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; usually 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 Giorgio, 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 anxiou
s to get to the bottom of them.”
“I imagine you would be.”
“Know anything about these killings?” asked Hartmann.
“Only what I read in the papers.”
The sheriff nodded. “I see. Now, we figure that a fella named Robert Struve could give us some information.” The deputy came in carrying two cups of coffee, put one in front of the sheriff, one in front of Joe.
“Thanks,” said Joe.
“Thanks, Howard,” said Sheriff Hartmann. “Now, Joe, we hear that you served under Struve in Korea.”
The sheriff waited. Joe sipped at his coffee. “Well?” the sheriff demanded.
“You’re saying it,” said Joe.
Hartmann frowned, then a soft smile washed across his face. “Okay, Joe. We’ll play it your way. You say you knew Struve?”
Joe paused, drank his coffee, considered. The sheriff waited, watching closely. From his desk in the shadows Sid, the stenographer, watched, like a cockroach peering from a crack.
The sheriff presently’said, “You’re not helping
yourself, Joe. If you’re an honest man, you’ve got nothing to fear.”
“That’s why I’m not scared,” said Joe. “Good,” said the sheriff heartily. “Now maybe you’ll answer this question. Did you know Robert Struve in Korea?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “I knew Struve. Corporal Robert Struve.”
“Ah,” said Sheriff Hartmann. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Just what happened to Struve?” “The Army says he’s dead. I guess that must be right.”
“Hmmm,” said Sheriff Hartmann. “Do you think you’d recognize a picture of Struve?” “Hard to say.”
“Look at this one.” The sheriff tossed him a photograph mounted between two plates of glass. Joe ducked. The photograph fell to the floor with a clatter.
“Hell!” cried Sheriff Hartmann. “Can’t you catch?”
“I’m a little nervous,” said Joe. “You’re nervous, all right. Like a piece of cold codfish.”
Joe bent over the photograph. It was lying face down. He caught under the edge with his fingernail, flipped it over.
The face in the photograph was that of Robert
Struve on his admittance to the Las Lomas Detention Home. Sheriff Hartmann, watching closely, thought he detected a quiver in Joe’s cheek.
“Recognize him?”
“That’s not Struve the last time I saw him.”
“No? Well, well.” The sheriff got to his feet. “Do you have any objection to letting us check your fingerprints?”
“Yes. I do.”
The sheriff raised a finger to Sid. “Change that, Sid. Make what he said, ‘No, of course not.’ “
“Got it,” said Sid.
The sheriff walked to the door. “Howard, bring in the gear.”
Joe made no resistance. His fingers were inked and rolled, one after the other.
“Now, Joe, if you’ll just sit tight here a minute or two … Keep an eye on him, Sid.”
The sheriff left the room. Joe stubbed out his cigarette, sipped his coffee. Three minutes passed. The sheriff returned.
“Well, Joe, your prints are very interesting.” Joe said nothing. Hartmann lowered himself into his swivel chair. “Yep. Kinda queer coincidence, isn’t it? Your prints being so much like Struve’s.”
Joe grinned.
“You rather be called Joe Treddick than Struve?’
“Much rather. It happens to be my name.”
The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Look, Joe—or Robert—why don’t you save us both lots of trouble and tell us what happened.”
“You’re asking the questions.”
“Why did you kill Cathy McDermott? Why did you kill Lucia Small?”
The questioning went on, until the sheriff was red-eyed and blustering; Joe Treddick, a hollow-cheeked, glassy-eyed shape.
At an early hour in the morning the sheriff made a weary gesture. “Okay, Howard, take him away. Put him on ice.”
“Just a moment,” said Joe in a husky voice. “Am I under arrest?”
“You sure as hell are.”
“What for?”
“Now you’re talking foolish.”
Howard took Joe’s arm. “Come along, fella.”
CHAPTER XV
Julie woke up at seven o’clock with sand in her eyelids, a dull weight at her forehead, a taste of metal in her mouth.
She raised up on her elbow and looked around the room. She thought, What am I supposed to do today? What’s happening … Everything came to her at once, a whole panorama of knowledge.
After a few minutes, she climbed out of bed, showered, brushed her teeth, dressed in a pale blue-green cotton skirt, a white blouse, white socks, white moccasins.
She went down to breakfast. Her mother was still in bed, her father had left. The maid brought Julie orange juice, coffee, a warm raisin bun and butter.
Julie ate, then went to the phone.
“Carr, this is Julie.”
“Hello, Julie. What are you doing?”
“Just finishing breakfast.” 190
“Suppose I come over.”
“All right.” Julie hung up. Carr, for all his conceit, was solid and predictable. Carr was— well, he was Carr. He could never have lived a secret, bitter existence. Pretending, scheming, counterfeiting. Julie’s stomach gave a lurch of sheer nausea . . .
Carr joined her at the breakfast table. Julie brought Carr a cup and the maid poured coffee.
Carr was wearing a new suit this morning, a hard olive-tan twill, a white shirt, a black knit tie. His sandy-brown hair was smartly brushed, his round face glowed from a close shave.
“Well, Julie, this is a terrible business.”
From his manner, Julie knew there was something to come. “Have you heard anything new?”
Carr nodded. “I called Hartmann, and it’s astounding. They took Treddick’s prints. They’re the same as Struve’s.”
Julie drank her coffee. Carr looked faintly hurt. He had expected more of a response. “Well,” said Carr, “you don’t seem surprised.”
Julie looked away. “It’s one of those things you don’t really know or even suspect—but when you find out, you realize you’ve known all the time.”
Carr twisted to inspect her. “How long has this state of inner certainty been with you?”
“I didn’t even know I knew until you told me.”
“It’s an amazing situation,” said Carr. “Absolutely amazing. Do you know what day it is?”
Julie looked at him blankly.
“Tuesday, July seventh. George Bavonette goes to the gas chamber tonight.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going down to the city,” said Carr. “I’m going to get this execution put off. It’s a travesty of justice.”
Julie toyed with her cup. “Maybe Joe might confess … Or Robert, I guess I should call him.”
“He hasn’t, so far. I don’t think he will.”
“He’s terribly stubborn, Remember how he was in school?”
“Yes,” said Carr with a bitter laugh. “He still owes me for my motor-scooter.”
Julie shook her head in wonder. “I don’t know which of you has more of a one-track mind.”
“I’m stubborn and tenacious,” said Carr, “when I know I’m right. Mark my words, Julie, I’ll be governor of the state before I’m done!” He looked at his watch. “I have a big day ahead of me … Why don’t you come along? We could have dinner out …”
Julie shook her head wistfully. “No thanks, Carr.”
“Be good for you,” said Carr. “Buzz down in the ol’ Jag, a little business, and then we’ve got the rest of the day to ourselves.”
Julie looked at him sidewise. “I thought today you planned to move heaven and earth.”
Carr said expansively, “With you along, I can move heaven and earth with one finger … Hello, Mrs. Hovard.” Margaret drifted into the room like a sleepwalker.
“Hello, Carr … I’
m glad you’re here.”
“I’m on my way to the city, Mrs. Hovard; I’ve been trying to persuade Julie to come. It would do her good.”
Margaret looked toward Julie. “Why don’t you go, dear?”
“Because I don’t want to go,” Julie said.
“Just as you like.” Carr nodded to Margaret. ” ‘Bye for now.”
Carr left the room.
Margaret sank into a chair beside Julie. “I must be getting old; this business has left me just a wreck … To think that this boy who’s eaten at our table—that you’ve gone out with —” Her voice failed her.
“Yes, Mother,” said Julie. “I’ve thought of all that myself. And a lot more …”
The sheriff was cool, polite, direct. “Well, Struve—”
“My name is Treddick,” said Joe.
“Struve—Treddick—call yourself anything you like.”
“What am I being held for?”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Hartmann. “There’s a dozen technical charges I could book you on. How about desertion from the Army?”
“You couldn’t make it stick,” said Joe. “My time terminated five days after I was captured.”
“As Corporal Robert Struve, or as Private Joe Treddick?”
“Either one. We signed up on the same day.”
“That’s the right attitude, Struve.”
“Treddick.”
The sheriff raised his eyebrows. “How can you be Treddick when your fingerprints say you’re Struve?”
“Get your stenographer in here, because I’ll just tell you once.”
“Okay,” said Sheriff Hartmann amiably.
Sid slipped in through the door, slid into his chair.
“At one time I was Corporal Robert Struve, of the 121st Army Engineeers. Five days before the end of my enlistment a mortar shell got us. Hit us right on the nose. I was down in the creek bed and the explosion went over my head. Otherwise, it busted the platoon. Arms, legs everywhere. I was due to get out; remember this. I did nothing wrong. But I was sick of Robert Struve. I wanted to be somebody else. Robert Struve is the face in that picture you showed me.
“Yeah,” said Hartmann. “Go on. This is interesting.”
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