“Young-twenties or thirties, I’d say.”
“Black, white, Oriental?”
“I’m not sure. Latin, perhaps.”
“Did he have an accent?”
“A faint one. I couldn’t quite place it.”
“Anything else distinctive about his voice?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“Did he sound educated?”
“Well, he used proper English. But he didn’t seem very well-spoken.”
“Any other impression of him?”
“I’m afraid that’s all.”
“If what he said to you is true he must either have been at Kenneth’s house that night and witnessed what happened, or he’s close to someone who was there and witnessed it.”
Washburn worried his lower lip for a time. Then he said, “He didn’t strike me as the type Kenneth would invite to one of his fancy parties. His friends were mostly rich people.”
“An acquaintance of one of the guests, then?”
“Kenneth’s daughter,” Washburn said musingly. “She’s the wild type.”
“Wild in what way?”
“Oh, you know, drugs. The whole scene.”
“Where does she live, do you know?”
“With some fellow on Mission Creek. She has a houseboat there. At least she did a few months ago.”
“‘What’s the fellow’s name?”
“I don’t remember Leonard mentioning it.”
“What’s her name? Purcell?”
“Yes. Melanie Purcell. Kenneth’s daughter by his first marriage.”
“Would you know if she was at the party that night?”
“I’m not sure. I think she might have been.”
“What can you tell me about the other guests?”
“Very little, I’m afraid. Alicia is the person to ask.”
“Kenneth’s widow?”
“Yes. She’s his second wife.”
“What happened to the first one?”
“They were divorced.”
“Where would I find Alicia?”
“Well, I think she’s still living at the house.”
“In Moss Beach, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Did Leonard handle his brother’s legal affairs?”
“No. He didn’t feel it was proper.”
“Who did?”
“An attorney here in the city. I don’t remember his name.”
“I can get it from the police. Did Kenneth leave a will?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Who inherited the bulk of his estate?”
“Alicia, Melanie, and Leonard.”
“How much was the estate worth?”
“I don’t know exactly. Quite a lot.”
“What was Leonard’s share?”
“I don’t know that either,” Washburn said. “Talking about it was so painful for him; I tried not to pry.”
“Do you know if the will has cleared probate yet? If the inheritance has been paid?”
“I’m sure it hasn’t. I’d know if it had been.”
“Let’s assume Kenneth was pushed off that cliff,” I said. “Who do you think did the pushing?”
He spread his hands. “I just have no idea. Someone he was involved with on one of his real estate deals, possibly.”
“Quasi-legitimate, some of those deals, according to the papers.”
“Yes. So I understand.”
“In what way?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“Did Leonard know?”
“I suppose he did.”
“But he wouldn’t discuss it?”
“No. He didn’t approve, I can tell you that.”
“Did Leonard happen to say anything about his brother’s missing snuff box?”
“No, nothing.”
“Kenneth collected snuff boxes, didn’t he?”
“Snuff bottles, too,” Washburn said. “And humidors, cigarette boxes-anything rare and valuable connected with tobacco.”
I made a note on the pad in front of me; I had been making notes right along. While I was doing that Eberhardt burst in. He doesn’t just walk into a room, like most people; he barrels in as if he’s one of the vanguards in a raiding party. Washburn, looking startled, swung around on his chair. I got up, saying, “Just my partner,” and introduced them.
Eberhardt wanted to know if he was intruding; I said no, Washburn’s and my business was about finished. He nodded, muttered something about it being like an icebox in here, poured himself some coffee, and went to his desk and picked up his phone.
I said to Washburn, “So your theory is both Kenneth and Leonard were killed by the same person-Leonard so he wouldn’t expose the truth about his brother’s death.”
Washburn nodded. He seemed a little ill at ease now that someone else was in the room.
“But why didn’t Leonard expose the truth? Why contact the murderer instead of the police? Why let him or her know that the crime against Kenneth had been found out?”
“Leonard might have been trying to make him admit something incriminating, just so he could be sure. He had to’ve known the person; he must not have believed his own life was in danger.”
Plausible answers-up to a point. But it still didn’t quite add up for me. I said as much to Washburn. I also pointed out to him that Leonard’s murderer didn’t have to be the same person who had pushed Kenneth to his death- if Kenneth had been pushed. It could just as easily have been the man on the telephone.
“But what motive would he have? Leonard must have paid him the two thousand dollars; the police didn’t find it in his office and it certainly isn’t in the house.”
“Maybe he didn’t give Leonard the name once he had the payoff,” I said. “Maybe he didn’t have a name; it could have been a straight extortion ploy, no truth to it at all. And maybe he demanded another payoff and went to the house to collect it. Leonard refused, the man threatened him with a gun, something happened to make him use it…”
“Yes, I see what you mean. But I don’t really care who it was, or why; I just want him caught and put in the gas chamber.” He folded his pale, delicate hands together again. “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “I never believed in capital punishment until now. Now I want to go to San Quentin when the time comes and watch that motherfucker die. ”
I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say to that.
“You will work for me?” he said. “Do what you can to find him?”
I kept silent a while longer. The thing was, I felt sorry for him. He was so small and alone, sitting there, so empty; and I kept seeing him the way he’d been last Thursday night, after he had looked into the dining room and seen what was left of his lover. I couldn’t turn him down. How could I turn him down?
