The Snatch nd-1

by Bill Pronzini

  I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable in this kind of discussion, but it was necessary enough from an investigative standpoint. I said, “You could have fired Proxmire.”

  “Would that have ended the affair?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “The fact of the matter is, I’m a practical man,” Martinetti said. “I’m also a relatively virile man, I think, and I understand the biological urge very well; I’ve had a number of casual affairs myself this past year, frankly. Why should I deny Karyn her release?”

  That was what the progressive liberals referred to as being “the modern outlook.” My uneasiness gained magnitude, and I did not speak.

  “Besides that,” Martinetti went on, “Proxmire is an extremely capable secretary. From a purely selfish point of view, it was simply easier to keep him on as long as he performed his duties as well as he has.”

  I looked over at the quiet blue-green water in the pool for a moment. A couple of eucalyptus leaves were floating on its surface like miniature canoes in a placid Lilliputian lake. I said at length, “Why are you telling me this now, Mr. Martinetti? Do you suspect Proxmire of having something to do with the death of Lockridge and the theft of the ransom money?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “I will admit that the idea has crossed my mind a couple of times, because I know how much he wants Karyn-and Gary, too, for that matter; I can tell it by the way he looks at the boy-and the only thing keeping him from them is money.”

  “How long has he worked for you?”

  “About a year and a half now. Why?”

  “Then you should know him pretty well by this time,” I said. “Is he the kind of man who would conspire to commit murder to obtain what he doesn’t have?”

  “Any man is capable of murder,” Martinetti said quietly, “if he’s pushed far enough, tempted strongly enough. A man is capable of a lot of things-and murder is one of them, just one of them.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Martinetti.”

  “That’s the best answer I can give you.”

  “You just said yourself that Proxmire had strong feelings for Gary. Would he jeopardize the boy’s life by engineering a hijack of the ransom money? Would he risk the happiness, the completeness, of the woman he supposedly loves on the off chance-and that’s all he could expect it to be-of the police finding Gary unharmed after the kidnapper was disposed of?”

  Martinetti drank again from his glass, deeply this time. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose it is.”

  “That’s the only reason I mentioned it at all.”

  “Would you like Proxmire to be guilty?” I asked him.

  His smile was faint and sardonic. “In a way, I suppose I would. In another way, for Karyn’s sake, I hope he isn’t.”

  “And if he isn’t, do you intend to allow this situation to go on indefinitely?”

  “Our little triangle, do you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t think I’ll have to make a decision, either way. Karyn will be the one to do that, and I doubt if it will be very long before she does-especially after all that’s happened in the past few days. If she loves Proxmire enough, and I suspect that she might now, she’ll ask me for a divorce and custody of the boy.”

  “Will you agree to that?”

  The faint and sardonic smile again. “Is that relevant to your investigation?”

  “No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  He made a dismissive gesture and drained the last of his drink without saying anything. There was the sound of a glass door sliding open, and Proxmire came out on the terrace. “Allan Channing just phoned,” he called to Martinetti. “I told him about Gary, and he’ll stop by for a few minutes on his way to San Jose.”

  “All right,” Martinetti said.

  Proxmire retreated into the house. I said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Martinetti, I’ll be going now.”

  “You don’t want to be here when Channing arrives, do you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I can understand that, after the call he made to you this morning.”

  “You know about that?”

  “He told me about it,” Martinetti said, “after he’d made it. I told him he was a damned fool, for all the good it did. He’s a very rich man, but he’s also a very opinionated and very selfish man. He doesn’t know how to handle relationships, except on a strict money-making basis.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “If it were possible for a man to have an orgasm looking at a bundle of money, I think Allan Channing would be that man.” Martinetti laughed hollowly. “It would be nice if you could sit down and choose your friends according to your own ideals-or the ideals of society. But you can’t do that, can you?”

  “No, I guess you can’t.”

  He stood up. “Well, to hell with all that. This is too pleasant an occasion for sober philosophical reflections. Do you want to come in and say goodbye to Karyn and the boy?”

  “Yes.”

  We went into the house again, and I shook hands with Gary and with Proxmire, and stood with a sense of embarrassment that had no real foundation while Karyn Martinetti kissed my cheek a second time and thanked me again for finding her son. Then Martinetti and I walked out onto the front path.

  He said, “Will you be by tomorrow? I should be here all day.”

  “I think so,” I said. “I’ll call you.”

  “I can give you a check for what I owe you then, if that’s all right.”

  “Fine.”

  We said a parting, and I went away along the path and through the gate and out to where the Valiant was parked, lonely and somewhat tawdry in the lush quiet of Hillsborough. I felt very tired now; it was almost eight o’clock, and I had done a lot of moving around on this day — more moving around than a man should do with twenty-seven stitches in his belly. My legs were weak, and my neck was stiff and my head ached in a faintly annoying sort of way. I thought that after I had something to eat I would go straight home and get into bed. Tomorrow I would have to go down to some doctor or other and have the knife wound checked and the bandages changed; maybe I would have him give me a chest X-ray while he was at it, there was no sense in putting that off any longer.

  I sighed very softly and tasted the aroma of the woodsmoke again, and then I went over to the Valiant. “You and me both,” I said, and got inside and took it out of there.

  * * * *

  18

  I parked in front of the first cafe I saw in Burlingame, went inside and ordered some coffee and soup and a mound of creamed cottage cheese with fresh fruit; after I had put all of that away I felt considerably better.

  The thought of a cigarette came into my mind then, and to get rid of it I got up from the counter and went back to where a telephone booth was located between the rest-room doors. I put a couple of dimes in the slot, the price of a Peninsula toll call, and dialed Erika’s number.

  She came on after a moment, and I said, “Hi, doll.”

  “Oh,” she said, “hello, old bear.”

  She sounded vaguely cold, vaguely distant, and I thought: Oh Christ, she’s still brooding over last night. Well, I was in a pretty decent frame of mind at the moment and I was not going to let one of her moods spoil it. I said, “I’ve got some good news. I found Gary Martinetti today-mainly through some blind luck. He’s all right and safe at home with his parents.”

  “You found him?”

  “Uh-huh.” I told her how it had come about.

  She said, “Well, that’s very nice.”

  “Is that all you’ve got to say?”

  “What would you like me to say?”

  “You could show a little enthusiasm.”

  “For the boy-or for you?”

  “Jesus, what’s the matter with you tonight?”

  “Not a thing, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t act like it.”

  “I told you
, I’m fine.”

  I sighed inaudibly, and said, “All right. Listen, I should be back in San Francisco in about half an hour. I’ll come by and pick you up, and we can have a couple of drinks at my place before I go to bed-”

  “No, I’m sorry,” she said.

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m going out pretty soon.”

  “Out where?”

  “To dinner and cocktails.”

  “By yourself? Christ, Erika-”

  “No,” she said, “not by myself.”

  The back of my neck felt a little cold. “With who, then? Some other guy?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your concern.”

  “The hell it’s not! You’re supposed to be my girl.”

  “You don’t own me,” she said. “I can go where I please, with whom I please.”

  “What is this?” I said, and my voice was thick. “The goddamn brush-off or something? Is that it? If it is, you’d better tell me, Erika.”

  “Maybe it would be best that way,” very softly.

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “You know why. I told you why last night.”

  “Damn it, you’re being unreasonable …”

  “I don’t think so. I thought it all out very carefully today, and I don’t think I am.”

  “Erika, you know how I feel about you. Isn’t that enough? What the hell do you wantfrom a man?”

  “That’s just it: I want a man. Not a stubborn and self-deluding adolescent trying to live the life of a fictional hero.”

  “That’s a plain bunch of crap!”

  “No it isn’t,” she said. “You’d better resign yourself to the fact that you can’t have that job of yours and me both. You’re going to have to choose between us, one or the other.”

  “That’s a hell of an ultimatum to offer a man!”

  “I’m sorry, that’s the way it has to be. I don’t want to see you for a while, until you make up your mind. When you bring my car back, you can just park it in the driveway and put the key in my mailbox.”

  “Just like that, huh? Cold and reasonable, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about this bastard you’re going out with tonight? Is that supposed to help me make up my mind, knowing you’re out with somebody else?”

  “He’s not a bastard, and I’m going out with him because I don’t intend to sit home and wait for your decision-not when I’m pretty sure I know how you’ll choose.”

  “All right then!” I yelled at her. “All right then, go out with whoever you want and go to bed with him, too, for all I care, get yourself good and laid, goddamn it, I hope you-”

  “Goodbye, old bear, I’m sorry,” she said, and then she was gone and I stood there holding the phone like a dummy, panting, my face flushed and the nourishment I had just taken souring in my stomach. What was the matter with her, what the hell was the matter with her? Why couldn’t she understand, why couldn’t she empathize, didn’t she know how it was with a man and the work he had to do? For Christ’s sake, I loved her! I loved her, why wasn’t that enough?

  I slammed the phone back in its cradle and went out of the booth and threw some money on the counter. Outside, the wind blew cool and soft along the street and the black robe of the night sky was sequined with coldly bright stars. I began walking, just walking, letting the anger build, the frustration, letting it spiral inside me, and I thought: Well, all right, Erika, I’m glad to find out now the way it really is with you, how you really feel about me. I came within a couple of inches of dying the other day, and instead of coming to me like a woman with love and compassion in your words and in your eyes, you rub acid in the wound, you jump on me with your claws unsheathed like a predatory cat, “Goodbye, old bear, I’m sorry.” Some succor, some understanding, some love- well, all right then, Erika, all right if that’s the way you want it that’s the way it will be, all right.

  I kept on walking, and there was a cigar store on the opposite corner. I went over there and bought a package of cigarettes before I knew what I was doing, trancelike, but when I came out again with the pack in my hands, the spiraling had ascended to an ultimate zenith and there was nowhere else for it to go then but sharply downward. The anger vanished, and suddenly there was only a harsh, vacuous depression, a loneliness at the core of my soul that was almost painful in its fervor. But I did not want to be where people were, for it was not that kind of loneliness; it was, instead, the loneliness of rejection, the deep bleeding hurt of frustrated denial that only a woman can inflict upon a man.

  There was nowhere for me to go. Home-the sanctuary? No, because home was the symbol of loneliness now, and the fragile lingering aura of Erika would be there and I did not want to be anywhere that reminded me of her, I did not want her car or her words whispering echolike in my mind and the remembered feel of her softness beneath my hands and beneath my body.

  I looked at the cigarettes and I did not want one at all, and I wondered fleetingly if I had bought them as a subconscious defiance of Erika. I dropped the package into my overcoat pocket and started walking again.

  I walked for blocks and crossed streets blindly and walked, and finally my legs began to ache and my belly began to ache and I knew that I could not walk much longer. I needed something tangible to hang on to, something to do, someone to talk to, perhaps, something, anything, to take my mind off Erika. I started along an unfamiliar block, cutting back to the main street off which I had somehow strayed, and in the middle of it I passed a storefront with a wide display window illuminated by a single large-wattage night light. Black letters printed on the glass read Books.

  I stopped. Inside the window, hanging from twine strung between pegs the width of the display, overlooking the pocketbooks and encyclopedias and other dusty second-hand items like tired and aged sentries on sagging battlements, was a series of pulp magazines-something tangible, something immediate, a second and fittingly ironic defiance of Erika because of her strong contempt for them.

  I went up to the window and peered in at the magazines. You did not find many stores that had pulps any more, and I could see immediately why this one was an exception. There were some strips of paper clipped to the upper corners of the front covers, and on them were prices; the cheapest of the ones displayed was ten dollars and that was too much for anything except a vintageBlack Mask or a Volume One, Number 1.

  There were a couple of Weird Tales up there from the early forties, and an Argosy for 1936 and two copies of The Shadow from the late 1940’s. I was not particularly interested in any of those, but there was a rare, fairly good edition ofDetective Fiction Weeklyfor March 14, 1931, that caught and held my eye.

  The distinctive dark blue-and-yellow cover depicted a detective who looked a little like Jimmy Stewart, throwing down on a heavy with a vial of something in his hand. Midway below the title, on the left-hand side, was a caption for the issue’s feature story, The Candy Kid, a Lester Leith novelette by Erie Stanley Gardner.

  The Lester Leith stories, about one of Gardner’s earliest and most flamboyant detectives, were hard to come by these days in their original magazine appearance. They had been some of the best work of a master craftsman who had learned his trade in the pulps; Gardner had had a reputation in the old days

  Gardner had had Gardner

  Gardner.

  Gardener.

  Oh Jesus, gardener-the gardener!

  The impact of the connection was strong and sharp in my mind, and suddenly I had something else to grasp, something potentially important, something pushing Erika and the hurt and the depressing loneliness away.

  Burlingame Landscaping and Gardening Service.

  Very clearly, then, I could see the green panel truck behind which I had parked that first afternoon on Tamarack Drive-the words stenciled across its rear doors. And I could see the young T-shirted guy kneeling on the strip of canvas, weeding the lawn, when I first entered th
e grounds-the gardener, one other person who could have known about the kidnapping of Gary Martinetti the day it happened, who could even be the hypothetical silent partner acquainted with the Martinettis well enough to set up things for Lockridge-the gardener, the damned gardener.

  I turned away from the window and hurried up the street, thinking that I had to get in touch with Donleavy, wondering if he was still up in San Francisco at the Hall of Justice-but before I reached Broadway, I slowed down and some of the urgency left me. It was nothing, for God’s sake, but a shot in the dark, a fat straw, a possibility that was no better than any or all of the other possibilities. For all I knew, Donleavy or one of the other investigators from the District Attorney’s Office had already questioned the gardener and eliminated him as a suspect; Donleavy would not necessarily have mentioned it in my presence. Even if they had not questioned him, I had no evidence against the gardener, nothing to link him with the kidnapping or the hijacking, nothing at all which would induce

  Donleavy to drop his investigation of the sixty or seventy people who had been at Martinetti’s party two nights before the boy’s abduction-people who were just as suspect — and rush out to the gardener’s place to interrogate him.

  But it was still a lead, I could not deny that, and because it was-because I still needed that something tangible to hold on to, that weapon to ward off the loneliness — I could follow it up myself. Martinetti was paying me to investigate, and Donleavy had given me his blessings, if I needed any rationalizations-why not? If I learned anything of importance, then I could get in touch with Donleavy and let him take it over.

  I began hurrying again, onto Broadway, along it to the cafe where I had eaten. In the phone booth at the rear, I opened the Peninsula directory; under the B section I found:

  Burl Lndscp amp; Grdng Srv

  87 Valldemar Dr (Bg) ………… 344-1134

  I shut the book and went out to the Valiant and rummaged in the glove compartment until I found a series of maps I knew Erika kept in there, bound with a rubber band. I located the one for the San Francisco Peninsula and looked up Valldemar Drive.

  It was on the western edge of Burlingame, near Cuernavaca Park. That was a residential area, and it seemed logical to assume that whoever the young guy was, he ran his gardening and landscaping service from his residence.