His breath was thinning again. I wondered if he was on the verge of another spasm.
He peered at me with eyes that had redness in their rims. His nostrils flared. “Damn you,” he said bitterly. “Big, solid man... no quakes... no shivers... you don’t know. You can’t understand. So don’t stand there and pity me! I — the me — can’t stand your stupid pity.”
Clavery dropped his haggard face in his hands. A thin, mewling sound came from him. It was a sob, deep and bitter inside of him and unable to find its way clearly out of him.
Over Clavery’s head, my gaze met that of Eppling. We stared at each other a moment, slightly shamed and fearful with the reminder between us of the capacities and incapacities inherent in all men.
Eppling’s eyes fell away. He studied the top of his friend’s head for a moment, standing behind the chair.
“Rivers... if you get a lead on the portfolio, will you call me? It will be worth one thousand dollars if you call me.”
“What was in the brief case?” I said.
“I’m not sure,” Eppling said. “I never examined it. The señora used it as a depository for personal odds and ends. I imagine it was junk, except for the personal meaning it had for her. And, of course, excepting Van’s five-year note and handwritten statement.”
“The statement might give someone wrong ideas,” I suggested. “Has there been any contact, any hint at blackmail?”
“Not that I know of,” Eppling said. “Has there, Van?”
Clavery didn’t immediately answer. Eppling touched his shoulder. “Did you understand me, Van?”
“Yes,” Clavery said, jerking away. “I understand. I’ve got nerves, but I’m not a frigging mental case!”
He lunged out of the chair, burning up his reserves. He strode to the window and stood looking out. When he turned, he was calmer.
“Sorry, Fred.”
“Forget it. You’re under one hell of a strain.” Clavery nodded absently, as if for the moment he was beyond caring. “Fat chance anybody would have of blackmailing me, Rivers. I halfway wish something like that would happen. It would at least break the uncertainty, the blank. It would give me a chance to get that confession back — even if I had to kill the bastard who took it.”
“If anybody makes contact,” I said, “you contact me.”
“Maybe I don’t—”
“You contact me,” I repeated. “My neck is involved, and the disappearance of the old lady’s portfolio is the only break I’ve got so far. You follow?”
Clavery looked at me in morbid silence, but I knew he got the message.
Ten
Back in my office, I put an overseas phone call to Caracas, Venezuela, on the agency bill. The member of the Caracas policía who put me on his switchboard spoke badly fractured English. My Spanish was little better. He got the drift of what I was after finally and connected me with a higher-up who spoke better English than I did.
Carrying an honorary membership card in the Florida Sheriff’s Association and being on the rolls of the Tampa auxiliary police force, I stretched a point and told the capitán in Caracas that I was a Tampa cop.
“What may we do for you, Señor Rivers?”
“We are investigating a murder,” I said. “The victim was one Jean Putnam, formerly employed by the Señora Isabella Sorolla y Batione.”
“Ah, yes. A fine old lady. We were sorry to hear of her death.”
“We are interested in her son-in-law, Keith Sigmon,” I said.
“I’m acquainted with the name only through the investigation of the bombing that took the life of his wife and father-in-law.”
“Was he clean on that score?”
“Señor! You suspect... but no! The bombing was most definitely the work of terrorists. Keith Sigmon has a vile reputation, but he has taken care not to fall into our official records.”
“He was not in Caracas when word was received there of the old señora’s death,” I said. “He was at a mountain cottage with a girl named Ginny Jameson. The girl was killed while driving from the cottage toward Caracas.”
“One moment, please. I will have to consult the record.”
The phone company rang up a little more profit while the capitán barked orders in Spanish and apologized to me for the brief delay.
I heard him murmur, “Gracias, Luis,” heard the rustle of paper. Then: “I have it, Señor Rivers. The matter was mainly handled by the constabulary of the mountain village of Eminencia. We entered the investigation at Keith Sigmon’s request.”
“His request?”
“He was anxious to make his departure for Tampa, in view of the death of his mother-in-law. The accident, while unfortunate, had no suspicious aspects. The girl, Ginny Jameson, was a known prostitute. She came to Caracas from the United States with a company of entertainers. When the others returned, Ginny Jameson remained. As a dancer she had little talent, but she found other employment pleasurable and reasonably profitable. Had she lived, I’m sure we would have eventually deported her.”
“But she saved you the trouble,” I said.
“Well... since you put it that way.”
“Keith Sigmon says she left the mountain cottage alone,” I said.
“We are certain of it. No one could have been in the car with her and escaped serious injury. The vehicle overturned on her, pinning her inside, and caught fire. That stretch of road is desolate, Señor Rivers. Had it not been for the flames, she might have lain undiscovered in the ravine for days. As it was, Sigmon saw the wreckage and reported it immediately... not the action of a man who is hiding anything, I might reflect. He might have conveniently had a lapse of memory and boarded his plane the next day.”
“Then his skirts are clean,” I said.
“On that score, absolutely. Our experts examined the scene, the wreckage. Ginny Jameson was driving at a high rate of speed, as the skid marks showed. She simply went off the sharp curve to her death. We — how do you put it in your idiom? — shoveled up the remains of her and interred her without mourners. At the state’s expense, I might add.”
“At least you were rid of her.”
“Be it so,” he said. “We welcome Americans almost without exception. This one was an exception.”
“As well as Keith Sigmon.”
“Well, we do hope he remains with you. A questionable man — but in the matter of Ginny Jameson the evidence made Keith Sigmon’s word indisputable.”
I thanked him and hung up the phone. I sat cracking brain cells for a few minutes. Then I got up and started to leave the office, but I didn’t. Natalie Clavery was coming in.
In a crisp linen suit, she looked as cool and endurable as polished marble. Her eyes were clear, slightly aloof. Her black hair was a glistening frame for the perfection of her face.
Without preamble, she said, “Was confession good for my husband’s soul, Mr. Rivers?”
“Probably.”
“Then he did talk to you?”
“Yes, if you’re referring to forty thousand dollars that stuck to his fingers,” I said.
“That’s one way of putting it. I hope the information isn’t in the wrong hands.”
“Tit for tat,” I said. “Look, why don’t we start over? Have a chair, call me Ed, and we’ll try to bridge this gulf our instincts has built between us.”