“Oh, yes. That’s how I happened to go to work here.”
“Is there a phone here we can use?”
“Certainly.” She jumped up and, saying, “Back here,” opened a door into an adjoining room. When the district attorney had passed through she shut the door behind him and returned to her place on the sofa beside Guild. “Have you learned anything else?” she asked. “Anything besides about her being known as Laura Porter and having the apartment?”
“Some odds and ends,” he said, “but it’s too early to say what they’ll add up to when they’re sorted. I didn’t ask you whether Kearny and Wynant know each other, did I?”
She shook her head from side to side. “If they do I don’t know it. I don’t. I’m telling you the truth, Mr. Guild.”
“All right, but Wynant was seen going into the Manchu.”
“I know, but -“ She finished the sentence with a jerk of her shoulders. She moved closer to Guild on the sofa. “You don’t think Charley has done anything he oughtn’t’ve done, do you?”
Guild’s face was placid. “I won’t lie to you,” he said. “I think everybody connected with the job has done things they oughtn’t’ve done.”
She made an impatient grimace. “I believe you’re just trying to make things confusing, to make work for yourself,” she said, “so you’ll be looking like you’re doing something even if you can’t find Wynant. Why don’t you find him?” Her voice was rising. “That’s all you’ve got to do. Why don’t you find him instead of trying to make trouble for everybody else? He’s the only one that did anything. He killed her and tried to kill Charley and he’s the one you want – not Charley, not me, not Frank. Wynant’s the one you want.”
Guild laughed indulgently. “You make it sound simple as hell,” he told her. “I wish you were right.”
Her indignation faded. She put a hand on his hand. Her eyes held a frightened gleam. “There isn’t anything else, is there?” she asked, “something we don’t know about?”
Guild put his other hand over to pat the back of hers. “There is,” he assured her pleasantly. “There’s a lot none of us knows and what we do know don’t make sense.”
“Then -“
The district attorney opened the door and stood in the doorway. He was pale and he was sweating. “Fremont isn’t up there,” he said blankly. “He didn’t go up there.”
Elsa Fremont said, “Jesus Christ!” under her breath.
Eight
Night was settling between the mountains when Guild and Boyer arrived at Hell Bend. The district attorney drove into the village, saying: “We’ll go to Ray’s. We can come back to Wynant’s later if you want to.”
“All right,” Guild said, “unless Fremont might be there.”
“He won’t if he came up to see the body. She’s at Schumach’s funeral parlour.”
“Inquest tomorrow?”
“Yes, unless there’s some reason for putting it off.”
“There’s none that I know of,” Guild said. He looked sidewise at Boyer. “You’ll see that as little as possible comes out at the inquest?”
“Oh, yes!”
They were in Hell Bend now, running between irregularly spaced cottages toward lights that glittered up along the railroad, but before they reached the railroad they turned off to the right and stopped before a small square house where softer lights burned behind yellow blinds.
Callaghan, the raw-boned blond deputy sheriff, opened the door for them. He said, “Hello, Bruce,” to the district attorney and nodded politely if without warmth at Guild.
They went indoors, into an inexpensively furnished room where three men sat at a table playing stud poker and a huge German sheep dog lay attentive in a corner. Boyer spoke to the three men and introduced Guild while the deputy sheriff sat down at the table and picked up his cards.
One of the men – thin, bent, old, white-haired, white-moustached – was Callaghan’s father. Another – stocky, broad-browed over wide-spaced clear eyes, sunburned almost as dark as Guild – was Ross Lane. The third-small, pale, painfully neat – was Schumach, the undertaker.
Boyer turned from the introductions to Callaghan. “You’re sure Fremont didn’t show up?”
The deputy sheriff replied without looking up from his cards. “He didn’t show up at Wynant’s place. King’s been there all day. And he didn’t show up at Ben’s to – to see her. Where else’d he go if he came up here?” He pushed a chip out on the table. “I’ll crack it.” He had two kings in his hand.
Schumach pushed a clip out and said: “No, sir, he didn’t show up to look at the corpus delicti.”
Lane dropped his cards face-down on the table. The elder Callaghan put in a chip and picked up the rest of the deck.
His son said, “Three cards,” and then to Boyer: “You can phone King if you want.” He moved his head to indicate the telephone by the door.
Boyer looked questioningly at Guild, who said: “Might as well.”
Guild addressed a question to Lane while the other three men at the table were making their bets and Boyer was using the telephone. “You’re the man who saw Wynant going into the Manchu?”
“Yes.” Lane’s voice was a quiet bass.
“Was anybody with him?”
Lane said, “No,” with certainty, then hesitated thoughtfully and added: “unless they went in ahead of him. I don’t think so, but it’s possible. He was just going in when I saw him and it could’ve happened that he’d stopped to shut his car-door or take his key out or something and whoever was with him had gone on ahead.”
“Did you see enough of him to make sure it was him?”
“I couldn’t go wrong on that, even if I did see only his back. My place being next to his, I guess I’ve seen a lot more of him than most people around here, and then, tall and skinny, with those high shoulders and that funny walk, you couldn’t miss him. Besides, his car was there.”
“Had he cut his whiskers off, or was he still wearing them?”
Lane opened his eyes wide and laughed. “By God, I don’t know,” he said. “I heard he shaved them, but I never thought of that. You’ve got me there. His back was to me and I wouldn’t’ve seen them unless they happened to be sticking out sideways or I got a slanting look at him. I don’t remember seeing them, yet I might’ve and thought nothing of it. If I’d seen his face without them it’s a cinch I’d’ve noticed, but – You’ve got me there, brother.”
“Know him pretty well?”
Lane picked up the cards the younger Callaghan dealt him and smiled. “Well, I don’t guess anybody could say they know him pretty well.” He spread his cards apart to look at them.
“Did you know the Forrest girl pretty well?”
The deputy sheriff’s face began to redden. He said somewhat sharply to the undertaker: “Can you do it?”
The undertaker rapped the table with his knuckles to say he could not.
Lane had a pair of sixes and a pair of fours. He said, “I’ll do it,” pushed out a chip, and replied to the dark man’s question: “I don’t know just what you mean by that. I knew her. She used to come over sometimes and watch me work the dogs when I had them over in the field near their place.”
Boyer had finished telephoning and had come to stand beside Guild. He explained: “Ross raises and trains police dogs.”
The elder Callaghan said: “I hope she didn’t have you going around talking to yourself like she had Ray.” His voice was a nasal whine.
His son slammed his cards down on the table. His face was red and swollen. In a loud, accusing tone he began: “I guess I ought to go around chasing after -“
“Ray! Ray!” A stringy white-haired woman in faded blue had come a step in from the next room. Her voice was chiding. “You oughtn’t to -“
“Well, make him stop jawing about her, then,” the deputy sheriff said. “She was as good as anybody else and a lot better than most I know.” He glowered at the table in front of him.
In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Boyer said: “Good evening, Mrs. Callaghan. How are you?”
