“That’s right, I wasn’t.”
“Why did you want to see him?”
“Professional ethics—”
“Which,” Ronda interrupted, “obviously doesn’t include telling whoppers to widows.”
“—forbids me to name names, so I’ll call my client Mrs. X. Mrs. X paid me to find out if a man named Patrick O’Gorman lived in Chicote.”
“And?”
“That’s all. I was merely to find out if he was still here, not talk to him or give him any message or contact him.”
“Oh, come off it, Quinn,” Ronda said brusquely. “All Mrs. X had to do was write a letter to the city authorities, the mayor, the sheriff, even the Chamber of Commerce. Why should she hire you to drive all the way up here?”
“She did.”
“How much did she pay you?”
“A hundred and twenty dollars.”
“For the love of heaven, she must be off her rocker.”
“That’s a good way of putting it,” Quinn said. “For the love of heaven, she is.”
“A nut, eh?”
“A lot of people would say so. By the way, all this is in confidence.”
“Certainly. What’s Mrs. X’s connection with O’Gorman?”
“She didn’t tell me, if there is one.”
“It seems,” Ronda said, “a funny job for a man like you to take.”
“When I’m broke I take funny jobs.”
“What broke you?”
“Roulette, dice, blackjack, casino.”
“You’re a professional gambler?”
Quinn’s smile was humorless. “Amateur. The professionals win. I lose. This time I lost everything. Mrs. X’s money looked nice and green and crisp.”
“Telling whoppers to widows,” Ronda said, “and taking money from nutty old women doesn’t make you exactly a hero, Quinn.”
“Not exactly. Mrs. X isn’t old, by the way, and except for some rather obvious eccentricities, she’s an intelligent woman.”
“Then why didn’t she simply write a letter, or make a phone call?”
“Neither is allowed where she lives. She’s a member of an obscure religious cult which forbids unnecessary contact with the outside world.”
“Then how,” Ronda said dryly, “did she come across you?”
“She didn’t. I came across her.”
“How?”
“You probably won’t believe me.”
“I haven’t so far. Keep trying, though.”
Quinn kept trying and Ronda listened, shaking his head now and then in incredulity.
“It’s crazy,” he said when Quinn had finished. “The whole thing’s crazy. Maybe you are, too.”
“I’m not ruling out the possibility.”
“Where is this place, anyway, and what’s it called?”
“I can’t tell you that. It’s one of a number of cults, not uncommon in Southern California, made up of misfits, neurotics, the world’s rejects. For the most part they mind their own business and stay out of trouble except for some brushes with the local authorities about schooling for the children.”
“All right,” Ronda said with a vague gesture. “Suppose I believe the whole implausible story, what do you want me to do?”
“Try and square me with Martha O’Gorman, for one thing.”
“That may not be easy.”
“And for another, tell me the name of the red-haired woman who was in your outer office yesterday afternoon when you went to get the file on O’Gorman.”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“She picked me up in the El Bocado café last night,” Quinn said, “at the same time that the man in the fedora was searching my room.”
“You think there’s a connection?”
“I’d be a fool not to. She was making sure I didn’t leave the place before the man had a chance to finish his job.”
“You must be mistaken, Quinn. The young woman in question wouldn’t dream of picking up a strange man in a place like El Bocado, let alone cover for a sneak thief. She’s a respectable woman.”
“That hardly surprises me,” Quinn said dryly. “Everyone involved is, or was, the soul of respectability. It’s what makes the case unique—no villains, no crooks, no shady ladies. O’Gorman was a good guy, Martha O’Gorman is a pillar of the community, Mrs. X is a dedicated cultist and the red-haired woman probably teaches Sunday School.”
“Matter of fact, she does,”
“Who is she, Ronda?”
“Dammit, Quinn, I’m not sure I ought to tell you. She’s a very nice girl, and besides, maybe you made a mistake. Did you actually see her face when she was in here yesterday afternoon?”
“No. Just the top of her head.”
“That’s not enough evidence to prove she’s the same woman who picked you up in the café. Besides, Willie’s too smart an operator to pull a dumb trick like that.”
“Willie,” Quinn repeated. “Short for Wilhelmina?”
“Yes.”
“Wilhelmina de Vries?”
“Why... why, yes,” Ronda said, looking startled. “How did you know her name?”
“She told me last night at dinner.”
“Actually she’s Willie King now, she went through a quick marriage and divorce... She told you her name?”
“Yes.”
“Surely that in itself proves she wasn’t up to any skulduggery.”
“Call it what you like,” Quinn said. “She was up to it and enjoying it.”
“What else did she tell you?”
“A number of lies not worth repeating. By the way, does she happen to have a boy friend?”
The question seemed to annoy Ronda. He leaned forward, giving Quinn a long hard stare. “Now listen, Quinn. You can’t come into a town like this and start making insinuations about some of our best citizens.”
“So Willie King is going around with one of Chicote’s best citizens.”
“I didn’t say that. I only—”
“Tell me, does Chicote have any bad citizens? All the ones I’ve met, or been told about, so far are truly sterling characters —no, I’m wrong. There was one exception, the nice little lady who embezzled from the local bank.”
“What made you suddenly think of her?”
“She’s been on my mind,” Quinn said.
“Why?”
“In my profession, as well as yours, the sinners come in for more attention than the saints. Chicote’s apparently teeming with saints but—”
“Lay off the town, will you? It’s an average town, there are average people in it, average things happen.”
“Tell me about the lady embezzler, Ronda.”
“I repeat, why?”
“When Willie King was big-earing in this office yesterday, you were talking about the O’Gorman case mainly, but you mentioned the lady embezzler, too. I’m curious about which one Willie King—and perhaps her boy friend—is interested in.”
“Everyone in Chicote,” Ronda said with an evasive shrug, “is interested in both cases.”
“To the extent of breaking into my motel room?”
“No, of course not.”
“All right, then. Who’s Willie’s boy friend, Ronda?”
“I can’t swear to anything but I’ve heard rumors. In a town this size, when a young attractive woman works for and with an eligible widower, it’s always assumed she’s also working on him.”
“His name?”
“George Haywood. He’s in real estate. Willie used to be his secretary but she’s had a promotion. The ads Haywood puts in the Beacon list Willie as an associate. How close an associate is anybody’s guess and nobody’s business.”
“It may be mine,” Quinn said. “Willie didn’t accidentally wander into the El Bocado café last night, accidentally wearing a disguise.”
“It seems unlikely.”
“Did Willie have any connection with the O’Gorman case?”
“Not that I know of.”