"So that's your old boy friend," said Dick Bartee. In the
Httle passageway he put his arms around Nan from behind.
There was a mirror and he looked at her in it. "He never did shake my hand. Notice that?"
"Maybe it is hard for Johnny," Nan said.
"Lost you," he murmured. "Poor guy. It's not easy. Come home to Hestia with me, love? After Monday? On Monday?"
"Oh, I couldn't . . ."
"Yes, you could," he said sofdy. "You could, love." He watched her face in the mirror, saw the sadness changing to the dream.
"Perhaps I could," Nan said. "I've only got you, really. Except Dorothy."
"And I've got you," he murmured. "Let Johnny watch over Dorothy."
Dorothy, bringing a tray of crackers, came by. She heard her cousin Nan saying, "But he never did date Dorothy, you know. Johnny was mine." Dorothy turned around and went back into the kitchen.
"What is it?" said Johnny's mother sharply.
"It just—kind of hit me," said Dorothy thoughtfully. "Nothing is the way it used to be."
There was a George Rush in the Oakland book with two numbers listed, one a radio-TV Repair Shop, the other a residence. Johnny found the shop closed. He drove to the other address. This turned out to be shabby frame house which looked deserted.
The neighbor leaned over his fence. "Looking for Rush? He's gone down to the tavern. Two blocks east."
"Thanks."
"His TV's on the blink. Hee hee. Too lazy to fix his own, I guess. He's gone to catch the ball game. Hee hee."
Johnny perceived that he owed this helpful interference to the humor of it.
Johnny went into the tavern. Fortunately it was still so early in the afternoon that the bar, where the TV hung high, was nearly empty. Johnny had no trouble guessing, by age, which was his man. He took the bar stool next-but-one to the only thirty-ish looking customer.
Johnny intended to use guile. He began to watch the ball game, making sounds from time to time, until the other man through the back of his neck, seemed to accept him for a fellow fan.
"See that!" said Johnny, playing a deep finesse. "Same exact thing happened in a game we played way back in military schoool. St. Olaf's versus Brownleaf."
"St. Olaf's?" The man tmned his head so that for the first time Johnny had a good look at his profile. "That's right. We used to play you."
"Yoti did?"
"Brownleaf."
"Oh, for . . I When were you there?''
"Thirty-nine—forty-two."
"You were ahead of me," said Johimy, "but we lap. Forty— forty-four." (This was a lie.) "You ever know a Dick Bartee at Brownleaf?"
"Did I know him? I only roomed with him."
"Well, smaa-11 world."
They shook hands. Johimy said this called for a drink and he called for one.
"Where'd you run into Dick?" asked the man, who must surely be George Rush. His eyes were red-lined. His face was pale and morose.
"I wish I'd never" said Johimy, with a sudden change of manner.
Rush laughad. "A ring-tailed doozer, that one." He s65med' pleased.
Johnny had his line now. "Listen, if you are a good friend of his, let's drop the subject right now," he said gloomily.
George Rush turned all the way around on his stool (since the game to all intents and piirposes was-over). "We better have another one." The man's red-rimmed eyes half closed. "What did Baitee do to you, stranger?"
"Double-crossing rat," said Johnny. "Got my girl behind my back." It was easy to sound convincing.
"Standard Bartee procedure," said Rush promptly. "Gets away wdth murder, that Baitee. Always did."
Johnny found himself holding his breath.
"Somebody else's girl, that interests him. He was always that way," Rush went on. "You make a kind of rule, Bartee's got to break it or get around it. So he proves something to himself. I dunno." He ran down.
"You know where he is now?" Johnny said bitterly.
"Nope."
"Ill tell you. He's messing around with the vineyard."
''Oh ho! Say, I read that the old man is dead. Well, believe me, Dick will freeze out the whole rest of the family and I don't care who they are. Look at that guy. End up with a million dollar property probably. It'll fall in his lap.
"Probably. Say, remember the murder?"
"What mmder?"
"In the Bartee family? Dick was at Brownleaf then."
"Yeah."
"Somebody got into the safe?"
"Yeah." Rush was closing up.
But Johnny went on. "I'll bet you up to five bucks it was Dick Bartee who got into the family safe that night."
"You knew him that long ago?" said Rush suspiciously.
"I was bom knowing him," said Johnny with gloom. "My mother was a friend of his mother. One of those damn things. The little kiddies should be pals."
Rush laughed. In a moment he asked curiously, "What makes you think Dick opened the safe?"
"I can't prove anything,'' said Johimy challengingly.
Rush turned his glass. "He knew how to get in. That I know," he said with pleasure.
"It figures," Johnny drained his glass. He ordered more. Rush volunteered nothing. "I sure wish I could fix his wagon," Johnny said viciously.
"Don't kid yourself," said Rush bitterly. "Some people are like that. Get away with murder, all their lives."
"You said that before," Johnny looked up—drunkenly, he hoped.
y.K. I said it before."
"You mean . . . murder?"
"Do I?" Rush was smiling a rather nasty smile.
"We had a way of getting out of the school at night," Johnny said in a moment. "And nobody wiser. You probably did too."
"Could be," Rush admitted.
"You think he could have killed that woman?" demanded Johnny.
"What woman?" Rush stalled.
"In the Bartee house."
"If Dick had been there," said George Rush owlishly, "and she crossed him. This is a strictly unsentimental character. Wouldn't bother him, if he had, I'll tell you that." The
man shifted on the bar stool. "I'm just talking. Actually, they got the one who did it."
"Was Bartee out?" said Johnny xurgently.
Rush didn't answar.
"You still afraid you'll be expelled?" sneered Johnny.
Rush said, "For all I know, he was in his bed, like the Colonel said." He raised his glass.
"For all you know," Johnny pounced. "You can't swear ... ?"
"I'm swearing to nothing," said George Rush irritably, "and why don't you give up? Face it, this Bartee, he's got what it takes and poor slobs like you and me, we just haven't got what he's got. Just kiss her good-bye."
Johnny looked at the weak bitter face and wondered. He couldn't help remembering the big blond man smiling, saying the decent thing.
"How old was he? Fifteen? What would he do if he went out? Date? What girls did he know?"
"Try the phone book," said Rush. ''He was six feet already, and big. He dated. He had a car. His father Hed for him. You know that? The school didn't know about his car. That's what I mean, how he always got away with stuff. Catch my old man lying for me."
"Did you lie for him?" Johnny said. -' • '"
George Rush sHd off the stod. '^ope." he said. He swayed a httle. "I Hed for myself," he said. "My old man would have skinned me alive if I'd have been expelled."
Johimy said, "You were out that nightl Wait . , . Listen ..."
"I don't know you," Rush said. "But Dick Bartee, I know. So don't dream, brother." He leaned closer and his breath was bad. "If I could have proved he was out that night, his trouble might have been worth my trouble. See?" He showed his teeth. "Give up—that's my advice." He hiccupped. He went away.
Johimy sat in the bar a while longer. There was something wrong with Bartee's alibi? Or was there? This George Rush was mahcious, envious, about as untrustworthy a witness as Johnny could imagine. One thing he'd said Johnny believed. If Rush could have made trouble for Dick Bartee—seventeen years ago or now—he would have enjoyed it.
CHAPTER 7
Monday, just after noon, they buried Emily Padgett.
After the ceremonies, Johnny followed Charles Copeland out to the curb. The lawyer was putting a slim blonde, sun-tarmed woman into a car. She was rolling her eyes, seeming distressed, saying, "Please, Charles, don't be late tonight. Please?"