I pocketed it—couldn't be possible the cops were that sloppy—returned to Saxton's office. He was leaning back in his chair, dictating a letter into a machine. I stood there, waiting. On his desk, among the morning mail, I saw a copy of
Saxton turned off the machine and I pointed to the newsletter. “That any good? My former partner runs it—Harry Loughlin.”
Saxton looked at me with new interest. “Oh. Heard him speak—energetic chap. I was one of his first subscribers. Henry was against it, but if we ever wanted to get in on defense contracts, had to be on the safe side. Finished with the office?”
I dropped the deed on his desk. He read it, his big face showing mild surprise. “Henry never mentioned this. Sometimes went hunting, but I'm surprised he never said anything about buying a cabin.”
I beat him to the question. “Want me to look the cabin over? Arrow is about fifty miles from here.”
“Think it would be worthwhile?”
“Never tell what may be a lead. I haven't a car.”
“You can take mine.” He handed me the keys and told somebody over the interphone I'd be down. He said, “I won't need the car before five, you'll be back by then. Probably a wild goose chase... but.”
He said it all very nicely—not too much of a straight face. He tried to break my hand again as we shook and I left. He had a heavy Caddy, about three years old, but well kept. I hadn't driven a car in too many months and it felt good to be behind all that smooth steady power. The roads were empty and I made it in an hour. It took me another twenty minutes to locate the cabin. A kid in a gas station pointing it out to me, said, “You buy it? Heard it was sold months ago.”
“Anybody living there?”
“No. You didn't buy it?”
It was a new cabin, made of logs or imitation logs, and set off by itself up on a wooded rise. I parked the car and walked up the slope, puffing a little. There were dark-blue burlap curtains over the window, but nothing moved. I was a fine target for anybody in the cabin, but I had a pretty good idea whoever was in there wasn't in any shape to do much shooting, or anything else.
I knocked, to be polite, and there wasn't any answer. I waited till I had my breath back again, took my pulse which surprised me by being normal, and tried the door.
It didn't feel like much of a lock. I put my shoulder to it twice.
There was an overturned chair, and the straight legs of a man —a man hanging from the rafter by a clothesline. The place had a slight stink and I judged Henry Wilson had been, dead for two days, or longer. Some field mice scampered away from the remains of a loaf of bread and some moldy meat on the table. There was an open fountain pen lying there, several crumpled sheets of paper—none of them with any writing. Wilson stared down at me with the vacant look of the dead. He had on an open white shirt, and the pants of a business suit. The coat was flung on a bed in the corner. Wilson was built like a welterweight, slight but compact, seemed on the handsome side. I saw a key inside the door, tried the windows—they were easy to open and shut. I put my handkerchief back in my pocket, didn't touch anything else.
I went back down the hill, drove to the gas station, called Max. He said he'd be right out. It was a little after one and I drove back to the cabin, walked up the hill slowly, watching my breathing—I didn't puff much —remembered it was time for my pill. I went to the sink and found the water off. There was a small valve under the sink, but I didn't turn it on, swallowed the pill dry. I'd had a lot of experience lately swallowing pills—wet or dry.
A doc cut Wilson down and said he'd died sometime Sunday morning, and Saxton looked thoroughly upset. Max actually shook my hand, gave me a line about a job well done and Saxton thanked me, gave me another check for a hundred for “excellent work.” I protested—lightly—that he'd already paid me for the two days I'd put in, but he shook his head and sat down and stared at the floor.
While everybody was gassing about the suicide and the case being closed, and being busy-busy, I said goodbye, or maybe I didn't bother, and got a ride back to town in a radio car. I didn't blame Max too much, he had a solution, an answer that fitted, why should he look for more work? Of course actually Saxton had killed his sister and brother-in-law; the only reason he hired me was to make damn sure the cops found the body.
Maybe I should have told Max about the water being off—not that it was conclusive proof of anything, still it could be enough for a starter, a real investigation. But what would that get me? I didn't give a damn about the case, who killed who, didn't want to get on it in the first place. Max was happy, so was Saxton, and I had two hundred bucks and was tired.
I slept most of my way back to town and it was only 3 p.m. and I decided I'd had my afternoon nap. I took a bus out to White Beach to look for a room. There weren't many VACANCY signs out, and what rooms were for rent were either about the size of a phone booth or must have been built of uranium and priced accordingly. But it was sunny and it felt good to walk along the beach, near the ocean.
By five I was ready to give up and go back to town when I passed a cottage and the number stuck in my mind. I got it after a moment—this was the house of Saxton's girlfriend, his alibi, Madeline Moore. I dug through my pockets, found the address Max had given me, and my memory was right. More out of curiosity to see what a clown like Saxton went for, I rang the bell.
I was surprised. A tall girl with a strong figure opened the door. Her face was good-natured rather than pretty, with large, frank eyes, a big heavy mouth, and a lot of dark hair that reached her shoulders. She was wearing short woolen socks, sandals, and a skirt and a blouse she must have put on in the dark. There wasn't a trace of make-up on her face—not that it would have helped things much, yet it was a face I liked.
For a moment we didn't speak, while I quickly ran my eyes over her body—as a guy does to every girl, and she did the same to me... but slower. Then she said, “Oh damn, another dick! I spent all day yesterday telling you guys all I know. And then it was the reporters. Why don't you leave me alone?” Her voice was throaty and for some reason excited me.
“I'm looking for a room. Do you...?”
“Bullshit, you've got detective written all over your pan, and those big shoulders.”
“I used to be a cop, but I'm not now. Honestly, I'm looking for a room.”
“My, isn't it simply a ginger-dandy coincidence you just happened to stop at my place! You see a VACANCY sign around here?”
“On the level—I was on the case as a sort of private eye, hired by Saxton but now that...”
“What's he doing, checking up on me?” she asked, her eyes still roaming over my body, measuring my shoulders—embarrassing me.
“Look, the case is over, they found Wilson's body and I...”
Her eyes looked shocked. “His body? Mr. Wilson dead?”
“Suicide—they say. Now...”
“Gee, he was a nice guy. Well, I guess he must have done it, but you'd never think it, looking at him. Never raised his voice or...”
“Anyway, I was down here looking for a room and... your address stuck in my mind.”
“This isn't a rooming house. Mr. Wilson dead...?”
“You know of any rooms? Cheap ones? I'm on a pension, and not very well. Have to rest. I was hurt in Korea and...”
Something in her face changed, I don't know exactly what, but she almost seemed as if she was going to weep. “Come in, Mr....”
“Matt Ranzino, Miss Moore.”
“Mrs. Moore. You see... my... my husband was killed at Taegu. Here...” We were in a small living room furnished with the kind of stuff you pay a few bucks down and another couple of bucks a week for. She opened a thick leather-bound book and showed me a small black-bordered picture of a cocky corporal. The book was one of these regimental history things. I was surprised they had them out so fast—usually takes a few years before they're issued. But a quick buck will always find an eager-beaver. The guy was wearing a tank helmet, looked handsome and big—about twenty-two. Madeline's head was near mine and I realized she couldn't be much more than that herself—a big kid.
A big kid with the faint odor of whiskey on her big breath.
Staring at the picture for a long moment, she said, “We were jobbed. Hardly had more than a few months of marriage. Then... Tell me about Korea, if you want to talk about it.”
“I don't.”
“Those yellow savages! What did they do to you boys?”
“They gave us a rough time, when I was there. But let's forget the war,” I added, afraid she was getting ready to cry on my shoulder. “Let's get back to now— do you know of a room?”
“I've an extra bedroom here. Been thinking of renting it out but... I... eh... never got around to it. I wanted a girl, but the hell with it.”
She never got around to it because Saxton didn't want anybody else in the house. If she would take me in, she must be washed up with Saxton. But if she wasn't.... I didn't want to get into any messy deal. I said, “That's right, would look odd having a male roomer in this small cottage. Best I...”
“Forget that. I gave up worrying what the neighbors thought a long, long time ago. You want a room—take a look at this.”
We went through
