by M. K. Wren
“What? Oh—no, Tilda. You did what you thought you must.”
“Yes. But in a way I wish I hadn’t told him.” She turned away, pent tears glistening under her lashes. “Because now I’m not sure it’s…really true.”
He leaned forward to put out his cigarette, watching her closely.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure it will ever happen.”
“Because Brian might be convicted of Nye’s murder?”
“If he’s convicted I know he won’t go through with it, but even if he isn’t, I’m not sure he can… Oh, Conan, it’s not just being accused of the murder. It’s all the months that went before. The IRS—it’s like a Chinese water torture, you know. Day after day living under the threat of losing everything important to him, being treated like a number that had somehow gotten out of place, and it was all his fault. Or even like a cheap criminal. I saw that. Those Collection Division men. That…smug, cynical, knowing look. Nothing he did or said made any difference or changed anything. And yet he is innocent. He is innocent.”
Abruptly she rose to go to a window, standing tensely there with her back to him. He said nothing, waiting for her to go on if she chose to, or could.
And at length she did. “It changed him, Conan. It destroyed something in him. Faith, perhaps. Faith in honesty, injustice, and even in…in God. And this last month…well, I’m not sure the damage can be undone now. It’s like a bad burn; it may heal on the surface, but the nerves never recover. He’ll never be able to…feel as he once did; to feel anything. And to be accused of Nye’s murder—that’s the final straw. He is still innocent, yet it makes no difference. No difference to the law—no difference to anyone!”
Conan went to her and took her hand.
“That’s not quite true, is it, Tilda?”
After a moment, she shook her head, but didn’t look up at him; perhaps because the tears were slipping out of control down her cheeks.
“No, it’s not quite true. It still makes a difference to me. And to you. I’m very grateful for that.”
“Perhaps the damage isn’t permanent, and I hope…” What? That he could force the law to take cognizance of Brian’s innocence? And even if he succeeded in that—
Tilda had already said it: Who will put Brian together again?
Tilda, perhaps. Not Conan Flagg. All he could put together was answers, and so far he hadn’t been notably successful at that.
He withdrew his hand from hers and checked his watch. “It’s getting late. Can I drive you to the Surf House?” She looked at her own watch and mustered a smile. “Thank you, but I have my own car, and it will be well after midnight before I come home.”
As she accompanied him to the door, he said, “I’ll probably see you later this evening. Steve and I will be down at the restaurant, but it will be purely for the pleasure of your cuisine.”
She opened the door for him, her smile on more solid ground now.
“I’ll reserve a table for you, a window table.”
*
When Conan reached his house, he found Steve in the kitchen staving off hunger with peanut butter and crackers.
“Marc Fitch left,” he mumbled around a mouthful. “He’s got a court appearance in Portland in the morning, but he’ll be back tomorrow afternoon. He told me to give you this.”
“This” was a note on creamy bond written with dashing flair in brown ink.
Conan— You can now consider yourself a hireling of Marcus Fitch and Associates. That makes you my agent and means Earl-baby can’t lock you out when you want to see your/my/our client. I guess you know said client is in a hell of a hole, and there isn’t much I can do for him now. By the way, I believe he’s innocent, but you’ve got to give me something to work with, brother.
Marcus F.
Chapter 15
The window table was waiting for Conan and Steve at the Surf House; the service was elegant, and the Sebastiani Pinot Noir—compliments of the house—was exquisite. Their steaks were a little overdone, however; apparently Chef Claude wasn’t at his best tonight.
By the time they had consumed the baba au rhum, Conan had finished recounting his interviews with Van Roon and Tilda, and they had chewed over the implications in Jastrow’s stubborn pursuit of his passion running aground on the rock of Tilda’s acceptance of Brian’s marriage proposal, and in Van Roon’s tacit admissions that he was the informer and that he was in debt to the Nevada interests so interested in buying the restaurant.
With his Courvoisier, Conan was served the lab findings on the shavings from the cutting table.
“Zero,” Steve pronounced sourly. “After the cleaning Hancock gave that table, chemical analysis was hopeless.”
Conan consoled himself with a savored sip of cognac and the assertion, “Well, I can still use those scuff marks hypothetically, even if I can’t prove Nye made them.”
“Sure. Hypothetically it’s a free country.”
“I won’t go into that. But if Nye cracked his head on that table at that time—which would be just after midnight—then at least we can eliminate three suspects.”
“Lorna and lover and who else?”
“Howie Bliss. No one saw him leave the bar until one-thirty when he left the premises altogether.”
“So, who does that leave you with?”
“Van Roon, Jastrow, Hancock, and Beryl.”
“In that order? Wait a minute, you just added a suspect. I thought you eliminated Beryl because of loyalty above and beyond.”
Conan looked out at the spotlighted surf breaking almost beneath the window.
“I guess I just don’t trust people who collect Victoriana; it suggests a convoluted mentality. But she probably doesn’t belong on the list if Brian is the real victim in this thing. She’s in love with him, you know, in her own peculiar way. What about Hancock? Another zero?”
“So far. We’ve got a state-wide alert out for him.”
Conan didn’t go into that, either; he could muster no more optimism about Hancock’s apprehension than Steve did.
“What about Luther Dix?”
At that, Steve smiled serenely over his cognac.
“Well, he had to go back to Portland this afternoon. Didn’t seem too happy, all in all, but he’s got a pile of fresh audits on his desk. Something like that. I guess we’ll manage without him somehow.”
Conan drank to that. “As well as we did with him, at least. Before we go home, I’d like to stop by the police station to see Brian.”
Steve eyed him through a doubtful squint. “Why?”
“Nothing ulterior. I just thought he might like a little company.”
Conan brought some magazines and a deck of cards to Brian, and they seemed more welcome than the company, but that was only because it was such an obvious effort to keep up the front of ironic stoicism.
It was perhaps fortunate that the detention facilities in the station weren’t designed for long occupancy or full security; only six cells separated by open walls of bars. Solid walls would be unbearably confining. On the other hand, privacy was precluded, but at the present time the only other lawbreaker confined here was Percy Dent, to whom this was a second home. His snores emanated from a corner cell with the lulling regularity of the surf.
The guard who let Conan into the cell took a tray with the remains of Brian’s supper on it as he left.
Conan asked, “How’s the food?”
Brian laughed a little too hard at that.
“Great. Damn, Claude couldn’t do better. Filet de boeuf au Château.”
“Locally known as roast beef à la steamtable?”
Brian kept up the stoic front while Conan outlined his progress on the case, which didn’t ask much of the front; it didn’t take long. And Brian didn’t seem particularly interested. Rather, he couldn’t seem to concentrate long enough to make sense of it. Perhaps that distraction explained his apparent absence of concern or even curiosity about Tilda. Even when Conan told him that
she had tried to see him, but been turned away, he only nodded vaguely. Finally, Conan answered the question he didn’t ask.
“She’s holding up very well; beautifully, as always.”
He turned away to look up at the barred window.
“Tell her…I don’t know. Tell her I miss her.”
Conan promised that, then called for the guard and left Brian to his first night in a jail cell. The first night was the worst, so they said, but he couldn’t believe the second or tenth or hundredth would be any easier.
At the front desk, he found Steve conferring with Earl Kleber, but at first Conan didn’t recognize the chief; he was out of uniform and in loose slacks and a khaki shirt. Steve explained Kleber’s dishabille as Conan approached.
“A call came in from the state patrol a few minutes ago. They picked up Hancock just outside Westport. They’re bringing him in now.”
Kleber seemed too pleased at the news to remember to be rude to Conan.
“Evening, Mr. Flagg. Well, I guess we gotta get lucky once in a while. I figured Hancock’d be halfway to Mexico by now. By the way, Mr. Travers says Tally might have some information that could help make a case against Hancock for peddling along with possession.”
Perhaps that explained his friendliness; he was hoping for Conan’s good influence with Brian.
“I don’t know how useful his testimony would be, Chief.” He smiled and didn’t add that Kleber had made his potential witness an accused killer. “But he’d probably give you a statement if you asked him.” Nor did he add, nicely.
The dispatcher opportunely required Kleber’s attention at that point, and a radio discussion with one of his officers on the fine points of breaking up a marital donnybrook occurring in a locked bathroom occupied him fully for ten minutes, and by then the state patrol car had arrived.
Hancock was wearing the same sweatshirt and patched Levi’s Conan had last seen him in, but the dark glasses were missing, and his glazed, dilated eyes suggested an explanation for the fact that he’d gotten no farther toward Mexico. But he was fully aware of his surroundings and situation, and treated his captors, Kleber, and anyone within range, to a foul but unimaginative commentary on social injustice.
Kleber smiled acidly through the tirade, then turned to Sergeant Billy Todd, who was standing by for the order.
“Book him. Possession of narcotics and—well, we’ll hold off awhile on drug peddling.”
Hancock predictably protested, but Conan suddenly ceased hearing him. But not seeing him. Rather, seeing what he was using now to restrain his straggling locks.
“Wait a minute!” At Conan’s shout, Sergeant Todd turned, and Hancock stopped with his mouth open, mid-epithet. “That hat! Where did you get that hat?”
Hancock looked around as if someone might explain Conan as a phenomenon, but everyone else seemed equally puzzled. Except Steve Travers.
“Is that Nye’s hat?”
“Yes. It must be.” Conan was close enough to take it from Hancock’s head, but Kleber reached it first, gave it a brief inspection, then squinted at Conan.
“You say this hat belonged to Eliot Nye?”
“Yes. He was wearing it when he came into the bar Monday night.”
Kleber didn’t question that; his cold query was directed to Hancock.
“Where’d you get this thing, Johnny?”
“I bought it. Any law against possessing a hat?”
“Where’d you buy it?” He made a show of studying a label inside the hat. “Some store with the initials E. N.?”
Hancock turned gray, the arrogance slipping out of his slouch.
“Okay! Okay, so I—I found it.”
Conan demanded impatiently, “Where did you find it?”
“Well, I…” He glanced at Kleber, who offered nothing; he was too busy reining his indignation at Conan’s assumption of the interrogation. But Conan threw caution to the winds to risk his further displeasure by repeating the question and amplifying it.
“Where did you find it, and when?”
“What the hell is it to—okay! I’ll tell you. In the kitchen. I found it in the kitchen.”
“At the Surf House?”
“Well, where’d you think?”
“When, Johnny?” He waited tensely for the answer and found it too slow in coming. “When?”
“Damn it, I don’t know!” Then seeing both Kleber and Steve regarding him with the same demanding impatience, he reconsidered. “Well, it was Monday night.”
“Monday?” Conan didn’t let himself relax yet. “What time Monday night? Early, late, what?”
“Early. I mean, early for me. Hell, it was right after Claude come in to bitch at me about the floor. I told you about that, remember?”
Conan took a deep breath. He remembered.
“Exactly where in the kitchen did you find it?”
“Under the meat-cutting table. There’s a shelf under it, so I never saw the thing till I was mopping the floor again. I flipped it out with the mop, and I figured, you know, like they say, finders keepers.”
Conan only nodded and Kleber reassumed his prerogatives, repeating his order to Todd. “Book him.” Then when Hancock had been taken away, complaining churlishly all the while, Kleber turned on Conan.
“All right, Flagg, what was that all about?”
Conan looked at him blankly; Kleber still had the hat in his hand.
“Don’t you see? That hat clears Brian.”
He didn’t see. “Guess that’s what you call a hat trick, right? Just reach in and pull out an innocent man.”
“Yes! The time, damn it! That hat was under the cutting table near those scuff marks. That supports the theory that Nye was in the kitchen before twelve-fifteen and that he made those marks. The hat was probably knocked off his head and rolled under the table when he fell against the corner.”
“Didn’t Mr. Travers tell you about the lab tests on the wood from that table?”
“The tests didn’t say there couldn’t have been human blood on those shavings.”
“But they sure as hell didn’t say there was any.”
Conan said tightly, every word spaced, “You’re missing the point. That hat is evidence that Nye was in the kitchen before twelve-fifteen, when Jastrow came in to complain about the scuff marks—the marks Johnny says weren’t there when he first mopped the floor. Add to that the testimony from Lorna and Kautsky that Nye hadn’t returned to his motel by twelve-thirty—”
“He didn’t answer when they knocked, you mean.”
“—plus the fact that his bed hadn’t been slept in. Chief, Nye never left the restaurant. He went into the kitchen where he slipped, or was pushed, and hit his head against the table, inflicting that three-cornered wound and knocking himself unconscious. The killer either thought he was dead or saw an opportunity to make sure of it, and the freezer was handy. It was also the nearest hiding place for a body, and the killer didn’t have much time—not when Hancock might come in from the back door at any second, or someone else might come in from the bar.”
Kleber stood his ground, hands on his hips.
“So, who d’you think put Nye in this handy hiding place?”
“I don’t know. It could’ve been Hancock, or Van Roon, or Jastrow, or even Beryl; they were all either in the kitchen just after midnight, or out of sight of the others long enough to go into the kitchen with Nye without anyone else seeing them. But the point is, Brian wasn’t in the kitchen, nor was he alone at any time until after he returned from the hospital, and it was all over by then. Brian couldn’t have killed Nye.”
“Uh-huh. Well, there might be something to that if you had any way of proving this is Eliot Nye’s hat.”
Conan stared first at him, then at the hat.
“But you said—the initials E N. Isn’t that proof?”
Kleber thrust the hat out, upside down, for Conan to see. There was no label, no initials; nothing.
“I never said there was initials in here,” Klebe
r noted. “Just sort of suggested it to see what Johnny would say. It worked, too.”
Conan stood a pillar of tension, every muscle in his body crying to be unleashed. It worked. It worked on Johnny Hancock, and it worked on Conan Flagg.
Yet that tweedy, shapeless piece of haberdashery was Nye’s; it asked too much of coincidence that Hancock would find another identical to it only a few feet from the icy tomb where Nye’s body was found.
Conan didn’t trust himself to speak, and Kleber’s satisfaction gave way to frowning preoccupation.
“Look, I got nothing against Brian Tally personally, but we have to look at this thing from behind a badge. Right, Mr. Travers?” He paused to get a desultory nod from Steve. “We’ll tag this hat as evidence, but it’s not going to make any difference to anybody. Trouble is, the D. A. could go into court on this case with only one piece of evidence and get a conviction: the initials Nye left in the freezer. There’s just no way around them. No way at all.”
Conan felt Steve’s hand on his arm.
“Come on, Conan. Your bar’s open. I’ll buy you a drink.”
He turned for the door. He didn’t need a drink; more than anything, he needed to be outside that door.
Chapter 16
It didn’t surprise Mrs. Early when she arrived at Conan Flagg’s house Thursday morning that no one opened the door for her. Her employer was often absent when she came, and she had a key.
It did, however, surprise her when she went into the library to find Mr. Flagg, outfitted in a bathrobe and sound asleep, sprawled in that metal and leather contraption he called a lounge chair. Eames, always, whatever that meant. The television was chattering away—some cartoon show—and the ashtray on the table beside him was overflowing. She sighed gustily. He’d burn the house down one of these days.
Then her eyes narrowed. Sure enough, he did have a cast on his hand. Well, that would take some looking into. She turned off the television, and he came awake abruptly, staring around him as if he had no idea where he was.
Mrs. Early clucked her tongue at him.
“I swear, Mr. Flagg, you’ll put a permanent crick in your neck sleepin’ on that chair thing.”
