“Don’t rub it in. That case isn’t finished yet.”
“It’s the same case,” I said. “The Brown killing and the Culligan killing and the Galton impersonation, if it is one, all hang together.”
“That’s easy to say. How do we prove it?”
“Through the boy. I’m taking off for Michigan tonight. Howell thinks his accent originated in central Canada. That ties in with the Lembergs. Apparently they crossed the border into Canada from Detroit, and were headed for an address Culligan gave them. If you could trace Culligan that far back–”
“We’re working on it.” Trask smiled, rather forbiddingly. “Your Reno lead was a good one, Archer. I talked long distance last night to a friend in Reno, captain of detectives. He called me back just before lunch. Culligan was working for Schwartz about a year ago.”
“Doing what?”
“Steerer for his casino. Another interesting thing: Culligan was arrested in Detroit five-six years ago. The FBI has a rap sheet on him.”
“What was this particular rap?”
“An old larceny charge. It seems he left the country to evade it, got nabbed as soon as he showed his face on American soil, spent the next couple of years in Southern Michigan pen.”
“What was the date of his arrest in Detroit?”
“I don’t remember exactly. It was about five-and-a-half years ago. I could look it up, if it matters.”
“It matters.”
“What’s on your mind?”
“John Galton turned up in Ann Arbor five-and-a-half years ago. Ann Arbor is practically a suburb of Detroit. I’m asking myself if he crossed the Canadian border with Culligan.”
Trask whistled softly, and flicked on the switch of his squawk-box:
“Conger, bring me the Culligan records. Yeah, I’m in my office.”
I remembered Conger’s hard brown face. He didn’t remember me at first, then did a double take:
“Long time no see.”
I quipped lamely: “How’s the handcuff business?”
“Clicking.”
Trask rustled the papers Conger had brought, and frowned impatiently. When he looked up his eyes were crackling bright:
“A little over five-and-a-half years. Culligan got picked up in Detroit January 7. Does that fit with your date?”
“I haven’t pinned it down yet, but I will.”
I rose to go. Trask’s parting handshake was warm. “If you run into anything, call me collect, anytime day or night. And keep the hard nose out of the chopper,”
“That’s my aspiration.”
“By the way, your car’s in the county garage. I can release it to you if you want.”
“Save it for me. And take care of the old lady, eh?”
The Sheriff was giving Conger orders to that effect before I reached the door.
Chapter 22
I CASHED Howell’s check at his bank just before it closed for business at three. The teller directed me to a travel agency where I made a plane reservation from Los Angeles to Detroit. The connecting plane didn’t leave Santa Teresa for nearly three hours.
I walked the few blocks to Sable’s office. The private elevator let me out into the oak-paneled anteroom.
Mrs. Haines looked up from her work, and raised her hand to smooth her dyed red hair. She said in maternal dismay:
“Why, Mr. Archer, you were badly injured. Mr. Sable told me you’d been hurt, but I had no idea–”
“Stop it. You’re making me feel sorry for myself.”
“What’s the matter with feeling sorry for yourself? I do it all the time. It bucks me up no end.”
“You’re a woman.”
She dipped her bright head as if I’d paid her a compliment. “What’s the difference?”
“You don’t want me to spell it out.”
She tittered, not unpleasantly, and tried to blush, but her experienced face resisted the attempt. “Some other time, perhaps. What can I do for you now?”
“Is Mr. Sable in?”
“I’m sorry, he isn’t back from lunch.”
“It’s three-thirty.”
“I know. I don’t expect he’ll be in again today. He’ll be sorry he missed you. The poor man’s schedule has been all broken up, ever since that trouble at his house.”
“The murder, you mean?”
“That, and other things. His wife isn’t well.”
“So I understand. Gordon told me she had a breakdown.”
“Oh, did he tell you that? He doesn’t do much talking about it to anyone. He’s awfully sensitive on the subject.” She made a confidential gesture, raising her red-tipped hand vertically beside her mouth. “Just between you and me, this isn’t the first time he’s had trouble with her.”
“When was the other time?”
“Times, in the plural. She came here one night in March when we were doing income tax, and accused me of trying to steal her husband. I could have told her a thing or two, but of course I couldn’t say a word in front of Mr. Sable. I tell you, he’s a living saint, what he’s taken from that woman, and he goes right on looking after her.”
“What did she do to him?”
Color dabbed her cheekbones. She was slightly drunk with malice. “Plenty. Last summer she took off and went rampaging around the country spending his good money like water. Spending it on other men, too, can you imagine? He finally tracked her down in Reno, where she was living with another man.”
“Reno?”
“Reno,” she repeated flatly. “She probably intended to divorce him or something, but she gave up on the idea. She’d have been doing him a favor, if you ask me. But the poor man talked her into coming back with him. He seems to be infatuated with her.” Her voice was disconsolate. After a moment’s thought, she said: “I oughtn’t to be telling you all this. Ought I?”
“I knew she had a history of trouble. Gordon told me himself that he had to put her in a nursing home.”
“That’s right, he’s probably there with her now. He generally goes over to eat lunch with her, and most of the time he stays the rest of the day. Wasted devotion, I call it. If you ask me, that’s one marriage doomed to failure. I did a horoscope on it, and you never saw such antagonism in the stars.”
Not only in the stars.
“Where is the nursing home she’s in, Mrs. Haines?”
“It’s Dr. Trenchard’s, on Light Street. But I wouldn’t go there, if that’s what you’re thinking of. Mr. Sable doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s visiting Mrs. Sable.”
“I’ll take my chances. And I won’t mention that I’ve been here. Okay?”
“I guess so,” she said dubiously. “It’s over on the west side, 235 Light Street.”
I took a cab across town. The driver looked me over curiously as I got out. Perhaps he was trying to figure out if I was patient or just a visitor.
“You want me to wait?”
“I think so. If I don’t come out, you know what that will mean.”
I left him having a delayed reaction. The “home” was a long stucco building set far back from the street on its own acre. Nothing indicated its specialness, except for the high wire fence which surrounded the patio at the side.
A man and a woman were sitting in a blue canvas swing behind the fence. Their backs were to me, but I recognized Sable’s white head. The woman’s blond head rested on his shoulder.
I resisted the impulse to call out to them. I climbed the long veranda, which was out of sight of the patio, and pressed the bellpush beside the front door. The door was unlocked and opened by a nurse in white, without a cap. She was unexpectedly young and pretty.
“Yes, sir?”
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Sable.”
“And who shall I say is calling?”
“Lew Archer.”
She left me in a living-room or lounge whose furniture was covered with bright chintz. Two old ladies in shawls were watching a baseball game on television. A young man with a beard squatted on his heels in a corner, watching the opposite corner of the ceiling. His lips were moving.