Stanwood said: “Listen, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Here’s all you have to do. When the police question me about my shortage, I’ll tell them you and Pressman were really associated in certain secret business matters; that Pressman advanced all the expense incurred, but he didn’t want it to show on the books, so he had me take out the cash which represented your share, use it to defray your half of the partnership expenses; and then you would give this amount back to me in cash and I’d return it to the business as simply a deposit to cover withdrawals.”
“For what?”
“For your share of the operating expenses in certain mines.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Okay. Remember two things: one is that that would give you a half interest in some profitable mining investments — and the other is if I go to jail for embezzlement, you go up for murder.”
Karper regarded Stanwood with cold rage. “I’m going to check out of this right now. I’m going to tell the police—”
“—that you made a secret trip to Petrie right after I left you the day of the murder,” Stanwood said.
Karper showed the statement gave him a jolt.
Stanwood said, “You thought I didn’t know that, didn’t you? Well, I—”
Karper interrupted him. “That trip was political. I want to beat that courthouse ring up there this election, particularly the district attorney and the sheriff.”
Stanwood smiled triumphantly. “Santa Delbarra is the county seat. You went to Petrie. You went there because—”
Karper said suddenly: “Take it easy, Stanwood. Somebody’s coming over to this adjoining booth.”
For a moment they were silent, both of them watching the old man in the frayed, disreputable clothes who slid in at the table of the booth across the way, spread a sporting section of the newspaper out in front of him, and started a nervous pencil making cabalistic marks on the margin of the newspaper.
Stanwood said: “It’s all right. Just some old codger with a yen for playing the races.”
Karper, studying Gramp Wiggins covertly, said: “I’m not so damned certain... This is poor business. We can’t afford to be seen together in public.”
“On the other hand,” Stanwood said in a low voice, “it’s the only way we can afford to be seen together.”
Karper said: “I suppose you figure your best defence is to beat me to the punch and try to pin the thing on me.”
Stanwood said: “You’re not kidding me any. That’s what you’re trying to do, and I want you to know you can’t get away with it. Here’s something for you to think over. Frank Duryea, the district attorney at Santa Delbarra, telephoned me a half hour ago and asked me to come up there this evening for a conference. He wants to know certain things about Pressman’s associates.”
Karper frowned.
The waiter brought their drinks. Karper paid for them. When the waiter had left, Karper said in a conciliatory voice, “Let’s be reasonable about this thing, Stanwood. Perhaps we’re both wrong. You’ll remember that you said you could fix things up if Pressman didn’t show up that afternoon. Well, I thought you’d taken steps to see that he didn’t. I may be mistaken. I hope I am.”
Stanwood said shortly; “You are — and don’t make another mistake right now.”
Karper fished a cigar from his pocket, gave a quick glance over to where Gramp Wiggins was doping out the horses, said, “I think you understand my position, Stanwood. I don’t know one damn thing about what happened to Pressman. And I’m beginning to think you don’t, either. I’m sorry I said what I did — and I’d hate to have you make some crack to the district attorney up there that would drag me into it. Look here, why can’t we have an understanding on this thing?”
“How?”
“You keep me out of it, and I’ll keep you out.”
“That’s a deal.”
Karper’s eyes were cold and steady. He said, “Well, there you are,” and raised his glass.
Fifteen minutes later from a Western Union branch office Gramp Wiggins scrawled a hurried wire to Frank Duryea, district attorney of Santa Delbarra County, Santa Delbarra, California.
SHADOWING CERTAIN PARTY STOP THINK I HAVE STRUCK PAY DIRT STOP IF YOU ARE GOING TO BE IN LOS ANGELES TO INTERVIEW PARTIES HERE LET ME KNOW WHERE AND WHEN I CAN MEET YOU STOP THINK I CAN BE OF REAL HELP IN GETTING SOLUTION STOP ADDRESS CARE WESTERN UNION
Chapter 17
“Pelly” Baxter was properly touched by grief, as became an old friend of the family.
For the butler he had just the right greeting, a democratic, man-to-man touch which was called for in the leveling presence of grief.
“Good afternoon, Arthur. Terrible, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. Baxter.”
“I realize something of how you must feel, Arthur.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve been with him for several years?”
“Four, sir.”
“A very marvellous man, Arthur. We’re going to miss him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s been a terrible shock to Mrs. Pressman, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir, very much. She’s eaten hardly a thing.”
“Ask her if she’d like to see me for a few minutes, or whether she’d prefer to be left entirely alone. If the latter, Arthur, ask her if there’s anything I can do, anything at all.”
“Yes, sir. She’s upstairs. If you’ll wait in the library, sir, I’ll let her know you’re here.”
Pelly Baxter walked across the reception corridor and entered the spacious library.
The room was as filled with silence as a cemetery. The books on the shelves seemed as resentful of a living intruder as tombstones in the moonlight. The room was partially darkened by drawn curtains, heavy with the gloom of its silence.
Baxter walked over to where a shaft of sunlight filtered in through the half-closed drapes, looked out upon a well-kept lawn sprinkled here and there with shady trees and shrubbery. By an effort, he kept himself from walking the floor.
After several seconds’ silent contemplation, he turned back to the gloomy interior of the library, just as the butler, entering the room, said: “Mrs. Pressman will see you in her upstairs sitting-room... If you’ll step this way, please.”
The butler led the way up the stairs, down a corridor, and into a cosy, feminine sitting-room which was filled with the sunlight streaming through the French doors that opened on a little balcony. At the other end of the sitting-room, through an open door, Baxter glimpsed a bedroom.
Sophie Pressman was as alert as a football coach on the eve of a big game. Yet in the presence of the butler she seemed as strangely subdued as the huge library had been.
“Hello, Pelly,” she said without enthusiasm. “It was nice of you to come... There’s nothing anyone can say that helps, but knowing that people want to help makes all the difference in the world.”
She indicated a stack of telegrams on a table. “In times past I’ve had to send telegrams of condolence, and, groping for words in which to express something of what I felt, have realized how horribly futile words were. But now I realize that it isn’t what friends say that helps, but that they try to say it... Do sit down, Pelly. Let Arthur bring you a Scotch and soda.”
“No, thanks,” Pelly said. “I just dropped in to extend my condolences and see if there was anything on earth I could do — anything at all.”
“Nothing, thanks, Pelly. I knew I could count on you... That’s all, Arthur.”
The butler quietly closed the door.
For a moment there was silence in the room; then Pelly Baxter moved over closer to Sophie Pressman. “You’ve got it?” he asked.