I watched the newspapers for any news of the murder. It had started off as headline news, but quickly dwindled to a small paragraph on the back page. The papers said the police were still looking for Mandon who, they hoped, would help them in their inquiries, but, so far, there was no trace of him.
As one day followed the next, I began to be more hopeful. Maybe Vasari had got out of the country.
Maybe he would never be found.
I wondered what had happened to Wilbur. Several times I was tempted to call the Anderson Hotel in San Francisco to find out if he was back there, but I decided against it.
Sarita was still making progress. I went to the sanatorium every evening, and spent an hour talking to her, telling her about the bridge, what I had been doing, how I was managing without her.
Zimmerman said he felt confident now that she would be able to walk again, but it would take time.
He thought in another two weeks she could go home. She would have to have a nurse to take care of her, but he thought she would make quicker progress in her home than remaining at the sanatorium.
There was now no further news of the murder in any of the papers. I told myself that it was going to be all right. Vasari must have got out of the country. They were never going to find him.
Then, one evening on my return from the sanatorium, as I stopped my car outside my apartment block, I saw a large man leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone.
I recognised the big, heavy figure immediately: it was Detective Sergeant Keary.
I felt a rush of blood up my spine as I stared at him through the window of the car. My mouth turned dry and I had to fight off a panic-stricken urge to start the car again and drive away.
It was now three weeks since I had seen him and I had hoped I had seen the last of him. Yet here he was, obviously waiting for me.
I took my time getting out of the car, and by the time I reached him I had my panic under control.
‘Hello, sergeant,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you,’ he said curtly. ‘They told me you had gone to the hospital so I came around here.’
‘What do you want?’ I found it impossible to keep my voice steady. ‘What is it now?’
‘We’ll talk about that inside, Mr. Halliday. You lead the way, will you?’
I went up the steps, across the lobby to my apartment.
Keary followed me.
‘They tell me your wife has been pretty ill,’ he said, as we entered the lounge. ‘She better now?’
I threw my hat and raincoat on a chair and went over to the fireplace and faced him.
‘Yes, she is a lot better now, thank you,’ I said.
He selected the largest and most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. He took off his hat and laid it on the floor by his side. Then he started on the routine of unwrapping a piece of chewing gum.
‘When I last saw you, Mr. Halliday,’ he said, his eyes intent on the chewing gum, ‘you told me you didn’t know nor had you ever heard of Rima Marshall.’
I thrust my clenched fists into my trousers pockets. My heart was thudding so violently I was scared he would hear it.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
He looked up then, and the small green eyes stared fixedly at me.
‘I have reason to believe you were lying, Mr. Halliday, and that you did know the dead woman.’
‘What makes you think that?’ I said.
‘A photograph of the dead woman has been published in the papers. A man named Joe Masini, who owns the Calloway Hotel, has volunteered information. He is a friend of the Marshall woman. He says she had a meeting at his hotel with a man with a scar on his face and drooping right eyelid. She appeared to be frightened of this man, and she asked Masini to stop this man from following her when she left the hotel. The description of this man with the scar fits you, Mr. Halliday.’
I didn’t say anything.
Keary chewed slowly as he continued to stare at me.
‘The Marshall woman has a banking account in Santa Barba,’ he went on. ‘I checked it yesterday.
Two sums of ten thousand dollars were paid into her account over the period of the past six weeks. Both these amounts were drawn on your account. Do you still say you didn’t know this woman?’
I moved to a chair and sat down.
‘Yes, I knew her.’
‘Why did you give her all this money?’
‘That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? She was blackmailing me.’
He shifted in his chair.
‘Yeah, that’s the way I figured it. Why was she blackmailing you?’
‘Does that matter? I didn’t kill her, and you know it.’
He chewed some more while he stared at me.
‘You didn’t kill her, although blackmail is a good motive for murder. You didn’t kill her because you couldn’t have killed her. You were right here when she died. I’ve checked that.’
I waited, my breathing hard and fast.
‘If you had told the truth in the first place, Mr. Halliday, you would have saved me a lot of work. You went to Santa Barba to meet this woman?’
‘I went there to find her,’ I said. ‘I was going to ask her for time to pay the next blackmail instalment.
I needed the money to pay for my wife’s operation, but I didn’t find her. I was pressed for time. I tried twice, but each time I failed to find her.’
‘What happened? Did you pay her?’
‘No. She died before I had to pay her.’
‘Pretty convenient for you, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why was she blackmailing you?’
That was something I wasn’t going to tell him.
‘The usual thing – I ran into her, had an association with her, she found out I was married, and threatened to tell my wife.’
He rubbed the end of his fleshy nose, his expression bored.
‘She was asking big money for that kind of blackmail, wasn’t she?’
‘She had me over a barrel. My wife was desperately ill. Any kind of a shock would have been fatal to her.’
He hunched his massive shoulders as he said, ‘You realise, Mr. Halliday, it is a serious business to tell lies in a murder investigation?’
‘Yes, I realise that.’
‘If you had admitted in the first place knowing this woman you would have saved me a hell of a lot of work.’
‘An association with a woman like that is something no one likes to admit to,’ I said.
‘Yeah.’ He scratched the side of his fleshy face. ‘Well, okay, I guess this takes care of it. You don’t have to worry any more about it. I’m not making a report. I’m just tying up the loose ends.’
It was my turn to stare at him. ‘You’re not making a report?’
‘I’m in charge of this investigation.’ He stretched out his long, thick legs. ‘I don’t see any reason to get a guy into trouble because he takes a roll in the hay.’ His fleshy face suddenly relaxed into a grin: it wasn’t a pleasant grin: it was more a leer than a grin. ‘I wanted to be sure you had nothing to do with her death and I’m sure of it.’ The leering grin widened. ‘You can count yourself lucky. I’m retiring at the end of the month. I might not be so soft with you if I wasn’t going out to grass. You might not think it to look at me but I’m nudging sixty and that’s the time for a man to retire.’
There was something about him I disliked. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was suspicious of him.
He suddenly no longer seemed a cop. He was a man who had done his work, and was now in a vacuum.