"Okay."
A short time later they were approaching the tin shed that housed Barnum Flying Service. An airplane's nose poked out from the hangar.
"He's got a Baron," Bert said, "like ours, only newer." He pointed at the airplane in the hangar next to the office.
Tony nodded. "I'll go on in and talk to him."
"I'll hang around out here," Bert said. "I want to have a look at his airplane."
Tony opened the door and walked in. There was a tiny reception area, with a couple of seedy armchairs and a lot of posters having to do with flying; there was a door with Shorty Barnum's name on it, and Tony opened that. Barnum, who had been dozing with ' his feet on the desk, started.
"Oops," he said. "Caught me catching forty winks. What can I…" Then he saw Tony's badge, and he didn't seem happy about it.
"My name's Tony Wheeler," the deputy said. "From the Napa sheriff's office; we spoke this morning."
"Yeah? Well, what brings you down here, deputy?" Barnum took his feet off the desk, but he didn't offer Tony a chair.
Tony took one anyway. He wanted to begin in a way that would put Barnum at a disadvantage right away, but he was more nervous than he had planned. "You told me this morning that you didn't make a flight to Napa last night, didn't you?"
"That's what I told you," Barnum said, then he looked at the door.
Tony followed his gaze and found Bert standing there.
"Can I see you a minute?" Bert asked.
"Sure." Tony stepped into the little reception area and closed the door behind him. "What's up?"
"I had a look in the airplane," Bert said. "His logbook shows no flight last night, but his Hobbs meter-the little dial that records engine times-shows four point two hours more than his logbook total shows."
"Thank you, Bert," Tony said. He opened the office door and returned to his chair.
Shorty Barnum was looking at him with concern. "What's going on?" he asked.
"I thought I'd let you tell me," Tony replied. "Listen, Shorty, it makes a difference if you didn't know what the guy was going to do."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Shorty said.
"All right, I'll spell it out for you," Tony replied. "Last night, 'round eight, eight-thirty, you took off from Santa Monica VFR, after telling the tower you were a twin Cessna and giving them a wrong tail number. Then you flew up to Napa County and landed at the Wilburn Winery's private strip, and after a while, you flew back to Santa Monica and gave them the wrong tail number again."
Shorty shook his head. "You're full of shit, fella."
"Shorty, as far as I'm concerned, you haven't committed a crime, yet, unless using a wrong tail number is a crime. But if you lie to me, it's a whole new ball game. You can tell me what happened, and I won't have any reason to arrest you, unless you helped the guy do it."
"What'd he do?" Shorty asked, looking worried. "I mean, what did this alleged guy do after I allegedly flew him up there?"
"He tried to murder somebody, but it didn't work."
Shorty shook his head again. "Look, I know you got your job to do, but I can't help you, pal."
"Shorty, let's have a look at your logbook," Tony said.
"What for? It won't show any flight last night. I didn't go anywhere."
"Then why does your Hobbs meter show a flight of four-point-two hours?"
Shorty was suddenly at a loss for words.
"Come on, Shorty, was the guy a friend of yours? I mean, he couldn't have paid you enough for you to risk becoming an accessory to aggravated battery and attempted murder."
Shorty's shoulders sagged. "You're right," he said. "He didn't pay me enough for that."
"How much did he pay you?"
"Five thousand. I was in a hole, and I needed to get out."
Tony raised a placating hand. "I understand, and I'm not looking to break your back. I just want to know about the guy. Did you know him?"
Shorty shook his head. "Never saw him before; said his name was Prendergast, but I didn't really believe him."
"Why not?"
"Well, a guy comes around with a lot of cash, says he wants to make a very confidential flight, and he's wearing what looks to me like a false beard and a wig."
"No kidding?" Tony was excited now.
"Looked phony to me."
"Describe the guy as best you can."
"He was a lot taller than me-I'm not called Shorty for nothing-six-two, six-three, on the skinny side, I think. He was wearing a black raincoat and a floppy hat. And black gloves."
Tony was writing fast in his notebook. "What kind of nose?"
"Uh, straight and kinda long."
"You notice the color of his eyebrows?"
"Dark, I think; not all that different from the color of the wig."
"Any kind of accent?"
"Funny you should mention it; he didn't sound quite American-maybe Canadian, English. His phraseology was a little on the English side, you know?"
"What did he do after you landed at the Wilburn strip?"
"He took off into the woods with a flashlight."
"In which direction?"
"Let's see, the strip ran northeast-southwest, so it would have been to the north."
"How long was he gone?"
"I'm not too sure about that; I dozed off for a while."
"How did he behave when he came back?"
"I can't help you there; he got into the backseat, sat right behind me, facing aft. He did want to get out of there in a hurry, though, and after we took off, I saw a police car or an ambulance headed in the direction he'd come from."
"That was probably me," Tony said. "I caught the call. Did he say anything after you landed?"
"He was out of the airplane before I had time to cut the engines, drove off."
"Did you see the car?"
"Yeah, but only from a distance going away. I don't know what it was, sort of mid-sized, maybe."
"You hear from him again?"
"Nope, and I don't think I will."
Tony stood up. "If you do, don't tell him we talked, okay?"
"Okay. Am I going to have to testify or anything?"
"Probably. I'm going to have to talk to the sheriff about arranging some sort of lineup, so you may have to come to Napa. We'll pay your expenses, though."
Shorty shrugged. "It's not like I'm all that busy," he said. "You think you could recognize him if you saw him again?"
"Beats me. I mean, he was wearing the beard and all."
"You'll be hearing from me," Tony said, laying a card on the desk. "Call me if you hear from the guy again."
CHAPTER 57
Tony Wheeler and Sheriff Ferris sat in the district attorney's office, and the D.A. listened patiently while Tony told of his interrogation of Shorty Barnum.
"So," Tony said, "to sum up, we've got the LAPD's report that Martindale could have left his room unseen any time after seven-thirty and returned any time before twelve-fifty a.m.; Barnum's description of the man he flew up here matches Martindale, right down to the accent; Barnum saw him go off into the woods less than half a mile from Kinsolving's house; Mrs. Kinsolving said the man smelled like her ex-husband but had a beard, which tallies with Barnum's description of his passenger; and finally, Martindale has an excellent motive-he had just been forced by Kinsolving to admit that he'd sold a fake painting and to pay eighty-five thousand dollars in restitution. Add to that, Mr. and Mrs. Kinsolving both threw drinks at him at a party in San Francisco, in front of everybody that Martindale does business with." Tony sat back, looked at the sheriff for support and waited.
"What do you think, Dan?" the sheriff asked.
"I like the motive," the D.A. said. "You forgot to mention that Kinsolving had just married Martindale's ex-wife; that makes it an extra-good motive."
"Good," the sheriff said.
"We've got opportunity, too," the D.A. said, "but there we run into trouble. What we'd be telling a jury is that Martindale could have sneaked out of his hotel room, could have chartered an airplane for cash, and could have run through the woods, hit Kinsolving over the head and tried to strangle his wife. I mean, it's opportunity, but it wouldn't take much of a defense attorney to point out that there's lots of room for reasonable doubt."