I sat there for about two minutes. There was no sound anywhere, not even the ticking of a clock. Then I heard steps on the hall tiles, and got on my feet as a large handsome woman in her late forties or early fifties appeared at the arch. She came through it like a stockholder entering a board room: poised, purposeful, self- assured. A tailored green pants suit set off carefully coiffed blonde hair and the same amber eyes as her daughter, just a little darker under long curling lashes. There was a diamond as big as a grape on the ring finger of her left hand.
No smile from her either. She said, “I’m Laura Nichols,” and offered me her hand, then shook mine in the same businesslike way. Her eyes went over me in frank appraisal, but there was nothing in them or on her face to tell what sort of impression she was getting. She asked me to sit down, and when I did she went over and arranged herself in one of the heavy wooden chairs.
“Would you care for coffee? Tea?”
“Thanks, no.”
She nodded as if she approved of my answer. “Then I’ll get directly to the point,” she said. Her enunciation was careful and precise; I had the feeling that everything she did would be with care and precision. “I’ve asked you here because of my brother, Martin Talbot. He’s had a very unfortunate experience, you see.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Two nights ago, while he was driving back from a Los Angeles business trip, he fell asleep at the wheel of his car near South San Francisco. The car veered into another lane, struck another car and caused it to spin into an overpass abutment. Martin wasn’t hurt, miraculously enough, but one of the two people in the other car was killed.”
A very unfortunate experience, she’d said. That was some way of putting it.
Mrs. Nichols went on, “The driver of the second car, a man named Victor Carding, also escaped serious injury; it was his wife who died. Later, in the hospital, my brother insisted on seeing Carding and spoke to him alone for a minute or two. During that time the man called Martin a murderer, threatened his life, and then tried to attack him. Two interns came in and restrained him just in time.”
“You’re afraid Carding might try to carry out his threat-is that it?”
“Yes. He’s due to be released from the hospital today.”
“Have you talked to the police?”
“Of course. As soon as Martin told me.”
“And?”
“They seem to feel there’s nothing to worry about. When they spoke to Carding he told them he couldn’t remember threatening Martin or trying to attack him. He claims not to hold my brother responsible for what happened.”
“Well, that’s probably the case,” I said. “People do and say things in shock and grief that they don’t really mean.”
“Perhaps. But we can’t be certain of that. Carding is a construction worker, a common laborer; there’s no telling what a man like that is capable of.”
Common laborer, I thought. Why do people like her always use the word “common” as if there was some social stigma attached to being a blue collar worker? Christ, we’re all laborers of one kind or another.
I said, “What does your brother think?”
“That Carding would be justified if he chose to seek revenge.”
“I’m not sure I follow that, Mrs. Nichols.”
“You would have to know my brother to fully understand,” she said. “He’s an unusual man.”
“In what way?”
“In many ways. Our father was a banker, quite well-to-do, and when he passed on he left Martin and me a substantial sum of money. Martin refused to accept his share of the estate; it was his belief that he had no right to the inheritance because he hadn’t earned the money himself. He worked his way through college, received a degree in electrical engineering, and proceeded to follow his own path in life. He has been moderately successful, I’ll admit-”
She broke off because her daughter, silent as a wraith, had appeared in the archway. Mrs. Nichols gave her a somewhat annoyed glance and said, “What is it, Karen?”
“Do you mind if I come in?”
“I’m discussing a business matter, dear.”
“Yes-with a private detective. About Uncle Martin. I’ve a right to know what you’re planning, why you want a detective.”
Mrs. Nichols pursed her lips and looked at me. The look said that children really could be difficult at times, couldn’t they? I kept my expression stoic and attentive; I had no opinion on the subject of children. And none I cared to show about a mother who appeared to think of her twenty-odd-year-old daughter as a child.
“Oh, all right,” she said to Karen. “Come in, if you must. You won’t leave me alone, I suppose, until you do find out.”
The girl came inside and sat on one of the chairs at the refectory table-with her knees clasped together and her posture erect and her hands folded in her lap. I wondered if there were still such things as finishing schools. If so, Karen had no doubt been sent to one-whether she wanted to attend or not.
All of Mrs. Nichols’ attention settled on me again. She said, “As I was about to say, my brother is also the most moral man I have ever known. He lives by the strictest code of behavior imaginable; what is right is right, what is wrong is wrong, and there are absolutely no gray areas or extenuating circumstances. I’m sure that’s why he’s still a bachelor at forty-four; he simply never found a woman who measured up to his standards.”
I said, “He feels guilt over the accident, then?”
“That is an understatement. He has barely slept since it happened, eaten almost nothing, and hasn’t gone back to his job or even left his house except for short walks around the neighborhood. He considers himself to be just what Carding called him: A murderer. His ‘negligence’-his word, not mine-caused the death of another human being. He even expressed the desire to stand trial for manslaughter; thank God that isn’t legally possible. The point is, if Victor Carding attempted to harm him, I doubt Martin would try to prevent it. He is altogether on Carding’s side on the matter, if you see what I mean.”
“Yes,” I said, “I see what you mean.”
“In view of that, it’s my duty to have him protected. That’s why I called you.”
I frowned at her. “You want me to act as his bodyguard?”
“Essentially, yes.”
“Why would he consent, feeling as he does?”
“He wouldn’t, if he knew about it.”
“ If he knew about it?”
“Martin lives across the street from Stern Grove; you can see his house from inside the park, front and back. What I want you to do is watch the house for any sign of Carding and also to follow Martin whenever he goes out walking. He’s a compulsive walker, you see; and of course he refuses to ever drive a car again.”
I knew there’d be a catch, I thought. Damn, I knew it.
I shifted on my chair. I had been offered a lot of different jobs over the years, not a few of them of the screwball variety, but this was something new out of left field. Bodyguard-from-a-distance. Christ. People get the damnedest ideas into their heads.
Karen apparently had a similar reaction. She said, “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, mother.”
“Don’t you, now?”
“No. Victor Carding isn’t going to come after Uncle Martin; I don’t believe that. But even if he did, what could this man do about it?”
“I’m afraid your daughter’s right, Mrs. Nichols,” I said. “Carding could just ring the doorbell and attack your brother when he answers; there wouldn’t be time enough for me to stop him. Or he could let Carding inside, of his own free will. In that case I couldn’t just break in-not without a hundred-percent certainty that an attempted murder was about to take place. I’m a private investigator, not a police officer. I don’t have any more rights than you or any other private citizen.”
“Don’t you suppose I’m aware of all that?” Mrs. Nichols said. Her voice was cool, almost patronizing, as if she felt now that she was dealing with a pair of “children” instead of just one. “But there might be something you could
