by Basil Copper
Clark stirred; he knocked the pipe against the trunk of the tree, sending a tiny chain of fire dancing to the ground.
‘Don’t look so worried, Faraday,’ he said. ‘It’ll all come clear as we go along.’
‘There’s a few things bothering me about this set-up,’ I said. ‘That’s aside from the minor point of who’s taken a dislike to the local inhabitants.’
Clark put another match to his pipe; flames danced, throwing his face into high relief.
‘Meaning what?’ he said.
‘The General Diaz end of the deal,’ I said. ‘Holgren’s his lawyer; he gets his brains beaten out. This Benson girl gets killed in his garden. There’s various trivial things like me getting hit over the head. Yet you can’t seem to work up enough curiosity to go up to the house and ask if they’ve seen any bodies lying around.’
‘Let’s get one thing straight, Mr Faraday,’ said Clark, moving easily out from under the tree. ‘Maybe you didn’t hear so good what I said back in the office. This is my town, and I’m in charge here. You got no official standing at all. If you want to make a fool of yourself, go on up to the house. But they won’t let you in and you certainly won’t get to see General Diaz without my sayso. You’ll just have to trust me or we ain’t got no deal.
This is a small town and we’ll play it my way or not at all. It’s up to you.’
‘Guess you know your own business best,’ I said. ‘But it seems a queer way of going about it.’
‘Our ways may not be L.A. ways, son,’ he said kindly, ‘but you’ll see results if you stick around long enough.’
We were interrupted by a dry cough from Ellsworth; he’d gotten up from the tarpaulin and was standing impatiently behind us. He held something in a blood-stained handkerchief. ‘She was killed by a high-velocity rifle bullet,’ he said. ‘It hit her in the side and travelled upwards, bursting the heart before stopping. From my experience of wounds I’d say it was something like a Mannlicher. We’ll know more in the morning. I’ve done all I propose to do here tonight. You can have her moved to Johnstown whenever you’re ready.’
‘Thanks, doc,’ said Clark. ‘Phone me a preliminary report just as soon as you can. And keep this under tabs.’
The doctor snorted. ‘What do you take me for?’ he said, going back towards the floodlights. ‘Anyone would think this was my first experience of violent death.’ Clark grinned. ‘Take no notice,’ he said to me. ‘He always carries on like this.’
He walked over and stood looking down at the body. ‘That’s it, boys,’ he said finally, ‘you can start packing up. The ambulance should be here any time.’
The main lights went out suddenly and Clark and Macklehenny and I started picking our way back towards the lodge; the deputy led the way with the torch. The photographer stayed behind with the body; he kept one flood switched on. The Doc was still mumbling to himself.
‘I’ll make a deal with you,’ I told Clark. ‘I’ve got an idea I’d like to work on — and I want to see the Cheney lad again. In the meantime you get General Diaz’ story. Then we’ll compare notes.’
‘Can’t do no harm,’ said Clark. ‘But we shan’t have long. This second one will blow the town wide open. And the Press will bring in floods of sightseers.’
We got up near the lodge gates as we finished. The cars were parked there. Light came out of all the windows of the lodge. Clark drew me to one side. Macklehenny went ahead with the doctor. I could hear the rattle of metal as someone unlocked the gates.
‘Listen, Mr Faraday,’ said Clark. ‘I’d like you to do me a favour if you would.’
‘I’ve guessed already, Sheriff,’ I said. ‘I thought I’d go and see the Bensons anyway. It might be better coming from a stranger. I’ll call in tomorrow night after my other chores.’
Clark nodded. He put his hand on my arm. ‘Thanks, Mr Faraday. I really appreciate this. I’m not much good at that sort of thing.’
‘Glad to help,’ I said though I wasn’t looking forward to it. We got back in my car. The ambulance passed us before we had gone a mile. It seemed like a long way back to town.
Chapter 7
The Bowman
I sat in the restaurant-bar of the Pinetop and did justice to black coffee and buckwheat cakes with syrup. The bartender looked cheerful. He came over to the table.
‘Say, you sure brought some life to this place,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I told you the centre of town was where all the action was.’
He tapped a copy of an L.A. paper; it showed a picture of me and Clark standing against the sedan below a foot of black type screaming about the Holgren murder.
‘Sure,’ I said, ‘you weren’t kidding. They got plenty of death too. You want to look out for tomorrow’s sheet if you think that’s something.’
His smile faded.
‘I did the job myself,’ I said. ‘Sheriff Clark doesn’t know about it yet. Keep it under your hat.’
‘Sure, Mr Faraday.’ The bar-keep gulped a little. He didn’t know whether to laugh or break into a gallop. Just then Grunwohl came into the bar. He nodded frostily at the bar-keep.
‘Don’t let me detain you,’ he snapped. The bar-tender walked over to the bar and started polishing glasses.
Grunwohl leaned over my table. ‘Just thought I’d remind you, Mr Faraday, that your credit runs out today. If you want to stay on you’ll have to re-register.’
‘I’ll come along to the office after breakfast,’ I said. ‘You’d better book me in for another week. This looks like being a long one.’
Grunwohl glanced at the paper which the bar-keep had left on the table.
‘Dreadful thing for the town,’ he said disapprovingly. He sounded like I should have left Holgren in the gutter and not have bothered to report it.
‘Murder’s always bad for trade,’ I said sympathetically. Grunwohl stared at me and then went out. The bar-keep sauntered back for his paper. He stared after Grunwohl. A suppressed sneer was fighting to get out. Finally he didn’t struggle against it any more.
‘There’s character in that face,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t know where it’s got to, but it must be there somewhere.’
I grinned and went on with my breakfast. When I finished I went down to Grunwohl’s office and got rid of some more greenbacks; he made Scrooge seem like a spendthrift the way he put the bills in his safe. I figured he was the sort of man who wires his notes into his wallet. Then I got the Buick and drove out of town; the wind felt like it had razor blades in it.
I parked the car way past the lodge gates; there was no sign of life there but I wasn’t interested in General Diaz this morning. I went along the road until I came to the houses opposite; there were two or three big villas set back from the road with broad, well-kept lawns, shaded by large trees which must have been an impressive sight in summer. The fourth house was the one I wanted.
It was almost opposite the lodge gates, but hidden entirely by trees and thick undergrowth; all one could see from the road was the white-painted top of a very tall building. Then I got lucky. In between the two entrance posts, set back from the gravelled drive on a narrow strip of lawn was a large white-painted board. In black Old English lettering it said; Fitzgeorge Country Club. Dancing. Residential Accommodation.
I set out walking up the drive. The place was laid out like a formal English garden with beech trees spreading wide branches over the muddy-looking winter lawns. At the end of the drive it split into two walks; to the left the gravelled path continued along the side of a lake. The right led to the house; two low wings joined to the central section which was built in Colonial style, with a vast pillared porch in front.
I picked out a window I thought would do, on the next to topmost storey; not too high, but high enough to clear the trees. I went up the central steps and rang the bell on the porch. The door was opened by a square-faced woman with a sharp look. I could have sworn she had twenty-twenty vision, though she wore glasses as big as manhole covers.
‘My wife and I are looking for a place to stay for a few days,’ I said.
She looked at me suspiciously. ‘A bit late for a holiday, isn’t it?’
‘Have you got a room or haven’t you?’ I said.
She seemed taken aback. She sniffed to cover her confusion. ‘Come in,’ she said, holding the door wide. It was a large hall inside, with white-panelled walls, furnished with good quality reproduction Colonial pieces.
‘We’d like something fairly high up, facing front,’ I said. She gave me another deadpan look. ‘We got some good rooms on the first floor,’ she said. ‘It’s a fair ways up to the top and there’s no lift.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘There’s no need for you to come.’
Her expression seemed to soften then. ‘Well,’ she said, more to herself than to me, ‘the bell-boy’s helping to drain out the swim-pool or I’d ask him to show you.
It’s out of season, you see.’
She waited indecisively, the fingers of one lean hand drumming on a carved table.
‘Well, I guess it won’t matter much, if you don’t mind seeing yourself up,’ she said. She took a couple of keys off a board covered with metal hooks; there must have been more than seventy rooms for guests.
‘Number fifty-nine fourth floor front centre, number seventy fifth floor,’ she said. Her eyes almost sparkled. ‘Hope you find what you’re looking for.’
‘Thanks,’ I said politely. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
I went up the broad, old-fashioned staircase. She stood in the hall looking up at me until I turned the corner of the stairhead. The decent decor extended to the upper floors. There was a good carpet in all the corridors. The lay-out had that out of season atmosphere; even the smell was out of season. The landings were too warm and dry with that never-opened-window feeling; the closets I passed were probably full of linen put away for the winter. There was no sound from behind the closed doors. Everything was dead and long done for.
I found number fifty-nine without any trouble. As soon as I got inside the door I knew I wouldn’t have to go up to the room above. This room would have done real fine. It was an elegant apartment with carved furniture and a massive reproduction four-poster with a canopy over it. Half of the window was taken up by a bulky rosewood dressing table with brass handles. I stood frowning at it.
Then I went down on the carpet. I worked my way along the skirting first. It all depended really on whether the dressing table had been moved and if it had, whether any impressions remained. I tested the weight with my hand; it was heavy enough. Presently I found very faint indentations left by the feet in the carpet; the thing had been moved to one side of the window. Then I went back towards the centre again. There were deep impressions in the carpet to the right of each leg. Someone had moved the table temporarily and then put it back slightly out of alignment.
Though the window panes were a blurred mess with the rain, the casement moved upwards in smooth runners. I could see the whole of General Diaz’ estate from here. Everything lined up if you worked from a certain angle. The lower floors of the big Gothic mansion with its mock-Georgian porch could be glimpsed only through the scrubby winter trees but the upper storeys were clear and stood out in sharp detail.
I could even see a figure at one of the windows. It moved away into the gloom beyond as I caught sight of it. But a good pair of field glasses would have done the trick. I felt quite pleased with myself. I looked on the edges of the sill; it was too much to expect that I should find scratches. There were some there, but old, judging by their appearance. I got down near the sill; I could smell a faint pungency that even the dampness of the rain-soaked garden couldn’t entirely dispel. When I rubbed my hand across the woodwork, a slight blackness remained on my fingers. I put down the window and relocked it with pardonable smugness. I went out and almost waltzed down the staircase.
Miss Dill-Pickle of 1929 looked almost human when I handed her the keys.
‘You didn’t find any trace of your wife, did you?’ she said gently. ‘I could have told you we’ve had no young lady staying here during the past few weeks.’
I must have looked confused, because I hadn’t a hell of an idea what she was talking about.
‘How did you guess?’ I said mechanically, before the answer came to me.
‘I’ve been in this business a long time, young man,’ she said, searching my face with dark eyes. ‘I get to know these things.’
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Thanks, anyway.’
‘You won’t be wanting the room, will you?’ she said.
‘Not now,’ I said truthfully.
‘I quite understand,’ she said, putting a sympathetic hand on my arm. She opened the door for me.
‘I hope you find her,’ she said, as I went down the porch steps. I guess my hunched shoulders must have looked like I was trying to fight back the tears of a deserted husband. Except that I was struggling to prevent myself from busting out laughing. I didn’t want to spoil the old lady’s faith in her sagacity.
When I had straightened my face I was almost up to the car. A girl was standing by it looking at the rear number plate. She wore black walking slacks and had a not altogether unattractive figure from what I could see of it under her pale blue windcheater.
The bright yellow bell of her hair told me who it was before she turned round.
‘Hi, there,’ said Patti Morgan brightly.
*
Close-up, I saw that she was even more attractive than she had seemed in Dame Dora’s office; of course I had been more intent on preserving my dignity than in taking an inventory, but now I had more time. Her eyes had a sparkle and her face a freshness that wasn’t only due to the cold air.
‘I live here. Remember?’ she said.
‘You didn’t say so,’ I told her.
She turned a wide-eyed face towards me. ‘Didn’t I really? But then you were too busy teaching Dame Dora the rudiments of judo, as I recall it.’
‘How is the old lady?’ I said hastily, passing on to safer ground.
‘Fine,’ she said, smoothing down an imaginary out of place hair on her immaculate head. ‘She gave me a couple of days off to see my folks.’
‘Her way of keeping tabs on me?’ I said.
She shook her head vigorously. ‘Not at all, Mr Faraday. Dame Dora doesn’t work like that. She gives absolute trust.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘My suspicious mind.’ She laughed. ‘You don’t look like a detective.’
‘What did you expect?’ I said.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Outside of films and plays I’ve always pictured them as grubby little men listening at keyholes and spying on bedrooms in divorce cases. Private ones, that is.’
‘I get some cases like that,’ I said. ‘You want a lift somewhere?’
She looked away from me up towards The Palisades and the distant fringe of the dark trees.
‘Well, I was out for the exercise, but I think I’ve done enough walking for one day.’
I opened the door for her and she got into the passenger seat. I caught a soft rustle as she sat down; I figured she was wearing stockings underneath her slacks. I don’t know why but somehow that seemed quite an exciting idea. It must have been the cold weather. There was a glint in her eye as I shut the door, like she knew what I was thinking. I put in the gear and we rolled back towards town.
‘How are you making out?’ she asked.
‘Nothing spectacular,’ I lied. ‘It’s a tight little town.’
She smiled. ‘You can say that again. Dad’s been in business here over twenty-five years and we’re considered foreigners.’
She leaned forward and got a cigarette out of a pack she took from the pocket of her anorak; I lit it for her from the dash lighter. She wrinkled her nose at me through the smoke.
‘A terrible business about Mr Holgren. What with Carmen missing, the town’s a sad place.’
‘Did you know Holgren?’ I asked.
She shook h
er head. ‘Only by name. He was quite a big man in L.A., I believe. Dame Dora served on the committee of the Chamber of Commerce with him once. An awful way to die.’
She huddled into the depths of the anorak, though whether from the coldness of the air outside the Buick or from thinking about Mudville’s mortality rate, I couldn’t make out.
‘You can drop me on the edge of town,’ she said. ‘I’ve got a few shopping calls to make.’
‘You wouldn’t care for a drink?’ I said.
Her eyes were bright as she turned towards me in the shadow of the car interior. ‘Try me,’ she said.
I pulled up in front of one of the hotels in the town centre. It was the Adair-House. We got out and walked through into the lounge. There was a long horse-shoe bar at one end. A few people were sitting about looking like they had all day to spare. We sat down in a booth.
Patti Morgan eased herself out of the anorak. She wore a white sweater underneath. Her figure did quite a lot for it.
‘How’s Stella?’ she said.
‘I didn’t know you’d met,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘Now and again. Shopping around in L.A.’
A white-coated waiter with a built-in plastic smile came up for our order. His delight went on and off like a neon sign. I ordered a lager for myself. Patti Morgan chose a sherry.
‘You busy tonight?’ she asked.
I thought of my room in the Pinetop, Grunwohl’s brand of cheerfulness, Clark’s antiseptic office and the rain coming down over it all. I didn’t propose to spend all my evenings in Mudville crawling around in wet mould. Though I didn’t show too much eagerness.
‘Depends,’ I said cautiously.
