Stalking Horse (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  “Yes,” she replied slowly. “And that was true today, too. He said things like, ‘You’ve had it good all your life, but I’ve had it bad,’ as if something I’d done, personally, had deprived him of things that were rightfully his.”

  “When you had dinner this afternoon with your family, did you tell your father about the phone call you received?”

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t have the chance. Actually, it was a very short dinner. Or at least the private part was very short. The French ambassador was in town with Senator Farber and a few others. They wanted to have their pictures taken with my father. So they were invited in for coffee, along with the photographers and a pool reporter. But, anyhow, I wouldn’t have talked to Dad about the call. I’d been warned by Jack Ferguson. And when I saw my father, how sick he looked, I wouldn’t’ve mentioned it to him even if Jack hadn’t cautioned me.”

  “You didn’t know, then, that your father had a scare last night.”

  “A scare? What kind of a scare?”

  “Tharp put a note under his pillow. Or, rather, he had a chambermaid do it.”

  She was staring at me hard, straight in the eye. Then, speaking slowly and hesitantly, as if she dreaded the answer, she said, “Is that his name? Tharp?”

  “Yes. Frederick Tharp.”

  “Then you—you know him.” There was a note of accusation in her voice. If we knew him, she was thinking, we could have arrested him before he’d gotten to her.

  “We’ve been looking for him all day,” I said. “Ever since last night, when your father gave us his name, we’ve been looking for him.”

  “When my father—” Her eyes widened. “My father knows him? He knows him?”

  Holding her eye, I slowly, solemnly nodded. “That’s right, Mrs. Robinson. Last night was the first time your father knew about the threats. When he found the note under his pillow, he demanded the whole story. As soon as he heard it, he sent for me. In private, he gave me Tharp’s name. He didn’t tell me how he’d gotten the name, and I didn’t ask. But there was no doubt he knew Frederick Tharp was the letter-writer. As soon as he saw the initial ‘F’ for a signature, he knew.”

  “Why didn’t you ask him how he knew—make him tell you?” But, even as she said it, she shook her head. Perhaps she was visualizing the scene, with me trying to browbeat her father.

  “I’ll try to talk to him again,” I said. “I’ve got to find out how he knew. You can help me. If he knows what happened here, he’ll cooperate. He’ll have to.”

  She smiled bitterly. “It might surprise you to hear this, Lieutenant, but sometimes I have trouble getting through to my father. I have to go through channels like everyone else. Especially now that he’s so sick.”

  “Yes,” I answered, “that does surprise me.” Without saying it, I tried to leave the impression that I didn’t quite believe her. She didn’t seem to notice the implication. Instead, she said, “God, it’s all so—so grotesque. All his life my father has been at the center of power. He’s used other people—manipulated them, bullied them, moved them like chessmen. And then he has a heart attack. One minute, he’s the most important man in America. And the next minute, he’s helpless. Powerless. And all because a single muscle quits working.”

  “Is he really that powerless, do you think?”

  “You saw him. He’s like a—a marionette. Jack Ferguson and Katherine Bayliss pull the strings, and he responds.”

  “You don’t much like either of them, I gather.”

  “No,” she answered slowly, reflectively. “No, I guess I don’t, really.”

  “What about Lloyd Eason? Do you like him?”

  She nodded. “Lloyd’s like a member of the family. He used to play with me when I was a child—push me on the swings and throw a ball for me.”

  I thought about what she said. “I can’t visualize him playing ball. He seems—” I hesitated. “He seems like an ominous man.”

  She shrugged. “You see him differently than I do. I can see why. Lloyd’s—” She frowned. “He’s a mystery, in a way. Nobody really knows what he’s thinking. I guess, when I was a child, he was like a—a big, wonderful dog who protected me. I just took him for granted, as you take your parents for granted.”

  I hesitated, then said, “Mrs. Robinson, I’d like to see your mother. Can you arrange it?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “As a matter of fact, I was just thinking that she might know something that could help you. After all, she wasn’t always—” She winced, but went on: “She wasn’t always an alcoholic. But you’ll have to see her in the morning. Ten o’clock, say. That’s her best time.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  As I said it, she moved forward in her chair, unmistakably inviting me to leave. In response, I got to my feet.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Also rising, facing me, she said, “Thank you. I feel better.” But as she said it, I saw her shudder.

  “If I can help you,” I said, “Let me know. There’ll be guards posted, of course. Around the clock.”

  “That’s fine. But I can’t stay here. I’m going home. I’m going to go home and take a long, hot bath.” As I listened to her, I realized that, ironically, in her distress she still thought of her parents’ house as her real home. “When I get out of the bath, I’m going to tell the maid to burn my clothes. Then I’m going to get new clothes from my bureau at home—clothes that I probably haven’t worn since college. And then I’ll probably get drunk. Mother and I, we’ll probably both get drunk tonight.”

  Seventeen

  AFTER I LEFT SUSAN, I went to a phone booth and dialed Jack Ferguson’s number, asking to be put through to Donald Ryan and explaining that Ryan had asked me to contact him personally and privately. Irritably, Ferguson replied that it was impossible. Mr. Ryan had had a “setback,” and his doctors weren’t allowing anyone to see him or talk to him. I tried Katherine Bayliss and got the same response. But she promised to tell the senator that I’d called as soon as she thought it was wise. Frustrated, I hung up the phone and decided to go home for Sunday night dinner with Ann. The hell with them all.

  At ten o’clock the next morning, a stunningly beautiful woman with a melodic Scandinavian accent met me at the door of the Ryan mansion and escorted me to a second-floor sitting room where I was to meet Mrs. Ryan. I sat in a small armchair and looked around the room with its chintz-covered furniture, its glass-topped tables and its single floor-to-ceiling casement window that offered a view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The Ryan mansion occupied half a block of prime Pacific Heights real estate. Situated on the crest of the ridge that ran from Russian Hill to Presidio Heights, the mansion commanded a view from every room. Even the servants’ quarters, over the huge garage, would have rooms with views.

  I’d come to the mansion directly from home, so that I’d had time to linger over the newspaper and a second cup of coffee. On summer vacation, both Billy and Dan had slept in, so Ann had made scrambled eggs and bacon, and we’d eaten breakfast in a companionable Monday morning silence, passing parts of the paper back and forth across the breakfast table. Yesterday evening and again this morning both of us had avoided taking up the conversation we’d begun in bed on Saturday night when Katherine Bayliss had called. Yet I knew that Ann had been thinking about what we’d said—and hadn’t said. For us, the time for decision was coming closer. Because if I moved out, back to my own apartment, we would lose something that we might never—

  The door was opening. As I rose hastily to my feet, I realized that I couldn’t remember ever having seen a picture of Belle Ryan. To me, she was as anonymous as her husband was familiar.

  She was tall and expensively groomed, with the lacquered, frosted, shaped and painted look of the Elizabeth Arden women. Plainly, she was her daughter’s mother, with the same boldly sculpted features, the same rangy, stylish body, the same high-fashion swing of hips and shoulders.

  But as she came closer I saw the unmistakable damage that time and alcohol had done
: the puffiness of the face, the thickening of the body, the uncertain movements and the uneasy eyes, avoiding mine as she gestured me to my chair. She was wearing a floor-length hostess gown of gleaming, rustling white silk with glittering gold trim, Grecian style. Her hair was carefully coiffed, softly shaped in a tinted golden halo. A thick chain around her neck complemented the Grecian motif. Her slippers, too, were gold.

  She sat opposite me, across a small cocktail table. Immediately, she opened a crystal cigarette box and used a matching lighter to light a long, gold-tipped cigarette. She inhaled ravenously, as if the smoke were nourishment and she were famished. Her long, impeccably manicured fingers were shaking slightly.

  Her voice was husky as she asked, “Are you with the FBI or the Secret Service?” She didn’t look at me as she spoke.

  “Neither, Mrs. Ryan. I’m with the San Francisco police. We’re cooperating with the FBI.” As I said it, I suddenly realized that I had no idea how much Belle Ryan knew about the threats to her husband. Until now, this moment, I’d assumed that she knew everything. But it was just an assumption, nothing more.

  “I suppose,” I said, “that Susan talked to you about what happened to her yesterday evening after she left here.”

  She nodded, drew more smoke deep into her lungs and said, “She told me this morning. She stayed here last night, you know.” She spoke indistinctly, with a querulous note in her low voice. Her eyes were darting uncertainly around the room, unable to meet mine. Listening to her speak, watching her fugitive eyes, seeing her suck at her gold-tipped cigarette, I wondered whether Donald Ryan had assigned someone to dress and groom his wife and monitor her movements. It seemed possible, in fact probable. As an American institution, he couldn’t leave anything as important as his wife’s appearance to chance.

  “Yes,” I answered, “she told me that she was coming to stay with you.” I hesitated, then decided to say, “I imagine that you’re very glad to have her here.”

  “We saw Susan at Christmas time,” she answered. “We’re always in San Francisco, you know, for Christmas.”

  “Yes. I—I’ve read about your being here.”

  She nodded, but didn’t reply. After one final lungful of smoke, she leaned forward and carefully ground out the gold-tipped cigarette in the crystal ashtray. Now she drew a deep breath and pushed herself back in her chair, crossing her long legs and gripping the arms of the chair with each hand. She was bracing herself for my questions. Momentarily, she looked at me directly. Deep in her eyes, I thought I could see a small flicker of fear.

  Or was it something else: some small, mute plea for help, or understanding, or compassion? Could she be a prisoner, an unwilling captive, held helpless within herself?

  “Susan is terribly upset,” she said. “Terribly upset.” But she spoke without inflection, without apparent emotion.

  Was she drunk? From what her daughter had said, I’d assumed that she didn’t begin her daily drinking until noon. Yet tension could have caused her to change the routine. As I sat watching her, I was remembering the years I’d spent fighting the urge to drink—and losing. After a knee injury had ended my bobtailed football career with the Detroit Lions, and my high-styled wife had announced that she’d seen her lawyer, and my father-in-law had fired me from my make-work PR job, and my children’s smiles had gone blank, I’d started drinking. Even after I’d crept back to San Francisco and retreated into the security of civil service, my last-ditch stand, I’d still continued to drink, waging a losing battle every night, locked inside a lonely apartment. For me, the moment of truth had come when my partner and I had disarmed a teenage robber. Without thinking, I’d put the suspect’s gun on a window ledge. He’d picked up the gun and shot my partner in the stomach. That night, privately, my commanding officer had come to my apartment. He hadn’t even bothered to close the door. He’d simply said that I could either continue as a cop, or continue drinking. But I couldn’t do both. Then he’d turned and left the apartment, still without closing the door.

  “Is Susan here now?” I asked, trying to start a normal-sounding conversation that might jar her out of her strange, empty-eyed lethargy.

  “Yes,” she answered, “she is. She’s still asleep.”

  “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  “Yes. I do, too.”

  I breathed deeply, sat forward in my chair and spoke in a firmer, more official voice. “Mrs. Ryan, I’ve come to ask you some very important questions. Now, I’m sure Susan told you that your husband’s life has been threatened, and that the same man who’s been writing the threatening letters, Frederick Tharp, is also responsible for the attack on your daughter yesterday.”

  I paused, searching her face for a reaction. Except for a small, fretful frown that briefly disturbed the silken sheen of her expensive makeup, I saw nothing. She sat as before: motionless, posed drawing-room-perfect in her chair, staring fixedly at some faraway point beyond me. Frustrated, I drew another deep breath.

  “When your husband finally learned about the letters, Saturday night,” I said, “he gave me Frederick Tharp’s name. I didn’t press him, didn’t insist that he tell me the connection between himself and Frederick Tharp. After all, he’s a sick man. And, besides, all we had were vague threats, plus an effort to extort money from your husband. It wasn’t trivial, but it wasn’t especially serious, as these things go. Or, at least, it wasn’t serious enough to warrant disturbing your husband unduly.

  “But that all changed yesterday when Tharp broke into your daughter’s home and threatened her with a gun, and attacked her. For that, if nothing else, we want Tharp, bad. But so far I haven’t been able to get through to your husband, to find out how he was able to identify the suspect.” Her blank face showed no reaction. Then I said quietly, “So that’s why I’m here, Mrs. Ryan. I’m here because I’ve got to find Fred Tharp. I’ve got to find him before he does anything else. Like try to kill your husband.” I let a slow, solemn beat pass before I said, “To find him, I’ve got to know more about him. And, especially, I’ve got to know what connection exists between him and your husband.” As I said it, I took Tharp’s picture from my pocket and extended it to her. Slowly, woodenly, she focused on the picture, holding it at arm’s length. She frowned, then regretfully shook her head.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know him.” But still she continued to stare at the picture.

  “He’s twenty-six years old. He was born in Santa Barbara. He lived in Los Angeles for a while. His uncle is Byron Tharp, the owner of Trader John’s. Fred Tharp has been in trouble with the law since he was a teenager. He was paroled from prison a month ago, about the time the letters began arriving. His mother is Juanita Tharp. She’s insane. Totally insane.”

  “Juanita Tharp—” She said it dreamily, still staring down at the picture. But now her eyes had lost focus, as if she was searching her memory. Had the name rung a distant bell?

  Or was she slipping off, wandering away through the dim mists of forgetfulness, thinking about the next drink?

  “Do you know her, Mrs. Ryan? Do you know Juanita Tharp?”

  “No,” she answered. “No, I didn’t know her.”

  Didn’t she’d said. Did she mean that somewhere, sometime, she’d known of Juanita Tharp?

  “You know the name,” I said. I realized that my voice was hushed, as if I were fearful of startling her out of her reverie.

  She didn’t answer. I sat silently for a moment, trying to solve the riddle of Belle Ryan’s strange, almost eerie withdrawal. How could I get through to her? If she’d been an ordinary person I could shout at her, shake her up, threaten her. But raising my voice in the Ryan mansion was unthinkable. This was a hat-in-hand investigation. I was a mere policeman, a civil servant tiptoeing my way through the corridors of power, doing my best to—

  “I used to hear about them,” she was saying. “For years, I used to hear about them. At first I never believed what I heard. Because I was beautiful, you see. And rich, too. My father was
a banker in New York. Daddy didn’t really want me to marry Donald. Daddy was very intelligent. He always said that a financier had to know about people. Daddy called people his betting chips. He bet people, he used to say, like gamblers bet chips. And he usually won, too. Or, at least, most of the time he won. He always said that he only had to win fifty-one percent of the time, all other things being equal. That was one of Daddy’s favorite expressions, ‘All other things being equal.’” She nodded over the phrase and then repeated it once more, as if the act of repeating it gave her comfort. Her eyes were still empty, staring off at something far away: at some place of distant memory happier than the present.

  “Daddy thought that Donald’s father was a greedy, dangerous man. And Daddy was right, too. He said that Patrick Ryan wanted to run the country, but that he would ruin the country, because he ruined everything he touched, including his own son. They both knew President Roosevelt, my father and Donald’s father. And I knew him, too. When I was seventeen years old, for my birthday, we went to the White House and I had tea with the President. We had our picture taken together, and the President gave me a necklace with a pendant inscribed to me. It was the best birthday of my life. I’ve never forgotten it. Daddy always used to say that the President never really liked Patrick Ryan. The President needed Patrick Ryan, Daddy said, but he never liked him.

  “But—” She moved her beautifully coiffed head in a slow, resigned arc. “But I wanted to marry Donald. He was thirty-four years old, you know, when we got married. He was thirty-four, and he was already famous. He could’ve had any woman he wanted. He knew movie actresses, and English women with titles, and they all wanted him. I was only twenty-five, and I was still a virgin. But I got him.” She paused, then said, “That was the trouble, I’ve often thought—that I was a virgin. Because I realized right from the start that I didn’t excite him. I could tell. That first night, my wedding night, I knew that Daddy had been right. I’d made a mistake. But, of course, it was too late by then.” She sighed, once more shaking her head. “It’s so sad,” she said, “how people change. When I was a little girl, I was always happy. And when I was planning my wedding, I was happy. President Truman called me the day before the wedding. Daddy was in his cabinet, you know. We talked for almost an hour, the President and I. But—” She sighed. “But that was the last time that I can remember being really happy.” She paused again, as if she’d forgotten the thread of her story. I waited, hopeful that she’d continue. When she didn’t, I decided to risk prodding her: