Part 17 (2/2)

”It doesn't fit in,” I said. ”He didn't need a gun.”

”Wait a minute!” he said suddenly. ”You asked me a minute ago if something else happened that night-” Then he subsided. ”Oh, h.e.l.l, that was in Georgia.”

”What?” I asked.

”It was a gang that almost wrecked a town, just to steal a couple of lousy safes. Killed a man, completely destroyed a power substation, and burned up one of those big gasoline tankers, at least a hundred thousand dollars' worth of damage, and they probably got ten thousand for it.”

”Was it the same night?”

”I'm pretty sure. But h.e.l.l, this was up in Georgia. Weaverton. Nearly a hundred miles-”

”They never caught any of 'em?” I asked.

”Hm. Not as far as I know. But we'd have nothing to i do with it.”

I was beginning to feel excited. ”Two safes? Whose were they?”

I think one was a supermarket and the other a jewelry store.”

”Well, listen,” I said quickly. The telephone rang and I broke off as he reached for it.

”Calhoun,” he said. ”Yes. . . . Prowler? . . . Where's that again? . . . Okay.”

He hung up and sprang to his feet. ”I've got to run out in the east end, but I'll drop you off in town. Did you have a car?”

”No,” I said, hurrying out after him. ”I'll get a cab.”

”I want to talk to you some more,” he said, as we shot back towards Springer. ”Make it around noon. I'll be up by then.”

”Sure,” I said. ”And will you dig up any dope you can find on that Weaverton thing?”

”Anything in particular?”

”Yeah. If it was the same night, and they still haven't made anybody for it, see if you can find out what kind of burglar alarms those places had.”

He slid to a stop at the corner. ”Burglar alarms?” But I was already out, and he shot across on the light without waiting for a reply.

I b.u.t.toned my jacket to hide as much of the wrecked s.h.i.+rt as possible, and hurried across the street to the cab stand, followed by silence and blank stares. I was Chatham, the trouble-maker, the goon who bore the marks of his trade, the split-open head, torn clothing, and the battered hands. When I climbed in the cab and told the driver where to go, he said curtly, without looking around, ”I know where you live.”

I let it ride. If I didn't get into another stupid and unnecessary fight for a week I'd still be ahead of quota.

When we pulled in at the motel, I looked around in surprise. The station wagon was gone and the front door of the office was ajar. Had she become worried and gone to look for me? I glanced at my watch; it was only twenty past ten. She wouldn't have left the door open, anyway. I paid off the driver and hurried inside. The lobby was dark, but cracks of light showed through the curtains in the doorway. I pushed through them, and stopped abruptly. The coffee table was overturned, the gla.s.s top broken, and cigarette b.u.t.ts were scattered on the rug from a shattered ashtray. A broken cup lay near it, in a wet coffee stain. I ran to the bedroom and peeked I into the bath. Everything was in order in both of them, and in the kitchen. I plunged back through the living-room and snapped on the light in the lobby. There were no evidences of struggle here, no blood anywhere. But she wouldn't have left the door open.

I swore at myself for wasting time and grabbed the telephone. I couldn't call Calhoun; he was out, and this was beyond the city limits, anyway. Redfield was my only hope, and he was off. I looked up his home number. In my hurry, I botched it the first time, and had to dial it over. Cynthia Redfield answered.

”This is Chatham, at the Magnolia Lodge,” I said quickly. ”Is your husband there?”

”Why, no,” she said. She sounded surprised. ”I thought he might be over there, Mr. Chatham. I've been trying to call you for nearly ten minutes-”

”Over here?” I broke in.

”Yes. He went to a lodge meeting, and there's a man here at the house who wants to see him about something urgent, so I phoned the hall. But they said he'd got a call and left.”

”Did they say he was coming here?”

”I thought so. Anyway, it's something about the Magnolia Lodge the man wants to tell him. About Mrs. Langston.”

”Is he still there?” I interrupted. ”Yes. Has something-?”

”Don't let him leave,” I said. I snapped down the switch, and jiggled it furiously until I heard the dial tone. I called a cab.

When we pulled to a stop before the house the porch light was on, but there was no car parked in the street. Maybe the man had gone. I could see the back of Redfield's station wagon in the drive, however, so presumably he had got home. I tossed the driver a dollar and hurried up the walk.

Cynthia Redfield came to the door. ”Oh, come in, Mr. Chatham.”

”Has he gone?” I asked quickly.

She nodded. ”But just downtown to look for Kelly. If he doesn't find him, he's coming back. Come on into the living-room and I'll try the lodge hall again.”

I followed her down the short corridor. It turned to the right at the rear, apparently to the dining-room and kitchen. About half-way back a door on the left led into the living-room. We went in. There was a fireplace at the far end and another corridor going towards the bedrooms in that wing of the house. The large picture window looking out over the alcove and rear yard was on the right, but the curtains were tightly closed. There was another curtained window in front, with a sofa, coffee table, and two modern Swedish chairs grouped in front of it. Over to my left was a record player and beside it a low table covered with L.P. records in their colorful jackets. The room was air-conditioned.

”What did he say?” I asked.

She turned, and smiled with a despairing shake of her head that set the pony tail a-swing. ”He's a Cuban, and very hard to understand, especially when he's excited. But I think it's something about Mrs. Langston. Has something happened?”

”She's gone.”

”It's probably nothing serious,” she said soothingly. ”But we're wasting time. Let me try that lodge hall again.”

The telephone was on a small stand between the sofa and record player. She dialed, and said. ”This is Mrs. Redfield again. Will you check and see if my husband's come back? Thank you.” She waited.

”The Cuban,” I urged. ”Is he local? What's his name, and where can I-?”

She put a hand over the transmitter. ”His name is Montoya,” she said. ”He lives on a farm just outside town. He always goes to Kelly with everything, because Kelly can speak Spanish to him.” She nodded towards a chair. ”Please sit down, Mr. Chatham.”

I thanked her, but remained standing. Even in the midst of the worry sawing at my nerves, I was conscious of thinking she was incredible. I was positive she'd killed a man, and maybe she'd killed two, but you couldn't really believe it. I looked at the modest cotton dress, the flat slippers, the pony tail caught in its round comb at the back of her head, and the quiet, tanned face. When private eyes ran into them they were slinky, and long in the thigh, and their round-the-clock costume was just enough filmy nylon to raise a question as to whether their nipples were coral or mauve, and they carried .45's-G.o.d knows where-but this was the generic young suburban housewife, the psychology major four years later with two children and every other week on the kindergarten car pool. Maybe I was crazy.

It was very quiet in the room except for the faint and rhythmic tapping of her nails against the top of the telephone stand as she waited. I had wandered over by the phonograph, and suddenly something caught my eye among the flamboyant jackets of the L.P. records piled on the little table. It was some Flamenco guitar, and the cover was taken up with the picture of the artist, and his name, of course, in large letters. It was Carlos Montoya.

Montoya!

I was suddenly tense and uneasy. No, I thought; I called her. But, still- ”All right, thank you,” she said into the phone, and hung up. ”He's not there,” she said, frowning a little. ”I think I'll try Farrar's Cafe. He goes there a lot-”

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