Tarrant came back after a time, with a full glass, and I said, "Nice view you've got," because it was the thing to say—and because it was.
"The finest in the valley, for my money," he agreed. "That's why I saved it for myself."
"Do you operate your realty office from here?" I asked him. "I noticed the signs out front."
"Mostly. I keep a small office and a secretary in Cypress Bay, of course." He had some of his fresh drink. "Was there anything specific you wanted to know about Walt Paige—or just general impressions? I really don't know much about him."
"Well, were you surprised to learn of his return to this area?"
"Surprised and not at all pleased. I never particularly liked him, to be frank. He was arrogant and overbearing, and we were hardly more than civil to one another."
There was something in the way he said it that made me ask, "Was this morning's radio report the first you knew of his return?"
"No. He made a local call to me here, four or five weekends ago."
"For what reason?"
"He wanted to rent a piece of property in Cypress Bay that I happened to be handling."
I frowned. "Real estate or a private home?"
"Neither. A small vacant shop on Balboa, off Grove."
"What sort of shop?"
"It was formerly a newsstand," Tarrant said. "The previous owner had gone out of business the week before, due to a lack of funds and some hard luck with vandals."
"Did you rent the shop to Paige?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"To put it simply, I didn't like the idea of him settling in Cypress Bay; he wasn't the kind of man you like to see in your community. So I refused rental to him."
"How did he react to that?"
"He didn't like it, naturally."
"Was he abusive?"
"Not really. He tried to talk me into reconsidering, but when he realized I wasn't having any, he broke the connection."
"Did you hear from him again?"
"That was the one and only time."
"Is the shop still unrented?"
Tarrant moved his head negatively. "Central store property in Cypress Bay is in heavy demand, and I've never had any problem renting vacancies; that's why I could afford to refuse to do business with Paige. I rented the shop two days later, to a party from Los Angeles."
"Did Paige tell you why he wanted it?"
"He said he had come into a small amount of money, and had always liked Cypress Bay, and was interested in going into business there. He didn't say what sort of business, but I assumed it was another newsstand that he had in mind; the shop is too small for much else."
I tried to make something out of all this, and made nothing at all. I said, "Do you know if he contacted anyone of a mutual acquaintance while he was in Cypress Bay the past five weekends?"
"Such as who?"
"Russ Dancer, Robin Lomax, either of the Winestocks."
"Not to my knowledge, no."
"Paige had been seeing a woman during these weekend visits of his," I said. "It's possible she was one he knew when he lived here previously. Any idea who she might be?"
"He had quite a string of conquests to his credit, from what I gathered," Tarrant said. "I never knew what any of them saw in him. How do you know he was seeing a woman in Cypress Bay?"
"There were indications."
"Indications?"
"Facts that haven't been made public."
"Oh—I see. No, I don't know who she might be. Do the police think she killed him?"
"There's the chance of it."
"And they have no clues to her identity?"
"Not at the moment, anyway."
"Frankly, I hope they never find out," Tarrant said. "If she killed Paige, she did the world something of a favor." He had a little more of his drink. "You were working for Paige's young wife, according to the radio. Divorce evidence?"
"In a way."
"That's ironic, isn't it?"
"I guess you could say that."
"How is she taking his death?"
"Badly."
"She'll get over it. Women are adaptable creatures."
"Yeah," I said. "Look, Mr. Tarrant, do you know a dark, balding man, about forty, wedge-shaped and heavy-featured? He may be a friend of Brad Winestock's."
Tarrant frowned thoughtfully. "No, I don't think so. I haven't seen Winestock in some time—we don't move in the same circles any longer—and I wouldn't know any of his current friends. Why do you ask?"
"Paige met this man shortly before he was killed," I said. "The police would like to know who he is and why he had his meeting with Paige."
"I see."
I said, "Well, I won't bother you any longer, Mr. Tarrant. I appreciate your talking to me."
"Glad to do it," he said. He got a wallet from the rear pocket of his chinos. "Let me give you a couple of my business cards, in the event you or your friends are ever in the market for real estate in this area."
I wanted to tell him it was not likely that I or any present or future friends of mine would ever be in the market for property in Cypress Bay and environs, but I said nothing. I let him give me three small white embossed cards and tucked them away in my own wallet. We shook hands, and he raised his glass to me in a congenial parting and turned away to look down into the canyon as I crossed the terrace to the side railing.
When I reached the top of the cut-out steps, I paused to light a cigarette; then I shook the match out and put it under the cellophane wrapping on the Pall Mall package and started over to my car. Just as I got there, the front door of the house opened and an auburn-haired woman wearing a yellow sundress came outside. She stood for a moment, looking at me uncertainly, and then she came forward and around the car to where I was standing.
She was a few years younger than Tarrant, tall and golden and little—not beautiful, but possessed of a certain intangible beauty nonetheless. A dusting of tiny sepia-colored freckles adorned the bridge of her nose, and she had a wide, mobile mouth and eyes that were very pale except for a violet-blue rim about the irises. The auburn hair was cut semi-long; she wore it waved, with long bangs to partially conceal a high forehead. Her body was strong and nice, and the yellow sundress, low at the bodice and high at the hem, let you see a good deal of it.
She said, "I'm Bianca Tarrant, Keith's wife," and smiled in a vague way. Her eyes had the same kind of shine that Tarrant's had had, and you could tell that he had not been drinking alone on this afternoon.
"How are you, Mrs. Tarrant?"
"I was down in the lounge," she said, "and I heard part of what you and my husband were talking about—enough to know who you are and why you're here."
I had nothing to say to that, so I smiled at her and waited politely.
She said, "Have you any idea who killed Walter Paige?"
"Not at the moment. The police are working on several possibilities."
"He was a good man," she said softly. "He didn't deserve to die the way he did."
"Did you know him well, Mrs. Tarrant?"
"We were good friends six years ago."
"Had you seen him since he returned to Cypress Bay?"
"No. No, I hadn't seen him. I didn't know he'd come back."
"And if you had?" I asked gently.
"What?"
"Would you have liked to see him again?"
"Yes," she answered, "yes, I would have liked to see him again." The pale eyes seemed depthless now. "I hope you find his killer. I hope you make him pay dearly for his crime."
She turned before I could say anything else, and walked quickly and somewhat unsteadily back to the house. The door clicked shut after her. I stood there by the car, looking at the closed door and listening to the soft voice of a late-afternoon breeze calling across the rim of the canyon—and thinking again about those deep and black and far-reaching undercurrents.
Eleven
I wedged my car into a parking space on Balboa Street and went over to look
at the newsstand Walter Paige had attempted to rent.
It was still unoccupied and there was not much to see. It had a narrow adobe front with a padlock on the door, and an oblong facing window that was partially obscured by soaping and imprinted with the words Martin’s News Agency; there was a sidewalk awning, but it had been rolled back above the door and window. The shop's immediate neighbor to the north was a combination candy store and soda fountain; to the south, a dark and cobblestoned little alley led eastward through the center of the block to Pine Street, and its opposite wall belonged to a curio shop. I was able to look inside the newsstand past the soaped glass, but there was nothing except shadowed emptiness. Apparently the new tenant had not as yet taken possession; or if he had, intended to renovate before moving in fresh stock and opening for business.
I went down the alley a little way, and the newsstand had a side door that showed signs of having been forcibly entered at one time—the vandals Tarrant had mentioned—and which now was also padlocked from the outside. I thought that it would open on a storeroom, since the building was considerably longer than it was wide and the interior I had glimpsed through the window was less than three-quarters of the overall length. The rear wall of the structure was set flush with the rear wall of another building facing on Pine Street; just for the hell of it I went through to Pine and looked at the storefront there, and it was a mod boutique that specialized in hand-tooled leather garments for men and women "of discerning taste."
There was nothing in any of this that I could see. Maybe Paige had had the honest intention of opening a small newsstand in Cypress Bay, although that seemed pretty much out of character; or maybe he had had some ulterior motive that I could not even begin to interpret; or maybe Tarrant had been lying about Paige's call for some reason of his own.
More things to wonder about, I thought—too many things. The Lomaxes and the Winestocks and the balding guy and what Russ Dancer had not told me about his relationship with Walter Paige and just what Bianca Tarrant’s relationship had been with Walter Paige and whether or not Keith Tarrant had been completely honest and why Paige had tried to rent a vacant store in downtown Cypress Bay. And Dancer's damned book, The Dead and the Dying, and why Paige had had it and just what it meant, if it meant anything at all . . .
I returned to Balboa Street and got into my car and started for the City Hall again. But I had to pass near the Bay Head Inn to get there, and I decided it was about time I looked in again on Judith Paige. I felt vaguely guilty about neglecting to check on her since the morning; it was not healthy for her to sit up in that dark room alone, grieving, perhaps brooding, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.
I parked in front of the place and went inside and up the curving staircase to the second floor. She opened the door herself this time, in response to my knock, and she looked considerably better than she had earlier. She had put a touch of coral lipstick on her mouth and brushed her hair a little, and the wistfulness and the sorrow were tempered with a certain resolve. I felt myself relax, looking at her. She was going to be okay now; you could tell it by her eyes and by the way she carried herself.
I said, "Hello, Mrs. Paige. I just thought I'd stop by to see how you were feeling."
"Much better, thank you," she said, and gave me a small, brave smile.
"Have you been alone here all day?"
"Well, Chief Quartermain came by twice—once this morning, after you left, and once a little while ago."
"That's good. How about food? Have you eaten?"
"We went for a walk, and he bought me some soup and a sandwich. I didn't think I wanted to go out, or to eat anything, but now I'm glad I did."
So am I, I thought. "Did the Chief have any . . . news?"
"No, I don't think so. He didn't say, if he had."
And I was not going to say either, not at this point. There were too many intangibles, for one thing, and for another she was starting to bear up fine now and the kind of facts I did know for certain could only have upset her. I said, "Did he tell you whether or not we—you—could leave for San Francisco tonight?"
"Yes. He said it was all right."
"Good. I've got to go over to see him now, and there's the chance I'll have to stay on here for another day or so. If so, I'll call you and let you know—and I'm sure the Chief will assign someone to drive you to the airport in Monterey, and make arrangements for someone else to meet you in San Francisco and take you home."
"All right," she said. "But why should you have to stay another day?"
"I'm not certain that I will have to; it just may work out that way." I paused. "If it does, would you mind if I called you in San Francisco when I get back? And maybe dropped out to see you?"
She had another of those small smiles for me. "No, of course I wouldn't mind. I think I'll need someone to talk to, until I can return to my family."
We touched hands, and hers was soft and moist and very tiny in mine—a child's hand. Christ, she made me feel paternal. I resisted an impulse to kiss her cheek, smiled at her, and left her again with some regrets.
I drove on to City Hall, and this time Quartermain was there. The fat sergeant told me he had come in a half-hour earlier, apparently just after he had left Judith for the second time; the sergeant got a phone okay for me to go in, and buzzed open the electronic doors. Less than a minute later I opened the door to Quartermain's private office.
He was sitting behind the walnut desk with the heels of his hands pressed against his temples, as if he were suffering a savage headache. His sad face had a weary, houndish look. I shut the door quietly, and he said, "I would have been back two hours ago, but I stopped at the Bay Head to see Mrs. Paige."
I sat down in the same armchair I had occupied that morning. "I know," I said. "I just left her myself."
"She seems to be holding her own now."
"I thought so too. It was good of you to take her out for a walk and something to eat."
"Yeah, well, she needed it," he said. He lowered his hands and swiveled around to look at me. "Donovan, out on the desk, said you'd stopped by twice to see me while I was gone. What's on your mind?"
"Quite a few things," I told him. "I've spent the day putting my nose into things, where it probably doesn't belong."
"Paige's death, you mean?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
"Well, it started with the book."
"The paperback from Paige's bag?"
"Uh-huh. There was a lead in it after all."
"What sort of lead?"
"The author, Russell Dancer. I'd read some of his pulp stories, and they were set in the San Francisco area— the later ones; so was The Dead and the Dying. So I followed a hunch and looked him up in the local telephone directory."
"He's listed?"
"R. Dancer, Beach Road, County."
"Christ, I never even thought of that possibility."
"You can't think of everything," I said. "And you can't know everybody who lives in or around your community."
"I suppose not," he admitted. "I take it there was a connection between Dancer and Paige?"
I nodded. "Dancer knew him about six years ago."
"Where?"
"Cypress Bay. Paige lived here for six or seven months, and he was part of a bar-hopping group that included Dancer and several other local residents. He was apparently involved with most of them, in one way or another."
"How do you mean?"
"Like this," I said, and I told him the rest of it, slowly, including each of my impressions. He let me tell it once without interruption; then he had me repeat parts of it, asking questions now and then and making notes on a ruled pad. Finally he sat back and tapped the clip of his pen against his front teeth, but there was no disapproval for me on his long face. I thought it was going to keep on being all right between us.
He said, "I shouldn't have been so quick to discount that goddamned book; it seems to have keyed open a few local closets."
; "I think it ties in further, too," I said, "but I can't figure how. I drew nothing but blanks when I asked about it."
"I don't like the way all this is shaping up," Quartermain said. "Last night Paige's death had most of the earmarks of a simple crime of passion, but you've uncovered a hell of a lot of potential complications and involvements. Murder in a town like Cypress Bay is bad enough, but when some of the more respected members of the community begin figuring into it, it's a damn sight worse. I know Keith Tarrant and the Lomaxes, and I'm not going to relish digging into their private lives—especially if it means a large amount of adverse publicity. We're a resort town, primarily, and we can't afford any kind of a major blow-off."
I did not say anything.
Quartermain made an abrupt deprecating gesture. "Hell, that sounds callous and insular, and those are two things I try not to be. I didn't mean that I intend to soft-pedal my investigation; I'm a cop and I've got a job to do and I'm going to do it the best way I know how—publicity or no publicity. I guess I was just thinking out loud, lamenting a little."
"Nobody likes to see a blow-off in his town," I said. "A cop least of all."
"Yeah," he said, and sighed. "Well, maybe those skeletons that seem to be rattling around don't include the bones of murder; that's something to hope for anyway."
"What are you going to do first, if I can ask?"
"Talk to Brad Winestock," he answered. "I want to know who this bald man is and why he keeps turning up."
"I'd like to know that myself."
He looked at me for a time, meditatively. "You want to tag along for the ride?"
I sat up straight in the chair. I had not expected anything like that; at best, I had figured him to ask me to hang around for another day or two. "Hell yes, if you'll have me."
Undercurrent (The Nameless Detective) Page 9
