Faithfully yours,
Harvey Noble, Proprietor
I looked at an older letter which was handwritten on the stationery of a Santa Teresa church and signed by the pastor, a Reverend Lowell Riceyman.
Dear Stanley [it said],
Your father Leo Broadhurst was one of my parishioners, in the sense that he sometimes attended Sunday services, as you may recall, but I have to confess that I never knew him at all well. I’m sure the fault must have been mine as much as his. He gave the impression of being a sportsman, an active and spirited man who enjoyed life. No doubt that is your recollection of him, too.
May I suggest in all good feeling and sympathy that you be content with that recollection, and not pursue any further the course you have embarked on, against my advice. Your father chose to leave your mother and you, for reasons which neither you nor I can fathom. The heart has its reasons that the reason does not know. I think it is unwise for a son to attempt to delve too deeply into his father’s life. What man is without blame?
Think of your own life, Stanley. You have recently taken on the responsibilities of marriage – as I, having had the pleasure of performing the ceremony, have good cause to remember. Your wife is a fine and lovely girl, clearly more worthy of your living interest than those old passions of which you have written to me. The past can do very little for us – no more than it has already done, for good or ill – except in the end to release us. We must seek and accept release, and give release.
Concerning the marital problems of which you write me, believe me, they are not unusual. But I would prefer to discuss them with you personally, rather than commit my poor thoughts to paper. Until I see you, then.
I looked down at the dead man, and thought of the other dead man on the mountain. The Reverend Riceyman had given Stanley good advice, which he had failed to take. A feeling of embarrassment and regret went through me. It wasn’t exactly grief for Stanley, though it included that.
It also included the realization that I had to call the police. I left the phone in the study untouched and went back to the kitchen. As soon as I switched on the lights, I noticed the empty brown whisky bottle standing among the dishes in the sink.
I called the Valley headquarters of the LAPD and reported a homicide. During the nine or ten minutes that the police took to answer the call, I walked halfway along the block and found Al’s Volkswagen, locked. At the very last minute, when I could already hear the siren, I remembered that the engine of my car was running. I went out to the garage and turned it off.
I had a light hat in the trunk. I used it to cover my damaged head, and met the patrol car out in front of the house. The man next door came out and looked at us and went back into his house without saying anything.
I took the officers in through the back door, pointing out the jimmy marks. I showed them the dead man and told them briefly how I had happened to find him. They made a few notes and put in a call for a homicide team, suggesting politely that I stick around.
I told my story in greater detail to a captain of detectives named Arnie Shipstad, whom I had known since he was a detective-sergeant with the Hollywood division. Arnie was a fresh-faced Swede with shrewd sensitive eyes which registered the details of the study as precisely as the cameras of his photographer did.
The dead man had his picture taken with and without his wig and beard and mustache. Then he was carefully rolled onto a stretcher and carried out.
Arnie lingered. “So you think he came here for money?”
“I’m sure he did.”
“But he got something different. And the man who promised him money is dead, too.” He picked up Stanley’s memo, which I had shown him, and read aloud: “ ‘Have you seen this man and woman?’ Is this what it’s all about?”
“It could be.”
“Why do you think he came here in disguise?”
“I can think of a couple of possible reasons. He may be wanted. I’d lay even money that he is wanted.”
Arnie nodded in agreement. “I’ll check him out. But there’s another possibility, too.”
“What’s that?”
“He may have been wearing the outfit for fun and games. Quite a few swingers use longhair wigs when they go quail-hunting. This one may have been planning to pick up his money and have a night on the town.”
I had to admit there was something in the idea.
chapter 14
I left Sepulveda at Sunset and drove into Pacific Palisades. The Crandalls lived on a palm-lined street in a kind of Tudor manor with a peaked roof and brown protruding half-timbers.
The mullioned windows were all lighted as though a Saturday night party was going on. But the only sound I heard before I knocked was the sighing and scratching of the wind through the dry palm fronds.
A blond woman in black opened the ornately carved door. Her body was so trim against the light that I thought for a moment she was the girl. Then she inclined her head to look at me, and I saw that time had faintly touched her face and begun to tug at her throat.
She narrowed her eyes and peered past me into the darkness. “Are you Mr. Archer?”
“Yes. May I come in?”
“Please do. My husband is home now, but he’s resting.” Her speech was carefully correct, as if she had taken lessons in talking. I suspected that her natural speech was a good deal rougher and freer.
She led me into a formal sitting room with a blazing crystal chandelier which hurt my eyes and an unlit marble fireplace. We sat down in facing conversation chairs. Her body fell into a beautiful still pose, but her faintly pinched blond face seemed bored with it, or resentful, like an angel living with an animal.
“Was Susan all right when you saw her?”
“She wasn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean.”
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know.”
“You mentioned serious trouble.” Her voice was soft and small, as if she was trying to minimize the trouble. “Please tell me what you mean, and please be frank. This is the third night now that I’ve been sitting by the telephone.”
“I know how it is.”
She inclined toward me. Her breasts leaned out from her body. “Do you have children?”
“No, but my clients do. Susan has one of those children with her now – a small boy named Ronald Broadhurst. Have you ever heard of him?”
She hesitated for a moment, in deep thought, then shook her head. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”
“Ronald’s father was murdered this morning. Stanley Broadhurst.”
She failed to react to the name. While she listened raptly like a child at a fairy tale, I gave her an account of the day. Her hands climbed from her lap like small independent creatures with red feet, and fastened on her breasts. She said:
“Susan couldn’t have done what was done to Mr. Broadhurst. She’s a gentle girl. And she loves children. She certainly wouldn’t hurt the little boy.”
“Why would she grab him?”
The word jolted the woman. She looked at me with some dislike, as if I’d threatened the dream she was living in. Her hands fell away from her breasts.
“There must be some explanation.”
“Do you know why she left home?”
“I – Lester and I haven’t been able to understand it. Everything was going along smoothly. She’d been accepted at UCLA and she was on a good summer program – tennis and diving lessons and conversational French. Then on Thursday morning, when we were out shopping, she left without any warning. She didn’t even say goodbye to us.”