A Multitude of Sins (27 page)

“A personal call? You should be flattered, Steve.”

“That kind of flattery I could do without. I’ve got a mortgage and a family to think about. Conan, I can’t hold off on an arrest much longer.”

“Dore’s arrest, you mean.”

“Who else? No—forget I asked that. Have you been out to Morningdell today?”

He nodded and left the window to settle in the chair in front of Steve’s desk.

“Dr. Kerr canceled most of his regular appointments for the next few days to work with Dore, and he’s using everything in his psychiatric arsenal.”

“He goes along with the LSD theory?”

“Yes, especially after talking to Nicky. But he wasn’t very encouraging about breaking the memory block.”

Travers frowned sourly. “Great. How is she?”

“Like the Rock of Gibraltar.” He paused, looking out at the cloudy sky, patched with fragile blue. “But she’s shaking inside. Anyway, Kerr’s holding the line on his no visitors edict in spite of the complaints from the Canfields and Carleton. Oh, by the way, Dore said you have excellent taste in guards, especially Sergeant Michaels.”

Travers smiled at that. “Ruby’s got a string of stories from her NYPD days that’ll last a good two weeks, non-stop.” Conan reached into his jacket for his cigarettes, noting that the package was almost empty. His consumption of cigarettes had skyrocketed in the last two days.

“What about the search of the Canfield house?”

He grimaced. “I got the papers and a team out there this morning, but the stash was gone. They came up with a big fat zero.”

“Damn. Well, scratch one potential murder weapon.”

“And the drugs? You heard from Sean lately?”

“This morning. She says the house is under siege by the press. Jim’s been playing Horatio at the Bridge. Catharine’s in a state of shock; Dr. Johnson was called in yesterday. Carleton’s been in and out, in Sean’s words, looking like a sick toad. I have Carl and Harry keeping an eye on Carleton and Jim, incidentally.”

“Yes, and the state appreciates that, but just to ease your mind, I’ve got some guys watching the house, too.”

“Glad to hear that. Have you gathered any alibis by now?”

Travers ignored his mildy accusing tone, swung his feet down, reached unerringly into one of the haphazard piles on his desk, and pulled out a manila folder.

“Right here. Let’s see…Catharine dismissed the servants at 7:40 and went to bed. Bob Carleton left his office at six, ate at the Marion, got home at 7:30, and spent the evening working on briefs. Alone.”

Conan sent out an impatient puff of smoke.

“Don’t tell me Jim spent the evening studying.”

“On the first Saturday of spring vacation? He and a fraternity brother went bar-hopping. When Catharine phoned the Lambda Delta house after she got the news about Jenny, they had to send somebody out to find him.”

“It checks out?”

“Well, Jim and his buddy were definitely seen Saturday night in the bars they mentioned, but it was hard for anybody to pin down exact times. It was a busy night.”

“Who’s his buddy?”

“Kid named Chet Hinkle. Willamette’s star halfback.”

Conan’s eyes narrowed. “Wasn’t he one of the brothers who alibied Jim for the night of Canfield’s death?”

“Right. Which may mean they’re good friends.”

“Apparently. What else do you have in that file?”

“Quite a lot for a couple of days’ work, considering one was Sunday.” He turned a few sheets. “Oh, speaking of Milly Weaver, which we weren’t but will be, I have a statement from Max Heinz. Saturday afternoon about five, he got a call from somebody who said he was on the Parole Board. The guy gave him a long, sad story about Milly and asked him to give her a job, so Max said he’d put her on for the holiday. Then half an hour later, Milly’s parole officer called asking if he’d
offered
her the job. Max thought it was a little odd, but to quote him, that’s the government for you; the right hand never knows what the left hand is up to.”

Conan smiled at that. “I suppose he remembered nothing pertinent about the first caller?” Then at Travers’s negative head shake, “Do you have any of the lab reports yet?”

“Yes.” He turned more pages. “The ME’s report. Cause of death, bullet wound; time, about 9 P.M.
No marks or bruises except a contusion on the back of the head.”

“Was there any morphine in the body?”

“No, and those bottles hadn’t been touched.”

Conan wondered why there seemed to be some satisfaction in that; it wasn’t unexpected.

“Any fingerprints on the bottles?”

“No. In fact, the fingerprint boys didn’t turn up a damned thing. Nothing on the gun except Isadora’s, and the rest of the house was a bust. No surprises from ballistics, either. The bullet that killed her came from her own gun.”

“What about tire impressions?”

“With the rain, that road was just a big mudslide. They couldn’t get anything worth—” He frowned at the buzz of the intercom and leaned forward to flick it on. “Yes?”

“Miss Weaver is here, sir.”

His frown changed to a smile. “Send her in.”

Milly Weaver eyed the chair Conan had vacated, then looked up to the window where he was standing and scrutinized him suspiciously. Her blond hair suggested brass, a little tarnished, but her eyes were polished steel. Conan wondered how old she was. Under night lights, she would probably look twenty; now she looked forty, and he doubted she was more than thirty. Travers said pleasantly, “Have a seat, Milly.”

She complied, crossing her legs in a posture of belligerent ease, took a cigarette from her purse, accepted a light, then informed him through a stream of smoke, “Listen, you got me up on a bummer.”

Travers nodded agreeably. “Milly, you have a right to legal counsel, you know, before you answer any questions.”

She made a succinct, unladylike comment, then,
“
Legal
counsel. That’s how I got into this mess. That damned shyster—” She stopped, rolling her cigarette between her fingers, steely eyes fixed on Conan. “Who’s he?”

Travers laughed. “Not a shyster. Now, tell me what happened. How did you get into this mess?”

“I already told Donlevy.”

“Well, you know how it is; we have to have everything in triplicate around here. I understand you’ve had a hard time finding a job lately.”

“You’re damn right. Then that—” She launched into a colorful description.

“You mean Carleton?” Travers asked finally.

“Yeah. He calls me up Saturday—”

“About what time was that?”

She shrugged. “Maybe five. Yeah, it was about five. I remember thinkin’ he wasn’t givin’ me much time. I was supposed to be at the Surf House by seven.”

“You’re sure it was Carleton?”

“It was him. I mean, he said right off who he was, and then he has that kind of greasy voice. Likes to throw the big words around, too, y’know, like he’s so damn eriodite.”

“What did he say?”

She took a drag on her cigarette that pulled her rouged cheeks in.

“Well, he says he’s got a line on a job for me; the Surf House, cocktailing. And listen, I was down and out broke, and I made up my mind I wouldn’t go back to the street; there’s nothin’ in that when you get a few years on.”

“So you accepted the job.”

“Sure. I called Tomlin first; my parole officer. He checked it out and said fine, good luck, and all that. Of course, that damn lawyer never did nobody any free favors.”

“What did he expect in return?”

“Well, he gave me this big line, y’know, about how he has this client playin’ at the Surf House.”

“That was Isadora Canfield?”

“Yeah. Well, that kinda made me back off. I mean, everybody knows who
she
is. But he says there’s some guy, a ‘fortune hunter,’ he says, and with her still shook from her old man kickin’ off—well, anyway, he says she was gonna elope that night, and he had to stop her, y’know. Said it’d be a ‘tragic and irredeemable mistake.’”

“And you were to help him stop her?”

“Yeah. He told me—well, I was supposed to slip her a mickey. He said he just wanted to make sure she didn’t do any travelin’ that night. Listen, you gotta believe me, I didn’t know there was nothin’ in that sugar could hurt her.”

“Sugar?” Travers leaned forward. “What about sugar?”

“Well, he says she always uses sugar in her coffee, and I was supposed to look out for a chance to bring her a cup of coffee, like at her breaks, and switch the sugar packets.”

“He gave you a packet to switch?”

“Sure.” She made an attempt at a shrug. “I mean, he didn’t
hand
it to me. He said it’d be in my mailbox along with…a little somethin’ extra.”

“Money?”

“Fifty bucks. Fifty lousy bucks.”

“Did you see him leave it?”

“No. I live in this apartment house; the mailboxes are downstairs. All I know is there’s this envelope in my box when I left for the beach. I gave it to Donlevy. He took the money, too.”

“It’ll be entered as evidence,” he assured her, but she didn’t seem convinced. “What were you supposed to do after you slipped her the sugar packet?”

“Call him. He gave me a number with an extension. I can’t remember the number, but it was extension seventeen, and I know it was the Surf House Motel, because when I dialed the number, somebody answers with that.”

Travers looked over at Conan, who nodded.

“Room seventeen is where Hicks was staying. Carl said he left without checking out. You can be damned sure he left before Milly’s friend settled in.”

Travers turned to Milly. “All right, so you succeeded in getting the sugar to Miss Canfield?”

“Right. She came a little early and asked for a cup of coffee. Max was busy, so…well, I switched the sugar.”

“And then called Carleton?”

“Yeah, from that phone booth in the hall.”

“You’re sure it was Carleton you talked to?”

She hesitated. “Well, sure. Sounded like him.”

“What did he say?”

“He just wanted to know if there was any hitches, then he says I should forget the whole thing.” She made a sour grimace. “I sure as hell wish I could forget it, damn him. If he figured I’d keep shut for a lousy fifty bucks—”

“Did you talk to him again?”

“No. Hell, I didn’t find out till yesterday what happened. I mean, I never thought she’d go out and
murder
somebody.”

Travers said tightly, “Milly, I appreciate your cooperation, and when the time comes I’ll see that the judge hears about it. Sergeant Donlevy said you’d posted bail.”

“Yeah.” She rose and crushed out her cigarette. “He said I could go home when you’re through with me.”

“I’m through. But keep in touch.”

Travers positioned his feet on top of the desk again.

“Charming young lady.”

Conan was scowling out the window. “Lovely. Steve, don’t you have enough pull to get an office on the other side of the building? You could have a view of Mount Hood.”

Travers laughed. “I kind of like the view. Keeps my job in perspective. What do you think?”

“Of the perspective? Not much. As for Milly, I don’t think she’s lying, which doesn’t mean she’s telling the truth.”

“Don’t start getting philosophical on me. At least, now we have some proof Isadora was drugged.”

“That doesn’t prove she didn’t kill Jenny, but it might sow some reasonable doubt.” He wandered back to the chair and sank into it. “What else is in that pile of paper?”

Travers reached for the manila folder.

“Kind of an interesting statement from Everett Worth. Here it is. It was Bob Carleton who hired him. Beginning February twenty-fourth, he was to maintain full-time surveillance on Isadora. Carleton wanted to know where she went, who she talked to, and he was particularly interested in anything out of her usual routine. Worth said there was nothing along that line until you came into the picture. Carleton wanted a full dossier on you.”

“Was anything said about her emotional problems?”

“Nothing. No reason was given for the surveillance. Anyway, Worth had a call from Carleton Saturday afternoon.”

“He’s sure it was Carleton?”

“Well, he signed this statement. Carleton called at 5:15, radio-telephone hook-up, to tell Worth he wanted him and his operatives off the case immediately. He got a little abusive; enough to get Worth good and steamed, so he and Garner and Hicks pulled up stakes and left town. But here’s the really interesting part. Carleton gave specific orders for Hicks
not
to check out of his room at the Surf House. He said for him to leave the door unlocked, and he’d take care of the bill himself—which he neglected to do.”

“He’d be a fool to show his face in the motel office. But Worth didn’t actually talk to Carleton except by phone?”

“No. He says most of his business with Carleton is by phone. Anyway, that’s the last he heard from him.” He paused, eying Conan. “You don’t seem very excited about all this. Wasn’t Carleton your candidate for the bad guy?”

He shrugged. “All this business by phone makes me nervous. What else do you have?”

“Well, here’s a statement from Ben Meade. Maybe you should check it in case there’s anything he forgot to tell you.” He put the report back in the file when Conan made no move to take it. “Okay, then I had a nice little chat with Marvin Hendricks from the Ladd-Bush Bank.”

This roused his interest. “What did he say?”