I spread it out on the desk in my office and looked at it under the light. The leather buttons were identical with the one Mungan had shown me. Where the top one had been pulled off there were some strands of broken thread corresponding with the threads attached to Mungan’s button. I had no doubt that an identification man with a microscope could tie that button and this coat together.
I turned the coat over, scattering sand across the desk and the floor. It had a Harris label on the right inside breast pocket, and under it the label of the retailers: Cruttworth, Ltd., Toronto. My impulse was to phone the Cruttworth firm right away. But it was the middle of the night in Toronto, and the best I could hope for was a chat with the night watchman.
I searched in vain for cleaners’ marks. Perhaps the coat had never been cleaned. In spite of its rough usage on the beach, the cuffs and the collar showed no sign of wear.
I tried the thing on. It was small for me, tight across the chest. I wondered how it would fit Campion. It was a heavy coat, and a heavy thought, and I began to sweat. I struggled out of the coat. It hugged me like guilt.
I knew a man named Sam Garlick who specialized in identifying clothes and connecting them with their rightful owners in court. He was a Detective Sergeant in the L. A. P. D. His father and his grandfather had been tailors.
I called Sam’s house in West Los Angeles. His mother-in-law informed me that the Garlicks were out celebrating their twenty-second wedding anniversary. She was looking after the three smaller children, and they were a handful, but she’d finally got them off to bed. Yes, Sam would be on duty in the morning.
While the receiver was in my hand, I dialed my answering service. Both Arnie Walters and Isobel Blackwell had called me earlier in the day. The most recent calls were from Sergeant Wesley Leonard and a woman named Mrs. Hatchen, who was staying at the Santa Monica Inn. Mrs. Hatchen. Harriet’s mother. The long loops were intersecting, and I was at the point of intersection.
I put in a call to the Santa Monica Inn. The switchboard operator told me after repeated attempts that Mrs. Hatchen’s room didn’t answer. The desk clerk thought she’d gone out for a late drive. She had checked into a single late that afternoon.
I returned Leonard’s call. He answered on the first ring.
“Sergeant Leonard here.”
“Archer. You wanted to talk to me?”
“I thought you wanted to talk to me. The wife mentioned you were here this afternoon.”
“I had some evidence that should interest you. I have more now than I had then.”
“What is it?”
“The coat Ralph Simpson had with him when he left home. I’m hoping it will lead us to the killer.”
“How?” he said, rather competitively.
“It’s a little complicated for the phone. We should get together, Sergeant.”
“I concur. I’ve got something hotter than the coat.” He was a simple man, and simple pride swelled in his voice. “So hot I can’t even tell you over the phone.”
“Do you come here or do I go there?”
“You come to me. I have my reasons. You know where I live.”
He was waiting for me on the lighted porch, looking younger and taller than I remembered him. There was a flush on his cheeks and a glitter in his eyes, as if the hotness of his evidence had raised his temperature.
I suspected that he was letting me in on it because he secretly doubted his competence to handle it. He had anxiety in him, too. He pumped my hand, and seemed to have a hard time letting go.
Mrs. Leonard had made lemonade and egg-salad sandwiches, and laid them out on a coffee table in the small overfurnished living room. She poured two glasses of lemonade from a pitcher clinking with ice. Then she retreated into the kitchen, shutting the door with crisp tact. I had forgotten to eat, and I wolfed several sandwiches while Leonard talked.
“I’ve found the murder weapon,” he announced. “I didn’t find it personally, but it was my own personal idea that led to its disclosure. Ever since we uncovered Simpson’s body, I’ve had a crew of county prisoners out there mornings picking over the scene of the crime. This morning one of them came across the icepick and turned it in.”
“Let me see it.”
“It’s down at the courthouse, locked up. I’ll show it to you later.”
“What makes you certain it’s the weapon?”
“I took it into the L. A. crime lab today. They gave it a test for blood traces, and got a positive reaction. Also, it fits the puncture in Simpson’s body.”
“Any icepick would.”
“But this is it. This is the one.” He leaned toward me urgently across the plate of sandwiches. “I had to be sure, and I made sure.”
“Fingerprints?”
“No. The only prints were the ones from the prisoner that found it. It was probably wiped clean before the murderer stuck it in the dirt. I’ve got something better than fingerprints. And worse, in a way.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Sergeant.”
“It’s a riddle for sure.” He glanced at the closed door to the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “The icepick was part of a little silver bar set which was sold right here in town last October. I had no trouble tracking down the store because there’s only the one good hardware store here in town. That’s Drake Hardware, and Mr. Drake identified the icepick personally tonight. He just had the one set like it in stock, and he remembered who he sold it to. She’s a local citizen – a woman my wife has known for years.”
“Who is she?”
Leonard raised his hand as if he was back on traffic point duty. “Not so fast. I don’t know that I’m justified telling you her name. It wouldn’t mean anything to you, anyway. She’s a Citrus Junction woman, lived here all her life. Always had a clean record, till now. But it looks dark for her, or maybe her husband. There’s more than the icepick tying them into the murder. They live directly across the road from the site where we found the icepick and the body.”
“Are we talking about Mr. and Mrs. Stone?”
He looked at me in surprise. “You know Jack and Liz Stone?”
“I interviewed her this afternoon. He wasn’t there.”
“What were you doing – questioning her about the Simpson killing?”
“We discussed it, but I didn’t consider her a suspect. We talked mostly about her daughter Dolly – and what happened to her.”
Leonard made a lugubrious face. “That was a bad blow to the Stone couple. The way I figure it, psychologically speaking, the murder of their girl could of drove them over the edge. Maybe Simpson had something to do with that murder, and they killed him in revenge.”
“It’s a possible motive, all right. Simpson was definitely involved with Dolly and her husband. Have you questioned the Stones?”
“Not yet. I just got Mr. Drake’s identification of the icepick tonight. I talked it over with the Sheriff and he says I should wait until the D. A. gets back from Sacramento. He’s due back tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to make a serious mistake, the Sheriff says.” Clear sweat, like distilled anxiety, burst out on his forehead. “The Stones aren’t moneyed folks but they’ve always had a good reputation and plenty of friends in town. Liz Stone is active in the Eastern Star.” He took a long gulp of lemonade.
“Somebody ought to ask her about the icepick.”
“That’s my opinion, too. Unfortunately my hands are tied until the D. A. gets back.”
“Mine aren’t.”
He regarded me appraisingly. Clearly he was asking himself how far he could trust me. He tossed down the rest of his lemonade and got up.