Nothing's Certain but Death

by M. K. Wren

  “Mrs. Early? What time is it?”

  “Well, it’s just nine-thirty.”

  At that, he bounded out of the chair and succeeded in knocking the ashtray to the floor.

  “Oh, God, the rug!”

  She shook her pink head, misted in a fluff of white. The rug, indeed. As if those old Injun rugs were the most precious things in this house.

  “I’ll take care of it proper with the vacuum. You just go on, now. Oh—you want me to fix you some breakfast?”

  “Just coffee.”

  She wheezed another sigh. “Just coffee. I swear, Mr. Flagg…” But he was out of range of her swearing.

  He was doing some swearing of his own as he climbed the stairs. It had been another bad night, and only the late late show had proved soporific enough finally to put him to sleep. And now he was suffering most of the symptoms of a hangover without having had the pleasure of the binge.

  Steve was gone, he noted grumpily, and Conan had specifically asked him to wake him before he left.

  But after five minutes in the shower alternating the water temperature from hot to take out the “cricks,” to ice cold to get his mind and eyes in focus, it came through to him that Steve undoubtedly would have wakened him if he’d known he was asleep behind the closed—and virtually soundproof—library door. Steve had probably looked at his empty bed and assumed he’d risen unusually early and gone out for a walk on the beach.

  By the time he finished dressing, Conan was beginning to feel less hung over, although he put on a pair of sunglasses. This promised to be another bright, vernal day, and his eyes weren’t up to the raw sunshine.

  He found Mrs. Early in the entry hall in command of the roaring dragonhead of the vacuum cleaner.

  “I have a guest,” he shouted. “Why don’t you—”

  She screwed up her face and tamed the dragon with a stamp of her foot on the switch.

  “Yes, I know you have a guest. I saw the bed.”

  “It’s Steve Travers. You remember him.” He took out his wallet and extricated two twenties. “Why don’t you go light on the cleaning today. I’m more in need of your culinary talents. Here—I’m afraid the larder’s in need of replenishing.” He handed her the money, adding, “The first thing Steve asked was if I had any of your lemon pie stashed away. And that salmon loaf with the egg sauce—he hasn’t forgotten that, either.”

  She twinkled, cheeks puffed and pink.

  “He remembered that thing? Well, I’ll see what I can cook up for you. How long’s he plannin’ on stayin’?”

  “Oh, three or four days. I’m not sure.” He started down the hall and turned into the utility room. “Thanks, Mrs. Early. You’re a doll.”

  “Oh, Mr. Flagg! But wait—don’t you want some coffee?” He shrugged on his jacket and went out the door into the garage as she reached the utility room door.

  “I’m running late. Sorry.”

  “But I heard you was…” Whatever she heard was drowned as the Jaguar roared to life and the garage door rumbled up at his electronic command. He waved as he backed out into the street, then the door rumbled down again.

  “Tarnation!” she snapped irritably. Now he’d gotten away from her, and she never had a chance to find out about the goings-on at the Surf House.

  *

  On his way to the police station, Conan noted that Miss Dobie was dutifully on duty at the bookshop. That was nearly as inevitable as the tides, but it never ceased to amaze him.

  The second thing he noted in passing was that F. Conrad Van Roon was not open for business today.

  At the station he found Steve in Kleber’s office, but not in his chair; Kleber occupied it this morning. Steve was sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, laying claim to a corner of it with his feet. He was on the phone, but concluded the call and proffered a white pasteboard box as Conan entered.

  “You had breakfast? Here. Local bakery. Damn, I’m going to take a couple of dozen of these home. If I ever go home.”

  Conan accepted a buttery cruller gratefully.

  “Thanks. By the way, you’ll be relieved to know that this is Mrs. Early’s cleaning day. There will be a Care package in the refrigerator tonight.”

  While Steve nodded satisfaction at that news—his mouth was too full for verbal response—Conan tried a friendly greeting on Kleber.

  “Good morning, Chief.”

  “Morning. There’s coffee over there in the pot.”

  Had he been allergic to coffee, Conan wouldn’t have turned down that unexpectedly magnanimous gesture. The percolator was mumbling on a file cabinet; he filled a Styrofoam cup, then sat down in another of the chairs in front of the desk.

  “I was wondering if I could have a few minutes with Johnny Hancock, Chief.”

  Perhaps that was asking too much of his magnanimity. Kleber turned a cold eye on him that suggested he might take his coffee back.

  “You’re a little late for that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s gone. Herb Latimer came in an hour ago and bailed him out.”

  “Damn.” Conan munched at his cruller, but its refinements were lost on him. “Where did Johnny get the money to put up a bail bond? Or to pay Herb Latimer?”

  Steve answered that; it seemed too painful for Kleber. “Somebody put up the bond—and I’m sure paid Mr. Latimer—for Johnny, but Latimer isn’t saying who. He’s acting for ‘an undisclosed principal.’”

  “Is Johnny under surveillance?”

  Apparently, that was a sore subject. Kleber slapped a file folder down on his desk and burst out, “Damn it, I got ten people on my staff, including my secretary and the janitor, and since eight this morning, we’ve had eleven calls.”

  Steve put in sympathetically, “Been one of those days. I tried calling in some of my men, but it’s one of those days all around. I’ve been on the phone for half an hour trying to untangle some of the knots in Salem.”

  Conan nodded bleakly and asked, “Did Johnny make any phone calls last night?”

  Kleber replied curtly, “He gets one call. That’s the law and you know it.”

  “I just wondered whether he took advantage of it or his angel learned about his arrest from another source.”

  “He made his call right after he was booked last night. Sergeant Todd was there. Maybe he heard enough to tell us who Johnny called. I’ll ask him when he reports in. Probably just another hophead or peddler.”

  Conan finished his cruller without commenting on that.

  “Maybe I should talk to Brian.” Then when Kleber’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, Conan explained, “Johnny knows him, and they spent the night in close proximity. Maybe Johnny said something to Brian that would lead us to his benefactor.”

  “Oh.” Kleber shrugged indifferently and conceded with no real conviction, “Well, it’s worth a try.”

  At this point, Conan thought, what wasn’t worth a try?

  In the windowless back corridors of the station, Conan found a guard by the jail-ward door perusing a copy of True Detective. He consented to put aside his magazine long enough to escort Conan into the ward and lock him into the cell with his client.

  Brian was sitting on the wooden stool with a solitaire game spread on the bunk, but he swept the cards aside, apparently grateful for Conan’s presence, yet still plagued with the tense distraction that seemed to make it an effort to bear. Conan hurried through the amenities and got to the point.

  “Johnny Hancock was bailed out, Brian, and I’d like to find out who put up the bond for him.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Well, I damn sure didn’t; not this time. I couldn’t make bail for myself now—if they’d let me make bail. Did Fitch tell you? They won’t even set a figure on me. Well, what the hell. Uh, what did you…” He frowned, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Johnny.”

  “Yes. And his anonymous benefactor.”

  “I don’t know, Conan. I don’t even know who his friends are. He brought in a couple of scruffy kids to
help him one night, and I found all three of them in the garbage alley passing around a roach. That’s the last time any of his buddies set foot anywhere near the restaurant.”

  Conan offered a cigarette, then lit it for him when he couldn’t seem to find his matches.

  “Do you need cigarettes, Brian?”

  “What? Oh…yes. I guess I’m out.”

  “Here, take these. I’ll bring more next time I come. I thought maybe Johnny might’ve said something last night that would give me a hint, at least.”

  “A hint?” He took a long drag as if it had been weeks since he’d had a cigarette. “Oh, about who bailed him out? Well, he talked enough. Kleber put him in the next cell. Six cells to pick from, and he puts Johnny in the one next to mine. Well, maybe it wasn’t Kleber. I don’t know.”

  “What did Johnny talk about?”

  “Mostly about what a kick it was, the two of us being practically cell mates. Funny. He thought that was really funny. He let me get too close once. I got hold of him through the bars, and I thought, why not? I’m already under arrest for murder one. Why not clean up the world a little before…” He seemed to run out of steam or lose track of his destination. “Anyway, it shut him up for a while.”

  “If he thought being virtual cell mates was such a kick, it must’ve been a bigger kick knowing he’d be out on the street by morning, while you were still sitting here.”

  “Oh, he loved that, but he didn’t tell me who was putting up his bail. He kept saying you have to know who your friends are, things like that.”

  “Nothing to suggest who his friends are?”

  “No. It was all just…just noise, Conan.”

  “But in all that noise, wasn’t there something…well, something that caught your attention; that made you wonder?”

  He considered that through a slow puff, and finally his eyes narrowed on a flash of remembrance.

  “Well, there was something. Let’s see, it was paying attention to… No—he said, it paid to tend to other people’s business. That was it.”

  “To other people’s—well, that’s interesting.”

  “Is it? Why?”

  “It suggests blackmail.”

  He shrugged. “Well, that’s about Johnny’s speed.”

  “Yes, but I wonder who he’s blackmailing, and why.”

  “Conan, he was in a dirty business; anybody he knew was bound to be ripe for blackmail.”

  “But how many would have the money to make it worthwhile?” Conan looked around as the ward door opened and the guard approached. “Here comes the keeper of the keys.”

  Brian laughed. “Be nice to Charlie. He’s my poker-playing buddy. But don’t tell Kleber.”

  Charlie was obviously relieved when Conan promised not to divulge that secret to the chief.

  He had little enough to divulge when he returned to the office, and the one pertinent quote on Hancock’s interest in other people’s business was of no interest to Kleber.

  Conan didn’t press the point. He turned to Steve and announced, “I’m going to Hancock’s trailer and see what I can find out about other people’s business. If he’s there.”

  Steve unfolded himself and came to his feet.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  Chapter 17

  Steve Travers came as close to exploding as he ever did, but the Jaguar’s transmission took the brunt of it. Conan gritted his teeth while Steve lurched around the trailer court’s drive and out to the highway.

  “Damn, I should’ve tailed him myself,” he muttered. “I hate these damn assignments where you have to tiptoe around in somebody else’s damn jurisdiction.”

  Conan checked his watch while Steve jerked into third and in a few seconds topped the speed limit by twenty miles an hour. Eleven-thirty. It had taken only fifteen minutes—questioning the court manager and examining the trailer Hancock rented from him—to determine that the game had flown.

  Hancock had apparently gone directly to his trailer from the police station, thrown a suitcase into his old VW van, and departed, assuring the manager he would return to pay the back rent he owed. That promise hadn’t impressed the manager, but as he bitterly asked Steve, “What could I do? Call the cops? They just let him out of jail.”

  Steve didn’t get a speeding ticket before he reached the station, which was probably due to the fact that it was a bad day for Holliday Beach’s finest, and when he stalked into Kleber’s office with the news of Hancock’s departure, it promised to get worse.

  Kleber shouted out to the dispatcher, “Get hold of Billy Todd. Tell him those broken windows can wait. It’s not raining. Tell him to get his tail down here and fast.”

  Conan stayed in the outer room while Kleber and Steve marshaled the forces of local and state law. Conan had some calls to make, and the phone on the front counter was at least out of the way, if not private.

  The first call went to Van Roon’s office. Conan didn’t expect an answer and wasn’t disappointed. He tried his home number and got no answer there, either.

  He tried Claude Jastrow’s home phone next with the same result, then sought him at the Surf House Restaurant. The lunch hostess informed him that Jastrow wasn’t expected until three o’clock. Ditto for Tilda.

  Yes, Beryl Randall would normally be in her office now, but she had called in sick this morning and wasn’t expected until tomorrow.

  Conan frowned at that, remembering various references to her heart condition, and tried her home phone. No answer.

  He was beginning to think he was under some sort of communications jinx, but the last number broke it. Tilda Capek was at her apartment.

  He scarcely had time to identify himself before she asked, “Have you seen Brian today?”

  “Yes, but only briefly. He’s all right, Tilda.”

  “Oh, Conan, couldn’t your lawyer friend do something? Why won’t Kleber let me see him?”

  “Marc will be here this afternoon. I’ll ask him if there’s anything he can do.”

  “I’d be very grateful.”

  “So would Brian—if anything can be done.” He wasn’t actually that sure of Brian’s gratitude, but she needed the benefit of the doubt. “Tilda, Johnny Hancock got out on bail this morning and he’s disappeared. Kleber wants him back to stand trial for drug possession, but I want him because I think he knows more about Nye’s murder than he put in his statement. Do you know if he has any friends at the restaurant he might touch for bail money?”

  “No. I didn’t know Johnny well—I didn’t care to—and I haven’t any idea who his friends might be.”

  “Okay, Tilda. Thanks. Oh”—he tried to make it seem an afterthought of trivial consequence—“do you remember taking a call for Claude last night?”

  “No, but someone else might have answered the phone when I was busy with customers. I’ll ask the waitresses this evening. Or I suppose I could just ask Claude.” There was a questioning inflection in that.

  “No, let me talk to him.” Then to forestall further questions, “I have to hang up now; Steve is paging me.”

  Steve not only hadn’t paged him, but when Conan went into Kleber’s office, he seemed no more interested in seeing him than did the chief. But that was only preoccupation. Conan arrived on the heels of Sergeant Billy Todd.

  Kleber was preoccupied, too; he didn’t object, nor even seem to notice, when Conan used his windowsill for a bleacher.

  “Billy, you know Mr. Travers, don’t you?” Kleber asked.

  “Yes, sir. How are you, sir?” He sent Conan a glance, but limited his salutation to a brief smile.

  Steve said, “I’m fine, Sergeant,” with no conviction, then waved at the chair next to his. “Have a seat. We want to ask you about the phone call Johnny Hancock made last night. He skipped bail, you know.”

  Todd frowned soberly. “No, sir, I didn’t know.”

  “Well, we’re trying to find out who put up the bail for him. That might give us a lead on where he’d go. Herb Latimer handled the legal
work, but he wouldn’t say who he was working for, except it wasn’t Johnny. He must’ve called somebody else, and they went to Latimer, so tell us anything you can about that call.”

  “Yes, sir. Well, he made the call at about nine o’clock. It was a local call, and he asked for a directory first. I couldn’t see what part of the book he was looking in, except it was in the white pages.”

  “What do you mean—what letter of the alphabet?”

  “No, sir. What town. There are five small communities listed in the one book; they’re strung out along the Coast Highway for thirty miles.”

  Steve nodded. “Okay, but you’re sure he got the number out of the white pages?”

  “Yes, sir, but then a lot of businesses have listings in the white pages, too. He didn’t write the number down. I was hoping he would.”

  Kleber asked impatiently, “What’d he say when he got the number?”

  “Well, I can’t repeat it verbatim, Chief, but it was short; I think I can give you the gist of it. He told whoever he was calling that he was in jail here, and the charge was drug possession. Then he went on to say that jails make him— well, nervous. ‘Hyped out,’ I think is what he said. The idea was that if he was left in jail too long, he might get so hyped, he’d start talking to the, uh, police.”

  Steve smiled bitterly at that hesitation; it was highly unlikely that Hancock had actually used the word “police.”

  “Did that sound like a threat?”

  “Yes, sir. No doubt about that. I think the guy on the other end gave him some back talk then. He got mad and told them he meant what he said, and they’d better get him out fast. And then—I think this is close to the exact words—he said, ‘I was there the other night. You didn’t see me, but I saw you. Why do you think I called you?”

  Conan risked reminding Kleber of his presence by asking, “Billy, are you sure he said, ‘the other night’? He wasn’t more specific?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. For one thing, the pharmacy was robbed Tuesday night, and I thought it was the kind of thing Hancock might be in on, so I was hoping for something specific.”

  Steve lifted an approving eyebrow.

  “The local pharmacy? What was taken?”