“You’ve heard from him, then.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard from him.” Her loose mouth tightened, too late to hold back the words. “Okay, so you got it out of me. That’s all you’re going to get out of me.” She folded her arms across her half-naked breasts, and looked at me grimly: “Why don’t you beat it? You got nothing on me, you never will have.”
“As soon as you show me Roy’s letter.”
“There was no letter. I got the message by word of mouth.”
“Who brought it?
“A guy.”
“What guy?”
“Just a guy. Roy told him to look me up.”
“He sent him from Nevada, probably.”
“He did not. The guy drove a haulaway out from Detroit. He talked to Roy in Detroit.”
“Is that where Roy and Tommy crossed the border?”
“I guess so.”
“Where were they headed?”
“I don’t know, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did know.”
I sat on the bed beside her. “Listen to me, Fran. You want your husband back, don’t you?”
“Not in a convict suit, or on a slab.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way. Tommy’s the one we’re after. If Roy will turn him over to us, he’ll be taking a long step out of trouble. Can you get that message to Roy from me?”
“Maybe if he phones me or something. All I can do is wait.”
“You must have some idea where they went.”
“Yeah, they said something about this town in Ontario near Windsor. Tommy was the one that knew about it.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Was Tommy ever in Canada before?”
“No, but Pete Culligan–”
She covered the lower part of her face with her hand and looked at me over it. Fear and distress hardened her eyes, but not for long. Her feelings were too diffuse to sustain themselves.
I said: “Tommy did know Culligan, then?”
She nodded.
“Did he have a personal reason for killing Culligan?”
“Not that I know of. Him and Pete were palsy-walsy.”
“When did you see them together?”
“Last winter in Frisco. Tommy was gonna jump parole until Roy talked him out of it, and Pete told him about this place in Canada. It’s sort of an irony of fate like, now Tommy’s hiding out there for knocking Pete off.”
“Did Tommy admit to you that he killed Culligan?”
“No, to hear him tell it he’s innocent as an unborn babe. Roy even believes him.”
“But you don’t?”
“I swore off believing Tommy the day after I met him. But we won’t go into that.”
“Where is this hideout in Canada?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was taking on an edge of hysteria. “Why don’t you go away and leave me alone?”
“Will you contact me if you hear from them?”
“Maybe I will, maybe I won’t.”
“How are you fixed for money?”
“I’m loaded,” she said. “What do you think? I park in this crib because I like the homey atmosphere.”
I dropped a ten in her lap as I went out. Before my plane took off for Los Angeles, I had time to phone Sheriff Trask. I filled him in, with emphasis on Culligan’s probable connection with Schwartz. In the rational light of day, I didn’t want Schwartz all to myself.
Chapter 19
IN THE MORNING, after a session with my dentist, I opened up my office on Sunset Boulevard. The mailbox was stuffed with envelopes, mostly bills and circulars. There were two envelopes mailed from Santa Teresa in the past few days.
The first one I opened contained a check for a thousand dollars and a short letter from Gordon Sable typed on the letterhead of his firm. Sad as was the fact of Anthony Galton’s death, his client and he both felt that the over-all outcome was better than could have been hoped for. He hoped and trusted that I was back in harness, and none the worse for wear, and would I forward my medical bills as I received them.
The other letter was a carefully hand-written note from
John Galton:
Dear Mr. Archer –
Just a brief note to thank you for your labours on my behalf. My fathers death is a painful blow to all of us here. There is tragedy in the situation, which I have to learn to face up to. But there is also opportunity, for me. I hope to prove myself worthy of my patrimony.
Mr. Sable told me how you “fell among thieves.” I hope that you are well again, and Grandmother joins me in this wish. For what it’s worth, I did persuade Grandmother to send you an additional check in token of appreciation. She joins me in inviting you to visit us when you can make the trip up this way. I myself would like very much to talk to you.
Respectfully yours, John Galton.
It seemed to be pure gratitude undiluted by commercialism, until I reflected that he was taking credit for the check Sable had sent me. His letter stirred up the suspicions that had been latent in my mind since I’d talked to Sable in the hospital. Whatever John was, he was a bright boy and a fast worker. I wondered what he wanted from me.
After going through the rest of my mail, I called my answering-service. The girl at the switchboard expressed surprise that I was still in the land of the living, and told me that a Dr. Howell had been trying to reach me. I called the Santa Teresa number he’d left.
A girl’s voice answered: “Dr. Howell’s residence.”
“This is Lew Archer. Miss Howell?” The temporary crown I’d just acquired that morning pushed out against my upper lip, and made me lisp.
“Yes, Mr. Archer.”
“Your father has been trying to get in touch with me.”
“Oh. He’s just leaving for the hospital. I’ll see if I can catch him.”
After a pause, Howell’s precise voice came over the line: “I’m glad to hear from you, Archer. You may recall that we met briefly at Mrs. Galton’s house. I’d like to buy you a lunch.”
“Lunch will be fine. What time and place do you have in mind?”
“The time is up to you – the sooner the better. The Santa Teresa Country Club would be the most convenient place for me.”
“It’s a long way for me to come for lunch.”
“I had a little more than lunch in mind.” He lowered his voice as though he suspected eavesdroppers. “I’d like to engage your services, if you’re free.”
“To do what?”
“I’d much prefer to discuss that in person. Would today be possible for you?”
“Yes. I’ll be at the Country Club at one.”
“You can’t drive it in three hours, man.”
“I’ll take the noon plane.”
“Oh, fine.”
I heard the click as he hung up, and then a second click. Someone had been listening on an extension. I found out who it was when I got off the plane at Santa Teresa. A young girl with doe eyes and honey-colored hair was waiting for me at the barrier.
“Remember me? I’m Sheila Howell. I thought I’d pick you up.”
“That was a nice thought.”
“Not really. I have an ulterior motive.”
She smiled charmingly. I followed her through the sunlit terminal to her car. It was a convertible with the top down.
Sheila turned to me as she slid behind the wheeclass="underline" “I might as well be frank about it. I overheard what was said, and I wanted to talk to you about John before Dad does. Dad is a well-meaning person, but he’s been a widower for ten years, and he has certain blind spots. He doesn’t understand the modern world.”
“But you do?”
She colored slightly, like a peach in the sun. “I understand it better than Dad does. I’ve studied social science at college, and people just don’t go around any more telling other people who to be interested in. That sort of thing is as dead as the proverbial dodo. Deader.” She nodded her small head, once, with emphasis.