“Didn’t you hear what he said?”
“Couldn’t you make a deal?”
“Didn’t you hear me try? What happened?”
“Couldn’t you sock him in the jaw?”
“Me? He was a big guy. You sock him.”
“Taking it lying down—”
“Wait a minute, fellow—wait a minute. This wasn’t just a guy. He was from a big insurance company. What good would it do to sock him?”
“It would do plenty of good. A cheap jack of an agent comes out here, lights a cigar, and scares you so bad you turn around and pitch it all out, what’s been done. Don’t you get it? I’m in on it too! I’ve been your witness, I’ve stood for what had to be said to put across accident. Look where that puts me in this town if you go around and tell them it’s all just a lie you thought up.”
Mr. La Bouche spoke in a quiet, worried way. “We think we been getting away with it, but who says we have? Who says that mug is from an insurance company at all? Who says he’s not a cop’s stool pigeon?”
“But switching, that’ll fix it, hey?”
They all sat in gloom for a few minutes. Then Dmitri picked up the letter. “And besides this note can’t go to the Sheriff. It must be another note. Because who knows what this says? Maybe some fool thing. Maybe something about Hezzel. Maybe cracks it wide open.”
“Can’t you burn it?”
Mr. La Bouche explained patiently to Tony that if it had been merely an ordinary letter, burning was possible, but with the postoffice having a record of the delivery, to say nothing of the hotel, burning would be wholly risky. Substituting another letter, one that indicated Vicki intended to take his own life, was the best solution all around. And Dmitri added: “We don’t switch, nothing like that. We tell the same thing. Just like we told it before. Except we remember now, it was Vicki who say, ‘I must have a real one.’ Was Vicki who say, ‘I don’t get this thing till you make it plain.’ We know nothing about a note. The Sharf opens the note, says it must be suicide. Then all see it was suicide, the insurance goes kaput, company no have to pay.”
Tony stormed, pleaded, called Dmitri names. But Benny, the first forger of his time, went out, and when he returned he had the bar’s small electric coffee machine. Filling it with water from the cooler he plugged it in, and while he was waiting for it to steam he looked at the letter. “Green ink, pals. That’s the first thing. Where’s his pen? Anything you put inside has to match up with this envelope outside, if I’m doing it—if the idea is, we’re using this envelope. I guess that’s what you mean, use the envelope to show it come in to the hotel before he even got shot.”
Mr. Spiro unclipped a pen from his shirt pocket, handed it over. “He borrowed my pen to write it with. All full up, all full up with green ink.”
Benny turned the letter over. “Worse and more of it. Maybe the wop is right. Maybe we better leave it lay. Because the flap has a crown on it. It has that crown on it, and the inside paper will have to match.”
“That’s under control.”
Mr. La Bouche explained that he and Dmitri both knew where Vicki kept his paper, up at the shack, and that they would get some at once. This proved to be unduly optimistic, for their entrance into the shack was barred by officers at the door; but on their plea of checking what clothes would be needed for the funeral they were let in, and under the guise of making memoranda they helped themselves to paper, and were back at the Domino in less than an hour. By that time, Benny had steamed open the envelope, extracted the brief note that it contained and tabulated the words in it, in pencil, on another sheet of paper. He pointed the pencil at Mr. La Bouche and Dmitri, looking very solemn. “Now get this, lugs. This presents one of the most unusual problems I ever had challenge me professional skill. How this guy spelled the English language was something to write home about. He had his own system, but it was nothing like Webster’s system, or anybody’s system. But this is what it means: You got to say what you say with these specimen words, these words I got wrote out here, that he used in the original note. Because that’s all the words I can be sure of. Because if I go and spell a word one way, and they dig up a lot of his handwriting at the shack and compare, and he spelled it some other way, that cooks us, friends. You got it?”
Tony scowled, but whether Dmitri or Mr. La Bouche heard it, would be hard to say. They were walking abstractedly about, passing and repassing each other on the linoleum carpet, in the throes of literary composition. Presently Mr. La Bouche said: “There ought to be an affectionate note in it, Dimmy. That’s what I miss in all this. Nobody seems to care.”
“Like for instance, Bushy, how do you mean?”
“Well, you know, something like ‘My mind is all on you, Sylvia,’ or maybe ‘My heart is all with you’ would be better, ‘as the shadows lengthen toward the west’.”
“East.”
“East. Right. You got that, Benny?”
“Look, get this once and for all. If any shadows lengthen in this, they lengthen toward the north, because that was where he was going on his honeymoon and its the only point on the compass I know how he spelled it. He didn’t bother with any H, but how do I know he didn’t spell east with a Y? Maybe he thought it was rich in vitamins.”
“Shadows are out.”
“Bushy, you see something so: The end of my lang, lang trail a-winding? Course that’s not it, but it gives a rough idea. I wan’ something with a punch.”
“Boys, something short would help.”
“The Long, Long Trail is in.”
“Trip with two p’s, but no trail. Sorry.”
“And then, Dimmy, of course I’m only spitballing, throw it out if you don’t like it. But don’t you think there ought to be some little thing? Like, ‘Be kind to—’ What was the name of that hyena he had in the private zoo out on the ranch?”
“You can have ‘switt puss,’ but no hyena.”
“Maybe he’s right. The hyena’s name was Spiro.”
“Dimmy, on a thing like this I always like a quotation of some kind. We’ll say like a quotation from Shakespeare.”
“On that, Bushy, I would hesitate.”
“It would give it class.”
“But suppose they find out how Vicki felt about Shakespeare? After Julius Caesar flopped, Vicki always said Shakespeare was lousy.”
“There might be two opinions about that.”
“I know. I know how Vicki came to produce Julius Caesar. He was wishing he didn’t have to pay for a script and somebody told him about Shakespeare, and he said ‘Why not? It don’t cost anything to find out.’ So we made it and it flopped, and it cost more than the Phoenix Studios cost. Just the same, he blamed it on Shakespeare, and I don’t know if we should put in from Shakespeare.”
They volleyed the point back and forth, while the shadow of the Sierras crept closer, and presently enveloped the Domino in luminous blue. Benny, the pencil clicking against his teeth, studied the limited vocabulary which must form the basis of the projected composition, and presently started to write, first in pencil on scratch paper, then with the fountain pen on Vicki’s crested stationery. Soon talk ceased, and an uneasy silence fell on the room. He wrote slowly, trying every word on the scratch paper, smoking and considering. He must have been under a strain, for when Dmitri complained at the rate of progress, he snapped back: “Shut up and lemme alone. To do justice to me skill I got to take me time.” When the note was done he handed it over, first reminding them to handle it with handkerchiefs. Though Tony refused even to look, Dmitri and Mr. La Bouche read the following:
Dienstag
Silvya, Switt Puss, Kuss Kuss:
Be oder
not be, that is quashon. Todayheute comes Divarse-peper, todayheute comes And. Silvya Puss, I can no live wit out You. My Son go don, nort Star come opp, is batter Vicki go out. So, Gottbei. Gottbei Dimmy, Gottbei Buschka, Gottbei, Gott hehute Hezelchen. Wiedersehen & Kuss Kuss.
Dein
Vicki
Be gut gegen
“Spiro.”
Chapter Nine
THE SHERIFF SPENT A solitary afternoon on the front porch of his home, which was a pleasant house in the middle of a ranch four or five miles from town, on a road that forked off the road that led past the Galloping Domino. It was a cattle ranch, and he sat staring at his beeves; as to what was going on in his mind his face gave no clue. Once he went inside, picked up the phone that stood on a small table in the hall and called Mr. Flynn, to see if anything had been heard of the missing girl. Once Mr. Flynn called him, to say that there was such a jam of calls from the special writers who were arriving by plane, train, car and bus, that nothing was coming in from outlying parts of the state at all. The Sheriff told him to notify the police what he was doing, then lock the office and go out to the Galloping Domino, having all long distance calls transferred to there. Then, if the police learned something, they could report it, while other dial calls would simply get no answer. Mr. Flynn said O. K. The Sheriff, as soon as he had eaten a light supper served him by the Mexican woman who kept house for him, got in his car and drove over there. He found Mr. Flynn in the office, studying a pile of photostats, charts and reports. “What do they show, Flynn?”
“Not a thing.”
“All checks up?”
“So far, it does. Only fingerprints on the gun are Spiro’s, but the way he tells it he was the one had hold of the barrel, and it’s only on the barrel you get clear prints. Trajectory of the bullet corresponds right. Fired from an angle, on the right, which would just about be the way it would be doing the scene the way they said they did it. I don’t see anything wrong with it. What do you want the girl for?”
“Sister’s worried about her.”
“When are you having the inquest?”
“Soon as we find her. Did you eat?”
“Not yet I haven’t.”
“You better go, then. I’ll sit in here and take anything that comes along. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
When Mr. Flynn had gone, the Sheriff dug into the pile of evidential matter a bit grimly, and perhaps more carefully than Mr. Flynn had done. Soon the door opened and Dmitri came in. He said: “He told you, Sharf? Mr. Flynn? About this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
Dmitri pointed to the stack of communications brought from the hotel, explained why they had not been given to Sylvia. The Sheriff said: “O. K. I’ll release them to you after the inquest.”
“This one note—”
“Yes?”
“It’s from Vicki. I can tell by the crest. He borrowed my pen last night to write her a note. I didn’t give it to her yet. Might make her feel bad.”
The Sheriff picked up the note, dropped it in his pocket, went back to his photostats. Dmitri said: “You’re not reading it?”
“It’s to her, isn’t it?”
“I thought maybe, was evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Skip, skip.”
“You did right in turning it over to me, and I’ll see that she gets it. Now, is there anything else you wanted to see me about?”
“No, sir. No, thanks. You want me, I’ll be at Sylvia’s hotel at seven o’ clock.”
“O. K.”
Dmitri had barely gone when a call came, and the Sheriff answered. “Officer Enders talking from Lone Pine.”
“Sheriff Lucas. What is it, Enders?”
“We found her.”
“Alive?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s what I expected. Shoot.”
“The Army planes reported it, right after dark. Two lights pointed straight up at the sky. They took it for some kind of signal at first, and we got over there. The car was standing on its rear bumper, jammed against a ledge. It couldn’t be seen from the road. She must have driven it over on purpose, because there was no way it could have swerved that far by accident.”
“What have you done with the body?”
“Nothing. Waiting orders.”
“You have an ambulance there?”
“Yes, sir. Called one before I climbed down there.”
“Then send her right in to town. No inquest necessary, that I see. Come in yourself and report to me here at the Galloping Domino at nine thirty. I’ll call the Adlerkreutz inquest for ten.”
“Yes, sir. Is Flynny there?”
“He’s at supper.”
“I got one on him. I turned up more dirt on the other one, the sister Sylvia, that picture actress he was bragging about.”
“You—did what?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
“He met her today. She shook hands with him, or so he says. Boy, was he letting me know it. Well, it just so happens that when we went looking for Hazel, we turned up a trail on Sylvia that would make a hooker in the Red Mill at Tijuana look like a Minnesota schoolteacher. If there’s any tinhorn sport in this state she hasn’t checked in with at some hotel the last two months, I don’t know who he could be. Tell Flynny we found another one: Mrs. John L. Smith, registered at Bill’s Place, six miles below here, exactly one month ago today; except that Mrs. Smith, when somebody went up and asked her to autograph the lunchroom menu, signed it Sylvia Shoreham. Will you tell him, Sheriff? I just love to rib Flynny.”
“I sure will.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
When Mr. Flynn returned, the Sheriff said: “Is this all the stuff you got?”
“That’s all. This other stuff, the picture people brought it from the hotel, but I couldn’t see what we had to do with it. I didn’t even open it.”
“Where’s the report from Enders?”
“From—who did you say?”
“Enders. At Lone Pine.”
“ ... That wasn’t a report. That was a rib.”
“What he told me was a report.”
“Then write it up.”
“It was a report and you wrote it and where is it?”
Mr. Flynn hesitated for a moment, said nothing. He was a big, heavy-set man of forty, darkly sunburned, vividly handsome in his slacks and flannel shirt. Presently he said: “What’s the big idea, Parker? You’ve been stuck on this woman four or five years now, and I don’t blame you. She shook hands with me this morning, and when she came out she remembered my name, and when I rang her a little while ago to tell her how we were coming, she still remembered it. She’s a swell girl. Well, so she’s been playing around? Well, so what? What have you got to do with that?”
“I’m asking you for Enders’ report.”
His face purpling deeply under its sunburn, Mr. Flynn went behind the desk, opened the center drawer. In it was a little pile of scratch-pad sheets, with penciled memoranda on them. He found the one he wanted, handed it to the Sheriff. “O. K. She registered at these three hotels on these three dates under these three names, the men she was with all different. She was seen by several different people at each place and didn’t even try to conceal who she was. There you are. That’s the Enders report.”
“Are those other officers’ reports?”
“ ... Yes.”
“Hand them over.”
Sylvia, like most actresses, had made an art of relaxation: it held the secret of bright eyes, glowing color, and the vivacity needed in front of a camera. She lay on her bed now, eyes closed, hands folded on her stomach, no part of her moving except her chest, which rose and fell a little as she breathed. She had put on a black dress, but even without this she would have looked pale, haggard, and worn in the half light that came in from the street, for it had been in truth a trying day. But she was not asleep, for an alert hand went out at the first sound of the phone: she had given orders that she was to be disturbed for two calls only: her sister, or the Sheriff. The desk informed her that the Sheriff was in the lobby. She jumped up, put on her shoes, patted her face, and went out to admit her guest.
He came in, and at her invitation sat down on the hotel sofa, not answering her question about her sister. She turned on the lights she want
ed, poked up the fire the hotel had made for her. Then she went over, sat down beside him and contentedly put her head on his shoulder. “Is there any news?”
He said nothing, and his arm did not go around her. After a long time he said: “Yes.” His voice had hanging fur on it, and shook. For the first time she really looked at him then, and became aware of his eyes. They hadn’t softened since they sobered Mr. Flynn, and by now, indeed, were a little frightening. He waited a long time before he went on, in slow, husky, measured words: “This morning, after saying you killed a man, you told me you thought you did right. I couldn’t hardly believe my ears then. I’ve killed two men since I held this office, and I never felt I did right. I felt I did what I had to, but I hated it. Now I know what you meant. Because I could kill you, as I sit here right now, and I wouldn’t feel it was wrong. I’d feel it was right.”
“And why do I deserve to die?”
“Because you’ve been deceiving me, and the people of this country, and the people of the whole world. Because you’re not what you pretend to be. Because you’re living a dirty, rotten lie.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
From his pocket he took a wad of crumpled scratch-pad sheets. Smoothing out the first one, he studied it and said: “On March 8 you spent the day at the Tumble Inn Roadhouse thirty miles south of here with a man that was known to several people there as Ted Genesee, a croupier at the Luckybuck Club not two blocks from here. You signed in as Mr. and Mrs. Edward Gentile, you spent the day, and at five o’clock he drove you back here. On April 2 you spent another day with Genesee at the Garden motor court, on the road east. On April 3 you didn’t bother to leave town, but checked in with him at the Westhaven, down at the depot. On April 5 you switched off from Genesee to a Cuban named Carlos Loma, that handles the stick for Dawson’s crap game over at the Monte Carlo. You went with him to Bill’s Place, down the line, and Hollister’s Dude Ranch, and Hack Schultz’s camp up in the mountains.”