When we left the bar it was one or two in the morning, and she was too drunk to walk straight. I ought to take you in for public intoxication. You ain't a cop now, are you? No, honey, I own one of those big hotels downtown, I already told you that. Which one? The Heartbreak Hotel, I said. I already been there. I probably owe you lots of rent. I know that, honey, we'll take care of that. She giggled. Here's my car. Her black skirt rode up on her thighs when she got in. Skinny thighs, one black and blue thumbprint. We got to the GWT and she said This dump? Don't worry, there's a throne all ready for you downstairs.
I looked up at Tom, who was leafing through another file. "This is incredible," I said. "He described them in such detail. He even put in the dialogue. It's like a book."
Tom looked a little sickened by whatever he had read. He closed his file. "They seem to be more or less in order—each murder takes up about twenty pages, from what I see here. How many pages do you think we have, about a thousand?"
"Something like that," I said, looking down at the stacks.
"At least fifty murders," Tom said. Both of us looked at the stacks of papers. "I suppose he let Fontaine solve some of the most colorful ones."
"Who are you going to send copies to?"
"The FBI. Isobel Archer. The new chief, Harold Green. Someone at the Ledger. Geoffrey Bough?"
"You'll make his day," I said. "You're not going to identify yourself, are you?"
"Sure, I'm the worried citizen who found these papers in a garbage can. In fact, I think the worried citizen is about to call Ms. Archer right now."
He went to his desk and dialed a number. I sat down on the couch and listened to his half of the conversation. When I realized that I was still holding the thick file, I put it on the table as if I thought I might catch something from it.
"I'd like to speak to Isobel Archer, please. It has to do with a shooting."
"Yes, I'll hold."
"Miss Archer? I'm glad to be able to speak to you."
"My name? Fletcher Namon."
"Well, yes, it is about a shooting. I didn't know what to do about this, so I thought I'd call you."
"I don't want to get involved with the police, Miss Archer. It's about a policeman."
"Well, yes."
"Okay. Last night, this was. I saw a detective, I don't know his name, but I saw him one night on the news, I know he's some kind of detective, and he was going into the old movie theater down on Livermore."
"Late at night."
"No, I couldn't tell you what time. Anyhow, after he got inside, I heard this shot."
"No, I got out of there, fast. "
"I'm sure."
"Sure, I'm sure. It was a gunshot."
"Well, I don't know what I expect you to do. I thought that was your business. I gotta go now."
"No. Good-bye." He put down the phone and turned to me.
"What do you think?"
"I think she'll be down there with a hacksaw and blowtorch in about five minutes."
"I do, too." He took all the pages out of the folder on his lap and tapped their bottom edges against his desk. "It'll take me two or three hours to copy all this stuff. Do you want to hang around, or is there something else you feel like doing?"
"I guess I should talk to John," I said.
"Do you want me with you?"
"You're an executive," I said. "Flunkies like me do the dirty work."
3
I walked through the heat down the pretty streets toward John Ransom's house. The Sevens, Omdurman Place, Balaclava Place, Victoria Terrace; brick houses matted with ivy, stone houses with ornate entrances and leaded windows, mansard roofs and pointed gables. Sprinklers whirled, and small boys zipped past on ten-speed bicycles. It looked like a world without secrets or violence, a world in which blood had never been shed. A for sale sign had been staked into the neat lawn in front of Alan Brookner's house.
The white Pontiac stood at the curb across from John's house, in the same place I had found it on my first morning back in town. It was squeezed into a parking place just long enough to accommodate it, and I remembered, as I had last night, a noisy little patriot in shorts charging out of his flag-draped fortress to yell about abuse. I walked across sunny Ely Place and went up to John's front door and rang his bell.
He appeared at the narrow window to the left of the door and looked out at me with frowning curiosity—the way you'd look at an encyclopedia salesman who had come back after you'd already bought the books. By the time he opened the door, his expression had altered into something more welcoming.
"Tim! What are you doing back here?"
"Something came up," I said.
"More research? The book going well?"
"Very well. Can I come in for a minute?"
"Well, sure." He stepped back and let me in. "When did you get in? Just now?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
"Well, you shouldn't be staying in a hotel. Check out and come back here, stay as long as you like. I just got some information about houses for sale in Perigord, we could go over it together."
"I'm not in a hotel," I said. "I'm staying with Tom Pasmore."
"That stuck-up phony."
John had followed me into the living room. When I sat down on the couch facing the wall of paintings, he said, "Why don't you make yourself at home?"
"Thanks again for sending me the Vuillard," I said. He had not rearranged the paintings to compensate for its absence, and the place where it had been looked naked.
He was standing beside the couch, looking down at me, uncertain of my mood or intentions. "I knew you appreciated it. And like I said, I couldn't have it in my house anymore—it was too much for me."
"I'm sure it was," I said.
He gave me the encyclopedia salesman look again and then moved his face into a smile and sat down on the arm of a chair. "Did you come here just to thank me for the painting?"
"I wanted to tell you some things," I said.
"Why do I think that sounds ominous?" He hitched his knee up beside him on the fat arm of the chair and kept his smile. John was wearing a dark green polo shirt, faded jeans, and penny loafers without socks. He looked like a stockbroker on a weekend break.
"Before we get into them, I want to hear how Alan's doing."
"Before we get into these mysterious 'things'? Don't you think I'll want to talk to you afterward?"
I reminded myself that John Ransom was pretty smart, after all. "Not at all," I said. "You might want to talk to me night and day."
"Night and day." He tucked his foot in closer to his thigh.
"Let's try to keep that tone." He looked up, theatrically. "Well, Alan. Dear old Alan. I don't suppose you ever saw him when he was out at County."
"I stopped in for five minutes, on the way to the airport." He raised his eyebrows. "Did you? Well, in that case, you know how bad he was. Since then—really, since I moved him into Golden Manor—he's come a long way. They've been giving him good care, which they damn well better, considering how much the place costs."
"Does he mind being there?"
John shook his head. "I think he likes it. He knows he'll be taken care of if anything happens to him. And the women are all crazy about him."
"Do you visit him often?"
"Maybe once a week. That's about enough for both of us."
"I suppose that's right," I said.
He narrowed his eyes and bit on his lower lip. He didn't get it. "So what did you want to tell me?"