“I have,” the sheriff insisted in a tone of complaint. “Listen, Guild, you haven’t got any right to hide any of his business from me. He’s a murderer and I’m responsible for law and order in this county.”
Guild pursed his lips. “Who’d he kill?”
“This here Columbia Forrest,” Petersen said, jerking a thumb at the house, “shot her stone dead and lit out for God only knows where.”
“Didn’t kill anybody else?”
“My God,” the sheriff asked peevishly, “ain’t that enough?”
“Enough for me, but down in the village they’ve got it all very plural.” Guild stared thoughtfully at the sheriff. “Got away clean?”
“So far,” Petersen grumbled, “but we’re phoning descriptions of him and his car around.” He sighed, moved his big shoulders uncomfortably. “Well, come on now, let’s have it. What’s your business with him?” But when Guild would have replied the giant said: “Wait a minute. We might as well go in and get hold of Boyer and Ray and get it over with at one crack.”
Leaving the fat man, Guild and the sheriff went indoors, into a pleasantly furnished tan room in the front of the house, where they were soon joined by two more men. One of these was nearly as tall as the sheriff, a raw-boned blond man in his early thirties, hard of jaw and mouth, somber of eye. One was younger, shorter, with boyishly rosy cheeks, quick dark eyes, and smoothed dark hair. When the sheriff introduced them to Guild he said the taller one was Ray Callaghan, a deputy sheriff, the other District Attorney Bruce Boyer. He told them John Guild was a fellow who wanted to see Wynant.
The youthful district attorney, standing close to Guild, smiled ingratiatingly and asked: “What business are you in, Mr. Guild?”
“I came up to see Wynant about his bank account,” the dark man replied slowly.
“What bank?”
“Seaman’s National of San Francisco.”
“I see. Now what did you want to see him about? I mean, what was there about his account that you had to come up here to see him about?”
“Call it an overdraft,” Guild said with deliberate evasiveness.
The district attorney’s eyes became anxious.
Guild made a small gesture with the brown hand holding his cigarette. “Look here, Boyer,” he said, “if you want me to go all the way with you you ought to go all the way with me.”
Boyer looked at Petersen. The sheriff met his gaze with noncommittal eyes. Boyer turned back to Guild. “We’re not hiding anything from you,” he said earnestly. “We’ve nothing to hide.”
Guild nodded. “Swell. What happened here?”
“Wynant caught the Forrest girl getting ready to leave him and he shot her and jumped in his car and drove away,” he said quickly. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Who’s the Forrest girl?”
“His secretary.”
Guild pursed his lips, asked: “Only that?”
The raw-boned deputy sheriff said, “None of that, now!” in a strained croaking voice. His pale eyes were bloodshot and glaring.
The sheriff growled, “Take it easy there, Ray,” avoiding his deputy’s eyes.
The district attorney glanced impatiently at the deputy sheriff. Guild stared gravely, attentively at him.
The deputy sheriffs face flushed a little and he shifted his feet. He spoke to the dark man again, in the same croaking voice: “She’s dead and you might just as well talk decently about her.”
Guild moved his shoulders a little. “I didn’t know her,” he said coldly. “I’m trying to find out what happened.” He stared for a moment longer at the raw-boned man and then shifted his gaze to Boyer. “What was she leaving him for?”
“To get married. She told him when he caught her packing after she came back from town and—and they had a fight and when she wouldn’t change her mind he shot her.”
Guild’s blue eyes moved sidewise to focus on the raw-boned deputy sheriff’s face. “She was living with Wynant, wasn’t she?” he asked bluntly.
“You son of a bitch!” the deputy sheriff cried hoarsely and struck with his right fist at Guild’s face.
Guild avoided the fist by stepping back with no appearance of haste. He had begun to step back before the fist started toward his face. His eyes gravely watched the fist go past his face.
Big Petersen lurched against his deputy, wrapping his arms around him. “Cut it out, Ray,” he grumbled. “Why don’t you behave yourself? This is no time to be losing your head.”
The deputy sheriff did not struggle against him.
“What’s the matter with him?” Guild asked the district attorney. There was no resentment in his manner. “In love with her or something?”
Boyer nodded furtively, then frowned and shook his head in a warning gesture.
That’s all right,” Guild said. “Where’d you get your information about what happened?”
“From the Hopkinses. They look after the place for Wynant. They were in the kitchen and heard the whole fight. They ran upstairs when they heard the shots and he stood them off with the gun and told them he’d come back and kill them if they told anybody before he’d an hour’s start, but they phoned Ray as soon as he’d gone.”
Guild tossed the stub of his cigarette into the fireplace and lit a fresh one.
JOHN GUILD
ASSOCIATED DETECTIVE BUREAUS, INC.
FROST BUILDING, SAN FRANCISCO
Then he took a card from a brown case brought from an inner pocket and gave the card to Boyer.
“Last week Wynant deposited a ten-thousand-dollar New York check in his account at the Seaman’s National Bank,” Guild said. “Yesterday the bank learned the check had been raised from one thousand to ten. The bank’s nicked for six thousand on the deal.”
“But in the case of an altered check,” Boyer said, “I understand—”
“I know,” Guild agreed, “the bank’s not responsible—theoretically—but there are usually loopholes and it’s—Well, we’re working for the insurance company that covers the Seaman’s and it’s good business to go after him and recover as much as we can.”
“I’m glad that’s the way you feel about it,” the district attorney said with enthusiasm. “I’m mighty glad you’re going to work with us.” He held out his hand.
“Thanks,” Guild said as he took the hand. “Let’s look at the Hopkinses and the body.”
II
Columbia Forrest had been a long-limbed, smoothly slender young woman. Her body, even as it lay dead in a blue sport suit, seemed supple. Her short hair was a faintly reddish brown. Her features were small and regular, appealing in their lack of strength. There were three bullet-holes in her left temple. Two of them touched. The third was down beside the eye.
Guild put the tip of his dark forefinger lightly on the edge of the lower hole. “A thirty-two,” he said. “He made sure: any of the three would have done it.” He turned his back on the corpse. “Let’s see the Hopkinses.”
“They’re in the dining-room, I think,” the district attorney said. He hesitated, cleared his throat. His young face was worried. He touched Guild’s elbow with the back of one hand and said: “Go easy with Ray, will you? He was a little bit—or a lot, I guess—in love with her and it’s tough on him.”
“The deputy?”
“Yes, Ray Callaghan.”
“That’s all right if he doesn’t get in the way,” Guild said carelessly. “What sort of person is this sheriff?”
“Oh, Petersen’s all right.”
Guild seemed to consider this statement critically. Then he said: “But he’s not what you’d call a feverish manhunter?”
“Well, no, that’s not—you know—a sheriff has other things to do most of the time, but even if he’d just as lief have somebody else do the work he won’t interfere.” Boyer moistened his lips and leaned close to the dark man. His face was boyishly alight. “I wish you’d—I’m glad you’re going to work with me on this, Guild,” he said in a low, earnest voice. “
I—this is my first murder and I’d like to—well—show them”—he blushed—“that I’m not as young as some of them said.”
“Fair enough. Let’s see the Hopkinses—in here.”
The district attorney studied Guild’s dark face uneasily for a moment, started to say something, changed his mind, and left the room.
A man and a woman came with him when he returned. The man was probably fifty years old, of medium stature, with thin, graying hair above a round, phlegmatic face. He wore tan trousers held up by new blue suspenders and a faded blue shirt open at the neck. The woman was of about the same age, rather short, plump, and dressed neatly in gray. She wore gold-rimmed spectacles. Her eyes were round and pale and bright.
The district attorney shut the door and said: “This is Mr. and Mrs. Hopkins, Mr. Guild.” He addressed them: “Mr. Guild is working with me. Please give him all the assistance you can.”
The Hopkinses nodded in unison.
Guild asked: “How’d this happen?” He indicated with a small backward jerk of his head the dead young woman.
Hopkins said, “I always knew he’d do something like that some time,” while his wife was saying: “It was right in this room and they were talking so loud you could hear it all over the place.”
Guild shook his cigarette at them. “One at a time.” He spoke to the man: “How’d you know he was going to do it?”
The woman replied quickly: “Oh, he was crazy-jealous of her all the time—if she got out of his sight for a minute—and when she came back from the city and told him she was going to leave to get married he—” Again Guild used his cigarette to interrupt her. “What do you think? Is he really crazy?”
“He was then, sir,” she said. “Why, when we ran in here when we heard the shooting and he told us to keep our mouths shut he was—his eyes—you never saw anything like them in your life—nor his voice either and he was shaking and jerking like he was going to fall apart.”
“I don’t mean that,” Guild explained. “I mean, is he crazy?” Before the woman could reply he put another question to her. “How long have you been with him?”
“Going on about ten months, ain’t it, Willie?” she asked her husband. “Yes,” he agreed, “since last fall.”
“That’s right,” she told Guild. “It was last November.”
“Then you ought to know whether he’s crazy. Is he?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” she said slowly, wrinkling her forehead. “He was certainly the most peculiar person you ever heard tell of, but I guess geniuses are like that and I wouldn’t want to say he was out and out crazy except about her.” She looked at her husband.
He said tolerantly: “Sure, all geniuses are like that. It’s—it’s eccentric.”
“So you think he was a genius,” Guild said. “Did you read the things he wrote?”
“No, sir,” Mrs. Hopkins said, squirming, “though I did try sometimes, but it was too—I couldn’t make heads or tails of it—much—but I ain’t an educated woman and—”
“Who was she going to marry?” Guild asked.
Mrs. Hopkins shook her head vigorously. “I don’t know. I didn’t catch the name if she said it. It was him that was talking so loud.”
“What’d she go to town for?”
Mrs. Hopkins shook her head again. “I don’t know that either. She used to go in every couple of weeks and he always got mad about it.”
“She drive in?”
“Mostly she did, but she didn’t yesterday, but she drove out in that new blue car out there.”
Guild looked questioningly at the district attorney, who said: “We’re trying to trace it now. It’s apparently a new one, but we ought to know whose it is soon.”
Guild nodded and returned his attention to the Hopkinses. “She went to
San Francisco by train yesterday and came back in this new car at what time to-day?”
“Yes, sir. At about three o’clock, I guess it was, and she started packing.” She pointed at the traveling bags and clothing scattered around the room. “And he came in and the fuss started. I could hear them downstairs and I went to the window and beckoned at Willie—Mr. Hopkins, that is—and we stood at the foot of the stairs, there by the dining-room door and listened to them.”
Guild turned aside to mash his cigarette in a bronze tray on a table. “She usually stay overnight when she went to the city?”
“Mostly always.”
“You must have some idea of what she went to the city for,” Guild insisted.
“No, I haven’t,” the woman said earnestly. “We never did know, did we, Willie? Jealous like he was, I guess if she was going in to see some fellow she wouldn’t be likely to tell anybody that might tell him, though the Lord knows I can keep my mouth shut as tight as anybody. I’ve seen the—” Guild stopped lighting a fresh cigarette to ask: “How about her mail? You must’ve seen that sometimes.”
“No, Mr. Gould, we never did, and that’s a funny thing, because all the time we’ve been here I never saw any mail for her except magazines and never knew her to write any.”
Guild frowned. “How long had she been here?”
“She was here when we came. I don’t know how long she’d been here, but it must’ve been a long time.”
Boyer said: “Three years. She came here in March three years ago.”
“How about her relatives, friends?”
The Hopkinses shook their heads. Boyer shook his head.
“His?”
Mrs. Hopkins shook her head again. “He didn’t have any. That’s what he would always say, that he didn’t have a relative or a friend in the world.”
“Who’s his lawyer?”
Mrs. Hopkins looked blank. “If he’s got one I don’t know it, Mr. Gould. Maybe you could find something like that in his letters and things.”
“That’ll do,” Guild said abruptly around the cigarette in his mouth, and opened the door for the Hopkinses. They left the room.
He shut the door behind them and with his back against it looked around the room, at the blanketed dead figure on the bed, at the clothing scattered here and there, at the three traveling bags, and finally at the bloodstained center of the light blue rug.
Boyer watched him expectantly.
Staring at the bloodstain, Guild asked: “You’ve notified the police in San Francisco?”
“Oh, yes, we’ve sent his description and the description and license number of his car all over—from Los Angeles to Seattle and as far east as Salt Lake.”
“What is the number?” Guild took a pencil and an envelope from his pockets.
Boyer told him, adding: “It’s a Buick coupe, last year’s.”
“What does he look like?”
“I’ve never seen him, but he’s very tall—well over six feet—and thin. Won’t weigh more than a hundred and thirty, they say. You know, he’s tubercular: that’s how he happened to come up here. He’s about forty-five years old, sunburned, but sallow, with brown eyes and very dark brown hair and whiskers. He’s got whiskers—maybe five or six inches long—thick and shaggy, and his eyebrows are thick and shaggy. There’s a lot of pictures of him in his room. You can help yourself to them. He had on a baggy gray tweed suit and a soft gray hat and heavy brown shoes. His shoulders are high and straight and he walks on the balls of his feet with long steps. He doesn’t smoke or drink and he has a habit of talking to himself.”
Guild put away his pencil and envelope. “Had your fingerprint people go over the place yet?”
“No, I—”
“It might help in case he’s picked up somewhere and we’re doubtful. I suppose we can get specimens of his handwriting. Anyway we’ll be able to get them from the bank. We’ll try to—”
Someone knocked on the door.
“Come in,” Boyer called.
The door opened to admit a man’s head. He said: “They want you on the phone.”
The district attorney followed the man downstairs. During his absence Guild smoked and
looked somberly around the room.
The district attorney came back saying: “The car belongs to a Charles Fremont, on Guerrero Street, in San Francisco.”
“What number?” Guild brought out his pencil and envelope again. Boyer told him the number and he wrote it down. “I think I’ll trot back right now and see him.”
The district attorney looked at his watch. “I wonder if I couldn’t manage to get away to go with you,” he said.
Guild pursed his lips. “I don’t think you ought to. One of us ought to be here looking through his stuff, gathering up the loose ends. I haven’t seen anybody else we ought to trust with it.”
Though Boyer seemed disappointed he said, “Righto,” readily enough “You’ll keep in touch with me?”
“Sure. Let me have that card I gave you and I’ll put my home address and phone number on it.” Guild’s eyes became drowsy. “What do you say I drive Fremont’s car in?”
The district attorney wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “It might—Oh, sure, if you want. You’ll phone me as soon as you’ve seen him—let me know what’s what?”
“Um-hmm.”
III
A red-haired girl in white opened the door.
Guild said: “I want to see Mr. Charles Fremont.”
“Yes, sir,” the girl said amiably in a resonant throaty voice. “Come in.”
She took him into a comfortably furnished living-room to the right of the entrance. “Sit down. I’ll call my brother.” She went through another doorway and her voice could be heard singing: “Charley, a gentleman to see you.”
Upstairs a hard, masculine voice replied: “Be right down.”
The red-haired girl came back to the room where Guild was. “He’ll be down in a minute,” she said.
Guild thanked her.
“Do sit down,” she said, sitting on an end of the sofa. Her legs were remarkably beautiful.
He sat in a large chair facing her across the room, but got up again immediately to offer her a cigarette and to hold his lighter to hers. “What I wanted to see your brother about,” he said as he sat down again, “was to ask if he knows a Miss Columbia Forrest.”
Crime Stories Page 94