Part 17 (1/2)

”Sure,” I said. ”That's the deadly thing about a small policy. If it'd been a hundred thousand, they might have been a little more curious about what she did with the money.”

”What did she do with it?”

”She bought a bar for a man she met just three months before her husband electrocuted himself.”

He stiffened. ”What? ”What? Who was-?” Then he sighed. Who was-?” Then he sighed.

”Never mind. Are you sure it was Strader?”

”It was Strader I was back-tracking when I found her,” her,” I told him. ”A girl he called Sin, with hair about the color of red wine. In New Orleans, the spring and summer of 1954. That would be between the time she left Warren Springs and showed up here.” I told him. ”A girl he called Sin, with hair about the color of red wine. In New Orleans, the spring and summer of 1954. That would be between the time she left Warren Springs and showed up here.”

He was staring at the cigarette in his hand and didn't answer for a moment. Then he said, as if he were very tired, ”All right. How did you find out all this? Start with the day you got here.”

I told him everything, pausing once while he went out in the kitchen for more beer. When I'd finished, he said, ”You'll never prove any of it.”

”I know,” I said. ”Not with what I've got now.”

”You know what Redfield will do.”

”She committed murder.”

”You don't know that; you're just guessing there. And before you even take up that part, you got to tell him his wife is a tramp. You want to try that?”

The telephone rang. It was on the end of the table. He reached over and picked it up. ”Calhoun.”

He listened for a moment. ”Who? Rupe Hulbert? Okay, tell him to come to the phone.” There was a slight pause, and then, ”Rupe, this is Calhoun. The bartender says you're making a nuisance of yourself. Go on home. . . . Okay.” He hung up.

I looked at him and shook my head. ”You just tell him over the phone?”

He made a deprecating gesture. ”Oh, Rupe's not a bad boy. It's just that when he gets a few aboard he starts finding boxing gloves in his beer.”

Rupe, I reflected, had probably been thrown through through a wall. a wall.

”You think Langston went over there that morning?” he asked. ”And walked in on them?”

”He must have.”

”But why would he? Even if he'd forgotten Redfield had called off the fis.h.i.+ng trip, he wouldn't have tried to go in.”

”Let's try it this way,” I said. ”He knew knew Redfield wasn't there. And he Redfield wasn't there. And he didn't didn't know Strader was. Remember, it was Mrs. Langston who registered him that time.” know Strader was. Remember, it was Mrs. Langston who registered him that time.”

He whistled softly. ”Son, when you're convinced of something, you don't care whose feet you step on, do you? Langston was a highly respected man around here. He wasn't a chaser. Redfield was a friend of his. He had no reason to believe that if he went in there Mrs. Redfield would do anything but scream her head off.”

”I said I was trying it,” I told him. ”But. dammit, Calhoun, he went in there, and it got him killed. he went in there, and it got him killed. It has to be that way. He could have known what she was. He might have seen her with Strader one of the other times.” It has to be that way. He could have known what she was. He might have seen her with Strader one of the other times.”

He shook his head. ”But even if he did catch them, I'm still not convinced they'd kill him.”

”Well, the obvious possibility, of course, is that it was a mistake. They thought he was Redfield, and panicked. They both drive station wagons. But I'm not sure that's it. I think there must be more to it.”

”Okay. But here's where you fall apart. There's a hole in your case a mile wide, and it's the same old thing they've had from the start. The reason it had to be Mrs. Langston. And still does. And that's the fact that one of them knew if there was a homicide investigation he'd be suspected. one of them knew if there was a homicide investigation he'd be suspected. And there's never been the slightest reason to suspect Mrs. Redfield. She and Strader could have dumped Langston's body in a ditch anywhere and there'd never be any reason to question either of them.” And there's never been the slightest reason to suspect Mrs. Redfield. She and Strader could have dumped Langston's body in a ditch anywhere and there'd never be any reason to question either of them.”

”Check,” I said. ”It took me a long time to see the answer to that; I just got it a little while ago. Mrs. Redfield is your cookie, all right, and the reason she's never shown up is she only thought thought she'd be suspected. It was a perfectly natural mistake.” she'd be suspected. It was a perfectly natural mistake.”

He shook his head. ”I don't get you.”

”Put yourself in Mrs. Redfield's place a minute. You're looking down at the body of a man you've just murdered, and you realize that no matter when they find this body, or where, people are going to know that the last place it can be proved definitely he ever started for alive was your house, two minutes ago-”

”But he wasn't supposed to go there-” He stopped and stared at me. ”Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned!”

”Sure,” I said. ”She simply doesn't know that. All she does know is that Langston is in his fis.h.i.+ng clothes, and he's apparently come by for Redfield, the same way he's done a dozen times before. Maybe she didn't even know there'd been a trip planned. Maybe she knew it, and jumped to the conclusion Redfield had forgotten to notify Langston it was off. Either way, Redfield and Mrs. Langston both were going to know Langston had come there.”

”Well, I'll be d.a.m.ned,” he said again.

”The only drawback to it,” I went on, ”is the fact that if it did happen exactly that way, n.o.body'll ever be able to prove a word of it. There's not a shred of evidence: two of the people involved are dead, and all the third one has to do is sit tight. She's got it made, from every direction.”

14

He nodded. ”It's a dead end.”

”Check,” I said. ”But there's a chance it wasn't quite as simple as that Langston may have stumbled onto something more serious than a cheating wife that morning. And on more than two people.”

”The man with the shotgun.”

”That's right. And remember, the woman who called me on the phone to send me out to that barn definitely wasn't Mrs. Redfield.”

”So that blows your boy-friend theory all to h.e.l.l. Women cheating on their husbands don't sell tickets, or invite the neighbors.”

”It would seem to,” I said. ”But I'm not so sure. Let me ask a question. Was there any other crime committed around here that night? Robbery, stick-up, anything?”

He thought about it. ”No, I don't think so.”

”Remember, when this murder broke it would get shuffled into the background.”

”I'd have to dig back into the records. It'd have probably gone to the Sheriff's office, anyway. But why?”

”Well, several things,” I said. ”When you jumped Strader, he pulled a gun. Hasn't anybody ever wondered why he was carrying one?”

”Well, he'd just committed a murder. Carrying a gun doesn't stack up to much, compared to that”

”But that's not the point. Why was he carrying one? Why was he carrying one? Langston wasn't killed with a gun, so it didn't have anything to do with that. And Langston's death was incidental, anyway. Strader came up here for something else. And real-estate salesmen don't usually go around muscled up that way.” Langston wasn't killed with a gun, so it didn't have anything to do with that. And Langston's death was incidental, anyway. Strader came up here for something else. And real-estate salesmen don't usually go around muscled up that way.”

”But he didn't have a record.”

”No. But you got to start somewhere. Did they ever trace the gun?”

”It was stolen from a Tampa sporting goods store a year or so ago. Could have been through a dozen hands before Strader got hold of it.”