the window of the board shack one end of a counter was piled with dusty folders. The glass upper half of the door was lettered in flaked black paint.
Chief of Police. Fire Chief. Town Constable. Chamber of Commerce.
In the lower corners a USO card and a Red Cross emblem were fastened to the glass.
I went in. There was a pot-bellied stove in the corner and a rolltop desk in the other corner behind the counter. There was a large blue print map of the district on the wall and beside that a board with four hooks on it, one of which supported a frayed and much mended mackinaw. On the counter beside the dusty folders lay the usual sprung pen, exhausted blotter and smeared bottle of gummy ink. The end wall beside the desk was covered with telephone numbers written in hard-bitten figures that would last as long as the wood and looked as if they had been written by a child.
A man sat at the desk in a wooden armchair whose legs were anchored to flat boards, fore and aft, like skis. A spittoon big enough to coil a hose in was leaning against the man’s right leg. He had a sweat-stained Stetson on the back of his head and his large hairless hands were clasped comfortably over his stomach, above the waistband of a pair of khaki pants that had been scrubbed thin years ago. His shirt matched the pants except that it was even more faded. It was buttoned tight to the man’s thick neck and undecorated by a tie. His hair was mousy brown except at the temples, where it was the color of old snow. He sat more on his left hip than on his right, because there was a hip holster down inside his right hip pocket, and a half foot of .45 gun reared up and bored into his solid back. The star on his left breast had a bent point.
He had large ears and friendly eyes and his jaws munched slowly and he looked as dangerous as a squirrel and much less nervous. I liked everything about him. I leaned on the counter and looked at him and he looked at me and nodded and loosed half a pint of tobacco juice down his right leg into the spittoon. It made a nasty sound of something falling into water.
I lit a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray.
“Try the floor, son,” the large friendly man said.
“Are you Sheriff Patton?”
“Constable and deputy sheriff. What law we got to have around here I’m it. Come election anyways. There’s a couple of good boys running against me this time and I might get whupped. Job pays eighty a month, cabin, firewood and electricity. That ain’t hay in these little old mountains.”
“Nobody’s going to whip you,” I said. “You’re going to get a lot of publicity.”
“That so?” he asked indifferently and ruined the spittoon again.
“That is, if your jurisdiction extends over to Little Fawn Lake.”
“Kingsley’s place. Sure. Something bothering you over there, son?”
“There’s a dead woman in the lake.”
That shook him to the core. He unclasped his hands and scratched one ear. He got to his feet by grasping the arms of his chair and deftly kicking it back from under him. Standing up he was a big man and hard. The fat was just cheerfulness.
“Anybody I know?” he enquired uneasily.
“Muriel Chess. I guess you know her. Bill Chess’s wife.”
“Yep, I know Bill Chess.” His voice hardened a little.
“Looks like suicide. She left a note which sounded as if she was just going away. But it could be a suicide note just as well. She’s not nice to look at. Been in the water a long time, about a month, judging by the circumstances.”
He scratched his other ear. “What circumstances would that be?” His eyes were searching my face now, slowly and calmly, but searching. He didn’t seem in any hurry to blow his whistle.
“They had a fight a month ago. Bill went over to the north shore of the lake and was gone some hours. When he got home she was gone. He never saw her again.”
“I see. Who are you, son?”
“My name is Marlowe. I’m up from L.A. to look at the property. I had a note
Chief of Police. Fire Chief. Town Constable. Chamber of Commerce.
In the lower corners a USO card and a Red Cross emblem were fastened to the glass.
I went in. There was a pot-bellied stove in the corner and a rolltop desk in the other corner behind the counter. There was a large blue print map of the district on the wall and beside that a board with four hooks on it, one of which supported a frayed and much mended mackinaw. On the counter beside the dusty folders lay the usual sprung pen, exhausted blotter and smeared bottle of gummy ink. The end wall beside the desk was covered with telephone numbers written in hard-bitten figures that would last as long as the wood and looked as if they had been written by a child.
A man sat at the desk in a wooden armchair whose legs were anchored to flat boards, fore and aft, like skis. A spittoon big enough to coil a hose in was leaning against the man’s right leg. He had a sweat-stained Stetson on the back of his head and his large hairless hands were clasped comfortably over his stomach, above the waistband of a pair of khaki pants that had been scrubbed thin years ago. His shirt matched the pants except that it was even more faded. It was buttoned tight to the man’s thick neck and undecorated by a tie. His hair was mousy brown except at the temples, where it was the color of old snow. He sat more on his left hip than on his right, because there was a hip holster down inside his right hip pocket, and a half foot of .45 gun reared up and bored into his solid back. The star on his left breast had a bent point.
He had large ears and friendly eyes and his jaws munched slowly and he looked as dangerous as a squirrel and much less nervous. I liked everything about him. I leaned on the counter and looked at him and he looked at me and nodded and loosed half a pint of tobacco juice down his right leg into the spittoon. It made a nasty sound of something falling into water.
I lit a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray.
“Try the floor, son,” the large friendly man said.
“Are you Sheriff Patton?”
“Constable and deputy sheriff. What law we got to have around here I’m it. Come election anyways. There’s a couple of good boys running against me this time and I might get whupped. Job pays eighty a month, cabin, firewood and electricity. That ain’t hay in these little old mountains.”
“Nobody’s going to whip you,” I said. “You’re going to get a lot of publicity.”
“That so?” he asked indifferently and ruined the spittoon again.
“That is, if your jurisdiction extends over to Little Fawn Lake.”
“Kingsley’s place. Sure. Something bothering you over there, son?”
“There’s a dead woman in the lake.”
That shook him to the core. He unclasped his hands and scratched one ear. He got to his feet by grasping the arms of his chair and deftly kicking it back from under him. Standing up he was a big man and hard. The fat was just cheerfulness.
“Anybody I know?” he enquired uneasily.
“Muriel Chess. I guess you know her. Bill Chess’s wife.”
“Yep, I know Bill Chess.” His voice hardened a little.
“Looks like suicide. She left a note which sounded as if she was just going away. But it could be a suicide note just as well. She’s not nice to look at. Been in the water a long time, about a month, judging by the circumstances.”
He scratched his other ear. “What circumstances would that be?” His eyes were searching my face now, slowly and calmly, but searching. He didn’t seem in any hurry to blow his whistle.
“They had a fight a month ago. Bill went over to the north shore of the lake and was gone some hours. When he got home she was gone. He never saw her again.”
“I see. Who are you, son?”
“My name is Marlowe. I’m up from L.A. to look at the property. I had a note
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