“Yes?”
“How sure are you that Terzian actually had possession of it?”
“Reasonably sure. The modus operandi of the thieves who robbed my client is the same as that of the gang who have robbed other dealers and collectors in the Bay Area over the past three years; carpets and prayer rugs from those previous thefts have turned up more than once in the hands of individuals suspected of dealing with Terzian.”
“So you think Terzian was the regular fence for this gang?”
“I do, yes.”
“These individuals he dealt with-where are they located?”
“There are half a dozen we're fairly certain about in New York, Houston, Milwaukee, Atlanta and Los Angeles. And two probables in Fresno and San Diego.”
“Sounds like a pretty large-scale operation.”
“It was, on a one-man basis.”
“Weren't the police able to get anything on him?”
“Nothing concrete. He was arrested twice as a receiver of stolen goods, once in 1970 and once in 1972, but the charges were dropped in both instances for lack of evidence.”
“Do you have any idea at all who he might have been dealing with here in Tuolumne?”
“None at all. I was amazed, in fact, when I learned this was where he had gone from San Jose on Saturday. This hardly seems like the place where someone wealthy enough to afford the Daghestan would be located.”
“Is there any chance he kept records of these transactions of his? That would be the easiest way to get a line on his contact in this area.”
“I doubt it,” Kayabalian said. “Terzian was not the type of man to put anything incriminating on paper. It would be my assumption that he kept it all inside his head, including telephone numbers.”
“Did he have any employees-anybody he might have confided in or let something slip to?”
“He had two people working for him, a clerk and a boy who cleaned rugs, but as far as we've been able to learn, neither of them was involved in his illegal activities. He wasn't married and he had no immediate family.”
“Those employees might still be a place to start.”
“Perhaps. Does that mean you're reconsidering my offer?”
I did not answer immediately, but I was working it around in my head again. He seemed honest and forthright enough, and I had already decided that I liked his manner. And what he had said about observing legal and ethical restrictions made sense. And I damned well could use the job, even if I doubted a realistic shot at the reward he had dangled in front of me. There was still my commitment to Harry to consider, but then, that would end with the leaving-tonight or tomorrow, if everything went all right-of Ray and Angela Jerrold.
What about Dr. White, I thought, and the goddamn lesion on my lung? Suppose I have to have additional tests? Suppose I have to go into the bloody hospital? Suppose The hell with that, you can't start turning down jobs on the basis of intangibles. For Christ's sake, man, your work is the one thing keeping your head together.
I said finally, “I'd have to clear it with Cloudman first.”
“Of course.”
“There's another thing too. I probably wouldn't be able to get on it until Wednesday. There are a couple of things that have to be attended to first.”
He worried his lower lip. “You couldn't possibly begin sooner than that?”
“Late tomorrow, maybe, but I can't make any promises right now. I won't know for sure until tomorrow morning.”
“That's acceptable, I think. Do you want to call Cloudman now?”
“Okay.”
Kayabalian nodded and lit another cigarette for himself. So I left him and went out to the lobby and found a pay telephone booth against one of the walls. Cloudman was still in; he came on ten seconds after I told the desk officer who was calling.
I said, “I've just been having a talk with Charles Kayabalian.”
“Have you?” He sounded pleased to hear from me. “What about?”
I told him, skipping some of the details but none of the meat.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Well, I sort of had the idea he was going to ask you to do some work for him. Like I told you before, he was pretty interested.”
“How do you feel about my taking the job?”
“Oh, I don't have any objections, long as everybody understands his position. The more good men you have working on something, the better your chances of finding what you're looking for.”
“I won't step on your toes,” I said.
“I didn't think you would,” he said mildly. “I guess I'll be the first to hear if you find out anything interesting.”
I said he would be. Then I passed along, for what it was worth, the guesswork I had done about the old woman's peacocks, and we rang off, and I went back into the Gold Rush Room and slid in opposite Kayabalian again.
“Okay,” I said.
“No problems or reservations?”
“None.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Welcome to the hunt.”
“Thanks. How long will you be here at the hotel?”
“Until tomorrow morning; I don't have any reason or inclination to drive back to San Francisco tonight.”
“Will you be leaving before ten, say?”
“I can stay as long as necessary.”
“Well, suppose I come in and see you again around ten-thirty? I should know by then how things stand with my time.”
“Good. I'll give you a retainer check then, if you like. And I'll also have a list of pertinent names and addresses, along with anything else I can think of that you might need.”
We shook hands and said a parting, and I went outside into the dying day. It was after six now, no cooler, still windless; the sky to the west had a bloody look. In front of a restaurant down the block, near where my car was parked, somebody was ringing an old-fashioned dinner bell mounted on a wooden frame, and it was a pretty clever stunt judging by the number of tourists who were heading in that direction. But the thought of food did not appeal to me at all; I still had a touch of heartburn from those noontime sandwiches, and the business with Knox had knocked the rest of my appetite into a dusty corner.
I walked down the side street to where the Rambler wagon was and looked in through one of the windows. Knox was still there and still out; he was lying on his stomach now, with his knees drawn up and one arm hooked across his eyes. His clothing was stained in half a dozen places by dark patches of sweat.
When I turned away a small brown mongrel dog drifted over to the car and sniffed at the rear tire and then lifted a leg and cut loose like a water pistol. I thought that maybe there was a certain small irony in that, but I did not feel much like pursuing it. Wearily, I started through the heat toward the hollow pealing of the dinner bell.
Eleven
When I got back to the camp, Jerrold's Caddy was slewed in at an angle between the jeep and Walt Bascomb's Ford. I went over to it and looked in through the open driver's window, but there was nothing to see except an empty pint bottle of gin lying on the seat The upholstery reeked of alcohol.
Too damned much drinking going on around here, I thought, not for the first time. It's like pouring oil on burning waters.
I walked to Harry's cabin, started to call out for him, and then heard the buzzing of an electric drill cut through the stillness from around where the shed was. Harry was inside there, working over part of an outboard
