Undercurrent

Paige's overnight bag. I put voice to the recollection, and then I said, 'Did the police ask you about the book, Mrs. Paige?'

'No, they didn't say anything about it. What kind of book is it?'

'A mystery novel-a thing called The Dead and the Dying by Russell Dancer.'

'The dead and the dying,' she said. 'That's very appropriate, isn't it?'

'No,' I said. I did not want her feeling sorry for herself. 'Have you ever seen the book?'

She sighed. 'I don't think so.'

'Did your husband read much mystery fiction?'

'He didn't read any, that I know of.'

'Was he a collector or accumulator of books?'

'No. He didn't seem interested in them at all.'

'That makes an odd point, then.'

'Do you think it might be important?'

'I don't know. Probably not.'

'I don't see how it could be.'

'Neither do I,' I said. 'Still, the book is fifteen or twenty years old-and it isn't common for someone to have a paperback of that vintage unless he collects them or reads enough to frequent secondhand stores.'

'Should you tell the police about that?'

'I think it would be a good idea,' I said. 'I have to see Chief Quartermain today and I'll tell him then.'

She nodded quietly.

'Were you told when you could leave Cypress Bay?' I asked.

'Not exactly. Chief Quartermain asked me to stay until he makes a more thorough investigation. They're paying for this room, he said. It's a nice room, don't you think?'

'Yes. Look, Mrs. Paige, I'll be here for a while too. I could drive you back to San Francisco if you like, when the time comes.'

'Yes, I'd appreciate that. Thank you. You've been very nice about everything. I only wish you hadn't had to get involved in a thing like this.'

There was no irony in her words, but I could feel an irony just the same-hot and sharp and virulent. I got up on my feet. 'I'd better be going now,' I said. 'Will you be okay here?'

'Yes. You mustn't worry about me.'

Somebody was going to have to worry about her-for a while anyway, until she got home to her family in Idaho. I said, 'If you want company later on, call me at the Beachwood. Will you do that?'

She inclined her head, and I stood there looking at her a moment longer; but there were no more words for either of us. I turned and went to the door and got out of there-out of dark reality and into the bright world of make-believe.

Six

Cypress Bay's City Hall was one of the Monterey adobe buildings, freshly whitewashed and quietly official behind a lime-green lawn and the inevitable woodsy shade of pines and black oaks. There was a parking lot off to one side, and I took my car in there and left it and went over to the front of the building. To the right of the brick stairs was a small white picket sign, like the ones you see in national parks; it said Police on it and had an arrow pointing to a wide brick-paved, pine-needled path. The path led me around to a redwood-roofed wing, fronted by a kind of plaza decorated with wooden planters full of ferns. A much larger sign on the whitewashed facing wall read: Cypress Bay Police Department.

I passed through double glass doors and up to a long counter behind which were a modern PBX, a couple of blue-metal filing cabinets, two blue-metal desks, and a fat sergeant with grave brown eyes and jughandle ears. He told me Quartermain was in, checked with him, got an okay for me to see him, and buzzed me through a set of electronically controlled doors on the left. I went down a long corridor, past private offices and interrogation cubicles and file rooms, until I came to a perpendicular hallway that looked as if it ran part of the length of the main City Hall building. At the apex of the T, there was a door with dark blue lettering that said: Office of the Chief of Police.

I entered through there, and a uniformed secretary was banging away on a portable typewriter. In the far wall was a door that had Quartermain's name on it in small blue letters; the secretary told me to go right in.

Quartermain's office was large and comfortable, though more functional than decorative. The carpeting was blue, the walls were white and furbished with framed certificates and a couple of good seascapes; the desk was of flame- swirled walnut, with a glass top, and there were upholstered blue armchairs arranged in front of it and walnut file cases to one side. The only thing that seemed out of place was a very old, dark leather couch against the left-hand wall; but it gave the office a personal touch and told you a little something about Quartermain in the bargain.

He was standing when I knocked and entered. His suit was a loose-fitting oyster-gray today and it made him seem even taller than he was. He thanked me in his soft, sepulchral voice for coming in, and we shook hands this time. I saw then that his eyes were a muted sea-blue, warm or cool depending on the situation-warm now, I thought-and I had the feeling that they were like the shutters on expensive cameras in that they would never miss recording any detail upon which they were focused. Quartermain was every bit the big, shrewd, intelligent cop-but you sensed a gentleness in him, too, an innate fairness; he reminded me a little of Eberhardt, without the falsely sour exterior.

I sat down in one of the armchairs, and Quartermain said, 'I've got your statement typed up and ready for your signature.' He took a manila folder from one of the four wire baskets on his desk, removed a two-page deposition, and handed it across to me. I read it over and signed it for him and passed it back.

I said then, 'I was over to see Judith Paige at the Bay Head Inn a little while ago. She phoned me and asked me to stop by.'

'I'll be going over to see her myself shortly, more or less unofficially. How is she this morning?'

'Not bad, not good.'

'She took the news pretty hard, from what Kanin, the San Francisco inspector who broke it to her, told me last night. He brought her down on the Monterey plane and she seemed to be bearing up; but when she saw her husband in the hospital morgue she went to pieces, and it was a hell of a thing to see. One of the nurses took her over to the inn-she refused to stay at the hospital-and put her to bed with a sedative.'

'I suppose this Kanin questioned her about her whereabouts at the time of Paige's death.'

'Of course.'

'And she checked out clear?'

'Clear enough for me,' Quartermain said. 'She was baby-sitting three neighbor kids in her apartment; mother and father went to some lodge affair. The kids were old enough to verify her presence in the apartment at the time of the killing.'

'There was never any doubt,' I said, 'as far as I was concerned. She couldn't kill anyone.' I paused. 'Have you got a line on the bald man yet-the one I saw with Paige?'

'Not yet. Mrs. Paige says she doesn't know anyone who looks as you described him.'

'Yeah, she told me the same thing.'

'I'd like you to have a look through our mug files, if you don't mind. I don't suppose there's much chance we'll have a card on the guy, but then again you never know.'

'Be glad to,' I said, and he led me out and to their Records Room. I spent the next twenty minutes flipping through a not surprisingly small rogues' gallery of men arrested at one time or another in the Cypress Bay area. The bald man was not among them.

Quartermain said, 'Well, if we start running into dead ends, I may want you to work with a police artist on a drawing. So far, he's the only definite local link we've got with Paige, and I'd like to know who he is and why the two of them met in the park.'

'Fine. Just say the word.'