necking. The second uniform went over to keep them out of the way and available for future questioning.
Some time passed, and none of us said anything. Orchard was pacing up and down again, working on his face with the handkerchief, muttering softly to himself. I tried to keep my mind inactive, but thoughts of Judith Paige kept intruding on the blankness. It would be very bad for her for a while, because death is something you can never cope with as easily as simple infidelity. Guilty of sexual promiscuity, or not guilty of it, Walter Paige was beyond her love or forgiveness or scorn; he was gone, dead, murdered, torn from her violently and without choice. The scars would be deeper now, perhaps more permanent, and some of the fine fresh innocence would be forever lost; she was the little country girl raped by the big city and the California promise-an old story, an old cliche, and it made you feel sour and empty to know that the old stories and the old cliches came about because they were realities of life that happened again and again…
An ambulance, without siren and without its red light in operation, pulled onto the motel grounds; behind it was a gray Buick with a single occupant. The young cop went over to tell them where to go, and they went there; the guy from the Buick-probably the county coroner or an assistant, judging from the black bag he carried- rapped on the cottage door and was admitted. The ambulance attendants, in white, stood around out front and smoked, waiting.
A large crowd had gathered out on Ocean Boulevard, and the patrol unit had its hands full keeping traffic moving and the milling people out of the way. The second uniform was still holding the small knot of motel guests off to one side of Number 9. After a while Quartermain put his head out of the cottage door and called to the ambulance attendants. They went in with a stretcher and came out a couple of minutes later with Paige strapped to it and put him inside the ambulance and took him away into the night.
Quartermain appeared again and motioned up to me. When I got down there, he said quietly, 'Okay, you can tell your story now.'
So I told him why Judith Paige had hired me, and gave him her San Francisco address; I explained what I had seen and done on this day, describing the balding man Paige had met in the park and relating what Orchard told me. When I was finished with all of that, I asked him to be gentle with Judith Paige when he talked to her; and I told him why.
He studied me for a time. 'She must have made quite an impression on you.'
'Yeah,' I said.
'Well,' he said, 'you can rest your mind-all right?'
'All right.'
'Now let's go over things a little. You didn't see anybody come or go while you were watching the cottage here, is that right?'
'Yes.'
'And you were at the window the whole time.'
'Yes. I didn't even think about the rear entrance until just before I found him. Maybe, if I had, I could have prevented what happened.'
'You blaming yourself?'
'There wouldn't be any point in that.'
'No, there wouldn't,' Quartermain said. 'Did you go inside the cottage when you found Paige?'
I nodded. 'I thought maybe the killer was somewhere nearby. I went out to the rear, but the beach was deserted.'
'Touch anything?'
'No. I used my handkerchief when I went through the sliding door.'
'Did you look around inside?'
'A little.'
'Notice anything that might help us?'
'I don't think so.'
'Okay. Any idea who this bald guy might be?'
'None at all.'
'You heard nothing of his conversation with Paige?'
'They had their heads too close together.'
'Like old friends?'
'Like that.'
'Maybe Mrs. Paige knows him.'
'It's possible.'
'Did you notice where the guy went when they broke it up?'
'North through the park. I didn't see him leave it. I was concentrating on Paige, and he left a minute or two later.'
Quartermain ran a hand through his iron-gray hair and looked at the palm as if he expected to find something there. 'I guess that's about all,' he said. 'Thanks for the cooperation. We appreciate it.'
'I was a cop once,' I said. 'I know how tough it can be.'
'San Francisco force?'
'For fifteen years.'
'How come you quit?'
'It's a long story,' I said. 'Look, I imagine you'll want to check me out up there. You can talk to Lieutenant Eberhardt, in General Works. I think he'll vouch for me.'
'I'll do that,' Quartermain said. 'You won't mind remaining here in Cypress Bay for a day or so, will you? Until we clear this thing up a little.'
'No, I guess not.'
'Drop around to City Hall sometime tomorrow. I'll be there, I think. We'll talk some more-I'll have a statement typed up for you to sign.'
'Okay.'
He asked me to send Orchard down there, and I said I would; then we nodded to each other, because it was not the kind of situation that called for handshaking, and I returned to the motel office. I relayed Quartermain's request to Orchard, and watched him flutter some more, and then walk down to where the Chief was waiting.
The police guard on the motel entrance allowed a couple of cars to pass through, and as they approached I could see the Press cards in their windshields. I did not want to talk to reporters, but there was no way out of the area just yet. I stood there and took it, shielding my face from the cameras and ignoring most of the questions. They got tired of me very quickly, and half of them went down to try to get at Quartermain, and the other half went to the assemblage of motel guests.
I decided I wanted out of there and left the grounds as unobtrusively as I could manage it. I walked along Ocean Boulevard until I came to a small seafood restaurant, ate a bowl of chowder and drank a bottle of beer because I had not had anything to eat since breakfast, and then lingered over a second beer that I did not really want either.
When I finally returned to the Beachwood, things had settled down to normal; the cops and the reporters and the morbid public were gone, and the grounds were hushed and empty. I entered my cottage and lay down on the bed and tried to forget the way Paige had looked lying there with all the blood on him. I could forget that easily enough, I discovered, but the image and the ordeal of Judith Paige was something else again-and it was too many hours before sleep came around to pull down the veil…
Five
The phone rang at seven-fifty the next morning.
I had slept maybe four hours, and I was up and shaving in the bathroom. My eyes, in the medicine-cabinet mirror, were shot through with webs of pink and red lines; my lungs were thick with bitter phlegm, and every now and then a spasm of coughing would bring some of it up. I felt gray and irritable, the way you do with a bad hangover. Outside in the garden, sparrows chattered senselessly-and in the distance there was the sound of church
