by Jon Wilson
He sat staring at the toes of his slippers. He edged his words around the cigar butt clamped tightly between his teeth. “There ain’t no letters.”
I breathed in deep through my nose. “You fed me a swell steak and provided this excellent beer and smoke, but—”
“You ain’t listening. There ain’t no letters. Even if there might have been. There ain’t no more.”
My breath came out in a sudden disheartened sigh. “Ah, hell.”
Holmsby couldn’t meet my eye. “Yeah. He was…it…I think he really liked her. Adam did, you see? But the colonel…they…I think…I don’t know…But I do think they discussed things, certain individuals, for instance, and he was afraid.”
I combed my fingers roughly through my hair. I was staring at the carpet and thinking about how much I had been relying on those letters and how puffed up I had allowed myself to get at the idea that I was going to solve this thing. And how relaxed I had been the last hour or so and how phony that whole hour had been. Then the guilt came. And then the anger.
“So what? Did he burn them? Did you see him do it?” I slid forward on the sofa and rose slowly to my feet. “Or did you do it for him?”
Holmsby had no trouble looking at me then. He watched me the way I had watched him a moment or so before. “You want me to get up so you can knock me down?”
“What I’d like.” I stared at him, then abruptly cut toward my hat and jacket. They lay draped carefully over the back of the sofa. “Thank you for the steak. And the beer.”
“You’re mad,” he said like I might not have realized it myself. “Have another.”
“I better go.” I shoved my arms brutally down the sleeves of my jacket, then decided it wasn’t so high class I might not easily rip a seam if I wasn’t careful. I took another deep breath. “Jeez.”
“I know.” Having risen, Holmsby stood beside the armchair watching me.
I turned back and looked him square in the eye. “You don’t know. You don’t know or you wouldn’t have let him do it.”
Chapter Twenty-one
If you take Dolores south from Market, it swings slowly down into a gully before working gradually up another hill. Toward the top of that rise, you find your path bisected by Twenty-Fourth Street and, on your left, you’ll spy some fine old examples of prewar opulence squeezed onto undersized lots, playing peekaboo with you from behind young but majestic poplar and cedar and the ever-present peppers. Dolores itself is a broad majestic stretch of road. Doubtless, perhaps before the earthquake and fire, someone had supposed it would provide an elegant and coveted corridor into the Mission. But it’s only been since the war that money has started to reclaim the district, bringing new blood and resurgent property values and, according to Walter Cobb, long-time resident and owner of the Cobb Detective Agency, too much noise and lousy kids.
As mad as I’d exited Holmsby’s quaint cottage, it took me hardly any time at all to figure my next move. Probably that had to do with the fact that the idea had been skirting around the back of my cranium since Joe Lovejoy’s friendly phone call the previous morning. Only my natural inclination to avoid the underlying unpleasant ramifications had kept me from pursuing the lead earlier. As it was, my wristwatch was closing in on nine o’clock when I snagged a parking spot just two houses down from Casa Cobb’s front door.
He answered himself, in shirtsleeves with no vest, his tie in place but relaxed, exposing the undone top button of his collar. His eyes neither squinted nor widened when he found me on his stoop. He was too cagey for such a blatant tell, but he pinched his not unsubstantial tufts of eyebrows together up over his enormous mangled chunk of nose. “Declan?” He was quite clear that it was a question, only the question had nothing to do with my name.
“Mr. Cobb.” I tried to make it equally clear that mine was an answer. I nearly even nodded to show him, yes, I really was standing unannounced on his doorstep. It interested me that I found myself half turned, nearly glancing over my left shoulder at him. “Were you expecting me?”
“Expecting you?” His expression struck me as genuinely taken aback. “I’ve been calling you for days, and you haven’t seen fit to answer. Why would I be expecting you?”
That allowed me to face him head on, and I made the move casually, edging my shoes around on the smooth concrete as quietly as possible. “I thought maybe—”
He lowered his eyebrows back to their default positions, then dropped them even lower. “Why are you here? It’s late.”
“Yes, sir. I believe we have things to discuss.”
“Which would explain why I’ve been telephoning.” He managed to keep his tone lighthearted, despite the petulance of his words. There was even the hint of a wry smile at the corner of his wide mouth. He glanced down, not at my shoes or the stoop, but possibly at options, then tossed another quick glance back over his shoulder. “You know I prefer to conduct business at the office.”
“Yes, sir.”
He gave me another look, and made it an open study. I knew he liked me. It wasn’t just that he’d said as much on occasion. Talk is, as they say, cheap. But he’d let me know in other ways, such as laughing in my presence and sharing a drink from the private reserve of Irish he stowed in his bottom desk drawer. And he was letting me know again on the stoop, because his look said quite plainly anyone else would be told to call for an appointment. I was told, “Wait here a moment.”
I nodded once, but he was already closing the door. I heard myself exhale again and took a step back, still facing the door. I dipped my right hand into my jacket pocket, and made a mental tally of all my shooters—the three that reside full-time at the office, the Colt currently visiting them, the ugly snub under my mattress—none of which I’d thought to bring along. I really could be stupid.
I’d heard about two dozen of my own breaths before the door opened again, Cobb standing sideways this time, gesturing, and telling me, “Please come in.”
He led me through the foyer to a tall narrow hall. From there, double doors on the left led to the front parlor. And though I heard nothing behind the closed doors, I gathered the room beyond was not vacant. Probably the old man’s brief departure had been to clear a pathway to his study at the back of the house. We passed the stairs and the open doorway to the dining room, the narrow hall to the kitchen, and finally reached the small cluttered room where he preferred not to work from home. Nowhere along the way did we see or hear another soul. After I entered the study, he told me to take a seat as he closed the door behind us.
“This is about that murdered girl,” he said, his hand still on the doorknob.
My sitter had barely touched the cushion, and I paused in the act of settling myself to shoot him a glance. But I stopped the look before it got more than a start. I forced myself to concentrate on sitting in the chair. Comfortable. At ease. “I sincerely hope not.”
He didn’t say anything as he stepped around to the rolltop desk against the wall and claimed the worn swivel chair. He slid a box from the back of the desk toward the corner nearest me. He opened it, revealing a stash of plain white smokes. He waited patiently for me to lean forward and take one before snagging his own, closing the box, and sliding it back to its original position. He produced a lighter, but I’d already dug out my own matches so he lit only himself. He tasted it, got some tobacco on his tongue, cleared that, then rubbed his thumbnail across his lips. He looked up at me and sat back in his groaning chair. Comfortable. At ease.
“How can I help?”
I hoisted my right ankle and settled it over my left knee, resting my elbows comfortably on the arms of the chair. My back was pressed against the rest perhaps a bit too firmly. I exhaled. “What do you know about Ramona Wyman?”
He betrayed no expression. “She’s the dead girl you hope you’re not here about.”
There was a pause as if he thought I might respond. When I didn’t he told me, “Not much. I read the papers. And Andy…” He caught himself, thought better of something, and co
ntinued. “Ackerman and I have discussed it briefly.” He gave me another of his probing looks. “I let a fellow called Lovejoy poke around that family on a previous, unrelated matter. Have you seen him? Joe’s his name. You might remember he helped out on the Folsom Heights Exchange matter. Good-looking kid. Dark hair. Moustache.” Cobb shook his head. “It’s been days since he’s reported in, and he hasn’t been staying at his apartment from what I gather.”
“So you’re saying you haven’t been in contact with Lovejoy?”
He smiled. “Sloppy. Look at your hands.”
We glanced down together to see that I was gripping the arms of the chair. Not white-knuckling them, I wasn’t that far gone, but hardly resting comfortably. I relaxed them because it would have made me look even more foolish to deny that he was right. I exhaled again.
He shifted in his chair, turning to address the top of his desk. “And remember your breathing.” He pushed aside some paperwork to access a panel among the drawers at the back. He slid the panel aside, revealing a secret compartment from which he drew a tiny Derringer. He held it by the barrel as he offered it to me. “She’s an antique. You’ll only get two shots, so make them count.”
I made no move to take the gun, just glared at it a moment and then at him. He wasn’t smiling with his mouth, but his eyes were gentle enough to make me feel like he’d busted my jaw.
He put the Derringer down on the desktop as he settled back, facing me again. “You didn’t bring your own gun, which gratifies me somewhat. But you’ve been paying lots of attention to your hip pocket, so I know you were wishing you had.”
I figured the quicker we moved on, the better for my self-esteem. “Lovejoy’s involved.”
Again he managed to keep any hint of emotion far from his face, but his voice hardened noticeably. “It will take extraordinary evidence to convince me. Not that I consider him above reproach, but because I’d hate to think after all these years I could commit such an error in judgement.”
“You said he hasn’t checked in.”
“That’s extraordinary, I suppose, and possibly evidence. But of what? Are you claiming he killed the girl?”
“No. I believe I know who did that.”
“The chauffeur.”
“He was a mechanic. Well, he drove some too, I suppose.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was him.”
“Ackerman seems to think so.”
“Which is why I don’t.” I put both feet back on the floor and leaned forward to rest my elbows atop my knees. Actually relaxed now, but in such a way as to allow myself to start getting keyed up. “Not being contrary. I mean the fact that the evidence points clearly to the Papalia kid doing it. And I think Ramona—Miss Wyman—was killed because someone was scared. Papalia had been scared too long for it to make a difference at this point. No, it was someone who felt secure and then got scared because…”
I stopped and looked up at him. Relating my theories, I had been staring at the space in between us, but just then I needed to see his eyes.
He nodded. “I’m following. You think Papalia was framed, or at least he was a handy stooge.”
“Worse. I think I cast him in that role.”
He shrugged. “Yes, well, we often overestimate our own importance in such matters. Events like these usually require long periods of gestation. You may have helped tip the scales in one direction or the other, but most of the weight had already been placed.” He cleared his throat. “None of which is what you had started to say. You were saying the killer got scared because.”
“Yes, sir. Joe Lovejoy.”
“Joe scared the killer?”
“No, sir. I want to talk to him.”
“As do I.” He looked at me as if I might have a suggestion that could satisfy us both. I merely sat looking him in the eye. Finally I was rewarded with just the faintest hint of a squirm. It was perhaps one of the great moments of my career so far. “What is it exactly you suspect Joe of doing?”
I shook my head feeling, admittedly, a bit cocky. But also greatly relived that my worst fear, that the great Walter Cobb might have knowingly sullied his hands in this matter, had been at least somewhat allayed. “No, sir. I’m sorry.”
He hoisted one of his massive eyebrows. “By God, you actually suspect me of something.”
For a moment, I had to fight to contain my smile. “No sir. I confess I may have allowed myself to get screwy a moment and harbored foolish doubts about certain aspects. In fact, what I suspect is that I’ve made too many blunders so far. You may be in the same boat. No offense, sir, but you confess you still trust Lovejoy.”
“I still have faith in my own abilities to read a man.”
“Yes, sir. Either way, we need to talk to him.”
It was Cobb’s turn to draw a breath, and apparently he didn’t care how much I heard about it. He also stroked his broad chin, a definite tell. He continued to study me while chewing over something he didn’t seem to like the taste of. “You have a suggestion as to how we might make that happen?”
Another smile tried to worm its way onto my phiz. I killed it even more thoroughly than the previous one. “I do. Maybe. It isn’t his only play, but it’s his primary one. Lana O’Malley. Lovejoy scored big there. In more ways than one.”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“I apologize.”
“How does that help us?”
“Because she’s got an itch. No, it’s more like a burr. Deep.” I nodded. “You may know about it.”
“Her father was murdered.”
“That’s just a symptom. Her obsession. It isn’t her father’s death. Only my plan won’t work from here. We’ll need to go to my office.”
Cobb looked at me a moment longer, but only a moment. He wasn’t one to hem and haw. “Let me tell Muriel.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Mr. O’Malley.”
I was back at my desk, in my office, seated in my own chair, leaning forward on my elbows. Walter Cobb was seated across from me in the client chair to the right. It was his first time there, and he was making a show of not looking around. I was concentrating on the telephone and my client. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“No. No, indeed. I’m glad you could return my call.”
“Yes. I mean, no, I’m not. Sorry. Did you call?”
“More than once. I left messages.”
“Sure. I got them, of course. But I’ve been busy. And I’m calling to report. Success.”
“Success?” You might deduce he’d never heard the word.
“Yes, in the matter you asked—
“But the police said that was settled. Hector killed himself. They said he murdered Ramona.”
“Oh, no. Not that matter. I mean the murder of your father.”
“The murder of…” I would not be overstating to say he nearly shouted that. But neither would I like to mislead you by putting too much emphasis on it. It simply took him momentarily by surprise . “I don’t understand.”
“That visit we paid to your family’s home, when I searched Miss Wyman’s room. I confess that I thought it best to keep it secret at the time, but it paid off. I did find something, only I wasn’t quite sure what it meant until now. I mean, sure, she had it hidden in a safe place, which is why the cops missed it, but I needed time to look it over thoroughly. That’s why—”
“Wait. Are you claiming Ramona had something to do with father’s murder?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Listen, Mr. O’Malley, clearly I’m not explaining this well at all. Perhaps we should meet in person. Can you come to my office first thing in the morning?”
He did not respond at first, but neither did it sound like he stepped away or even fiddled with the receiver. He simply considered the question. “Ten o’clock?”
“Perfect. And, of course, you should invite your sister. I know she’ll be very interested in what I have to say.”
That required a bit more consideration. “I don’t know. Perhaps you and I should—”
“But you must know how she feels.”
“Exactly. But this will completely change her opinion of me.”
“I don’t know,” he said again, though the second time something in his tone prompted me to play an advantage.
“I hope you do trust me, Mr. O’Malley.”
“It isn’t that at all, Mr. Colette. In fact, part of the reason I’ve been calling was to tell you—”
I got a sudden gut-wrench of a feeling my advantage had gained me too much. I needed to head him off. “Then you will call and invite your sister? Tonight? It’s late I know, but she may need to rearrange her schedule.”
“If you think it’s that important.”
“Great. Then I’ll see you both first thing in the morning.” I didn’t make it a question. He needed to get used to the idea it was settled.
“Yes. But while I have you—”
“You will call her right away?” It was chancy to push so hard, I knew. He hadn’t impressed me as a complete imbecile, and I had no idea how astute he might actually be. But he only laughed, probably deciding that I was the fool.
“Yes. I’ll call her the minute we hang up.”
“Then I’ll let you go. I apologize again for disturbing you so late.”
“It really isn’t—”
“Goodnight.” And I immediately severed the connection by pushing down the pin on the telephone set with my free hand.
As I was replacing the receiver in the cradle, Cobb told me, “Two things. First that was clumsy. You should have led him to suggesting he invite his sister. You not only suggested it, but reiterated it another half dozen times.”
“Half dozen?”
“I lost count.”
“And the second thing?”
“I’m even more confused. How does this help us? Are we going to wait here until ten in the morning?”
