“The more I think of it,” he went on slowly, “you are in a rather vulnerable position. Where were you at the time of the murder?”
“Probably in Unit Seven at the Maple Leaf Motel in Calexico.”
“How far from the scene of the murder?”
“Not far.”
“And you saw the driver at a restaurant in Mexicali?”
“Yes.”
“Talk with him?”
“No.”
“Had you seen him before?”
“No.”
“Did you know who he was?”
“No.”
“When did you next see him?”
“When I was walking across the border. The Ford pickup and the trailer with the houseboat on it were waiting in line to get across.”
“So you probably crossed the border just before he did?”
“Probably.”
“Anybody who can back up your story?” he asked.
“I sleep alone,” I told him.
Newberry shook his head. “It may be a most unfortunate habit, Lam.”
He pushed back his chair. “I’m going over and see my client. Where can I reach you if I want you?”
“At the Maple Leaf Motel in Calexico, for the moment.”
“Will you keep in touch with me as you move around?”
I shook my head. “There probably won’t be time.”
He said, “Why do you think the time element of the murder is so important?”
“Because Calhoun was just leaving Los Angeles at about the time Sutton was crossing the border with the houseboat. Sutton ran into some delay. His scout car hit a roadblock, so Sutton went back to the houseboat to wait it out. If that roadblock was on all night, that’s one thing. If it was off before midnight, that’s another thing. It may be important. If Sutton didn’t go on after the roadblock was lifted, it could mean he was dead at that time.”
Newberry asked, “What was the condition of the houseboat when the police discovered the body? Was there a light on or had the battery that furnishes juice for the lights been run down? Had the bed been slept in? Was there a dirty coffee cup? Was there—”
“The police,” I said, “are singularly uncommunicative. They wanted to get Calhoun’s story before they gave out any facts.”
“They didn’t get Calhoun’s story?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I advised him to see a lawyer before he talked,” I said.
“Anything else?” Newberry asked.
I said, “Eddie Sutton had a companion with him when he crossed the border.”
“Male, female?”
“Male.”
“Description?”
“Can’t give it. He was on the far side of the pickup and the light was such that I could only see the figure of a man.”
“Do the police know that?”
“They know it.”
“And they know that you saw this companion?”
“They know that.”
“We would, of course, like to know who that companion was.”
“We would all like to know who he was.”
“Any ideas?”
“Nothing I can talk about.”
Newberry was thoughtful. “You know Lam” he said “I think I can use you.”
“One way or another,” I said.
Again he grinned. “One way or another — no hard feelings if I try to pin this on you?”
“No hard feelings.”
“And you’ll let me know if you uncover anything that will help my client?”
“Probably.”
“But you won’t confer with me and cover the case under my directions?”
“No, I play a lone hand.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m going over to the jail and see my client.”
He shook hands, a strong, sinewy hand that gripped mine hard.
“And you were in Calexico at the time the murder was committed?”
“Apparently.”
“Good luck, Mr. Lam,” he said. “You may need it.”
He went out. I stopped at the desk in the outer office to get his secretary to give me one of his cards with telephone numbers on it; then I got in the agency car and drove back to Calexico.
9
I did a lot of thinking on the road back.
Nanncie had left the Maple Leaf during the early morning hours. She had gone either north or south. She wasn’t apt to have gone either east or west. She had gone by taxicab or in a private car.
I had more legwork to do.
It didn’t take me long to cover the taxicabs in Calexico. I drew a blank.
If Nanncie had gone south, she could have gone to San Felipe. Someone must have taken her in a private car. If she went north, she probably would have returned to Los Angeles by bus. But that wouldn’t have been smart under the circumstances.
If Calhoun had been the one to call on her there at the motel, he couldn’t have taken her very far. He had driven down from Los Angeles. He was tired. He might have taken her to the north as far as El Centro or he might have taken her south-across the border.
I decided to check the really modern hotel in Mexicali as being the most logical place to look.
The Lucerna is an up-to-the-minute hotel with a patio, swimming pool, cocktail lounge and luxurious rooms.
I parked my car and walked out to stand by the pool, looking over the people who were basking in the Baja California sunlight.
I thought some of quizzing the hotel clerk as to whether some young woman had checked in early in the morning, but I thought better of that when I took stock of the situation.
The Mexican is an innate gentleman. If I had been able to get a Mexican police officer to go with me I could have secured the information; but to try to get it out of the clerk cold turkey was out of the question. The señorita’s business would have been her own business and money wouldn’t have changed the situation very much.
I was trying to think what Calhoun would have done — what he had done — what he had told Nanncie.
It had been some emergency which had caused her to check out and...
Suddenly I stiffened to attention. Nanncie in a two piece suit that showed a bare midriff, carrying a towel over her arm, came out and seated herself in one of the sunning chairs around the swimming pool.
I had a chance to take a good look at her. Then I went to where I had parked the car, unlocked the trunk, took out my baggage, and registered in the Lucerna Hotel.
Ten minutes later I was in my trunks and dunking in the pool. I came out, picked a chair which wasn’t exactly the right style to suit me, got up, moved around and finally dropped into a vacant chair next to Nanncie.
I debated whether to make a pickup and get acquainted the slow way or whether to hit her right between the eyes.
I decided to hit her right between the eyes. There wasn’t time for the slow way.
I looked straight ahead at the people in the swimming pool and said, “Nanncie, why did you check out of the Maple Leaf this morning?”
She jumped as though I had jabbed her with a needle, sucked in her breath as though to scream, then thought better of it and looked at me with wide, startled eyes.
I watched her out of the comer of my eyes but kept my face straight ahead.
“Who... who are you?”
“Donald Lam,” I said, as though that explained everything.
“No, no, I don’t mean your name. I mean who... how do you know who I am and what is it you want?”
I said, “I’m looking for Colburn Hale.”
“What makes you look here and why ask me?”
“Because I’d like to have your help.”
“Why do you want him?”
“I want to talk with him.”
“About what?”
“Dope smuggling.”
Again she caught her breath.
There was an interval of silence. “You’re a detective?” she asked.
“Private,” I said.