, I’m gettin’ too old to climb up four flights of stairs. Didn’t meet nobody in the alley, by the way.”
“Good. Shall we break in this bottle?”
“Thanks, and don’t bother waterin’ it down.” While he poured a couple of straight shots, she took possession of the armchair by the window. “You ain’t heard from anybody yet?”
“No, not yet.” He pulled a straight chair up to the table and arranged his cigarettes, an ashtray, the binoculars, and the Mauser on the end close to hand. “Relax, Jesse. It’ll take time to search Aaron’s room, and more to check the cache at Dry Creek.”
“Relax. Sure.” She tipped up her glass. “Well, if you can look so damned relaxed, I guess I can, too.”
He laughed, knowing full well she wasn’t deceived by appearances, wondering why so many of the things that might go wrong never occurred to him until it was too late.
The telephone rang at eleven-thirty. Jesse sat up as if her chair had suddenly become electrified, but Conan waited for a second ring before he answered it “Hello.”
