There was a long uneasy silence.
“Just how curious were you?” Quinn said finally. “Did you tell your wife, for instance?”
“Well, I sort of mentioned it to her, yes.”
“Anyone else?”
“Mister. Put yourself in my place for a minute—”
“Who else?”
After another silence Frisby said nervously, “I phoned the sheriff, I thought there might be some hanky-panky going on that he ought to know about, maybe something real serious. I can see now I was wrong.”
“Can you?”
“I’m a pretty good judge of character and you don’t act like a man who’s got anything much to hide. But yesterday it was different. You check in with no luggage, driving a car with someone else’s name and address on it and you’re toting around a lot of stuff about O’Gorman. You can’t blame me for being suspicious.”
“So you called the sheriff.”
“I just talked to him. He promised he’d keep his eye out for you.”
“Would keeping his eye out extend to tricking an old man into giving him the key to number seventeen?”
“Great Scott, no,” Frisby said vigorously. “Besides, Grandpa’s known the sheriff since he was a little boy.”
“Everybody in Chicote seems to know everybody else.”
“It’s a fact. There’s no metropolis anywhere near, we’re not on a main highway and it’s rugged country. Here we all are, dependent on each other for survival, so naturally we get to know each other.”
“And naturally you’re suspicious of strangers.”
“It’s a close community, Mr, Quinn. When something like the O’Gorman affair happens, it affects every one of us. Most of us knew him, went to school with him or worked with him or met him at church and civic gatherings and rhe P.T.A. Not that O’Gorman was much for getting involved with community business, but Mrs. O’Gorman was, and he tagged along.” A small grim smile moved across Frisby’s face. “You might say that’s a fitting epitaph for O’Gorman: ‘He tagged along.’ What’s your interest in the case, Mr. Quinn? You going to write it up, maybe, for one of those true-crime magazines?”
“Maybe.”
“Be sure to let me know when it’s published.”
“I’ll do that,” Quinn said.
He ate breakfast in a coffee shop, sitting at a front table so he could watch his car parked across the road with the O’Gorman file locked in the trunk. Although Frisby had given him no lead about the intruder of the previous night, he’d given him something else for which Quinn was grateful: an excuse to go around asking questions. He was, hereafter, an amateur writer looking for a new angle on the disappearance of O’Gorman.
He bought a pocket-sized notebook and a couple of ball point pens at a drug store before he drove to the Beacon office on Eighth Avenue. As soon as he opened the door he could hear John Ronda’s voice distinctly above the clatter of typewriters and the ringing of a telephone. The red-haired Miss de Vries would have had no trouble at all eavesdropping even if she’d worn earmuffs.
Ronda said, “Good morning, Quinn. I see you’ve brought my file back safely.”
“I’m not sure how safely.” Quinn told him about the man with the topcoat and fedora.
Ronda listened, frowning and drumming his fingers on the desk. “Maybe he was just a petty thief after something else in the room.”
“There wasn’t anything else. I left my stuff in Reno, I intended to be back there by now.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“I got interested in O’Gorman,” Quinn said easily. “I thought it might make an interesting article for one of the true-crime magazines.”
“It already has, about a dozen times in the past five and a half years.”
“Maybe I’ll find a new angle. I started off on the wrong foot with Mrs. O’Gorman yesterday but I thought you might be able to fix that for me.”
“How?”
“Call her, give me a little build-up.”
Ronda looked pensively up at the ceiling. “I guess I could try it, but I’m not sure I want to. I know nothing about you.”
“Ask questions, we’ll get acquainted.”
“All right. First, I’d better warn you, however, that I talked to Martha O’Gorman last night and she told me about your phone call and subsequent visit to her house. What interested me is that when you telephoned Martha at noon you apparently weren’t aware that O’Gorman was dead.”
“That’s right, I wasn’t.”
“Why did you want to see him?”
“Professional ethics—”
“Which,” Ronda interrupted, “obviously doesn’t include telling whoppers to widows.”
“—forbids me to name names, so I’ll call my client Mrs. X. Mrs. X paid me to find out if a man named Patrick O’Gorman lived in Chicote.”
“And?”
“That’s all. I was merely to find out if he was still here, not talk to him or give him any message or contact him.”
“Oh, come off it, Quinn,” Ronda said brusquely. “All Mrs. X had to do was write a letter to the city authorities, the mayor, the sheriff, even the Chamber of Commerce. Why should she hire you to drive all the way up here?”
“She did.”
“How much did she pay you?”
“A hundred and twenty dollars.”
“For the love of heaven, she must be off her rocker.”
“That’s a good way of putting it,” Quinn said. “For the love of heaven, she is.”
“A nut, eh?”
“A lot of people would say so. By the way, all this is in confidence.”
“Certainly. What’s Mrs. X’s connection with O’Gorman?”
“She didn’t tell me, if there is one.”
“It seems,” Ronda said, “a funny job for a man like you to take.”
“When I’m broke I take funny jobs.”
“What broke you?”
“Roulette, dice, blackjack, casino.”
“You’re a professional gambler?”
Quinn’s smile was humorless. “Amateur. The professionals win. I lose. This time I lost everything. Mrs. X’s money looked nice and green and crisp.”
“Telling whoppers to widows,” Ronda said, “and taking money from nutty old women doesn’t make you exactly a hero, Quinn.”
“Not exactly. Mrs. X isn’t old, by the way, and except for some rather obvious eccentricities, she’s an intelligent woman.”
“Then why didn’t she simply write a letter, or make a phone call?”
“Neither is allowed where she lives. She’s a member of an obscure religious cult which forbids unnecessary contact with the outside world.”
“Then how,” Ronda said dryly, “did she come across you?”
“She didn’t. I came across her.”
“How?”
“You probably won’t believe me.”
“I haven’t so far. Keep trying, though.”
Quinn kept trying and Ronda listened, shaking his head now and then in incredulity.
“It’s crazy,” he said when Quinn had finished. “The whole thing’s crazy. Maybe you are, too.”
“I’m not ruling out the possibility.”
“Where is this place, anyway, and what’s it called?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s one of a number of cults, not uncommon in Southern California, made up of misfits, neurotics, the world’s rejects. For the most part they mind their own business and stay out of trouble except for some brushes with the local authorities about schooling for the children.”
“All right,” Ronda said with a vague gesture. “Suppose I believe the whole implausible story, what do you want me to do?”
“Try an
d square me with Martha O’Gorman, for one thing.”
“That may not be easy.”
“And for another, tell me the name of the red-haired woman who was in your outer office yesterday afternoon when you went to get the file on O’Gorman.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“She picked me up in the El Bocado café last night,” Quinn said, “at the same time that the man in the fedora was searching my room.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I’d be a fool not to. She was making sure I didn’t leave the place before the man had a chance to finish his job.”
“You must be mistaken, Quinn. The young woman in question wouldn’t dream of picking up a strange man in a place like El Bocado, let alone cover for a sneak thief. She’s a respectable woman.”
“That hardly surprises me,” Quinn said dryly. “Everyone involved is, or was, the soul of respectability. It’s what makes the case unique—no villains, no crooks, no shady ladies. O’Gorman was a good guy, Martha O’Gorman is a pillar of the community, Mrs. X is a dedicated cultist and the red-haired woman probably teaches Sunday School.”
“Matter of fact, she does,”
“Who is she, Ronda?”
“Dammit, Quinn, I’m not sure I ought to tell you. She’s a very nice girl, and besides, maybe you made a mistake. Did you actually see her face when she was in here yesterday afternoon?”
“No. Just the top of her head.”
“That’s not enough evidence to prove she’s the same woman who picked you up in the café. Besides, Willie’s too smart an operator to pull a dumb trick like that.”
“Willie,” Quinn repeated. “Short for Wilhelmina?”
“Yes.”
“Wilhelmina de Vries?”
“Why—why, yes,” Ronda said, looking startled. “How did you know her name?”
“She told me last night at dinner.”
“Actually she’s Willie King now, she went through a quick marriage and divorce. . . . She told you her name?”
“Yes.”
“Surely that in itself proves she wasn’t up to any skulduggery.”
“Call it what you like,” Quinn said. “She was up to it and enjoying it.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“A number of lies not worth repeating. By the way, does she happen to have a boy friend?”
The question seemed to annoy Ronda. He leaned forward, giving Quinn a long hard stare. “Now listen, Quinn. You can’t come into a town like this and start making insinuations about some of our best citizens.”
“So Willie King is going around with one of Chicote’s best citizens.”
“I didn’t say that. I only—”
“Tell me, does Chicote have any bad citizens? All the ones I’ve met, or been told about, so far are truly sterling characters —no, I’m wrong. There was one exception, the nice little lady who embezzled from the local bank.”
“What made you suddenly think of her?”
“She’s been on my mind,” Quinn said.
“Why?”
“In my profession, as well as yours, the sinners come in for more attention than the saints. Chicote’s apparently teeming with saints but—”
“Lay off the town, will you? It’s an average town, there are average people in it, average things happen.”
“Tell me about the lady embezzler, Ronda.”
“I repeat, why?”
“When Willie King was big-earing in this office yesterday, you were talking about the O’Gorman case mainly, but you mentioned the lady embezzler, too. I’m curious about which one Willie King—and perhaps her boy friend—is interested in.”
“Everyone in Chicote,” Ronda said with an evasive shrug, “is interested in both cases.”
“To the extent of breaking into my motel room?”
“No, of course not.”
“All right, then. Who’s Willie’s boy friend, Ronda?”
“I can’t swear to anything but I’ve heard rumors. In a town this size, when a young attractive woman works for and with an eligible widower, it’s always assumed she’s also working on him.”
“His name?”
“George Haywood. He’s in real estate. Willie used to be his secretary but she’s had a promotion. The ads Haywood puts in the Beacon list Willie as an associate. How close an associate is anybody’s guess and nobody’s business.”
“It may be mine,” Quinn said. “Willie didn’t accidentally wander into the El Bocado café last night, accidentally wearing a disguise.”
“It seems unlikely.”
“Did Willie have any connection with the O’Gorman case?”
“Not that I know of.”
“What about the embezzlement?”
“Well, connection is too strong a word.”
“Pick a weaker one.”
Ronda leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Willie herself had nothing to do with the embezzlements—there wasn’t just one, it was a whole series, covering a period of ten or eleven years—except to the extent that she worked for George Haywood.”
“And George Haywood was involved in the embezzlements?”
“Not voluntarily,” Ronda said sharply. “His integrity has never been questioned. He couldn’t help being involved, though. The embezzler was his younger sister, Alberta Haywood.” Ronda paused, frowning up at the ceiling. “Her case was, in its way, just as tragic as O’Gorman’s. They were both quiet, self-effacing people.”
“Were? You mean she’s dead, too?”
“More or less. She’s been in Tecolote women’s prison for over five years and the chances are she’ll be there for another five or even ten.”
“What about a parole?”
“She has a hearing coming up soon but I don’t think it will change anything for her.”
“Why not?”
“Well, when a parole board meets to consider a case involving stolen money, the members want to be sure of two things, what happened to the money and whether the thief is sorry for taking it. Alberta Haywood may not be able to satisfy them. From what I’ve heard of her conduct at Tecolote prison she’s docile but not penitent. And as for the money, it’s a question of whether they’ll believe her story or not. Some people do, some don’t.”
“What about you.”
“Oh, I believe it,” Ronda said. “She spent the money as she embezzled it, over a period of ten years or more. She gave some to charity, lent some to friends and relatives, speculated on the stock market and blew in the rest of it betting on the horses. This all fits the picture of the average embezzler. I made a study of the subject after Alberta Haywood was caught and I learned some pretty surprising facts. For instance, the amount of money embezzled in a year is a great deal more than that stolen by every burglar, bank robber, pickpocket and auto thief in the entire country.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Check it yourself. It happens to be true. Another point interested me. Alberta Haywood seemed such an unlikely person to commit a crime, yet I found out that this very unlikeliness was what she had in common with the rest of them. The average embezzler has no previous record of dishonesty, he doesn’t act like a criminal or consider himself one. Very often the community doesn’t consider him one either, usually because he’s given some of the money back to the very people he’s defrauded. The City of Chicote stood solidly behind Alberta Haywood. She may have stolen a hundred thousand dollars of their money but the Boy Scouts had new furniture for their club house and the Crippled Children’s Society a new station wagon. It’s irrational thinking, of course, like suffering a stab in the back and then being grateful for a lollipop to ease the pain.”
“Did you know Mis
s Haywood well?”
“As well as anyone outside her family, I suppose. She had a nodding acquaintance with nearly every person in town, but no close friends. At Tecolote she’s been a model prisoner, obedient, quiet, causing no trouble. Naturally this will be in her favor at her parole hearing, but there’s still the question of whether they’ll believe her story of how she spent the money, although to me it’s quite obvious she’s telling the truth.”
“Was an attempt ever made to connect the two crimes. Miss Haywood’s embezzlements and O’Gorman’s murder?”
“Oh yes. At one time the police toyed with the idea that Alberta actually murdered O’Gorman.”
“For what reason?”
“When Alberta was arrested, the police were still looking under rocks in an attempt to find a motive for O’Gorman’s murder. Someone turned over a big rock and came up with this: at one time O’Gorman, like Alberta, was a bookkeeper, so perhaps he had somehow found out in advance about Alberta’s embezzlements, threatened to expose her, and been murdered to ensure his silence. There were quite a number of things wrong with the theory. First, Alberta was at a movie on the night of O’Gorman’s death. Second, O’Gorman had no access to the bank’s books except through Alberta herself. And it’s a safe bet that when she had her fingers in the till she wouldn’t invite a stranger in to show him her nail polish.”
“He was a stranger to her?”
“For all practical purposes, yes. She may have seen him a couple of times while O’Gorman was working briefly for her brother, George, as a real estate salesman. I say briefly because he lasted no longer than a month. Poor O’Gorman couldn’t have sold sarongs in Tahiti. His personality was too low pressure, and more than that, he didn’t care much for money, not enough to go after it tooth and claw the way salesmen have to. O’Gorman was content just to get by and so was Martha, although she worried about being able to send the two children to college.”
“Did she ever get O’Gorman’s insurance?”
“Oh yes, the company eventually paid up. But it wasn’t much. Five thousand dollars, I think.”
“Five thousand dollars,” Quinn said, “makes a better motive than two dollars.”
How Like an Angel Page 7
