“Some of the darnedest people do.”
“But she’s a real lady.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I may not be a lady myself, but I know one when I see one. Isobel Jaimet has class, the kind that doesn’t have to flaunt itself. I happen to know she has very good connections. Matter of fact, she married one of them the second time around. Her second husband was her first husband’s second cousin, if you can follow that. I met him years ago when he was staying with the Jaimets. He was very important in the military. The Jaimet family itself used to own the whole west side, before they lost it.”
“What is her second husband’s name?”
“Let’s see, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Anyway, it’s on the card she sent me.”
“Would it be Blackwell?”
“That’s it! Blackwell. You know him?”
I didn’t have to answer her. Her husband’s slippered feet were clop-clopping down the stairs. He came into the room carrying a square envelope, which he handed to his wife. She opened it.
“Merry Christmas and Happy New Year,” the bright card said. “Colonel and Mrs. Mark Blackwell.”
25
SERGEANT LEONARD was waiting for me at the front of his house. He was wearing an eager expression, which sharpened when our eyes met under the light.
“Did they break down and confess?”
“They had nothing to confess. Elizabeth Stone bought the bar set as a wedding present for an old neighbor.”
“It sounds like malarkey to me. They don’t have the money to buy that kind of presents for the neighbors.”
“They did, though.”
“Who was the neighbor?”
“Mrs. Jaimet.”
“Mrs. Ronald Jaimet? That’s malarkey. She couldn’t have had anything to do with this.”
I would have liked to be able to agree with him. Since I couldn’t, I said nothing.
“Why, her and her husband were two of our leading citizens,” he said. “They had a front-page editorial in the paper when he died. He was a member of a pioneer county family and the best principal we ever had at the union high school.”
“What did he die of?”
“He was a diabetic. He broke his leg in the Sierra and ran out of insulin before they could get him back to civilization. It was a great loss to the town, and just about as big a loss when Mrs. Jaimet moved away. She was the head of the Volunteer Family Service and half a dozen other organizations.” He paused reflectively. “Did the Stones say where she is now?”
I lit a cigarette and considered my answer. Between my duty to the law and a man who trusted me, and my duty to a client I no longer trusted, my ethics were stretched thin. Leonard repeated his question.
“I think they said she was married in Santa Barbara last year. You’d better talk to them yourself.”
“Yeah. I better. In the morning.” He scratched at his hairline. “It just came to my mind, the Jaimets lived right across the road from the Stones. We found Simpson buried right spang in their back yard, their use-to-was back yard. What do you make of that?”
“I don’t like it,” I said honestly, and changed the subject before he could ask me further questions. “I have that coat in the car if you want to look it over.”
“Yeah. Bring it in.”
I spread it out on the carpet in his living room. While I told him what I knew of its history, he was down on his knees, examining it inside and out.
“Too bad there’s no cleaners’ marks,” he said. “But we may be able to trace the ownership through these Cruttworth people in Toronto. Another long trip for somebody.”
“I’m getting used to long trips.”
Leonard rose with his hands in the small of his back, then got down on his knees beside the coat again.
“Sometimes,” he said, “the older established cleaners put their marks inside the sleeves.”
He turned back the right cuff. Several code letters and figures were written in indelible ink in the lining: BX1207. He stood up smiling.
“It’s a lucky thing I looked.”
“Do you recognize the mark, Sergeant?”
“No, it isn’t local. But we can trace it. I know an officer in L. A. who has a pretty complete collection of these marks.”
“Sam Garlick.”
“You know Sam too, do you? We’ll get to work on it first thing in the morning. You may not have to go to Toronto after all.”
I left the coat with Leonard and went back to Bel Air. The Blackwell house had lights in it, and there was a taxi standing in the drive. The sound of my feet in the gravel woke the driver. He looked at me as if I might be about to hold him up.
“It’s a nice night,” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Who are you waiting for?”
“A fare. Any objections?” His broken sleep had made him a little surly. He had a seamed dark face, and the eyes of a loner.
“I have no objections.”
He said with aggressive politeness: “If I’m in your way I can move. Just say the word.”
“You’re not in my way. What happened, brother – did a bear bite you?”
“I don’t like these long waits. These dames have no consideration. She must of been in there nearly an hour.” He looked at his watch. “Over an hour.”
“Who is she?”
“I dunno. Some big blonde dame in a leopard coat. I picked her up in Santa Monica.”
“Is she old or young?”
“She isn’t young. You ask a lot of questions.”
“I’ll bet you two dollars you didn’t pick her up at the Santa Monica Inn.”
“You lose. Are you her husband?”
“A friend.” I gave him two dollars and went back to my car. We sat and had a waiting competition which lasted another fifteen or twenty minutes. Then the front door opened.
Pauline Hatchen backed out saying good night to Isobel Blackwell. I had a good look at Isobel before she closed the door. She was fully and formally dressed in a dark suit. Her heavy make-up didn’t entirely hide her pallor or the patches of funeral crepe under her eyes. She didn’t notice me.
I was waiting beside the cab when Pauline Hatchen reached it. “How are you, Mrs. Hatchen? I’m not as surprised to see you here as you might think. I got your call, and tried to return it.”
“It’s Mr. Archer. How nice.” But she didn’t sound too happy. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you again. It was one of my main reasons for coming back. The other night, in Ajijic, I didn’t truly realize the situation. I suppose I’m what they call slow on the uptake.”
“Did you fly in?”
“Yes. Today.” She looked around at the large and quiet night. The lights in the Blackwell house were going out progressively. “Is there somewhere we can go and talk?”
“Will my car do? I prefer not to leave here right now. I want to see Isobel before she goes back to bed.”
“I suppose it will have to do.” She turned to the driver. “Do you mind waiting a few more minutes?”
“It’s your time, ma’am. You’re paying for it.”
We walked back to my car. She seemed very tired, so tired that she had forgotten her self-consciousness. She leaned on my arm, and let me help her into the lighted front seat. Her leopard coat was genuine but shabby. She pulled it around her not inelegant legs, and I shut the door.
I sat behind the wheel. “You want to talk about Harriet.”
“Yes. Is there any word from her? Anything at all?”
“Nothing that will give you any comfort.”
“So Isobel said. I thought perhaps she was holding back on me. She’s always been a great one for deciding what other people ought to know. And I had the very devil of a time getting in touch with her. She’d gone to bed and refused to answer the phone. How any woman can sleep through a thing like this! But of course she’s not Harriet’s mother. That makes the difference. Blood is thicker than water.”