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SIX SILVER HANDLES


Books by GEOFFREY HOMES
THE MAN WHO MURDERED HIMSELF
THE DOCTOR DIED AT DUSK
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T EXIST
THE MAN WHO MURDERED GOLIATH
THEN THERE WERE THREE
NO HANDS ON THE CLOCK
FINDERS KEEPERS
FORTY WHACKS
THE STREET OF THE CRYING WOMAN
THE HILL OF THE TERRIFIED MONK
SIX SILVER HANDLES


SIX
SILVER HANDLES
By GEOFFREY HOMES .

WILLIAM MORROW AND COMPANY
NEW YORK - 1944


To
Magda and Sterling Ferguson

A WARTIME BOOK
Second Printing, June, 1944
COPYRIGHT 1944
BY WILLIAM MORROW & COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


SIX SILVER HANDLES





Chapter One
It had been hot enough before. But around three that
August Monday, the sun really got down to business, and
over toward the brown hills the wind tunneled the dust
up into the faded sky, then sent the funnels spinning across
the barren earth. One reached the highway presently,
danced out on the hot strip of concrete and hurried into a
cotton field.
Like a barefooted kid, Johnny Foster thought, watching
the whirlwind. Not a bad simile, that. One of these days
he'd use it, one of these days when he found the time and
the inclination to write again. Johnny Foster was 21, and
Johnny Foster was a private in the Army, and Johnny Fos-
ter was using his five-day furlough to have a look at the San
Joaquin Valley.
To Johnny it was the Grapes of Wrath country, the
John Steinbeck country, the Saroyan country, a sort of lit-
erary shrine a guy who was going to write had to see. He
didn't mind the heat, or the dust. He didn't mind sitting
there on a culvert, waiting for some patriot to pick him up.
This was Highway 99 and the Joads had driven along it.
If he closed his eyes, he could see that old Hudson loaded
down with junk crawling along the road, and he could see
Tom Joad at the wheel with Ma beside him. That Stein-
beck could write. He could put a country down on paper
and he could put people down on paper. Momentarily,
Johnny felt very futile, almost ashamed. Then he found
3


comfort in the thought that he was young and that he
was living. Experience, that's what a man needed first.
You had to LIVE before you could write about living.
You had to be around people and you had to hear the
music of people talking and you had to be hot and cold
and hungry and you had to suffer. So far he hadn't been
hungry because the Army fed you well enough, but he
had suffered in moderation. You couldn't walk twenty
miles with full pack without suffering some.
A voice hailed him. A voice called, "Hey, Soldier!"
Johnny looked up. A Cadillac roadster was right in front
of him and the hatless man at the wheel was opening the
door.
"Lift?" said the man.
"You bet," said Johnny, and got in.
"Hot," said the man, pulling a brief case out of the way.
He had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up and the back
of his shirt was soaking wet. Johnny looked him over and
put him in the tail end of the second draft. A short, husky
guy with a bit of a pot and his sandy hair gradually giving
up the ghost. Maybe a World War I veteran. Johnny hoped
not. Invariably World War I veterans looked down their
noses at the new crop of soldiers. This war? A picnic. You
shoulda been in the Argonne, buddy, you shoulda seen a
real scrap, you shoulda rode in one of them French boxcars
and seen some of them French girls.
"Isn't it!" said Johnny. "Does it ever cool off?"
"You should be here in December," the man said.
"Where you heading?"
"Nowhere in particular."
"Where you stationed?"
"San Fernando."
"That's no Garden of Eden either. What outfit?"
"Infantry."
"I was in the Navy," the man said. Here it comes, Johnny
4


thought. Oh well, if you hitched rides you had to put up
with things.
"For two months," the man added. "Never even got
to ride in a rowboat. Busted my leg the first week falling
downstairs in a grog shop. How do you like soldiering?"
"Fine."
"Food good?"
"Swell."
"My name's Hastings," the man said.
"Johnny Foster."
The other took one hand off the wheel, offered it to
Johnny. "Call me Warren," Hastings said. He had a pleas-
ant grin and a deep, happy voice.
"You live around here?" Johnny asked.
"In Joaquin."
"Where's that?"
"Hundred miles up the line. Nice little town. Not
quite so hot as Bakersfield. You can get up into the hills
in a couple of hours and it's swell up there."
"I like hills," said Johnny. "I was brought up in the hill
country."
"Where?"
"Connecticut. Danbury."
. "Those aren't hills," said Hastings.
"Anyway, they got trees on them."
"Ever see a Redwood?"
"No."
"Then you haven't seen a tree."
"I've heard about them."
"You haven't heard anything." Hastings swung the car
around a truck loaded with pipe, glanced at the speed-
ometer and eased up on the throttle* They had been going
sixty. "Tell you what. Tomorrow, maybe, I could show
you a Redwood."
"Well—"
5


"You got something else to do?"
"Not exactly."
"We'll drive up to Yosemite," Hastings said. "Only
takes a couple of hours."
"But—"
"Why not?"
"Well—you—"
"I'm a man of leisure," Hastings said. "But maybe you
don't want to see Redwoods. Maybe you'd rather see a
couple of redheads. Well, I can fix that up, too."
"I prefer trees."
"So do I. You can't get in trouble with a tree. Tell
you what. You can stay at my place tonight. Tomorrow
we'll see some mountains and some creeks running and
some rocks."
"I'll bet you're a native son," said Johnny.
"Right," said Hastings. "Born in Sacramento, raised
sheep in Placer County and hell in Reno. Started a junk
business in Joaquin and look at me now. Rolling in
dough."
"Perseverance," said Johnny.
"Perspicacity. Stick-to-itiveness. Walked ten miles to
school through the snow. Milked eighteen cows. Worked
twenty-two hours out of the twenty-four. And, had a rich
uncle with a weak heart."
Johnny knew a chuckle was expected, so he chuckled.
Not a bad guy so far. He decided to try a question. "Ever
read Steinbeck?"
"Sonny," said Hastings, "I was married to a school
teacher. I had Steinbeck for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
I had him until he came out of my ears. I was god-damned
low-brow and it was about time I joined the Book-of-the-
Month Club. It got so every time I saw an Oakie, I wanted
to cry. Don't let's talk about Steinbeck." He tossed a smile
over, added: "I'll bet you were going to be a writer."
"I still am."
6


Hastings shook his head sadly.
"Don't you approve?"
"I said my wife was a school teacher," Hastings said.
"She teaches literature at the state college. Don't you un-
derstand what that would do to a man?"
Again Johnny chuckled and this time he meant it.
"You a college man?" Hastings asked.
"Columbia."
"Graduate?"
"Nope. Another year to go. I'll finish maybe when this
is over."
"Do you mind it—the Army?"
"I get lonely sometimes."
"I bet you do. Family back east?"
"Yes. Mother and sister and—" Johnny hesitated.
"Sweetheart," finished Hastings.
"Yes," said Johnny.
"Serious?"
"Plenty. She's—"
"Beautiful," said Hastings. "Wonderful. I'm a sour old
bastard. My marriage didn't work, but I still believe in it.
I still think if you get the right woman it's the only thing.
I didn't get the right woman, or maybe I wasn't the right
guy. Anyway, it didn't work."
Johnny wondered what one was expected to say to that.
Sorry? Too bad? He didn't say anything. He thought
about Nell and then he didn't want to say anything. He
wanted to remember how her hair looked in the sun and
how her eyes had little flecks of gold in them and how
sweet her lips were. He wanted to hear her saying,
"Johnny, oh my darling Johnny, don't let anything hap-
pen to you."
Hastings seemed to sense the boy's mood. He reached
over and squeezed his arm. "It will be over soon," he said
gently.
"Yes," Johnny said.
7


"And you'll have a hell of a lot to write about."
"I hope so."
"Maybe I'll tell you a story you can write."
"That'll be fine."
"I said maybe."
"What's it about?"
"A fruit tramp," said Hastings. "But it probably isn't
a good story, so wait. Maybe I'll get drunk and tell you.
How about it? You going to stay with me or go your lonely
way?"
Johnny thought it over. He watched the fields rushing
by and felt the hot wind in his hair and saw, to the east,
the wall of hills.
"I'd love to stay," he said.
Chapter Two
There were palm trees, tall ones, on either side of the
curving drive and then there was a canal with a bridge
across it. The house was an old one that had been remod-
eled, big and solid and white, a friendly gracious place with
screened porches upstairs, the sort of a house that went
with a whole parcel of kids. Trees grew around it and
there was a broad sweep of lawn and over yonder a round
swimming pool that was something to think about in the
warm still dusk. Hastings stopped the car under the porte-
cochere at the side and got out.
"The junk business must be good," Johnny said. He
got out, reached back in the car and got his kit bag. Hast-
ings had left his brief case on the seat, so Johnny picked
that up too. It seemed to be empty.
"An orchard and a vineyard go with it."
"That makes you a farmer then."
8


"A boy got killed," Hastings' voice was almost tender. "I
didn't know him. I didn't know his family. Never saw any
of them. I bought the place through a real estate outfit.
But sometimes I think about them. He got killed at Pearl
Harbor."
"Where's the shower?" Johnny said abruptly.
Hastings motioned to a door. "In there. I'll get you a
pair of trunks."
"Thanks," Johnny said.
Hastings was sitting on the edge of the pool with a high-
ball glass in his fist when Johnny crossed the lawn. Night
wasn't far off, but what was left of daylight stubbornly
hung around. The older man motiondd to a table where
there were bottles and glasses.
"Thanks," Johnny said. "I'll wait."
His lean, hard body knifed the water and the good cool-
ness of it closed over him. His outstretched hands touched
the tiles and he came up and rolled over on his back.
Above him was the deep well of the sky and presently he
found one faint and lonely star. The depression that had
come over him when Hastings told him about the boy
whose room that one upstairs had been, went away. He
thought of his mother, found a picture of her and put it
before him. Slim and gracious and lovely. What would she
be doing now? Reading, probably. Sitting in her favorite
old chair with the soft light falling on her, maybe looking
up now and then to think of him. He sent his love across
the miles to her. His sister, June, would be at work. He
smiled to himself, thinking of his pretty sister in overalls
with a smudge of grease on her nose, and her little hands,
which before had never even been exposed to warm dish-
water, fumbling with the intricacies of a big machine. War
certainly changed things. June, who had never carried
anything heavier than a mink coat, putting in eight hours
a night in an aircraft factory, and mother spending her days
10


in the hospital, scrubbing floors. Well, it wouldn't hurt
them. They certainly weren't suffering and they had plenty
to eat and they were never bored any more.
Maybe something good came out of wars, after all.
Maybe it shook people out of themselves, made them un-
selfish and real, made them understand what life was all
about. Nell didn't need war to know. Nell had come up
the hard way. No good schools or furs or clothes, and a
job in the chain store that paid thirteen dollars a week.
Her mother made another fifteen, so that made twenty-
eight dollars for the family of four to live on.
A great longing for them overwhelmed him, a great
longing for the gentle hills and the roads winding through
the woods and the little brook threading across the pasture.
There would be fireflies flecking the darkness and a wind
pushing through the trees and in the wood-lot a night bird
crying. This wouldn't do. He was too old to weep, too old
to let loneliness beat him down. He had wanted experi-
ence, hadn't he. Well, he was getting it, and if he ever
intended to do anything with his life, he had to take every-
thing that came along and like it.
"You asleep out there?" Hastings called.
Johnny swam across the pool, pulled himself out and
grinned at his host. "The water's swell."
Hastings went over to the table. "Martini?"
"All right, but go easy. I'm not a drinking man."
"Time you learned," said Hastings.
Hastings hadn't gone easy. It was a double Martini and
it was very cold and very good. To hell with it, Johnny
thought. Might as well be drunk as the way I am. He
downed it in three gulps, put his glass on the tiles. Hast-
ings refilled it from the pitcher at his side.
"Ever get lonely?" Johnny asked.
"Sure. Why do you think I brought you home, sonny?
I like parties. Only you have to have an excuse for a party.


You're my excuse. Pretty soon I'm going to call up people,
and we'll celebrate."
I hope we eat first, Johnny thought. The guy who fixed
that sandwich he had had for lunch took food rationing
seriously. It had been a very little sandwich, and the bot-
tle of milk was a midget. In the Army a man got used to
eating a hell of a lot. "What will we celebrate?"
"You name it."
"Your uncle's generosity," said Johnny.
"What uncle?"
"The one who made this possible," Johnny indicated
the pool and the house.
"He's a figment," said Hastings.
"No uncle?"
"No."
"Then we'll celebrate the thriving junk business."
Hastings raised his glass. "To junk."
"To pots and pans and garbage cans," Johnny let the
rest of his Martini slide down his throat.
Hastings drank, then refilled the glasses. "We'll cele-
brate literature, too," he suggested.
"I thought you'd had your fill of literature."
"I'm recovering. I'm settling back into the slough of
illiteracy from which she tried to rescue me."
"Is she nice?"
"Beautiful," said Hastings. "But she couldn't leave her
ruler in the schoolhouse." His tone was bitter. "May she
be sorry," he said. "May she regret walking out. May
she sit on the ditch-bank and see me wallowing in luxury,
while envy eats out her heart."
He's getting drunk, Johnny thought. And so am I. I'm
getting very drunk. We ought to eat. We better eat, or we
won't be in any condition to celebrate anything. A rosy
fog surrounded him, and he felt tremendously vital. With
no trouble at all, he could jump right across the pool.
"A junk man," Hastings said. "A stupid dealer in rags
18


"Brandy sobers you up."
The fog was closing in. It was all around him, and there
were too many Hastingses and too many tables and too
many pools and too many trees. He swallowed the liquor
and closed his eyes.
He remembered lying on a couch somewhere. He re-
membered hearing bells ringing and voices, many voices.
A woman bent over him, a woman's fingers touched his
cheek. Someone shook him, and then he was walking
through rooms that tipped and whirled and up endless
stairs, and then he was in the room that had belonged to
the boy who died at Pearl Harbor. He remembered the
world spinning faster and faster and more voices and then
a loud cry.
Sunlight blinded him. He was lying on a white field
and someone was squeezing his eyeballs. Someone was
pounding and yelling, and there were bells ringing again.
"Jesus," Johnny groaned. "Oh, Jesus." He wanted to
die.
The banging continued. The bells shrilled. With
difficulty Johnny sat up and opened his eyes. The room
swam into focus and he remembered where he was. So
this was what a real hangover was like. He put his face in
his hands, and then he pulled them away and stared at
them. Blood. All over his hands. And there was blood on
his pajamas and on the sheet. Must have had a nosebleed
in the night.
"Open up," someone shouted.
He slid out of bed across the floor to the porch, and
then he could#see the front door. Two men in uniform
were at the front door, and they weren't soldiers. They
were cops.
Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong.
Better wake Hastings. Better get Hastings out of bed and
tell him the police were here. Only Hastings wasn't in any
of the bedrooms.


Johnny forgot his aching head and his nausea. He
had to find Hastings. He had to find him and tell him
about the police. Not in the living room. Not in the dining
room. But what was that on the kitchen floor?
He stopped at the threshold. Hastings lay face down
near the back door, and beside him was a piece of two-inch
pipe. There was blood on the pipe and blood on the floor,
and there was a terrible wound on the back of Hastings'
head.
"We'll break it down," a voice yelled.
Johnny looked at his hands. No nosebleed. Blood on his
hands and blood on his pajamas and over there a man's
body. What had he done? Oh, God, what had he done!
Blind panic seized him. They mustn't find him here.
He ran Into the living room. He opened a window and
climbed out, driven by a terrible fear, not thinking, not
able to think, knowing only that he must get away from
this terrible place where a man lay dead. Across the lawn
he sped, and into the garage. He flung the doors open. The
keys were in the ignition lock. The motor roared. The
gears cried out as he fumbled with the clutch. Then the big
car was shooting out backward and around. And then it was
headed along the twisting graveled driveway.
Only something was in the way. There was a car in the
driveway. He swung the wheel hard, and a tree seemed
to rush at him. He closed his eyes.
Chapter Three •
On Thursday morning Bonnie West looked up from her
True Love Story magazine regretfully when the door
opened; then a smile brightened her face. It was a very
pretty face, nothing unusual about it, just good to look at.
15


Maybe a trifle too round, but it went with the figure which
in a few years would also be a trifle too round. Now the
figure was just right. Miss West was a secretary. Miss West
was not a particularly efficient secretary, but she was deco-
rative and she could spot a client with money at a hun-
dred paces.
"No uniform," said Miss West, beaming at the man who
came through the door. The man was her boss. His name
was Humphrey Campbell, and with a figure like that he
could have played center for Minnesota. The trouble
was, he was too old to play center for anybody. But he
wasn't too old for the Army. He was thirty-seven, and ac-
cording to the Army doctors there wasn't a thing wrong
with him that fresh air and a few thirty-mile hikes
wouldn't cure.
"Miss me?" asked, Humphrey.
"Terribly," said Bonnie. "But the uniform."
"It doesn't become me," said Humphrey. "Anyway, I
might get tired of it."
"Was it bad?"
"It wasn't good."
"Did they stick needles in you?"
"That comes later," said Humphrey. "All they did was
induct me. Then they said I could have a short vacation."
"That was sweet of them."
"They're sweet people."
"You should have enlisted," Bonnie said. "I told you
you should have. You could have been a sailor. Or maybe
an officer."
"I hate the sea," said Humphrey. "I wanted to be a
private. And that's what I am. Anything happen?"
"There was a murder," said Bonnie. "Oh, a good one."
"When?"
"Didn't you read the papers?"
"No time."
16


"Monday night. A man named Hastings." She waited
for him to react to the name. He scowled at her.
"I suppose you've been out trying to drum up busi-
ness. Forget it. I'm not interested in murder. I'm going
fishing."
"Hastings," Bonnie repeated.
"What of it?"
"Don't you remember? The junk dealer who came here
last March. The one who wanted you to follow his wife
around."
"You don't need a filing system around here," said
Humphrey. "Not with you around. His wife kill him?"
Bonnie shook her head "A nice little soldier did it.
Oh, such a nice one." Her voice was tender. "Sweet look-
ing. The police say he did it. I don't think so. He
doesn't—"
"Wait a minute," said Humphrey. "I'm not taking the
case. I don't care how beautiful his eyes are. I'm going
fishing."
"Nobody asked you to take the case," said Bonnie
primly.
"See that no one does." Humphrey started for the inner
office door. Bonnie's voice stopped him.
"I just thought—"
"Now, baby."
"But Hastings's coming here," said Bonnie. "Wanting
you to do something about his wife—I thought—"
"Stop it."
"All right."
"Anything else happen?"
"Mr. Moise called."
"Moise?"
"The San Francisco man," said Bonnie. "The one who
wrote asking you to find a fruit tramp for him two weeks
ago."
17


"He in town?"
Bonnie nodded.
"Call him back," said Humphrey. "Tell him he owes
me five hundred dollars."
"I told him. He's bringing the check over."
"I don't want to see him. I don't want to see anybody.
All I want is*the five hundred. I'm cleaning out my desk.
I'm building bonfires in the middle of the room, and then
I'm going fishing. So when he comes, kiss him good-by."
"He wants to thank you."
"He can thank you." Humphrey grinned, crossed to
the door marked "Private," and went inside. Automati-
cally, he threw a smile toward the big desk in the corner,
then realized that there was no one back of the desk. Of
course not. Oscar Morgan was no longer his partner. Oscar
Morgan was now a respectable citizen, assistant to his
friend, Del Alderson, the chief of police of Joaquin. The
minute the draft board started sniffing at Humphrey's
heels, Oscar had deserted. Well, you couldn't blame him.
Oscar was too fat to be a private investigator any more,
and he was much too unscrupulous. These days, a detec-
tive had to be moderately honest.
The room was hot, and the air was stale and dead.
Humphrey opened a window, stood there looking down
at the courthouse park and at the buildings beyond the
park.
The buzzer on the desk took him away from the win-
dow.
"Yes," he said, flipping down the switch.
"Mr. Moise is here," said Bonnie's voice.
"I told you what to do."
"He wants to see you."
"Send him in," said Humphrey, and sat down.
Mr. Moise was taller than Humphrey, a good deal
taller. He looked like the president of a bank. He looked
18


"Glad to hear it," said Moise. "Always glad to hear
about patriotic young men."
"I wasn't patriotic," Humphrey explained. "Let's not
go into that."
"Ten thousand, Mr. Campbell?"
"No, thanks."
"I can't tempt you?"
"Nope."
"It's rather an interesting case."
Humphrey shook his head. "Sorry, the office is closed.
I'm washed up with this racket."
"You won't change your mind?"
"No."
"Can you suggest another office then? Someone reliable
and honest?"
"There's one other detective in town," said Humphrey.
"I can't vouch for his honesty or his reliability. He's only
been here a few months. His name is Pritchard, and you'll
find him in the Cooper Building, a couple of blocks
South. I'm not recommending him. But you can size him
up, and maybe he'll do."
"Pritchard," Moise repeated the name as though he
liked the sound of it.
"Les Pritchard."
"Could he have found Caldwell?"
Humphrey shrugged.
"I wish you'd change your mind."
"I won't."
The other sighed. He pulled out his wallet, took five
one-hundred dollar bills from its well-stocked inside and
dropped them on the desk.
"Pritchard might be all right," said Humphrey.
"He might." Moise shook hands again and started for
the door.
"Can I ask a question?" said Humphrey.
20


"Certainly." The tall man turned, waited.
"Why in hell did you pay me all this dough to find a
fruit tramp?"
"Why indeed," said Moise, bowed and opened the
door. "Good-by, Mr. Campbell."
"Good-by."
"Catch a lot of fish, Mr. Campbell."
"I'll try."
The door closed. Humphrey stared at the money,
pocketed it finally. In the bottom drawer there was a bottle
half-full of Scotch and he got the bottle and a glass out
and tipped a good-sized slug in the glass. Might as well
go whole hog. Usually milk was his drink but he'd get
plenty of chance to drink milk at Camp Roberts. He lifted
the glass and then put it down again because Bonnie was
playing tunes on the buzzer.
"I want to be alone," he told the annunciator. "I want
to sit here all by myself and brood."
Apparently Bonnie had her face very close to the in-
strument. "You should see what I see."
"What?"
"Angels," said Bonnie. "I'm sending them in." And
with that the instrument went dead.
They were angels, all right, but they weren't happy ones,
the two young women who opened the door and hesitated
on the threshold. Humphrey sent an admiring glance
across the room, hurriedly put the glass in the bottom
drawer and stood up. For once Bonnie was right. No man
could send these two away. No man could be that heartless.
Because they were evidently in trouble.
"Come in, please," Humphrey said.
A good many women, young and old, had passed
through those portals, but these were the cream of the
crop. They weren't sisters, that was obvious. The door was


closed. Together they crossed to the desk and the older
one found the smallest fragment of a smile.
"Mr. Campbell?" she asked.
"Sit down, please," Humphrey said, noting that the
younger one made no effort to look pleasant. She had
been crying, you could see that.
"A man at the police station gave us your name," the
older one said. "He said you would help us. He said you
were the only person in Joaquin who could help us."
"A white-haired man?" asked Humphrey.
The girl nodded.
"Fat?"
"Quite."
Oscar, Humphrey thought. Still drumming up trade for
the firm. "I hope he's right."
"This is Miss Prescott." The older one indicated her
companion, who sat stiffly on the edge of her chair looking
very young and very sad and very pretty despite the recent
cloudburst. Miss Prescott might not be in her teens, but
she didn't have to think very hard to remember them.
"I'm Miss Foster."
No Westerner, Humphrey thought, trying to place the
accent. New England. Maybe a finishing school or two. A
cool, self-possessed girl of twenty-five or -six who hadn't
been kicked around. In a white linen dress, and the merest
excuse for a hat. The ordinary family could have lived
a week on what the dress and hat cost. She put her big
white handbag in her lap, smoothed her dress across two
fine knees, and took off her gloves.
"Trouble?" asked Humphrey. He came around the
desk and offered cigarettes to his visitors. Miss Foster took
one and he held a match for her. Miss Prescott shook her
head and stared at the green carpet. Humphrey went back
to his chair.
"Yes," Miss Foster said and suddenly seemed to be hav-
22


ing difficulty with her voice. She put her hand to her lips
and hastily looked the other way.
"I may as well tell you now," Humphrey said. "I doubt
if I'll be able to help."
The look she gave him had desperation in it.
"I've just been drafted," he explained. "Next Monday
I go in."
Miss Prescott looked at Miss Foster and Miss Foster
looked at Miss Prescott and then both of them fixed im-
ploring eyes on the husky man with the raffish face and the
mussed-up hair.
"But—what will we do?" asked Miss Foster.
There would be yellow violets in the meadow and the
snow plants would be blood red against the wet earth. In
the afternoon thunder would roll around the bald peaks
and in the night the coyotes would cry out as though in
fear. Even now in August the river would go brawling
down the canyon and the fat golden trout would be wait-
ing under the rocks. Five days. Five days of peace, and
the wind heavy with the scent of pine needles lying in
the sun. The way things were he might never see those
hills again. Then he saw tears in Miss Foster's eyes.
"I'll do what I can," Humphrey said and each word
hurt him. "Anyway, I may be able to suggest someone
else," he added hastily.
Miss Foster's sigh was almost hopeful. "It's my brother,"
she said. "He's—they say he killed a man."
Humphrey straightened. "Is he a soldier?"
"Yes."
"The Hastings murder?"
"You know about it?"
"My secretary told me a little about it a moment ago.
I've been out of town."
"You'll help us?"
23


"Johnny's my brother," she said. "Nell—Miss Prescott
and he—"
Nell started crying again and June crossed the room and
took her in her arms. "There, there, baby," June said.
"Oh, June," the other sobbed. "They won't hurt him?
You won't let them hurt him?"
"Of course not, baby. You've got to be brave."
"I'm all right," the girl's smothered voice whimpered.
"Of course you're all right. No more tears."
Humphrey found an expression he hoped was under-
standing, used it. "Tell me all you know," he said.
"We know very little," June said. "Just what was in
the papers and what Mr. Morgan told us."
"You talk to your brother?"
"Not yet. We just got in this morning. We live in Dan-
bury, Connecticut."
"What did Morgan say?"
"It's a county case. He said his office hasn't anything to
do with it. Two of his officers went out there Tuesday
morning but after they arrested Johnny they discovered
it was outside the city. So the sheriff and the district attor-
ney have the case."
"Did Morgan question your brother?"
"No. The two officers did. Mr. Morgan gave me a copy
of their report."
"Can I see it?"
June opened her purse, took from it a yellow envelope
and gave it to the detective, then sat down again, watching
him intently as he took the contents out.
The first paper was the report of Detective Lieutenants
Chris Miles and Westbrook Rawson. It was dated Tues-
day, August 2.
"We answered a call to the Hastings ranch on Fremont
Road," the officers reported. "Arrived there at 7:15 A. M.
Rang the doorbell several times. No one answered it. We
25


heard someone moving upstairs so we rang again and
waited. We figured maybe the call had been a phoney and
didn't want to break in because if it was a phoney there
would be trouble. We heard someone coming downstairs
so we knocked some more and then called to the party to
open the door. A couple of minutes later we heard a car
start and we ran around the house. The car backed out
of the garage, turned and started down the driveway,
only our car was in the driveway. The car swung off into
a tree. We went over and found a young man in pajamas
who said his name was John Foster in the car. Foster said
he was a soldier. There was dried blood on his hands and
dried blood on his pajamas. He was wearing pajamas and
no shoes.
"We took Foster back to the house and went inside. In
the kitchen we found the body of Warren Hastings. The
body was cold. As near as we could figure he had been
dead five hours. The back of his head was crushed. Near
the body was a four-foot length of two-inch pipe. There
was blood and hair on the pipe.
"We made a thorough search of the premises. There
were bloody fingerprints on the wash bowl in the bath-
room and on the toilet seat. There were bloodstains on
the sheets of the bed which Foster said he had slept in.
"We called in and had the identification bureau send
men out. Then we took Foster in to the station and ques-
tioned him. He said he didn't know what happened. He
said he had been drinking and had passed out.
'"We questioned Pete Vogel, 201 Clark Street, who
delivers milk to the Hastings house. It was Vogel who dis-
covered the body and called the station. Vogel said he saw
the body through the back door and drove to a service
station to make the call.
"We also questioned George Schwinn, Hastings' care-
taker, when he returned to his house at five-thirty this
afternoon. He and his wife were not home when Hastings
26


was murdered. They went to San Francisco yesterday
(Monday) and registered at the Chancellor Hotel. They
came home this afternoon. We checked the hotel and their
story is okey. They were there Monday night and this
morning.
"Before we was taken off the case, we talked to Bruce
Peyton at the Hastings Junk Yard. Peyton works for Has-
tings. He said he never heard of the soldier, Foster, before.
Mrs. Hastings, who wasn't living with her husband at the
time of the murder, said she didn't know Foster either.
She said he was probably a sadist. That's what we think.
We would have gone into the case more but we was taken
off it."
Not imaginative, but to the point. And you couldn't
blame the boys for throwing Private Foster in the pokey.
If he had only kept his mouth shut, Humphrey thought.
But this was bad. Saying he didn't think he killed Has-
tings. Saying he was cockeyed.
The two girls were watching him, almost breathlessly.
He smiled at them, then gave his attention to the rest of
the file. Little to work on here. The laboratory report that
Foster's prints were on the pipe and on the wash bowl
and toilet seat. Several other sets of prints had been found
around the house but had not, as yet, been identified. The
blood on Foster's hands and pajamas had obviously been
spilled by Hastings. Finally there was the coroner's report.
Hastings had been killed between twelve and two on the
morning of August 2.
Again he looked up and smiled and he tried to put hope
in his smile. That was hard. It looked bad for Private
Johnny Foster. "Give me your brother's background," he
said.
June considered. "He's twenty-one. He was—he wanted
to be a writer. But the war came along. So he enlisted and
they sent him out here."
"College man?"
27'


"Columbia. Another year to go."
"What about your family?"
"There's, mother. Me of course. And—" she smiled at
Nell. "They're going to be married."
"Father?"
"He's—dead."
"Just the three of you, then." Humphrey smiled at Nell
and added, "The four of you, I should say."
"Yes."
"You'll need a lawyer. A good one."
"Do you know an attorney?"
Humphrey nodded. "The best. A man named Harry
Dunecht."
"Your fee, Mr. Campbell?"
"We'll talk about that later. I want to see your brother.
I want to look around. Then I'll know whether I can do
you any good."
"You think—" there was desperation in her tone. "—
there's no hope?"
"Of course there's hope. There always is."
Humphrey dug at the blotter with the sharp end of the
paperknife. He looked at the girls. He looked at the win-
dow and through the window, and away off he could see
the hills. He asked, "Where are you staying?"
"We just got here this morning," June said.
"Go to a hotel. The Joaquin is the best one. Get some
rest. I'll find out when you can see him. I'll call you."
June came over to the desk. She held out her hand. "You
will help us?"
Her eyes were very dark, purple almost. And very soft.
A black curl had escaped from her silly little hat and fell
across her white forehead. Some people might say her
mouth was too big, but Humphrey liked women with gen-
erous mouths. Particularly when the lips were full and
ready for laughter. An insignificant nose, a nice nose.
28


Chapter Foui
Clarence Hyatt, district attorney of Joaquin County,
was a lean individual with a face and neck the color of
saddle leather, who vaguely resembled Gary Cooper and
was proud of it. On the wall back of his desk was a cow-
hide lariat framing a pair of six-guns and on another wall
was a picture of Hyatt roping a mangy steer. Hyatt had
been on the County pay roll for twenty years, but he
still considered himself a cowhand.
"Morning, partner," drawled Hyatt when Humphrey
closed the door. "Sorry to keep you waiting." He didn't
look at all sorry, sitting there with his feet on the corner
of the desk and his hands locked behind his head.
"It gave me a chance to read Fortune." Humphrey
didn't wait to be invited to sit. As a taxpayer he felt en-
titled to help wear out the russet leather furniture.
"I hear the Army got you." If he wasn't chortling, he
was pretty close to it. "We're going to miss you around
here."
"I'm going to miss you," Humphrey said.
"I envy you. If I was only younger—" His gesture indi-
cated there was no limit to what he would do in that case.
"Somebody has to stay home," said Humphrey. "Some-
body has to be around to keep the subversive elements
under control. When can I see young Foster?"
Hyatt stretched and made no effort to smother a yawn.
"Later. Right now a doctor is examining him."
"Doctor?"
"Psychiatrist."
"I've arranged for an attorney."
SO


see, Mr. Campbell, even Foster isn't convinced he didn't
kill Warren Hastings."
Useless to argue, Humphrey thought. Useless to expect
to find a sense of fairness in a man who had been a pros-
ecutor for years. He kept his job by getting convictions.
And usually the people he convicted were guilty as hell.
So you worked on the theory that a guy was guilty until
proven innocent.
"I've been drunk," Hyatt continued. "So have you. This
isn't an argument against liquor, because I like it. But it
affects the mind at times. Drunk, you sometimes do things
you wouldn't believe yourself capable of. Foster was
drunk. Foster didn't know how to handle liquor. He
passed out. He woke up with blood on his hands and a
dead man downstairs and a piece of pipe with his finger-
prints on it. Now, God damn it, don't come in here and
tell me he was framed. Hastings had no enemies. He wasn't
involved with women."
"His wife," put in Humphrey.
"An amicable separation," said Hyatt. "They didn't
get along so they separated. Divorce proceedings were
under way. Oh, I haven't been sitting on my can taking
things for granted. Go ahead, talk to Hastings' attorney
and Mrs. Hastings' attorney. You'll discover there was no
enmity. Mrs. Hastings wanted her freedom and nothing
else. Hastings was perfectly willing to give her everything
she asked."
"She's still his wife," said Humphrey. "Suppose there
was no will. Hastings had a lot of money."
"But there was a will," grinned Hyatt. "Everything
but community property goes to a brother in Kansas
City." Humphrey started to speak, but Hyatt held up his
hand like a traffic cop. "And the brother was in Kansas
City Monday and Tuesday. What's more, the brother
didn't know Hastings had a dime."
32


"Didn't he?"
"Nope."
"Mind telling me the brother's name and address?"
"Not at all." Hyatt pulled open a drawer and fumbled
through some papers. "Robert L. Hastings. He's vice-presi-
dent of the Inter-City Trucking Corporation. Use my
name if you want to."
"Thanks."
"You see, I want to be fair."
Too smug, Humphrey thought, watching the man. Too
damned smug. Like a guy in a crap game with his pockets
full of loaded dice.
"Anything you want, Campbell—anything."
"I want to see Foster."
"Naturally. His relatives will want to see him too. Say
four o'clock. Is that all right?"
"That's fine."
"Dunecht can see him after four if he wants to."
"He'll want to."
"Mind telling me where the sister and fiancee are stay-
ing? I won't bother them. But maybe I can do something
to help. You know—sort of assure them that the state can
be humane."
"They'll appreciate that," said Humphrey. "They're
at the Joaquin Hotel."
"Let me know if you uncover anything, won't you?"
"Sure." Humphrey rose, started slowly for the door.
"And good luck," said Hyatt.
"Thanks."
"You'll need it," said Hyatt. Here it comes, thought
Humphrey. The last roll and it had to be a seven. "You
see," Hyatt's tone was almost tender, "Johnny Foster's
father died three years ago in the Danbury jail. He was
waiting to be tried for murder, Campbell. He had beaten
a man to death in a bar room fight."
33


sort of a person who might lay a man low with a hunk of
pipe.
Mrs. Schwinn disappeared through a door to the right
and he heard her grumbling voice but couldn't catch the
words. Then a man said, "All right," and the door opened
again. He didn't look like a bad sort: a squat, compact
fellow in overalls and shirt with a bald and sunburned
head. There was an expression of vague resignation on
his round commonplace face. Mrs. Schwinn followed him
as though afraid he might escape.
"Hope I didn't spoil your lunch," Humphrey said.
"That's all right. I was through. Will this take long?
Because I got to go to the employment office and see about
pickers."
Humphrey shook his head. "Just a couple of questions.
And the keys to the house."
"Back door's unlocked," Schwinn said.
"Good. I understand you were away Monday night.
Right?"
"We were away."
"San Francisco," Mrs. Schwinn put in.
"When did you get back?"
"Tuesday," Schwinn replied.
"Hastings know you were going?"
Schwinn started to speak but his wife seemed anxious
to do the ball carrying. "Yes," she snapped.
"How did you happen to go Monday?" The question
was addressed to Schwinn but he didn't get a chance to
answer it.
"He sent us." Mrs. Schwinn's small black eyes, deep in
their sockets, stared at the detective unwinkingly. "On
business."
Schwinn's soft eyes said he wanted to speak but his
wife would have none of it. She shifted her gaze arid the
heat of her glance melted his desire to be audible.
35


"What business?"
"Grapes," said Mrs. Schwinn quickly. "Wine grapes.
Mr. Schwinn was hunting buyers."
Humphrey was sure she was lying. Schwinn's expres-
sion told him that. It also told him the farm manager was
pretty unhappy about the whole business. He should have
taken Schwinn outside. But it was too late now. As soon
as he left Mrs. Schwinn would give her old man the works.
"Thanks. Sorry to have troubled you," Humphrey said.
Schwinn cleared his throat, opened his mouth and closed
it again.
"I hope you're the last one," said Mrs. Schwinn acidly.
"I hope so," Humphrey replied, and left them.
The geese were waiting for him by the steps and one of
them touched his fingers with its bill. He said, "Nice old
lady," stroked her head, then made his way through the
trees and across the lawn to the house.
Through the glass door, he could see the kitchen and
he thought how surprised the milkman must have been
to see one of his customers stretched out on the floor.
Would it do any good to talk to the man? Probably not.
The linoleum was spotless. He stood where he figured
the body had lain, frowning at the floor, then he lit a
cigarette and started wandering through the house.
He wished he owned the place. He wished the war were
over. This would be a swell joint to settle down with a
beautiful woman and a couple of kids and a husky man to
till the soil. And the desire for an ordered, peaceful, lazy
life filled him with wonder. Was he getting old? Well,
there was no harm in wishing because his life was mapped
out for him for quite a while. One thing about being in
the Army, you wouldn't have to dig around in people's
dark and dreary lives. Which reminded him he was doing
more thinking than digging.
Methodically he searched the living room, found noth-
36


ing of importance and moved into the study. There was a
desk in the study and he ransacked it and might as well
have saved himself the trouble. On the window-seat under
the bay window that looked out at the garden to the south,
he spotted a brief case and picked it up hopefully. Empty.
However, he opened it and went carefully through each
pocket. One piece of paper, that was all—a receipt from a
Bakersfield bank for $8.80 for a year's rent on a safe de-
posit box, and it was dated the day of the murder. Now
why, he wondered, would Mr. Hastings rent a box in
Bakersfield instead of Joaquin. It was something to look
into. So thinking, he took another look around the room,
then headed for the stairs.
Once upstairs it didn't take him long to find the room
in which Johnny Foster had slept, but a close inspection
of it told him nothing. The bed was made and the bath-
room had been scrubbed; a cold trail. You needed sixteen
bloodhounds and three Indians and that wouldn't help
much.
There were three other bedrooms. Across the hall was
a small one, overlooking the back yard, but it hadn't been
occupied. The closets were empty and so were the dresser
drawers. And the closets in the big one to the nordi were
empty. He gave them a quick once-over and went down
the hall. This is it, he thought, looking around him. A fine
room. A comfortable room. An oversized bed and big
chairs and a flock of windows through which you could
see the pool. Somebody had taste. Everything just right.
No, not everything. One jarring note—that small marble-
topped dresser over there.
Now why, he wondered, crossing to it. It was old and
it matched nothing in the room. Someone, a good while
ago, had slapped some white enamel on it and the enamel
was scaled off in spots, revealing dark and ugly wood. The
marble top was chipped and stained. Yet here it stood,
37


with a floor lamp beside it as though it belonged, as con-
spicuous as a flat-chested girl in a bathing beauty parade. A
junk shop, that was the place for it. Maybe Hastings prized
it for some reason. Maybe it was the nucleus around which
Hastings had built his business. He shook his head.
Bending, he opened the top drawer. Empty. And the
second drawer was empty and so was the third. Not even
well made, he discovered as he shoved the drawers back
into place.
He had started for the bathroom when something
caught his eye. A bit of folded paper. He picked it up,
unfolded it. Money. A bill and a hell of a bill. A thou-
sand-dollar bill. The only trouble was it had Jefferson
Davis* picture on it. Confederate money. And it hadn't
been on the floor before he pulled the drawers open.
Hurriedly he pulled the drawers out again, stacked them
on the floor and peered inside the chest. Some dust, but
nothing else. He replaced the drawers, stood there brood-
ing with the creased and dirty piece of currency in his
fingers. Maybe it meant something, but what? Certainly
people didn't go around slaughtering guys for thousand-
dollar Confederate bills. Might as well be thorough. He
pulled the chest away from the wall and inspected the
back. In blue crayon, someone had scrawled figures on the
back—$3.99. And no bargain even with a Confederate
note thrown in, he thought as he tipped the chest over to
inspect the bottom.
Nothing underneath but cobwebs. Then, as he upended
the chest he realized that the marble top was no longer
in place. It lay on the floor. There was, he saw, a com-
partment three inches deep that had been hidden by the
slab of marble, and separating it from the top drawer was [
a sheet of plywood. It, too, was empty. He replaced the
top, frowned at it thoughtfully for a while, shrugged and
glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. In half an hour he had
a date at the county jail.
38


Chapter Six
Johnny Foster sat on the edge of his bunk watching the
patch of sunlight crawl across the floor. There was one
high barred window in the cell and all you could see
through it was the top of an elm tree and a little piece of
sky. He was very lonely, so lonely that he wished the man
in the next cell would start singing again. The man's name
was Potter and he and Johnny were the only guests of
Joaquin county at the moment. Potter had grinned at him
when they led him down the hall Tuesday and later on he
had introduced himself and had volunteered the informa-
tion he was waiting to be sprung. He hadn't done anything,
he had said. Got picked up hanging around a place and the
cops wouldn't believe he wasn't going to rob it and hell
there wasn't anything worth stealing in the joint.
At first, Johnny had been afraid. When he sat in the hot
room with all those faces staring at him, with all those
voices pounding at him, asking questions, saying you killed
him, you beat him to death, terror had made him in-
articulate. Now his fear was gone and in its place was the
dull ache of loneliness.
The hot, still, daylight hours were bad enough. But at
least you heard men talking, even if the men who did the
talking were asking you why you killed him. You said you
didn't kill him and the mere saying of it made you believe
it. The night hours were awful, not a sound but the far
off whistle of a train, not a footstep in the corridor. You
lay in the warm dark and tried to tell yourself it wasn't
true, it was something you were writing or dreaming.
Then you remembered the car stopping and the man
named Hastings talking to you. Your memory got fuzzier
39


and fuzzier and you were in a strangely cockeyed world
that whirled and roared and you heard a voice but what
the voice said you didn't know and you went somewhere
but where you went you didn't know. Finally you were
awake and someone was pounding on the door and you
went downstairs and there he was face down and there was
blood on your hands. So you didn't believe what you told
the tall man with the sunburned face, the man who kept
saying listen kid I'm here to help you, I'm here to find out
what really happened, you were drunk and men do things
they can't remember when they are drunk. ... In the
night you knew you could have killed him.
Someone was coming down the hall. He turned, wonder-
ing if they were coming after him or Potter. Hope flamed
within him. The steps came closer, they passed Potter's
cell, then the man named Milt Howe was standing in
front of the cell door, putting a big key in the lock.
"You," said Howe, not unpleasantly. "Come along."
"Now what?" asked Johnny.
"Company," said Howe.
Excitement almost choked him, but he didn't speak. He
was afraid to speak. Afraid Howe would say it's some guy
in uniform who wants to see you, some monkey with bars
on his shoulders.
"A dame," said Howe.
Still Johnny didn't speak. He went past Potter's cell,
saw that the man was stretched out on his bunk watching
him. He smiled at Potter and Potter winked.
"Ain't you interested?" Howe looked back over his
shoulder.
"Sure," said Johnny, and the word seemed to stick in
his throat.
They went through another door and down a long hall
past rows of empty cells. Johnny wanted to run. He wanted
to shove Howe out of the way because maybe they would
40


be too late, maybe when they got there she would be gone.
But at the same time he was afraid to move faster because
it could be someone else. Another door. It swung wide and
he stepped through. To the left was the room where Hyatt
had questioned him. To the right was another door. Howe
opened the other door and a voice cried, "Johnny, my
darling."
For a long time he held her, letting her cry her heart
out, feeling her warm tears soaking through his thin shirt.
"Johnny," Nell kept saying. "My darling, darling
Johnny." June's hand was on his shoulder and June's eyes
were bright with tears.
"You got here," Johnny said finally. "I knew you
would."
"They didn't hurt you?" Nell sobbed.
"Not me," Johnny said. "How's mother?"
"She couldn't come," June said. "We could only get
two places on the plane and she thought maybe I'd better
come."
"She's all right?"
"She's fine," June said.
Johnny's legs were suddenly very weak, so he led Nell
and June over to the bench against the wall and they sat
on the bench, and his strong arms crushed their shoulders.
"Jesus," he said. "Jesus, I'm glad." Howe was standing in
the door watching them, but Johnny didn't mind. Even
when Howe leered at him, he didn't mind.
"I thought you'd never come," Johnny said happily,
holding them tighter.
"Was it very bad?" June asked.
"Not very," he lied. "First day when I was sick, it wasn't
good. Now it's all right. Tell me about home."
They told him, both talking at once, both trying not
to cry. And listening to their sweet voices he forgot for a
little while where he was and what had happened. Then
4i


he looked up and Howe was still in the doorway, gun on
his hip and star on his shirt. '"Do I get out of here?"
Johnny asked suddenly, desperately.
No one answered. Howe was staring at his feet uncom-
fortably. Nell choked back a sob.
"I got to," Johnny cried.
"Johnny," June said, and her fingers touched his cheek.
"Of course you'll get out, Johnny. In just a little while,
baby."
The boy found courage. "Sure," he said, trying to make
his tone bright. "What's doing?" ^
"We got you a lawyer," June said hurriedly. "A good
one. And a detective. They say there's—there's nothing to
worry about. Not a thing."
"Not a thing," Johnny echoed. Nell's body was shaking.
"Look here, sweet," he comforted. "I'm the one should
be crying. I'm the one has to eat the food here."
"I'm not crying," Nell whimpered.
"Good thing it's a hot day," Johnny said. "The way my
shirt is, I'd catch pneumonia. Did you bring me a pie with
a file in it?"
"They wouldn't let us cook in the hotel," June said.
"And you can't put a file in a bakery pie without it show-
ing."
Nell turned adoring eyes up at him. "Could we—do
you think they'd let us?"
"Could we what?" asked Johnny.
"Get married," said Nell. "Right away."
"Not in a jail house," said Johnny. "I draw the line
there. I'll marry you, my girl. I'll do right by you. But
not in this joint."
June nodded at Howe. "He has a gun."
"A pistol," said Johnny. "Not a shotgun. I'll be out of
here in a couple of days. Then we'll talk about marry-
ing." Howe looked at his watch. "Time's up," he said.
42


"Run along," said Johnny.
"Buddy, you've got two guys to see: your attorney and
a detective," said Howe. "And you ain't got all day to do
it."
June stood up, rumpled Johnny's hair roughly and
grinned down at him. "Unhand the wench, youngster. We
want Mr. Campbell to talk to you."
"I don't want to see anyone else," Johnny protested.
"You want to spend the rest of your life here?"
"I don't intend to."
"We don't intend to have you. Come on, Nell. Kiss
him. We'll be back tomorrow."
Another night, Johnny thought. Lying in the hot dark-
ness not able to sleep, only maybe now they were near, it
wouldn't be quite so bad, maybe just knowing they were
close to him would make him sure of himself. Nell's soft
lips crushed his own and her arms were tight around his
neck, and then he knew everything was going to be all
right. Nothing could happen to him, nothing.
"God, I love you," he whispered.
"Say it again." Her lips were against his ear now.
"I adore you."
"There'll never be anyone else?"
"Never."
"Even when I'm old?"
"Even when you're ninety."
"I won't be pretty then. I'll look like mother."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Come on you love birds," June said, trying to be gay.
"Break it up."
They stood up. June kissed her brother lightly, took
Nell's arm and pulled her toward the door. Nell threw
a kiss at him. He put out his hand, pretended to catch it,
pretended to put it in his pocket. He grinned and they
were gone.
43


Attorney Harry Dunecht, who entered the visitors'
room with Humphrey, was a serious, almost humorless
man who had Harvard Law School written all over him.
There was nothing spectacular about him. But he threw
a lot of weight around Joaquin, and that was one of the
reasons Humphrey had sought him out.
"Beat it," Humphrey told Howe, and when the jailer
showed signs of sticking around, Humphrey shut the door
in his face.
Dunecht frowned. "Rules, you know," he said.
Humphrey grinned, shook Johnny's hand, introduced
himself. "Mr. Dunecht here isn't used to cops," he said.
"How goes it?"
"Pretty good," Johnny said. "I could use a cigarette."
Humphrey gave him one, lit it for him. "As jails go,
this isn't a bad one."
"You ever stay in it?"
"I've been in worse," said Humphrey.
"I haven't."
"You will be," said Humphrey. "You're young yet.
We're getting you out of here shortly. The army needs
men like you. How the hell are we going to win a war with
guys like you in the can?"
"The home guard speaks," said Johnny.
"The ex-home guard," said Humphrey. There was a
table in the middle of the room. He dragged it closer
to the bench, sat on it, motioned to the bench. Johnny
sat on one end, Dunecht on the other.
"Come on," said Johnny soberly. "What's the score?"
"Our side is just going to bat," said Humphrey.
"Looks bad, doesn't it? Don't kid me, Mr. Campbell. I
can take it."
"I don't know yet how it looks."
Dunecht cleared his throat. "Did you—"
"Don't ask me that," Johnny said fiercely. "God damn
it, don't ask me that. I don't know."
44


"Take it easy," said Humphrey. "What do you mean
you don't know? Keep saying that and we'll never get
you out. Now sit down." He shot a warning look at
Dunecht. The lawyer shrugged.
"Sorry," Johnny said. "This place gets me down."
"It gets me down, too," said Humphrey. "I like my
jails full of people."
Johnny found something resembling a smile. "I'll be-
have. All right, I didn't do it."
I hope you didn't, Humphrey thought, remembering
Hyatt's parting shot. "Good boy," he said.
"What do you want to know?"
"Plenty. I'll ask the questions. You answer them."
"Fire away."
"How did Hastings happen to pick you up?"
"I was hitching a ride. He saw me sitting on a culvert
and stopped."
"Where was that?"
"This side of Bakersfield."
"He was coming from Bakersfield?"
"Yes."
"You never saw him before?"
"No."
"How did you happen to go home with him?"
"He asked me. I had nothing else to do."
"Do any drinking before you reached the ranch?"
Johnny shook his head. "No. We drove right to the
house, got out and went in."
"Hastings have any luggage with him?"
"No— Well, he had a brief case, but I don't think it
had anything in it."
"Did he happen to say what he was doing in Bakers-
field?"
Johnny shook his head.
"He tell you anything about himself?"
"Not a great deal. His business. Th^t he'd been in the
45


Navy. That he was separated from his wife. That was
about all."
"I don't want abouts. I want everything. Try and re-
member."
A frown creased Johnny's broad forehead. He pushed
his hand through his curly black hair, and Humphrey
realized how much he resembled his sister. The thought
of June did things to Humphrey. And just when he was
beginning to think he was middle-aged. "Let's see," said
Johnny. "Well. He said he liked the hills. That's how I
happened to go home with him. He said he wanted to
show me the hill. And redwood trees." He sighed. "It's
all so vague. Unreal."
"Sure it is. But go on. Think hard."
"He said—separated from his wife. I told you that,
didn't I? We were talking about literature. That was it.
Steinbeck. He wanted nothing to do with Steinbeck. Said
he was fed up on Steinbeck. I got the idea his wife tried
to change him—tried to make him into something he
wasn't."
"Was he sore at his wife?"
"He was bitter, it seemed to me."
"Talk about his finances? How he made his money?"
Johnny nodded. "Yes, he did. Wait a minute now. All
right. I've got it. I asked him if he was a native son and
he said he was. Born in Sacramento. Said he started a junk
business in Joaquin and now he was rolling in dough.
Then he told me how hard he had worked and how he had
a rich uncle with a weak heart. Later on, when we were
drinking, we were looking for something to celebrate, so
I said we should celebrate his rich uncle's generosity.
Then he said there wasn't any rich uncle. Let's see if I
can remember the exact words. Figment. That was it. He
.said the uncle was a figment."
"Was he sober then?"
46


'.'Not very."
"He didn't say anything more about where he got his
money?"
"No. I think he was going to. I told him I was trying
to write and he said he knew a good story. Once, I think
he started to tell me the story. I'm not sure. I was pretty
drunk by then. Pretty. Very is a better word." He put his
hands over his eyes. "Something he said. How did he
start it? Once upon a time—wait a minute. When we were
driving. That's right. He said the story was about a fruit
tramp."
"Come again," said Humphrey.
"Fruit tramp. Migratory worker is what he meant. Then
when we were drinking he started the story. Once upon a
time there was a fruit tramp. As I say, I was drunk. He
started to tell it and I was so drunk I didn't want to hear
it. I just wanted to fold up. So I folded."
"Anything else?"
"It doesn't make much sense, does it?" Johnny was
staring at him and his eyes were begging the detective to
make sense out of it.
"We've just started," said Humphrey. "That's all you
can remember before you folded up?"
"He said he was going to call people and have a party." •
"Did he call?"
"Not before I passed out."
"Who put you to bed?"
"I don't know."
"Do you remember getting into bed?"
"It's fuzzy," said Johnny. "You know how things are
when you're drunk. Sort of blank. And yet you have a faint
recollection of things going on around you. I remember
lying on a couch in a little room and hearing people talk-
ing. I think I heard a woman's voice, but I'm not sure.
And I heard bells ringing. I'm sure of that. Then I re-
47


member being in bed but how I got there, I don't know.
And in the night—oh, damn it to hell, I don't know. But
maybe I got up. I was in bed and then I wasn't in bed."
"I know how you feel," said Humphrey. "I've been that
drunk. Do you remember going to the bathroom?"
"Did I go to the bathroom?"
"Evidently. Your bloody fingerprints were on the wash-
bowl and toilet seat."
"Jesus," Johnny said. "I must have, then." He leaned
forward and there was misery in his eyes. "Mr. Campbell,
I couldn't have killed him, could I? Without knowing I
did it. Could I have?"
"No," said Humphrey sharply. "Get that out of your
head. Someone else killed him, saw you drunk as a skunk
and made you the patsy."
"God, I hope so."
"That's what happened," Humphrey snapped. "You
might not be here if you hadn't tried to be so damned
honest with the cops." He knew that wasn't true. He knew
the kid would be here anyway but something had to be
done. With that worried, pleading look in his eyes, the
boy looked more than ever like his sister.
"That's about the works," said Johnny. "Now try and
•get me off."
"What about your father?" Humphrey hated to ask the
question. And when he saw the expression on the boy's
face he hated himself for asking it.
"Oh," Johnny said, and the word was a moan. "Oh no."
"Sorry, kid," Humphrey spoke gently. "It's come up,
you see. Hyatt knows."
"Why don't they let him alone," Johnny said. "Why
don't they?"
"We can't work in the dark. Sure it hurts. But it's one
of those things."
Johnny straightened his shoulders, looked defiantly
around him. "You'd have done it too," he cried.
48


Dunecht shot a furtive glance at Humphrey that said
very plainly he wished he was the hell out of here. Hum-
phrey kept his eyes blank.
"Sure he killed a man." Johnny rose and his head was
up and his voice was proud. "He had a right to. By God,
he had a right to!" His voice died.
The room was very quiet. Outside the door there was a
faint sound and Humphrey knew Howe was standing by
the door, listening. There was nothing he could do about
that and really it didn't make any difference.
"There was a man," Johnny said softly. He sat down
and folded his hands on his knees, and the memory of his
father seemed to put strength into him. If you could say a
boy was beautiful, he was at that moment.
"Do you know the story?"
"No," Humphrey said.
"Want to hear it?"
"Yes."
"I want you to. I want you to know what kind of a
father I had."
Dunecht cleared his throat again and Humphrey shot a
warning glance at him. He didn't speak.
"There was a little bar in Danbury," Johnny said softly.
"Oh, a tiny little place downstairs off the street. An old
German ran it. A sweet old guy. Friend of father's. Father
used to drop in there two or three times a week and have a
few drinks and maybe a game of chess. One night—"
The hot room faded from his consciousness. He saw
the dark little taproom and he saw his father come in, a
big, happy man in a rough tweed suit, his iron gray hair
curling back from his forehead, his nose bent from some
forgotten blow.
"I was waiting for him," Johnny said. "We had a couple
of beers. I wasn't supposed to drink beer because I was
so young, but father didn't mind. He wanted me to stick
around. But I had a date, so pretty soon I said good-by
49


near him and he grabbed the table and started swinging
it. He concentrated on the guy who was beating Muller
up, brought the heavy table down on the man with all his
strength. The table hit the guy and the guy hit the floor
and that was that. He died right there."
The boy crossed the room and back, and his fists were
clenched. "The others ran. Ran and called the cops,"
Johnny said. "And the cops came and arrested father for
murder."
"Why murder?" Humphrey asked. "Didn't he tell them
what happened?"
"Sure, he told them," Johnny said, his voice breaking.
"Sure, but they wouldn't listen. And why wouldn't they
listen? Muller. Muller was afraid. Those two men came
back with the police and stood close to Muller and then
when the cops asked him what happened he told the same
story the men did. He said father had come down there
and picked a fight with him. He said father hit him and
when the three men tried to stop him, father picked up the
table and killed one of the men. Oh, the bastards," the
boy cried. "The dirty bastards."
"Bundists?" asked Humphrey.
"Sure," Johnny said. "We could have proved it at the
trial. But there was no time. Father died in jail waiting
for his case to come up."
There was a curious expression on Dunecht's narrow
face. He coughed, took out a handkerchief and touched his
lips with it.
Bad, Humphrey told himself. Not hopeless, but bad.
The father, now the son. You couldn't cry frame-up twice
and expect to get away with it. If Dunecht pulled out
that would make it twice as tough.
Dunecht spoke and his voice was. gentle. "Don't think
about it any more, son," he said. "We won't let happen to
you what happened to your father."
5i


Johnny's eyes had tears in them. "You see why I'm
proud of him?"
"Of course," Dunecht said.
Humphrey stood up, stretched. "Well, boys," he said,
"let's get going."
Chapter Seven
The Hastings Junk and Salvage Company headquarters
were on Kling Street a couple of blocks from the Santa Fe
right-of-way, and even in that down-at-the-heels neighbor-
hood, featuring dreary rooming houses, crummy all-night
beer joints and dilapidated dwellings, it looked pretty sad.
There was a one-story wooden building, badly in need of
paint, with a corrugated iron roof and alongside it was a
lot that seemed to be the depository for all the refuse of
Joaquin. The sidewalk in front of the building was deco-
rated with old plows, decrepit washing machines, and
weary, despondent furniture.
"That's it," the cab driver said. "Want me to wait?"
Humphrey gave her a dollar, indicated the beer joint
across the way. "Buy yourself a beer." She looked like she
needed a beer."
"I come home with beer on my breath the kids won't
like it," the cab driver said. She looked past Humphrey
and added sourly. "How you like that! They snatch my
old man and leave guys like him setting around on their
cans."
Humphrey followed her glance. The reason for her
bitterness was not exactly sitting around on his can. He
was taking an old Locomobile to pieces, bending over the
motor with the driving sun beating down on him and
52


working as though the whole war effort depended on him.
Seeing him, Humphrey understood what she meant. The
man was young and the man was big, well over six feet,
with hair the color of butter and a neck that needed a size
eighteen.
"Maybe he sings tenor," Humphrey suggested.
"That's a good one," the cab driver said, but she didn't
laugh. She made a U-turn, parked the cab in front of
the fly-specked beer joint, got out and headed for the
door. An old bum sitting on the curb whistled when she
went by. She stopped, told him off, then went inside.
Humphrey turned, went through the gate into the yard
where the behemoth was working.
"Got a minute?" Humphrey asked.
The man straightened, wiped his greasy hands on his
overalls, regarded the detective with pale eyes. "Buying
or selling?"
"Neither," Humphrey said. "Is it cooler inside?"
"Some." He made no move toward the shack.
Humphrey let the behemoth look at the badge. He let
him look at it as long as the man wanted to because it said
Humphrey was a detective lieutenant. Oscar had given it
to him.
The man shrugged, then without a word led the way
through a side door into the cluttered, dusty building.
When he walked, you understood why he was working in
a junk yard. His right leg seemed to have no joint in it.
There was an old roll-top desk in the back and there were
a couple of chairs near the desk. They sat and looked at
each other.
"Five," said the behemoth, lighting a cigarette. "Cops,"
he added. "Now what? Hastings again?"
"Yes."
"I thought the D. A. had taken over."
"Washington," said Humphrey shortly.
53


The other didn't seem impressed. He yawned. "Christ,
it's hot," he offered. "All right. The name is Bruce Peyton.
Address 141 East Plum. Monday night I was home and
if you ask the district attorney, you'll discover I live alone
and can't prove I was there. I didn't kill Hastings and I
don't care much who did. I'm running the yard for Mrs.
Hastings until she closes it. What else did you want to
know?"
"Mrs. Hastings a friend of yours?"
"Want to make something of it?" Peyton seemed to find
amusement in the question.
"Not particularly."
"I went to Joaquin State College four years," said
Peyton. "She was one of my teachers. That's how I got this
job."
"Suppose you take the chip off your shoulder," Hum-
phrey suggested. "I'm trying to help, out a kid who's in
a jam."
"Jam is right." He wasn't sympathetic.
"Hastings call you Monday night?"
"No."
"When did you see him last?"
"Monday morning."
"Junk business good?"
"Fair. But what's that got to do with it?"
"Hastings made a lot of money in the last six months."
"I wouldn't know about that," said Peyton. "Only what
Hastings said. Some relative died, he said."
"Some relative didn't die," said Humphrey. "That's
the trouble." He fished a telegram out of his pocket,
handed it to Peyton. It was addressed to Oscar Morgan,
and Robert L. Hastings had sent it from Kansas City.
"Know nothing about rich relative. Brother's death only
one in family in past ten years. Advise."
54


Peyton read it, shrugged disinterestedly and gave it
back. "All I know is what he said."
"We want to know where he got his money."
"You've come to the wrong place. Try Mrs. Hastings."
"I intend to."
"Maybe he found a signed first edition of "Alice in
Wonderland," said Peyton dryly. "Junk men are always
finding rare old books." He laughed. "Like hell they are.
He robbed a bank. He was raising marijuana."
"You do much business with migratory workers?"
"How's that?" Sunburned lids covered the pale eyes.
His lashes were long and very blond.
"Fruit tramps."
There was an imperceptible hesitation on his part.
Then he said, "Sure. They're always in your hair. Why?"
"Just curious. So Mrs. Hastings is closing the joint?"
"I said she was."
"What will you do?"
"Why did you ask me about fruit tramps?"
He dropped his cigarette on the dirty floor, ground it
out with his heel. Someone had clipped him a good one
across the left ear a while back.
"Does it worry you?"
"For Christ sake," said Peyton. "You come in here and
act mysterious. What do you expect me to do?"
Humphrey got up and dusted his pants. Hwhad no de-
sire to mix it up with Mr. Peyton because Mr. Peyton had
a couple of sledge hammer heads for fists. "Let us know
if you leave town, won't you?"
"I'll send you a post card," said Peyton.
Humphrey made his way to the front of the place and
that was a feat. There wasn't much room for customers.
For that matter, there wasn't much reason for customers in
the dark and dusty room. Unless you wanted a moth-eaten
55


moose-head or a worn out oil stove or a rusty pair of bed
springs. Yet Hastings had grown rich and then Hastings
had died, suddenly and horribly. Humphrey looked back.
Peyton was standing by the desk watching him go, but it
was too dark to see much more than the outline of him.
Chapter Eight
From the cut rate drug store on the corner of Univer-
sity and Titcomb Streets, Humphrey called June Foster.
"Hot, isn't it," said Humphrey.
"Not up here." Her voice was very nice on the tele-
phone.
"Ever swim in a canal?"
"No."
"Want to?"
"We haven't any suits."
"They rent them," said Humphrey. "This place I know,
you eat outside and after a while you jump into the canal
and let the current carry you along. Say seven-thirty?"
"Shouldn't you—"
"Be wprkmg? I have to eat. So do you."
"Seven-tBRy," June said.
He hung up, went out and headed into the sunset. The
sky was saffron and way up there the wind was shoving the
clouds around. There was no wind in th£.well of the Val-
ley.
It was cooler now, though not much, and people were
out sprinkling their lawns and being neighborly. In most
of the houses the radios were on full blast. No need to
worry about how your ordinary citizen would behave in
a bombing, Humphrey thought. If they could stand that,

56


they could stand anything. He crossed Beacon Street. Half
a block farther on was a small redwood house with three
silver birch trees holding hands on the lawn. He turned
in, went up the steps and put his finger on the bell.
A handsome woman in her late thirties opened the door.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Mrs. Hastings?" That was obvious, as this was her
home, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Look-
ing at her, he was sorry he was too old for college. The
teachers he remembered were gaunt, capable women with
rats in their hair, and moles.
There were no rats in Mrs. Hastings' chestnut hair. She
wore it up and there were reasons. Her ears were good and
her neck was good, slim and white and graceful. She had
on red hostess pajamas and red slippers with gold buckles,
and there was a gold belt around her slim waist.
"Police department," Humphrey said.
Her eyes were big and dark and there were shadows
under them. "Oh," she said.
"May I come in?"
"Yes." She stood aside and he walked past her into a fine
room, long, low-ceilinged, redwood paneled, with a Van
Gogh print over the fireplace. Plenty of bookshelves and
plenty of books and a faint scent of lavender. Also a man
with a highball in his hand, a trim, middle-aced man with
a square jaw and graying black hair. Hump^fty tried to
place him, remembered he had seen him around the city
hall.
"My name's fcampbell."
"He's a police officer." Mrs. Hastings was poised in the
center of the room, watching him with warm and thought-
ful eyes.
"I hope this isn't upsetting your plans for the evening,"
said Humphrey.
The man flashed a thin smile at Humphrey.
57


"This is Mr. Tallent," said Mrs. Hastings.
. "Hello," said Humphrey. "Sorry to interrupt."
Tallent didn't offer to shake hands. "So you're a police-
man."
"That's right."
"New?"
"Not exactly."
"Odd we haven't met before."
Humphrey shrugged. Mr. Tallent seemed skeptical. Mr.
Tallent seemed well aware who Humphrey was. And who
was Mr. Tallent? "You don't mind if I talk to Mrs. Has-
tings?"
"Not at all. I was leaving." Tallent finished his drink,
bowed. "Good night, Myra." Their glances met, she
followed him into the hall and Humphrey heard them
whispering. Then the door closed and Mrs. Hastings
came back, stood by the table, regarding him thoughtfully.
He was taller than she was, but not much. An inch per-
haps. Had Hastings walked out on this or had she walked
out on Hastings?
"Sit down, please," she said.
The chair he took had a faded chintz cover and down
cushions. She sat on the davenport facing him, leaning
back with her hands locked behind her head. "You want
me to go over it again, I suppose?"
"It was your husband who was murdered," said Hum-
phrey.
"You have a man under arrest."
"He says he didn't do it."
"You believe him?"
"We want to be fair," said Humphrey.
"Don't I deserve fairness too?"
"Have we been unfair?"
"I'm no longer his wife, you know." She brought her
hands down and let them lie idly in her lap. They were
58


slim, lovely hands. "Not really. There was only the for-
mality of the divorce ahead." ,
"So what happened to him doesn't matter?"
"Did you ever live with anyone for ten years?"
"No."
"Then you won't understand," she said softly. "You see,
no matter what happens—no matter if you quarrel—you
can't put that person completely out of your life. He has
something of you, and you of him. Unless you despise each
other. I didn't despise Warren. I was very fond of him."
"You quarreled?"
"I didn't say that. But call it quarreling if you wish.
I said you couldn't understand."
"I'm not a child," said Humphrey.
"You're a policeman," said Mrs. Hastings and her tone
mocked him.
"Therefore a callous lout," said Humphrey wryly.
She shrugged. "What is it you wish to know?"
"Have you seep this Foster boy?"
"No."
"You've seen hundreds like him," said Humphrey.
"Sitting there in your classroom looking up at you."
"With bright eager faces," said Mrs. Hastings. "Go on,
Mr. Campbell."
Maybe it was wrong to get out of character. Maybe you
should say, "Look, babe, your old man got knocked off
and what the hell did you have to do with it? Come on
now before I slap your puss!" He smiled at her.
"Don't expect me to be sympathetic," she added. "I
said I was fond of Warren. And I know a great deal about
boys, Mr. Campbell. I know that sometimes they are all
mixed up inside. Nothing they do surprises me."
"I can try, though."
"Try what?"
"Appealing to the mother instinct."
59


"Please don't. Would you like a drink?" At his nod, she
rose and crossed to a cabinet in the corner. Mother instinct
hell, he decided, watching her. Every move studied, every
move graceful. Literature must be a popular course at
Joaquin State. The walk that led to her study door must
be worn pretty thin. "Martini?" she'called.
"Double," said Humphrey. He hoped he could still
carry his liquor. It had been a good many years since he
had tested his capacity. Once it had been good. Once it
had been something to behold.
She handled the bottles and the mixer like a veteran,
and he thought a little sadly of Mr. Hastings down there
on his slab. Maybe Mr. Hastings had sat here in this chair
watching her bending over the cellarette. But maybe Mr.
Hastings was the kind of guy who took his shoes off and
chewed on a cigar. Such conduct would undoubtedly
offend the slim cool woman yonder.
"Dry enough?" she asked when he had sampled the
drink.
"Fine."
This time she crossed her knees and showed him an
interesting ankle. "Anything else?"
"What we want to know is this. Did you see your hus-
band Monday night?"
Maybe she wasn't nervous. Maybe she felt it necessary
to bring up her other hand and hold the glass in the cup
of her palms. She bent her head a little, brought the glass
to her lips, drank slowly. "What makes you think I saw
him?"
"Then you weren't at the ranch Monday night?"
"No."
"Did your husband talk to you on the phone?"
She shook her head.
Humphrey drained his glass, put it on the low table
by the chair. He leaned forward. He said harshly. "Let's
quit sparring, Mrs. Hastings."
60


"I like you better the other way," she said coolly.
This was when you squinted at your cards and tried to
make them think a pair of treys was a full house. "Some
time ago your husband went to a private detective," said
Humphrey.
"Did he?"
"He wanted the detective to follow you around."
"What has that to do with his murder?" Her voice was
colder than a cold-storage turkey. Even with both hands
holding it, her glass wasn't too steady. And now her full
breasts were rising and falling as though she was a little
short of breath.
"It may have a good deal to do with it."
"You've—" a momentary hesitation which gave her
time for another sip, "—talked to the detective?"
"Yes."
"Then why bother me?"
"Your husband was jealous, wasn't he?"
"He had no reason to be." She was breathing heavily
and her eyes had anger in them.
"Of a man with yellow hair, perhaps," said Humphrey.
"A big guy who limps."
Very carefully she put the glass down. Very slowly she
got to her feet. "I've read Hamlet too, Mr. Campbell. And
damn you, I don't like your filthy insinuations. So get the
hell out of here."
There was nothing else to do, Humphrey decided, but
get. He bowed, turned and walked away. But at the door
he stopped.
"I wonder what the school board's going to say to
this," he said.
She wasn't quick enough. He was through the door and
the screen was between him and her martini glass when
it hurtled at his head. It dropped and shattered on the
floor.
61


"I don't like cops," said Humphrey.
"Too bad. With that tie-up you got. Think you can help
the soldier?"
"I can try."
"Tough, plenty tough," said Pritchard. "I'd say he
was guilty as hell."
"Even knowing what you know?"
Pritchard sat up lazily, swung his feet to the floor, rested
his elbows on his knees and looked at Humphrey over the
rim of the glass. What was left of his hair hung down over
his eyes. "Come again?"
"You did some work for Hastings," Humphrey said.
"Don't you remember?"
"A guy forgets things in this business."
"Would a hundred help the memory?"
"Maybe. What makes you think I did some work for
Hastings?"
"I gave him your name," said Humphrey. "He wanted
me to follow his wife around a while back. I couldn't do
it so I sent him this way."
"Now suppose he got lost and went to another guy."
"There's no other guy in town," said Humphrey.
"There's just you and me." He hunted around for some
untruth that might convince Pritchard there was no use
stalling. "Hastings kept a set of books," he said. "The cops
have the books. You know how I stand with the cops."
"Sure I know," said Pritchard. "Didn't Morgan call
me a while ago and suggest I see you? All right, where's
the hundred?"
Humphrey got his wallet out, pulled some bills from
it, tossed them to the man on the couch. Pritchard counted
them, stuffed them in his shirt pocket. "So you think the
soldier didn't do it," he said.
"Uh huh."
"I wouldn't want to be in his spot."
63


"That hundred wasn't for theories."
Pritchard grinned and it wasn't a nice grin.
"Hastings saw me all right."
"He wanted the dirt on his wife?"
"Yep. Figured she was playing games with the big punk
at the junk yard."
"Was she?"
"She was seeing a lot of him," said Pritchard. "Maybe
she was teaching him to read, I don't know."
"He come to her house?"
"Now and then. She went to his place too."
"No pictures?"
"No pictures," said Pritchard smugly. "No real evi-
dence. But enough to make a dame think twice before
getting out of hand in court."
"She see anyone but Peyton?"
"Sure. Some of the kids out at the college used to drop
in. Platonic. Purely platonic, pal." He leered. "Me, I
wouldn't mind being in one of her classes."
"What about a guy named Tallent?" He was watching
Pritchard closely. The other pulled the lids down over
his eyes, made his face expressionless.
"Tallent?"
"Yeah."
"The rock and gravel guy?"
"Is that what he does?"
"There's a Tallent—George—runs a rock and gravel
plant on the river near Cottonwood. Got a lot of dough.
Mixed up in Joaquin politics. He's the only one I know."
"She saw him?"
"I didn't say so. I said he was the only Tallent I know.
Naw. I never saw him hanging around."
Lying, Humphrey thought. Lying like hell. So Tallent
had dough. That would explain it. With a man like Prit-
chard a little money would go a long way.
"Never saw them together, eh?"
64


"Not me. What do you know about Tallent, huh?"
The other looked up and his eyes were sly.
"He was with her a while ago," Humphrey said. "Made
me wonder."
"That so?"
"Yes."
"Well, well," said Pritchard. "Maybe he was getting
in there too. You think it was a crime—what do the frogs
call it—passionel? Crime passionel, huh?"
"I'm toying with the idea."
"Not bad. I like my murders with sex in 'em. Well,
that's all I got. Feel cheated?"
Humphrey shrugged. "What's money? I won't need it."
The other laughed. "That's right. You go in soon, don't
you? Good luck, pal. Thank God I got a bum ticker."
Humphrey stood up, stretched.
"Sure you won't have a snort?" Pritchard said.
"Nope. Got a date. One more thing. I told another
guy about you this morning. Did he show?"
Pritchard shook his head. "Nobody showed. Who was
it?"
"A man named Reginald Moise," said Humphrey.
Pritchard almost dropped his glass. "How's that?"
"Moise," said Humphrey.
"How you spell it?"
Humphrey spelled it and Pritchard had a long drink.
"I thought you said Maurice," said Pritchard. "I knew
a guy once named Maurice. A louse."
"See you," said Humphrey and closed the door behind
him. He stood in the dark anteroom for a minute or so,
thinking about Pritchard and what the detective had told
him, and he was sure that the man had told him only a
little of what he knew, certainly not a hundred dollars'
worth. But there were other days ahead and he wasn't
through with Mr. Pritchard. And maybe next time
Pritchard wouldn't have time to recover his fumbles.
65


Chapter Ten
After a while the moon rose. Its lopsided face was flushed
when it came up from behind the rocky wall to the east,
as though the exertion was too much for it. Once free of
the mountains its blood pressure went down and it stared
placidly into the great valley that was gradually growing
fit for men to live in. Joaquin was still hot but out here
on the bank of the canal with the open fields stretching
away, the air was lighter, not exactly cool, but pleasant.
The canal ran bank-full and with very little sound and
farther on, where no lights shone on its surface, the frogs
began to talk about the weather.
A good portion of the Joaquin population seemed to
share Humphrey's enthusiasm for The Poplars, and why
not? There was a long bar with three experts behind it
and there was a garden in which you sat while young
wenches stayed you with flagons.
"A good part of a detective's work is making reports,"
Humphrey said, smiling across the little table at June
Foster. "You get so far and then it's absolutely necessary
to consult your client."
"I understand," June said. "I should have insisted
that Nell come along."
"Of course you should have." Humphrey didn't mean
it.
"She wanted to be by herself," June explained.
"She's in love," said Humphrey.
"Do people in love always want to be alone?"
"Depends on the circumstances. Anyway, don't you
know?"
"I don't suppose I've ever loved a man. Really, that
66


were swimming side by side with the current, letting it
carry them down. The water was full of stars.
"I'm beginning to like Joaquin," June said. "I thought
it was awful at first. Now I see why people live here."
"I like it better now too," said Humphrey.
There were blackberries growing along the banks and
they swam over and he caught a willow branch, then put
his other arm around her shoulders and held her while she
picked the berries, trying to be impersonal and that was
also very hard to do. A yen, yes. But a different sort of
a yen from what he was used to. A breathlessness, an in-
side singing that he was much too old for; too old and too
tough and too beat up around the edges. Five days and
she'd be gone. Five days and he would be in a hard, mas-
culine world. A few letters. Then a silence and after a
while maybe a post card.
She popped a berry in his mouth. "Sweet, aren't they?"
"You'll get a stomachache."
"Don't be practical."
"I don't want to be." Her face was very close, tilted
a little and the magic of moonlight lay across her eyes. The
singing and the gold, but not for him. All it got you was
a kick in the teeth. Kids could take it. Kids had some
bounce in them. He dug back in the past and tried to
remember when he had felt like this before. A long time
ago. A hell of a long time ago. A lithe girl on the beach
at Havana and him lying there worshiping, a guy always
one jump ahead of the law, a guy who never knew whether
the next trip across to the Florida Keys would be his last.
Oh, what a kicking around he had let himself in for that
time.
The water touched their bodies softly and down the
line the frogs were shouting. "So lovely," she said.
"Yes."
"Only the night. No people. Nothing but moonlight."
All he had to do was move his head a little and their
69


lips would meet. All he had to do was pull her closer to
him. "Here we go," he said, and released his hold on the
willow branch. He put his head under water for a moment
and found his sanity.
It was midnight when they reached the hotel. In the
lobby they shook hands. Coolly, impersonally. Old friends.
A few more days, a few more drinks. Maybe a swim or
two.
"Good night," Humphrey said, smiling down at her.
"Good night, Humphrey."
"I'll call you in the morning."
"Please do. Early."
"Not too early."
The elevator doors slid open. The kid at the controls
smirked, then ran his cynical glance over the girl's body.
Again they shook hands. She stepped inside, and smiled.
She said, "I'm sorry you were practical," and then he was
looking at the ornate elevator doors.
There was a lunch wagon half a block from his apart-
ment and he went in and ordered milk. Now he was
feeling more like Campbell. No moon to bother him. The
smell of stale grease and bad coffee and a sour faced guy
slicing onions. He drank the milk, paid for it, and went
out. The moon was still there but it looked dull, and down
the line in a beer joint, a juke box was squalling. For the
first time in years, he felt an aversion for himself and all
he did and all he stood for. He sighed, shrugged off the
feeling of depression and headed for bed. Only there was
someone on his bed.
There was a man with a scarred face and the merest
suggestion of a neck sitting on his bed and the man had
i .45 automatic in his fist.
He said, "Shut the door you fat son of a bitch. I want
to talk to you."
70


Chapter Eleven
The visitor's presence added nothing to the charm of
the small, plainly furnished apartment on the second floor
of the Avon Arms. He was a powerful man with his close-
cropped head jammed into his bulging shoulders and a
stupid face that had taken quite a few beatings. He wore
a cheap white shirt and a pair of mustard-colored pants
and shoes that needed half soling.
Humphrey closed the door, stood with his back to it.
"1 hope you're comfortable."
The man waved the gun muzzle at him. "Sit down and
don't be so god-damned funny."
"I pay the rent," said Humphrey. He sat down. This
guy looked like he might play for keeps. "Who let you
in?"
"Me." He jerked his head toward the windows. "I been
waiting three hours."
"Sorry," said Humphrey.
"Oh, sure. You going to talk?"
"What about?"
"You know what about."
"You sure you came to the right place?"
"Your name's on some letters in the desk."
"You did make yourself at home."
"Sure. Now talk."
"I'm a little confused." That was an understatement.
"Suppose you ask questions."
The man slid off the bed, flexed his muscles. He was
not more than five-seven but his height was no handicap.
"Don't give me that," he said.
7i


"Violence will get us nowhere," said Humphrey. "We'll
hurt ourselves and the cops will come. You won't like
that."
"Neither will you."
"I don't know. I've got a friend on the force."
The man gurgled. "Sure, sure. Me too. Lots of 'em."
"Maybe we can make a deal."
"Maybe we can."
"Make me an offer," said Humphrey.
Another gurgle. "Ain't you the one! Where is he?"
"What about the offer?"
The man patted his gun affectionately. "I'm holding
the cards, punk."
"So you are. How did you know I was mixed in it?"
"I got eyes."
They were nothing to be proud of, much too small and
much too close together. "Who you looking for?"
"Caldwell!"
"The peach picker?"
"You know who I mean."
"In the desk is a card with my rates on it," said Hum-
phrey.
"Quit stalling."
"My memory's bad."
"Come on. Where is he?"
"I wouldn't know."
"You wouldn't, huh?"
"We're never going to get anywhere this way. Don't
keep echoing me."
"Shut up, you bastard."
"Have it your own way." Humphrey lit a cigarette.
Things were beginning to look interesting. First Moise
and now this yegg.
"I tailed Moise to your joint." He got off the bed and
came closer balancing the gun as though ready to smack
72


Humphrey across the side of the head with it. "I know
what he hired you to do. Okeh. You got paid to find Cald-
well. Now don't tell me you ain't seen him."
"Maybe you should have tailed me, too."
"Talk, punk."
"I'm not in business for my health," Humphrey said.
"For the next five days I work for dough. Get that through
your thick skull. If you want information, you pay for it
and pay plenty. I've something you want and you've some-
thing I want. Come on."
The man's answer was wordless. He grunted and Hum-
phrey saw the gun coming and he threw his left arm at
the gun and came up with a rush, bringing the top of
his head against the other's chin. His right leg went out
and the man went down, Humphrey on top of him, jam-
ming his knee into the fellow's midriff, slamming the
thick head against the floor. Humphrey's fingers sought the
gun, found it, whipped it out of the man's hand, brought
the flat of it against his temple. He sighed and went to
sleep.
Humphrey stood looking down at the inert body for a
moment or two, sorry that the man had been so very un-
reasonable. The man had something on his mind and
Humphrey wanted to know what that something was.
Well, things were beginning to move. Bending he went
through the other's pockets, found a worn wallet and noth-
ing else. He rapped the man again with the gun muzzle,
then took the wallet over to the bed and spilled its con-
tents on the spread. Eight dollars in one-dollar bills, a
driver's license, a draft registration card, a notice of classi-
fication, a worn out card with Les Pritchard's name
scrawled on it, and a receipt from the Del Rey Hotel
showing he had paid twelve dollars room rent. The Del
Rey was a joint on Pacific Street and twelve dollars would
get you a room for two weeks at least. The draft card held
73


his interest for a while. It said its owner was Max Farris,
of 1913 Webber Avenue, Sonora. The classification said
he was 4F.
Caldwell had come from Sonora, Humphrey thought,
remembering the lank ex-Oklahoma resident Moise had
paid him five hundred dollars to find. Finding the man
had been simple enough. The State Employment Office
had sent Humphrey out to the Montross Place on Morgan-
town Road, where Caldwell and his wife and two scrawny
kids were camped in a bunch of willows at the edge of
Dry Creek. Maybe Caldwell knew some of the answers.
The other day he hadn't seemed to know anything, but
then Humphrey had asked no questions. His name was
Caldwell and he had been in the Sonora district picking
apricots, which was all Humphrey wanted to know. A
man named Moise in San Francisco had hired him to find
out that and no more. Things were different now.
Stretched out on the floor, was an ill-mannered gent
named Max Farris who was much too handy with a gun.
4F indeed. Guys like that should be using their knowledge
of firearms to better advantage.
And how did you get classified 4F? You had a bum lung
or no eyes or various and sundry unmentionable ailments
or you had spent a good deal of your life in the can. Mr.
Farris looked like he might be an alumnus of Folsom or
San Quentin, and maybe both. Oscar could find that
out. But in the interim, what was he going to do with Mr.
Farris? The man wasn't the sort of person you would like
to sleep in the same room with. Humphrey grinned,
looked at the card with Pritchard's name on it again, put
the stuff back in the wallet, took a dollar bill from the
wallet and pocketed it. Then he shoved the wallet back in
Farris* coat, went to the phone and called a cab.
He was waiting outside the apartment when the cab
pulled up. Farris, smelling strongly of whisky, sat on
74


The clerk giggled. "Two-twenty-three." He tossed a
key over. "Need help?"
"I can manage."
"Go easy. His sister's in the next room."
"You mean he's got a sister?"
"Not a bad dish either," the clerk said.
"We won't wake her."
The clerk leered, picked up a pulp magazine and buried
his fat red nose in it. Humphrey lugged his charge to the
stairs and up the dirty stairs. The Army should give
him a gold star for this. Spending his furlough getting in
shape by packing two hundred pounds around. The stairs
creaked and the upstairs hall creaked, and he hoped Miss
Farris was a heavy sleeper. Very carefully he got the door
open, found the switch and pushed it down. Two-twenty-
three was empty. Maybe the clerk was right. Maybe the
dame who was quite a dish was really a sister.
The rickety bed groaned under Farris' weight. Hum-
phrey straightened him out, loosened his frayed tie, de-
bated whether or not to remove the scuffed and broken
shoes, decided against it. There was no sense in being
too nice to Maxie because Maxie was going to be annoyed
anyway. Nothing you could do for him would be appreci-
ated.
On a chair by the washstand was a battered valise and
he had finished a fruitless search of its contents when a
voice brought him to attention.
"Max," a woman on the other side of the connecting
door called, "that you, Max?"
He didn't have time to get to the light switch. He had
started tiptoeing across the room when the door swung
open. A dish, the clerk had said. The clerk was right.
Even in a cotton dressing gown with her blonde hair in
braids, Miss Farris was something to look at, a tall woman,
put together with considerable thought and care.
76


and crossed her legs. Her feet were bare, and they were
very pretty high-arched feet. "So you wanted to look
around."
"Yes."
"Find anything?"
"I know who he is, at least."
"I'm his sister."
"So the clerk said. He told me to be careful not to wake
you."
"He expect anyone to sleep with that going on?" She
motioned toward the window. "This is a hot dump."
"Sonora isn't so cool this time of year."
"I like it."
"What's the pitch?"
"Don't you know?"
He shook his head.
"He thinks you do." She indicated Maxie.
"So it seems."
"And you don't?"
"No."
"Imagine that," she said.
"I'm a reasonable fellow." Humphrey leaned against
the washstand and opened the gun. It was loaded but the
safety was on. Maxie hadn't been kidding, then. "I'd like
to play ball. He wouldn't listen."
"He won't listen to anybody."
"Not even to you?"
"Your name's Campbell, isn't it? Mine's Belle. Belle
Farris."
"Maybe you and I can do business, Belle?"
Her blonde head wagged out a no. "Mister, we got
along without you before and we can get along without
you now. Going to see you was Maxie's idea. He never had
a hell of a lot of sense. From now on, I'm dealing." She
stretched and then pulled the flimsy garment taut across
her full breasts. "But not to you, beautiful."
78


"You hurt my feelings."
"Sure."
"I know where Caldwell is," said Humphrey.
"We'll find him."
"And Moise trusts me," said Humphrey.
"Does he?" She tossed her braids back over her sloping
shoulders. "Bringing Max home was a mistake, beautiful,
if you wanted us to think you were holding cards. Sure
you know where Caldwell is. But Moise hasn't told you
one damn thing. You don't know what this is about and
you aren't going to."
"I'm a handy man to have around."
"Yes," she admitted, eyeing her brother through
lowered lids, "you are. But we'll get along. We always
have."
"Not too well," said Humphrey.
"Things are breaking better, beautiful."
"Oh, I don't know. Getting mixed up in murder—"
"Huh?" She was frowning, obviously puzzled. "What
did you say?"
"Murder."
"Who?" A pulse in her white throat throbbed and her
blue eyes were fearful. "He didn't—not Moise."
The woman wasn't feigning fear or bewilderment. A
wild shot, that, linking this with the Hastings killing. But
the fruit tramp business. Hastings had told Johnny Foster
about a fruit tramp and he might have been talking about
Caldwell. Unless something developed though, you
couldn't fit them together. And if Max had killed Hastings
he was a whole lot more intelligent than he looked.
Someone with a lot more in the head than Max had, had
put the finger on Hastings.
"Not Moise," said Humphrey.
"Who then?"
"I can get along without you, too," said Humphrey.
"Now do I get cards?"
79


Another smile and this time a throaty chuckle with it.
"Ain't you the one, Beautiful?"
Max's groan was louder. He rolled over, tried to push
himself up. Humphrey went closer, the gun ready.
"Don't hit him again," Belle said softly. "You do and
God damn it you'll wish you hadn't." Anger flamed in
her eyes, and she made her hands into claws.
"God," Max mumbled. "Oh, God." He got on his hands
and knees and knelt there shaking his head back and
forth. Humphrey stayed where he was, there by the side
of the bed with his gun hand at his side. Belle sighed, let
her hands fall loosely in her lap.
Just for a moment Humphrey looked away from her.
Max was straightening up, trying to rise, and Humphrey
was waiting to see what he would do. And when he looked
back at Belle, she had a little gun in her fist and the little
gun was aimed right at his head.
"Drop it, you bastard," she said.
He went down by the bed and the bed was between
them, so the bullet smacked into the wall. Before she
could shoot again, he had come up under the bed and
spilled it over her. You could hear her yell for thirty
blocks.
He made the door. He got through the door, but only
just in time. The little gun spit lead after him, and the
lead made a neat hole in the old wood. People were mill-
ing around in the hall, too damn many people. Well, there
was an open window, and there was a fire escape. He was
through and down before anyone thought to look. And he
was well down the alley by the time Belle tried to use
him for a clay pigeon, much too far away for any sort of
accurate shooting.
Two blocks away there was an all night drug store with
a phone booth in it and he went in and dialed Oscar's
number. He heard the phone ringing for a long time, and
then he heard Oscar's deep, unhappy voice.
80


"Call your boys," Humphrey told him. "That is me
they are looking for down on Pacific Street. Tell 'em to
lay off."
Oscar cursed him. Oscar said he hoped his boys threw
him in the can and kept him there.
"There's a couple named Farris in the Del Rey," Hum-
phrey said. "Tell the boys to lay off them too. But keep
an eye on them."
"You go to hell. Who's running the police department?"
"Who's out risking his life for a fee?"
"All right." Fee was a word that always mollified Oscar.
"I think Farris is an ex-con, Oscar. First name Max.
You might check on him." He gave the fat man Farris'
Sonora address. "And you might put a tail on Babe Peyton
and Myra Hastings."
"We'll watch 'em."
"And one on George Tallent," said Humphrey.
"Forget about Tallent." Oscar sounded nervous. "He's
a friend of the chief. Now can I go to sleep?"
"You can," said Humphrey and hung up.
Chapter Twelve
At nine o'clock next morning, the car Humphrey had
rented rattled along the rutted dusty road leading from
the Highway to the Montross Ranch, and now the wind
was dead, the dust hung like a dirty curtain over the
vineyard to the right. To the left was the dry bed of the
creek, and willows stood around in clumps along the
banks. Out in the field there was a vineyard truck moving
slowly down a row, and a boy on the truck was throwing
trays off, working smoothly, rhythmically, flipping a tray
to the right and then one to the left. It was still cool but
81


by the looks of things it wasn't going to be long. Hum-
phrey wondered if it cooled off at night at Camp Roberts.
Four more days and he'd find out. But in those four days
would he find out who cut short Mr. Hastings' uninspired
career? He hoped he wasn't on a snipe hunt. If he was, it
wouldn't be the first time, but on those other occasions
when he had found himself holding an empty sack there
had been time to make false moves. There wasn't now.
Four days and a boy in a hell of a jam and a couple of
sweet girls you couldn't turn down. Well, Caldwell might
know something. Certainly he would have a faint notion
of why Moise had wanted him found.
The vineyard became a peach orchard and now there
were piles of boxes along the road and the boxes were
filled with ripe fruit. Among the trees he could see the
pickers working, climbing ladders with empty buckets,
coming down again with the buckets full of peaches and
dumping the fruit carefully in the lugs. The road turned
abruptly left and ended in a farmyard. He found a patch
of shade, put the car in it and when he got out a bulldog
ambled over and sniffed at his ankles.
Montross was sitting with his back against a tree trunk
chewing on a stalk of alfalfa and he looked half asleep. He
wasn't. Every now and then one of the pickers would try
shaking a limb and then Montross would let out a bellow
as though every peach that hit a clod was falling on his
heart.
"Morning," said Humphrey.
Montross nodded curtly.
"Where will I find Jerry Caldwell?"
"Who?"
"The man I was looking for a while back."
"Oh, him." Montross took the alfalfa from his mouth,
inspected it. "I wouldn't know."
"Doesn't he work here?"
82


"You sure worry that bone. You wouldn't be a police-
man, would you?"
"Not if I could help it." In his pocket was a handful
of cards and he fumbled around until he felt a good en-
graved one. It said he was H. Parker Wilson, Vice-Presi-
dent of the Farmers' National Bank. It brought a look of
respect into Montross' little eyes. Montross wiped his
hands on his overalls, offered it limply.
"Nobody came to see him I know of." Montross chewed
on the alfalfa stem for a bit. "He got a phone call,
though."
"When was that?"
"Let's see. He left here Wednesday of last week. I guess
it was couple of days before that. Monday. The call was
from Joaquin."
"Man or woman?"
"Man."
"You hear Caldwell talking on the phone?"
"Little. Phone's in the sittin' room. Couldn't help it."
"Well?"
"Caldwell didn't have much to say. Couple of yesses.
Then he said okay he'd be in, and hung up."
"No names mentioned?"
"Nope. Next morning bright and early Caldwell pulls
out. Comes back in the afternoon in a station wagon with
a brand, spankin' new tent in back and a lot of junk. Must
have set him back a thousand bucks, all that junk. I says
to him, Jesus somebody musta died and he says Montross
you can take your peaches and stick 'em, because we ain't
working here no longer. He says I'm a man of means and I
ain't climbing ladders and getting peach fuzz down my
neck and living in hog pens for nobody. I got me a flock
of dough and I'm heading south. As cocky as a banty
rooster, he was. I says now look here Caldwell you got
yourself a little stake but just remember it won't last
84


forever. And I says where did you get it anyway, steal it?
He reached out and grabbed my shoulder and shook me,
just like that. Any more cracks, he says, and I'll heave you
in the ditch. No, I didn't steal it, I had a piece of property
and I sold it to a guy. I found a gold mine. I run on an oil
well. I won a sweepstakes. What do you care where I got
it, you ain't my boss any more. So I suggests they leave and
he says he would when he got good and ready. Which was
the next day. What do you think of that?"
"That's life for you," said Humphrey, rising.
"Ain't it the truth, Mr. Wilson."
He gave Montross what he thought was a banker's bow,
moved off through the heat. Things were looking up. No
snipe hunt, this one. Hastings had come up with a bunch
of money and Hastings had said something about a fruit
tramp. And here was a fruit tramp named Caldwell, a
poor, little beaten man living in a dirty tent in a bunch of
willows, cooking over an open fire, taking guff from guys
like Montross, suddenly blossoming out with a station
wagon and new equipment. Right after someone called
him and had him come into Joaquin. The business had
possibilities. And the information Pritchard had given
also had possibilities. But where in hell did the thousand-
dollar Confederate bill fit in?
Chapter Thirteen
That same morning the lanky deputy named Milt Howe
who had charge of the jail from six until two came along
the hall whistling tunelessly and slapping his key ring
against his right leg.
Johnny Foster was sitting on his bunk, frowning at the
85


"I hope your next boss is a tyrant."
"He won't dare be," said Bonnie. "Girls are hard to
find."
"Good ones, you mean. Who called?"
"Oscar and one of the angels."
"Which one?"
"Miss Foster. She's at the district attorney's office. She
said to tell you Hyatt is trying to get her brother to plead
guilty."
Humphrey scooped up the phone, and as he dialed
Dunecht's number he asked: "What did Oscar want?"
"To tell you Pritchard is at the Joaquin hotel in Room
400 seeing a man about something. A man named Preston.
Don't frown. You look better when you smile."
He was going to tell her he should have gone fishing
but Dunecht was on the other end of the line.
"This is Humphrey," the detective said. "You better
get over to Hyatt's office. He's trying to talk Foster into
copping a plea."
"He would," said Dunecht angrily. "Will you be there?"
"No use. He won't talk to me. You can handle him."
"I'll do my best," said Dunecht.
"Threaten him with the army," suggested Humphrey.
"That ought to stop him."
"Why don't we call the army?"
"The army will be in it quick enough without that,"
said Humphrey. "I'll call you later."
He put the phone down, shoved his hands in his pockets
and gave Bonnie a dark look. "Lice."
"Me?"
"Hyatt and his assistant," said Humphrey. "By now
they've told the kid I'm a bad character."
"Well?" She grinned up at him. "You're not worried
about what the kid thinks anyway."
"No?" He,started for the door.
87


"No," said Bonnie. "It's the sister you're worried
about."
The door of Room 400 was open and the only person
in the room was a woman with straggly, faded hair. She
was pulling the sheets off the double bed, working as
though she had all the time in the world on her hands.
Humphrey stopped on the threshold. She looked up
and then she moved a little faster.
"Mr. Preston?"
"Who?" She dragged the bottom sheet off and dropped
it on the floor.
"The man who had this room?"
"Checked out," the woman said. "Little while ago he
checked out. So I'm cleaning up."
"You see him?"
"Sure I saw him."
"What did he look like?"
"He had a mustache," the woman said, gathering up
the sheets. "Tall man with gray hair and a mustache."
She pushed past Humphrey, carrying the soiled linen in
her arms, and went down the hall.
Moise, thought Humphrey. Registered under the name
of Preston. Pritchard had come to see him and Pritchard
had talked him into finding another place to hide out.
Why? He moved into the room, moved idly around it.
He was searching through the wastepaper basket when the
maid came back.
"I said he checked out," the maid said sharply.
"That's right, you did."
"Then what—"
"All through," said Humphrey, straightening up. There
was a bit of paper in his hand and the bit of paper said
George Tallent had called. He fished a dollar out of his
pocket, tucked it into the pocket of the maid's apron as he
88


went by, gave her a quick pat on the shoulder and went
out. Twenty minutes later he was outside a low frame
building standing amid heaps of gravel on the bank of the
Cottonwood River. A sign on the building told him this
was the office of the Tallent Rock and Gravel Plant,
dealers in sand and gravel.
Back of the building the ground sloped to the river
and there was a big crane standing on the bank. A man was
dropping the bucket of the crane into the water, then
pulling it up filled with dripping sand. He dumped the
sand on the growing pile up the bank a way. Humphrey
took off his hat, wiped the sweat from his forehead,
whistled through his teeth and opened the office door.
The first thing that caught Humphrey's eye as he was
ushered by the mousy little secretary into George Tal-
lent's office was a frame hanging on the redwood-paneled
wall. Behind the glass were three ten-dollar bills.
His glance swept the room. There were other frames
and each one held two or three bills of small denomina-
tion. Tallent's voice took his attention away from the
framed money.
"What do you want?" Tallent snapped. He was standing
behind his desk looking very cool in a white palm beach
suit.
"To see you."
"What do you mean, telling my secretary you were
Moise?"
"I've just come from Mr. Moise's room."
Tallent frowned, sat down. "What is it, then? What's
this about Moise?"
"I said I came from his room. He wasn't there."
"Well?"
"In the wastebasket was a slip of paper saying you had
called."
89


"Suppose I did." He came around the desk, moved, to
the door and opened it. "I'm busy. Too busy for private
detectives."
"Even if it concerns the Hastings murder?"
Tallent stood with his hand on the knob for a moment
or two, shrugged, pushed the door shut. There was a chair
near the door and he sank into it. "If you're working on
that, sit down, Campbell. Hastings was a friend of mine."
"What else would I be working on?"
"One never knows about private dicks."
"You've had experience with them, Mr. Tallent?"
."Some. I said I was busy. Come to the point. What has
the fact I phoned Moise to do with the Hastings murder?"
"Probably nothing. Probably your being at Mrs.
Hastings' house yesterday has nothing to do with it either."
The other sat forward in his chair, seemed hunting for
an angry retort, shrugged and settled back. "Good Lord,"
he said. "You don't think I had anything to do with Has-
tings' death, do you?"
"I just started working. I don't know what to think."
"At least you're frank. Anyway, I didn't kill him."
"Any idea who did?"
"Certainly. It seems obvious."
"Foster—the soldier?" Humphrey shook his head. "He
didn't do it."
"Hyatt seems to think so. From what I've read in the
papers there doesn't seem to be much doubt."
"It could have been pinned on him. He was drunk."
Tallent's gesture admitted that could have happened.
He said with a wry smile, "I've been around a little,
Campbell. Around cops and people like that, as you prob-
ably know. Men have been framed before. I'm willing to
keep an open mind. Let's say then, for your sake, the
soldier is innocent. Who else had any reason for wanting
Hastings out of the way?"
"That's where you come in."
90


"Me?"
"You knew him well, didn't you? You know his wife."
"They were separated, if that's what you're driving at."
"I know they were."
"Mrs. Hastings certainly wouldn't have murdered him."
"Mind if I ask a few questions?" Humphrey lit a ciga-
rette, looked for a place to put the burned match.
"Over there." Tallent motioned to an ash tray on his
desk. "No. Go ahead."
"When did you see Hastings last?"
He seemed to be thinking back. Either that or he was
deciding whether or not to tell the truth. "Oh—last week
sometime."
"Business?"
"No. I ran into him in the street."
"Have any business dealings with him?"
"Not lately. Not in the last couple of months. I have
a contracting firm and I used to sell him junk—broken
tools and things like that."
"Same sort of deals you had with Moise?"
"See here," Tallent said irritably. "What do you keep
bringing Moise's name up for? What has Moise to do with
Hastings?"
"Why did you let me stay?"
"Eh?"
"I'm here because I used Moise's name," said Hum-
phrey. "I'm staying here for that reason. You want me to
go?"
Tallent chewed at his under lip. "You're being obtuse."
"No. I'm groping. I'm trying to fit things together. You
—Moise—Hastings—a fruit tramp named Caldwell."
"Suppose you start at the beginning." Tallent's guard
was up and he masked his thoughts with a serious expres-
sion.
"All right. I met Moise a while back when he came
down from San Francisco and hired me to find this fruit


emotion, a thin husk of a voice, "Where's the rest of it?"
"The rest of what?" He knew the minute the question
was out, he had lost. Tallent's eyes grew blank again. He
drew a deep breath, turned away and went back to his
chair,
"Mind letting me see that bill?" he asked, ignoring
Humphrey's question.
Humphrey rose, walked over and gave it to him. He
examined it, shook his head. "I was mistaken."
"Were you?"
"Yes. You see, I collect currency. In a small way. I
thought for a moment that was a bill from a certain collec-
tion. A very famous one. I see now it isn't. You say you
found it in a chest?"
"Under a chest," said Humphrey. "The chest was in
the bedroom of Hastings' house. An old battered chest
with a marble top and the figures 3.99 on the back."
"Curious. What do you suppose it means?"
"I'm asking you."
"How would I know."
"You were quite interested in the bill."
"I told you why."
"I don't believe you," Humphrey said.
"You can always leave." He had complete control of
himself now and there was not much chance of getting
past the wall he had put up.
"Moise collect currency, too?"
"I wouldn't know." He indicated the door. "You came
to ask about Hastings. I'm perfectly willing to go along
with you. To do what I can. I see no point in all these
irrelevancies, Campbell."
"If they're irrelevant so is the Hastings murder," said
Humphrey. "So is Pritchard."
The guard dropped momentarily. Tallent's pale eyes
told him the name meant something.
"Pritchard figures in the murder too," Humphrey said,.
93


trying to press his slight advantage. "I'd watch my step
with Pritchard."
A guarded look came into Tallent's eyes. A nerve in
his cheek twitched.
"And I'd watch my step with Max Farris and his sister
Belle. They play rough. Very rough."
"Suppose you leave," Tallent said.
"If I were you I'd go to the police, Mr. Tallent."
"You aren't me," said Tallent. "If I were you I'd get
the hell out of here."
There wasn't much Humphrey could do but comply.
Chapter Fourteen
On the way back to town Humphrey stopped at a service
station and called Oscar and suggested that the police haul
in George Schwinn for a bit of questioning.
"Now Humphrey," Oscar complained. "Hyatt isn't
going to like it. You know it's a county murder."
"Tell Hyatt you're fond of Schwinn," said Humphrey.
"Tell him you got lonely and had to talk to someone so
you called Schwinn in." He hung up before Oscar could
find a suitable answer.
There was a fig orchard across from the service station
and he could smell the heavy scent of the leaves and the
fruit ripening in the heat. That was one of the things
he'd miss about the valley. There were others—other
scents and other sounds. And that wall of hills over there,
he'd miss them.
The girl who ran the gas station gave him her version
of a provocative smile, which wasn't bad. She had hennaed
hair and a smudge of grease across the bridge of her nose.
"Hot, ain't it," the girl said. "Hot enough for a beer."
94


"Your wife did most of the talking. Remember?"
Schwinn nodded vigorously.
"So we thought away from her we might find out the
truth," said Humphrey mildly.
Schwinn waited, keeping his hands clenched so they
wouldn't shake. You could see he had a healthy fear of the
law.
"Now why did you go to San Francisco?" Humphrey
moved close to the little man, stared down at him.
"Why—why—to see about—"
"Forget what your wife said. Why did you go?"
Schwinn gulped air, swallowed, blinked up at Hum-
phrey, finally found an answer. "A man sent for me."
"A man? Who?"
"A Mr. Moise."
"Well, well," said Humphrey cheerfully.
"You don't believe me?"
"Of course I do. What did he want?"
Schwinn hesitated. He said timidly, "It sounds foolish.
Really it does. He asked about a chest of drawers with
a marble top. He wanted to know if there was such a chest
in Mr. Hastings' house."
"You told him there was?"
"Yes. I said I had seen one when I helped Mr. Hastings
move in. He didn't bring many things with him. Bought
the house furnished, you see. He had some clothes and
a phonograph and this old chest." Schwinn shot a quick
glance at Humphrey.
"Was that all Moise wanted to know?"
Oscar cleared his throat, started to speak, but Hum-
phrey restrained him with a gesture.
Schwinn nodded.
"Where did you meet him?"
"He had reserved a room for us at the Chancellor. He
came to see us there."
"What time Monday?"
96


"Before we ate. I guess it was around five."
"Did he stay long?"
Schwinn shook his head. "Half an hour. He had drinks
sent up and we drank them and I told him about the
chest. Then—" the man looked embarrassed, "he gave
me fifty dollars and thanked me and said he had to hurry
away."
"He left about five-thirty then?"
"Yes."
Humphrey moved away from the man, stood at the
window with his hands shoved into the pockets of his
coat. He asked without turning, "The chest. Did Hastings
say anything about it?"
"He said—you see when I helped him carry it upstairs,
I made a joke about it. It wasn't—well—it was so old and
battered. Like a piece of junk. I said something about
that. Mr. Hastings didn't get sore. He laughed. Said he set
a lot of store by the chest. That if it wasn't for the chest
he'd be a poor man."
"Nothing else?"
"I can't remember anything else."
Humphrey turned and motioned toward the door.
"That's all, Mr. Schwinn. Thank you."
Schwinn's sigh had all the relief in the world in it. He
got up, pumped Humphrey's hand, started toward Oscar
and then the uniform made him change his mind for he
bobbed his head and went to the door.
"I'll have one of the boys take you home," said Oscar.
"Never mind," said Schwinn. "Please don't bother."
And with that he was gone. They heard his footsteps
hurrying away.
"Scared the hell out of him," Oscar observed. "What's
all this about a chest?"
Humphrey told him. Oscar listened, frowning and
tugging at a strand of silver hair, and presently he said,
"You got it figured out?"
97


He opened the door, saw her standing by the window,
slim and young and lovely. There was no one else in the
room. She smiled and he knew everything was all right.
"Johnny—" he asked.
A shake of her head told him what he wanted to know.
"Mr. Dunecht came," June said. "Mr. Dunecht stopped
the whole business."
"Good."
"It was bad though," June said. "For a while, it was.
They almost had him convinced he did it. He—Hyatt—
made you think he was doing us a favor by letting Johnny
plead guilty."
"What did Hyatt have to say about me?"
"He wasn't complimentary."
"Have I any character left?"
Her eyes had laughter in them. "Some."
"That's good. Where's Miss Prescott?"
"Walking in the park."
"I've got to go to San Francisco," Humphrey said.
"There's a plane in half an hour. You can drive me out
there and I'll give you my report. That is, if I'm still work-
ing for you."
She crossed to him and put her hand on his arm. "You
think—" she seemed afraid to ask the question.
"I'm sure. I don't know who killed him yet but I know
it wasn't Johnny. Get your hat on."
"I don't need a hat." She smiled warmly and led him
out of the room.
As they crossed the tracks and turned right on the
highway that led to the airport, they heard a siren scream
behind them, another and another.
June shuddered, put her hand on his arm. "They always
frighten me."
"I don't mind them," said Humphrey. "Only when
they're blowing at me. Still trust me?"
99


others—Moise, Mrs. Hastings, Farris and his sister, Pey-
ton."
"But Moise was in San Francisco Monday."
"Until five-thirty," said Humphrey. "He could have
flown down here Monday night. That's what I was check-
ing just now."
"How about the Schwinns?"
"Out," said Humphrey. "Here I go." He took her hands.
"Be careful."
"Sure."
"I wouldn't want—" she hesitated.
"Not now anyway," said Humphrey. "Not until we
wind this up."
"I didn't mean—" she blushed.
"I'll be careful."
She let his hands go, then before he could turn away,
she kissed him hard.
"That's for luck," she said, giving him a push.
He was in the plane before it occurred to him he could
have returned the kiss. Through the window he saw her
still standing by the gate. For luck? Yes, it would be.
A hand touched his shoulder. He turned, saw the stew-
ardess standing beside him. A very pretty stewardess.
"Your seat strap," the stewardess said. "Shall I buckle
it for you?"
"Thanks," Humphrey said. When he looked through
the window again, June was gone.
Those sirens June and Humphrey heard as they drove
away from town didn't mean there was a fire. Nor were
the city fathers trying out a new air raid warning system.
There was a perfectly good reason for the cops and deputy
sheriffs to be driving around blowing their horns. The
reason had to do with Johnny Foster and a man with a
battered face named Potter.
101


It happened at twelve-thirty, right on the dot. Milt
Howe was thumbing through a battered volume of the
Encyclopedia Britannica because that was the only thing
in the office to read, when two soldiers came in. As soldiers
went, they were not a credit to the armed forces: two
disheveled guys who reeked of alcohol and were in higher
spirits than is considered fitting for men in uniform.
"Hello, buddy." One of them grabbed Howe's hand and
shook it. "My name's Jones."
"Don't call him buddy," the other said.
"Okay," said Jones. "We'll call him Sarge. How are
you, Sarge?"
"Run along, you guys," said Howe amiably.
"Listen to that, will you?" said the soldier who called
himself Jones. "Is that the way to talk to heroes?"
Howe grinned at them. "Looks like you been having
fun. Don't you know you ain't supposed to drink before
five?"
"Beer," said the nameless one. "Just beer, Sarge."
"What can I do for you boys?" Drunk or sober, they
were soldiers and Howe had a soft spot in his heart for
soldiers.
"You see?" said Jones. "Didn't I tell you? Joaquin's
got a swell jail. Run by swell people. Swell polite people.
Sarge, we're going to see to it you get a raise. What can
he do for us, he asks. Why he can do a lot for us. He can do
all kinds of things for us."
"He can make two lonely guys happy," said the nameless
one. "Very, very happy."
"Our buddy," said Jones. "Our poor little buddy locked
up in the can. Nobody to comfort him. Nobody to cry on
his shoulder."
"You're getting mixed up," protested the nameless one.
"He wants a shoulder to cry on."
"That's right. And I've got just the one for him." Jones
108


One of the "soldiers" got out of the back seat, opened the
door on Johnny's side and grabbed the boy's arm. "You
heard him."
"Then what?" asked Johnny.
"That's up to you," said Potter. "If you're sap enough
to go back to jail, go ahead. I wouldn't."
"You should have left me there," Johnny said.
"You came, didn't you? Quit beefing."
The man in the back seat leaned forward and whispered
in Potter's ear. Potter shook his head.
"He won't go back," Potter said. He put his hand on
Johnny's arm. "You're a nice kid. That's why I brought you
along. In there, you didn't have a chance. Get that through
your head. I've been up against the law all my life and I
know, see? Ever hear of Bill Murray?"
Johnny looked blank.
"Where you been?" Potter wanted to know. "I'm famous.
All the feds in the country are after me, not to mention the
Texas cops and the Illinois cops. That's why I had to get
out of the can. Before they sent my prints to Washington
and found out who I was. Now take my advice. Back there,
you're a gone goose, son. Maybe you killed the guy and
maybe you didn't, but you don't even know. Right now you
think this was a lousy trick. You think it over for a while
and you'll be damn glad we took you along."
"Why do you dump me off here, then?" Johnny asked
angrily. "What chance have I got out here?"
Potter shrugged. "Use your head. Wait until dark and
ditch those clothes and steal some more."
"Why not take me with you?"
"For Christ's sake," the man in the back seat growled.
"Let's knock him off and be done with it."
"Shut up," snapped Potter. He pushed Johnny. "We're
in a hurry. Get going."
Johnny looked at Potter and then he looked at the man
105


in the back seat and then hurriedly he got out of the car.
"Hide in the bushes until dark," Potter said. "Get in,
Perc."
The third man got in, grinning at Johnny.
"Good luck, soldier," said Potter, swung the car around
and drove away.
Johnny watched it go. Around him were barren, rolling
sun-baked fields, and there wasn't a house in sight. East
were the hills and on their tops there was still a little snow.
He stretched out his arms and suddenly he was glad they
had taken him out of the jail. What difference did it make
if they blamed him? He was a free man again.
Chapter Fifteen
As the cab turned off Post and started climbing, Hum-
phrey heard the newsboys shouting their little lungs out,
but he paid no heed. "Murderer escapes!" the kids were
yelling. "Big jail break." He had other things to think
about, a whole lot of things and the most important one
seemed to be June Foster. She made concentration difficult,
and the trouble was he liked it that way. No good. When
you were trying to get places, you should stay away from
women.
The street rose steeply ahead. Finally they reached the
crest and he saw the bay spread out before him, a pale, pale
sheet of water. The Sausalito hills were green and there
were wisps of fog on Tamalpais. He filled his lungs with the
good cool air. Below him a lonely ferry crawled across and
he wanted to be on the ferry with June beside him and he
wanted to climb those far hills with June beside him. And
what would he do? Go back and get Johnny Foster out of
jail and June would shake his hand and maybe give him
106


another kiss and that would be it. With a bus ride to Mac-
Arthur ahead of him and a soldier's suit and a gun. Sud-
denly he was ashamed of himself.
What had he been waiting for? This world was part his
and it was high time he did something for it. Sitting around
waiting for them to come after him. Letting kids like
Johnny Foster go out and do his fighting. Shabby, he
thought. Shabby and selfish and unworthy. And feeling
thus, he got out of the cab in front of the old Moise man-
sion, paid the driver, walked up the steps and put his finger
on the bell.
An old woman answered the bell.
"Mr. Campbell to see Mrs. Tracy," he said.
"Come in," said the old woman and ushered him down
a hall and into a big living room that was all windows and
from every one of the windows you could see blue water—
the bay and the Pacific. Way out a toy ship was moving
slowly south. He stood there, still in the grip of the dark
mood that had come over him in the cab, thinking that's
what I have a share in, that sea and those hills, why in hell
didn't I think of it before?
"Mr. Campbell?" a cool voice said.
He turned. A thin, almost homely woman in an unbe-
coming black dress faced him. Thirty-five, forty, he
couldn't tell her age with her black hair pulled back
tightly. He thought of Belle Farris. No wonder Mr. Tracy
strayed.
"Mrs. Tracy?"
She nodded, smiled. She had a nice smile. Maybe she
looked this way because of Tracy. He wondered what sort
of man Tracy was anyway.
"I'm a policeman," Humphrey said.
"Sit down, please." Her voice was nice, the sort of voice
that dug down inside you. They both sat and looked at each
other. Mrs. Tracy had a worried expression on her face.
"We need information and perhaps you can help us,''
107


said Humphrey. "I'll get through it as quickly as possible."
"There's no hurry."
"I'm from Joaquin," Humphrey said. "Monday night a
man named Hastings was murdered in Joaquin."
"I read about it." Her eyes had puzzlement in them now.
"You know then that a soldier was arrested for the
murder. We're certain he didn't do it."
"I don't see—"
"How it concerns you? Of course not. Only indirectly,
Mrs. Tracy. Mixed up in the crime are a man named Max
Farris and his sister Belle." He waited, watching her. A
look of smoldering anger crossed her face. "You knew
them?"
Her voice was so low he could barely hear it. "My hus-
band knew them."
"Well?"
"Yes. He and that—that Farris were friendly. Working
together."
"On what?"
"I don't know." She pulled her lips into a thin line. Her
dark eyes seemed to grow even darker.
"You can't guess?"
She shook her head. "My husband told me little about
what he was doing."
"Did he have a business?"
"He ran a service station. Farris used to come to the
station and pick him up."
"Did your husband have any money?"
"Very little."
"Before he—he was killed, did he get any large sum of
money?"
"No."
"After his death you went through his things?"
Another nod.
"Did you find anything connecting him to Farris?"
108


"No." Her small breasts rose and fell and she gripped
the arms of the chair. "That's not quite true," she said
passionately. "I found some letters from Belle Farris."
"You have them?"
"I burned them."
"What sort of letters?" Cruel, he thought, and disliked
himself even more.
"You know what sort. They were planning to run away."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be, please. You asked about money. In one of the
letters that woman mentioned something about money.
Something about what they would do when everything was
settled and he had the cash. But that's all."
"Thank you," he said gently. "Two or three other things.
In this murder, the name of a man named Caldwell keeps
coming up. A migratory worker from Sonora. Does that
name mean anything?"
"Caldwell. Caldwell. I don't—I'm awfully confused,
Mr. Campbell. All that has happened—" She made a
forlorn gesture.
"Caldwell—a fruit tramp," Humphrey prompted.
She thought it over a while, then shook her head.
"I'm sorry. Is that all? I'm not much help, am I?"
"I've put this off until the end," Humphrey said. "Your
father's name has come up, too."
She stared at him fearfully. "In the—the murder?"
"Yes. Mr. Hastings had an old chest with a marble top,"
Humphrey explained. "Your father showed a great inter-
est in that chest and in the man named Caldwell."
"Wait," Mrs. Tracy said. "Now I know. The chest. I gave
it to a man. When I moved, I sold most of my things but
some of them weren't worth selling. And this man came to
the door, a poor, poor man with a wife and some children,
so I gave him food and clothes and there was the old chest
where Arthur kept his fishing tackle on the back porch,
109


make her a daiquiri until she showed him her driver's li-
cense with her age on it. Then he did it with reluctance,
grumbling the while. But the daiquiri was fine. And when
she ordered two more, one for herself and one for Mr.
Prettyman, he warmed up and told her the history of Cot-
tonwood.
Quite a history, Cottonwood had. There was a family
named Dunecht lived across the river in the big house on
the hill.
Dunecht? There was an attorney in Joaquin named
Dunecht.
Grandson of the man who found Cottonwood, Pretty-
man explained. Old Senator Dunecht. His son—the attor-
ney's father—had been murdered a couple of years back.
Quite a scandal. Man named Campbell came out and solved
the case.
Campbell again? The man was haunting her. And here
in the cool room that smelled of beer, leaning on the pol-
ished bar, looking at the fly-specked lithograph of Custer's
Last Stand hanging on the wall, and at the rows of bottles
and glasses, she didn't mind being haunted by Campbell.
She liked it very much. So much, that when she glanced
at her watch she saw it was half-past five.
"Phone?" asked June.
Prettyman, busy making another daiquiri, motioned
toward the booth in the corner.
Nell answered the phone. And hearing the girl's voice,
June knew something was wrong. "Nell—what's the
matter, Nell?"
"Oh, Mr. Dunecht," Nell said. "I'm glad you called.
Mr. Hyatt and Mr. Temple are here."
"What are you talking about?" June said frantically.
"You haven't seen the papers, Mr. Dunecht? Oh. Well
Johnny—some soldiers broke into the jail and went away
with Johnny. And if you see June tell her to come right up
because Mr. Hyatt wants to talk to her, too. Mr. Hyatt
112


thinks June and Mr. Campbell got the soldiers to do it.
He's going to put them in jail, I think."
"You want me to stay away—is that it?" June asked.
"Right," said Nell, and hung up.
There was a daiquiri on the bar when she came out of
the phone booth.
"On the house," said Prettyman.
She got back on the stool and tried to keep her hands
from trembling as she sipped the cool drink. "Thank you,
Mr. Prettyman."
"You look kind of peaked," Prettyman said. "You ain't
—well, you ain't had too much?"
"Of course not. It was hot in the booth. Is there a hotel
in town?"
"They call it a hotel anyway. Down the street a block,
on the corner."
"You've been very sweet."
They shook hands. "Sorry about asking how old you
were, Miss—"
"Campbell." It was the only name that came into her
mind.
"Campbell—that was the detective guy's name. Can you
beat that?"
"Small world," said June, gave him a smile and went
out.
Prettyman was right. It wasn't much of a hotel. But
there was a parking lot with a tall cypress hedge around
it and the slatternly woman at the desk didn't ask ques-
tions about luggage and showed not the slightest interest
when she signed herself Mrs. H. Apperson Campbell.
At least the room was clean, and because it was on the
first floor near the back, it was fairly cool. Across a vacant
lot was the line of trees along the river bank, and she
could hear the low voice of the river if she listened.
At dusk she went out and walked through the town.
There was a little cafe a block from the hotel and lying
113


"I thought he might," said Humphrey and followed
them away.
June crouched against the building and wept.
In her car she did a bit more crying. This won't do, she
told herself finally. Tears never did anyone any good.
Humphrey would take care of himself. He could prove
he had nothing to do with getting Johnny out of jail.
They'd probably lock him up for the night, but in the
morning he'd be out. So it was up to her to keep things
going.
She drove away from the airport a mile or so, stopped
and took stock. Humphrey had told her all he knew, so
what was to prevent her from going on from there. Step
by step, she went over the case, trying to find a place to
begin.
The more she thought about it the more convinced
she became that George Tallent held the key to the puzzle.
The trouble was, she didn't dare face him. Guilty or not,
his first move would be to call the district attorney and
that would put an end to her usefulness. His office. That
was the place to start. Maybe in the office there would be
some sort of clue. She would break in and go through all
his papers. Excitedly she put the car in gear, pulled out
onto the highway, and went in search of the Tallent Rock
and Gravel plant.
Not until she left her car and crawled through the
fence did June know what fear was. Around her the
mountains of sand and gravel towered, dark and forbid-
ding, threatening her with their shadows. She hesitated,
wanting desperately to go back, thinking maybe this was a
foolish thing to do. Suppose Tallent was waiting in his
office. If he had murdered once, he wouldn't hesitate to
strike again. Then she looked up at the sky and saw the
merest suggestion of a moon lost in the waste of stars and
116


like to be followed around. However, we kept moderately
well posted."
"Find Moise?"
"No."
"How about the Farris family?"
"Holed up most of the day at the Del Rey. This after-
noon Pritchard called on them. Was upstairs quite a while.
I had Unkefer tailing Pritchard. He hung around the hall
listening but he couldn't hear anything but low voices.
Pritchard's nobody's fool. Pritchard left there and started
out on the Cottonwood road. He was wise to the tail and
shook him. Unkefer picked him up again at his office
around seven-thirty, followed him to Mrs. Hastings' place.
He's there now. Or was ten minutes ago. Peyton's out
there too."
"Did Farris or his sister go out after Pritchard left?"
Oscar nodded. "Maxie did. That is, my boy didn't
see him go out but he saw him come back in. Around
quarter to eight. Must have ducked out the back way."
"Peyton?"
"He went over to Mrs. Hastings' at five. Been there ever
since."
"Unless he sneaked out the back door, too."
"Can I help it if I'm short-handed?"
"Did you put a tail on Tallent?"
"I told you we have to be careful there. Alderson didn't
like the idea, Humphrey. Tallent's done a lot for Aider-
son."
"What's Alderson done for Tallent?"
"Let's not go into that, son. Let's just lay off Tallent."
"We can try. Hyatt making any progress on the jail
break, Oscar?"
"He has everybody and his brother out looking for the
kid. You didn't stage it, did you?" he asked, suddenly sus-
picious.
"When I start dressing up lads in soldier suits, you can
121


and regarded him with considerable disinterest. She
smelled rather strongly of gin.
"Mr. Tallent in?"
"No."
"You expecting him?"
Mrs. Tallent said vaguely that she was. Would he like
to come inside and wait, and maybe have a drink? He
followed her inside, through the living room into a den
that opened onto a patio. On the walls of the den hung
scores of small frames and in each frame was a piece of
currency.
"You a friend of George's?" Mrs. Tallent wanted to
know as she spilled gin, somewhat unsteadily, into a glass,
poured tonic water on top of the gin. "Good hot-weather
drink, gin and tonic," she observed. "Would you say I was
drunk?"
"No," said Humphrey.
"I didn't think I was," said Mrs. Tallent. "Georgie
should be home. Georgie said he was going to be home
at seven o'clock."
"Is he at the plant?"
She nodded vigorously, walked with great dignity to a
chair, sat down and smiled.
"Suppose we call him?"
"No." It was a definite no. "You don't call Georgie. He
gets angry."
"Then we won't call him."
"He had to see a man," said Mrs. Tallent. "A man was
coming to the plant. He was taking me out to dinner to-
night but he had to see a man so he said to wait. I've been
waiting."
Humphrey tried the drink, hoped it wouldn't mind
mixing with scotch and rje. He indicated the framed bills.
"Why?"
"Georgie collects them," she giggled. "Silly, isn't it? All
123


those nice new bills put away in packages in safe deposit
boxes. You can't spend them. All you can do is take them
out and look at them, but you don't tell anyone about it
because then they'll steal them."
"Do you collect them, too?"
"No. I spend them." She hiccoughed.
"Has he been doing this long?"
"Years and years. Isn't it silly? Collecting something you
have to hide because you're afraid people will steal it?"
"That's good money then?" He indicated the framed
bills.
"Wonderful money. The best money. Five-dollar billses
and ten-dollarses and thousand-dollarses. All kinds. You
know what? He's got the best collection of United States
currency in the world."
"Your husband?"
She nodded. "Did I say best? No, the second best. The
first best was stolen. Like I said. People find out you collect
paper money and they steal it. Like they stole the first
best."
Humphrey had some more gin and tonic. "Who had the
first best?"
"Man in New York. Engstead. It was wonderful,
Georgie says. One day someone stole it. Five, six years
ago."
"Georgie steal it?"
"Of course not," giggled Mrs. Tallent. "He would have
if he had a chance. I said it was silly. All he cares about
are those pieces of paper. He doesn't care about me."
Tears filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. She had a
husky gulp out of her glass. "I just live here. He goes
out and makes a lot of money so he can buy more pieces
of paper. He doesn't know I know."
"What?"
"That he bought some more a few weeks ago. I can
124


tell. The way he looks when he gets some new pieces of
paper, I can tell." She started sobbing.
"Let's not cry. It's too nice a night to cry."
She gulped, nodded, wiped the tears away with her fist.
"You say he bought some more—who from?"
"I don't know."
"Does he know all the collectors of currency?"
"No. Nobody knows them. Like I said—"
"Ever hear him mention a man named Moise?"
She blinked at him, her eyes vaguer than ever. "That's
a funny name. What's he look like?"
Humphrey described him.
"Maybe he was here. A lot of people come here. A lot
of tall people with mustaches. Do you think anything
could have happened to Georgie? He should be home."
Hastily, Humphrey rose. "I'll go see," he said.
June stood there in the center of the room, staring at
the closed door, hearing the footsteps coming closer, know-
ing there was no escape. In her hand was the silver chain
and the silver disk with Johnny's name on it, and suddenly
she thrust it in the bosom of her dress. The doorknob
turned. Fear swirled around her and the lights seemed
to grow dimmer and she wanted to cry out, but no sound
would come from her throat. Not until the door opened
and she saw Humphrey Campbell in the doorway did she
scream.
Humphrey looked at her and he looked at George Tal-
lent's body and he said, "Jesus."
She was in his arms, holding him frantically, burying
her head on his shoulder. She said, "Oh, Humphrey,
Humphrey."
He liked having her body close to him, he liked the feel
of her arms holding him, but he knew, well enough, this
was no place for emotional displays. You didn't spend time
125


on love scenes—if by any stretch of the imagination this
could be called a love scene—with a murdered man only a
few feet away. You either called the cops or got the hell
out of the joint.
"I hope you didn't do it." He tried to put banter into
his tone and that was hard to do. No matter how often
you stumbled onto corpses you never got to the blase
stage. •
"No, no," June sobbed.
He patted her shoulder. "It's all right."
"But it isn't." The silver chain was cold against her
breast, and for a moment she was going to tell him about
it. No. No one must know about it. Johnny didn't drop it
there. Someone else dropped it there so they would think
Johnny had killed Tallent.
"What isn't?" Humphrey's voice was sharp.
"Nothing—I don't know." She pulled away from him,
took a deep breath. "I'm scared. I'm so scared I don't know
anything."
"I'm scared too."
"I heard you—I heard the door open and then the foot-
steps. It was awful."
"It still is awful," Humphrey said. "What are you doing
here anyway?"
She told him. About watching the plane come in and
seeing the man waiting for him. "I wanted to help."
"Anyone see you come here?"
"It was dark."
"Where's the car?"
"Off the road. Behind some willows."
Humphrey knelt by the body, touched Tallent's cheek.
The body was quite cold. Presently he stood up and moved
around the room, his eyes on the carpet.
"Touch anything?" he asked.
"Not in here."
126


"Hyatt's looking for you," Humphrey said. "He wants
you badly. If we duck out and he finds you were here
there'll be hell to pay."
"How will he find out?"
"When you don't want them to they always find out."
On the desk was the phone and he walked over to it.
"What are you going to do?"
"Call Hyatt—"
"No." She ran to him, caught his arm.
"June," he said. "It's the smart thing to do. You're in
the clear. You haven't done anything. They'll question
you. All you have to do is tell the truth. The fact that
we called him will be in our favor. Hyatt's no fool."
Instinctively her hand pressed against her breast, pressed
the chain and the disk into her flesh. They'd search her.
They'd find Johnny's identification tag and they'd say
Johnny did this too. They'd say Johnny escaped and came
out here and killed again.
Again he reached for the phone. Her hands stopped him.
"No, Humphrey."
He shot a quizzical glance at her, asked sharply, "Are
you telling me everything?"
"Yes. You know I am."
"I'm working for you," he said. "I'm trying to get your
brother out of a jam. The least you can do is trust me."
Her hands dropped. "Call Hyatt then," she said, and
was bitterly ashamed of the anger she put in her voice.
"Go ahead. You're afraid. You want to keep out of
trouble, that's it. You're afraid he'll find out you were
here."
Women, he thought, helplessly. "Have it your own
way," he said. "Let's go." i
"Why don't you call him?"
"Because I'm a fool," Humphrey said, took her arm and
led her from the room.
127


At the outer door, he stopped, went back to the secre-
tary's desk and rummaged through it, searching for her
name and address. He found it presently, made a note of
it, then followed June into the night. As they hurried
toward the car June's fingers closed on his arm.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's all right."
"What I said back there. I didn't mean it, really."
"I know you didn't."
"You're not angry?"
"No. Don't talk."
He found the car where she had hidden it, helped her
under the wheel, gave her shoulder a reassuring pat.
"What do I do now?" she asked plaintively.
"Go to 1304 Laurel Terrace. That's Morgan's house.
On my way in I'll call him. No one will think of looking
for you there."
"Are you sure—"
"Would I send you there if I wasn't?" he said, and he
wasn't simulating anger. "Now hurry."
The car was up the hill and around the bend before
Humphrey got in the police car and followed. He should
have done some hurrying. If he had, he would have seen
June turn left at the highway and follow it to the Cotton-
wood turnoff and down the hill to the little village on the
river's edge.
Safer here, she thought, in the cool darkness of the
hotel room. Much safer than staying with the assistant
chief of police. Humphrey might change his mind. Or
Morgan might change it for him. She was undressing when
she realized that she had completely forgotten Johnny's
identification tag.
She couldn't throw it away now. Tomorrow she would
cross the river and throw it in the water. Tonight? She
opened the bottom drawer of the dresser and pushed it
under the piece of paper covering the old wood.
128


Chapter Seventeen
In the shabby lobby of the Del Rey Hotel, Humphrey
took time out for a cigarette. He sat in one of the worn
leather chairs smoking and thinking and wondering if he
had done the right thing in not following June to Oscar's
house. Oscar had been a bit perturbed at his call, hadn't
liked the thought of harboring a fugitive from the district
attorney's office. But he wasn't worried about Oscar. He
was worried about June. He comforted himself with the
thought that she had sense enough to do as she was told.
Anyway there was a lot to do. A hell of a lot. Things were
happening. Things were moving and moving fast.
As he lifted a cigarette to his lips, he noticed that his
hand was shaking. Not the man he used to be, he thought.
In the old days nothing had phased him. In the old days
he would have taken in his stride a thing like informing
Tallent's secretary, Miss Quarberg, that her employer
was a corpse. Miss Quarberg's grief had been very real.
It was a thing he had to do. And it was a thing that had
paid off. Miss Quarberg had told him a lot. She had told
him, for instance, that a man named Farris tried to call
Tallent. And she had told him that Pritchard's detective
agency furnished the night watchmen for the gravel plant.
But most important of all she had revealed that Tallent
and Warren Hastings had seen a good deal of each other
before Hastings' murder and that Tallent had paid the
junk man $100,000.
All of which was very interesting. He dropped the ciga-
rette in the spittoon, rose, climbed the tired stairs and
rapped on 223.
Belle Farris opened the door, saw who it was and put
129


"Was he here?" Belle did a good job of sounding sur-
prised.
"We can dispense with this sort of thing," said Hum-
phrey. "We know each other."
"One big happy family," Belle drawled, pushing her
hair back and stretching her long legs.
"He was here," said Humphrey. "Then he went for a
drive. Presently he showed up at Mrs. Hastings'. Looks like
you're being handed an empty sack."
"That's sad. Isn't it sad, Max?" She cradled her head
in her hands and stared at the mottled ceiling.
"You see," said Humphrey, "Mr. Tallent isn't living
any more."
Max stopped dealing, sent a wary glance across the
room.
"Dead, very dead," Humphrey went on. "Somebody
killed him. When Pritchard gets around to talking to the
cops he's going to drop a couple of hints about you,
Maxie."
"You kill him, Max?" Belle seemed filled with curious
disinterest.
"Of course he didn't," Humphrey answered. "But will
the cops believe him, that's the question. Maxie being at
the gravel plant and all."
"Who said I was out there?" Max's feet hit the floor.
"Who do you suppose?"
"Well I wasn't."
"Now Max. Tallent has a secretary. Had, I should say.
He doesn't need one any more."
"Then Pritchard didn't—"
"Yes, Pritchard did."
"Max," Belle cautioned. "He's fishing."
"Me?"
Belle smiled at him. "You, my fat friend."
"I'm really not fat," said Humphrey. "And I'm not
fishing. Your brother was at the gravel plant. That doesn't
f
131


"Not quite enough," said Humphrey. "He could tell
me where the auto court was."
"I said he's done enough talking. Unless—"
"Unless what?"
She stretched lazily, gracefully. "The last couple of days
I've had a feeling we were going to end up with nothing.
And we've been ending up with nothing for quite a
while. You aren't in this for your health. Not from what I
read about you in the papers, Mr. Campbell." She waited,
smiling oddly.
"I could make a lot of promises," said Humphrey. "You
don't want promises."
"No."
"Think you can trust me?"
"No."
"Then what the hell," said Humphrey. "I'm not putting
out until I get paid off."
"When do you get paid off?"
"Presently."
"How much?"
"How much were you to get?"
"Plenty."
"I'm supposed to get plenty too."
"You split with us and we split with you," said Belle
blandly. "How's that?"
"Not at all fair," said Humphrey. "Say I give you five
hundred dollars/'
"Now?"
"Nope. Tomorrow or the next day."
Max laughed. "Listen to him."
"I'm listening," Belle said. "What the hell. Max. Five
hundred isn't much but it's better than nothing. We've
been listening to other people make promises. Might as
well take Campbell's word. Go ahead. Tell him where
the auto court is."
133


"Okay," Max's voice was tired. "I don't think his
promise is worth a damn, but okay. It's on 99, south of
town. Couple of miles south. I don't know the name, but
there's couple of pine trees in front and a swimming pool.
You can't miss it. The guy Pritchard wants to see is in
.Nine."
"Thanks." Humphrey rose, crossed to Belle, held out
his hand.
She took it. "A couple of suckers," she said. "Always
have been and always will be."
"I'll be back."
She stared into his eyes. "I think you will," she said.
There was a garage in back of Nine and a door opened
into the cabin from the garage. Humphrey knocked softly.
"Who is it?" a low voice asked.
"Pritchard."
The light went on inside. A hand fumbled with the
lock, the door opened and Humphrey pushed into the
room. He said, "Hello, Mr. Moise."
"It's you," the tall man said and he wasn't angry. "Why
didn't you say so?"
"I thought you knew I was looking for you."
"No. Sit down. Have a drink?" Moise had on blue silk
pajamas and a dressing gown that was a bit on the vivid
side. It looked expensive.
"Thanks."
"Scotch?"
"Fine."
Moise found glasses, took a bottle from the open grip
at the foot of the bed, spilled liquor into the glasses. There
was a pitcher of ice on the dresser and he put ice in the
glasses and poured water on top. "How did you find me?"
"My business is finding people."
Moise nodded, handed Humphrey a glass, leaned against
134


the foot of the bed. For a man of sixty he looked sur-
prisingly young.
"Now you've found me, what can I do for you?"
"You wanted to pay me ten thousand dollars," said
Humphrey. "I turned you down. Sent you to Pritchard."
"Now you've changed your mind? Little late, isn't it?"-
"Two murders late," said Humphrey.
"Eh?"
"Two," said Humphrey. "Warren Hastings and George
Tallent."
If he wasn't surprised he gave an excellent imitation
of surprise, an amazingly reasonable facsimile. "Tallent,"
he said.
"Tonight."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. Beaten to death. Like Hastings was beaten to
death."
"Incredible." He frowned down at the detective. "You
—you—that's right. You're working for the soldier."
"Yes. You said it was incredible, Mr. Moise. You know
damned well it's not incredible. You didn't think the Has-
tings murder was incredible, did you?"
"See here," Moise said. "You don't think I killed them."
"I could. I could jump at conclusions. The police would
if they knew what I know about you."
He said shortly, "What have you to tell them?"
"You had me find a man named Caldwell for you,"
Humphrey said. "A man who had sold an old chest of
drawers to Warren Hastings. Hastings was murdered. And
the day he was murdered you sent for the couple who run
the ranch and asked them about the chest. That was
around five-thirty last Monday. At seven you caught a
plane from San Francisco and got off in Joaquin. You
stayed here. Came to see me Thursday and wanted to pay
me ten thousand dollars. I sent you to Pritchard. Tonight
135


Humphrey took out his wallet, pulled the Confederate
bill from the wallet, held it out. "There's part of it."
He caught the paper between his fingers, laughed with-
out humor. "A small part, Mr. Campbell. Such a small
part. Where's the rest?"
"I don't know yet."
"Can you find out?"
"It depends," said Humphrey, "on how much you can
help me."
The other smoothed the thousand-dollar bill, put it on
the bed. "Did you ever collect anything?" he asked. "Un-
less you did, you won't understand. It's a disease, really.
An incurable disease. Oh, a pleasant one. When I say I'll
pay you twenty thousand, perhaps you see how incurable
the disease is. I said twenty thousand. I still say twenty
thousand."
"I'm interested in murder."
"I'm not. Unless it touches me. And it doesn't touch
me, Mr. Campbell."
"But it does," Humphrey said. "You're all snarled up
in it."
"Will you take twenty thousand?"
"I'll think it over. Tell me all you know first."
"It's quite a story. Better fix up your drink. And fix
mine while you're about it." Humphrey took the glasses
over to the bureau, made two more highballs. He should
be getting drunk, he realized. He wasn't. Evidently laying
off for ten years built up your resistance to it.
Moise had moved to a chair and was settled comfortably
in it. Humphrey sat across the room, waiting, part of
his mind on the tall gray man over there, part of it on
other things—a girl with lovely eyes and two dead men
and an unhappy boy hiding somewhere. Across the court
a woman laughed softly.
"It started thirty-five years ago," Moise said. "I'm a
lawyer. You probably know that. An estate came up for
137


settlement. One of the assets was a modest collection of
American paper money. It was worth—face value—about
two hundred thousand. Actually it was worth five thou-
sand. Mostly Continental currency and Confederate cur-
rency. No big bills. No gold notes. I had a coin dealer in
to appraise it. We got to talking and before I knew it I was
interested. Ended up by buying the collection myself. I
went on from there. Last year you know how much the
collection was worth?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Five
million dollars. Face value, of course. Five hundred and
sixty thousand actually. I don't think there's a finer, more
complete collection in the world. I have no way of know-
ing."
"I've heard you collectors are a curiously reticent lot,"
said Humphrey.
"Oh, we are. Have to be. An odd sort of a hobby, isn't
it? Only for yourself. Unless, like Colonel Green, you
turn the collection over to a museum. We're misers, really.
Through fear, I suppose. Not the small collectors. They're
like stamp addicts. Write letters to each other, all that
sort of thing. List their wares in catalogues. We—the big
ones—buy a good many items from the little fellows.
Enough of that. I had this collection. Kept it in a vault in
the basement of my house. My daughter knew I collected
currency but not to what extent. For that matter, when
she married Tracy and moved to Sonora, it didn't amount
to much. I've done most of my real collecting the last
seven years. Last October I went to New York for a few
weeks. Mrs. Reynolds—the old lady who keeps house for
me—stayed home. Naturally, I didn't worry. One night
she was at a theater and someone broke in, blew the vault
and cleaned it out. She knew nothing about it—had no
reason to go down to the vault."
"You called in the police?"
138


Moise wagged his head slowly back and forth.
"Why not?"
"It looked like a family affair," said Moise. "I did call a
detective. Pritchard."
Humphrey whistled.
"I didn't tell him what was missing. Said I wanted the
police out of it and for him to investigate. He did a lot of
running around for a couple of months. Finally came in
and said it was no use and anyway he had to close up his
office and go East because his mother was dying. I paid his
fee and off he went."
"Not East," said Humphrey.
"Not to his poor old mother either," said Moise. "I
believed him. Until I came to Joaquin on a case three
months ago and saw him on the street, I believed him.
Then I started checking. Found he had picked up a couple
of fingerprints in the house, the prints of a man named
Farris who had just come out of San Quentin. Farris, I
learned, lived in Sonora with his sister. Farris had been
palling around with my son-in-law. By the time I found
this out, Tracy—my daughter's husband,—was dead, and
she had sold her house, and moved back with me."
"You're leaving something out," Humphrey said. "The
chest."
"I'm coming to that. I'm an attorney. My daughter
asked me to straighten out Tracy's small estate. I nosed
around his bank and found he had a safe deposit box there.
With Belle Farris. She tried to get into it the morning
after he was killed, but the bank officials wouldn't let her.
Sealed it up. They opened it for me. I was sure the collec-
tion would be there, but it wasn't. Tracy may have been in
love with the Farris woman but he didn't trust her entirely.
There was ten thousand in cash in the box and a will—a
very odd document. In the will he left the house, the
139


station, the furniture, the money—everything to his wife—
everything but a chest of drawers with a marble top. That
went to Belle Farris."
"And by then the chest was gone," Humphrey observed.
"Given to a migratory worker," said Moise. "I traced him
to Joaquin, then came to you."
"You turned the will over to Belle Farris?"
"Had to. The bank officials were there when I opened
the box."
"Apparently she came to the same conclusion you did—
that the collection was in the chest."
"She did."
"You've talked to her?"
"No. Nor to Farris. To Pritchard."
"For a man who was double-crossed you've seen a good
deal of Pritchard," Humphrey observed.
"You sent me to him, didn't you?"
"He denies you showed up."
Moise's voice hardened. "I showed up all right. But I
don't blame him for lying. He's scared. I could have his
license taken away in a minute. I left your office and went
right over to his. We had a little talk, an interesting little
talk. The upshot was, he admitted double-crossing me. He
had traced Farris to Sonora, had linked him with my son-
in-law. Then he put the screws on Tracy and finally Tracy
broke down. I had some papers of his, Tracy told
Pritchard. Some very important and valuable papers. So he
had hired Farris to open my vault. Pritchard said Tracy
convinced him I was the villain of the piece. Oh, a little
money changed hands, Pritchard admitted. A trifling sum.
So he dropped the case and moved down here."
"Does Pritchard know about the collection?"
"Yes. I didn't tell him. He says Belle Farris told him. He
says Belle Farris and her brother had hired him to find the
chest. Farris, you see, met him when he was working for me
1
140


Moise frowned. "Eh?"
"You forgot to tell me one trifling thing," said Hum-
phrey. "You forgot to say you took a taxi from the airport
last Monday night to Hastings' house. You forgot to say
you paid the taxi off and went inside."
Off to the east somewhere a train went by, screaming at
the night. Trucks were rumbling along the highway and
sometimes the roar of the motors made the cabin windows
rattle. Moise said, without emotion: "All right. I saw Has-
tings Monday night."
Cold, Humphrey thought, watching him, cold and cal-
culating and perfectly capable of murder. "You might have
saved a kid a lot of trouble if you had told the police yovt
were there."
"I didn't think it was important. Besides, it seemed ob-
vious the boy killed Hastings."
"Does it seem obvious now?"
"I don't know." He laughed softly. "You think my
conscience should hurt me, eh?"
"Even mine would. Never mind that. I said, a while ago,
I'd think over your proposition. I'm still thinking it over.
You've given me a motive for murder. Maybe you can give
me more than that. I want the truth. Otherwise I'm going
to the cops."
"If I killed Hastings you can't expect the truth, Mr.
Campbell."
"I know it. What happened Monday night?"
"I talked to Hastings."
"You got there around nine, didn't you?"
"A little before. Say ten minutes."
"Anyone with him?"
"No. That is, there was no one with him when I got
there. He didn't tell me about the Foster boy being there."
"And you didn't see Foster?"
142


"No."
"Was Hastings drunk?"
"He had been drinking. He was drinking when I arrived.
He made sense."
"Sense enough to discuss the currency collection?"
"Not to discuss it. To deny he knew anything about it.
I told him my story. I said I didn't expect him to give me
the collection for nothing, although it was stolen property.
I said I was willing to pay well for it. He denied he had
found it, said certainly he had bought the chest from Cald-
well but as far as he knew there was nothing in it. I asked
to see it. He took me upstairs to his bedroom and we lifted
the marble top, and there was nothing under it. I kept at
him, told him about interviewing the Schwinns and how his
sudden affluence came about the time Caldwell went to his
junk shop. He wouldn't give in. Said he had inherited his
money, and he didn't give a damn what the Schwinns had
told me, they were a stupid pair. Maybe his assistant at the
yard had found the collection. Tomorrow morning he
would ask him and let me know. I asked him why he
brought the chest home. He laughed. It was like one he had
had when he was a boy, he said. I knew he was lying but
what could I do about it?"
"You're quite generous with offers," said Humphrey.
"Didn't you make him an offer?"
"I was going to. But we were interrupted."
Humphrey studied Moise's face, waited.
"By George Tallent," said Moise.
Humphrey got up, refilled his glass, thinking bitterly
there he sits telling me this, no remorse, nothing, and that
poor kid in a jam. He wanted to hurl the bottle at Moise.
He wanted to go over and slug him, then stand over him
and say that's for Johnny Foster, and maybe give him a
kick or two for June Foster. Instead he said, "So Tallent
was there too?"
143


"Surprised?"
"I'm beyond surprise," said Humphrey. "What hap-
pened?"
"More talk," said Moise. "I knew Hastings wanted me to
go. He didn't say so but he hinted at it a couple of times. I
stayed. Tallent was there for a reason and I was pretty cer-
tain the reason had to do with my collection. We all had a
drink. Finally I brought the subject up. I said gentlemen,
let's stop beating around the bush. Let's get down to busi-
ness. I want what's mine and I won't stop until I get it.
Hastings tried to laugh it off. Hastings told Tallent how I
had come in with a cock-and-bull story about a bunch of
currency that had been stolen from me and hidden in an
old chest. Tallent thought the whole thing was very amus-
ing.
"We talked back and forth and got nowhere. I saw there
was no sense staying around, so I asked if I could call a cab.
Tallent said he'd take me into town, if I wouldn't mind
waiting in his car for a couple of minutes. I went out and
pretty soon Tallent came out."
"He dropped you at the hotel?" Humphrey was watching
him closely.
"You've been checking on me, Mr. Campbell. No. We
stopped at a bar about half a mile from the Hastings' place
and had a few drinks. I couldn't get anything out of him.
Finally he left me there."
"You stayed in the bar?"
"For a little while. Then I went back to Hastings' ranch.
Now don't get excited. I didn't see Hastings again. He was
gone."
"What time was that?"
"Around eleven. I waited ten or fifteen minutes. Then
I walked back to the bar, called a cab and went to the ho-
tel."
"Remember the name of the bar?"
144


and maybe it wasn't. Slowly he followed the road past the
building, past the weed-grown pile of rock and earth that
had been dug out of the hill, then stopped the car. He slid
a gun out of the glove compartment into his pocket, opened
the door and walked rapidly up the slope.
"Hold it," a voice said. It wasn't Johnny's voice.
Humphrey stopped.
"You looking for somebody, friend?"
"Yes," said Humphrey. "So are the cops. They'll be along
presently. I want Johnny Foster."
"Nobody around here by that name," the voice said. It
was closer now. Humphrey saw the speaker, a slim
fellow in blue jeans and a blue shirt. The man had a gun in
his hand. "Up with 'em," the man said. "Turn around."
Humphrey put his hands up, turned, felt a gun muzzle
jabbing him in the back. The man shoved his right hand in
Humphrey's pocket, which was a mistake. The next thing
he knew, he was on the rocky earth and Humphrey was sit-
ting on him and Humphrey had both guns. He considered
laying one of them across the prostrate man's temple,
thought better of it, stood up and nudged the other with
his toe. "Come on. I'm in a hurry. Let's go inside,"
Humphrey said.
The man didn't move. Humphrey nudged him harder.
"Get up."
"You silly bastard," the man said.
"Me?"
"That's the way to get yourself shot."
"Who has the guns?"
The man rose, dusted himself off, looked at Humphrey,
looked at the two guns, shrugged and led the way to the
back door.
"No tricks now," Humphrey warned. "Just remember
I'm not a cop and the only guy I'm interested in is Mr.
Foster."
147


"You came to the wrong place," the man said. He pushed
the door open and went in, Humphrey at his heels, and
they were in a dingy cubby hole badly lighted by a kero-
sene lamp, a tiny room that evidently served as a kitchen.
It wasn't too tidy. They went through that into a larger
but even untidier room with some cots and boxes in it.
Two overalled guys, with cruel, stupid faces, were sitting
on apple boxes at a rickety table playing gin rummy. There
was a shotgun on the table and on a cot near the window
was a sub-machine gun and a rifle. But no Johnny Foster.
The card player facing Humphrey reached for the shot-
gun.
"No," said Humphrey. "Just sit still, old boy."
"Damn you, Bill," the card player said.
"Where's the kid?"
No one answered.
"Which of you is Potter?"
"Me," said the card player who faced Humphrey. "What
of it, copper."
"I'm not a copper."
"No?"
"No. Come on. Where's the boy?" Fear nudged at his
heart. He thought of June and Nell, and his fingers tight-
ened on the triggers.
"He scrammed," Potter yawned, flipped a card on the
pile. "Your draw, Percy."
The man called Percy tried to match his partner's non-
chalance, but wasn't too successful. He took a card, dropped
one.
"He got tired of us," Potter said. "He went his way and
we went our way. How'd you find us, Mister?"
"I didn't. The district attorney did. He's on his way up
here now."
Potter put his hand down. "Jesus Christ. Who are you?"
"I'm a man with a client."
148


"Not a cop?"
"No. Do I look like a cop?"
"Sort of," Potter said. "You never can tell. What's the
pitch?"
"I want Foster."
"I said he beat it."
"You could be lying."
"I could but I'm not. We dumped him off down the
line. You kidding about Hyatt?"
"Take a look out the window."
Potter rose, pulled aside a loose board and peered at the
night. He cursed again very softly, turned and came back
to the table, stood there eyeing Humphrey meditatively.
His battered face was expressionless. "All right, what do
we do now," he said.
Humphrey stepped to the table, took the shotgun, moved
over to the cot where the other guns were.
"You telling the truth about Foster?"
"Sure," said Potter.
"Why did you break jail?"
"I got claustrophobia," said Potter.
"I should think you'd get it here."
"No bars," said Potter.
"Go on with your game," said Humphrey. "I'm leaving."
He backed toward the door.
"Hey," Percy whined. "Now look here."
"Shut up, Perc," snapped Potter.
He stood there at the table, leaning on it, and there was
no fear in his eyes as he watched the big detective move
backward toward the door. Bill, to the right of Humphrey,
coughed and scraped his feet and for a moment Humphrey
took his eyes off Potter. Potter's hand slashed at the lamp,
swept it to the floor. The room was black and they were on
him.
Picking up the other guns was a mistake, Humphrey
149


realized. He dropped them, lashed out with the two auto-
matics at the dark forms surging toward him, leaped back-
ward where he thought the opening was. His shoulders
crashed into the jamb and one of the men had his right arm
and was jerking him off balance. The gun in his left hand
filled the little room with sound, stabbing a hole in the
darkness. Someone groaned. A fist crashed against his tem-
ple, another and another, and he was on the floor, and he
was lashing out desperately with his empty hands. Then
the world exploded in his face.
He heard, far off, the sound of shots and he heard voices,
thin and unintelligible. He had no head, only a great ach-
ing, roaring emptiness. Something hit his thigh again and
again. A bright light thrust needles into his eyeballs and
a voice said, "Get up, you dumb bastard."
He tried to rise, propped himself up for a moment,
then his arm gave way and again a toe dug into his thigh
and a voice cursed him, Hyatt's voice. Hyatt was standing
over him, white-faced with anger.
"God damn you," Hyatt yelled. "God damn you."
Humphrey wet his lips, tried desperately to speak, then
closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
There were pale stars overhead, a host of them, and east-
ward on the ragged silhouette of hills a crescent moon was
sitting. Johnny Foster lay in a shallow irrigation ditch and
the scent of tar weeds was all around him, good and clean
and sharp.
The ditch cut through an orchard and to his right was a
150


farmhouse, dumped down in a clump of trees, and behind
the house was a barn with a sagging, tired roof. He knew
that without raising his head, for he had been in the ditch
a long time, waiting and watching. You couldn't go wan-
dering across country in a pair of shorts without attracting
attention. As long as you stayed in the canal, swimming
with the current, the shorts were appropriate, but as dusk
came on and the world cooled off you had to get out of the
water and hide somewhere until the night gave you shel-
ter.
For a little while after Potter and the two men had driven
away, leaving him there in the clump of willows by the
canal, Johnny had cursed them. Then, seeing the empty
sky and the sun-drenched fields and the far hills, and hear-
ing the water whispering as it wandered west, the knowl-
edge that he was free, even for a little while, filled him with
hope. No bars. No steel doors. Let them hunt him down.
He'd give them a run for their money. They'd be looking
for four men in a battered car, and that was good. He
crouched behind the willow screen, smoked the one cig-
arette Potter had given him and, because he was young, felt
suddenly elated at being a hunted man. Alone against the
world. Like the fellow in Rogue Male. His wits against
the wits of countless others.
Well, the first thing he had to do was get rid of the
clothes he had on. A man couldn't go wandering around
with the words "County Jail" printed on the back of his
blue denim jumpers. He considered the problem. Under
the jumpers he had on a pair of shorts. Ahead of him was
the canal, and in the water the shorts would pass as bathing
trunks. He grinned, stripped off the jumpers, rolled them
in a ball and shoved them into the tangle of cockleburs
on the sloping bank, pitched the clumsy shoes after them,
flipped the cigarette into the water and followed it. Won-
derful, he thought, lying on his back and letting the cur-
151


rent carry him slowly along. A guy out for a swim. A guy
without a care in the world.
It was fine until the sun slid out of sight and the wind
came up. The empty fields sprouted orchards and vine-
yards and farmhouses. There were kids swimming in the
pools below the headgates, but they paid him no mind.
Once, a girl leaning on a bridge rail smiled and waved
and he waved back. Then dusk came and he started shiver-
ing and he crawled up the bank and down and across a dirt
road into an orchard. The earth was still hot and for a little
while he lay on it, not caring who saw him. Then his
teeth stopped chattering and he crawled ahead to the shal-
low ditch and lay face down in the hot sand, feeling very
alone and lost until sleep gave him comfort for an hour.
A shrill scream brought him to his hands and knees and
for a moment he thought it was a woman's voice. Then he
knew it for what it was—a siren wailing at the night as a
car roared along the highway over yonder. That wail was
for him—for Johnny Foster. He shivered and not from
cold, tried to find strength in the well of the sky, tried to
find courage in the remote stars, found it instead in the
thought of a girl who loved him.
He was still free. Let them blow their sirens at him. A
few miles ahead was the city, casting its glow on the sky,
and in the city were two girls who loved him and would
help him somehow. He stood up, stretched and wondered
how a man went about stealing himself some clothes. There
was a farmhouse with a light in the window and there were
people in the house, but he couldn't walk up and knock
and say, would you mind letting me have a pair of pants,
someone swiped mine. The thing to do was sneak over and
have a look and hope to God there were no unfriendly dogs
around.
Well, he'd been here quite a while and had heard none
barking. Bending low, he climbed the bank, moved forward
»5*


"Yep.V
"No dough?" Her eyes were suddenly kind.
He smiled, touched by the look she gave him. There
were good people in the world, after all. Plenty of good
people. "I'm not very hungry. Thanks."
"Okay, kid. Come again."
"You bet." He put a dime beside the empty bowl, paid
his check and went out. Two doors down was a pool hall
with a cigar stand in front and there was a phone booth
by the stand. He hunted through the book until he found
Campbell's home number, shut the door and dialed. It
was stifling in the booth. For a long time he let the phone
ring, sighed and hung up, stood there wondering what to
do. Might try the office.
He was searching the book again when the man at the
cigar stand spoke to someone. Out of the corner of his
eye he saw a policeman leaning on the counter and fear
choked him. He wanted to run. He wanted to drop the
book and run past the cop and down the street and out of
town into the warm dark. He dug his nails into his palms,
brought the names into focus, found the number he
wanted, went back into the booth and dialed with a
trembling forefinger. A woman's voice answered.
"Mr. Campbell?" asked Johnny.
"This is the exchange. Who did you want?"
"Humphrey Campbell."
"Just a moment," the voice answered.
Sweat was dripping into his eyes and he rubbed it away,
then looked furtively over his shoulder. The policeman
was shaking a dice box, spilling the dice into the box on
the counter. Go away, Johnny's mind said, for God's sake
go away.
The wire came to life. "Call 3-2041," the woman's mo-
notonous voice told him.
157


Johnny dialed the number, heard the phone ring three
times, heard the click as the receiver was removed at the
other end.
"Yes?" It was a girl's voice.
"Mr. Campbell, please."
"This is his secretary. Can I take a message?"
Johnny hesitated.
"This is his secretary," the girl insisted.
"Well—"
"Give me your number and I'll have him call you."
"No place I can get him now?" He tried to keep des-
peration out of his tone.
"No. Who's calling?"
"A—well—a client."
"Can I help you?"
He pulled air into his lungs and fear mounted within
him. Maybe it was a trap. Maybe they had Campbell's
phone tapped and he had been given the number of the
police station or the district attorney's office.
"Hello," the girl said. "You there?"
"Yes."
"I should be in touch with Mr. Campbell soon. Give
me your number."
"I'm at—I—can't."
The girl's voice had an edge to it. "Young man," she
snapped, "I've things to do."
"You're sure this is Mr. Campbell's secretary?"
"Of course I'm sure." \
"It's this way," Johnny said hurriedly. "What—well—
what I have to tell Mr. Campbell is pretty private. I want
to be sure—"
"Look in the book." She wasn't angry now. "Under
West. Bonnie West. I'll hang on."
That meant opening the door. That meant walking out
and standing there not three yards from the policeman
158


who was still spilling dice into the box. Johnny looked at
the policeman and he looked back at the phone, then he
put his mouth close to the transmitter and whispered,
"This is Johnny Foster."
There was a faint sound at the other end of the wire,
as though the girl had pulled her breath sharply through
her teeth.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes. Where are you?"
"It doesn't matter, does it?"
"No."
"Will you do something for me? Something terribly
important?"
The wire was silent for a moment. Sunk, Johnny
thought. She's got another phone and she's going to call
the police. Then her cool, soft voice came to him. "Of
course."
"There's a—a girl in the Joaquin Hotel—her name
is—"
"I know," Bonnie cut in hurriedly. "What is it?"
"Don't call her."
"No. Of course I won't."
"I've got to see her."
"They're watching her," Bonnie snapped. "You can't.
You hang up and go away."
"I've got to see her," Johnny insisted. "Don't you under-
stand? Maybe I won't ever get a chance again."
Another pause. Johnny threw a quick glance at the
counter and it seemed to him the policeman was watching
the booth, getting ready to walk over to the booth.
"Miss West," he pleaded.
"All right. Where'll you be?"
"I'll—let me think."
"There's a bandstand in the park," Bonnie put in. "It's
dark there."
»59


"I'll be there."
"It'll be half an hour. Perhaps longer."
"Tell her to be careful."
"What do you think?" Bonnie said.
"Thanks."
"You're a fool and I'm a fool," Bonnie said. "But here
goes." And with that she hung up.
He stood in the booth for a moment, leaning against
the wall with his eyes closed, and it seemed to him his
legs were too weak to take him past the counter, past the
policeman at the counter and into the street. Knuckles
tapped the glass. Johnny gulped, swung around, saw the
policeman standing there looking at him. This is it, he
thought. It's all over. Automatically his hand went out
and pushed the door open, automatically his legs carried
him over the threshold, and terror drained all strength
from him.
"You sure took your time," the policeman growled.
"You got a lease on the joint?"
He wet his lips. He made his lips form a word. "Sorry,"
he mumbled and walking like a robot, he went past the
counter to the street and south on Jay, expecting every
moment to feel fingers dig into his shoulder. Then he was
around the corner and walking very slowly east toward the
park.
The bandstand stood in the center of the park and there
were trees around it and a little way off a bronze, slime-
covered boy poured water out of a boot into a circular
pool. East a few hundred yards was the bulk of the court-
house and lights gleamed on the second floor. Standing in
the shadow of the bandstand, Johnny stared at the lighted
windows for a little while. That would be the district
attorney's office. Hyatt would be there and Temple would
be there and maybe some men with guns, and back of
160


dumped the whole matter into the district attorney's lap,
and who was he to take the word of an accused murderer
that the man was a soldier. Just doing his duty, that was
all, doing his best to protect the taxpayers. Oh, Hyatt can
sound hurt when he wants to. Well, the captain had to
admit Hyatt had something there. So he grudgingly
thanked Hyatt. But from now on Foster is the army's
baby."
"So Hyatt's out of it?"
"Nope." Oscar shook his head. "Hyatt and the captain—
fellow named Gates—will cooperate. After all, Hastings
was a citizen of credit and renown and his remains belong
to the county for the nonce. Hyatt's boys are going to
find Foster. Then the captain's boys will put him up
against a wall and shoot him. He's not only a murderer.
He's a deserter."
Humphrey whistled softly. "Get me some clothes."
"I guess I can do that much." Oscar rose. "That reminds
me. Bonnie West has been trying to get hold of you. She's
up to something."
Pain shot knives into his brain as he pushed himself
up on his good elbow.
"For some reason or other she has herself a room in the
Joaquin Hotel—8*4," Oscar told him.
"Suppose you get that phone up here," said Humphrey.
"And give the boys strict orders to leave me be. Tell them
I'm asleep."
Sleep wouldn't come. June tried making her mind
blank, but that was impossible, and after a while she gave
up and lay in the warm darkness listening to the soft voice
of the river. Remembering the man's body lying on the
floor, fear came into the room and she wanted people
around her and voices.
Home, she thought. I wish I were home and Johnny
IT
169


was home and Nell was home. So far away, her home. So
long ago she had been there, with nothing to be afraid
of, nothing to worry about. Here she was in a little hotel
room and Johnny was out there somewhere, perhaps
frightened too, perhaps hungry, perhaps even—she tried
not to think of the word, but it pushed itself into her
mind—dead. No, she wouldn't cry, and she wouldn't be
afraid. Soon dawn would come. Soon? She lit a match, held
her watch up to the flame, saw that she had been in bed
less than thirty minutes.
Maybe this wasn't a good idea. Maybe she should dress
and get in the car and go to the address Humphrey had
given her. She would be safe there, he had said. Again
doubt assailed her. She was safe here. It was nonsense to
be afraid, nonsense to worry. No one knew she was here.
The thing to do was think back to the good parts of your
life. Let's see,' she thought. Danbury. The house in Dan-
bury, mother in the house. Walking over the hills with
Johnny. Going to high school and college. But all the
pictures she brought up in her mind were blurred, in-
distinct, and always there was one clear picture, a body
on the floor at her feet.
Then she thought how her fear went away when
Humphrey came through the door and how solid his
shoulder was. Last night had been fun, there on the canal,
swimming in the cool water with the stars so close down.
Almost breathlessly she remembered her body close to
him as she picked the blackberries, his arm steadying her.
He had wanted to kiss her, she knew that. Why hadn't he?
And if he had, would she have been just another woman
to him, just one of the many he must have known in his
life? A board creaked outside her door and she stopped
thinking about him, almost stopped breathing.
Someone was trying the door. Someone was trying to
170


put a key in the door. She mustn't scream. She mustn't
show them she was afraid.
"Who's there?" she called.
"Open up," a soft voice said. "We're from the district
attorney's office."
Johnny's identification tag was in the drawer hidden
under the paper. They would search the room and find it.
She slid off the bed, tiptoed to the dresser, tried to slide
the drawer open silently.
"Come on," the voice snapped. "Open the door."
The drawer stuck. She tugged at it frantically, then it
opened and she was rummaging under the paper and she
had the tag in her hands. At that moment the cheap lock
gave with a snap, the lights flashed on and she was looking
up at two men with badges on their vests, two very big
men with revolvers in their hands.
"Well, well," one of them said. "What have we there,
sister?"
Desperately she threw it toward the open window, heard
the clink of the chain as it hit the sill and fell back on the
floor.
Wearily June went past the desk to the elevator, stood
there waiting while the night man made up his mind to
run the cage up for her and for the first time in her life
she felt hopeless and beaten. Tears spilled out of her eyes.
That Hyatt had let her go with the admonition to stay
in her room, gave her no happiness. He had beaten her in
their battle of wits. He had wrung from her, finally, the
admission that she had found Johnny's dog tag beside
George Tallent's body, the admission that Humphrey
Campbell had been with her at the gravel plant. She knew
what Hyatt thought. Johnny had killed Tallent. Johnny
had dropped his dog tag in the struggle. She and Camp-
bell were trying to cover up. She choked back a sob.
171


against it, heard him going away, heard the chair creak
as he dropped in it. Then she flipped the light switch
down, hurried across to the window and pushed it open.
Painfully Humphrey pulled himself through, motioned
to the bathroom, where a light still burned, followed
them in and closed the door. June saw his splinted arm
and bandaged head and put her hand up to her lips.
"Oh, no," she whispered.
He gave the two white-faced girls a crooked grin.
"I feel worse than I look."
"Broken?" June touched the arm.
"Slightly." The smile went away. He frowned at June,
said, "What happened to you?"
"I—I—"
"Stop making it tougher than it is."
"I'm sorry." Tears stood in her eyes.
"Never mind." The harshness went out of his voice.
"Where's Johnny?"
"He's—" June felt Nell's fingers dig into her arm.
"We don't know," Nell answered for her.
"What do you mean you don't know?" In the excitement
he raised his voice.
"Quiet," Nell cautioned. "He'll hear us." Of the three,
she was the only one with poise.
"You saw him," Humphrey lowered his voice. "Bonnie
—Miss West—said he called her and that you met him in
the park."
Nell bobbed her head. "Yes. I gave him some money.
He—he didn't know where he'd be. He said he would call
you when he could."
"Did he now?"
"Yes."
Humphrey turned to June. "Is that true?"
Momentarily she hesitated. Nell's arm was around her,
and Nell's fingers were warning her not to say anything.
174


"Yes," June replied.
He noticed the hesitancy in her reply, snapped angrily,
"You're both lying."
"We are not," Nell snapped back. "How could he tell
us where he would be when he didn't know?"
His arm ached and his head ached. But for these two,
he would have had a few days of peace. Damn all women,
he thought angrily, knowing they were lying, almost hating
them for it.
June flushed under his angry eyes. "Suppose you did
know—what good would it do?"
When he didn't answer, she added, and she regretted
saying it at once, "It doesn't seem to me you've done much
so far."
"Doesn't it?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
"Miss Foster," said Humphrey. "I didn't want to take
this case. I wanted to get out of town. I took it and I'm
doing the best I can. If you're not satisfied—"
"But we are, Mr. Campbell," Nell cut in. "Why—why
did you want to see Johnny?"
"To ask him a couple of questions and tell him to get
the—to get back in jail," said Humphrey.
Nell stared at him coldly. "Then I'm glad we don't
know."
"So am II" June's firm chin was even firmer.
"You want him to get killed?" Humphrey asked
brutally. '.'That's what will happen to him. He's safe in
jail. Now all the cops and soldiers and old guys with shot-
guns are on his tail, waiting to fill him with lead. Now
where is he?"
"We don't knowl" Nell's eyes had anger in them and de-
fiance in them.
Without much trying, he could be sorry for himself,
he knew. He had been trying to move too fast, trying to
175


force things and now he was out of his depth. His last
case and if he didn't look out, he'd lose it and certainly
these two girls were doing their best to help him lose it.
Yet, he couldn't blame them. They had no reason to
trust him, really, for what had he done but get things
snarled up even more than they were, get himself beaten
up into the bargain? There was compassion in his tone
when he spoke again.
"I wish you'd trust me. There's so little time."
"We do trust you," Nell replied, but her eyes belied the
words.
"I won't take him back to jail unless he agrees that he
should go."
"You won't get a chance," June said unexpectedly. Her
face was flushed and now her eyes were bitter. "All of you
think he's guilty. We don't. We know he didn't kill Has-
tings, and we know he didn't kill Tallent even if—"
"Even if what?"
"Nothing," said June. "If you want to quit, go ahead."
He shrugged. "I suppose Johnny's going to try and run
for it?"
"Suppose he is?" June asked defiantly. "If everyone
thinks he's a murderer, what else can he do?"
"I don't think so." Annoyance came back into his tone.
"I know he's not. But what do you expect the rest of
them to think, with him taking a powder? I won't argue
with you. If you don't want to tell me, don't. But tell him
to give himself up, if you care what happens to him. They
think I staged the jail break—"
"That's why you want him back in jail," June flared.
"You're thinking of yourself."
"All right," he answered wearily. "I'm going to think
of myself some more. Good night." He went out of the
bathroom to the window, and the two girls stood there
176


watching him go, watching his shadowy form crawl pain-
fully through to the fire escape.
June's eyes sought Nell's. "Maybe," she whispered.
Nell shook her head. "Johnny said not to," she
whispered back.
You fool, June told herself. Oh you little fool. All he's
done for you, and you talk to him like that. The thought
made her hurry to the window. It was too late. He was
across the balcony and climbing up the steel ladder, climb-
ing very slowly because of his bad arm and he didn't look
down. He reached the upper balcony and was gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
A board creaked. Lying by the tiny window in the hot
dusty attic, Johnny lost all interest in sleep. He lay there
without moving, his face pressed against the rough boards,
thoroughly awake now. It could have been the wind,
pushing a limb against a corner of the old house. That's
probably what it was, because who would be wandering
around downstairs at this time of night?
Raising his head he glanced through the open window
at the sky, saw that the moon had swung up and out of
sight, knew it must be well past midnight. Not making a
sound, he drew his body to the sill and peered down. His
eyes were accustomed to darkness, so he could see the in-
distinct shapes of the trees and the pool, with its handful
of drowned stars, and the shadowy orchard beyond. Some-
thing moved below him.
He held his breath, kept his eyes focused on the spot,
saw what seemed to be a man's figure there against the
177


big elm. Downstairs a board protested softly and he knew
now it wasn't the wind. Someone was in the yard and some-
one was in the house, and it was all over for Johnny Foster.
Fear smothered him. He shut his eyes and gulped in
the cool air and waited for a voice to say all right, kid,
come on down, we've got you. Or maybe they wouldn't
speak, maybe they would flash a light on him and send
a bullet smashing into his chest. Then reason returned. If
they were cops they were being unusually quiet. Cops
wouldn't sneak around in the dark. They'd surround the
place and turn on all the lights and yell at him to give
himself up. And that's what the caretaker would do, too.
He'd flood the place with light if he thought someone was
hiding inside.
Maybe—and he tried not to believe it because he might
be wrong—maybe Nell had reached Campbell and that
was Campbell out there by the tree and that was Nell
creeping up the stairs.
You got into the attic from the bedroom he had occu-
pied that night that seemed ages ago. There was a trap-
door in the ceiling of the closet and you pulled yourself up
on the narrow shelf, pushed the trap open, then climbed
into the musty darkness. It was sheer luck that he had
found this hiding place. He had gained entrance to the
house through a side window and had made his way up-
stairs, not daring to turn on a light because that might
attract the attention of the caretaker and, once in the bed-
room, he knew he couldn't stay there. The closet had
offered shelter and in the closet, with the door closed, he
had struck a match, and then staring upward had seen the
square door in the ceiling.
If that was Nell down there, how would she find him
because she wouldn't know about the entrance to the attic.
Again he looked into the yard. The figure was still there
by the tree. It was a man—no doubt about that. Arid some-
178


one had reached the upper floor and was prowling around
—there was no doubt about that either.
He inched his way across the rough boards toward the
little door, not frightened now, saying to himself over and
over it's them, it has to be them. His groping fingers found
the handle, tugged at it, and with a soft squeal from the
unoiled hinges, the trapdoor opened and he stared down
into darkness. The closet door was shut, but it wouldn't
do to chance going down yet. He must wait.
Soft footsteps went along the hall, faded. The house
was filled with an almost breathless silence again. If it was
Nell, why didn't she call to him softly, why didn't she
whisper his name? Perhaps she was frightened by the dark.
Perhaps she didn't dare speak, even in a whisper.
Footsteps again and they were moving toward him,
closer, closer. A shaft of light found the crack under the
closet door, swept across the floor and out. He heard the
rattle of the knob. The door swung open and there was
someone standing in the door, holding a flashlight. A girl.
He could see her legs and her shoes and her skirt.
"Nell," he whispered, and the light knifed up at him,
blinding him.
No answer, only a sharp, indrawn breath. Not Nell then.
So it was all up for Johnny Foster. Terror paralyzed him
and he lay there blinking stupidly down at the light.
The woman sighed. The woman whispered at him.
"Come down." She put her other hand in front of the
light and there was a little gun in it.
He could throw himself away from the opening. He
could slam the door shut. But what good would that do?
His mind shook itself free of the grip of fear, and he knew
this woman had no business being here either, this woman
wasn't looking for him. A trite and foolish phrase thrust
itself at him—the murderer returned to the scene of her
crime. But that didn't frighten him.
179


mocking smile faded. She frowned. "How much do you
remember about the night Hastings was knocked off?"
"Why?"
"I can help you—you can help me, soldier."
"I don't get it."
"I'm here, ain't I? Why do you suppose I came, just for
the ride? I'm looking for something. I got a hunch it's in
this house and I'd like to get my hands on it."
"What?"
"Dough," said Belle. "A whole wad of dough. It's mine
by rights, but a lot of good that does me. How about that
night?"
Was she lying? Had she come into the house that night,
holding the piece of iron, and was she afraid he might
remember? Fantastic—the whole business was fantastic:
the two of them in this small, hot room, staring at each
other—the murder—the jailbreak—the man waiting in
the shadow. He had almost forgotten him.
"There's someone outside," he said.
"Yes. My dopey brother."
"Why didn't he—"
She cut the sentence in half. "Come in here instead of
me? He'd have had all the cops in the valley on our heels.
How about that night?"
"I don't remember much."
"Hastings show you anything? Little books, maybe?
Little books with bills in glass pockets?"
"No."
"There's an old chest iri his bedroom—he show you
that?"
"No."
"You wouldn't lie to me, soldier?"
"Why should I?"
"You're a man," said Belle solemnly. "Men usually lie.
Hell, they can't help it. They're a bunch of rats, men are.
182


But women ain't much better. Maybe they're worse. I
wouldn't give odds on anyone. Oh, maybe on the very
young."
He shrugged. "If I could remember what went on that
night, I wouldn't be here, Miss Farris."
"Call me Belle."
"All right. Would I, Belle?"
"I guess not. And I guess I'm a dope to be here. The
cops have been all over the place. That guy Campbell
too." She tipped her head to one side. "He's working for
you, ain't he?"
"I hope so."
"He know you're here?"
"I don't want him to know."
"Don't trust him?"
Johnny shrugged.
"That's being bright. He's a private eye. I never saw
one yet completely right. Maybe he won't sell his mother
out, but he'd think about it for a while. I better be on my
horse. Maxie will be worrying. Climb back up in your
hole, soldier."
He stood up, found a grin for her, took both her hands
and squeezed them. "Thanks, Belle."
"Don't stay here too long."
"No. As soon as I—" he hesitated, wondering how far
he could trust her.
"Waiting for dough, is that it?"
"Yes."
"She going to bring it here?"
Johnny nodded.
"You'll probably get picked up," Belle told him. "I'll
keep my fingers crossed. I'll say my beads." She put her
hand under his chin, tipped his head back. "You're a nice
kid." Her voice was tender. "A sweet kid. I like your eyes.
I'm a damn fool for guys with sweet eyes." Her hand
183


moved to his shoulder, pulled him close to her and she
touched his lips with her own. "Take care of yourself,
soldier. If anyone asks—even Maxie—I haven't seen you."
She patted his arm, opened the door and moved softly
into the hall.
He waited in the dark, hearing the stairs creak as she
went down, then suddenly he pulled himself into the
attic, closed the trap and crawled across to the window.
Her white figure emerged, darted across a patch of light
to the shadow of the elm. A man's voice rumbled faintly.
Though he watched for a long time, he didn't see them
go away. He lay there staring into the night, so filled with
wonder at what had happened that he worried not at all.
Had he followed Belle and her brother away from the
Hastings ranch, he might not have been so at peace with
the world. For, once away from the house, Maxie said
suspiciously, "What the hell kep' you so long?"
"I stopped to make some coffee."
"That window." He waved at the house. "Up at the
top. Looked to me like it was open. Looked to me like
somebody was up there."
"Maybe the guy who killed Hastings is hidin' out in
the attic." She laughed without humor. "You're seeing
things, Max. I was all over the joint. I didn't see any-
body." She sighed. "I guess the dough isn't there. I guess
whoever killed him got it."
"Yeah," Maxie said and lapsed into a brooding silence.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was an odd and ill-assorted group that gathered in Hum-
phrey Campbell's office that stifling Saturday afternoon at
three o'clock. Les Pritchard, surprisingly neat and well-
184


groomed, got there first, sat on the corner of Bonnie West's
desk and tried to persuade her, inasmuch as her boss was
reporting for duty in a couple of days, to move her curve-
some body over to the Pritchard office.
Bonnie had other ideas. Bonnie had made up her mind
to join either the Waves or the Spars—it depended on
which uniform suited her best. Moise's arrival put an end
to the discussion. He nodded curtly to Pritchard, showed
a moderate amount of irritation when he discovered that
Mr. Campbell had not, as yet, put in an appearance, then
settled down with an old copy of LIFE. It must have been
an interesting number, because «he gave scant notice to
the others when they came in—to the sullen Maxie and
his blonde sister, to the glum and rather frightened Pey-
ton, to the patrician, but obviously annoyed, Mrs. Warren
Hastings.
Silence settled on the hot room, a silence that was
broken now and thereby the faint cries of newsboys drift-
ing up from the almost deserted street four stories down.
Ten minutes passed. The phone rang and Bonnie said no,
Mr. Campbell was not in, but he should be in any minute.
Bonnie made some pot hooks on her pad, put the receiver
in its cradle, gave the occupants of the room the warmth
of her smile, and received in return a hostile glance from
the junk man's widow. Then Mrs. Hastings transferred
her hostility to the door. Humphrey Campbell came
through it, kicked it shut with his heel, gave his guests a
bleak and humorless smile, opened the door into his
inner office with his good arm.
"All right," he said. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Come
in.
They came. They found chairs, all save Pritchard who
closed the door and leaned his big body against it.
"One big happy family," said Pritchard.
"You might as well sit down, too," said Humphrey.
"This may take quite a while."
185


Campbell. Suppose you say what you have to say and get
it over with."
Humphrey nodded. "We'll start in five years back.
In New York, shall we, Mr. Moise?"
"Wherever you please."
"All right. We'll start with a stock broker named David
Engstead. A man with a passion for paper money. He
got a collection together of American currency worth
roughly—actual worth, mind you, not face value—six
hundred thousand dollars. Five years back someone swiped
it. Engstead went to the cops, but no good. He never saw
his beautiful collection again."
"What has that to do with us?" snapped Mrs. Hastings.
"A good deal. Les agrees with me, don't you, Les?"
The paunchy detective grinned.
"Les has been reading THE NEW YORK TIMES too,
you see," Humphrey explained. "I could send you all over
to the library and let you read it, but this is simpler. I could
also go into the habits, dispositions and characters of men
who collect currency on a large scale, and maybe I should,
because it has a bearing on the matter. Mr. Moise knows it
does. Mr. Moise collects American currency in a big way."
"You're saying I stole the Engstead collection?" Moise
asked without anger.
"No. I'm saying you got hold of it. How?" He shrugged.
"It doesn't matter."
"Proof?"
"Do I need it? After the way you've been acting, Mr.
Moise?"
The other stroked his mustache. "Go on."
"We'll trot ahead to last fall," said Humphrey. "Up to
that time the Engstead collection was in Mr. Moise's vault
in the cellar of his house in San Francisco. He went to New
York. In his absence the vault was blown. That's where
you come in, Maxie."
188


Farris' eyes had mayhem in them. His glance shifted
from Humphrey to Moise, then sought the floor.
"You were played for a sucker, Maxie. You let Moise's
son-in-law sell you a bill of goods. Blew the safe for him
and let him pay you off in old cigar coupons. I don't blame
you. With all your faults, you're loyal to your sister. Arthur
Tracy was her boy friend and so you believed whatever
yarn he told you about what he wanted out of the safe.
He didn't let you look inside those little books, did he?"
Farris didn't look up. He was studying his clenched
fists. Belle was watching him and her oval face wore a curi-
ously sad expression.
"So the Engstead collection changed hands again," said
Humphrey. "Tracy got it. Tracy could have put it in a safe
deposit box but he didn't dare. He was afraid. Afraid his
father-in-law might pin the vault caper on him and the
first place a man like Mr. Moise would look would be in a
bank. Tracy had a better idea. He put the stack of little
books in an old chest of drawers with a marble top that
stood on the back porch of his Sonora home. He kept his
fishing tackle and junk like that in the chest. Who'd think
of looking there? Nobody. That was the trouble. That's
why we're all here on a hot August Saturday, when we
could be up in the hills. Tracy got all set to skip town with
Miss Farris, here. Then he made the mistake of smashing
up his car while drunk and getting killed. Mrs. Tracy shut
up shop, gave the chest to a migratory worker and went
back to San Francisco to live with Mr. Moise, her father.
"The migratory worker sold the chest to Warren Has-
tings. He lifted the marble top. The next thing you knew
he was rich. And the next thing you knew he was dead.
Now I'm faced with a problem. I can put my hands on the
collection—or what's left of it—for Hastings sold part
to George Tallent. And I've got to decide who gets it."
189


"There's no question." Moise's tone was as cold as his
eyes. "It's mine."
"But there is. If I wanted to be entirely scrupulous, I'd
turn it over to the New York police, Mr. Moise. That
would be silly, wouldn't it? There was a reward posted
for information concerning the collection and no ques-
tions asked. Ten thousand was the figure. I don't know
what it is now, or if there is one. What's ten thousand—
or twenty? You have a claim, Mr. Moise. A tenuous one.
Miss Farris has a claim because Tracy left her the chest
and its contents in his will. Mrs. Hastings, being the
widow, has a claim. It's not the sort of matter you can
thrash out in court, now is it?"
There was no reply. They were all staring at him, and
the one who seemed the least concerned was Belle Farris.
"Particularly when it's tied up with a couple of mur-
ders," Humphrey continued. "That's why it's tough on
me. A soldier is being blamed for those murders and I
know he had nothing to do with them. Now suppose I go
to Hyatt—or the Army guy, Gates—and spill what I know
about this. Suppose I point out what a case can be made
against every one of you. I wouldn't make any money out
of the deal, but my conscience would be clear."
"What conscience?" asked Pritchard.
"We can dispense with your attempts at humor," said
Moise irritably, and directing his frowning glance at Hum-
phrey added, "and we can also dispense with this non-
sense. I bought that collection. Tracy stole it. I intend to
get it back."
"Shall we let the police decide then?" Without waiting
for an answer, Humphrey went on. "You could have called
the police in when your vault was blown, Mr. Moise. You
didn't. You used Pritchard, here, instead, and you know
why. I don't doubt you paid for the collection, but you
190


knew it was stolen when you bought it. So this isn't non-
sense. I've a proposition. Interested?"
"What is it?" snapped Moise.
"I'm not a greedy man," Humphrey explained with a
bland smile. "If I weren't such a reasonable fellow, I
would have taken the works and kept my mouth shut.
Which would have been wrong, artistically. Imagine
breaking up that beautiful collection."
"Imagine trying to get rid of five-and-ten-thousand
dollar gold notes right now," observed Moise dryly.
"I admit that would be difficult."
"Not difficult," corrected Moise. "Impossible. Now no
more of this rot. What's the proposition?"
"You're a collector, Mr. Moise. To you those pieces of
paper money mean more than the denominations on their
pretty faces. A part of the collection has been sold, but
what's left is actually worth three hundred and fifty thou-
sand. You can have it for a hundred and fifty. I take sev-
enty-five. Pritchard twenty-five. Miss Farris and her
brother get forty-five and the remaining five, just so he
won't feel left out, goes to Peyton. How's that?"
Before Moise could speak, Mrs. Hastings was on her
feet and she shot a question at Humphrey as she marched
up to the desk. "What about me?"
"Wait a minute," suggested Humphrey. "I told you
George Tallent bought part of the collection from Mr.
Hastings. Your husband used some of the money to pay
for the ranch. That's yours. Undoubtedly he has the rest
of it in a bank. That's yours, too. You'll come out of this
ahead of all of us. You've got no reason to complain."
"I'm the one with the grievance." Moise was standing
now, and the look he gave Humphrey had admiration in
it.
"I don't see it," protested Humphrey. "You're getting
a bargain."
191


tings gone. You waited a while, then walked to the nearest
bar and called a cab which dropped you at the hotel
around twelve.
"You could be lying. Suppose Hastings was there when
you went back. Motive? Hastings knew who originally
owned the collection. Tallent told him. Then Tallent put
the screws on you, figuring you had taken the rest of it
from Hastings. So last night you killed him. The Riverview
Auto Court isn't far from the gravel plant. All right. Say
you didn't kill the two men. I give Hyatt this information.
You clear yourself, and the story about the Engstead col-
lection comes out, so where are you?"
"Sitting here admiring you," said Moise. "Go ahead.
Pull the rest of the rabbits out of your hat."
Humphrey flicked his forefinger at Pritchard.
"Les is in a bad spot too, aren't you, Les?"
"Am I?" The detective strolled to the window, seemed
interested in the view of the courthouse and the park.
"Some of this is conjecture," said Humphrey. "Most of it
isn't. Moise hired you last year to find out who blew his
safe. You found out. Only you didn't tell your employer.
Instead you sold out to Arthur Tracy, reported to Moise
you had failed, closed up shop and came down here."
"So my past caught up to me and I started knocking
people off." Pritchard turned, leaned against the sill.
"You'll have to do better than that."
"Give me time, Leslie. Last spring a man named Has-
tings came to me. Wanted me to check up on his wife. I
sent him to you, remember?" Humphrey wasn't watching
Pritchard now. His glance moved from Mrs. Hastings to
Peyton. "I've always had scruples about digging into
people's love lives. I prefer to let guys like Les do that
sort of thing."
"Those scruples again," said Pritchard. "Suppose I did
work for Hastings. What has that to do with it?"
"Here's where conjecture comes in," admitted Hum-
4
193


phrey. "You started following Mrs. Hastings around. You
saw her with Peyton and you saw her with George Tal-
lent."
An angry voice interrupted him. Mrs. Hastings was on
her feet again. "You're lying!"
"Sit down," Humphrey snapped. "I'm not lying. I'm
adding things together. Pritchard saw a lot of Tallent.
Why? There's only one answer. He had something on
Tallent and that something had to do with you, Mrs.
Hastings. You sit down too, Peyton."
Peyton had his fists clenched and he was half out of his
chair.
"I'm not accusing either of you of murder—yet. We're
discussing Pritchard."
"Sweet of you, pal. Go ahead," said Pritchard.
"Well, there you were," Humphrey continued. "Work-
ing for Hastings. Selling him out to Tallent, as is your
wont. Suddenly Hastings and Tallent got chummy. You
were puzzled. Then Miss Farris and her brother showed up
looking for a chest and they confided in you. You traced
the chest to Hastings. You—knowing Tallent collected
paper money—did some figuring. You stopped being
puzzled. You started moving in. Monday night you tried
moving in on Hastings, but it didn't work so you killed
him and pinned the crime on a drunken kid. Last night
Tallent put the finger on you, so you knocked him off."
"I might as well give myself up," Pritchard sneered.
"Don't be hasty," said Humphrey. "If you aren't a
murderer, you're still in a spot, Leslie. You have your
career to consider. How would the police commission feel
about renewing your license if they thought you sold your
clients out?"
Pritchard thought that over, shrugged. He left the
window and went over to the couch where Peyton was
sitting, gave the blond man an evil grin. "Let's consider
194


you now," he suggested to Peyton. "Let's make this a crime
of passion for a change, shall we, Campbell? It could be.
That was pretty good conjecturing, pal." He slapped Pey-
ton's knee. "Maybe we both knew about Tallent."
There was a gun in the middle drawer of Humphrey's
desk, and for a moment he thought he might have to use
it. Then Peyton drew away, leaned back and wet his lips.
"Keep your hands off me, you son-of-a-bitch," he said
softly.
"That was my idea." Humphrey kept the drawer open
and he had his good hand curled around the butt of the
gun. "Mr. Moise says he went back to Hastings' house at
eleven and found him gone. Maybe he's telling the truth.
Suppose Hastings dropped by to see his wife and found
you there, Peyton. Suppose Hastings laughed in your face.
Told you about Tallent. Told you how you were being
played for a sucker. So you followed him home, killed him,
gave a drunken boy the credit. And last night finished the
job by killing Tallent."
"In that case," Peyton's voice was like silk and he was
smiling coldly, "in that case would I have stopped with
Mr. Tallent?" He gave the smile to Mrs. Hastings.
"Wouldn't I have made it three?"
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sirens shrilled in the street below, several of them, and
you could hear the rumble of heavy trucks and the roar
of motors. Automatically Humphrey rose, went to the
window and looked down, as he always did when the fire
wagons went by.
"Must be a big one," he said cheerfully.
195


"Wouldn't I?" Peyton insisted.
"There's still time." Humphrey said and, turning, he
centered his attention on Mrs. Hastings. She sat very
straight, hardly seeming to breathe, and all the color was
gone from her cheeks.
"Then you better keep your eye on me." Peyton seemed
to find the situation filled with humor. He winked at
Mrs. Hastings.
Belle Farris giggled nervously, said suddenly, "You've
left us out, Mr. Campbell. Maxie and me."
"Sorry," said Humphrey. "I was coming to you. I wanted
to dispose of the others first." He returned to his chair,
grimaced with pain as he settled back and eased his
splinted arm down on the blotter. "Mrs. Hastings, for
instance. She has a couple of motives. Money. A husband
who won't divorce her. He comes to see her, makes him-
self objectionable. So she follows him home and kills him.
And when Mr. Tallent taxes her with it and says he will
have no truck with violent dames, she kills him too. The
nice part about all this is, it doesn't matter to us who did
the killing. Because we've got a guy to take the rap, a guy
the cops are perfectly satisfied with."
Mrs. Hastings put her hands behind her head, and
leaned back. Her face was as devoid of expression as the
leather against which she was leaning.
"You're a cold-blooded bastard," Belle said.
"In this racket you have to be, Miss Farris. I started out
to get a kid out of a jam and look what happened to me.
People pushed me around. I'm through being a senti-
mentalist. You want me to pin the murders on you or your
brother? Well, say on your brother? He's an ex-convict.
He has motive enough."
Maxie had his head shoved right down on his shoulders
and Maxie was getting ready to start moving.
196


"A hundred and fifty thousand is a great deal of money,
Campbell. It will take time to get it."
"No one's asking you to pony up right now. I'll have pa-
pers drawn up. We'll sign them."
Belle stood up, ground out her cigarette in the ash tray
on Humphrey's desk. "I'm not signing anything."
"Belle," Maxie ordered. "Sit down, Belle. You sit down."
"I'm getting out of here."
Maxie caught her wrist. His ugly face stared up at her.
"The cops, Belle. No. No."
She flung his arm away. "I'm. not going to the cops. I
just don't want any part of this."
Moise was standing too. "At least there's someone with
ethics in the crowd," he said with a thin-lipped smile.
Humphrey slammed the desk drawer shut. "Then the
deal's off?"
"I didn't say that," replied Moise. "Where's my currency
collection, Campbell?"
"It will be produced."
"When it is, I'll talk business," said Moise. "Not until.
Oh, you won't go to the district attorney. Not as long as
you think there's a chance to clean up. Get the little stack
of books and have them on top of your desk. Then—"
Pritchard was between him and the door. "Look here,"
he whined. "Haven't the rest of us anything to say about
it?"
"No," said Moise flatly. "Not a thing. It's between Camp
bell and me. I'm in no hurry. Mr. Campbell seems to be."
"I go in the army Monday," said Humphrey.
"Is that the only reason, Mr. Campbell?"
"What other?"
"You wouldn't be afraid they might pick up Johnny
Foster, would you?" The thin lips were still smiling. "You
wouldn't be afraid they'd try your stunt?"
199


"Traps," said Belle. "Now I think about it, it was all so
god-damned pat."
He laughed, finished his drink, put the bottle away.
"Don't fall into them."
"Not me," said Belle. "Not me, comrade. Now I know."
"Know?"
"About you," said Belle. "The head was wrong. So long,
comrade." She smiled and left him.
Her brother was waiting for her. by the cigar stand
downstairs, and there was a self-satisfied look on his ugly
stupid face. She didn't notice it. Nor did she notice that he
failed to ask why she had gone back. If she hadn't been
deep in thought, she would have known he had been up to
something. She would have kept at him until, as he always
did, he would have broken down and told her about what
he said to Moise and Pritchard and Peyton and Mrs. Has-
tings while they waited for the elevator.
"Anybody looking for Foster, maybe should come to
me," Maxie had said.
Chapter Twenty-Foui
At dusk, June and Nell left the hotel and walked slowly
west to Fulton and then south on Fulton, stopping now and
then to peer into the shop windows. And not far behind
them strolled a nondescript little man from the district
attorney's office named Janisch, who was pretty fed up with
his job. This was Saturday night, and a man with a wife and
kids had a perfect right to spend it sitting out in his cool
yard with a quart of beer at his elbow.
By the time he got home, the kids would be in bed and
his wife would be full of beer and bitterness and he would
201


Foster, but for the warped and twisted little soul of a man
named Max Farris. Farris lay face down on the floor of the
dingy room in the Del Rey Hotel, and there was an ugly
wound on the back of his misshapen head. Smoke from a
freight train, dragging itself slowly through the yards,
drifted in the window and one of the policemen bending
over the body coughed.
The excited clerk was speaking, spilling the words out
so fast they ran together.
"I see this dame who says she's his sister coming out a
while ago," the room clerk chattered excitedly. "Yes, sir,
coming right out with a look on her face, a crazy look, and
crying. Christ she was crying, only not making any noise,
and I says to myself she and the guy have had a fight, sure
as hell they've had a fight. But I was showing a dame a
room, so I didn't go in then. I didn't do nothing about it.
She didn't go out the front door, see, I mean the Farris
woman. She went down the hall to the back and out the
back and I was coming down the stairs with this dame who
wanted to rent a room and I see her go out. But as I say, I
was so busy I didn't do nothing about it. Only a little later
I buzz Farris on the phone and he don't answer and when I
got around to it, I come up here and here he is. Look at
them ears. I bet he used to be a fighter. What do you
think?"
"Shut up, will you?" the doctor from the receiving hos-
pital suggested.
"Dead, ain't he?" the room clerk asked. "Sure looks to me
like he's dead."
"He's dead all right," the doctor announced.
"I bet you she ain't his sister," the room clerk said.
"I bet you I don't give a damn," the doctor said, getting
up and dusting his knees. "You boys can have him."
One of the cops lit a cigarette, moved to the window and
205


stared out. "Jesus, what a dump to get knocked off in." He
turned, took out a notebook, pointed his pencil at the room
clerk. "What's his name?"
"Farris."
"The woman you saw. Her name Farris too?"
"She said so."
"What time she go out?"
"Seven-thirty."
"When did you see him last?" the officer indicated the
body.
"Three or four. He come in about then. I didn't see him
after that."
"She come in with him? His sister?"
"Yeah."
"She stay up here with him?"
The room clerk shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. One of
your boys was outside, last couple of days. He and she didn't
use the front door much."
"You and me better go down to the station," the officer
said. "Come on."
"Who'll take care of the joint?" the room clerk protested.
"It won't hurt it to take care of itself," the officer said.
The room clerk protested some more, but it did him no
good. He was led out to a car and shoved not too gently into
the back seat, and in a few minutes he found himself facing
the desk sergeant in the dirty, smoke-filled room in the
basement of the city hall. On the bench against the wall sat
a thin-faced, angry woman and a beaten little man, and
when the officer who brought the room clerk in saw them,
he said to the desk sergeant, "They still here?"
"They came back," said the desk sergeant.
The woman stood up. "I told you somebody called us,"
she snapped. "Somebody from the police called us and said
to come here."
206


"Lady," the officer explained wearily, "we don't want
you. I said before we didn't want you. The district attorney
is handling the Foster case, not us."
"We went to the district attorney," the woman insisted
shrilly. "We went there and they said they didn't want us,
they didn't call us in, you must of."
The officer frowned, looked over at the desk sergeant.
"You speak to Rawson?"
The desk sergeant shook his head.
"Maybe you should call him," the officer suggested. "Ask
him if he wanted to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Schwinn."
At that moment a very angry Humphrey Campbell
hurried into the room and started for the elevator by the
desk. He had reason to be angry. For two hours he had
been sitting in District Attorney Hyatt's office trying to
convince that worthy that he was not harboring a desperate
criminal named Johnny Foster. What if someone had called
and said he had seen Campbell and Foster together in a
car on South Jay Street? Didn't the district attorney get
hundreds of anonymous calls every time there was a mur-
der? As he headed for the elevator he tried to think up new
epithets to affix to Hyatt's name. Then he saw the Schwinns
and the Del Rey room clerk, and he stopped being angry.
He knew that he was slipping, that it was a very good
thing the army had tagged him. He was getting old and
careless, so sure of himself he jumped at obvious conclu-
sions, so sure of himself that he gave his adversary credit for
no intelligence at all, no ingenuity. That anonymous call to
Hyatt should have tipped him off. The murderer had
wanted him out of the way. The murderer had got him out
of the way very neatly, and kept him out of the way for two
hours.
The desk sergeant pointed an accusing finger at him.
"You call these folks in, Mr. Campbell?"
207


Humphrey didn't answer. Instead he threw a question at
the woman. "When did you leave the ranch?"
"When do you suppose?" Mrs. Schwinn blazed. "Six-
thirty. When the call came."
"We didn't call her," the desk sergeant protested. "We
keep telling her that."
"I know you didn't." He indicated the room clerk.
"What's he doing here?"
"There's been a murder," the desk sergeant said.
"At the Del Rey?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Man named Max Farris," the officer who had the clerk
in custody put in.
"His sister?"
"Gone. Beat it."
"I saw her." The clerk hurriedly put his oar in. "I was—"
"Shut up," the officer snapped.
Humphrey leaned across the desk, flipped the switch on
the inter-office phone down, pushed Oscar's buzzer.
"What is it?" Oscar grumbled.
"Come on down," said Humphrey. "And hurry."
Half an hour, Johnny thought, lying in the smothering
darkness, peering through the little window at the shadowy
world. Half an hour and they'll be here and I'll be on my
way. The night was very quiet and not too bright, for the
moon was still only part of a moon. That was good. He
hoped they would remember he hadn't eaten and would
have some food in the car. Well, if they didn't, maybe they
could find a little restaurant somewhere and June or Nell
could go in and get him a sandwich. He hugged the
thought of them to him.
A twig snapped off to the left out of the range of his vi-
sion. He crawled ahead, peered out. Nothing. The thought
208


disappointed him. They might come early. There was no
reason, really, for them to wait until nine. He had said
nine to give them plenty of time. His body relaxed. He
started to count, one number a second, sixty numbers a
minute, and then he found himself hurrying the numbers
out. He grinned to himself. Then a sharp sound downstairs
brought him to his hands and knees, sent him crawling
across the attic to the trapdoor.
He was going to call out, but something stopped him,
something inside him warned him to lie quietly. The
closet door was open and by hanging his head down he
could see where the moonlight made a patch on the carpet
in the room beyond. Then the patch of moonlight faded.
Someone had switched on the lights in the hall. The care-
taker, he thought. It must be the caretaker. Taking a look
around.
He didn't dare move. He didn't dare close the trap
because the faint squeak of the unoiled hinges would bring
the man hurrying to the closet.
The footsteps stopped at the threshold of the room,
moved on down the hall. They would come back and go
down the stairs and the lights would go out, Johnny
thought, and his mind urged the man to hurry, to get
through with his search and go away, for the minutes were
ticking off and soon it would be nine, and soon Nell and
June would come through the trees to the back window
and rap on the window.
There, they were coming back. Only they didn't go past
the door, they came through the door and into the room
and across the room to the closet, and he was looking down
at a face that was dimly familiar, a face he had seen in a
dream.
"All right," a flat voice said. "Come on down."
Johnny threw himself away from the hole in the closet
ceiling. His foot found the door, flung it shut, and he rolled
209


across it and lay there trying to figure out what to do next.
Oddly enough he wasn't afraid for himself, even though he
knew now the face wasn't part of a dream. His fear was for
Nell and for June, hurrying to the house to set him free.
Under him he felt the door give. The murderer had
dragged a chair into the closet and was standing on the
chair. And those hands pushing against the frail boards had
the strength of madness in them. Only one thing to do.
Here goes, Johnny thought, slipped away from the door
and as it flew open, leaped down into the closet.
For a moment he had the upper hand, but only for a
moment. Steel fingers sought his throat. He brought his
feet up, flung the body away, rolled through the door. He
reached the stairs, he started down, then felt rather than
saw the body hurtling at him.
It hit his shoulders. Arms circled him and together they
went rolling down the stairs. He was on his back and the
world was spinning, and in that spinning world a face
grinned at him and two arms were upraised and two hands
gripped an iron bar. He doubled his knees, lashed out with
his feet, caught the force of the blow on his leg and
screamed with pain.
But someone else was in the room. Someone was grap-
pling with the man, trying to hold the bar, trying to wrest
the bar from him. Johnny lunged forward, wrapped his
arms around the man's legs, pulled them toward him, felt
the man go down. Then he was on him, banging his head
on the floor.
A woman's voice said, "Get away."
Again he slammed the head against the floor.
"Get away, get away," the woman moaned.
Her hand pushed past him and there was a gun in the
hand, and suddenly the gun was going off, again and again.
When Humphrey Campbell found Johnny he was still

I
210


astride the body of Peyton. Belle Farris was sitting on the
bottom step, staring straight ahead, and her empty gun
was on the floor at her feet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Always before, when the case was ended and the culprit
had been brought to book, Humphrey had been called
upon, by various and sundry, to explain how he did it, what
process of brilliant reasoning had convinced him that the
corpse yonder had been the guilty one. Being something
of an extrovert—a good many of the cops around Joaquin
insisted the word was show-off—he rather enjoyed explain-
ing things to the boys who wore the uniforms and toted
the guns and the blackjacks and the badges.
This, he reflected as he put the few belongings he wanted
to come home to in boxes, was the first time no one gave a
damn what he did or thought. He was just one of the boys
who had gone along for the ride. No, that wasn't entirely
the case. Hyatt had been interested, or rather, curious,
about how in hell Humphrey knew Johnny Foster was
hiding in the Hastings' house. Not curious enough to throw
him in the can, but curious enough to ask a few pointed
questions and make a few biting remarks about men who
held out on the district attorney and what would happen
to them if they hadn't been lucky enough to be headed for
the army.
Humphrey's answer, oddly enough, had been truthful.
"I guessed," he had said. "Someone seemed to want the
Schwinn family out of the way, so what other conclusion
was there to come to."


No one else had shown the slightest interest in him.
June and Nell, when they arrived on the scene, had been
all wrapped up in Private Foster and Private Foster's in-
jured leg and in the woman who had saved his life. That,
Humphrey had to admit, hurt a little. But if a man reached
the age of thirty-seven without learning something about
women, what could he expect?
The newspaper reporters who descended on the bloody
scene had asked him please would he mind standing the
hell out of the way. They wanted to hear Johnny Foster's
story and they wanted to hear Belle Farris' story of how,
finding her brother dead, she figured out why he had been
killed—that he had offered to sell the murderer the secret
of the soldier's hiding place and had received a blow on the
head in lieu of cash.
Oscar was too busy being a city official with another
corpse on his hands to pay any attention to his former
associate; in fact, too busy even to listen to Humphrey's
comment that this was county territory and therefore a
matter for the sheriff's office. So Humphrey had quietly
stolen away in Oscar's car to a bar around the corner from
the police station, called The Morgue, and he had sat at the
bar for quite a while, doing, as the bartender commented to
another patron, all right for a guy with one arm. At mid-
night Oscar had called to ask where his automobile was.
At twelve-twenty Hyatt and a couple of his men had banged
on the door and had kept him out of bed for half an hour.
That was i the extent of his evening.
Now, on Sunday morning, he was still ignored. He wasn't
sad about it. By all odds he should have gone out with the
plaudits of the multitude ringing in his ears, with bands
playing and flags flying and pretty girls strewing Oleander
blossoms at his feet. Instead he would board a south-bound
bus at five o'clock and if there was anyone there to say good-


by, it would be Oscar Morgan, if Oscar remembered and
if his hangover wasn't serious. That was as it should be, he
thought philosophically.
It would be fine to have June Foster telling him she
would wait for him, standing there when the bus drew
away, straining her tear-dimmed eyes for one last look at
him. Fine but not at all sensible. The idea that women must
wait and women must weep was mid-victorian. You went in
the army hoping to come back but not expecting to, and
you were much better off if no one wept. He sighed, put his
copy of Katherine Mansfield's Collected Stories on top of a
battered first edition of Look Homeward, Angel and he
put his .38 on top of Miss Mansfield.
Well, the Hastings case was finished and Johnny Foster
had straightened out his beef with the army and his leave
had been extended another three days so he would have
time for a honeymoon, according to the morning paper.
And according to the paper, Mrs. Hastings had finally
broken down and admitted that her husband came to see
her that Monday night, that her husband had found her
with Bruce Peyton.
"Warren was drunk," Mrs. Hastings had said. "He told
Bruce I was a tramp—that I was giving myself to any man
who came along. He taunted Bruce—told him about
George Tallent. Then he went away.
"Bruce was like a madman," Mrs. Hastings had contin-
ued. "He wanted to know if it was true about George and I
said it wasn't, and then he rushed out of the house saying
he would kill Warren. I tried to stop him but I couldn't.
I got in my car and drove to my husband's ranch as fast as
I could, but it was too late. Warren was dead. I was going
to call the police. Then Bruce said if I did, he would kill
me too. He said he had killed the wrong man. He said the
man he should have killed was George. I went home. I
213


called George and told him to go away, plea*. I didn't tell
him why. I just said he must go away. He didn't, and so
Bruce killed him, too."
A strange story, but probably a true story, Humphrey
mused as he went to the kitchen and mixed a drink, using 1
the odds and ends he found in the various bottles in the
cupboard. After a few swallows of the amazing concoction
he felt a good deal better about life and himself. He had
known—after he took time to think it out—who had done
the killing, hadn't he? Could he help it if—knowing that
Potter had been arrested at Peyton's request when Peyton
found him hanging around the junk yard—he, the astute
detective, had pinned responsibility for the escape on Pey-
ton? A perfectly natural and logical conclusion to come to.
Peyton had Potter pinched. Potter broke jail taking Foster
with him. Therefore Peyton gave Potter the idea so Pey-
ton could get Foster out of Hyatt's hands into his own.
How was a private detective to know that Mr. Potter was
a public enemy named Bill Murray who wanted to be a long
way from Joaquin when the authorities got around to
checking up on his finger prints? How was a private detec-
tive to know that Mr. Potter, or Murray, had no designs on
the junk yard, that he was waiting there in the darkness for
his two pals to come to the grog shop across the street? A
coincidence. And coincidences always threw you. Well, it
had availed the fugitive naught. The same paper that put
the Hastings case to bed, had told of the capture of the
public enemy and his two friends as they tried to cross the
California border at Lake Tahoe.
He took another swallow and decided two things: this
was a fine drink, odd tasting but potent; he was guilty of
very sloppy reasoning. Campbell was getting old. Camp-
bell was losing his cunning. The best place for Campbell
was in the Army where a man had people to do his thinking
for him.
214


But you still had to give Campbell credit for putting the
finger on Peyton, for ignoring such an obvious motive as
three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in American
paper money, and deciding this was a crime of passion, that
only a guy, minus some of his marbles, would go around
beating other guys to death with hunks of iron.
Hastings had thrown Tallent in Peyton's teeth and
laughed about it. So Peyton killed Hastings. Then after
rolling the matter around in his crazy skull for a while, he
had given what-for to his rival for the love of the beauti-
ful Mrs. Hastings. In both cases a piece of iron was the
weapon. Where's the most logical place to get old iron? A
junk yard. Think that over, Mr. Watson, and to hell with
you.
Humphrey took another long pull at his glass. The
flavor of Herbsaint was uppermost. But if you rolled it
around on your tongue, you could detect the subtle breath
of gin, scotch, Southern Comfort, rye and a variety of Cali-
fornia brandy known as Grappo.
The drink gave him strength to devote a few of his re-
maining moments as a civilian to District Attorney Hyatt.
But for Hyatt, he would have stayed close on Peyton's heels.
He had been shadowing Peyton yesterday afternoon when
Hyatt's boys picked him up outside the Marigold bar on
Fulton Street. Peyton was apparently unaware that Mr.
Campbell had seen him walk into the Marigold, such a
small place that Mr. Campbell didn't dare follow him.
The next thing Mr. Campbell knew, two men with stars
on their vests were escorting him to the courthouse. By the
time he convinced Hyatt he wasn't giving shelter to Foster,
it was too late. Peyton had talked to Max Farris. Peyton had
paid Max Farris to tell him where Foster was and then Pey-
ton had knocked Farris off and retrieved his dough.
A knock on the door put an end to his thinking.
"Come in," he called.


The door opened, Moise walked in and Pritchard was
right behind him.
"I thought you didn't drink," said Pritchard.
"I'm celebrating."
"Leaving?" Moise indicated the boxes.
"Shortly."
"Good we came when we did," said Moise.
"Got an extra drink?" Pritchard wanted to know.
He followed Humphrey's finger into the kitchen, dug
around in the cupboards until he found a bottle with a
modest quantity of rye in it, came back with the bottle.
"Well, son, it worked," he said.
"You were magnificent," said Humphrey. "Both of you."
"You had me going with that stuff about getting Foster
drunk," said Pritchard. "I thought you were serious for a
minute."
"It might have worked."
Moise cleared his throat, looked around expectantly.
"You have it?"
"No."
"But you said—"
"I said if you played along with me I'd tell you where
it was and I'd keep my mouth shut to Hyatt."
"Well?" Moise's lips drew into a thin line.
"It's in a safe deposit box under the name of Warren
Hastings in the Cotton Exchange Bank in Bakersfield,"
said Humphrey. "All you have to do is convince Mrs.
Hastings to open the box. That shouldn't be too hard. She
doesn't know about the box yet. Eventually she will, I
suppose."
"How do you know it's there?"
Humphrey fumbled in his pocket, brought out a slip
of paper. It was the receipt he had taken from the empty
brief case he had found in the living room of the Has-
tings' house.
"That doesn't prove anything," snapped Moise.
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