That was the right thing to say, for a change; maybe this was going to be a better day than the last one-as long as I paid more attention to what came out of my fat mouth. Telford made a sound that was half grunt and half belch and said, “Yeah, it is. Well, I’ve been in touch with Hank Betters, over at the police department. He thinks two business partners dying in odd accidents within a week of each other is suspicious, same as you and I do. But there’s also no evidence of foul play in the Munroe Randall case; you know that. Until some evidence turns up, on one case or the other- if it does-there’s no use in any of us getting excited. You agree?”
“I agree. But I’d like to keep poking around on my own, if you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind? You’ve got a good rep-I checked you out last night-and there’s no reason you shouldn’t keep on working.”
“Thanks.”
“For what? I’m always grateful for a little help from a big-city investigator.”
“Put the needle away, okay? I don’t think you’re a hick.”
He grinned a little and ate another antacid tablet. “Suppose both Randall and O‘Daniel were murdered,” he said. “Who do you figure for it? O’Daniel’s wife?”
“Well, she might be mixed up in it. She’s got plenty of motive.”
“So does the surviving partner.”
“Treacle’s also the most obvious suspect. He’d have to be pretty stupid.”
“Maybe he is,” Telford said. “All murderers are stupid, especially the ones that try to be clever.”
“You talk to him yet?”
“On the phone. He’s on his way down.”
“How did he take the news?”
“Seemed pretty shaken up. We’ll see when he gets here. Who else has motive, far as you know?”
“The artist, Robideaux, for one.”
“ If he was involved with Mrs. O’Daniel.”
“Even if he wasn’t,” I said.
“You mean the hassle between Northern Development and the people in Musket Creek? Yeah, that’s another angle.”
“The best one of all, maybe.”
I got out the threatening letter Frank O‘Daniel had received. It had been in my wallet and had suffered some water damage last night, but it was still intact and the printing on it was still legible. I passed it over to Telford, explaining what it was and where I’d got it. I also apologized for not having remembered it last night-not that the oversight mattered much. None of us had known for sure then that O’Daniel was the victim.
He said after he’d scrutinized it, “If this is the McCoy, you could be right about Musket Creek being the best angle. The only thing is…” He tapped the letter with his fingernail. “Did Randall receive anything like this before he died?”
“Not that anybody claims to know about.”
“Any other kind of threat?”
“Apparently not.”
“Then how come O‘Daniel got one? Assuming both men were murdered, why put O’Daniel on his guard with a note? Why not just blow him up?”
“You said it yourself: murderers are stupid.”
“Mm.”
“Could be, too, that the note was sent by somebody else in Musket Creek-a crank thing. Both Treacle and O‘Daniel told me they were harassed a while back by hang-up telephone calls. This fits the same pattern. There doesn’t have to be a connection between the letter and O’Daniel’s death.”
Telford ruminated in silence.
“Another thing,” I said. “The note didn’t put O’Daniel on his guard. He shrugged it off as crank stuff.”
“He did, huh?”
“He also shrugged off something else,” I said, and I told him about Jack Coleclaw’s attack on O’Daniel at the Northern offices and how I’d managed to break it up.
“I think I’d better have a talk with Coleclaw,” Telford said. “As soon as I get done with Treacle.”
“I think I’ll see what I can find out about Mrs. O’Daniel and Paul Robideaux. Unless you have any objections…”
“Be my guest. Just be sure to let me know if you find out anything.”
“First thing.” I got on my feet.
Telford said, “Those burns hurting you much?”
“Some. Why?”
“The way you move. Your face looks raw too.”
“It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks,” I said. But I was aware of the dull ache again, now that he’d called my attention to it.
“If I were you,” he said, “I’d wear a hat outdoors. And stay out of direct sunlight.”
I took my old shapeless fisherman’s hat out of my back pocket and showed it to him. “I already thought of that.”
“Smart guy,” he said, but there was no irony in his voice. He was eating another Rolaids and grimacing when I walked out of his office.
I went across the outer lobby, past a morose-looking guy who was explaining to a deputy that he hadn’t been poaching, the damned doe had been shot by somebody else and had staggered over to where he was camped and what the hell was he going to do, let all that good meat just lie there and rot? It was an interesting story but the deputy wasn’t buying it; I wouldn’t have bought it either, in his place.
Heat slapped at me when I stepped outside, making my face and hands burn dully. I put the hat on so that it drooped down over the upper half of my face. There wasn’t much direct sunlight to worry about; you couldn’t see the sun at all at the moment. Clouds had begun piling up sometime during the night and there were thunderheads obscuring Mt. Shasta to the east. Storm building. Which was fine by me; maybe it would cool things off.
I started down the front steps. A big, paunchy man was coming along the walk from the parking area; he stopped when he saw me and stood there. I recognized him at just about the same time.
Jack Coleclaw.
He waited, stolidly, for me to get to where he was. Then he said, “You’re the fellow in O’Daniel’s office the other night.”
“The one who broke up the trouble-that’s right.”
“Insurance detective,” he said, as if the words were a pair of obscenities.
I just looked at him. He seemed nervous, ill-at-ease. And worried. It was hot, but it wasn’t hot enough to make a man sweat the way he was sweating.
“I never meant to hurt him, mister,” he said. “I just… I lost my head for a minute, that’s all. I wouldn’t of choked the life out of him, even if you hadn’t come in. I’m not a killer.”
“Tell that to Jim Telford, Mr. Coleclaw.”
“Who?”
“Sheriff’s investigator in charge of the O‘Daniel case. You’ve heard what happened to Frank O’Daniel, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, I heard,” Coleclaw said. “On the radio in my truck a little while ago. That’s why I’m here-I figured they’d want to talk to me, even if it was an accident.”
“Was it?” I said.
He wiped sweat off his face with one of his big paws. “You trying to say it wasn’t?”
“No. I’m saying it might not have been.”
“What, then? Somebody blew that boat up some way?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Well, what does this Telford think?”
“Ask him yourself; he’ll tell you.”
“No, listen, I’m asking you. He don’t think I had anything to do with it, does he?”
“Did you, Mr. Coleclaw?”
