Part 7 (2/2)

”Not in this town,” I said. ”I checked every booth in it except the phone company and stores. And it couldn't have been those because I heard a jukebox.”

”I don't get it,” he said.

I heard the front door of the lunch-room open, and the sound of hard heels behind me. Ollie reached into the ice-box, uncapped a bottle of beer, and placed it on the bar to the left of me. I turned. It was Pearl Talley. He was still wearing the same flamboyant s.h.i.+rt, apparently with a few added food stains. I noticed now he was larger than I'd thought, probably close on two hundred pounds. He looked soft.

”Howdy, men,” he said, and grinned at us with that odd combination of blue-eyed innocence and sly humor, like some precociously lewd but none too intelligent baby.

Ollie introduced us. He stuck out his hand. ”Sure proud to meet you,” he said. ”Doggone if you ain't a big one. Like to see you and ol' Calhoun mix it up.” He p.r.o.nounced it Kayul-hoon. Kayul-hoon.

I shook hands with him, wis.h.i.+ng the populace of this place would stop trying to match me with Calhoun. He took off the white hat, placed it on the bar beside him, and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his left forefinger, using it like a winds.h.i.+eld swipe and giving it a little flip at the end which snapped the moisture onto the floor. He looked older with the hat off. The sandy hair was receding across the top of his head, revealing a large area of scalp as glistening and white as the inner membrane of a boiled egg.

”Doggone if she ain't a real scorcher out there,” he said.

He had a backwoods Southern accent that might have appeared overdone to the point of burlesque on a stage but seemed perfectly natural in him. Any other time I might have been intrigued with it, but now I paid little attention. My thoughts were still chasing themselves around in a futile and endless circle. I hadn't imagined the sound of that fan; I'd heard it. That was definite. And there wasn't another booth in town with a noisy fan. That was equally definite. So where did it leave me?

”You know what them ol' Coulter boys done to me last night?” Pearl said to Ollie. ”They like to lift off me everything I had. With these here rascals-”

He removed two strange objects from the breast pocket of his s.h.i.+rt and placed them on the bar. In spite of my preoccupation, I leaned forward to look. They were small sea-sh.e.l.ls, spiraled and rather conical in shape.

”What are they?” I asked.

Ollie grinned briefly. ”Hermit crabs.”

”Oh,” I said. I remembered then. The hermit crab ate the mollusk and made its home in the sh.e.l.l. Or found an empty one and moved in.

”Well, sir,” Pearl went on with a sigh, ”them ol' boys found these things down at the beach somewheres, so they come by my place with 'em, and the first thing you know one of 'em says to me: Pearl, he says, why don't we have a hermit crab race? Like this, he says. You put 'em down real quiet, like I'm doin' now, and you wait, and you bet on which one is goin' to move first.”

He took a dollar from his pocket and placed it on the bar. ”Now you get out a dollar, and I'll show you-”

”No, you don't,” Ollie scoffed. ”So one of 'em is dead, or you shot it full of Novocain, or hypnotized it-”

”Why, shucks,” Pearl protested. ”You know I wouldn't do nothin' like that. And besides, you get your choice.”

”Look, you barefooted shyster,” Ollie said good-naturedly. ”I wouldn't bet you even money the sun'd come up in the morning.”

Pearl shrugged dolefully and dropped them back in his pocket and winked at me. ”Heck. Some days a man just cain't pick up a cryin' dime.” He took a drink of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ”Hey, Ollie,” he went on with a jocose grin, ”I ever tell you the one about the ol' country boy that takened up with this here snooty society gal? Well, sir, it looked like he just wasn't makin' no time with her at all, so he went to the drugstore and he says to this feller behind the counter-”

I waited for the dreary punch line, and left. A battered pick-up truck I a.s.sumed was Pearl's was parked before the place, its spattered sides attesting that chickens roosted on it at home. Every town has its character, I thought; San Francisco had had its share too. I dismissed him from my mind and took up the rat-race again. Forget the fan for the moment. She wanted to tell me something, for a price. She was afraid to meet me. Something or somebody had frightened her and she had to hang up. Maybe she would try again.

I stopped at the office. Josie said there had been no further call. Back at the room I lit a cigarette and sat down to wait, prodded savagely by frustration and a hundred questions to which I had no answers and no way of gaining access to any. It was an odd sensation, this being utterly alone and without status: I'd always had the prestige and facilities of a metropolitan police force going for me when I wanted to know something, but here I was an outcast. I'd been thrown out of the Sheriff's office and was under suspicion myself. Anything Langston's insurance company had turned up was closed to me. I couldn't even talk to her; she'd be asleep for hours yet.

I came full circle and was back to Strader again. At least the course of action was clear there and I wanted to get started. I checked the money situation. I still had eight hundred in traveler's checks, three hundred and seventy-something in cash. The bank statement from San Francisco showed a balance of two thousand, six hundred and thirty dollars. I was all right for the moment. The other, the money I had received from my grandfather, a little over twenty-one thousand, was in Government bonds and gilt-edge stock, untouched since they'd settled the estate six months ago.

Apparently she wasn't going to call again. I waited impatiently for another ten minutes and then drove into town to the telephone office. It was on the street parallel with Springer to the south. I asked for a Miami directory and flipped through the yellow pages to detective agencies. I had nothing to go on, so I chose one at random, a man listed simply as Victor Lane, Investigations. I went into a booth and put through the call, and was lucky enough to catch him in.

”What can I do for you, Mr. Chatham?” he asked, when I'd told him my name and where I was.

”I want all the information I can get on a man named Strader, who was killed here in Galicia last November. He was from Miami. I don't have the first name, or address, but you can pick up his trai--”

”Hmmmmm. Wait a minute- In the newspaper files. You're mining old ground, Mr. Chatham. I remember Strader now and he's been sifted over pretty thoroughly.”

”I know. But I don't have access to any of it, even the newspaper stories, and I haven't got time to come down there and dig it up myself. And there's always the chance they missed something. Here's what I want you to do. Hit the newspaper morgues, and any contacts you may have at police headquarters; by five o'clock you should have a pretty good package on him-at least all the stuff that came out during the investigation. Call me here at the Magnolia Lodge motel and give it to me and we'll see if we can find the angle we want to follow up. What are your rates?”

He told me. ”Right,” I said. ”I'll mail you a check for a hundred on account right now. That all right?”

”Sure,” he said. ”See you at five.”

Outside again in the sun-blasted street, I looked at my watch. It was a few minutes past one. I went around the corner and found a drugstore about half-way up the block towards Springer. It was an old place, one of the few establishments in town not air-conditioned. Above the screen door a ceiling fan like an airplane propeller seen in slow motion was drowsily warning the flies to stay out but not making an issue of it. There were some marble-topped tables with iron legs and a marble soda fountain, and at the rear another counter and an open doorway leading into the prescription department. No one was in sight; it looked as if everybody had gone up the street to see if there was any more news of the t.i.tanic t.i.tanic and had forgotten to come back. and had forgotten to come back.

There was a telephone booth about half-way back on the right. I stepped inside and called the motel. Josie said n.o.body had tried to reach me. It was odd, I thought; she wouldn't have given up that easily with a hundred dollars at stake. Somebody had really given her a scare. And what about the fan I'd heard? I brushed it aside impatiently; there was no point in even wondering about it.

When I stepped out of the booth, the proprietor emerged from the prescription department and looked at me inquiringly. He appeared to be in his sixties, a slight, frail man in a white jacket, with neat gray hair parted precisely in the center, rimless gla.s.ses, and serene gray eyes. He found me a dusty packet of envelopes and dug a three-cent stamp out of a drawer in the cash register. I sat down at the fountain, wrote out Lane's check, and addressed one of the envelopes. I ordered a c.o.ke. He stirred it and set it on the counter.

”Have you been here a long time?” I asked.

He smiled gently. ”I bought the place in 'twenty-seven.”

”Well, tell me something. Why is there so much feeling about that Langston thing? You people haven't got the only unsolved murder in the world.”

”There are a lot of reasons,” he said. ”Langston was well liked. It was brutal, cold-blooded murder, and one of them got away with it. We're a small town here and everything is more personal; people are not just names in a headline. A lot of people are distrustful and jealous of southern Florida anyway, the big money and the flashy publicity and all that, and the man was a no-good b.u.m from Miami.”

”How long had Langston lived here?” I asked.

”He'd only been back back about six months, but he was born here.” about six months, but he was born here.”

”I see. A home-town boy.”

He nodded. ”That's right. Maybe a kind of home-town hero, in a way. A local boy that made good down there in that big-wheeling-and-dealing crowd in south Florida, or at least showed 'em we could hold our own with 'em. We were always a little proud of him. He played some mighty good football at Georgia Tech. He was officer of a submarine that sank I don't remember how many thousand tons of j.a.panese s.h.i.+pping in World War Two. After the war he went into the construction business in Miami-low-cost housing. Made a lot of money. They say he was worth pretty close to a million at one time. But the thing was he never seemed to lose touch like so many kids do when they go away and get successful. Even after his daddy died-he used to be princ.i.p.al of the high school-after he died and there weren't any Langstons left around here at all, he used to come back and go duck-hunting and fis.h.i.+ng and visit with people.”

”But what happened?” I asked. ”Why did he retire and buy a motel? He was only forty-seven, wasn't he?”

”That's right. He got hit by several things all at once. There was a bad divorce, with a big property settlement-”

”Oh,” I said. ”Then how long had he and the second Mrs. Langston been married when he was killed?”

”A little less than a year, I guess. Four or five months before they came up here and bought the motel.”

”What were the other things?” I asked.

”Health,” he replied. ”And a business deal that went sour on him. He started a big tract development and then ran into a court wrangle over the t.i.tle to part of the property. He lost it, and on top of the split-up of community property in the divorce thing it just about wiped him out. But mainly it was his health. He had a mild heart attack somewhere back in 'fifty-four or -five, and then a pretty serious one, and the doctors told him he had to slow down or he'd be dead before he was fifty. So he came up here and bought the motel with what he had left. It would make him a living, and he could do the things he liked to do-hunt quail and fish for ba.s.s and root for the high-school football team in the fall. Then six months later he was butchered in cold blood, like slaughtering a pig. Sure there's bitter feeling; why shouldn't there be? Just knock his head in and take him down there to the river bottom and leave him so it'd look like an accident. It'd give you the horrors if you kept thinking about it. What kind of woman could that be, for the love of heaven?”

”Not what kind of woman,” I said. ”What ”What woman would be a little more to the point.” woman would be a little more to the point.”

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