The Far Cry

by Fredric Brown

  Weaver started to ask whether anybody in Seco besides Camillo would know the exact spot where Jenny Ames' body had been found and then he realized Sanchez would be able to tell him that—and that if he asked Sanchez he wouldn't have to go through the rigmarole of explaining all over again what his interest was.

  He thanked the postmaster and drove on to Sanchez’s house.

  Sanchez opened the door and smiled; he stepped back. “Please to come in, Mr. Weaver?"

  "Thanks, no. My wife is waiting in the car and I just want to ask you one question. Is there someone in Seco who knows the exact place where Jenny Ames’ body was found and who could take me there and show me?”

  "You not need somebody to show you, Mister Weaver. I tell you how you find yourself the place. From your house a quarter mile straight north is cottonwood, big cottonwood, bigger than any tree near. By it, you can see the place. You find easy.”

  Weaver thanked him and drove on home. It was still only mid-afternoon and a quarter of a mile wasn’t far to walk. He loaded the camera and started out, walking straight north. Just beyond the shed he turned back a moment, thinking that he should have asked Vi if she wanted to go along for a walk. Then he decided against it; he didn’t want her along because he didn't want to explain what he was doing. He hadn’t discussed the Jenny Ames case with her—and was reluctant to do so.

  He didn’t know exactly why he felt almost revolted at even the thought of mentioning Jenny Ames’ name to Vi, but he did feel that way. And anyway there was a very practical reason for keeping his own counsel—the money. If Vi knew of the very excellent chance of three or four hundred dollars coming in, she’d be even more careless of money for the rest of the summer than she'd be otherwise.

  So let Vi think he was walking back just to photograph the mountains. For that matter, he might as well take some shots of them too. He had plenty of film and, in any case, he'd have to take some pictures he could show Vi later to account for his having rented the camera. Pictures he took of the house itself could do double duty in that respect and he could take them any time, whether Vi was around or not. He’d have to wait until sometime when she was away from the house to take his shots of the paintings.

  He started to pace off the distance roughly; at a yard to a stride a quarter of a mile would be about four hundred and forty paces. He counted up to three hundred and then, as he topped a rise, he knew he could quit counting; the cottonwood tree ahead of him, halfway up the next slope, was the one. There was no mistaking it; it was the biggest tree anywhere in sight and the distance and direction were just about what Sanchez had told him. He headed for it with certainty.

  Had Jenny Ames, he wondered, actually run that far before the killer had caught up to her? Or had he caught her sooner and then carried her body farther away from the house before he buried it?

  Yes, this was the tree. For there, just under and beyond it, was the depression that had once been a shallow grave. Now weathered to a depth of only about six inches, it was still unmistakably discernible.

  He photographed it from several angles, not knowing from which side it would show up best in a photograph. He took a few shots of the mountains, too.

  The sun was still warm and bright as he walked back to the house. Might as well photograph it now too, and finish one roll of film.

  He backed his car out to the road so it wouldn't be in the picture and then took three shots of the house from three different distances and angles. One of them from the exact spot where Pepe Sanchez had stood. That, no doubt, would be the one they'd use, but it didn’t hurt to have other pictures for them to choose among.

  The interior shot—and he’d have to make several tries on that, with different time exposures on each so one of them would come out—would have to wait until Vi was away. Too difficult to explain, otherwise.

  But come to think of it, he had a perfectly logical excuse for taking pictures of the paintings, if Vi should notice what he was doing and become curious. He could tell her he was just experimenting on how to photograph pictures because, later, he’d want to photograph some of his own water colors, and if he knew the right distance and exposure, he wouldn't have any misses when he tried that.

  That made sense as an explanation. Enough for Vi, anyway.

  He took the pictures from the shed and stood them against the west wall so the afternoon sun would be squarely on them. He shortened the tripod so the camera would be about on center of the pictures and then moved it back and forth until he had the distance just right so the picture would fill the field, set his focus and took the shots. Just one of each of the three pictures; if they didn't come out well the first time he’d try again after he knew whether he'd over- or underexposed.

  Vi came out while he was taking the final shot.

  "George do you like those horrible things? I can’t see how you can stand them hanging in that shed of yours. And you spend so much time in it, too."

  He snapped the camera. "Well, they're interesting, Vi. I don't exactly like them, but I wish I could do as well. And the more you look at them, the more you see in them. But—” And he explained that, really, he was just experimenting with the camera, that he’d never tried to take a picture of a picture before.

  Weaver took the three pictures back into the shed and hung them again, closing the door so he couldn't hear Vi’s radio. He checked the camera and found there was one frame left on the second roll of film. He filled it with a random shot of mountains framed by the window of his shed and then took the film out. He looked at his watch. Just barely time to get them to the photographer’s by five o'clock if he left right away.

  He went into the house and turned the radio down a little so he could be heard. "Going into town, Vi, to leave these films. Any shopping you want done?"

  “Well—you could get some bread and something for sandwiches if it's all right to have that tonight. I'd rather not cook another hot meal."

  “Okay.”

  "And some whisky, George, and some ginger ale. There's only half a bottle left. I was going to remember it when we were in before, and I forgot.”

  The photograph shop told him the pictures would be finished day after next. He ordered only contact prints, one of each, until he had a chance to see how they’d turn out.

  He got the whisky and the ginger ale, some wine for himself, the bread and sandwich meat.

  It was dusk when he returned and Vi said she was hungry so they ate right away.

  “George, let's go to a movie tonight. I haven’t seen a movie since I came here.”

  He sighed. "I've got a slight headache, Vi. Why don’t you take the car and drive in yourself? Anyway, it’s a gangster movie; I happened to notice. You like them and I don’t.”

  When she’d left, half an hour later, the house seemed strangely, wonderfully silent. This was one evening he wouldn’t have to spend in his sanctum to get away from the sound of the radio.

  He didn’t even want to drink, especially, although he poured himself a glass of wine to sip. He sat at the kitchen table because the kitchen seemed more comfortable, more homey than either the living room or the bedroom. He sighed and relaxed.

  So his idea about the Nelson pictures had been good. Strange that no one had thought of it at the time. Understandable why the sheriff hadn’t, but it seemed a bit strange that Callahan had missed that particular boat. Unless he hadn’t known of the pictures. Callahan could have published pictures of the pictures in his El Creplisculo and could have seen that copies went to likely places. It would have been a feather in his cap if his newspaper had helped to locate a murderer.

  On sudden impulse he left his drink standing on the table, put on his coat and started to walk to Callahan's. There was a thin sliver of moon and bright stars, between them giving just enough light so he didn’t have to use his flash to see the road as soon as his eyes had adjusted themselves to dimness.

  He thought, it must have been just about like this the night Jenny was killed. And she ran through it j
ust about as far as I'm going to walk. The distance to Callahan's is the same as the distance to her grave. Had Callahan lived there then? He'd have to ask

  It seemed like quite a long walk.

  The lights were on at Callahan's, so he knocked. Callahan came to the door in bedroom slippers, but he looked pleased. “Come in, Weaver.” He looked around. "Didn’t you bring the missus? Told you to bring her over to meet my wife."

  "She went to a movie tonight. I just strolled over on sudden impulse. You're not busy?"

  “Hell, no. Come in.”

  Weaver met Mrs. Callahan. She was tall and slender, no longer young but quite distinguished in appearance, even in a cotton house dress and an apron. Her. smile was pleasant but a bit reserved and her voice, when she spoke, was soft and her diction and grammar precise. Weaver sighed mentally; he’d rather hoped that Mrs. Callahan and Vi would be compatible. They were almost antithetical to one another.

  After a few minutes Mrs. Callahan excused herself to do some sewing and Weaver and Callahan were left alone.

  "You said you wanted to ask me something, Weaver?”

  "Yes, but first—and while I think of it—did you live here eight years ago when the murder happened?”

  "No, we were renting then, in Taos; it was our first year here. We bought this place four years ago. Let's see—yes, the man we bought it from was living here at that time; he’d built the place ten years before. Artist named Wayne; he's living in New York now.”

  "Thanks," Weaver said. "Listen, Callahan, I’ve got an angle on the case I'd like to talk over with you, but it'll have to be with the understanding that you don’t print anything about it in your newspaper—not until the magazine article I’m going to write gets published. Otherwise, if you break it first, my idea won’t be new any more .”

  Callahan looked at him sharply. “You're really going in for this thing, aren’t you? I don’t see what angle you could get now—after eight years—that would make a new story."

  “But you agree not to use it until I tell you you can?"

  “Oh, sure. Won't even talk about it, if you don’t want me to. What is it?”

  Weaver told him about the pictures and how he intended to use them.

  Callahan announced solemnly that he would be treated in a unique and unpublishable manner.

  Weaver asked, "The idea is new? Nobody thought of it at the time?”

  "Nobody knew those pictures were left there. I mean, no newspaperman knew about it. Hell, Weaver, there were men here from the big press services, good men. If it’d been known about those pictures being left, I flatter myself I'd have thought of using them the way you’re going to—and if I hadn’t, one of the other boys who covered the inquest would have thought of it. Freeman never told us about it. The stupid bastard. You say there are three of them?”

  Weaver nodded. "I had them framed. And one of them’s mine now—I haven't decided which one." He told the editor about the deal he’d made with Doughbelly Price to keep one of the pictures in return for frames for the other two.

  "So Doughbelly knew about the pictures too." Callahan swore, and then shook his head. "Well, you're right; we missed a bet. Where were the pictures?”

  "In the shed back of the house."

  "Well, that partly explains it. I looked through the house and they weren’t there then. That was the day before the inquest and I went out with Will Freeman. I remember I asked him if there was anything out in the shed and he said he'd looked through it and there was just junk there. I'd like to see them. Say—if your wife went in to a movie she must have taken the car. Did you walk here?"

  “Yes.”

  "Whenever you’re ready to go, then, I can drop you home, save your walking back. And I can take a look at the paintings—I'd like to see them."

  “Thanks,” Weaver said. But suddenly he found himself wanting to be alone again. Not that he didn’t like Callahan, but what the hell; this was one of the few evenings he’d be able to spend alone in the house—in the kitchen—without being driven to the shed by the sound of Vi's radio. Why hadn't he taken advantage of it

  He said, "But—would you mind if I walked home tonight and showed you the pictures some other time? I’ve got something to think out—that's one reason why I walked over. My question about the paintings could have waited."

  “Sure,” Callahan said. "Matter of fact, I'm not too crazy about going out tonight anyway. I'll take a rain check on seeing the pictures. But you're sure you don’t want a lift?”

  Weaver was sure.

  He walked home, as soon as he could get away without being impolite about it.

  Again a quarter of a mile seemed a long distance for a girl to have run through the night, even with a killer at her heels. Certainly she must have been the better runner of the two of them to have got that far. But then, out of breath at last—

  The poor kid.

  When he got home he stood at the kitchen door a long time, looking out into the night beyond.

  Why, he wondered, hadn’t he started work on the article tonight, while Vi was gone? What was he waiting for?

  Why, for that matter, didn't he start now? With the shed to work in, he wouldn’t have to stop when Vi got home.

  He didn't want to; that was the obvious and only answer. He didn’t.

  Vi came home at eleven. She was a little drunk—she hadn’t been when she left—and he wondered if she'd really gone to the movie. He didn't ask.

  Chapter Nine

  Almost all of the photographs were good. The ones of Nelson's paintings showed up especially well. Of the three shots of the shallow grave under the cottonwood two were good; of those he chose the one that had been shot toward the mountains, that caught their vastness in awful contrast to the pitiful smallness of the grave. He put that one aside on the counter of the photograph shop with the three of the paintings, and then studied the three pictures he’d taken of the house itself.

  Two were good. So was the third, as a photograph, but it was spoiled as an illustration for the story because Vi showed in it. It was the shot taken from the spot where Pepe Sanchez had stood; Weaver hadn't noticed, as he’d snapped the shutter, that Vi had stepped to the window to watch him and could be seen, dimly, through it.

  Well, that didn’t matter. He still had to take that interior shot, the time exposure, the first time Vi left him alone during the day and at the same time he could take another from the point where the boy had stood. That would wash things up and he could return the camera. The pictures of the paintings were excellent—he’d judged the exposure exactly right—and that was the main thing.

  Weaver left the negatives of the ones he’d use with the story for five-by-seven glossy enlargements and then took the set of contact prints with him to Callahan’s office.

  He put down the three photographs of the pictures in front of the editor. “Came out good,” he said. “Thought you might like to see them. But that doesn't cancel your rain check to drop around any time and see the originals."

  Callahan bent close over the prints, studying them. “I’ll be damned,” he said. "They look better than I thought— judging from those water colors of his I saw. Guess he worked better in oil. Are you sure Nelson painted them? Were they signed?”

  "No—but hell's bells, Callahan, don’t throw monkey wrenches like that. Who else would have painted them, if Nelson left them behind?”

  Callahan grinned up at' him. “Don’t take it so hard. I know how you can find out for sure whether they’re his or not. When Nelson first came here he made the rounds of the galleries to see if one of them would put up work for sale. So—let me think a minute.” .

  He stared off into space over Weaver’s shoulder. “There were three galleries in town then, outside of private ones. One of the three is still run by the same man, Ellsworth Grant. It’s El Pueblito Gallery, out the Santa Fe road just at the edge of town.

  "And Ellie Grant's got a memory like an elephant—he’s built like one, too, for that matter. If he saw any
of Nelson's work he'll be able to tell you whether these pictures are really his. Only if I were you I’d take the originals to show him instead of these reproductions. They tell me color is a factor in style; each artist tends to use certain combinations of color.”

  "Thanks, Callahan,” Weaver said. "You've been a hell of a big help to me on this, down the line. If I ever do sell the story, you’ve got a bottle of whisky coming.”

  Weaver drove home quickly and put the three framed canvases in the back of the car. He remembered having seen the sign of El Pueblito Gallery and had no trouble finding it. He went in.

  There was no mistaking Ellsworth Grant, from Callahan’s description of him. He weighed at least three hundred pounds. Only his eyes were small; they gleamed at Weaver through thick lenses. “May I help you, sir?"

  Weaver introduced himself. He said, “Mr. Grant, I’ve got three canvases in the back of my car. I’d like to have you look at them and tell me if you know who painted them. I'm not trying to sell them. May I bring them in?”

  "No need; I’ll walk out to the car with you.”

  When Weaver lifted the door of the luggage compartment, Ellsworth Grant looked a moment at the top picture on the pile, then lifted it and studied the second one.

  "The third is like them? By the same man?"

  Weaver nodded.

  "Then these two are enough; I can tell you who did them. The man who committed the murder out past Seco some years ago. Let’s see—Nelson, his name was, Charles Nelson. In fact, I saw these same pictures out at his place. They weren't framed then.”

  "You were out there?" Weaver was surprised. He’d been told consistently until now that Nelson had never had a guest at his place before Jenny, and, after the murder, the sheriff.

  "Yes, a few days after he came here. He brought in several pictures—not including these—and wanted to exhibit here and I— Let's go back in the gallery. No use standing out here to talk.”

  Weaver followed him back into the gallery. Grant waved Weaver to a chair and then sat down himself with a sigh of relief.