going on,' he said. 'If you did, you'd be scared like I am.'
The oddness of his remark almost made me forget that he was holding a gun on me. Here I was assuming that we were talking about his guilt in the two murders, yet he seemed to be saying that he was somehow a victim-
'I'm not following you, Merle.'
'Of course you're not. You don't understand a damned thing about what's going on here.'
'You mean Denny and Gettig?'
He nodded. 'And it isn't going to stop with them.' He glanced at the gun. 'I'm next. Then probably you.'
'Me? What the hell do I have to do with anything?' He fell back into his miserable silence.
I repeated myself, 'What the hell do I have to do with anything?'
'Maybe it's guilt by association.' He sounded almost amused.
I wanted to hit him. Hard.
'You went to the duck pond in the city park earlier today,' I said. 'And the other night I saw you at a private detective's named Stokes.'
Instead of shouting out his innocence, or grabbing his gun, Merle Wickes just sat back in his chair and let go with a distinctly asthmatic laugh, a keening little laugh that conveyed a surprising smugness.
'You dumb bastard,' he said. 'Stokes has got you playing along, I see.'
He leaned forward, the laugh still in his voice. 'You sure pick good private detectives, Michael. Two days after you hired Stokes, he came to Denny and said that he'd put you on a false trail if Denny paid him enough. To Denny it sounded like a great game. He let Stokes tell you about Cindy Traynor and him just because he knew how much it would scare you-' He laughed again. 'You're fun to watch when you get uptight, Michael.'
Which was when I grabbed him. Yanked him from behind the desk and hit him so hard across the face that blood spurted from his nose immediately. Then I threw him back in his chair and came around the desk. Any self- confidence his hairdo gave him was gone. He started to whimper and to flutter his hands in front of his face for protection. I couldn't help myself. I grabbed him again and slapped him backhand across the face.
'I want to know what the hell's going on,' I said.
'Stokes,' he muttered.
'What about Stokes?'
'He's playing us off against each other.'
'What the hell does that mean?' I said.
He sat in the chair trying to catch his breath and whimpering and finally he said, 'Stokes is bleeding every one of us he can. He found out some things about Denny-and demanded money.'
'What things?'
'I–I'm not sure.'
'You're a goddamned liar.'
'No, really I…'
I started toward him again, hating myself for the violence but unable to stop myself, when something hit me on the shoulder.
I groaned, turned to see Belinda Matson standing behind me.
'Leave him alone!' she cried. 'He's suffered enough.'
I looked at the bronze bookend she'd thrown at me.
The air of violence subsided as we all stood there glaring at each other, not quite knowing what to say.
I was still working on what Merle had said about Stokes, a man I planned to have a talk with as soon as possible.
'Stokes says the photograph you picked up at the duck pond shows that you killed Denny,' I said to Merle.
Merle shook his head. 'He knows better than that.'
'Then you were there that night?'
He shrugged. 'Sure I was. I'll even admit we had an argument.'
'About what?'
He said nothing.
'About what?'
He sighed. 'We had an argument. That's all that matters. But I didn't kill him.'
I turned back to Belinda. I wondered if she'd told Merle about Clay Traynor yet and decided she probably hadn't.
And it wasn't my place to inform him that his mistress had a lover.
'Would you mind leaving us alone?' I asked her. 'Yes, I would. I don't want you to hurt him.'
'I'm not going to hurt him.' She looked at Merle then at me. 'You promise?' I promise.
'Is it all right if I leave?' she asked Merle.
He didn't seem to hear her. He was somewhere else.
She stared at him several long moments then left, looking hurt and confused. I wondered what the letter she was writing Merle said. If it admitted to the affair she had had, or was still having, with Clay Traynor, or if it shed any light on the murders. For some reason, I had the feeling that is was a very important letter, and one I needed to lay my hands on.
Merle went back behind his desk and put his hands over his face. Then he took them away. His face looked awful, as if he'd just awakened from the worst hangover of his life.
'There's no way out now,' he said.
'From what?' I said, trying to keep my voice friendly.
'You know what I'd really like to do?'
'What?'
'Go back to my wife. Patch things up.' He made me think of Sarah Anders-maybe we could have a big group therapy session up here.
'You've got a nice wife.'
'Damned nice.' He sounded as if he were going to start crying. Then he nodded to the outer office where the sound of a typewriter could be heard. 'Clay Traynor strikes again. He and Belinda were seeing each other for a while. Belinda said she just got tired of sitting home alone nights when I had to be with my wife. I guess I can't blame her.' But obviously he did.
So he did know. I felt sorry for the poor bastard. Sitting there, his shoulders slumped, he looked much older than his forty years. In high school, I felt sure, he had been head of the camera club or the science club-the classic nerd as seen by his classmates-and now here he was trying to compensate for all that pain and dislocation by having a hairstyle that looked silly and a mistress who was unfaithful. It wasn't funny. Some of the pity I felt for him crept into my voice. 'Why was Denny murdered, Merle?'
He shrugged. 'I don't know, Michael, I really don't.'
'You didn't do it, then?'
The laugh again. 'You really think I could commit murder, Michael?' He was copping to his nerd image- using it to his advantage-but it didn't work. Nerds commit their share of murders, too.
'So why the gun?' I said.
'Because it's all such a goddamn mess, why else?'
'There's something you're not telling me.'
He shrugged, sighed again, looked miserable.
I took the newspaper clipping out of my pocket and put it on his desk. Right next to the gun.
He didn't notice it for a while. Then his eyes narrowed and he reached out a delicate finger and picked it up.
The way the blood started filling his cheeky cheeks, it was obvious Merle knew the significance of the clipping.
He surprised me. He decided to lie. He threw it back at me. 'Hell, I don't know what this means.'
I leaned forward. 'Merle, I'm going to hurt you. I really am. Unless you tell me what the hell's going on. What's this clipping got to do with the murders?'
I watched him eye the gun on his desk. Was he thinking of using it on me or himself?
