Confidentially Yours (4 page)

I was winded, and had to draw a breath before I could speak. “What do you want?”

“You,” he said curtly.

“What do you mean ‘you,’ you silly bastard?” I snapped. “If you’ve got some reason for leaning on that doorbell, let’s hear what it is.”

“I’m taking you in. Scanlon wants you.”

“What for?”

“Maybe you’ll find out when you get there.”

“Like hell. I’ll find out now.”

“Suit yourself.” There was an eager and very ugly light in the greenish eyes. “He told me to bring you in, but he didn’t say how. If you want to go in handcuffs, with a lump on your head, it’s all the same to me.”

“We’ll see about that,” I said. “Is he there now?”

“He’s there.”

I turned abruptly and went down the hallway to the living room. He followed me and stood in the doorway. I dialed the sheriffs office, and while I was waiting I saw he was looking toward the dining-room door. About half the suitcase showed beyond the end of the sofa, though her purse was out of sight from where he stood. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, popped a match with his thumbnail the way he’d probably seen some tough type do it in the movies, and favored me with a nasty smile. “You wouldn’t have been thinking of running out, would you?”

I stared at him contemptuously without bothering to answer. It occurred to me he was probably itching for a chance to belt me one and that I wasn’t being very smart, but at the moment I was too full of rage to care. Scanlon answered the phone.

“Warren,” I said. “What’s this about wanting to see me?”

“That’s right.”

“What about?”

“Some questions I want to ask you.”

“All right. It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that I’ve lived in this town for 33 years, and there’s a good chance I could find the courthouse without help. When you want to see me, I’ve got a telephone. So you can tell this farcical jerk you sent out here—”

“For crissake, if you’ve got to make a speech, could you do it tomorrow? Some of us would like to go home and get to bed.”

“I’ll be down the first thing in the morning.”

“I want to see you right now.” There was an ominous quietness in the way he said it.

There was no use arguing. “All right,” I said savagely. “But next time don’t be so ambiguous. Send three men and surround the house.” I slammed down the receiver.

She’d probably be gone when I got back. Well, let her go, I thought numbly. What difference did it make now? It was obvious she was guilty, and there was nothing to be gained by any more fish-wife screaming at each other. Mulholland jerked his head. He went out the front. I threw on a topcoat, and hesitated, looking down the hallway toward the bedroom. Well, what was there to say?
Goodbye? It’s been nice knowing you?
I turned, followed him out, and closed the door.

The county car was parked in the drive. Mulholland nodded curtly toward the front seat. I got in and lit a cigarette. The streets were deserted now, except for a few cars in front of Fuller’s Cafe, and the wet pavement was shiny and black under the lights. The ropes of tinsel swayed, glittering coldly in the dark thrust of the wind. Why had she done it? It hurt, and went on hurting, and the wound only added to the cold weight of anger inside me. I pushed her off me and tried to think. The girl must have called Scanlon; there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for this. And now that it seemed obvious her information was correct, I could be in serious trouble. A lot depended on whether or not she’d actually come forward and identified herself and produced the cigarette lighter; Scanlon wouldn’t put much faith in an anonymous telephone call. Or would he? At the moment, my opinion of the county police force was unprintable.

The courthouse was dark now except for the sheriff’s offices and a couple of windows on one of the upper floors where the custodian was working. Mulholland parked in front, and I got out without waiting for him, strode up the steps, and shoved through the swinging, rubber-flapped doors. I could hear his heels in the corridor behind me as I turned in the doorway. The big room was empty, but just as I came in Scanlon emerged from his private office. The shotgun was still on the desk. He nodded toward a chair at the corner of it. “Sit down.”

I dropped the topcoat on the desk at my left, and sat down. Mulholland sprawled in the swivel chair behind another desk with his legs stretched out, watching me with what looked like amused satisfaction. Well, I’d get to him in a minute.

“I gather you had some reason for this?” I asked.

Scanlon took a cigar from his shirt pocket and bit the end off it. “That’s right. I do.”

“Good,” I said. “So maybe if it’s not classified information, I might even find out what it is.”

Scanlon struck a match, holding it in front of his cigar while he went on staring at me. “I thought you’d heard. We’re investigating a murder.”

“And what have I got to do with it?”

“I didn’t say you had anything to do with it. But you were out there at the time he was killed, and I want to hear your story again.”

“Why?”

“I’ll ask the questions. Did Roberts tell you he was going hunting this morning?”

“No.”
Why had she done it?
My insides twisted. Scanlon said something else. “What?” I asked.

“But you recognized his car, when you parked at the end of the road, and knew he was in one of the blinds?”

So that was it. “I’ve told you three times,” I said. “His car was
not
there when I parked. He came after I did.”

It was obvious now the girl had called him. And also fairly obvious, on the other hand, that she hadn’t identified herself. So he had the motive he’d lacked, if he believed it and could prove it. But without proof, he couldn’t even mention it. Accusing another man’s wife of infidelity on the strength of a crank telephone call could be risky even for a law-enforcement officer. So all he could do was accept the unsupported word of this telephoning creep and hammer at me with some oblique line of attack, hoping to trip me up. I wondered suddenly how much of this great zeal was due to the fact he already had one unsolved murder galling him. I was being made a goat. Rage came up into my throat and threatened to choke me.

I leaned forward over the desk. “Am I being accused of killing Roberts?”

“You’re being questioned.”

“Why?”

“I’ve told you—”

“You haven’t told me anything. And until I’m told why I’m under suspicion, you can shove it.”

He pounded a hand on the desk and pointed the cigar in my face, the gray eyes as bleak as Arctic ice. “Let’s say you’re under suspicion because you happened to be living in the same century when Roberts was killed. That’s good enough for me, and it’s good enough for you. If you want to play tough, I’ll have you jugged as a material witness.”

“Why don’t you accuse me of killing Junior Delevan, while you’re at it? It’s only been a couple of years, and maybe you could clean out all your old files.”

“Never mind Delevan!” he snapped.

“I also shot Cock Robin, and sank the Titanic—”

“Shut up.”

“Can I use your telephone?”

He waved a hand toward the instrument. “Why?”

“I want to call the American consul,” I said.

I dialed George Clement’s house number. “Duke,” I said, when he answered. “Can you come down to the sheriffs office for a minute?”

“Sure,” he said. “But what’s the trouble?”

“For some reason that nobody’ll bother to explain, I seem to be suspected of murdering Dan Roberts—”

“But that’s ridiculous—”

“My impression exactly. And I’d like some legal advice.”

“I’ve just gone to bed, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Take your time. I can wait. And so can they.” I hung up.

“You’re acting like a damned fool,” Scanlon snapped.

“I am a damned fool,” I said. “I voted for you.”

“You and Roberts pretty good friends?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t say he was a close friend at all. He was an acquaintance. And a tenant.”

“You ever have any trouble with him?”

I’d already answered that once, and saw no point in going into it again. I lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair. “I have nothing to say.”

“You mean you won’t answer?”

“I mean I won’t answer anything until I’ve been advised to by a lawyer. If you want to check that, ask me what time it is.”

He slammed a hand on the desk. “You think I’m doing this for fun?”

“That’s what puzzles me. I’d like to know myself.”

We alternately glared and shouted at each other until George arrived in a little over ten minutes. He’s 51, six feet tall, ramrod straight, with graying hair and a clipped gray mustache. At first glance he always strikes you as a little on the stuffy side, or at least over-correct, but he unbends when he knows you and he’s a very astute lawyer and a deadly, if cautious, poker player. He’s a passionate big-game fisherman, makes several trips to Florida or the Bahamas each year, and has two mounted sails and a dolphin in his offices, which take up a good part of the second floor of the Duquesne building. Fleurelle, his wife, is very wealthy, and the acknowledged leader of everything social in town, though it is my private opinion she has more than a trace of dragon blood and that George is pretty well policed. She’s always regarded me as a roughneck.

George smiled and nodded to the others. “Good evening, Sheriff. Mr. Mulholland.” He turned to me then. “Well, Hotspur, what seems to be the trouble?”

“I’m not sure myself,” I said. “All I know is Scanlon sent this musical-comedy Gestapo agent to haul me out of bed—”

Everybody erupted at once. Mulholland started to get up as if he were going to take a swing at me. Scanlon waved him off curtly. “Sit down!”

“I’ve had a bellyful of this guy!” Mulholland snapped.

“Who hasn’t?” Scanlon asked. “Anyway, there’s no use your hanging around any longer. You might as well go home.”

“Sheriff,” George put in quietly, “maybe if I could speak to Duke alone for a moment—”

Scanlon ground out his cigar, rattling the ashtray. “Hell, yes. If you could knock some sense into that pig head, maybe we’d get somewhere.”

Mulholland shucked off his gunbelt and holster, dropped them in a desk drawer, stared coldly at me, and stalked out. George and I moved over to one of the desks at the far corner of the room. I felt better now that he was here, and wondered if part of my anger had been merely to cover up the fact I was scared. We lighted cigarettes, and he said, “All right, let’s have it.”

I told him about the anonymous telephone call, and added, “So she probably called Scanlon too.”

He nodded. “It seems likely. But he hasn’t actually said so?”

“No. That’s what burns me. He wouldn’t dare admit he took any stock in a nut telephone call, but still he’d haul me down here and put me through the wringer. As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell.”

He shook his head with a wry smile. “Well, you’re consistent, anyway. So far, you haven’t done anything right.”

“But, dammit, George—”

“No, you listen to me a minute. The girl, of course, is obviously a mental case, but no police officer worth his salt ever ignores any lead that comes up, no matter how tenuous. So Scanlon is obliged to check out her tip if he possibly can, even though he knows there’s nothing to it. But instead of helping him eliminate it, so far you’ve done everything you could to convince him there might be some truth in it after all. Now stop acting like a wild boar with a toothache, or you
will
need a lawyer.”

“You mean I could be charged with murder just on the strength of a poison telephone call and the fact I happened to be out at Crossman Slough when he was killed?”

“It’s not likely, without some kind of proof, unless you keep insisting on giving the impression you’ve got something to hide. But there are a couple of other factors you’ve apparently overlooked. In the first place, Scanlon can make it very tough for you if you don’t cooperate. Legally, too, and there’s nothing I could do for you. With the weekend coming up, he could hold you without any charge at all until Monday. And in the second place, hindering the investigation by fighting him just makes it that much harder for him to find out who
did
kill Roberts, which—if you’re under suspicion—is as much in your interest as it is in his. So stop acting like an adolescent and answer his questions; you have to, anyway, so you might as well do it gracefully. And for God’s sake, stop riding Mulholland.”

“What’s he got to do with it?”

He sighed. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that sending Mulholland to pick you up could have been deliberate? Scanlon’s a smooth operator, and as brainy as they come, and the chances are he was trying to capitalize on that low flash-point of yours. A man who loses his temper is always-more likely to say too much, or trip himself. Also, what Scanlon is trying to check is this hypothetical motive of jealousy; so behaving as if you were capable of unreasoning jealousy certainly isn’t helping you much.”

“Wait a minute!” I stared at him. “You mean, of Mulholland? Why would I be jealous of that posturing nitwit?”

“Face it, Duke; you’ve never liked him since he and Frances were in that Little Theatre play last spring. It’s ridiculous, naturally, but you’ve gone out of your way to insult him.”

“Nuts! I’d forgotten all about it.”

He smiled and held up a hand. “All right, all right. Don’t bite my head off. Just take my advice and cooperate with Scanlon. I’ll stick around and drive you home.”

“Should I say anything about the telephone call?”

“No. It’s his problem; let him cope with it.” He smiled, and you could see the well-oiled legal mind at work.

“Never deny an accusation that hasn’t been made.”

We went back to where Scanlon was waiting. Jealous of Mulholland, I thought scornfully. I hadn’t even thought of that play for months.

I
T TOOK LESS THAN AN
hour, and was a very relaxed interrogation. It was, in fact, too relaxed now; it was obvious he had realized this other approach was a mistake and was only going through the motions in order to justify getting me down here. He was marking time until he could get some proof or verification of that girl’s story; when he had that, he’d land on me like a brick wall. I had to repeat the story of the whole morning, from my arrival at Crossman Slough and the blinds until the time I was back on the highway again on the way home, sometime around ten, and answer a lot of questions that were slanted to give the impression that what he was after was some detail I might have overlooked before, which would point to the third person who obviously had to be out there. Had I
heard
a car at any time? No. Had I heard anybody wading out to the blind where Roberts was? No. It was too far away, at least 150 yards. George sat at another desk, quietly smoking and taking no part in it.