The Dain Curse Page 13

  “Harve! Hey, Harve!”

  A big-boned man of thirty-five or so came to the door, said, “Hullo, Ben,” and walked between the rose bushes to our car. His features, like his voice, were heavy, and he moved and spoke deliberately. His last name was Whidden. Rolly asked him if he had seen the Chrysler.

  “Yes, Ben, I saw them,” he said. “They went past around a quarter after seven this morning, hitting it up.”

  “They?” I asked, while Rolly asked: “Them?”

  “There was a man and a woman—or a girl—in it. I didn’t get a good look at them—just saw them whizz past. She was driving, a kind of small woman she looked like from here, with brown hair.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Oh, he was maybe forty, and didn’t look like he was very big either. A pinkish face, he had, and gray coat and hat.”

  “Ever see Mrs. Carter?” I asked.

  “The bride living down the cove? No. I seen him, but not her. Was that her?”

  I said we thought it was.

  “The man wasn’t him,” he said. “He was somebody I never seen before.”

  “Know him again if you saw him?”

  “I reckon I would—if I saw him going past like that.”

  Four miles beyond Whidden’s we found the Chrysler. It was a foot or two off the road, on the left-hand side, standing on all fours with its radiator jammed into a eucalyptus tree. All its glass was shattered, and the front third of its metal was pretty well crumpled. It was empty. There was no blood in it. The deputy sheriff and I seemed to be the only people in the vicinity.

  We ran around in circles, straining our eyes at the ground, and when we got through we knew what we had known at the beginning—the Chrysler had run into a eucalyptus tree. There were tire-marks on the road, and marks that could have been footprints on the ground by the car; but it was possible to find the same sort of marks in a hundred places along that, or any other, road. We got into our borrowed car again and drove on, asking questions wherever we found someone to question; and all the answers were: No, we didn’t see her or them.

  “What about this fellow Baker?” I asked Rolly as we turned around to go back. “Debro saw her alone. There was a man with her when she passed Whidden’s. The Bakers saw nothing, and it was in their territory that the man must have joined her.”

  “Well,” he said, argumentatively, “it could of happened that way, couldn’t it?”

  “Yeah, but it might be a good idea to do some more talking to them.”

  “If you want to,” he consented without enthusiasm. “But don’t go dragging me into any arguments with them. He’s my wife’s brother.”

  That made a difference. I asked:

  “What sort of man is he?”

  “Claude’s kind of shiftless, all right. Like the old man says, he don’t manage to raise nothing much but kids on that farm of his, but I never heard tell that he did anybody any harm.”

  “If you say he’s all right, that’s enough for me,” I lied. “We won’t bother him.”

  15

  I’VE KILLED HIM

  Sheriff Feeney, fat, florid, and with a lot of brown mustache, and district attorney Vernon, sharp-featured, aggressive, and hungry for fame, came over from the county seat. They listened to our stories, looked the ground over, and agreed with Rolly that Gabrielle Collinson had killed her husband. When Marshal Dick Cotton—a pompous, unintelligent man in his forties—returned from San Francisco, he added his vote to the others. The coroner and his jury came to the same opinion, though officially they limited themselves to the usual “person or persons unknown,” with recommendations involving the girl.

  The time of Collinson’s death was placed between eight and nine o’clock Friday night. No marks not apparently caused by his fall had been found on him. The pistol found in his room had been identified as his. No fingerprints were on it. I had an idea that some of the county officials half suspected me of having seen to that, though nobody said anything of that sort. Mary Nunez stuck to her story of being kept home by chills. She had a flock of Mexican witnesses to back it up. I couldn’t find any to knock holes in it. We found no further trace of the man Whidden had seen. I tried the Bakers again, by myself, with no luck. The marshal’s wife, a frail youngish woman with a weak pretty face and nice shy manners, who worked in the telegraph office, said Collinson had sent off his wire to me early Friday morning. He was pale and shaky, she said, with dark-rimmed, bloodshot eyes. She had supposed he was drunk, though she hadn’t smelled alcohol on his breath.

  Collinson’s father and brother came down from San Francisco. Hubert Collinson, the father, was a big calm man who looked capable of taking as many more millions out of Pacific Coast lumber as he wanted. Laurence Collinson was a year or two older than his dead brother, and much like him in appearance. Both Collinsons were careful to say nothing that could be interpreted as suggesting they thought Gabrielle had been responsible for Eric’s death, but there was little doubt that they did think so.

  Hubert Collinson said quietly to me, “Go ahead; get to the bottom of it;” and thus became the fourth client for whom the agency had been concerned with Gabrielle’s affairs.

  Madison Andrews came down from San Francisco. He and I talked in my hotel room. He sat on a chair by the window, cut a cube of tobacco from a yellowish plug, put it in his mouth, and decided that Collinson had committed suicide.

  I sat on the side of the bed, set fire to a Fatima, and contradicted him:

  “He wouldn’t have torn up the bush if he’d gone over willingly.”

  “Then it was an accident. That was a dangerous road to be walked in the dark.”

  “I’ve stopped believing in accidents,” I said. “And he had sent me an SOS. And there was the gun that had been fired in his room.”

  He leaned forward in his chair. His eyes were hard and watchful. He was a lawyer cross-examining a witness.

  “You think Gabrielle was responsible?”

  I wouldn’t go that far. I said:

  “He was murdered. He was murdered by—I told you two weeks ago that we weren’t through with that damned curse, and that the only way to get through with it was to have the Temple business sifted to the bottom.”

  “Yes, I remember,” he said without quite sneering. “You advanced the theory that there was some connecting link between her parents’ deaths and the trouble she had at the Haldorns’; but, as I recall it, you had no idea what the link might be. Don’t you think that deficiency has a tendency to make your theory a little—say—vaporous?”

  “Does it? Her father, step-mother, physician, and husband have been killed, one after the other, in less than two months; and her maid jailed for murder. All the people closest to her. Doesn’t that look like a program? And”—I grinned at him—“are you sure it’s not going further? And if it does, aren’t you the next closest person to her?”

  “Preposterous!” He was very much annoyed now. “We know about her parents’ deaths, and about Riese’s, and that there was no link between them. We know that those responsible for Riese’s murder are now either dead or in prison. There’s no getting around that. It’s simply preposterous to say there are links between one and another of these crimes when we know there’s none.”

  “We don’t know anything of the kind,” I insisted. “All we know is that we haven’t found the links. Who profits—or could hope to profit—by what has happened?”

  “Not a single person so far as I know.”

  “Suppose she died? Who’d get the estate?”

  “I don’t know. There are distant relations in England or France, I dare say.”

  “That doesn’t get us very far,” I growled. “Anyway, nobody’s tried to kill her. It’s her friends who get the knock-off.”

  The lawyer reminded me sourly that we couldn’t say that nobody had tried to kill her—or had succeeded—until we found her. I couldn’t argue with him about that. Her trail still ended where the eucalyptus tree had stopped the Ch
rysler.

  I gave him a piece of advice before he left:

  “Whatever you believe, there’s no sense in your taking unnecessary chances: remember that there might be a program, and you might be next on it. It won’t hurt to be careful.”

  He didn’t thank me. He suggested, unpleasantly, that doubtless I thought he should hire private detectives to guard him.

  Madison Andrews had offered a thousand-dollar reward for information leading to discovery of the girl’s whereabouts. Hubert Collinson had offered another thousand, with an additional twenty-five hundred for the arrest and conviction of his son’s murderer. Half the population of the county had turned bloodhound. Anywhere you went you found men walking, or even crawling, around, searching fields, paths, hills, and valleys for clues, and in the woods you were likely to find more amateur gumshoes than trees.

  Her photographs had been distributed and published widely. The newspapers, from San Diego to Vancouver, gave us a tremendous play, whooping it up in all the colored ink they had. All the San Francisco and Los Angeles Continental operatives who could be pulled off other jobs were checking Quesada’s exits, hunting, questioning, finding nothing. Radio broadcasters helped. The police everywhere, all the agency’s branches, were stirred up.

  And by Monday all this hubbub had brought us exactly nothing.

  Monday afternoon I went back to San Francisco and told all my troubles to the Old Man. He listened politely, as if to some moderately interesting story that didn’t concern him personally, smiled his meaningless smile, and, instead of any assistance, gave me his pleasantly expressed opinion that I’d eventually succeed in working it all out to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Then he told me that Fitzstephan had phoned, trying to get in touch with me. “It may be important. He would have gone down to Quesada to find you if I hadn’t told him I expected you.”

  I called Fitzstephan’s number.

  “Come up,” he said. “I’ve got something. I don’t know whether it’s a fresh puzzle, or the key to a puzzle; but it’s something.”

  I rode up Nob Hill on a cable car and was in his apartment within fifteen minutes.

  “All right, spring it,” I said as we sat down in his paper-, magazine-, and book-littered living room.

  “Any trace of Gabrielle yet?” he asked.

  “No. But spring the puzzle. Don’t be literary with me, building up to climaxes and the like. I’m too crude for that—it’d only give me a bellyache. Just spread it out for me.”

  “You’ll always be what you are,” he said, trying to seem disappointed and disgusted, but not succeeding because he was—inwardly—too excited over something. “Somebody—a man—called me up early Saturday morning—half-past one—on the phone. He asked: ‘Is this Fitzstephan?’ I said: ‘Yes;’ and then the voice said: ‘Well, I’ve killed him.’ He said it just like that. I’m sure of those exact words, though they weren’t very clear. There was a lot of noise on the line, and the voice seemed distant.

  “I didn’t know who it was—what he was talking about. I asked: ‘Killed who? Who is this?’ I couldn’t understand any of his answer except the word ‘money’ He said something about money, repeating it several times, but I could understand only that one word. There were some people here—the Marquards, Laura Joines with some man she’d brought, Ted and Sue Van Slack—and we had been in the middle of a literary free-for-all. I had a wisecrack on my tongue—something about Cabell being a romanticist in the same sense that the wooden horse was Trojan—and didn’t want to be robbed of my opportunity to deliver it by this drunken joker, or whoever he was, on the phone. I couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was saying, so I hung up and went back to my guests.

  “It never occurred to me that the phone conversation could have had any meaning until yesterday morning, when I read about Collinson’s death. I was at the Colemans’, up in Ross. I went up there Saturday morning, for the week-end, having finally run Ralph to earth.” He grinned. “And I made him glad enough to see me leave this morning.” He became serious again. “Even after hearing of Collinson’s death, I wasn’t convinced that my phone call was of any importance, had any meaning. It was such a silly sort of thing. But of course I meant to tell you about it. But look—this was in my mail when I got home this morning.”

  He took an envelope from his pocket and tossed it over to me. It was a cheap and shiny white envelope of the kind you can buy anywhere. Its corners were dark and curled, as if it had been carried in a pocket for some time. Fitzstephan’s name and address had been printed on it, with a hard pencil, by someone who was a rotten printer, or who wanted to be thought so. It was postmarked San Francisco, nine o’clock Saturday morning. Inside was a soiled and crookedly torn piece of brown wrapping paper, with one sentence—as poorly printed with pencil as the address—on it:

  ANY BODY THAT WANTS MRS. CARTER

  CAN HAVE SAME BY PAYING $10000—

  There was no date, no salutation, no signature.

  “She was seen driving away alone as late as seven Saturday morning,” I said. “This was mailed here, eighty miles away, in time to be postmarked at nine—taken from the box in the first morning collection, say. That’s one to get wrinkles over. But even that’s not as funny as its coming to you instead of to Andrews, who’s in charge of her affairs, or her father-in-law, who’s got the most money.”

  “It is funny and it isn’t,” Fitzstephan replied. His lean face was eager. “There may be a point of light there. You know I recommended Quesada to Collinson, having spent a couple of months there last spring finishing The Wall of Ashdod, and gave him a card to a real estate dealer named Rolly—the deputy sheriffs father–there, introducing him as Eric Carter. A native of Quesada might not know she was Gabrielle Collinson, née Leggett. In that case he wouldn’t know how to reach her people except through me, who had sent her and her husband there. So the letter is sent to me, but starts off Anybody that, to be passed on to the interested persons.”

  “A native might have done that,” I said slowly; “or a kidnapper who wanted us to think he was a native, didn’t want us to think he knew the Collinsons.”

  “Exactly. And as far as I know none of the natives knew my address here.”

  “How about Rolly?”

  “Not unless Collinson gave it to him. I simply scribbled the introduction on the back of a card.”

  “Said anything to anybody else about the phone call and this letter?” I asked.

  “I mentioned the call to the people who were here Friday night—when I thought it was a joke or a mistake. I haven’t shown this to anybody else. In fact,” he said, “I was a little doubtful about showing it at all—and still am. Is it going to make trouble for me?”

  “Yeah, it will. But you oughtn’t mind that. I thought you liked first-hand views of trouble. Better give me the names and addresses of your guests. If they and Coleman account for your whereabouts Friday night and over the week-end, nothing serious will happen to you; though you’ll have to go down to Quesada and let the county officials third-degree you.”

  “Shall we go now?”

  “I’m going back tonight. Meet me at the Sunset Hotel there in the morning. That’ll give me time to work on the officials—so they won’t throw you in the dungeon on sight.”

  I went back to the agency and put in a Quesada call. I couldn’t get hold of Vernon or the sheriff, but Cotton was reachable. I gave him the information I had got from Fitzstephan, promising to produce the novelist for questioning the next morning.

  The marshal said the search for the girl was still going on without results. Reports had come in that she had been seen—practically simultaneously—in Los Angeles, Eureka, Carson City, Denver, Portland, Tijuana, Ogden, San Jose, Vancouver, Porterville, and Hawaii. All except the most ridiculous reports were being run out.

  The telephone company could tell me that Owen Fitzstephan’s Saturday morning phone-call had not been a long distance call, and that nobody in Quesada had called a San Francisco numbe
r either Friday night or Saturday morning.

  Before I left the agency I visited the Old Man again, asking him if he would try to persuade the district attorney to turn Aaronia Haldorn and Tom Fink loose on bail.

  “They’re not doing us any good in jail,” I explained, “and, loose, they might lead us somewhere if we shadowed them. He oughtn’t to mind: he knows he hasn’t a chance in the world of hanging murder-raps on them as things now stack up.”

  The Old Man promised to do his best, and to put an operative behind each of our suspects if they were sprung.

  I went over to Madison Andrews’ office. When I had told him about Fitzstephan’s messages, and had given him our explanation of them, the lawyer nodded his bony white-thatched head and said:

  “And whether that’s the true explanation or not, the county authorities will now have to give up their absurd theory that Gabrielle killed her husband.”

  I shook my head sidewise.

  “What?” he asked explosively.

  “They’re going to think the messages were cooked up to clear her,” I predicted.

  “Is that what you think?” His jaws got lumpy in front of his ears, and his tangled eyebrows came down over his eyes.

  “I hope they weren’t,” I said; “because if it’s a trick it’s a damned childish one.”

  “How could it be?” he demanded loudly. “Don’t talk nonsense. None of us knew anything then. The body hadn’t been found when—”

  “Yeah,” I agreed; “and that’s why, if it turns out to have been a stunt, it’ll hang Gabrielle.”

  “I don’t understand you,” he said disagreeably. “One minute you’re talking about somebody persecuting the girl, and the next minute you’re talking as if you thought she was the murderer. Just what do you think?”

  “Both can be true,” I replied, no less disagreeably. “And what difference does it make what I think? It’ll be up to the jury when she’s found. The question now is: what are you going to do about the ten-thousand-dollar demand—if it’s on the level?”