'We're not only talking about poor judgment here, Mr. Carlon. Withholding evidence in a murder case is illegal. Even a hint of it and I can have my investigator's license revoked and lose my livelihood.'
'You'd have me behind you, Nudger. And how long would it take you to earn fifty thousand dollars?'
I put my fists on my hips, started to pace on the red shag. I didn't like what he was suggesting, not only because it was illegal but because it was dangerous. I'd counted on the police involvement to give me at least some protection if and when I crossed paths with Branly's killer, and there was a factor in this case that made that crossing of paths even more likely than Carlon thought. I wondered if he'd considered that the death trap that had killed Branly might have been meant for Joan Clark. After all, it was her car, and going to the Laundromat was still basically a woman's chore.
'I'm not suggesting that we automatically withhold from the police everything you turn up,' Carlon said with a note of exasperation. 'Whenever you learn something of importance, we can determine whether the police should share in the information. Remember-you're searching for Joan, they're searching for Branly's murderer.'
'What about this phone number?'
Carlon smiled. 'I'll have it checked for an address, confidentially. I'll phone you later today with the information.' He walked over, rested his arm on my shoulder in a grand gesture of camaraderie. 'After all, it might not be anything important. This might be the phone number of a dry cleaner or delicatessen…'
'Or Laundromat.'
The smile stayed but the arm went. 'That might be, Mr. Nudger. We'll just have to determine the facts.'
We left 355 Star Lane together. I sat in my car for a minute, fixing into my key case the house key Carlon had given me. As I looked up, I saw Carlon lift a manicured hand from his steering wheel in a parting wave as he passed me in his Mercedes. He'd bought a lot for his fifty thousand. That 'let the buyer beware' adage is backward.
But Carlon was good for his word on the phone number. He called me that afternoon at the Clover Inn and gave me a name and address on Dade Avenue, and he asked me to phone him as soon as I'd checked it out.
Daisy Rogers was the name. I was hoping the number wouldn't belong to a woman. What if Branly had been seeing Daisy Rogers on the sly? That would explain the concealed phone number, and whatever information it might lead to about Branly would be just what he'd chosen to let her know about himself. Probably very little.
I got directions to Dade Avenue from Eddie at the motel office and found that the street was only three blocks east of the motel, though the 2200 address I wanted was some distance south.
The 2200 block of Dade turned out to be a palm-lined street of inexpensive stucco houses set almost at the curb, as if the wide avenue had eroded the front lawns like the sea. The address Carlon had given me was on the corner, a small house painted a pale flamingo pink. A screened-in porch ran across the front of the house, and in the front yard was an old wheelbarrow, also painted pink, used as a planter and exploding with a colorful display of flowers. When I got near the porch, I saw that the screening was old and rusty, paint peeling about the framework.
After five rings of the bell the door was opened by a very old woman with lank gray hair hanging down onto her forehead. She was thin to the point of being emaciated, and age had bent her and humped her narrow back.
I caught myself staring at her. 'Daisy Rogers?'
'That's me,' she said brightly.
'The Branlys wanted me to let you know they'd be out of town for a few days.' I knew I'd be safe in telling her that, since Carlon had kept David Branly's death out of the Lay ton papers.
She peered at me with lusterless eyes and cocked her head. 'The who?'
'The Branlys-David Branly. He gave me your address and phone number. I was going to call you but was near here anyway on business, so I thought I'd relay the message personally.'
Daisy Rogers shook her head slowly. She might have been seventy or ninety. 'Don't know any Branlys.'
I endeavored to look as puzzled as I felt. 'Are you sure?… This is your address and phone number, isn't it?' I handed her a piece of paper with the information.
She placed an ancient pair of rimless spectacles, somebody's future heirloom, on the bridge of her nose, moved out closer to the sunlight and concentrated on the paper for almost a full minute. A musty scent wafted out of the house behind her. 'Yep. You're at the right place. Maybe these Branlys know my boy Mark.'
'Is he home?'
'Should be soon. Why don't you come in? Or you can sit there and wait on the shady end of the porch if you want. Cooler than inside.'
I'd decided to wait on the wooden glider suspended on rusty chains from the porch ceiling when Daisy Rogers looked past me and white eyebrows raised on her speckled forehead.
'There's Mark now.'
I turned to see a tall, stooped man, bald with a fringe of gray, shuffling toward the porch steps. He was carrying a paper bag, and he looked, if anything, older than his mother.
'Mark, this is Mister…'
'I came with a message from the Branlys,' I told him.
'Damn young punk bastards!' he said, wobbling his head as if he hadn't heard.
'The Branlys?' I asked.
'All of 'em! I don't mind their fashions and their alley cat morals, but I don't like to be cheated without 'em botherin' to try to fool me!'
I stood patiently and let him talk, knowing I hadn't made contact.
'Took this new shirt back'-he held up the wrinkled bag-' 'cause it ripped under the arms when I put it on. Young clerk said he couldn't take it back 'cause it was torn. Told him that was why I brung it back! He said he knew the material was weak; that's why the shirt was on sale. Turned his back on me!'
'Keep yourself calm, Mark,' his mother put in.
'Did you ever!' he said.
'I ever,' I told him. 'Do you know Branly?'
He stared at me as if I'd dropped from the porch ceiling. 'Don't know any Branlys, didn't I tell you?'
No, sir.
'Offer you a cold beer?'
I declined with thanks.
As I left, he was trying clumsily to light a pipe while discoursing on the advantages of wooden matches over the new paper ones.
In the sun-heated compact I sat for a minute and looked around at the other houses. I had come to the address Carlon had given me, and Daisy Rogers had confirmed the telephone number. It was possible I'd misread one of the numerals scratched in the woodwork by the Star Lane phone. I started the car and drove farther south on Dade Avenue, until it intersected Palm Road.
The air conditioner Carlon had turned on yesterday was still humming its rattling tune, and the air inside the Star Lane house was almost breathable. I shut the door behind me and went directly to the phone and examined the numbers scratched on the underside of the woodwork. They were as clearly legible as I remembered.
A phone directory rested on the crosspiece of the telephone table's wooden leg braces. I reached down for the directory, opened the front cover, then tossed the book onto the red shag carpet. Picking up the telephone by the hand-hold behind the receiver cradle, I brought it down with me as I settled onto the carpet, next to the directory, and leaned my back against the wall. I opened the directory and began going down the line, dialing long- distance area codes, then the number scratched into the woodwork.
As each distant telephone was answered, I would ask for David Branly, then Vic Branly, and I would try to gauge the reaction of whoever was on the other end of the line. What I most often got was a vague puzzlement, sometimes annoyance.
I was beginning to perspire, and my back was aching from leaning against the hardness of the wall. Then finally, after dialing area code 312 and the phone number that was now etched in my memory as deeply as it was in the woodwork, I got the sort of reaction I'd been seeking.
'Dave?…' came the puzzled voice after I'd spoken. 'There is no David Branly here…' It was a man's voice, nasal and uncertain.
'What about Vic?' I asked.
'Who is this?'
