His doctor remembered John’s constant attendance at his bedside. The copy of his will on file in the Washtenaw County courthouse left two thousand dollars to “my quasi-foster-son, known as John Lindsay, for the furtherance of his education.” There were no other specific bequests in Lindsay’s will; which probably meant it was all the money he had.
John had graduated from the University in June, as a Speech major, with honors. His counselor in the Dean’s office said that he had been a student without any overt problems; not exactly popular perhaps: he seemed to have no close friends. On the other hand, he had been active in campus theatrical productions, and moderately successful as an actor in his senior year.
His address at the time of his graduation had been a rooming-house on Catherine Street, over behind the Graduate School. The landlady’s name was Mrs. Haskell. Maybe she could help me.
Mrs. Haskell lived on the first floor of an old three-story gingerbread mansion. I guessed from the bundles of mail on the table inside the door that the rest of her house was given over to roomers. She led me along the polished parquetry hallway into a half-blinded parlor. It was a cool oasis in the heat of the Michigan July.
Somewhere over our heads, a typewriter pecked at the silence. The echo of a southern drawl twanged like a mandolin in Mrs. Haskell’s voice:
“Do sit down and tell me how John is. And how is he doing in his position?” Mrs. Haskell clasped her hands enthusiastically on her flowered print bosom. The curled bangs on her forehead shook like silent bells.
“He hasn’t started with us yet, Mrs. Haskell. The purpose of my investigation is to clear him for a confidential assignment.”
“Does that mean the other thing has fallen through?”
“What other thing is that?”
“The acting thing. You may not know it, but John Lindsay’s a very fine actor. One of the most talented boys I’ve ever had in my house. I never missed an appearance of his at the Lydia Mendelssohn. In Hobson’s Choice last winter, he was rich.”
“I bet he was. And you say he had acting offers?”
“I don’t know about offers in the plural, but he had one very good one. Some big producer wanted to give him a personal contract and train him professionally. The last I heard, John had accepted it. But I guess he changed his mind, if he’s going with your firm. Security.”
“It’s interesting about his acting,” I said. “We like our employees to be well-rounded people. Do you remember the producer’s name?”
“I’m afraid I never knew it.”
“Where did he come from?”
“I don’t know. John was very secretive about his private affairs. He didn’t even leave a forwarding address when he left in June. All I really know about this is what Miss Reichler told me after he left.”
“Miss Reichler?”
“His friend. I don’t mean she was his girlfriend exactly. Maybe she thought so, but he didn’t. I warned him not to get mixed up with a rich young lady like her, riding around in her Cadillacs and her convertibles. My boys come and go, but I try to keep them from overstepping themselves. Miss Reichler is several years older than John.” Her lips moved over his name with a kind of maternal greed. The mandolin twang was becoming more pronounced.
“He sounds like the kind of young man we need. Socially mobile, attractive to the ladies.”
“Oh, he was always that. I don’t mean he’s girl-crazy. He paid the girls no mind, unless they forced themselves on his attention. Ada Reichler practically beat a path to his door. She used to drive up in her Cadillac every second or third day. Her father’s a big man in Detroit. Auto parts.”
“Good,” I said. “A high-level business connection.”
Mrs. Haskell sniffed. “Don’t count too much on that one. Miss Reichler was sore as a boil when John left without even saying good-by. She was really let down. I tried to explain to her that a young man just starting out in the world couldn’t carry any excess baggage. Then she got mad at me, for some god-forsaken reason. She slam-banged into her car and ground those old Cadillac gears to a pulp.”
“How long did they know each other?”
“As long as he was with me, at least a year. I guess she had her nice qualities, or he wouldn’t have stuck with her so long. She’s pretty enough, if you like that slinky type.”
“Do you have her address? I’d like to talk to her.”
“She might tell you a lot of lies. You know: ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”
“I can discount anything like that.”
“See that you do. John’s a fine young man, and your people will be lucky if he decides to go with them. Her father’s name is Ben, I think, Ben Reichler. They live over in the section by the river.”
I drove on winding roads through a semi-wooded area. Eventually I found the Reichlers’ mailbox. Their driveway ran between rows of maples to a low brick house with a sweeping roof. It looked small from a distance, and massive when I got up close to it. I began to understand how John could have made the leap from Mrs. Gorgello’s boarding-house to the Galton house. He’d been training for it.
A man in overalls with a spraygun in his hands climbed up the granite steps of a sunken garden.
“The folks aren’t home,” he said. “They’re never home in July.”
“Where can I find them?”
“If it’s business, Mr. Reichler’s in his office in the Reichler Building three-four days a week.”
“Miss Ada Reichler’s the one I want.”
“Far as I know, she’s in Kingsville with her mother. Kingsville, Canada. They have a place up there. You a friend of Miss Ada’s?”
“Friend of a friend,” I said.
It was early evening when I drove into Kingsville. The heat hadn’t let up, and my shirt was sticking to my back. The lake lay below the town like a blue haze in which white sails hung upright by their tips.
The Reichlers’ summer place was on the lakeshore. Green terraces descended from the house to a private dock and boathouse. The house itself was a big old lodge whose brown shingled sides were shaggy with ivy. The Reichlers weren’t camping out, though. The maid who answered the door wore a fresh starched uniform, complete with cap. She told me that Mrs. Reichler was resting and Miss Ada was out in one of the boats. She was expected back at any time, if I cared to wait.
I waited on the dock, which was plastered with No Trespassing signs. A faint breeze had begun to stir, and the sailboats were leaning shoreward. Mild little land-locked waves lapped at the pilings. A motorboat went by like a bird shaking out wings of white water. Its wash rocked the dock. The boat turned and came in, slowing down. A girl with dark hair and dark glasses was at the wheel. She pointed a finger at her brown chest, and cocked her head questioningly.
“You want me?”
I nodded, and she brought the boat in. I caught the line she threw and helped her onto the dock. Her body was lean and supple in black Capris and a halter. Her face, when she took off her glasses, was lean and intense.
“Who are you?”
I had already decided to discard my role. “My name is Archer. I’m a private detective from California.”
“You came all this way to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Why on earth?”
“Because you knew John Lindsay.”
Her face opened up, ready for anything, wonderful or otherwise.
“John sent you here?”
“Not exactly.”
“Is he in some kind of trouble?”
I didn’t answer her. She jerked at my arm like a child wanting attention.
“Tell me, is John in trouble? Don’t be afraid, I can take it.”
“I don’t know whether he is or not, Miss Reichler. What makes you jump to the conclusion that he is?”