picked up down the coast. I didn't even think about him before.' Pause. 'Listen, why are you interested in him?'
'Hitchhiker,' Quartermain said.
'That's right.'
'You in the habit of picking up hitchhikers, are you?'
'Sometimes, what the hell.'
'Tell us about this one.'
'What about him?'
'Was he a stranger to you?'
'I never saw him before today.'
'What was his name?'
'He didn't say.'
'What did he say?'
'Nothing. We didn't talk much.'
'Where was he headed for?'
'I don't know.'
'What was he doing out on the highway?'
'I told you, we didn't talk much.'
'Why did you let him out at Grove and Sierra Verde?'
'That's where he wanted to get out.'
'Did he have business in Cypress Bay, in that area?'
'Goddamn it, I don't know!'
'You're sure you never saw him before?'
'How many times do I have to tell you?'
'He was a friend of Paige's, did you know that?'
'What? How do you-?'
'He was seen with Paige yesterday.'
'I don't know anything about it.'
'That's your story, then: a hitchhiker, a stranger.'
'It's the truth,' Winestock said. 'I'm telling you.'
'Where were you yesterday, say five-thirty P.M.?'
'Listen, now, I didn't have anything to do with Paige getting killed. I didn't have anything to do with that.'
'Tell us where you were,' Quartermain said patiently.
'Next door. Yeah, five-thirty, I was next door with Harry Jacobs.' He looked somewhat relieved, although his face still shone with the bright sweat of fear. 'Yeah, Harry and me were working on his cat.'
'His what?'
'Catamaran, he's got this cat. We were working on it.'
'Who else was there?'
'Harry's wife, she was there, she saw us.'
Quartermain stood up. 'Let's go talk to the Jacobses.'
'Sure,' Winestock agreed. 'Sure, they'll tell you.'
We went out through the rear of the house. There was no sign of Beverly, but I had the feeling she was somewhere close by, perhaps watching, perhaps listening. The rear yard was small and shaded by a pair of pepper trees, and there was a low redwood fence separating the Winestock property from a similar lot-and a similar Old Spanish house-next door.
Winestock stepped over the stake fence and led us along a narrow path to the rear door. He rapped loudly on the screen and called, 'Harry! Hey, Harry, it's me, Brad!'
Pretty soon the door opened, and a guy about thirty-tanned, running to fat, wearing dungarees and a white sweatshirt-looked out at us. Quartermain asked him if he was Harry Jacobs, and the guy said that he was-hello, Brad, who're your friends? Quartermain said that he was the Chief of Police and Jacobs looked surprised and puzzled, but hardly upset; he told us, readily enough, that sure, Brad had been with him yesterday afternoon around five-thirty, working on the cat, he'd had her out on the bay that morning and she 'Did Winestock leave at any time between four and six?' Quartermain asked.
'No, he didn't leave until after dark.'
'Is your wife home, Mr. Jacobs?'
'Sure. You want to talk to her?'
'If you wouldn't mind.'
'Sure, sure. Hey, Angie, come here, will you?'
Angie was a faded blonde, tanned, also running to fat, wearing dungarees and a white sweatshirt; superficially at least, I thought, they were the ideal couple. She confirmed the fact that Winestock had been with her husband, working on their catamaran from about three the previous afternoon until after dark-and that Winestock had not left during that time.
'All right,' Quartermain said, and thanked the two of them.
'Say, what's it all about?' Jacobs asked.
'Nothing, Harry, just a mistake,' Winestock said, and laughed nervously.
Quartermain and I did not have anything to say. We returned to the Winestock house, and there was still no sign of Beverly. In the parlor again, Winestock retrieved his glass from under the sofa and poured himself a good hooker and had it off without taking a breath. Quartermain and I watched him dispassionately.
'What else can you tell us about Walter Paige?' Quartermain asked him finally.
'Nothing. It's been six or seven years, like I told you.'
'How well did you know him back then?'
'Not well, just a few drinks here and there.'
'He was pretty good with the women, wasn't he?'
'Oh sure, he always had the women.'
'Like who, for instance?'
'A whole string, who knows exactly?'
'Was your sister a good friend of Paige's?'
'What the hell do you mean by that? Listen-'
'Answer the question, Winestock.'
'No. No, she hardly knew him.'
'You know Russ Dancer, don't you?'
'Yeah, I know him.'
'How well did he and Paige get along?'
'All right, I guess.'
'I've heard there was once some bad blood between them.'
'I don't know anything about that.'
'You're sure?'
'I'd tell you if I knew anything, Jesus Christ!'
'Did you ever read anything of Dancer's?'
Winestock wet his lips open-mouthed again. 'Like what?'
'You tell me.'
'I read a couple of his westerns, yeah.'
'How about a book called The Dead and the Dying?'
'I never heard of it,' Winestock said immediately. 'Why do you want to know about that?'
'Why would Paige have a copy of it?'
'How the hell would I know? Listen, what do you want out of me, huh? I don't know anything about Paige, I don't know anything about a goddamn book. Why don't you leave me alone, a man's got the right to be left alone.'
Quartermain watched him steadily for several long, silent seconds; his blue eyes were cold and sharp and