Or could the sheriff possibly have been as stupid about Jenny’s suitcases as he’d been about Nelson’s pictures? Could he have found them, looked through them casually and, if he didn’t find any names and addresses, fail to tell anyone that he'd found them?
Or had Nelson taken them away, in a car that was already overcrowded with his own possessions—?
“George, lunch's ready.”
He sat at the table across from Vi and ate quickly, not even tasting what he ate. He wanted to get eating over with as fast as he could so he could go to Callahan's, ask Callahan—
“George, you’re acting funny. Like you’re all excited about something.”
He managed to slow down a bit. "Guess I was pretty hungry all of a sudden, that's all. This is good—uh—ham, Vi.” He'd had to sneak a quick look at his plate to see what he'd been eating.
"Glad you like it, George. You don’t often say nice things about what I cook.”
“Or bad things either.”
"George, I was thinking. Isn’t there any place in Taos where we could get something to drink on Sunday? And if there isn’t, we’re not too awfully far from the Colorado border, are we? Is everything closed in Colorado on Sundays, too?”
"I don't know about Colorado. But it’s not too near; couple of hours drive, I think. And my guess is I couldn't buy anything there either. Sorry. I could use a drink myself by now.”
Vi looked down at her plate. “You know, George, I'd kind of like us to—to drink together, to get a little tight tonight, like we used to once in a while. You know."
He knew. It had been a long time since they’d had even that. At least six or seven months, before his breakdown. For the several years before that the only times they'd been able to want one another—at least at the same time—had been rare occasions when they'd been drinking together at home and each of them had got a little drunk, not too much, just enough. It hadn't happened often, and when it had happened it had been a purely physical thing but perhaps better than complete continence.
Maybe, Weaver thought, it would be a good thing to let happen tonight. There is such a thing as physical need, physical pressure. It wasn’t anything mental; he didn’t want Vi now, or any woman, at this moment; he hadn't felt any need since leaving the san, but perhaps the need was there just the same. Perhaps it was at least part of his present trouble, part of the reason why he hadn’t been able to concentrate on reading or painting, why his mind insisted on dwelling on morbid things instead of normal ones.
He felt a sudden tenderness for wasn’t her fault that she was what she was and that he couldn’t love her; and her problems were probably as great to her as his own were to him. The fact that circumstances and children tied them together despite their incompatibility was no more her fault than his own. Less her fault, really; as the more intelligent of the two of them he should have thought to avoid that entanglement.
He said quietly, "I'll try to think of some way to get some liquor, Vi. I'll take a run in to Taos; maybe I'll find someone who can tell me where to buy a bottle.”
He drank his coffee slowly, thinking. Yes, Nelson must have hidden the suitcases, or at least their contents. Was there any chance at all that he would have hidden them indoors? Hardly, but—the outdoors was so big.
He got up and wandered around, looking. He had his story ready for her question.
“What are you doing, George?”
"Thought I might find some liquor here, Vi. Got a vague recollection of having hidden a bottle from myself one night when I was here before you came. Maybe I’m wrong, but it doesn’t hurt to look.”
That made enough sense to let him do all the looking he wanted.
For what? Signs of floorboards having been taken up and replaced—after eight years? That was silly, and besides if there were any loose floorboards Ellis DeLong’s men would have fixed them while they were working on the place. And anyway, why would Nelson have taken up boards to bury something indoors when there was practically an infinity of space outside?
He went outdoors.
The shed? Again, why would Nelson have taken up floorboards and nailed them down again? He stood looking around him.
He told himself, “All right, let’s pretend you're a murderer; you’ve just killed a girl; you buried her where you killed her, a quarter-mile back that way. You come back here and you’re tired, dead tired, from the long run and from digging and pushing back dirt. And you haven’t got too much stamina to begin with because you’ve got tuberculosis. You’re worn out. But you see her suitcases—or, if they're still in the back of your car, you remember them. And just in case there should be any investigation—though you don’t see why there should be, unless that woman, damn her, whom Jenny talked to on the bus should start asking questions—well, anyway you’d better get rid of them. You couldn't explain having two suitcases full of a woman's clothes and possessions. You’d better bury them like you buried the girl. But where?”
He looked around him. Sandy soil and chamiso. Distant clumps of cottonwood, but so very distant. So far to carry two suitcases when you're worn out already.
Where, then? Weaver closed his eyes and thought. It would have been night. And Nelson would need a light to dig a hole—or at least it would be easier if he could use a light. But the light shouldn’t be visible from the road—and how about that little hillock a hundred yards to the east? To go behind it would take him far enough from the house and it was the nearest place that would be completely hidden from the road. Besides, it was a spot on the way to nowhere; nobody would be likely to walk there and notice that a hole had been dug and filled in. It was much nearer than the cottonwood where he'd buried Jenny, and just as safe.
The sky was grayer now and the shadows were getting long with the approach of evening, but there was still enough light for him to look there now, at least a quick look that could be supplemented by a more thorough search tomorrow. He walked around behind the hillock.
He was still in sight of the house, even though he was out of sight of the road. Vi might wonder what he was doing there—but no, he couldn’t see her at any of the windows. She’d probably gone back to her chair and wouldn't notice.
A depression, that was what he was looking for. A little bigger than a suitcase, maybe three by four feet, a shallow depression. It would have been leveled off at first, maybe even a slight mound like a fresh grave, but it would have sunk in when the suitcases had collapsed later.
A small, slightly sunken area—
He picked a bigger than average clump of chamiso to use as a center and started walking in a slow spiral about it. He passed it once before he noticed it on the next round. He stood studying shallow area of depression about the right size. Oval-shaped, not rectangular as he’d thought of it—but it would have weathered to ovalness, of course. And just about the right size—
Suddenly he was on his knees in the sand, trying to dig with his fingers. But the soil, sandy though the surface was, was hard packed and he stopped quickly and stood up, looking at the house.
No, Vi still wasn’t at any of the windows and probably hadn’t noticed him as yet. But digging would require a shovel or a trowel—or at the very least, a strong knife—and he couldn't possibly do it now without Vi's noticing him eventually. It would have to be tonight, with a flashlight, after Vi was asleep.
He was trembling a little with excitement.
He walked back to the house and went in, putting his hands in his pockets so their shaking wouldn’t show. Was there, he wondered, any excuse he could use to get Vi to go into town now so he wouldn’t have to wait those long hours until night? A movie? No, not after what she'd suggested.
"George, that whisky—if you’re going to try to get some—”
Suddenly he realized how badly he himself wanted a drink. He said, “Sure, Vi. I’ll go right away. Come to think of it, I’ll try a near neighbor of ours first; I know him slightly. He just might have an extra bottle on hand, or be able to tell me where I can get o
ne .”
He went out into the gathering twilight and started the car.
Chapter Eleven
From the front, Callahan’s house looked dark, but Weaver left his car on the road and walked back toward it anyway. A collie came running at him, barking, and he stood still until he'd made friends with it by talking to it and letting it sniff his hand. No one came to investigate the barking and he was pretty sure no one was home, but he went on to the house anyway and knocked, waited a while and then knocked again. He swore to himself. Callahan had been his best bet; if he hadn’t any liquor on hand himself surely he knew the ropes well enough to know where some could be obtained.
He went back to the car and sat there thinking, trying to decide the next best bet. Sanchez might be able to get him some from whoever ran the tavern in Arroyo Seco, but because of the prejudice against Anglos in that town, he hated to ask any favors. Even if he gave Sanchez money and offered to pay double for the whisky besides— But damn it, besides Callahan, he still knew only a few people, all of them much too casually for him to seek them out on a matter like this. Although if he met one of them on the street he could ask casually. Perhaps that was his only chance, to drive to Taos and park, then wander around the plaza hoping to see someone he knew, however slightly. Or perhaps the desk clerk at the hotel where he'd stayed a few nights would advise him.
He had gone back to his car and was just starting the engine when a car came into sight around the next curve heading toward him—and it was Callahan's car. Callahan was alone in it; he waved and motioned as he turned in the drive toward his house, and Weaver walked back toward him.
"Hi," Callahan said. "Glad I didn't miss you. Just took the wife to a hen party and have to pick her up later. Come on in.”
Weaver followed Callahan into the house. He remembered the purpose for which Vi had suggested the whisky and knew he'd better have a story ready that would enable him not to ask Callahan home with him. Vi wouldn’t like that.
“Drink?” Callahan was asking him.
"Sure, thanks. In fact, that’s what I came to ask you about—whether, by any chance, you happened to have a bottle or two to spare. We’re caught short—friends of ours are going to drop in on us, driving through on their way from Kansas City, and they should get here about any minute now. I just realized it was Sunday and that I didn’t know where to get any.”
"Sure, I can spare a couple of bottles—nothing fancy, though, just drinkin' whisky. I brought back a case from Colorado a week or so ago; always bring back some when I drive up there—the state tax is enough lower to make it worth the trouble. That's a tip, in case you ever go up that way. Pick up a few cartons of cigarettes, too; you save even more on them. But you’ll have time for a drink with me here, won’t you?”
Weaver said he would. Callahan poured drinks for them from an opened bottle and got two unopened ones from a closet
They sat at the kitchen table to drink. Weaver had decided there wasn’t any real hurry now that his liquor problem had been solved, but he looked at his watch and pretended to decide that he could spare a little time but not too much of it. Callahan wouldn’t take money for the two bottles. "Don't remember offhand exactly what they cost. Replace them any time—same brand or an equivalent one; I'm not fussy."
"Okay, and thanks to hell and back. This pulls me out of a jam.” He took a drink of the whisky-and-water Callahan had mixed for him. "By the way, Callahan, how old does a girl have to be to get married in New Mexico without her parents' consent?”
“Eighteen. Why? Thinking of taking unto yourself another wife? Would your present one let you?”
"One is plenty, thanks. No, I was thinking about Jenny Ames. I've got a hunch she must have come here under a false name—that would account for nobody’s having claimed her—but if she did there must have been a reason for it. It occurred to me that she could have been running away from her parents to marry this Nelson. And she could have figured that, if she was under age, they could have had the marriage annulled if they traced her. At least that’s one reason why she might have used a false name.”
"I don’t think so. That idea was thought of at the time— by me, in fact. I asked Doc Gomez, the coroner, whether he was sure she was past eighteen. He said he'd give a hundred to one on it—that if his guess of twenty was wrong he probably erred the other way; she might have been a year or two older but not younger, certainly not two years younger.”
“That’s that, then. It seemed like a possibility."
"How’s the story coming? Actually writing on it yet?”
“Tried one version but I don’t like it. No hurry anyway; got some pictures to go with it that I haven’t even taken to the photograph shop yet. And I can’t send in the story till I take them and get them back."
He tried to look and sound casual. God, if only he didn’t have to wait so many hours before he could get Jenny’s suitcases! But there were those hours to be faced in any case, whether he spent them all with Vi or a few more minutes with Callahan. So why was he so fidgety about sitting here?
Callahan was saying, “Better not sit on the story too long, though. You may find our sheriff—the present one—breathing down your neck.”
“Why? Where does he come in? You didn’t tell him about those pictures of Nelson's, did you?"
"Nope, promised you I wouldn’t, didn’t I? But you forgot to swear Ellie Grant to secrecy when you showed them to him. Ellie tells everybody everything—maybe I should have thought to warn you about that, but I didn't. Anyway, he told Tom—that’s the present sheriff, Tom Grayson—about the pictures and Tom likes your idea of trying to locate Nelson through them. He likes it so well he's tempted to beat you to the punch and circularize likely areas with reproductions of those pictures and a description of Nelson. Be quite a feather in his cap if he caught Nelson, after his predecessor had missed the boat. But luckily for you he came around to talk to me after Ellie had spilled the beans to him, and I talked him out of going ahead on his own—right away, anyway—at a slight price.”
Weaver frowned.
Callahan waved a hand. “Oh, I don’t mean money. I just mean you're to give him a build-up in your story—as being currently interested in the case whether publication of the pictures in a magazine brings results or not. Give him as much build-up and credit as you reasonably can. That way, win or lose, he'll get publicity on the deal. That magazine should sell like hot cakes in Taos, because of the local story in it. I've been meaning to look you up to tell you to talk to Tom before you sent in the story.”
"I’ll do that," Weaver said. “And thanks for stalling him off from trying anything on his own. Although, unless I gave him the pictures or photographs of them, I don’t see how he could.”
"You'd give him the pictures all right. He could get a writ to take them away from you as evidence in a murder case. Old as it is, that case is still open, don’t forget. Well, he won’t get a writ as long as you play ball with him."
“I will. I’ll look him up and talk to him before I do the story.”
“Have another drink?”
"Better not. Our company might show up any minute and my wife will be getting worried if I’m not back. Thanks for everything—for the liquor and for holding off the sheriff. What'd you say his name is?”
"Grayson. Tom Grayson. Nice guy, but he’s got a temper—and a rough tongue if you get his temper going."
“I'll try not to. So long
Weaver took the two bottles out to his car and turned it around toward home. It was fully dark by then, almost eight o’clock. He drove back slowly, not so much because the road was narrow and winding as because—the more he thought of it, the less of a hurry he was in to get home. But maybe he could get Vi drunk quickly if he kept giving her drinks, and at a certain stage of drinking she always got sleepy. But he’d have to watch his own drinking, pretend to drink more than he really did, so he’d be sober enough to do his digging after Vi was safely asleep.
He went into the house whis
tling, holding up the bottles.
“Better start catching up, Vi," he said. "I had to have a few drinks with a guy before I could talk him out of these, so I’m well ahead of you. Shall I make you a husky one?"
He did, and a weaker one for himself. And another and another. After a while he forget to keep his own drinks weaker than hers, but that didn't matter; he could drink much more than she could and the difference in their first few drinks had more than evened up for the one he'd had with Callahan, so she’d be drunk before he would.
And she was. Luckily without going into the angry tirade that drink often inspired in her. And luckily, too, forgetting her original suggestion as to why they drink. Just incoherently drunk, then suddenly and overwhelmingly sleepy, then asleep in her chair, leaning back, her mouth open.
He'd wait a few minutes until her sleep was really sound, and then get her to bed. If she slept in the chair she might awaken and miss him. Once in the bed, she was safe for the night.
He walked on tiptoe and with exaggerated caution out into the kitchen, taking the bottle with him. He was still reasonably sober and he made himself another drink. After all, what did it matter if he was just a little drunk when he did his digging? Keep him from catching cold in the cool night.
He sipped his drink and he wasn't in any hurry now, he found. Now that the way was clear it was delicious to wait, to prolong his suspense. He felt ridiculously, dizzily happy; he was sorry and glad that there was no one with whom he could conceivably share that happiness. Deliberately he prolonged his drink, taking it in small and occasional sips, standing at the window staring out into the darkness in the direction in which he would soon be walking. Not that he could see anything; the sky was still overcast and the night utterly black.
The sound of Vi’s snoring. Definitely safe now to put her to bed; she wouldn't waken no matter how clumsy he was.
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