Double

by Bill Pronzini

  “No.”

  “How about Rich Woodall?”

  “No. Who are these men?”

  “People in the case we’re investigating,” I said. “But don’t worry, Mrs. McCone. She probably got hung up somewhere and couldn’t get back home. Car trouble or something.”

  “Then why didn’t she call?”

  “Would she usually call in a situation like that?”

  “Usually, yes. I’ll say that much for her. She’s not a bad girl, she’s just too inquisitive for her own good.”

  So why didn’t she call? I thought.

  “Running around playing cops-and-robbers,” Mrs. McCone said. “What kind of life is that for a young woman? Getting shot at, rubbing elbows with criminals and hookers and God knows what other riffraff. She ought to get married, settle down—”

  “Thanks, Mrs. McCone,” I said and hung up on her.

  I hustled out to the car-rental booths in the main lobby. I had turned in the other clunker when I left for Mexico because I hadn’t known how long I would be down there and I hadn’t figured to need a car anymore when I got back. Well, I needed one now. It was a long way to where Rich Woodall lived. And an even longer way to Borrego Springs.

  I was reasonably sure that Woodall had killed Jim Lauterbach, and it was possible that McCone had figured it out too and gone to brace him about it yesterday; she was just headstrong enough to do that without calling in the authorities first. The second possibility was that she’d gone to check out Arthur Darrow and something had happened to her in the desert. Both of those possibilities, coupled with Lloyd Beddoes’s apparent suicide, made me worried and uneasy. There had been too many deaths the past few days, one right after the other—and McCone had her nose poked smack in the middle of them all.

  37 McCONE

  I was aware of turning over on the hard floor of the dungeon a few times, of trying to pillow my head on my arms. Then I began to stir. I thought I had heard a noise, but it must have been part of a dream.

  I sat up, stiff all over, and looked at my watch. It had stopped. Stupid of me not to have wound it. I wasn’t hungry anymore, or even very thirsty. Long deprivation had almost made those senses dormant. I stretched my cramped body, then went over and sat by the outside wall —ignoring the dead woman because, after having slept, the craziness that had permitted me to deal with her the night before was gone.

  I closed my eyes, trying once more to think of a way out of the dungeon. And then I heard a faint rattling sound, the sound I’d heard before that I’d thought was only part of a dream.

  It came from directly above me, a noise from one of those swamp coolers I’d seen perched on the roof of the house. Why hadn’t I noticed it last night? Probably because they operated on some sort of automatic timer, coming on and going off only when the heat was most intense. That would make sense; there were no power lines to the house and running the coolers all the time would only sap the generator.

  I tried to dredge up what I knew about swamp coolers. They used water, usually from a hose from some outside source. And there had to be some sort of venting arrangement, sometimes as simple as an open window. I had a friend who lived in Phoenix who had a swamp cooler, and she’d complained of having to leave a window open and thus creating an invitation to burglars.

  If this cooler was running, there had to be a vent. And the vent had to be close by.

  Then why hadn’t I found it during all that tapping I’d done last night?

  Because it was someplace I couldn’t reach. Like up near the ceiling.

  Well, that was just great. Because I couldn’t get up there to check.

  Or could I?

  I eyed the two ornate sconces, still burning with red light. They were massive, sturdy. If I unplugged them, took the light bulbs out, and used each as a sort of stilt . . .

  I rushed over and yanked their cords out of the wall socket. The bulbs were hot, but I ignored the pain as I unscrewed them. Listening carefully, I located the position of the cooler, then placed the sconces by the wall closest to it. Mounting them was a tricky proposition. Finally I stood up, my legs shaking, the sconces wobbling.

  I began tapping the wall close to the ceiling. I had to move the sconces twice, but eventually I struck a hollow place. A large hollow place.

  Dull excitement stirred inside of me. I climbed down, got my purse and the Swiss Army knife. After climbing back up again, I ripped at the vinyl wallpaper with the knife. It came off easily, and soon I was looking at a hole with rubber hoses poking through it. And beyond that was bright daylight, which half blinded me after the long hours in that hellish red glow.

  Daylight. How long had I been in here anyway? Twelve hours? Eighteen?

  I wrenched at the hoses, and they came free of the cooler above me. Water dripped down on my head as I pushed them out the hole, leaned forward, and squinted through it. I could see sand and rocks and ocotillo. In the distance was the old water tower. The sun glared down; it must be late morning.

  The hole was big enough for me to slide through—if only I had the strength to hoist myself up to it. On the first try, my right foot slipped on the sconce. It clattered to the floor and I pitched downward after it. I landed on my side, tears of pain coming to my eyes. Brushing them away, I got up and righted the sconce.

  This time I was more careful, getting a firm grip on the edge of the opening and pulling myself up slowly. I slipped partway into the space, wriggled forward, and poked my head out, estimating the distance to the ground. It was a good eight feet—but I’d fallen almost that far only minutes ago.

  I wriggled farther forward. My purse caught on the edge of the opening; I gave it an angry tug. It came loose, and I curled in a ball, trying to get my feet out the opening. One heel caught on the purse strap.

  I decided to abandon the bag. The only important thing in it was my car keys, and I kept an extra set in a little magnetic case under the dash. I gave the purse a kick and heard it drop onto the floor of the dungeon. Then I slid my feet the rest of the way through, pushed off, and fell to the sandy ground.

  I lay there for a moment, stunned and blinded by the glaring light. The sun was well overhead, moving either toward or away from its meridian. Finally I got to my feet, wincing with pain, and ran around the house, toward the front where I’d left my car.

  But my car was gone. So was Sugarman’s. And in their place was a long white Cadillac.

  38 “WOLF”

  I had no trouble finding Lost Canyon Drive, the unpaved dead-end street Rich Woodall lived on out near Lakeside. The map I’d got at the airport car-rental booth was a good one, and the route up to this sparsely populated residential area from Highway 67 wasn’t complicated. I parked in front of his house, a tile-roofed Spanish job set well back from the street, screened by palms and a big hedge full of red berries. His nearest neighbor had to be a half mile away. Some house for a man who earned his living doing P.R. for a public institution . . .

  I went along the front walk. The driveway that paralleled it was empty; I could see the garage toward the rear of the house, backed up against a brushy slope, but the doors were closed and I couldn’t tell if there was a car in it or not.

  Ringing the bell got me nothing but the echoes of distant chimes. I went around to the rear and alongside the garage, to where a grimy window gave me a blurred view of the interior. An old red Porsche convertible sat there alone. But it was a two-car garage and there was a fresh-looking oil spot on the unoccupied side: Woodall probably owned a pair of cars and had gone off in the second one.

  A seven-foot-high stucco wall with pieces of jagged glass embedded along its top barred access into the backyard; the gate in the wall sported a new chain and padlock. From the other side I could hear the sounds of animals moving around, the throaty cry of some kind of cat.

  I looked around for something to stand on so I could see into the yard. There wasn’t anything. Well, maybe I wasn’t too old or out of shape to do a little climbing. I moved over to the gate,
got one foot on the padlocked latch, and managed to hoist myself up. The broken glass took away any chance of my getting all the way inside, but at least I could see the cages and the animals that were in them: the yard wasn’t big and everything was more or less grouped in close to the wall.

  Badgers, a bobcat, a lynx, a couple of arctic foxes, some exotic birds I couldn’t identify. And a glass cage full of snakes that looked uncommon. An odd assortment, I thought. Much odder than your average private menagerie.

  I hung there a little longer, even though my bad left arm, the one that had never quite healed properly after I’d been shot over a year ago, was beginning to cramp up. I had had a job a while back that involved the theft of a variety of creatures from the San Francisco Zoo, so I knew something about endangered species. Badgers and lynx and bobcats and arctic foxes were all endangered animals. They were also the kind that unscrupulous people made coats, hats, and stoles out of. And the birds and snakes looked to be the sort coveted for expensive purses, shoes, and hats.

  I knew some other things too. I knew that Woodall’s P.R. job would put him in contact with all sorts of people who dealt with animals, including a supplier or two who might not be above making an illegal dollar now and then. I knew from what Eberhardt had told me that Woodall had once been arrested on suspicion of selling animals in violation of the federal Endangered Species Act. I knew from Woodall himself, via McCone, that somebody had broken in here a few days ago. I knew that Jim Lauterbach had been a blackmailer, and that there had been a list of check-marked names in his file on Elaine Picard—a list of potential shakedown victims, probably—and that one of those names had been Woodall’s. And I knew, or was fairly certain, that Woodall had murdered Lauterbach.

  Put all of that together and what did you get? You got Woodall still selling endangered creatures to the manufacturers of garments for rich and uncaring consumers, and Lauterbach breaking in here and finding out about it. You got Lauterbach trying to blackmail Woodall, and out of that you got at least part of Woodall’s motive for blowing him away.

  There were still plenty of loose ends. Such as: Why did Lauterbach break in here in the first place? What had he found out about Woodall and the others on that list that made them candidates for blackmail? And what was on the tape recorder Woodall had made off with after the shooting? One or more of the answers might lie in whether or not Woodall had also killed Elaine Picard. If he had, and Lauterbach found that out too, Woodall’s motive for murdering him would have been doubled.

  I dropped down off the gate, massaged the stiffness out of my left arm and shoulder, and went back out to the rental car. Had McCone tumbled to all of this too? And if she had, had she tried to brace Woodall herself? The uneasiness was sharp in me now, and mingled with it were the stirrings of fear.

  The nearest service station was half a mile from Woodall’s house; I pulled in there and telephoned the administration office at the San Diego Zoo. The woman I spoke to said Woodall wasn’t there, he hadn’t come to work today. Hadn’t called in, either. She had no idea where he was.

  He wasn’t home, he wasn’t at work—where the hell was he?

  And where was McCone?

  39 McCONE

  I stepped around the dark green branches of a greasewood bush, out of the sun’s glare, and stared at the place where my car had been. It wasn’t difficult to figure out what had happened. Sugarman’s murderer had found the magnetic key case under the dash and had driven the MG, as well as Sugarman’s Datsun, off someplace—probably not too far away or he wouldn’t have been able to walk back. The Cadillac must belong to him, and I was certain he hadn’t been so foolish as to leave the keys in the ignition.

  Still, its windows were open and I could get inside. And that was all I needed, since I possessed valuable, though untested, knowledge—I knew how to go about hot-wiring a car. It was something I’d picked up years ago from my brothers, who, while they never stole cars themselves, had traveled in a set where the ability to hot-wire was looked upon in the same way society people appreciate a low golf handicap.

  I moved away from the protection of the greasewood bush and studied the front of the house. The door was shut and, owing to the lack of windows, I felt reasonably safe about going over to the car. Nonetheless, I hurried across the parking area in a crouch and slipped into the Cadillac on the passenger’s side, which faced away from the house. Wriggling across the hot black leather seat, I checked the ignition. No keys.

  I lay down on the seat and reached under the dash for the ignition wires. When I located them, I started to put them together, then realized I needed a way to hold them in place once the car was started. My brothers had advocated always carrying a stick of chewing gum for this purpose, but I had nothing on me but the Swiss Army knife—and that certainly wouldn’t do the job. Glancing around the car, I spotted a paper clip on the floor and snatched it up.

  Quickly I aligned the proper wires and pressed them together while I touched one foot to the gas pedal. The car started with a roar. I slipped the paper clip onto the wires and was about to sit up and put the car in gear when the engine died.

  Damn! It must have something to do with the paper clip. Something to do with metal shorting out the current. I ducked down and tried again. The engine started—and died.

  Somewhere outside I heard a noise. Sitting up, I peered over the seat back and through the rear window. The door of the house was open and a man was coming out.

  The glare of sun bouncing off the trunk lid and onto the rear window blinded me, so the only thing I could tell about him was that he was big —and running toward the car.

  I pounded my fist on the seat in frustration, then ducked down and moved back across to the passenger’s door. I slid out to the ground and threw a glance back along the road toward the rise. The sound of the man’s footsteps came closer.

  I hated to run, but in my weakened condition there was no way I could stay and fight. I looked to the left and spotted the ruins of the water tower and loading platform, about three football fields away across the hard-packed, rocky sand. As the man closed in on the other side of the car, I stood up and plunged off toward the tower.

  The footsteps came after me. A spurt of adrenaline enabled me to speed up, in spite of a wrenching pain in the side I’d fallen on earlier. My breath came in gasps; about halfway there I faltered and looked back over my shoulder, expecting to see the man gaining on me.

  But he had turned, and now was running back toward the house. He wore blue pants, a white shirt, and had lightish hair. His gait was shambling and erratic.

  It both surprised and relieved me; the man must be old or ill or out of shape. But I knew that this might only be a temporary reprieve. He was probably going back to get a gun.

  I ran on, finally reaching the shed and skidding around it. I slammed into the wall, and there was a stinging in my bare arm. Glancing down, I saw splinters and bloody scrapes. A nail had caught my blouse and ripped it along the side.

  I gritted my teeth in pain and irritation, leaning on the wall for a moment. If I could get to the road, I could make it to the Elephant Tree Ranger Station—and help. But if I tried to run along the road I would be an easy target for a man in a car; that was why I’d come this way in the first place. It was better to find shelter in the desert and then double back to the road later—under cover of night, if necessary.

  About a hundred yards away was an outcropping of rock, and beyond it the desert sloped downward from the foothills. I started running toward it, but when I crossed the remains of the spur track, my foot caught and I fell. Scrabbling to my knees, I looked back toward the house. The man had not reappeared.

  I got up and kept running.

  The rocks were sandstone, steep and crumbly. I went up them on all fours, clawing for handholds. At the top I flattened to the ground, panting, and then began inching along. After about five feet I came to a drop-off that ended in a drift of rock and sand. I rolled down it, the fine powder filling my shoes and cakin
g my nostrils, the rocks cutting into my skin. Then I struggled to my feet.

  The desert spread before me, ripply and wrinkled, with occasional outcroppings before it merged with more of the low, eroded hills. The sky above was relentlessly blue and clear. As far as I could see, everything was tan, dotted with dead-looking scrub vegetation, hazed with shimmering heat. There was nowhere to hide nearby. Nowhere to escape Sugarman’s killer or the cruel rays of the sun.

  I pivoted to the right and then the left, finally spotting a wash full of thorny underbrush. It was hundreds of yards away, across open country where I could easily be sighted, but it was my only chance.

  Once again I ran.

  The sand was not so rocky here, and I felt as if I were running in slow motion. The intense heat seared my lungs. Every step brought wrenching pain to my side; my tongue was so dry it felt swollen. For moments it seemed as if I were running on an endless tan treadmill, but then the wash grew closer, and closer . . .

  It was deep and rocky, full of mesquite and dead-looking cheesebush. I barely broke stride at its edge, sliding and tumbling down to the bottom. The rocks cut into my skin, tore at my clothing. I rolled to a stop against a low, rounded chuparosa bush, its thorny branches poking into my side.

  There had been no sign of the man as I crossed the open sand, but that didn’t mean I was safe. This wash, with its tall mesquite trees, was probably the only shelter within miles; it wouldn’t take the man long to figure out I’d run for it. And it might be sheltering other things than me: there might be rattlesnakes; they went for shade in the heat of the day. I couldn’t stay here.

  Looking around for snakes, I got up and moved under the nearest mesquite, temporarily out of the sun, and looked off along the wash. It curved away for a long distance, becoming rockier, with sparser vegetation.

  Not promising, I thought, but I’ll have to follow it.