Part 3 (1/2)

I nodded. ”The fan. I checked them out around town till I found the noisy one.”

”I don't know how to thank you.”

”For what?” I said. ”I didn't find him. He'd probably been gone for hours. But you can pa.s.s it on to the Sheriff, for what it's worth.”

”Yes,” she said, trying to sound optimistic, but I could tell she had little hope they would ever do anything about it. I was filled with a sour disgust towards the whole place. Why didn't somebody bury it?

I went across to my room and poured a drink. Taking off my sweaty s.h.i.+rt, I lay down on one of the beds with a cigarette and stared morosely up at the ceiling. I wished now I had belted Frankie while I had the chance. Stranded in this place for at least another thirty-six hours.

You're in sad shape, I thought; you can't stand your own company and you've got a grouch on at everybody else. The only thing you can do is keep moving, and that doesn't solve anything. You'd feel just as lousy in St Petersburg, or Miami- There was a light knock on the door.

”Come in,” I said.

Mrs. Langston stepped inside, and then paused uncertainly as she saw me stretched out in hairy nakedness from the waist up. I made no move to get up. She probably thought I had the manners of a pig, but it didn't seem to matter.

I gestured indifferently towards the armchair. ”Sit down.”

She left the door slightly ajar and crossed to the chair. She sat with her knees pressed together, and nervously pulled down the hem of her dress, apparently ill-at-ease. ”I-I wanted to talk to you,” she said, as if uncertain how to begin.

”What about?” I asked. I raised myself on one elbow and nodded towards the chest. ”Whisky there, and cigarettes. Help yourself.”

You're doing fine, Chatham; you haven't completely lost touch with all the little amenities. You can still grunt and point.

She shook her head. ”Thank you, just the same.” She paused, and then went on tentatively, ”I believe you said you used to be a policeman, but aren't any more?”

That's right,” I said.

”Would it be prying if I asked whether you're doing anything now?”

”The answer is no,” I said. ”On both counts. I have no job at all; I'm just on my way to Miami. The reason escapes me at the moment.”

She frowned slightly, as if I puzzled her. ”Would you be interested in doing something for me, if I could pay you?”

”Depends on what it is.”

”I'll come right to the point. Will you try to find out who that man is?”

”Why me?” I asked.

She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. ”Because I got to thinking about the clever way you found out where he called from. You could do it. I can't stand it much longer, Mr. Chatham. I have to answer the phone, and sometimes when it rings I'm afraid I'm going to lose my mind. I don't know who he is, or where he is, or when he may be looking at me, and when I walk down the street I cringe-”

I thought of that farcical meat-head, Magruder. n.o.body had ever been hurt over a telephone.

”No,” I said.

”But why?” she asked helplessly. ”I don't have much, but I would be glad to pay you anything within reason.”

”In the first place, it's police work. And I'm not a policeman.”

”But private detectives-”

”Are licensed. And operating without a license can get you into plenty of trouble. And in the second place, just identifying him is pointless. The only way to stop him is a conviction that will send him to jail or have him committed to an asylum, and that means proof and an organization willing to prosecute. Which brings you right back to the police and the District Attorney. If they're dragging their feet, there's nothing you can do about it.”

”I see,” she said wearily. I detested myself for cutting the ground from under her this way. She was a h.e.l.l of a lot of very fine and sensitive girl taking too much punishment, and I could feel her pulling at me. What she was showed all over her, if you believed in evidence at all. She had courage, and that thing called cla.s.s, for lack of a better word, but they couldn't keep her going for ever. She'd crack up. Then I wondered savagely why I was supposed to cry over her troubles. They were nothing to me, were they?

”Why don't you sell out and leave?” I asked.

”No!” The vehemence of it surprised me. Then she went on, more calmly. ”My husband put everything he had left into this place, and I have no intention of selling it at a sacrifice and running like a scared child.”

”Then why don't you landscape it? It looks so desolate it drives people away.”

She stood up. ”I know. But I simply don't have the money.”

And I had, I thought, and it was the kind of thing I was perhaps subconsciously looking for, but I didn't want to become involved with her. I didn't want to become involved with anybody. Period.

She hesitated at the door. ”Then you won't even consider it?”

”No,” I said. I didn't like the way she could get through to me, and I wanted to get her and her troubles off my back once and for all. ”There's only one way I could stop him if I did find him. Do you want to hire me to beat up an insane man?”

She flinched. ”No. How awful-”

I went on roughly, interrupting her. ”I'm not sure I could. I was suspended from the San Francisco Police Department for brutality, but at least the man I beat up there was sane. I would a.s.sume there is a difference, so let's drop it.”

She frowned again, perplexed. ”Brutality?”

”That's right.”

She waited a minute for me to add something further, and when I didn't, she said, ”I'm sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Chatham,” and went out and closed the door.

I returned to studying the ceiling. It was no different from a lot of others I had inspected.

About six I called another cab and went into town. I ate a solitary dinner at the Steak House, bought some magazines, and walked back to the motel in the blue and dust-suspended haze of dusk. There were cars parked in front of only three of the rooms. I was lying on the bed reading about half an hour later when I heard another crunch to a stop on the gravel, and then after a few minutes the sound of voices raised in argument. Or at least, one of them was raised. It was a man's. The other sounded as if it might be Mrs. Langston. It continued, and the man's voice grew louder. I got up and looked out.

It was night now, but the lights were on. There were three of them before an open doorway two rooms to my left-Mrs. Langston, a tough-looking kid of about twenty, and a rawhide string of a girl at least five years younger who seemed incomplete without a motor-cycle and a crash helmet. A 1950 sedan was parked in front of the room. I walked over and leaned against the wail and smelled trouble.

Mrs. Langston was holding out her hand with some money in it. ”You'll have to get out,” she said, ”or I'll call the police.”

”Call the cops!” the kid said. ”You kill me.” He was a big insolent number with hazel eyes and a ducktail haircut the color of wet concrete, and he wore Cossack boots, jeans, and a Basque pullover thing that strained just the way he wanted it across the ropy shoulders.

”What's the difficulty?” I asked.

Mrs. Langston looked around. ”He registered alone, but when I happened to look out a minute later I saw her bob up out of the back seat. I told him he'd have to leave, and tried to return his money, but he won't take it.”

”You want me to give it to him?” I asked.

The kid measured me with a nasty look. ”Don't get eager, Dad. I know some dirty stuff.”

”So do I,” I said, not paying too much attention to him. The whole thing had a phony ring. She rented these rooms for six dollars.