gabardine slacks. They contained a pocket comb in a leatherette case marked with the initials A.G.L., a handkerchief, an unopened packet of chlorophyll gum, and the yellow stub of a theater ticket. Nothing else.
Sand flies were gathering on the dead face. I covered it with the topcoat and closed the door gently. When I went back past the truck, the dog was still barking and wagging. The picnickers in the station wagon were laughing over Coke bottles. I turned away from them. Above the sea the gulls were wheeling, wings glinting in the sun, turning like slow electrons in blue eternity.
I phoned Helen Johnson from the Harbormaster’s office and told her why I had to call the police.
CHAPTER 8 :
I met her an hour later in what
passed for the local morgue. It was actually the back room of an undertaking establishment near the courthouse. The dead man had been brought there to wait for the deputy coroner, who had gone sailing. Cause of death was not in doubt, but there would have to be an autopsy.
Identity was in doubt. The Highway Patrol had given us rapid service on the license number, and were tracing the car itself. It had been licensed in Los Angeles to oneKerry Smith, who gave his address as the Sunset Hotel, a transients’ hostel near Union Station. The Sunset Hotel reported that no Kerry Smith had been registered there, at least since the first of the year; and the name Kerry Smith did not agree with the initials A.G.L.
The anonymous man lay on a rubber-tired table against a coldly sweating concrete wall. Sandy the bellhop had looked down at his face, nodded in nervous recognition, and been booked as a material witness. A few minutes after Sandy was led away protesting, Helen Johnson came in out of the sunlight. She was dressed in high fashion, in hat and veil and gloves. The color of the suit she had chosen was black. In the fluorescent light her hair looked almost black, and her eyes black. Ann Devon was with her.
Death, which banishes the dead to unimaginable distances, brings the living closer together sometimes. The two women linked arms and formed a unit against the silent wind blowing from those distances. Behind them Cleat, lieutenant of detectives, gnawed impatiently on a remnant of cigar. Our eight eyes were drawn to the body against the wall, and wavered away from it.
“What does it mean, Howie?” Ann said. Still in her working dress and flat-heeled shoes, she was shorter and shabbier than the other woman, like a younger sister or a poor relation.
“I don’t know what it means. These are the facts. This man picked up the money at the station—the bellboy he sent for it identified both him and the suitcase. Then he walked the three blocks from the station to the beach, where he’d parked his car. Someone was waiting at the car, or followed him there, stabbed him with an icepick, and made off with the money. We don’t know whether that someone was an accomplice in the kidnapping or not. Wehave no lead on who it was. Lieutenant Cleat’s men are canvassing the waterfront now, trying to turn up a witness.”
Mrs. Johnson reached out as if to grasp me, but her black-gloved hand stayed empty in the air. “There’s no sign of Jamie?”
“None. That doesn’t mean anything. We didn’t expect to find him here in town. This man was obviously detailed to collect the money. He couldn’t have handled both the money and the boy. There must be at least one other—”
“Fred Miner?”
“That’s our working hypothesis, ma’am,” Cleat said heavily. “Miner’s melted into thin air, along with the boy. It didn’t happen by accident.”
“No.” Her face began to crumple, then straightened itself. “I’ve been thinking wishfully. I hated to believe it.”
Cleat caught my eye and held it, rather grimly: “It’s what I always say. Once a man starts to go bad, he’s bound to go all the way.”
It was no time to argue. I said to Mrs. Johnson: “What does your husband think of
Sand flies were gathering on the dead face. I covered it with the topcoat and closed the door gently. When I went back past the truck, the dog was still barking and wagging. The picnickers in the station wagon were laughing over Coke bottles. I turned away from them. Above the sea the gulls were wheeling, wings glinting in the sun, turning like slow electrons in blue eternity.
I phoned Helen Johnson from the Harbormaster’s office and told her why I had to call the police.
CHAPTER 8 :
I met her an hour later in what
passed for the local morgue. It was actually the back room of an undertaking establishment near the courthouse. The dead man had been brought there to wait for the deputy coroner, who had gone sailing. Cause of death was not in doubt, but there would have to be an autopsy.
Identity was in doubt. The Highway Patrol had given us rapid service on the license number, and were tracing the car itself. It had been licensed in Los Angeles to oneKerry Smith, who gave his address as the Sunset Hotel, a transients’ hostel near Union Station. The Sunset Hotel reported that no Kerry Smith had been registered there, at least since the first of the year; and the name Kerry Smith did not agree with the initials A.G.L.
The anonymous man lay on a rubber-tired table against a coldly sweating concrete wall. Sandy the bellhop had looked down at his face, nodded in nervous recognition, and been booked as a material witness. A few minutes after Sandy was led away protesting, Helen Johnson came in out of the sunlight. She was dressed in high fashion, in hat and veil and gloves. The color of the suit she had chosen was black. In the fluorescent light her hair looked almost black, and her eyes black. Ann Devon was with her.
Death, which banishes the dead to unimaginable distances, brings the living closer together sometimes. The two women linked arms and formed a unit against the silent wind blowing from those distances. Behind them Cleat, lieutenant of detectives, gnawed impatiently on a remnant of cigar. Our eight eyes were drawn to the body against the wall, and wavered away from it.
“What does it mean, Howie?” Ann said. Still in her working dress and flat-heeled shoes, she was shorter and shabbier than the other woman, like a younger sister or a poor relation.
“I don’t know what it means. These are the facts. This man picked up the money at the station—the bellboy he sent for it identified both him and the suitcase. Then he walked the three blocks from the station to the beach, where he’d parked his car. Someone was waiting at the car, or followed him there, stabbed him with an icepick, and made off with the money. We don’t know whether that someone was an accomplice in the kidnapping or not. Wehave no lead on who it was. Lieutenant Cleat’s men are canvassing the waterfront now, trying to turn up a witness.”
Mrs. Johnson reached out as if to grasp me, but her black-gloved hand stayed empty in the air. “There’s no sign of Jamie?”
“None. That doesn’t mean anything. We didn’t expect to find him here in town. This man was obviously detailed to collect the money. He couldn’t have handled both the money and the boy. There must be at least one other—”
“Fred Miner?”
“That’s our working hypothesis, ma’am,” Cleat said heavily. “Miner’s melted into thin air, along with the boy. It didn’t happen by accident.”
“No.” Her face began to crumple, then straightened itself. “I’ve been thinking wishfully. I hated to believe it.”
Cleat caught my eye and held it, rather grimly: “It’s what I always say. Once a man starts to go bad, he’s bound to go all the way.”
It was no time to argue. I said to Mrs. Johnson: “What does your husband think of
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