The Wayward Widow

by William Campbell Gault

  “And if you’ll pardon the vulgarism, you’re giving me a pain in the ass,” he said. “Because two officers, now suspended, got out of line, you think it’s grounds for one of your phony lectures. You’re hurt and you’re hurting, but you don’t know the first damned thing about running a police department and you’d make a bad officer, I don’t mind telling you. My department serves every citizen in this town fairly and adequately without thought to their station in life, their politics or their various religions. I don’t care if you believe that or not but don’t you ever lecture me! You’re not morally or technically qualified for that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Good afternoon, Chief.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “We understand each other now.” He paused. “And I can use your help.”

  “My help? I thought I’d make a bad officer?”

  “You would. But you make a very effective private investigator and I don’t mind admitting that you’ve been a big help.” He chuckled. “Ye gods, are you sensitive, too, a man with your arrogance?”

  “It’s my sensitivity that makes me arrogant, Chief. And my ribs are making me unreasonable. Don’t crowd me; I’ll go quietly.”

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Back to the Los Angeles lambs, back to the corn-belt refugees. Your tigers have torn out my guts. “I’ve had it, Chief. I’m sick and defeated; I’m going home.”

  “Don’t con me,” he said. “Tell the others anything you want to, but don’t try it with me.” He stood up. “You get in touch with me as soon as you find a new place.” Right from the start the bastard could read my mind. I looked at him steadily and said, “I’m going home. Spread the word and put the murders into the forgotten file; all will be serene again.”

  He smiled. “Rest and get well. When you’re in the new place, let me know. I think we can work together.”

  The man not only refused to pity me; he refused me the solace of self-pity. He left and the nurse came in.

  “Get the doctor,” I told her. “I’m getting bored on my back. I want to get out of here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  THE PLACE I FOUND wasn’t much more than a one-room cabin, though not in any sense Ozarkian. It was furnished beautifully; it had been an artist’s home for six years. It was high above the city, behind the Mission, deep in the hills, my nearest neighbor almost three blocks away. I put the car in the garage and kept the garage door closed.

  I poached four eggs and ate them on toast with three glasses of warm milk. I cleaned my .38 and went out onto the back patio to watch the sun go down.

  When it got dark I phoned Mona Greene.

  “What happened to you?” she asked me. “I went to the hospital and they told me you had left. I went to the motel and they told me you had checked out and gone back to Los Angeles.”

  “If anybody should ask you,” I said, “that’s what happened.”

  “And where the devil are you?”

  “In a lonesome cabin. It belongs to an artist, a man named Hockins.”

  “I know him and I know the place,” she said. “Is he there, too?”

  “No. I’m alone.”

  “And lonesome,” she said. “Well, for your information, no sex tonight.”

  “What do you think I am, insatiable? I’m sick, lady.”

  “I’ll come up there,” she said. “I don’t want to talk too much over the phone.”

  “Come up the back way,” I said, “past the reservoir.”

  “For heaven’s sake, why?”

  “Never mind why. With three men dead, would I have trivial reasons?”

  “I guess not. All right, Joe. I’m on the way. I’ll bring some oysters or something and we can light a fire in that big fireplace and sit around like virgins.”

  Why was she so damned rich? And thirty-seven? She would have made the kind of wife I had always wanted. In the big fireplace, the fire was already laid, with kindling beneath and two big oak logs on top. Below, all the lights of the city were visible and the lights of the cars on the through highway, west of town. She brought smoked oysters and delicatessen rye bread and kosher corned beef and likewise pickles and some deluxe coffee she liked that cost two dollars and a half a pound.

  Brother, it was better than necking, almost. And she talked about the town. Before she had lived here she had visited here every summer and she knew the people and their tangled lines of influence and animosity. And after we talked and ate and watched the fire, it was time for Oscar Levant, who was running a local TV show from Los Angeles.

  She left soon after. I kissed her lightly and watched her black Continental prowl along the back road to town until her headlights were out of sight.

  My clothes had come while I had been in the hospital and I put on a heavy corduroy car coat and my .38 and got into the Plymouth. The car was cold and my ribs were sore and if the anger still hadn’t burned in me, I wouldn’t have gone out on such a cold night. But to leave this town without vengeance for my night of indignity would be unthinkable. I headed for Halcyon Heights.

  I went past the lake where Smiling Dave Hawley had died with his head in the mud. I went up past the glade where Don Malcolm and I had won a major victory. I drove past the house where Dennis Greene had died and around the turn.

  I found some tire tracks in the grass where lovers had undoubtedly driven up into the live oaks and shrubbery that would screen them from the road. Now, why hadn’t Elmer Duggan pulled in here, out of sight? There was a semi-clue.

  I parked and walked up the path to the spot where Elmer had been stabbed with his own screwdriver. I remembered the huge boxers who had slobbered at me from behind the galvanized wire fence, but there was no sound from them tonight. Maybe they were accustomed to spooners coming up here or maybe they were kept in the house nights.

  There was a car parked in the Greene parking area and though it was near the overhead floodlight, I couldn’t see the license number from where I stood. I edged closer, keeping to the shadows of the bushes along the slope.

  It was a Buick hardtop and the license number was now readable. I put it into my notebook and retreated up the slope into the shadowed vantage point. It was a car I hadn’t remembered seeing before, but the woman must have had a lot of friends I had never seen.

  It was cold on the knoll, a damp cold from the ocean, and this could be a pointless vigil I was keeping. But everything had revolved around her; she was the hub in this wheel of violence.

  To the east, headlights moved along the highway and above them, a single pair of headlights was coming down the winding narrow road through the pass. The stars were clear and the moon a sharp sliver in the black night sky.

  Carol Destry was a poised girl. She was a real hard-shelled cutie and it figured she hadn’t broken down over the death of David Hawley. There would be little point in going up against her again; she was undoubtedly covered all the way.

  Another car came up the driveway now, Jack Darbo’s Olds. It pulled next to the Buick and Darbo got out. I thought he studied the Buick for a minute or so before going up to the front door.

  I stayed where I was, the cold seeping into my bones and my ribs beginning to ache in a pulsating pain, tuned to the beat of my heart. From some house within hearing distance, I heard the grind of an automobile starter and the voices of guests saying good night.

  All I had to keep me warm was my resentment and that was cooling. I wanted a cigarette but feared to light a match.

  It seemed like an hour later, but could have been much sooner, when the front door of the Greene house opened and a man came out. I heard him say, “We’ll talk again, Mr. Darbo, but frankly, the events of the last few days — ”

  From within the house, a man’s voice answered and I had to assume it was Darbo’s though I couldn’t recognize it. The door closed and the man who had come out headed for the Buick. It was Mr. Winters, and that was one license number I didn’t have to look up.

  The Buick went away and there was no activity
in sight again. I sat down and lighted a cigarette under the shelter of my car coat. The ground was cold but no colder than my rump. I continued to sit.

  And now another car came up the Greene driveway and I soon saw it was a Cadillac. It parked next to the Olds and a tall, slim man in a topcoat got out. A General Motors show, we were having.

  The tall man, as though prescient, stood for a moment under the glare of the floodlight, looking directly at me, not moving a muscle. I was glad I had finished the cigarette. I wondered if any of its smoke had drifted down that way.

  He turned, then, and as he turned, I saw his profile. It was Chief Slauson. He headed for the house.

  What was cute Miss Carol doing, repairing all her fences? Or perhaps holding a stockholders’ meeting? She had not spent the fifteen years in vain; she had learned to be represented by counsel when conferring with the law.

  On the road below, a car moved blaringly, its tires squealing, and Slauson turned to look that way as he stood in front of the door. It passed under a street lamp and I saw it was Lenny Devlin’s souped-up Mercury.

  I could understand now why Elmer Duggan had chosen to stand here; the whole neighborhood was visible to some degree and the road that serviced most of the houses. And above him was the house of his friend, Donald Malcolm. Tomorrow, I would phone Don.

  Chief Slauson went into the house and now another car came up the driveway. I had hit a jackpot night. This was an ancient Studebaker, as dusty as my Plymouth.

  This one parked in the shadows, but the driver would have to walk past the floodlight to get to the front door. And when he did, I saw it was Doctor West.

  A statement for the press; was that the reason for this confab? Were they all getting together in their San Valdesto way to agree on the lies the papers would be told?

  Easy, Puma, I told myself. Slauson would have no part of that. And neither, I was sure, would Jack Darbo. He was representing his client fully, but his co-operation would stop short of protecting a murderess.

  But was she a murderess? What did I have on her? Nothing but the suspicions of my resentful mind.

  Elmer Duggan, too, had been suspicious of her. And he had stood where I now stood, watching, waiting for any visitor that might give him a lead to her allies. Who had stood with him? Who had found him here, after seeing his car on the road and guessing that Elmer was up here spying on Miss Destry? But if Elmer had come up here with his killer, it was logical to guess he had thought the killer a friend.

  Lenny Devlin? Juan? Don Malcolm? I winced at the thought. I don’t like to think of kids as killers, though newspapers will show the fallacy in that almost any day.

  My teeth began to chatter but I waited another half an hour before I decided no more visitors were coming.

  At the cabin, the fire was still glowing in the huge fireplace and I killed my chill with a hot toddy. Mona had brought the papers when she came, but they would still be readable tomorrow. I could enjoy them with my leisurely breakfast, like a country gentleman.

  As I undressed, I thought of the fat Schultz. He, too, was a part of the town. His wife was Doctor West’s niece. If there is anything smaller than a small world, it is a small town.

  I slept without dreams, my resentment seeping out of me; my resolve holding firm.

  In the morning, I had the sniffles, but I had earned them. I made a pitcher of hot lemonade and ate a light breakfast while I read the local and Los Angeles newspapers Mona had brought.

  I was getting more ink than I deserved, particularly in the local sheet which unfairly emphasized that San Valdesto hadn’t had an Anglo murder for eleven months before my unfortunate appearance on the scene. Now they’d had two in less than a week. It was a good thing, the paper stated, that I had left town.

  Evidently the paper hadn’t been informed of the possibility that Dennis Greene’s death had been a murder. The higher echelon that had met with Carol Destry last night had decided to withhold that information for a while, apparently.

  I washed my dishes and went out into the sun of the rear yard with the field glasses I had found in the cabin. I sat where I wasn’t too obviously prying, and aimed the glasses on my rural neighbor, two sharp turns of the road below. There was a Chevy in the parking area in front of the garage and it looked to me like Elmer Duggan’s car. Was it possible that Patricia Duggan had taken the day off from the travel bureau to visit my neighbor?

  I was about to put the glasses down when a man came out from the side door of the house and climbed into the Chevy.

  It wasn’t quite a man; it was a boy. It was Juan. It could still be Elmer’s car. If Patricia Duggan didn’t drive, she might be using Juan as a chauffeur and letting him use the car as recompense for the service.

  I waited to see if anyone else would come out, but no one did. I went into the house and wrote down the license number. Then I phoned the Malcolm home.

  Donald Jr. was out, some woman informed me, but was there a message?

  “None,” I told her. “When could I catch him in?”

  “At lunch time,” she said. “He’s taking a summer course at San Valdesto Junior College, but he’ll be home for lunch.” She would be glad to tell him I called, if I would leave my name.

  I told her I would call again at lunch, that I was a friend of a friend of his and my name would have no meaning for him.

  I hung up and Mona phoned almost immediately. She told me, “I’ve just had a visit from Chief Slauson. He doesn’t believe you’ve left town.”

  “He’s a smart one. What did you tell him?”

  “I told him he had better watch his tongue, or I’d run the price of that country club land to twenty thousand an acre. I told him if you contacted me, I’d be sure to let him know. You’re not contacting me like you used to, Puma.”

  “No, but I’d like to. When do you think I can again?”

  “About Wednesday. Wasn’t it nice last night, wasn’t it fun?” I told her it had been. And I told her, “Chief Slauson was over to see Miss Destry last night.” I told her of the others who had been there.

  “My!” she said. “The old town hall meeting. You were prowling last night, after I left, were you?”

  “I thought nights would be best. There’s less chance of being recognized at night, or for my car to be identified from any distance. I imagine there are a number of citizens eager to take pot-shots at me about now.”

  “I suppose. Are you frightened?”

  “A little.”

  “Couldn’t I bring dinner over around, say six o’clock?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll do that, then. Isn’t it fun, playing virgin?” I told her it was more fun than chess. I had never liked chess. I reminded her to use the back road. Then I went out in the yard again to check and see if my neighbor had a dog.

  At half an hour past noon, I phoned Don again and this time he was home. I told him, “You’re one of two people who know I’m in town, now. I don’t want it to go any further. Could I see you some time this afternoon?”

  He told me he’d be up in an hour and I told him to use the back road so he wouldn’t be driving past the home of my neighbor.

  I was just finishing lunch when he came. He seemed nervous to me.

  “Trouble?” I asked him. “From the family, maybe?” He shook his head. “No. They haven’t given me any trouble since the day we ganged you. I’m worried about Lenny.”

  “The way you handled him the other day, you shouldn’t be.”

  “I’m thinking of you,” he explained. “Lenny swears he’ll kill you if he runs into you. He doesn’t believe you went back to Los Angeles.”

  “And what’s his beef with me?” Don gulped. “He thinks you killed his uncle.”

  “The kid’s crazy. First Elmer and now his uncle-where is he getting all this misinformation?”

  Don shrugged and went over to a window to look down at the city. With his back to me, he said, “If Lenny thought I was working with you, I don’t know what he’d do. I�
��ve got a fifteen-year-old sister, Joe, and a thirteen-year-old brother.”

  “Maybe you’d better not help me, then,” I said. “So long, Don.”

  He turned around. “Elm was my friend. What did you want me to do?”

  I gave him the list of names I had typed. “I want you to find out what kind of cars these people drive and what the license numbers are.”

  He looked at the list. “I can do that easily enough.” He looked up at me again. “Joe, you weren’t involved in any way with Elmer’s death, were you?”

  “I swear to you that I wasn’t, Don. And I think I can promise you that I’ll know the killer before I leave town, and so will the police.”

  He brightened. “You’ve got a lead?”

  “A dim one. Don, don’t be too friendly with Juan or with Lenny, will you? They’re getting bad advice from someone.”

  “I’ll be careful,” he promised. He looked at the list again. “I think I see a pattern.”

  “You’d make a good cop,” I told him. “Patterns, those are what we look for.”

  He looked at the list for a third time and his voice was low. “Lenny, Lenny, Lenny — he’s a wild one. He’s crazy, that kid.”

  “And Juan could be as dangerous. Does he carry a knife?”

  Don nodded. “And when he isn’t carrying that, he’s got this gadget he made, a screwdriver with the blade filed down to a needle point.”

  There was a silence. He looked uncomfortable and I looked at him.

  Finally, he said, “He didn’t used to be that way. Lenny, either. It’s just in the last couple months — ”

  “You grew up,” I explained, “and they didn’t. Okay, Don, you check on those license numbers if you think you can do it without getting involved in violence.”

  “It’s a breeze,” he said. “Don’t call me; I’ll call you.” He left and I washed the lunch dishes and stretched out for a little nap. There was work to be done tonight and I still hadn’t completely recuperated from my beating.

  It was a troubled sleep. Once I thought I heard a hotrod thunder past outside and another time I was sure I heard footsteps on the driveway. The principals in the action of the last few days moved through my half-dreams and the figure of Juan kept recurring on the scene. I wondered who he was related to. Or, for the sake of grammar, to whom he was related.