The Man Who Cried All the Way Home

by Dolores Hitchens

  Martin gave Doris a glance full of suspicion. “You reported this burglary to the police?”

  “I suppose Sarge did.”

  “The Idylynn Police?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I use your phone for a minute?”

  “Of course.”

  Martin went to the extension phone on the wall at the end of the cabinets, dialed without having to look up the number, asked whoever answered to check on a burglary complaint filed by Sargent Chenoweth any time within the last six months. He was giving them plenty of leeway, Uncle Chuck thought; and then he decided, even before Martin finally hung up and turned, looking like a fox who’s found fresh rabbit tracks, that there had been no report.

  Martin sat down again. The room seemed very quiet. Doris shut her eyes for a few moments, as if she were exhausted, or as if she couldn’t endure looking at Martin across the table.

  “They don’t have a burglary a month up here,” Martin said as if starting a fresh conversation. “This community is out of the way, not too well filled up as yet, and you have excellent police protection. It didn’t take much time to find out that your husband never told them about the burglary—which is a puzzle, Mrs. Chenoweth.”

  “I don’t know why he didn’t tell them.” She picked and plucked at the little bowl of wild flowers and ferns in the middle of the table.

  “Did he tell you exactly what was gone from the files?”

  “No. I had noticed the tools were gone—I’d been the first to see that. And then a small radio, one we’d planned to have fixed and never got around to taking to a shop—”

  “The files,” Martin reminded sharply.

  She spread her hands on the table in front of her, bracing herself as she leaned toward Martin. Uncle Chuck felt a pang of pity for her; she was so near the end of her rope. “Mr. Martin, you can ask and ask and ask, and the answer will always be the same. Until I drop dead of tiredness it will be the same, because I don’t know. The files were a part of Sarge’s business, and he ran that business and I ran the house, I kept the home—”

  Martin’s eyes had grown hooded. “Did you know that he had another home, Mrs. Chenoweth?”

  She remained leaning on the table, not moving, obviously trying to understand what he had said, and not succeeding. Her face took on a drawn, blank expression.

  “Didn’t he spend some nights away from home every week?” Martin asked softly.

  “No. Not until last night. Never.”

  Suddenly, as if realizing that he wasn’t going to get anything more from Doris, Martin turned to look at Uncle Chuck. “Since you’re acting as Mrs. Chenoweth’s attorney, suppose you come with me, and we’ll have a look at what’s left in the garage. With Mrs. Chenoweth’s permission, of course.”

  “Of course,” Uncle Chuck agreed. He walked to Doris’s chair. “Dorrie, if you don’t lie down and rest now, I’m going to call a doctor and have him put you under sedation. Do you understand?” She just looked up dazedly, and Uncle Chuck tugged at her elbow. “Come on, Dorrie. Even the lieutenant must realize you’ve had all you can take.”

  “… another home …” she whispered.

  “I’m sorry to have had to question you like this,” Martin apologized, sounding as if he might mean it. “We don’t like to let a murder grow cold, that’s all.”

  “You figured she was ready to drop,” Uncle Chuck told him, “and you were letting go with a few last pot shots.”

  Martin flushed.

  The two men ushered Doris to her room, Martin controlling his impatience to keep step with Uncle Chuck’s slow progress and Doris’s exhaustion. Then Uncle Chuck and the lieutenant went on out to the garage. The overhead door was unlocked; Martin lifted it easily. Pete came and jumped around them.

  It was a big garage; it looked big enough for three cars. Along the left side were storage shelves, a workbench with a light over it, and fitted into the space at the left rear corner were some steel filing cabinets. They were of the same size as those in Sargent’s office, but they seemed indefinably more used, older, shabbier, as if they had been relegated to the garage when new furniture had been bought for the office.

  They were unlocked too. Martin and Uncle Chuck had no trouble opening any of the drawers.

  And every drawer was empty, cleaned out.

  Chapter 6

  “Well, do you know anything about this?” Martin said, indicating the emptied files.

  “Not a thing. I’m just sorry I didn’t have a look in here when I was first at the house this morning.”

  Martin appeared puzzled for a moment. “Oh. You’re still thinking about that prowler.”

  “Yes.”

  Martin gave him a wise stare. “I guess as a lawyer you learned all about the penalties for concealing and … uh … manufacturing evidence.”

  “I imagine my training as a lawyer equals yours as a cop,” Uncle Chuck said evenly. “You might have the edge in practical experience. But I’m an old head in a lot of ways that have nothing to do with legal definitions. Like, for instance, knowing a lie when I hear one. My niece wasn’t lying about that intruder. There was one.”

  “Could have been a curiosity seeker,” Martin decided. “Or an overeager reporter from some Los Angeles paper.”

  “Just on the chance that the intruder wasn’t either of these, how about asking the Idylynn Police to send a patrol car by every once in a while?”

  “I was going to do that anyway,” Martin said.

  “Are you going to try for fingerprints on these files?”

  “Everybody’s so smart these days,” Martin growled. “Gloves and all that. But it’s our job, and of course we’ll check it out.”

  Uncle Chuck went out on the driveway and Martin reached for the edge of the overhead garage door. “What did you mean by Sargent’s having another home?”

  Martin looked smug. “That’s another matter we’re checking out,” he said shortly.

  Pete followed Uncle Chuck back into the house. Uncle Chuck rapped at Doris’s door, and when she said, “Yes?” opened it and went in. She lay on her side, curled up facing the door; the covers were turned back from the pillows, and she had a bright woolen throw over her hips and legs. “I’ll be back before too late, Dorrie. I still want to see these old pals of Sargent’s. Are they in the phone book? Can I look up the addresses there?”

  “Yes.” She started to get up.

  “Now, lie still, Dorrie. I’m going to leave Pete here in the room with you. The cops will be driving by every once in a while. I’ll lock the door, and you be sure you know who’s out there before you open up.”

  “Wait a minute, Uncle Chuck. Let me give you a key.”

  “That might simplify things.”

  “Give me my purse, on the dresser.”

  He brought her the purse, and she got out a key chain, unfastened the catch, and took off a house key. “How long have you and Sargent had separate bedrooms?”

  She handed him the key without glancing up. “More than a year.”

  “Why did he want to live up here in Idylynn? It couldn’t have been convenient for him, a long drive like that every day.”

  “Sometimes I’ve thought—he just wanted me out of the way,” she said.

  “So that he could keep a love nest?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Didn’t he stay away sometimes all night? I know what you told Martin. But that response, that denial, was automatic. Didn’t he?”

  “Once in a while,” she admitted. “Not often. Not regularly. And not the way Lieutenant Martin meant … that I was sharing him with someone and knowing all about it—”

  “Don’t get upset again, Dorrie. Keep Pete in here and try to rest. When I come back you won’t have to wonder who it is. I’ll holler out and let you know.”

  Uncle Chuck backed from the driveway, turned the car in the street. Again he made a mental note of the isolation. There were no houses within sight. Two new ones were being built down at the end of the block,
on the upper flank of the hill; the tops of the roofs were visible and that was all. A thick growth of young pines made a screen for the rest. Of course, in time this section of Idylynn would be built up; the lots on either side would have houses on them. But for now Sargent’s place had a loneliness that was unusual in bustling southern California.

  As he turned from the street into a cross street that led down toward the more settled part of Idylynn, some thought crossed his mind—fall, the leaves turning, the woods full of color, trees full of red and orange. The next moment he had jammed on the brakes. This wasn’t fall, and pines don’t turn red and orange even when it is. Uncle Chuck sat staring straight ahead, pinning down the impression that had started this train of ideas. Then he put the car into reverse and turned again and drove slowly past the entry drive of the new house being built nearest the corner. There it was again, the fugitive glimmer of color, shining red-orange, the hue of autumn. Uncle Chuck braked the car for the second time and listened for sounds of building going on; there were none. No noise of motor-driven saw, no hammering, no movement or voices, nothing. The silence told him that either these new homes had been completed or work had been stopped for one reason or another.

  He put the car into gear, twisted the wheel hard, and pulled up slowly along the unpaved track through the young pines and into the small clearing before the house. This was a big place, built of stained redwood and pale-colored rough brick, expensive-looking, and it seemed to be finished except for paving the drive and the landscaping. A sign on a metal stake driven into the ground said For Sale and gave the name and phone number of a realtor in Idylynn Village.

  Uncle Chuck switched off the motor, set the hand brake, and got out. He had to steady himself with extra care because of the uneven ground. The object which was red-orange had been pulled in behind a big heap of dying brush, stuff which must have been cleared from this area in front of the house. He went over and stood looking. It was a small low-slung rakish foreign roadster with black leather bucket seats. The top was down. The interior of the car looked neat and well-kept, though there were mud splashes along the fenders.

  Again Uncle Chuck listened, and again the silence seemed profound.

  The slope around the big house was littered with rocks and debris left from building, and Uncle Chuck decided against trying to go up there. Whoever had brought the little car had tried to conceal it, and if he—or she—were still here and wanted to conceal himself also, he wasn’t fast enough on his feet to catch him.

  Uncle Chuck studied the license plate attached to the rear of the little car. It occurred to him that there should be an owner’s registration certificate displayed inside the car—most usually attached to the steering post inside a plastic case. However, he could see none. He repeated the license number to himself until he was sure he had memorized it.

  In San Bernardino Uncle Chuck entered a public phone booth and dialed the number of a friend of his who was an insurance investigator. “Will? Chuck here. I’m going to ask a favor. I need a license number checked out and I don’t want my name on record anywhere as asking for it.”

  “Sure. I’ll put it in the pot. Nobody will think a thing.”

  Uncle Chuck spelled out the number. “How soon will you know?”

  “Call me in a couple of hours, huh?”

  “Will do. And thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Arthur Cannon lived on a street of big respectable homes. None was new, but all were meticulously kept up, hedges were trimmed, lawns smooth, sidewalks were clean as if recently swept. Uncle Chuck went to the door and rang the bell, and presently a small woman in a severe dark-blue dress opened to him. She was gray-haired, with glasses. Her mouth was prim. “Yes, sir. If you’re selling something—”

  “I’m interested in talking to Mr. Cannon.”

  “He’s not in.”

  Uncle Chuck took out one of his cards. “I’m an attorney, representing Mrs. Sargent Chenoweth. Perhaps you’ve heard—”

  “That!” the woman cried, with such an expression of indignation and loathing that Uncle Chuck felt his own jaw drop. “You’ve come here about that … that man—”

  “Yes,” Uncle Chuck admitted.

  “My son-in-law hasn’t seen this … this Chenoweth person for weeks. If he’d as much as shown his face around here, I’m sure I don’t know what might have happened. Something violent, I’m sure.”

  “Something violent has happened,” Uncle Chuck pointed out. “Look, I’m representing Mrs. Chenoweth, not my niece’s dead husband.” To himself Uncle Chuck was wondering what ever happened to the old saw that you didn’t speak ill of the dead. This woman was old enough to remember it. “Couldn’t I see Mr. Cannon even for a minute?”

  “He’s really not here,” she snapped. “As for me, tell Mrs. Chenoweth I pity her. Her life couldn’t have been easy.”

  “That’s true, it certainly wasn’t,” Uncle Chuck said. “And this sudden murder has left her in a worse position than ever. She literally doesn’t know where to turn. She is prostrated.”

  The dark eyes widened behind the glasses; the woman moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Oh? I guess now that all the mess will come out—” The woman glanced behind her into the hall. “I’ll tell you this, I’m the one who phoned the police about the apartment. I’m not a bit ashamed to admit it. As soon as I heard about Chenoweth’s murder, I called the police, gave my name, told them exactly who I was. And I told them they’d better check the apartment on Barranca Drive.”

  “That’s the … uh …”

  “That was his private house of ill-fame,” she said, almost smacking her lips over the words.

  “Couldn’t I come in and talk to you for a minute?”

  “I … I …” Again she glanced behind her. “Well, perhaps. My daughter is out in the back with the gardener. He comes by the day so she tries to lay out enough work to keep him busy. We’ll have to be quiet—”

  “And I’ll be brief,” Uncle Chuck promised.

  She took him into a small room just inside the entry where there was a small couch and two straight-backed leather chairs and a big desk. It had the look of an informal office. She noticed Uncle Chuck looking around and said, “My son-in-law is an investment counselor. Mining stocks mostly. He talks to clients here sometimes, if he has to see them in the evening.”

  “I see.”

  “Have a chair.”

  She perched on the couch, tucking her feet together and folding her hands on her lap. The pose of shy reserve was belied by the avid eyes. “My niece was aware,” Uncle Chuck said, “that something irregular was going on. But she wanted to save her marriage.” He smiled at the woman facing him. “I guess you understand how a woman feels, Mrs.—”

  “Mrs. Criff. Emily Criff. Yes, I do understand, but that marriage was better off ended. When a man reaches the point of degradation where he’s stocking his private house of ill-fame with a girl scarcely out of childhood—”

  “Do you know her?” Uncle Chuck interrupted quickly.

  “No. She’s one of the young wild ones you see around everywhere now. A blonde. Tight sweater. Heels four inches high.”

  “Did you notice her little red car?”

  “No. I was passing by on the other side of the street. I’d been shopping and was on my way home both times.”

  “You have good powers of observation,” Uncle Chuck complimented her. “And a good memory.”

  “Nothing wrong with my eyes and my brain,” she said, “even if my arteries aren’t what they used to be, according to the doctors. What will Mrs. Chenoweth do now?”

  He had to feed this gossip further bits to keep her going. Uncle Chuck said, “I don’t know what her long-range plans will be, but right now she has to wait until the murder is solved. And settle the estate.”

  “Estate?” She frowned at him. “Could there possibly be one?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, the way he must have been sp
ending money. Those apartments on Barranca Drive are expensive. They’re new and supposed to be furnished fabulously. Or so I’ve heard. And that girl—”

  “I understand,” Uncle Chuck said. “That line of thought hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “Well, you’d better think on it, if you’re acting as her attorney. You’d better find out how much he spent on that private—”

  “House of ill-fame,” he supplied absent-mindedly.

  “—and on her, and maybe on others. Maybe he’d turned into a kind of fiend, the way they do on television. Maybe he got hold of young girls and did strange things to them. There was this program a week or so ago—this man kept this secret place …” She went on to outline what the man had done, or rather what the picture had hinted and what she had concluded he had done. “Of course it was on the late, late show,” she finished. “It wasn’t suitable for children.”

  “I should imagine not,” he agreed. “By the way, what was the quarrel about between Sargent Chenoweth and Mr. Cannon?”

  “Investments,” she hissed, then held up a finger for silence.

  A door closed in the rear of the house somewhere, and Mrs. Criff said nervously, “I guess you’ll have to go. My daughter wouldn’t feel that I was doing the right thing, talking to you.”

  Uncle Chuck rose promptly but almost went off balance and fell as she shoved him toward the front door. “I’d like to talk to you again soon.”

  “Call me up and I’ll meet you,” she whispered.

  “I can’t understand the quarrel between your son-in-law and my niece’s husband,” Uncle Chuck persisted, though the door was closing behind him. “Wasn’t Cannon one of Sargent’s oldest friends?”

  “Once upon a time,” she agreed. “It was over. All over.”

  The door shut and Uncle Chuck had no choice but to head for his car at the curb.

  He found another public phone booth, looked up Arthur Cannon’s business number, put in a dime, and dialed it. When he asked for Cannon, however, a frosty secretarial voice informed him that Mr. Cannon was out for the day. And perhaps for the next several days also. He could leave his name if he wanted to. The frosty voice promised nothing, so Uncle Chuck didn’t bother.