“She hired me because the people at the Clinic are refusing to let her visit her brother’s bedside.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s enough. She’s been kept away ever since the accident. That’s seven months.”
“Hell,” Rush said, “I can take care of that for you.”
Chapter Twelve
Two breakthroughs on the same problem in less than half a day. I went back to Sam, who’d been waiting in my van. Apparently patiently.
“I’ve been watching the people go by,” she said. “Why are you looking unhappy like that?”
“Because I did my job. Again,” I said.
“Isn’t that good?”
“Things have come up.”
“What?”
I explained the apparent peculiarities of the Pighees’ financial situation as I made notes on my conversation with P. Henry Rush.
But Sam was less interested in the compensation situation than the notes. “Don’t they take a long time if you do it for everybody you talk to?”
“Yes,” I said.
When I finished them, I said, “But they help me think. If I do them soon after a conversation, I can remember almost everything that was said and sometimes when I read over them later I see things more clearly than when I was actually talking.”
“Oh,” Sam said. Not terribly impressed. Not many kids are impressed by long-cuts to results.
“Have we eaten yet?”
“No,” she said.
“Want to go out?”
She hesitated when she wanted to ask if I could afford it, then said, “O.K.”
I took her to Bud’s Dugout. We played pinball while Mom worked her way through the end of the lunchtime traffic. One flipper each and when we started to get replays Sam said, “This is rather fun,” in the tone of a kid who’d thought herself too good for such entertainment. A Madame Graumier’s student.
“Of course it is,” I said patronizingly. “And it helps support your grandmother, too. You tell your mother that I make regular contributions to your grandmother’s support.”
“Pay attention; you nearly lost that ball.”
Then I did lose it.
“Oh, Daddy! Let me play by myself!”
After lunch I left Sam to help Mom with the dishes and I went out to Beech Grove. I got there about three-thirty.
But I thought I’d call on Mrs. Pighee before I saw my client. I rang the house bell. There was no answer, so I rang again.
“Go away, will you? I’m trying to sleep.”
Before I could do anything, the lock was turned from the inside and Linn Pighee opened the door. She wore a bathrobe and a glass and said, “Oh, it’s Mr. Albert come back to see poor old me again. Hello, Mr. Albert.”
“Hello, Mrs. Pighee. Do you have time for a few words?”
She smiled. “It’s high time for a few words,” she said. “Because I’m just a little bit high.” But she didn’t make way for me in the doorway.
I said, “I’m glad I caught you in.”
“It’s the only way you’ll catch me.” She paused. “Say, would you like to come in?”
“Please,” I said.
She led me to the screened porch and resumed her position of the day before on the chaise. I sat in my chair. I was conscious of our conversation having been interrupted last time and said, “This could become habit-forming.”
“Could it?” she asked rhetorically. “What do you want, Mr. Albert?”
“Samson,” I said.
“Sam,” she said.
“No, Albert Samson,” I said.
She waited.
“Well, I’ve had a rather disturbing conversation today.”
“What a pity.”
“Disturbing because I think it puts your financial future in some doubt.”
She frowned for a long time. Then said, “I didn’t think you were investigating me.”
“I’m not. A man jumped to the assumption that I was working for you and told me some things that put questions in my mind.”
“Such as?”
“Such as why your husband’s accident compensation agreement should be with a man, P. Henry Rush, instead of with Loftus Pharmaceuticals or their insurers.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s unusual,” which didn’t impress her, “and it’s risky because you have only the assets of the man to claim against, instead of the assets of the insurance company.”
“Mmm. That doesn’t sound very good.” She sipped.
I waited. She didn’t say anything else, so I asked, “Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t. Walter did whatever there was to be done.”
“But surely he acted on your instruction. Surely he outlined the alternatives to you and suggested that you pick one of them and gave you reasons for it and that sort of thing.”
“Nope.”
“But you signed some papers?”
She shook her head. “Walter came out a couple of times. He told me I’d keep getting John’s salary and what I’d get if he died. I told him I didn’t want to think about it, so he handles all the money and I just write checks when I want some cash. Not that I want much. I haven’t had the energy necessary to spend money.” She watched my reaction, and said, “You look puzzled.”
“It’s not the way things work. I don’t really understand. Would you mind if I talked to your lawyer?”
“Be my guest.”
“Would you authorize me to have a look at the agreements he entered into with Loftus or Henry Rush?”
“Rush,” she said slowly. “I think that was the name of the man who told me about the accident.”
“He did?”
“He was terribly upset. He came out here that night. He was really very shaky. I don’t think he should have been driving, he was so shaky.”
“Is it O.K. for Weston to show me the relevant papers, Mrs. Pighee?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. I don’t mind.”
“He’ll probably call you to confirm it.”
She shrugged. “But what’s your interest, Mr. Albert?”
I smiled. “I don’t understand what’s happening, and I lose sleep when I don’t understand things.”
“I lose sleep when I do understand things,” she said. She had a drink on it. “Want a drink?”
“No, thanks.”
“What’s the matter, you won’t drink with a drinking lady?”
“I’m not thirsty,” I said.
She tried her new concoction and said, “I thought you were working for my beloved sister-in-law.”
“I am. But I think I’ve done what she wanted me to do, so it probably won’t last long.”
“She wanted to visit him, right?”
“Right.”
“Hell, that shouldn’t be a big deal.”
“I agree.”
“I hope she paid you in advance.”
My silence bespoke the opposite.
“Broken-hearted sister Thomas. She’s the stingiest woman in Beech Grove, and if you’re giving her credit you’re the last of the optimists.”
“Please don’t say things like that,” I said.
She shrugged without much sympathy.
“Who told her about John’s accident?”
“I did. The day after that man came here. In the afternoon. I forgot to do it in the morning.”
I didn’t say anything.
She sat up suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Your socks.”
“What about them?” I looked at them. “Good God. Not matched.”
She laughed. I thought for a few moments, trying to remember what had happened to the other yellow one and the other red one.
After she subsided, I said, “Do you have any notion of what your husband was doing in the research labs at Loftus? I’ve asked several people and they don’t seem to know what he was up to.”
“What he w
as up to in the way of work, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“No idea.”
“What about other than work?”
“I don’t know about that, either,” she said, and she drank deeply from her glass and looked unhappy. I was going to say something, when she put her glass on the side table with a bang and said, “Your socks.”
“I’m—”
“You must feel pretty stupid about them. I’m going to make you feel more at ease. I’m going to go put something on to make you feel more comfortable.” She got up, slightly unsteadily, and left the porch. She was gone for five minutes. It made me feel very uncomfortable.
“Are you ready?” she called at last from the doorway.
I waited.
She marched onto the porch holding her dressing gown up to display a pair of knee-length maroon-and-orange knitted stockings. “Aren’t they great?” she asked. “I found them yesterday in one of the drawers. They were Simmy’s, one of my daughters. She bought them in a dime store when she was six. Six! She wouldn’t let me take them back because she wanted to grow into them. Aren’t they just a riot! I laughed when I found them. The things that take kids’ fancies. Have you ever seen anything so hysterical? I laughed and laughed until I cried.” She laughed and then started crying. I stood up and held her.
“They would have been twelve next birthday. Why should I hate John?” she asked herself. “He just ruined my life and then took away its only compensation.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“What for?” She pulled away and we faced each other.
“I feel more at ease,” I said.
“Well, you could be worse,” she said. “Give us a hug, Mr. Albert. Every good woman needs to be hugged three times a day.”
I hugged her.
“I’m so tired,” she said. “So tired.” I laid her down on her chaise and pulled her dressing gown round her. Then I walked back through the house and out the front door.
Chapter Thirteen
Mrs. Thomas was at home. Though the afternoon was clear and pleasant, and there were chairs on the grass, she was inside her aluminum home. I knocked on the door, watched her peer through a side window at me.
“Hello, Mr. Samson,” she said cheerfully. “I can see that you’ve been at work.”
“You can?” I said. Must be the socks.
“Come in,” she said, “Out of the mosquitoes.”
We sat.
“I have been working,” I said. “But did you mean something special?”
She said proudly, “A man came to see me this afternoon.” “Ahh.”
“He told me about John. About his condition, and he said how sorry he was that I hadn’t been allowed to visit him.”
“Sorrow now is better than sorrow never, I guess.”
“He said that he was very distraught that I had had to go to the personal trouble and expense of hiring a private detective to find out what should have been available to me by right as John’s sister. He said very nice things about John. I didn’t realize that they appreciated his value so much.”
She was basking in the attention shown her. Which seemed reasonable enough in a life that looked pretty lonely from the perspectives I’d had on it. “If they’re so bothered by the expense you’ve gone to, they should pay you back for it.”
“He did,” she said.
“He gave you money? How much?”
“Well, I don’t like to say how much, in case you adjust your bill to fit it.”
I sighed audibly. But she didn’t know how scrupulously honest I am. Fair enough.
“It wasn’t very much,” she added hastily. “Just a token.”
I didn’t believe her. I thought she’d got a lot. I hesitated. Shrugged. “Well,” I said, “at least you can visit your brother now.”
She didn’t say anything.
“When will you be going to see him?” I asked.
“I appreciate your work on my behalf,” she said. “Don’t think I don’t. But you may have been a bit confused about what I wanted.”
“You wanted to be allowed to see your brother, at his bedside. Surely you can now.”
“I wanted, at least, to know the reasons why I was kept from John. And the man who came was very clear and firm about why it wouldn’t be best for John. I understand now. I’m not so fussed as I was. Thank you for helping me.” She stood up. “If you’ll send your bill,” she said, “I’ll deal with it as soon as I can.”
“Just a minute, Mrs. Thomas,” I said.
“Is something wrong, Mr. Samson?”
“I only want to get things straight. A man came out here, talked you out of wanting to visit your brother, and gave you some money for your trouble.”
“Just a token,” she said. “Hardly anything at all, really.”
“And now you don’t even want to visit your brother.”
She sat again. “Of course I want to,” she said sharply. “But it’s not in his best interests. There’s the danger of infection and he wouldn’t even know I was there, so I could hardly comfort him, could I? My forcing my way in there would only make me feel better, not John. And it’s hardly worth putting him at any extra risk for my sake.”
“And you’re completely satisfied with that?”
“I won’t be needing your further services,” she said.
“Can you tell me just two other things? Who the man was who came here, and about what time he talked to you.”
“Well,” she said, trying to think of some reason not to tell me.
“Was it Henry Rush?”
“No. A Mr. Dundree, Dr. Dundree. A Ph.D. doctor, like John could have been if he wanted, but he didn’t have the time. And it was a little after lunchtime.”
“What? One o’clock? One-thirty?”
She nodded.
I got up. “I’m very glad that you’ve been satisfied about your brother, Mrs. Thomas,” I said as I left. But I don’t think she believed me. Perceptive of her, because I was lying.
I drove away without writing anything in my notebook. Time enough for that later. My client had been bought off by Jay Dundree, when he’d implied to me that he would give in to what she wanted. Or what she’d told me she wanted.
I felt let down. I felt angry. Even though vacillating clients with a blurred vision of what they’re after are an occupational hazard in this business.
Near Bud’s Dugout I stopped at a pay phone and called the Pighees’ lawyer, Walter Weston. On the off chance that he would still be in his office.
And he was. I explained that I wanted to come over to have a look at the papers relating to John Pighee’s financial arrangements with Loftus Pharmaceuticals.
“I can’t show them to you,” he said impatiently.
“I have Mrs. Pighee’s permission,” I said.
“In writing?”
“No. But she’ll confirm it by telephone if you want to call her while I’m on my way.”
“I’ll have to have it in writing,” he said, and I could visualize him sitting at his desk and shaking his black hair from side to side.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t approve. And if John recovers and wants to know why I let a stranger go through his papers, I want to be able to show him that Linn insisted. Let them fight it out.”
I called Linn Pighee’s house. I’d left her virtually asleep, and I didn’t likedisturbing her, but it was my last day on the case. That justified the call—to me, at least.
But she seemed fully awake when she answered the phone.
“Mr. Albert! Good heavens, a girl wants to get a little shut-eye, and all of a sudden it’s open house.”
“It is?”
“I was sleeping and the doorbell rang and it was my medicine and then the phone rang. I must be getting popular.”
I explained that I wanted to come out again to get a signed authorization to look at her husband’s papers.
“You can’t come to the house now,” she said.
; “I’ll only be a minute.”
“No!” she said and seemed, in a moment, to be becoming shrill.
“If you come, I won’t open the door.”
“Why not?” I asked, my annoyance with Mrs. Thomas carrying over into my voice.
“I just don’t want to see anybody else tonight. That’s all. I don’t have to if I don’t want to. Come back tomorrow morning, why don’t you.”
I thought I heard a low sound behind her voice, but it didn’t repeat itself. I said, “But I’m virtually in Beech Grove now. Tomorrow I won’t have the time to come out in the morning.”
“You can’t come,” she said. “I . . . I’ll . . . I’ll come into town if it’s so important.”
I sighed. “At my office. About eleven,” I said, and hung up on her.
I called Weston back, saying that I didn’t have time to go out to Beech Grove at the moment but that I would be seeing Mrs. Pighee in the morning and would stop by in the afternoon.
Before I drove the rest of the way from the phone to Bud’s Dugout, I brought my notebook up to date. It wasn’t a pleasant task. I hate unanswered questions, if I’ve cared enough to ask them in the first place. And I hate clients’ being bought off. What good is a detective keeping incorruptible if the client is weak-willed?
And I was more than angry. Quite apart from Linn Pighee’s snub in favor of her medicine, I had become suspicious. Rush hadn’t acted as if keeping visitors away from John Pighee was a big deal, yet Dundree had pulled out all the stops to keep Mrs. Thomas away. It seemed legitimate to ask why. I wished someone besides me I wanted to know.
Sam did. I blessed her for it.
“Bless you, Sam.”
“Looks like they’re covering up something, huh. Daddy?”
Put that way, I began to see the other side. “Well . . . They could have perfectly straightforward reasons.”
“No,” Sam said. “They’d tell you just to keep you from being a nuisance. Somebody’s covering something up.”
“It sounds so simple-minded the way you say it,” I said uncharitably.
“I am not. I’m very complex-minded.” My lack of grace was with myself, but she took it personally.
“Look, Sam,” I said. “Your grandmother is busy out there now.”
“I know,” she said. “I have been here all afternoon. It was quiet, but not nearly as quiet as spending the afternoon in your office was.”
The Silent Salesman Page 7