by M. K. Wren
Conan shrugged unhappily. “Maybe.”
“Sure. Maybe. And if those pilfered goods were disposed of at the wayside, the pilferer had a problem afterward; the car wouldn’t start. So, what’d he do? Walk home?”
“Why not?—if the pilferer lives in Holliday Beach. Once he got past the bridge, he could stick to back streets to avoid being seen, or even the beach, depending on the time. It was a rough sea, but low tide was about one-thirty that night. It’d be a wet, miserable walk, but not at all impossible.”
“It was Beryl’s car, so here’s the jackpot question: Does that mean she’s the pilferer—and the killer?”
“A car’s driver isn’t always synonymous with its owner, and I still can’t connect Beryl with a motive against Brian. Or against Nye, for that matter, unless her books didn’t balance as well as she says they did, and Nye found the imbalance. But even then, I can’t believe she’d set Brian up as a scapegoat. The records were disposed of, but not the body. That should have been her—or any murderer’s—first concern, unless leaving it where it was served a purpose. Anyway, that long walk probably would be impossible for her, along with dragging an inert man into the freezer, plus the general excitement that goes along with murdering someone. Remember, she has a heart condition.”
Steve slipped under the town’s traffic light on yellow, breezily barreling along at fifty in a thirty-mile zone.
“You figure somebody else used her car for disposal purposes? Why? All your suspects have cars of their own.”
“That’s one I can’t answer or even hypothesize about.”
“Damn, you mean I caught you with your hypotheses down?”
Conan managed a laugh, but for the rest of the ride sat in sober silence trying to remedy his embarrassment. He didn’t succeed.
*
Marcus Fitch’s silver Continental was slumming among the city employees’ cars at one side of the police station, and when Conan and Steve went in, Marc was at the front desk signing in to see his client.
“Conan, you’re supposed to walk in with the real killer under cuff and key. Is this all you could come up with?”
Steve snorted. “You got it backward. He’s all I could come up with. How are you, Marc?”
“Beautiful, of course. Should I ask about you?”
“Probably not.” He frowned toward the glass-paneled door of Kleber’s office; the chief was on the phone, but waving for Steve to come in. “I’ll see what he’s got on Hancock.”
Marc raised an arched brow. “Hancock? Isn’t he—”
“The night man,” Conan replied absently; he was listening for what Kleber said when Steve opened the door.
“Hold on a second, Dave.” That was into the phone, then to Steve, “We got a line on Hancock. Found his car.”
Conan started for the door, staving off Marc’s questions with a vague, “I’ll talk to you later.”
Steve had left the door open, a purposeful oversight Conan appreciated. Kleber was still on the phone, and by the time he concluded his call, Conan was on his window bleacher seat, and Kleber was too smugly preoccupied to object.
“That was Sheriff Dave Gould up in Tillamook.” Then as if Steve was a visitor from Florida, “It’s fifty miles north up the coast. One of Dave’s men found Hancock’s van.”
Steve sat down while he lit a cigarette, his eyes reduced to slits in a bed of crow’s feet.
“Where?”
“In the parking lot at the bus depot in Tillamook. Well, naturally, Dave asked around in the depot, and somebody checked a suitcase in the name of J. Hancock for Portland at about a quarter to twelve; the Portland bus leaves at twelve-ten. The baggage man remembered the suitcase—it was so beat up, he was afraid it’d fall apart before it got to Portland—and he remembered who checked it, but it wasn’t Hancock.”
Steve frowned at having to ask. “Who was it?”
“Well, nobody could give Dave a name, but it was an old lady; white hair, medium height, a little on the heavy side. And the guy at the ticket window remembers an old lady, same description, buying two one-way tickets to two different places, and one of them was to Portland.”
“What about the other one?”
“He couldn’t remember. Maybe Astoria, but maybe Westport. Anyway, I figure Hancock conned the old lady into buying his ticket and checking his suitcase for him so he wouldn’t have to show his face. Probably just picked some woman who happened to be sitting in the depot.”
Conan observed mildly, “Odd that he’d be so careful about showing his face when he checked the suitcase in his own name and left his car in the parking lot.”
Kleber shot him a cold look, then shrugged.
“Listen, when you’ve seen as many dopeheads as I have, you don’t call anything they do odd. Right, Mr. Travers?”
“Mm? Uh—yes. Right. When is the twelve-ten due in Portland?”
“Three-fifteen.” He looked at his watch. “About ten minutes ago. Dave called Captain Sade at the state Narcotics Bureau, and he sent a couple of men to meet the bus. Even if Hancock doesn’t show up on this bus, he’s got to pick up his suitcase sooner or later, and somebody’ll be waiting.”
“Well, next time you talk to Sheriff Gould, tell him thanks for me. He’s fast on the uptake.”
If Conan detected a strained note in that, Kleber was oblivious to it.
“Dave’s been sheriff in Tillamook for over twenty years. You learn a thing or two after that long.”
Steve nodded unenthusiastically, then, “Where are you going?” That was to Conan, who had left his windowsill and crossed to the door.
“To jail,” he replied, “to confer with my client and associate.”
Steve didn’t respond to that, but in the brief meeting of their eyes was a silent understanding. The motions must be gone through, but neither of them shared Kleber’s confidence that Hancock would ever pick up his suitcase in Portland.
Chapter 19
Marcus Fitch lounged elegantly at one end of the bunk, taking electronic notes with the cassette recorder held in one diamonded hand, while Conan occupied the wooden stool and Brian paced his cage, settling occasionally on the other end of the bunk only to rise again within seconds.
Conan did most of the talking, bringing them up to date on developments and adding his speculations. Fitch was intrigued with Van Roon and questioned Conan closely, but he was only grasping at the straw of an alternative that might cast reasonable doubt. Brian didn’t seem capable of recognizing a straw when it was presented to him; he was more abstracted than before, constantly asking to have things repeated, but still losing track of the conversation.
At length, a little hesitantly, Conan broached the subject of Tilda. He addressed his question to Marc.
“Can you get enough leverage on Kleber to make him loosen up on visitors for Brian? Tilda’s been asking—”
“No.” Brian turned from the window, his face at first ashen, then mottled with a sick flush. “I—I don’t want to see her.”
Conan shrugged acceptance, and Brian’s flush deepened. He looked down at his hands, then sought something to do with them, and finally put them away in his pockets.
“I guess what I really mean is…I don’t want her to…to see me. Not here.”
Conan considered that an error, but he didn’t argue it. To do so would be both unfeeling and futile.
“I’ll tell her Kleber is holding the line on visitors.”
Brian said through an oppressive sigh, “Thanks.”
After Marc and Conan were released from Brian’s cell and the ward door closed behind them, Marc shook his head. “Conan, your boy is hanging on by his fingernails.”
“I know. Where are you staying, Marc?”
“I’m not. I’m a commuter. But I’ll be happy to tarry long enough for dinner at the Surf House—you’re laying out for it, of course—and you can give me a tour of the scene of the crime.”
Conan sent him a slanted smile.
“Whatever’s fair.
The bar is the logical place to start the tour. I’ll meet you there in”—he checked his watch—“in an hour.”
“Bring the chief.” He cocked a thumb toward Kleber’s office, but he was referring to Steve Travers, not Kleber. “Unless he doesn’t want to be seen with the opposition.”
Conan waved him on. “Steve’s not that choosy about his company. He’s occupying my guest room.”
Conan went into the office without knocking; Kleber was absent, and Steve had taken over his chair and phone. A little unavoidable eavesdropping revealed that he was again unraveling knots in the Salem office. There was a second phone on the desk. Conan helped himself to it.
Claude Jastrow’s home number yielded a negative result, so he tried Van Roon’s office. Also negative. At Van Roon’s home, he got an answer, but it wasn’t Conny. Mavis Van Roon volunteered that her husband was in Portland on business and offered to take a message.
Conan identified himself and declined to leave a message, but asked, “When did he leave, Mrs. Van Roon? I had an appointment with him this morning.”
“You did?” She sighed. “Guess Conny forgot. I mean, this trip came up so suddenly, you know.”
He didn’t know, but he hoped to find out.
“Well, it was the trip I wanted to talk to him about. He told you about the, uh, Portland property, didn’t he?”
“Portland? I didn’t know he had any listings… Well, no, he doesn’t usually tell me about his business deals. Was that you who called him last night?”
Jackpot. It came so easily, he wasn’t quite ready for it. “Oh…you mean about nine?”
“I thought it was later; maybe ten. Probably didn’t look at the clock right. Was something…wrong, Mr. Flagg? Conny seemed so—well, sort of upset.”
He said lightly, “I’m sure it’s nothing for you to worry about, Mrs. Van Roon. When did he leave this morning?”
“About eight o’clock. You want me to have him call you when he gets home tonight?”
“No, I’ll talk to him tomorrow. Thanks.”
He hung up and offered Steve, who was still engaged with his lieutenant, a noncommittal smile in response to his questioning frown, then punched another number.
Beryl Randall answered after only two rings.
“Oh, Mr. Flagg, I’m so glad you called. Mr. Barnstad told me you came by today, and I did want to thank you. It was so thoughtful of you.”
“Well, I just wondered—”
“There was really no cause for concern, but the last few days have been rather trying, and when one has harbored a heart condition for any length of time, one learns that the subtle first symptoms can’t be ignored.”
“Yes, I’m sure one does.”
“Usually a day or two of rest will avert any serious problems; that’s why I decided to take the day off today. What time did you come by? Mr. Barnstad said about one.”
“I think it was about—”
“Well, I was sound asleep then. In fact, I spent most of the day sleeping, and I do feel so much better. Actually, I’m rather a light sleeper, so I always use earplugs when I nap. Sometimes I even have to use them at night. I do so love the sound of the rain and the surf, but there are times when they’re just too much. Have you seen Brian today?”
Conan was caught with his attention wandering.
“What? Oh, yes. I just left him.”
“Well, I hope you told him that everything is under control at the restaurant.”
“He isn’t worried about that, Mrs. Randall.” That was the least of his worries. Then he added as if it had almost slipped his mind, “By the way, Johnny Hancock was bailed out this morning and immediately departed for parts unknown, and Kleber is out for blood. Especially for the blood of the person who put up his bail.”
The only hint of hesitation was the time necessary for a ladylike snort of disgust.
“Well, I hope Chief Kleber doesn’t think anyone at the restaurant would be that foolish. Of course, Brian has put up bail for various employees in the past, but only for minor offenses like drunkenness. Never for anything as serious as drug possession. And in his absence that decision would be left to me, and I’ve never considered it an employer’s responsibility to put up good money to get employees out of trouble of their own making. You just tell the chief that. Or I’ll be happy to tell him. If he thinks—”
“I’ll tell him, Mrs. Randall, and I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better.”
“Oh, it was nothing serious, you know, but one must—”
“I’m relieved to hear that. Good-bye.” He hung up before she got a fresh start and leaned back for a respite and a cigarette.
“What are you so relieved about?” Steve asked as he hung up his phone.
“Beryl didn’t have a heart attack. Anything from Portland?”
“Hancock’s suitcase is still at the bus depot. Damn, I wish we could get a line on that old lady.”
“Too bad they don’t get names for bus tickets like they do for plane tickets, but I’ll make you a side bet: it wasn’t Hancock who conned her into buying the ticket and checking the suitcase. Someone else was shy about showing his face.”
“No bets. Who’re you calling now? Kleber doesn’t consider that a public phone, you know.”
“My taxes help pay his phone bill.” He punched the number, then took a quick puff on his cigarette; that’s all he had time for.
“Tally’s Surf House Restaurant, may I help you?”
“Tilda, this is Conan.” Then to forestall any questions about Brian or visiting privileges, he went on quickly, “I only have a few minutes now, but I’m coming down to the restaurant later. I wondered if Claude is there.”
“Yes, he’s here now,” she replied irritably, “but he only arrived a few minutes ago—an hour and a half late.”
“Did he say why he was so late?”
“No, he’s in one of his moods. All I got was Shakespeare.”
“I hope it was appropriate. Did you get a chance to ask around about any phone calls he had last night?”
“Oh, yes, I did.” She paused uncertainly. “Conan, can you tell me why that’s so important?”
“Loose ends, Tilda; I’m just trying to tie up a few.”
“Oh. Well, one of the waitresses said there was a call for Claude, but she didn’t remember what time it was, except that it was after eight.”
“All right, Tilda, thanks. I’ll see you later.”
“Wait! Conan, just one question.”
He braced himself. “Sure. What is it?”
“Did you ask Mr. Fitch if he could do anything so I can see Brian?”
“Uh…yes, I talked to Marc. I’m sorry, but there’s just no way to force Kleber to loosen up on that.”
He thought he managed that fairly well. She seemed to consider it for a while, then said flatly, “Brian doesn’t want to see me.”
And what could he do with that? Conan frowned and decided not much.
“It’s just that…well, he doesn’t want you to see him in…I don’t know.”
“I do, Conan.” Her voice was a bleak weight in his ear. “I understand. Just tell him…I’ll be waiting for him.”
“All right, Tilda.”
He hung up and took a long drag on his cigarette, vaguely annoyed at finding himself an intermediary between lovers, especially when one had become such a strangely reluctant lover.
Steve asked, “Well, what’ve you got?”
“A problem for Dear Abby, and a couple of unexplained phone calls and unexplained absences.” And a witness vanished, courting death in a feckless pursuit of greed.
Chapter 20
On the morning of Friday the thirteenth, Conan was awake early enough to have breakfast with Steve. At least, to sit at the same table with him while Steve downed three eggs and a dozen slices of bacon. Conan concentrated a great deal on the view, a flat, grayed vista with no sunshine to bring to life the jade lights under the breakers. Still, he found it preferable to lacerated eggs dr
enched in catsup.
Steve politely suggested that there was nothing Conan could do at the police station; perhaps he’d like to catch up on things at the bookshop this morning.
Conan informed him that there was never anything to catch up on there that Miss Dobie couldn’t take care of. She was entirely self-sufficient and only supported his delusion of authority out of courtesy, or even fondness, and perhaps a pragmatic recognition of the fact that he provided a certain amount of color, as well as the capital to see the business through the long winters.
Steve didn’t argue that pessimistic assessment, but neither did he show any enthusiasm for Conan’s company, and at the station it soon became apparent that he was right: there was nothing for Conan to do.
But he refused to concede that.
At least he could see his client.
That occupied half an hour even if it produced no fresh insights and seemed to have no discernible positive effect on Brian’s state of mind—he was still in emotional shock—nor on Conan’s.
Well, then, he could go over the file on the case, the progress reports, lab findings, statements, photographs. The file was fairly thick by now and occupied nearly an hour.
But Steve did have something to do here, only part of it concerned with the Nye case; he also had three other homicide investigations to supervise by remote telephonic control. And Earl Kleber had an investigation into the fatal shooting of the town’s traffic light last night, probably perpetrated by a gang of juveniles whose predilection for midnight drag-racing on the back streets of Holliday Beach had earlier this morning brought forth an angry assemblage of local citizens to protest the situation to Kleber personally.
As a result, the chief’s face became increasingly red as the morning progressed, and his tolerance for Conan’s civilian meddling in police business diminished accordingly.
Even Steve’s tolerance was wearing at the edges.
Finally, he suggested, “Conan, get out of here.”
Conan got out, satisfying himself with Steve’s promise that he would call if anything broke.
