Maye glanced briefly at Jim Destiny, who stood with one shoulder to the wall, frowning down at the hat he was mangling in both hands. Destiny gave the appearance of intense preoccupation, as if he wasn’t paying much attention to anything they were saying.
Maye said, “Like I said, Garrett and I have gone into a few deals together. Some of them are pretty sensitive and there’s big money involved. I won’t go into the financial details but there are a lot of options, stock transfers and market deals to balance in a deal like this. Not to put too fine a point on it, you could say there’s a bit of stock manipulation involved—you know, one fellow drives the price up so he can sell at a profit, another fellow tries to drive the price down so he can buy cheap. It’s sensitive as hell. A lot of it depends on personal confidence, confidence in the head man and his associates. If San Francisco market buyers lose their trust in the key man, they lose faith in the company. That’s why a scandal in a key man’s family can bring a whole financial empire tumbling down.”
“I understand that,” Six said. “What has it got to do with Earle Mainwaring?”
“Earle was a spoiled kid. Garrett never did figure out how to handle him. The kid banged around like a bull in search of a china shop. He got into some scrapes he shouldn’t have. I happen to know about one of them. It involved Sid Stratton.”
Immediately, Jim Destiny’s eyes came up. He focused his attention closely on Maye, who went right on, not noticing the change in Destiny’s attitude.
“Some time ago,” Maye continued, “Garrett realized he had to keep financial reins on Earle. Otherwise the boy would have spent him into the poorhouse. You never saw a kid with a bigger appetite for expensive clothes, horses, the whole thing. Earle took to gambling early, too, and he was a poor gambler. He lost a lot of money on race horses before his father clamped down, put him on a strict allowance. So for the past year or two, Earle didn’t have much spare money to throw around on horses and card games. But that didn’t stop him. When Sid Stratton came to town and opened that no-limit card game in Cat Town, it was too much temptation for Earle. He started playing for higher stakes than he could pay for, and when he began to lose, he signed IOU’s to cover his losses. He figured his father would have to cover the markers as a matter of personal honor. Sid Stratton figured it another way. He saw those markers as a means to get control over Earle.”
“What kind of control?”
“Stratton needed somebody who was on speaking terms with the moneyed people around here. Somebody to bring in customers with big money. That was Earle’s job—to drum up trade for Stratton’s card game among the wealthy mine owners.”
“He was a shill for Stratton, in other words?”
“Exactly.”
Six said, “How’d you find this out, Fred?”
“Bits and pieces—mainly the fact that it was Earle who talked me into going down to Stratton’s and playing a few times. I didn’t have any particular interest in it, but Earle was so insistent about it that I finally broke down and went over there a few times with him. I didn’t get hurt, in fact I won a little—mostly from Earle himself. Earle was one of the most consistently bad card players I’ve ever seen. He lost steadily. When he ran out of cash, he’d mumble something in Stratton’s ear, and the two of them would disappear into Stratton’s office. A few minutes later, Earle would come back with a fresh wad of greenbacks. Now, you know for sure he didn’t pick them off the mesquite trees in the back yard. Stratton gave him that money, and the only thing Earle could have given him in exchange would have been IOU’s. I checked and found out he had no bank account. But it must’ve been clear to Stratton that the kid was never going to be able to take good on those IOU’s, not unless his father happened to die suddenly and leave him a fortune. And I doubt even Stratton would be raw enough to murder Garrett Mainwaring just to collect on Earle s IOU’s.”
“At any rate,” Six said, “it was Earle who got killed, not his father.”
“Yeah,” Maye said. “All right, then, take a look at it, Jeremy. Earle was in a bad hole with Stratton, and sinking deeper all the time. That made him a stick of dynamite with the fuse lit, because if a Mainwaring’s name got mixed up with a crooked card game and shantytown troubles, and if that hit the papers in San Francisco, it could ruin Garrett Mainwaring. Now don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying Garrett killed Earle. I’m saying it’s a possibility you had damn well better investigate. Look what you’ve got. You’ve got Garrett, not expected back here for another week, suddenly showing up unexpectedly a week early. Why? Maybe because he’d learned about Earle. Maybe he came back to clamp a lid on the kid before it all blew sky high. Maybe he had a fight with Earle—words, fists, who knows?—and they struggled and Earle fell over or got thrown over that railing in a fit of blind rage. He had that effect on people. And don’t forget this: Garrett was the only man in that house with Earle, dead or alive. And a cigar from Garrett’s pocket was in Earle’s fist. How’d it get there if Earle wasn’t still alive when Garrett walked into the house?”
Jim Destiny said mildly, “Mainwaring says the cigar could’ve fallen out of his pocket when he bent over the body.”
Maye said, “Right into Earle’s fist? And don’t forget, the cigar was flattened at the bottom.”
“Mainwaring could have bumped his pocket against something,” Destiny said.
Maye turned and poked a finger toward him. “Why are you so dead set against the possibility? Is it maybe because you’re soft on Garrett’s daughter? I don’t think anybody in that room missed the way you looked at her. Like a man who’d just been poleaxed.”
Destiny’s eyes narrowed down. “I never met that girl before in my life.”
“That doesn’t change the way you looked at her. Are you trying to protect Garrett Mainwaring for her sake?”
“No,” Destiny said flatly. “I just don’t buy the idea that a man would murder his own son, no matter what provocation he might think he had—especially if it was just a matter of money.”
“Just money?” Maye demanded. “Do you know how many years of sweat and twenty-four hours a day of backbreaking work Garrett Mainwaring put into building that fortune of his?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Destiny said. “It’s still no reason good enough to make a man kill his own son.”
“Even in the heat of passion?”
Jeremy Six said, “Simmer down, both of you. Fred, I’m much obliged to you for coming forward with your information. Well do all we can to keep it confidential. In the meantime well do a little more investigating. You go on back to your mine and let us handle it from here on in. If we need you well let you know. All right? Thanks again.” Six extended his hand; Maye looked as if he was about to say more, but then thought better of it, gave Six his brief, strong handshake, and marched out of the house.
When the mine boss was gone, Jim Destiny said, “For a man who says he’s a friend of Mainwaring’s, he sure seems anxious to hang the man.”
Six said, “He’s got a fortune of his own tied up in Mainwaring’s dealings. He’s probably mad as hell that Mainwaring could put him in jeopardy. I imagine he’s on his way to the telegraph office right now to sell as much Main-waring stock as he can, so he’ll be out from under when the ax falls. But I think he honestly believes Mainwaring killed Earle. Fred Maye wouldn’t railroad a man if he didn’t think he was guilty.”
“He’s wrong,” Destiny said. “Mainwaring didn’t kill the boy.”
“What makes you so sure of that?”
Destiny hesitated and looked down at the hat in his fist. “I’m just sure of it, that’s all. You get hunches sometimes. My brother Steve taught me to ride with a hunch. It pays off.”
“You can’t use hunches in court,” Six said, “and I don’t like to admit it, but all the evidence does point to Mainwaring.”
“Not enough to arrest him,” Destiny said quickly.
“No, not yet. But it won’t take much more.”
“Look, Marshal, I still thi
nk if anybody murdered Earle —and I’m still not sure it wasn’t an accident—but if it was murder, then the logical suspect is Stratton. He had the most to gain by shutting Earle’s mouth. Earle was the only witness who could have testified that Amos Krausmeier walked out of that card game with several thousand dollars of winnings in his pockets.”
“How do you know that? How do you know Krausmeier didn’t lose?”
“I know Stratton,” Destiny said grimly. “If Krausmeier had lost, he’d have been in no danger. He’d still be alive.”
“Son,” Six said carefully, “you’ve got the makings of a good peace officer, but you’ve still got a blind side. You’re doing all you can to twist this around and lay it at Stratton’s door. You haven’t got a scrap of evidence.”
“Then I’ll have to dig some up, won’t I?” said Destiny, and walked swiftly to the door and out.
Six heard his saddle creak, heard the horse start up, saw young Destiny ride past the parlor window, hat pulled low, chewing his lip. Six frowned. The kitchen door latched open and Clarissa entered the room.
Six looked up. “You heard?”
She nodded. He said, “What do you think?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’d hate to believe a thing like that of a man like Mainwaring.”
“So would I. But a man’s got to go on the evidence he’s got.” With a grunt, he braced both palms against the arms of his chair and began to lever himself to his feet.
Clarissa stepped forward quickly to restrain him. Six waved her away. “Don’t baby me,” he groveled. “There are important things to be done and I can’t stay chained to this house.”
“You’ll break that wound open again, Jeremy.”
“I’m not planning to climb any trees right away. But I’ve got to start walking. I’ll just amble around the house a little today. Tomorrow I expect to walk down to my office.”
“It’s too much too soon.”
“No. If I get to feeling weak, I can stretch out on a jail cot for a while. Damn it, quit mothering me!”
It made her grin.
Six
Destiny went back through the office to the corridor that separated the jail’s two rows of cells. The drunk he had arrested last night was still asleep; it amazed Destiny that anybody could have slept while last night’s and this morning’s events took place.
He woke the drunk, let him out and sent him on his way, a hungover man with a sour taste in his mouth and a gingerly way of walking. When the drunk was gone, Destiny sat down behind Six’s desk and planted his elbows on it and began to sort things out.
There wasn’t enough evidence, unexplained cigar or no cigar, to convict Garrett Mainwaring of the murder of his son. Nobody could prove it had been murder, because it had not been murder. Destiny knew that for a fact. He knew Mainwaring hadn’t even been in the house when Earle died. He knew a lot of things, since he had been there when Earle died, but the question was not how much he knew but, rather, how much he was willing to tell.
I should have stayed put in the first place. Should have stayed put and told the truth. I didn’t. I ran away.
Why?
There was no explaining the instant’s blind panic that had driven him out that door … and forced him into a tangled web of deceit, guilt and bluff. God, God, if I had only—
The door broke into his thought; a wide skirt flowed past the opening door and then the beauty of Lisa Mainwaring stood before him. Instinct made Destiny get to his feet.
She said, “I hoped I’d find you here.”
“Thinking,” he muttered. “Trying to figure out where to get started.”
“Don’t apologize,” she said. “I know you have to stop and add things up before you start. Nobody wants you to run around like a headless chicken.”
He smiled vaguely. It did not escape his notice that she had changed into a black dress. It made her tanned face seem more pale; she looked more fragile, more delicate, than she had this morning. The tracks of grief stained her eyes. He had the impulse to wrap his arms around her protectively.
He stood still, behind the desk. He could not think of anything to say. She cocked her head slightly to the side and studied him. After a while the silence became awkward and Destiny cleared his throat. The girl said, “How old are you?”
It was a strange thing for her to say; it surprised him. Finally he said, “Ninety-five, I think. But I don’t feel a day over seventy.” He smiled slightly at his awkward joke and spread his hands in an apologetic gesture. “Twenty-two.”
“My brother was the same age. Did you know that?”
“No,” he said, startled. Here I was thinking of him all the time as a kid.
“Twenty-two,” she murmured. “It took twenty-two years to make him what he was—and I admit that wasn’t as much as it should have been. But it only took three seconds to end that. Or was it less than that? How long does it take to fall that far?”
A damned long time, he thought, remembering. He said, “I don’t know. Not long, for sure.”
“No,” she said. “Not long at all.”
He wondered what she was getting around to. She was dazed, still a bit in shock, but she must have had a purpose in coming to him. Again he wanted to gather her in the protection of his arms—or was it protectiveness that stirred his impulses? He remembered what Fred Maye had said about the way he had looked at Lisa. If that was true, Destiny hadn’t realized it himself at the time. But now as he looked at the girl he could see that Maye might have been right.
She said, “My father didn’t kill him, of course.”
He nodded.
She walked forward and put both hands, palms down, on the desk. To do that she had to lean forward, toward him. She held her face not far from his. She said, “He didn’t.”
“I know.”
“I love my father,” she said. “He’s a tough man, but I love him for that, too. He’s an honest man. He was gruff with you because that’s the way he is. But Earle—this thing—it’s hurt him more than he dares show. Especially what that son of a bitch Fred Maye insinuated.”
Startled, he blinked. The girl said, “Don’t mind my language. Dad’s spent years trying to make a lady out of me, but he never succeeded. He didn’t succeed with Earle, either,” the last in a tiny voice. She stirred, said, “He’s upset far more than he lets on. Not just about Earle. About Fred Maye and the rest of them. None of them had the faith or the friendship to stand by him. Did you see their faces when they left? They were afraid to look him in the eye!”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered.
She wasn’t looking at him anymore. She wandered around the office, picking at things—guns in the wall rack, the pages of a calendar that hadn’t been turned this week, the Seth Thomas clock. She said, “Help him, Jim Destiny.”
She had her back to him just then. He was watching her, almost breathless. It was the first he knew she had remembered his name. That little thing gave him a spark of good feeling. He said, “Help him? Your father? How?”
She turned to face him. “Prove he didn’t kill Earle.”
He nodded. “I intend to try to do that.”
“No,” she said. “It won’t be enough just to give it up and say you haven’t got enough evidence to convict him. You’ve got to find absolute proof that he had nothing to do with it. Proof that we can rub in every one of their dirty sniveling faces.”
Her face, in that moment, was stripped down to naked cruelty—the rock-bottom, basic hate of an honest soul faced with something that could not be forgiven. With a start, Jim Destiny realized it was a hard, gemlike hate like his own. It made him think of his brother Steve; it made him think of Sid Stratton. They had that in common, Destiny and this girl: the loss of a brother, the diamond-point of hate, and the pale, smooth specter of Sid Stratton lurking somewhere within the borders of the painting.
It made him come out from behind the desk, cross the room and stand quite close to Lisa. He put his palms on her shoulders, without
pressure; he said, “Don’t think about them—Maye and the rest of them. I’ll see your father doesn’t get hurt any more from this. But don’t think about the rest of them. It’ll only eat you out like acid. If you let that kind of hate take hold inside you, it’s like a poison in your food and your drink and in your head. I know what I’m talking about, believe me. You’re too fine for that, Lisa.”
Her face was lifted toward’ his; she had listened with close care. Now her eyes suddenly turned moist and full. She wheeled away from him and ran outside. The door slammed behind her.
His face bleak as a winter storm, Destiny stood fast where she had left him. He was looking at the closed door, but not seeing it.
Fred Maye left the telegraph office with a determined stride; but when he passed the bank and turned right toward Cat Town, his movements became less pronounced. He did not exactly become furtive, but there was a reluctance and alertness about the way he threaded the winding narrow streets. Turning a corner between two disreputable adobes, he looked both ways along the street as if to see whether anyone had recognized him or noticed his presence. Only after he seemed assured that he had not been watched did he turn toward the Tres Candelas saloon, walk past it and around the back. He knocked softly at the back door and faded back from it into the block-shade of an adjoining wall, where the contrast between shadow and bright hot sunlight would make it difficult to make out his features distinctly.
The door opened; Al Hutton, his sleeves rolled up and held by garters, stood blinking into the sunlight. “Somebody here?”
Fred Maye stepped into sight. “Oh,” said Hutton. “You.” He clamped his mouth shut and turned inside. Fred Maye went in after him, pulled the door shut, and headed for the office door. Hutton said, “Anybody see you come here?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
Sid Stratton had appeared in the doorway. Fred Maye said with distaste, “Tell this two-bit tinhorn to get off my back.”
Al Hutton said hotly, “I’s just lookin’ out for our interests, Sid. You can’t never trust these velvet-money boys to have the horse sense to come in out of the rain. Suppose some curious gent just happened to follow him over here?”
Marshal Jeremy Six #7 Page 8
