Goodbye California

As notebooks go it was large — about eight inches by five — and secured by a locked, brass clasp, a sufficient deterrent against the young or merely curious but of no avail against the ill-intentioned armed with a knife. Ryder sliced open the spine and rifled through the exposed pages — which told him nothing, inasmuch as they were covered with neatly-typed figures, not letters. He wasted no time on the notebook. He knew nothing of cryptography, which didn’t worry him: the FBI had its own highly specialized department of code-breakers who could decipher anything except the most highly sophisticated military codes, and even those they could do if given enough time. Time. Ryder looked at his watch. It was one minute to eleven.

He found Jeff methodically going through the pockets of LeWinter’s considerable number of custom-made suits. LeWinter and the girl were still resting comfortably. Ryder ignored them and switched on a TV set. He didn’t bother to select any particular station: the same programme would be on every one. Ryder didn’t bother to look at the screen. He didn’t appear to be watching anything at all but, in fact, he didn’t allow the couple on the bed to move out of peripheral vision.

The announcer, who might just coincidentally have been dressed anyway in a dark suit and tie, used his State funeral voice. He confined himself to the facts. The San Ruffino nuclear power reaction station had been broken into that late afternoon and the criminals had made good their escape, taking with them weapons-grade material and hostages. The precise amount of material taken was specified, as were the names, addresses and occupations of the hostages. Neither the person giving this information nor the source from which it had come had been identified, but the genuineness of the information was beyond dispute as it had been confirmed in detail by the authorities. The same authorities were carrying out an intensive investigation. The usual meaningless poppycock, Ryder thought; they had no leads to investigate. He switched off the set and looked at Jeff.

‘Notice anything, Perkins?’

‘The same thing as you were noticing. What you can see of Casanova’s face here didn’t show much change in expression. Didn’t show anything, in fact. Guilty as hell, I’d say.’

‘Good as a signed confession. That news was no news to him.’ He looked at LeWinter and appeared momentarily lost in thought before saying: ‘I’ve got it. Your rescuers, I mean. I’ll send along a reporter and a photographer from the Globe.’

‘Isn’t that interesting?’ Jeff said. ‘I do believe Don Juan has registered a slight change of expression.’

LeWinter had, in fact, registered a marked change in expression. The bronzed skin had assumed a greyish hue and the suddenly protuberant eyes seemed bent on parting company with their sockets. One could enjoy the Globe without being able to read too well. It specialized in artistic portraits of unclad feminine illiterates who spent their evenings reading Sophocles in the original, in candid shots of the newsworthy caught in apparently compromising or undignified situations, and, for the intelligentsia among their readers, extensive muck-raking couched in terms of holy crusades against shocked morality. All of this was, perforce, in the very simplest of prose. And such was the intolerable pressure brought to bear through the demands imposed by the clamorous urgency, the evangelistic immediacy and the socially important content of those journalistic imperatives that the overworked editorial staff were frequently and reluctantly compelled to encapsulate, hold over or, most commonly, altogether forget, such trivia as the international news or, indeed, any but the most salaciously elevating items of the local news. One did not require telepathic aid to guess that the judge’s mind was touching on such matters in general and, in particular, on page one, where the unretouched and considerably enlarged picture of himself and his handcuffed amorita would leave room only for the appalled caption.

Downstairs in the study Ryder said: ‘Glance through those court cases in the files. You may find something of interest, although I doubt it. I have a call to make.’ He dialled a number, and while waiting for his call to come through glanced at the list of names and telephone numbers he had taken from the safe. His number answered and he asked for Mr Jamieson. Jamieson was the night manager at the telephone exchange. He was on the line almost at once.

‘Sergeant Ryder here. Important and confidential, Mr Jamieson.’ Jamieson had delusions about his self- importance and liked to have those kept well stoked. ‘I have a number here and would be glad if you made a note of it.’ He gave the number, had it read back to him and said: ‘I think it’s Sheriff Hartman’s home number. Would you check and give me the address — it’s not in the book.’

‘Important, huh?’ Jamieson sounded eager. ‘Hush-hush?’

‘You don’t know how important. Heard the news?’

‘San Ruffino? My God, yes. Just now. Bad, eh?’

‘You just can’t guess.’ He waited patiently until Jamieson came back to him. ‘Well?’

‘You got the right name, right number. Classified, God knows why. One hundred-and-eighteen Rowena.’

Ryder thanked him and hung up. Jeff said: ‘Who’s Hartman?’

‘Local sheriff. That safe is wired to his office. Missed something up there, didn’t you?’

‘I know.’

‘How?’

‘If I hadn’t missed it you wouldn’t mention it.’

‘You noticed how readily LeWinter parted with the key to that safe. What does that tell you about Sheriff Hartman?’

‘Nothing much. Correction, nothing good.’

‘Yes. The number of people by whom LeWinter would willingly be found in such a scandalous and compromising situation must be very few. But he knows that Sheriff Hartman wouldn’t talk. So there’s a bond between them.’

‘LeWinter could have a friend in this world.’

‘We’re talking about probabilities, not the near-impossible. Blackmail? Unlikely. If the judge were blackmailing Hartman this would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance for the sheriff to make sure that the blackmail ended here and now. LeWinter could be the victim but I can’t see it that way. What I do see is that they are in some very profitable business together. Criminal business. An honest judge would never compromise himself by going into business with a lawman. Anyway, I know LeWinter is bent. I know nothing about this Hartman but he’s probably the same.’

‘As honest — if unemployed — cops it’s our duty to find out what Hartman’s bent about. In what now appears to be the usual fashion?’ Ryder nodded. ‘Donahure can wait?’

‘He’ll keep. Turned up anything?’

‘Hell, no. All these “whereases” and “whereofs” and “here-intofores” are too much for me.’

‘You can forget it. Even LeWinter wouldn’t express his deepest thoughts — or criminal intentions — in legalese.’ Ryder again dialled a number, waited then said: ‘Mr Aaron? Sergeant Ryder here. Now don’t get me wrong, but how would you like one of your photographers to take a picture of a prominent citizen caught in a compromising situation?’

Aaron’s tone was uncomprehending. Not cold: just not understanding. ‘I am surprised, Sergeant. You know that the Examiner is not a yellow tabloid.’

‘Pity. I thought you were and would be interested in Judge LeWinter’s peccadilloes.’

‘Ah!’ LeWinter ranked with Chief Donahure at the top of the list of Aaron’s target for special editorials. ‘What’s that crooked old goat up to now?’

‘He’s not up to anything. He’s lying down. He’s with his secretary who is young enough to be his grand- daughter. When I say “with” I mean “with”. He’s handcuffed to her, and they’re both handcuffed to the bed.’

‘Good God!’ Aaron made a coughing sound, probably trying to stifle laughter. ‘Intrigues me vastly. Sergeant. But I’m still afraid we couldn’t publish —’

‘No one asked you to publish anything. Just take a photograph.’

‘I see.’ There was a brief silence. ‘All you want is for him to know that such a picture has been taken?’

‘That’s it. I’d be glad if your boys would maintain the fiction I’ve told him — that I was sending people from the Globe.’

This time Aaron positively cackled. ‘That would make him happy!’

‘He’s having fits. Many thanks. I’m leaving the handcuff keys on the study table.’

Dunne, as he’d promised, was still in his office when they returned. Ryder said: ‘Progress?’

‘Damn all. Almost impossible to make an outgoing call. Switchboard’s been jammed since the news announcement. At least a hundred people have seen the criminals — in, as usual, a hundred different places. You?’

‘Don’t know. You’ll have to help us if you will. First off, here are Judge LeWinter’s fingerprints.’