Ride a Pale Horse (34 page)

“That would have been the wrong answer.”

“If I were alone—no wife, no children—it would have been the best one.”

“For the opposition, certainly. That’s what they’d like you to do. Break and run, look guilty. It would save them the trouble of getting rid of you.”

Fairbairn’s blank look of astonishment gave way to anger. “Like hell they will.”

“That’s better. So stay at home until I call you.”

“Watched by a couple of squares? They’ve been tailing me around for the last two days.”

“Noticeable?”

“No. But I’m not completely stupid. Why else was I finding everything so damned hopeless last night?”

“Keep indoors,” Bristow advised. “And be glad your watchdogs are there. They make a good deterrent—the opposition are not completely stupid, either.”

“You really are serious?”

“Yes. They can play rough.”

“Oh, come on! I’m not important enough to be—” He stopped abruptly. “Menlo—did they—”

“Beat it,” Bristow cut in. Yes, Menlo. Aliotto, too. And a couple of other Italian journalists, a Roman policeman on Via Borgognona, one recanting terrorist and God knows how many maimed and injured.

Fairbairn took one look at his friend’s face. “All right. I’m leaving.”

Bristow watched him hurriedly clear his desk. “Keep indoors,” he repeated. “You can do your stargazing from the backyard next week.”

Fairbairn nodded, picked up his briefcase. “Don’t worry. When you give a warning, you give it good.”

Bristow watched him as he was about to enter the elevator and was met by Shaw, who was leaving it.

Shaw said, “Hello! Where are you going? Taking the day off?”

“Half a day.” Fairbairn’s voice sounded normal, and Bristow relaxed. “How’s your tooth?” Fairbairn was stepping into the elevator.

“Took an hour to fill. I’m up to here with Novocaine. See you tomorrow?”

But the elevator door had closed. Shaw turned to face Bristow. “He looks as if he could use some sleep—must have been up all night.” Then Shaw suddenly remembered. “Hey, what brought you back from your vacation?”

“Menlo.”

“Oh, yes. I heard about that downstairs. How is he?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“He’s tough. What happened, d’you know?”

“No one does. As yet.”

Shaw’s face, innocent and wide-eyed, was briefly thoughtful. “Better get on with my work. A lot to do, with Fairbairn off duty.”

“Sure you feel well enough yourself? You look as if you could use some sleep, too.” A low jab, thought Bristow—Shaw looked as healthy as ever, and not much like a man who had spent an hour under a dentist’s drill.

“I’m fine.”

“Good. I’d like to talk with you. Have you time?”

“Of course. Talk about what?”

“About what’s been going on here. I need you to tell me—”

“I told Menlo everything.”

“But he isn’t here now. And I know little. So set me straight. Let’s use my office.”

“Didn’t he leave you his notes?”

“His notes?”

“The ones he made as he quizzed me and Fairbairn. Haven’t you talked with Fairbairn?”

“He’ll be in a more talkative mood when he catches up on his sleep.” Bristow stood aside to let Shaw enter his office.

His desk was bare of any papers or envelopes, and not a tape in sight. The typewriter was covered. Shaw took a chair, said with a laugh, “Wish I could keep my desk as neat as this.”

“It has been on vacation. Just give it a day to get back to normal. I suppose I’d better make a note or two as you talk. D’you mind?”

Shaw had no objections. “It’s rather a mixed-up business. What do you want to hear?” He unbuttoned the jacket of his fawn gabardine suit to keep it uncreased as he lounged in his chair.

“Whatever you think is important.”

So Shaw talked. And repeated the story he had given Menlo, in a voice that was forthright and earnest. Not a glib verbatim response but sometimes with a natural hesitation as Shaw tried to recapture the sequence of Saturday’s events.

It was impossible not to be impressed, and favourably. If Bristow hadn’t learned about two brown hairs trapped inside a stocking mask, he might have believed Shaw completely. And yet he realised, too, the evidence could be turned about: Shaw would protest that the hairs had been inserted to lead the blame to him; and if anyone had left the mask, in order to identify the car, he could also have faked proof of its supposed driver. Again, Bristow thought, it will be Shaw’s denial against Fairbairn’s. We need more than that before we level charges against one of them.

“No further questions?” Shaw asked. He was unconcerned, at ease, as innocent as he always looked. Then suddenly he was embarrassed. “I don’t know whether I should mention this,” he said hesitantly as he rose from his chair. “But Coulton told me yesterday—” He seemed to find it difficult to go on.

“What did he tell you?” Bristow’s interest quickened.

“Well—he just mentioned it as odd. But it’s worrying him. He has been asked some questions about Saturday, too, you know.”

“I didn’t know. I suppose everyone who was near the file room around ten o’clock that evening is being asked for details. Understandable. O’Donnell didn’t drug his own coffee, and the cassettes didn’t walk off by themselves.”

“No,” Shaw agreed unhappily. “Just our bad luck we were on the scene. Were these cassettes really so important?”

“Yes. What did Coulton find odd?”

“Fairbairn. But I don’t want to—I mean, I can’t believe he would have—” Words failed Shaw.

“Of course not. You’re his friend.”

“I thought he was my friend.”

“What made you change your mind? Coulton?”

“Well, when O’Donnell and I were struggling with the lock, Fairbairn left the door for a few seconds and stood at O’Donnell’s table, looked at his logbook. At least, that was what Coulton thought he did. But Fairbairn’s back was turned and blocked Coulton from seeing anything else.”

So that was Coulton’s story. “Did you notice Fairbairn leave the doorway?”

“Only briefly.” Shaw’s admission was slow and painful. “And then, another thing troubled Coulton.”

“Oh?”

“When he and Fairbairn were stepping into the elevator, Fairbairn remembered he had forgotten to lock his office desk. He left the elevator and told Coulton to wait for him downstairs. So Coulton did. They checked out together. When they reached the entrance, Fairbairn said good night and left. I found Coulton waiting on the front steps. Pretty annoyed, too, about all the delays.”

That story could be damning. There was no way of proving that Coulton had or hadn’t waited for Fairbairn—the hall by the elevator wasn’t visible from the guards at the check-out point. And now it wasn’t one man’s word against another’s. It was two against one.

“I’m sorry,” Shaw said, watching Bristow’s face. “I know you and Fairbairn are pretty close. But—what else could I do? I mean—I’m not to be blamed for Saturday night—I did nothing. I just wanted to set the record straight about that. Wouldn’t you fight to prove your innocence, Pete? If you were involved?”

Bristow looked at Shaw, pleading, anxious, believable in voice and expression. “More than innocence in a theft is involved.”

“More?”

“Murder—or attempted murder.”

“Menlo’s? But it was an accident. Wasn’t it? And why should anyone—”

The telephone rang. Damn, thought Bristow as he picked up the receiver: Shaw had shown a touch of panic there. “This won’t take long, Shaw. Hang around until I finish this call.”

Doyle, at the other end of the line, said, “I get it—you have company. I’ll keep my voice down. Okay?”

“Very well, thank you. And how are you?”

“We searched the apartment. No stocking or panty hose. But we did find a recording—with Carl’s voice and all. That’s something but not enough. A stocking would have nailed him—probably went out with the garbage. It’s collected tonight.”

“You will be working late, then.”

“I have a yard-detail there now. Do you know how much garbage these apartments accumulate? And one more thing—that rental car has been traced to a girl who is Coulton’s part-time secretary. Coulton said he needed it because his Mercedes is under repair. It was stolen, he also said; couldn’t find it this morning outside his house. Had to taxi to the office.”

“He reported it?”

“As soon as he reached his office. Smart man. By the way, we’ll run tests on Carl’s voice. Could be Shaw’s, don’t you think? Made the recording himself and had it play when some obliging friend—who didn’t want to talk—’phoned him around midnight.”

“Could be. Glad you called me. Any time.” Bristow replaced the receiver. Now let Shaw make what he could of that. “Sorry for the interruption. You were asking why should anyone—?”

Shaw’s mind was slow. Or he was still trying to find some meaning in Bristow’s telephone conversation. “Anyone?” Shaw collected himself. “Oh, yes, why should anyone try to kill Menlo? Perhaps he was there at the wrong time—when a burglar entered.”

“Two burglars.”

Shaw stared.

“There was evidence of two, I hear.” And let him sweat that one out. “Well, I think we have covered Saturday night pretty well. Back to work, both of us.”

At the door, Shaw said, “I hope I was of some help.”

“A great help.” More than you can guess, buster.

“I’m sorry I had to mention Fairbairn.”

“It’s all part of the picture.”

“There must be some other explanation—can’t believe he’d be guilty of—” Shaw hesitated—“of anything. Except chasing a pretty girl. It’s just the life-style that leads to blackmail.” And as Bristow looked at him sharply, he said, “You don’t imagine he goes sailing alone on Sundays, do you?”

Bristow kept his voice even. “I never asked. Have you met Mrs. Fairbairn?”

“No. Haven’t had that pleasure. Or displeasure—I hear she’s a bit of a nag.”

“You might be, too, if you were running a house and three children.”

“Must be a tight squeeze on the money Fairbairn makes. I think I’ll remain a bachelor.” Shaw had recovered and was ready to leave. “Will it be necessary to tell him about the talk we’ve had?”

“Won’t mention your name to him.”

“Thanks, Pete. I really wouldn’t want to feel—”

“See you around.” And you’d better stick around, Bristow thought as the door closed at last. He waited a few seconds, checked to see if Shaw was hovering in the corridor within listening distance, saw him enter the elevator. A young man in a very great hurry. Skilful, too; at dropping vague but poisonous hints: blackmail or need for money...

Bristow picked up the ’phone, called Doyle. “Extra care with Fairbairn. Could be in danger.”

“Where did he go last night?”

“No farther than his backyard. Sat in a chair, looked at the stars. Does that often.”

“Anyone else who knows about this?”

“Anyone who has been making a close study of Fairbairn and asks questions.”

“Habits can be the death of us.” Doyle was thoughtful.

“What news from Hansen or Taylor?”

“Taylor reports everything peaceful. How about you?”

“Ready to start typing. And sticking my neck out.”

“I’ll back you up. All the way.”

“You’re pretty sure now?”

“I know sewage when I smell it. Don’t have to swim in it. Carl’s one word on that recorded message was in the identical voice pattern as Shaw’s.”

“What about his check-out record on Saturday—time of exit?”

“I’ll have that info later. Call you as soon as I hear.”

Bristow locked his door, began typing out the basic points in Menlo’s notes, adding his own contribution as an appendix. The final decisions were not his to make—that was something for the upper level to work out. He’d give the facts that had been uncovered and render his own opinion on a separate sheet. If his judgment erred, then his head would be cut off at his shoulders.

He wasn’t an expert typist, usually too quick, with mistakes that had to be crossed out. Today, he typed carefully. Even so, the pages didn’t look too good. But they were readable, and no outside eye had seen their contents. Anyway, he was protecting both Fairbairn and Shaw from office gossip: rumour could devastate the innocent man.

He typed a separate page: “Investigation not fully completed, but Shaw’s statements seemed calculated to direct attention to Fairbairn. On the other hand, Fairbairn made no attempt to implicate Shaw, although he is developing—at this late date—some suspicions. It would seem that Fairbairn has been skilfully set up by Shaw and by Coulton. These two definitely are linked. Coulton has also been connected with Waterman. All three should be closely investigated. Coulton may be the control.”

He read over his statement and signed it with his identification number. Not the best piece of prose that he had ever written, but he had made his findings clear. Either I’ll swim or I’ll sink on this one, he thought as he slipped all the pages into an envelope and sealed it tightly. Yet, with Menlo gone, someone had to take a stand and point further investigation in the right direction. Right? He hoped to God it was.

He walked over to visit Miriam Blau, the envelope burning a hole inside his jacket pocket. “Keep it safe,” he told her. “I’ll collect it tomorrow.”

“You’re just like poor Frank,” she told him. “Don’t trust your own lock-up. How is he? He must have had a premonition of his accident—the way he authorised you to receive his envelope.” Her grave eyes in her thin, hawk-like face lightened with amusement as she added, “A young man—from Disinformation, he said—was here a few hours ago. Told me you needed the envelope that Mr. Menlo had deposited, but were too busy to come yourself.”

“And?” Bristow asked quickly.

“I said, ‘What envelope are you talking about? There’s none here.’ That seemed to set him back a little. Made some excuse that you must have been mistaken and rushed off. Didn’t even stay to give me his name.”

“What does he look like?”

“Medium height, thick brown hair—couldn’t see his eyes—he wore blue-tinted glasses. About thirty years old, I’d guess.” Miriam pushed a wisp of grey hair back into place in the tight coil around her head. “His identification tag wasn’t visible, either. Seemed natural enough—his hand covered it, gripped the lapel of his jacket as if he were delivering a sermon.”