“I read mine four times, every single word and I was still doubtful. Perhaps more doubtful than before. This was from someone close to him — a person who knew him well, his own employee. The other man had been twenty-five years old in 1938. He would now have been forty-seven. Yet the fan magazine said he was thirty-four. Also, the other man had lived in New York for ten years. He had come from North Dakota — he told me that in New York. The motion picture star was from West Texas. He knew ranch life. He had an outstanding war record. He had been a driller in the oil fields of Texas. He had been born and raised on a horse. Virtually every year of his life was accounted for — the thirty-four years of it.
“I received a second magazine the next month. There were more details of him. He was a writer of stories and the man I had known had left school at fifteen and was uncouth and ungrammatical. The thirteen-year difference in ages was too much, the devastatingly detailed accounts of his life were too different. It could not possibly be the same man.
“Yet I had to know — for sure. I worked it so that Linda invited me to Los Angeles, when Walter had to be there on business. That was the night at The Tuilleries. He was at the bar with you. I saw him at short range and I was not sure, perhaps because I could not still my heart because of you. His eyes met mine once when he was in the booth with the young blonde girl. There was no recognition in them. When we returned to the hotel I read the evening paper. I had not read the earlier papers, but now I learned that his fan secretary had been murdered. The paper mentioned the clipping about me. I was almost sure then — and that is why I flew to Chicago the next day — to come here — and find out for certain once and for all. You were on the plane. I learned enough from you to guess that you were going to New York — to search for Doris Delaney. I... I wanted so terribly to be found — by you. When I got off the plane, I telephoned to Linda.”
“I think I know the reason,” said Alder, “but I would like to have you tell me.”
“If she came to Chicago, she would get you back from New York. Alter talking to you on the plane, after being so near you that became more important to me than the other. Of course you know why I telephoned you last night. I had to hear your voice. I had to know absolutely how you felt. If what I thought was true — and I had to remove the last shred of uncertainty — if you came, that was it. You came, my dear, and it is over.”
“For us, yes, Nikki, we are together. But you have to know about him. Is he...”
“Tom, I am not certain. I thought you might know.”
“I believe he is. But, there is a shred of doubt, Nikki. There could be a mistake somewhere. A shocking, terrible mistake. We have to make 100 per cent certain. You want that absolute certainty as much as I do. I will tell you what I know and we will examine it together. You may fill in some pieces that are left, perhaps things you tell me will help me fill in some pieces.”
They talked and it was good. The rain lessened and when they had talked for a long time, the rain stopped. Alder’s clothing was partially dried, the lighter pieces, which he put on. He held Nikki again until the rain had stopped completely and his clothing was almost dry. It was late afternoon by that time.
They were both hungry, but it was not yet possible to leave the deserted cabin. Toward dusk, when the sky had completely cleared, Alder went outside and started the motor of Nikki’s car, which she had bought for cash in Bismarck. He warmed up the car, let the motor run long enough to dry it out, so that it would operate smoothly, when they finally essayed the rest of the trip.
Chapter 25
The sun dipped behind the horizon and it became dark. It was almost four hours since the rain had stopped and a brisk wind had sprung up. The water had had a considerable time to run off and the wind helped to dry up the ground.
It was an early moon and when it came up, Alder and Nikki decided to try to get out.
Alder got Nikki’s car onto the graveled road with some difficulty, but once on the road it was all right for a few miles. They hit a low spot then and had to risk it, but made it and came to within sight of the lights of the hamlet of Dumas before they hit another bad spot. The car got through it, however, and they drove to the edge of the little village.
It was very small, one short street, two abbreviated side streets. Perhaps a dozen stores. The general store was still open.
Nikki remained in the car and Alder went inside. The store was of the kind found only in the very small villages and hamlets in the more remote areas. It carried groceries, meats, poultry feed, and remedies, clothing, refrigerators, even a couple of television sets on display.
Alder bought bread, a few packages of cookies, some sliced cold meat, and a cotton blanket.
As he was paying for his purchases, he asked the storekeeper, “By the way, can you direct me to the home of Jacques Pleschette?”
The man looked at him. “You wouldn’t be—” Then he shook his head. “Couldn’t be. Too young.”
“You thought I was one of the Pleschette brothers?”
“Talk is one of ’em’s gonna pay the old man a visit. Old Frenchy got a telegram.”
“Old Frenchy?”
“Folks were callin’ him that when I was born. Let’s see now. You take the north road. Kinda winds a bit and you want to keep your eyes sharp ’cause there’s two-three side roads, but you don’t want to get onto them. Keep on the main road. Two miles, mebbe a bit more. Then you take the left fork. Don’t amount to a goshdarn and you better hope the chuckholes ain’t too deep ’cause you’re gonna get bogged down.
“Three miles, more or less. You get down on the flats then. Otter Creek’s on your left, but you stay with the tracks on the right side. You’ll run into the shack.”
Alder carried the purchases to the car. “Nikki,” he said, after he had climbed in, “I thought we would spend the night in the car...”
“I slept in it last night. Then this morning it started to rain and I pulled off the road to that deserted house. What is it, Tom?”
“He’s coming here. The people here know it.”
“He’s dangerous, Tom!”
He nodded.
“Do you think you should have a gun?”
“They sell guns in this store, but they’re expensive, and I don’t have enough cash with me.”
She opened her purse and brought out a packet of bills, all of large denominations. He returned to the store.
There were three shotguns on display, two .22 rifles. Alder bought a repeater and a box of shells and returned to Nikki’s car.
He started the car and turned it onto the south road. He drove a mile along a winding road, found a small clearing on the right side of the road and drove into it. The wheels bumped along until Alder reached the edge of the poplar trees. He eased the car partly among the trees and shut off the ignition.
They made sandwiches and ate the rather stale cookies. They each had a soft drink and then Nikki moved close to him and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Tom,” she said, “if we are wrong—”
“I’m certain we aren’t.”
“There is, however, that tiny element of doubt. And if it is so, then — what about me?”
“I will still be with you.”
“That I know, but I was not thinking of myself this time. You and I have our lives and it will he enough for us. I was thinking of—”
“Your mother.”
“She has waited twenty-two years.”
“I have thought of it, Nikki, and I think you should go to her.”
“As a woman who killed a man? Can I tell her that, and the circumstances?”