“How do you know not Wally?” Uncle Chuck demanded sharply. His heart had started to pound and his mouth felt cotton-dry.
“Oh …” Knowles spread a hand, shrugged again. “You know what I mean. She wasn’t waving it at Wally. He wasn’t running from her; he didn’t even look scared, just nervous and excited. Like trying to calm her, trying to give her a drink to hold while he got the poker away.”
Into Uncle Chuck’s mind flashed the image of Lieutenant Martin, of Martin’s face all lit up with the unholy joy of final discovery. The cops would toss away any convenient theories of Kat’s having murdered Sargent and then having killed herself, with this story of Knowles’s to work with.
“What happened, finally?” he managed to say.
“I don’t know. I figured Wally and Doris must be having some kind of party, maybe even celebrating Sarge’s departure. Her waving the poker like that could have been an act, a joke.”
“What else could it have been?”
“Ha, ha, Chuck. You don’t want me to say what it could have been, now do you?”
“A threat? Telling Wally Wiegand what she’d do to Sargent?”
The touch of humor abruptly left Knowles’s face. “You’re saying it. I’m not.”
“It’s not important. What is important—I’ve got to call the sheriff’s office and tell the cops you’re here. They want you. They’ve been looking for you. They know where your daughter is.”
There was little reaction from Knowles; he shook his head and blinked as if in disbelief. He finished the drink, sipping slowly, while Uncle Chuck waited. The folder which Sharon Baxter had brought still lay on a table nearby, but Knowles had not once glanced at it. When there was nothing in the bottom of the glass but shards of ice, Knowles set it aside and tried to stand. He steadied himself against the chair arm and straightened his torso awkwardly. “Tired,” he muttered. “Too tired to stand up. Got to sleep.”
“I’ll be gone for a minute. Just wait here,” Uncle Chuck told him.
He almost fell over Pete, who was crouched in the hall. The dog retreated on three legs, whining softly.
“Sorry, Pete.”
In the kitchen he decided to call the Idylynn Police instead of the sheriff’s office—the local cops could get here much quicker. Perhaps the sheriff’s men were still at the house down the road, in which case the local office could contact them by radio. He dialed Operator, and as the voice spoke in his ear, he heard the sound of a door closing somewhere else in the house. He hung up without replying to the operator, hurried back to the living room.
A small table had been overturned, as if Knowles might have bumped into it on his way to the door. Near the hall a lamp had fallen against the wall, tilting the shade so that the bulb glared out into the room. Knowles was gone.
Even as Uncle Chuck surveyed the signs of Knowles’s unsteady departure, a car’s motor roared outside, followed by the squeal of tires as a car was abruptly put into gear. Hampered by the need for the cane, Uncle Chuck made it to the door just in time to see Knowles’s headlights snap on at the top of the driveway.
Knowles wasn’t in any shape to drive, but Uncle Chuck had no way of getting him back to the house.
The news of Kat’s death would catch up with him—sometime, somewhere. Uncle Chuck thought, I should have told him. I shouldn’t have tried to pass the buck to the cops.
Too late now. And he had to wake Dorrie and talk to her about the story Knowles was eventually bound to give to Martin.
It was almost eight when he touched her sleeping face gently.
The room was dim, light reflected into it from the hall. Her face was a white oval, shadowed by the cloud of dark hair. She turned her head as if trying to escape the awakening touch. “No. No,” she whispered.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, taking one of her hands in his. Her eyes opened suddenly. She pulled her hand free to prop herself on her elbow. “Where’s Pete?”
“I think he followed me outside when Knowles left.”
“I had a dream. I dreamed that Pete was fighting a strange animal, an animal that wanted into the house—” She broke off as she realized what Uncle Chuck had said. “Bill Knowles? Is that whom you mean? Was he here?” She peered closely at Uncle Chuck. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You needed your rest. I wouldn’t have come in now, Dorrie, but I have to tell you what Knowles said. A yarn the cops will get out of him sooner or later.”
“Does he know about Kat?”
“Not yet. Listen, Dorrie. Knowles told me he came up here last night. He had found Kat’s letter bidding him farewell, and he thought he might catch Sargent here before they took off. Instead, he saw you and Wally Wiegand in the living room. He spied on you through an opening in the draperies. He said that you were holding the poker from the fireplace. You were making threatening gestures with it—not at Wiegand, but as if you were demonstrating what you’d do to someone else. Wiegand seemed to be arguing with you about it.”
She pushed herself erect, facing him. “It’s a lie. It never happened!”
“Are you sure, Dorrie? Remember, you’d had quite a bit to drink.”
“Not that much, not enough to forget anything like that. It just didn’t happen.”
“When I came back to the house this morning, Dorrie, after the intruder had been prowling, I found you in the living room. And the poker was in your hand. As if that’s the first thing you’d thought of in the way of a weapon.”
She leaned closer, her eyes wide and afraid. “Are you saying that you don’t believe me?”
“No. I just want you to be sure—”
“But I am sure.”
“When Wiegand was pouring drinks for you and urging you to give Sargent the divorce he wanted—you didn’t make any threats toward Sargent?”
She shrank back, as if Uncle Chuck’s loyalty and concern had at last proven a fraud. “No. Why should I? You don’t hold a man by threatening to kill him if he leaves you.”
“But you had held him.”
“I’d do anything, give anything, now … I’d give everything I own or hope to own, if I could turn back the clock, I could see Sarge again and tell him yes, he was free to get a divorce and have Kat.”
“It’s useless to torture yourself with thoughts like that.”
“I know it. But I can’t help it. I wish I’d let Sarge go. He’d be alive now. But this crazy thing that Bill Knowles says he saw—it’s a lie. I didn’t hold the poker and make threats. If you won’t believe me, why not go and talk to Wally? He’ll back up what I’m telling you.”
“I’d already thought of going to Wiegand,” Uncle Chuck said quietly. “In fact, it’s about the first thing I did think of. But I’ve got a hunch about your friend Wally. He’s scared to death. He’s afraid of being implicated, afraid of being quizzed by the police; and most of all, he’s trying to figure out which way the cat’s going to jump before he’s pinned down to one story. He can change what he told me—there were no witnesses to our talk. I have a feeling that when the cops settle on one particular suspect, whoever it is, Wally’s version of what was done and said will fit the cops’ theory like a glove.”
“Go see him anyway, Uncle Chuck. Go now,” she begged.
“I don’t want to leave you alone here after dark.”
“Please go. I’ll be safe. The police patrol will be by—they’ve promised. And Pete’s outside on guard.”
To himself, Uncle Chuck admitted he’d been thinking of bed rather than a jaunt back to San Bernardino. Tiredness filled him like a deadening drug. When his eyes closed he could see a red glow in which black wings seemed to beat. When he had chased after Knowles through the front door, he had almost fallen because the cane had slipped in his trembling hand.
“All right, Dorrie,” he said finally. “I’ll try to find Wiegand and talk to him.”
“He won’t lie about this!”
“Don’t bank on Wiegand. He’s anxious about his own skin, and that’s all.�
�
Uncle Chuck stood up, bracing himself with the cane. On a sudden impulse Doris caught his other hand and put it against her cheek. The gesture was one she had made as a child, loving and confiding. He bent and brushed her hair with his lips. He couldn’t destroy Dorrie’s trust and belief in his loyalty. That’s really all she had left now.
Chapter 12
Uncle Chuck went into the living room. He straight ened the fallen table and the lamp, then picked up the folder which Sharon Baxter had brought. With a thoughtful look he sat down, propped the cane against the chair arm, holding the folder on his knee. For a moment he simply studied it, frowning, examining its size and its worn look. Then he untied the brown cord which fastened it.
He removed the contents, letting the folder lie flat on his knees and spreading the documents on the firm manila surface. The two life insurance policies had a face value of fifty thousand dollars each—a fairly hefty premium for Sargent to keep up. The mortgage insurance guaranteed a clear title to the home to the survivor of the marriage. He didn’t take Katrina’s birth certificate photostat from the envelope, though he held it for a moment, thinking of the young girl dead as he had found her that afternoon. Finally there was the two thousand dollars in cash.
A hoard saved … for what?
It would scarcely seem enough for the complete break which Sargent apparently had planned. True, it had been tucked in here with the other documents which Sargent might have wanted to take with him. But two thousand would hardly finance even the beginning of a new life in a foreign country.
It might be thought that this was the start of a nest egg, the first installment as it were—except that Sargent’s plans had apparently come to full completion and he’d been ready to make his break.
There’s something wrong with the picture, Uncle Chuck thought, wishing he could figure out what it was.
Slowly he returned the papers to the folder, tied the heavy cord which held the flap closed. In the back of his mind he could feel time ticking away, could sense the increasing exhaustion. He would have to start soon for San Bernardino if he was going to make it. He could take the folder to Sargent’s room, put it into the steel box, and lock the box. Then he’d drink a cup of cold coffee from the percolator in the kitchen. That might wake him up.
He carried the folder down the hall, passing Dorrie’s door in the dimness. In Sargent’s room he clicked on the light switch. The steel case still sat on a corner of the dresser where they’d left it this morning. He had his hand on the lid when he heard a sudden sharp yapping of alarm from Pete, somewhere outside.
He bent and jerked open the bottom drawer of Sargent’s dresser and dropped the folder in among the clothing there, shut the drawer, and hurried to the door. He turned off the lights and went as quickly as possible to the kitchen. Under the frosted globes, the kitchen and service area looked neat, quiet, and empty. He went on, through the door that led to the laundry and cleaning center and the storage room beyond. Here was the door that led outdoors. It was used little. Doris didn’t have purchases delivered by the stores but brought them home herself, probably because of the distances involved. The service door had a pane in its upper panel. Uncle Chuck turned on the light outside, touching the switch on the wall beside the door. This part of the yard, here at the north end of the patio, was closed in with a trellis on which greenery twined. Uncle Chuck turned the heavy lock and went out.
The wind had died. There wasn’t even a rustle. The night seemed big and queerly silent beyond the rim of light cast by the globe over the door. He walked past the end of the trellis. He could see the stars now, far away in the depths of the black sky.
“Pete? Pete, come here,” he called.
Pete didn’t come. The barking could have meant he had surprised a jack rabbit or a porcupine and now be far away on a chase or be silently investigating a shape full of stickers.
“I need a flashlight,” Uncle Chuck muttered. He grumbled under his breath at the awkwardness, the need of the cane, which slowed him. He thought of asking Doris where she kept her flashlight, if any, but this would involve waking her again, answering her worried questions. He decided to search for a flashlight without waking her.
He considered himself lucky. In the first storage closet, next to the door, on a shelf with bottles of floor wax and cleaners, lay a big flash. He went back out with it. He turned left. The flash showed a series of steps to the road. The steps were redwood blocks set into a thick, creeping green growth. Further to the left was a wall of native growth, marking the boundary of the landscaping around the patio. Beyond the wall of shrubs were the pines.
He called to Pete again and was answered by a whine.
“Come on, Pete. Don’t be scared. Come on,” he coaxed.
Pete growled.
Some sense of movement at his back caused Uncle Chuck to turn. The beam of light twitched past the trellis and on into the darkened patio. Should have left the patio and driveway lights on, Uncle Chuck told himself. What’s out there?
Into the flashlight’s beam stepped the fat figure of Wally Wiegand. He lifted a hand uncertainly, a gesture of greeting. His face wore the phony-friendly grin of the newspaper picture, somewhat lopsided now as if in danger of slipping. “Hi, pardner. Don’t shoot! Ha, ha, ha.” He took two steps toward Uncle Chuck and paused. “Left my car up on the road. Tried to be quiet like.”
“It is a good way to draw pot shots,” Uncle Chuck told him, “and especially since we’ve already had one prowler today. You’re lucky I’m not toting a gun.”
“Is that so? How’s Doris? By the way, that’s why I didn’t come down here and pound on the door. I thought I might just talk to you and not disturb Doris.”
Was he ashamed to face Doris after the shenanigans of last night? This would seem to ascribe feelings of delicacy to Wally which he didn’t appear to possess. “Okay, talk,” Uncle Chuck said, trying to control the irritation the fat man aroused in him. He was sizing Wally up by the light of the flash. Wally had on what looked like a fresh shirt, a neat dark jacket and slacks, but the face had tired lines and the eyes seemed haunted.
“Can’t we sit outside here somewhere? And turn the damned light off. Let’s not invite the cops up to listen.”
“Cops?”
“There’s a police car down the street, just past the turn. Just past a kind of rough driveway. Is that where they found Kat Knowles, by the way?”
“Yes.”
Across the patio in deep shadow was a redwood bench, bordering the flagstone wall. Wally nodded to it, turned. Uncle Chuck switched off the flashlight and followed. Enough glow seeped through the vines on the trellis to enable him to make out, dimly, where Wally seated himself. “What a day, what a day,” Wally muttered, with a nervous glance behind him. Uncle Chuck sat down and leaned on his cane, feeling the sudden rush of tiredness through his body. Silently he echoed Wally—what a day.
“This police car,” Uncle Chuck said. “You saw cops in it?”
“Yeah, two of them. I thought for a minute they were going to stop me. They snapped on their headlights as soon as I got past. I had to turn the corner with their lights on me. Scared me to death. I’ve already had one session today. Some guy named Martin. Of course I couldn’t tell him anything important.” Wally made this last sound virtuous.
“Didn’t you tell him about your errand here last night? And how you and Doris spent the evening?”
“Well, uh …” Wally moved uncomfortably on the bench. “Since I really didn’t do what Sarge had wanted, I mean, I never did get Doris to say she’d give Sarge a divorce, I sort of left that out of it. I made out as if I’d just dropped in with a bottle. Just passing time, you could say.”
“Didn’t Martin ask what you knew of Sargent’s where abouts last night?”
“No, he didn’t. I’d already explained how I’d spent part of the evening up here and Sarge wasn’t at home.”
Uncle Chuck thought, probably Martin had seen through this conniving fool, was j
ust biding his time before giving him a good working over. And still, could it be that the cops were following the line of murder and suicide as he had suspected they might? “When did you hear of Katrina Knowles’s death?”
“Just before I came up here. That’s why I drove up. I’ve got a message for Doris.”
Wally’s voice cracked badly on the last few words, and Uncle Chuck pricked up his ears. Wally was frightened, scared all the way through, trying to conceal it under the usual phony friendliness and bravado.
“What it is,” Wally continued, “is about the robbery, the stuff being stolen from their garage.”
“You knew about this?”
“Sure. Sarge brought the stuff to my place. Tools and some fishing gear. A radio that needed a little work done. I got it fixed; I’m using it. The tools I gave to my father-in-law—he’s a woodworking nut. If Doris wants the stuff back, she can have it.”
“What about the stuff out of Sargent’s files? Newspaper clippings, papers he’d brought home from the office? It seems the files were disturbed at about the same time.”
Wally sat silent, perhaps in dismay. But finally he said, “He burned a few scraps of paper in my fireplace, the same night he brought me the tools and the other stuff. Burned them, and stirred the ashes. I thought at the time it was newspaper scraps.”
Uncle Chuck listened closely, trying to catch a hint that Wally was lying. “What kind of story did he give you?”
“He said that he wanted to clear some of the stuff out of the garage, and Doris wouldn’t let him, and he was just going to pretend that it had been stolen.”
“You believed a yarn like that?”
“Well, looking back, I guess I was a little suspicious.”
“Is this your message for Doris, this story about the pretended burglary?”
“Oh no. The message is, I might have to tell Martin about it. If he gets—uh—tough. And I wouldn’t want Doris caught off base. I wouldn’t want her sticking to a yam that might get her into trouble.”
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