Part 15 (1/2)

”More evidence?”

”Any evidence at all would be more evidence,” I said. ”What I mean is there has to be more to the case than the simple fact she was carrying on an affair with Strader. That'd obviously have nothing to do with your husband and yet they killed him. Why?”

She shook her head wearily. ”It's insane.”

”Listen,” I said. I asked you this once before, but I've got to ask it again, so don't jump down my throat. Is there any chance at all your husband could have been involved with her?”

”No,” she replied. ”It's absolutely inconceivable.”

”Try to be objective about it,” I urged. ”Say that he'd found out what she was. That's possible, you know. He might have seen her with Strader one of those other times, or she could have made a play for him-”

”No,” she said firmly. ”I just can't buy it, Bill.”

”Tell me a little about him.”

She gazed moodily at the end of her cigarette. ”He was a man who'd been almost wrecked, physically at least, and he'd just about finished rebuilding his whole att.i.tude towards life. I say just about. He still had a little way to go, but he was closing the gap. Everybody up here thought he was ideally happy, of course, retired, with the motel to furnish him with an adequate living, and all the leisure he wanted to fish, but you don't turn off drive and ambition that easily and just overnight. I was helping him, I think, and he needed me.

”He'd lived most of his life like a steam engine with the safety valve tied down and the throttle wide open, and in the end, of course, it almost killed him. We met in a doctor's office. A clinic, rather. I was the lab technician, and he was the patient of one of the men there, the cardiologist.

”It was just after he and his first wife broke up. You might say I caught him on the rebound, except there really wasn't much in the way of a rebound-he was going too fast and hit too many things all at once. A messy divorce and a big property settlement, a heart attack, and the loss of a lawsuit that almost wiped him out financially. However, if I'm giving you the impression I gathered up a bunch of pieces and tried to put them back together, I don't mean to. The man was still there, more or less intact but just badly battered. He still had a sense of humor, most of the time, and he could get a perspective view of it-again, most of the time. He was being sentenced to live what he considered an old lady's existence for the rest of his life if he wanted to have any rest of his life, and I simply helped him to do it. We liked each other from the first, and the things we did together were quiet things. His big fis.h.i.+ng days were over, for instance, but we found we both liked to sail small boats. We liked to picnic, and lie in the water with masks and snorkels and watch sea life. Music bored him, but we both liked to read-Oh, I could go on, Bill, but what's the point of it? He simply wouldn't be capable of a thing like that. He had too much sense of decency, to begin with. And Redfield was a friend of his.”

I smiled at her. ”I'm not accusing him of it,” I said. ”It's just that in a thing like this you have to consider every angle. And G.o.d knows we've got few enough angles as it is.” I got up restlessly and walked back and forth across the room. It was so d.a.m.ned baffling. ”Are you sure you told him about Redfield's canceling the trip?”

”Of course.”

”And he understood?”

”Bill, how on earth could anybody misunderstand a simple thing like that?”

”Well, was he ever absent-minded? Could he have forgotten?”

She shook her head. ”No. And, anyway, the last thing before he left that morning he promised to be very careful because I was worried about his going alone. What is it you're trying to find?”

”Simply why he went to Redfield's house that morning.”

She stared. ”Do you think he did?”

”He must have. Wouldn't you say that was where she and Strader were?”

She frowned. ”In her own home? In-?”

”Yes. In case you haven't been able to grasp it yet, this girl's not the finicky type. I think that's where they were, and that's where it happened.”

”But why?” why?” she asked piteously. she asked piteously.

”I don't know,” I said. It made no sense at all except for the fact the three of them had to come together somewhere in that tragic fifteen minutes and he was the one who was in motion, so he he must have gone there. But then, even if he had, why the killing? The situation might have the ingredients for explosion, but only if she were utterly stupid or insane. All she'd have to do would be to go to the door and tell Langston her husband wasn't home. must have gone there. But then, even if he had, why the killing? The situation might have the ingredients for explosion, but only if she were utterly stupid or insane. All she'd have to do would be to go to the door and tell Langston her husband wasn't home.

There had to be more to it. A lot more. There was another man, to begin with. There was the acid job and the deliberate attempt to drive Georgia Langston out of her mind or break her health with those filthy phone calls. Why? Say that Cynthia Redfield had tried to frame her and had failed-her only object would have been to throw suspicion off herself, and she'd succeeded in that. Why keep las.h.i.+ng a dead horse? Sadism? Was she a complete mental case?

”We're just beating our brains out,” I said. ”We're going to forget it for tonight. We'll have dinner together and not mention it once.” Then I remembered the way I looked. ”That is, if you don't mind being seen in public with this open-toed haircut, and bandage.”

”I don't mind at all,” she replied with a smile that was only a little forced.

Around six-thirty I shaved and put on the lighter weight of the two suits I had. It was a San Francisco job, a gray flannel, and still no prize in this heat. I examined the result in the mirror, with the fresh white s.h.i.+rt and dark tie, and decided I looked like a well-tended moose even if a little like one that'd just walked into the props of a D.C.-7. Well, I could wear the hat, and we might find a place with table booths. The Steak House-that was it.

I went across to the office. She called from beyond the curtained doorway that she'd be ready in just a moment. I sat down in one of the bamboo chairs and thumbed idly through a magazine. When she came out she was wearing a very dark green dress, darker than avocado, that aided and abetted the creamy pallor of her face and throat and the mahogany highlights of her hair. She wore small gold ear-rings like sea-sh.e.l.ls, and a gold sea-horse pin, and nylons and some very slender high heels.

I stood up. ”Woof,” I said. ”You can quote me.”

She gave an exaggerated curtsy. ”Why, thank you.”

”You're entirely too lovely to waste on the peasants,” I said. ”Why can't we go to Miami Beach for dinner?”

She grinned. ”No reason in the world. Except it's a thousand-mile round trip and I'm hungry.”

”Well, we could have breakfast before we start back.”

The gray eyes were cool and appraising, though there was still humor in them. ”Tell me, Bill, was that an honest proposition, or are you still conducting an investigation?”

”That's not fair and you know it,” I said. ”It was a perfectly honorable pa.s.s, from the bottom of my heart. Futile, maybe, but-Call it a gesture. Call it art appreciation.”

She laughed delightfully, and we went out to the car feeling wonderful in a lightheaded sort of way, as if we'd had two quick Martinis. It was a bubbly sort of moment, the first one since I'd been here that was completely free of the tensions and ugliness that bore down on her. It didn't last, however. I found a place to park on an intersecting street around the corner from the restaurant, and we had to run the gauntlet of hard, unfriendly eyes and blank stares, moving in our own little corridor of silence along the walk. When we were inside, people glanced up at us, and looked away, without speaking to her. We found an empty table near the back and sat down, and she still managed a smile.

I reached across the table and took hold of her hand. ”Don't let it throw you,” I said. Then I realized how asinine it was. She'd been taking it for seven months completely alone, and now she needed my nickel's worth of backing. ”I wish I had your poise,” I added.

She shook her head. ”Don't you dare go solemn on me. Let's have a Martini.”

We had a Martini and admired the polished steer horns on the wall above us and wondered why they were never bull horns or cow horns or ox horns. Would the day ever come when horns would stand or fall on their own merits, without s.e.x?

”What is an oxen?” she asked.

”An oxen is two or more ox,” I replied.

She wrinkled up her nose at me. ”Well, what are they? Are they any different from steers?”

”Not in any really worthwhile way,” I said. ”At least, from the Freudian point of view. I think it's only occupational. If they worked, they were oxen.”

She propped her elbows on the table and looked at me with mock admiration. ”You know the most fascinating things.”

”Oh, I used to have a piece of information even more useless than that. If I can remember it I'll tell you.”

We regained most of the mood, and had a fine dinner. She told me some more about herself. Her father had been a flight captain back in the old days of the flying boats and then later in the D.C.-4's. She'd gone to Miami for a year before starting nurses' training. She'd been engaged once, to a boy who'd gone off to Korea, and after waiting two years learned she didn't really want to marry him after he returned. She liked medical lab work better than nursing, but she didn't think she would have wanted to be a doctor even if she'd had the opportunity. Would she be glad to get back to Miami when we were able to get the motel back on its feet and sell it? She said yes, but that brought us back too near the ugliness again, and we s.h.i.+ed off.

I paid the bill and we went out and walked back to the car past the eyes that were like nailheads in the wall of silence around us. Only this time the silence was broken. There were two of them leaning against the corner where we turned. We were just past when one said, loudly enough to be sure he was heard, ”Well, I reckon all it takes is guts.”

In the quick, bright flare of anger, I turned and looked at them, but then, even before she had time to pluck at my sleeve, I remembered where the obligation lay. We went on, and when we were a dozen yards away she whispered, ”Thanks, Bill.”