Текст книги "The Blue Hammer"

Автор книги: Ross MacDonald

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“People make mistakes.”

“You’re making one now, running down my mother like that. I want you to take it back.”

“Take what back?”

“What you said about my mother. She doesn’t peddle drugs.”

“I never said she did, Fred.”

“But you implied it. You implied that the hospital let her go because she was stealing drugs and peddling them.”

“Is that what the hospital people said?”

“Yes. They’re a bunch of sadistic liars. My mother would never do a thing like that. She’s always been a good woman.” Tears formed in his eyes and left snail-tracks on his cheeks. “I haven’t been a good man,” he said. “I’ve been living out a fantasy, I see that now.”

“What do you mean, Fred?”

“I was hoping to pull off a coup that would make me famous in art circles. I thought if I could get to Miss Mead, she could help me find the painter Chantry. But all I’ve done is make an ass of myself and get the whole family into deeper trouble.”

“It was a fair try, Fred.”

“It wasn’t. I’m a fool!”

He turned his back on me. Gradually his breathing slowed down. I felt mine slowing down with it. I realized just before I fell asleep that I was beginning to like him.

I woke up once in the middle of the night and felt the weight of the mountains squatting over me. I turned on the light at the head of my bed. There were old watermarks on the walls like the indistinct traces of bad dreams.

I didn’t try to read them. I turned off the light and fell back into sleep, breathing in unison with my foolish pseudo-son.

^chapter

23

When I got up in the morning, Fred was still sleeping. One arm was over his eyes as if he dreaded the new day and its light. I asked the deputy on duty in the substation to keep track of Fred. Then I drove my rented car into Copper City, guided by the plume of smoke over the smelter.

A barber sold me a shave for three dollars. For a similar amount, I got a small breakfast and directions on how to find my way to Southwestern Savings.

It was in a downtown shopping center, which looked like a piece of Southern California that had broken loose and blown across the desert. The little city that surrounded it seemed to have been drained of energy by the huge wound of the copper mine in its side, the endless suspiration of the smelter. The smoke blew over the city like a great ironic flag.

The sign on the glass front door of Southwestern Savings said that the building didn’t open until ten. It was not quite nine by my watch. It was getting hotter.

I found a phone booth and looked for Paul Grimes in the directory. His name wasn’t listed but there were two listings for Mrs. Paul Grimes, one for a residence and the other for Grimes Art & School Supplies. The latter turned out to be in the downtown area, within easy walking distance.

It was a small store on a side street, full of paper goods and picture reproductions, empty of customers. The deep dim narrow room reminded me of an ancient painted cave, but most of the modern pictures on the walls weren’t quite as lifelike as the cave paintings.

The woman who emerged from a door at the back looked like Paola’s sister. She was broad-shouldered and full-breasted, and she had the same dark coloring and prominent cheekbones. She was wearing an embroidered blouse, beads that jangled, a long full skirt, and open sandals.

Her eyes were black and bright in her carved brown face. She gave an impression of saved-up force that wasn’t being used.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’m a friend of your daughter’s.” I told her my name.

“Of course. Mr. Archer. Paola mentioned you on the phone. You were the one who found Paul’s body.”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“And you are a detective, is that correct?”

“I work at it.”

She gave me a hard black look. “Are you working at it now?”

“It seems to be a full-time job, Mrs. Grimes.”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“I don’t know. Should you be?”

She shook her handsome head. “I haven’t seen Paul for over a year. We’ve been divorced for a good many years. Once Paola was out of her childhood, there was nothing to stay together for. It was all burnt out long ago.”

Mrs. Grimes spoke with a direct emotional force that impressed me. But she must have realized that she was telling me more than she needed to. She put her left hand over her mouth. I noticed that her red fingernails were bitten down to the quick, and I felt sorry that I had frightened her.

“I don’t think anybody suspects you of anything.”

“They shouldn’t, either. I didn’t do anything to Paul except try to make a man of him. Paola might tell you different—she always took his side. But I did my best for Paul whenever he let me. The truth is—the truth was, he was never meant to be married to any woman.”

Her hidden life, the memories of her marriage, seemed to be very near the surface, boiling cold behind her smooth dark face.

Remembering what Paola had once told me, I asked her bluntly, “Was he homosexual?”

“Bi,” she said. “I don’t believe he had much to do with men while I was married to him. But he always loved the company of young men, including his high school boys when he was a teacher. It wasn’t a bad thing entirely. He loved to teach.

“He taught me a lot, too,” she added thoughtfully. “The most important thing, he taught me to speak correct English. That changed my life. But something went wrong with his life. Maybe it was me. He couldn’t handle me.” She moved her body impatiently from the waist down. “He always said it was my fault that his life went off the track. Maybe it was.”

She lowered her head and clenched her fists. “I used to have a bad temper. I used to fight him hard, physically. I used to love him, too, very much. Paul didn’t really love me. At least not after I became his wife and stopped being his pupil.”

“Who did he love?”

She thought about the question. “Paola. He really loved Paola—not that it did her much good. And he loved some of his students.”

“Does that include Richard Chantry?”

Her black gaze turned inward toward the past. She nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yes, he loved Richard Chantry.”

“Were they lovers in the technical sense?”

“I think they were. Young Mrs. Chantry thought so. In fact, she was considering divorce.”

“How do you know?”

“After Paul moved in with them, she came to me. She wanted me to break up their relationship, at least that was the way she put it to me. I think now she was trying to use me as a witness against her husband, in case it came to divorce. I told her nothing.”

“Where did the conversation take place, Mrs. Grimes?”

“Right here in the shop.”

She tapped the floor with her toe, and her whole body moved. She was one of those women whose sex had aged into artiness but might still flare up if given provocation. I kept my own feet still.

“What year did you have that talk with Mrs. Chantry?”

“It must have been 1943, the early summer of ‘43. We’d only just opened this shop. Paul had borrowed quite a lot of money from Richard to fix the place up and stock it. The money was supposed to be an advance on further art lessons. But Richard never got his money’s worth. He and his wife moved to California before the summer was out.” She let out a snort of laughter so explosive that it jangled her beads. “That was a desperation move if I ever saw one.”

“Why do you say so?”

“I’m absolutely certain it was her idea. She pushed it through in a hurry, practically overnight—anything to get Richard out of the state and away from my husband’s influence. I was glad to see the twosome broken up myself.” She raised her spread hands and lifted her shoulders in a large gesture of relief, then let them slump.

“But they both ended up in Santa Teresa, after all,” I said. “I wonder why. And why did your ex-husband and Paola go to Santa Teresa this year?”

She repeated the gesture with her arms and shoulders, but this time it seemed to mean that she didn’t have any answers. “I didn’t know they were going there. They didn’t tell me. They just went.”

“Do you think Richard Chantry had anything to do with it?”

“Anything is possible, I guess. But it’s my opinion—it has been for a long time—that Richard Chantry is dead.”

“Murdered?”

“It could be. It happens to homosexuals—bisexuals—whatever he is or was. I see a lot of them in this business. Some of them go in for the rough trade almost as if they wanted to be killed. Or they wander away by themselves and commit suicide. That may be what Richard Chantry did. On the other hand, he may have found a soul mate and is living happily ever after in Algiers or Tahiti.”

She smiled without warmth but so broadly that I could see that one of her molars was missing. Both physically and emotionally, I thought, she was a bit dilapidated.

“Did your ex-husband go for the rough trade?”

“He may have. He spent three years in federal prison—did you know that? He was a heroin addict on top of everything else.”

“So I was told. But I heard he’d kicked the habit.”

She didn’t answer my implied question, and I didn’t put it to her more directly. Grimes hadn’t died of heroin or any other drug. He had been beaten to death, like William Mead.

I said, “Did you know Richard Chantry’s half brother William?”

“Yes. I knew him through his mother, Mildred Mead. She was a famous model in these parts.” She narrowed her eyes as if she had remembered something puzzling. “You know, she’s gone to California, too.”

“Where in California?”

“Santa Teresa. She sent me a card from there.”

“Did she mention Jack Biemeyer? He lives in Santa Teresa.”

She knitted her black brows. “I don’t think so. I don’t think she mentioned anybody by name.”

“Are she and Biemeyer still friends?”

“I doubt it. As you probably know, he inherited Mildred from old Felix Chantry. He stashed her in a house in the mountains and lived with her for years. But I think he broke off with her long before he retired. Mildred was quite a lot older than Jack Biemeyer. For a long time she didn’t show her age, but she’s feeling it now. She made that clear in the card she sent me.”

“Did she give you her address?”

“She was staying in a motel in Santa Teresa. She said she was looking for a more permanent place.”

“Which motel?”

Her face went vague in thought. “I’m afraid I don’t remember. But it’s on the front of the card. I’ll see if I can find it.”

^chapter

24

She went to her office in the back of the store and returned brandishing a postcard. On the front was a colored picture of Siesta Village, which was one of the newer waterfront motels in Santa Teresa. A shaky hand had written on the back, beside Juanita Grimes’s name and address in Copper City:

Dear Nita:

Am staying here temporarily till I find a better place. The foggy whether does not agree with me, in fact am not feeling too well. The Calif, climate is not what its cracked up to be. Don’t quote me but am looking for a nursing home where I can stay temporarily and get back on my feet. Not to worry—I have friends here.

Mildred

I handed the card back to Mrs. Grimes. “It sounds as if Mildred’s in some trouble.”

She shook her head, perhaps not so much in denial as in resistance to the thought. “She may be. It isn’t like Mildred to complain about her health. She’s always been a hardy soul. She must be over seventy by now.”

“When did you get this card from her?”

“A couple of months ago. I wrote her an answer and sent it to the motel, but I haven’t heard from her since.”

“Do you know who her friends in Santa Teresa are?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Mildred was pretty close-mouthed about her friends. She lived a very full life, to put it mildly. But old age finally caught up with her.” She looked down along the slopes of her own body. “Mildred had a lot of trouble in her time. She didn’t go out of her way to avoid it, either. She’s always had more guts than she could use.”

“Were you close to Mildred?”

“As close as any other woman in town. She wasn’t—she isn’t a woman’s woman. She’s a man’s woman who never married.”

“So I gather. Wasn’t William an illegitimate son?”

Mrs. Grimes nodded. “She had a long love affair with Felix Chantry, the man who developed the copper mine. William was his son.”

“How well did you know William, Mrs. Grimes?”

“Paul and I saw quite a lot of him. He was a budding painter, too, before the army took him. Paul thought he had more potential talent than his brother Richard. He didn’t live to develop it. He was murdered by an unknown hand in the summer of ’43.”

“The same summer that Richard and his wife went to California.”

“The same summer,” she repeated solemnly. “I’ll never forget that summer. Mildred drove over from Tucson—she was living with a painter in Tucson then—and she drove over from there to view poor William’s body in the morgue. Afterwards she came to my adobe, and as it turned out she spent the night. She was strong and healthy in those days, no more than forty, but the death of her son came as a terrible shock to her. She walked into my house like an old woman. We sat in the kitchen and killed a quart of bourbon between us. Mildred was a lively conversationalist most of the time, but that night she hardly said a word. She was completely used up. William was her only child, you know, and she really loved him.”

“Did she have any idea who had killed him?”

“If she had, she didn’t tell me. I don’t think she had. It was an unsolved killing. It stayed that way.”

“Do you have any thoughts on the subject, Mrs. Grimes?”

“I thought at the time it was one of those senseless killings. I still do. Poor William hitched a ride with the wrong party, and he was probably killed for the money in his pockets.” She was looking intently into my face as if it were a clouded window. “I can see you don’t believe that.”

“It may be true. But it seems too easy. William may have hitched a ride with the wrong people, but I doubt that they were unknown to him.”

“Really?” She leaned closer. The part in her hair was white and straight as a desert road. “You think William was deliberately murdered by someone he knew. What do you base that on?”

“Two things, mainly. Talking to the authorities about it, I got a feeling that they knew more than they were saying, that there may have been a deliberate or half-deliberate cover-up. I know that’s vague. The other thing on my mind is even vaguer. However, I think I give it more weight. I’ve worked on several dozen murder cases, many of them involving multiple murders. And in nearly every case the murders were connected in some way. In fact, the deeper you go into a series of crimes, or any set of circumstances involving people who know each other, the more connectedness you find.”

Her eyes were still intent on my face; I felt as if she were trying to look directly into my mind. “You believe that Paul’s death the other night was connected with William Mead’s death in 1943?”

“Yes. I’m working on that theory.”

“Connected in what way?”

“I’m not sure.”

“You think the same person killed both of them?” In spite of her age, she sounded like a young girl frightening herself with a story whose ending might frighten her more. “Who do you think it was?”

“I don’t want to lead you. You seem to have known all the suspects.”

“You mean you have more than one suspect?”

“Two or three.”

“Who are they?”

“You tell me, Mrs. Grimes. You’re an intelligent woman. You’re probably acquainted with all the people involved, and you know more about them than I ever will.”

Her breasts rose and fell rapidly with her breathing. In some way, I had touched and excited her. Perhaps she was feeling that something she said or did might after all make a difference to the world, or to her dead husband.

“Will I be quoted?” she said.

“Not by me.”

“All right. I know something that very few people know. I got it from Mildred Mead.”

“On the night when the two of you killed the bottle of bourbon?”

“No. Some time before that, not long after her son William was drafted. It must have been back in 1942. He got a girl pregnant and had to marry her, Mildred told me. But he was really in love with Richard Chantry’s wife. And she was in love with William.”

“Are you suggesting that Richard murdered William?”

“I’m telling you he had a motive, anyway.”

“I thought you said that Richard Chantry was homosexual.”

“Bisexual, like my husband. It doesn’t rule anything out—I learned that the hard way.”

“Do you think Richard killed your husband, too?”

“I don’t know. He may have.” She peered past me into the bright empty street. “Nobody seems to know where Richard is or what he’s doing. As all the world knows, he’s been gone for twenty-five years.”

“Gone where? Do you have any ideas, Mrs. Grimes?”

“I have one. It struck me when I heard that Paul had been killed. I wondered if Richard was hiding out in Santa Teresa. And whether Paul had seen him, and been silenced.” She hung her head, wagging it dolefully from side to side. “Those are terrible thoughts to have, but I’ve been having them.”

“So have I,” I said. “What does your daughter Paola think about all this? You said you talked to her on the phone.”

Mrs. Grimes closed her teeth over her lower lip and looked away. “I’m afraid I don’t know what she thinks. Paola and I don’t communicate too well. Has she talked to you?”

“Soon after the murder. She was in shock to some extent.”

“I’m afraid she still is. Would you be good enough to look her up when you go back to Santa Teresa?”

“I was planning to.”

“Good. Would you take her some money from me? She says she’s completely broke.”

“I’ll be glad to. Where is she staying?”

“The Monte Cristo Hotel.”

“That sounds like swank.”

“It isn’t, though.”

“Good.” She gave me two twenties and a ten out of the cash register. “This should at least cover her rent for a couple of days.”

The morning was running out. I went back to Southwestern Savings, which I found open now, and approached a bright-looking woman who sat at a desk by herself. The name-plate on the desk identified her as Mrs. Conchita Alvarez.

I told her my name. “I’m looking for a friend named Mildred Mead. I understand she does her banking here.”

Mrs. Alvarez gave me a hard look that was almost tangible. She must have decided I wasn’t a con man, because she nodded her shiny dark head and said, “Yes. She did. But she’s moved to California.”

“Santa Teresa? She often talked about moving there.”

“Well, now she has.”

“Can you give me an address for Mrs. Mead? I happen to be on my way to Santa Teresa. Mr. Biemeyer is flying me over in one of the company planes.”

Mrs. Alvarez stood up. “I’ll see what I can find.”

She went through a door and was gone for some time. She came back looking rather disappointed.

“The only address I have for Miss Mead is a motel called Siesta Village. But that address is two months old.”

“Is that where you’re sending her mortgage payments?”

“No. I checked into that. She rented a P.O. box.” Mrs. Alvarez looked at a slip of paper in her hand. “Number 121.”

“In Santa Teresa?”

“In the main post office in Santa Teresa, yes.”

I drove out to the airport and turned in my rented car. The company jet was already warming up, and Doris and Fred were in it. They were sitting in separate seats, Doris in the front behind the pilot’s compartment and Fred in the back. There seemed to be no communication between them, perhaps because the sheriff was standing guard at the door.

He seemed relieved to see me. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it. I thought I’d have to make the trip to California myself.”

“Has there been any trouble?”

“No.” He turned a cold eye on Fred, who winced away. “I’ve got so I don’t trust anybody under forty.”

“I’m afraid I qualify for your trust.”

“Yeah, you’re more like fifty, aren’t you? And I’ll be sixty on my next birthday. I never thought it would happen, but I’ve started to look forward to retirement. The world is changing, you know.”

But not fast enough, I thought. It was still a world where money talked, or bought silence.

^chapter

25

The jet climbed in a long straight slant. It was a clear day. The long dry savannahs of Mexico extended themselves on my left. On my right I could see the ten-thousand-foot peak standing above Tucson. It gradually moved backward like a drifting pyramid as we flew west.

Fred kept his head turned away from me, his eyes on the scenery sliding away underneath us. The girl in the seat behind the pilot seemed equally oblivious and remote. The high sierra rose in the faded distance.

Fred looked at the mountains ahead as if they constituted the walls of a jail where he was going to be confined.

He turned to me: “What do you think they’ll do to me?”

“I don’t know. It depends on two things. Whether we recover the picture, and whether you decide to tell the whole story.”

“I told you the whole story last night.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, and I wonder if you did. It seems to me you left out some pertinent facts.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“Isn’t it yours, too?”

He turned his head away and looked down at the great sunlit world into which he had escaped for a day or two. It seemed to be fleeing backward into the past. The mountain walls loomed ahead, and the jet whined louder as it climbed to vault over them.

“What got you so interested in Mildred Mead?” I asked him.

“Nothing. I wasn’t interested in her. I didn’t even know who she was until Mr. Lashman told me yesterday.”

“And you didn’t know that Mildred moved to Santa Teresa a few months ago?”

He turned toward me. He badly needed a shave, and it made him look both older and more furtive. But he seemed honestly confused.

“I certainly didn’t. What is she doing there?”

“Looking for a place to live, apparently. She’s a sick old woman.”

“I didn’t know that. I don’t know anything about her.”

“Then what was it that got you interested in the Biemeyers’ painting?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you. Chantry’s work has always fascinated me. It isn’t a crime to be interested in paintings.”

“Only if you steal them, Fred.”

“But I didn’t plan to steal it. I simply borrowed it overnight. I meant to return it next day.”

Doris had turned in her seat. She was up on her knees, watching us over the back.

“That’s true,” she said. “Fred told me he borrowed the picture. He wouldn’t do that if he planned to steal it, would he?”

Unless, I thought, he planned to steal you, too. I said, “It doesn’t seem to make sense. But nearly everything does when you understand it.”

She gave me a long cold appraising look. “You really believe that, that everything makes sense?”

“I work on that principle, anyway.”

She lifted her eyes in sardonic prayer and smiled. It was the first time I had seen her smile.

“Would you mind if I sat with Fred for a while?” she said.

His sensitive little smile peeked out from under his heavy mustache. He flushed with pleasure.

I said, “I don’t mind, Miss Biemeyer.”

I traded seats with her, and pretended to go to sleep. Their conversation was steady and low, too low to be overheard through the sound of the engine. Eventually I did go to sleep.

When I woke up, we were turning over the sea, back toward the Santa Teresa airport. We landed with a gentle bump and taxied toward the small Spanish Mission terminal.

Jack Biemeyer was waiting at the gate. His wife broke past him as we climbed out. She folded Doris in her arms.

“Oh, Mother,” the girl said in embarrassment.

“I’m so glad you’re all right.”

The girl looked at me over her mother’s shoulder like a prisoner peering over a wall.

Biemeyer began to talk to Fred. Then he began to shout. He accused Fred of rape and other crimes. He said that he would have Fred put away for the rest of his life.

Fred’s eyes were watering. He was close to tears. He bit at his mustache with his lower teeth. People were coming out of the terminal to watch and listen from a distance.

I was afraid of something more serious happening. Biemeyer might talk himself into an act of violence, or scare Fred into one.

I took Fred by the arm and marched him through the terminal into the parking lot. Before I could get him out of there, an official car drove up. Two policemen climbed out and arrested Fred.

The Biemeyer family came out of the terminal in time to see him leave. In what looked like a parody of Fred’s arrest, Biemeyer took his daughter by the elbow and hustled her into the front seat of his Mercedes. He ordered his wife to get in. She refused with gestures. He drove away.

Ruth Biemeyer stood by herself in the parking lot, stiff with embarrassment and blanched by anger. She didn’t appear to recognize me at first.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Biemeyer?”

“Yes, of course. But my husband seems to have driven away without me.” She produced a frantic smile. “What do you think I should do?”

“It depends on what you want to do.”

“But I never do what I want to do,” she said. “Nobody ever does what he really wants to do.”

Wondering what Ruth Biemeyer really wanted to do, I opened the right-hand door of my car for her. “I’ll drive you home.”

“I don’t want to go home.” But she got in.

It was a strange situation. The Biemeyers, for all their protestations and all their efforts, didn’t really seem to want their daughter back. They didn’t know how to treat her, or what to do about Fred. Well, neither did I, unless we could invent an alternative world for the people who didn’t quite fit into this one.

I closed the door on Ruth Biemeyer, walked around the car, and got in behind the wheel. The air was hot and stuffy in the car, which had sat all day in the parking lot. I rolled down the window on my side.

It was a blank and desolate patch of earth, squeezed between the airport and the road and littered with empty cars. The blue sea winked and wrinkled in the distance.

Like a blind date trying to make conversation, Mrs. Biemeyer said, “This is a strange world we live in nowadays.”

“It always was.”

“I didn’t used to think so. I don’t know what will happen to Doris. She can’t live at home and she can’t make it on her own. I don’t know what she can do.”

“What did you do?”

“I married Jack. He may not have been the greatest choice in the world but at least we got through life.” She spoke as if her life were already over. “I was hoping Doris would find some eligible young man.”

“She has Fred.”

The woman said coldly, “He isn’t possible.”

“At least he’s a friend.”

She cocked her head as if she was surprised that anyone should befriend her daughter. “How do you know that?”

“I’ve talked to him. I’ve seen them together.”

“He’s simply been using her.”

“I don’t believe that. One thing I’m pretty sure of, Fred didn’t take your painting with any idea of selling it, or cashing in. No doubt he’s a little hipped on it, but that’s another matter. He’s been trying to use it to solve the Chantry problem.”

She gave me a sharp inquiring look. “Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I do. He may be emotionally unstable. Anybody with his family background would be likely to be. He’s not a common thief, or an uncommon one, either.”

“So what happened to the picture?”

“He left it in the museum overnight and it was stolen.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“And you believe him?”

“Not necessarily. I don’t know what happened to the picture. I doubt that Fred does, either. I don’t believe he belongs in jail, though.”

She lifted her head. “Is that where they took him?”

“Yes. You can get him out if you want to.”

“Why should I?”

“Because as far as I know, he’s your daughter’s only friend. And I think she’s just as desperate as Fred is, if not more so.”

She looked around at the parking lot and the surrounding flatlands. The battlements of the university loomed on the horizon beyond the tidal slough.

She said, “What has Doris got to be so desperate about? We’ve given her everything. Why, when I was her age I was in secretarial school and working part-time on the side. I even enjoyed it,” she said with nostalgia and some surprise. “In fact, those were the best days of my life.”

“These aren’t Doris’s best days.”

She pulled away in the seat, turning in my direction. “I don’t understand you. You’re a peculiar detective. I thought detectives ran down thieves and put them behind bars.”

“I just did that.”

“But now you want to undo it. Why?”

“I’ve already told you. Fred Johnson isn’t a thief, no matter what he did. He’s your daughter’s friend, and she needs one.”

The woman turned her face away and bowed her head. The blond hair fell away from her vulnerable neck.

“Jack will kill me if I interfere.”

“If you mean that literally, maybe Jack is the one who belongs in jail.”

She gave me a shocked look, which gradually changed into something more real and humane. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take it up with my lawyer.”

“What’s his name?”

“Roy Lackner.”

“Is he a criminal lawyer?”

“He’s in general practice. He was a Public Defender for a while.”

“Is he your husband’s lawyer as well as yours?”

She hesitated, glancing at my face and away. “No. He isn’t. I went to him to find out where I stood if I divorced Jack. And we’ve also discussed Doris.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday afternoon. I shouldn’t be telling you all these things.”

“You should, though.”

“I hope so,” she said. “I also hope you’re discreet.”

“I try to be.”

We drove downtown to Lackner’s office, and I told her what I knew about Fred as we went. I added in summation, “He can go either way.”

That went for Doris, too, but I didn’t think it was necessary to say so.

Lackner’s offices were in a rehabilitated frame cottage on the upper edge of the downtown slums. He came to the front door to meet us, a blue-eyed young man with a blond beard and lank yellow hair that came down almost to his shoulders. His look was pleasant, and his grip was hard.

I would have liked to go in and talk to him, but Ruth Biemeyer made it plain that she didn’t want me. Her attitude was proprietorial and firm, and I wondered in passing if there was some attachment between the young man and the older woman.

I gave her the name of my motel. Then I went down to the waterfront to give Paola her mother’s fifty dollars.