Forest smiled, rather grimly. “And it isn’t likely that Miner killed him. His assignment was to dispose of the boy. Certainly he’d get out of town before the ransom letter was delivered. A third member of the gang is indicated.”
“Or nonmember. Lemp was a very small-time criminal, until today. A big-time criminal, or an organized mob, may have got wind of his plan and decided to pluck the reward.”
Forest said, musingly: “Murder Incorporated favored the icepick m.o. But then, a number of private individuals have, too. Icepicks are too convenient. What do you think of the Fawn girl as a possibility? She was in a position, or could have been, to know what was going on.”
“It’s possible she did it. Not very probable, though. If she had fifty thousand dollars cached somewhere, she wouldn’t sit around and wait to be picked up.”
“If she was smart.”
“She isn’t. In her world, everyone’s either a victim or a victimizer. She’s a victim.”
“Worms can turn, littler fleas have littler fleas, and all that. She had reason to hate this Lemp, I understand, which gives her a double motive.”
“Frankly, I’m more interested in her husband – her ex-husband – Kerry Snow. I’ve established a connection between him and Miner. They served on the same Navy vessel during the war, and Snow and Miner were friendly acquaintances. I got that out of Mrs. Miner just now. So long as there was no connection, Miner could claim it was a hit-run accident. Not any more.”
“I had a feeling,” Forest said. “What ship were they on?”
“The Eureka Bay. Kerry Snow was ship’s photographer.”
“Damn my eyes!” He struck himself sharply on the scalp with his clenched fist, but in such a way as not to disturb the part. “I should have remembered the name of that ship from your report on Miner. We’ve got a record on Snow, you see. As soon as we ascertained his name, I teletyped Washington. Our Los Angeles office arrested him in January 1946. We turned him over to the Naval authorities as a deserter. They found him guilty on a desertion charge, and another charge of theft of Navy property. He served six years and four months in Portsmouth, and was released last spring.”
“Molly told me some of that.”
“Do you know who gave us the information that led to his arrest in 1946?”
“She mentioned a red-headed woman–”
“No, sir. Snow’s Los Angeles address was provided to us by Lieutenant (j.g.) Lawrence Seifel, then attached to the Eleventh Naval District in San Diego.”
“Are you certain?”
“There’s no mistake. His name is on file in the Los Angeles office. We keep fairly thorough records on our cases,” he said a little combatively. “What do you know about Seifel?”
“Not too much. He seems to be very intelligent, and very nervous. I should say, for the record, you haven’t seen him at his best today, he’s having private troubles of some kind. You did see him?”
“Naturally, as soon as his name turned up.”
“A mutual acquaintance says he’s money-hungry and highly egotistical. And Seifel did know Lemp slightly, by his own admission.”
“Lemp approached him, once, according to his story. As for the Kerry Snow affair, he admits he must have given us the address of Snow’s hideout, since it’s on the record, but he claims he doesn’t recall the circumstances, or even the name. His wartime job was handling courts-martial for the Eleventh Naval District, and as he says scores of cases passed through his hands. So it’s possible he’s telling the truth, and actually doesn’t remember.”
“Where is he now? At home?”
“When he left here, about eleven, he was going out to the Johnson place. He said he wanted to do whatever he could for Mrs. Johnson in her bereavement.” Forest’s tone was edged with sardonic mimicry.
“Bereavement! Is the boy dead?”
“Johnson is. I thought you’d have heard about it.”
“Has he been murdered, too?”
“He died a natural death, early this evening. I suppose you could call it indirect murder. The doctor told me the strain was too much for his heart.”
chapter 21
I drove up to the summit of the ridge. The night was still and silent, balanced on its dead center. The city’s web of lights lay behind me like a tangled net hauled phosphorescent from the sea and flung up along the slopes. Beyond, the sea itself was a gray emptiness lit between the moving clouds by a few small hurrying stars.
In the hedged tunnel of road where Kerry Snow had met his death, the darkness beyond my headlights was so solid that day was unimaginable. Murder was imaginable, though. I could see the three of them: the faceless victim fallen in the road, the blind-drunk murderer driving on over him, and Arthur Lemp watching from the darkness, planning to fashion a second crime from the leavings of the first.
I shifted into second and let the motor’s inertia hold the car on the descending curves. My own excitement had long since settled down into a stubborn anger. If the boy was alive, I was determined to find him. If the boy was dead, his death would have to be paid for.
My headlights swept the gatehouse where Miner had lived, where Miner would live no longer. In the drive ahead, long brown leaves from the eucalyptus trees formed desolate hieroglyphics on the stones. The trees themselves stood overhead like tremulous giants, shaking in fear of the wind and the shifting sky.
There was a car in the turnaround, and lights from the main house spilled down into the ravine. The car was a new Buick convertible, which I associated with Larry Seifel.
Seifel answered the door. His eyes looked sleepy, and a little out of focus. Passing him in the doorway, I caught a whiff of his breath, pungent with alcohol. He stopped me in the glass-bricked entrance hall and spoke for the first time, in a whisper:
“You know what’s happened, don’t you?”
“A lot of things have happened.”
His hand grew heavier on my arm. “I mean the old man. He died tonight – last night.”
“Forest just told me. Are they going to have an autopsy?”
“I don’t see why they should. The doctor assured Helen it was the coronary, nothing else.”
“That must have been a great comfort to her.”
His mouth opened, unevenly. “Does that have some hidden meaning?”
“The things that have been happening have,” I said. “I’m trying to find it. Now here’s a possibility that should be interesting to the legal mind. A man is seriously ill. It’s known that excessive excitement is likely to kill him. A highly exciting event is made to occur; a kidnapping, to be exact. The man dies, and the question is: Is it murder?”
“Are you asking me for my opinion? I’d say its arguable. There have been comparable cases where murder has been proved–”
“I’m asking you for your evidence. Forest tells me you turned in Kerry Snow for desertion in 1946. I don’t believe you could have done that to a man and not remember it.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m suggesting that the memory is a voluntary faculty, to a great extent. It can be turned off and on. You should get to work on yours.”
“I’ve taken enough from you today. Who do you think you are?”
“Diogenes. I have a Diogenes complex. What’s yours?”
“Œdipus,” Helen Johnson said from the inner doorway. “Larry’s as Œdipal as all get out. We were just discussing it before you arrived. Abel was Larry’s father-image, he says. Now that his father-image is kaput, Larry has an irresistible urge to possesss the father-image’s wife-image. That is, me. Isn’t that what you said, Larry?”
“You’re a fast worker, Seifel.”