Detour to Death
Page 18
“Is this my biography?” Trace inquired.
“With pictures! What did he do when you told him about Danny’s man in a raincoat?”
“Sent me to Junction City to look for him.”
“Exactly. And then he took the other road down, knowing the road block wasn’t alerted for an old man in a gray sedan, and had no trouble at all spotting that red jeep of yours. That left you to do the questioning and leave the trail.” Virgil paused significantly and then put into words what Trace was thinking. “Who knows? If you’d actually reached Malone first Fisher might be planning a funeral for you.”
“I knew all the time there was something queer about Laurent,” Danny chimed in. “No expensive lawyer gives away free samples.”
It was a little mean of Danny to add to Trace’s discomfort, especially when Trace was the reason he was outside of a cell and not wanted by the law for the first time in three days. Virgil, remembering that pistol blow on his head and the sedan that was even now being hauled out of the dry river bed, was dead set against release; but Trace fixed that. “My client,” he said (sounding as if he’d written the book), “may have a few complaints of his own. False arrest, imprisonment without formal charge, police brutality—” Right about then Virgil decided to be generous, and that was why Danny was gathering up his possessions. He had the canvas zipper bag under his arm, an old jacket of Trace’s to replace the one lost in the fire, and a tight wad of bills in his Levi’s. Two hundred dollars, just like when he’d hit town.
“I suppose now you’ll be telling us that you knew Laurent was guilty all along,” Trace said.
“I didn’t say that,” Danny protested. “I thought it was Malone until he turned up dead. After that I was too busy to think. I didn’t wise up until Laurent started giving me that big pitch in the car last night. I got to remembering something the old doc said when I was riding with him, something about needing another language to say what he didn’t like to say. I figured it must have been Laurent he was talking about, and what he’d have to tell him about his son. And how could Laurent be so sure of what was in that statement if the doc hadn’t told him?”
“While you were finishing a Coke,” Trace muttered.
Trace didn’t like to talk about it. The whole affair made him both sad and angry—sad because death was sad, and angry because he’d been played for a sucker all around. By Francy, by Jim Rice, but most of all by Alexander Laurent. Perhaps his score with Laurent had been settled when Douglas fell before his father’s eyes; but being used for a stooge wasn’t a pleasant experience even when it came under the guise of benevolence. Noblesse oblige! Now that the idol had fallen, Trace could see the flaws in the clay. Laurent’s world was filled with Douglases—childlike creatures to be protected, tolerated, and even used if necessary, but never allowed to mature to their own stature. The Great White Father bestowing life and death as he saw fit!
When Arthur suddenly appeared in the street doorway, Trace spun about and pointed a finger at him. “Where would you be without me?” he challenged.
Arthur didn’t seem particularly impressed. “Are you kidding?” he asked. “Without you I’d be getting some work done. We’ve got a barn roof that needs fixing and—”
“You’re damned right you would!” Trace broke in. “And I’ll tell you something else. All the people here in town, and the ones outside town, would be doing just exactly what they’re doing now if there’d never been a Cooper on God’s good earth. Laurent’s welcome to that pile of rocks my ancestors built. He’s even welcome to my ancestors—and he may be seeing some of them soon. Let’s get at that roof!”
Trace was having such a good time with his self-discovery, he didn’t even notice the telegram Arthur had brought until it was shoved under his nose. He turned his back on Virgil and read it quickly. It was the answer to the one sent from Red Rock the day before, a confirmation actually. But now that he had it, what was he to do? A man likes to make his own decisions, good or bad, and Danny had certainly earned the right.
He looked up and saw the kid turning toward the door. “What’s your hurry?” he asked.
“I see a bus coming in,” Danny said.
It was an understatement. Roads and old motors being what they were, transportation usually came to Cooperton in bunches or not at all. Two busses were pulling up in front of the depot across the street, one heading north and one heading south, and Danny hadn’t mentioned his destination.
“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the hospitality,” he added, “but I have a sort of a date. Here—” He hauled the language dictionary out of his pocket and tossed it on Virgil’s desk. “You keep this,” he said. “You might need it.”
It was too late to stop him then. Throwing Trace and Arthur a broad wink, Danny sauntered across the street, tall and lanky in his tight Levi’s and with the sun making a golden crown of his stubby hair. For a moment they lost sight of him behind the busses, and then the southbound pulled out and he waved just once before climbing aboard the other.
As soon as they were out of Virgil’s office, Trace made a tight wad of the telegram in his hand. “I think we should wire Danny’s draft board to keep their shirts on,” he said, “and say he’s on his way.”
“Via the scenic route?” Arthur suggested.
“No—”
With the busses out of the way, Trace could see something else in the line of unfinished business. Joyce was just turning in at the drugstore across the street, and he tried to remember the last time he’d bought a girl a drink at a fountain.
“Let’s just say the kid hit a detour,” he concluded. “It happens to the best and the worst of us.”
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Copyright © 1953 by Helen Nielsen, Registration Renewed 1981
Originally published under the title Detour
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4248-1
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4248-0
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