«I thought Goodwin had dough.»
Melton shrugged stiffly.
«A blackmailer of women, huh? And a sappy one at that, to be taking checks. I think I’ll play with you on it, Melton. I hate like hell to see these newspaper ghouls go to town on a yam like that. But if they get to you, I’m out — if I can get out.»
He smiled for the first time. «I’ll give you the five hundred right now,» he said.
«Nothing doing. I’m hired to find her. If I find her I get five hundred flat — all other bets off.»
«You’ll find me a good man to trust,» he said.
«I want a note to this Haines up at your place at Little Fawn Lake. I want into your cabin. My only way to go at it is as if I’d never been to Chevy Chase.»
He nodded and stood up. He went over to a desk and came back with a note on the club stationery.
Mr. William Haines,
Little Fawn Lake.
Dear Bill — Please allow bearer, Mr. John Dalmas, to
view mycabin and assist him in all ways to look over
the property.
Sincerely,
HOWARD MELTON
I folded the note and put it away with my other gatherings from the day. Melton put a hand on my shoulder. «I’ll never forget this,» he said. «Are you going up there now?»
«I think so.»
«What do you expect to find?»
«Nothing. But I’d be a sap not to start where the trail starts.»
«Of course. Haines is a good fellow, but a little surly. He has a pretty blond wife that rides him a lot. Good luck.»
We shook hands. His hand felt clammy as a pickled fish.
THREE
THE MAN WITH THE PEG LEG
I made San Bernardino in less than two hours and for once in its life it was almost as cool as Los Angeles, and not nearly as sticky. I took on a cup of coffee and bought a pint of rye and gassed up and started up the grade. It was overcast all the way to Bubbling Springs. Then it suddenly got dry and bright and cool air blew down the gorges, and I finally came to the big dam and looked along the level blue reaches of Puma Lake. Canoes paddled on it, and rowboats with outboard motors and speedhoats churned up the water and made a lot of fuss over nothing. Jounced around in their wake, people who had paid two dollars for a fishing license wasted their time trying to catch a dime’s worth of fish.
The road turned two ways from the dam. My way was the south shore. It skimmed along high among piled-up masses of granite. Hundred-foot yellow pines probed at the clear blue sky. In the open spaces grew bright green manzanita and what was left of the wild irises and white and purple lupine and bugle flowers and desert paintbrush. The road dropped to the lake level and I began to pass flocks of camps and flocks of girls in shorts on bicycles, on motor scooters, walking all over the highway, or just sitting under trees showing off their legs. I saw enough beef on the hoof to stock a cattle ranch.
Howard Melton had said to turn away from the lake at the old Redlands road, a mile short of Puma Point. It was a frayed asphalt ribbon that climbed into the surrounding mountains. Cabins were perched here and there on the slopes. The asphalt gave out and after a while a small, narrow dirt road sneaked off to my right. A sign at its entrance said: Private Road to Little Fawn Lake. No Trespassing. I took it and crawled around big bare stones and past a little waterfall and through yellow pines and black oaks and silence. A squirrel sat on a branch and tore a fresh pine cone to pieces and sent the pieces fluttering down like confetti. He scolded at me and beat one paw angrily on the cone.
The narrow road swerved sharply around a big tree trunk and then there was a five-barred gate across it with another sign. This one said: Private — No Admittance.
I got out and opened the gate and drove through and closed it again. I wound through trees for another couple of hundred yards. Suddenly below me was a small oval lake that lay deep in trees and rocks and wild grass, like a drop of dew caught in a furled leaf. At the near end there was a yellow concrete dam with a rope handrail across the top and an old mill wheel at the side. Near that stood a small cabin of native wood covered with rough bark. It had two sheet-metal chimneys and smoke lisped from one of them. Somewhere an axe thudded.
Across the lake, a long way by the road and the short way over the dam, there was a large cabin close to the water and two others not so large, spaced at wide intervals. At the far end, opposite the dam, was what looked like a small pier and band pavilion. A warped wooden sign on it read: Camp Kilkare. I couldn’t see any sense in that, so I walked down a path to the bark-covered cabin and pounded on the door.
The sound of the axe stopped. A man’s voice yelled from somewhere behind. I sat down on a big stone and rolled an unlit cigarette around in my fingers. The owner of the cabin came around its side with an axe in his hands. He was a thickbodied man, not very tall, with a dark, rough, unshaven chin, steady brown eyes and grizzled hair that curled. He wore blue denim pants and a blue shirt open on a muscular brown neck. When he walked he seemed to give his right foot a little kick outwards with each step. It swung out from his body in a shallow arc. He walked slowly and came up to me, a cigarette dangling from his thick lips. He had a city voice.
«Yeah?»
«Mr. Haines?»
«That’s me.»
«I have a note for you.» I took it out and gave it to him. He threw the axe to one side and looked squintingly at the note, then turned and went into the cabin. He came out wearing glasses, reading the note as he came.
«Oh, yeah,» he said, «From the boss.» He studied the note again. «Mr. John Dalmas, huh? I’m Bill Haines. Glad to know you.» We shook hands. He had a hand like a steel trap.
«You want to look around and see Melton’s cabin, huh? What’s the matter? He ain’t selling, for God’s sake?»
I lit my cigarette and flipped the match into the lake. «He has more than he needs here,» I said.
«Land sure. But it says the cabin —»
«He wanted me to look it over. It’s a pretty nice cabin, he says.»
He pointed. «That one over there, the big one. Milled redwood walls, celarex lined and then knotty pine inside. Composition shingle roof, stone foundations and porches, bathroom, shower and toilet. He’s got a spring-filled reservoir back in the hill behind. I’ll say it’s a nice cabin.»
I looked at the cabin, but I looked at Bill Haines more. His eyes had a glitter and there were pouches under his eyes, for all his weathered look.
«You wanta go over now? I’ll get the keys.»
«I’m kind of tired after that long drive up. I sure could use a drink, Haines.»
He looked interested, but shook his head. «I’m sorry, Mr. Dalmas, I just finished up a quart.» He licked his broad lips and smiled at me.
«What’s the mill wheel for?»
«Movie stuff. They make a picture up here once in a while. That’s another set down at the end. They made Love Among the Pines with that. The rest of the sets are tore down. I heard the picture flopped.»
«Is that so? Would you join me in a drink?» I brought out my pint of rye.
«Never been heard to say no. Wait’ll I get some glasses.»
«Mrs. Haines away?»
He stared at me with sudden coldness. «Yeah,» he said very slowly. «Why?»
«On account of the liquor.»
He relaxed, but kept an eye on me for a moment longer. Then he turned and walked his stiff-legged walk back into the cabin. He came out with a couple of the little glasses they pack fancy cheese in. I opened my bottle and poured a couple of stiff ones and we sat holding them, Haines with his right leg almost straight out in front of him, the foot twisted a little outwards.