I concentrated, finally, on blanking them out; they were questions that could have no answers until Quartermain returned from Monterey. One by one, they faded until they were all gone—and immediately, perversely, something else began tugging at my mind, a thought that was not a thought, an evanescent scrap, something very important, a sentence or two sentences that someone had spoken today or last night. I reached for it mentally, but a kind of warm fog seemed to be unfolding inside my head and my consciousness commenced sinking into it and I could not quite grasp the thought even though I kept on reaching and reaching and reaching . . .
*****
Someone began gently shaking my shoulder, and I came up out of fevered and fitful darkness with a groggy sense of disorientation at first and then with returning awareness. Pain went to work in my temples in a dull, steady cadence, and harshly in my throat as I tried to swallow. I forced myself into a sitting position and pried my eyes open. Light burned at my retinas, and then diminished, and I could see all right.
Quartermain gave me a pallid smile and said, "Sorry to wake you, but I thought you'd want to talk. And I had some coffee and sandwiches made up; we both need a little nourishment."
"It's okay, Ned, thanks,"
"Did you get much sleep?"
"I don't know, what time is it?"
"Quarter of seven."
"Christ, that late? I guess about three hours, but it feels more like three minutes."
I put my head in my hands and tried to gather enough strength to get up on my feet. My mouth felt cottony, and my head and throat kept on hurting. I took several thick breaths and heaved up and moved shakily over to the desk and sat down again in one of the armchairs. I was fully awake now, and I remembered the evanescent thought I had been trying to grasp just before falling asleep; but the thought itself seemed to be gone for the time being, vanished into my subconscious.
Quartermain walked around behind the desk and sank into his chair. His long face was so deeply lined that the creases looked like knife cuts, and his eyes seemed to be bleeding. I said, "You've got to get some sleep yourself pretty soon. You look dead on your tail, Ned."
"Don't I know it?" He poured coffee for both of us and slid one of the cups over to me. "But Christ knows when I'll get to bed now, or when any of us will."
"Problems?"
"Yeah. Paige's death. The bald guy—his name is Sarkelian, Edward Sarkelian—claims he didn't have anything to do with the stabbing of Paige. The other two, Androvitch and Collins, claim the same thing."
"They couldn't be lying?"
"No reason for them to lie, not now. We've got them cold on the Winestock killing. One of the guns stuffed into the valise with the bank's money was the murder weapon; a ballistics check proved that. Androvitch, the tall one that waited in the newsstand, says it's Sarkelian's gun. He also says Sarkelian shot Winestock; he's trying to cop a plea."
"What does Sarkelian say?"
"He admitted it. In the face of the evidence, the public defender we got for them advised him to tell it straight, and he told it. I think you and I both figured him for a sharpie, but he's not smart at all—a strong-arm body, a three-time loser, and all for armed robbery. He knows he's going back for life anyway, with this fall, and the way things are in California these days, he knows the odds are good he'll never be executed for murder even if he's given the death sentence in court. But he flatly denies killing Paige. He says he had no motive, and the other two back him up."
I began to think about all the undercurrents that had manifested themselves in the past two days, and the kind of man Paige had been, and I was not surprised that it had turned out this way. I said, "So it's two separate murders, two separate cases."
"Some irony, isn't it? Paige's death led us to the book and the book led us to the robbery, but that's as far as it goes. The damned book didn't have anything to do with the murder of Paige, after all."
I drank a little coffee and took a bite out of a sandwich and managed to force it down. Hunger pangs instantly began to form under my breastbone. I ate more of the sandwich, mincingly. "What else did you get out of Sarkelian and the other two? Was Paige the mastermind behind the robbery?"
Quartermain nodded. "It's pretty much the way we figured. Paige met Sarkelian in San Quentin, and they struck up an acquaintance; Sarkelian was serving a ten-year stretch for a San Diego holdup. They talked about working a job together when they were on the outside again, since they were due to be released at about the same time, Sarkelian three months before Paige—some pair of incorrigibles, all right. But they didn't have anything definite in mind. It was only after Paige got out, and his parole officer found him a job in San Francisco, that Dancer's book came into it.
"According to what Sarkelian says, Paige was living in a hotel near the Tenderloin and the clerk there had a box of old paperback books that he kept around for the tenants. Paige happened to notice one of the tenants reading The Dead and the Dying, and recognized Dancer's name, and got hold of the book for the hell of it He wasn't much of a reader, as his wife confirmed, but he read the thing anyway—fate, maybe, sowing the seeds of his own destruction.
"Anyway, the robbery blueprint intrigued him enough to keep the book around, but not enough for him to do anything about it at that time; he was looking for something better, something less complicated. Meanwhile, he met Judith and talked her into marrying him when he couldn't get at her any other way and moved to Glen Park. When nothing else came up, he began thinking again about the robbery Dancer had outlined and finally got in touch with Sarkelian; the two of them met and talked it over and decided it was worth looking into. So Paige contacted Brad Winestock."
"Why Winestock?" I asked.
"The two of them knew one another a hell of a lot better six years ago than Winestock's sister or anyone else thought. Paige talked Winestock at that time into helping him pull off a three or four-thousand dollar burglary in Seaside, and then kept most of the money for himself. It was the only job the two of them did together; Paige's leaving of Cypress Bay, for what he thought were greener pastures down south, took place just afterward."
"Paige had a way with everybody, didn't he?" I said sourly, and tried not to think of Beverly Winestock.
"Some sweet son of a bitch, all right," Quartermain said. "Well, he talked Winestock into checking out the local banks as unobtrusively as possible; when Winestock reported on the National Exchange Bank, it began to look pretty good to Paige. The fact that there were no vacant stores bordering on through alleys in the vicinity stopped them for a time, but Winestock did some more checking and found out about the old guy who ran the newsstand and how shaky things were for him. Acting on Paige's orders, he broke into the place on two separate occasions and vandalized it; inside two months the old guy was out of business."
"And Paige was in business."
"Yeah. He came down to Cypress Bay himself and contacted Keith Tarrant about renting the newsstand; he might have been smarter to keep his name out of it entirely, but he didn't and Tarrant turned him down. It didn't matter much; Paige got Androvitch to pose as an L.A. businessman and two days later Tarrant rented Androvitch the newsstand. All they needed then was a time when the bank would be at its heaviest with cash, and they settled on today.
"The holdup was to work exactly as Dancer had outlined it in the book, except that they figured to use Winestock as a safety valve; he was to be waiting in a car at the Pine Street mouth of the alley, in case anything went wrong, and for that and for the other errands he'd done he was in for a full fifth. Paige would be the one to wait in the newsstand for the drop. Collins, who was once an electrician's apprentice, would handle the alarm system; and Sarkelian and Androvitch would supply the muscle. That's the way they planned it and that's the way it would have come off if Paige hadn't gotten himself killed on Saturday."
"The others must have been in a hell of a sweat when they learned of the stabbing," I said.
"They were. They couldn't figure why Paige had been kil
led or who had killed him; there had been no trouble among themselves, so they knew none of them had done it. And when Paige and Sarkelian met where you saw them in the park, to discuss final preparations and a time schedule, Paige didn't seem to be worried about anything. Sarkelian and the others talked it over and decided it was tough for Paige, but a four-way split was fatter than a five-way split and they didn't see any reason for not going through with the holdup as planned."
"And then I began asking questions about The Dead and the Dying, and about Sarkelian."
"Uh-huh. Beverly Winestock told her brother about your visit to her yesterday, and he told Sarkelian, and the cheese really began to get binding. If you or I read that book, the whole thing was blown. But they knew we hadn't read it yet; you wouldn't have been asking the questions you were asking. And when you and I went to see Winestock last night, they knew we still hadn't read it or we wouldn't have still been fishing; but they also knew, from Winestock's phone call to Sarkelian after we left, that we were dangerously close to the truth. Sarkelian ordered Winestock to meet him later at his motel in Monterey, and then went to the Beachwood—he knew you were staying there from the radio reports—on the gamble you'd have the book in your cottage rather than on your person, or that you hadn't already given it back to me. He won that hand, even though it set him up to lose the gamble. Then he drove down to Dancer's, threw Paige's copy of the book into the sea, and set fire to the shack after picking the porch-door lock. If Dancer had been there, he would have died in the blaze, all right."
"How come they went through with the robbery with Dancer still alive?"
"Paige had told Sarkelian a little about Dancer, how he'd turned out millions of words in his career and how he didn't think Dancer would remember the book after twenty years. And they figured, since the book was that old, we wouldn't be able to dig up another copy in time to prevent the robbery. Like I said, Paige was the brains behind this whole thing, and Sarkelian and the other two nothing but strong-arms. All they could think about was the money. Like moths to a flame."
"How much was in the valise? How much would they have gotten away with if it had worked out the way they planned?"
"A little better than seventy thousand."
"Not much for all the trouble they went to," I said. "And for murder besides."
"Not much at all."
"Why did Sarkelian kill Winestock?"
"Winestock was scared, ready to crack from the pressure we put on him last night at his house; he'd been nervous as hell from the time he talked to Sarkelian in the afternoon, when you saw them together, and the liquor he'd drunk hadn't helped any. He wanted out, all the way out; he was planning to skip town, like a damned fool, and he tried to threaten some money out of Sarkelian. Sarkelian wrapped his gun in bathroom towels to muffle the noise and shot him. It was the only thing he could do, Sarkelian said. If he'd let Winestock try to make a run for it, we'd have picked him up in a matter of hours—and in his condition we'd have gotten the truth out of him sure as hell.
"After he shot Winestock, he drove the body out to Spanish Bay, with Androvitch following in their car, and left the Studebaker where it was found this morning. Spanish Bay is only about two miles from Sarkelian's motel, but even so they were damned lucky not to have been spotted in Winestock's car and stopped; if they had, it would have been finished right there."
"Except for whoever killed Paige," I said.
"Except for that."
"It's got to be the woman, Ned. Or someone connected with the woman."
"That's how it adds up," Quartermain agreed. "The same simple equation we had in the beginning."
"I take it Sarkelian doesn't know who she is."
"No. He knew Paige was bedding some local female, but he never saw the two of them together and Paige wasn't talking, characteristically. He doesn't know her name, or what she looks like. He also thinks she's the one who killed Paige."
I drank more coffee, and then asked, "Did you talk to Robin Lomax? She was waiting for you when I came in at three o'clock."
His bloodshot eyes turned grave. "Yeah, I talked to her."
"What did she have to say?"
"Some confidential information that I shouldn't discuss at all." He sighed. "But I think you've got a right to know, as long as it doesn't go any further than this office."
"You know it won't."
"All right. She'd been wrestling with her conscience and her pride all day, and she finally made up her mind to tell the real story of her relationship with Paige. Her husband doesn't know she came here today; he wouldn't like it if he did—but he's not going to know about it."
"Then that story he told us this morning was a lie?"
"Half lie and half truth. Robin had a fight with Jason six years ago and she had too much to drink brooding about it and she let Paige get her alone. Only he didn't try to attack her, and she didn't fight him off."
"Oh," I said, "I see."
"There's more to it than that," Quartermain said. His voice contained the kind of sadness a sensitive and moral man feels when he's given knowledge of the dark transgressions of people he's always liked and respected. "Jason Lomax is sterile; he's been sterile all his life."
I winced a little, involuntarily, and I thought: So Tommy Lomax is Walter Paige's son. But I did not say it. There was no point in saying it.
Quartermain sighed again. "That's why they immediately became nervous and frightened when you went to see them yesterday and mentioned Paige and told them you were a private investigator. They've both subconsciously accepted that phony fictional image of a private detective as a potential blackmailer; they thought you'd found out their secret, perhaps from Paige, and had come to shake them down. Then you confused hell out of them by telling them Paige was dead and bringing me into it, and your association with me; and that also gave them a brand-new apprehension: the threat of a scandal as a result of a police investigation. That's why they left in such a hurry last night; they wanted the opportunity to concoct a lie to cover up—expecting me to show up immediately after you left, you see. Lomax convinced Robin this was their only choice, and manufactured the attempted-rape business. I guess I don't blame him, in a way; he was only trying to protect his wife's reputation, and his own. He may be something of a fool, but he's also enough of a man to have married Robin when she told him she was pregnant, and to give the boy his name."
I agreed with that—thinking: Maybe I was a little hard on him after all; he's got his faults, but haven't we all? And my cop's mind added: But if he's that fiercely loyal to her, and if he hated Paige enough, and if they weren't playing tennis together Saturday afternoon as they claim, wouldn't he perhaps commit murder to maintain both his reputation and his wife's?
Quartermain said, "From the tone of the questions I asked this morning, Robin was afraid we suspected her or her husband of killing Paige—perhaps even of murdering Brad Winestock, for some unknown reason. And if we uncovered the truth about her relationship with Paige, Jason's lie would look far more incriminating than it was. She decided to tell the truth, no matter how painful it would be, to save later embarrassment and misconceptions."
"That was the right thing to do," I said, "assuming that the confession wasn't a last-ditch effort to cover up. She's got a better motive than ever to have killed Paige, Ned."
"But not to have slept with him again, remember that."
"Unless she'd been carrying the torch all these years, in spite of the boy, and gave herself to him as a result, and then something happened to kindle a murderous hatred."
"Okay," he admitted reluctantly, "that's possible. I don't like it, but it is possible. Robin still says that she and Jason were together at the time of Paige's death, but that could easily enough be a lie."
"I'm not saying she's guilty, Ned; I'm only offering potentialities. It could also be that Paige did seduce Bianca Tarrant—six years ago or just recently—despite what her husband told us this morning; and that she was the one in his bed and who killed him
for some reason. Or it could be, if Mrs. Tarrant is the woman, that her husband killed Paige in a jealous rage—the same way Jason Lomax could have done it if his wife were the woman. And it could even be that the woman is Beverly Winestock; that she was Paige's mistress previously and they resumed their affair after his return—or, more likely, that she went to him specifically to talk him out of whatever he was planning with her brother, maybe knowing about that Seaside burglary Paige talked Winestock into, and used her body for bargaining power. If so, and knowing the kind of son of a bitch Paige was, he could have used her and then laughed at her and tried to throw her out—and in blind rage, she stabbed him,"
"All sound, logical possibilities," Quartermain said. "But if one is fact, how do we find it out? And there's another potential that I don't even want to think about: that the woman, the murderer or murderers, is or are totally divorced from anything that's happened in the past couple of days; one person, or two, who haven't entered into it at all thus far."
"Yeah," I said, "but somehow I don't think so. Paige's woman is Bianca Tarrant or Robin Lomax or Beverly Winestock; I've got a feeling about that, a hunch that—"
I stopped talking and frowned and put my coffee cup down. The evanescent thought, the certainly important scrap of dialogue that someone had spoken recently, began to tease my conscious mind again, searching for admittance. I concentrated on the thought and groped for it and caught it this time and held on, pulling it free and shaping it into coherence. And I had it. The hair on the back of my neck prickled and I had it.
I sat up straight in the chair. "How did he know?" I said aloud. "How did he know?"
Quartermain looked at me oddly. "What?"
"When you were talking to him earlier today, he said something about the woman Paige had in his bed just before he was killed. How did he know Paige had a woman in his bed Saturday afternoon—in his goddamn bed? I didn't think anything about it then because we were so damned tensed up, but I didn't tell him and you didn't tell him and you didn't release that information to the news media. How did he know?"
Undercurrent (The Nameless Detective) Page 18
