Chapter 9

I cooked the steaks after a while and we had dinner, not talking about the murder anymore until afterward when we were having coffee. She was quiet, but she ate a little of the steak and drank some wine. I lighted a cigarette for her.

"Was anybody else ever arrested?" I asked. "Or even questioned?"

"Lots of people were questioned," she said. "But it was mostly in reference to me. No one else, apparently, was a suspect. There just weren't any grounds for suspicion, as far as anyone else was concerned."

"That's what's driving the police crazy," I said. "You see? The whole thing goes around in a perfect circle and always comes right back where it starts. The woman knew she would be suspected if there was a homicide investigation; there was a homicide investigation, and you were the only one they ever had any reason to suspect. QED, you're it. Except that they haven't got any actual proof you even knew Strader, let alone were carrying on an affair with him. And if they tried to go to court without that proof, any defense attorney who'd been out of law school an hour would cut 'em to shreds. Redfield probably wakes up screaming and chewing the bedclothes. However, that's his problem; mine is something else."

"And what is that?"

"Simply this-what in hell became of the other woman? The one who knew she would be suspected, and never was."

"Maybe she was mistaken, or exaggerating the possible danger."

"No. On the evidence she's a long-headed, cold-blooded type that doesn't get rattled, or panic easily."

"You say you think there's another man involved. Maybe he was the one."

"I don't think so. Strader came up here to see a woman; that's what you run into everywhere you turn. The woman was at the bottom of the whole thing. But say for the sake of argument, it was this other man. Why wasn't he suspected? From what you say of that sheriff, he wouldn't deliberately suppress evidence, for anybody. And I don't think Redfield would."

"No. I'm sure neither of them would. Redfield is a very hard man, but fair. And I think he's thoroughly honest."

I frowned. "That's the picture I get of him. But something's chewing him. I get the impression he hates you and doesn't care what they do to you out here, and at the same time he hates himself for it because basically he's too honest a cop for that kind of thing."

She nodded. "I think I understand what you mean. You remember I told you that during the investigation I began to feel he disliked me intensely. There are two reasons for it. Kendall-my husband-knew him quite well, and I remember his remarking once that Redfield was what was known as a dedicated police officer. There was nothing he hates worse than seeing a criminal get away with something. I gather you are the same way, and strangely enough the two of you are a great deal a-like, now that I think of it. You don't mind, do you?"

"No," I said. "I hadn't thought of it. But Redfield's a man you respect, whether you agree with him or not. But what about the other reason?"

"It's simply that Kendall was a sort of boyhood hero to Redfield, as he was to a lot of others around here who were a few years younger. You know, the high school football hero when they were in grade school, and the Ail-American end at Georgia Tech when they had reached high school themselves. Juvenile, perhaps, but it lasts. Especially when he went on to become quite a war hero and then made a name for himself in business in Miami. So to Redfield and a lot of others, the whole issue is crystal clear. I'm a tramp, and I committed murder and got away with it."

She said it calmly enough, with no evidence of cracking. You'd have to look closely to see the weariness and pain far back and under control. I had a strong desire to comfort her in some way, but at the same time sense enough to realize there was nothing I could do. Except get on with it.

"What time did Strader check in?" I asked. "Around six p.m. I think," she replied. "And he was alone?" She nodded.

"And those two times in October, did the cards show he registered alone then?"

"Yes."

"There's no record he was up here other times and stayed at another motel?"

"No. They checked. Apparently he was up here only those three times, and always stayed here. That was damaging, too, of course."

"Did you recall seeing him at any time later that same night? I mean, did you notice whether his car was still in front of the room?"

She shook her head helplessly. "I can't remember. There were several rooms rented that night, so I didn't even notice."

"And your husband was going fishing alone?"

"Yes."

"What time did he leave? Did you get up, too?"

"No," she said. "I always offered to, to make his coffee for the thermos, but he insisted on doing it himself. I was awake and could hear him moving around in the kitchen, of course, and he came into the bedroom before he left and kissed me. He made our standard joke about catching a bass so big he wouldn't have to lie about it, and then I heard him drive off. I-I-"

She took a sudden, shaky breath, and leaned forward to crush out the cigarette.

"You didn't hear him speak to anybody outside, or another car leave?" I asked quickly, to get her past it.

"No." She was all right now. "He was alone. There was no doubt of it. In a little while I went back to sleep. And the next thing was when the phone awakened me and this woman wanted to talk to Mr. Carlson. By the time I'd finally convinced her there was no such person registered, I was too wide awake to go back to sleep. In less than ten minutes the sheriff knocked on the door."

"Do you know exactly what time he left here?" I asked.

"It was ten minutes of four."

"And how long does it take to drive to this Cut where he kept the boat?"

"About twenty minutes."

"Did they fix the exact time Calhoun jumped Strader down there?"

She nodded. "Calhoun testified at the inquest that it was a squeaky brake on the car that woke him up. He looked at his watch, and it was four twenty-five."

"Umh-umh. There's just one more thing. Have you ever had any reason at all to suspect your husband was involved with some other woman here?"

"No," she said quickly. "Certainly not."

"Try to be objective about it," I urged. "Think carefully. He was in his late forties, wasn't he? Sometimes at that age-"

She flared up. "Mr. Chatham! My husband wouldn't even have been capable of anything as cheap and sordid as that. Everybody who's ever known him would tell you the same thing!"

I was surprised at the vehemence of it, and frowned. Maybe she was being just a little too vehement about it. Then she pushed her hand back through her hair with that weary gesture she had, and smiled. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't intend to snap at you that way."

It didn't mean anything, I thought, except that she was tiring. I was doing a very poor job of carrying out the doctor's orders. I crushed out the cigarette and stood up. "Back to bed for you. I'll get your medicine." I brought over one of the sleeping pills from my room.

I locked the back door and left, and sat on the edge of the porch in front of my room smoking and watching the place until Josie returned. There was no telling what they would do next. Ida Lang was sleeping peacefully when Josie came back around ten-thirty and set up her cot in the living room. I told her to keep the front door bolted, and went across to bed.

I checked to be sure the window at the rear of the room was locked and the drapes tightly drawn.' There was something very chilling in the thought of that shotgun. I could still see the empty eyes at the end of its dual barrels searching for me down there in the gloom like some nightmarish radar. Only a fool wouldn't be scared. If I didn't flush him out before he had a second chance, I wasn't going to be very pretty when they found me.

The next day I went across the street for a cup of coffee and there was Pearl, with his back to the door. He didn't see me come in and he was in the middle of a joke.

He was speaking in a New York Jewish accent. Apparently anti-Semitic jokes were big with Pearl. But what interested me was how well he handled the accent.

When I got back to the motel there was a phone call from Cynthia Redfield. "It's a Mister Montoya," she said to me. "He says he knows something about the acid job. Kelly's not here, but he wants to see you."

I told her I'd be right over.

When I got there she was on the phone. She waved me in, and when Kelly got on the phone she started screaming and acting as if she were being attacked.

The oldest set-up in the world. When she put down the phone she tore her clothing off and looked at me with a smirk. "Unless you start running," she said, "you're going to be a dead man in three minutes."

In the distance I could barely hear the siren. I waited until he came crashing through the door. I took Kelly out as quickly as possible, tried to explain the situation to him when he woke up, after cuffing his hands. But it was like talking to a wall.

So Strader's girl friend was Cynthia Redfield. I checked around and found out that Cynthia had been married before Kelly came along, to a high school teacher in a nearby town.

I drove over to the town-Willow Springs-and found out that her first husband had died as a result of an electrical accident in the bathroom. He was insured for ten thousand dollars.

Willow Springs had been Strader's territory when he was selling film projectors. I checked with the local school and sure enough, Strader had not only sold one to the school, he had sold it through the good offices and recommendations of Cynthia Sprague, as she was known then. Her late husband, Bill Sprague, had died shortly after that.

So Strader had known Cynthia before she even met Kelly.

But why kill Lang? I thought about it. Ida didn't want to admit that her husband might have had a streak of tomcat in him, but he probably did. After all, a football star, then a war hero. Those guys ran to type.

Later I found out. I was talking to Ida about it and she remarked that on the morning of the fishing trip, when he was murdered, her husband was supposed to be accompanied by Kelly Redfield. They were great buddies, she said. But Kelly had called the night before to say that he had to travel to Georgia on an extradition. That answered it for me. Knowing Kelly was out of town, he'd dropped by Cynthia's to tear off a piece and had paid with his life.

What had he interrupted?

Calhoun cleared it up for me. He picked me up the next day because he'd heard I'd been in Willow Springs, asking questions.

Calhoun had had his suspicions too. "But Kelly Redfield's not only a friend of mine," he said, "he'd kill anyone who suggested that his wife wasn't four-square."

Redfield was looking for me, I knew that.

Only something was holding him up, because he could have found me by now. Was it that my little speech to him had sunk in, or at least given him pause?

And then Calhoun gave the final answer. The night before Lang had been killed, there had been two burglaries in Georgia. Two safes were stolen. From what I remembered, it was close to Strader's M.O.

So Strader was doing jobs, leaving the stuff with Cynthia, and she was turning it to someone local.

Pearl Talley. Sure. His mimic abilities were terrific, and when Calhoun added that Talley had shown up about eight years before with plenty of money, I got the full picture. They'd been doing jobs for years, with the perfect cover. She was married to a cop, Strader was a traveling salesman, and Talley was just a good ol' boy.

When Calhoun made the bust at Talley's, he got them all except Cynthia, who took off through the back door. Calhoun brought her in before Kelly could catch her. She was lucky that he did. Kelly would have killed her.

And Ida? Well, she needed a partner in that motel, someone who knew his way around a massive landscaping job, and had a few bucks to throw in the pot.

You should see the place now.

In 1971 a chain outfit bought up the motel and a lot of other property around town. They kept Ida and me on to manage the place, though. Then they gave us a two-month vacation while they tore the old joint down to the ground and put up this ultra-modern group of units, queen-size beds and color television and even a Jacuzzi. I never use it, though. It puts me to sleep and Ida complains, calling it my other wife, because for years that was her specialty. Putting me to sleep, I mean. She hasn't lost her touch. She could do it then, and she can do it now.

But then, when you think of it, I'm in my fifties now, so it doesn't take much to put me to sleep. Not as much as that first night when I wandered into this town, anyway.