“Was is right! Was is just right!”
Ada came in with a pot of coffee just then, but Virgil didn’t so much as acknowledge her presence. The pressure must be getting pretty rough, Trace reckoned, because the big man’s blustering manner had a graveness in it and lacked its usual steam even when he pushed back from the desk and began pacing the floor like an angry bull.
“Do you know what your precious Danny Ross has done now?” he stormed. “That man in the raincoat, Steve Malone, was found in Junction City last night with a bullet in his head. And who do you think was seen in Junction City last night? Who do you think held a gun—my gun—on a man parked at a drive-in, and then slugged him so he could follow Malone?”
“Was Malone shot with your gun?” Trace asked.
He shouldn’t have been so casual about it. He should have shown some surprise, because Virgil calmed down right away.
“We don’t know yet,” he said.
“Then you don’t know that Danny shot him.”
“Well, what does it look like?”
“It looks,” Trace murmured, helping himself to the coffee Virgil still ignored, “like three murders in a row. First Francy, then Doctor Gaynor, and now Malone. It looks like somebody trying desperately to silence anyone who might know the truth. That’s the trouble with murder. It multiplies.”
“Was Francy really murdered?” Ada asked.
It was easy to forget about Ada. She blended with the walls and the woodwork. Trace watched her over the rim of the coffee cup, trying to decide if she’d said anything about meeting him last night. He guessed not since Virgil had made no mention of it.
“Are you still here?” Virgil howled, giving her a push toward the hall. “I’ve told you a thousand times to keep your nose out of this office!” He returned to his desk and gave back the frown Trace had sent him. “You can’t trust a woman,” he muttered. “They pick up a little here, a little there, and then they go buzzing all over town until everybody’s up in arms and ready to throw a necktie party at the first tree they come to. You may not know it, Trace, but that kid would be a lot safer in this jail than wherever he is now.”
It could have been just conscience that made Virgil’s words sound so deliberate. “I’ll tell him if I see him,” Trace muttered.
“You be sure and do that. And tell Laurent, too.”
It definitely wasn’t conscience, and this time Trace was caught way off base. “Laurent?” he echoed.
“Don’t act innocent, Trace, it’s not your type. Yes, I know all about Alexander Laurent coming into town night before last and having that heart-to-heart talk with you at the Pioneer bar. Of course, I’m not a smart, educated man like you two, but even a dumb sheriff knows a little of what happens in his own town.” Virgil smiled, and he looked much less ominous without it. “The people on the street know about it, too,” he added, “and if they should get the idea that a great lawyer like Laurent was going to get Danny Ross out of paying for old Charley’s death—”
“Only if he’s innocent!” Trace cut in.
“You’ll have to prove that.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do! I know the heat’s all on you, Virgil, for letting Danny get away. But use your head. If it turns out he’s just an innocent, scared kid, running the way any innocent, scared kid might run, then the last laugh is yours. But if you follow the mob and spend so much time looking for Danny you can’t find the real murderer then you’re not fit to be wearing that badge!”
Anyone but a Cooper would have caught a fist in his face for saying that. Virgil’s face was white with fury. “Maybe you could wear it better!” he snapped.
“Maybe I could. Maybe I’d start by finding out something about Danny Ross—where he’s from, what kind of a family, if he has a record. Just because he’s a stranger doesn’t make him a killer. And then I’d want to know what possible motive he could have had for doing these things. If he killed the old man for his money, why did he kill Malone?”
“Malone could have been a witness.”
“To an act of Danny’s? That doesn’t make sense, Virgil. You wouldn’t have known a thing about Malone if Danny hadn’t insisted there was such a man. Why would he start a search for a man who could convict him? And while we’re on the subject of Malone, how was he fixed for folding money when they found him?”
It hit home. Virgil knew as well as Trace that a common laborer at Raney’s camp didn’t drag down that kind of money, plus room and board, for a couple of weeks work. Besides, Malone had left a trail of twenty-dollar bills all over Junction City. But Virgil wasn’t cowed for long.
“Get the kid back here and I’ll try to get some answers for those questions,” he said. “I can’t examine a suspect when he’s not on hand.”
“You can check his background.”
“Hell, man, he wouldn’t give us any!” Virgil ripped open one of the lower desk drawers and brought up a canvas zipper bag, a paper-covered book, and a well-worn wallet. “That’s all he had on him,” he said. “Some underwear and socks, this darned book, and the two hundred dollars.”
“No identification?”
“The usual. Driver’s license, social security—”
“Then he had been working.”
“Why not? He’s old enough. Over eighteen.”
“Over eighteen?” Trace picked up the wallet and studied the driver’s license inside. Chicago, the address was. Just as he expected. It was a couple of years old so the address might be out of date, but it would be all right for a starter. The snapshots were cute but uninformative, and there was nothing to indicate Danny Ross was anything but what he claimed to be: a kid on the loose seeing the country. Nothing except what was missing. Trace was on the verge of mentioning it when he caught himself. Danny was in enough trouble already without stirring up more, and he might be jumping to conclusions, anyway. It was just that the kid had been so reluctant to give himself a past—and so eager to leave a murder charge hanging over him by skipping over the border. Trace fingered the language dictionary thoughtfully.
“Like I said before,” Virgil remarked, “we’ll get all kinds of answers when Danny’s back in that cell, but until then my one and only interest is finding him before some not so law-abiding citizens do. Right now I’m going to pay a call on your friend Laurent.”
“Do you think he’s keeping the kid?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that one of the boys reported seeing headlights moving out that way late last night, and they’ve combed all over Junction City.”
Trace still had the feeling that Virgil wasn’t telling him all these things just to make conversation. The headlights could have been the jeep hurrying off to Peace Canyon, and Virgil’s proclaimed visit to the ranch could be a ruse to send him out after Danny so he could be followed. If so Virgil was out of luck, because now Trace had to go to a funeral.
• • •
Two funerals were held that morning in the little frame church adjoining the Cooperton cemetery. This unusually crowded calendar brought great mental anguish to the man in charge of operations, particularly in the instance of the woman named Francy Allen. The Reverend Mr. Whitlow, a placid man of sufficient years to make such a condition possible, had no objection to performing such services for a sinner. As a matter of fact, it was his private opinion that such as Francy needed his prayers far more than the good Dr. Gaynor; but his discomfort at the thought of these two more or less consecutive ceremonies concerned not the dead but the living. It was common knowledge that Francy Allen had come between Trace Cooper and Joyce Gaynor, and so solemn an occasion was hardly the time to renew old bitterness.
Francy’s funeral was brief and her mourners few. The entire party consisted of four members: Trace, looking strangely dignified in a dark suit specially pressed for the occasion—no doubt about it, the Coopers were a striking breed even in decline; an individual named Murphy, who carried on the dubious profession of tending bar at the Pioneer Hotel and who insisted on crossin
g himself at prayer; Fisher the mortician, and Trace’s dark companion whose presence in the Cooperton church and cemetery might be tolerated in life but never in death. This situation was not particularly to the Reverend Mr. Whitlow’s liking, but it was not without experience that he had become a placid man.
The last amen was uttered with a profound sense of gratitude that there had been no overlapping of mourners. The trouble between Trace and Joyce Gaynor seemed to worsen with the passing of time. It was, Reverend Mr. Whitlow reckoned, due in great part to the attentions paid her by the young doctor who had come to carry on a practice death would have ended in due time at any rate. It was none of the Reverend’s business, of course, but he did hate to see a courtship of such long standing fail. Trace and Joyce had been going out together even before he went into the service. Adjustments had to be made later, particularly in view of Trace’s loss of the ranch, but Joyce wasn’t one to let money or the lack of it come between her and the man she loved. But Francy was a different matter. If only Trace hadn’t taken her under his roof—with the whole town knowing what she was!
The last amen and the scraping of spades on the dry earth. Murph and Arthur left the churchyard, and Fisher hurried off to attend to the new procession already creeping up the road, but Trace stayed on. He knew exactly what the minister was thinking; he knew exactly how the town would buzz if he remained for the doctor’s funeral. It was a ridiculous situation. Old Doc Gaynor had brought him into the world and watched over him for years like a benevolent grandfather, but because of one quarrel, one misunderstanding, and all the heartaches that went with it, he was now an outsider.
Trace watched them come—the hearse, the black limousine, and just about every vehicle of transportation in the county following behind. All of Cooperton, it appeared, would be at Charley Gaynor’s funeral, not to mention representatives of all the outlying areas that had known his friendly smile and merciful hands. A good man dies poor but with many mourners, and none of the Coopers sleeping under their ornate stone angels had inspired such a cortege as this! Reluctantly, Trace moved off toward where Arthur waited in the jeep. Absence was the best way to pay his respects; what’s more, the sight of that long, crawling train had given him an idea. What better time to do a few of the things that must be done than when so many of the cats were away?
And so the Reverend Mr. Whitlow drew a sigh of heartfelt relief, and all the Coopertonians were cheated of an anticipated scene that could in no way approach the scandalous behavior of Trace Cooper’s next move.
The first move was to send Arthur off on the bus to Red Rock. From there he could send a telegram that wouldn’t immediately become public property, as well as make a few inquiries at the hospital where Francy had died. Trace didn’t know exactly what to look for, but he was beginning to get an idea. All of this meant delaying the report to Laurent until sometime later in the afternoon, but with Virgil already at the ranch it was wiser to stay away for a while, anyway. The time wouldn’t be wasted.
Nobody locked doors in Cooperton. The bank, the gas pumps, a few houses of business—yes; but not the tall, old-fashioned doors of the houses where people lived and died. Dr. Gaynor’s house was no different from the others. A sad-eyed collie guarded the wide front porch, his long muzzle sunk deep within his paws, but he was an old dog and Trace was an old friend of the master who wouldn’t return. A few words of comfort, a pat on the head, and the responding slap of a shaggy tail on the plank step comprised the only formalities to this entrance.
Inside the house all was silent and heavy with the perfume of death, of wreaths and bouquets that had stopped by on the way to the churchyard and become mingled with the faintly medicinal odor of the doctor’s home office. Trace slid open the double doors and stepped into the dispensary. White and clean were the walls, black and shiny were the leather swivel chair and the rolled-top desk. Where did the search begin? Where was the evidence that might spell murder if seen by understanding eyes? Trace moved over to the desk.
A doctor’s life was a life of confidences, sometimes freely, sometimes reluctantly given, and his records were meant for his eyes alone. Trace knew these things but he had to go on prodding every pigeonhole and rifling every drawer. The fat-faced clock hung over a glass-front cabinet with locked doors ticked off a steady warning, but the search continued. Old records, old secrets, old X-rays—these were no good! What was needed was something recent, some starting place for murder such as the day before Francy died. There must be an appointment book somewhere.
Trace was reaching for yet another drawer when noises on the front porch brought a sudden halt to his activities. So soon? He swung about and looked at the fat clock, and was astonished at the time. The funeral must be over. The noises were footsteps and voices on the porch.
“I don’t like leaving you alone at a time like this,” the young doctor was saying as the front door opened. “I’d be only too glad to stay.”
“No, Lowell, please—I don’t mind. I’d rather be alone.”
Just hearing Joyce speak again brought a tightness to Trace’s throat. He moved away from the doorway and stood pressed against the wall.
“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind. But if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call.”
Need anything! As if Joyce Gaynor had to rely on Lowell Glenn for her needs! Trace waited for the click of the closing door, and then for the sound of Joyce coming nearer. She came slowly and at last stood in the double doorway, her face terribly young and terribly solemn under a small black hat. He could see she was troubled by the opened doors until the sight of him gave her bigger troubles.
“Trace,” she gasped, “what are you doing here? What have you done to grandfather’s things?”
It was too late for discretion. He’d had neither time nor thought for closing the desk. “I’m looking for something,” he said.
“I can see that, but what are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. A beginning, a reason for three violent deaths.”
These first few moments were the most difficult—this first shock of finding him here in the house; but if Trace won these moments, he might win time to finish the search. Joyce hesitated and then came into the room.
“You’re trying to help Danny Ross,” she said. “Why?”
“Because he’s innocent.”
“How can you be sure?”
There was a strangeness in her voice that made Trace uncomfortable. “I’m not sure,” he answered, “but I’m not the only one who feels this way. Alexander Laurent was the first. He asked me to defend Danny.”
“In court?”
“We hope it doesn’t go that far.”
Joyce was impressed. She knew what the name Laurent stood for in the pursuit of justice, and what it meant to Trace. No one could have known Trace so long and so well without knowing his idols. Her hesitation was a green light for the full treatment.
“Can’t you see?” Trace argued. “Your grandfather had no enemies; he could only have been killed because something he knew or suspected was dangerous to someone. And what could he have known? Think, Joyce. It was he who answered the call when Francy was found dying on the highway. He gave her emergency treatment, and was with her in the hospital when she died. And on his way home to make an official report on the cause of her death he was killed. Everybody loved Charley Gaynor, but it seems to me that somebody loved life a lot more.”
“But the money—” she protested.
“Haven’t you heard about Danny’s man in a raincoat? He was found in Junction City last night with a bullet in his head and quite a stack of twenty-dollar bills in his possession.”
Joyce was trying hard to keep up with his arguments, he had to give her credit for that, but the ordeal she’d just been through made it all so difficult. Death, that’s all she could retain. Sudden, horrible, violent death. Black wasn’t her color and cold-blooded logic wasn’t her forte.
“I’m sorry about Francy,” she said vaguely. “I meant to
send flowers but there was so much to do.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Trace muttered. “She couldn’t have smelled them, anyway. Joyce, I’m not doing this because of Francy. I’m here for the living, not the dead!”
He wanted to say so much more, but they mustn’t get started talking about Francy. Francy always led to an impasse, and at the moment all he wanted to lead to was that appointment book. It took a bit of doing, but in the end Joyce agreed, and they studied it together. The last page was filled with dates that would never be kept, but it was the day of Francy’s death that interested Trace. What he expected to find was vague and nebulous in his mind, and what he did find did nothing to better that condition. The doctor had put in a routine day. A local hypochondriac, a couple of regular visits from expectant mothers, and only one patient who elicited any interest at all.
“Ada Keep,” Trace wondered aloud. “What’s troubling Ada? Surely she isn’t in a family way!”
Joyce almost smiled. “Poor Ada,” she murmured. “I don’t know what she came to Grandfather for—sympathy perhaps. I think he was running some kind of tests.”
“IQ?”
“You shouldn’t talk that way!”
“I know.” Trace slammed the book shut with a gesture of finality. It had seemed such a good idea, too. But at least the morning hadn’t been wasted. He had been with Joyce all this time without argument, and even now, when there was no excuse left for staying, she hadn’t asked him to leave. Perhaps it was because death in the house brought back mutual memories, and not all of them were bad. Not nearly all.
“Joyce,” he began, knowing in his heart it was useless effort. Automatically she drew away and became terribly preoccupied straightening the old man’s desk, much as if he’d be coming back soon and might scold if things were out of place. The appointment book went back into the top drawer, the letters back into the pigeonholes, and an old fountain pen left uncapped required immediate attention. “This old pen!” she fussed, screwing on the top fiercely. “With all the fine pens Grandfather’s been given, he always uses some leaky old thing like this!”
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