The Joe Bain Mysteries
Author: Jack Vance
Date: 2013-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Description: "Bucolic San Rodrigo County, nestled in California's Coast Range, is home to communities of truck farms, fruit orchards, and sleepy gas stations. The passing of old sheriff Cucchinello has left county law enforcement in the hands of officer Joe Bain, single father of a teenage daughter. The responsibilities of the acting sheriff are suddenly complicated—in a dangerous way—when residents of Fox Valley and Pleasant Grove begin to die under violent and unlikely circumstances. Acting Sheriff Bain is caught between the political necessities of an upcoming election, and the urgent need to solve gris
Publisher: Spatterlight Press, LLC

Joe Bain

Copyright 1964, 2013 by Jack Vance

Cover art by Howard Kistler

Published by
Spatterlight Press

ISBN 978-1-61947-076-7
2013-06-24

Visit jackvance.com for more
Spatterlight Press releases

The Fox Valley Murders, 1964. The Pleasant Grove Murders, 1966. The Genesee Slough Murders, 1966.

This title was created from the digital archive of the Vance Integral Edition, a series of 44 books produced under the aegis of the author by a worldwide group of his readers. The VIE project gratefully acknowledges the editorial guidance of Norma Vance, as well as the cooperation of the Department of Special Collections at Boston University, whose John Holbrook Vance collection has been an important source of textual evidence. Special thanks to R.C. Lacovara, Patrick Dusoulier, Koen Vyverman, Paul Rhoads, Chuck King, Gregory Hansen, Suan Yong, and Josh Geller for their invaluable assistance preparing final versions of the source files.

Source: Harrison Watson, Jr., Digitize: Mark Adams, Richard Chandler, Mike Dennison, Billy Webb, Dave Worden, Format: Mike Berro, John A. Schwab, Diff: David A. Kennedy, David Reitsema, Hans van der Veeke, Tech Proof: Joel Riedesel, Hans van der Veeke, Text Integrity: Patrick Dusoulier, Rob Friefeld, Paul Rhoads, Steve Sherman, Tim Stretton, Implement: Donna Adams, Derek W. Benson, Joel Hedlund, Damien G. Jones, Hans van der Veeke, Security: Paul Rhoads, Compose: Andreas Irle, Comp Review: Marcel van Genderen, Brian Gharst, Karl Kellar, Charles King, Bob Luckin, Update Verify: Rob Friefeld, Marcel van Genderen, Bob Luckin, Robert Melson, Paul Rhoads, RTF-Diff: Mark Bradford, Deborah Cohen, Patrick Dusoulier, Charles King, Errico Rescigno, Bill Schaub, Textport: Patrick Dusoulier, Proofread: Kristine Anstrats, Erik Arendse, Mike Barrett, Michel Bazin, Scott Benenati, Angus Campbell-Cann, Deborah Cohen, Christian J. Corley, Greg Delson, Patrick Dusoulier, Rob Friefeld, Marcel van Genderen, Yannick Gour, Erec Grim, Jasper Groen, Jurriaan Kalkman, David A. Kennedy, Charles King, Chris LaHatte, Gabriel Landon, Roderick MacBeath, Michael Mitchell, Till Noever, David Reitsema, Steve Sherman, Willem Timmer, Hans van der Veeke, Dirk Jan Verlinde, Suan Hsi Yong, Fred Zoetemeyer

Ebook Creation: Arjen Broeze, Christopher Wood, Artwork (maps based on original drawings by Jack and Norma Vance): Paul Rhoads, Christopher Wood, Proofing: Arjen Broeze, Evert Jan de Groot, Gregory Hansen, Menno van der Leden, Koen Vyverman, Management: John Vance, Koen Vyverman, Web: Menno van der Leden

THE COMPLETE WORKS
of

Jack Vance

Joe Bain

THE VANCE DIGITAL EDITION
Oakland
2012

Contents

The Fox Valley Murders

The Pleasant Grove Murders

The Genesee Slough Murders

The Fox Valley Murders

Chapter I

Arriving at the outskirts of Marblestone, Joe Bain swung into the driveway of the service station operated by his old school chum Walt Hobius. Walt, relaxing in his office with a newspaper, jerked erect, clearly startled at the sight of the black and white patrol car. He put down his newspaper, stepped outside, peered into the car with a quick intent glance which instantly noted all there was to note. “Hey, Joe. I thought Cucchinello had got awful skinny.”

“Cooch has had it,” said Joe. “Died night before last. I’m acting-sheriff. For a while anyway.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Walt in a soft marveling voice. “Joe Bain, Sheriff. Well, well, well.” And he gave his head the slow skeptical shake of one who marvels at the incomprehensible vagaries of fate. “I guess I should say congratulations.”

Joe alighted from the car, looking down at the gilt emblem which read, Sheriff, San Rodrigo County, State of California. “Thanks. Not that I wanted the job, or anything else, at old Cooch’s expense.”

“That’s the way it goes,” said Walt with intense conviction. “One man’s gain is another man’s loss. You can’t get around it, that’s the law of life.”

“Yeah, maybe so,” said Joe. “What’s new around town?”

Walt turned Joe his characteristic sharp quick look, as if for every overt act he suspected a deeper more important meaning which in the name of sanity and self-interest must be elucidated. “Nothing much of interest. Ausley Wyett’s back. The girls are wearing iron pants.”

“You seen anything of him?”

Walt gave a short resentful nod. “He’s got himself an old Jeep station wagon and comes in for gas. That’s all I see of him, that’s all I want to see of him.” Walt’s eyes glittered as he warmed to the subject. “He’s got real gall coming back here in the first place!”

“I guess he got lonesome for home,” said Joe. “Sixteen years is a long time.”

“Not long enough! Not for what Ausley did!”

Joe refused to argue Walt’s perfervid opinions. “The main thing is, he’s out, legal and otherwise, and there’s no use raking up old scores.”

Walt tilted his head to the side. “I suppose Ausley feels the same way?”

Joe shrugged. “As to that, I can’t say.”

“Which is maybe why he watered Bus Hacker’s gas tank?”

“Eh?” demanded Joe. “What’s this?”

Walt pointed to an old brown Plymouth sedan. “There she sits. About a gallon of water in the tank. Now I got to drain it off, blow the line, clean the carburetor.” Walt’s small tender mouth quivered with rage.

“If you’re real busy, I better get along,” said Joe. “Now that I think of it, you looked pretty peaceful when I drove in.”

Walt gave a sour grunt. “Cranky old barstid, let him wait. He’s always wanting something or other.”

“There’s ingratitude,” said Joe ingenuously. “Seems to me you broke into the garage business working on the old No. 2 bus. Bus Hacker has been the making of you!”

Walt once more inspected him sharply, then turned away as if the conversation no longer were interesting. He grumbled, “I’ve got better things to do than clean up after Ausley.”

“Somebody catch Ausley in the act?”

Walt held out his hands. “Who else would pull a trick like that?”

“Why should Ausley?”

“Revenge.” Walt seemed surprised that Joe should ask. “What else?”

Joe looked off up the road. Ausley was acting strangely, no doubt about that … Peculiar. Very peculiar.

“A lot of people around here don’t feel too Christian about Ausley Wyett,” said Walt. “I’ll give you a hint. You’d be doing Ausley a big favor if you got him to sell up and leave.”

“You know better than to say a thing like that, Walt,” replied Joe in a mild voice. “Ausley is a free man. There’s nothing I can do.”

“Give him the word! You’re sheriff, aren’t you?”

“Acting-sheriff.”

“Same difference. I’m telling you facts. Ausley just isn’t liked around these parts. If he goes mooching around like nothing happened, he might just run into an accident. At least, that’s the talk I’ve heard.”

Joe turned back to the patrol car. “You tell these talkers they better keep things on a conversational level; otherwise there’ll be big trouble for all concerned.”

Walt turned away, marched to the lube rack. Joe got into the car. Walt called across the graveled driveway: “You’d be doing him a favor!”

Joe started the motor and continued into town.

Marblestone, to the south of San Rodrigo County, in the shadow of the Coast Range, centered on a eucalyptus-shaded square known as ‘the Park’, in deference to a half-dozen benches, a few clumps of oleander, a decaying band-stand. Opposite, across Main Street, was the business district: Olin’s Drug Store, the Town Club, the post office, the Ace Barber Shop, the general store. West of the park were Marblestone’s two churches: the Methodist, patronized by the gentility of Marblestone; and the Baptist, preferred by the mountain folk. Down School Street was the Fox Valley Elementary School; along Quarry Road, just south of the park, was the Fox Valley Community Center.

Joe Bain parked in front of the general store and sat for a moment. The town was quiet: a warm summer silence disturbed by not even a voice nor the hum of another car. Joe alighted and stood on the cracked concrete sidewalk under the massive old oak tree, which was something of a town landmark. Nothing had changed, not even the blue EDGEWORTH CUT PLUG advertisement nailed to the trunk; the years which had passed were dreams. Joe looked along Main Street which upon leaving town became Destin Road. A quarter-mile south began the white-washed fence enclosing Charley Blankenship’s cherry orchard. A line of poplars in the distance indicated the intersection of Destin Road and Mitre Canyon Road, whereupon Destin Road became Destin Lane, terminating at the old Destin mansion. Behind the poplars glinted Bus Hacker’s white cottage. In Joe’s memory the distances were longer, the air more limpid, the leaves a brighter green, the sunlight a richer gold — but essentially nothing had changed. Sixteen years ago Tissie McAllister, age thirteen and a half, had walked that road, on just such a day as this. She was later than usual, having stayed after school to rehearse a scene from the commencement play; and there were no other children on the road.

On that bright afternoon Tissie McAllister had not a care in the world. She loved her parents and was loved in return. Her hair was a glossy golden brown; she had long-lashed gray-green eyes, a cute pug nose, a mouth that seemed always on the verge of twitching into a grin. She was the prettiest girl in the eighth grade, and daily was becoming more aware of her attractions. Today she wore a pleated green skirt with a white blouse, white shoes and white bobby-socks. On her left wrist swung a charm bracelet, the latest ornament being a miniature hourglass, with real sand, a present from her boy-friend Tommy Hobius. At a party last Saturday Tommy had kissed her five times and somewhat more after the party. Tommy’s older brother Walter had tried to kiss her too, but he’d been drinking beer, and Tissie had avoided him, though rather thrilled that she had attracted his attention. Walter’s reputation was not good. He was a friend of the even more notorious Joe Bain, the tall hell-raising lad from Castle Mountain, who had run away from home and now lived in San Rodrigo where he consorted with Mexicans and fruit tramps. Tissie secretly admired Joe Bain, who was romantically wild and gallant. She also had a crush on Cole Destin, who was engaged to her sister May. Cole was blond and proud, and drove a blue convertible. He and May went everywhere together, arriving home at all hours, and Tissie sometimes wondered what they had been up to. Tissie felt that her parents were over-tolerant; but then Cole Destin was a great catch for May, as everyone, including Cole Destin, was well aware.

Another week of school — then commencement, and the whole glorious summer ahead. Lazy mornings, swinging in the hammock, swimming in the quarry, long twilights. And boys. Tommy mostly. He was a sophomore at San Rodrigo High, which Tissie would attend next year, riding the No. 2 school bus, driven by Bus Hacker. She’d have preferred to go by the No. 1, which Tommy and Walt and the Marblestone kids rode, but that was out of the question, since the No. 2 bus passed directly in front of her house.

Tissie passed the cherry orchard, and Mr. Blankenship peered owlishly at her from the verandah of his house. Tissie disliked Mr. Blankenship; he reminded her of a big white worm. She had nonetheless eaten many of his cherries. It was a dangerous sport, as Mr. Blankenship kept handy a shotgun loaded with rock salt and had been known to use it, notably on his nephew Walt, causing an enormous family row.

Beyond the Blankenship orchard was the Wyett property — the pig farm, as it was known locally. Poor silly Ausley. He always had been tall and awkward, with lank brown hair, knobby knees and wrists, a good-natured, if somewhat moony, face. Tissie’s sister May couldn’t stand the sight of Ausley. One time at a Community Center dance, May had been trapped into dancing with Ausley, who — according to May — had done something unspeakable out on the dance floor. May refused to particularize, and referred to the event only through the medium of grimaces and shivers. Tissie had never quite understood the nature of Ausley’s offense. She herself found Ausley rather amusing. Whenever he came upon her in the store he bought her candy or an ice cream bar, which Tissie was forced to accept, rather than seem rude.

The Wyett place was vast, extending a mile up Mitre Canyon Road and far back into the hills. The old marble quarry with the pond where young folk sometimes swam was on the Wyett property.

The Wyett house was fifty yards back from the road: hardly more than a large cabin built of unpainted boards, with a roof of tar-paper. Here Ausley lived with his half-crippled father who occasionally could be glimpsed hobbling between house and barn and pigstyes. Tissie often thought that if she owned the Wyett property she’d burn the house, barn, and styes to the ground, plant trees on the site, and then build a beautiful home up by the quarry. Whoever married Ausley would own lots of land, and perhaps be rich as well, for popular rumor imputed a miser’s wealth to Jake Wyett … To be married to Ausley would be utterly weird, thought Tissie. She toyed with the idea, laughing to herself at her own nonsense. If she were Mrs. Ausley Wyett, she wouldn’t let Ausley in the house. He’d have to eat outside under the trees, except on his birthday and Christmas and Thanksgiving, when he could come in. Married people usually slept in the same bed, and, Tissie supposed, did that. Sleep in the same bed with Ausley? Tissie gave a little amused shudder. No, thank you. He was nice, though.

As she passed the driveway Ausley looked out the barn, and seeing her, loped down to the road. “Hey, Tissie!”

Tissie paused. She really didn’t want to talk to Ausley, but her parents had trained her to be polite. And also, she was a kind-hearted girl who didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. “Hey, Tissie,” panted Ausley. “Six kittens. Mother cat bust loose last week, and now everywhere you look — kittens.”

Tissie was stirred. She loved kittens, and was appalled by the probable fate in store for the newcomers. “Are you going to keep them?”

“Nope. I’ll drown ’em in the horse-trough. Pa said to give ’em to the pigs.”

“Oh, Ausley! How terrible!” Tissie’s heart contracted. “The poor little things.”

Ausley grinned. “They’re no good for nothing. Just yell and fight. The old man had to go to the hospital at Pleasant Grove, otherwise they’d be gone already.”

Tissie was far less concerned for Jake Wyett than for the kittens. “Why don’t you try to find homes for them?”

“You can have ’em. Take the lot.”

Tissie deliberated, the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth. Ausley cocked his head, looked at her with an intent appraisal. Tissie moved a little away.

“Well?” asked Ausley. “You want the little varmints?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t keep all of them. My mother wouldn’t let me.”

“Why don’t you pick out two or three you like?”

Tissie hesitated. “Where are they?”

“In the barn.”

“Well — I’ll look at them.” She turned in through the gate, walked with prim determined steps toward the barn. The doors were open, sagging on rusted hinges. Tissie heard the sound of an engine; standing in the dark aperture, she turned to see Cole Destin drive by. “Cole!” She called and waved, but Cole apparently did not see her. She looked after him a moment. The school bus from San Rodrigo High was coming up Mitre Canyon Road, still a long way off.

Ausley went into the barn. Tissie followed him in. “Where are they?”

“Over here in the manger, with mama cat.”

Tissie looked down at the kittens, who were nursing, nuzzling, toddling back and forth, eyes still glued shut.

Tissie sighed, bent forward. “Oh … They’re so cute.”

Ausley stood behind her. “You want ’em?”

“I’d love them. But they’re too young. I couldn’t take them now. They’d die. Won’t you take care of them, just for a while?” She looked pleadingly up into Ausley’s face.

“All right. If I can keep the old man away from them. I guess I can. He won’t be back for a few days.”

“Thank you, Ausley.” Tissie turned to leave the barn.

Medical testimony at the trial was to the effect that Teresa McAllister had been savagely raped, with resulting hemorrhage. The hemorrhage was not the cause of death, though it might well have been. Teresa McAllister had been garroted with a length of baling-wire.

Charles Blankenship testified that he had seen Teresa McAllister walk past his house at approximately four o’clock. She had been alone; she had not returned along the road. Sometime later — twenty minutes? half an hour? he could not be sure — he had heard a scream from the direction of the Wyett barn. At first he had been alarmed, then decided that he had heard one of the Wyett pigs squealing.

During cross-examination the defense attorney asked: “You heard this sound, which you decided was a squeal?”

Blankenship:

A scream, I decided it was.

Defense Attorney:

At the time you heard it, you thought it was a scream?

Blankenship:

That is correct.

Defense Attorney:

When did you change your mind and decide it was a squeal?

Blankenship:

Right away. That is, I thought that it must be a squeal.

Defense Attorney:

Then the cry actually might have been the squealing of a pig?

Blankenship:

No sir. As I think about it now, no pig ever squealed like that.

Cole Destin testified that he had driven past the Wyett house a few minutes after four and had noticed Ausley Wyett and Teresa McAllister walking toward the barn. She was going of her own volition, without any evidence of duress, otherwise he naturally would have stopped his car and intervened. He was sorry he hadn’t done so; he’d regret his negligence till the day he died. The judge ordered the last comment stricken from the record.

Bus Hacker came to the stand and was sworn. He stated his name: Clarence J. Hacker; his residence: a house at the corner of Destin Lane and Mitre Canyon Road, leased from Philip Destin; his occupation: retired.

District Attorney (puzzled):

Isn’t it true that you own a bus, that you are employed by the San Rodrigo High School District to transport students between Marblestone and San Rodrigo?

Hacker (truculently):

Half-true. It’s just a side-line with me, not an employment.

District Attorney:

How do you mean ‘half-true’?

Hacker:

There’s two buses for Marblestone. Bill Giacometti drives the No. 1 route, by Magnus Way. I drive the No. 2 route, down Mitre Canyon Road and into San Rodrigo by Bosco Road.

District Attorney:

I see. Do you recall the afternoon of May 22nd?

Hacker:

Very well indeed.

District Attorney:

You drove your route as usual?

Hacker:

I did.

District Attorney:

Where is the end of your route?

Hacker:

The corner of Mitre Canyon Road and Destin Lane. That’s as far as I’m paid to drive, and that’s how far I drive.

District Attorney:

There are students who live farther up Mitre Canyon Road?

Hacker:

Three. Two Bazely kids and Henrietta Micklebarth. If there was five, the county would have to furnish transportation.

District Attorney:

What happened on the afternoon of May 22nd?

Hacker:

Well, I drove the route as usual, let off the kids, and backed the bus into my driveway. I was having trouble with the engine — sticky valves; in fact I am getting an overhaul right now. I lifted the hood to check the distributor points, standing where I could look out on the road —

District Attorney:

Excuse me, Mr. Hacker, to make matters clear, could you see the Wyett house?

Hacker:

No. The poplar trees at the corner cut off my view. But I could see the crossroads. Tissie McAllister definitely did not walk past.

District Attorney:

Did you see anyone at all?

Hacker:

Cole Destin drove past in his car.

District Attorney:

Did he continue south along Destin Lane to his home?

Hacker:

No. He turned up Mitre Canyon Road, to the west.

District Attorney:

He was alone?

Hacker:

So far as I could see.

District Attorney:

I see. Did anyone else pass?

Hacker (hesitating):

Not while I was standing there.

District Attorney:

Specifically, did Teresa McAllister pass across your line of vision?

Here Bus Hacker turned a malevolent glance toward the somber Ausley Wyett, who leaned forward and back, cracking his knuckles. “She did not walk past. If Charley saw her and —”

The defense attorney sprang to his feet, but the judge’s gavel forestalled him. “We don’t want any speculations, Mr. Hacker.”

Later, in his closing statement, the District Attorney emphasized that

A. Cole Destin had seen Tissie walking toward the barn in the company of Ausley Wyett.

B. Charles Blankenship had seen Tissie walk past and sometime later Cole Destin drive by in his car, and no one else.

C. Clarence Hacker had seen Cole Destin pass, but no one else.

Hence, declared the District Attorney, no person other than the defendant had had opportunity to commit the crime.

After an ineffectual cross-examination of Bus Hacker, the next witness for the prosecution was called: Oliver Viera, a stocky pugnacious young man of twenty, with a swarthy skin and a vigorous growth of sleek oiled hair. He sat stiffly on the witness stand, and answered questions with an air of reluctance.

District Attorney:

You are — I should say, were — a schoolmate of the defendant?

Viera:

Yes sir. We were in the same class.

District Attorney:

So then you know the defendant well?

Viera:

All my life.

District Attorney:

He would be likely to consider you an intimate friend?

Defense Attorney:

Objection!

District Attorney:

Let me put it this way … Well, on the morning of May 22nd, did you see Ausley Wyett?

Viera:

Yes.

District Attorney:

What did he tell you?

Viera (in embarrassment, not looking toward Ausley Wyett):

He told me that it was his birthday, that he was twenty-one years old. I said congratulations. He said he’d decided he’d been missing out on a lot of fun: girls, cars, parties, and he was going to turn over a new leaf, starting today. In fact since his father was away, he was going to give himself a birthday present.

District Attorney:

Did he say what?

Viera:

No.

District Attorney:

Now then, Mr. Viera, did you see the defendant later the same day?

Viera:

Yes, I did.

District Attorney:

Please describe what you saw.

Viera:

Well, I came down Mitre Canyon Road, heading east. It was about sundown, maybe a little after. A car passed me going lickety-split, back toward Castle Mountain. I recognized Ausley’s Chevy pickup, and it looked like Ausley driving. I continued the way I was going. At the corner of Destin Lane I saw Mr. McAllister standing in the road beside his car looking up and down. I stopped, and Mr. McAllister asked me if I’d seen Tissie. I said no. He told me that she hadn’t come home and the family was getting worried. He told me that she’d been seen talking to Ausley Wyett.

Defense Attorney:

I’m finally forced to object, Your Honor, this conversation is all —

Judge:

Sustained. Mr. McAllister can testify to his own conversation, Mr. Viera. You just report what you told him.

Viera:

Can’t I testify to what I heard? I heard Mr. McAllister —

District Attorney:

Just what you yourself said and did. You see, there might have been a misunderstanding. Mr. McAllister can supply his own testimony.

Viera (laughs):

I told Mr. McAllister that I had seen Ausley Wyett driving up Mitre Canyon Road, and Mr. McAllister took off up Mitre Canyon Road himself. I was late for night school so I went home …

The fifth witness was Willis Neff, a hard-faced man of thirty, stocky, with long arms and burly shoulders which stretched the seams of his blue suit. His hair was thick and yellow, his eyes china-blue. During the whole of his testimony he stared at Ausley Wyett, who grimaced uneasily, shuffled his feet, and, finally, hunching his shoulders, sat looking down at his hands.

Neff testified to the effect that at approximately seven o’clock on the evening of May 22 he had noticed a gray Chevrolet pickup proceeding west up Mitre Canyon Road. Shortly afterwards, a car driven by Paul McAllister had pulled up. In response to McAllister’s question, he stated that he had noticed a gray Chevrolet pickup proceeding west. McAllister explained his interest in the pickup, and Neff, whose oldest daughter Gertrude was a classmate of Tissie’s, immediately jumped into the car with McAllister and they continued westward, up into the twilight, the ridges now dark against the sky. Two or three miles farther along they noticed a car approaching, which they stopped. The driver of this car had passed no such gray Chevrolet pickup; McAllister and Neff went back the way they had come. At the bridge across Candelara Creek, a dirt road, hardly more than a set of tracks, led up into the primitive area; examining the road with a flashlight they saw fresh tracks, and parking the car proceeded on foot, McAllister now frantic with worry.

The creek wandered into a little meadow overgrown with cat-tails; here the pickup was parked. They stopped to listen and heard noises through the gloom: “puffin’ and gruntin’,” so Neff described them. Advancing, they came upon Ausley Wyett digging a hole, with close at hand the body of Tissie McAllister.

McAllister, screaming in agony, ran forward, Ausley Wyett looked up with a sick grin. He backed around the grave and McAllister in his frenzy fell headlong into the hole. “Just a minute, fellas,” said Ausley. “Just a minute. Be reasonable, give me a minute to —”

But Neff was on him. Ausley stumbled and fell and Neff, to use his own words, “kicked hell out of him”.

They tied the unconscious Ausley hand and foot, tossed him into the back of his pickup. McAllister carried the body of his daughter back to his car. They drove to Marblestone, where they telephoned Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello.

Sheriff Cucchinello was called to the witness stand. He testified that he had searched the Wyett barn and there had found torn underpants (subsequently identified as those worn by Tissie), as well as a number of rags soaked with blood.

The prosecution rested and the defense attorney, rather despondently, so it seemed, presented the case of Ausley Wyett, which consisted almost entirely of Ausley Wyett’s protestations of innocence.

“What did you mean when you told Oliver Viera that you were going to give yourself a birthday present?”

“I just went into Fritz’s and got me a big steak and a box of candy, then I went into the Town Club and bought a pint of whiskey. That’s all I meant.”

Fritz Hunsacker, proprietor of the Marblestone General Store, and Shorty Olson, bartender at the Town Club, verified the purchases.

Ausley fervently denied lascivious intent when he took Tissie McAllister to the barn. “All I wanted was to show her these kittens; otherwise they was about to be drowned.”

“And what happened after Tissie looked at the kittens?”

“I told her I had some candy in the house, would she like some? She said no and went out, and I went off up the hill for the cows. That’s the last I saw of her until I went back into the barn to bring milk to the mama cat and found her lying there.”

“And when was this?”

“Just before sundown.”

“About two hours after you had last seen her?”

“Close to that.”

“Now, another question. Did you see anyone as you departed the barn?”

“I didn’t look real close. But I kinda noticed somebody walking, coming down from Hacker’s corner toward town. Beyond this I can’t say. I’ve tried to figure out who it was, but it was just a glimpse. Somebody. I can’t be sure.”

“Did you see a car along the road?”

“Not after Cole Destin went by. But I couldn’t see much of the road. The house and tank-house cut off the view.”

“Whereupon you became frightened and panicky?”

“I sure did; I lost my head and did the foolishest thing I could have done.”

During cross-examination the District Attorney said, “You’ve heard the testimony of the witnesses for the prosecution. If you are as innocent as you claim, who ravished and murdered Teresa McAllister?”

“I can’t figure it,” said Ausley, frowning and shaking his head. “Unless someone was on the road. One thing for sure, somebody isn’t letting on all they know. When I get out of this mess, I’m gonna find out a few things.”

The jury, ten men and two women, was out three hours, the only point at issue being the state of Ausley’s sanity. One of the women said, “It’s well known that Ausley Wyett is crazy and has always been crazy. My nephew knows a boy who went to school with him, and the things he’s heard about Ausley Wyett!”

One of the men grunted. “Crazy. Maybe so. But a mad dog is crazy and you shoot a mad dog. A man like that isn’t any more use than a mad dog.”

The other woman said, “I certainly believe society must protect itself, but insanity is a sickness, and you don’t kill people just because they’re sick. We’re not barbarians yet.”

The verdict was “Guilty”, with the foreman of the jury reading a statement. “We feel that there is an element of doubt as to the sanity of Ausley Wyett, and therefore recommend that he should not be sentenced to death.”

The judge took cognizance of the recommendation and sentenced Ausley Wyett to life imprisonment. Ausley grimaced sadly and was conducted away to jail.

Joe Bain, with troubles of his own, had been only remotely aware of the circumstances of the trial. Immediately upon graduation from high school he had married Lucy Martinez, the daughter of a packing-shed worker, already several months pregnant. Lucy, who was vivacious and nervously active but far from tractable, refused to live at the remote Bain ranch. Joe moved to Verdalia, and for two years worked in lettuce fields and packing sheds. One evening he took Lucy to a dance at the IOOF Hall in Verdalia, with music by Lefty Harkins and his Oklahoma Ranch Boys. Lucy was entranced by the glamour of the evening, to such an extent that two days later she eloped with Gil Sears, the long-legged guitarist of the band. Joe came home from work to find his nineteen-month-old daughter Miranda standing in the play-pen, diapers dripping, milk-bottle empty, quietly philosophic about the whole sad situation.

Joe took Miranda to his mother and joined the army. He saw action in Korea, transferred to the Military Police and wound up as sergeant.

After his discharge he used his GI benefits to attend the Chapman Institute of Criminology in North Hollywood. Then, visiting his mother and Miranda in Pleasant Grove, where they had moved upon the death of Joe’s father, he spoke with Sheriff Cucchinello and accepted a job as deputy-sheriff, which job he had held until Sheriff Cucchinello’s death.

About a week before Sheriff Cucchinello fell into the swimming pool, Joe came into his office to protest regarding Mrs. Rostvolt, the matron and office manager. In Joe’s opinion Mrs. Rostvolt’s tendency to throw her weight around had passed the tolerance level and he wanted a line laid down. Sheriff Cucchinello made soothing noises, puffed out his cheeks, became interested in the morning mail. Joe turned to leave. If by some chance he and Mrs. Rostvolt got into a big dust-up, old Cooch could never say he hadn’t been warned … Sheriff Cucchinello looked up from an official form letter. “You’re a Marblestone man, Joe. Remember Ausley Wyett?”

Joe nodded. “Ausley’s a hard man to forget.”

Sheriff Cucchinello frowned at the letter. “Sixteen years he’s been in. Damn lucky he didn’t get the chair. The jury thought he was crazy.”

“He never did have good sense. I wouldn’t say he was crazy. I never thought he was vicious either.”

Sheriff Cucchinello leaned back in his big black leather chair. “He’s going back to Marblestone to live. To me that sounds like lunacy.”

“One thing for sure,” said Joe, “they won’t meet him with any brass bands.”

A week later Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello attended a Saturday night smoker and through circumstances never quite clarified fell into a swimming pool. After being hauled out he drank whiskey to ward off the chill, but the ministrations were futile. Sheriff Cucchinello contracted pneumonia and four days later was dead.

The County Board of Supervisors met at Pleasant Grove, and without any particular ceremony appointed Sergeant Joe Bain Acting-Sheriff for the duration of Ernest Cucchinello’s term — something under three months.

Joe at this time was thirty-six years old, just under six feet tall, lean, leathery, durable. His hair was straight, thick and black; he had narrow eyes and a broken nose which gave him an expression of saturnine craft. He assured the supervisors that the department would function with undiminished efficiency, returned to headquarters, changed from his uniform into street clothes, moved into the office where for twenty years Ernest Cucchinello had lounged, napped, smoked cigars, drunk whiskey, watched ball games on TV, entertained his cronies and occasionally signed his name to the documents placed before him by Mrs. Rostvolt, clerk, matron, office manager and power behind the throne.

As Joe started to clean out Ernest Cucchinello’s desk, Mrs. Rostvolt appeared in the doorway. She was a blank-faced woman of forty, plump and well-corseted, with a careful coiffure of tight auburn curls, a mouth like a cocktail cherry. Here it came, thought Joe — the first test of mettle. Mrs. Rostvolt said brightly, “I suppose you still want to take your regular patrol?”

“Heavens no,” said Joe. “You know better than that, Mrs. Rostvolt.”

Mrs. Rostvolt pursed her lips. “We’re going to be awfully tight. I’ve got the schedule all worked out, and I can easily look after the office. I don’t imagine the board wants to hire another man just for two or three months.” Mrs. Rostvolt here referred to the coming election, and to the general conviction that Lee Gervase, a vigorous and progressive young lawyer, formerly of San Francisco, would sweep unopposed into office.

“There’s nothing sacred about the schedule,” said Joe. “Bring it in here and I’ll change it around.”

“It just makes work and confusion,” declared Mrs. Rostvolt. “It seems to me that just for the two months —”

“We’ll do it my way,” said Joe. It was important to take a firm line with Mrs. Rostvolt, who had had matters pretty much her own way during Ernest Cucchinello’s regime.

Mrs. Rostvolt sniffed. “I’ll have to rearrange everything. I suppose I can take Bill Phipps off mornings, but on Tuesday mornings there won’t be anyone in at all, because Wardell is off and the relief man is off too.”

“I’ll fix up a new schedule,” said Joe. “For now, just let the old one ride. I want to get this office cleaned out first thing, so I can have a place to sit down.”

Mrs. Rostvolt’s mouth took on a sour droop. “After the election it’ll have to be done all over again anyway. Seems like you’d just want to let things be.” She marched back across the hall into the front office. Mrs. Rostvolt was really put out, thought Joe. Well, she’d have to get used to change, because if Lee Gervase were elected, and there was nothing in his way, changes would come in all directions. Lee Gervase, an ambitious man, would wield a new broom. It was not at all certain that Joe’s own job was safe. He leaned back in Cucchinello’s leather chair. Sheriff’s salary was twelve thousand a year, which he’d be drawing from now till election. What he could do with twelve thousand a year steady! … A startling new idea entered Joe’s mind. He reflected for ten minutes, alternately excited and dubious. Finally he jumped to his feet, left the office, walked around to the county clerk’s office on the mezzanine of the courthouse.

Henry Rose, the county clerk, was a wizened little man with a furious puff of yellow-white hair. Joe put his question; Henry Rose responded incisively. “It will cost you two percent of twelve thousand. That’s the filing fee: two hundred and forty dollars.”

“I get it back if I win the election?”

“No-sir-ee. That’s money spent. You just kiss that money goodby.”

Joe made an impulsive decision. “I’m game.” He started to write a check, but Henry Rose stopped him and fumbling in a cabinet brought forth a printed form. “Fill out the blanks. Have at least twenty-five but not more than thirty people sign in these spaces. They’re your sponsors.”

“Right.” Joe folded the form, tucked it into his pocket, while Henry Rose inspected him with candid curiosity. “You figure you can beat out Lee Gervase?”

“I won’t know unless I try.”

“He’s a good candidate. He’ll draw votes. I don’t think old Cooch could have beaten him. Not this time.”

“Maybe not.” Joe was momentarily depressed. Lee Gervase would be a strong opponent. He was articulate, forceful, handsome, dedicated to progress. Two hundred and forty dollars might well be money pushed down a rat-hole. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Joe took the filing application and returned to headquarters, where he resumed his job with new thoughtfulness. Out went Cucchinello’s massive leather-padded chair, printed with his weight, stained with the juices of his body, breathing the odor of his cigars; in came a swivel-chair. Out went the massive walnut desk with its assorted implements, calendars, mottoes, tokens, trinkets, and ornaments; in came a simple gray metal desk. Out went Cucchinello’s prized photographs: Sheriff Cucchinello embracing the Lettuce Queen, Sheriff Cucchinello riding a white horse in a July 4th parade, Sheriff Cucchinello and a prize fish on the wharf at Monterey, Sheriff Cucchinello at banquet after banquet. All these and other trophies, souvenirs and keepsakes Joe Bain sent out to Cucchinello’s widow.

The office looked bare. Joe Bain had nothing to put in the place of twenty years’ accumulation except his diploma from the Chapman Institute of Criminology. He unrolled it, pinned it to the wall, but it looked ridiculous. He took it down and brought in a large-scale map of the county from the hall. This looked better — in fact, looked very well indeed.

He fell to examining the map. San Rodrigo County was rectangular, with the long axis tilted from southwest to northeast. The watershed of the Coast Range delineated the western boundary, which at one point approached to within twenty miles of the Pacific. To the northeast were sloughs and tule swamps, to the southeast, dry hills rolled off down the great central valley. The nearest city of any size was San Jose to the north, with San Francisco another fifty miles beyond. Pleasant Grove, the county seat, had a population of 13,000 and was second in size to Aurora with 15,000; San Rodrigo was third, with 8,000. Tourists occasionally visited mouldering old Mission San Rodrigo de Luz, attended Aurora’s Lettuce Festival, stopped at Hicks’ Hot Springs Resort, fished for catfish in Genesee Slough, but the great north and south arteries between San Francisco and Los Angeles, Highways 99 and 101, passed to either side. Joe located Castle Mountain at the southwest of the county. He ran his finger up Mitre Canyon Road, traced the little track which led twenty devious miles over the mountain to Fell Valley. Halfway along this track, in the very shadow of Castle Mountain, Joe Bain had been born and spent his childhood …

Deputy Frank Hubbard stuck his head through the door. “Hey, Joe, one of the prisoners wants to talk to you: old Scanlon.”

Joe went down the concrete block passage to the cell block. He looked in at Scanlon, a short fat gray-haired man of fifty-five, serving ten months on a bad check conviction.

“What’s the trouble, Scanlon?”

“I hear you’re running things now.”

“That’s right.”

Scanlon held up the lunch tray provided by the Bluebird Café at a cost of seventy-five cents. “Look at this slop, Sheriff. Smell that meat.”

Joe Bain inspected the unsavory mess. “Looks like dog-vomit.”

Scanlon held the tray even closer. “Well, then, I ask you now, do you consider that fit to eat?”

“I don’t know. I never ate much dog-vomit.”

“Even a prisoner has rights,” declared Scanlon. “I kicked to Cooch and he told me I wasn’t here on a rest cure. Well, I don’t expect no big steak for lunch, but I ain’t done nothing to deserve starving to death.”

“I can’t be worrying about special diets for all you chow-hounds,” said Joe Bain. “I’ll send in Mrs. Rostvolt; you can talk it over with her.”

“Forget it,” said Scanlon. “I’ll starve in peace and quiet.”

Joe returned to his office. He stood a moment thinking, then crossed the hall to the outer office. He might as well perform the dirty work as he came to it.

Behind the front counter sat Mrs. Rostvolt. Eighteen years ago she had come to the office: a soft-spoken young woman with an ample bosom and an arch trick of widening her eyes when spoken to. Time had not treated her kindly. The voluptuous curves had become ordinary fat; instead of coyly widening her eyes to get her way, she now popped them in a furious glare. Joe said politely, “Mrs. Rostvolt, the first change I want made is the Bluebird Café. I wouldn’t feed a hyena the slop those belly-robbers have been sending in.”

Mrs. Rostvolt looked out the window. “Food prices are way up. For seventy-five cents they can’t put out a very good meal.”

“Why don’t they just send over their merchant’s lunch? That’s only seventy-five cents.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“Well, after this, order the meals from Rupe’s.”

Mrs. Rostvolt wordlessly reached for the telephone. Joe returned to his office. Mrs. Rostvolt’s cut was probably five bucks a week, thought Joe. Even the prisoners knew it. Mrs. Renee Adams owned the Bluebird; Rupert and Mary Rampold ran Rupe’s. He’d lose Mrs. Adams’ vote for sure, so he’d better make certain that Rupert and Mary knew how the land lay.

He left the office, crossed Montalvo Square, went into Rupe’s Café, seated himself in a booth. Rupe himself came from the kitchen. “Congratulations, Joe, on the new job. Hope it works out for you.”

“News sure travels fast,” said Joe. “I only got the word myself two hours ago. By the way, did Mrs. Rostvolt call you yet?”

“No,” Rupe said cautiously. “What’s the problem?”

“I’m making a change in catering. The Bluebird’s been getting real sloppy. I want you and Mary to take over.”

“Well, well,” said Rupe, even more cautiously. “That sure is nice. Naturally we’ll do our best to give satisfaction.”

“It’s simple. Fifty cents for breakfast, seventy-five cents for lunch, seventy-five cents for dinner. I want you to make your profit and put everything else into the grub. Understand? No little presents, no favors. Just fair value for a fair price.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Sheriff. I’m sure we can do you a good job.”

“Fine. If anybody hits you up, let me know. I’m running for office in November and I want to start off right.”

“I’ll sure spread the word, Joe.”

When Joe returned to his office he found Charley Blankenship waiting to see him.

Chapter II

Charley Blankenship never seemed to change. He was a tall, pale, horse-faced old man with long arms and legs, soft gray hair, watery blue eyes, a pendulous pink mouth. He lived the life of a gentleman farmer, with a forty-acre cherry orchard and a white two-story house on Destin Road, south of Marblestone. Joe Bain had known him for as long as he could remember. During May, a favorite recreation among the local young people was stealing Blankenship cherries. Joe retained a vivid recollection of Charley Blankenship’s pallid face peering down the rows. He often carried a shotgun loaded with rock salt, and on one occasion had shot his nephew Walt Hobius. Opinion was divided on whether Charley had recognized Walt. Walt thought that he had, though Charley denied it to Walt’s mother, Dora. For the last ten years Charley leased the forty acres to a Japanese family, who during cherry season maintained a patrol even more vigilant than Charley’s had been.

Today he wore dark brown corduroy trousers, big round-toed black shoes, a blue denim jacket.

“Hello, Mr. Blankenship,” said Joe. “What can I do for you?”

Charley Blankenship peered at him with peevish suspicion. “I came to see the sheriff.”

“Sheriff Cucchinello? He died two days ago. I’m acting-sheriff for the rest of his term. I hope to make it for real at the elections.”

“I see. Well —”

Joe laughed. “You don’t remember me. I’m Joe Bain. You run me out of your orchard quite a few times.”

Charley Blankenship seemed unflatteringly astounded. “You’re Joe Bain?”

“I sure am.”

“The way you used to act I figured you’d wind up inside of jail. It’s a funny world.”

“Sit down, Mr. Blankenship. Things are still in disorder; don’t mind the mess. What can I do for you?”

Charley Blankenship eased his old bones into a chair. “I suppose you remember Ausley Wyett.”

“How could I forget?”

“Well, a week or so ago he got out on parole. Did you know that?”

“Sheriff Cucchinello mentioned something about it.”

“I don’t know how things like that are arranged, but there it is. He’s living back in the old house, bold as brass.” Charley Blankenship shook his head in disapprobation. “After what happened, I don’t see how he has the indecent gall to show his face.”

“I guess it’s his privilege, so long as he behaves himself.”

“I won’t say yes or no to that. Although it makes us next door neighbors, and many times my wife is alone in the house.” Charley Blankenship laboriously reached in his pocket, brought forth an envelope. “This is what I’ve come about.”

Joe Bain withdrew the enclosure, a sheet of cheap white bond. The message was typewritten, signed in a spidery hand, with a flamboyant flourish below:

Dear Sir:

I am now out of jail, where I have served sixteen long years. I could write a long book on the dreadful experiences I have witnessed. How do you plan to make this up to me? I await your response with great interest.

Very truly yours,

Ausley L. Wyett

Joe Bain pursed his lips; Blankenship watched him in expectant indignation, and finally blurted, “Can’t something be done to stop tricks like this? Threats, extortion?”

Joe said slowly, “He hasn’t made any threats; he’s signed his name. Maybe he doesn’t show good sense, but there’s no law against his writing you a letter.”

Blankenship stared in peevish outrage. “The man’s out on parole! The first thing he does is write a letter like this!”

“I understand your feelings, Mr. Blankenship. So far as I can see he’s done nothing illegal. He asks you a question: how do you plan to make his years in jail up to him? I don’t suppose you have any such plans?”

“I certainly do not!”

“If you so chose you could write him stating as much, and that would be an end to it.”

Charley Blankenship squirmed in impatience and disgust. “Now what a thing to suggest. I came here hoping the sheriff would take steps in the matter.”

Joe wondered how Ernest Cucchinello would have acted. Probably outdo Charley Blankenship in indignation, promise the moon, and as soon as Charley Blankenship had departed, forget the whole matter. Nine times out of ten such a situation required nothing more. Which meant, at worst, nine votes for Ernest Cucchinello to one for the opposing candidate. Joe ruefully realized that he lacked certain of Ernest Cucchinello’s talents. He rubbed his chin. “I forget the case. Why should Ausley Wyett write you?”

“I was a witness against him.”

“I’m sure you told the truth.” Joe looked inquiringly at Charley Blankenship.

“I certainly did. I swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God, and I did exactly that, no more and no less.”

“Hmm. Have you seen Ausley?”

“Just from a distance. He’s been working around the old house. Ever since Jake Wyett passed away there’s been tenants in and the place is badly run down.”

“It never was any particular showplace, as I recall. Who else was a witness at the trial? Wasn’t Cole Destin involved?”

“Yes. Cole and Bus Hacker, and — let me think — Oliver Viera and a man named Willis Neff, up Mitre Canyon Road.”

“Has anyone else had letters?”

“That I don’t know.”

Joe Bain took up the telephone, dialed the number of Oliver Viera, Real Estate and Insurance, at Marblestone. A voice responded: “Fox Valley Realty.”

“Hello, Oliver. This is Joe Bain, at the sheriff’s office.”

“Joe!” Oliver Viera’s voice was professionally hearty. “Good to hear from you. What’s the good word?”

“Well, you know about Cucchinello?”

“I heard he died. It was in the paper. Too bad. Pretty popular old boy. Never did much except glad-hand the public, but I guess they liked it. Who’s in charge now?”

“I am.”

“You!”

Joe suppressed a faint sense of irritation. “Just temporary, until the election. And after that, who knows?”

“You thinking of taking it on?”

“I’ve been debating. I can handle the job. I just don’t know about the glad-handing. But I called on a confidential matter.”

“Shoot. I got nothing to hide.”

“You know Ausley Wyett’s out.”

Oliver’s tone became guarded. “Yep.”

“I wonder if you’ve had any communication from him.”

Oliver hesitated. “Well — nothing to speak of.”

“Such as?”

Oliver hesitated again. “Ausley’s out on parole. I wouldn’t want to hurt his chances. In spite of everything.”

“This is just an unofficial question for my own information.”

“Well — the truth of the matter is that I got a little note from Ausley. I didn’t mention it, not even to Connie, because — well, you know Ausley. Always been peculiar. I never did feel he meant harm.”

“The girl was awful dead.”

“Yeah. Poor little Tissie … The note said something like, I been in jail sixteen years, it was real tough, how do you figure to make this up to me? I couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I just figured it for another of Ausley’s goofy tricks and forgot about it.”

“You never answered it?”

“No. But yesterday I drove up to the old Wyett place, thinking maybe Ausley would consider selling. He wouldn’t hear of it. Remember how he used to hold his head to the side and blink? He still does it. Goofy as ever. I asked him, joking-like, what he meant by that letter. He laughed and said for me to do what I thought was right. I said, that’s what I’d done sixteen years ago. Ausley said, it took him sixteen years to recover from my good intentions. I just let the matter drop.”

“Okay, Oliver, thanks a lot.” Joe Bain hung up. Charley Blankenship leaned forward; Joe moved back to avoid the rheumy breath. “He got a letter, eh?”

Joe Bain nodded. He thought a moment. “I have to drive up Marblestone way this afternoon; I might have a chance to talk to Ausley.” He rose to his feet, but Charley Blankenship only looked at him with mulish stupidity. Joe sat down again. Another problem he’d never faced as deputy: how to eject a constituent without losing a vote. Cucchinello never worried. He was willing to talk by the hour with all comers; maybe this was what it took to get elected.

“It’s been sixteen years since that trial,” Blankenship reminisced. “It seems like it was just yesterday. My, how time goes by!”

“You mentioned Bus Hacker. Is he still driving the school bus?”

“He’s got a heart condition and they made him stop.” Charley Blankenship gave his head a shake of grudging admiration. “Otherwise he’d be going yet. Bus is a downright obstinate man.”

“He always was. You, Bus Hacker, Cole Destin, Oliver Viera, and — who else?”

“Neff. Then there was Tommy Hobius, who got killed overseas. He was little Tissie’s sweetheart. And May Destin — she was May McAllister then — she came to be a witness, but I don’t remember her being called to testify.”

Joe leaned back in his chair, looked back across the years. “I haven’t seen May since I left Marblestone. She was sure a pretty girl. She and Tissie both.”

“We should have strung him up,” said Blankenship. “We shoot mad dogs, and that’s what ought to be done to a man like that. Now he’s back, bold as brass.” Blankenship glowered, lower lip pendulous. “It don’t seem right. And on top of all, writing me that letter.”

“I’ll sure look into it, Mr. Blankenship. That’s what I’m here for. But I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think there’s anything to get excited about.”

Charley Blankenship turned him a look of more yellow malevolence than Joe would have thought possible from so rheumy and dew-lapped a face. There goes a vote, he thought in alarm. He jumped to his feet. “I’ll sure look into it, Mr. Blankenship. I believe in striking the iron before it gets hot. That way nobody gets burned.”

Blankenship heaved himself to his feet. He said petulantly, “I figure if I can’t come to the sheriff with my problems, who can I come to?”

“You’re right, Mr. Blankenship, absolutely right. I’ll sure do my best for you, now and after the election, if I make the grade.”

Charley Blankenship smiled frostily. “Who will be running against you?”

Joe made a sound of indulgent amusement. “Every unemployed lawyer and ex-floorwalker in the county is thinking about it.”

“We could use a good man in the office, that’s sure,” said Charley Blankenship with heavy emphasis. He glanced meaningfully at Joe and departed.

Joe went into the outer office. “Mrs. Rostvolt, I’ll be out for a while, probably the rest of the afternoon.”

Mrs. Rostvolt nodded. Still sore, thought Joe. Well, no matter. If the old crock didn’t like having him for a boss she could quit. Except who’d run the office? Mrs. Rostvolt undeniably had her uses.

Behind a plate-glass window at the rear of the main office was the despatcher’s room, where one or another of the deputies sat at the radio transceiver. During the night the job was handled by Ralph Stillman, the night jailer. At the moment Deputy Fay Insley was on duty. Joe looked through the door. “I’m taking a run over toward Marblestone.”

“Right, Sheriff.”

Joe went out to the parking lot, pondering the semi-facetious use of the title ‘Sheriff’. No one took him seriously, he thought sadly. He guessed he didn’t have that look of natural authority … Automatically he had approached Car #4, in which he usually made his patrols. He drew back his hand, as if the door handle were hot. What was he thinking of? He’d never make sheriff unless he started thinking like the sheriff. Purposefully he strode to Car #1, a glossy late-model sedan, with a gold medallion on the side reading Sheriff.

“I better live it up while I have the chance,” Joe told himself. “Because if I run for Sheriff and lose, the new man will fire me out of the department.”

He drove out of town by State Highway 32, through flat farmlands to the little town of Tevis, where he turned west. By an old timber bridge he crossed Genesee Creek, now, at summer’s end, no more than a frog-infested trickle, the banks choked with burdock, nettles, alder, and willow. Flowing east, by invisible degrees it would become Genesee Slough, part of the intricate system of sloughs, swamps, ponds and cuts linking the San Joaquin River to the Sacramento River and eventually San Francisco Bay.

The countryside changed. Massive round oaks stood in hayfields; to the left, tawny hills rolled down to the south and over the horizon. Ahead, obscured by haze, rose the Coast Range and there, a dim gray loom, was Castle Mountain.

The hills closed in; Joe turned up Candelara Creek Road. Along the ridges grew stunted firs and twisted pines, which presently became darker and taller. The road wound around a fir-clad bluff into Fox Valley, and after another half-mile entered Marblestone.

At the outskirts of town he came to a rather dingy service station. He turned in, drove up to the lube rack. A dark eagle-faced man about his own age sat in the office reading a newspaper. This was Walt Hobius, Charley Blankenship’s nephew-by-marriage. Walt was an inch shorter than Joe, equally dark and lean, but more nervous and intense in his manner. He had black crisp curly hair which somehow made Joe think of Napoleon. His face was wide at the cheek-bones, the cheeks hollow, as if sucked in. The eyes were round, dark brown and always puckered as if Walt were concentrating furiously. His nose was a rapacious hook, his mouth small and tender, in paradoxical contrast to the nose and sharp chin.

The two conversed, with Walt pointing out Bus Hacker’s old Plymouth, into which Ausley Wyett, so Walt alleged, had spitefully poured water. Joe finally departed, drove into Marblestone, parked in front of Fritz Hunsacker’s general store.

Chapter III

Sheriff Joe Bain stood under the oak tree, looking off up Destin Road. The wind blew the tops of the poplar trees down by Hacker’s place back and forth as it had always done. Beyond, at the end of Destin Lane, rose a black screen of Italian cypresses, concealing all but a glimpse of the Destin house … A GM pickup drove up behind him; two women, evidently mother and daughter, alighted and went into the store. The mother was thin, sinewy, brisk, about forty-five. Her gray-blonde hair hung in sparse curls; she wore a neat blue and white cotton dress. The daughter was twenty-three or twenty-four, something over average height, supple and graceful. Her face was quiet and golden-pale; her eyes as she glanced sidelong toward Joe were ocean blue. Her hair, thicker and richer than her mother’s, was cut without artifice: short in front, rather longer to the side and at the back. She wore a white blouse, a dark blue denim skirt, blue sneakers. Good Lord, thought Joe, there’s a real beautiful girl. Who in the world can it be? Joe followed them into the store. The mother turned him a brief incurious stare. The daughter looked at him from the sides of her clear blue eyes.

Fritz waved his hand. He was short-legged, fat, round-faced, with a bald head and an exuberant fringe of gray hair. “Hey Joe! I hear old Cucchinello died. Who’s the new boss?”

“I’m it,” said Joe. “They inflicted that honor on me.”

“Well, I’ll be switched.” He spoke to the women, who were loading groceries into a cart. “What do you think of that? The worst young hellion in town, and here he is: sheriff. How do you figure a thing like that?”

“Not sheriff yet,” said Joe. “Just acting-sheriff. Do you care to introduce me?”

“Sure. This is Mrs. Neff —”

“Mrs. Willis Neff?” inquired Joe.

“That’s right. Mrs. Willis Neff. And this is Miss Ellie Neff, prettiest girl for miles around. And this is Mr. Joe Bain, from Castle Mountain, now Sheriff of San Rodrigo County.”

“In November my name will be on the ballot,” said Joe, “and I’ll sure appreciate your votes.”

Mrs. Neff smiled doubtfully, and turned her attention back to the shelves. Ellie gave him a long slow look, whose purport Joe could not fathom.

Fritz became busy with another customer. Joe went to the refrigerator, took out a bottle of root-beer, which he opened and drank in a leisurely fashion.

The Neff women rolled their cart to the counter. Fritz checked out the groceries, packed them in a cardboard box. A hand-lettered sign on the counter read:

MAMMOTH BAZAAR

AND

POTLUCK-SUPPER

AUSPICES: METHODIST CHURCH — BAPTIST CHURCH

PRIZES — BINGO — PRIZES

FREE COFFEE

ADMISSION 25 CENTS

COME ONE, COME ALL

SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 8

8 O’CLOCK, FOX VALLEY COMMUNITY CENTER

Fritz nodded to the sign and said, “You ladies planning to turn out?”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Neff. “We wouldn’t miss the church social. Ellie has a booth.”

“Guess I’d better drop in,” said Fritz. “How about you, Joe?”

“I might just be able to make it,” said Joe. He stepped forward as Ellie reached for the box of groceries. “Here, let me carry that. Looks pretty heavy.”

Ellie stood back, and Joe carried the box out to the pickup. Then he gallantly opened the door for Mrs. Neff, who hopped in with the agility of a sparrow. Ellie slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine. Joe started to close the door, then asked, “Is your husband at home, Mrs. Neff? I’d like to speak to him a minute or two if he is.”

“Yes, he’s home.”

“Maybe I’ll drive out after a while, then.”

He closed the door. Ellie shifted; the pickup swung out into the road.

Joe went back into the store. “Strange people,” he said to Fritz. “The woman acts like she’s afraid of her shadow.” He tossed a dime to the counter. “One root-beer.”

Fritz rang up the dime. “She never has much to say. They don’t mix very much.”

“That’s sure a pretty girl. Is she engaged, or anything of the sort?”

“Nope. Her father runs everybody off. It’s the best way to get your ass in a sling: go courting Ellie. Bob Richards tried it. Neff told him to clear out. Bob tried to date her at church. Neff stopped him on the road, told him to lay off. Bob laid off. Walt Hobius tried it: called at the house twice. Neff hemmed and hawed and finally told him he didn’t want anybody bothering his daughter unless their intentions were serious. Walt said he didn’t know whether they were serious or not until he got to know her. One word led to another, and Neff gave Walt a good cuffing. A college kid working for the telephone company tried to make out. Neff made a believer out of him. Let’s see, who else? Herman Jacobs, from up Fell Valley, gave Neff some lip. Neff knocked him clear across Main Street.”

“So this poor girl never gets out.”

“Just church, and like you see today. Neff is a real old-time fire-breathing Baptist.”

“Sure some funny people in the world.”

“How right you are.” Fritz went to the refrigerator, brought out two cans of beer, opened them, passed one to Joe. “Here’s to the old days. They weren’t any better, but we were a lot younger.”

“Sometimes I feel a hundred years old,” said Joe. He drank from the can. “What’s new around town?”

“Oh, this and that. Millie Hacker passed away last fall, but I guess you knew that.”

“No. First I heard. Old Bus is by himself?”

Fritz nodded. “He doesn’t get around much. Bad heart, or something similar. I don’t know what he lives on. Veteran’s pension, I suppose. Cole Destin doesn’t charge him rent, and gives him all the milk he needs.”

“Cole can afford it. How many head does he run now?”

“Seven, eight hundred, I suppose. Maybe more. He’s bought up a lot of bottom land along Mission Road the last few years, but he leases it all to the Japs.”

“They’ll do better than any white man.”

“They’re hard workers, that’s a fact.”

Joe finished his beer. “I hear Ausley Wyett’s back in town.”

“Yep, big as life. He’s been in the store two or three times, just like nothing whatever happened.”

“He’s got more nerve than I’ve got,” said Joe. “Well, I better be on my way. Where do I go to find Willis Neff?”

“Up Mitre Canyon Road four or five miles. You’ll see his mailbox.”

Joe drove south along Destin Road, turned west on Mitre Canyon Road. The hills rose steep; under stands of redwood and fir the shade was dark and damp.

Four miles along, Joe came to a neat white house surrounded by a garden bright with hollyhocks. Beyond and to the right were a white-washed barn, a long low milk-shed, a separator room with a dock for the loading of milk cans, a chicken-house. Joe turned into the driveway. A man he knew to be Neff stood working beside the loading dock. Neff looked up, then returned to his work. Joe alighted, and a black and white dog came forward barking. Neff spoke to the dog, gave Joe a quick, cool inspection from the palest of blue eyes.

“Mr. Neff?” asked Joe politely.

Neff nodded.

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain. Acting-Sheriff, I should say, until the election.”

“How d’you do. I won’t shake hands — I’m full of grease.” Neff was working on an electric motor, installing new brushes. “Bain, eh? There used to be some Bains up Castle Mountain. Blacky Bain, the man’s name was. Got knifed in a Mexican pool hall, or so they say.”

Joe nodded. “That was my father.”

“Well, think of that.” Neff put down his screwdriver, wiped his hands with a rag. “What brings you this way, Sheriff?”

“I came on two accounts. I’ll mention the personal reason first. I’m running for office in November and I’d certainly appreciate your vote. I think I can do a good job. I know the county backward and forward, and I plan to run a clean efficient department.”

“I’ll certainly bear in mind what you say.”

“Second is something strictly unofficial — information I don’t have any right to ask for.”

Neff’s eyes seemed to become an even icier blue. “What kind of information?”

“You know that Ausley Wyett is out on parole?”

“I know that.”

“My question is, have you had a communication from him?”

Neff nodded. “Yes. Don’t ask me what it said. I’m going to have a private word with Wyett about that letter.” He bent back over the motor.

Joe watched him. A cold man; a harsh passionate man. “Well, it’s your private business,” said Joe presently. “But for my own unofficial information, tell me, did the letter go something like this: ‘Dear Mr. Neff: Sixteen years is a long time to spend in prison; how do you intend to make it up to me?’”

Neff said nothing.

Joe shrugged. “Well, it’s your business, Mr. Neff. But just so that you won’t make any rash moves, let me say that others besides yourself have received the same letter.”

In a mild voice Neff said, “Seems to me these letters violate his parole. Seems to me he could be hustled back to jail.”

Joe laughed. “Come now, Mr. Neff. What’s he done? The letters aren’t threatening. They’re not even anonymous.”

“I’m not worried. Just one wrong move from Ausley Wyett …” Neff clamped his big jaw shut and returned to the motor.

“Well, Mr. Neff, I wouldn’t let my temper get the best of me, if I were you. It’s just not —”

Neff slowly raised his head, fixed Joe with the stare of a basilisk. “When I want advice, Sheriff, I’ll sure ask for it.”

Joe refused to be abashed. He turned, looking around the yard. “Nice place you have here.”

“As good as any hereabouts,” said Neff flatly. “Excuse me, I got to get this motor back in the separator before milking time.”

Joe returned down Mitre Canyon Road. Of the witnesses against Ausley Wyett there remained to be interviewed Bus Hacker and Cole Destin.

Approaching the intersection of Mitre Canyon Road and Destin Lane, Joe noticed a man stumping south along the road with a dogged angry step. He crossed the intersection, and Joe recognized Bus Hacker.

Joe made the turn into Destin Lane, stopped beside the high white paling-fence. Bus Hacker had already pushed through the gate and was crossing the flagstone path toward the steps leading up to his front porch.

Joe called, “Mr. Hacker!” Bus swung truculently about. He was a chunky little bulldog of a man, with pouches under his eyes and wattles beside his chin. He wore soiled gray trousers, a maroon flannel shirt, a dark blue baseball cap, under which untidy wisps of gray hair protruded. His face was mottled; he looked old and angry and tired.

Joe pushed open the gate, stepped into the bedraggled garden which once had been Millie Hacker’s pride. “Hi there, Mr. Hacker. Remember me? I’m Joe Bain.”

Bus Hacker peered suspiciously. “Joe Bain, eh? What do you want?” His voice was fretful and peevish. Then he glared. “Did you send word to meet you in town?”

“No,” said Joe. “I certainly did not.”

“Well, it’s pretty darn queer. Playing jokes on a sick old man. Twice now. I call it a damned outrage. Somebody poured water in my gas tank and I run down my battery trying to start up. What do you think of that?” He glared challengingly at Joe.

“It’s certainly a mean trick,” said Joe. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“No, I do not. I’d have sent him to jail. And that no-good Walt Hobius stalling me and putting me off, and so I walk all the way to town and back for nothing. Who’d want to do a trick like that?”

“I certainly can’t imagine, Mr. Hacker.”

“I tell you, it makes me pretty hot. I got enough to think about, trying to get well.”

“Just what happened?”

“Somebody called me on the phone, said there was an important government letter for me at the post office that I had to sign for. Well, they never heard of any such letter. What do you think of that?”

“A pretty mean trick, that’s what I’d say.”

“That’s what I say too. Did you want something special? I’m tired and I’ve got to have my rest.”

“I’ll make it short. I’ve been wondering if you’ve talked to Ausley Wyett since he’s got back.”

“I have not. I don’t intend to.” Bus Hacker’s lips trembled indignantly. “A man like that …”

“By any chance did you get a letter from him?”

“From Ausley Wyett? I don’t know. I haven’t opened my mail yet. Nothing but bills and advertisements anyway. Last week they tried to sell me dancing lessons.”

“I wonder if you’d look through your mail now.”

“Ausley Wyett’s got nothing to write me about. I don’t want nothing to do with him. If he knew what was good for him he’d have stayed in jail.”

Joe frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

“Never mind what I mean. How come you’re so interested? Who’d you say you were?”

“I’m the sheriff.”

“I thought you said you were Joe Bain.”

“I’m Acting-Sheriff Joe Bain.”

Bus Hacker gave his head a shake of bitter disparagement. “There’s something bad happening around these parts. Somebody pretty dog-gone mean is trying to make me sick and I want it stopped.”

“I’ll sure do my best, Mr. Hacker. What about that letter?”

Bus Hacker grunted, turned, looked up the steps as if they represented a challenge. “Well, I’ll go back. Maybe I did get a letter.”

He scraped his feet on a steel scraper with the air of long habit — Millie Hacker had been a famous housekeeper in her day — then laboriously began to mount the steps. On the porch, panting for breath, he wiped his shoes again on a steel-mesh mat. Reaching in his pocket he withdrew an enormous bunch of keys. As he sorted through them he spoke. “These steps get longer and higher every day. Soon as I get my health back I’m gonna fix things up. Put in a nice terrace and barbecue. Don’t care what it costs.” He opened the screen door, reached to fit the key in the lock, and slumped forward. He gave a convulsive jerk, toppled; Joe sprang to catch him, but too late: Bus Hacker rolled down the steps, landing on the back of his neck, so that his baseball cap jarred off. He lay wheezing and gasping, his face an alarming watermelon-pink. He flapped up one hand, coughed; his lips moved. Joe bent forward.

“O Lord,” whispered Bus Hacker. “I beg forgiveness … Lord Almighty …” Joe bent close. Bus Hacker’s tongue clattered and clacked. “… Years and years in this house … Letter in the mail … Nothing I knew for sure … Lord Almighty …” He sighed. His eyelids flickered, and under them shone slits of yellowish-white.

Chapter IV

Sheriff Joe Bain knelt in the warm afternoon sunlight. He felt for a pulse, but found none. The sun beat down into the garden; bees droned among the hollyhocks; little goat-flies hung and twitched through the air.

Joe went to the gate, looked up and down the road. There was no one in sight. He returned across the flagstone path, stepped over the corpse, climbed to the porch. Keys dangled from the lock. Joe opened the screen door, turned the key, eased open the front door, peered into the living room. The shades were drawn, and glowed luminous yellow in the sunlight. The air was stuffy and hot; there was an unpleasant odor of dust and dirty clothes and rancid food. Joe went to the phone, summoned Dr. Hesketh, the County Coroner. Then, standing in the middle of the room, he looked about. Knick-knacks were everywhere, uniformly coated with a film of dust. In a corner stood Bus Hacker’s safe, a heavy steel box about two feet high. There was a worn red Oriental rug on the floor; the furniture was a matched set, upholstered in bright green. Over the sofa was draped a vivid Mexican serape. On the mantle Joe found the letter, which had been opened. The contents read:

Dear Sir:

I am now out of jail, where I have served sixteen long years …

Joe tucked the letter into his pocket and went back out on the porch. The body lay as before, a grotesque heap. The sight made Joe uncomfortable. There was malice in the air, a gleeful gratified hate which Joe had sensed but had been unable to thwart. The idea irritated him. He had been too slow, too dense, too sluggish — and someone was laughing. Joe, a proud man, began to smoulder. He, Joe Bain, was sheriff; he, Joe Bain, had committed himself and his personal dignity to the maintenance of law and order. Any breach of the peace now was like a direct and vicious personal insult.

The question remained: had there indeed been a breach of the law? This wild-goose chase Bus Hacker had been sent upon: purposeless? While Bus Hacker’s heart condition was well known, a walk into town could be expected to irk him, no more. On the other hand, the water in his gas tank implied some sort of cunning premeditation … Joe frowned in dissatisfaction. The basic fact remained: the prankster could not have relied upon a walk into town to kill Bus Hacker, if indeed this had been intended. If the prankster were identified, could a manslaughter case be established? Probably not. Medical testimony must establish that the walk and Hacker’s rage were proximately the cause of the heart attack, and such testimony would be hard to come by.

Joe returned within, brought out the serape, laid it over Bus Hacker’s body. Then he seated himself on the top step and waited.

Fox Valley spread placid before his eyes. To the right, at the end of Destin Lane, sentinels of black Italian cypresses guarded the big white Destin house. Directly ahead Mitre Canyon Road led east past fields of alfalfa and the McAllister walnut grove, finally slanted up and across a saddle in the sunburned hills.

School had let out. Down the road came four small boys, hopping, swaggering. Behind were a pair of girls, flaxen-haired and very clean, dressed in crisp frocks of green and blue. They carried themselves with dignity, trying to ignore the small boys who, walking backwards, hooted and shouted raucous insults. “Prissy and Snooty Destin!” “Don’t even wear no underwear!”

“We do too!” yelled the ten-year-old. “And it’s not dirty like yours!”

“Prove it!” came the rejoinder. “I betcha can’t prove it.” And the boys yelped in delight. The girls tilted their noses, walked contemptuously past the crossroads, up Destin Lane. The boys separated, two walking east, two west along Mitre Canyon Road.

Things went along much as they always had, thought Joe.

Dr. William Hesketh, the coroner, arrived with an ambulance from the County Hospital. He made a brief examination, ordered the body into the ambulance and off to the morgue.

“I was talking to him just before he went,” said Joe. “Someone sent him walking into town on a wild-goose chase. He came back pretty mad. Do you think the walk did for him?”

The coroner shrugged. “Hard to say. You could never make it stand up.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

Down the road from Marblestone came a beige Chrysler hard-top. It braked to a stop beside the ambulance; Cole Destin paused to appraise the situation, then jumped out, came through the gate. He was a tall well-built man with bronzed skin, sun-bleached blond hair, a keen handsome face. He wore a blue and white plaid shirt, whipcord breeches, boots, big curved gray-green sunglasses. He noted the still form on the stretcher and turned to Joe. “What’s happened? Bus finally go?”

Joe nodded gravely. “Looks like his heart went out on him.”

“Poor old Bus. He hadn’t much to live for after Millie went. Still it’s too bad.” Cole Destin’s gaze roved the yard, which badly needed watering and weeding. The bridge of his nose twitched. “What a mess.” He turned back to Joe. “What brings you up here?”

“I came to see Bus. In fact I was talking to him when he died.”

Cole Destin gave Joe a rather careful examination. “I hear you’ve been appointed sheriff till the election.”

Joe made a deprecating gesture. “Don’t congratulate me too hard till after November.”

“You’ll be running?” Destin seemed surprised.

“I’ll be running.” Joe brought out his filing application. “Maybe I can get you down as one of my sponsors.”

Destin frowned. “Well, Joe, you probably know I never supported Cucchinello. In fact, Lee Gervase has lined me up on his ticket.”

“I’m not Cucchinello, and I’m planning to run things differently.”

Cole Destin shook his head dubiously. “You’ve got two strikes against you just working under Cooch.”

“That might well be.” Joe replaced the application in his pocket. “But I didn’t come out here on personal business.” The ambulance backed around, drove north; Joe raised his hand in farewell. “This morning Charley Blankenship showed me a letter from Ausley Wyett. I wonder if you got the same kind of letter?”

Cole Destin gave him another careful scrutiny. “Is that why you came to see Bus?”

“That’s right.”

“What did Bus have to say?”

“I didn’t get a chance to talk to him.”

Cole Destin looked in the direction of the Wyett ranch. “I can’t say I’m one of Ausley’s admirers. I have daughters of my own —”

“I saw them go past a few minutes ago. Cute kids.”

“— but I don’t see any point in making things hard for him. For the moment anyway, I’m making no complaint.”

“But, just unofficially, you got a letter?”

Destin nodded curtly. He walked up the steps to the porch. Joe followed, and went on into the house behind Destin.

Destin looked around, nostrils pinched. “I don’t think Bus cleaned house since Millie died.”

“You own this place, as I remember.”

Destin nodded. “The Hackers have had it rent free for as long as I can remember — my father’s wishes. Millie worked for us thirty years, and I guess the house represented a pension.”

“What will you do with the place now?”

Destin shrugged. “Maybe I’ll just pull it down. What rent I’d get, after taxes and maintenance, would hardly pay for the trouble. And it’s an eyesore. Every time I look out of the window this little white box looks back at me.” Destin walked into the bedroom, turned around, came back. “I guess I’ll have to notify the relatives. I think there’s cousins in Los Angeles. Millie had a sister in Iowa, but she’s probably dead by now.”

Joe indicated the safe. “What did Bus keep in there?”

“Lord only knows.”

“I don’t suppose you have the combination?”

Destin shook his head. “Bus was a secretive old codger.” He walked over to the safe, tried the door without avail. “I’ll have to have somebody open the thing,” he said gloomily. “Do you know anyone who could do the trick?”

“Sorry, Cole. No big-time bank robbers in jail this time of year. But I wouldn’t touch anything if I were you. The executor of his estate has to look things over before anyone else.”

Destin grunted. “What estate?”

“Hard to say. You never know.”

Destin turned away. “I suppose I better lock up.” He held the door open for Joe, turned the key, rattled the knob to make sure the door was locked.

They went down the walk. Destin climbed into his beige Chrysler, and with a brief flip of his hand drove down Destin Lane toward his home. Joe went back into the yard. He considered a moment or two, then climbed the steps, pulled back the screen door, tried the door-knob. It was locked securely. He examined the hinges, the lock, the floor of the porch, moved the steel mesh to examine a hole in the gray-painted tongue-and-groove. He descended to the yard, walked around the house. A short flight of concrete steps led down to a door giving into the cellar. Joe peered through the glass pane. Shelves bore jar after jar of preserved fruits and jellies: supplies Millie Hacker had put by for the rainy day which never came. To the left Joe glimpsed a workbench, with a vise and a few rusty tools. He tried the door, then returned to ground level and continued around the house. There were two other windows into the basement; through each of these he peered, but saw only the usual accumulation of dilapidated chairs, spare mattresses, stacks of magazines.

Joe went back to his car. At the gate he took a last look back toward the house, then drove off toward Marblestone. At the Wyett mailbox he turned into the driveway, pulled up in front of the house. This was a long low shack of unpainted boards, with a roof of green composition and a stone fireplace at the far end. To the rear stood a dank-looking tank-house surrounded by a thicket of bamboo, with a windmill on top. Fifty yards to the right stood the fateful barn, concealing the now disused pigstyes. An old gray Willys station wagon was parked to the side. There was a sudden ferocious barking, a singing metallic whine. At either end of the house, tethered to overhead wires by sliding chains, two black police dogs bellowed and lunged furiously.

A shadow appeared behind the screen door, for a moment stood watching. Then the door opened and Ausley Wyett swung down the rickety wooden steps. He spoke to the dogs; the barking subsided; they backed growling under the house.

Ausley Wyett came forward, head tilted to the side. “Looks like Joe Bain,” he said. “Haven’t seen you for — oh, seventeen, eighteen years, I guess. You haven’t changed much, Joe.”

“You haven’t changed too much either, Ausley.” Ausley Wyett’s belly was rounder, his skin showed a gray undertone, his lank brown hair was thin at the scalp, but it still seemed the same tall big-nosed awkward ridiculous Ausley Wyett. “No, Ausley,” said Joe, “it don’t look as if you’ve changed hardly at all.”

Ausley shook his head sadly. “Up there at San Quentin you can’t help but change. Things happen like you never imagined. You’re in with the meanest, baddest people there are.”

“That’s why they’re there,” said Joe.

Ausley’s mouth moved in a wry grin. “I’ll tell you one thing: I’m glad to be out. I worked hard on that good-conduct rating.”

“I guess you aren’t fixing to go back, eh Ausley?”

“No, sir. Not if I can help it.”

“You might not have heard, but I’m sheriff of the county now.”

“Well, I’ll be switched,” said Ausley admiringly. “That’s as wild as me being in jail!”

Joe made no effort to analyze the remark. Ausley Wyett’s thinking had always been considered erratic. “Acting-sheriff, I should say. I’m filling out Sheriff Cucchinello’s term. He died just a day or so ago.”

“That’s too bad. Old Cooch wasn’t such a bad guy. Treated me decent, when I had that little trouble.”

Joe looked around the yard. “What are you planning to do with yourself?”

“I hardly know, Joe. The place was leased all the time I was gone. I wasn’t in a position to spend very much, so I’ve got a good bit of change stowed away. I’ll probably run a few head of cattle.” He fished a package of cigarettes from his pocket. “Smoke?”

“No thanks,” said Joe. “That’s one vice I never took to.”

“Smart boy.” Ausley tucked the cigarette into the exact center of his mouth, struck a match, lit up, waved out the match with an expansive flourish. “I haven’t had too much of a reception around here. You’re the first — no, the second — caller I’ve had. Oliver Viera was here just yesterday.”

“Then you know why I’m here. What’s the idea sending out all those letters?”

Ausley rubbed his chin. “That’s what Oliver asked me. Everybody gets all excited about a little mail.”

“Seems to me you’ve been pretty busy. Charley Blankenship, Cole Destin, Neff, Ollie Viera and old Bus Hacker.”

“You’ve seen these letters?”

“Two of them. By a funny coincidence all these people were witnesses against you at the trial.”

“And they’ve all complained about these letters?”

“They’re all put out. Charley Blankenship thinks you should be put back in jail. Willis Neff plans to whip you. Bus Hacker wants me to arrest you on two counts: the letter, and for making him walk into town.”

Ausley’s foxy eyebrows arched in surprise. “Arrest me for what? Making Bus Hacker walk into town? How’d I do this?”

“You didn’t do it then?”

“Did he say I did?”

“That’s neither here nor there.”

Ausley Wyett laughed. “Now Joe, you know better than that. I did a lot of thinking up there in the pen. The last thing I want is to get in any more jack-pots. What I want to know is, did Bus Hacker accuse me? If he did, I want him to sign a complaint and I want you to arrest me, so I can hire a lawyer, I mean a good lawyer.”

“That kind of attitude won’t get you anywhere, Ausley.”

“‘Attitude’? I don’t have any attitude. I just asked you if Bus Hacker accused me of something.”

“No,” said Joe. “He didn’t have a chance. He got so tired and mad that he had a heart attack and died.”

Ausley stared at Joe in astonishment, then looked across the field at the line of poplar trees which concealed the Hacker house. “So that was what the commotion was about. I thought I seen an ambulance go by.”

“Bus Hacker was riding in it when it came back through. If you had anything to do with that wild-goose chase, you better feel pretty bad about it.”

Ausley thoughtfully sucked on his cigarette. “I seen him on his way to town day before yesterday. He walked pretty spry for a man who’s ready to go.”

“Well, he walked in today and it was the death of him. I know for a fact because I was right there.”

“Thank the Lord it wasn’t me.”

“Another matter.” But Joe decided not to mention the water in Bus Hacker’s gas tank. He said instead, “I’m on the ballot for sheriff in the election. I don’t think you’re allowed to vote just yet, but if you’re talking among your friends, I’d like to have you pass the word along.”

Ausley puffed on his cigarette. “Do you think my recommendation would help?”

“I’ll take all the help I can get.” Joe climbed into his car, but paused before starting the engine. Ausley watched him placidly. “I don’t know what you got in mind,” said Joe, “and you don’t seem to want to tell me. But my advice is to lay off bothering people. You’re out on parole, and it’s up to you to behave yourself.”

“Look at it my way, Joe. Suppose you were put away for sixteen years. When you got out, you’d want to get even with whoever put you there, now wouldn’t you?”

“Are you saying you didn’t attack Tissie McAllister?”

“The jury found me guilty,” said Ausley. “They went by what the witnesses told them, and the witnesses were all against me. Naturally I don’t feel kindly about it.”

Joe said, “I advise you not to go looking for trouble, Ausley. You might find yourself right back in the old cell block.”

Ausley shook his head, threw down his cigarette, stamped it out in the dirt. “You won’t catch me at anything like that, Joe. No sir.”

Chapter V

Joe Bain drove east down Candelara Creek Road with the sun at his back. The hills fell away; to right and left the great light-drenched valley opened before him. A few minutes before five he arrived at Pleasant Grove. Swinging around Montalvo Square he parked in front of the courthouse, currently the subject of heated controversy. A group of local businessmen considered the structure not only hideous but a monument to the county’s lack of a progressive spirit. An editorial in the Pleasant Grove Messenger presented their case in this fashion:

The time has come — in fact, is long overdue — to make some improvements hereabouts. One of our first tasks should be to rid Pleasant Grove of that monumental eyesore, that dingy rat-ridden monstrosity, that infamous architectural freak known as the County Courthouse. We are ridiculed around the world; the noted architect Werner Neubarth, in his book Toward a New Century, has selected this structure as the ultimate definition of what he calls ‘Fish-market Gothic’. This kind of publicity we can do without.

It is well known in industrial circles that an efficient plant makes for efficient operation. So look at us. We have this dreary, creaking old bat-shelter of a courthouse and likewise we have notorious laxities of administration.

Remedies are not wanting. We can exercise our franchise and vote as progressive citizens of Greater San Rodrigo County, for Greater San Rodrigo County, in the November elections. There will be a slate of attractive and vigorous candidates. There will be a proposal to tear down this disreputable old relic and erect a modern efficient plant in its place …

The editorial had been published a month before; the “notorious laxities” referred to were those of Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello. As for the courthouse, Joe had never understood what the fuss was all about. Personally, he rather liked the old building. It had character. It stood five stories tall and each story apparently had been designed by a different architect. The first story was a square of liver-colored sandstone, trimmed with pilasters of the Ionic order upholding a cast-iron frieze, and an iron railing. The windows were tall narrow embrasures and displayed crumpled yellow shades, drawn to various levels. The second story, a slightly smaller block of buff sandstone, was set five feet behind the railing, which enclosed a promenade invaluable for the reviewing of parades and delivering of speeches. Next were three stories of frame construction painted mouse-gray, each with bay windows, balconies, columns, arches, fascia carved to represent basket-weaving. At the summit, guarded by fairy-castle crenellations, rose a green copper dome and a flagstaff. Over the front entrance a bronze plaque read:

SAN RODRIGO COUNTY COURTHOUSE

ERECTED 1872

TRUTH — JUSTICE — HONOR

The proposed new courthouse, as depicted in sketches submitted by the San Francisco firm Moderna Associates, would be a simple block of stainless steel and glass, eight stories high, functional in every detail. It would be a symbol of progress. Not everyone liked the design. A barber in Panoche thought it looked like a portable air-conditioner turned on its side. The magnitude of the proposed bond issue had also aroused opposition, much to the impatience of the progressive businessmen of Pleasant Grove.

Behind the courthouse, a concrete-block annex housed the sheriff’s office and the county jail. When Joe entered, he was surprised to find Mrs. Rostvolt still sitting at her desk. “Mr. Griselda called,” she told him in a monotone. “He wants you to call him back.”

“Griselda, eh?” Howard Griselda owned and edited the Pleasant Grove Messenger, and so must be reckoned one of the county’s most influential citizens. “Put him on.” Joe went into his office, took up the receiver. Griselda presently spoke: “Griselda here.”

“This is Joe Bain, Mr. Griselda. I understand you called.”

“Yes, so I did. Do you have a few minutes to spare?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’ll drop right over. I won’t keep you long; it’s late in the day, I know.”

Five minutes later Griselda stepped into Joe’s office. He was a short powerful-looking man of forty-five, with a square blocky face, crisp iron-gray hair, a sallow rather soft complexion. He had sparkling black eyes, an expression of unquenchable energy and determination; he walked with a brisk swing, a slight forward stoop.

Joe rose, shook hands, indicated a chair. Griselda looked around the office. “I see you’ve cleared out all Cooch’s little treasures. Place doesn’t look the same.”

“The place isn’t the same. I’m running a different kind of office.”

“Long overdue.” He sat back, loaded a pipe, fixed Joe with a penetrating stare. Pipe and stare were well-known Griselda mannerisms. Joe waited.

Griselda lit his pipe and said through the smoke, “I understand you have a story for me.”

Joe looked at him nonplussed. “Story? I can’t think of anything offhand. Man the other side of Mulberry trapped a chicken thief two nights back and brought him in. Young Mexican. Had a hit-and-run last night on Rose Avenue. Sergeant Miggs is looking into it, and I think we’ve got a line. Out in Marblestone a man named Bus Hacker died — heart attack. Things are quiet otherwise.” He sat back in his chair. “Where’d you get this information?”

“A tip came into the office — man’s voice, wouldn’t leave his name.”

Joe shook his head. “I can’t think of anything really hot. You can print a piece to the effect that I’m planning to run for the office of Sheriff. In fact, Mr. Griselda, I’m hoping I have your support.”

Griselda puffed his pipe. “You’re definitely in the race?”

“I certainly am. I think I’m the best man available. I know the business, I know the county, and I know the mistakes to avoid.”

Griselda said briskly, “I’ll be completely candid, Sheriff. I think the department needs a shake-up. Look at the rate of growth of other counties nearby. Phenomenal. Look at the rate of growth of San Rodrigo County. Nothing. We’re falling behind, Bain — falling way back!”

“Well,” said Joe in a reasonable voice, “some folks like peace and quiet. Maybe it’s a good thing.”

Griselda shook his head stubbornly. “We can’t evade progress. I think Lee Gervase represents progress. He’s a young man, keen, energetic. He’s a real ball of fire. He’s had a sound legal and criminological background at the university, and I think he’s a man to bring modern methods to the department.”

Joe made a sound to indicate complete disagreement. “Mr. Griselda, be reasonable. What good is progress? Does it catch any more chicken thieves? Or there’s a brawl down at Diego’s Place. What good is progress to the man making the pinch? Mr. Griselda, you’re all wrong. I hate to say this, because I want your support — but you’re like a cat chewing a piece of dandelion fluff; you’re getting all lathered up over nothing.”

Griselda raised his eyebrows, puffed his pipe.

“Now this Lee Gervase,” Joe went on. “I hear he’s a real hot dog. But where’s his experience? Did he ever get biffed in the nose by a drunk? Did he ever pull a sick cow out of Genesee Slough, like I did three weeks back? Did he ever —”

“All this is beside the point,” interrupted Howard Griselda. “A sheriff doesn’t need to get ‘biffed’ in the nose, or rescue sick cows. That’s why we hire a staff of deputies. The sheriff should be a manager, a leader, a symbol.”

“Maybe so. But I don’t care how much a symbol the sheriff is, when he runs into trouble he’s got to know how to handle it. Trouble. That’s what the sheriff’s business is. I know every bad actor in the county. I know every gambling joint, every whore, every Mexican cock-pit —”

Howard Griselda jerked upright in the chair. Joe saw that in his earnestness he had blundered.

“It’s hardly to your credit,” said Griselda coldly. “These activities are illegal. If you know so much, why don’t you stop it all?”

Joe heaved a deep breath. “In principle I agree. But I think there’s a limit to how far you should push a law that maybe is a little unrealistic. I used to find out about something illegal, and I’d report to Cucchinello. He’d say, ‘They hurting anybody? Anybody kicking?’ Like as not, the answer was no. Cooch would say, ‘Just keep things under control. Don’t let anybody get obnoxious, but if somebody wants to blow off some steam over at Slough-house, and nobody gets hurt — why, what’s the damage?’ I think he was right. Understand, Mr. Griselda, I’m talking to you man-to-man. I don’t want you to print a story about Sheriff Joe Bain being soft on vice. That’s not the case. There won’t be a cent of easy money coming my way. I don’t want it. What Cooch did, or might have done, is one thing. I’m not built that way. I don’t want favors from anybody.”

Griselda said in a terse voice, “I don’t endorse this philosophy. You can’t be half-good. It’s a case of all clean or all dirty. I think Lee Gervase will run a department that’s all clean.”

Joe sat in defeated silence.

Griselda said in a milder voice, “I didn’t come here to hector you, Joe. You say there’s nothing to this tip about something big in Marblestone?”

Joe became alert. “You didn’t say that the tip mentioned Marblestone.”

“Well, it did.”

“I wish I knew who called in that tip.”

“Why?”

Joe said slowly, “Just between you and me, Mr. Griselda — and this is absolutely, definitely, not for publication, not even a hint — there’s something strange going on.”

“Such as what?”

“I don’t like to say — mainly because I don’t know. Things just don’t feel right.”

Griselda tapped out his pipe, rose to his feet. “You’ll let me know when you find out?”

“I will. And if you get any more tips — try to get a line on who’s tipping.”

“I’ll do my best, Sheriff.”

Griselda departed. Joe crossed the hall to the outer office. Mrs. Rostvolt was only just now shoving cigarettes and lighter into her big leather handbag, preparatory to departing. She wanted to hear what Griselda had to say, thought Joe gloomily. Her curiosity was no more than natural. Mrs. Rostvolt had a stake in the election too. If Lee Gervase won and brought in a new staff, she’d be out of a job with everyone else.

Mrs. Rostvolt said, “Some letters for you to sign. I’ve put them in your basket.”

“Thanks. I’ll take care of them.” Joe returned to his office, addressed himself to his paper-work, which meant signing his name to four letters Mrs. Rostvolt had composed. There was a reassuring statement to a lady who had seen a tramp. A farmer had demanded investigation of a load of tin cans and rubbish which had been dumped into his pasture: Mrs. Rostvolt promised that a criminological expert would presently arrive to study the evidence. The Sanchez Elementary School had sent the sheriff a pair of complimentary tickets to the annual school play. Mrs. Rostvolt had declined on Joe’s behalf with great regret. An irate taxpayer complained of deer jumping the fence into his vegetable garden; why did not the sheriff keep the deer population within bounds? The sheriff was studying the problem, wrote Mrs. Rostvolt, and as a stop-gap measure suggested a watch-dog. Or little sacks of blood-meal hung around the property were said to repel the deer.

Joe signed the letters gratefully. For all her disagreeable personality Mrs. Rostvolt was the next thing to indispensable. Who else could have composed such suave responses? A less adroit woman would have involved him in three futile investigations and a school play; or worse, have cost him a dozen votes … Joe decided to go home. He made a final round of the department. The night shift of deputies had checked in, as well as the night radio operator. The prisoners were at their dinner. Joe looked into Duke Scanlon’s cell. “Well? Any kicks about the grub?”

“Coffee ain’t too fresh.”

“Tomorrow I’ll have an expresso machine brought in for you,” said Joe.

He left the office, drove out Green Street to the house he shared with his mother and his daughter. Miranda was now 16 and a junior at Pleasant Grove High School. She was a pretty, vivacious girl, and generally the house was cheerful with the sound of music and chattering teenagers. Tonight no one was home. His mother was attending a church function; Miranda was spending the night with a friend. A platter of cold chicken and a bowl of potato salad had been left for his supper. Joe opened a can of beer, brought out bread and butter, propped the evening paper in front of him and began to eat. A boxed story in a conspicuous spot at the bottom of the first page attracted his attention:

LEE GERVASE ADDRESSES ROTARY CLUB

ON NEED FOR ENERGETIC PROGRAM

Joe stopped eating and read the story. Lee Gervase, like Howard Griselda, felt that San Rodrigo County was standing still while the rest of California forged ahead.

The final paragraph mentioned that Lee Gervase would be a candidate for sheriff in the forthcoming elections.

Joe scowled, turned to the sports section, and finished his supper. Then he went outside, stood in the twilight. He felt restless, uneasy, lonesome. The image of a face came to his mind: a quiet sober face, with blue eyes and rich blonde hair. Joe frowned. Ellie Neff? That’s who it looked like. Well, well, well. He went back into the house, turned on the TV, turned it off again. With no one home the house was unnaturally quiet. He opened another can of beer, and thought about Bus Hacker. Someone had it in for the old man, what with water in his gas tank and the misleading telephone call. He finished his beer, and decided to make a quick check around town before turning in. He went out to his car, made contact with the night radio operator, drove toward the center of town. He circled Montalvo Square, turned north on Highway 32, drove out into the countryside. The night was warm and quiet; the air smelled of ripe alfalfa and irrigated earth. To right and left glimmered the lights of snug homesteads. “Progress,” snorted Joe. “What do they want around here, steel mills?”

Twenty minutes later he approached the hamburger stands, motels and filling stations which signaled the outskirts of Aurora. Aurora was a trifle larger, a few years newer, a shade more wide-awake than Pleasant Grove. Whenever carnivals or circuses came to the county, they tended to set up at Aurora. The County Fair, of course, was firmly and definitely the property of Pleasant Grove. Aurora, however, had a roller-skating rink and a public swimming pool, and the young folk were reputed rather wilder and faster than the youth of Pleasant Grove.

Joe cruised slowly up and down the main thoroughfare, circled through the back streets, then leaving town turned east on the county road, drove off through the night. Low hills rolled up ahead, gleaming like satin in the moonlight. The road wound, dipped, slanted down into the drab little village of Coyote, consisting of railway station, garage, restaurant, grocery store and a dozen houses in a tall grove of eucalyptus trees.

Joe turned south toward Mulberry, home of the Moeblin Bee Farm, which packed and shipped clover honey across the nation. But instead of continuing to Mulberry Joe turned left toward the sloughs. The country changed. The ground became dank, the air cooler. For a mile or two the road ran beside a drainage canal choked with tules. The air now carried a bosky, aromatic bouquet, and the sound of crickets was punctuated by the croak of frogs. A levee loomed ahead; the road swerved up and over an old timber bridge, which creaked and rumbled as Joe crossed Railroad Slough. The road struck off again, toward a far faint constellation of lights. After three miles the road mounted another levee, followed Genesee Slough toward the lights, which now were seen to festoon a big old-fashioned three-story building with a verandah overlooking the water. This was Slough-house, an institution at its heyday during Prohibition, when it acquired a reputation for picturesque vice which it never quite outlived. Slough-house was now relatively respectable. True, there were rooms to be rented on a casual basis; complaisant ladies could generally be found at the bar. On summer Saturday nights there was dancing at an open-air pavilion beside the slough. Some of the most fragrant memories of Joe’s youth were connected with these Saturday night dances. The orchestra played romantic old tunes like I’ll See You in My Dreams, Whispering, Three O’Clock in the Morning; the weeping willows changed color as the floodlights shifted through red, blue, green, and gold. After one such dance occurred the incident which culminated in Joe’s marriage … Joe heaved a sigh for his lost youth. A dozen cars were parked in front of the bar. Luminous medallions advertising beer winked a cheerful invitation, but Joe drove past. It might not be too good an idea to be seen here. Not till after election, anyway.

The road followed the levee all the way to Genesee, beside moonlit water, willows and cottonwoods, occasional boat harbors. At Genesee Joe parked in front of the River Inn, a respectable counterpart of Slough-house, went into the café for a cup of coffee. Of the eight or ten customers, no one recognized him, or heeded the Sheriff’s emblem on the car. Joe became depressed. Cucchinello, now, would have swaggered back and forth, exchanging banter with all, friend and stranger alike. Even while they recognized him for a Falstaffian old incompetent, they’d give him their votes. Joe shook his head mournfully. He didn’t have Cooch’s touch. The word “Incumbent” on the ballot would bring him a few votes and repel as many more. Joe wondered whether his position entitled him to the designation “Incumbent”. Something he’d have to check with the County Clerk.

He returned to his car, drove west through a dry wasteland inhabited by owls, jack-rabbits and coyotes. After half an hour the land swelled, subsided, and the road swooped up over moonlit hills. For a mile it plunged through a bower of enormous eucalyptus trees, and a mile later entered Panoche. This was a sizable, bustling, ugly town, with four packing sheds, a cannery, a high school, a traffic light at the central intersection. Joe could turn left, drive out to Sanchez and return to Pleasant Grove via Tevis, or he could drive directly back to Pleasant Grove via Highway 11. He pulled to the curb, reached for the microphone, called into the office. “This is Joe Bain, calling from Panoche. Where’s everybody?”

“Bill’s at Verdalia, Ben’s nailing a D and D in San Rodrigo, Gonzales is here on standby. Quiet night.”

“Okay. I’m coming in.”

The hour was close to midnight when he finally eased to a stop in front of his house. He had driven close to a hundred miles. What had he accomplished? Which of the sleeping farmers along the route knew that Sheriff Joe Bain had passed, alert for wrong-doing?

The moon had sunk low over the hills, and shone at him through the branches of the trees across the street. In the cool stillness Joe called into headquarters, checked himself out. He alighted, walked across the lawn. His mother had already retired; Joe switched off the porch light she had left burning. It was a comfortable old cottage, distinguished principally by its cheap rent. If Joe were elected he might have to move to a more stylish house just to keep up appearances. Ernest Cucchinello had lived in a big ranch-style house on McClellan Avenue near the country club …

At nine o’clock the following morning he arrived at the office. Mrs. Rostvolt gave him a formal good-morning, to which he made a civil reply. He went into his office; almost at once the telephone jingled. Arthur van Horn, Chief of the Marblestone Volunteer Fire Department, spoke briefly and to the point. “Last night the Hacker house burnt down. To the ground. Seeing as Bus just died I thought you should be notified.”

“I’ll be right out,” said Joe. “Don’t let anybody touch anything.”

Chapter VI

Joe parked in Destin Lane, a hundred feet from the destroyed Hacker house. Half a dozen other cars were parked in the road; a tow-truck had backed into the yard with Walt Hobius standing at the winch. A dozen men and boys milled through the garden watching proceedings. Taking a firm grip on his temper Joe stalked back toward the ruins.

Arthur van Horn, the fish-eyed proprietor of the Marblestone Hotel and Restaurant, walked nervously back and forth. Noting Joe’s approach he came to a halt, letting his arms swing hopelessly out to the side. “I told them what you told me, Joe. They wouldn’t pay no attention. I just couldn’t control them.”

Joe nodded curtly, went into the front yard. The white bungalow of yesterday had become a rectangle of steaming and reeking ashes. A few pipes stood bent and plaintively tall, one of them terminating in a shower head. A vaguely delineated hole represented the basement. In this hole, knee-deep in ashes, embers, broken bottles of Millie Hacker’s jams and preserves, stood Cole Destin, sweating and streaked with soot. With vicious tugs and jerks, he sought to force the cable from Walt Hobius’ tow-truck under a bulky cubical object. Looking more closely Joe saw this object to be Bus Hacker’s safe. He moved back a trifle, and around to the side.

Cole finally worked the cable beneath the safe, engaged the standing part of the line with the hook. He jerked up his hand. “Try her now. Slow and easy.”

Walt engaged the winch. The cable snapped taut; the safe lurched, began to move, plowing a deep trench through the refuse. At the base of the wall it rose, hung swinging, and here Walt held it. He came to the edge of the hole, looked down. “She won’t come that way, Cole. She’ll raise as far as the edge and hang up.”

“Go ahead, take her up.”

“You need a ramp, something like that. Something to ease her over the edge of the concrete.”

“Go ahead,” said Cole. “Try it the way we got her.”

“Okay.” Shaking his head dubiously toward the spectators, Walt eased in the clutch. The safe rose until it came to the lip of the hole, where now the tension acted only to pull the safe into the foundation. Walt released the clutch, held the tension by means of a ratchet. “That’s it, Cole.”

“Give it a jerk, it’ll break loose.”

“More likely break my line. She’s hung up.”

“If you break the line, I’ll make it good. Don’t worry about that. Give it a jerk, snap her right up and out.”

Walt motioned the spectators back. “Look out now. If that cable snaps she’ll fly any which way.” He manipulated the controls, but the clutch slipped and the safe fell back into the hole. Cole cursed. Joe winced. If the contents of the safe had been at all charred, they would now be shaken into illegible fragments.

Cole waded through the filth, adjusted the cable. “Take her up.”

Once more the safe rose to the lip of the hole and halted. Cole seized a four-foot stub of 2x4, pried at the safe, standing perilously close. “Okay, now, goose her!”

Walt engaged the clutch, the safe bumped up and over, jounced across the ground toward the truck.

Joe stepped forward. “Cut off that winch!”

Walt looked at him startled, threw out the clutch. Cole scrambled from the hole, sweating and begrimed with filth. He gave Joe a curt nod, and spoke to Walt, “Just lift it easy now, and take it up to my place. I’ll follow in my car.”

“Just a minute,” said Joe. “I wanted things left alone around here. I’m not kicking too much because you saved me the trouble of dragging that safe up. I’m taking over now.”

Cole faced Joe squarely. “You’re not going to take that safe, Joe.”

“I’m going to get first look into it.”

Cole stared at him. Joe turned to the onlookers who had pressed forward, the better to witness the altercation. “I’d like you people to get back to the road. This may be arson, and I don’t want to have the place tramped under.”

Cole said, “On what grounds do you claim this safe, Joe?”

“I’m investigating what looks like a crime.”

“What crime?”

“First of all, arson.”

“What if it was? I’m not making any complaint.”

“Was the house insured?”

“Naturally.”

“Are you planning to make a claim?”

Cole hesitated. Before he could respond, Joe asked, “Just to get matters straight, did you burn the place yourself, or get somebody to burn it?”

“I certainly did not.”

Joe turned, went to the safe, nodded with satisfaction. “I thought that’s what I saw. Somebody tried to bust into the safe. Look at the lock. It’s smashed completely off.”

Cole looked glumly down at the safe.

“This is one of the Kirby Triplex locks,” said Joe, drawing on the lore he had assimilated at the Chapman Institute of Criminology. “Some of the old locks you can knock off with a sledge hammer, then punch out the lock, and the door flies open. A Kirby just jams. Somebody had to find out the hard way.”

Cole set his jaw, and seemed to be casting about for something to say — preferably a good reason why Joe should not take the safe.

Joe asked mildly, “Why all the sweat about this safe? Old Bus never had anything special of value, did he?”

“Somebody thought he did,” growled Cole, jerking his head at the ruined lock. “I want to make sure that whatever’s there stays there.”

“It’ll be safe with me.” Joe turned to Walt. “Think you can lift that safe and lay her in the trunk of my car?”

“I guess so.” Walt glanced dubiously at Cole, who said nothing. “I’ll raise her, drive out into the road. You back up, and we’ll manhandle it in.”

“Okay, take it out into the road. But lift it slow and gentle.”

Cole renewed his protest. “Look here, Joe. I’m responsible for that safe and its contents. I don’t want to let it out of my sight.”

Joe considered. “I can’t see how you’re responsible. Unless there’s a will naming you either heir or executor.”

“Maybe there is a will in the safe.”

“It’s sure taken a beating, if it’s there. What with the fire and the bungling around you gave it.”

Cole said doggedly, “It seems to me that someone ought to be on hand to represent Bus Hacker when that safe is opened. And since I’m about the only friend old Bus had —”

“I’ve no objection to that.”

Walt Hobius took the truck out into the road, the safe dangling behind. Joe went to his car, radioed into headquarters. Ace Wardell, the deputy on radio duty, responded.

“Call the state lab at San Jose, Ace. I want two men: an arson investigator and somebody to open a safe.”

“Right. Where do you want ’em?”

“I want the arson man out here in Marblestone, at the Hacker residence, corner of Mitre Canyon Road and Destin Lane.”

“Got it.”

“As soon as he arrives I’ll bring the safe in, so hold the safecracker at the office.”

“Right. Will do.”

By dint of careful maneuvering and help from the spectators the safe was eased into the trunk of Joe’s car. Cole Destin stood to the side, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. He asked, “When do you propose to open the safe?”

“As soon as I get back to the office.”

“I’m going home to clean up,” said Cole and departed.

Joe looked around for Arthur van Horn and found him leaning dourly against the fence. Joe asked him, “What time was the alarm turned in?”

“About two-thirty.”

“Who turned it in?”

“Ausley Wyett rang the bell.”

“Ausley Wyett, eh? Well, that figures. He’s the closest neighbor.”

Van Horn nodded in reluctant consent. “By the time we got here it was just no use. The place was gone.”

Joe went back to an inspection of the ruins. Firemen and spectators had trampled the grounds thoroughly: there was small hope of finding footprints or any other sort of clue. Nevertheless — if for no other reason than that it was expected of him — he walked slowly around the house, peering here and there, examining oddments and fragments.

An hour later Edgar B. Hardwick, from the state criminological laboratory at San Jose, arrived. He was a small sober man, wearing precisely creased brown slacks, a neat tan jacket. Joe introduced himself, took him to the ruins. Hardwick shook his head dubiously. “A mess as usual.” He returned to his car, slipped into blue coveralls and overshoes, then went to work.

He walked around the periphery of the house, occasionally bending over to look into the ashes. Twice he picked up a fragment of wood, smelled of it.

Joe watched a moment, then said, “I’ll be heading back to town. You can give me a call when you’re finished.”

“Don’t expect too much,” said Hardwick. “So far I can tell only one thing definitely: the house burned down.”

Cole Destin had returned and was grimly waiting in his car. Joe took a last look around and started back to Pleasant Grove, with Cole following.

He drove around to the rear of the courthouse, parked near the garage. With the help of Deputy Wardell and the lock expert, the safe was eased to the ground on a pair of planks.

The lock expert inspected the safe and, like Hardwick the arson expert, seemed discouraged. “The lock’s so buggered up I’ll have to cut it out with the torch.”

“Just so long as you open it,” said Joe.

“Oh, I’ll open it, don’t worry about that.”

Joe nodded toward the lock. “Did the man know what he was doing?”

“I’d say not. Amateur job, strictly. He knew enough to bring a hammer and a set of punches and that’s about all.” He brought his panel truck up around, unreeled hoses from the oxygen and hydrogen tanks, connected his torch, donned a mask, and set to work. Sparks coruscated, white-hot metal puddled and dripped. He took up a heavy long-handled chisel, pecked, chipped, pounded, then burnt a few minutes longer. Presently he lifted his mask, looked up at Joe. “Something I better tell you. Once in a while after a real good fire the insulation holds the heat in. Then when the door opens the air hits and everything bursts into flame.”

Joe eyed the safe dubiously. “Do you think that’s about to happen here?”

“I wouldn’t think so. Not enough insulation in a little can like this.”

“Which means that everything inside is burnt to hell.”

“More than likely … Well, here it comes.” He pried with his bar; the door sagged and fell open. There was no burst of flame; the interior was hardly warm. The safecracker replaced his equipment, accepted Joe’s compliments and departed.

Joe turned to find Cole Destin peering into the safe. Joe quickly stepped forward. “Give me a little room, Cole. This has to be done careful-like.”

Cole moved aside. With a pair of tongs Joe reached into the bottom compartment, brought forth a large ledger. The canvas binding was charred, the covers were soft and almost crumbling to the touch, but the pages seemed relatively undamaged. Joe laid the ledger aside, returned to the safe. From a side niche he extracted a brittle packet of letters, charred on all the outside surfaces. Another niche yielded a brittle black envelope, originally manila paper, which Joe laid carefully upon the ledger. There was a warped metal drawer which Joe opened with difficulty. Within were black flakes of charred paper shaken and jarred into fragments. Joe shook his head in dissatisfaction. “You guys ought to have your heads examined, roughing up the safe the way you did.”

Cole said nothing. He reached for the charred manila envelope. Joe said gently, “Better let me give things the once-over first, Cole.”

“I’d like to find out if there’s a will.”

“If there’s a will, you’ll know first thing.”

Cole grunted and a moment or two later departed.

Joe carried the contents of the safe into his office.

He settled himself at his desk, slit open the manila envelope. The contents were of no great interest: birth and marriage certificates, discharge papers from the army, automobile ownership certificate, a bank-book indicating savings to the amount of four hundred and ninety-two dollars. There was nothing in the nature of a will, and Joe wondered if the charred bits of paper represented such a document. If so, Bus Hacker’s wishes in regard to the disposal of his estate would never be implemented.

Joe turned to the bundle of letters. He separated them, selected the least scorched. It was postmarked Marblestone, September 4, 1919, and addressed in round feminine handwriting to Corporal Clarence Hacker, Barracks 42-19, Fort Saugus, North Carolina. Joe extracted the letter and gingerly unfolded it; as he expected, it was signed “Millie”, and seemed an ordinary enough letter, full of inconsequential gossip. At the time, Millie apparently had been employed at the Destin house as a servant; there were respectful references to “Mr. Destin” and “Mrs. Destin”.

Joe scanned several more of the letters; in tone and content they were similar to the first. It appeared that immediately after young Clarence Hacker’s demobilization, he and Millie were to be married.

Joe turned his attention to the ledger, which proved to be a record of the expenditures across the past ten years. Every cent spent by the Hackers seemed to have been meticulously noted under thirteen headings:

Food

Clothing

Health and Medicine

Tobacco

Liquor

Electricity

Tools and Equipment

Furnishing of House

Recreation

Church

Insurance

Tax

Savings

The Hackers had lived modestly, on what total income Joe could not instantly estimate. A simple enough calculation, of course. Savings averaged about ten dollars a month, occasionally going as high as twenty-five dollars.

In October of the previous year, entered under Health and Medicine, was the melancholy item Funeral expenses —$785, the money presumably deducted from Savings. There were some rather unusual gaps among the headings. Rent, for instance — which Bus Hacker had free from the Destins. Automobile expenses, for another, which possibly were listed under a different category. Bus in any case could have had very little automobile expense. Until someone had sabotaged his car by pouring water in his gas tank. Who could that someone be? An automobile salesman, hoping to sell Bus a new car? Walt Hobius, in the effort to build up his repair business? Joe wouldn’t have put it past Walt … Someone had played another trick on old Bus, luring him away from home on the pretext of an important notice from the government. The two tricks almost certainly were related, constituting a scheme to get Bus out of his house for an hour or two. Why? Joe remembered the words Bus had muttered just before his death. “… Letter in the mail … Nothing I knew for sure …”

Speculations formed in Joe’s mind. Suppose, after tricking Bus Hacker, someone had used the occasion to search for the “letter”, but had been foiled by the safe. Suppose that after Bus Hacker’s death this person had tried to crack the safe and, failing, had set fire to the house in order to destroy the “letter”.

Joe considered the half-charred bundle of envelopes. Could the critical “letter” be among these? A large and highly delicate job to go through the entire lot — although Joe had learned the appropriate techniques at the Chapman Institute. There was one method, as he recalled, involving immersion in a solution of chloral hydrate; another involving a 5% silver-nitrate solution … Joe shook his head. Better let the state lab handle the job, at least the worst of the lot; it was sure to be a headache … The telephone rang; Joe answered.

“Somebody named Hardwick on the line,” said Mrs. Rostvolt.

“Put him on,” said Joe. He heard a click. “Sheriff Joe Bain speaking.”

“This is Hardwick, Sheriff — arson investigator. On the Hacker house, I can’t give you anything definite. In my own mind it’s arson, or accident connected with the illegal entry, but don’t ask me to prove it. Premises are just too thoroughly burned. I’d guess the fire started in the kitchen, or in the basement under the kitchen where it might just conceivably be spontaneous combustion.”

“That’s about what I expected,” said Joe. “Excuse me just half a minute.” He went to the door, crossed the hall, looked into the outer office. Mrs. Rostvolt had the receiver propped to her ear.

Joe returned to his office. “Sorry to have kept you, Mr. Hardwick. I guess that’s all you can do for me. Thanks very much.”

Joe rose to his feet, stood indecisively a moment, then walked into the outer office.

Mrs. Rostvolt was busy typing and did not look up.

In his most courteous voice Joe said, “I’m expecting some highly confidential calls in the next few days, Mrs. Rostvolt, so from now on I’d prefer that you hang up after you put a call through to me.”

Mrs. Rostvolt raised her eyebrows so that her eyes became round and surprised. “Why, certainly, just as you like. I’ve just been following Sheriff Cucchinello’s instructions; he often had calls he wanted someone to be a witness to, in case of controversy —”

Joe nodded sagely. “If a situation like that arises I’ll let you know. Until then I want my private calls private.”

Mrs. Rostvolt returned to the typewriter and Joe went back into his office. He cocked his feet up on the desk, sat back in his chair, gazed across at the map of San Rodrigo County.

Sergeant Lew Gonzales came into the office. “Taking some hard-earned rest, Joe?”

“Rest, hell,” said Joe. “I’m thinking.” He sat up, took the day-shift report which Gonzales had brought in. He glanced down the columns: nothing unusual. A stolen power-boat recovered in the tules, probably the work of boys. A stabbing in a Burnett bar. Complaints of indecent behavior from a housewife in Aurora, which turned out to be a photographer with a nude model. A hardware-store robbery in San Rodrigo, loot consisting of guns and ammunition. Almost certainly the burglars were teen-age boys and would shortly be apprehended.

Joe tossed the report to the side, returned to the bundle of charred letters. There were thirty, half of which could be read without difficulty. The rest he would send to the police laboratory at San Jose. He arranged the legible letters in chronological order, and began to read.

An hour later Joe sat back, not much wiser than when he had begun. Millie Landruff had been an unsuspicious young woman who accepted life precisely as it presented itself to her. Mr. Destin, seen through Millie’s eyes, had been the very essence of gentleman rancher, with Mrs. Destin a domineering virago. There were hints that Mr. Destin regarded himself a gallant, and that Mrs. Destin, recognizing his proclivities, allowed him small scope. As for little Cole, he was “nice as a little boy could be, though very impatient when anybody tries to control him, then he becomes a regular little devil. A shame his older brother Harry had to die, it would be so good for Cole to know a hand stronger than his mother’s.”

There was much Marblestone gossip, concerning folk more or less familiar to Joe, even a disapproving comment: “Blacky Bain was at the dance with a girl from San Rodrigo, much too nice for him. He had a big bottle in his back pocket, everybody could see it. I feel sorry for the girl that marries him.” The girl at the dance probably had been his mother. Millie’s fears had been abundantly fulfilled; Blacky Bain had given Marian Sweet a life of difficulty and disappointment.

A figure appeared in the open doorway; Joe looked up and rose quickly to his feet. “Hi, Lee.” He shook hands, rather formally. “Have a seat.”

Lee Gervase seated himself, hitching at the creases in his charcoal-gray suit. He was a handsome man, with crew-cut black hair, a candid straightforward gaze. He looked swiftly around the office, gave a faint nod, as if some private expectation had been corroborated. “I hear that you’re planning to run against me, Joe.”

“You heard right.”

“That’s your privilege, of course. In your shoes I’d make the same move.” He squared himself in his chair, faced Joe with an air of engaging frankness. “I feel I’d better explain myself, so there won’t be any hard feelings after the election. I’m naturally running against Cucchinello. I’ve been planning my campaign on this basis; I’ll have to follow through. It’s tough for you to be saddled with Cooch and his record, but that’s the way it goes. A lot of people are counting on me and I can’t let them down.”

Joe fiddled with his pencil. “I appreciate your dropping in, Lee. Personally I’m not worried about the hard feelings bit, since I plan to run an honorable campaign, whether you run against me or run against Cooch.”

Gervase laughed politely. “I’m running to win, Joe. I’ll seize on every issue I can. But I want you to understand that I don’t regard the fight as anything personal between you and me. It’s something bigger — between two ways of life. We’re still in the tin-lizzie era, here in San Rodrigo County; it’s time we began to catch up with the rest of California.”

“That may be,” said Joe. “But I don’t have much say about things like that — either as Sheriff Bain or as plain Joe Bain. If changes come, they come.”

Lee Gervase shook his handsome dark head with a trace of condescension. “It’s not so simple as that. The sheriff is an important man in the county. He’s a symbol of government. Cucchinello and the old courthouse — both tin-lizzie stuff. My sponsors and I want to modernize, get in line with the times. We’re tired of this Mack Sennett atmosphere. It may mean jolting a few people out of their ruts, but all over the world the same thing’s going on. It’s either run hard or lose the race.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. “If that’s going to be your pitch you’ll get some votes. But I’ll get some votes too. I’m going to run on the basis of law enforcement and a clean office. Cooch maybe accepted little favors once in a while. Not me. I’ve already made a few changes around here.”

Lee Gervase chuckled. “So I understand. I gather you’re running into, let us say, entrenched opposition.”

Joe cocked his head sideways, looked at Gervase with a questioning frown. It seemed as if Mrs. Rostvolt didn’t care whom she complained to.

“I’m probably talking out of turn,” said Gervase, grinning at Joe’s obvious irritation.

“It makes no difference,” said Joe. “When you step on people’s toes, they’re bound to start screaming. After the election — no matter who wins — I imagine there’ll be a few changes.”

Lee Gervase nodded. “So far as you’re concerned, there doesn’t need to be.”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“I’ll call a spade a spade. If you oppose me, I think I’ll beat you. It stands to reason you’d have to leave the department — lose your job. If you took your name off the ballot, referred to yourself as, say, Captain Bain, instead of Sheriff Bain, after the election you could keep the title. With maybe an increase in pay, if I could swing it. I’m sure you know your job. You’d be an asset to the department.”

“I got an even better idea. You take your name off the ballot, and I’ll put you on as night jailer.”

Gervase shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ve warned you, I’m in this for keeps. I don’t plan to let either myself, my backers or San Rodrigo County down. There’s going to be a clean new deal around here. I’m going to run you and everything you stand for out of office.”

“That’s why you want me as captain of the department? Seems to me you talk both ways at once.”

Lee Gervase smiled and nodded. “Just so long as we understand each other.” He went to the door.

“I understand you all right.” Joe rose to his feet, escorted Lee Gervase out into the hall. “I understand that you’re not quite so virtuous and civic-minded as you’d like people to think.”

Lee Gervase chuckled — a sound unpleasantly at odds with his appearance. “I never planned to be Joan of Arc. But I figure what’s good for me will also be good for the county.”

They stood on the concrete slab in front of the building. Joe said thoughtfully, “I don’t get it, Lee. You’re not the kind of man to be satisfied with the job of Sheriff, even at a thousand bucks a month.”

Lee Gervase shot Joe a quick side glance. “Are you?”

“Yep. I’m not interested in the money. I like the job.”

Lee Gervase smiled quietly. “Only one of us can get it.”

“May the best man win,” said Joe.

Gervase departed. Joe watched him walk away, brisk and assured. It surely wasn’t the sheriff’s job Lee Gervase wanted, Joe told himself. Not the job or the money. Lee Gervase had his sights set on Sacramento. Sacramento — or Washington. Rudolf Wark, the district’s representative in the Congress, was becoming ever more rigid and doctrinaire. He was ripe to be knocked over by an energetic young man who had proved himself as a vote-getter. Joe had wondered once or twice why Lee Gervase, a suave urban type, had settled in Pleasant Grove. It could very well be that Lee Gervase had carefully analyzed the situation in every county in California, and had chosen San Rodrigo County as the most promising. Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello was vulnerable to an imaginative and vigorous campaign. Cooch’s death had probably made the job look even easier.

Joe went back to his office, took a drink of Ernest Cucchinello’s whiskey to soothe his nerves and worked out a patrol schedule. This was a complicated business involving a whole manifold of subtle considerations. First, officers must be available and ready for action in the event of emergencies, crimes, or disorderly conduct. Second, it was desirable that each section of the county be visited at least once a day, with the exception of certain remote mountain settlements which might see a patrol car once or twice a week. Third, there were subpoenas to be served, court orders to be executed. To achieve these ends Joe had at his disposal seven deputies, each working five days a week — in effect, five deputies on each working day. The radio must at all times be manned, which left three men for outside duty, plus himself … Joe carefully worked out a set of staggered shifts: ten to six-thirty, four to midnight, seven to two in the morning. He rearranged days off in order to concentrate extra men on Friday and Saturday nights. Sunday and Monday could more or less take care of themselves.

The deputies must be carefully fitted into the schedule. Not just any arrangement would do. Each man had his peculiarities, his strengths and weaknesses. Casey Miggs was good with kids, uncertain in hard-nose situations. Big Ben Boso was tactless, forthright, rough and tough — the most effective man of the crew on the late shift, in spite of his tendency to drink on duty. He had a quick temper, he was harsh with obstreperous prisoners, he disliked Mexicans.

Lew Gonzales, in direct antithesis, liked Mexicans, being one himself. He was punctilious, even-tempered, soft-hearted. He hated to make a pinch and was easily taken advantage of. He and Boso were not unfriendly; Boso called him “Dago”, he called Boso “Polack”.

So with the other men. Frank Hubbard liked radio duty, Bill Phipps hated it. Fay Insley, a devout Fundamentalist, could not bring himself to work on Sunday. Ace Wardell was a ladies’ man, and was thought to be trigger-happy. Gonzales, Insley and Miggs were scrupulously honest, Hubbard, Phipps, Boso probably less so. Joe was dubious about Ace Wardell. If he were elected he would put Wardell on permanent radio duty and hire two more men.

When he had finished, he took the schedule in to Mrs. Rostvolt. “Make about ten copies — one for every man, one for me, and one for the bulletin board.”

Mrs. Rostvolt looked at the schedule with a petulant frown. “I’ve already worked out a new schedule. I’ve got it all ready to type up.”

“Throw it away,” said Joe. “This is the way I want things to go.”

Mrs. Rostvolt shrugged coldly. “Just as you say.”

Joe stood thinking a moment. He looked at his watch. The time was four-thirty. He told Mrs. Rostvolt, “If anyone wants me I’m on my way over to Marblestone.”

“Very well, Mr. Bain.”

Joe looked at his watch again. If he drove out to Marblestone he wouldn’t be home for dinner. He went into his office, telephoned home. Miranda answered. “Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Oh, Daddy! Granny’s got spareribs and everything. Sweet potatoes!”

“Sorry, kid. I got some business to attend to.”

“When will you be home?”

“Hard to say. Don’t wait dinner.”

“Okay.”

A few minutes after five, with the sunlight slanting across Castle Mountain, Joe arrived at Marblestone. He continued along Destin Road to the Wyett ranch, turned up into the driveway, and the police dogs came racing out on their cables. Ausley’s old station wagon was not to be seen. No one was home.

Chapter VII

Joe drove south along Destin Road to the ruins of the Hacker house. The fence smothered in red roses still stood. Joe leaned on the gate and considered the black rubble beyond.

The sun was gone; twilight blurred the mountain slopes, lights began to sparkle up and down the valley. Joe listened. Silence except for the warm wind in the poplars. A bat flew twittering past. The ashes of the Hacker house seemed more melancholy than ever. Joe thought of Millie’s letters to Bus, written long ago when the world was young. He looked down into the rubble where the exploded glass of Millie’s jams and preserves still reflected a few sullen lights from the sky. Life was a funny thing, thought Joe. You just reached the stage where you could appreciate it when you had to start worrying about how it would end … He walked back to his car, drove into Marblestone.

Lights burned bright in the Fox Valley Community Center; doings were in progress: the Mammoth Church Bazaar. Parked in front of the Town Club was a gray GM pickup, which Joe identified as the property of Willis Neff. He parked beside it, alighted, pushed through the old-fashioned swinging doors at the corner of the building.

The interior of the Town Club was illuminated by colored lights from a juke box, a shaded light over the pool table to the rear, various blinking and swirling beer-advertising devices at the back of the bar. A half-dozen men sat on stools with bottles and glasses in front of them.

Joe took the seat beside Neff, who acknowledged his presence with a stare and a nod, then continued his conversation with the man to his left.

Joe ordered a beer. Neff was talking about trout-fishing, in a measured dogmatic voice. “— of course if it weren’t for the Forest Service, there wouldn’t be fish. They’d be exterminated in a year. I give them credit for that. But you’ll never tell me that these hatchery fish grow as big or as tasty as the natural-born fish. Stands to reason, the natural fish come of better stock, bound to.”

“They’re the same fish,” said his companion dubiously.

“They sure as hell aren’t, and I know this for a fact. I’ve fished every stream in these hills. There’s a few that don’t get stocked, and I don’t think anyone fishes them except me, because they’re hard to get to. The fish I take out of these unstocked streams can’t be beat.”

“I just don’t fish that careful. Where are these streams you’re talking about?”

“That I won’t say. Took me better part of ten years searching them out. I might be going out for a few days next week.”

“Nice weather for it.”

Someone settled into the seat beside Joe: Walt Hobius. “Hi, Walt,” said Joe. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing much. Hey, Shorty. Draw me a bottle of Bud.” He turned back to Joe. “What did you find in Bus Hacker’s safe?”

“Odds and ends. Nothing much.”

“About what I expected. Bus never had anything. I don’t know what he thought he needed a safe for.”

“Old folk get funny notions sometimes.”

“That’s for sure. Bus was no exception. Cranky old fart.”

“Where did he get his gas? From you?”

“Not very often. I don’t know where he dealt. San Rodrigo I suppose.” Walt drank his beer. “Whenever he did buy five gallons of gas he wanted a receipt.” Walt drank more beer, looked sourly past Joe toward Willis Neff. “There’s another one, gets it all back,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“You was brought up on a ranch. I don’t know if you had a tractor, and burnt tax-free gas or not. Tax-free gas works just as good as any other kind.”

Joe nodded. “Pretty hard to do anything about. Especially if you use a pickup on your own land, hauling things back and forth.”

Walt’s hollow-cheeked face became dour. He cocked his head to Neff’s conversation. “Listen to him now,” he said to Joe. “All about how good he is at fishing.” He drained his glass, signaled Shorty Olson, the bartender. “Two more of the same.”

Joe held up his hand. “Not for me. I got to watch it, because I’m going over to the church social and meet my constituents. I don’t want to go crawling in on my hands and knees.”

Walt gave him a glance of amazement. “Two beers? Is this the Joe Bain I knew of yore? Two beers were just a little appetizer.”

“Well — all right. Just one more.”

“That’s more like it. You might get the church vote by staying sober, but you lose the confidence of the drunks.”

“You have a point,” said Joe. “I guess I can’t please everybody.”

“Here’s to a long life.” Walt raised his glass, drank.

“Unless you lay off the cancer sticks you’ll never make it,” said Joe, raising his glass.

Walt looked at him in surprise. “I’ve been cutting down.” He glanced at his stained fingers. “Hell, that ain’t nicotine. That’s iodine, or ink or something.” He blinked, shot Joe a sharp look. “How come you’re so interested in my health all of a sudden?”

“I need your vote, for one thing. And if you can’t tell the difference between ink and iodine, you’re either going to have blood poisoning or a ruined fountain pen.”

Walt chuckled, started to speak, but now Neff, alighting from his stool, turned to Joe. “Who burnt down the Hacker house, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know. Not yet.”

“Think you’ll ever find out?”

Joe thought he detected an undertone of mockery. “I’ll find out. I don’t let things like that go by.”

“You want a tip, Sheriff?”

“Sure. I’m not proud.”

“You know what they say about firebugs? That generally they’re the ones that turn in the alarm?”

“I’ve heard that,” said Joe. “Sometimes people who want the fire put out also turn in the alarm. It’s hard for the law enforcement officer. He can’t pinch everybody who turns in an alarm, and he can’t pinch everybody who doesn’t.”

Neff stared at him without comprehension. “I thought I might be able to help you out.”

“Thanks, Mr. Neff. I’ll consider what you’ve said.”

Neff departed.

Walt Hobius finished his beer, slipped off the stool. “I got to run along myself. If you’re going over to the Center maybe I’ll see you later on.”

Walt departed, and Joe presently followed. He stood outside on the sidewalk. Twilight had given way to night; across the park the Community Center bustled with cheerful activity. Every window glowed; a festoon of colored lights hung across the front.

Joe sauntered across the park. As he crossed the street he noticed Ausley Wyett’s Willys station wagon in the line of parked cars. Joe gave a snort of amusement. Ausley was evidently trying to make it back into the social swim. At a church bazaar no one could very well tell him to clear out. No matter what you thought about Ausley Wyett, you couldn’t fault him for guts. Or sheer gall, depending on how you looked at it.

Joe entered the Community Center behind a farm family. The man wore a lumpy blue suit, his wife a flowered dress. There were two boys glistening with hair oil, two girls who rustled as they walked. Joe became conscious of his own clothes: whipcord trousers, light gray wind-breaker, a white shirt. His mother and Miranda both wanted him to dress more formally, but Joe was reluctant to blossom out so soon after his promotion. Something like that a man eased into gradually, so that no one noticed. Cucchinello, of course, had always dressed to the nines, in fine gabardines, expensive sport shirts, Western-style string ties and a cowboy tie clip. Lee Gervase dressed well, but like a successful young businessman. Joe dismissed the matter from his mind. His clothes were good enough for a church social. Maybe people would consider him tireless and hard-working to see him dressed like this on a Saturday night.

Joe paid his twenty-five cents, entered the building. The outer lobby or reception room was set up with a line of card tables supporting bowls, trays and casseroles. To the left, an archway opened into the main hall, where the bazaar was in progress. There were displays of quilts, hooked rugs, homemade candy, old books and magazines. A special booth displayed the contribution of Bart North, the local rockhound: book-ends, lamp-bases, jewellery of agate, petrified wood, jasper.

Supper apparently had just been announced: a line of people had formed and was moving in front of the food. Joe went into the hall, from which a gradual exodus was taking place toward the supper. Charley Blankenship stood nearby, with his taffy-colored little wife Metty, sister to Dora, Walt’s mother. Charley wore a loose double-breasted blue suit, with a splendid red and blue tie and his usual knob-toed black shoes. He saw Joe and signaled. Joe walked over to him. “Hello, Charley. Good evening, Mrs. Blankenship. Seems to be a nice party.”

“It’s lovely,” said Metty. “We never expected such a crowd. I’m just hoping we have enough to eat.”

Charley peered truculently toward the inner room. “Might be a good idea to get in line before it’s all gone.”

“You go ahead,” said his wife. “I’m not eating: everything is too rich for me.” She told Joe, “The doctor says it’s gall bladder. He won’t let me touch fats and I’m to go easy on sweet things, I’m starving all the time.”

“That’s too bad, Mrs. Blankenship.”

Charley grasped Joe’s arm with his long, limp fingers, pointed. “There. Look at that. Somehow I think that’s a lot of nerve.”

Joe followed the direction of Charley Blankenship’s quivering finger. Halfway along the wall, behind a display of homemade candy, stood Ellie Neff. She wore a sleeveless blue cotton frock, a blue ribbon in her blonde hair. Joe thought that she looked wonderfully charming. There was about her a slow, unstudied grace, an artless desire to please, quite different from coquetry. In front of the booth stood Ausley Wyett, making a careful selection among the various dainties. He wore an obviously new suit which fit him not too well, the coat riding high on his buttocks, his wrists protruding from the sleeves. Ausley had groomed himself carefully. His fox-colored hair was slicked down; his shoes were glossy; he wore a sporty red tie clasped with a silver A on an ivory horse’s head. He asked Ellie a question, and at her response made some sort of droll remark. Ellie smiled, blushed faintly, and smiled again.

“The nerve of the man,” hissed Metty Blankenship. “You’d think he’d be ashamed to show his face.”

Charley tightened his grip on Joe’s arm, gave it a tug. “Can’t you do something about it? Here he is offending everybody in the place, but because it’s a church function no one wants to ask him to leave.”

“You’ve put your finger on the difficulty,” said Joe. “Ausley’s behaving himself, so I guess nobody has any right to interfere with him.”

Charley Blankenship’s pendulous mouth quivered, he peered angrily through his glasses, then turned away, shaking his head. Metty darted Joe an angry glance, then taking Charley’s arm marched into the next room. “Two votes shot to hell,” Joe told himself sadly.

Ausley completed his selection, and counted out his money. He paused, said something more to Ellie. She frowned, looked at him carefully, then nodded slowly. Willis Neff came into the room. Ellie’s glance veered to the candy; she busied herself arranging it.

Ausley saw Joe, ambled across the room. Joe said, “Looks like you’re developing a sweet tooth, Ausley.”

Ausley grinned. “I always did like candy. Here, want some fudge?”

“No thanks.”

Ausley devoured a piece of candy, looked back across the room. “That’s sure a nice girl. Awful pretty too.”

“She’s got an awful mean father who hates your guts. Better watch your step, Ausley, for your own good.”

Ausley made a sour grimace. “I don’t care any more, Joe. I can’t seem to act right no matter what, so I might just as well do what I feel like.”

“How do you mean, you can’t seem to act right?”

“If I stay home out of sight, people say, that wicked Ausley Wyett, he knows he’s no good, he’s ashamed to show his face. If I try to act like other folks, they say, there’s that wicked Ausley Wyett, parading back and forth like he owns the world. I can’t win.”

“So what? You’re not surprised, are you?”

“No,” said Ausley. “I’m not surprised. But some people are nicer than others.”

“Such as who? Ellie?”

“Yep. I told her not to believe all she heard about me. She said all right, she wouldn’t. What could be nicer than that?”

“Nothing,” said Joe with complete honesty. “It’s a shame she’s cooped away up there in the hills.”

“Being cooped away isn’t much fun,” said Ausley. “I had sixteen years of it. I’d be there yet if the jails weren’t so full. They got to turn people loose to make room for the new ones.”

“Let’s go get something to eat,” said Joe. “Before it’s all gone.”

“Better go by yourself,” said Ausley. “You’ll lose votes to be seen with me.”

“At least people will notice me. They say every knock is a boost.”

Ausley shrugged. “If you can stand it, I can.”

They went out into the next room, stood in line. After paying a dollar they were handed big plates and silverware. In spite of Mrs. Blankenship’s fears there seemed plenty to eat: fried chicken, baked beans, spaghetti, ham and potato au gratin, potato salad, green salad, rolls, muffins, and finally cake, pie and coffee.

Joe and Ausley went to sit in a corner. “I been meaning to ask you about that fire,” said Joe. “Art van Horn says you turned in the alarm.”

“Perfectly correct,” said Ausley.

“What time did you first see the fire?”

“Oh — along about midnight, maybe sometime later. Right after I turned off the TV I went outside to stretch my legs. Soon as I saw the red in the sky I knew what was what.”

“That’s all you know about it?”

“What else could I know?”

“You didn’t go watch the fire?”

“Give me credit for some sense, at least.”

“Who do you think is responsible?”

Ausley pursed his big ropy mouth. “That’s a good question. I got my ideas, of course.”

“Let’s hear them.”

Ausley shook his head. “My opinions don’t mean a thing. I hold a grudge against too many people around here.”

“Seems foolish to me, Ausley. How do you figure you got a right to hold any grudges?”

“I don’t like to talk about it,” said Ausley primly. “The tale will probably come out some day. Right now the time isn’t ripe.”

“And when will the time be ripe?”

Ausley shook his head. “Hard to say. Bus Hacker dying like that — a terrible thing. Accident, I suppose.”

“Do you have any other ideas?”

Ausley guffawed, drank from his coffee cup. “Do you know what I call it, Joe? Chickens coming home to roost.”

Joe ate in disapproving silence. As Charley Blankenship had pointed out, Ausley showed no shame.

From the main hall came a clatter of card tables being set up in preparation for Bingo. Ausley rose to his feet. “Guess I’ll see how my luck is running.”

Joe watched him amble away. Shaking his head in dissatisfaction, he went to the coffee urn, drew another cup of coffee, and went to stand just inside the archway. Up on the stage Mrs. Koshlund, the wife of the Methodist minister, and Mrs. Bluett arranged the Bingo apparatus: a small rotating barrel containing numbered balls, a large checkerboard numbered from one to one hundred, to serve as a memorandum of the numbers drawn. Joe looked around the room. About a third of the people he recognized. Some had been schoolmates; others were faces barely recollected. The Destins were not in evidence, nor did he expect them to be. The Destins, with a few other families, were the elite of the region, and on their nights out drove to Monterey or San Jose, or even as far as San Francisco.

The Blankenships had taken a table close up to the stage; sitting with them were Mr. and Mrs. Al Gruber, who operated the local barber shop and beauty salon. Willis Neff and Mrs. Neff sat to the far side of the room, Neff wearing a long-suffering expression. As Joe watched, an elderly couple took the other two seats at their table. Joe sought around the room for Ellie, to see her turning over the funds from her booth to a stout woman in a lavender dress.

Joe wandered across the room; when the stout woman moved on, Joe said, “Hello, Ellie. How’s everything going?”

Ellie smiled politely. “Very nicely.”

“Are you going to play Bingo?”

“I guess so.” Ellie looked across the room to where her parents sat.

“Maybe I will too. Let’s sit over there.”

Ellie looked doubtfully at the booth, but no one seemed interested in buying candy. “All right.”

Joe led her to an empty table. “I should have asked if you’d eaten.”

Ellie nodded. “I did, ten or fifteen minutes ago.” Joe held the chair for her; Ellie laughed self-consciously, slipped into it. Joe sat down to her right. “I haven’t been to an affair like this in twenty years,” said Joe. “Not since I used to live back up in the hills.”

“Whereabouts did you live?” Ellie asked without overmuch curiosity.

“Just under Castle Mountain. About two miles past your house there’s a little road that takes off to the south. You follow that road about ten miles, up, down, winding, looping, and finally you come out on a meadow with a beat-up old house back by a spring. That’s home. I wish I owned the place now.”

“Who does?”

“I don’t know. After my father died my mother sold to a fellow named A. N. Charr, and I don’t know what happened after that.”

“Charr. That’s a queer name.”

“I think they were Welsh. Or Basques. Or Finns. Some outlandish troop, anyway.”

Ellie said nothing. She put her hands on the table: firm, slender, strong hands which in a few more years would be work-worn. Ellie noticed his gaze, put her hands back in her lap.

“I don’t want to get personal on such short acquaintance,” said Joe, “but doesn’t it get pretty lonesome sometimes?”

Ellie smiled uncomfortably. “I try to keep pretty busy.”

“Maybe this is a little fast, but could I pick you up some evening? I’m not much at dancing, but we could have dinner and go to a show or something.”

Ellie’s mouth drooped. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Bain.”

“Oh come now, Ellie — call me Joe, by the way — surely you can take an evening off without the sky falling in.”

Ellie paused, then said simply, “In the first place I don’t have any clothes.”

“What’s wrong with what you got on? You look beautiful.”

Ellie smiled and shook her head again. “There’s other things too. About five years ago my sister Gertrude ran away from home, and, well, she came to grief. So now my father worries. I guess I’m still his little girl.”

Somebody came to stand beside the table. Joe looked up to see Ausley Wyett grinning nervously, then trying to look composed and sedate, then grinning again. “Is these seats taken?” asked Ausley.

“No,” said Joe shortly. “Help yourself.”

Ausley seated himself, hitched up his trouser legs with elaborate punctilio. At this moment the Reverend Dunkwiler appeared on the stage.

“Friends, I won’t take but a moment before the games, but the Reverend Koshlund has asked me to express our mutual thanks for your help, material and otherwise, and for the grand turn-out this evening. It’s one of the difficult and thankless jobs …”

Joe muttered to Ellie. “This gives me an idea.” He rose to his feet, made for the side door leading to the stage.

“… returns aren’t all in yet, but I’m sure the maintenance funds of both churches will be enormously invigorated. Now I see the girls and boys ready to distribute the cards, so without further ado —” Joe Bain appeared on the stage, spoke a quiet word to the Reverend Dunkwiler, who smiled and nodded graciously. “Friends, Sheriff Joe Bain has a word to say to you.”

Joe stepped forward, looked out over the sea of blank white faces. “I won’t take much of your time. I want to say hello to all my old friends and neighbors, and to remind you that in the coming election I’m running for the office of Sheriff, and I’ll sure appreciate your votes. I don’t have any platform except to say that I’m for honest, efficient law enforcement without fear or favoritism. Thank you very much. Thank you, Reverend.” Joe bowed stiffly, marched off the stage. There were a few desultory hand claps, but now a group of teen-age boys and girls were circulating through the hall selling Bingo cards. The Reverend Dunkwiler once more stepped forward. “I’ve been asked to announce that Bingo cards sell for a dollar apiece and are good for the whole evening. All prizes are donated, and we’ll announce the prize and the name of the donor before each game.”

Joe returned to the hall, looked sourly toward the table where Ellie and Ausley were now buying cards. Ellie took one card, but Ausley with a grandiose gesture extended a bill and was given five cards. Ellie made some marveling comment; Ausley replied in a fashion to make her laugh openly, unaffectedly. Joe frowned, went into the outer room, drew himself another cup of coffee from the untended urn.

Two elderly women came up to him. One asked in a bantering tone, “Can you be Joe Bain, the young rapscallion who was the shame of the neighborhood?”

Joe grinned. “I guess that’s me. And you’re Mrs. Mathews, my old third-grade teacher.”

“So you remember me after all these years!”

“How could I forget?”

The other lady said archly, “I don’t imagine you remember me!”

“I certainly do,” said Joe. “You’re Mrs. Beasley, at the post office. When I was ten years old I kissed your daughter. You caught me and whacked me good.”

“Think of it,” Mrs. Beasley marveled to Mrs. Mathews. “Ten years old he was, and kissing Arla bold as you please. Ten years old! And Arla pretending it was just an everyday occurrence. Oh, the little rascals. I hate to think what went on when my back was turned.”

“It goes to show that you never can tell. Arla’s married with four children, and Joe’s sheriff of the county.” Mrs. Mathews beamed roguishly at Joe. “How we used to pity your poor mother, coping with a pair like your father and you!”

“I imagine she felt sorry for herself at times,” said Joe.

The ladies asked about Joe’s mother. Joe responded courteously. Two sure votes, if they took the trouble to bestir themselves election day, plus possibly the votes of husbands, children, and friends. It was worth the effort. Mrs. Beasley reached forward, touched his arm. “There’s something I’m dying to ask you —” she glanced sidewise at Mrs. Mathews, who watched her attentively. Mrs. Beasley gave a little shake of her head. “But I guess it wouldn’t be proper. Not professional conduct. So I’ll restrain myself.”

It was not clear whether Mrs. Beasley’s qualms were on her own account or Joe’s, but in any event he did not pursue the matter.

From the next room the voice of Mrs. Bluett could be heard calling numbers. Mrs. Mathews looked at Mrs. Beasley. “Well, Mary, are we gambling tonight — as the church doesn’t like to call it?”

“I’m always ripe for a little excitement. You know that.”

“We’d better get started then, before all the prizes are gone. Are you coming, Joe? Or I suppose we should say, Sheriff?”

“I’ll take a card for a round or two.”

Joe escorted the ladies to a table at the rear. They were provided with cards and beans.

“Eighty-four,” called Mrs. Bluett.

The barrel rolled. A little girl of eight or nine, with long dark pigtails, reached in and extracted a ball which she handed to Mrs. Bluett.

“Twelve,” was the call. Ausley Wyett jumped to his feet. “Here! Bingo!”

Mrs. Bluett nodded with compressed lips. A floor monitor read off the winning numbers on Ausley’s card.

“All correct,” declared Mrs. Bluett. “The prize is a steam iron, donated by Olin’s Drug Store.”

A subdued titter, quickly hushed, greeted the news. Ausley, smiling sheepishly, sat down once more, the box containing the steam iron on the table in front of him.

A new game started. “Sixty-five,” called Mrs. Bluett. Joe put a bean on his ‘65’, then looked across the room to where Willis Neff sat. Neff was directing toward Ausley Wyett a look of ophidian menace. Joe frowned. Ausley Wyett might be pushing his debut into society a little too hard.

Mrs. Bluett called number after number. “Bingo!” “Bingo!” “Bingo!” “The prize, donated by Mr. and Mrs. Mendoza, is this lovely garden statuette.” “— a meal ticket, value fifteen dollars, at the Marblestone Hotel, donated by Mr. Arthur van Horn.”

Finally: “That’s all, friends. Thank you and goodnight.”

Ausley and Ellie rose to their feet. Ellie had won nothing, but Ausley had pressed the steam iron upon her. She held it reluctantly, obviously distressed. Then she shrugged, said goodnight to Ausley, threaded the crowd toward her mother. Joe watched her go. Graceful, charming, generous — and pretty. “I’ve got to do something about that,” said Joe. “Unless Ausley cuts me out.”

He watched as Ellie showed the steam iron to her mother. Both looked toward Ausley, but he had left the hall. Joe sought Willis Neff, but he was nowhere to be seen. Possibly he had gone to the Men’s Room, thought Joe.

Mrs. Neff inspected the box askance, shook her head. Ellie made a mild remark; Mrs. Neff appeared more dubious than ever. She and Ellie looked around the room. Mrs. Neff said something with a bleak expression; Ellie’s face became soft and astounded.

Joe turned, made for the door. He went to the sidewalk, looked up and down. There was Ausley’s station wagon, somnolent under the street lamp. In the street beyond stood a group of men.

Joe approached quickly. Willis Neff confronted Ausley Wyett beside the station wagon, where Ausley apparently had been in the act of inserting the key in the door lock.

Neff was speaking in a guttural voice. “— what I’m going to do, but before I do it, I want to tell you, don’t you ever, don’t you even look sidewise at my daughter again.”

“Now take it easy, Mr. Neff,” said Ausley in a high-pitched voice. “I don’t think I did anything wrong, and so far as I know —”

“You got a hell of a nerve showing your face; you got a hell of a nerve just being alive.”

“Now, look here, Mr. Neff. I don’t want no trouble with you. Please stand aside so I can get into my car.”

Neff swung his fist. Ausley moved aside and Neff missed. The circle of men groaned, cheered. “Give it to the son of a bitch, Willis. Kill the bastard!”

Joe stood watching. So far Neff had committed no battery, having missed the first blow. Neff laughed now, pulled his elbow to his side, danced a ridiculous little hop-step, sprang forward. Somewhere Joe had heard that Neff had been a boxing champion in the Navy … Ausley surprised Neff. Ausley had long arms with big lumps of fist at the ends. He knew nothing of boxing, he merely stood clubbing wildly at Neff. His first blow caught Neff on the ear, then Neff charged close and was pounding Ausley’s chest. Ausley jack-knifed, loped away, out into the street. Neff danced his hop-step, came forward. Ausley flailed at him, necktie flapping. The big awkward fist caught Neff on the neck, Neff stumbled, fell to his knees, more surprised than hurt. But most of all infuriated. He lunged forward, running first on hands and knees, then on bent legs. Roundhouse right, roundhouse left: Ausley’s head jerked, his ruff of hair waved and flopped. Ausley gave a thin call of fear and pain, and clubbed with his great fists, catching Neff on the mouth. Neff spurted blood. He hissed, hopped, struck out, Ausley fell to the ground. Neff exhaled a deep grunt of content, stepped forward, drew back his foot to kick. Joe reached forward, pulled him back, off-balance. Neff spun around.

“All right, all right,” barked Joe. “What’s going on here? Break it up.”

“I’ll kill the son of a bitch.”

“What’s he done?”

“You ought to know. Tonight he was talking to my daughter.”

“She’s not kicking, is she?”

“What if she ain’t?”

“She’s over twenty-one.”

Ausley painfully climbed to his feet. Neff pushed at Joe. “Get the hell out of my way.”

Joe said, “You do that again, you’ll go to jail. For about sixty days. When I say break it up, that’s what I mean.”

Neff seemed ready to challenge him, but the onlookers held him off. “That’s enough, Willis, don’t do no more.” “— only get in trouble, boy.” “Easy does it, easy does it.”

Joe turned to Ausley. “You want to prefer charges against this man?”

Ausley said, “No, I guess not. He’s pretty excitable and probably didn’t realize what he was doing.”

Neff smiled. “Next time I’ll really fix you!”

“You better be careful, Neff,” said Joe.

“You sticking up for him? And you expect people of Marblestone to vote for you?”

“I’m doing my duty, and I hope they see it that way.”

“Here’s one that don’t.”

“Sorry, Mr. Neff. I’d sure like to have your vote.”

Neff turned, walked swiftly away. Joe looked around the group of men. “Fine bunch you are. Acting like a bunch of juvenile delinquents.” They muttered, moved uneasily away, looking backward over their shoulders, faces yellow-gray in the illumination of the lonesome street light.

Ausley tucked his necktie into his coat-pocket with trembling fingers, rubbed his chest.

Joe said, “You ought to know better, Ausley. People have long memories in these parts, and it don’t do to go pushing people too hard.”

Ausley said, “I might agree with you, Sheriff, if I’d been guilty of what they think I did. Sixteen years in jail is a long time for doing nothing.”

Joe stared at him sternly. “You mean to stand there and tell me that you weren’t guilty?”

“I pleaded innocent at the trial, Joe. Nobody believed me.”

“Who did it then?”

“I don’t know. Not for sure.” Ausley drew himself up to his full height. “I’ll tell you something, Joe. If you think I came back to Marblestone just to raise cattle and forgive people — you’re wrong. Sixteen years takes a lot out of a man’s life. I’m gonna get something back for it. If anybody gets hurt — too bad.”

Joe grunted. “Now you’re talking wild. You better go home, and go to bed.”

Down the street came the Neffs: Willis Neff, Mrs. Neff, Ellie. Ellie carried the steam iron. Frozen-faced she crossed the sidewalk, laid it on the fender of Ausley’s car, walked on.

Ausley watched her go. He heaved a vast sigh, reached for the box, started to throw it out into the park. Joe said hurriedly, “Here, here. What’re you doing?”

“I don’t want the damn thing. I don’t iron nothing.”

“Give it to me, then. I’ll take it home to my daughter. She’s been yelling for one of the things.”

“Take it. It’s yours.”

“Thanks. Now, my advice to you, Ausley, is go home and lie low for a while. I don’t want to get a call from Marblestone to the effect that your body has been found swinging from a tree.”

“You know what I told you.”

“Yes, I heard you. I don’t say I believe you. But any time you want to talk about the case, come see me at my office.”

Ausley got into his car, started the engine, backed out into the street and drove away.

Chapter VIII

Monday morning was warm, bright and quiet — a summer morning when the stillness of the air induced somnolence. Joe sat in his office, looking through the Venetian blinds across Montalvo Square.

From the front office came the rattle of Mrs. Rostvolt’s typewriter, from time to time a muffled murmur of conversation, or a ring of the telephone. Down the corridor from the jail section came the sound of the six prisoners talking through the bars of their cells: banter and bragging, carefully weighed analyses of the world’s ills. Joe listened with a half-grin. Occasionally there was some contemptuous reference to the circumstances which had brought them to their current plight. Joe shook his head. To hear ’em talk, you’d think they’d all been corporation presidents on a vacation when this miserable stroke of bad luck overtook them.

His phone buzzed; he reached languidly to the desk, answered. Mrs. Rostvolt said, “There’s a man here who wants to see you — Mr. Leary.”

Joe started to say, “Send him in,” but an almost imperceptible nuance in Mrs. Rostvolt’s tone — a blandness, an overcareful precision — caused him to ask, “What’s he want?”

“Something about an art course for your daughter.”

“If it’s a salesman, tell him I’m busy.”

Joe hung up, frowning. Mrs. Rostvolt should have better sense than to trouble him with something like that. What in the world was she thinking of? For all her competence Mrs. Rostvolt was a pain in the neck. Joe day-dreamed of someone with Mrs. Rostvolt’s efficiency and know-how, but with, say, Ellie Neff’s appearance and agreeable attributes.

The thought of Ellie Neff took his mind to Marblestone. He felt uneasy. A definitely unpleasant situation — but what in the world could he do? Impossible for him to supervise Ausley Wyett’s every move. Impossible to change Willis Neff into a cooing dove … There was also the death of Bus Hacker. No matter what he suspected or inferred, there was no purchase, no toe-hold in the case. Cole Destin might or might not try to claim insurance from the burning of the house. If he did, then it was up to the insurance company to decide whether or not to pay him.

He reached in his desk drawer, brought forth the state lab’s transcript of Millie Hacker’s letters. They told him nothing more than he already knew. Old Mr. Destin on one occasion had gone so far as to pat Millie Landruff on the cheek, so Millie coyly reported. It all seemed innocent enough. If there were skeletons in the Destin closet, Millie had revealed none of them to Corporal Clarence Hacker.

Joe tossed the transcript back into the drawer, leaned back in the chair. He had nothing to do. The deputies were off on patrol; Mrs. Rostvolt took care of front-office routine. For twenty years Ernest Cucchinello had sat in this same office, in much the same circumstances. He had always seemed busy. The bustle and swagger of his corpulent frame could be felt in every corner of the office. Cooch had a knack for making the most of every occasion, turning every circumstance to advantage. Meanwhile, the department coasted along on its own momentum. In actuality Mrs. Rostvolt had been sheriff. Across the years, by the increment of ten thousand minor, almost inconsequential, decisions, she had completely established the routine of the office. She had arranged the patrols, managed the disbursements, to no small extent dictated salaries and promotions. Cooch was only too glad to duck the drudgery of running the department — a process he called “delegating responsibility”. What was that quotation about “nature abhorring a vacuum”? Joe shrugged, reached for the Monday-morning report.

By and large it had been a quiet week-end. A few traffic violations, a few drunk and disorderlies, one attempted rape up at Vino. Joe read the particulars, which were phrased in Ben Boso’s highly individual style:

Complainant:

Leonora Maxwell, 14, (colored).

Accused:

Eagle Jones, 24, (white, farm-hand, arrived ten weeks ago from Texas).

Miss Maxwell states Jones hired her to shell walnuts, then made indecent proposals, compounded by assault.

Jones denies charge, claims solicitation.

Witnesses:

None.

Evidence:

None.

Remarks:

Jones guilty as hell. Miss Maxwell seems a nice decent kid.

Joe tossed the report aside. Boso, who disliked and distrusted Mexicans, got along well with San Rodrigo County’s Negro population which was small and concentrated in Aurora, Verdalia, and Vino … Joe frowned, sat up in his chair, reached for the report. Boso on A patrol? Joe was sure that he had assigned Boso the C loop: Pleasant Grove, Panoche, Genesee, Wyman in Merced County, back along 192 to Burnett, then Panoche south to Sanchez, back to Pleasant Grove by way of Tevis. These routes were by no means inflexible; the deputy could alter or vary it as he saw fit. But incredible that Boso could have strayed clear across the county to Vino! Joe reached in his drawer, brought forth the patrol schedule he had formulated with great pains. Odd! Route A was assigned to Boso over the week-end. Joe rubbed his chin. A mistake somewhere. An almost imperceptible blue on the paper engaged his attention. He looked closely, then brought out a magnifying glass and looked again. Erasure. The names of Boso and Gonzales had been typed, then erased and switched. Boso originally had been assigned C loop, Gonzales A loop. Then for some reason the patrols were reversed. Now, why in the world would Mrs. Rostvolt do a thing like that? Joe reached for the telephone — contravention of his instructions — then paused, drew back his hand, sat thinking. A curious circumstance. It could not have been purposeless. As he thought back, it seemed as if Ben Boso had drawn C patrol only rarely. Not since the time he had learned of a big cock-fight on Crow Hill Ranch, near Sanchez. Ben Boso, who disliked and distrusted Mexicans, despised cock-fights. Appearing quietly on the scene he had removed the valves from the front tires of all the parked cars, then had radioed for reinforcements. The raid had resulted in twenty-two arrests, confiscation of many cocks and much equipment. Boso’s popularity with Mexican sport-lovers descended to a new low. Since that occasion Ben Boso usually drove Patrol A, B or D.

Now, the first time Joe had assigned him Patrol C, lo and behold! an erasure and Boso was back on Patrol A.

Very odd, thought Joe. Very odd indeed. One thing was sure. If a big cock-fight had been scheduled for Saturday night, the promoters would be far happier with Lew Gonzales in the neighborhood.

Joe reached for the phone book, ascertained the number of the Nuevos del Valley, a small Spanish language newspaper edited and printed in Panoche. He dialed the number; a female voice responded. Joe asked for and was connected with Leo Salazar, owner and editor.

“Leo, this is Sheriff Joe Bain.”

“Hello, Joe,” said Salazar courteously. “How are you?”

“Fine. I want you to do me a little favor, in the line of information.”

“Yes?” Salazar’s voice became cautious.

“First off I want to mention that this is entirely unofficial. Hold the line just a minute.” Joe went to the door, looked across into the outer office. Mrs. Rostvolt was busy typing. “I want to know, just in confidence, if there was a big cock-fight last Saturday night?”

Salazar hesitated five seconds. “Why do you want to know, Joe?”

“I can’t explain over the phone. It’s something unconnected with the cock-fight itself.”

Salazar said uncomfortably, “I don’t like to make trouble, Joe. That’s not my way. I just want to run my paper and maybe make a little money, and any little gossip I hear, I keep to myself.”

“There won’t be any trouble,” said Joe. “Not for anyone in Panoche. To be honest with you, Leo, I’m checking up on something.”

“Well — I heard there was a few little bouts going on. Not in Panoche. Out toward Burnett.”

“I see. Pretty big affair, eh?”

“Well — yes. But please don’t let on I told you. My name would be mud.”

“Don’t worry about that, Leo. I’ve forgotten I’m talking to you right now. Who was promoting this cock-fight?”

Salazar’s voice became even more uneasy. “Now, that’s something I don’t like to say, Joe. I don’t know for sure —”

“Let me guess. Rainaldo Gomez?”

“I don’t like to say, Joe.”

“Don’t worry, Leo. Nobody knows I’m talking to you, and I guarantee there won’t be any trouble. Not this time. I’m interested in something else entirely. It was Gomez, then?”

“No,” said Salazar in a despondent voice. “A guy called Tony Aguilar. Works at the Valley Bloom packing shed in Burnett. That’s what I heard, but don’t say nothing. I’m just telling you because I hate the dirty things myself.”

“Don’t worry, Leo. Nothing will rub off on you.”

Joe jumped to his feet, glad for the opportunity to leave the office. He looked into the outer office. “I’ll be out a couple hours,” he told Mrs. Rostvolt in a carefully neutral voice.

Mrs. Rostvolt nodded. Joe spoke to the radio despatcher, then went out into the hot sunlight.

He drove east out of town by Highway 198. Alfalfa fields radiated dark green light; white-washed barns stood sharp against the dark blue summer sky. He crossed a line of tawny hills, and came down into Panoche, a town which Joe disliked. The streets were over-wide, the houses and buildings small, drab, sun-scorched. There were a great number of eucalyptus and pepper trees, a few date-palms on the grounds of Hotel Panoche. Joe drove through town, continued on into the flatlands of the valley, presently entered Burnett. This was a town about half the size of Panoche, deriving its livelihood from apricot, peach, and fig orchards. Joe found the Valley Bloom packing shed, parked, climbed up on the battered loading dock, which was stacked with lug boxes full of peaches. Inside the shed the peaches were culled, graded, packed by long lines of women. Joe spoke to one of the laborers. “Which is Tony Aguilar?”

“That’s him down at the end in a blue shirt.”

Tony Aguilar was a handsome young man with a crop of lustrous dark ringlets. His eyes were bright and restless; his skin olive. His blue shirt had the two top buttons stylishly open. He wore a wristwatch with a gold band, a diamond ring. Joe asked, “You’re Tony Aguilar?”

“That’s me.” Tony Aguilar spoke with a pronounced accent. His manner was both insolent and respectful.

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain.”

“I know you. What you want with me?”

“You know what, Tony.”

Tony Aguilar’s eyes widened in ingenuous astonishment. “No, Sheriff, I don’t know. I don’t do nothing!”

“I’m talking about cock-fighting. In this county cock-fighting is against the law.”

“Sure. I know that.”

“Then, how come you violate the law?”

Tony Aguilar shook his head in total incomprehension.

“You know something? I could put you away for six months. Maybe a year.”

“I don’t know why, Sheriff. I keep my nose clean. I don’t do nothing wrong.”

Joe laughed. “I think you better come with me. I’m taking you to jail.”

Tony Aguilar shrugged hopelessly, his mouth sagging.

Joe looked up and down the dock. “What kind of a season they having this year?”

“Oh — pretty good.” Tony Aguilar’s eyes were liquid; his mouth was curled in a sulky pout.

“How much you give Mrs. Rostvolt?” Joe asked casually. “Because it was money wasted.”

“I don’t know what you talking about.”

Joe rubbed his chin, pretended to consider. “Six months in jail — you’d be out sometime after the first of next year. If you drew a year, they’d send you to San Quentin. How would you like that?”

“Not so good, Sheriff.”

“Well, I don’t really want to put you away, if you don’t pull a stunt like Saturday night again.”

Tony Aguilar licked his lips, and finally decided that silence was the safest course.

“Just between you and me,” said Joe, “how much did you slip Mrs. Rostvolt? Nobody gets in trouble, but I want to find out what’s going on.”

“So you take the money yourself?” asked Tony Aguilar with a rush of despairing bravado.

Joe shook his head. “I don’t want crooked money. In fact, this kind of deal won’t happen again, because I’m going to fire Mrs. Rostvolt.”

“Mrs. Rostvolt,” mused Tony Aguilar, the bland innocence of his voice accentuated by his accent. “I don’t know her.”

“Look, Tony, let’s not fool around,” said Joe. “If you don’t come clean I’m going to lock you up till your hair falls out. Then I’m going to tell Judge Murdock to ship you back to Chihuahua for a no-good conniving Mexican —”

“I ain’t no wetback. You can’t ship me nowhere.”

“Maybe I can, maybe I can’t. I can sure check into your family. In fact, I might just sic Ben Boso on you.”

“What do you do if I tell you?”

“So far as you’re concerned — nothing. Today I just want information.”

“Okay. I trust you. I give her twenty bucks, I tell her keep Boso off my back. That man, he’s one tough pigeon.”

Joe nodded. “Twenty bucks.”

“Yes, sir. Twenty bucks.”

“I guess I don’t need to tell you not to pull a stunt like that again. You know where bribing a law officer can take you?”

“I didn’t mean nothing wrong.”

“It’ll take you about a hundred miles north, to a room overlooking the bay. Good old Q.”

Tony Aguilar smiled a queasy sick smile.

“One more thing,” said Joe. “Are you a citizen?”

“Sure I’m a citizen.”

“Well, there’s an election coming up. Don’t forget to vote for Joe Bain. Any friends you have, tell ’em to vote for Joe Bain. That guy Lee Gervase — he wouldn’t listen to reason. He’d lock you up whether you played ball or not.”

“Okay, Sheriff. I pass the word.”

“No more cock-fights, I’m warning you. This is going to be a cock-fightless county, if I have to put Ben Boso on permanent cock-fight detail.”

“Okay, Sheriff, I hear you.”

Joe drove back to Pleasant Grove. The obvious thing to do was fire Mrs. Rostvolt. And yet — he winced to think of what would happen. He’d have to break in a new clerk, which meant spending the next week in the front office. Better wait till after the election. Or at least until he could see how things were going to come out. But in the meantime …

Sitting in his office, he printed a label:

SPCA FUND

HELP THE SICK ROOSTERS

WOUNDED IN SATURDAY-NIGHT COCK FIGHTING.

He fixed the label to a jar, took it out into the front office, put it on Mrs. Rostvolt’s desk. “Care to contribute, Mrs. Rostvolt?”

Mrs. Rostvolt’s eyes widened, her rosebud mouth worked in and out.

“About twenty bucks should do it.”

“Twenty dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Rostvolt in an uncertain voice. “I can’t afford twenty dollars!”

Joe shook his head sadly. “I thought maybe you had a spare twenty … Well, I’ll leave this here, in case you feel like contributing.”

He returned to his office, Mrs. Rostvolt’s eyes probing his back. A few minutes later he looked across the hall, to find Mrs. Rostvolt engaged in a telephone conversation. Joe watched a moment. Mrs. Rostvolt seemed angry and tense. Joe decided he had made a mistake telling Tony Aguilar that he planned to fire Mrs. Rostvolt. There was no point tipping one’s hand. But too late to worry now.

He went back to his office, picked up the Sunday edition of the Pleasant Grove Messenger, which he had not yet seen. On the front page of the second section a headline caught his eye.

CAMPAIGN FOR SHERIFF’S OFFICE HEATS UP

Lee Gervase Stresses Need for New Methods

There was no mystery as to whose side Howard Griselda was on, thought Joe sourly. He read the article. It seemed that on Saturday night Lee Gervase had spoken at a meeting of the Pleasant Grove Optimists’ Club. He had minced no words in attacking the “inefficient, slovenly, and corrupt” policies of Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello. “Normally I wouldn’t dream of denigrating the memory of a dead man, but a man’s policies don’t necessarily die with the man. I want to change all this. San Rodrigo County deserves, along with the proposed new Courthouse and Administrative Center, an equally modern Sheriff’s Office. I say, let’s take the step from the horse-and-buggy age into the space age!” The speech was greeted with applause, noted the article. Joe flung the paper toward the wastebasket, and sat brooding. Something had to be done; counter-action must be taken.

Joe jumped to his feet, went out to his car, drove north to Aurora, parked in front of the building which housed the Aurora Sun. The editor, whom Joe knew slightly, was Henry Liggett, a small, sandy-haired Scot, reputedly something of a free-thinker.

Joe had astonishingly little difficulty in attaining his objective. In fact, Henry Liggett had already made up his mind to oppose Lee Gervase. Sitting back in his chair, prodding the air with the stem of his pipe, he said, “Mind you, I like things run right, and old Cucchinello was something of a crook — but I can’t abide these slick young public-relations experts, with their ideas for tearing down the old and putting in the new. They want to make us another Santa Clara County, with the housing tracts everywhere you look, crowding out the orchards and fields. I like the peace and quiet, I like old things. I don’t want any confounded fandangle renovations.”

Joe rose to his feet. “I guess I don’t need to tell you that I’m not interested in plunder. I plan to run a clean office; in fact, I’ve already stopped off a couple little tricks. God knows how many more I’ll find.”

Liggett nodded without interest. “I’m glad to hear it. You’re a Marblestone man, you say?”

“That’s right. Born in a shack halfway up Castle Mountain.”

“You probably know this man. Died last night.” Liggett pushed a galley-proof toward Joe.

Joe read, read again. “Yes,” he said in a soft voice. “I knew him … Strange.”

“Happens all the time. I won’t touch the things myself.”

Joe once more read the proof:

POISON MUSHROOMS KILL MARBLESTONE PIONEER

Charles Blankenship, 75, a native of Marblestone, last night died in St. Luke’s Hospital at Pleasant Grove after eating a meal of poisonous mushrooms. He is survived by his widow, Mrs. Metty Blankenship. There were no children.

Chapter IX

Joe found Metty Blankenship less overcome by emotion than he had expected, though her eyes were red-rimmed with weeping. She wore black and seemed more dumpy and taffy-colored than ever. She sat in a rocking chair in the front room while her sister Dora Hobius and a neighbor Clara Colmer worked in the bedroom, packing Charley’s clothes into cardboard boxes. “I’m being practical,” she told Joe. “The longer I wait the harder it’ll be. I’m giving all his clothes to the Salvation Army. I’m selling his watch and his stick-pins — he wouldn’t want them to go to Walt, which is where they’d end up. I don’t know what to do with his magazines. It seems a shame to give them away. You know he had every Reader’s Digest that was ever printed. He kept them for reference, but I don’t believe he ever looked into a single one a second time.”

Joe finally was able to break into the conversation. “Exactly what happened, Mrs. Blankenship?”

Metty Blankenship stared at him uncomprehendingly. “What happened when? You mean about the mushrooms?”

“Yes.”

“I couldn’t say. They looked to be lovely mushrooms. I guess I’m lucky with my gall bladder after all, because I can’t eat anything fried in fat or butter.”

“Did someone give you the mushrooms?”

“Oh my no. Charley picked them himself. They’d come up among our pansies.”

“He picked them yesterday morning?”

“That’s right. And fried them for his lunch. I can’t understand how he could have been so careless.”

“Would you show me exactly where he picked them?”

Mrs. Blankenship pointed through the window. “Just at the edge of the lawn, among those Purple Emperors.”

“Were you with him when he picked them?”

“No. I looked out the window, and at first I wondered what they were. Looked like scraps of paper. Then I pointed them out to Charley and he went out to pick them; he was ever so fond of mushrooms.”

“That’s something I can’t understand. All these years he’s been picking mushrooms. You’d think he’d know a toadstool when he saw one.”

Mrs. Blankenship shook her head. “It’s something I don’t try to understand; I don’t question the ways of the Lord.”

Joe put on a discreet and confidential expression. “Maybe I shouldn’t ask you this — but how are you fixed financially?”

Metty Blankenship blinked her protuberant blue eyes. “I’ll manage well enough. We make a nice bit from the cherries. I’ll have Charley’s life insurance, and we had money put by. So, thank the Lord, I’m not concerned about money.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Into the room came Dora Hobius. Joe rose to his feet. Dora was considerably younger than Metty: a woman of medium height, with fuzzy gray hair, Metty’s protuberant eyes, something of the foxy concavity at the jaw and cheek which showed itself more noticeably in Walt. Joe went to the door, then paused and turned once more to the two women. “Do you still have the stem-ends and peelings from the mushrooms?”

“They’d be in the garbage.” Metty gave a little moan and a shudder. “I couldn’t touch them! I just couldn’t.”

Joe requested and secured permission to examine the garbage. He turned it out upon the ground, then replaced everything other than mushroom peelings and stems: cans, grapefruit rinds, eggshells, bones, and so secured a dozen sections of stem, cut cleanly at either end, together with a handful of peelings.

In the front garden he made a careful inspection of the pansy bed, and presently thought to find indentations in the loam. Probing underneath, he brought up four stubs. There should be more, but perhaps they had come up with the stems.

He returned inside and found Mrs. Blankenship in the kitchen drinking tea with her sister. Mrs. Colmer had departed. Joe asked, “Do you find mushrooms in the pansy bed very often?”

“I can’t say as I’d noticed any before.”

“Mr. Blankenship was fond of mushrooms?”

“Oh dear yes, they were one of his favorite dishes.”

“Was this well known?”

Metty Blankenship looked at him inquiringly, with the beginnings of resentment. Joe said hastily, “I know my questions are a trial, but in case of sudden death it’s my business to ask all kinds of questions.”

“I just don’t see where they’re leading,” said Metty.

Joe had no real notion himself. But it seemed strange that Charley Blankenship should die so soon after Bus Hacker, and by accident.

“Well?” Mrs. Blankenship’s eyes were hard and sharp.

“I guess that’s all, Mrs. Blankenship.”

Joe drove to the hospital, where he consulted the physician who had attended the last hours of Charles Blankenship. There was no question, he was assured, but what Mr. Blankenship had died as a result of eating poison mushrooms: the amanita phalloides, to be precise. As for the fact that Charles Blankenship had picked, cooked and consumed mushrooms all his life — well, in a case of this sort, the first mistake was the last. The toxic principle in the Amanita was extremely powerful: a taste could kill a weak or aged man, and Charles Blankenship had been both.

“Could the effects of any other poison be mistaken for those of Amanita poisoning?”

“Certainly — but why look further?”

“If the case came to court, you could swear he died of eating an Amanita mushroom?”

“Well — the diversity of symptoms for any given poison is surprising.”

Joe nodded sagely, and arranged that the contents of Charles Blankenship’s stomach be reserved for analysis.

The report from the state laboratory reached him the following day. Charles Blankenship had died of Amanita poisoning. There was no trace of any other lethal principle. The stems and peelings he had sent in were from the common edible mushroom agaricus campestris. Stomach contents tested positive for phallin, but the actual substance of the Amanita mushroom itself could not be distinguished in the masticated pulp.

Joe sat brooding. Of the five witnesses against Ausley Wyett, two had died within the week — accidentally.

Accidentally?

The word was open to speculation.

How Bus Hacker could have been killed — purposely killed — was a puzzle. Joe had a glimmer or two of an idea — but unluckily he had no way to verify his speculations: the house had burned to the ground.

The case of Charley Blankenship seemed equally straightforward. Blankenship had picked and cooked the mushrooms himself. Suppose Metty had covertly dropped a handful of chopped Amanita into his pan of mushrooms? Possible — but extremely unlikely. Metty Blankenship did not appear overcome with grief. She evidently expected to rejoin Charley in the hereafter, and perhaps intended to enjoy the intervening Charley-less years to the fullest extent.

Joe drove out to Marblestone. Summer heat, smelling of bleached hay, pressed down upon Fox Valley. He parked in front of Fritz’s General Store, where the big oak created a dark puddle of relative coolness, went inside to find Fritz leaning on the counter reading a newspaper. Joe went to the refrigerator, brought out a couple bottles of root-beer, tossed two dimes on the counter. “Have a drink on me, Fritz.”

Fritz removed the caps. “Happy days.”

Joe took a pull at his bottle. “Just between you and me, Fritz, what do you make of all this sudden death?”

Fritz looked blandly at the ceiling. “You mean Charley Blankenship so close to Bus Hacker?”

“Correct.”

“Well — I don’t have any ideas myself. Some of the town fellers think it’s strange happening so soon after Ausley Wyett gets out.”

Joe nodded slowly, as if Fritz had uttered a hitherto obscure truth. “Anything else?”

Fritz considered. “Nothing worth repeating. A lot of wild talk. Some want to run Ausley Wyett out of town.”

“That’s no great surprise. So long as they don’t try it.” Joe tilted the bottle of root-beer. “Where does Oliver Viera live?”

“Well — it’s hard to describe. You go up Quarry Road about a mile, then there’s a little side road that turns in and follows along the ravine. Oliver’s got a nice new house about two hundred yards in along the side road.”

“I know about where it is. Oliver must be doing pretty well.”

“As well as anyone around these parts.”

“I think I’ll go call on him.”

“Better telephone first. Here, I’ll call him for you.” Fritz went to the telephone, spoke, returned to Joe. “He’s home, and he’ll be expecting you.”

Quarry Road, after passing the Community Center, slanted behind the cemetery and off across a dry meadow dotted with oaks. At the foot of the hills it crossed Candelara Creek, swung up the hillside through a copse of eucalyptus, to come out on a wide, slowly rising plateau. Across the canyon, on land belonging to Ausley Wyett, could be seen the quarry from which the road derived its name: a dull salmon-colored scar streaked with brown, gray and the black-green of wild holly and blackberry bushes. A mile beyond, Joe came to the side road Fritz had mentioned, marked by a fancy black and silver mailbox.

Oliver Viera’s house was an ostentatious structure of redwood and stone and glass, poised on the edge of the ravine, the deck cantilevered out into space with a view far down into Fox Valley.

As Joe came up the flagstone path, the door opened and Oliver Viera appeared in the doorway. He raised his plump arm. “Hi Joe! Come along in.”

Joe paused, looked at the house. “Quite a place you got here, Oliver.”

“It’s not finished yet, but it’s livable. Come on in. I don’t know whether you know my wife or not.”

Joe stepped into the house. Connie Viera, like Oliver, was dark and plump, and there was an indeterminate number of small dark children scuttling, creeping, crawling and running back and forth across the gleaming hardwood floors.

At Oliver’s behest, Joe gingerly settled into an oddly-shaped chair which proved to be not quite so uncomfortable as it looked.

“I never expected to find a place like this up Quarry Road,” said Joe. “The newest house in these parts, as I remember, was Mrs. Sullivan’s pink stucco house with the big window looking out on the lawn.”

Oliver made a deprecatory gesture. “I drew up the plans myself, on the order of some houses I saw in one of the magazines.”

“You sure did a good job.”

“It’s not quite finished yet. I was my own contractor, and I’ve still got a few details to finish. Come on outside.” He pushed back the sliding doors; Joe rose from the chair, stepped out on the deck. At the far end were a drop cloth, a ladder, several buckets, where Oliver had been painting the redwood fascia along the edge of the roof. “That’s what I mean,” said Oliver. “I plug away, a little bit every day. About the only exercise I get nowadays.” He pointed down the valley. “Look. Way off yonder. See that little speck of white? That’s the Methodist church in Marblestone.”

“It’s a fine view.”

“Anytime you feel like moving back to the old town, I’ll fix you up with something just as nice. In fact there’s another property just up the road, got a little house on and everything. He’s asking fifteen thousand, but I could get it for less.”

“Not just now.” Joe looked down into the canyon, where Candelara Creek ran between round gray boulders. “You ought to throw a dam across, and you’d have a big lake right in your front yard.”

“I thought of it,” said Oliver, “but there’s a problem.” He nodded to the opposite side of the ravine, about a hundred yards distant. “I don’t control the other bank.”

“Who does?”

“It’s part of the Wyett place.”

“Why don’t you talk to Ausley? He might go for the idea.”

Oliver pursed his lips dubiously. “I’m not sure I care to get too chummy with Ausley. Not after the letter.” He darted Joe a quick sidelong glance. “It seems strange, Bus Hacker and Charley Blankenship dying so close together.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” said Joe. “I came up here to discuss the subject.”

Oliver laughed nervously, ran his fingers through his shock of black hair. “I can’t think of much to discuss — unless I get killed somehow or other. Then it’ll be too late.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Joe. “Specifically I want you to be careful about situations where you might get hurt accidentally. For instance, there’s some steep slopes on Quarry Road. Every time you go out give your brakes a quick test.”

Oliver smiled tremulously. “You’re kidding me.”

“I’m not kidding. I’m suggesting that you be real careful of accidents until this business blows over.”

Oliver stared blankly off into the sky. “I can’t imagine Ausley, or anyone else, holding a grudge against me. I’ve never done anybody wrong in my whole life. Not even Ausley. I just told the truth.”

“That might be enough.”

Oliver laughed. “Come now, Joe. After all, it’s been sixteen years.”

“Sixteen years in jail.”

“You really think that Ausley is responsible for Bus Hacker and Charley Blankenship dying?”

Joe considered. “Let’s say I’m not completely satisfied that the deaths were accidental. There were funny circumstances in both cases. I’ll also say this. I spoke to Ausley the other night, and he didn’t act like a guilty man. But you never know.”

“I tell you what I’m going to do,” said Oliver decisively. “I’m going to see Ausley about building that dam. It would be good for him as well as me. We could get a government loan without any trouble, and then we’d both have a nice little lake here, for fishing, swimming, irrigation.”

“What’s the dam got to do with accidents?”

“I want to see how he acts. I can tell when a man is plotting against me. I run into it all the time in the real-estate business.”

Joe turned away from the rail. “Well, I just wanted to warn you.”

“Thanks, Joe. I’ll take care. Not that I expect any trouble.”

Joe returned to Marblestone, but instead of entering town he turned right along Destin Road. He passed the Blankenship cherry orchard, the ramshackle Wyett cabin, continued up Destin Lane to the Destin house.

The two Destin girls were sitting in a lawn swing at the far side of a cool lawn; both wore white shorts and white T-shirts; both looked clean and freshly laundered and watched Joe go to the front door with expressions of innocent hauteur.

Mrs. Destin, the former May McAllister, opened the door.

“Remember me?”

“Joe!” May Destin laughed in delight and excitement. She took two quick steps forward, threw her arms around Joe’s neck, kissed him resoundingly. “I’m so surprised to see you!”

“It’s been quite a while.” He cautiously disengaged himself, looked her over. “You haven’t changed much. A few more curves.”

“Curves — hah! Fat! Be honest! Now you haven’t changed at all, you still have that devilish look —”

“Come now, May. You know better than that.” Joe took time to look about him. Twenty-five years before an errand had brought him into the Destin house, when he had marveled at its princely elegance. Now the house seemed less vast and palatial, but still quite definitely the product of long-established wealth. From the foyer archways opened on one hand into a vast living room with Oriental rugs and heavy old-fashioned furniture; on the other, into a walnut-paneled dining room with a chandelier hanging over a massive dining table. Joe turned back to May. “I actually came to see Cole. Where is he?”

May smiled and pouted. “He’s up at the north meadow. He wants to put in a cherry orchard. The things that man thinks to keep himself distracted.” She moved a half-step forward, raised her face. “Let me fix you a drink. We’ll talk over old times.”

Joe grinned, shook his head. “I might start wanting to revive some of those old times. That wouldn’t work out.”

May smiled wistfully. She looked into Joe’s face and began laughing. She came another half-step closer, and put her hands on his shoulders. “You’ve got lipstick on your face.”

Joe reached up to disengage her hands. “Maybe I better …” He became conscious of a sudden awful pressure, and looking around stared into the face of Cole Destin, who had entered through the kitchen.

“Let go of me!” yelled May Destin. “Keep your beastly hands to yourself. I’ll tell my husband, he’ll … Oh Cole!” May sobbed in relief. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Cole stalked into the foyer. Joe foolishly brought a handkerchief out and began rubbing at his face. “Hello, Cole,” he said. “Now don’t get any —”

Cole Destin lashed out suddenly. Joe jumped back, but the rug slid under his feet and he fell. Cole picked him up by the back of the collar and the belt, carried him to the front door.

“Cole, listen here,” said Joe. “Things aren’t the way you think they are.”

Cole opened the door, pitched Joe out onto the graveled path. He came out on the porch, stood looking down at Joe. From behind him came May Destin’s hysterical voice. “I’m so glad you came, I’ve never been so scared in my life. Oh, Cole …”

Cole said in an ugly low-pitched voice, “This isn’t going to end here, Bain … Sheriff Bain, I should say.” He spoke with sardonic emphasis.

“Listen to me, Cole. I came here to warn you —”

“Yeah, I’ll warn you. If I see you on my property again I’ll shoot you. Meantime you better get yourself a good lawyer.”

Joe picked himself up off the gravel, turned away. The two girls in the lawn swing watched him attentively. “What were you doing?” asked the oldest.

“Your daddy and I were playing,” said Joe. He limped to his car, got in. From within the house he could hear the faint high-pitched sound of May Destin’s voice. “Treacherous little slut,” grated Joe. “My God, what a mess for a man to get himself into.”

He drove slowly off down Destin Lane. He’d tried to put Cole Destin on the alert. If Cole wouldn’t listen, it was his own fault. What was that Cole had said about a lawyer? Probably just talk. When Cole cooled off he’d surely see the folly of dragging his wife through a lot of unpleasant publicity. Joe heaved a deep rueful sigh. A man sure had to be careful, no question about that … At the intersection of Destin Lane and Mitre Canyon Road he came to a stop. There was still Willis Neff. It was his duty to talk to him, no matter how sick he was of the entire affair. He turned up Mitre Canyon Road, and presently arrived at the Neff ranch. He parked in front of the house, got out of the car, looked around the open area between barn, milk-shed, and house. There was a somnolent hush in the air. Flies buzzed in the hot dust. The pickup was gone; there was no indication that anyone was home. Joe turned to the house. It looked clean and neat; the garden bloomed with hollyhocks, roses, daisies, calendula, snapdragon … Ellie appeared behind the screen door, then came out to stand on the top step. She wore a blue and gray house-dress, in which she looked completely easy and graceful. She spoke in a half-whisper. “Mother is lying down, she’s not feeling well.”

Joe spoke in a quiet voice. “That’s too bad. But I came half to see you, and half to see your father.”

Ellie looked off toward the hills. “He’s off fixing a water-tank, I think.” She smiled faintly. “But here I am. Would you like a cup of coffee? I only just made a fresh pot.”

Joe nodded. “I sure would.”

“I’ll bring it out,” said Ellie. “If we go in Mother will wake up. Cream? Sugar?”

“Just black.”

Ellie went into the house and a moment later returned with two cups, one of which she handed to Joe, who had seated himself on the steps. She sat beside him, and turned a rather puzzled glance at his face.

Joe remembered the lipstick. He wiped his mouth on a handkerchief. “Is that better?”

“A little. Mainly you’ve just smeared it.”

Joe sipped his coffee. “The strangest thing happened. A woman just up and flung her arms around my neck and kissed me. I didn’t do a thing.”

Ellie had no comment to make. Joe noticed a fishing rod leaning against the house. “Looks like your father has been fishing.”

“He’s getting ready to go. Every few months something comes over him and he has to go off for a few days.”

“Maybe he catches a fish, maybe he comes on a deer which dies of fright and he brings that home too.”

Ellie moved uncomfortably. Joe reassured her. “I can’t get excited. I was raised in the back-hills. Most of the meat we ate was out-of-season venison.”

Ellie said softly, “I’m always afraid the game warden will catch him.”

“There’s always that chance,” said Joe. “When is he leaving?”

Ellie looked at him doubtfully. Joe said, “The reason I ask is that I’d like to take you to San Jose for dinner and a show, or something like that.”

Ellie shook her head. “There’d be such awful trouble. You know how he is. And my mother’s not feeling well.”

Joe made a sympathetic sound. Then he said, “This is a personal question and maybe you won’t like my asking — but does he ever mistreat you? Or your mother? Because if he does —”

Ellie shook her head quickly, and, Joe thought, with a trace of fear. “Here he comes now.”

The pickup appeared from behind the barn, came to a stop. Neff jumped out, stood stock-still looking at Joe and Ellie. Then he turned on his heel, stalked into the barn.

Joe rose to his feet. “Thanks for the coffee. And don’t forget: if things ever get too tough for you — let me know.”

Ellie wordlessly took the cups, went inside. Joe walked over to the barn.

Neff stood at a workbench taking tools from a box, hanging them on nails. He looked around briefly as Joe came in, but continued with his work.

Joe said, “I’m here on a funny kind of errand, Mr. Neff.”

“Yeah?” Neff’s voice was cold.

“You remember our conversation a few days ago. Well, since then there’s been two deaths. They might have both been coincidence — but I think it’s my duty to warn you to be a little cautious and suspicious until I find out what’s going on.”

Neff turned, put his broad back against the workbench, stared at Joe with his bright blue eyes. “I’ll tell you what ought to be done, and that’s castrate that son of a bitch with a dull knife. If he ever talks to my women-folk again, I’ll fix him so he won’t talk again.”

“Better be careful, Mr. Neff! It’s not a good idea, making threats.”

Neff warmed to his subject. “I’ll tell you something else. I’ve heard some stories about you, and they’re pretty low. I don’t want you fooling around my daughter either. Might as well know it.”

Joe said reasonably, “Well, I don’t see how it’s much concern of yours, Mr. Neff. My intentions are perfectly honorable. We’re both over twenty-one.”

“I don’t give a damn if you’re a hundred and one. You keep away from here or I’ll bust your neck.”

“In the first place,” said Joe, “you’re not man enough. In the second —”

Neff stepped forward, a grin splitting his face. He swung his big right fist, which Joe caught in the palm of his left hand. “Take it easy, Mr. Neff.”

Neff, still grinning, seized him, threw him to the ground. Then he jumped forward, kicked Joe in the ribs. Joe caught the heavy boot, jerked; Neff hobbled back. Joe pulled himself to his feet. It had been a trying afternoon, with first Cole Destin ejecting him, now Neff kicking him in the ribs. Joe’s resentment knew no bounds.

Neff charged forward, heavy and strong as a bull. Joe threw a pair of punches: a left to Neff’s mouth, a right to his kidney. The blows seemed to hurt Neff not at all; if anything, they infuriated him even further. Once more he lurched forward, with more care. Joe chopped at him — once, twice, three times with his left, then took a terrific blow to the face which dazed him. His knees felt weak. But it wouldn’t do to go down. Not out here in the barn with no onlookers to keep Neff from methodically kicking in his ribs. He backed away, keeping his left in Neff’s face. Neff swung, missed. Joe put every ounce of strength into a counterpunch to Neff’s jaw. Neff sat down, startled. He reached behind him, seized a pitchfork and, sitting, hurled it at Joe, who batted it aside. “Be careful, Neff!” panted Joe. “You’re liable to wind up in jail for a stunt like that.”

Neff bounded to his feet. He took another pitchfork, advanced slowly. Joe retreated, picked up the first pitchfork, stood on guard. Neff jabbed, Joe caught the prongs with his own fork; they strained, each trying to force aside the other’s fork. Neff won, Joe’s fork fell away, but instantly he brought the handle around, clouted Neff on the head, just over the ear. Blood began to spurt; Joe hit him again, harder. Neff groaned, staggered to the workbench, where he leaned back, staring at Joe.

“Want some more?” asked Joe, panting. “I’ll give you all you want, you mean son of a bitch.”

Neff put his hand to his head, looked dully at the blood. Joe turned away, marched to the house. Ellie peered in horror from the door. “Better go tend to your father,” said Joe. “He’s got a pretty sore head.”

He marched to his car, drove out to the road and back down toward Fox Valley.

A mile from the Neff house he laughed harshly. “I guess I lost a couple of votes today.”

He inhaled, exhaled. His ribs pained him. All in all, an unusual and trying day … He toyed with the idea of dragging Neff into jail for assault with a deadly weapon. It might be a good idea to teach Neff a lesson. Joe thought of Neff looking out from one of the cells. He grinned, then laughed. But it would make a terrible amount of work for Ellie and Mrs. Neff. Joe decided to forget the whole matter.

He continued directly on through Marblestone, and down Candelara Creek Road. The central valley opened out before him; Pleasant Grove shimmered white and gray in the afternoon sun. Joe felt calmer, as if, on leaving the mountains, he had passed into a different world.

By the time he parked behind the courthouse, his composure and dignity, sorely taxed earlier in the afternoon, had returned.

Mrs. Rostvolt looked at him with an odd expression as he entered the office: a spiteful half-smirk which irritated him immensely. Perhaps he looked disheveled. Lipstick? Surely that was gone. Mrs. Rostvolt said, “The district attorney wants you to call him.”

“Put him on,” said Joe. He went to his private office, slumped into his chair, picked up his phone. Presently the baritone voice of District Attorney Paul Wentzman sounded in his ear. “Sheriff?”

“Speaking.”

Wentzman seemed at a loss for words. Finally he asked, “What the devil have you been up to, Joe?”

“What do you mean?”

“Cole Destin called me. He wants to press charges against you. Assault, battery, attempted rape. The works.”

“I didn’t think he’d go through with it,” said Joe in a marveling voice.

“He’s pretty mad.”

“There’s nothing in it. The trouble is, I don’t know if I can prove it.”

“I’d think hard if I were you.”

“The situation is this,” said Joe. “His wife is a slut, and Cole probably suspects it. She made a pass at me, Cole saw it, and she began yelling blue rape. She didn’t have any other choice, I’ll say that much for her.”

Wentzman’s voice was cool. “Cole wanted to call in the state police, but I told him that wasn’t necessary, that you’d be sure to appear in court.”

“Certainly. Any time he wants.”

“Well — I set it at ten tomorrow morning. Just a preliminary hearing, to set bail.”

Joe considered a moment, then asked cautiously, “How far has this story got out?”

“I couldn’t say. Griselda knows about it.”

“Oh, my Lord, I better do something quick. Or my name is mud.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Joe hung up, paced back and forth across his office. A fine how-de-do! He threw himself into his chair, reached for the phone, then changed his mind, and half-walked, half-loped the two blocks to the Pleasant Grove Messenger. He burst in through the door so abruptly that Amelia, the pretty young receptionist, stared at him in wonder.

“I want to see Mr. Griselda,” he said. “Right now.”

Amelia stepped hurriedly behind the low partition which cut off a view of the composing room. From the background came the dry clatter of a linotype machine.

Griselda himself returned. He stood in the doorway, shirt-sleeves rolled up, necktie loosened at the throat, big head thrust forward. He nodded dourly at Joe. “What can I do for you?”

“You planning to run a story about me?”

“It’s going in tonight’s edition.”

Joe drew a deep breath. “I think we ought to talk seriously about that story. Before the damage is done.”

Griselda smiled heavily. “Seems to me the damage is already done. A complaint was filed — which makes it news.”

Joe said, “Can we talk in private?”

“Come into my office.”

Joe followed Griselda into a room more den than office. The walls were lined with books and photographs; through the glass doors of a buffet twinkled reflections from a dozen bottles. Griselda seated himself at his desk, motioned Joe to an ancient leather chair.

Joe sat stiffly erect. “I guess we’re talking about the same story.”

“The head as I recall reads, ACTING SHERIFF BAIN ACCUSED IN ATTACK OF MARBLESTONE MATRON.”

“That’s the story,” said Joe. “I don’t think it will help my prospects for election.”

Griselda attempted a grim joke. “For all you know, it might get you a few votes.”

“I don’t want those votes,” said Joe. “The situation is this. I went to the house to see Cole. He wasn’t there. It so happens that May Destin was one of my old-time sweethearts and she suddenly wanted to return to the scenes of her youth. Cole came in and she put it all on me, an innocent bystander.”

“It’ll come out in the trial.”

“Meanwhile the election has come and gone, and I’m gone too. I don’t know my legal recourse, but if I were you I’d move pretty careful. Somehow I don’t think there’s going to be any charges made, and if the story gets printed anyway, I’ll be extremely merciless.”

Griselda inspected Joe under bushy eyebrows. “The complaint has been signed. That’s a matter of public record.”

“Whether it’s true or not? You just looking for a chance to smear me, Howard?”

Griselda’s heavy face went maroon. “You know me better than that. As I said before, the complaint has been signed — and it’s news.”

Joe said, “I want to make a phone call, and I want you to listen in. Can you do that?”

Griselda considered, then nodded with poor grace. “I don’t like the idea, but I will, provided you mention the fact that there’s a witness on the line.”

Joe shook his head. “That wouldn’t work. I want you to listen only to convince yourself the whole thing is phony.”

“Very well,” growled Griselda. “Make your call from that phone. I’ll listen from the front office.”

Joe looked in the phone book, dialled. The phone rang. Twice, three times. Joe’s heart sank. Then May answered. Joe sighed. “This is Joe Bain.”

May gave a little shuddery sob. “Oh, Joe. I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t care much what you say. What counts is, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know that Cole came ramming into town and pulled the roof down around my ears?”

“Yes.” May’s voice was low and hopeless. “But what could I do? I lost my head, I suppose. But it was all I could think of. Self-preservation, I guess. I know I’m utterly silly.”

“‘Silly’? That’s one word for it. Anyway, you’ve got to get Cole to back away. I don’t care how you do it, but I can’t stand the publicity. I’m running for Sheriff.”

May began to whimper. “You don’t know Cole. He’s so strait-laced it’s terrible.”

“It’ll be worse if the case comes to court. Because I won’t take it lying down.”

May said simply, “I don’t see what you can do. It’s your word against mine.”

“It’ll be more than that in the courtroom. First of all, you might as well realize it’ll be a juicy case. Everybody you know will be in court. I’ll call up your two little girls and ask if you yelled or screamed. They’ll say no, we just heard Mama laughing. In fact they might have seen the thing just as it happened. I’ll call Reverend Dunkwiler, and he’ll testify as to how he caught us under the church when we were supposed to be in Sunday school. I’ll call Walt Hobius to testify how you wanted me to marry you, pretending you were pregnant. I’ll get in some experts in lipstick smears. When a man attacks a woman, she don’t generally plant a nice neat print across his mouth. Another thing: it just plain doesn’t stand to reason that I’m going to make a pass at a woman when I come to see her husband, and when she can scream bloody murder to her kids. And one more thing. I’ll check high and low to see what other boy-friends you got and bring them to court to testify. You see what I mean? I’m not making threats, I’m trying to show you how I’ll have to defend myself.”

There was silence from the other end of the line. Then a dreary voice said, “Very well. I’ll make Cole stop. Somehow.”

“You’d better do it fast. Because he’s signed a complaint.”

“I know where I can reach him. I — I think I can handle him. I’ll tell him something or other. It’ll be all right.”

“I’m sorry about this, May. But it’s just one of those things.”

May’s voice, barely a whisper, said, “You’re not really a gentleman, are you, Joe?”

“I’m Sheriff first, and gentleman second. It’s tough, but that’s the way it goes.”

May hung up.

Griselda came back into the room. He nodded heavily, not meeting Joe’s eyes. “I’ll kill the story … Unsavory mess.”

“Nothing I brought on.”

“Except maybe by the entire state of your character, your reputation, your background, and your moral nature.”

“Here now, Howard. I didn’t come in here for a slanging match. As far as my morals go, I’ll stack them up against your man Gervase any day of the week.”

“Be that as it may.” Griselda made an impatient motion of his thick, hairy hand to signify that he had had enough of the interview. Joe took his leave. He walked slowly back to Montalvo Square. “That was a near thing,” he told himself.

When he returned to the office, Mrs. Rostvolt eyed him speculatively. Joe told her nothing. Presently she brought him the day’s correspondence for his signature. As usual she had done a masterful job. Mrs. Rostvolt, the paragon! Too bad she was such a crook. She belonged on the other side of the bars. Oh well — sufficient unto the day the evil thereof. He went home where both his mother and Miranda wondered why he seemed so irritable.

After dinner Joe’s mother sat at the television and Miranda did her homework. Joe showered, then opened a can of beer and went to sit in pajamas and bathrobe on the back porch, as far from the squawk of the television as he could get.

An eventful day, in which the single agreeable element was Ellie Neff. Joe looked up into the sky where the moon, near-full, floated over the back-yard pepper tree. Thirty miles away Ellie might be looking up at the same moon … Joe slapped at a mosquito, finished his beer, and went inside. Miranda had finished her homework and was talking on the telephone. Joe opened his mouth to remonstrate, then closed it again. His mother got up to change channels. Joe went out into the kitchen, opened another can of beer, seated himself at the kitchen table. On the back of an envelope he wrote:

Unfinished Business

A.

Bus Hacker.

1.

Who had watered Bus Hacker’s gas tank? Why? To arrange that Hacker walk into town?

2.

Who advised Hacker of an important letter at the post office? Why? To make Hacker walk into town again?

3.

Why make Hacker walk into town?

Possibilities:

a.

Simple prank.

b.

To cause him rage, excitement, and possible heart attack.

c.

To get at contents of safe. What in the safe was so important? Was it destroyed in fire?

Joe considered what he had written. Somebody was afraid of that safe for sure. Cole had been anxious to get into the safe. Both he and Walt Hobius had given it rough treatment. Joe could not envision any possible connection of Ausley Wyett with this business. Ausley had nothing to fear now. In spite of his tactless acts, he gave the impression of elaborate caution. And — Joe was forced to admit he had professed innocence of the original crime with great conviction.

Joe pondered the circumstances of Tissie McAllister’s dreadful death. Charley Blankenship had overlooked the road to the north of the Wyett barn, Bus Hacker to the south. Blankenship testified that he had seen Tissie and later Cole Destin. Hacker testified that he had seen only Cole Destin. Cole Destin testified to seeing only Ausley and Tissie. If Ausley were innocent, he himself would have noticed anyone approaching from the hills. Either Hacker or Blankenship or both would have seen anyone crossing the fields east of the road. If Ausley was innocent, someone was lying. Joe thought it was Bus Hacker. On the morrow he would check the trial record.

He continued his notes:

B.

Charley Blankenship.

1.

How could Charley Blankenship, a well-known mushroom fancier, be induced to pick, cook and eat Amanita mushrooms? Mistake? Emphatically unlikely. No one, not even a tyro, could fail to note the Amanita’s characteristic white gills.

2.

Who else would want Blankenship, as well as Hacker, dead? Ausley, perhaps. Somebody else? Why? Money? Metty Blankenship inherited on Charley Blankenship’s death. The mind reeled at the idea of Metty’s poisoning Charley. Where would money go if Metty had died first?

Joe paused for a tilt of the beer can. A peculiar situation. If Ausley Wyett were responsible, Cole Destin, Willis Neff and Oliver Viera became poor insurance risks.

If Ausley were not responsible — what then? Ausley’s release, the deaths of Hacker and Blankenship made a very strange coincidence in time. In connection with Viera, Cole Destin, Willis Neff, who held grudges against them?

Willis Neff had antagonized half the countryside.

Cole Destin had stepped on toes here and there. He showed no mercy when it came to extending his holdings, and tended to act like a feudal lord.

Oliver Viera had always been popular, and in all likelihood had not an enemy in the world.

Except Ausley Wyett.

Joe sat back, considered the beer can. Empty. Slowly, carefully, he opened another, and sat back, his mind roiling with a dozen speculations. Someone as clever, malicious, and mischievous as a mad ape was having the time of his life, performing murders which were not quite murders … Joe put the beer can on the table, slumped back in his chair. How, he asked himself, would I murder Bus Hacker so that he had a heart attack and Charley Blankenship so that he cooked himself some poison mushrooms? Looked at in this fashion, the situation became ridiculous … Joe pondered. Old Bus Hacker had been pretty red in the face: a symptom of electrocution. But Joe had performed the identical acts without a tingle … Joe finished his beer and went to bed, where he lay awake long hours thinking.

Chapter X

At the northwest edge of the county, in a region of densely wooded hills and deep valleys, was Nazareth, a religious community founded fifty years before, and maintained in as complete isolation as possible. There was no telephone service, no mail delivery, no electricity. The community educated its own children, nursed its own sick, buried its own dead, and in general lived as self-sufficient a life as possible. Needless to say, there were neither bars, theaters, bowling alleys nor soda fountains in Nazareth. The young people occasionally became restless and sought entertainment in Verdalia, to the anguish of the elders of the community.

Not far distant was the town of Vino, so named for vineyards in the surrounding hills and several famous wineries established nearby.

On Saturday evening four Nazareth lads returning home from a debauch at a Verdalia ice-cream parlor were buzzed by as many youths from Vino in a jazzed-up old car. A minor accident occurred, resulting in recriminations, threats, counter-threats and a fight. Joe got word that a full-scale rumble was brewing, since the young men of Nazareth, while meek and Christian, were also sensitive.

On Tuesday Joe drove out with Deputy Phipps, showed the official car in Vino and Nazareth, laid down the law to the first group of boys he encountered in either town. His warnings went unheeded.

Tuesday evening at dusk thirty or forty boys from Vino, ages fourteen to twenty, made a foray over the hills, and began to paint an enormous Star of David on the slope overlooking Nazareth. They were almost immediately discovered. For a few minutes indecision reigned in Nazareth; then a group of young men surged to the attack.

Joe, who had been summoned by an anxious mother in Vino, arrived about this time with three deputies, and marched dutifully up the hill. Several Negro families lived in Vino and as Joe neared the fracas, he heard the cry, “Religious boy, look out! I gonna whip yo’ ass!” And the answering challenge, “Come try it, if you dare!”

Joe was struck on the back of the neck by a bunch of grapes, but even with this incentive was unable to capture any of the combatants, who fled in all directions at the sight of the police. Joe left two deputies on patrol and went home, with the certainty that the raid would undoubtedly be repeated, and perhaps become an annual event … Well, there were worse ways to let off steam. Probably did the Nazareth boys considerable good.

The next day was Wednesday. Joe, having secured twenty-five sponsors, paid the county clerk two hundred and forty dollars and made his candidacy for the office of Sheriff official. The Messenger made a brief mention of the Nazareth–Vino brawl, but remarked only that “the hostilities were quickly quelled.” Joe sought in vain for recognition of the swift action of Sheriff Joe Bain and his deputies. On another page he noticed a story headed:

PROGRESS COUNCIL PLANS

OPEN-AIR POLITICAL RALLY

Joe learned that the San Rodrigo County Council for Progress had taken out a permit to hold a public meeting in Montalvo Square on the night of Saturday September 29. There would be musical entertainment, free doughnuts and coffee. Among the speakers would be Fred Hatch, President of the Pleasant Grove Chamber of Commerce; Henry Heilbronner, President of the County Grange; Howard Griselda, Editor and Publisher of the Messenger; Lee Gervase, attorney and candidate for Sheriff; Edgar H. Laumeister, Executive Secretary of the Pleasant Grove Lions Club.

Joe grimaced. “About the only celebrity not invited is the sacrificial pig, and that’s me.”

“What’s the matter, Daddy?” asked Miranda brightly. “Indigestion?”

“I was feeling pangs of hunger,” said Joe, “because it looks like hard times after the election.”

“Oh now!” his mother declared. “That’s probably not even nearly true!”

“I’ll be out of school pretty soon,” Miranda chirped. “Then we can take a trip to Mexico. Goody! I hope you get skunked, Daddy!”

“Miranda!” chided Joe’s mother.

“Let her alone,” said Joe gloomily. “Somebody might as well enjoy the situation.”

“I’m tired of your being Sheriff anyway,” said Miranda. “I want you to be a senator or a diplomat, or something real important and glamorous.”

“I was a lettuce-picker once. I guess I still have the knack. We’ll make out, one way or another. Miranda can go to work in the packing shed.”

“Daddy! You don’t mean that!”

“We got to eat.”

“I’ll get a job as a fashion model. Didn’t you know? I’m beautiful. I’ve got that lean ferocious man-killing look —”

“Now, Miranda,” said her grandmother. “Girls didn’t talk like that in my day. They didn’t even think things like that.”

“Oh, Granny. You were just pure. Most girls weren’t like you.”

Joe’s mother limited her response to a faint wistful smile.

Miranda hitched herself up to the table. “What’s the big crime for today, Daddy?”

“Nothing very much. A drunk or two. Come to think of it, we nabbed a pick-pocket in Aurora. Old man sixty years old. Real experienced, but awful slow.”

Joe’s mother asked, “What in the world is going on over in Marblestone?”

Joe looked up slowly. “What did you hear? And from whom? Mrs. Henderson?”

“She visited her daughter Sunday. She says the whole town is in a turmoil over that dreadful Wyett boy.”

“What did he do?” asked Miranda.

“He got sent up for murder,” said Joe. “Before you were born. But I don’t know. There’s so much dust blowing back and forth it’s hard to figure out who did what and to whom.”

“Exactly what is happening?”

“Well, Ausley got out of jail, and right away the five main witnesses against him got notifications from Ausley. It’s hard to figure what he had in mind. You could read the letters as threats, as requests for cooperation, as almost anything. It might have been just another one of Ausley’s mad schemes. Anyway these five people weren’t too happy to get these letters. They figured Ausley was putting pressure on them. Especially as right away two of them died.”

Miranda’s mouth made a scarlet O, while Joe’s mother t’chk-t’chk-t’chked.

Miranda asked, “So now everyone is wondering who’s next?”

“Exactly.”

“And what does Ausley Wyett say?”

“He says he doesn’t know what all the fuss is about.”

“And who will be next?”

“Well,” said Joe, “there’s Oliver Viera, and Cole Destin, and Willis Neff. I warned them all. Willis Neff beat hell out of me, Cole Destin tried to put me in jail, Oliver Viera wanted to sell me a house. I’d say they were running neck and neck.”

On Thursday morning Joe served a subpoena in Mulberry, and was late arriving at the office. He bade Mrs. Rostvolt a civil good-morning, received a nod and a smile in return. The smile disturbed him. “Now what?” he asked himself. “What can she know that I don’t?”

For the remainder of the morning he was tied up in the office talking to Milo Gentry, the oldest and most tiresome of the county supervisors. Joe was on pins and needles during the entire conversation. If he eased Mr. Gentry out on the plea of urgent business, Mr. Gentry might become waspish and add his influence to the weight against him. If Joe relaxed, met Mr. Gentry and his long-winded vagaries halfway, Mr. Gentry might be just perverse enough to wonder if this were all Joe did to earn his money.

Milo Gentry finally took an amiable departure. Joe decided to eat a quick lunch and run out to Marblestone. He announced his plans to Mrs. Rostvolt, who nodded blandly. Joe set out for Marblestone in a troubled frame of mind. He disliked unsolved problems, and he had come upon a real puzzler. Mrs. Rostvolt must know that her days are numbered; still she behaved as if she owned the office …

Coming into Marblestone he noticed Oliver Viera’s white Ford convertible parked under the sign Fox Valley Realty. Joe turned off on the road, parked beside the Ford. From the direction of town came a gray GM pickup which turned into Walt Hobius’ service station. Willis Neff alighted; Walt came unsmilingly from the lube shed, and began to fill the gas tank. Neff rolled a tire from the front compartment, gave Walt curt instructions. Walt nodded glumly, his mouth an inverted V. Joe noted that Neff wore clothes different from his usual working gear: brown slacks, black shoes, a red and blue plaid shirt.

Joe sauntered across the road. Neff saw him, bent over the water fountain for a drink. Joe glanced into the bed of the pickup. The rack for the spare tire was empty. There were a sleeping bag, a Coleman stove, a cardboard box of groceries, a shovel, an axe. Joe went to look into the driver’s compartment. On the seat were a creel, a sectional fishing rod, a rifle.

Neff came around the car. “Hello, Mr. Neff,” said Joe. “Looks like you’re going fishing.”

“Might be,” Neff grunted.

“Might be you were going to do some hunting likewise.”

“Hard to say,” answered Neff.

“Deer seem to be out of season,” mused Joe. “It would certainly be a shame if the game warden caught you making a silly mistake.”

“Don’t worry, if you’re worrying,” said Neff with a savage grin. “Where I go there aren’t any game wardens.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” said Joe, “for your family’s sake.”

“Leave my family out of the conversation, unless you’d like another tussle.”

“Don’t push your luck.” Joe walked back across the street to Oliver Viera’s office. The door was open, Joe walked in. Oliver looked up from a desk where he sat painfully typing a small card. “Hi, Joe. Just a second, let me finish this blasted description.”

Joe went to stand by the window and watched as Walt washed Neff’s windshield, checked the oil, accepted money, rendered change, all with the same surly expression: Walt had also felt the weight of Neff’s fists.

Oliver rolled the card from the typewriter, swung toward Joe. “Well, Joe, what’s new?”

“Nothing much,” said Joe. He watched Neff get into his car, make a U-turn and drive back the way he had come.

“There goes a real hard man,” said Joe.

“Yep,” said Oliver. “As my grandmother used to say in Spanish, even the flies won’t land on him.”

“I can’t figure him out,” said Joe. “He’s probably well off — not rich, but comfortable; he’s got a nice ranch, nice wife, nice daughter; he’s got his health —”

“And a nice daughter.”

“— probably doesn’t have to work too hard, goes fishing when he feels like it —”

“And a nice daughter.”

“Oliver,” said Joe. “You’re a lecherous rascal, and a married man, to boot. I was wanting to ask you about Ausley. Did you see him?”

Oliver’s round face creased in puzzlement. “See Ausley? Why do I want to see Ausley?”

“About that dam. You said it had to be anchored on his property.”

“Oh, the dam. I forgot about that. No, I haven’t seen him. But it’s a good idea.” On rare occasions, when Oliver was excited or forgetful or careless, a musical Mexican lilt came into his voice. “Maybe I’m scared, Joe, I don’t know. Bus Hacker and Charley Blankenship had accidents — why not me too?”

“Which reminds me,” said Joe thoughtfully, “something I wanted to ask you. Outside of Ausley, is there anyone around here who might have a grudge against you?”

Oliver’s expressive eyebrows rose to his hair-line. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Nobody’s mad at me. I never even had a fight with Neff, like everybody else in town.”

“What about your business? Are you stepping on anybody’s toes?”

Oliver shrugged. “You can’t take money from a man without hurting his feelings. Did I tell you Cole wanted me to sound Ausley out about selling?”

“You told me Ausley wasn’t selling.”

“That’s right. He must be worth a pretty penny, old Ausley. Sitting in jail so long.”

“It’s a wonder more people don’t try it.” Joe went to the door. “I think I’ll drive up, say hello to Ausley. If you like, I’ll pass the word that you want to see him.”

“Okay, Joe. Tell him I’ll be down here all day today, and maybe part of tonight. My sister-in-law is visiting; there’s too much noise at home.”

But when Joe drove out to the Wyett ranch there was no sign of Ausley’s old station wagon, and Oliver’s message went undelivered.

Joe cruised aimlessly up Mitre Canyon Road, until he realized that his aimless cruising was bringing him closer and closer to the Neff ranch, whereupon he turned around and drove back. When he wanted to see Ellie he didn’t need to wait till Neff had taken himself off the premises.

Sometime between Wednesday evening and Thursday morning Willis Neff met his death. The world at large knew nothing of the occurrence until Saturday morning, when an old pensioner named Theodore Hill came upon Neff’s body in an open glade high in the Santa Lucia Mountains of Monterey County. Neff had been shot through the head, and lay about a hundred feet from his pickup.

Theodore Hill notified Sheriff Edward Mulligan at Salinas, who sent two deputies to the scene, along with the coroner.

From the fact that the bullet had entered Neff’s head but had not emerged, the investigators deduced that the shot had come from a distance. They cast about and on a nearby ridge found a new red cap, of the type worn by deer-hunters, a half-used folder of matches, bearing the advertising of the Top Hat Bar and Restaurant in San Francisco, a spent .30-30 cartridge. The deputies and the coroner were in angry agreement. Some irresponsible city-bred hunter had decided to bag an out-of-season deer, and Willis Neff was the first moving object to cross his sights: a hunting accident.

The coroner set the time of death provisionally at 2 a.m. Thursday morning plus or minus four hours. In short, so he declared, Neff might have died at any time from ten o’clock Wednesday night to six o’clock Thursday morning.

At the request of Sheriff Joe Bain of San Rodrigo County, the contents of Neff’s stomach were investigated with a view to pinpointing the hour of death more exactly. It was found that Neff had ingested a meal of bacon and eggs very shortly before his death.

This fact went to suggest that Neff had been killed at dawn Thursday morning, since beside Neff’s pickup a gasoline stove had been set up, on which a meal of bacon and eggs might well have been cooked.

The deer-hunter from San Francisco was ordered to step forward and reveal himself — a demand no one expected to be obeyed.

Joe Bain was happy he did not have to search for the hypothetical deer-hunter. He had problems enough of his own.

Chapter XI

On Sunday morning it became Joe’s unpleasant duty to notify Mrs. Neff and Ellie of Willis Neff’s death. Driving through Marblestone he noticed the cars parked along Holy Row, and it occurred to him that Ellie and Mrs. Neff might be at church. Turning up Quarry Road he saw Ausley Wyett’s old station wagon near the Baptist church. “Hmmf,” said Joe to himself. He parked in front of the church, walked up the steps into the vestry. From within issued the Reverend Dunkwiler’s voice, and Joe was whisked twenty years into the past. Everything even smelled the same: warm varnish, stale flowers, old hymnals, dry wood, Sunday clothes. There weren’t too many changes. Joe looked into the nave. Ellie and Mrs. Neff were not instantly visible, but there sat Ausley Wyett, primly erect in one of the back pews, wearing his new brown suit with a flowing blue satin tie. Joe signaled a boy in the row behind him, pointed. The boy prodded Ausley, indicated Joe. Joe beckoned. With exaggerated delicacy Ausley tiptoed out into the vestry. Joe took him outside, into the glare of sunlight.

“The Neffs in there?” Joe asked casually.

“No,” said Ausley. “They didn’t come.”

“You’re sure?”

“Certain sure.”

Joe nodded heavily. “Well, Ausley, what about it?”

Ausley grinned weakly. “What about what?”

“Neff is dead.”

“Neff? Willis Neff?” Ausley’s demonstration of astonishment was convincing. “What happened to him?”

“You don’t know?”

“I have no idea, Joe.”

“Somebody shot him.”

“My goodness! … Well, I don’t know what to say.”

“Do you have a rifle?”

“There’s my father’s old gun somewhere around. I don’t dare touch it, being on parole. You know that, Joe.”

“So you say. Well, I’ll give you a tip, Ausley. If I were you, I’d stay pretty close to home for a few days. There’s going to be talk around town, and I don’t want to have to cut you down out of a tree.”

Ausley shook his head sadly. “People want to blame me for everything. In the old days they used to burn witches, now they got Ausley Wyett instead.”

“I’m telling you for your own good. There’s no sense getting people excited.”

“Where did all this happen?” Ausley asked mildly.

“Up in the mountains. Over the ridge, down toward Big Sur.”

Ausley massaged his chin, looked thoughtfully off into the hazy western sky. “Well, well.” A new thought seemed to come to him. “Yes sir!” he said in a sprightly voice. “Yes sir!” He nodded as if in approval of his idea.

“I guess Mrs. Neff and Ellie stayed home, not having the pickup,” said Joe. “I better get on up there. It’s my place to bring them the news.”

Ausley shook his big head in sympathy. Joe went to his car, leaving Ausley standing in the road.

Ten minutes later he turned into the Neff driveway, parked in front of the house.

Ellie came to the door, looked out through the screen, then stepped out to welcome him. The sun shone on her hair; she seemed placid and sure and at peace with herself.

“Good morning, Ellie,” said Joe soberly. “Where’s your mother? … No, don’t go get her.”

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s some very bad news. I know you can bear up, but I’m worried about your mother.”

Ellie went pale; the muscles of her face set. “Something about my father?”

“Yes. He’s been in an accident. That’s what it looks like. A hunting accident.”

Ellie’s mouth drooped. “He’s hurt — badly?”

“He’s dead.”

Ellie nodded slowly. “I see.” She turned once more, looked toward the house. “Will you come in?”

Mrs. Neff was in the living room ironing. The radio was tuned to a program of gospel songs, and she moved the iron in time to the music.

Ellie turned down the radio. Joe awkwardly broke the news. Mrs. Neff went white, gasped, sat down in a chair, stared numbly at Joe. Then she fell to her knees, rested her elbows on the chair, bent her head. Ellie watched from the side, then slowly went to her mother, patted her head.

Joe said, “I know this is a poor time to pester you with questions, but there are a few things I’d like to find out.”

Ellie nodded.

“Do you know where your father was headed?”

“He said he was going up Bull-frog Creek, at the top of Ham Valley, so he wouldn’t have too far to drive. He was only going to be gone two days.”

“The accident happened in Monterey County, behind Big Sur. Two hours’ drive, I’d put it, or maybe even more.”

Ellie said, “He hasn’t been down there for years.”

“I guess he changed his mind at the last minute.”

“Maybe.” Ellie bent over her mother, helped her into the chair. Mrs. Neff’s face bore a strange rapt expression. Ellie said vaguely, “It’s — it’s a great shock to us.” Tears suddenly appeared in her eyes, and she blinked rapidly.

“Why don’t you and your mother come back into Pleasant Grove and stay at my house for a day or two until you’ve got accustomed to things?” asked Joe.

Ellie shook her head. “We can’t leave. Not for a while. There’s a boy who’s doing the milking, and I help him.”

“Do you have any relatives who could come stay with you?”

“No. But please don’t worry, Mr. Bain; we’ll be all right.”

From outside came the sound of an automobile.

Ellie went to the door. Joe followed.

Ausley Wyett alighted from his station wagon, came slowly to the door. Ellie went out to stand on the porch. Ausley said in an embarrassed voice, “I just heard about your father. I want to say I’m awful sorry. He was a rough man — but he probably did what he thought was right.”

“Yes,” said Ellie. “Although sometimes — I don’t think he cared.”

“Well — that may be. But what I came mainly for was to tell you not to worry about the chores — milking and such. I’ll be happy to oblige.”

Joe raised his eyebrows, looked at Ellie. She smiled. “Thank you, Ausley. That’s very nice of you.”

Joe said sourly, “I guess I’ll be going. Looks like Ausley can make himself useful for once in his life.”

“I’ll sure try,” said Ausley.

Joe returned to Marblestone. He went into the phone booth in the Town Club, telephoned Sheriff Ed Mulligan at Salinas.

“Hello, Ed. This is Joe Bain.”

“Yes, Joe.”

“I’m calling about Neff — the man you found shot.”

“Oh yes. Neff.”

“Just between you and me, there’s been some funny things happening around Marblestone, and I’m wondering if anything off-color caught your deputy’s eyes.”

“So far he hasn’t reported anything.”

“As I understand it, the body was found by a man name of Theodore Hill.”

“That’s right. Old codger living on his pension.”

“My thinking is that Neff’s death might be tied in with a case I’m working on in Marblestone. I’d like to look over the situation, if you don’t object too hard. I just might catch something which ties into this other business.”

“Look all you like,” said Ed Mulligan. “What’s the background on Neff?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll be glad to go into it if you’ve got the time.”

“Well — maybe later. Unless you can just give me a bare outline.”

“Let’s say that Neff wasn’t the most popular man in town. His shooting might have been some kind of put-up job. A fake accident.”

“Hmm … Such things happen. Tell you what. I’ve assigned Sergeant Pallard to the case. Why don’t you meet him somewhere and arrange things with him?”

“Fine. One thing I’d like to know: have you fixed the time of death?”

“Doc says after so long a time he can’t be too definite. Put it sometime after midnight Wednesday, give or take a few hours … Wait. Here’s a note on that. ‘Contents of stomach: bacon and eggs. Died half an hour after meal.’ That seems to make it Thursday morning because he’d been cooking, and his sleeping bag had been slept in.”

“That gives us something to go on. Where can I meet Pallard?”

“Where are you now?”

“In Marblestone.”

“You’d be coming out by Bosco Ridge, I imagine. Why not at Lupin? That’s on the way for both of you.”

“Fine.”

“It’ll be about an hour or an hour and a half.”

“Suits me.”

“An hour and a half, then, at Lupin.”

Joe hung up the phone, stepped out of the booth into the dimness of the bar. He looked at his watch. Two o’clock. Lupin was half an hour’s drive; he had an hour to kill.

The men sitting at the bar had been watching him furtively. They quieted as he approached. He knew four of the five: Shorty Olson the bartender, Art van Horn, Walt Hobius, Stub Caramino. The fifth man was a stocky sandy-haired man about thirty, with a skin the color of raw potato, and lashless red-rimmed eyes.

Joe took a seat at one end of the group, ordered a bottle of Lucky.

Stub Caramino, proprietor of the shoe-repair shop two doors down First Street, started the conversational ball rolling. “Well, Joe, what’s new in the world of crime?” He was a small paunchy near-bald man, with the brown heavy-lidded gaze of a camel.

“Nothing much,” said Joe. “Every day it’s different, every day it’s the same. So many fighting drunks, so many chicken thieves, so many clouted cars. The other night we had a war going over in Nazareth. That bit in the Bible about turning the other cheek didn’t even slow ’em down.”

“Seems to me,” said the nameless blond man, “that the more religious a man is, the more he’s got preying on his mind. It stands to reason that if you lead a good life you don’t need to worry.”

Walt Hobius hooted. “Where does that leave old Reverend Dunkwiler? He’s been espousing religion for years. Does that mean he’s a villain?”

“How about Sam Overbury?” suggested Caramino. “That man, he’s a religious pirate.”

“And Willis Neff,” suggested Walt Hobius with a side glance toward Joe. “He was a real deep-dyed Baptist.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said the blond man volubly. “Overbury is — well, I don’t like to talk about people, but you all know Overbury. And Neff — there’s a good example.”

“A dead example,” murmured Walt Hobius.

“Maybe so, but even when he was alive, he was considered a hard man!”

“Speak no ill of the dead,” said Shorty the bartender. “They can’t talk back.”

Art van Horn turned abruptly to Joe. “Let’s have the inside dope, Joe. What’s going on around here?”

Joe shook his head slowly. “It’s possible that nothing is going on. The story from Salinas is that Neff was killed by accident.”

“Come now, Joe,” said Walt Hobius. “Three accidents in a row?”

“I’m not pushing the idea,” said Joe mildly. “I’m merely suggesting that it’s possible.”

Art van Horn slapped the bar with emphasis. “I’ll give you my opinion. It’s common knowledge that Ausley Wyett threatened these men — together with Oliver Viera and Cole Destin — and now they’re dead. Accidents? Bah!”

“Maybe you can explain how Ausley, or anyone else, made Bus Hacker have a heart attack, or Charley Blankenship fry himself a batch of poison mushrooms. Did he hypnotize them?”

The blond man snickered. “Maybe Ausley’s one of them voodoo types, that sticks pins in little statues.”

“It ain’t a good idea to mention names,” grumbled Shorty the bartender. “Sooner or later it gets back to the party concerned, and then there’s bad feeling.”

Art van Horn pounded the bar once more. “Certain kinds of people I want bad feeling with. Wyett should have been fixed and fixed right sixteen years ago.”

“Easy now, Art,” said Joe. “This ain’t Russia. I’m supposed to represent the law around here, not you.”

“Then represent it!” snapped van Horn. “Do something!”

The swinging doors opened; into the bar from the blazing sunlight strode Cole Destin. He stood blinking in the dimness, then came over to the bar, sat down beside Joe.

“Hello, Cole,” said Shorty. “What’ll it be?”

“Just give me a bottle of beer.” Cole peered at the man beside him, jerked in startled indecision, then swung around, stared stonily forward.

“Hello, Cole,” said Joe in an easy conversational tone. “About that business the other day, no hard feelings. On either side, I hope. An easy mistake to make.”

Cole jutted his big jaw, stared straight ahead. Joe turned back to Art van Horn. “You say you want me to do something?”

“Don’t ask me to tell you your business. Just do it.”

Joe reflected. “I could always arrest Ausley Wyett and drag him off to jail.”

Art van Horn grinned wolfishly. “I wouldn’t object.”

“The only thing is, I don’t know what I’d charge him with.”

“There’s three people dead. How many do you need?”

“Maybe Ausley’s responsible, maybe not.”

“Check on him. Do some of this high-power detective work we’re paying you for. Check his alibi.”

“For Bus Hacker’s heart attack? For Charley Blankenship cooking a toadstool? Come now, Art. Be reasonable.”

“You could find out when poor Willis Neff was shot.”

“We’re working on that. Right now. Thursday morning is the best guess.”

“Well then,” said Art van Horn.

Joe shook his head. “It’s not so easy. I ask Ausley, where were you Thursday morning? And Ausley says, I was in bed. Then what do I say?”

Art van Horn was silenced.

Walt Hobius asked, “How far off is this place where he got shot?”

“I don’t know for sure. Down the coast a couple hours’ drive.”

“That time should be figured on too.”

Joe spoke patiently. “I realize that. But the business of alibis doesn’t mean hardly anything. No unmarried man can be expected to prove where he was at four or five in the morning.”

Stub Caramino chuckled. “I can prove where I was four o’clock Thursday morning. I was playing poker. Unless my buddies here want to call me a liar. In which case they can give me my money back.”

“You fellows are all forgetting one thing,” said Joe.

“What’s that?”

“We don’t know for sure that any crime has been committed.”

“Five men testified against Ausley Wyett,” said Art van Horn. “Three of them die like flies, just as soon as Ausley gets out of jail.” He looked along the bar. “You better watch yourself pretty close, Cole, or you’ll be next.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“It’s strange,” said Joe. He looked at his watch, drained his glass, slipped off the bar stool. “Time for me to get in motion. Don’t forget to vote the right way in the election.”

Sergeant Irvin Pallard, a big round-faced young man with a thatch of blond curls, was waiting when Joe arrived at the little café, post office, grocery store and service station which on the road map bore the designation “Lupin”.

Joe alighted from his car, sauntered across the wind-scoured flat. This point, on the boundary between Monterey County and San Rodrigo County, occupied a small stony meadow at the top of Bosco Pass, with the landscape ahead falling away to the Pacific. The air smelled faintly of salt; the sky was like blue gingham, dotted with bits and puffs of white clouds; the sun shone alternately warm and cool.

Sergeant Pallard got out of his car as Joe approached. Joe had met him once or twice before, and had formed a favorable opinion. Pallard would never set the law-enforcement world afire with his brilliance, but he was steady, patient, and would lose very few votes for his boss.

With Pallard driving they set off to the south along Hooper Ranch Road, a narrow winding dirt and gravel track. “Mind telling me what this is all about?” asked Pallard. “I don’t figure it’s just a simple hunting accident.”

“I’d like to find out for sure myself.”

“We don’t have even the smell of a lead. Old Ted Hill didn’t even notice the pickup come in. Which is strange, because he doesn’t miss much … You might as well relax and enjoy the scenery. We have quite a way to go.”

The road slanted down through a forest of fir and redwood, so dense and dark that the road could hardly be seen. “There’s a wet spot in here,” said Pallard. “For no reason anyone can figure this valley gets twice as much rain as the rest of the county.”

“It’s pretty country.”

Pallard agreed. “Monterey County has the scenery, no question about that.”

The road returned to the ridge, where the trees were gnarled, wind-twisted cedars.

“What puzzles me,” said Joe, “is why Neff decided to come so far. He’s always bragged about the spots he knew close to home.”

“It might mean a lot or it might mean nothing,” said Pallard. “People do the damndest things for no reason at all, and the poor cop goes out of his mind trying to figure out why.”

They passed a lonesome cabin, dropped down into a valley, crossed a stream by an ancient bridge, rose back to the ridge, dropped down once more to another stream. And now Pallard, stopping the car, pointed up an intersecting road, hardly more than a pair of tracks, which ran along the bank of the stream.

“Up here is where Neff was found.”

Joe alighted, looked at the surface of the intersecting road. It was hard adobe, and showed no tire-tracks. Getting back in the car, he asked Pallard, “Where does this road wind up at?”

“Nowhere in particular. Thirty or forty years ago it was a logging road. Nobody uses it now but Ted and maybe a few stray hunters and fishermen.”

Pallard turned off into the side road. For ten minutes they bumped over stones, ruts, an occasional fallen branch. The country was wild and beautiful. The creek ran swift and clear; at times the trees came down to the water’s edge; at other times a strip of meadow intervened. After two miles they came upon a shack sitting fifty yards back from the road. It was built of rough redwood planks, nailed horizontally, each plank lapping the one below.

Pallard halted the car. “That’s where Ted Hill lives. Want to talk to him?”

“If he’s home.”

“He’s home. He goes into town once a month to cash his pension check and buy groceries.”

The door to the shack opened. An old man in black trousers and a hickory shirt looked out, then came down the steps and approached the car. He was thin and not very tall; his scalp shone brown as varnished oak between two tufts of white hair; his nose was long and inquisitive. Sergeant Pallard and Joe alighted from the car, and Pallard performed the introductions. “Mr. Hill: Sheriff Joe Bain from San Rodrigo County.”

“Doin’ some investigatin’, eh?” asked Ted Hill.

“We’re looking the place over. Do you remember anything more that you can tell us?”

“Nope. Mainly there wasn’t anything to remember.”

Pallard turned to Joe. “Mr. Hill didn’t hear the shot, and didn’t see Neff drive in.”

“That’s a fact,” said Ted Hill. “Still it ain’t nothing to wonder about. Where you found the red cap the wind comes over the ridge in a gust and blows the sound clear over the canyon. As for Neff driving in, it’s just possible if he came by real quiet in the middle of the night — but I won’t even say that. I hear most everything that stirs. I keep pretty well alert, I’ll tell you. There’s been three cars on this road in the last month and I’ve heard them all.”

Joe looked at him skeptically. “How can you be sure of that?”

“Instinct, you might call it. I don’t sleep sound. And it’s surprising how loud a car sounds coming through at night. A week back there was a party of campers up the road. They left early in the morning and I heard ’em go. Friday night a car drove in, turned around, drove out again. I heard him. But Wednesday night — nope. No traffic whatever.”

Joe tugged at his chin with thumb and forefinger. “You’re sure of that?”

“Certain sure.”

“You were home all Wednesday night and Thursday morning?”

“Most of the time.”

Joe took a deep breath. Impossibilities had almost been piled upon improbabilities. “When were you gone?”

“Thursday morning, real early.” Ted Hill now seemed to speak reluctantly. “I had a little business up the mountain. I might have been gone an hour or two.”

“What time would this be?”

“Sun wasn’t up yet. Five o’clock in the morning or thereabouts.”

“Pretty early, eh?”

“Yep. I go to bed early and I get up early. I don’t like to buy coal-oil.”

“I see. The reason I’m so particular about this … well, let’s just say there’s a reason. As I understand it, you say the only time Mr. Neff could have driven in was between five o’clock Thursday morning and say seven o’clock.”

“That’s pretty close.”

“And there wasn’t any other traffic on the road?”

“Not since the week before, and not until Friday night, when one car went in and out.”

Pallard spoke, “Mr. Neff couldn’t have come in by another route?”

“Not unless he flew. I never seen a car with wings yet.”

“How far back does this road go?”

“Two miles or so. Then she just peters out.”

“What about hunters?” asked Joe. “Do you see lots of those?”

“In deer season quite a few. Out of season not too many — although the deer is thick as flies and I can’t keep a vegetable garden on account of them dang deer.”

“Have you seen Neff before?”

“No sir. I have not.”

“How’s fishing in the creek? Pretty good?”

Ted shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary. There’s better streams. This one flows through clay, and trout don’t seem to like clay. Above the clay it’s better, about two miles back up-stream.”

“Suppose a hunter was waiting up on that ridge Thursday morning. How could he have got up there? Where would he have left his car?”

“Hard to say.” Ted Hill hunched his skinny old shoulders. “If he came up from Raccoon Valley, he’d probably park somewhere along Raccoon Creek. Long walk he’d have, but that’s where you’d go to look for him. Ask Mrs. Whitney in the Raccoon Valley Store. She might have seen the man.”

Pallard nodded. “We’ll do that.” He looked at Joe. “Anything more, Sheriff?”

“Nothing just now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hill,” said Pallard. “You’ve been a real help.”

“I ain’t told you nothing much,” said Hill. He watched them walk away.

Pallard started the car; they bumped forward. “Independent old codger,” said Pallard. “But what in the world would take him up the hill at five o’clock in the morning?”

“He might have been out to shoot himself a nice young buck. That’s most likely. Anyway it tells us pretty close when Neff came through. And that’s another puzzle. Because I saw him leave Marblestone myself — about five o’clock Wednesday evening, as I remember.”

“He might have stopped off to see a friend.”

Joe nodded. “I’ll have to ask his family if he had any friends in this direction.”

They entered a meadow a hundred yards across. Pallard said, “There’s the pickup.”

He stopped the car; the two men alighted. Forested hills rose at either hand; the ground was carpeted with wild millet and foxtail, dry and crisp after the long hot summer. Reeds grew along the creek; there was an occasional tangle of blackberry vine. At a time far in the past someone had set out an apple orchard, the relicts of which were three or four crotchety trees more dead than alive. Thirty feet off the road Neff’s pickup was parked on a slight hummock. The tarp, which when Joe saw it had been laced neatly across the box, hung loosely.

Pallard indicated a spot ten feet from the pickup. “He lay about there. Face down, arms out. Shot went into the side of his head, slanting down. Killed him instantly.”

Joe scrutinized the dry grass. “No blood, eh?”

“A wound like that doesn’t bleed much.”

“Where did you find the red hat?”

Pallard pointed to the top of the ridge. “See that tall pine? Right there.”

“Two hundred yards or better,” muttered Joe. “The pickup was out of sight … Neff doesn’t look like a deer, but these city hunters shoot first and ask later.”

“We’re trying to trace the cap, and we’re making inquiries at the Top Hat in San Francisco, but I don’t have much hope of getting a line on the guy.”

“Nor I.” Joe went to the pickup, looked under the tarp, found only a spare tire and a typical fisherman’s camp kit. He dropped the tarp. “The sleeping bag was laid out? And the stove?”

“That’s right.” Pallard frowned thoughtfully. “A cot and a sleeping bag. The bag looked as if it has been slept in — it was all rumpled around. There was a pan on the stove, but it had been wiped out. No dirty dishes. He could have eaten out of the pan.”

“What about garbage — eggshells and the like?”

Pallard, half on the defensive, said, “I saw nothing like that.”

Joe walked back and forth, looking through the dry grass. “It’s a funny situation,” he said. “Another thing, do you notice something odd about the pickup?”

“No,” said Pallard. “Nothing too odd.”

“Look at the dust.”

Pallard looked. “The rear end is a lot dirtier than the front, if that’s what you mean.”

“Right. The rear wheels are covered with dust, the front wheels are clean, almost as if it had been halfway into the creek.”

“Why in the world should he do a trick like that?”

“I wish I knew … I’ll drive the pickup back, if you like.”

“Might as well,” said Pallard. “It’s got to be done sooner or later.”

Joe got into the pickup, started it, backed around, set off up the road with Pallard behind.

They passed Hill’s cabin. Ted Hill came to his door, waved a hand without too much interest.

At Lupin Pallard shook hands, departed to the west. Joe parked the pickup beside the store, lashed down the tarpaulin, locked the doors, and returned east down Bosco Ridge Road.

So Willis Neff was dead. Number Three in a group of five. Accident? Possibly. There were queer features to the affair. For instance, the business of Neff, the adept angler, fishing a mediocre stream when there were better closer to home.

If Ted Hill were to be believed, Neff had not arrived until five o’clock Thursday morning, and must have been killed almost immediately. If Neff’s death had been a purposeful killing, the killer must have followed him — a tricky business on a winding mountain road with frequent switch-back, blind-turns. Neff could hardly have failed to notice. Was it possible that Neff had arranged to meet the killer at this spot? Unreasonable. Could someone have been riding with him and walked back to the road? If so, where had Neff spent Wednesday night? What of the car which had come and gone Friday night? If it had passed the meadow in the dark, the driver would not have seen Neff’s body.

In any case, the most immediate matter was to find Ausley Wyett and see what he had to propose as an alibi.

Chapter XII

Dusk was fading over Castle Mountain as Joe came west up Mitre Canyon Road from the direction of San Rodrigo. At the corner of Destin Road, he halted and sat indecisively. Sunday night. He should be home having his dinner. Come to think of it, he hadn’t had any lunch. He looked across the field. The Wyett house was dark; apparently Ausley was not at home. Why not call it a day and head for home?

Joe started the car, but instead of turning right toward Pleasant Grove, he continued straight up Mitre Canyon Road. It was his duty to see Mrs. Neff and Ellie, to make sure they were getting along all right. After all they had no car and might need groceries. Joe smiled grimly. When a man was trying to fool himself, he might as well pile it on thick.

The road wound up the flanks of Castle Mountain; ahead appeared the lights of the Neff house. Joe turned into the driveway, and saw without overmuch surprise the Willys station wagon parked near the barn.

There were lights in the milk-shed, from which came the sound of running water. Joe walked up the slope, looked through the door. The air was warm and heavy with the scent of cow. Ausley Wyett, wearing hip-boots, stood washing down the concrete floor with a high-pressure hose.

Joe turned away, walked to the separator room. Here was Ellie, in blue jeans and a T-shirt, rinsing out the milking-machines.

“Ellie!”

She looked over her shoulder, straightened, wiped back a wisp of hair with a wet hand. “I didn’t hear you drive in.”

“I wanted to make sure you and your mother were all right.”

“Oh yes. We’re doing fine.”

“I see you’ve got help.” Joe could not completely keep the sardonic edge from his voice.

“Yes,” said Ellie simply. “Ausley’s been doing the milking for us.”

“That’s nice of him,” said Joe.

Ellie gave Joe a dubious look, returned to her work. Joe watched a minute, then he said, “Here. Let me do that.” He stepped forward.

“Oh no,” said Ellie. “Please. You’ll get all wet. I’m almost finished.”

Joe stood back, feeling rather foolish and ineffectual. Ellie said, “I’ve been doing this every night for years.”

After a moment Joe asked, “Have you and your mother talked over what you’re going to do?”

“We’ll probably sell the ranch. Mr. Destin has already come past, and so has Mr. Viera.”

Joe rubbed his chin. “Did Cole Destin make you an offer?”

“No. He just said he might be interested.”

Joe laughed. “Don’t let Cole fool you. He tried the same game on old Weaver, and your father bought the place out from under his nose. I don’t know what your price is, but don’t let Cole talk you into selling cheap.”

“That’s what Mr. Viera told us. He wants us to let him handle the property.”

Joe reached forward, took the stainless-steel tank she had just washed, turned it upside-down on a rack. “I guess he’s as good as any. But I wouldn’t give him any exclusive arrangement. List the place in Pleasant Grove. Which reminds me, I’ll have one of the deputies bring your father’s pickup here tomorrow, so you won’t be cut off.”

“We’re not cut off, now that Ausley’s coming out.”

Joe looked toward the barn. “I guess I’ll have a word with Ausley, then I’ll be on my way.”

“The funeral is Tuesday morning,” said Ellie, “in Pleasant Grove, in case you care to come.”

Joe said, “I’ll be there.” He reached out, took her hand, which was cold and wet. “This is all a tremendous shock now — but in a week or two the world will seem a different place.”

Ellie nodded indifferently. “It does already.” Gently she disengaged her hand. Joe essayed a reassuring smile and backed from the room. He went to the milk-shed, where Ausley had finished washing down and was coiling the hose over a peg.

“Hi there, Ausley,” said Joe.

Ausley cocked his head sidewise, mildly surprised. “Hello, Joe.”

“Keeping busy, eh?”

“I thought I might be able to help out a little. Lots of work around here.”

“I was just talking to Ellie. She says she’ll probably sell.”

Ausley’s face became a trifle glum. “I suppose it’s the thing to do … It seems a shame though. There’s a good living in this place.”

“I wonder if Neff left much money.”

Ausley shrugged. “I don’t imagine he spent much. He was a pretty strict man.”

“Strange that he should die like that,” mused Joe.

“We all have to go sometime,” said Ausley piously.

“First Bus Hacker, then Charley Blankenship, now Willis Neff. All accidents.”

Ausley smiled uneasily. “You’d have to call it coincidence, I guess.”

“If it isn’t,” said Joe, “somebody’s going to the gas chamber.”

“Pretty hard to imagine anybody being so wicked,” suggested Ausley.

“There’s people feverish enough to suspect you.”

“Me?” Ausley laughed weakly. “That’s really silly. You know I’m not going to stick my neck out. I got two strikes on me now.”

“These people believe that the accidents were all faked — but faked good enough so that nobody can really be sure one way or the other.”

“I guess anything is possible,” said Ausley reluctantly.

“Just for the record: where were you when Willis Neff was killed?”

“Where was I?” Ausley hunched his skinny shoulders, scratched his nose. “Let’s see — where was I? Come to think of it, when did Mr. Neff pass on?”

Joe was watching him intently. He said, “A good guess would be around five o’clock Thursday morning.”

“Thursday morning, five o’clock?” Ausley pondered. “I was probably in bed. About six I got up and put out feed for the cattle.”

“Anybody see you?”

“No. I guess not. Oliver Viera came by a little later, around seven, I’d say.”

“Oliver Viera? What was he doing up so early?”

“There was a carpenter he wanted to see before the carpenter went off to work. That’s what he told me, anyway. After he talked to the man, he came by to see me.”

“What did Oliver have in mind?”

“He wants to build a dam where his property and mine come together. I don’t see how it helps me too much, but I won’t stand in his way.”

“Well, if Oliver verifies this it puts you in the clear. More or less anyway.”

“That would sure be nice.”

Joe went back to his car, where Ellie was waiting. She asked, “Did you — do you know any more about how my father died?”

“Nothing definite.”

“Was it an accident? Or —”

“It looks like an accident. And again — it doesn’t.” He glanced toward the barn and laughed hollowly. “If he knew that Ausley Wyett was here, washing down his barn, he’d come back to life and chase Ausley all the way to Marblestone.”

Ellie’s face was unreadable in the darkness. She said in a soft voice, “Ausley’s never been treated fairly, by anyone.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” said Joe. “A lot of people once wanted to hang Ausley.”

Ellie made no response. Joe started the car and drove away in an unreasonably surly mood.

A mile down the road he radioed headquarters. Bill Phipps responded: “HQ; come in.”

“Joe Bain here. Telephone my house and say I’ll be home in about an hour.”

“You’re in trouble, Joe. Your mother called twenty minutes back. Seems like you promised you’d be home at five o’clock and she put some chickens in to roast.”

“Oh my Lord,” groaned Joe. “Tell her I got hung up — an emergency.”

“Will do.”

In the distance twinkled the lights of Marblestone which by some trick of perspective suddenly seemed a toy town. And in the darkness, brooding over it, Joe thought to see a shrouded figure. Joe strained to see the spectre’s face, so real was the fantasy, but the shape became once again part of the darkness. Joe hitched himself up in the seat. “I must be going nuts,” he muttered peevishly. “When I start seeing spooks …”

He approached Marblestone: there was the Kipburger stand, brightly lit with blue and white lights, and across the street, the old houses with boarded windows and porches askew. Then Marblestone proper, all dark on a Sunday night. Only the Town Club remained open for business. Joe hesitated, considering his exasperated mother, hungry daughter, and chickens drying out in the oven. Then he pulled over to the curb. “Just one phone call,” he told himself. “Three minutes more won’t affect the chickens.”

He pushed through the swinging doors, and saw himself to be alone in the bar except for Shorty Olson, who leaned on his elbows, reading a newspaper. Shorty tucked the newspaper into an unseen niche. “Glad to see you. Seems like Marblestone has suddenly become a city of abstainers. What’ll it be?”

“I just want to make a phone call, Shorty.”

Joe went into the phone booth, dialed Oliver Viera’s number, and received the busy signal. He muttered a mild curse or two, went over to the bar. “Let’s have a bottle of Lucky.”

Shorty poured, and with careful casualness asked, “How’s it going, Joe?”

“Well — I won’t say I’m happy.”

“No. That’s tempting fate.”

Joe took a gulp of beer, went to the phone booth, once more got the busy signal. He returned to the bar. “My family will skin me alive when I get home. But I’ve got to check out something or I’ll be awake all night.”

“When are you going to make a pinch?”

“If I knew something for sure I’d make a pinch right now.”

“Some of the boys around town don’t have any doubts.”

Joe snorted. “There’s no solid evidence that any crime has been committed.”

“Funny string of coincidences. It starts taxing the imagination.”

“Stranger things have happened, and innocent men have been treated pretty badly.”

“Maybe so. But Ausley Wyett better watch himself.”

“I’ll tell you something.” Joe considered his words carefully. The Town Club was the social hub of Marblestone; anything told Shorty Olson reached the ears of everyone in town. “Willis Neff was killed Thursday morning, about five o’clock, according to the evidence. Well, it so happens that Ausley Wyett puts forward an alibi for seven o’clock. If I can talk to Oliver Viera for two minutes, I’ll find out for sure. And if Ausley Wyett was home at seven, he wasn’t shooting Willis Neff at five. There just isn’t that much time.”

“That may be. Providing things are the way you say they are.”

“I don’t say anything, I just check what other people say.” Once more Joe walked over to the phone booth. This time he made connection, and the voice of Connie Viera sounded sharply in his ear. “Hello?”

“Hello, Mrs. Viera,” said Joe. Connie Viera sounded somewhat on edge. “This is Sheriff Joe Bain. May I speak to Oliver?”

Connie’s voice became even more noticeably disturbed. “I’d like to talk to him myself. He should have been home an hour ago. It’s our anniversary and he promised to take us out for dinner. Of course he’s forgotten all about it.”

“That’s too bad,” said Joe. “It doesn’t sound like Oliver.”

“He’s so absent-minded, once he starts talking business with someone.”

“We’re all that way more or less. Maybe you can help me. You remember Oliver telling me about wanting to build a dam.”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if he talked to Ausley Wyett about the project?”

“I really don’t know. He didn’t say anything to me about it.”

“It would have been Thursday morning.”

“Thursday morning he got up early to go into San Rodrigo. He didn’t say anything about seeing Ausley Wyett.”

“Guess I’ll have to talk to Oliver. You don’t know where he is?”

“I’ve been calling everywhere I can think of. He left his sister’s house about half an hour ago.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Viera. Tell him I called, and that I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

Joe returned to the bar, emptied the bottle of beer into his glass. He asked casually, “Do you see much of Cole in here?”

“Not too much. He doesn’t associate with the peasants.”

“I hear he wants to buy up the Neff place, now that Willis Neff’s dead.”

“He’s wanted that for a long time. And maybe a couple of other things around the Neff ranch.”

“Along with the rest of us.”

The door opened; into the bar came Walt Hobius, eyes glittering. He was wearing slacks, a western-style sport shirt, a chamois sports jacket. “You’ll never believe it,” he said.

“What?”

“Well — being as Neff is dead, I thought I’d go up and see if the ladies needed anything — maybe help ’em out one way or another.”

“Big-hearted Walt,” said Shorty.

“I turn into the driveway, and who do you think is driving out — with Ellie and Mrs. Neff alongside of him?”

“I know for sure it wasn’t Willis Neff,” said Joe.

“It was Ausley Wyett, big garbage-eating grin on his face, that son of a bitch!”

“Calm down,” said Joe. “You’ll blow a skull-fuse.”

“The nerve of the guy!”

Shorty grinned. “The nerve of the guy — running off with your girl-friend.”

“I guess he figures he got dibs on her,” said Joe. “Since he was the last guy Neff beat up.”

“That don’t cut no ice,” said Walt. “Neff beat hell out of me too. What does it get me? A horse-laugh from Ausley! Right after he’s bumped off her old man.”

Joe stood up. “I got to get home. My ma is going to run me out of town as it is.”

Joe started down Candelara Creek Road. A quarter of a mile from town he met a white Ford station wagon traveling at a high rate of speed. Joe caught the merest glimpse of car and driver, but it seemed to be Oliver Viera. Joe laughed, a tension released. “If Oliver got accidentally bit to death by a pack of wolves, or accidentally struck by lightning, I’d either have to jail Ausley or go into hiding.”

He drove directly home. His mother viewed him coldly, went into the kitchen, began clattering pots and pans. Miranda said, “Daddy! How could you be so cruel? Sunday dinner and it’s almost nine o’clock.”

“Well,” said Joe, “I was delayed.”

“You can’t just joke and get out of it. Where in the world have you been? You’ve been drinking beer, because I can smell it.”

“Just in the line of duty.”

“You better not let Grandma smell it. She’ll be even madder than she is now.”

“I’ll hold my breath. My, you look pretty tonight.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows skeptically. “It’s flattery, but I love it.”

In the morning Joe arrived at headquarters early, exchanged the coolest of greetings with Mrs. Rostvolt, went into his office.

On his desk was the Monday morning edition of the Messenger, folded — with malicious intent? — so that prominently displayed was a headline:

MONSTER RALLY TONIGHT

TO BOOST PROGRESS, GERVASE

Tonight in Montalvo Square, citizens for Greater San Rodrigo County will present their views to the voting public. Speakers will include Lee Gervase, candidate for Sheriff; Wilfred Mortimer, President of the San Rodrigo County Council for Progress; Cole Destin, prominent rancher; Dr. Henry Gomez; and Howard Griselda, Editor of the Pleasant Grove Messenger.

Free coffee and doughnuts will be served, according to Pete Rollins, chairman of the Gervase for Sheriff Committee.

“At this election we hope to get rolling,” Rollins told the Messenger yesterday. “If we’re successful, and I’m sure we will be, because we’ve got a great candidate in Lee Gervase, we plan to consolidate our organization and really become a force in the county. But for now, we’re concentrating on the sheriff’s office, long a rotten spot in the government of San Rodrigo County.

“Needless to say, we’re also pulling hard for the County Courthouse Bonds …”

Joe tossed the paper aside, leaned back in his chair, gazed bleakly across the room. He was saddled with twenty years of Ernest Cucchinello, and that was all there was to it. Lee Gervase had a big-time background, a big-time personality, a big-time program. Joe Bain had Cooch.

Joe heaved a deep, bitter sigh. Why exert himself to do a job, when for all practical purposes he was working on borrowed time? If one thing was certain it was that Lee Gervase would sweep the Sheriff’s Department with a new broom. There would be no place for ex-Acting-Sheriff Joe Bain … Maybe he could go to work in Monterey County, under Ed Mulligan. Something to keep in mind, at any rate. And in the meantime — Joe hauled himself wearily upright in his seat — he was collecting a salary and he’d do his job.

First on the agenda: the unsettled business of Ausley Wyett’s alibi. He reached for the telephone, but just as he touched the receiver, the buzzer sounded. “Sheriff Joe Bain speaking.”

Over the wire came a heavy voice. “Hello, Joe. Art van Horn here.”

“Yes, Art?” Joe’s heart began to pound.

“It’s happened again.”

“What? You don’t mean —”

“Another accident.”

“Good Lord! Who?”

“Oliver Viera.”

“Dead?”

“As a door-nail.”

“How’d it happen?”

“Fell off a ladder, broke his neck.”

“An accident, you say?”

“That’s what his wife says.”

“I’ll be right out, with the coroner.”

Chapter XIII

Connie Viera was near-hysterical. She lay in a darkened bedroom, her mother sitting beside her, occasionally breaking out into wild sobs and desperate lamentations. The children had been conveyed to the house of an aunt.

Joe, the coroner and two deputies brought the body of Oliver Viera up from the gully. He had fallen almost sixty feet, counting the height of the ladder. The ladder itself had slid a few feet farther down toward the creek. Joe made a second trip down, examined it, brought it back up the steep slope. It was an ordinary aluminum ladder, twelve feet long, and, so far as Joe could see, completely innocent of structural defect: the same which Joe had noted on his previous visit.

Joe diffidently entered the bedroom where Connie Viera lay swollen with grief, her mother holding her hand. “Excuse me, Mrs. Viera, for intruding — I sure wish I didn’t have to,” said Joe. “Do you feel able to answer a question or two?”

“Yes,” said Connie Viera in a hollow voice.

“Exactly what happened?”

“Oliver climbed the ladder. He seemed to slip, or something of the sort, because when I looked around he was falling over backward, ladder and all going with him. He fell over the side of the deck, I saw his face as he went; he gave me such a look — he knew he was going — oh …” Connie Viera gave way to racking sobs. Her mother, a gnarled, rather dark old woman, stoically patted her hand.

“There wasn’t anybody else around?”

“No. Nobody. Just me.”

“You were on the deck?”

“I was in the doorway, looking out. Half in, half out.”

“Why did Oliver climb the ladder?”

“He wanted to take the ladder down, and there was a can of paint up there, just perched ready to fall. So he had to climb up to take down the can of paint. I told him to be careful, but he was still half-asleep. Oliver never wakes up till he’s had breakfast —” and once again Connie burst into throat-wrenching sobs.

Joe went out on the deck, waited till Connie had quieted. Then he went back into the house. “I hate to trouble you, Mrs. Viera, but I have to ask a few more questions. Would you come out on the deck a minute?”

Connie drew a deep shuddering breath, heaved herself to her feet, and followed Joe out upon the deck.

“Now — just where was the ladder?”

“About there. Yes. Just about there.” Connie pointed.

“And where were the feet?”

“Oh — about here.”

“That’s pretty close in. Sergeant, bring that ladder out here, please.” Phipps went off after the ladder. Joe stood looking up to the fascia, none of which had been painted. He turned back to Connie. “Was Oliver painting up there? Seems like he’d start down at the end.”

Connie looked up dully. “I don’t know how the ladder got there … The kids might have been playing. Oliver wouldn’t leave a gallon of paint perched like that.”

Joe gave a profound nod. “Did you ask your kids if they’d been playing with the ladder?”

“No.” Connie once more began to sag with grief. “No. Of course not. I couldn’t think of anything but Oliver.” Her mother took her back inside the house.

Phipps came with the ladder. Joe stood it against the house on the position indicated by Connie. He shook it, tested it for stability. “Stand below here and hold this thing steady,” he told Bill Phipps. “I don’t want to go over like Oliver.”

Bill Phipps gripped the ladder; Joe climbed up, step by step, until he could look over the redwood fascia and across the tar-and-gravel roof, which spread away flat, neat, undisturbed, without a scuff-mark, without so much as a nail in evidence. Joe turned, looked gingerly around. The deck seemed alarmingly narrow. The distance to the bottom of the ravine was frightening. It was possible, thought Joe, that Oliver had become dizzy, or slipped, or lost his balance … How else could he have fallen? There had been no one else on the balcony. Joe chewed his lip, went on tiptoe back into the bedroom. “Excuse me again, Mrs. Viera. Just one more question. We can’t rule out the possibility that this was something other than accident.”

“You mean — somebody did it on purpose? Why should they?” Connie Viera’s voice was harsh and shrill. “Everybody liked Oliver. He was the nicest guy in the world. He got along good with everybody, even that Ausley Wyett, who I wouldn’t let come in my house. Who would do a thing like that?”

“I don’t know. In fact, I —”

“How could they, even if they wanted to? I was right here. There wasn’t anybody near. He fell of his own accord.”

“Could there have been somebody on the roof who could have kicked the ladder over?”

“What would somebody be doing on our roof?”

“I don’t know. I’m just asking. Would it have been possible?”

Connie Viera thought. “No. I would have seen him if he pushed Oliver. Oliver would have said something, made some kind of remark.”

“He had a minute or two to look across the roof, then, before he went over?”

“Yes. There wasn’t anybody up there. He just took hold of the can of paint and went over backwards, ladder and all.”

Joe thought a moment or so. “You didn’t see anyone else nearby? No cars or anything?”

“No. I don’t see why you ask me such questions. I told you Oliver fell — right in front of my eyes!”

“I just have to look for every possibility, Mrs. Viera. I’m almost as sorry as you are about Oliver. I’ve known him a long time. He was a fine man.”

“He was the best!” Again Mrs. Viera broke into sobs. “Whatever will I do? I’d like to die myself.”

“Now, now,” said Joe, “think of the children. You’ll have a life with them.”

“No I won’t. They can’t be my husband. They can’t be their own father! Oh, why did it have to happen to me?”

Joe retreated once more. He went out on the deck, looked up the ravine toward the mountains, down toward the far faint bird-dropping which was Marblestone, across the ravine to Ausley Wyett’s property. He leaned on the railing, stared morosely down at the spot where Oliver Viera had lost his life. “Another accident. Bus Hacker, Charley Blankenship, Willis Neff, Oliver Viera. One to go. If I was Cole Destin I’d leave town for a bit.” He walked back and forth along the deck. A new thought occurred to him. Oliver’s death had eliminated Ausley’s alibi for the death of Willis Neff.

Joe halted. His first task would be to learn Ausley’s whereabouts at the time of Oliver Viera’s death. Although, since there was no hint of foul play, it made little difference whether Ausley had an alibi or not.

And yet — four deaths. Four accidental deaths, of witnesses against Ausley Wyett. Coincidence?

“Suppose I wanted to kill five people,” said Joe. “How would I go about it, knowing I was sure to be suspected? Maybe I’d want to be suspected — just to show the town what I thought of it. I’d arrange these accidents. I’d give Bus Hacker a heart attack. I’d have Charley Blankenship dig some mushrooms and poison himself. I’d have Willis Neff camp where some trigger-happy hunter would shoot him. I’d have Oliver Viera fall off a ladder and break his neck. And Cole? I wonder how I’d have Cole die? Maybe I’d have his wife run over him with a lawn mower, or have Lee Gervase go mad and stab Cole while he’s giving a speech tonight …”

Dr. Hesketh, the coroner, joined Joe on the deck. “Well, Sheriff — what do you think?”

“Looks like an accident.”

“Yes.”

“But I know it isn’t.”

“It doesn’t seem likely. And yet —”

“Exactly. What can you say? You feel a fool saying ‘accident’, you feel a fool claiming foul play. So what do you do?”

“I think,” said Dr. Hesketh heavily, “that for a while, we’ll say nothing.”

“Right. We’re investigating.” Joe pondered a moment. “Do you see any reason for an autopsy?”

“Under any other circumstances — no. But it might not be a bad notion.”

“Is there a drug that could make a man dizzy enough to fall off a ladder?”

“Certainly. Whiskey, for one. The trick would be to get a man to climb a ladder in that condition.”

“Not very likely.”

“Not at all likely.” The coroner clapped his hands down on the railing. “I’ll take the body into town and see if I spot anything.”

Joe made one last visit to the bedroom. “We’ll be going for a while,” he told the miserable hulk which was Connie Viera. “If you think of anything which seems peculiar, let me know, will you?”

“Yes.”

Joe departed, following the ambulance down Quarry Road. In Marblestone the ambulance turned left toward Pleasant Grove; Joe turned right. Ausley Wyett’s car was parked in front of his ramshackle old home. Joe drove up, parked. The police dogs dashed forth, jerking and straining at their chains.

Ausley Wyett stepped out on the porch. He wore levis and a new blue flannel shirt, and looked ungainly and lanky. “Hi Joe, what’s on your mind?”

“How come you’re not up milking for the Neffs?”

“They wouldn’t let me. Chased me off.” He smiled.

“They can’t do it themselves.”

“Nope. They hired a couple Mexicans.”

“Then you’ve been home this morning.”

“Correct. Shouldn’t I have been?”

“Ausley,” said Joe, “I hate to suspect a man just because he’s obvious — but you’re sure a suspicious object.”

“Now what?”

“Don’t you know?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

“Yes, you would. Well, I’ll tell you. Oliver Viera’s dead.”

Ausley Wyett grimaced sadly. “What happened to Oliver?”

“Fell off a ladder. Broke his neck. An accident, looks like.”

“A peculiar set of accidents.”

“I’d say so. I’ve come to hear what you have to say about them.”

“If it was an accident, why bother me?”

“Exactly,” said Joe. “That’s it, exactly.”

Ausley sat down on the edge of the porch. “Look at it this way, Joe. Either I’m guilty or I’m not.”

“That’s simple enough.”

“If I’m guilty, everything’s clear. Except one thing. How am I expected to shoot Willis Neff when I’m talking to Oliver Viera at the same time?”

“It wasn’t the same time, and Oliver Viera’s dead.”

“You didn’t ask him?”

“I couldn’t find him to ask him. I asked his wife, she knew nothing about it.”

“Too bad.” Ausley ran his fingers through his mop of brown hair. “Well, let’s say I’m not guilty. The question arises: who is?”

“Do you have any ideas — conceding you’re not guilty?”

“Naturally. You think I’ve spent the last sixteen years filing my fingernails? I’m an innocent man. But nobody believed me. You can’t expect me to feel any deep sorrow, Joe. These people did me dirt.”

“And there’s one of them left.”

“I’ll be interested in what happens to him,” said Ausley.

“That’s all you got to say?”

“What else is there to say?”

“You hinted that you had some ideas.”

“Ideas are cheap. I can’t prove a thing. I can’t even prove I didn’t kill Tissie McAllister. And I didn’t. Why, I loved that child. I wouldn’t have harmed a hair of her head.”

Joe threw his hands in the air. “Ausley, you just vex me till I can hardly see.”

“Sorry, Joe. All I can say is, I plead not guilty to everything. Take it from there.”

“Somebody’s mighty all-fired clever,” said Joe, “and the sad thing, Ausley, is that it might be you.”

Ausley rose to his feet in a stately fashion. “I’m sorry you don’t have more faith in me, Joe.”

“I’ll give you a warning. You better lie low. There’s going to be some harsh talk about you in Marblestone.”

Ausley shrugged. “People been talking harshly about me as long as I can remember.”

Joe backed around, departed. Entering Marblestone, he parked under the big oak in front of the general store, and sat thinking.

Ausley Wyett was right. Either Ausley was guilty, or someone else was. Assuming the accidents were not accidents.

If Ausley was guilty, the only question was, how?

If Ausley were not guilty, there were three questions: how? who? why?

Joe brought out his notebook, examined the various notes he had made on each case. A glimmer of a pattern? Joe frowned, stared at his notes as if they were alive, with tiny black tongues all anxious to speak. His mind began to move, to fit fact to fact.

If I wanted to give Bus Hacker a heart attack, how would I do it?

If I wanted Charley Blankenship to poison himself on a toadstool, how would I do it?

If I wanted to shoot Willis Neff on Wednesday night or Thursday morning and give myself an alibi, how would I do it?

If I wanted Oliver Viera to fall off a ladder …

Joe nodded slowly. There had been a hole in Bus Hacker’s front porch. Most likely another inside the front door.

In the matter of the Blankenship killing, something stuck out like a sore thumb, which he hadn’t thought of to now. In a clump of field mushrooms, like that which Charley Blankenship had found in his pansy bed, it would be most unusual to find an Amanita. Unless somehow it had been disguised and put there.

Neff had died Wednesday night or Thursday morning. Old Ted Hill had heard no cars during this interval — but he had heard a car enter and leave Friday night. And the front wheels of Willis Neff’s pickup were clean.

Oliver Viera? In order that he fall off a ladder, first it was necessary that he climb a ladder. What better incentive than a precariously arranged can of paint? And once he was aloft, any little tug would pull him over …

It was all clear, thought Joe in awe and amazement. Almost clear, anyway. Evidence? He pulled at his chin. There had to be some serious thinking done.

“Oh, Sheriff,” said a soft feminine voice. “You seem so worried, I hardly like to interrupt you.”

Joe looked up, into a soft round face surrounded by electric violet curls. “Oh, hello, Mrs. Beasley.” A vote was a vote. “How are you?”

“As usual. I just thought I’d say hello. I’ve known you so long, from the time you were a dirty-faced little boy. There was something which always gave me a good opinion of you, no matter what other folks said. You probably won’t remember, but Widdie, my poor old calico cat, was on a fence, with dogs barking at her, and some nasty little boys were pushing at her — and you made them stop.”

Joe grinned. “I remember. You took me in the post office and made me a cup of hot chocolate. First time in my life I ever had any.”

“After that I always had a warm spot in my heart for you. I knew you weren’t really a bad boy.”

“I guess I wasn’t any worse than average.” Joe sought for means to break off the conversation. “Excuse me, Mrs. Beasley, I have to call into headquarters.”

“Oh don’t let me stand in the way of official business.” Mrs. Beasley started to trundle away, then returned with a bashful smile. “There’s something I’ve been dying to know; perhaps I shouldn’t ask, but in a sense I’m a government official too, so maybe it isn’t too wrong to ask.”

Joe blinked, unable to follow Mrs. Beasley’s progression of ideas. “Ask what?”

“About the letter from Mr. Hacker. I’ve been ever so curious as to what was in it.”

“Letter?” Joe felt a peculiar sensation in the skin of his face, a cool tingle. “What letter?”

Mrs. Beasley spoke hurriedly. “Perhaps you wouldn’t remember, or perhaps you never even received it, since it was addressed to Sheriff Cucchinello.”

“A letter from Bus Hacker to Sheriff Cucchinello?”

“Yes. About three years ago he brought me the letter and told me, ‘Mary, if and when I die, I want you to drop this letter in the mail. And not before.’ It was just a letter, as I say, addressed to Sheriff Cucchinello. Every once in a while he’d remind me of it, and I’d say yes, Mr. Hacker, yes, I still have your letter safe and sound. Then he died, and I sent the letter. Postal rates had gone up. I had to put another stamp on it, which I did out of my own pocket.”

Joe’s mind was racing. “Sheriff Cucchinello was dead.”

Mrs. Beasley nodded brightly. “I didn’t know it at the time. Although I couldn’t have done anything about it even if I had known.”

“But you sent it off?”

“Yes.”

“On the same day Bus Hacker died?”

“Yes. The very same day. Because he’d always made such a point of the letter.”

“How was it addressed?”

“Just ‘Ernest Cucchinello, Sheriff, Pleasant Grove, California’. I remember distinctly.”

Joe nodded. “It probably was delivered to Sheriff Cucchinello’s home, and Mrs. Cucchinello decided that it wasn’t important.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Beasley’s face fell. “I’ve been so curious.”

“But I’m glad you mentioned it. I’ll make inquiry of Mrs. Cucchinello, and perhaps I’ll have news for you next time I see you. Meanwhile — please don’t mention this letter to anyone else.”

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

Joe started the car. “I’ve got to run now. It’s been nice talking to you.”

“Yes, I enjoyed it so much. And next time you’re in Marblestone, drop by the post office and I’ll fix you another nice cup of hot chocolate.”

Joe forced himself to smile eagerly. “I sure will, Mrs. Beasley. Goodby, now.”

Joe proceeded back down Candelara Canyon, winding around curves and turns with gravel kicking up under his wheels. Time was too short, the road too long; he could hardly contain his impatience. The letter. Perhaps it would contradict the theory forming in his mind. But he thought not. So many small discords and oddities now seemed reasonable. Bus Hacker’s ledger with its strange omissions … The many curious features in the death of Willis Neff … The motive — primary or secondary? — in the murder of Charley Blankenship … And now — Bus Hacker’s missing letter! Joe pressed a trifle harder on the accelerator. His speedometer needle pushed past 70. Rather odd, considering all the circumstances, that he had never received the letter …

Ernest Cucchinello’s widow was a round little woman, with the smallest of hands and feet. She still lived in the big ranch-style house on McClellan Avenue near the country club. When Joe rang the bell, Mrs. Cucchinello answered the door herself. “Why, it’s Mr. Bain! I should say ‘Sheriff Bain’. Though it sounds strange after so many years of ‘Sheriff Cucchinello’.”

“It sounds strange to me too,” said Joe. “I came for some information, Mrs. Cucchinello. About two weeks ago, you might have received a letter addressed to Sheriff Cucchinello, sent by a Clarence Hacker from Pleasant Grove.”

“Oh yes. So I did. Of course.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I opened it, naturally. It didn’t seem to be personal, more like official business. As I recall, it was something about a school bus, I didn’t pay a great deal of attention. I happened to be downtown shopping and left it off with Mrs. Rostvolt.” Mrs. Cucchinello spoke the name with exaggerated primness. Rumors had certainly reached her ears.

“So,” said Joe. “Mrs. Rostvolt received the letter.”

“Yes. Didn’t she pass it on to you?”

“She probably did, but it slipped my mind. I’ll ask her about it when I see her. Thank you very much, Mrs. Cucchinello.”

“Not at all, Sheriff Bain. Drop by again sometime.”

“I surely will.”

Chapter XIV

Joe drove back down McClellan Avenue even faster than he had come. Then, as thoughts began to circulate through his brain, he slowed to a near-crawl. The line of logic ran down a chain of forking alternatives. Either Mrs. Rostvolt (A) opened the letter or (B) she did not. Undoubtedly A. Either she deemed the letter unimportant, when she might have filed the letter or thrown it away; or she had considered it important, in which case she might also have filed the letter, or used it for her own purposes. Joe bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. He’d find out quick enough.

He parked in his usual spot behind the courthouse, and sat thinking. How to handle the situation? He got out of the car, went to the third-floor office of Paul Wentzman, the District Attorney.

Wentzman indicated a chair, glanced at Joe sidewise through glistening rimless glasses. He was a stocky stolid man with pale heavy cheeks, a high narrow forehead, a deceptively mild expression. He spoke in a dry, didactic voice, which might or might not — Joe had never decided — camouflage a nimble mind. “What’s on your mind?”

Joe carefully set forth his problem. Paul Wentzman leaned forward, made a cage with his fingers, nodded several times in comprehension. His glasses gleamed with reflections from the overhead light. “In essence, you suspect that Mrs. Rostvolt withheld this letter for her own purposes, and you want to bring it home to her.”

“Right. And I want the letter. I don’t want her to say that it was unimportant, so she threw it away.”

“As I understand it, you believe the letter is valuable evidence?”

Joe nodded. “There’s been all these accidental deaths out in Marblestone, and it turns out they’re not accidents. I’ll fill you in on this, because you’ll be prosecuting — a real spectacular case, by the way — but the first step is to get that letter.”

Wentzman considered. “We can demonstrate that she received the letter, through the statement of Mrs. Cucchinello. If we could demonstrate that the letter contained obviously important information —”

“I can make a guess or two what was in the letter.”

“You could try either a casual question — which would give her a chance to feign absent-mindedness — or a direct accusation —”

“In which case she’d feign virtuous indignation.”

“Well, if she’s been blackmailing someone — and that seems to be your implication — the fact will sooner or later become known.”

“The man I have in mind doesn’t seem the blackmail type. This letter must hem him in pretty close. Come to think of it, he burned down Bus Hacker’s house trying to destroy the letter … I take back what I said about him not being the blackmail type, because that’s part of the main case, which I don’t want to go into now.”

Wentzman hitched himself forward. “Let’s ask her for the letter. It all boils down to that eventually.”

Joe nodded glumly. “I suppose so.” He rose to his feet. “Let’s go … It’s something I don’t like to do. Much as I detest the woman.”

They descended the terrazzo steps to the second floor, walked around the balcony overlooking the main lobby to the fine marble stairs with the ornate bronze banisters, descended to the lobby, walked back through a dark hall to the annex.

Mrs. Rostvolt looked up from her typewriter, automatically reached her hand up to her aureole of tight auburn curls, pursed her lips, returned to her work.

Joe walked slowly across the office, Wentzman loitering casually behind. Mrs. Rostvolt sensed an ominous quality to Joe’s approach, looked up, her eyes round and liquid.

Joe spoke in a measured voice. “A week or so ago Mrs. Cucchinello gave you a letter from a man named Clarence Hacker, to be delivered to me. Where is it?”

Mrs. Rostvolt’s lips pursed more tightly. A slow flush mounted her neck. But she said in an airy voice, “Letter? From whom?”

“Where is it?”

Mrs. Rostvolt’s eyes began to give off sparks. “I don’t care to have you take that tone with me, Mr. Bain.” She looked past him at Paul Wentzman. “In fact I’m not going to put up with your rudeness another instant —”

“If you don’t produce that letter, you’re going upstairs into Cell 13.”

Mrs. Rostvolt became icy. “What letter are you talking about?”

“You know what letter I’m talking about. I’ve already told you.”

Mrs. Rostvolt squinted. “Mrs. Cucchinello brought in some odds and ends. I don’t know what happened to them.”

“Mr. Wentzman is a witness to everything you say. If it turns out that you’ve used the information in this letter for purposes of your own, you’re only making matters worse for yourself.”

Mrs. Rostvolt rose wearily to her feet. “You make me simply sick … I’ll see if I can find it … I might have thrown it out.”

Joe followed her to the filing cabinet. She looked at him over her shoulder. “Don’t be so pushy. I’ll get the letter.”

Joe laughed grimly. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Mrs. Rostvolt glared, hesitated, then pulled open a drawer.

Joe read the label on the front of the file: “‘H’. For ‘Hacker’?”

“Naturally.”

“All right. I’ll find it.” Joe pushed forward, and Mrs. Rostvolt perforce stood aside. “H … Ha … Hall … Harris … Harzat … There’s no Hacker letter here.”

Mrs. Rostvolt shrugged. “It probably wasn’t important.”

“Filed under ‘U’ for ‘unimportant’?” suggested Joe.

“If you’d move — I might be able to find it.”

Joe moved aside. Mrs. Rostvolt suddenly seemed indecisive. She pulled out first one drawer, then another. Then she stopped, turned around, faced Joe. “I’m not going to continue this. I want a lawyer.”

“You must be pretty badly rattled, Mrs. Rostvolt.”

“I’m not rattled!” she shouted. “I’m just sick and tired of your accusations!”

“I haven’t accused you of anything, yet.”

Mrs. Rostvolt looked desperately at the file cabinet. Joe said in a silky voice, “It’ll only take me an hour or so to go through the entire mess.”

She said sulkily, “It’s probably under ‘X’.”

“‘X’, eh? For ‘extraordinary’.”

“That’s where I file miscellaneous items.”

Joe opened the “X” drawer, withdrew a manila folder. He laid it on the counter, gingerly turned over paper after paper. Toward the back he found the Hacker letter. He read it, then glanced agate-eyed at Mrs. Rostvolt. “How come you didn’t show this to me?”

“It didn’t seem important.”

Wentzman had stepped forward, and was reading. Joe looked at him. “Do we have enough to put her on the books?”

Wentzman nodded. “Withholding of evidence, obstruction of peace officers, misconduct in a position of trust.”

Joe said, “This case is going to break. Today or tonight. If that’s enough to hold her, we might be able to add blackmail and being accessory to murder.”

Mrs. Rostvolt quailed. She cried out, “You’re absolutely insane! Why are you persecuting me? I haven’t done anything of the sort!”

“That remains to be seen.” Joe looked sardonically toward the back of the room. “Well, Mrs. Rostvolt, it’s sure funny how things turn out. Almost twenty years you’ve been sitting in this office, looking after the girls in the upstairs cells. Now it’s your turn. You know the way. Upstairs you go!”

“No!” Mrs. Rostvolt was defiant. “You can’t arrest me for being forgetful, or negligent. I didn’t do any of the things you claim, and you can’t prove I did.”

“This letter is highly important — obviously so. Forgetfulness, negligence — they won’t pass. Do you realize that because you didn’t show me that letter, two or maybe three men have been killed? This is a serious business.”

“I want to see a lawyer.” There was a sudden gleam in Mrs. Rostvolt’s eye.

“That’s your privilege. Who do you want?”

The gleam became a malicious glitter. “Lee Gervase!”

Joe was taken aback. “Lee Gervase? He won’t touch this kind of case. If he’s got any sense he won’t.”

“I want to call Lee Gervase.”

“Go ahead. Call him. You know where the phone is.”

“I don’t want you around when I talk to him.”

“You can have all the privacy you want in your cell.”

Mrs. Rostvolt turned, went slowly to the telephone. She dialed a number. Joe watched her with suddenly narrowed eyes.

Mrs. Rostvolt spoke. “Mr. Gervase, please … Mr. Gervase, this is Mrs. Rostvolt, in the sheriff’s office …” She listened, pulled in the corners of her mouth, spoke hurriedly. “I’ve been arrested. Yes, me! Arrested! This poor excuse for a sheriff —” She listened. “Something about a letter he claims I hid from him. Anyway, I want you to represent me.” She listened, frowned, glanced at Joe. “He says he’s going to lock me up, which is sheer —” … “Very well. I will … No. I won’t … Yes, I realize that.” She hung up, turned defiantly to the fascinated Joe and Paul Wentzman. “Lee Gervase is my lawyer. He says for me not to talk to you, to make no statements or admissions. So — that’s all I have to say.”

Joe grinned wryly. “I see. Well, Mrs. Rostvolt, as your last official act, do you care to write up the book on yourself?”

“No. I certainly do not,” snapped Mrs. Rostvolt.

“You never did have a sense of humor.”

“I demand a matron on the premises.”

“There’ll be a matron here inside of an hour. In the meantime, your virtue will be respected.” Joe turned, motioned to Ace Wardell in the radio room who had been watching with interest. Wardell stepped around the partition into the main office.

“Mrs. Rostvolt is under arrest,” said Joe.

Deputy Wardell’s jaw dropped. “Are you kidding?”

“Nope. Book her, lock her in Cell 13. Felonious concealment of evidence.”

Wardell turned to Mrs. Rostvolt. “Well, old gal, you finally got caught with jam on your face.”

Joe took the manila folder into the so-called laboratory — a room to the back where a few pieces of equipment were maintained. Paul Wentzman followed. “What’s the background on the case?”

Joe went to the cabinet, returned with a box containing the fingerprint development kit he had assembled while a student at Chapman Institute. “It’s a long story. It starts sixteen years ago, when a young fellow named Ausley Wyett was arrested for the murder of Teresa McAllister.”

“I remember the case, vaguely. It was before my time.”

“It seems, from the letter, that Bus Hacker had doubts — more than doubts — as to Ausley Wyett’s guilt.” As Joe spoke he lifted the letter by the corner, inserted it into a rectangular glass case. Paul Wentzman watched with a quizzical frown. “Why are you doing that?”

“Simple curiosity, you might say.” Joe sifted a quantity of purple-brown-black crystals into a pan, plugged a cord into a nearby outlet. “Iodine vapor,” said Joe. “Watch the fingerprints pop out.”

The paper became faintly brown, then with startling suddenness fingerprints appeared — everywhere. Some faint, some distinct. Joe took the letter, laid it under a copy camera, weighted it with a glass plate, switched on the lights, snapped the shutter. Then, removing the letter, he tucked it into a cellophane envelope, and with Paul Wentzman returned to his office.

“Sit down,” said Joe. He went to the sideboard. “Cooch left a legacy which we might as well make use of.” He brought out a pair of bottles and two glasses. “Scotch or bourbon?”

“Scotch. Just a finger. I’m not much of a drinker.”

Joe poured a liberal inch into both glasses. “Sorry there’s no ice. Cooch never bothered with the details.”

Deputy Wardell pushed his head through the door. “Lee Gervase is here. Says he’s representing Mrs. Rostvolt.”

“The man is crazy,” said Joe. “Send him in.” He reached for another glass, polished it on his sleeve. Lee Gervase looked in through the door. His face was set in worried lines. He frowned at the sight of Paul Wentzman.

Joe said affably, “Come on in, Lee. Just the man I want to see.”

Gervase came a step into the room. “I don’t need to tell you how reluctantly I take on a case like this — whatever it is — just before election. Still if I don’t, then I get panned for that too.”

“Sit down, Lee. We can probably work something out. What are you drinking?”

“Nothing, thanks. What’s the charge against my client?”

Joe poured a finger of Scotch into the glass, thrust it into Lee Gervase’s reluctant fingers. “Sit down, relax, while I give you the sorry details. Maybe you’ll still back away from the case, because it’s not going to win you any votes.”

Lee Gervase peevishly put the glass on the desk. “That’s something I can’t worry about. The woman is in a bind; she’s asked me to represent her and that’s all there is to it.”

Joe shrugged. “No need to get excited. This is the situation. Ever since I took over, I’ve been uncovering little rackets Mrs. Rostvolt has been working. Nothing big — a few bucks here, a few bucks there. I’ve been jumping back and forth trying to shut off all these enterprises at once. Mrs. Rostvolt naturally resented it, and I guess she knew her days were numbered. Anyway, a letter came into the office — a very important letter — and she hid it from me. I suspect she was indulging in blackmail. It’s just a suspicion so far.”

“Isn’t it possible she made a mistake?”

Joe shook his head. “Not very likely, considering the circumstances. I’m sure that will be her defense. Mr. Wentzman will try to prove that such a mistake was impossible, and I think he can do it.”

Lee Gervase jumped to his feet, glanced at his watch. “I’d better talk to her. Exactly what are the charges?”

“Well — right now they’re a little vague. I wouldn’t be surprised if we could pin her with an accessory-to-murder rap. Mr. Wentzman and I will have to talk it over.”

“Then you’re not going to let her out of jail?”

“Not until the judge says so. I think bail might run pretty high.”

“Where is she?”

“Cell 13. Go up the steps. There’s nobody up there but her. Don’t pass her any hacksaws or opium; it might cost you my vote.”

Lee Gervase gave him a glance of contempt, departed. They heard his feet ascending the staircase.

Paul Wentzman sipped his whisky. “What’s the story?”

Joe settled himself, spoke at length: of the death of Tissie McAllister, of Ausley’s parole and the letters which circulated to the five witnesses; of the strange deaths of Bus Hacker, Charley Blankenship, Willis Neff and Oliver Viera.

“A juicy case,” said Paul Wentzman with a grin, revealing a side to his nature Joe had never suspected.

“Juicy is right. Four men die, by accident. I know it’s not accident, and the man responsible knows that I know, and laughs at me. All I can do is laugh back. Up to now. Because today I began to see the hows and whys.

“Then I fell into the letter which Bus Hacker wrote, and the whole business comes clear. More or less clear, anyway. A few points are still vague.”

Lee Gervase reappeared in the doorway. “I’ve talked to Mrs. Rostvolt.”

“You’re going to act for her?”

“Yes. She states that the whole affair is a ridiculous accident, and I’m inclined to agree.”

“Naturally. You’re her lawyer.”

“Under the circumstances, considering her long years of faithful service —”

“Don’t make me laugh, Lee.”

“— it seems to me that the big thing to do on your part is let her resign her position, and forget about the whole business.”

“It’s not as easy as that. If it weren’t for the woman’s greed or malice or whatever her motives, two men, or maybe three, might be alive right now. She knew the letter was important evidence, and she deliberately kept it from me. I plan to push this as far as it’ll go.”

Lee Gervase shrugged. “You can’t prove this greed or malice. You can’t prove that she wasn’t merely absent-minded, or incompetent.”

“That’ll be for the jury to decide.”

Lee Gervase gave a terse nod. “In that case I’ll draw up a writ and have her out of jail.”

“That’s your duty to your client,” said Joe.

Lee Gervase departed, and so presently did Paul Wentzman.

An hour later Lee Gervase returned. Joe was in the laboratory; Ace Wardell called him into the front office, where Lee Gervase silently presented him with a document.

Joe shook his head. “It’s no good, Lee.”

“No good? Why on earth not?”

“I’ve got new evidence. I’m now charging her definitely with being an accessory post facto to murder. This writ is too low-power. You’ll have to get a new one.”

Lee Gervase said coldly, “I think you could have told me this before.”

“As I say — new evidence has turned up. No inconvenience intended.”

“That’s a serious charge. Unless you’ve got very good grounds, you’re laying yourself open to big trouble. Namely, a suit for false arrest.”

“I’m not worried.”

Lee Gervase departed. Joe shook his head sadly, turned away.

Ace Wardell called to him: “Telephone call for you. Art van Horn, from Marblestone.”

Joe froze, and his throat felt tight. “Good Lord. Another?” He took the phone. “Sheriff Bain speaking.”

“Joe, this is Art van Horn. You better get out here right away. Looks like there’s going to be trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Ausley Wyett tried to kill Cole Destin. Some of the folks are ready to let him have it.”

“How do you mean, tried to kill Cole?”

“Ran him off the road. Another ‘accident’. Only Cole kept control of his car.”

“Where’s Ausley now?”

“He’s home. But he may not be long, because the bar is full of guys getting drunker and meaner by the minute. That’s where I’m calling from.”

“Who’s the drunkest and meanest of the lot?”

“That’s hard to say. Stub Caramino is the drunkest. For meanness it’s a tie between two or three guys. Cole is acting pretty mean himself.”

“Well — talk to each of these guys separately. Try to make them see reason, until I get there — which will be half an hour.”

Chapter XV

Joe parked in front of the Town Club, jumped out of the car, along with Sergeant Miggs and Sergeant Boso. Art van Horn met him at the door to the bar, raised his hand in limp relief. “I’m glad to see you. I don’t know whether these guys are just shooting their mouths off, letting off steam, or whether they’re working themselves up into a real rage.”

“Most likely they’re just talking. Lynching isn’t so stylish nowadays.”

“There aren’t too many guys like Ausley Wyett around, that’s the only reason.”

“Maybe so.”

They turned toward the bar when a Willys station wagon pulled sedately in to park against the curb. While Joe, Art van Horn and the two deputies watched in astonishment, Ausley Wyett alighted. “Hi fellas.”

Art van Horn strode forward. “What in blazes are you doing in town?”

“I came in to get me a glass of beer,” said Ausley in an aggrieved voice. “Anything wrong with that?”

“You set foot inside that bar and there’ll be a dozen guys taking you apart.”

“That’s kinda narrow-minded.” Ausley turned to Joe. “What about it, Joe?”

Joe said in a neutral voice, “Cole Destin claims you tried to run him off the road.”

Ausley’s eyes popped in disbelief. “Cole says that? He’s crazy.”

“What happened?”

“I was out to the Neff place, and Cole came out — wanted to talk to Ellie about selling. She asked me what I thought and I told her to hang on to the place. Well, a few words passed and Cole told me to clear out. So, rather than cause trouble, I left. I don’t know what happened — I guess Ellie run him off — but a few minutes later Cole comes up behind me, going like blazes.

“I moved over to let him pass, and just then a big oil truck comes around the curve. The way things was Cole didn’t have a chance. I jammed on my brakes to let him pass, but he had the same idea, he jammed on his brakes, we were still filling the road, and there was the truck. All he could do was run himself into the ditch. He was lucky, because just a little way back the road ran through a cut, without any ditch, and fifty yards ahead there was a drop-off. I stopped, the truck stopped. Cole was raving. I could see he wasn’t hurt, so I came on in.”

“He’s saying you tried to kill him.”

“I wouldn’t try such a trick. You know me better than that, Joe.”

“There’s Ausley Wyett now!” said a voice, rapt in amazement.

Cole Destin came out of the bar, followed by a half dozen others. Cole marched forward. “Joe — you’re acting as sheriff till the election. This man tried to kill me not two hours ago, headed me into a big truck. I want you to arrest him.”

Joe said, “Just a minute now, Cole. The way he tells it you were passing him on a blind curve.”

“My story is that he deliberately tried to head me into the way of a big gas truck.”

Joe shrugged. “If you want to sign a complaint, I’ll sure as hell see that he shows up in court. But you’ll have your hands full proving your accusation. And if you can’t he might have a civil case against you.”

“Why? Ausley Wyett?” Cole Destin laughed harshly. “He’s a disgrace to the human race. And he has the gall to hang around a nice girl like Ellie Neff.”

Joe heard Ausley take a deep slow breath, then relax. Joe said, “You people don’t seem to realize that Ausley Wyett isn’t guilty of anything — unless you can prove it.”

“No?” jeered Walt Hobius. “What about Tissie McAllister?”

“That’s in the past. He’s out of jail now, and until something else is proved on him, he’s got the same rights as anybody else.”

“We got rights too,” shouted Stub Caramino hoarsely. “Four men dead since he got out of jail. Today he almost made it five. Aren’t you going to do something about it?”

“Yes,” said Joe. “I sure am.”

“When? That’s what I want to know, when?”

Joe considered. “There’s one or two details to be cleared up — but I promise you action inside a day or two.”

“I want action now,” said Cole. “I’m charging Wyett with attempted murder, and I’ve got the truck driver for a witness.”

“You’re going to sign a complaint?”

“Yes. I am.”

Joe turned to Ausley. “In that case, you might as well come into town with me. Save me the trouble of coming after you, once I make out a warrant.”

Ausley took a step back. “I don’t aim to make things easy for anybody. Why should I?”

“That’s up to you, Ausley. However, there’s a big political rally in town tonight. Everybody’s out for my scalp, and your pal Cole Destin is going to speak.”

“You’re damn right I’m going to speak. I’m going to speak up one side of you and down the other.”

“There isn’t any law against heckling the speaker, so far as I know. In fact, maybe I’ll do a little heckling myself.”

Ausley rubbed his chin. “What’s that got to do with me?”

“You’ll be out on bail, and you can watch the fun.”

“Well — all right … if that’s the case.”

Art van Horn guffawed. “If that’s the case, I’ll be there too.”

“Sure, why not?” said Joe. “The more the merrier. Everybody come. Don’t forget, I’m the hometown boy, and it’s me they’re planning to jump on tonight.”

“You don’t seem too worried, Joe,” Walt Hobius observed with a dour grin.

“I’ve been jumped on before. I’m still in one piece.” He turned to Ausley Wyett. “Let’s go and get this business over with. Are you coming in right away, Cole? Because that’s the only reason I’m taking in Ausley.”

“As soon as I go home and change clothes.”

“Good enough. I’ll wait for you at headquarters. Come along, Ausley.”

Four o’clock came, and five, but Cole did not appear. Ausley sat in a chair in Joe’s office reading a magazine. Finally the telephone rang. Cole Destin spoke in a subdued voice. “I’ve been talking to Paul Wentzman, and he tells me he won’t prosecute. Says there’s not enough evidence.”

“What about the truck driver?” Joe asked ironically.

“I talked to him. He says all he saw was me trying to pass Ausley, then running into the ditch. In fact —” Cole hesitated.

“In fact,” said Joe, “he figures you deserved to be killed, passing on a blind curve.”

Cole spoke with vast dignity. “So far as I’m concerned, I’m not pressing any charges.”

“What about Ausley? Are you going to apologize, or what?”

“Are you crazy? He tried to kill me, man! I just can’t prove it.”

“I guess it’s up to him,” said Joe. “He may want to take action against you and he may not.”

“Look here, Joe. You’re just filling that job on a interim basis and don’t forget it. In fact, I’ve had enough of your sanctimony. Tonight the curtain is going up, and if you get hurt, so much the worse for you.”

“It’s a chance I have to take. I’ll be there.”

“You might as well be. It won’t do you any good to stay away.”

The sun sank into a brassy summer sky; after-glow gave way to dusk. Tonight Montalvo Square presented a festive appearance. A dais near the fountain had been decorated with red, white and blue crepe paper, festoons of red, white and blue lights. A pair of searchlights, rented from a company in San Jose, began to explore the sky; the PA system broadcast military marches. At a booth near Main Street a group of women made coffee in four big percolators, while others arranged doughnuts on trays. They were well-fed, well-dressed wives of local businessmen, and chattered gaily together.

A floodlight illuminated the dais, a man in black slacks and a white shirt adjusted a set of microphones: “Testing: one — two — three — four. Testing —”

People began to trickle into the square, taking seats on the benches alongside the walks, and on the balustrade around the fountain. Up on the dais climbed a group of men with musical instruments: an accordion, a guitar, a string bass and a banjo. They tuned up and began to play and sing old-fashioned songs, western tunes, camp-fire ditties.

The crowd grew in the square, encouraged by the warmth of the evening and the full moon. At the base of the dais the dignitaries of the evening began to collect, and presently a group of them mounted the dais and seated themselves on chairs provided for the purpose.

At eight o’clock Fred Hatch, president of the Pleasant Grove Chamber of Commerce, stepped up to the microphone, waited with a smile of indulgent courtesy for the musicians to finish Red River Valley. Montalvo Square was now half-full of people, with others arriving.

The musicians ended their tune, bowed with artistic modesty; Fred Hatch clapped politely; the audience offered a spatter of applause.

Fred Hatch tapped the microphone, nodded in satisfaction at the answering sputter of sound, began to speak.

Joe Bain telephoned his mother, who, after exclamations of astonishment at Mrs. Rostvolt’s incarceration, agreed to serve as matron until a replacement could be found.

Joe swung around, faced Ausley Wyett, who sat reading a year-old copy of Hunters Afield. Ausley carefully put the magazine down. “What’s the situation?”

Joe reflected. “So far as the law is concerned, you’re a free man. If I were you, I’d play it cool and figure on spending the night in town.”

Ausley shuffled his feet. “Maybe so. I’m a bit worried about my dogs. Somebody might figure to toss in some poison bait.”

“My guess would be that they’re safe,” said Joe, “so long as people figure you’re in trouble with the law. Of course, I may be wrong.”

“I can’t understand it,” said Ausley Wyett. “The way people always want to believe the worst of a man.”

Joe gave a dismal chuckle. “Most times they got good reason.”

Ausley gave him an injured look.

Joe went on: “You do as you like. I’m going to look in on the rally. These big-shots are fixing to run me out of my job. I might have something to say about that.”

“I’ll come along too,” said Ausley. “I don’t have anything else to do.”

“Just keep away from the Marblestone bunch. I don’t want any more fights than absolutely necessary.”

“I won’t start any fights,” said Ausley somberly.

“You go on ahead. I’ve got to arrange things with the deputies. I’m putting five men into the square, just in case of trouble.”

“Why should there be trouble?”

“You never know,” said Joe. He ushered Ausley to the door. “I’ll see you, in the square.”

Ausley departed; Joe went to the back room, where he told Deputies Boso, Miggs, Gonzales, Taylor and Phipps what he expected of them.

Then he himself went out into the square. He arrived just as Fred Hatch uttered his first words into the microphone: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I’m sure glad to see you here in such respectable numbers; looks like we’re going to have a real enthusiastic rally. Well, I won’t take up much of your time. There’s people here who came prepared to speak, to tell you their ideas of what’s good for the county and what’s good for you, and respectfully urge for your votes. Then after the talks, we’ll have a musical program, featuring the famous Traveling Hoosiers, with lovely little June Perkins. And don’t forget, free refreshments in the booth to the north of the square.

“Now I want to introduce our guests who have so generously contributed their time and ideas for the benefit of the county.

“First: one of our leading citizens, and candidate for the office of Sheriff: Mr. Lee Gervase!”

Lee Gervase arose, bowed, smiled with a clenched jaw. In a dark blue suit, he contrived to look a man indifferent to careful grooming, yet nevertheless well-dressed. Joe saw a number of women commenting to each other. He smiled dourly.

“Next,” said Fred Hatch, “is the distinguished editor of the county’s leading newspaper: Howard Griselda of the Pleasant Grove Messenger!”

Griselda rose, frowned, nodded his heavy head, sat down.

“Next, the respected President of the San Rodrigo County Council for Progress: Wilfred Mortimer!”

Wilfred Mortimer, a tall white-haired man with a crisp white mustache and drooping eyelids, gave the crowd a careful salutation.

“Then, a spokesman for our Latin American citizens — Dr. Henry Gomez!”

Dr. Gomez, plump as an olive, eye-glasses glittering with red, white and blue reflections, bobbed quickly up and down.

Fred Hatch looked dubiously at the fifth seat, then leaned forward, nodded across the crowd. “And last but not least — I see him coming now — a man from one of the oldest families in the county, a man who knows ranching and cattle like few others, just now arriving — he’ll be here in a jiffy — Cole Destin!”

Cole Destin, formidable in mouse-gray gabardine, climbed up to the dais, nodded briefly to the crowd, took his seat.

Fred Hatch said, “Before I introduce the first speaker, I want to define the purposes of our organization. We believe in a bigger, better, thriving San Rodrigo County. We are for progress, we are for sound efficient administration; we are against stagnation and bureaucratic inefficiency and corruption. We are for a new county courthouse to replace this ancient joke —” Fred Hatch made a gesture toward the old courthouse “— and we are for a complete revamping of our county offices, starting, in this coming election, with the Sheriff’s Office. So — without further ado — I give you a man qualified by his education, his training, his unique capability, and his will to serve — I give you our next sheriff — Lee Gervase!”

To a burst of polite applause, Lee Gervase approached the microphone.

Joe took a deep breath, and with a curious loose sensation in his knees climbed the steps to the dais. Fred Hatch saw him, frowned, walked casually over to speak to him. Joe said a few words to him. Fred Hatch’s mouth fell open. Lee Gervase watched over his shoulder with a frown. Joe crossed the platform, took the microphone. Lee Gervase made as if to grab it back, then shrugged, smiled, held out his hands to the crowd as if to apologize for the interruption. The crowd, aware that here was a situation by no means on the schedule, became still. Joe said, “What I’m doing is extraordinary, and maybe not in very good taste. What it amounts to, is that I’m horning in on a big program put on and sponsored by people who oppose me in next week’s election. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t dare act like this — because — well, it’s just not the thing to do.

“However, there’s a peculiar situation which, when I explain it, I believe will cause you to overlook my rudeness.

“Lee Gervase is standing here beside me. He was primed to tell you of the corruption in Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello’s department —”

Lee Gervase grinned broadly, pushed himself in front of the mike. “Mr. Bain, what you say about yourself and your rudeness and your gross lack of good taste is absolutely accurate. But if you want to argue about the corruption and inefficiency of Sheriff Cucchinello’s system, I’m more than willing.”

“No, Lee. Nothing like that. Old Cooch is dead. I’m running a different department. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“Well — why are you here?”

“To make it clear to the people of the county why you won’t be their choice for sheriff.”

Lee Gervase’s smile was deadly. “Don’t you think this is a matter which should be left to the voters?”

“It’s impossible, Lee. Since you’ll be in jail. You’re under arrest.”

The crowd gasped, muttered. Lee Gervase jerked, stared, then laughed. Howard Griselda bounded forward, took Joe’s arm, led him away from the microphone. Cole Destin sat back with a frozen look of contempt on his face.

Joe spoke a few cool words to Griselda, who suddenly seemed to go limp. He made an indecisive motion, as if to order Joe from the stand, then stood glowering. Joe returned to the mike. “I agree this is really a ham act I’m putting on, but I figure that since you’re the voters you’re entitled to know the kind of man you’d be voting for.

“These are the facts. Lee Gervase is an able ambitious man. He sees a big future for himself, he’s got his sights set far ahead — maybe on Sacramento, maybe on Washington. Who knows? To achieve these goals, he figured he had to make himself look good in his first public office. What better way than to make the incumbent sheriff and the previous sheriff look a couple of monkeys? Lee Gervase got carried away by his ambition and he let himself in for serious trouble.

“This is what happened. Sixteen years ago a man named Ausley Wyett was sent to jail for the murder of a little girl. A man named Clarence Hacker was a witness against him — and he didn’t tell the truth. He probably didn’t lie on the witness stand, but there was a great deal he didn’t tell, for reasons of his own, which were blackmail. A blackmailer is always scared to death of his victim, and Clarence Hacker made use of the usual system. If he were to die suddenly, a letter was to be sent to the authorities.

“Clarence Hacker died, the letter was sent. It was opened by a woman who had served under Sheriff Cucchinello. She read the letter, she instantly saw how important the letter was, and instead of showing me the letter, she took it to Lee Gervase. This, I imagine, is what she told him: ‘Mr. Gervase, Sheriff Bain is about to discharge me. If I show you how to make yourself look real good the first week you’re in office, can I keep my job?’ To which, so I guess, Lee Gervase expressed interest. Mrs. Rostvolt showed him the letter —”

Lee Gervase said in a harsh voice, “This is a vicious collection of lies. It’s slander!”

Joe said, in a mild voice, “Do you think I’d lay myself open if I couldn’t prove what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know. Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Rostvolt is my client. Today she called me to complain of persecution suffered under this poor excuse for a law-enforcement officer — culminating today when he arrested her and locked her in a jail cell for what was no more than a simple mistake. Thereupon, knowing how hopeless his campaign for re-election is, Bain tries to slander me —”

Joe said, “Not at all, Lee. I’m not slandering you, I’m arresting you. You can’t run for Sheriff or be elected because you’ll be in jail. The charges are being accessory to murder. Mrs. Rostvolt hasn’t any defense, any more than you. And do you know why?”

“I certainly do not know why!”

“Because, big as you please, on the letter is your thumb-print. Remember today when I handed you a glass? I checked your prints with the prints on the letter — and there you are, big as life. You can’t get around it, Lee — and neither can Mrs. Rostvolt. If she thought enough of the letter to show it to you, and you read it, and agreed to her terms — you’re both guilty.” Joe reached out, deftly snapped a pair of handcuffs on Lee Gervase, who looked down at them in confusion.

Joe motioned to Sergeant Miggs, who stood just below. Miggs stepped up on the dais, took Lee Gervase’s arm. “Let’s go, boy.”

Lee Gervase shook him off, turned to his stunned friends at the back of the dais. “Aren’t you going to stop this? Aren’t you going to do something about this?”

Griselda said in an odd choked voice, “If his charges are true — there’s nothing we can do. Nothing we want to do.”

Fred Hatch spoke in a high-pitched voice: “Tell us, Lee. Tell us Bain is crazy. Tell the people this is all a hoax — a monstrous evil hoax.”

Lee Gervase shuffled to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen — this is a hoax — a monstrous evil hoax.”

Joe grimaced, motioned to Miggs, who pulled Lee Gervase away and off the dais. Cole Destin rose abruptly to his feet, stood staring at Joe, then started for the steps. Joe said, “Don’t go, Cole, I’m not finished. Not by a long shot.”

Cole Destin said, “What do you mean?”

“While I’m here I might as well go into the whole case, unless the people here don’t want to hear about it — in which case I’ll depart.” Joe looked out over the crowd. “What about it? Do you want to hear the whole facts of this case? It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever come on in my life, I’ll guarantee you that. All those who want to hear about it say aye.”

There was a great chorus of “ayes”.

“Opposed?”

Silence.

Joe turned to Fred Hatch. “Do I have your permission to speak?”

Fred Hatch made a helpless gesture, grinning feebly. “You might as well. We don’t have any program. We don’t have any candidate, it looks like.”

Chapter XVI

“To start with,” Joe told the audience, “we have to go back sixteen years. Some of you will remember the case. Ausley Wyett was accused of murdering Teresa McAllister. There were five witnesses against him: Clarence Hacker, Charles Blankenship, Willis Neff, Cole Destin and Oliver Viera.

“Ausley Wyett pleaded not guilty, but he was convicted. About a month ago he was paroled out of San Quentin, and returned to the farm where he was born.

“I don’t know what he had in mind but Ausley wrote five letters to the five witnesses, to the effect that ‘here I am out of jail, where your testimony put me. I aim to do something about it. What do you plan to do to help me?’ Maybe not quite these exact words — but to the same effect.

“It was a real ill-advised set of letters. The first I heard about them was when Charley Blankenship came into the office complaining. I checked on the other four witnesses. Sure enough — they all had received letters, and all were angry at Ausley Wyett.

“I went to talk to Clarence Hacker. Right in front of my eyes he had a heart attack. Accident.

“A few days later Charley Blankenship ate some poison mushrooms. He died. Accident.

“A few days later Willis Neff was shot, apparently by an out-of-season hunter. Accident.

“Ausley Wyett claimed to know nothing of these strange accidental deaths. He told me that he was with Oliver Viera at the time when Neff was killed. Before I could check with Oliver Viera, he fell off a ladder into a ravine and broke his neck. Accident.

“By now there was only one of the five left alive — Cole Destin. I warned him to be careful. In fact —”

Cole could no longer contain himself. “A bloody lot of good you did!” he burst out in a harsh voice. “Today Ausley Wyett tried to kill me! And only just missed!”

“That might be slander, Cole — in case Ausley wants to push it.”

“Let him try.”

“Well, here we were with four people dead — all by accident. I knew that Bus Hacker had a letter he wanted me to see, but I couldn’t find it. Somebody else wanted this letter. Whoever it was tried to jimmy Bus Hacker’s old safe, and when that failed, he burned down the house, hoping to incinerate the letter.

“I opened the safe — no letter. Bus Hacker had arranged for it to be mailed and so it was. Mrs. Rostvolt read it, and Lee Gervase. If I’d seen it promptly I could have saved the lives of Oliver Viera and Willis Neff. Possibly even Charley Blankenship. What was in this letter? I’m coming to that.

“Even before I read the letter I knew who was causing these ‘accidental’ deaths, and I worked out some theories as to how they could be accomplished.

“For instance, in the case of Bus Hacker. Everybody knew he had a bum heart. So the man responsible — call him X — set his plans in motion. First he arranged that Bus’ car be laid up for a day or two, by putting water in the gas tank. Then he arranged that Bus be called into town on a wild-goose chase, and while Bus was out he made his preparations. Just by a stroke of luck, I happened to be calling on Bus when he returned. He was furious at being fooled, hot and tired and red in the face from the long walk. When he marched up to his front door and keeled over, I wasn’t surprised. But just out of habit I checked around. I saw something that puzzled me — not much, but enough that it stuck in my mind. There was a quarter-inch hole in the porch right under the steel mesh foot-scraper. I wasn’t able to get into the house, but there must have been another hole just inside the door, close to the baseboard. As I say, this hole didn’t mean much to me at the time. There was no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. Right after Bus died, I went up and did the same thing he did — walked up the steps, pulled back the screen door, opened the front door — and nothing happened. I think I know how it was worked. Bus Hacker was electrocuted — he was given a big jolt of 220-volt current. Wires were led from the entry box in the basement, one through the hole on the porch to the wire-mesh foot scraper, the other through the hole on the floor to the door handle. How come I didn’t see the wires? This is how it could have been arranged. A string wedged under the screen door supported a weight fixed to these wires. When Bus opened the screen door the string came loose, the weight pulled on the wires. But Bus’ weight on the mesh held them in place. He grabbed the door handle, and this big jolt of current goes through him. He can’t let go, he just holds on; his heart gives a couple of wild kicks, and Bus has had it. He falls off the porch, the wire comes loose from under the mesh, the weight pulls the wires through the holes into the basement.

“That night X breaks into the house, removes the evidence. He tries to jimmy the safe. No luck. He burns the house, thinking to destroy the letter. He just about succeeds. The next day, Cole Destin brought out Walt Hobius and his tow-truck and pulled the safe up from the basement, and the jouncing around didn’t help a bit.

“I opened the safe. No incriminating letter. But I found Bus Hacker’s ledger, accounting for every cent he spent. One or two omissions I thought peculiar — but with Ausley on my mind I wasn’t overly suspicious.

“So Bus Hacker went to his grave — murdered in front of my nose. X sweated it out for a while, but when nothing happened he figured the letter was destroyed and he was safe.

“Next on the program: Charles Blankenship. And X really shows his ingenuity. I don’t know where he found the Amanita mushrooms. When I was a kid a lot of them grew up in the wet part of the hills. I guess they do yet. Death-angels we used to call them. Or just plain toadstools. It doesn’t take much to kill a man.

“Charley Blankenship was accidentally killed like this. X locates a beautiful clump of good mushrooms, which he digs up carefully, and a few Amanitas. One is enough. They don’t look much different from an ordinary mushroom, except for white gills and a death-cup around the stem. Our man colors the gills dark brown, pulls off the death-cup, and he’s got just another mushroom. He transplants the lot — mushrooms and Amanita with the brown gills — into Charley Blankenship’s pansy bed. The rest is well known.

“Next — Willis Neff. So far this is all speculation. I couldn’t prove a thing. There’s interesting angles — such as Bus Hacker’s ledger, and Mrs. Blankenship being sick with her gall bladder — but nothing definite.

“The death of Willis Neff is different. It’s more violent, and more complicated, and it left traces. Still, they wouldn’t be noticed unless somebody was extra suspicious. X figured he’s worked a pretty smart deal.

“By the time we found Neff’s body the doctor couldn’t pinpoint the time of death. It was sometime between ten Wednesday night and six Thursday morning. His stomach contents proved he died half an hour after eating bacon and eggs. Then an old pensioner fixed the time for us. He swore that Neff could have driven in only after five o’clock Thursday morning — the time he was gone from his cabin. There wasn’t any other possibility until Friday night, when a car had gone in and the same car had gone out again. But this didn’t account for Neff’s pickup. There it was — and Hill swore on his grandfather’s Bible it could only have come in early Thursday morning. So that seemed to fix the time and place of Neff’s death. He had arrived at five o’clock, fixed himself breakfast, went to stretch his legs — and somebody shot him. Peculiar thing though. The rear wheels of his pickup were dusty, but not the front wheels. Did Neff maybe start to wash his pickup at five-thirty in the morning?

“Unluckily for X Ausley Wyett put forward an alibi. He was talking to Oliver Viera at seven o’clock Thursday morning. It’s not possible that Ausley could have shot Neff at five o’clock, planted evidence on the ridge and rushed back in order to meet Oliver Viera at seven, especially when he didn’t know Oliver was coming. If Ausley were actually with Oliver Viera at seven, he’s got a substantial alibi.

“By now people are becoming edgy. All these ‘accidental’ deaths — no matter how accidental they seem — they can’t all be coincidences! But if Ausley hasn’t killed Neff, then it’s highly doubtful that he’s killed any of the others and the whole plot falls through.

“Oliver Viera is Ausley Wyett’s alibi. Too bad for Oliver. Oliver must go, and fast — before the alibi is official. Also, he is one of the original group of five — which puts the frosting on the cake, so to speak.

“This is how I think Oliver Viera died. I can’t be sure, because there isn’t a single clue. X is much too cagy. But it could have happened this way.

“Oliver and his family go out for the evening: it was his wedding anniversary. X visits the house, sets up a ladder with a gallon of paint about ready to fall off the top step.

“As soon as Oliver gets up in the morning he sees the ladder and the paint. He starts up the ladder to take down the paint before it falls and makes a mess. Across the ravine, X is waiting behind a tree. He sees Oliver come out of the house, look at the ladder, start climbing. X gets himself set. Oliver climbs to the top. X walks backwards, pulling on the nylon fish-line which runs across the ravine and loops around the top of the ladder. He doesn’t need to pull hard. Over goes the ladder, Oliver falls sixty feet, breaks his neck. Another revengeful stroke by Ausley, so it appears, and now Ausley is also without his alibi for Neff’s death. Very very clever.

“From the original five, there’s only Cole Destin left, and, as he will tell you, he almost got it today.”

Joe paused, looked out over the crowd. No question but what he had the undivided attention of everyone. In all quarters were fascinated faces, dark rapt eyes. He turned, looked over his shoulders at the four dignitaries, who had assembled so confidently not an hour before. Howard Griselda sat hunched, defeated and humiliated beyond any previous recollection. Cole Destin stared furiously, every muscle taut. Fred Hatch, who had wandered uncertainly to the seat once occupied by Lee Gervase, stood nervously behind it, as if not quite daring to seat himself in the chair of a man disgraced. Wilfred Mortimer and Dr. Henry Gomez blinked and frowned like men in a dream.

Joe smiled pensively, turned back to the microphone. “So now the big question: what about this man X? I can tell you one thing, he’s sweating right now. He’s here listening to me, and he’s wondering whether or not to make some kind of move. It won’t do him any good — so he might as well relax. Unless he wants to give himself up?” Joe waited. But there was no response. “He’s still wondering if I really have the goods on him.

“Well, I do. Bus Hacker’s letter is pretty definite. Bus Hacker, incidentally, doesn’t come out of this business very well. For sixteen years he’d indulged in blackmail — a petty, miserable blackmail, not pushing hard enough to make X revolt. Although something must have happened recently to make X take his chances with Bus Hacker’s letter — which Bus had undoubtedly told him about and which he thought was kept in Bus Hacker’s safe.

“One more thing. As I see it X wasn’t really mad at Ausley Wyett to begin with. But he came to hate Ausley, in the way a man hates somebody he’s doing wrong to. A matter of psychological self-protection, I guess. Perhaps it happened directly after the murder of Tissie McAllister. Ausley Wyett, an innocent man, spent sixteen years in jail for a crime he did not commit. I don’t wonder that he felt a grievance against the five men who bore testimony against him. But that’s not here nor there. It happened that X also had a grievance against at least three of the men on Ausley’s list: Bus Hacker, Charley Blankenship, and Willis Neff. Oliver Viera had to die for the reason I mentioned: he was Ausley’s alibi, and his death made things look even worse for Ausley.

“That’s the background. If this man X wants to say something, I’ll be glad to let him use the microphone … No? Well, I can understand his bashfulness. He’s a pretty wicked man — and he knows it. Sixteen years ago he killed little Tissie McAllister, and let Ausley Wyett take the rap. How did Bus Hacker know this? Bus Hacker drove the school bus. Just about the time that Ausley Wyett was showing his new kittens to Tissie, Bus Hacker parked the bus in front of his house. He saw enough to give him a pretty good idea of what went on.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me for patting myself on the back a little, I’ll give you the clues which led me to X before I read the letter, then I’ll read you the letter.

“First, Bus Hacker’s ledger showed no money spent for rent or for any automobile expenses. Millie Hacker worked for the Destins thirty years, and Cole explains that the use of the house was a kind of a pension. But how to explain the lack of automobile expenses? No money spent for gas, oil, tires, repairs — it seems too good to be true. Almost as if Bus owned a service station.

“Second, Charley Blankenship hated his nephew Walt Hobius. More accurately, his wife’s nephew. One time he shot a charge of rock salt at him. When I was talking to Metty Blankenship, she mentioned that Charley wanted nothing to go to Walt. Today I telephoned her and asked about Charley’s will, just to make sure. I found that he left everything to his wife, or in the event that he survived her — which it looked like, what with Mrs. Blankenship’s bad gall bladder trouble — his grand-niece in Denver inherited. But Mrs. Blankenship always felt a soft spot for Walt — and with Charley dead, Walt could figure on inheriting a good-size sum, together with forty acres of cherries in the near future.

“Third: a day or so before Charley Blankenship died, I noticed some brown stains on Walt’s fingers. I thought they were nicotine. Walt should have kept his mouth shut, but he wasn’t thinking and blurted out the truth. He said the stains were from iodine or brown ink or ‘something’. At the time I thought this was pretty peculiar for a man not to know what his hands had been in. But Walt, experimenting with the Amanita, trying to color the white gills, had fooled with both, and maybe other brown colors as well.

“This is what put me on the track. I’d figured out the method of Bus Hacker’s death, but it didn’t give me any line on who. But as soon as I asked ‘How would I get someone to eat an Amanita?’, and answered, ‘I’d make it look like a mushroom by coloring the gills brown’, I thought of Walt’s fingers. And after that everything began to fall into place.

“Fourth: the front wheels of Neff’s pickup were clean. Neff might have been killed almost any time Wednesday night or Thursday morning. But the evidence pointed to Monterey County, at five o’clock Thursday morning — unless he was killed somewhere else and brought in. But this was impossible. Hill told us only one car had come and the same car had gone out on Friday night — hence Neff must have driven in just before he was killed. Unless Neff and his pickup were brought in together Friday night. Pretty hard unless you own a tow-truck. Pretty hard unless you have a garage where you can hide a pickup and a body for a day. A pickup which was towed would have dusty rear wheels, but clean front wheels.

“That’s how my theories went. Another small matter. The day Bus Hacker died I talked to Walt. He was reading a newspaper, in no hurry to repair Bus Hacker’s car. I thought nothing about this at the time, of course. Well, I finally saw the letter from Bus Hacker which Irma Rostvolt and Lee Gervase had conspired to hide from me.” Joe took a paper from his pocket. “This is how it reads:

To whom it may concern:

This letter reveals me for what I am, a man troubled by his conscience and in fear of God Almighty for his sins on this earth.

For many years I have wondered what to do. I have no certain proof that Walter Hobius abused and killed Teresa McAllister on the 22nd day of May, 1946, but for all these years he has paid me for my silence, and I believe that he and not Ausley Wyett should have paid the penalty for the crime.

I cannot be dead certain. If I were, no power on earth could force me to silence, for I am not a man bereft of morals.

On the afternoon of May 22, Walter Hobius rode home from high school on my bus, rather than on the Route 1 bus, which he normally rode. The reason for this was that the bus was giving me trouble and I was hiring Walter to make the necessary repairs. He listened to the engine and told me I needed a valve grind, which he would do the next day. If I wanted to save a few dollars, I could remove the cylinder head myself.

I parked at the corner of Destin Lane and Mitre Canyon Road. We got out, raised the hood, looked at the engine, whereupon I decided to let Walter do the whole job, as I am no mechanic. Cole Destin drove past in his car. Walter started to walk toward Marblestone. In my testimony, after taking an oath before God, I could not tell an untruth, as I am not and never have been a perjurer nor an oath-breaker, I swore that I had seen no one pass. This was absolutely true. Walter Hobius did not pass. He walked away from me.

After a while I looked down the road, and saw Ausley Wyett leave the barn and walk away toward the pasture. I saw Walter stop and talk to Teresa. She indicated the barn and now I believe that she was telling him about Ausley Wyett’s kittens, and asking if he wanted one.

I saw Walter hesitate. Then he and Teresa walked to the barn and went inside.

This is all I saw, for at this time I went into my own house.

When I learned of the murder I was sorely distressed. But Ausley Wyett’s attempt to dispose of the body led me to believe that he was guilty, for an innocent man would not have acted in this way.

Walter Hobius started to work on my bus the next day. He was nervous and ill at ease. I told him that I had seen him go to the barn with Teresa, and he asked me to say nothing about the matter. He assured me that he had not molested the girl, and that if I mentioned his presence, it would only embarrass him, and introduce confusing factors into an otherwise clear-cut case. In which case he might not be able to finish his work on my bus. He said he wanted to do a good job, to change the piston rings and the bearings, in short a complete overhaul, for which he would not charge me a cent, but if he were called as a witness he would not be able to do this.

So here, and I pray forgiveness from our Heavenly Father who understands all, I agreed. It seemed as if the case were already definite against Ausley Wyett, and I would only be confusing the issue.

Walter Hobius overhauled the bus. Whenever I needed further work, I told him and he did the work. I felt no qualms using him in this fashion. If it were not for my cooperation he might have fared far worse. As the years went on, Walter Hobius maintained my automobile for me and occasionally supplied me with gas and oil. I feel no remorse. He only partially recompensed me for the agonies of conscience I suffered over the years. It is right that he should be penalized, to some degree, for the crime I am not sure he committed.

I swear, by my hope of eventual salvation and by my fear of God’s wrath, that this letter contains the exact truth. If I were less weak I would appear before the authorities and make a statement, but I am old and ill, and I want to live my life out in peace.

If I have erred, I pray forgiveness and understanding. The above is the truth.

CLARENCE J. HACKER

Joe looked up, across the crowd. He pointed. “When I began talking, Walt Hobius was standing over there, near the coffee booth. I was watching him. So were three deputies. He listened a few minutes, and then decided to leave. The deputies followed, and made the arrest on the sidewalk.

“Walter Hobius is now in jail.”

Chapter XVII

Walter Hobius talked freely, making no attempt to deny or gloss over his guilt. Indeed, he seemed to display an inordinate pride in his own cleverness. He showed no hostility to Joe, and even less to the newspaper reporters who converged from all parts of the state. Toward Bus Hacker Walt evinced acrid hate. “You know something? The only thing that bothers me is that I didn’t do for that miserable old cur sooner. All these years he’s been sucking my blood — gas, oil, tires, repairs. Why should he buy a new car, when I’d patch up his old heap? Then, just before Ausley was paroled, he told me he wanted four new tires, and a paint job. I told him I didn’t have that kind of spare money. One time when I was at his house he showed me the letter which he’d written and kept in his safe; now he reminded me of the letter and warned me that I’d better cooperate. I told him okay, but then and there I decided to fix his wagon. Ausley getting out of jail only pushed matters along … What? Ausley? Yeah, Ausley the chump. Why shouldn’t he stay in jail? Living outside of jail never did him no good. Girls didn’t like him, he was just a big clown. Jail was a good place for him … Joe was just about right how I put away Charley. Another mean old bastard who didn’t deserve to live. But Joe missed a bet. I was nervous he’d catch on. The toadstool I found, but the mushrooms I had to buy. I couldn’t find any. I bought them at a mushroom farm in Santa Cruz. If Joe had thought to ask around, the jig was up …

“On Wednesday night Neff visited the cat-house in San Rodrigo. He left off his spare tire and told me he’d call back for it. I told him I’d wait — no matter how late. I’m a patient son of a bitch. That’s another bet Joe missed. He saw Neff drop off his spare; in the back of the pickup, there was the spare. Neff must have come back to the station for it. If Joe had thought about that, the jig was up again. So Neff went to San Rodrigo, visited his woman, and I guess he ate somewhere, then he came back about eleven o’clock. I took him out into the garage and shot him, using a silencer on my gun. I’d been to this meadow in Monterey County a few months back, so I just laid Neff out in the pickup, closed the doors on the garage, and Friday night towed the whole shebang to location … Nope, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret anybody but Ollie, who wasn’t a bad guy. But he had to go. It was him or me. One man’s gain is another man’s loss: that’s the way life goes. I don’t regret a thing. I’ve really lived this last month. None of you guys know what it’s like to go full out. And I’ll tell you something. I’d have got Cole Destin next. Why? To make everything pretty, so that everything came out exactly right. Cole had to go. Yep. He would have been next. Five witnesses, five letters, five accidents. See what I mean? It’s beautiful, when you stop to think about it … And it’s only by miserable poor luck I was caught. I didn’t deserve to get hung up. I’ll get out of it yet, wait and see …”

Ausley Wyett looked into the sheriff’s office the day after election. There were three men in Joe’s private sanctum, and the air reverberated with congratulations and well wishes. Joe excused himself, stepped out into the hall. “Ausley, old man! How’s it going?” Joe spoke in a somewhat slurred voice. He had been forced to drink a number of toasts: to a successful term in office, to the future of San Rodrigo County, even to the venerable courthouse, which after a resounding defeat of the bond issue had assumed the status of a local monument.

“Things are pretty good,” said Ausley. “I happened to be in town and I thought I ought to thank you once more for getting me out of a hole.”

“Don’t thank me, Ausley, it’s in the line of duty. Helping you, I helped myself. I’m glad things turned out the way they did for both of us. How are folks in Marblestone treating you?”

Ausley smiled wanly. “Not bad. Nobody’s really friendly. I guess I still carry a reputation — even if I didn’t do anything.”

“It’ll wear off — hey! What’s this?” Joe examined the broad gold band on Ausley’s third finger. “Don’t tell me you went and made the leap?”

“Yeah.” Ausley grinned sheepishly. “Somehow I convinced Ellie I’d make her a good husband, knowing the ranch business and all that. We got married this morning.”

“Well I’ll be horsewhipped!”

Ausley gave him a look of mild reproach. “She’s out doing some shopping — clothes and stuff like that. We’re heading for Los Angeles for a week or two.”

Joe drew a deep breath, shook Ausley’s hand. “Congratulations, Ausley. You got a real good girl, about the nicest one around.”

Ausley shuffled his feet. “I think so too … Well, I better go pick her up. We got a long drive ahead of us.”

“Give my regards to the bride!”

“I’ll do that, Joe. So long.”

“So long, Ausley. Have a good time.”

The tall shape moved down the hall and out into the sunlight. Joe shook his head. “That’s the way it goes. If a man sits back, dilly-dallies, pretty soon he finds he’s left behind. Way behind … Oh well, I can’t complain. It’s Sheriff Joe Bain now, for real … I feel like taking off a week or two myself.”

The Pleasant Grove Murders

Chapter I

1

Starr Shortridge was a notoriously haughty child and had been so for as long as anyone could remember. The explanation was simple: Starr had compared herself to the rank and file of humanity and humanity had come off second best.

At the age of twelve Starr was generally considered insufferable, by all save her father Sam Shortridge, and if Sam Shortridge had his doubts, he needed only to consider his son Marsh, six years older than Starr, a dish-faced youth, careful with his money, meticulous with his clothes, a dutiful participant at Sunday School: altogether, a prig.

The two children were completely different. Marsh used a precocious glibness to disarm his elders. Starr’s critics, though willing and articulate, found it difficult to particularize her faults. Obstinacy? This implied a bovine stupidity which never could be imputed to Starr. Possessiveness? Starr distributed her belongings with insulting condescension. Brattiness? When departing company which bored her, Starr made the most polite excuses; if required to remain, she suffered in non-committal silence. Vanity? Starr was a handsome girl, a trifle tall for her age, with long well-shaped legs and arms, patrician features, glossy brown hair, gray-green eyes of startling clarity. She kept herself clean but she was indifferent to clothes and showed small interest in boys. In sheer point of fact Starr’s faults were indefinable. Her intelligence was extreme, her imagination extravagant; she found everyone else lackluster and inconsequential, and this was the quality which aroused her critics, who feared that she might be right. The Shortridges, proprietors of Pleasant Grove’s largest department store, were the elite of Pleasant Grove; far easier pointing to family wealth and social position as the source for Starr’s arrogance.

Starr’s grandfather, who had founded Shortridge’s, had also bought Spanish Hill on the northern outskirts of Pleasant Grove. In 1910 he built a grand mansion in the style of a Norman manor house, and to enforce privacy he enclosed the entire property within a seven-foot stone wall. A horticultural enthusiast, he grubbed poison oak and blackberry from Spanish Hill, nurtured the native oaks and madrone, planted cypress, elm, chestnut, ash, walnut, maple, as well as a number of unlikely exotics.

A half century later the plantings were mature, the trees tall, the bowers dank and deep. On a sunny Sunday morning Starr Shortridge took the police dog Henry out for a walk. She climbed the gravel path, back and forth through the pleasant hillside park, under rhododendron, Spanish cork, yew, umbrella pine, Agrigento cypress. The path terminated at a knob of rock surveying all of Pleasant Grove, the surrounding fields and orchards. Directly below was the old house with the mansard roof and double wings. To the west rose the Coast Range; to the east spread the vast expanse of the San Joaquin Valley.

Henry chased a squirrel. Starr called him back and continued north along the ridge. The oaks grew tall, filtering the sunlight through high whispering clots of green. Pleasant Grove became remote: the world consisted wholly of trees, an occasional outcrop of lichen-stained rock; Starr could easily believe herself far away, long ago, in an antique Celtic forest …

She stopped short. On the ground was a litter: scraps of lumber, crumpled paper bags, a saw, an old wood-handled hammer with a broken claw. She looked up the trunk of a sprawling oak to a tree-house of ambitious size, scope and ingenuity.

Starr’s eyes sparkled with wrath. Not only was her proprietary sense outraged, not only had there been trespass, but the illusion of sylvan wildness had been destroyed. She marched forward, picked up the old hammer, and climbing to the first landing began to knock away the braces which supported the tree-house.

Instantly a boy about fifteen years old looked out the door. “Hey! What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? Get away from there!”

Starr recognized the boy to be Bill Whipple, of low social status and unsavory reputation, whose father owned a garage and wrecking yard on Courthouse Avenue.

Emerging from the tree-house, Bill stood on the little deck in front. Starr retreated to the ground, and Bill, swinging down to the landing, peered askance at her, legs apart, head cocked forward, eyes sharp and feral. He was a lad of arresting appearance, tall and spare, with a thin harsh face, coarse sandy hair, a big hook of a nose. If he were aware of his low social status or the fact of his trespass, he gave no sign of either: in fact he behaved with insulting assurance, as if Starr were the interloper. He scrutinized her with great intentness: the black ribbon in her hair, her face, her blouse and skirt, bare legs, socks and white shoes. His mouth twitched; jumping to the ground he wrenched the hammer from her grasp. He pretended indignation. “You broke the claw!”

“I did not,” said Starr. “It was that way when I picked it up.”

“Hell, why worry?” Bill grinned. “Are you worried?”

“No.”

“If you’re not, I’m not.” Bill tossed the hammer aside and came closer. Starr swayed back half a step. She was still too young to derive emotion from anything but horses, dogs and dream-heroes; nevertheless Bill’s proximity aroused atavistic tingles along her skin.

Bill seemed to find her presence not unwelcome. He grinned again. “Come on up, I’ll show you my house.”

Starr gave her head a shake, backed away. Bill hooked his finger in the neck of her blouse. “Just a minute. Do you know what happens when girls come hammering rap-rap where they shouldn’t?”

Starr looked over her shoulder. “Henry!” Henry came trotting forward. “Sic ’em.” Henry gave a deep snarl and lunged forward. Bill sprang up the ladder, with Henry pursuing as far as the landing.

Starr, smiling coolly, took hold of Henry’s collar and pulled him back down to the ground. She called up to Bill. “You’d better leave right now. This is private property. We don’t want any junk on it. You or your tree-house. And don’t come back.”

Bill weighed the situation. Slowly he descended the ladder. Henry tugged against Starr’s constraint, growled. Bill’s mouth twisted wryly. For two seconds he stood looking at Starr, who gave him back a composed stare. Bill turned away, departed without haste, without shame, managing even something of a swagger.

Starr watched him disappear through the trees. Scowling she turned back the way she had come. Her walk was spoiled, her mood broken. Perhaps never again, she thought, would the illusion return, perhaps never again would the forest seem enchanted. Starr heaved a deep sigh. “I suppose I’m too old for that sort of thing … I’m no longer a child.”

Sunday dinner at the Shortridges’, served at two o’clock, was a huge old-fashioned meal at which there were usually guests, Sam Shortridge being a gregarious man who enjoyed extending hospitality. Today the guests were the new neighbors who had bought the old Roberts house on Madrone Way: Guy and Grace Benjamin, with their daughter Alice, an extremely pretty girl of Starr’s age. Starr, maintaining her usual reserve, watched and listened, and decided that she rather liked Alice, who, in spite of her silky blonde hair, her blue eyes and delightful features, seemed rather shy and not at all ‘common’, as Starr labeled girls who were too obviously interested in boys or too anxious to make themselves conspicuous. When school restarted in the fall, Starr and Alice would be in the sixth grade together.

During a pause in the conversation Starr mentioned the tree-house. Sam Shortridge frowned, started to speak, but Marsh in a pompous voice exclaimed, “What a lot of nerve! Building such a thing on our property! I think we definitely ought to do something about that!”

“Good idea!” remarked his father. “You can go up this afternoon and knock it down.”

Marsh opened his mouth to protest, closed it again. He seemed to have irritated his father, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand why.

After dinner Marsh, with Starr and Alice for company, marched up Spanish Hill to demolish the tree-house. With his father not on hand to squelch him, Marsh became more pompous than ever. He declared the tree-house to be an outrage, the more so since the perpetrator had been Bill Whipple, a boy whom he disliked and distrusted. Starr paid no attention and Marsh addressed himself to Alice, who responded with politeness and charm. Starr thought that Alice seemed at once very young for her age and very mature — innocent yet perfectly poised. And she watched Marsh with sardonic amusement as he sought to impress Alice with the profundity of his experience. It developed that the Benjamins subscribed to the Catholic faith. Marsh, an Episcopalian, analyzed and compared the two creeds, and sought to steer Alice along the path of truth and enlightenment. Alice, with a smiling side-glance toward Starr, shook her head.

They came to the tree-house and Marsh marveled anew at the presumption of Bill Whipple. “Why does he think we’ve got the place fenced in? If we wanted every Tom, Dick and Harry up here, we’d make the place a public park!”

“It’s a nice tree-house,” said Alice. “He went to a lot of trouble.”

Marsh became exercised; this was the wrong thing to say. Alice did not seem to understand the sanctity of private property and the enormity of Bill Whipple’s offense. With ostentatious energy he began to demolish the steps and the landing. Starr spoke from the side in the quietest of voices: “If you knock down the stairs you won’t be able to get up to the house.”

Marsh pretended not to hear, but presently climbed up to the house proper. He battered, pried, panted, heaved; the tree-house tumbled to the ground, where it lay, a grotesque caricature of its former self. The girls watched uneasily, sensing symbolic portents.

Marsh surveyed the heap of broken lumber. “That’s that. I’ll send Manuel up tomorrow to burn it, or haul it away … Young Whipple would be wise not to show himself around here again.”

Alice listened with drooping mouth. “We live just down below, you know,” she said in a tentative voice. “Would you mind if I came up once in a while?”

Marsh indulgently patted Alice’s head. “My stars no. Come up as often as you like. Just don’t build tree-houses, or leave a lot of trash around.”

Catching Starr’s eye, Alice almost giggled. Starr smiled her cool smile. In spite of Alice’s earnestness and her Catholicism, which Starr lumped together with Marsh’s Episcopalianism, she rather liked Alice.

When the three returned to the house Starr studied Alice’s parents with a new interest. Guy Benjamin was a civil engineer employed by the State Department of Highways. Grace Benjamin was a humorless woman of meticulous gentility and prim good looks. Starr was reminded of the Puritan women in her American History texts. Guy Benjamin was more like a captain in the Confederate Army: a graceful soft-spoken man with polished bronze hair, a dashing mustache, a tendency toward dry understatement. Grace Benjamin, in contrast, neither understated nor overstated; she simply stated. Occasionally Guy Benjamin’s mustache drooped wryly. Alice’s Catholicism came from her mother; Guy Benjamin admitted that he never went to church, earning himself a disapproving glance from Grace.

In due course the Benjamins took their leave. Sam Shortridge, returning to the living room, remarked that they seemed pleasant people and an asset to the neighborhood.

“Alice is certainly a beautiful child,” remarked Miriam Shortridge. “A regular little Dresden figurine!”

Sam gave an acquiescent grunt. Marsh said brightly, “Yes, she is quite pretty, isn’t she?”

Sam Shortridge smiled grimly. “What did you do to the tree-house?”

“I knocked it down from the tree. I thought I’d send Manuel up to burn it.”

Sam Shortridge gave the plan short shrift. “He’d set the hill afire. The two of you go up there, bundle up the trash and bring it down-hill.”

“Cripes, Dad! There’s a ton of stuff up there!”

“Come now. If Bill Whipple carried it up, you and Manuel can carry it down.”

“We ought to make Bill Whipple clean the place up,” Marsh grumbled. “He made the mess.”

“Why create a big scene?” demanded Miriam with a hint of impatience. “It’s just a tree-house. The less we have to do with people like the Whipples the better.”

Sam Shortridge leaned back in his chair. His own views in regard to social stratification were not quite so clear-cut as those of his wife, and were rather more pragmatic. Still, he considered egalitarianism a debilitating ideal, and so he instructed his children — neither of whom, in their different ways, needed any such instruction.

2

Two doors north of the Benjamins’ was the residence of Mr. and Mrs. John Roberts, who long ago had owned the acreage now occupied by the country club. Mr. Roberts died; Mrs. Roberts put the house up for sale and went to San Jose to live with her son, and who should buy the property but Fred and Sheila Whipple, proprietors of Whipple’s Garage. Not long after, Fred Whipple took over the Chevrolet dealership and thenceforth went to work in a white shirt and bow tie.

After glacial deliberation the Whipples were acknowledged to be residents of Madrone Way. The Benjamins, on the other hand, were accepted immediately, though they were known to be far from wealthy, and occasionally were patronized: a situation which troubled Guy Benjamin not at all, for he was seldom home. Grace Benjamin bore the subtle condescensions, when they occurred, without change of expression. Alice, as charming as she was beautiful, and vain only to the most inconsequential degree, never even noticed.

Chapter II

1

San Rodrigo County, a few hours’ drive southeast of San Francisco, had the good fortune to lie aside from the zones of frantic development which were destroying much of the California countryside. The freeways joining San Francisco and Los Angeles ran to east and west; the resorts and scenic areas — Monterey, Carmel, Pebble Beach, Big Sur, San Simeon — lay along the Pacific to the other side of the Coast Range. San Rodrigo County’s single tourist attraction was mouldering Mission San Rodrigo de Luz, although the old county courthouse had been cited in Werner Neubarth’s book Toward a New Century as the nation’s most extreme example of that architectural style known as ‘fish-market Gothic’.

To the north and east of Pleasant Grove was a tumble of low rolling hills, a spur of the Diablo Range. Among these hills, on a weather-beaten old ranch, Ken Mooney had been born.

Mooneys had lived in San Rodrigo County for as long as anyone could remember. Originally they were important folk: Judge Mooney sat at the first session in the county courthouse; Herman Mooney owned the old Valley Hotel in Aurora, which burnt to the ground in 1882, whereupon he built Halfway House on Contreras Road.

After the first World War the family declined, and presently only a few old-timers remembered the quality of the early Mooneys.

Ken, a big easy-going lad, attended high school at Pleasant Grove, where he distinguished himself principally on the football field. This was the best time of Ken Mooney’s life; he was liked by everyone; his amiability disarmed the most surly of individuals, with the exception of his father, who wanted Ken to work harder at home and do less ‘fooling around after school’.

Ken’s principal weakness was girls. He liked their faces, their voices, the way they walked, the way they sat down, the way they smelled, the way they felt. He liked some girls more than others, but he was not fussy. A girl was a girl, and if Ken couldn’t date one, he’d try another, or another, or another, until finally he made a connection, even if she were the sorriest scarecrow around.

During Ken’s senior year at Pleasant Grove High, an exquisite blonde girl named Alice Benjamin entered as a freshman. Like every other boy in school, Ken’s heart turned over, and all he could think was ‘Alice, Alice, Alice’.

To no avail. Alice lived on Madrone Way, across from the country club. Alice’s mother was extra-religious, extra-strict, extra-choosy. Ken Mooney, the amiable not-too-particular boy from a hill-country ranch, didn’t stand a chance.

In the same class with Alice was Starr Shortridge. Her mother had wanted to send Starr to Miss Hamlin’s in San Francisco, but Starr refused point-blank. As proud, aloof, unreasonable, capricious and unresponsive as ever, Starr enrolled at Pleasant Grove High School, where her vagaries exasperated the faculty as much as they did her family. Alice Benjamin thought Starr was wonderful. Alice admired Starr’s independence, her coolness, her spirit. Starr liked Alice because Alice liked her. Alice’s grades were uniformly good: As and Bs. Starr refused to study and shamelessly took home Cs, Ds and Fs. Sam Shortridge stormed; Miriam Shortridge imposed strictures; Marsh sneered. Censure, persuasion, threats were ineffectual. Even Alice was moved to expostulate.

“Rats,” replied Starr. “It’s all eyewash. ‘Silas Marner’ is drivel. ‘Hamlet’ is obscure. Latin is so dead it smells. What good to me is the binomial theorem? I’m not going to be an engineer.”

“What if you want to go to college?”

“I don’t want to go to college.”

“What do you want to do?”

“As soon as I can get away from home, I’m going to Europe and buy a motor-scooter and look for haunted castles in Rumania, and maybe werewolves. Things like that.”

“It sounds like fun,” said Alice wistfully. “I’d like to go too.” She sighed. “My mother would never let me.”

Starr gave a disrespectful snort. Her opinion of Grace Benjamin was unflattering. In the first place, Starr considered Mrs. Benjamin a religious fanatic. “When you want to do something,” said Starr, “go ahead and do it. If you don’t, you have only yourself to blame.”

Alice smiled wanly. “I suppose you’re right. Still —”

“Still what?”

“I don’t like to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“I don’t either,” said Starr, “which is why I don’t talk to people very much.”

“Starr, you’re impossible … But I’d like to go to Europe too. And someday I will! Maybe we could go together!”

“That would be fun,” said Starr. “Maybe we can.”

Bill Whipple sat down beside them. “What’s the big secret?”

Starr made no reply. The silence embarrassed Alice. She said, “We’re talking about going to Europe.”

“Nice,” said Bill. “Where I want to go is Paris. Ooh la la! Also to the Riviera, to hunt the wild bikini.”

Alice laughed politely, Starr gave Bill a frowning glance, wondering why she detested him so. He excited repellent little frissons along her nervous system. He wasn’t bad-looking, or rather, he was ugly in a striking way.

Ken Mooney halted in front of them, hoping against hope to impress Alice. Starr was hardly aware of Ken. She knew his name; she vaguely realized that he played football and was one of Bill Whipple’s friends; otherwise Ken Mooney meant nothing to her, one way or the other.

The bell sounded; they went to their classes.

A week or so later, at Alice’s insistent urging, Starr attended a Hi-Y picnic at Bellah Creek Camp, in the mountains west of Jordan.

Ken Mooney and Bill Whipple came along too. The trunk of Bill’s car was loaded with beer. Mrs. Tremons, the faculty adviser, ordered them to leave, but the two boys lurked on the outskirts of the picnic.

“Look,” said Bill, pointing with a half-empty can of beer. “There’s Starr. Smart young --------” and he used an unprintable noun.

Ken looked owlishly in the direction indicated. Starr was a girl, hence a girl. Ken therefore was interested.

“You know what let’s do?” said Bill, and he put forward a proposal which astounded and shocked Ken. “Hell,” said Ken, “I wouldn’t do a thing like that. You know it. Starr’s a decent kid. I’m ashamed of you.”

“She’s so damn stuck-up! She’s just asking for it. It’d do her good.”

“You do it then. Don’t get me involved. I don’t think she’s stuck-up anyway. She’s just off in a dream world.”

“Don’t kid yourself, boy. That girl’s stuck-up. I know.”

“Okay. So you know. Slash open one of them beers, don’t hog it all.”

But now Mr. Beasley, the vice-principal, approached and ordered them away from the picnic. Ken apologized for causing a disturbance and Mr. Beasley gave him a friendly whack on the back. “We don’t want to alarm the ladies. Now you boys drive carefully. I know you’ve been drinking, and I don’t want you to kill yourselves.”

The term ended. Ken and Bill were graduated. Bill’s grades were good; he had the knack of study, he was facile with words and numbers, and he was offered a football scholarship to San Jose State which he accepted. Ken went directly into the army, where he served something over two years and received a medical discharge.

Returning to Pleasant Grove, Ken decided that the life of a cattle rancher was not to his taste. The hours were too long, the sun too hot, the hills too lonesome. Also he’d have to work under his father: not so good. Clarence Mooney was a fine man, Ken allowed, but too hard to get along with, and extremely careful with money, to boot.

Ken took a job with the Post Office, where the hours were reasonable, the work easy, the pay on time.

About this time Ken’s uncle, Charles Mooney, died. His brother Clarence, Ken’s father, as sole heir to the estate, came into possession of Halfway House.

Clarence Mooney called Ken out for a conference. “I got this roadhouse on my hands. You know what it’s like; you’ve been out there.”

“Nice old place,” said Ken warily. “It sure needs work.”

“Here’s my proposition. You bring the place up to snuff. Make repairs, fix things up, run the place like it ought to be run. There’s a bar, a liquor license, a restaurant — even a hotel, if you want to put that back in operation. Lot of money in a place like that if it’s handled right. I’ll take half the profits. When I die you’ll get the place for your own. What do you say? Won’t cost you a cent except what you put into improvements — and that’ll come back to you in the long run.”

Ken rubbed his chin, wondering where the catch was. His father seldom gave anything away.

“If you don’t like the deal,” said Clarence Mooney, “I’ll put the place on the market. I don’t know how much it’ll bring, but somebody is sure to buy. There’s going to be tourists coming down this way. I say, take them for all they’re worth.”

Ken decided that his father had no hidden motivation, that the proposition was simply as stated. “Okay. It’s a deal. I fix the place up, you get half the net. But one thing we got to agree on: I run the place the way I want to. I don’t want to do something and have you come out and tell me I’m all wet. I mean, I just don’t want any interference.”

Clarence Mooney didn’t like the condition, but he agreed. Father and son shook hands; the deal was struck.

When Ken inspected Halfway House, he found more dilapidation than he had bargained for. Everything needed doing at once. Still he was pleased with his acquisition. The place was beautifully situated under a virgin stand of redwood trees; the old porch, the old windows, the old wood exuded old-fashioned good cheer. The bar was crowded with curios and old photographs; there was even a small dance floor. A wonderful place for parties, thought Ken. A wonderful place to bring girls, with the hotel so handy. He arranged with an old man named Wilbur Baker to take care of the bar, which did enough business to pay taxes, electricity, with a few dollars extra for Wilbur Baker.

Every weekend Ken worked on the structure, replacing glass, repairing the porch, waxing the redwood panels in the bar. Presently his enthusiasm began to wane. His work seemed to be lost among all the jobs waiting to be done. His father meanwhile became grouchy and complained that Ken wasn’t putting enough time and money into the place. “I’m doing all I can,” growled Ken. “I can’t do more; I don’t make all that much money.”

“Borrow! Get the place in tip-top shape! That’s the way to make money!”

“Okay. I don’t mind. But if I make a loan I want to pay it off first thing, before we calculate profits.”

“No sir. The loan gets paid from your half. Why shouldn’t it be? The whole place is going to you when I die. Do you begrudge me and your mother and the girls a little comfort?”

Ken shrugged. “Just as you like. I don’t want to take anything away from you.”

But when Ken applied for a loan, the bank officials insisted that his father, the legal owner of Halfway House, cosign the note, which Clarence Mooney refused to do. Conditions remained as before.

2

Marsh Shortridge’s first marriage occurred during his last year at Stanford and lasted a month and a half. The girl’s name was Beverley Bancock; she was very tall, thin and active as a nervous whippet, and she played clarinet in the Marching Band. They met on a blind date. Beverley showed Marsh some judo holds and laughingly tussled him down upon a bear-skin rug. Displaying his own skill, Marsh rolled Beverley over and over and over and into the next room. A blow of someone’s foot thrust the door shut. Two days later they drove at great speed to Carson City and were married.

Everyone in Pleasant Grove was puzzled by the event, except Starr and perhaps Alice. Not long before, Alice had gone out twice with Marsh, with her mother’s benign approval. Marsh became intense on the first date, possessive on the second. The third time he called, Alice stammered lame excuses, which Marsh heard in frozen silence. A month later he married Beverley Bancock, and almost as swiftly was divorced. Alice felt depressed and guilty, as if somehow she had been to blame for the marriage. Starr considered the affair hilarious and reported to Alice that Beverley took her clarinet on the honeymoon and practiced faithfully two hours a day.

For a year after the divorce Marsh avoided Alice. Then little by little he allowed himself to relent: first, cool politeness, then neighborliness; next, camaraderie, then tennis dates; presently, a day at the Monterey Jazz Festival. Finally, when Alice was graduated from Pleasant Grove High School, Marsh declared himself her escort for the ceremonies. Alice agreed without enthusiasm and Marsh, bending low, kissed her hand. All was forgiven.

Starr was likewise graduated, the faculty being anxious to see the last of her. She made no plans to attend the commencement exercises, and only at the last minute yielded to the expostulations of her father and mother. She submitted to cap and gown, received her diploma with indifference. During the speeches she watched the faces of her classmates and speculated regarding their futures. And her own. Alice in white cap and gown, with her rich blonde hair, soulful eyes, pointed chin and drooping wistful mouth, was enchanting. For some indefinable reason Starr felt sorry for Alice. She seemed so sensitive, so vulnerable; her beauty was sure to make her the focus of other people’s emotions. And Starr mused upon Grace Benjamin, sitting watchfully in the third row. Guy Benjamin, at work on a dam in Peru, was not present; according to gossip he had changed to foreign employment in order to avoid the rigors of life at 23 Madrone Way.

The ceremonies came to an end. Starr accepted a few perfunctory congratulations and moved off to await her parents, who were talking to Caspar Hubman, the high school principal, and his wife Laura. The Hubmans lived out toward the end of Madrone Way, and were considered smart and somewhat bohemian. Starr suspected that the topic of conversation was herself. Let them talk.

Starr went out to the front lobby to wait. Here stood Alice surrounded by friends, including Marsh. Starr watched impassively.

A young man in brown slacks, a brown and white hounds-tooth jacket turned his head to look at her: Bill Whipple, a student at San Jose State where he majored in Business Administration. Starr felt the tingling along her nerves. An atavistic response to his masculinity? Simple antagonism? It was neither lust nor liking, Starr was certain on this score.

Bill approached with the long elastic stride which was characteristically his. Meeting Starr’s gaze he essayed a polite smile. Starr returned a non-committal nod.

Bill proffered his congratulations.

“Thank you,” said Starr.

Bill hesitated, then said, “Are you doing anything after this is all over? I mean, a party or something of the sort?”

“No.”

“Good. Let’s go someplace and relax. Maybe a Martini or two. Or why not champagne? That’s appropriate! Champagne!”

Starr slowly shook her head. “No thanks.”

Bill, drawing back the corners of his mouth, studied her with head askew, nose and chin jutting. “I don’t think you like me.”

“Quite right,” said Starr.

“But why?” said Bill, his voice rising a petulant note or two. “Am I offensive? Do I have bad breath? Am I a social leper?”

“I don’t like anyone very much.”

“Me even less.”

Starr shrugged stonily. For all his tension and challenge, Bill bored her. His ideas seemed superficial, his ambitions vapid. Starr wanted something different: a person who was intense and broodingly intelligent, perhaps a trifle impractical, but generous and gay altogether. Then she would have so much to give! It might even be, in fact probably would be, love at first sight. Starr was quite willing to take the chance.

“Starr,” said Bill in a tentative voice, “let’s get married.”

Starr was genuinely startled. “Why would you want to marry me?”

“The usual reasons.”

Starr looked off across the lobby. “If I ever marry anyone, it will be for unusual reasons, to an unusual man.”

“What’s usual about me?” Bill demanded.

“Why go into details?”

“Bah!” muttered Bill. “I’m sorry I brought the subject up. And if I weren’t a gentleman —”

Marsh appeared, escorting the radiant Alice Benjamin. Bill’s attention was diverted from Starr, as it could hardly fail to be. His lips twitched, his eyes narrowed. Starr smiled in grim derision.

“Hello, Bill,” said Marsh in an even voice, expressing the polite recognition due a neighbor. “Starr, are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Marsh noticed Bill’s interest in Alice. Very coolly, with an air of long practice, he steered the girls away.

Bill stood glaring after the three. Essentially Starr’s estimate was incorrect: Bill had not been distracted by Alice. He thought of the two girls as beings miles apart, and would have used them, had he been capable, for different gratifications. What he wanted from Alice was simple and straightforward; but Starr! The insolent, captious, mocking Starr! Ah, what he would do to her if he had the chance! He was even willing to marry her. He would break her as a man breaks a horse! She would submit, she would become anxious and wan, she would beseech him for his love. Proud Starr humbled! And Bill, breathing deeply, departed the lobby.

3

The summer passed. Sam Shortridge took his family on a leisurely tour of Canada. Starr would have preferred to travel in Europe, alone by choice, and in fact she broached the subject. Sam and Miriam declared themselves against the project and Starr resigned herself to the placid attractions of Banff, Quebec, the Gaspé Peninsula, Maine, Cape Cod, New York. Here Marsh, becoming restive, departed the group and flew back to California. His pretext was that someone should be at home to keep an eye on the business. Everyone knew that he wanted to keep an eye on Alice.

The Shortridges returned to Pleasant Grove in early October, by way of Florida, New Orleans and the Grand Canyon.

Starr found herself at loose ends. Even if she had wanted to continue her education, her high school record was too bad. She discussed going to San Francisco and finding a job. “What kind of job?” demanded Sam Shortridge scathingly. “You don’t have commercial skills. You can’t type, or take dictation: you can hardly add. Do you want to work in a cannery? As a waitress?”

“No. But there are other jobs. I could be a receptionist. Or a reporter. Or sell things.”

They argued, until finally Sam Shortridge was ready to throw up his hands and allow anything, but now Miriam Shortridge made a tremendous scene, and Sam finally laid down the law. “You’re too young to be gadding around by yourself. Hardly out of high school! If you want to work, that’s no problem. I’ll find something for you at the store. You can take over girls’ sportswear. I’ll put you in complete charge. That ought to keep you busy.”

“No thanks. Really, daddy.”

“Well, you’re not going off to San Francisco and you’re not going to those youth hostels in Europe. I can just imagine what goes on.”

Starr raised her eyebrows, grimaced, looked scornfully sidewise at her father. “If I want to get into trouble it’s as easy here as any other place.”

“Maybe so. At least I won’t be aiding and abetting the process. Frankly, I don’t know what to do with you.”

Starr laughed sadly, but put forward no new proposals. She began to spend a great deal of time at the country club, playing tennis and golf and swimming. Occasionally she went out on a date and Sam and Miriam held their breath, hoping she’d fall in love with some decent young fellow and marry. They weren’t in any hurry to have her leave home, but matrimony at least was definite. Once Starr was married they could relax. But Starr never went out with the same man twice.

Christmas approached. Guy Benjamin returned from Peru; Alice came home from Mills College, with the doleful news that she was not doing well and very likely would flunk out. Marsh went to great lengths to console her, and one glad night brought home the news that Alice had agreed to marry him. Sam and Miriam were delighted. They approved of Alice, even though they found her parents a trifle difficult. Starr felt sorry for Alice, who, truth to tell, did not seem ecstatically happy over her engagement. “Well, what would you expect?” sniffed Sally Wagner, Madrone Way’s most voluble gossip. “They’ve known each other years and years and it can’t be very exciting. Poor little Alice … Still she could do worse. As Mrs. Malaprop said: ‘Love and aversion both wear off in marriage, so one might as well start with a little aversion’.” And Mrs. Wagner gave one of her great hoarse laughs.

In late February Guy Benjamin was sent to India to supervise the construction of a dam on the Chabna River. In April Alice flew off to Europe to spend the spring and summer with family friends, which induced Starr to reproach her father: “If Alice can go to Europe by herself, why can’t I?”

“First of all,” said Sam heavily, “she’s going to get married, you’re not. Secondly, she’s not my daughter. Frankly I’m surprised Mrs. Benjamin allowed her that much leeway. Thirdly, you and Alice are two different breeds of cat. Alice does what she’s told. You’re just the opposite, as obstinate and perverse as a girl can be.”

“Father, dear dear father! I’m nineteen years old.”

“I know that. In two years you’ll be twenty-one. What you do with yourself then is your own business. In the meantime, you’re still my little girl.”

“But why can’t I go to Paris with Alice?”

“Because she’s with people who invited her. They didn’t invite you.”

“I see.”

4

Grace Benjamin and Sally Wagner were not on speaking terms, although they had lived next door to each other for many years. The incident giving rise to the coolness was trivial, but given Sally Wagner’s brash volubility and Grace Benjamin’s icy reserve, unpleasantness became inevitable. The affair, while not immediately antecedent to Sally Wagner’s death, constituted a definite link in the chain of events. Had Sally Wagner controlled her tongue — thus remaining on speaking terms with her neighbor — her skull might never have been battered and broken.

Sally Wagner and Grace Benjamin both normally traded at Levison’s Pharmacy on Courthouse Avenue. But one morning in early March, not long after the departure of Guy Benjamin for India, Sally Wagner chanced to visit Aurora, twenty miles to the north of Pleasant Grove, and there, in the Payless Drug Store, she discovered Mrs. Benjamin purchasing several bottles of drugs, in a manner unmistakably furtive. Even before Sally Wagner greeted Mrs. Benjamin she peered at the brown plastic bottles, which were labeled Stuart’s Pre-Natal Capsules. Grace Benjamin, becoming aware of Sally Wagner, made a quick motion as if to hide the bottles; she apparently had been trying to decide whether to buy one, two or three of the hundred-capsule bottles. Sally Wagner, who considered Grace Benjamin something of a stick, could not resist a mock-friendly jibe. She called out in her hoarse throaty voice: “Grace Benjamin! Don’t tell me you’re expecting again! And at your age!”

Pink rose into Grace Benjamin’s cheeks. She was at this time a tall thin-featured woman of forty, notorious even at church for her uncompromising devoutness. Sally Wagner’s vulgar bray had attracted amused glances from people standing nearby. Words failed Grace Benjamin. She opened her mouth to speak: once, twice, three times; then, reacting much more vehemently than the situation would seem to warrant, she blurted: “If it’s any of your business, yes.” And she turned her back.

“Well, indeed!” snorted Sally Wagner, and swept away in a fury of her own. When she later reported the episode to her friends she contrived to make Mrs. Benjamin and her pregnancy as ridiculous as possible, a situation which inevitably came to Mrs. Benjamin’s attention.

In such a fashion arose the rift between the two neighbors, and — as an eventual consequence — Sally Wagner came to an unpleasant end.

But first there were other killings.

About ten o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, June 18, Ken Mooney turned his mail van into Madrone Way. Soon after, someone struck him dead with a hammer.

What happened next was a source of enormous puzzlement. Ken Mooney, van and undelivered mail disappeared until the following morning, when all were found at the blind end of Madrone Way.

The mail apparently had not been tampered with; the various bundles, sorted and tied with coarse twine, were undisturbed; all the undelivered registered mail was on hand.

The postal authorities, finding no violation of postal laws, relinquished the case to Sheriff Joe Bain.

Chapter III

1

On the morning of Wednesday, June 19, Joe arrived at headquarters, made a brief inspection of the jail, had a word with Ace Wardell, the despatcher and desk sergeant, then went into his office and looked over the mail. There were official notifications and circulars, advertisements, letters of protest or accusation, requests for assistance, protection, advice. Mrs. Wilson, of Hygart Road near Mulberry, complained of the unseen agency which pelted her with clods when she worked in her garden. Bill C. Mazaretto of Tevis reported a stolen calf. Tony Silveira on Blue Hill Road outside of Verdalia described a burglarized tool shed, and included a sketch of the broken hinges by which he hoped to facilitate the investigation. Burt Rank, director of the Mosquito Abatement Program, had dropped by a memorandum concerning a woman named ‘Luna’, which read:

THIS WOMAN IS A NUT. SO FAR SO GOOD, BUT ON THE SIDE SHE IS BREEDING MOSQUITOES. NOT ON PURPOSE. I HOPE SHE NEVER TRIES IT ON PURPOSE. SHE IS CONDUCTING EXPERIMENTS IN INTERPLANETARY COMMUNICATION USING LARGE TRAYS OF WATER, TO CONCENTRATE THE THOUGHT-RAYS. SHE IS NOT BOTHERED BY THE MOSQUITOES, WHO ONLY ATTACK SMELLY SONS OF BITCHES LIKE MYSELF. LUNA THINKS I’M A CIVILIAN AND A CLOD AND WON’T LISTEN WHEN I ORDER HER TO STOP BREEDING MOSQUITOES. PLEASE GO BY AND DRAIN HER THOUGHT-RAY TANKS. SHE LIVES BEHIND THE PANDORA REALTY OFFICE ON HANKINSON ROAD.

Joe was lean, something over average height, with neatly brushed black hair, a darkish olive complexion, an expression sometimes wry, sometimes rueful. Separating the letters, he took some in to Ace Wardell, who would notify deputies on patrol. Then, with a sigh and a groan, he settled himself to the others. During the tenure of his predecessor, Sheriff Ernest Cucchinello, a certain Mrs. Rostvolt had handled matters of this nature with silken ease. The new matron, Miss Irene Curdy, formerly employed at Tehachapi State Prison for Women, tended to see things in terms of black and white. Mrs. Rostvolt had been deft and diplomatic; Miss Curdy told people the way things were, with Joe shuddering for votes going down the drain. It looked as if Miss Curdy, so lately hired, might have to be replaced, and soon. But with whom? And how to inform Miss Curdy that her services were no longer required? Joe’s mouth twitched … The telephone rang. Joe picked up the receiver to hear the voice of Frank Hardinger, Chief of the Pleasant Grove Police Department. “Sheriff, there’s been a killing. Young mail carrier named Ken Mooney. Guess it’s your baby.”

Joe hitched forward in his seat. “What happened?”

“Seems like he got his head beat in.”

“Any line on who did it?”

“I know no more than you. The body is in a post office truck, far end of Madrone Way.”

Joe telephoned the coroner, summoned Rex Kelly, one of his new deputies, and departed for the scene of the crime.

2

Joe drove up Courthouse Avenue, through the old Northside district, into Madrone Way between a pair of ornate granite pedestals. Madrone Way made an S-curve, then swept north past a line of fashionable residences, each set back from the road among trees and gardens. Here lived the aristocracy of Pleasant Grove, with the Shortridges, Mortimers and Gentrys at the top, and the Whipples quite definitely at the bottom.

At the far end of Madrone Way, opposite the home of Mrs. Mary Bazzarini, stood the mail van. The body had been discovered by a Miss Locke, day nurse to Mrs. Bazzarini. Arriving at work, she had glanced into the apparently unattended van and discovered the corpse of Ken Mooney, surrounded by bundles of mail spilled from a canvas basket.

The coroner, Dr. William Hesketh, tentatively set the time of death as twenty-four hours earlier, in the neighborhood of ten or eleven o’clock. Ken Mooney had been struck viciously from behind, upon the right side of his skull. At least three blows had been dealt, immediately above the ear and up toward the scalp. There had been little bleeding; Ken Mooney’s blue-gray uniform was quite unsoiled. With grotesque fastidiousness the current copy of Life, with the address sticker torn away, had been tucked under Ken’s battered head. Two postal inspectors from San Jose conferred in hushed voices with Henry Deardorf, the postmaster, who carried his book of registration records, until Ken’s body had been transferred into the county ambulance. Then they removed the mail to the sidewalk and checked it over, bundle by bundle.

Deputy Rex Kelly worked around and within the van with his insufflator, blowing fingerprint powder here and there. Hundreds of smudges and smears appeared, as well as a few prints, all of which subsequently proved to be those of Ken Mooney.

Joe’s first official act had been to feel the van’s radiator and engine block. They were cold. The van had been in place for several hours, perhaps most of the night. He inspected the tires, the exterior and interior, finding nothing which impressed him as significant — except the copy of Life under Ken’s head. Where the address label had been torn away the page was strained and crumpled. In the undelivered mail were other copies of Life.

Joe went to interrogate Miss Locke, who stood watching proceedings from Mrs. Bazzarini’s front window. She told him only what she had told Captain Hardinger: that coming to work she had glanced into the van, and after noting the body had gone directly into Mrs. Bazzarini’s house and called the police.

Joe next put inquiries to Mrs. Bazzarini, the widow of Salvador Bazzarini, who had founded the Monteverde Wineries in the foothills west of Pleasant Grove. Mrs. Bazzarini was about seventy-five years old, with a waxen skin, fluffy white hair, pudgy cheeks. She seemed extremely upset by the circumstances, and her eyes were rimmed with pink as if she had been weeping. “Such a terrible thing! A terrible thing!” she told Joe.

“It certainly is,” said Joe. “Did you notice when the van arrived out in front?”

“No indeed. I was sound asleep. I had a very good night. It could have been any time. He was such a nice boy, so considerate! Who would do a thing like that?”

“I’ll do my best to find out,” said Joe. “You knew Ken Mooney?”

“Yes; he often came in to talk with me.”

“Did he ever mention anything which might have a bearing on his death?”

“No, nothing. It’s a terrible, terrible business.”

Joe returned outside, to consider the situation while Rex Kelly and the postal detectives completed their work. At least two circumstances seemed worthy of note: the Life magazine under Ken’s head and the fact that the body had not been discovered until almost a full day after the murder.

Every departure from the normal assists the solution of a crime: so Joe had learned at the Chapman Institute of Criminology in North Hollywood. In this case, he thought, the murder of Ken Mooney looked like a cinch. He went to talk to Postmaster Henry Deardorf, a slope-shouldered man with a tight little potbelly, round brown eyes rendered even more round and brown by his glasses. Henry Deardorf considered the murder an outrage committed not only upon Ken Mooney and the United States Post Office, but also upon himself: “— thirty-one years I’ve worked in the post office, every department, summer and winter; I’ve seen every manner of thing, but nothing like this.” And he glanced angrily toward the van.

“What do you think happened?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know. It’s just all this crime and juvenile delinquency.”

“You had trouble with Ken?”

“I wouldn’t say that. No, nothing like trouble.”

“What kind of a fellow was he?”

Deardorf blinked, confused by the need to think. “Well, it’s hard to say. I considered him just a little lax, but there’s never been complaints about his work. He comes from a good family, one of the few old families left around these parts. There’s been Mooneys in San Rodrigo County since I don’t know how long.”

“Ken lived at home?”

“Yep. Out at the old Mooney ranch.”

“Let’s see, I ought to know where that is.” Joe reflected a moment. “Out Oatfarm Road somewhere, isn’t it? Right down in front of a big round hill?”

“That’s the place. You go out Hankinson Road until you come to the Pandora Realty, then turn left and go on another two or three miles. I don’t imagine Ken spent much time home. Clarence Mooney is a close-handed man, always was.”

“Something puzzles me,” said Joe. “Ken was killed yesterday morning with only half his route delivered. What happened when he didn’t return to the post office? Or maybe you didn’t notice?”

Deardorf gave Joe an angry look. “Certainly I noticed. I’m postmaster — it’s my job to notice things.”

“What time did you notice?”

“Oh, long about three, I guess. Ken should have been in by two.”

“Nobody called in wanting their mail?”

“Everybody just decided it was a late delivery, or figured there wasn’t mail that day. At four I went out to look for him, and when I couldn’t find the van I called back into the office. The girl didn’t hear me straight —” Deardorf shook his head in contempt for the incompetence of the clerk “— anyway she gave me to understand that Ken had come back in. I was calling from home, and I just put the matter out of my mind. This morning I learned the right of it. I called his home and they hadn’t seen Ken, so I called Chief Hardinger and then the district office in San Jose. Just about that time the lady found the body.”

A mixup, plain and simple. And Deardorf explained what he had asked the clerk and what she thought he had asked and how she had responded, and how he had misinterpreted her response. “Can’t trust anybody even to talk straight any more!”

“I guess that’s right,” said Joe. “Well, what about Ken? Did you know any of his friends, anything like that?”

“No sir, I did not. What he did in his spare time was his own business, so long as it wasn’t to the detriment of the United States Post Office. He liked girls pretty well; in fact I’ve had words with him about what I call over-familiarity. He was just too friendly with ladies. It won’t do for a postal official, any more than a police officer, to get on personal terms with the public: not while that man is wearing a uniform. That’s an iron-clad rule I laid down, and I’ve enforced it too, and there’s never been any impropriety or misconduct or anything of the sort, as you hear about at some of the stations.”

“Hmm,” said Joe. “You mean Ken got a little too friendly with women along the route?”

Deardorf turned Joe a look of angry reproach. “Do you think I’d stand for anything like that? No sir! Mooney and all the rest know it.”

The postal detectives approached, a pair of mild-mannered men, almost excessively polite. They announced themselves satisfied that no crime against the United States Post Office had occurred. All the registered mail was accounted for; the mail had been delivered the length of Madrone Way as far as the Bazzarini house; the mail bundled for delivery farther along the route was undisturbed. Nodding politely to Joe and Postmaster Deardorf, they went to their car, where one began to dictate a report into a tape recorder, while the other gravely began to eat a tomato and lettuce sandwich.

The body had been conveyed to the morgue; Rex Kelly had finished his search for fingerprints and was collecting material from the floor of the van with a portable vacuum cleaner. The onlookers, a hundred feet away, craned their necks, awed by this demonstration of real-life criminology, even though it failed to match up to TV. It wasn’t nearly so interesting. It moved more slowly. There was no action to speak of. The sheriff seemed indecisive and perplexed, as if he did not know what to do first. Joe, noting the critical gazes, took Deardorf around to the other side of the van. “Just what in general was Ken’s routine?”

“Same as everybody else’s,” snapped Deardorf, who by this time was sick of the whole business. “The morning mail is sorted. All hands turn to; we get it routed out; then the carriers pack up and take off.”

“Each route is pretty well established then?”

“Down to the last iota. We got to be efficient or we wouldn’t get the mail out.”

“After Mooney finished Madrone Way, where would he head for?”

“He’d deliver the country club, then the south side of Paicines as far as McClellan, then out McClellan to work what we call Northeast One District.”

“But he never got even as far as the country club.”

“That is correct. He delivered that house there, the Mortimer house.” Deardorf pointed. “That was the last delivery. He never even delivered to Mrs. Bazzarini. Her mail is still in the truck.”

“Strange,” muttered Joe. “If he delivered as far as the Mortimers’ why not make one last stop?”

“It’s beyond me,” said Deardorf. “Are you finished with the van?”

“I guess we’ve got everything … Rex, can you think of anything else?”

“Just that Life. I’d like to know who it was being delivered to.”

Joe nodded. “I’ve been thinking along the same lines. But I guess we won’t hold up the mail on that account. She’s all yours, Mr. Deardorf.”

The postmaster marched to the van, jumped in, started it with a fastidious twitch of the wrist, and departed north along Madrone Way. Joe turned to Police Chief Hardinger. “You notified Ken’s parents?”

“I telephoned out as soon as we heard the news. Just as soon take a beating.”

Joe gave a dour grunt. “Let’s go over these people house by house, and you tell me what you know about them.”

Hardinger rubbed his chin. “I can’t see anybody out along here bashing Ken Mooney. These are the best people in town! They don’t even like getting a traffic ticket!”

“Offhand,” said Joe, “it looks like somebody from the Mortimer house or Mrs. Bazzarini; that’s where the delivery stopped.”

Chief Hardinger looked off across the golf course. “I hate to tell the sheriff he don’t know his business — but Mary Bazzarini is in a wheel chair and Wilfred Mortimer is in Honolulu with his whole family. The house is empty.”

“Well then, how about this? Somebody approaches Ken just as he finishes shoving mail in the Mortimer box. He induces Ken to drive the van off somewhere, hits Ken over the head, and hides the van until night, when he brings the van back out here, to the end of Madrone Way.”

Chief Hardinger shook his head dubiously. “I suppose anything is possible.”

Joe turned to Rex Kelly. “Rex, you go from house to house. Find out who saw what. Ask where people were yesterday morning. Maybe some of them talked to Ken. Maybe they noticed someone riding in the van. Pick up whatever you can get. I’m going out to talk to the Mooneys.”

Chapter IV

1

Joe drove home for lunch to the little frame house on Plum Street where he chose to live in spite of the hints of his mother, Marian Bain, and the open disgust of his daughter Miranda, who was now 16 and just through her junior year in high school. Both mother and daughter were proud of Joe, but felt that he didn’t take himself seriously. Both thought that the circumstances of his position demanded a more stylish address. To date Joe had resisted their arguments, but the pressure mounted continually. At lunchtime Miranda complained of the two pepper trees which stood in the front yard. “They’re so messy, and just far enough apart that I can’t tie up a hammock.”

“I’ll say this,” remarked Marian Bain, “nothing will grow beneath them. There’s too much oil in the leaves, or maybe it’s the pepper. Do you remember what happened to the zinnias last year?”

“Pretty sad,” said Joe. “Pass me some salad.”

“When we move,” Miranda remarked, “I think we should look for a house without pepper trees.”

“Who said anything about moving?” demanded Joe. “The roof is tight and the neighbors don’t keep dogs: this is my idea of a good house.”

“It’s shabby,” declared Miranda. “It’s old and decrepit. You walk across the floor and the windows rattle. You can hear the toilet flush all the way down to the corner.”

“Come now,” said Joe. “You’re exaggerating. Think for a change! This place costs seventy-five dollars a month. It’s comfortable, cool, quiet. There’s no taxes to pay, no lawn to worry about, there’s peach and plum trees in the back. We’d be fools to move!”

“But Daddy, you’re Sheriff! Aren’t you aware of that? You’ve got a front to keep up! Look where Sheriff Cucchinello lived, on McClellan Avenue!”

“He also had a cooler nerve and a steadier hand than I have. Girls, let’s be sensible. We could buy a fancy house, a Lincoln Continental, a big swimming pool with payments to match. Next election I get ousted from the public trough, then what? My only skills are lettuce-picking and poker-playing, and neither pays too well.”

“You’re just joking, Daddy. You know people are going to vote for you.”

“If I behave myself. The old days they called it ‘reputation’, now it’s ‘public image’. Suppose I suddenly come forth in a big white Stetson, a new convertible, two or three blondes wearing black underwear. Do you know what people are going to say? ‘Aha, that grafting Sheriff Bain!’”

“I think you should do what’s right and not worry what people think,” said Marian Bain.

“All well and good, except then you get into different problems. Take Howard Griselda and the Messenger for instance. Suppose a couple young thugs hold up a service station and Howard Griselda writes about it. If I shoot them, it’s brutality. If they shoot me, it’s incompetence. If they’re young, I allowed juvenile delinquency to flourish. If they’re old lags, why didn’t I keep my eye on them?”

“Heavens!” said Marian Bain. “Other people have the same troubles. Nobody else gets so upset.”

“I’m the nervous type.”

“The fact remains that you’re making more money now and Miranda should have a nice home where she could bring her beaus.”

“This is a nice home. Do we need marble statues in the front yard? You make out like it’s a shanty.”

“Well, you know how girls are. They like to show off just a little.”

“She brought her friends here before; did they suddenly get snooty?”

“Of course not. It’s just that —”

“The smart thing is to set tight and put our money in the bank. Then one of these days we’ll buy some land and build a real house. Meanwhile, fix this place up a little. Paint the floor. Plant some more zinnias and some more pepper trees. Crochet some of those ‘Home Sweet Home’ things for the walls.”

Marian Bain sighed and shook her head; Miranda groaned in despair, and stormed off into the living room. Joe grinned wryly. Miranda looked something like her mother, who, eloping fifteen years previously with a cowboy guitar player, had never been heard from again. Miranda was just as pretty, just as vivacious and with a far better disposition. Probably inherited from her grandmother, thought Joe — certainly not from himself. He finished off a piece of cocoanut cream pie and a can of beer, which did not go especially well together. “There’s been a killing,” he told his mother. “Happened yesterday, young mail carrier. Now I have to go out and talk to his folks.”

“Tcht tcht tcht. Isn’t that awful! Who would do such a thing?”

“I’ll find out. I haven’t missed yet.”

“Who was the boy?”

“Young fellow from up north a ways: Ken Mooney.”

“I don’t think I know the family.”

“They’ve been around a long time, from what I hear. Well, I’ve got to go talk to them.”

2

There were two routes to the Mooney ranch: north out of Pleasant Grove by the state highway to Hankinson Road, east to Oatfarm Road, north once more to the Mooney Ranch; or east out Valley Boulevard to Galton Ridge Road, north to Hankinson, with a dogleg back to Oatfarm Road.

From Joe’s house on Plum Street the route by Courthouse Avenue north was more convenient. The fringes of Pleasant Grove extended a mile or so, with Spanish Hill bulking to the right hand. There were small dusty houses, shaded under dusty black-green eucalyptus, or not shaded at all; business enterprises: service stations; wrecking yards; a hay, feed and fertilizer barn; a plumbing supply house; restaurants with redwood and field-stone fronts; a Big Orange; a Frosty Freeze; a Giant Dog. After a final Bluebell Service Station, a last 19¢ Chuckburger, the country began: orchards — peach, apricot, almond; small dairy farms; vineyards; truck-gardens; fields of alfalfa; occasionally a stretch of derelict land with a ramshackle barn, a sagging old house. To the left loomed the Coast Range; to the right rolled a complicated system of sunburnt hills, the southernmost thrust of the Diablo Range.

Joe turned east on Hankinson Road, toward the hills. The farms and orchards became smaller, the vineyards somewhat less green. He crossed an enormous irrigation aqueduct, passed a Pacific Gas and Electric sub-station, the untended transformers humming and buzzing. A highway marker warned ‘Crossroads Ahead’ and Joe saw the sign PANDORA REALTY. Joe muttered, “Pandora Realty?” … Something about Pandora Realty, something in another connection … Joe turned north on Oatfarm Road.

The orchards were no more; the alfalfa was coarse and thin. To the right rose the hills, round tawny shapes merging, swelling, melting into one another, duplicating all the contours of a woman’s body. Occasionally, beside a tin mailbox, a dirt road wound away into a valley; occasionally a copse of eucalyptus or oak, a windmill, a weathered gray barn gave witness to some human presence.

The Mooneys lived two hundred yards back from the road in a two-story white clapboard house. In front were a parched lawn and two dwarf lemon trees; in back were a chicken-house, two sheds, a tank and a windmill. Off to the side, half-submerged in weeds and thistles, was the carcass of what might have been a black 1926 Dodge sedan. Joe drove into the yard, halted behind the Mooneys’ present car, a tan Chevrolet, about five years old. For a moment or two Joe sat in the car, aware of the leaden woe which seeped from the old house. He looked around for a dog, got out of the car, went up to the door, which opened as he approached. A tall, thin man looked out. He had a bald freckled scalp, a fringe of sandy-gray hair, a bulging forehead, a long nose, a long chin stubbled with gray whiskers. He wore dark brown corduroy trousers, with suspenders across a faded blue shirt.

“You’re Mr. Clarence Mooney?” Joe asked.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain. I want to talk to you about Ken.”

Clarence Mooney gave a curt nod. “Come in.”

Joe entered the dim living room.

A small round woman with a mouse-colored tumble of hair sat huddled in an arm-chair. This, thought Joe, would be Ken’s mother, bewildered and dazed by the terrible fate which had befallen her son. Two teen-age girls, all arms and legs, sat stiff and still on an old purple-red sofa. The room was sparsely furnished: a round oak dining table, a book-case with twenty or thirty books and at the very center of the far wall, a grand new color TV–stereo combination — an item so lavish as to be incongruous. Joe introduced himself once again. “I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this; I know how you must feel. But I want to catch the person responsible, and I need your help.”

Mrs. Mooney lowered her head and began to sob, in shoulder-wrenching moans; the girls sat as if hypnotized. Clarence Mooney walked slowly across the room to the dining room table, pulled out a chair for Joe, then went to stand by the fireplace. “It’s something I can’t understand. I just plain can’t understand it. Nobody hated Ken. Everybody liked the boy.”

“Somebody wanted him dead,” said Joe. “Bad enough to kill him. Who could it be?”

Clarence Mooney gave his head a shake. “I just don’t know.”

Mrs. Mooney spoke in a gasping hurried voice: “Whatever the reason, it wasn’t against Ken! It must have been something to do with the mail!”

Clarence Mooney reached into a paper sack of tobacco, extracted a small pinch, rolled it between his fingers. “Was anything missing? Money? Packages?”

Joe shook his head. “The mail is all safe. I’m just wondering if Ken had a falling out with one of his friends.”

Clarence Mooney tucked the wad of tobacco delicately into his mouth. “He never mentioned it here.”

“Ken got along with everybody,” declared Mrs. Mooney, in a somewhat calmer voice.

“What did he do with his salary?”

Clarence Mooney looked at Joe wonderingly. “‘Do with his salary’? Same as anybody else. Spent what he needed, put the rest away.”

Joe nodded sagely. “Did he ever seem to come into large sums of money, from time to time?”

Clarence Mooney’s light brown eyes became hooded. “What do you mean by that?”

Joe gave a non-committal shrug. “Money sometimes is at the bottom of these things.”

“I don’t know what you have in mind,” said Clarence Mooney, “but if you suspect Ken of dishonesty, forget it. He wouldn’t steal if he was starving.”

“I’m sure that’s the case, Mr. Mooney. But we have to check every angle. You didn’t notice him, well, spending a trifle too freely, say?”

Clarence Mooney’s lips compressed into a small tight smile. “No, sir. I certainly did not.”

“Did he ever talk about the people on Madrone Way?”

“Not too much. He knew Bill Whipple from high school. When he was a senior he used to spark around a girl — I can’t remember her name, but she lives on Madrone Way.”

“Alice Benjamin,” said the older of the girls.

Her father turned the girl a quick bright glance. She pulled her head down, drew her shoulders together.

Joe pretended not to notice. “Nothing serious, I suppose?”

“My stars no. The Benjamins, they’re up in the social whirl. We’re just farming people. Been around here many years though. They named Oatfarm Road for the time my grandfather put our north square in oats.”

The older girl, unhunching her shoulders, raising her head, spoke in a quick rush of words: “Ken and Bill Whipple were going into the trucking business, if Ken could sell Halfway House.”

Clarence Mooney looked fixedly at a point on the opposite wall three feet above the TV–stereophonic combination. He spoke in a measured voice. “That’s nonsense. Halfway House wasn’t Ken’s to sell. I turned it over to him but I held on to the deed.”

“What about this trucking business; was there anything to it?”

Clarence Mooney shrugged. “Just talk. Ken didn’t have financing. He wasn’t cut out to be a businessman anyway. He didn’t have that dog-eat-dog urge.”

“You say you let him have Halfway House: you mean that old place out Contreras Road?”

“That’s right. My great-granddaddy built that place, nearly a hundred years ago. It was real stylish in those days. Now —” Clarence Mooney shook his head in deprecation. “It came down to me when my brother died. I thought Ken might put the place in shape, get it going and make money for us all. But he just fiddled around.”

“It’s pretty far out in the hills,” said Joe. “A long way to go for a beer.”

“It’s what people want nowadays,” said Mooney. “Something old-fashioned. Look at ’em folk-dancing and folk-singing on TV. Like they got some kind of disease.”

“If you’ve got a liquor license,” said Joe, “that’s worth money, maybe ten or twelve thousand.”

“I realize that.” When Clarence Mooney spoke of money a different note came into his voice: a reverent drone. Mrs. Mooney sat an inch straighter in her chair, the girls turned their eyes upward like young saints. “Yes indeed,” Clarence Mooney droned. “There’s twenty acres of land around the place. Ken wanted to sell the place for nothing. I wouldn’t let him. Sooner or later I’ll get my price.”

“Maybe so. What’s your price?”

“Just about forty … thousand … dollars.” Mooney spoke the words slowly, quietly, as if they left a pleasant taste in his mouth.

“What did Ken want to do with the place?”

Clarence Mooney snorted. “That’s something we could never get together on. He spent a little spare time out there, tinkered around, but he never gave it a real go. He just didn’t have the uch-uch-uch.” Here Clarence Mooney, in synchronization with the curious sounds, made piston-like thrusts of arm and fist.

Joe, returning to the conjecture of blackmail as a background to the murder, suggested: “Ken had money put aside? Investments, something of the sort?”

“He saved his money, sure. But ‘investment’ —” Clarence Mooney jerked his thumb contemptuously toward the TV–stereophonic combination. “That’s about the only investment he ever made. A present to Mother and the girls. And me.”

“Hm. Nice.”

Mrs. Mooney, whose attention had been momentarily diverted from the murder, crouched once more into her chair. The girls blinked and stiffened. Clarence Mooney grunted, turned away.

Joe rubbed his chin. So far, nothing. What to ask next? Somebody must know something, even if they didn’t know they knew it. “Ken liked his work pretty well?”

“It was easy,” said Clarence Mooney evenly.

“He lived here with you?”

“That’s right.”

“I’d like to look over his room, if you don’t mind.”

“This way.”

“It’s in a terrible mess,” Mrs. Mooney called after them. “I didn’t think to clean.”

“Don’t worry, Mother,” said Clarence Mooney in a hollow voice.

They went to Ken’s room, on the second floor, little more than a cubicle with a bed. Ken’s wardrobe was nondescript; there was little to convey any sense of personality. On the wall hung two photographs of the Pleasant Grove High School football turnout: the entire squad, and the first team. Joe went to look at the pictures. Clarence Mooney indicated Ken, a muscular boy with a shock of dark hair hanging half down in his eyes. “There he is … Never think to look at him that things would turn out the way they did.”

“You surely wouldn’t.”

“He was a real good boy.” Clarence Mooney’s voice again went hollow. “If I could catch hold of whoever did him in …” Clarence Mooney drew a deep breath. “I suppose it’s foolish talking that way. I suppose it’s foolish talking at all. People that’s left alive have to go on living.” He pointed to the quarterback, a keen-featured lad standing behind center, the lower half of his face split in a rather fatuous grin. “That’s Bill Whipple. He went to college on one of them football deals. Ken played just as hard and good; do you think anybody gave him a lot of money? No sir. You don’t get anywhere in this world unless you make a lot of noise. This is a noisy world.” Clarence Mooney gave his gaunt hollow-eyed head a slow shake. “Out here on Oatfarm Road a man can scream bloody murder and nobody hears a sound.”

“That’s the way it goes,” said Joe. He went to the wardrobe, felt through Ken’s pockets, found a tube of lipstick and two dimes. The drawers in Ken’s chiffonier yielded nothing. There were no letters, no diary, no personal papers. Ken was a young man who lived from day to day.

The older girl came shyly into the room with a photograph album and Ken’s high school year-book. Joe saw Ken at all stages of his life: baby, toddler, small boy, youth, and man. In the year-book the girl pointed out more pictures of Ken. Joe studied a snapshot of Ken kneeling on a flight of steps with two pretty girls beside him. “Love to Ken” was written across the picture in a neat girlish handwriting, and there were two signatures: ‘Alice Benjamin’, ‘Barbara Duncan’.

Joe put an ingenuous question: “Were these his girl friends?”

Ken’s sister smiled quickly, nervously. “Not really. Ken never went steady. He took out all different girls.”

“He never liked any special girls?”

“He said he liked them all, and couldn’t make up his mind.”

Joe went downstairs. Mrs. Mooney had not moved from her chair. The younger girl had turned on the television set, but reception was poor and little could be seen but flickering films of green and red and ghostly orange shapes.

Joe departed the somber house. As he drove south down Oatfarm Road the hills seemed peculiarly free and wild, and the land spreading to the west seemed open, boundless, unconstrained. “I guess I’m becoming a nature lover, or maybe a bird watcher,” Joe muttered to himself. “It’s a relief to get out of that house.”

3

Returning to his office, Joe found Miss Curdy arguing with an old Mexican woman.

“¿Que paso?” inquired Joe. “What goes on?”

“She wants to see one of the prisoners,” said Miss Curdy. “It’s out of visiting hours. I told her no.”

“¡Si, si, si! Quiero hablar a Juan Carminez. ¡Es muy importante!”

“¿Porque importante?” Joe asked.

“Su hijo está en el hospital. Muy enfermo.”

“Wait a minute,” said Joe. He looked into the back room. “Where’s Lew Gonzalez?” he asked Ace Wardell.

“Out on patrol.”

“Rats. Does anybody around here speak Spanish better than I do?”

“There’s Carminez back in the zoo.”

Joe took the keys, unlocked the gate, brought Carminez out. “Lady here wants to talk to you, something about your son.”

Carminez went to the front desk. There was a staccato interchange. Carminez turned to Joe. “She says my boy is sick. Appendicitis. He wants to see me. Maybe I better go.”

“Maybe you better not go. This is a jail, not a hotel.”

“But Sheriff! He’s just a little boy!”

“Too bad,” said Joe. “You should have thought of that before you began stabbing that man.”

Carminez looked at Joe in angry reproach. “I didn’t know my boy was going to be sick! Maybe he dies now!”

“He’s not going to die,” said Joe. “It’s just appendicitis. There’s three men off, nobody on standby. I can’t spare anybody to take you out … All right, go on out, see your boy. You get back here fast, you hear?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“I want you back by six o’clock. What hospital is it?”

“County Hospital.”

“All right then. Six o’clock.”

“Okay, Sheriff, thanks. I’ll be back pretty soon.”

“Damn betcha.”

Joe walked back to his office. Ace Wardell leaned out of his glass-paneled booth. “What goes on?”

“Some kind of Mexican jail break. Miss Curdy thinks I’m insane. What the hell.”

“Is he coming back?”

“I can’t worry about that right now. Too many Mexicans in jail anyway. We’ll never miss an odd one or two. Try to get hold of Kelly.”

Ace spoke into the microphone, elicited a rasp of response and reported to Joe. “He’s on his way in.”

Joe went into his office, put his feet up on the desk. Ken Mooney, an apparently inoffensive mail carrier, had been killed. Why? How? Joe put through a call to Dr. Hesketh. “Sheriff Joe Bain, Doctor. Anything interesting on Ken Mooney?”

“Nothing much. Time remains the same: around ten o’clock yesterday, give or take an hour. First whack probably killed him. I’d say the blows were struck with an ordinary sixteen-ounce carpenter’s hammer. Three smart blows. No rage or frenzy. Just three good raps.”

“Alcohol? Drugs?”

“Nothing shows up. Organs all in good shape. He didn’t even smoke.”

“What about blood? There wasn’t much in the van.”

“He didn’t bleed much. A blow like the one that killed him — well, let’s say it pushes a plug of bone and tissue into the brain. The heart stops; there’s a certain amount of seepage from the ruptured blood vessels of the epidermis — but no great puddle.”

“That Life magazine now —” here Joe, with a pang, thought of a line of investigation he had neglected “— you think that might have absorbed all of the bleeding?”

“Yes, I’d say so. I wouldn’t swear to it in court.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Joe cradled the phone. He took the torpedo-shaped pen from the black onyx desk set which had been his birthday present from Miranda, and wrote on a blank sheet of paper:

KEN MOONEY

Check Life subscriptions along Madrone Way.

Check for hammers, test for blood.

It was a peculiar business, thought Joe — up to now, anyway. According to Henry Deardorf and Clarence Mooney Ken had not an enemy in the world — which just went to show that things weren’t always what they seemed. Ken had at least one enemy.

Bill Whipple? The name leapt to mind. Bill lived on Madrone Way; he was one of Ken’s associates. Joe grimaced, as if at a bad taste. Bill Whipple as a hammer murderer didn’t seem reasonable, even though he didn’t know Bill Whipple.

Well then, who?

That was the question, thought Joe.

He sat musing until Rex Kelly made his appearance. Kelly was a tall young man with a square amiable face, thick crew-cut brown hair. Joe considered him far and away the best man on his staff, even though he lacked experience. Kelly was college trained; he was intelligent, friendly with the public, hardworking. His single lack — drive? initiative? — was a quality which made him a good subordinate. Joe dreaded the day when Rex Kelly became dissatisfied with his job and went looking for something better. Hard-working intelligent deputies were not to be found under every bush.

Kelly had visited every house along Madrone Way. “I tried the Shortridge place first. The mailbox is just inside the driveway; usually the carrier shoves the mail in the box. Yesterday there was a C.O.D. package. Ken collected from Marsh Shortridge, who happened to be home. Starr was also at home. Mr. Sam Shortridge was at the store, Mrs. Miriam Shortridge was at her hairdresser’s. Starr claims not to have seen Ken. She says she was reading a book. Marsh paid for the package, talked with Ken about half a minute, then Ken drove off down the driveway. Marsh saw nothing suspicious, no rider in the van. Ken seemed in good spirits. Nobody at the Shortridge house has any theories or any remarks to make. Starr is either cold-blooded or remote or plain snooty: I can’t figure her out. Attractive girl, if you can take the supercilious expression. Marsh is getting married in a month or so to a girl up the street. A rather lofty fellow, wouldn’t admit to knowing Ken, spoke of him as ‘the mailman’.

“Next house: residents are Thomas and Betty Taylor and four small boys. Taylor is president of Valley Savings and Loan. I talked to Mrs. Taylor. She did not see Ken. He dropped mail in the box, drove on.

“Third house, the Benjamin residence. Guy Benjamin is a civil engineer, in India on an eighteen-month contract. Mrs. Grace Benjamin is quite pregnant. She’s 40 if she’s a day. Frozen-faced woman. Marsh Shortridge is marrying her daughter Alice. I don’t envy him his mother-in-law. Alice is in Europe and won’t be back for another month or so. Mrs. Benjamin admits to knowing Ken by sight, but speaks of him disapprovingly — too familiar, too forward. She’s got madonnas and crucifixes backwards and forwards through the house, a hard-nose Catholic. Ken dropped the mail in her box without her seeing him.

“Next door is Mrs. Sally Wagner, about 37 or 38, not bad-looking, a little plump maybe. She’ll talk your ear off. This is the place to go for gossip. She’s divorced — ex-husband lives in Beverly Hills. My guess is that she’s living on alimony. She knows Ken and considers his death a terrible tragedy. She says he was ‘honest and genuine, a very sweet boy’. She didn’t see him yesterday. He pushed the mail through the slot in her door and was gone. She thinks Ken must have been killed by a thief.

“Next door, Fred and Sheila Whipple, their son Bill. Fred was at work Tuesday morning. Sheila says that when she saw Ken she generally said hello because he was a friend of Bill’s. Tuesday morning she only caught a glimpse of him, and he seemed in a terrible hurry. She’s a pretty sharp woman, not much education, I’d say, and a trifle bitter with her neighbors along Madrone Way. I guess they haven’t given the Whipples a grand welcome. Bill is a student at San Jose State, working the summer for Whipple Chevrolet, on the used car lot. Mrs. Whipple can’t imagine who would want to kill Ken; she says Bill is just as puzzled. I didn’t talk to either Fred Whipple or Bill.

“Next, Milo Gentry’s house. Gentry is one of the county supervisors. I guess you know that. He and Mrs. Gentry are visiting their grandchildren in Montana; the house is empty except for the housekeeper, an old colored lady who says she never pays any attention to the mailman. She didn’t even know he was dead until I told her. She saw nothing suspicious or peculiar.

“Next door is the high school principal and his wife: Caspar Hubman, Laura Hubman. I talked to him ten minutes before he’d even admit to being alive. Pompous brute, figures himself for an intellectual. He won’t state whether or not he knows Ken, says the question is meaningless. He claims that as an educator he knows two-thirds the population of Pleasant Grove; as a private citizen he knows no one. So take your choice. My feeling is that he knew Ken well enough, but doesn’t want to get involved. His wife is one of these arty types — weaves rugs and makes pots. Incidentally the wife is Mrs. Bazzarini’s daughter, which may be where the money comes from. They have an elegant house. It’s not too big — there aren’t any children — but it’s full of nice things. Mrs. Hubman is easier to talk to than Caspar the educator, but she’s slick as oil. She says she knew Ken to say hello to but after all he was only the mailman, and she knew nothing about his private life. Neither Caspar nor Laura saw or heard anything suspicious Tuesday morning. Caspar was writing a book; Laura was potting some plants. It’s possible that either could have bashed Ken.

“Next door is the Mortimer house, closed up tight as a drum. If Ken surprised a burglar, it was a burglar so inefficient as to be unbelievable.”

Joe interposed a question. “Suppose the burglar was some marauding kid? Not a pro, but some young hoodlum maybe fourteen or fifteen?”

Rex Kelly shrugged. “Possible. At the Mortimer house Ken stopped delivering mail, which must mean something. I checked the grounds pretty carefully — and there isn’t a dandelion out of place. I can try again if you like. Anyway, on to Mrs. Bazzarini. She’s alone in the house except for her nurses and her dog. There once was a son, but he got killed in an automobile accident. She doesn’t seem to like the Hubmans very much, but she certainly liked Ken. He made it a habit to come in and talk with her. She claims she knew all about him — his family, girl friends, ambitions. She can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him — which is what all the rest say.”

“Okay, Rex, good work,” said Joe. “Looks like we’ve got two possibilities. After Ken delivered to the Mortimer house, he was either persuaded to drive away from Madrone Way, or he was killed by someone along Madrone Way. Now thinking about that Life magazine. It seems like the murderer put it under Ken’s head to catch the blood, then tore the label off to keep us from learning his name. If the label wasn’t important, he wouldn’t bother to tear it off. Here’s what I want you to do. Start along Madrone Way, find out which families subscribe to Life and ask to see the current copy. Say you want to eliminate their names from the list of theoretical possibilities, keep ’em happy the best way you can. Right now I’ll call Deardorf. The magazines in Ken’s van will no doubt go out in tomorrow’s delivery. I’ll have him ask the carrier to check the remainder of Ken’s route. He might have to make a list of the addresses and check them off against next week’s delivery. Eventually we’ll find if the murderer used his own magazine or snatched one at random.

“Secondly: Doc Hesketh thinks the weapon might be a hammer — a common carpenter’s hammer. Ask the people along Madrone Way if you can check on their hammers. Be gentle: tell them you know they’re not guilty, but you suspect that their hammer might have been stolen. Collect the hammers, label them, bring them back and we’ll give them the blood test. We might just turn up something. Got all that?”

“Right. Life magazines; check on hammers.”

“Don’t accuse any important people. I want to stay sheriff awhile.”

Rex Kelly departed. Joe telephoned the post office and was connected with Henry Deardorf. “Hello, Mr. Deardorf. Sheriff Joe Bain here.”

“Yes, Sheriff; what have you learned?”

“We’re accumulating facts. You can help me out in regard to that Life which was under Ken’s head. I want to find out where it was delivered.”

“I can’t help you there. The label was torn off.”

“This is what I want you to do. Tomorrow you’ll deliver the mail left in Ken’s van. Ask the carrier to check along the route when he makes delivery, to find if anyone is missing a magazine. Have him list the addresses on the magazines which were left in the van, then next week we’ll check off the new batch against this list.”

“What’s that again?” asked Deardorf suspiciously. Joe explained a second time, and Deardorf agreed to instruct his carrier.

“Incidentally,” said Deardorf, “a somewhat curious situation has come up. I don’t quite understand it.”

“Yes, Mr. Deardorf?”

“We checked the registered mail against our tally book; everything was regular. But one of these items of registered mail was for Mrs. Benjamin which Mooney did not deliver.”

“Eh? Come again.”

“There was a registered letter for Mrs. Benjamin. Mooney delivered the other mail, but not the registered letter, which of course is highly irregular.”

“Could he maybe have been worried about something and forgot it?”

“No sir. There’s a yellow ticket the carrier puts into the bundle, so that he won’t forget.”

“Hmm,” said Joe. “I’ll give the matter some thought. All these peculiar odds and ends must mean something.”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

The conversation ended. Joe leaned back in his chair and tried to think rationally. Who stood to profit from Ken’s death? He had no money, he owned no property, not even Halfway House. Blackmail? Unlikely, if the general estimate of Ken’s character were correct. A crime of passion? More likely a jealous husband than a love-crazed woman. Had the mail carrier been killed by mistake? Every conceivable reason for Ken’s death seemed far-fetched. Still — a corpse existed.

Joe tried to decide what to do next. Rex Kelly was checking on the Life and the hammer. Bill Whipple was the most important next step. Joe called Whipple Chevrolet, but was told Mr. Bill Whipple was not on hand.

Joe called the Whipple residence and learned that Bill was not at home either.

Hanging up the receiver Joe stared despondently across the room. The case had all the earmarks of an enormous headache; and there was no place to hide. A murder had been committed, Sheriff Joe Bain was now expected to apprehend the evil-doer. Joe felt like an actor with stage-fright. After solving the Fox Valley murders he had been hailed as a super-criminologist, a deductive genius: compliments which he had modestly shrugged aside. Howard Griselda, editor and publisher of the Pleasant Grove Messenger, had not participated in the congratulations. Griselda, a dour and busy-browed Scot, played the role of country editor to the hilt. With Howard Griselda, courageous hard-hitting editorials, crusades and campaigns were a way of life. Griselda suspected Joe of ethical relativism and about now he would be puffing vigorously on his pipe, theorizing how best the murder of Ken Mooney might be attributed to improprieties at the sheriff’s office.

Joe nervously ran his hands through his black hair. It was a case of produce or else.

He looked at his watch: four-thirty in the afternoon. One department of Ken Mooney’s life remained to be explored: Halfway House.

Joe informed Ace Wardell of his destination, politely told Miss Curdy that he was leaving for the day. She seemed even more terse than usual — still brooding over the furlough extended Juan Carminez, thought Joe. Well, let her brood, so long as she got her work done. If she didn’t like it, she could run for sheriff herself at the next election.

Chapter V

1

Joe drove west toward Jordan. Ten miles from town Contreras Road led off through the foothills — a section of the old coach-road joining Monterey to Vallejo and Sonoma. For a mile or two Contreras Creek paralleled the road, then swung off to the south to join Genesee Creek. The road plunged into a dense redwood forest which for a space blocked out the sunlight. Then the forest thinned somewhat, a graveled driveway turned off to the right, and there, a hundred feet back from the road, was Halfway House, a sprawling old-fashioned structure of redwood and stone. Posts rose from the first-floor porch to support a second-story balcony where hung a faded old black and gold sign:

HALFWAY HOUSE

HISTORIC COACH STOP

BEERS — WINES — ALES

Good Food

ACCOMMODATION

Three sets of double doors opened on the porch, but only the doors to the bar showed signs of recent usage. Joe climbed out of the car, looked the place over. The structure was run-down certainly, but nothing that money and elbow-grease wouldn’t make right. Joe wondered if maybe Clarence Mooney’s appraisal of his son’s character wasn’t accurate. If he, Joe, owned an old place like this, he’d give it loving care, really put it back into shape. The stained-glass panels in the doors, for instance: those were high-quality items, dating from the turn of the century. The place wasn’t just a shack …

From around the back of the building came a stout old man with a grizzled bulldog face. He wore snuff-colored trousers, a tan sportshirt, a battered fiber hat. He looked at the black and white official car and came forward. “Hi there. You the sheriff or the deputy?”

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain.”

“Pleased to meetcha. I’m Wilbur Baker, caretaker around here.”

The two men shook hands.

“Nice old place,” said Joe. “I guess it doesn’t do much business.”

“Nope. No more. I guess you’d say she’s closed up. Maybe for good. I had some good times out here during Prohibition. I was just a kid then.”

“Before my time,” said Joe. “You’ve been working for Ken Mooney, I take it.”

“Just helpin’ out. Last year I kept the bar open, made enough to buy my beans. But —” he shook his head “— I got fed up. I don’t know what Ken figures to do. Nice boy and all that, but he can’t seem to get himself pointed straight.” Wilbur Baker glanced sidewise at the official car. “What brings you out this way, Sheriff?”

“I’m investigating a homicide,” said Joe. “Matter of fact, Ken Mooney got himself killed.”

Wilbur Baker stared round-eyed. “You mean — Ken? He’s dead?”

“Dead as a doornail.”

“Well I never,” breathed Wilbur Baker. “What do you know about that? Who did it?”

“I don’t know,” said Joe. “Doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to the case. I thought I’d come out here, ask a few questions.”

“Why certainly. I must say I’m shocked. Fancy that! Ken! Just what happened?”

“He was hit over the head with a hammer. It appears that one of his friends did the job.”

Wilbur Baker uttered an expletive. “That’s not much of a friend!”

“Did you know any of his friends?”

“No sir, I did not. Ken was out of my generation. I’ll say this, he treated me right. He was easy to get along with; more so than me, most likely.”

“Ken came out here pretty often?”

Wilbur Baker squinted in thought. “When Charley Mooney first died, he came out quite a bit. He wanted to furbish up the place, get it going again. But he never could raise the money. For a while he was out every weekend. He hauled away junk, painted, reglazed windows, fixed up the dance floor. He even put a big new mirror behind the bar. That cost him a pretty penny, and he worked like a beaver: Ken and one of his friends.”

“Who was the friend?”

“Bill somebody. Kind of reckless-looking young fellow. Acted pretty know-it-all. He bossed the job, told Ken what to do, how to do it, bawled him out when Ken didn’t move to suit him. It put my back up. I turned right around and left.”

“This Bill — is he the only one of Ken’s friends who helped him?”

“Yeah, I’d say so. During the past six months Ken didn’t come out too much — maybe two or three times. I guess he just plain ran out of gas.”

Joe glanced at his watch. He wanted to be home for dinner. “I’d like to take a look inside, if it’s all right with you.”

Wilbur Baker shrugged. “Certainly it’s all right with me, if you think it’ll help.”

“You never know in this business.”

They climbed stone steps to the porch. Wilbur Baker unlocked a padlock, pushed open double doors. They entered the bar. Mahogany glimmered through the gloom. On the wall shone Ken’s impressive new mirror. Everywhere were mementoes, old photographs, curios. The room had a pleasant odor; a redolence of old wood, old varnish, antique whiskey, evaporated beer. Impalpable echoes hung in the air: the ghosts of dead music and dead laughter; a fairy tinkle of ice and glassware. Joe drew a deep breath, shook his head. These old places drew him, filled him with nostalgia for the good old times. Here at Halfway House there was more. The place wasn’t dead. There was still vitality here; the place was waiting to come back to life. Joe could imagine cars parked in front of the porch, colored lights twinkling above the dance floor, maybe a four-piece band with people dancing.

On the floor beside the front wall was a case containing a dozen empty champagne bottles. Joe said to Wilbur Baker, “Seems like you have expensive tastes.”

“What do you mean? Oh. That stuff. Not me. I don’t drink. That’s the remains of a party Ken had out here last fall. No, by golly. It was closer to Christmas. He brought out his girl friend — pretty little thing, my yes — and another couple. They built a big fire and drank that wine and caroused most of the night. Who knows what-all went on. I wasn’t invited.”

“Hm. Did Ken have many parties like that?”

“Nothing like that one.”

“Who was the other fellow? This ‘Bill’ you mentioned?”

“That’s right. But don’t think I paid them any heed. You’d be surprised how I mind my own business.”

“That’s the sensible way to be,” said Joe. “But right now I wish you had been just a bit nosier.”

He looked into the dining room and the lobby beyond. Upstairs, according to Wilbur Baker, were ten bedrooms and two baths. Joe wanted to investigate more thoroughly, but the sun had dropped behind the mountains and the hour was getting late.

Joe went out into the front yard, and stood looking the old place over. Was it worth forty thousand dollars? Maybe not. It needed a lot of work: new plumbing, new wiring, new furniture, probably a modern kitchen. That kind of equipment cost money. Joe made a mental calculation. There were twenty acres of land, worth, say, four thousand dollars. Liquor license worth ten or twelve. That put the value of the structure at about twenty-five thousand. Joe grimaced dubiously. For a fact the building couldn’t be replaced for that amount, not using sound materials, the way it used to be done. The curse of the age: cheap materials, cheap thinking, cheap people. Everything was cheap nowadays. Go into a supermarket: red lights shone on the meat; there was loudspeaker music to send you jigging through the aisles, throwing caution to the winds. Not to mention the breweries and their eleven-ounce cans of beer to cheat a man out of his last swallow. In the old days when the robber barons took your gold, it was honest brigandage; there were no hard feelings. Stealing nowadays was so small, so petty, so hypocritical. The corporations used one hand to pick your pocket, the other to scratch your back. They called it their ‘public image’. Well, it had nothing to do with him. When the judge said, “Thirty days,” Joe saw to it that the man got a full thirty days: his money’s worth, so to speak … At least this was usually what Joe did. He wondered if Carminez had returned to jail yet. With good luck Howard Griselda might not hear about the incident … Joe got into his car. Tomorrow or the next day he’d give the place a more careful examination, look through the kitchen and the bedrooms. It seemed a comfortable old place. But forty thousand dollars’ worth? Yes — for a wealthy antiquarian. Forty thousand dollars would buy a lot of romance. Unlikely that Clarence Mooney knew the meaning of the word. The place might be a good buy at twenty-five thousand, thought Joe. If he had twenty-five thousand he might consider making an offer. Ridiculous thought … He called out to Wilbur Baker: “I’ll be going on. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

Wilbur Baker came forward rubbing his stubbled chin. “I don’t have any standing here now that Ken’s dead. I suppose I’ll stay on until somebody tells me to leave.”

“Ken’s father has title to the place,” said Joe. “He’ll probably be getting in touch with you.”

2

The drive back to Pleasant Grove was like a trip from one world to another. At Halfway House even Ken Mooney’s murder had seemed remote and theoretical … Joe remembered Juan Carminez and radioed headquarters. Juan Carminez had not reported back to jail, and Miss Curdy had been making sarcastic remarks.

“Tell Miss Curdy to go jump in the lake,” said Joe.

“You tell her,” said Ace Wardell. “You’re Sheriff, not me … Here comes Carminez now. Good God! What a mess. He’s been through the wars.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Call home for me, say I’ve been detained.”

“Right.”

When Joe returned to headquarters Carminez was back in his cell. Miss Curdy, just preparing to leave for the night, was speaking into the telephone: “— Juan Carminez? He’s here, in his cell. Certainly I’m sure. He just —”

Joe, across the room with one bound, took the receiver from Miss Curdy’s stiff fingers. “Sheriff Bain speaking. What’s the trouble?”

An excited female voice sputtered into his ear. “They say it was Juan Carminez hit my son; I say no, Carminez is in jail. They say no, by golly, it looks like Juan. I want to know, is Juan Carminez in jail or not?”

“Juan Carminez is in his cell,” declared Joe. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. They call me from La Fiesta; you know that place?”

“Yeah,” said Joe in a hollow voice. “I know the place.”

“They say Carminez comes in, he looks around, he goes over and hits my son. If it isn’t Carminez, who is it?”

“Well, ma’am, I can sure investigate. Do you want to swear out a warrant against Juan Carminez and take him to court?”

There was silence. Then cautiously: “You say he’s in jail?”

“He sure is, Cell 10. Come down and see for yourself.”

“Then who hit my son?”

“Are there any witnesses?”

The voice became excited again. “My boy say it’s Juan. He say Juan Carminez come up and hits him and say ‘You son-of-a-bitch, how do you like that?’ And my boy hits Carminez and he says ‘How do you like that?’ And then Juan Carminez hits my boy with a big toy truck made out of plastic, and he say ‘How do you like that?’ And then he goes away.”

“I see. Your son identifies Juan Carminez?”

“He says it’s Juan Carminez.”

“What is your son’s name?”

“Ramon Aguilar.”

“Send him down to the jail. I’ll show him Juan Carminez sitting in Cell 10.”

Another short silence.

Joe asked politely, “Had your son been drinking, Mrs. Aguilar?”

“Yes, maybe. I tell him it don’t do no good. He drinks beer and whiskey all the time, I can’t make him stop. It’s bad for him, costs him money; he don’t stop.”

“You tell him Sheriff Joe Bain says he better stop boozing; he might find himself in the next cell to Juan Carminez.”

“Okay, Sheriff. I tell him. He’s not real bad, just takes a drink of beer.”

Joe hung up. Miss Curdy stood watching with an unfathomable expression. Joe shook his head in gloomy disgust, marched back to the jail. Juan Carminez looked at him through the bars.

“How was your sick boy, Juan?” asked Joe.

“I guess he’s all right, Sheriff. He was pretty sick.”

“Sure a funny situation. Mrs. Aguilar says a man that looks like you hit her son Ramon with a toy plastic truck.”

Carminez’ mouth drooped wistfully. “Maybe she made a mistake.”

“All I can say, Juan, is that you sure made a donkey out of both of us. Miss Curdy thinks I’m insane, Mrs. Aguilar thinks I’m running a holiday resort. She wants me to tie you up with big chains so you can’t hit her son Ramon any more.”

Juan managed a sick smile. “Don’t believe what they tell you. That Ramon Aguilar, he’s trying to get me in trouble.”

“Yeah, maybe so. Well, Juan, I’m sure disappointed in you. Tomorrow I’m going to ask Miss Curdy to come in and talk to you.”

“Don’t worry, Sheriff, don’t go to no trouble. I’m a pretty good guy.”

“I’m glad to hear that. I want you to spend the night thinking good thoughts. I want you to pray that Ramon Aguilar’s head doesn’t hurt too bad. I want you to put on that look of injured innocence when Howard Griselda appears.”

Juan Carminez shrugged, acquiescent to any or all of Sheriff Bain’s whims. “Just like you say, Sheriff.”

Joe went home, slumped down in an old wicker chair with a can of beer. From the kitchen came the odor of corned beef and cabbage, from the bathroom the sounds of the shower mingled with the catarrhal bleat of a popular vocal quartet: an exasperating sound, but by some paradox, soothing. Here, if nowhere else in the world, was normality.

Joe consumed a second can of beer, and even the murder of Ken Mooney seemed less disturbing. Puzzling, perplexing, to be sure; but nothing to get hysterical about. In due course the elements of the situation would line up to form a pattern, and Joe would make an arrest.

Joe popped the lid on a third can of beer, in spite of Marian Bain’s glance of admonishment. “I’m serving a nice dinner in three minutes,” she told him, “and I don’t want you coming to the table sozzled. Your father was bad enough.”

“‘Sozzled’? On a couple cans of beer? Ridiculous.”

“Three cans of beer and heaven knows how much more downtown. Miranda! Dinner’s on the table … Miranda, what are you doing?”

“Putting on my clothes. Do you want me to come in a towel?”

“Hurry up. Goodness, I forgot the horseradish. Your father will have a fit.”

After a few minutes Miranda rather saucily asked Joe what was new and interesting.

“Oh, not much,” said Joe. “Just a killing. You probably never knew the corpse; he’d be several years ahead of you at school.”

“Who?”

“Young fellow named Ken Mooney.”

“There’s a Mooney girl who’s a freshman. She’ll be a sophomore next year.”

“That’s his sister.”

“Oh. Too bad. Who killed him?”

“I wish I knew. You probably know Alice Benjamin and Starr Shortridge.”

“I know who they are,” said Miranda. “They were two years ahead of me.”

Marian Bain asked, “You don’t mean the Shortridge family is involved?”

“I don’t mean anything. I don’t know anything. But I’ll find out.”

“You always were the most persistent boy,” said Marian Bain. “I’ll never forget the time you wanted a bicycle and cracked all those black walnuts.”

“I never did get it.”

“Your dad was a rascal, no doubt about it. But he had his good points too.”

“Trying to fill an inside straight wasn’t one of them. In fact they say that’s what got him killed.”

Marian Bain made disapproving noises. Joe wasn’t supposed to talk about the knifing of Blacky Bain in front of Miranda.

“Well, that’s all in the past,” said Joe. “How’d you girls like to run an old-fashioned hotel?”

“What do you mean?”

“I stopped by Halfway House out on Contreras Road today. It’s up for sale.”

“You’re joking,” said Marian Bain. “I’m sure you’re joking.”

“I suppose I am. It’s a real nice old place, on twenty acres of big redwoods. It needs work — mainly cleaning and new glass, new curtains, new furniture, things like that.”

“Who’d want to go out to Contreras Road to sleep?” inquired Marian Bain. “Why wouldn’t they stay home?”

“People down from San Francisco and San Jose. Old country hotels are going big nowadays, especially if there’s a liquor license.”

Marian Bain shook her head. “I’ve seen all the drinking I ever want to see.”

“Oh Granny!” protested Miranda. “It’s just an old country hotel. I’ve driven past there. It’s got an old dining room, bedrooms looking out on the balcony. It looks like a real fun place. Suppose we had horses and a swimming pool and a tennis court.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. “And a golf course and speedboats and a ferris wheel.”

“Now you’re being silly, Daddy.”

“He certainly is,” declared Marian Bain.

“It’s not impossible,” argued Joe. “It’s an investment. I figured you two would run the place. We’d hire a bartender, of course.”

“Granny could tend bar,” said Miranda slyly. “I’d be bar girl.”

“I should say not! All that drinking and carousing? I wouldn’t think of it. And it’s certainly no place to bring up a young girl.”

“I’m not all that young! Think! You could serve corned beef and cabbage and make wild blackberry pies.”

“I think it would go over,” said Joe. “People like to come to some quiet place and do nothing but loaf. No juke-box, no TV, maybe a Saturday night dance, but nothing else.”

Marian Bain smiled wistfully. “That’s the way things used to be when I was a girl. I’ll never forget when I was about ten or eleven we made a trip to Idaho and stayed at some of the nicest old places. It makes me sad just to think of them. They’re all torn down now, I expect.”

“Halfway House is the same kind of old hotel. It just needs a lot of hard work to get it in operation.”

Marian Bain pursed her lips. “I’m not afraid of hard work, you know that very well. But I’d want to look the place over before I’d even think about it. It could wear a person out.”

“I’d work,” said Miranda. “I’d love it. I’d even get my friends to help. They’d love it too. It would be fun!”

“I can imagine the kind of help your friends would be,” snapped Marian Bain. “Especially that Gilpepper boy. I don’t trust him. He’s got a funny shifty look.”

“Oh Granny! Warren is tiresome but he’s nice. He can beat me at chess. He beats everybody at chess.”

“Chess will never make him a living. What is this place going for, Joe?”

“The man wants forty thousand dollars.”

Marian Bain leaned back aghast, her eyes large and round. “Forty thousand dollars? And you’re the man who’s been preaching economy to me and Miranda? How can you even think about spending so much money? Even if you had it?”

“That’s what banks are for,” said Joe. “I’m Sheriff now, miserably underpaid even after a raise. Still, twelve hundred a month is better than nothing.”

“It’s more than your father and I would see in a year.”

“Another thing,” said Joe, “I don’t plan to spend forty thousand dollars. Clarence Mooney will dance for joy if I mention, say, twenty-five.”

“It seems very rash, Joe, when things are going so nicely —”

“Heavens, I thought you were aching to get away from this old house!”

“Well, in a way. But I was thinking of another house, not a wild scheme as bad as any of your father’s. You’re like him in so many ways.”

“Daddy, let’s go out and look at the place. Can we?”

“Tonight?”

“Right now.”

“See if your grandmother wants to go.”

“Oh, I’ll go for the ride. But don’t expect me to walk all around this hour of the night.”

“Good enough,” said Joe. “Let’s go.”

3

Wilbur Baker came rather grumpily out of his shack, opened the door, threw on the main power switch. “Just pull the switch and lock up when you leave. I’m going back to bed.”

“Thanks very much, Mr. Baker.”

Miranda walked into the bar, looked around in entrancement. “This is just like the twenties. You can just see people dancing the Charleston and the shimmy.”

“Your grandmother would know more about that than I would. I understand she used to do a pretty fancy cake-walk.”

“I never did,” snorted Marian Bain. “That was old even in my day. We danced the fox trot and the waltz, and the tango too. I was a very good dancer. You’d never know it to look at me now, of course.”

“Waltz out here into the kitchen,” said Joe. “It doesn’t seem too bad. It’s even clean.”

“I’m surprised,” said Marian Bain. “Really surprised. Is that a wood range? I believe it is. I don’t see any refrigerator.”

“We’d put in modern equipment,” said Joe. “Also some new floor tile.”

“That’s not hard,” said Miranda. “I can do that myself. I think yellow and white would be perfect. And I’d paint the walls yellow too. And the ceiling pale blue.”

“Dark brown is more practical,” said Joe. “It doesn’t show the dirt.”

Marian Bain swung around in shock. “You’re the first person that has ever accused me of having a dirty kitchen.”

“No, no! I didn’t accuse you. I just said that if there happened to be dirt —”

“Never mind. Just don’t think you’ll paint any kitchen of mine dark brown, or black either. My, look at those big windows. It would be a lovely place for my African violets.”

Miranda had run into the dining room. “It’s nothing very fancy,” she said when Joe and his mother followed her. “I think we should use blue- and red-checkered tablecloths and candles, like the Isola Bella in Monterey. I’d paint the walls white in here, I think. And hang up some pictures. Picassos would be nice.”

“Be reasonable,” said Joe. “We want people to eat.”

“Daddy, you’re a barbarian. You don’t have any artistic sense at all.”

“Maybe not … The lobby is through here, girls.”

Miranda, going behind the desk, found a dusty old register. “Look at this! It goes back ages!” She flipped back through the years. “1930 — 1928 — 1924. Here’s the page for Saturday, July 21, 1924. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Albert Hall, Walnut Creek’, ‘Mr. and Mrs. Henry Jones, San Francisco’, ‘Mr. and Mrs. William Clark, San Jose’, ‘Mr. and Mrs. John Wilson, Oakland’.”

Joe grinned. “Lots of Joneses and Smiths and Wilsons.” He turned the pages of the register forward, to the last entry, which was dated December 19 of the year previous: Ken Mooney and — here there was a scrawl as if someone had snatched the pen from his hand and then had scribbled Theda Bara.

Underneath someone else had written: Rudolph Valentino and Mae Murray.

Joe scrutinized the signatures. “Looks like Ken’s friends have a lively sense of humor.”

“He must have had a party here,” Miranda decided.

“That’s what it looks like,” said Joe. “A pretty elegant affair, to judge from all the champagne they drank.” He turned back through the pages, but found nothing more to interest him. His mother decided that she had seen enough and they presently went out to the car.

“Well, what do you think?” Joe asked his mother.

“I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your money, your responsibility.”

“I know it. But you’d have to take charge of the place. I couldn’t run it.”

“Well … let’s not do anything rash. I think you should look into the place a little more carefully.”

Miranda said in a casual voice, “I’d probably have to have a car to get to school in, but we need another car anyway. Maybe a Volkswagen, or a —”

“I knew there was a fly in the ointment,” said Marian Bain.

“There’s a school bus that passes nearby,” said Joe. “Probably right down Contreras Road.”

“Those stupid old buses,” complained Miranda. “Only creeps and little kids ride buses. Everybody else drives their own car.”

Joe asked, “Aren’t you one of the pace-setters? Start a new style. Make automobiles disreputable.”

“But I need a car!”

“Yeah, about like I need a wife.”

“Oh Daddy!” said Miranda in utter disgust.

“Don’t worry, Miranda,” sniffed Marian Bain. “He’s not even divorced from his last wife yet.”

“My last wife? My first wife!”

“I don’t see what it’s got to do with my having a car,” Miranda said.

“In the first place you’re too young. In the second place it’s too dangerous and it costs too much. In the third place I put my foot down. In the fourth place you don’t need a car since chances are this Halfway House talk is just an idle dream.”

Miranda sat in sullen silence. Marian Bain asked presently, “Just who owns Halfway House, or did you say?”

“I mentioned Ken Mooney, the young fellow that had his head beat in. Well, the property is in his family.”

“Hmmf … Who do you think killed the boy?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. The more I think the more confused I get. To preserve my sanity I’ve stopped thinking.”

“I wish you’d be serious once in a while.”

“I am serious. This case is a mystery. Tomorrow I’ve got to do some real digging, unfortunately among all the big shots. I’m not looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll assign Miss Curdy to the job. When you grow up and get pinched, Miranda, don’t get sent to Tehachapi; Miss Curdy is one of the drop-outs. The first team must be something to see.”

“If Miss Curdy is so awful, why don’t you fire her?” asked Marian Bain.

“I don’t have anybody else for the job. What about you? There’s not much to it except writing vouchers and searching drunk females, maybe giving ’em a clout or two.”

“The very idea!”

Joe grinned. “I guess Miss Curdy’s job is secure.”

Chapter VI

1

On the following morning Joe set forth to interrogate the residents of Madrone Way.

The Shortridge home sat a hundred yards back from the road at the top of an S-shaped driveway. Miriam Shortridge herself answered the doorbell. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Shortridge? I’m Sheriff Joe Bain. May I come in?”

“Of course. I suppose you’re investigating the murder.” Mrs. Shortridge led the way into a vast living room decorated in that style known as French Provincial. “Please sit down.”

She was perhaps fifty years old, a handsome woman who clearly devoted much effort to her appearance. Her hair was carefully coiffed; her skin was soft and clear; her manner was correct but not cordial.

“What I’d like you to tell me, Mrs. Shortridge, is everything you know which might have some conceivable bearing on the situation,” said Joe. “For instance, did you ever notice Ken Mooney talking to anyone along the street? Did he ever make any kind of peculiar remark to you? Anything you can tell me might be helpful.”

“I was not acquainted with the poor man,” said Mrs. Shortridge. “I know nothing whatever either about him or the circumstances of his death.”

“I hardly expected that you would,” said Joe. “But occasionally an observant person just happens to notice something which strikes him as being out of the ordinary.”

“I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can tell you.”

“Was your son or daughter acquainted with Ken Mooney?”

“I think you’d better ask them.”

“You don’t know?”

“I think Marshall knew Ken Mooney at high school, and probably Starr also. I don’t imagine that either Marshall or Starr considered Ken Mooney a friend.”

“I understand that on Tuesday morning Mr. Shortridge was working at the store and that you were at the beauty salon.”

“I was visiting the hairdresser,” said Mrs. Shortridge in a flat voice. “Mr. Shortridge was at his office.”

“Do you subscribe to Life magazine, Mrs. Shortridge?”

“Why yes, I believe we do.” Mrs. Shortridge was puzzled. “Why do you ask?”

“I’d rather not explain at the moment. I wonder if you could show me the issue which was delivered Tuesday.”

Mrs. Shortridge crossed the room to a carved walnut side-table. “I think this is the latest issue.”

Joe took the magazine, turned it to read the address label, which, to facilitate post office handling, had been affixed upside down. All seemed in order. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Shortridge. Is Marsh at home?”

“I’ll call him.” Mrs. Shortridge left the room. Joe looked here and there, studying the fine old furniture, the oriental rugs, the pictures on the walls, the antique clock on the fireplace mantel, the shelves with carefully arranged books. Marsh Shortridge came into the room: a young man with a round, rather flat face, a small nose, a small mouth, eyes which were round and set apart. His hair was soft chestnut, his expression was similar to that of his mother. “Yes, Sheriff.”

“I’d like to discuss Ken Mooney with you, Mr. Shortridge.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you very much there.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. In a murder investigation we’ve got to scratch into all sorts of unlikely corners for information and you’re one of them.”

Marsh’s eyebrows took on a quizzical arch. “I’ll certainly help you all I can.”

“How well did you know Ken?”

“Well enough to say hello to. I had not seen anything of him since high school.”

“You know that Bill Whipple was one of Ken’s friends?”

Marsh’s shrug conveyed ineffable disdain. “Bill Whipple, Ken Mooney …” He said no more.

“Is Bill Whipple one of your good friends?”

“No.”

“I see … Well, have you any theory or even a wild guess in relation to the murder?”

“I suppose it must have been the work of a homicidal maniac. I understand that no mail was taken.”

“The theory is conceivable, of course. But it doesn’t ring true. After Ken was killed the van was hidden all day, then driven down to the end of Madrone Way during the night. This suggests the van was hidden somewhere along Madrone Way — which also means that someone along Madrone Way is the killer.”

Marsh smiled his cool little smile. “Most of the people along Madrone are good citizens, Sheriff — solid, conservative folk. One or two exceptions, of course. But I can’t imagine anyone along Madrone Way killing Ken Mooney — not for any reason.”

“Suppose something came in the mail which would ruin someone’s life — suppose a package burst open and spilled an ounce or two of heroin. Suppose somebody received an incriminating postcard which Ken read.”

Marsh thought carefully a moment. Then he asked: “Isn’t all this pretty hypothetical?”

Joe gave Marsh a look of surprise. “Of course it’s hypothetical. What else? I don’t have any facts. I’m trying to scare some up.”

Marsh shrugged. “I’ll certainly help all I can.”

“You saw Ken Tuesday morning, I believe.”

“He brought me a C.O.D. package. Some books. I paid him, and that was all there was to it.”

“How much was the C.O.D.?”

“Ten dollars and sixty-seven cents.” Marsh frowned. “Something peculiar there, come to think of it. I started to write him a check and he asked for cash. I told him I didn’t have that much on me. He said to write a check for ten dollars and give him sixty-seven cents, which I did.”

Joe reflected. “Deardorf took charge of all the C.O.D.s and registered mail. He didn’t make any complaint so I guess everything came out even. Well, it may or may not mean anything. Is your sister in the house?”

“I’ll call her,” said Marsh with alacrity. He departed and presently Starr looked into the room. She wore black slacks, a gray jersey blouse, sandals. She sauntered forward. “I don’t know who killed Ken Mooney,” she told Joe. “I knew him by sight, not to talk to. Nobody has ever expressed hatred for Ken Mooney in my hearing. I don’t know whether or not Ken Mooney was having a love affair with — well, with anybody.”

“Did you hear gossip?” asked Joe.

“No.”

“Sit down,” said Joe. “Dancing from one foot to the other like that makes me nervous.”

Starr opened her mouth to retort, then, smiling crookedly, sat down on the couch.

“Let’s get back to the gossip,” said Joe. “Somebody killed Ken Mooney. Whether or not you knew or liked him is immaterial. He was murdered and the murderer may kill somebody else if he isn’t caught. Maybe the gossip will help catch him.”

“What I was about to say could not even be dignified by the word ‘gossip’. It was no more than a sarcastic remark.”

“Let’s hear it. I want to know the kind of people I’m dealing with.”

“It’s quite trivial — something Alice Benjamin told me, as a joke. Her mother doesn’t like Mrs. Wagner, who is, well, not discriminating and sometimes — spontaneous. Mrs. Benjamin is very proper. She thought that Mrs. Wagner was over-familiar with Ken. So there it is. The gossip.”

“I see. Any more gossip about Ken?”

“Just what I remember from high school. He had the reputation of being a girl chaser, and not too choosy.”

Joe nodded. “How well do you know the people along Madrone Way?”

“Not too well.” Starr was instantly distant.

“Alice Benjamin?”

“An exception.”

“Bill Whipple?”

“Not well.”

“Marsh is engaged to Alice, so I understand.”

Starr’s mouth twitched. “Yes.”

“When is the wedding?”

“In the fall.”

Joe received the impression that Starr did not care to discuss the subject. “Who do you think killed Ken Mooney?”

Starr shrugged. “I could say Bill Whipple, if only because they knew each other — but it’s such a poor reason for suspicion that I wouldn’t seriously mention his name.”

“Did you ever go out with Ken?”

Starr looked at him with a blank face, her outrage and disgust too vehement to be expressed in words. Finally she said, “No. If that’s all you want to ask …”

Joe took his departure, walked slowly down the driveway. He noticed Manuel, the handyman and gardener, and inquired if on Tuesday afternoon the mail van had been parked anywhere on the Shortridge property.

Manuel shook his head, slowly, emphatically. “No place to park any mail van.”

“What about under the trees, or behind a bush, or something like that?”

Manuel shrugged. “You show me where.”

Joe looked up and down the driveway. “I thought you might know.”

Manuel wordlessly resumed his work.

Joe went back to Madrone Way. Opposite was the golf course. People playing golf might have noticed some significant fact. Another job for Rex Kelly, or maybe Fay Insley.

2

Joe walked around the curve of Madrone Way, with the stone wall enclosing the Shortridge property on his left. The stone wall angled up Spanish Hill; a smooth green lawn sloped down to the sidewalk. At the back of the lawn stood a white stucco house with a red tile roof.

Joe walked up the driveway, rang the bell. Mrs. Betty Taylor, a freckle-faced red-haired woman, answered the bell. In the tiled foyer behind her Joe could see two bicycles, a tricycle, three baseball gloves, a bat.

“Yes, sir?” Mrs. Taylor’s voice was as bright and cheerful as her appearance.

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain, Mrs. Taylor; may I come in?”

“If you’ll take the risk of picking your way through the mess. I haven’t got around to cleaning house.”

“I’ve seen worse,” said Joe.

Mrs. Taylor took him into a living room which was furnished more for service than for display. Joe seated himself in a canvas chair while Mrs. Taylor perched on the arm of the sofa. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”

Mrs. Taylor’s face became alarmed. “What have they done now?”

“In regard to the murder of Ken Mooney.”

Mrs. Taylor relaxed. “I know my young devils so well that nothing would surprise me. The way you looked I thought, ‘Oh my, this time they’ve really done something terrible!’”

“Nothing I know of,” said Joe. “Were you home Tuesday morning?”

“Yes. My husband was at work; he’s with Valley Savings and Loan, as I suppose you know. I can hardly wait till school starts again. My children aren’t really bad; they’re just boys, and there’s always something to send me flying around with my hair on end.”

“Did you know Ken Mooney to speak to?”

“Not really. I know what he looked like, and he seemed a pleasant young man.”

“Did you see anything Tuesday morning which was at all out of the ordinary?”

“With my four boys, Sheriff, I never see anything else. But aside from the usual cyclone, I didn’t see or hear a thing.”

“Your husband was at work, of course. What about your boys? How old are they?”

“There’s Jeffery 10, Miles 8, Peter 6 and Craig 3. Craig is just starting to run with the others and that means I have to run too. Although I must say that Jeff and Miles are very responsible. Peter is a little stinker when it comes to Craig; he senses competition.”

Joe asked, “Did they see anything out of the ordinary on Tuesday?”

“I don’t think so. They were business operatives Tuesday with a lemonade stand. I believe they said that the man who was killed owed them a dime and now they’ll never collect; heartless little brutes. That’s all they could think of: not poor Mr. Mooney or how terrible his wife must feel, but where was their dime?”

“They’re just acquiring the business point of view,” said Joe. “Maybe I’d better talk to them. Are they anywhere nearby?”

“I think they’re out in back building something …”

Jeff and Miles were summoned: sturdy auburn-haired boys in T-shirts and blue jeans. “This is Sheriff Bain, boys. He wants to ask you some questions; please listen carefully and tell him exactly what happened.”

“You mean about the guy that got killed?”

“Just answer Sheriff Bain’s questions.”

“I understand,” said Joe, “that Ken Mooney died in debt.”

The boys looked at Joe, frowning and doubtful. Jeff, the oldest, said, “He owed us a dime.”

The story reached Joe as a rhetorical contest between Jeff and Miles, refereed by Mrs. Taylor. On Tuesday morning they had set up a lemonade stand on Madrone Way opposite the country club entrance. On entering Madrone Way Ken halted the van to rearrange his deliveries and Jeff had shouted a solicitation across the street. After some banter Ken agreed to purchase a glass of lemonade on credit. He had, so he stated, only a ten dollar bill in his possession; he had however a collection to make along Madrone Way and would pay them on his way out. Here Jeff, who was telling the tale, paused for dramatic effect. Miles started to insert the denouement, but Jeffery turned on him and shouted: “Who’s telling this story, you or me?”

“Now, boys, don’t quarrel,” commanded Mrs. Taylor. “Jeffery, you had a turn; let Miles tell part of the story too.”

Joe looked at Miles. “He didn’t pay you when he came out?”

“He didn’t come out!” yelled Jeffery.

“You told my part,” bellowed Miles.

“Jeffery, that wasn’t very nice,” said Mrs. Taylor. “How would you like it if Miles did that to you?”

“He does things like that all day!”

“Just a minute,” said Joe. “Let me get a word in edgewise. You say Ken Mooney never came out of Madrone Way? Or the van never came out? Or both?”

“Neither Ken Mooney nor the van came out!”

“Are you sure of this?”

“Of course we’re sure! He owed us a dime!”

“How long did you keep your stand open?”

“Until four thirty. That’s when we’re allowed to look at TV.”

“What about lunch time? Did you go in for lunch?”

“And leave our lemonade for people to steal? Huh!”

“I took them some sandwiches and milk,” Mrs. Taylor explained. “I thought that they needed a little encouragement.”

“They were all peanut butter sandwiches,” said Miles with a grimace of distaste. “I like tuna-fish better. Or hamburgers. Oh boy!”

“You’re a pair of spoiled brats,” said Mrs. Taylor. “Do you know what the children in India have to eat? Just a little bit of rice every day!”

“I like rice,” said Jeffery.

“What else did you see, boys?” Joe asked.

“Nothing. We couldn’t look around the corner up Madrone Way. He must have got killed just after he left us!”

“Yes, I expect so. Was there anybody in the cab with him?”

“Nope.”

“Did he seem worried or excited?”

“Nope. Just like he always was. Kind of laughing and joking.”

Joe learned no more. But now it was definite. Ken had been killed by someone along Madrone Way. Somewhere along Madrone Way the van had been concealed, then, during the night, driven to the far end of Madrone Way and abandoned.

Another item of interest: Joe now knew why Ken had insisted on sixty-seven cents cash from Marsh Shortridge — that he might pay his ten-cent debt. So far, so good.

He started to leave, then turned back. “Do you subscribe to Life magazine, Mrs. Taylor?”

“Why yes, we do. It’s entertaining and occasionally educational.”

“May I see the latest copy you received, please? The one that came Tuesday?”

Mrs. Taylor gave him a mystified glance. “Jeffery, run into the family room and bring out the new Life. It’s right next to your father’s desk.”

“I’ll get it,” said Miles.

“No, you won’t,” said Jeffery, and shoving his brother aside he ran from the room, presently to return with the magazine.

Joe turned it upside down, glanced at the label, leafed casually through the pages, handed it back. “Thank you very much, Mrs. Taylor.”

3

The Benjamins lived in a neat gray and white colonial-style house surrounded by immaculate gardens. Mrs. Benjamin, wearing a pale blue maternity dress, a navy blue cardigan and white gloves, stood sprinkling a recently reseeded section of lawn. She was a tall woman, with strongly marked features and gray-blonde hair she did not deign to tint. Joe, no expert in such matters, judged her to be six or seven months along with child. Mrs. Benjamin glanced at him briefly, then returned her attention to the sprinkler. So this prickly-looking specimen had mothered the beautiful Alice. Possibly in her youth Grace Benjamin had also been beautiful, thought Joe, in a cool Easter-lily fashion.

“Mrs. Benjamin?” he asked in his most silken voice.

Only now did Grace Benjamin acknowledge his presence. “Yes?”

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

“In regard to what?”

“The death of Ken Mooney.”

Mrs. Benjamin considered, and for a moment Joe thought she was about to say no. She turned off the water, glanced at her wrist watch. “I have a doctor’s appointment very shortly; but I can give you a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Benjamin.” Joe looked significantly toward the house but Mrs. Benjamin apparently did not intend to ask him inside. “Well then, did you see Ken Mooney Tuesday morning?”

“No. I was in the back garden. He put the mail in the box and went on by. I don’t believe I even noticed the van.”

“I see. In a murder investigation, Mrs. Benjamin, I’m forced to ask questions which in other circumstances might be thought impertinent. So I apologize in advance. By the way, do you have any theories of your own?”

“I had supposed it was a thief, or something of the sort.”

“The evidence points in another direction. I understand that your daughter Alice knew Ken at high school.”

“She was acquainted with him; yes.”

“Did she ever go out with Ken on a date?”

Mrs. Benjamin turned him a cold glance. “No. She did not.”

“Alice never mentioned him?”

“I don’t believe she ever did.”

“Something rather puzzling: Ken had a registered letter for you Tuesday and never delivered it. Have you any idea why that should be?”

Grace Benjamin considered. “Perhaps because I was in the back yard and didn’t hear the bell. Usually it sounds loud enough. Or the mailman might have been in a hurry. I suggest you ask Mrs. Wagner next door; she knows him better than I do.” And Mrs. Benjamin gave a small sniff.

“Mrs. Wagner was friendly with Ken?”

“Perhaps you had better ask Mrs. Wagner.”

Joe forced a laugh. “That’s not the theory of interrogation, Mrs. Benjamin. I’m here to gather facts which eventually will help me make an arrest. Just as a wild speculation, suppose that Mrs. Wagner were guilty. She would hardly give me information leading to her own downfall. I have to get the incriminating facts from her friends and neighbors.”

Grace Benjamin smiled a brief prim smile. “Mrs. Wagner has her peculiarities but to suspect her of murder is ridiculous. And I really don’t care to gossip.”

“I don’t want gossip, I want facts. How well acquainted, from your personal knowledge, were Mrs. Wagner and Ken Mooney?”

“She occasionally invited him in for a cup of coffee or a dish of ice cream.”

“How do you know this?”

Grace Benjamin smiled once again. “Mrs. Wagner has a loud voice. If she asks, ‘cream and sugar?’ I suppose she’s serving coffee. If she asks ‘chocolate syrup or plain?’ I presume she’s serving ice cream.”

“Hm, ahem. Did she ever, in your hearing, give Ken his choice of anything else?”

“Not in my hearing.”

“I understand your daughter is marrying Marsh Shortridge.”

“Yes, in September.”

“When is she returning from Europe?”

“Toward the end of August. Mr. Benjamin invited the two of them to India for a honeymoon, but Marshall for some reason decided against this. I gave her a summer in Europe instead. It’s the last freedom she’ll be having.” Joe was somewhat surprised by the cynicism in Mrs. Benjamin’s voice. Quickly she went on to say, “The Shortridges of course are a wonderful family and Marshall is an excellent match. I am very pleased for her.”

“Is Mr. Benjamin returning for the wedding?”

“I hardly think so. But how does all this concern the dead mailman?”

“Probably not at all,” said Joe. “I’m just groping.”

Mrs. Benjamin glanced at her watch.

“One last thing,” said Joe. “Do you subscribe to Life magazine?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Benjamin turned him a cool glance. “What of it?”

“May I see the current issue?”

Mrs. Benjamin frowned, started to speak, then shrugged and turned away. “It’s in the house. Do you care to come in?”

“If it’s more convenient for you.”

Mrs. Benjamin walked slowly up the steps. She opened the door; they went into the house. It was evident that Mrs. Benjamin was a meticulous housekeeper. The furniture glowed with wax; silver glistened; the carpets appeared freshly brushed and vacuumed. On the grand piano, in a silver frame, was a photograph of Alice; apparently a high school graduation picture. “This must be your daughter,” said Joe.

“Yes.”

“I believe I’ve seen her around town. My daughter knew her at high school.”

“Really … Here is the magazine.”

Joe glanced at the now-familiar cover, read the label, and as before pretended to look through the pages. Mrs. Benjamin watched with detached curiosity. “May I ask what you are looking for?”

“You could ask, Mrs. Benjamin, but for now I’d prefer not to tell you. It’s just a little idea of mine.”

“I see. I’m in just a bit of a hurry, so if you’ll excuse me …”

“Certainly. Thank you for your help.”

4

Sally Wagner lived in the most modern house on Madrone Way: an informal single-storied cottage with rustic redwood siding and picture windows offering views of everything nearby, including the fence which concealed all but the second-story bedroom windows of the Benjamin residence next door. Sally Wagner herself was a shrewd vivacious woman of thirty-five or so: garrulous, affable, bumptious, without tact or reserve. Her least attractive feature was her voice. She spoke in a nasal caw as if her sinuses were congested. She wore her black hair in bangs; her eyes looked forth from puddles of blue-green eye shadow; she wore a scarlet jacket, black stretch pants, white sandals. All in all, thought Joe, just the woman to arouse Grace Benjamin’s most emphatic disapproval.

Sally Wagner said as much herself. “If you’ve been talking to Mrs. Benjamin you’ve probably heard an earful in regard to me. She figures me a sure bet for the Hot Place. I smoke, I drink, I hold hands, I kick up my heels — in short I don’t care a damn.”

“Mrs. Benjamin didn’t put it in quite those words,” said Joe tactfully.

“I expect she wouldn’t,” declared Sally Wagner in scorn. “She’d hint and shake her head and sniff. Poor Guy Benjamin! He takes those long foreign contracts to avoid staying at home. I’m surprised he got her pregnant. He was home during the Christmas holidays; the time works out right: don’t worry, I’ve counted.”

Joe grinned, leaned back in the chair. In spite of her glottal voice Sally Wagner agreeably counteracted the chill of the Benjamin house. “Let me open you a can of beer,” she offered. “It must be hot work talking to a pack of females.”

“Well, let’s see. I’ve talked to one, two, three, four, five females, counting you, one male and two boys. Mostly females, I’ll agree.”

“What did you learn, if anything?”

“I know for sure Ken was killed along Madrone Way. Did you mention beer? I shouldn’t be mooching from you, but you’re right, I’m dying of thirst.”

Sally Wagner trotted into her kitchen, returned pouring beer into a tall glass. “There. That looks so good I think I’ll have one myself.” A moment later she returned. “Now. I suppose you want to ask if I killed Ken Mooney. No, I did not. Poor Ken. Such a lamb, so nice, so innocent. Not much ambition, but if everybody was admiral, who’d row the boat?”

“You knew Ken pretty well then?”

Sally Wagner’s black eyes snapped, whether in amusement or vexation Joe could not be sure. “I want to tell you one thing — any filthy innuendos from next door are just that. Ken reminded me of how things used to be. It was pleasant to hear him talk. I’d sometimes ask him in for a cup of coffee; sometimes he’d come, sometimes not.”

“What about Tuesday?”

“I didn’t see him at all. He just pushed my mail in the box and hurried off.”

“What’s your idea about the murder?”

“Quite frankly, Sheriff, I’m bewildered. It all seems utterly pointless and foolish. It seems — unreal!”

“He never mentioned enemies?”

“He hardly knew what the word meant. On the other hand he had no close friends. He knew Bill Whipple down the street of course. His home life must have been ghastly. You should hear the tales of his father’s economies. A regular miser! I suppose you know that Ken came from a very old local family?”

“Yes, so I heard. Incidentally, while I think of it, do you subscribe to Life?”

“No! I certainly do not!” With great animation Sally Wagner explained her opinion of Henry Luce. “Why do you ask?”

“Something has come up in the course of the investigation.”

Sally Wagner danced up and down like a small girl. “I bet I know! Wasn’t there a magazine under Ken’s head?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Where did you hear that?”

“From Laura Hubman. She heard all the gory details from her mother’s nurse, the one who found the body.”

“Well, that’s the reason for my interest. What do you know of the Whipples next door?”

“I see very little of them. Sheila Whipple is just a bit pushy. I’m sure she pushed Fred Whipple into moving out here on Madrone. He’s an ordinary sort, a hard worker, spends a lot of time hunting and fishing. Neither of them makes any intellectual pretensions. There you’ll probably find a Life subscription, and Reader’s Digest and Playboy. As for Bill …” Sally Wagner pouted thoughtfully. “Well, I don’t know. He’s a complicated young man. He can be extremely charming when he wants to be. College has taken off some of his rough edges — but sharpened up some of the others. He’s got a terrible reputation girl-wise, of course.”

Joe spent another half hour listening to Sally Wagner’s plangent voice; then, thanking her for the beer, he took his leave.

5

Joe pressed the Whipple doorbell. Once. Twice. Three times. No one responded.

He walked past the home of Milo Gentry, the oldest of the County Supervisors. Milo and Ernestine Gentry were visiting their grandchildren in Montana.

In the house beyond lived Mr. and Mrs. Caspar Hubman. Laura Hubman opened the door, a woman about forty-five, of lavish and spectacular appearance. She was tall, ample of bosom and hip, willowy and youthful through the waist. Her skin was marmoreal, her hair black and flowing; and in spite of her emphatic vitality, she was pleased to demonstrate the languid manner of a pre-Raphaelite poetess. She wore an extravagant black satin tea gown which swept the floor, black ballet slippers, a single ivory disk dangling from her right ear.

Joe introduced himself. “I’m Sheriff Joe Bain. I believe we’ve met before, somewhere or other.”

“Perhaps at a school function,” said Mrs. Hubman. “Caspar and I are active politically, of course.” She had an easy husky voice. “Well, you’re probably here to ask about Ken Mooney.”

“Yes. I’m afraid that’s the case.”

“Please come in.” Laura Hubman took him into a carefully bizarre living room. She seated him on an extremely low Korean couch, while she herself perched on a five-foot stool, so that Joe was forced to look up at her from between his knees.

“Caspar is writing,” said Laura Hubman. “I can call him if you like.”

“No, I’d just as soon talk with you.”

Laura Hubman laughed. “He’s a better conversationalist, but he tends to become didactic. Well then, what do you want to know?”

“Well, if you killed Ken Mooney, I wish you’d confess and save us all time and worry.”

“I’m sorry, Sheriff.”

Joe picked up a copy of Réalités from an exquisite ebony tabouret inlaid with mother-of-pearl. “By any chance, do you subscribe to Life magazine?”

“Heavens no.” Laura Hubman swayed on the tall stool as if in shock.

“Did you speak to Ken Tuesday morning?”

“No. I was potting — doing ceramics, you know — in my studio. Caspar was in his study working on his book. When we came up for air, the mail was in the box. So really we can’t tell you a thing.”

“You knew Ken?”

“Not really. I’ve had occasion to speak to him. He’d go into my mother’s house and drink her wine, and then she’d drink, and it was so bad for her, because the doctor specifically warned her against alcohol and any kind of excitement.” Laura Hubman’s voice briefly took on animation. “But that’s neither here nor there. I simply asked Ken not to excite Mama, and he said he wouldn’t. Caspar of course knew him at high school.”

Caspar Hubman peered into the room, then entered: a portly gentleman about his wife’s age. He was almost bald; he wore horn-rim spectacles, a pair of maroon shorts and a yellow terry-cloth polo shirt. Caspar Hubman was bellwether for the intellectuals of Pleasant Grove — a somewhat sparse contingent, to be sure — and he was writing a book. Joe had encountered Caspar Hubman on several other occasions and tended to find him perplexing. Still, he conducted the high school with reasonable efficiency and seemed to be well liked by the students.

“Well, Sheriff, no mystery why you’re here,” said Hubman. “Do you have any notion as to what happened?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

Hubman gave a perfunctory chuckle. “I can’t give you any help. I wish I could. Ken was a fine young man.”

“Did you see him Tuesday morning?”

“No. I saw the van pull up by the mailbox, but paid no great attention.”

“Any theory why anyone would want to kill Ken?”

“Not one in the world. At school he was popular with everyone.”

Joe considered his next question. Laura sat watching intently. Caspar stood thumbs in waistband drumming his paunch. Laura suddenly jumped down from the stool. Joe wondered if she were nervous and, if so, why. He asked, “Did Ken ever mention any of his personal business? Ever talk about his girl friends or anything of the sort?”

“Never,” said Laura. Too quickly? Too sharply?

“He’d have no reason to,” declared Caspar.

Joe’s legs began to cramp. He stood up, looked for some place to sit. There was the five-foot stool, the Korean couch, some modern furniture he wasn’t sure how to get into. He remained standing. On a table, among other magazines, he noticed a Life. He picked it up, turned it over to read the address label. Laura Hubman said quickly, “My mother subscribes to a lot of magazines. Sometimes she passes them on to us.”

Joe asked every question which seemed relevant, a few which did not. Caspar and Laura responded warily, always as if searching the questions for ambiguity. Not necessarily a sign of guilt, reflected Joe. Few people remained at ease during police interrogation, especially when the subject of the conversation was murder.

Finally, with Caspar sweating and fidgeting and Laura clenching and unclenching her fists, Joe took his leave. “If you think of anything I forgot to ask about, please let me know.”

“We surely will,” declared Caspar Hubman.

6

The Wilfred Mortimer house was empty. Joe walked up the driveway, inspected the premises. As Rex Kelly had averred, there was no sign of burglary or extraordinary activity. The garage was locked; nowhere else could the van have been concealed. Joe stood a moment thinking.

The systematics of the murder were becoming somewhat clearer — or, at least, the areas of ignorance were contracting. The testimony of Jeff and Miles Taylor certified that Ken had been killed somewhere along Madrone Way, at a time after he had delivered the Mortimer mail. The scene of the crime would then seem to be near at hand: the Mortimer driveway? What then? In theory the van could have been driven off the Shortridge driveway and hidden behind shrubbery, but only a madman would have dared the attempt. The Taylor driveway? Not a chance, with Jeffery, Miles, Peter and Craig roving the premises. In addition, there was only a car-port, no garage. Mrs. Benjamin had a neat garage which might well have hidden the van, as did Sally Wagner, the Whipples, the Hubmans and Mrs. Bazzarini. The Gentry garage was locked, so was the Mortimers’.

Joe walked back to inspect the Gentry driveway, which was bordered by beds of petunia, dusty miller and snapdragon. Emphatically the van had not been driven across these beds. The lock on the Gentry garage was intact. Was it possible that Mrs. Cream, the colored housekeeper, were murderess or accomplice? Joe peered intently at the spider web which connected the garage door to the soffit above. Practical detection! The spider web was more than two days old, by the evidence of several desiccated flies. Mrs. Cream was no longer a suspect.

Returning to the Mortimer house, Joe scrutinized the garage door hoping to find another spider web. None could be seen. The wind, however, had blown leaves across the driveway and Joe decided that no post office van had been driven across them.

He now proceeded to Mrs. Bazzarini’s house: an enormous three-story structure with brown shingle siding. The Bazzarini garage was closest to the spot where the van had been discovered. In fact, if given a slight initial push, a vehicle might have rolled from the garage out upon Madrone Way.

Joe turned up toward the house. The curtains at the window quivered and fell back. Mrs. Bazzarini kept a close watch on the events of Madrone Way.

Miss Locke, who had discovered Ken’s body, answered the doorbell. She made cryptic gestures toward the sitting room, which Joe understood as an injunction against excitement, then ushered Joe into the front room. Mrs. Bazzarini was a white-haired woman of average size, not obviously ill. In her eyes and nose and the carriage of her head Joe saw a resemblance to her daughter Laura, and there was even a bit of Laura Hubman’s vitality in Mrs. Bazzarini’s attentiveness. “I’m back again, Mrs. Bazzarini. I’ve got a few more questions in regard to Ken Mooney.”

“Who did it?” demanded Mrs. Bazzarini. “I want him sent to the electric chair. He killed a real nice boy, who was so kind and good.” She shook her head, blew her long nose in a paper handkerchief.

“I’ll find the guilty person, don’t worry about that,” said Joe. “But I want your help.”

“You can count on me for anything. Why did they have to harm a nice boy like Ken? So many no-good bums in the world and they pick on Ken! He always had a nice word for me, a sick old lady. If he had time he’d come in and talk. I get so lonesome! He was really full of kindness and goodness — more than my own flesh and blood, I admit it!”

“He spent quite a bit of time here?” asked Joe.

“Depending on how much work he had. If he was late he sometimes came in and ate his lunch, and I always had a glass of wine for him. Usually he came earlier, at ten or eleven.”

“You knew him pretty well then.”

“I should say so. He told me all about his family — his father was a hard stubborn man, Sheriff. He told me about his place in the mountains and what he wanted to make with it.”

“What about his girl friends?”

“He never talked much about girls. He was a sensible boy, though you’d never think so till you knew him. I just can’t understand who would want to hit him like that! It must have been a crazy man! Or maybe it was something connected with the mail.”

Joe nodded soberly. “Quite possibly true. But why didn’t Ken deliver your mail on Tuesday? He delivered the Mortimer house, and that’s all until we find him dead the next morning.”

“Well — it wasn’t Ken, you know,” said Mrs. Bazzarini doubtfully.

“What?”

“I just glimpsed him go up the Mortimer driveway, and it wasn’t Ken. I guess it was the substitute carrier.”

“Is that so? What did he look like?”

“I couldn’t tell you. He didn’t walk like Ken. He was in a hurry, almost running. Ken used to amble, just slouch along.”

“Was he big? little? fat? thin?”

“Just about medium-sized, I’d say. But I couldn’t really swear to anything. I just had a little glimpse.”

“Well, well, well.” Joe rubbed his forehead. “Are you sure of this?”

“It’s what I thought. I used to watch for Ken, and I was disappointed when he didn’t come. I thought maybe he was sick or something like that.”

“Incidentally,” said Joe, “I understand that you subscribe to Life.”

“Yes, I like to read, and keep up with things.”

“Where is the new magazine?”

“Why, I don’t know. I’ve been so upset, I don’t believe I’ve seen it. Barbara!” Mrs. Bazzarini called Miss Locke. “Did you see the new Life anywhere?”

Miss Locke looked rather vaguely around the room. “I don’t see it, Mrs. Bazzarini.”

“Don’t worry. I can do without.”

“Selma might have taken it over to your daughter’s. She took over a big armful of magazines yesterday.”

The idea of Caspar and Laura receiving Mrs. Bazzarini’s old magazines struck Joe as rather ludicrous. “Is Mrs. Hubman your only child, Mrs. Bazzarini?”

“Yes. I once had a boy, but he got killed in an auto accident. A long time ago. Maybe that’s why I was so fond of Ken. He reminded me of Raymond. I gave Laura her house, I’ve given them money, I sent them on a fine trip to Europe, and they never come to see me, even though they live so close. They just let me sit here and be sick, but Ken would always have time to say a nice word or two. Don’t worry, I had him down for something in my will. I wasn’t going to forget him.” Mrs. Bazzarini’s face began to quiver. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

Miss Locke made a significant gesture to Joe, who hastily withdrew.

7

Joe stood at the end of Madrone Way where the mail van had been found. Things were more confused than ever. Ken Mooney had driven his van into Madrone Way, he had bought a glass of lemonade on credit, he had delivered a C.O.D. package to Marsh Shortridge. Sometime later Mrs. Bazzarini claimed to have seen a mailman, not Ken Mooney, delivering mail to the Mortimer house.

A car pulled up to the curb; Howard Griselda, owner and editor of the Pleasant Grove Messenger, alighted.

Joe managed a limp gesture of greeting. “Hello, Howard.”

Griselda nodded. “What does it look like, Sheriff?”

“A mess. That’s not for publication. I can’t decide what’s going on. That’s also not for publication.”

“What is for publication then?” asked Griselda, carefully loading his pipe.

“Just the bare facts. Ken Mooney came into Madrone Way. He never left. Somehow he got lured into turning off the street and was killed. That’s all I know for sure. It looks as if the murderer must live along Madrone Way, on account of the logistics of the crime. I mean by this that the van was parked somewhere all day, probably in somebody’s garage, then brought out late at night and abandoned, but not too far away from the murderer’s home.”

Howard Griselda gave a series of pontifical nods. “That seems straightforward enough. How do you know Ken never left Madrone Way?”

Joe reported the evidence of Jeff and Miles Taylor, with Griselda nodding and puffing on his pipe.

“Isn’t it all very simple then?” asked Griselda. “Just find where the deliveries stopped and you’ve got your killer.”

Joe shook his head. “The last delivery was to an empty house. And Mrs. Bazzarini didn’t kill Ken for about nine reasons. First of all, she was fond of him. Second, she’s in a wheel chair and has just about strength enough to whack a cat with a teaspoon. Third, her nurses would forbid her to strain herself. Fourth, she’s the most unreasonable prospect on the block, with the exception of Mrs. Cream. I’d suspect you first, Howard.”

Griselda acknowledged the witticism with a saturnine smile. “Seems to me the basic question here is: did the murderer kill Ken Mooney, or did he kill the postman?”

“That’s what I’m working on.” Joe looked off down Madrone Way. “Which means I’ve got to intrude into the private lives of everyone along this street, and they’re all going to be vexed.”

Griselda shrugged. “You wanted the job. All you have to do now is cut the mustard.”

“I’ll promise you one thing, Howard. Whenever I feel like resigning, you’ll be the first to hear about it.”

Howard Griselda placidly puffed on his pipe. “Incidentally, Sheriff, I hear of strange goings-on at the jail, in connection with a prisoner named Juan Carminez.”

“Oh, ah,” said Joe.

“Yep. Seems as if Carminez stepped out to visit his boy at the hospital.” He eyed Joe quizzically. Joe looked across the golf course. “I checked at the hospital and it seems that the boy came in with a burst appendix and in a state of acute depression. Some people by the name of Aguilar had been taunting him with the fact that his father was in jail. Well, to make a long story short, Dr. Berry tells me that Carminez’ visit to the hospital probably saved the boy’s life. Carminez subsequently went out and assaulted Aguilar.” He paused, looked inquiringly at Joe, who gave a curt nod.

“So I was told.”

“That story is news,” said Griselda. “I’d like to run it. What if Carminez had stabbed Aguilar as he stabbed Henry Gutierrez? You’d be in a rough position, Sheriff.”

“Possibly so, Howard.”

“The fact remains, I can’t print the story because the public would ignore the impropriety and think only of the boy’s troubles. You’ll get by with this one.”

“I wasn’t worried, Howard. Where did you get the information?”

“Sources, Sheriff, sources.”

“I know you’d like to prove me a crook, Howard; I’m afraid you’re in for a hard pull.”

“I don’t want to prove you a crook. I just feel that temperamentally you’re not the man for the job. San Rodrigo County isn’t the backwoods. It’s a thriving progressive county in the center of California. We want an up-to-date progressive law-enforcement system, not a sheriff’s office which casually turns loose prisoners and then forgets about them.”

“Well, I could use more deputies and a full-time booking sergeant. Also I’m miserably underpaid: about the lowest salary in the state. If you want a big-time production, get me some big-time money.”

“You’ll have to take that up with the voters.”

Joe laughed. “The trouble is, we’ve got a low crime rate, due to the efficiency of the sheriff’s office. People don’t want to put out money to see me ride a white horse in the July Fourth parade, like old Cooch used to do. Where he got the money I won’t even guess.”

Chapter VII

1

In the sourest of moods Joe went home for lunch. Miranda was visiting a friend; his mother, after several attempts to make conversation, became offended and went off into the living room to watch television. Joe ate cold ham and potato salad in solitude. Now he had two mysteries on his hands: who killed Ken Mooney and who tipped off Howard Griselda in regard to Juan Carminez?

In the latter case Miss Curdy was not automatically to blame. Conceivably the Aguilars had been sufficiently astounded by the miracle of one Juan Carminez locked up in jail and another identical Juan Carminez performing an assault at La Fiesta to report the case to Howard Griselda.

Joe snapped open a can of beer. Forget Juan Carminez and the Aguilars! Who had killed Ken Mooney?

There was, of course, the question Howard Griselda had propounded: had the murder been done to Ken Mooney or to the postman?

Joe went to the telephone, called Henry Deardorf, the postmaster. “Sheriff Joe Bain here, Postmaster. In regard to the Mooney case, do you have anything new?”

“Not a thing.” Deardorf’s voice was cool.

“I’m wondering if there might have been some kind of mail delivered along Madrone Way that was, well, outrageous or scandalous.”

Deardorf stated that the mail delivered along Madrone Way and all throughout Pleasant Grove was so inoffensive as to be insipid.

“Is there some kind of mail that people might feel guilty about receiving?”

Deardorf spoke with patient reasonableness: “If they kill the post office employees they will not receive this mail, so they are defeating their own purposes.”

“I was thinking about mail someone hadn’t been expecting — a post card from a girl friend, or say a fan letter from Fidel, something of the sort.”

“Anything’s possible,” said Deardorf, “but if you think we sit around the post office drinking hot chocolate and reading post cards you’re wrong.”

“No offense meant, Mr. Deardorf. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of things.”

“I wish you would, and pretty quick too. You can’t imagine the questions people are asking us.”

“I’m making progress, Mr. Deardorf. The first step in an investigation is getting the facts.”

The conversation came to an end. Joe telephoned headquarters, and spoke to Miss Curdy. The office seemed to be functioning smoothly. Miss Curdy had two matters to call to Joe’s attention: “Burt Rank, Director of the Mosquito Abatement Program, wants you to get in touch with him.”

“I’ll see to his business this afternoon. Anything else?”

“Mr. Griselda telephoned, inquiring about the Carminez affair.” Miss Curdy’s voice was flat and passionless.

“Hmm. I wonder how he got wind of that?”

“He didn’t say.”

“I’m going up to the Mooney place for an hour or two. If anything breaks, have Ace give me a call.”

Joe opened another can of beer. The Mooney affair was baffling. There had to be a reason for the murder, but none of the customary motives made sense. Mrs. Benjamin had hinted that Sally Wagner’s generosity toward Ken was boundless: maybe so. Would either Mrs. Benjamin or Mrs. Wagner kill Ken on this account?

Far-fetched.

Mrs. Bazzarini also liked Ken. She had been planning to leave him a little something in her will. Would the Hubmans, her presumable heirs, slaughter Ken on this account?

Unlikely.

There were Bill Whipple, Alice Benjamin, Starr Shortridge, Marsh Shortridge, who had known Ken at high school. Was Ken interfering with the goals of one of these?

Hard to believe.

Still, someone had killed Ken, and presumably for an excellent reason. Joe drained the can of beer, set it down with a rap. More facts. More leg work. First out to the Mooney ranch on Oatfarm Road. The two girls, Ken’s sisters, perhaps had known more than they had let on. Someone at the country club might have noticed something. Most of all, Joe wanted to talk to Bill Whipple. He telephoned Whipple Chevrolet, but Bill Whipple was out for the day.

Well, then, to Oatfarm Road, for another session with the Mooneys. There was also the matter of Halfway House. Twenty-five thousand dollars seemed a sensible price. Too bad he couldn’t slap a few bundles of hundred-dollar bills down on the table in front of Clarence Mooney. Also, while he was in the vicinity, the matter of ‘Luna’ and her mosquitos.

2

Joe drove north along the Aurora highway, turned right on Hankinson Road. Just past the Oatfarm Road intersection was the real estate office Joe had noticed before: a quaint little fairy-cottage with concave gables and bull’s-eye windows. Overhead hung the sign:

PANDORA REALTY

Homes • Farm Properties • Lots

RING BELL FOR ATTENTION, PLEASE

Beyond was a driveway bordered by hollyhocks leading to a neat white house under four giant oak trees.

Joe drove into the driveway. To the east side of the house were twelve shallow concrete pans, six feet by two feet, arranged in a circle like the spokes of a wheel, each containing two inches of water. Joe could understand Burt Rank’s anguish.

Joe parked under the oak trees, looked right and left for dogs, stepped out of the car. A pleasant place, with the rolling hills just behind, the valley stretching away into the summer haze.

He went to the door at the front of a screened porch, pressed the button. From a far distance came a tinkle as of wind chimes or delicate glass bells … Joe touched the button a second time. Again the tinkle of bells. He wondered if ‘Luna’ were home. A blue Dodge station wagon, three or four years old, stood at the end of the driveway.

Hmm, thought Joe. He turned, reached for the doorbell again, to find Luna already out on the porch, staring at him with lustrous eyes.

Joe, not having heard the door open, jerked back. Luna opened the screen door, stepped outside: a woman about thirty years old, tall and slender, with long black hair constrained by a ribbon of woven copper. She wore a long gown of blue gauze, and Joe apologized hurriedly: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get you out of bed.”

Luna made a reassuring gesture. “These are my summer garments.”

“They look cool,” said Joe. “You are ‘Luna’?”

Luna nodded. “Yes.”

“I’m Sheriff Joe Bain. Mr. Rank asked me to stop by. He feels that there’s been some misunderstanding about the mosquito abatement program, and he asked me to straighten things out.”

“Yes, it’s quite true. I tried to make him understand but I’m sure he went away perplexed.”

“Perplexed and unhappy,” said Joe. “He feels that stagnant water like this breeds mosquitos, which then become a nuisance and a health hazard.”

Luna smiled wistfully. “Poor Mr. Rank, he thinks only of mosquitos, which must become tiresome.”

“I suspect that it is. Well, what can we do about those pans?”

“Nothing whatever,” said Luna with engaging simplicity.

Joe went to look down into the water. “Look! See those things? Wrigglers!”

Luna bent to peer down into the water. She was slender, but by no means gaunt, and she made, Joe thought, a very attractive picture: very graceful, very stimulating.

“‘Wrigglers’?”

“Baby mosquitos, so to speak.”

Luna turned a thoughtful glance toward the sky. “I wonder … I haven’t been making really good contact.”

“How could it be otherwise? If you like I’ll help you clear up the infestation.”

“Would you really? How?”

“Easy. I’ll just tilt up the pans, dump out the water.”

Luna expressed concern for the alignment of the pans, but Joe reassured her; and he was able to lift each pan, spill the water and return the pan to its precise position.

Luna examined the dank concrete surfaces. “They need a good scrubbing before I fill them again.”

Joe cautiously inquired if perhaps the pans might not work just as well empty.

Luna laughed and shook her head. “Of course not.”

“Have you ever tried?” Joe persisted. “You might be surprised.”

“No, I’ve never tried. I just know they wouldn’t work that way.”

“What about your husband?” asked Joe. “Has he tried?”

“There isn’t any such person. Not on Earth … But what have you done to your hand?”

“Just a little scratch. There was a nail sticking out of that last pan.”

Luna expressed distress and pity. She certainly seemed a warm-hearted woman, thought Joe.

“Come inside. I’ll help you as best I can.”

“It’s really nothing much.”

Luna insisted and took Joe into the house, where she applied iodine and an aromatic ointment.

“Now, please rest. I’ll steep a pot of tea.”

Joe sat down on a couch while Luna went off into the kitchen. He picked up a magazine, The Atlantis, and started to read an article concerning the anti-gravitic properties of a substance called zoranium. Luna returned, wheeling the teapot on a little cart and once again Joe noticed her deft grace and the ease of her motions.

Luna poured the tea, which gave off a pungent odor. Joe sipped cautiously, then, jerking back his head, frowned down into the cup. “What on earth is it?”

“An infusion of nutritious herbs. Try one of these little cakes. I bake them from natural seeds and fibers.”

Joe tasted one of the cakes. “What kind of seeds do you use? Not morning-glory seeds, I hope. On second thought, don’t tell me. Are you acquainted with Howard Griselda?”

“No. Who is he?”

“A fellow I know. He’d love to find me sprawled out on a divan eating hashish.”

Luna smilingly sipped her tea. “What a strange person he must be.”

“I agree … My word, this tea has a grip. I feel lucky just getting my tongue back.”

“I know over a thousand infusions,” said Luna. “Each has its uses.” She described the formulation of several representative brews. Joe took another tentative sip, thinking that if Luna poured a cup into each of her concrete pans, there would be no further problem with the mosquitos. “Incidentally,” he asked, “what do you achieve with those pans of water?”

Luna considered a moment before replying. “Are you acquainted with Transcendentalism?”

“I confess to ignorance,” said Joe.

“In that case,” said Luna, “it’s rather hard to explain. And I’m not even sure I have the correct orientation.”

“If you’d put DDT in the water, or kerosene, or even Clorox everybody would be happy, and I imagine they’d focus about as well as before.”

Luna agreed that the plan was worth a trial. “Mr. Rank suggested something similar — but he made it sound so absurd. I’m very sensitive to the umbra which surrounds people. Mr. Rank …” Luna shook her head, reluctant to denigrate a person not present.

Joe ran his hand through his hair, looked over his shoulder. “I won’t ask about mine. I felt pretty dim when I arrived. That herb tea or whatever it was lit me up. Do you live out here alone?”

“Yes, I was sent from Arthemisia on a mission which has not yet been revealed to me.”

“Arthemisia?” Joe reflected. “Where’s that?”

“Arthemisia is a far planet,” said Luna. “I seldom speak of it. Most people are frightened; when they can’t understand, they become hostile.”

“This is pretty far out in the country for a nice-looking woman to be living alone,” said Joe. “There’s all kinds of people on the loose nowadays, as witness the two of us.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“I wish I could say the same.” Joe rose to his feet and went to look at a complicated lute-like instrument. He touched the strings, evoking a sweet twanging sound. “Are you a musician?”

“Not really. I just sing songs of my native planet.”

“I probably couldn’t make head or tail of them,” said Joe, “but I’d still like to hear you sing.”

Luna was obviously pleased by Joe’s interest. “I’ll practice first, so I won’t seem an utter idiot.”

“Sometime soon,” said Joe. “But now, I’d better be on my way. You remember about those mosquitos, so I don’t have to listen to any more of Rank’s complaints.”

“Kerosene, DDT, or Clorox. I’ll try to remember.”

3

The Mooney ranch at first glance seemed deserted. Sunlight vibrated off the composition shingles of the house; the windmill creaked; Clarence Mooney’s old Chevrolet was nowhere in evidence.

Joe got out of the car and stood in the noonday shimmer. A shadow passed behind one of the windows. A moment later the door opened and the older of the two girls looked out.

“Hi,” said Joe. “Where’s your father?”

“He went into town.”

“Is your mother home?”

“No. They went to arrange the funeral. Stella and I are home alone.”

“Well, I’d like to talk to you and your sister.”

“I’ll go get her — unless you’d like to come in. We’re mopping the floor.”

“Best talk out here, then.”

The other girl appeared; the two sat on the steps, clutching cotton skirts around their bony knees. “I don’t think I know your names,” said Joe. “I’m Sheriff Bain; I guess you know that.”

“That’s Stella. I’m Ennis.”

“Well, girls,” said Joe, “as you know I want to find out who killed Ken. Have you any ideas?” He looked from one thin face to the other.

Ennis and Stella, squinting in concentration, shook their heads.

“Did Ken ever mention his girl friends?”

“Once in a while,” said Ennis.

“Who was he going with?”

“Nobody special. Somebody called Helen, once in a while. There was another girl he knew in Panoche.”

“Did he go out much with Alice Benjamin?”

“Not very much,” said Stella.

Ennis frowned, looked sidewise at her sister.

“When was the last time?” asked Joe.

Ennis said in a disparaging voice, “He hardly ever went with her. In fact I don’t think he ever took her out.”

Stella, the younger and more vivacious, said, “He used to tell us to drink milk and eat ice cream, so we could grow up to look like Alice.”

“Did Ken talk much about Bill Whipple?”

“Not too much. Dad doesn’t like him very much. He cheated Dad when we bought our car.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Bill wouldn’t pay Daddy what our old car was worth,” piped Stella. “Then the car used lots of gas and oil. It needed spark-plugs and things like that.”

“I guess that’s a pretty common occurrence,” said Joe. “Do your folks know anybody else along Madrone Way?”

“Mom went to school with Mrs. Shortridge,” said Stella. “Up in Coyote. It was just a little two-room school called Iron House School. That was when Mom was a little girl. Afterward Mrs. Shortridge moved to Palo Alto.”

Ennis pointed. “Mom and Dad are coming.”

The gray Chevrolet rumbled into the driveway, coasted to a stop. Clarence Mooney, in a reddish-brown suit, opened the car door, looked out toward Joe and the two girls for a long frowning moment. He turned, muttered something to his wife, then heaved himself from the car.

Joe rose to his feet, took a few steps forward. “I happened to be in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d see if you had any new ideas regarding Ken.”

“Yes, I have,” said Clarence Mooney. “I think it was a mistake! I think whoever killed Ken got hold of the wrong man!”

“It’s a thought,” Joe conceded. “So far as I’m concerned, there are three main possibilities, one in connection with Alice Benjamin, one with Bill Whipple, and one with Mrs. Bazzarini.”

Clarence Mooney gave a sour grunt. “I don’t know Mrs. Bazzarini or the other, but I know Bill Whipple. I wouldn’t put much past him. There’s a self-centered young fellow for you, Sheriff. He treated Ken like he was a chuckle-head — me too, for that matter. Told me he’d take Halfway House off my hands if I wasn’t in any hurry for my money. Can you imagine that?”

“Pretty wild. How much did he offer you?”

“Not enough. He was a bad influence on Ken, if you want my opinion — gave Ken all kinds of wrong ideas.”

“Such as how?”

“Well, the easy attitude toward life. Easy money, easy girls. Conniving instead of working. Cheating a man, instead of dealing fair and square and giving him his money’s worth. Mind you, I don’t mean to say that Ken took to any of this; he didn’t, because he wasn’t brought up that way. But maybe Ken wavered just a bit. You could see him wondering, and maybe he spent more foolish money than he might have otherwise.”

“How did Ken get along with the people he worked with?”

“He never said too much.”

Mrs. Mooney interposed timidly: “You remember how Ken didn’t like Mr. Deardorf?”

“That wasn’t anything,” growled Clarence Mooney. “Nothing worthwhile talking about. One day Deardorf found Ken reading magazines from the mail while he was eating his lunch, and gave him a lecture. Ken didn’t like it.”

“I don’t blame him,” declared Mrs. Mooney. “What harm was he doing?”

“It’s not a matter of harm,” said Clarence Mooney. “Rules are rules. If you break one, you go on to break another.”

“Something in that,” said Joe. “By the way, I just happened to mention to my mother that Halfway House was up for sale. She was mildly interested, provided the price was right. I know she wouldn’t go anywhere near forty thousand dollars.”

Clarence Mooney listened with a small quiet smile. Joe saw that he was up against a real pro.

“I’d like to be generous,” said Mooney regretfully. “If I had millions of dollars I’d give money away. But things are tight. I’ve had some nibbles at forty-five thousand and I was thinking about accepting. At forty thousand I’m taking a beating. I couldn’t undercut that figure very much, if at all.”

“Place is about ready to collapse,” said Joe. “It needs everything from new pipes to clean bedspreads. I told my mother but she’s a sentimental old girl; she remembers the place like it used to be forty years ago.”

“Forty years ago Halfway House was famous,” stated Clarence Mooney. “Up and down the coast.”

“True. But now it’s unknown. I put all those facts to my mother but she told me go ahead, make Mr. Mooney an offer.”

“An offer, hey? Well, I’ll listen. I can always say no. How much?”

“Twenty-four thousand seven hundred. That’s taking every cent of her insurance, all her savings, the works.”

“If she’s got twenty-four thousand there’s no problem. She can borrow another fifteen, I mean sixteen, with no trouble at all. She’d be doing herself a favor. A big hotel man from San Francisco would take it right now at forty thousand. I said, ‘I want to keep it in local hands.’”

“I hardly think she’ll go that high. It’s a quaint old ruin, but forty grand is a lot of money.”

Clarence Mooney looked at Joe sidewise, with a mixture of mulishness and craft. “Nothing comes cheap nowadays. Why don’t you advance her the money? Sheriff makes a pretty good salary.”

“Not that good,” said Joe, “I guess we’ll have to drop the whole idea … Something else I want to ask you about Ken: do you know what girls he’d been going around with?”

“No. That’s something he was close as a clam on.”

“What about male friends, aside from Bill Whipple?”

“Well, let’s see. There’d be Wilson Henderson, Gary Snook, Pete Ravazza, probably a few others. You talk to those boys, they’ll steer you to all the others.”

Joe copied names, addresses and took his leave.

4

Back at his office Joe made a series of notes.

Golf course.

Relations with fellow employees.

Friends: male, female.

Bank account.

Rex Kelly appeared and made a report on the day’s activities. “First of all, the hammers. I picked up all I could find, and some hatchets as well. None of them test for blood.”

Joe gave a gloomy grunt. “It was a long chance to begin with. Take them all back.”

“Right. I also worked up a list of all the Life subscribers on Ken’s route, or, I should say, the addresses of all this week’s magazines. I’ll compare this with next week’s list and maybe we’ll learn something.”

Joe grunted. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ve checked along Madrone Way, and everybody seems to be pretty well equipped.” He frowned. There was a tickling in his mind. Somewhere along the line he had half-noticed something. What the devil had it been? So much had happened during the day it was hard to keep everything clear.

He frowned down at his list. “Here’s what I want you to do tomorrow. Check the golf course, find out who was playing Tuesday morning. Get their names, question them. Item two: visit the post office, talk to the fellows Ken worked with. Item three: go to the bank, check on Ken’s account and his monthly statements. That ought to hold you awhile.”

“Most of the morning, I’d say.”

Joe leaned back in his chair. “I guess you haven’t heard the latest: Mrs. Bazzarini says it wasn’t Ken who delivered the Mortimer house. She could be wrong, but she thinks it was somebody else.”

Rex Kelly’s jaw fell slack. “How the hell can that be? A substitute carrier maybe?”

“No. According to the Taylor kids, Ken drove into Madrone Way and never came out. Marsh Shortridge spoke to Ken. After that no one admits talking to Ken. Everybody says their mail was shoved into the box. Mrs. Benjamin did not get her registered letter, Mrs. Bazzarini had no mail at all. What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Rex Kelly, “that somebody bashed Ken, then delivered the rest of the mail.”

“That’s just how I figure.”

“It seems a risk. A big risk.”

“Not if the murderer got into Ken’s uniform,” said Joe.

The two men sat silent a moment.

Joe went on. “The killer would have to go on delivering the mail: otherwise the house where the mail stopped would indicate where Ken got killed.”

“Assuming that this is the case,” said Rex Kelly, “the uniform would have to fit the murderer — at least approximately. Ken was about average height. He had good shoulders, but he was pretty slim otherwise. That lets Caspar Hubman out right there. He could never get his belly into Ken’s pants. Mrs. Benjamin, who is remarkably pregnant, also eases out of contention.”

Joe scribbled a list of names:

Sam Shortridge

Miriam Shortridge

Marsh Shortridge

Starr Shortridge

Tom Taylor

Sheila Taylor

Grace Benjamin

Sally Wagner

Fred Whipple

Sheila Whipple

Bill Whipple

Caspar Hubman

Laura Hubman

Mrs. Cream

Mrs. Bazzarini

Helen Locke

“These are the adult residents of Madrone Way. The two older Shortridges have alibis, as does Tom Taylor and Fred Whipple. Mrs. Taylor could not hide a mail van from her kids; Caspar Hubman is too fat, Mrs. Benjamin is too pregnant. Mrs. Cream is fairly stocky and something other than snow white, which lets her out. Mrs. Bazzarini and Miss Locke vouch for each other. I can’t imagine either one chasing after Ken to bang him on the head.” Joe crossed out names, prepared a new list:

Marsh Shortridge

Starr Shortridge

Sally Wagner

Bill Whipple

Laura Hubman

For a long minute he scrutinized the five names. “All these people could do the job. They could also get into Ken’s uniform without looking grotesque. Sally Wagner just barely. Laura Hubman’s bottom is also deluxe.”

“It seems so reckless!” Rex Kelly exclaimed. “Everybody knows everyone else; just one look and then ‘Why hello, Mrs. Wagner, what in the world are you doing in that uniform?’”

“Whoever killed the mailman has to deliver the mail,” said Joe. “Otherwise the jig is up. And who looks at the mailman? He’s just a piece of the street, like a fire hydrant. The biggest risk was at Mrs. Bazzarini’s house — and she didn’t get her mail. Mrs. Benjamin likewise did not get her registered letter either.”

Rex Kelly nodded dubiously. “In that case the scene of the crime would seem to be located somewhere before the Benjamin house — at the Shortridges’ or at the Taylors’.”

“True. But my candidate is Bill Whipple.” He rose to his feet. “Before you go home I want you to run over to the morgue, give Ken’s uniform a close look for hairs or odd-colored lipstick or something of the sort.”

“Right, Sheriff.”

5

Joe drove out to Madrone Way, parked in front of the Whipple house. He walked up to the door, rang the bell. There was no response.

Joe went back to stand by his car. He looked right and left along Madrone Way, up Spanish Hill. He watched the progress of a late afternoon foursome on the golf course, wondering how long it would be before his mother and Miranda insisted that they all join the country club … If his mother guaranteed to take up golf, it would almost be worth the price.

Sally Wagner, wearing red slacks and a black sweater, came from her house, ostensibly to turn on the lawn sprinklers. She noticed Joe with a little jerk of surprise. “Sheriff Joe Bain! Why are you standing so quietly, with such a sinister expression?”

“You caught me in the act of thinking, Mrs. Wagner.”

Mrs. Wagner bent over to adjust the faucet, and Joe mentally held up Ken’s trousers against the red-clad expanse. He made a tuneless hissing sound between his teeth, gave his head a skeptical shake. Sally Wagner came down to the sidewalk. “Are there any new developments to the murder case?”

“We’re still in the process of getting facts. I’ve been trying to catch up with Bill Whipple, who seems to have been one of Ken’s friends.”

Sally Wagner pursed her lips. “I believe they had a falling out of some kind — probably because of their educational differences and so forth. In my opinion Bill is a very arrogant young man. Incidentally, I don’t think you’ll catch him tonight. Sheila Whipple told me that they were all going into San Jose this evening.”

“The morning will do just as well,” said Joe. “But back to Ken. You didn’t see him at all the other day? Not even a glimpse?”

“No, not a glimpse. Usually he came tramping up the stairs, whistling or singing; he was such a cheerful lad. But Tuesday — not a sound. Perhaps he had something on his mind. Premonition?”

“He was in good humor when the Taylor boys saw him. That was before he went to the Shortridges’.”

Sally Wagner rose to the bait. “Perhaps he heard something disturbing at the Shortridges’. They’re a strange lot, those young ones. Sam and Miriam are small-town aristocrats, no question there, but their children are absolutely feudal. Marsh looks down his nose at everybody. I’m sure he’s unhealthy mentally. He reminds me of the young German army officers in the World War movies — cold-blooded and formal. You know the type. Starr is very different, but she’s as proud as they come. They’re both utter snobs. I’ve had only the barest civility from either of the two … Poor little Alice Benjamin, marrying into such a family! It’s a shame!”

“How so?”

“I shouldn’t say this, because it’s sheer conjecture, but if you ask me, Grace Benjamin pushed Alice into it. Grace is an ambitious woman, for all her religion. You know she’s a fervent Irish Catholic, which means no birth control. I suppose she feels self-conscious, which is all very well, but —” In vivid detail Sally Wagner described her quarrel with Grace Benjamin. “We’ve never really been cordial since.”

“Sometimes that’s the way things work out,” said Joe. “What kind of a man is Mr. Benjamin?”

“He’s a dear!” declared Sally Wagner. “Perhaps a little too easy-going. Alice has her father’s disposition, and I’m afraid Grace has ruled them both with an iron hand.” She turned to look after a passing car. “Somebody for the Hubmans. I’m a dreadful scandal-monger, I know, but I find people so interesting and I can’t resist talking about them. But won’t you come in for a glass of sherry? It’s just about that time.”

Joe glanced at the sun, which was touching the trees, checked it against his watch. “No, thanks, I’d better be starting home.”

“Some other time then.”

6

During dinner Miranda proposed a system for decorating the bedrooms at Halfway House: “They could all be different colors! There’d be a Red Room and a Green Room and a Blue Room — and everything in the rooms would be red and green and blue.”

Marian Bain frowned. “Who would want to sleep in a Purple Room? Or a Black Room? Don’t forget, there are ten rooms.”

Joe said dourly, “Forget it, girls. Maybe Halfway House isn’t such a good idea after all.”

Miranda looked at him with a stricken face. “Oh Daddy!”

Joe’s mother exclaimed: “What? You traipse us out there, you get us all excited, and now, cool as you please, you decide it’s not a good idea?”

Joe looked from daughter to mother with a slack jaw. “Well — in the first place, Clarence Mooney wants an impossible price.”

“Just what is ‘impossible’?”

“His first figure — forty grand.”

“That certainly seems out of reach,” Marian Bain conceded reluctantly. “Do you think the place is worth it?”

“Maybe, maybe not. I haven’t given up. But right now this killing is on my mind and it’s all I can think of.”

“Do you know who did it, Daddy?”

“Yeah. Somebody along Madrone Way. That’s as close as I can come. I’ve asked every question I can think of, but naturally the guilty party is giving me careful answers … Well, something will turn up.”

Chapter VIII

Friday morning began poorly. There was a particularly heavy load of routine work and Miss Curdy seemed more obtuse than ever.

At ten o’clock Constable William White called in from Vogelburg to request assistance. Two miles south of Vogelburg was the Dedrick dairy farm, where, during the morning milking, a Swiss farm-hand had run amok. Seizing an axe, he had split the skulls of nine Jerseys and two Holsteins, then had chased Mrs. Dedrick down the road. Returning to the bunkhouse and arming himself with a .22 rifle, he had climbed to the top of a silo where he now stood at bay, shooting at everything in sight.

Summoning Deputies Ben Boso and Fay Insley, Joe drove to the Dedrick farm. The road was lined with parked cars, and a hundred persons of all ages and sexes stood watching.

Joe instructed Constable White to establish road-blocks and divert traffic, then set himself to a consideration of the problem. How to bring the maniac down from the silo without bloodshed?

Joe brought forth a bullhorn and called up to the unseen man, urging him to throw down his rifle and descend. In response came a spanggg-thwack! as the maniac attempted to expunge the source of the noise.

Joe drew back, and stood scowling at the silo. The covert grins of the onlookers began to make Joe fretful, as did the suggestions which were put forward: “Call for a helicopter, blow the guy off with a gust!” “Use tear gas!” “Wash him down with a fire hose!”

Joe controlled his temper. If he bawled orders and reprimands, he’d lose votes. If he failed to produce, he’d also lose votes. What would old Cooch have done in a case like this? Old Cooch would never have come out here in the first place, Joe thought glumly. He’d have sent Deputy Joe Bain.

A man in a brown suit and a wide-brimmed straw hat came forward. “I’m Les Druper, Vogelburg correspondent for the Messenger. What do you think about all this, Sheriff?”

“I think it’s a ticklish situation, especially for the guy on the silo.”

“What do you propose to do?”

Joe considered a moment. “Well, I could go up there after him. He’d shoot me, then jump to the ground and two maniacs would be dead. I’m going to try to psyche him down.”

“How’s that?”

“Just watch.” Joe signaled Deputies Boso and Insley. “I want everybody to clear out. Get all these people back into their cars and send them home. I want the road absolutely clear.”

The order was easier to issue than to execute, but half an hour later the road was clear. The spectators had departed, along with William Dedrick, his wife, Les Druper, Constable William White, Deputies Boso and Insley and Joe himself.

The farm and the surrounding countryside were deserted. The sun beat down on the silo. The maniac was puzzled. He looked this way and that. No one in sight. He raised his head and listened. No sound except the rustle of the breeze in the eucalyptus trees. He shot two chickens. No one seemed to care.

The top of the silo was hot. After half an hour, he became disgusted and descended the ladder. He looked uncertainly this way and that. Never had the farm seemed so silent — except on Sunday mornings, when Mr. and Mrs. Dedrick went to church in Vogelburg. Sunday morning? Could it possibly be Sunday morning? What was he doing out here in the hot sun? The maniac went into the bunkhouse.

From a nearby barn Joe had been watching through binoculars. Boso and Insley had made a wide circuit and were now at the back of an alfalfa field, lying in an irrigation ditch. Joe called them on his transceiver. Sheltered from view by the Dedrick farmhouse, they ran forward and took up stations at opposite corners of the house.

Joe now left the barn. Sidling along the road, he approached the bunkhouse, tossed a tear-gas grenade through the window. The maniac rushed out and was immediately captured by Boso and Insley.

Constable White removed the road-blocks; the folk of the neighborhood returned to marvel at the silo and commiserate with the Dedricks over the dead cows.

Boso and Insley took the captive off to Pleasant Grove. Joe went to his car and radioed headquarters. Ace Wardell had nothing urgent to communicate. There had been no breaks in the Mooney case. Rex Kelly had left a memorandum to the effect that, first, he had interrogated Bill Whipple, learning nothing of significance; and second, he had gleaned no clues from an inspection of Ken Mooney’s uniform.

Joe started back toward Pleasant Grove, and decided that while he was in the neighborhood he might as well drop by the Mooney ranch. In the course of talking among themselves, the Mooneys might have recalled a significant fact. Conceivably Clarence Mooney had recalculated the price of Halfway House.

Joe drove southwest to Coyote, then cut off through the hills down to Oatfarm Road and presently turned into the Mooney driveway.

No one was home. The afternoon sun baked the house. In the front yard a few stunted hollyhocks were wilting. The windmill creaked and groaned like a lost soul.

Joe stood a moment looking at the house, wondering how people could live in a situation so barren and bleak when there wasn’t any real need for it … Somber and depressed, he continued south to Hankinson Road. He paused at the sign PANDORA REALTY, looked in toward the house, but saw only the shimmer of thought-focusing tanks. The car was gone; no one seemed to be home. Joe felt more cheerless than ever. “I could even use some of that tea.”

Two miles down the road he came upon a stalled car, with a woman struggling to change a flat tire. Joe pulled over to the side; here was a vote for sure, and maybe that of her husband as well. It never hurt to act like a gentleman.

The woman stood up; Joe saw her to be Luna, from the planet Arthemisia. Today she wore the garments of Earth: a simple brown and white cotton frock, and once again Joe could not help but notice how closely her attributes matched Earthly standards of beauty. Joe’s spirits rose. He jumped from the car; Luna wiped her forehead gratefully, leaving a rather appealing smear of dirt. “I’m so glad to see you, Sheriff! I detest these flat things.”

“I’m glad I wandered by,” said Joe. “Now if you’ll just stand to the side and admire my skill …”

Joe jacked up the car, removed the tire, only to discover that the spare was also flat.

Luna was perplexed. “I can’t imagine where all the air went. It was full when I bought the car.”

“There’s only one thing to do,” said Joe. “We’ll take the tires into town and have them refilled. It might take some little time. Were you going any place in a big hurry?”

“Well, no. Just some shopping.”

Joe loaded the tires into the back of his car, helped Luna into the front seat, and continued along Hankinson Road.

At the highway intersection Joe turned north toward Aurora, where he had few acquaintances. At the outskirts of town he stopped at a service station, dropped off the tires for repair.

“Things get pretty busy this time of day,” Joe told Luna. “There’ll be a wait … It’s still a bit early for dinner; let’s have a drink or two.”

Luna made no protest and Joe drove to the Black Bull, Aurora’s most distinguished restaurant. Before alighting he checked into headquarters. “Sheriff Bain here. Anything going on?”

“Pretty quiet,” said Ace Wardell.

“Good. I’d like you to call home for me, say I’ve been unavoidably detained and not to wait dinner.”

“Right, Sheriff, will do.”

“If anything comes up, I’m at the Black Bull in Aurora.”

Joe escorted Luna to a booth in the bar section, ordered her a frozen daiquiri and himself a highball. “Here we are,” said Joe. “I can think of worse things to be doing.”

“Yes,” said Luna, in a voice which for some reason had become prim. “It’s very nice in here. How long will it be before the tires are fixed?”

Joe raised his eyebrows, wondering what he had done to exasperate her. “Heavens, I don’t know. A couple hours, I suppose. But drink up. How are the thought-control pans working out?”

“Not too well. Something is causing a false vibration. I’m afraid the system isn’t practical.”

“You never know till you try,” said Joe. “I could use some thought-wave equipment … Maybe it’s just as well I don’t. The jail is crowded now.”

“Earth is a chaotic world,” said Luna.

“It’s got its good points,” said Joe, “but you have to have a swift personality to take advantage of them. If I ever get rich it’ll be by accident. I don’t suppose the real estate business is all that good either.”

Luna shook her head, smiling at Joe’s naïveté. “I have never needed to concern myself. In Texas I was given wealth by someone I helped.”

The conversation proceeded. Luna’s coolness gradually disappeared and after her second daiquiri she was leaning forward, her great dark eyes eager and attentive. Joe was discussing the Mooney case: “I don’t mind being baffled if there’s a fighting chance of enlightenment. Here in this miserable case there’s no way to turn. Nobody knows anything; everybody insinuates that his neighbour is a boor, but that’s as far as they’re willing to go.”

Luna thoughtfully inspected the bottom of her glass and Joe signaled the waitress for a third round. “The use of a hammer implies a crime of sudden fury,” said Luna. “Fury or panic. A crime without premeditation. The hammer must have been close at hand. Were any of your suspects building anything?”

Joe scratched his nose. “I didn’t think to ask … It’s a good point. I ought to sign you up as a special detective.”

Luna shook her head. “I would never know how to deal with hate or avarice.”

“It’s hard to avoid,” said Joe. “How did you ever manage to buy a car?”

Luna shrugged. “There are many systems. I use a small crystal orb on a silver chain, and swing it back and forth.”

“Oh? Does it help?”

“If it doesn’t, I go to another agency.”

Joe sipped his highball. “Back to Ken Mooney, something else looms up through the fog. I’ve been asking myself: was Ken demolished because he was the mailman or because he was Ken? In other words, was the motive associated with his work or his private life? The hammer, as you point out, shows lack of premeditation, and this would indicate murder of the mailman. If Ken was murdered in his own identity, the killer would probably have planned something more elegant.”

“There might have been a sudden argument,” Luna pointed out. “Or perhaps each day Ken Mooney compounded a small offense, and suddenly drove someone past the edge of restraint.”

Joe threw up his hands in defeat. “Every time I think I’m deriving order from the confusion, somebody pulls the string. Incidentally, let me wipe that smear of grease off your face. People have been looking at you rather funny.”

Luna jumped to her feet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think about it,” said Joe.

Luna marched to the ladies’ room. When she returned Joe escorted her into the restaurant. “The steaks here are usually pretty good. I suddenly remember I didn’t have any lunch, what with William Dedrick and his mad help. I plan to dine.”

Luna for a moment or two returned to her mysterious mood of cool withdrawal; nevertheless she did not reject the menu which Joe put into her hands. Over steak, onion rings and Monteverde Pinot Noir, Luna once again became cordial.

Joe indicated the wine. “Every time we tilt that bottle we enrich Mrs. Bazzarini, who would be one of my prime suspects except that she’s a helpless invalid and she loved Ken like a son. Also, a nurse watches her every move. I tend to eliminate Mrs. Bazzarini. Some of the others have alibis; some are too pregnant; some are too fat. There aren’t many suspects left.”

“One might consider the crime an illusion.”

“Unfortunately not. Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“The evening is young,” said Joe. “I don’t know what your social habits are, but what do you say to taking your car home and then checking out a bottle of Scotch?”

Luna raised her expressive eyebrows. Her voice again was cool. “Hadn’t you better call your wife first?”

All was now clear. Joe chuckled. “That would be a thankless task. Sixteen years ago she ran off with a guitar player. Presumably the relationship no longer applies. What about you?”

“Arthemisians have customs different from those of Earth.”

“I’d like to hear about them,” said Joe. He paid the check, bought a bottle of Scotch at the bar. At the service station he picked up the tires; returning along Hankinson Road to Luna’s car, he mounted the repaired tire, replaced the spare in its well.

The summer days were long; when they arrived at Luna’s cottage afterglow still colored the west.

Luna brought a table up to the lawn swing, fetched ice, water, glasses. Then she went inside again and returned in a loose sheer frock. Joe thought she looked wonderfully cool and fresh.

Joe opened the bottle, poured. “I’m certainly glad Mr. Rank asked me to drop by here. Do you know why?”

“No,” said Luna archly. “Why?”

“Well, if he hadn’t, and if we were sitting here like this, the night would have been thick with mosquitos.”

“Well yes. I suppose that’s true.”

“Also, I might not have been here at all.”

“Many things are beyond comprehension.”

“I could name a dozen,” said Joe. “Two dozen. At the moment I refuse to even think about Ken Mooney.”

“It’s much too nice an evening.”

The level in the bottle sagged; the afterglow waned, the stars came forth. Luna pointed. “See up there … No, there … That’s the direction of Arthemisia, in the constellation Virgo.”

“I won’t ask how you arrived,” said Joe. “In the first place, without a passport, it’s illegal.”

Luna smiled thoughtfully up toward the stars. Joe trickled whiskey over ice, added water, rattled the glass to make a pleasant tinkling. “Do they do much drinking up there?”

Luna nodded. “Elixirs, essences derived from fruit blossoms.”

“It sounds nice. What do they do for entertainment?”

“Oh — sing, recite sagas, walk along the beaches.”

“What about their love-life?”

Luna reflected a moment. “I guess it’s about like here.”

“For instance, they hold hands about like this?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And maybe take hold of each other about like this?”

“Well, yes. About like that.”

“And then they …”

“… Well …”

“And then …”

“Joe, be careful. This is only gauze …”

“… good heavens, what on earth is that?”

“Just something all the girls on Arthemisia wear.”

“… yeah. Now I get the hang of it …”

“…”

“… Luna.”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Nothing, really.” Joe swirled ice around in his glass. “It’s so nice out here … I hate to think about going back to the world of the real.”

Luna looked up toward Virgo and Spica and the star Vindemiatrix by the Lair of the Howling Dog. “You’re much too conscientious.”

“I’ve got to be something. It appears that I’m not smart. Right now there’s a killer laughing up his sleeve. I have the terrible suspicion he’s laughing at me … Can I pour for you?”

“No, thanks.”

“I guess you never knew Ken? He lived only a mile or two up the road.”

“I know his father. He has a property listed with me.”

“Oh? Which property is this?”

“An old hotel over toward Jordan. He’s a very peculiar man to deal with.”

“I agree as to that,” said Joe. “What’s his price?”

“That’s what’s so peculiar. It was twenty-eight thousand, then he came down to twenty-six five, then yesterday he told me to hold off for a few days because he had a hot prospect on the hook.”

“Hmmf.” Joe sat up in the lawn swing, put his glass down on the table. “While I’m in the vicinity I better go up and talk to Mooney.”

Luna sighed. “It’s such a beautiful evening.”

“It certainly is,” said Joe. “But that’s the way it goes.”

Joe drove up Oatfarm Road, turned into the Mooney driveway. There were lights in the tall box of a house, and Clarence Mooney’s spare shape was silhouetted as he came to peer out the screen door.

Joe stepped out of the car. “Hi there, Mr. Mooney.”

“Oh. It’s you, Sheriff.”

“I happened to be driving past and I thought I’d talk to you for a bit.”

“Sure thing. I won’t ask you in; the wife and girls are watching TV.”

“You haven’t thought of anything more in connection with Ken?”

“Not a thing, Sheriff. Except that I feel sure it was a ghastly mistake.”

“There’s always that chance. Have you had a chance to go into Ken’s finances?”

Mooney nodded. “He didn’t have any to speak of. There was government insurance, which he’d made out to his mother.”

“Have you come across any letters or diaries, or memorandum books — anything which might give us a hint?”

“Not a single thing.”

“Hmmf … Well, I’ll be driving on. Incidentally, about Halfway House, my mother changed her mind. She thinks the place is too far gone. She doesn’t want to go much more than fifteen thousand. I said I’d throw in another thousand, so your feelings wouldn’t be hurt too bad, but that’s her final stone-wall non-elastic offer.”

Clarence Mooney started to speak, but the words caught in his throat. Finally he said, “I don’t think we can do much business.”

“Probably just as well for all concerned,” said Joe. “Well, goodnight.”

Mooney turned on his heel and strode into the house.

Joe drove back to the Pandora Realty. Luna came to the door.

“It’s me again,” called Joe. “I’ve got some business for you.” He wrote a check for a thousand dollars. “Wait a day or so, then call Mr. Mooney and tell him you think you can unload Halfway House for twenty-six five. If he says yes, write him your own check for a thousand as a deposit. Specify that the selling price must include the property, appurtenances and contents, all the old knickknacks. Under no circumstances mention my name. Out of sheer excitement he might not want to sell.”

Chapter IX

1

Joe read the Friday edition of the Messenger over his bacon and eggs. Prominently displayed was an account of the maniac on William Dedrick’s silo. Joe read the story with disbelief. Nowhere were the craft and finesse of Sheriff Joe Bain celebrated. Instead:

Sheriff Joe Bain hid in a barn until the maniac descended from the silo. Sheriff’s Deputies Ben Boso and Fay Insley finally made the arrest.

Joe flung the paper to the floor and was reprimanded by his mother, who did not approve of emotional excess.

Joe retrieved the paper, and read further. There was an article in connection with the Mooney murder, offensive only because of its accuracy:

Sheriff Joe Bain announces that the investigation is proceeding, but that so far no definite leads exist.

The telephone rang; Joe answered. “Joe Bain speaking.”

“Rex Kelly here. Nothing doing at the golf course: nobody in the foursome that was playing Tuesday morning noticed a thing out of the way. I also talked to Bill Whipple; he says he’s just as puzzled about Ken’s death as everybody else. He says Ken had no enemies, no debts, and as far as he knew was in good spirits. He claims he hadn’t seen much of Ken recently. He can offer no alibi and doesn’t take seriously the idea that he might be a suspect. He certainly doesn’t act like one. In fact he’s the most cocksure guy I’ve run into for a long time.”

2

Bill Whipple jumped down the front steps and out into Madrone Way where his Corvette was parked. Bill was tall, broad-shouldered, nervously muscular, thin in the flanks, long of leg. He carried his head high, somewhat flung back; his eyes darted restlessly, this way and that, with the alert vigilance of a hawk: a resemblance heightened by the bony structure of his face, the harsh narrow nose, the thin crooked mouth. Bill Whipple was far from handsome, but he attracted and fascinated the eye. Bill Whipple was born out of his time. Three thousand years ago he might have been a barbarian hero; five hundred years ago, a Renaissance prince. Today Bill Whipple sold used cars on his father’s lot.

Climbing into his car he noticed Starr Shortridge leaving her driveway with a tennis racket, evidently bound for the country club.

Bill gunned the Corvette into life and was almost instantly alongside her. “Hey Starr!”

Starr turned Bill a glance of puzzled inquiry, as if she were not sure whether or not she knew him.

Bill vaulted from the car, stood facing her. “Where are you going?”

“To play tennis.”

“I’ve got a better idea. I’ll take you uptown and buy you a big double chocolate ice cream soda.” He stood back, looked Starr up and down. Starr was wearing dark brown shorts, a blue and white striped polo shirt. “Come to think of it,” said Bill, “you even look like a double chocolate ice cream soda, with whipped cream.”

For a fact, Starr looked her best. Her hair was loose and glossy, her skin was tan and glistened with a healthy sheen.

“What about it?” asked Bill. Already his voice was a trifle unsure, a tone or two high in pitch: an effect no other girl had ever been able to achieve. Starr was an abstraction as well as a girl: a goal, a destiny, and he hated her as much as he yearned for her. “Jump in. This thing flies. It’ll be chocolate ice cream sodas while we’re hardly thinking about them. I’ve got a lot to talk to you about. Two hundred items of great interest.”

Starr took a slow step away, watching Bill sidewise. He has a reptile’s eye, she thought: bold, unafraid, the gaze all external. Her skin tingled. The atavistic response was still in operation; her nerves sent unintelligible messages to her brain. Starr took another step along the street. “No thanks. I really don’t care for an ice cream soda.” With a vague half-smile she turned away.

A sudden passion came over Bill; he took a lunging step forward, seized her elbow, swung her around so that once again she faced him.

Starr’s face conveyed only mild surprise, hardly even annoyance: as if a dog had barked at her from behind a fence. Bill felt the import of the blank expression and became more irritated than ever. He wanted to provoke her to emotion — some emotion, any emotion. “I’ll tell you something. From the first time I saw you, when you were tearing down my tree-house —” He stopped short, disconcerted by Starr’s unresponsiveness.

Starr, for her part, was conscious only of her archaic female instincts: a situation which repelled and disgusted her. She detached herself from Bill’s grasp. “If you don’t mind —”

“Just a minute!” cried Bill. “I want to know something. Do you really dislike me, or is this just an act, a put-on?”

Starr found the remark mirth-provoking. “I’m not conscious of any act, or ‘put-on’. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

Bill stood with shoulders drooping, arms dangling by his sides — defeated, reduced to querulousness. “What is it about me you dislike?”

“I’ve never given the matter any thought,” said Starr, with a cool candor that was totally convincing. She walked away, twitching her tennis racket.

Bill stood stiff as a post, staring after the slender, somewhat boyish figure in brown shorts. “Teaser!” he whispered huskily. “Oh what a teaser!” He took two quick steps after her, then checked himself, jumped into his Corvette and raced off down Madrone Way at breakneck speed. Starr hardly bothered to glance after him, so Bill, craning his neck as he swung around the turn into McClellan Avenue, noticed. If Starr had wished to focus Bill’s attention on herself, she could not have succeeded more completely. Whispering fervent curses, Bill considered schemes to get his own back. There must be some way to make her aware of him! He had tried something of the sort before, but it had failed to work. Of course he had not used the whole of his power. Power! If not to construct, then to destroy! Why not? Why not, indeed?

3

Joe, restless and nervous as a shoplifter, drove to headquarters. There were no female prisoners, Miss Curdy was not in the office; the atmosphere on this account seemed unusually tranquil and suave.

Joe went to his office, leaned back in his chair, put his feet on the desk. So far as he could see, the Mooney case had reached a dead-end. The murder, on the face of it, seemed irrational. Perhaps something to do with Halfway House? Even as Joe considered the matter, the telephone rang. Luna’s clear voice emerged from the speaker. “Joe? If you remember, we discussed a certain property near Jordan?”

“I remember distinctly.”

“Well, half an hour ago the owner dropped by and put the listing back on active! I told him that I might be able to sell for twenty-six five, and he agreed to accept the offer. I gave him a thousand dollars deposit, my check; and the deal is closed.”

“You mean it’s definite? I’m the owner?”

“Subject to paying the balance within forty-five days.”

“That’s feasible, provided everything goes well at the bank. I’ll make arrangements first thing Monday morning. You didn’t mention my name to Mooney?”

“No.”

“Wise girl … I’ll give you a call tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.”

“Not tonight, Joe. I’m going to San Jose for a meeting of the Pansophist Society.”

The conversation at an end, Joe sat back in his chair. So now: Halfway House. As if there were not enough on his mind already.

He telephoned the news to his mother. “As of now we own twenty acres of land, together with a beat-up old tavern. The liquor license will be registered to you.” Joe grinned at the squawk of protest. “That’s the way it has to be. It wouldn’t look good for the sheriff to be a bartender on the side. Miranda is far too young. That leaves you.”

“I never, never thought I’d see the day when I was owner of a bar,” declared Marian Bain feelingly. “I certainly don’t know what I’ll tell my friends!”

“Invite them all out for the grand opening. Where’s Miranda?”

“Where do you expect? Primping in the bathroom.”

“Let’s go inspect our new property. The price is so low I figure I must have made a terrible mistake.”

“I can’t go, not today. Dora Larkin is taking me to San Rodrigo to see Aunt Ellen.”

“Ask Miranda if she wants to go.”

Marian Bain called to Miranda, received a reply. “She says yes.”

“Tell her to be ready.” Joe hung up the telephone, jumped to his feet. “I might as well be roving the countryside; I’m doing no good around here.”

4

Halfway House looked much as it had before, with an important distinction. Where previously the air of quiet decrepitude had seemed quaint and nostalgic, now it represented expense. “Good Lord!” said Joe. “I didn’t realize the place was so far gone! I fear that Clarence Mooney stuck me badly.”

“Oh come now, Daddy,” said Miranda. “It’s nothing near that bad. In fact it’s the most picturesque old place I’ve ever seen!”

“You’re not noticing the toil. Look at those shingles! I’ll have to get a new roof on first thing. Look at that blistered paint up there on the balcony!”

“Heavens, Daddy, you mustn’t be afraid of a little work! I’ll paint the balcony. I’ll get Fred and Emmett and Ronald to help. They’ll work like crazy — at least Fred and Ronald will. Emmett’s pretty lazy.”

“Look at the porch,” said Joe. “I think it’s sagging.”

“That’s easy to fix. Just jack it up and put a rock under those wooden post-things.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

Wilbur Baker appeared. “Hey there, Sheriff.”

“Hello Wilbur. Open this place up, will you? You’re looking at the new owner.”

“Well, well. How in the world did you ever deal with Clarence?”

“He gave me a tussle. He still doesn’t know who he sold to.”

Wilbur Baker nodded glumly. “I guess you don’t need me around here any more. I want to go back to Missouri and live with my son. Ken needed someone to help him out; he had no sense. He got in with a no-good crowd. All they cared about was hell-raising and sleeping together. Fair made me sick. Some of them girls, I swear, was not even out of school.”

As before, Joe attempted to elicit details, but Wilbur Baker could or would give none. “It was his place; he could do as he liked. I kept away when he was having a party.”

“How many parties did he have?”

Wilbur Baker was becoming confused and disturbed. “I couldn’t tell you. Maybe half a dozen. I can’t see why you’re so interested. He ain’t had a party since last winter.”

“It probably doesn’t make any difference,” said Joe. “Well, if you want to open up, I think I’ll take a look around.”

“Here,” growled Wilbur Baker. “You’re the owner, take the keys. I’ll probably be gone next time you show up.”

“Stay on as long as you like,” said Joe. “Don’t hurry off on my account.”

With a grudging nod Wilbur Baker stumped off to his quarters. Joe and Miranda opened the doors wide, roamed the old inn from attic to kitchen closets. The previous owners had thrown nothing away; everywhere were relics of the past: mementoes, trophies, curios. Old photographs bedecked the mirror of the bar; on the walls hung antlers, walrus tusks, a bear’s head, Indian baskets. In the attic were a dozen ancient suitcases, packed for journeys long forgotten. “This is spooky up here,” said Miranda. “Let’s go back downstairs.”

“We’ll want to check these suitcases pretty carefully,” said Joe. “We might find a hoard of Indian-head pennies, or even some Kennedy half-dollars.”

“Or a Gutenberg Bible.”

“More likely just a lot of dirty old corsets,” said Joe. “That’s about all Clarence Mooney would have allowed to remain.”

They looked through the old bedrooms, which were floored with biscuit-colored linoleum and empty except for dead flies and a random scatter of newspapers.

“Ten new beds, ten new mattresses,” said Joe. “Ten rugs, ten chairs, ten chamberpots, twenty gallons of paint. I guess I’ll put you and your grandmother in charge of everything around here. I’m too frail.”

“Oh Daddy! You’re being silly. Things aren’t all that bad! We’ll do one room at a time. It’ll be fun!”

“I hope so,” said Joe. “I can just hear your grandmother when somebody criticizes her cooking.”

“I think we should just serve pizza.”

“For breakfast, lunch and dinner? I’d better send you on a tour of the world’s great restaurants to check on what’s done. In fact, we’ll all go … I better go console Wilbur Baker so that he doesn’t set fire to the place as a parting gesture.”

“I’m going to work, right now,” said Miranda. “To start with I’ll sweep the lobby.”

“Don’t burn yourself out.”

Joe went off to the combination garage and stable, fifty yards to the rear, where he found a decaying buggy, an old Marmon roadster supported on blocks, several desiccated saddles, crates of bottles, boxes of assorted junk. In the old hostler’s quarters Wilbur Baker made his residence.

“Hey, Mr. Baker!” called Joe. “Can I talk to you a minute?”

Wilbur Baker appeared. “What can I do for you?”

“I don’t know where the corners to the property are. I wonder if you could point them out to me. Also I’d like to look over the water supply.”

“There’s a road up to the water tank. We might as well drive your automobile. It’s a good walk for an old man.”

Joe and Wilbur Baker drove off to inspect the water tank and the corner markers. Hardly had they left when into the driveway skidded a white Corvette driven by a hawk-faced young man with a pinched pale mouth and a shock of short sandy hair. He swung the Corvette to a quivering halt, jumped out all in a single motion. For a moment he stood swaying as if intoxicated by the rhythm of the vehicle. He looked along the façade of Halfway House. Noting the open door, he ran up the steps, entered the lobby.

Miranda, cleaning fly-specks from the mirror behind the desk, turned in surprise. She wondered at the intensity of his expression. He looked like someone keyed up for a desperate venture.

Bill Whipple stood stock-still in the doorway. “Who are you?”

“The new owner,” said Miranda saucily. “Who are you?”

Bill did not reply directly. “So Mooney let the place go. Wicked old son of a bitch.” He stepped forward. “I’m a friend of Ken’s. I came for one or two things that he gave to me.”

“Oh?” Secure in the knowledge that her father, the important Sheriff Joe Bain, was close at hand, Miranda decided to tease this dangerous-looking young man. “Just what ‘things’ are these?”

“Just a few odds and ends.” He looked past her. “Are you alone here?”

Miranda wondered what might have happened if, in fact, she had been alone. “My father’s around somewhere.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know.” Miranda turned to look out the door past Bill’s shoulder. “If his car’s not there, he must have driven off for a few minutes.”

“I see. Is the bar open?”

“Not for business. You’d better wait for my father.”

“I can’t wait. I’m in a rush.” Bill went to the handsome mahogany and glass doors between lobby and dining room, pushed them ajar, stepped through. Miranda gave a yelp of protest and went after him, across the dining room, into the bar.

Bill stood in the center of the room, looking around with an expression of sardonic self-pity. “Since I have the reputation,” Bill told himself, “I might as well be one.”

“Please get out of here!” said Miranda firmly.

Bill went behind the bar, picked up a whisky bottle with two inches remaining. “See this bottle?” He held it up. “Mine. I brought it out here.”

“You leave things alone!” declared Miranda in outrage.

“How about a drink, kid? What’s your name?”

“Miranda Bain. And I don’t want a drink. I want you to get out of here.”

Bill took a leisurely taste of his own whisky, looked around the walls. His eyes focused on a photograph; he crossed the room, began to disengage the photograph.

“Don’t you dare do that!” cried Miranda. “Those are part of the decorations!”

“Not all of them. Some are mine.”

“You’ll have to talk to my father about things like that.”

“I thought you were the owner,” said Bill, tucking the picture into his pocket.

“Never mind what I am. Give me that picture.”

Bill looked Miranda up and down: slender legs, hips, elastic torso, thin vivacious face, glossy dark brown hair.

“You know something?” said Bill in wonder. “You’re a pretty little dickens. I like you.”

“I don’t like you.”

“That’s the story of my life,” said Bill. “Almost.” To tease Miranda, he turned to take another photograph. She stepped in front of him, a dangerous move, for it brought the two bodies into contact. Bill’s hair-trigger disposition needed no further provocation. He put his arms around her, aimed for her mouth, kissed her cheek. Miranda jerked away, seething. Bill came a step forward, grinning. Miranda seized the bottle. “You better stop!” She raised the bottle.

Bill laughed. “You little devil, I believe you mean it.”

He stepped forward, evaded the bottle with the ease of long practice, took the bottle away, which meant that he was forced to put his arms around her again. “How about a kiss? Nice, this time.”

Miranda fought loose. She had never been so angry in her life. She ran outside, went to the Corvette, snatched out the keys, tossed them under the steps. She marched back to the bar, to find Bill carefully inspecting the photographs.

“You’d better give me that picture,” said Miranda, “or you’ll be here a long time.”

“So? How? Why?”

“I took the keys to your car.”

“You did?” Bill stood looking at her. A trifle young, but pretty and passionate. And antagonistic. And female. And pretty. His mouth was a trifle dry. He felt excited. If she took his keys and came back to tell him about it, she could only mean it as a provocation. Well, Bill was game. It seemed like fun. She wouldn’t act that way if she expected her father right back. Bill jumped forward, seized her. “Where are the keys?” He searched the pocket in her skirt, reached down inside her blouse. Miranda kicked and tried to bite.

“Give me the keys,” said Bill, “or I’ll have to search you real careful.”

“They’re under the porch,” gasped Miranda. “You’ll be in trouble when my father gets back!”

“‘Trouble’?” Bill laughed. “I haven’t done a thing. You’ve made all the trouble. I came to regain some personal property. You tried to brain me with a bottle, then you took my car keys. That’s illegal.”

“It is not!” Miranda, leaning back against the bar, tried to punch him in the face. Bill, pushing close to her, was impelled past the edge of his precarious restraint.

“What’s going on here?” called Joe, who had been attracted by the noise. He jumped forward, grabbed Bill’s collar, pulled him back. In one easy motion Bill turned, swung, struck Joe on the jaw, sent him stumbling back.

“You laid hands on me, fella,” said Bill. “That’s called battery.”

“This is called assault,” said Joe.

“And this is called a punch in the nose,” said Bill.

There was confusion, the thresh of blows, the scuff of feet, the hiss of breath. Joe was cagy and cool, veteran of a hundred brawls with drunks and recalcitrants; Bill was quick and rangy, strong and wild. He hit Joe in the belly; Joe swung sidewise; Bill hit Joe on the cheek, decking him again. Joe caught hold of Bill’s leg, heaved, sent him hopping and reeling backwards.

“Hit him again, Daddy!” cried Miranda.

“‘Again’?” jeered Bill. “He hasn’t come near me.”

“Try this one on,” said Joe, and he hit Bill a clout on the ear.

Bill in a fury caught hold of Joe’s arm, slung him skidding across the dance floor into a corner. Then he turned a table over on Joe, piled on another table, chairs, more tables and chairs, until Joe was trapped in the corner, roaring and cursing, behind a big tangle of furniture.

Bill stood back, pleased with the effect. “If this is the way you treat your customers I won’t be back.” He patted Miranda on the head. “Goodby cutie. I’ll see you again when your old man’s not around.” He went outside, looked under the steps, found his keys. Now he noticed the black and white official car. He sagged, looked back in astonishment toward the bar. “Miranda Bain? Sheriff Joe Bain? Good God! I’ve cooked my goose for sure!” He jumped into his Corvette and with wheels churning up dirt departed the premises.

Joe crawled out from behind the furniture, ran his hand over his hair, limped out to look after the vanishing car. “Now who in the world was that?”

“He said he was a friend of Ken’s,” said Miranda, half-sobbing. “He wanted some pictures, and I think he took one — a snapshot, from behind the bar.”

“What pictures was he after?”

Miranda pointed to the pictures Bill had started to detach.

“Just those old cars?” asked Joe in bewilderment. “All that trouble for just a few pictures? I can hardly believe it.”

“He wasn’t serious about those pictures there. He was just trying to tease me, because I told him to leave everything alone.” She looked at her reflection in the mirror and shivered. “He’s a wild man.”

“He didn’t tell you his name?”

“No. But when I took the keys from his car I looked at the registration. His name is William Whipple.”

“Bill Whipple,” cried Joe. “I should have known. I’ve been trying to get hold of him for days.”

“You finally did,” said Miranda.

Joe turned her a suspicious side-glance. Miranda’s gaze was limpid and clear. “Yes,” said Joe, rubbing his face. “We had quite a party.”

“Are you going to arrest him?”

Joe sighed. “I’d only make a fool of myself. Under all those chairs yet … Don’t worry. I’ll have a word or two with him. In fact, right away.”

Going out to the car Joe radioed headquarters and instructed Casey Miggs, the deputy on standby duty, to bring Bill Whipple into the office. “He just left Halfway House in a white Corvette, probably coming into Pleasant Grove by Contreras Road and Highway 198.”

5

Joe dropped Miranda off at home, went to his office, alternately dictated letters into a recorder and fretted about the Mooney case.

The afternoon passed. Casey Miggs returned without Bill Whipple. “He either drove west on 198 or south on Contreras Road.”

Joe telephoned the Whipple residence and Whipple Chevrolet, but received no information as to the whereabouts of Bill Whipple.

At four o’clock, just as Joe was about to close up and go home, he received a visitor: Howard Griselda. Joe affably pushed out a chair, leaned back in his own chair.

Griselda, in no hurry to state the reason for his visit, lit his pipe, looking meanwhile at Joe from under his thick black eyebrows.

Joe became uneasy. “Well, Howard, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“First of all, Sheriff, I’m wondering if you have anything new on the Mooney killing.”

“Yes, I think you could say there’s been progress.”

“You have a suspect?”

Joe frowned. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. I’ve eliminated a number of people from consideration. I don’t have anything definite pointing to any one person.”

Griselda nodded ponderously, blew forth a gust of smoke. Joe continued. “I think it’s pretty clear what happened. Whoever killed Ken knew they’d have to deliver the mail all along the street, otherwise where the mail stopped would be a dead giveaway. So the killer changed into Ken’s uniform, delivered the mail, at least as far as the Bazzarini house. Then he drove the van into a garage, changed back into normal clothes and waited till dark. That’s the way it was done. Pretty clever too.”

“Very clever. This morning I received an anonymous phone call. A woman, fairly well educated, or so I’d judge. She suggested that I try to find out where Mrs. Bazzarini was leaving her money.”

Joe frowned. “I wonder why she didn’t call me … Maybe she was afraid I’d recognize her voice.”

“That might be the case.”

Joe made a note. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll check right away.”

Griselda inspected the bowl of his pipe, knocked out the dottle, reloaded it. “I understand that you are planning to buy and operate a roadhouse.”

Joe stared at Griselda with raised eyebrows. “How in the world did this news get to you? I’ve hardly had time to think about it myself.”

“Never mind how I heard. I want to know if the report is true.” And Howard Griselda, lighting his pipe, puffed and watched Joe carefully through the smoke.

“Well, it’s not quite true. My mother will be in command of the place. I won’t have much to do with the operation except getting it started. Why do you ask?”

“Frankly, Sheriff, I don’t think it appropriate for the chief law enforcement officer of the county to be operating a place with such a shady reputation.”

Blue-gray wisps and curls of smoke drifted between the two men. Joe asked, “Can I talk to you man-to-man, off the record?”

“No, Sheriff, I don’t think so. Better figure that I’m here as a representative of the paper.”

“Well, I’ll talk to you anyway. Fact is, the past reputation of the place cuts no ice. My mother will be in charge, and I don’t think that she’ll put up with anything crude. The reputation of the place would simply have to change. As far as my being Sheriff, I’m also human. I realize I’m in an exposed position, especially with you guarding my reputation the way you do. Just the same I think I should be allowed to invest my money in any legal way I see fit without a lot of breast-beating and innuendo in the newspapers. That’s just plain justice.”

Griselda nodded his massive head. “I agree, to a certain extent. But don’t forget that as sheriff, you’re like Caesar’s wife. Running a roadhouse seems, well, tactless and inadvisable. It’s just not in good taste.”

“Come now, Howard. This isn’t 1890. Just because a place has a bar doesn’t make it disreputable. Halfway House is a quaint old country hotel, or it will be if I take over. The place has been on the market for months now, and I can’t see that I’m taking advantage of anybody buying it.”

“You learned about it while engaged on public business.”

“About eight o’clock one night. So what?”

Griselda heaved himself to his feet. “This may all be true; still I think the voters are entitled to know that the Sheriff is planning to open and operate a tavern.”

Joe laughed nervously. “You make the deal sound like an act of moral decay.”

“Those are your words, not mine.”

Griselda took his leave. Joe sat brooding. Casey Miggs telephoned to report that Bill Whipple definitely could not be located.

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” said Joe. “Right now I’m tired and ill. I’m going home and wrap my head in a hot towel.”

6

Joe sat on the living room couch, feet on the coffee table. Miranda, coming into the room, saw that something was amiss. She dropped beside him, took hold of his elbow. “What’s the trouble, Daddy? Is it that Bill Whipple? You’re not champion fighter of the world, so why worry?”

Joe roused himself. “Who says I’m not? Bill Whipple? I was just toying with him.”

“Be serious, Daddy!”

Joe threw up his hands. “You come to jolly me up, and the first thing you say is ‘be serious’.”

Miranda tugged his arm in vexation. “I want to know what’s worrying you.”

“It’s no secret. It sure won’t be after Monday’s paper. Howard Griselda doesn’t approve of Halfway House.”

“How silly!”

“I know it’s silly. You know it’s silly. Howard Griselda thinks it’s news. I can’t figure how he got wind of the deal so fast. The real estate agent wouldn’t talk. Nobody else knew.”

Miranda suddenly became indignant. “It’s that gossipy Gwen Griselda. Everything she hears she blabs to her father!”

“Aha!” said Joe. “The light dawns. You told Gwen Griselda, eh?”

“Well, we were talking about the summer and what we were doing, and I mentioned Halfway House. I don’t see why she has to be so garrulous.”

“She probably didn’t have a chance to say a word. What other family secrets did you disclose?”

“I didn’t know this was a family secret.”

“Well, it isn’t. Except now Howard Griselda can make me look like a crook.”

“That’s ridiculous! It’s not that we’re doing anything wrong! Can’t you get back at him some way?”

Joe gave a sour grunt. “First of all I don’t own a newspaper. Secondly, even if I did, he hasn’t done anything off color I could write up. Howard is the kind of guy that pasteurizes his own milk.”

Miranda frowned reflectively. “I hear a lot from Gwen about her father — just as much as she hears from me.”

“Oh? What’s Howard Griselda been doing that I can put him in jail for, on the testimony of his daughter?”

“Let me think …”

7

On Monday morning Joe telephoned the editorial offices of the Pleasant Grove Messenger. “Howard, are you planning to run that piece about me today?”

“I sure am, Sheriff. Nothing personal, you understand. A newspaper is the watch-dog of the community. Whatever the voters should know I tell them.”

“All well and good. But it’s only fair that you run a little piece signed by me, explaining my side of the situation. The voters also have a right to that information.”

“Very well,” said Griselda ponderously. “I’ll do that. When can you get your statement over here?”

“In about an hour.”

Joe wrote:

So far as I can see, Mr. Griselda makes two complaints about my investing money in real estate. First: Halfway House has had a shady reputation over the years. I told Mr. Griselda that he has a legitimate complaint if the reputation continues bad after my blameless old mother runs it a year or two. Second: he charges that I came upon the opportunity in the course of my professional duties. In a certain far-fetched sense this is true. What of it? Such is more or less standard practice for everyone. For instance, Mr. Griselda, editor and publisher of the Messenger, carefully studies all classified advertising before it is printed. Items he needs for his own household or bargains he knows he can sell at a quick profit he deals for before the newspaper is on the stands.

This, of course, is not illegal, nor even in the strictest sense dishonest, even though, during the last year or so, Mr. Griselda has bought from advertisers — before the public had a chance to see the advertisement — the following:

2 automobiles, at extreme sacrifice prices, from a boy inducted into the army, and from a widow who needed money desperately.

A near-new power lawn-mower for $10.

A new lawn swing for $7.50.

An exercise machine, a bathtub whirlpool massager and a sunlamp for $40.

A stamp collection he values at $700 for $50.

A fur coat for his wife for $32.

In addition he collects the regular fee for running the advertisement.

I mention these matters not because I believe Mr. Griselda to be a crook, or hardly even a hypocrite, but merely a man who is more conscious of other people’s failings than his own.

Joe sent the statement to the Messenger office. There was no acknowledgment from Howard Griselda. The statement did not appear in the afternoon paper, but neither did the editorial impugning Joe’s purchase of Halfway House.

8

Joe drove out Madrone Way to Mrs. Bazzarini’s house. The day was bright, the sunlight a glare tempered by cold air drifting over the mountains from the Pacific. Murder, killing, anger were completely incongruous to the surroundings. The golf course spread green and tranquil; Spanish Hill loomed high, a darker green veined with brown and tan, dappled with black shadow. It would be nice to live out here on Madrone Way, thought Joe — provided of course that he broke the Mooney case and could feel confident that his neighbors were not murderers.

Mrs. Bazzarini greeted him with affability, and asked Miss Locke to bring Joe a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, whichever was to Joe’s taste.

Joe requested coffee, and Miss Locke left the room. Mrs. Bazzarini inquired as to the progress of the case.

“To tell the truth,” said Joe, “I’m not much nearer now than I was Tuesday morning, although I’ve narrowed the field down. Incidentally, I’d like to ask you a very personal question.”

Here Miss Locke entered the room with the coffee. She put the cup on a table convenient to Joe, then plumped Mrs. Bazzarini’s pillows, adjusted the curtain and prepared to take a seat. “Excuse me, Miss Locke,” said Joe. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk privately with Mrs. Bazzarini.”

With a snort Miss Locke withdrew.

“I imagine that you are a wealthy woman,” said Joe.

“Yes, I would say so. Not that the money does me any good.”

“What I want to ask is this: who inherits upon your death?”

Mrs. Bazzarini gave an uneasy grimace, not liking the sound of the word ‘death’. “Well, this is something I had planned never to talk about, because now it is impossible.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” said Joe. “Unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

“Well, I had written a new will leaving a large sum to Ken. He was such a sweet boy and he treated me so much nicer than my own flesh and blood. Do you think Laura ever comes to see me? And that fat donkey of a husband? Never. They’re too good for me.” Mrs. Bazzarini’s round face became pink with spite. “I wrote a will giving Laura ten thousand and I left the rest to Ken: a very large amount of property. I know he would have enjoyed it and gotten good use from it and maybe thought of old Mrs. Bazzarini once in a while.”

“Yes, I’m sure he would have done so,” said Joe. “Er — what did Laura and her husband think about this?”

“I don’t think they believed me.”

“You told them?”

“I said something to the effect that I wanted to do nice things for people that were nice to me, and that people who took things for granted were going to get a shock when I died.”

“What did Mr. and Mrs. Hubman say as to this?”

“They just laughed. They thought I was fooling.”

“Now who gets your money?”

“I haven’t made up my mind. Caspar and Laura, I suppose. She is my daughter, though she hardly acts like one.”

Joe sipped the coffee and wondered if Miss Locke were eavesdropping. Well, it didn’t make much difference. The main thing was the information. For the first time, a motive for the death of Ken had emerged from the welter. The idea of portly Caspar in Ken’s uniform was grotesque. Laura Hubman? Strange, but not grotesque. Possible, but hardly probable. The same with everyone else along Madrone Way. And who was the woman who had phoned the tip to Howard Griselda? More likely Miss Locke.

Joe asked, “Did Ken know that you planned to remember him in your will?”

Mrs. Bazzarini colored, and looked away. “Well, I gave him to understand that he wouldn’t be forgotten. It embarrassed him. He was such a simple nice boy, the thought that somebody wanted to do something embarrassed him.”

Joe took his leave. He stopped by the Whipple house, and found Sheila Whipple at home. Joe asked the whereabouts of Bill, and Sheila professed ignorance. “I don’t know where he is. He’s not at work; I was just talking to Fred and Fred hadn’t seen him. In fact he didn’t come home last night at all.”

“Is that right now,” said Joe thoughtfully. “You saw him when?”

“It was late yesterday afternoon. He was in one of his moods, and when he’s like that nobody can talk to him. I just never try. He went out in the evening, and stayed out all night.”

“You don’t have any idea where he stayed?”

“No sir, I do not. It couldn’t have been far, because he didn’t take his car. It’s not like him. To tell you the truth I’m worried. He wasn’t dressed to go out. I called one or two of his friends, but no one has seen him.”

“No one came to pick him up?”

“I couldn’t say for sure. He was very moody, walking back and forth. Then he went out the door and that’s the last we saw of him.”

“Hmm. Does he do that often?”

“He’s just unpredictable. I’ve never been able to figure him out, even when he was a little boy. I don’t envy the girl that marries him. I didn’t start to worry until just an hour or so ago.”

“If he comes in, please tell him I want to talk to him. In fact, have him give me a call.”

Mrs. Whipple nodded. “I hope he’s all right … He wouldn’t go anywhere without taking his car.”

9

An hour later, at about eleven o’clock, Bill Whipple’s body was discovered by Mrs. Bazzarini’s gardener, to the side of her tool shed. Dr. Hesketh, the coroner, was of the opinion that Bill Whipple had been killed with an instrument similar or identical to that which had killed Ken Mooney — probably an ordinary carpenter’s hammer.

Chapter X

1

The body lay sprawled and rigid, arms and legs up, like a dog lying on its back. Sickening, thought Joe, how murder plundered a man of his dignity. He thought of Bill Whipple in the bar at Halfway House: quick, strong, furious. And look at him now. If it hadn’t been for the gardener going behind the shed to urinate, the body might have remained undiscovered for days.

There were wheel tracks in the soil, and Joe deduced a wheelbarrow. Late last night Madrone Way must have witnessed a macabre scene. After midnight the street would be empty and everyone asleep, with no one to notice the dark figure trundling a wheelbarrow from which protruded arms and legs.

One thing was clear: Bill Whipple could be excused from his role as suspect in the killing of Ken Mooney. “Rex,” said Joe, “go along Madrone Way and check every wheelbarrow.”

Rex Kelly departed on his mission.

Joe made a plaster cast of the wheel tracks. Photographs had already been made. The body was removed, with Mrs. Bazzarini’s blank white face peering from the window.

Joe went into the Bazzarini house, but Miss Locke advised against talking to Mrs. Bazzarini. “She’ll become hysterical at a single word. And I don’t dare sedate her.”

“She didn’t hear anything last night?”

“No sir. She did not.”

“Could you get me the night nurse’s telephone number?”

“Yes. It’s Mrs. Warringer.” She wrote the number for Joe. He telephoned, made contact with Mrs. Warringer, who stated that she had heard nothing the previous night.

Joe returned to the street, where he met Rex Kelly. “I’ve located the wheelbarrow,” said Kelly. “In front of the Benjamin house.”

“What did you find?” asked Joe.

“Blood and fiber. Matter of fact, I remembered seeing the wheelbarrow. I checked it out first, and hit the jackpot. Just like that.”

“I guess we better go talk to Mrs. Benjamin, which is a drag.” Grace Benjamin did not invite them into the house, but came out to stand on the porch. Joe indicated the wheelbarrow on a gravel walkway which ran across the front of the house, above the slope of her new lawn.

“I guess you’ve heard the news,” said Joe.

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “What is the news?”

“Bill Whipple was murdered last night.”

Grace Benjamin’s face changed little, except possibly to become more severe. “Do you know who did it?”

“Quite likely the same person who killed Ken Mooney, and it seems that the murderer took your wheelbarrow to move the corpse.”

“What?” Grace Benjamin showed far more outrage at the news that her wheelbarrow had been used than at the announcement of Bill Whipple’s death.

“That’s what it looks like,” said Joe. “We find traces of blood and wisps of fiber corresponding to Bill Whipple’s clothes, and the dirt on his clothes seems to match the dirt in the wheelbarrow.”

“Please don’t blame me,” said Mrs. Benjamin in her iciest voice. “I’m afraid I have no alibi, as I believe it’s called.”

“No, no,” said Joe, “we’re not accusing anybody; we just want to know if you heard the wheelbarrow being used, or any disturbance whatever.”

“No, I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Benjamin, somewhat mollified. “I heard nothing.”

“How long has the wheelbarrow been where it is now?”

“Since last Thursday. The gardener used it to mulch the lawn, then neglected to take it in the back. I don’t care to do it myself, naturally. Are you going to take away the wheelbarrow?”

“I suppose we’d better.”

“Please be careful of my lawn.”

Joe and Rex Kelly retreated to the street.

Joe stood rubbing his chin. “Well, I guess I’ll hand you some more legwork. The usual, up and down the street. Alibis, if feasible. Who everybody was sleeping with and how long. Did they hear any noise? Did they see Bill Whipple last night? Any ideas why he might have been killed, and so on.”

“What about the wheelbarrow?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we should take it in, although I don’t know what we can prove by it.”

Sally Wagner came out from her house, wearing a purple and red housecoat. “Has something happened? I saw the ambulance go by.”

“We’ve had another killing,” said Joe.

“Oh my!” Sally Wagner stood with fists clenched. “Who?”

“Bill Whipple.”

“And you still don’t know who’s responsible?”

“Not yet.”

“But this is terrifying! It’s as if a madman were loose!”

“I hardly think it’s a madman. Ken and Bill were killed for a sufficient reason. The reason of course may be mad.”

“But how can a person feel safe?” cried Sally Wagner, darting glances right and left.

“Well, I hope to have the murderer put away before too long,” said Joe. He turned to Rex Kelly. “Better take the wheelbarrow into the lab, Rex. If we don’t, it’ll turn out to be an indispensable clue.”

Rex Kelly started up the slope toward the wheelbarrow. Instantly a window swung open and Mrs. Benjamin called: “Will you please not walk over the freshly seeded lawn?”

“Sorry, ma’am.” Rex Kelly jumped back to the street and approached the wheelbarrow by a roundabout route. Mrs. Benjamin, after a brief look at Mrs. Wagner, closed the window. Mrs. Wagner pointedly turned her back, and watched Rex Kelly gingerly rolling the wheelbarrow along Mrs. Benjamin’s gravel walk.

“The murderer avoided a grisly fate,” Joe pointed out. “He took pains not to trample Mrs. Benjamin’s lawn.”

Sally Wagner emitted a raucous hoot of laughter, which she quickly stifled. “I don’t know why I’m laughing — because really I’m frightened. I don’t think I’ll stir out of my house or see anyone until this terrible business is over with.”

“You don’t have friends who would come stay with you?”

“And have them get killed? They wouldn’t thank me … I might go visit my sister in Santa Monica. On the other hand I might not. We can’t take much of each other — too much alike, I guess. And now,” Sally Wagner gave a sour chuckle, “I’ve been invited to the baby shower for Grace Benjamin at Ethel Taylor’s today. But I’m darned if I’ll be a hypocrite and go. Perhaps I should visit the Whipples. Poor unhappy people!”

“It’s a dreadful business,” said Joe, starting to detach himself. “Well, I —”

“I’m going to think very earnestly about this affair,” said Sally Wagner. “I just might be able to see something that everyone else has missed.”

“Tell me first if you do,” said Joe. He went up Madrone Way toward the Whipple house. Sally Wagner remained on the sidewalk, staring at the wheelbarrow in an attitude of cogitation, staring so intently indeed that Joe, turning into the Whipple driveway, paused to watch her. And Sally Wagner looked from the wheelbarrow to the new-seeded lawn, scanning the surface carefully, as if seeking footprints — an operation Joe had already conducted, without success. Sally Wagner, however, seemed not at all disconcerted by the lack, and only stared more intently than ever. “If she’s got a theory, it’s more than I’ve got,” Joe told himself. Sally Wagner abruptly turned and walked swiftly into her own house. Joe pressed the Whipples’ front door bell. Fred Whipple responded, face thin and white. “Sorry to intrude upon you, Mr. Whipple,” said Joe.

Fred Whipple gave his head a shake. “It’s no intrusion. I’m glad to see you. I want to help you as much as I can.”

Fred Whipple was not so tall nor so spare nor so aquiline as his son, and his mannerisms were less abrupt; still there was no mistaking the resemblance.

Joe entered the house. Fred Whipple did not ask him to sit, and the two men stood in a red-tiled foyer off the living room.

“I suspect — I can’t be sure — that whoever killed Ken Mooney killed Bill,” said Joe. “Can you think of any reason why this should be so?”

“No. I certainly can’t. The thing seems — impossible. I can’t understand why it should happen.”

Joe asked further questions regarding Bill, his work at Whipple Chevrolet, his plans and prospects, but learned nothing important. “Bill was a hard worker,” said Fred, “with enormous drive and ambition. Once he took hold of something he never let it drop. A lot of people didn’t like him, but they all respected him.”

“How did he get on with people up and down Madrone Way?”

Fred’s thin mouth twisted. “About as you’d expect. We’ve never been accepted and we’ve lived here almost eight years. Well, that’s not quite true. The Taylors are real fine people; in fact they invited Sheila to some kind of affair today. Naturally she’s not going. We’ve hit it off fairly well with Mrs. Wagner, but the Shortridges, the Hubmans, the Gentrys, the Mortimers, the Benjamins — they’re all too good for us.”

“How did Marsh Shortridge and Bill get along?”

“Hated each other. They had a run-in years ago when Bill built a shack up on the hill — or was it Starr? I forget the details. Anyway they’ve never been friendly.”

“I’d like to look through Bill’s personal gear,” said Joe. “It’s just possible there’s something which might give us a lead.”

Fred Whipple shrugged. “Up the stairs, first door to the right. Please be quiet. Sheila’s had a sedative, but I don’t think she’s asleep. This is the worst thing which has ever happened to us …”

Bill’s room was neat and somewhat characterless. There were a bed, a chest of drawers, a desk, a book-case containing college texts, a collection of model airplanes, football trophies, a stack of Mad and Playboy magazines. The walls displayed what appeared to be Bill’s main field of interest: girls. Photographs of all sizes, girls of all descriptions, snapshots, signed portraits, enlargements. Joe recognized none of them. They seemed to represent Bill’s career at San Jose State.

Joe went through Bill’s desk. There was a Polaroid camera, a shoe-box full of prints, again mostly girls, and some of these pictures caused Joe to lift his eyebrows.

In a closet hung Bill’s wardrobe: four or five suits, a half-dozen jackets with matching slacks, numerous sportshirts. Joe, who owned a single dark blue suit, decided that Bill was something of a clotheshorse. Joe rummaged through pockets, found nothing more significant than a package of prophylactics.

On the chest lay Bill’s wallet, where he had flung it the night before. Within was the usual collection of credit cards and business cards, thirty-two dollars, memoranda and receipts. One of these latter aroused Joe’s notice: a numbered call-slip at Hobbs Camera Shop on Main Street, dated the day previously. Joe tucked the slip into his own wallet.

He left the room and walked downstairs. Fred Whipple, sitting in the living room, rose slowly to his feet. “Well, Sheriff, what do you think?”

“Frankly, Mr. Whipple, I’m mystified.”

2

Joe drove down Main Street, parked in front of the Hobbs Camera Shop and went in. Behind the counter stood Mrs. Hobbs, who failed to recognize him. “Yes sir?”

“Is Mr. Hobbs in?”

“I’ll call him. Who shall I say?”

Hobbs appeared, wearing a gray laboratory smock: a sallow old-looking man of forty with a ragged ginger crew-cut. Joe brought out the claim check. “I’m Sheriff Bain, Mr. Hobbs. Official business.”

An expression of vague apprehension crossed Hobbs’ face. “Something connected with the shop?”

“Indirectly. Yesterday a young man named Bill Whipple brought some work in here for you and you gave him this claim check.”

Hobbs examined the check. “Bill Whipple? Yes, I know him. He had a kind of a special job.” Hobbs hesitated. “I don’t know whether I should talk about it or not without his being here. After all, it’s his business —”

“Bill Whipple is dead,” said Joe. “Homicide. I’m investigating the case.”

“Oh! It’s hard to believe! Why, I was just talking to him last night!”

“I know. Did he have anything much to say?”

“Just in regard to what he wanted me to do, which was make enlargements from a Polaroid print.”

“Do you have the print?”

“No. He didn’t want to leave it. I took it into the darkroom, copied it — that is, I made the negative — and gave it back to him. In fact, I was just printing the enlargements when you came in.”

“Can I see them?”

“Sure thing. They’re wet, but that don’t matter. But what happened to Bill Whipple?”

“He got hit over the head with a hammer.”

Hobbs disappeared into the rear premises. A minute later he came out holding an 8 x 10 enlargement, still wet and limp. “It’s a bit fuzzy,” said Hobbs apologetically. “Every time you process a picture you degrade the image by maybe ten percent, no matter how good your equipment. I made a negative, that’s one process, I printed the negative, that’s the second, so this is only about eighty percent as sharp as the original.”

“Yeah,” said Joe. “Let’s see the picture.”

Hobbs laid it down on the counter. The picture had been taken in the bar at Halfway House, with the camera pointed into the mirror, to record the image of four people sitting at the bar. They were Ken Mooney, Bill Whipple, who held the camera, Alice Benjamin and another girl with a great vulgar bush of dark hair. On the bar, somewhat to the side, was a miniature Christmas tree.

Joe asked, “Where is the negative?”

“In the darkroom.”

“I better take it with me.”

Hobbs grimaced sadly for the departure of the $7.50 he had been planning to charge Bill Whipple. He went into the darkroom, to return with an envelope and a sour face which Joe assessed as the loss of at least two votes next election.

“If you’re out any money,” said Joe, “bill Fred Whipple on Madrone Way. I’ll mention the situation to him, and I don’t think there’ll be any problem.”

“Thanks very much, Sheriff,” said Hobbs, his face magically transformed. “I’ll just do that.”

Joe walked slowly to his car. The picture — an eery record from the past, when all was different, when Ken and Bill were alive, when no one had dreamed of murder.

Who was with whom? Joe examined the picture. The pairing was not clear. It might be either way.

Joe drove back up Madrone Way, parked in front of Mrs. Benjamin’s house. He walked up the steps, pressed the button.

There was a wait. Joe rang again, and then the door opened. Mrs. Benjamin, very pregnant in a dressing gown, her face damp, her hair tied up in a pony tail, looked out the door. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“May I come in a minute? I have a question or two.”

Mrs. Benjamin ungraciously allowed him to enter. “It’s almost half-past two. I’m due at Mrs. Taylor’s and I haven’t even started to dress.”

“I won’t be long,” said Joe. “You remember that I asked you if Alice had ever been friendly with Ken Mooney.”

“Yes, I remember you asked,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “I believe I stated that they probably had known each other at high school.”

“What about Bill Whipple?”

“Naturally they were acquainted.”

“Was there ever any romantic attachment?”

Mrs. Benjamin gave a faint snort of disgust. “I should hardly think so — not with Bill Whipple’s reputation.”

“Did Alice go out with either Ken or Bill last Christmas?”

“Of course not! Alice is engaged to Marsh Shortridge. She is very much in love.”

“She was engaged last Christmas?”

“Certainly.”

“What do you make of this?” Joe handed Mrs. Benjamin the photograph.

“Hm … hm …” Grace Benjamin frowned, suddenly no longer either serene or impatient. “Where was this taken?”

“At Halfway House, a bar that Ken owned.”

“I must say I’m surprised. Yes, surprised. In fact, I’m — well …” Her voice trailed off. She examined the photograph again, then looked up. “Has Marsh Shortridge seen this picture?”

“I hardly think so.”

Mrs. Benjamin essayed an ingratiating smile. “I suggest, I hope, that you won’t show it to him. He’d be very upset. The circumstances I’m sure were innocent, but I doubt if Marsh would understand.” And Grace Benjamin’s smile, which she tried to make soft and persuasive, was curiously affecting. “In fact — may I keep the photograph?”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Benjamin. Both these boys are dead. When will Alice be home?”

“Toward the end of the summer. There’s no definite date.”

“How could I get in touch with her?”

“There’s no very convenient way. You could write her care of American Express, Paris. I imagine that she’ll be in to pick up her mail in the near future.”

Grace Benjamin went to the mantle, returned with a card postmarked a week or two previously at Bilbao, Spain. “That’s the last card I’ve had from her,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “She doesn’t write very frequently.”

“If I may ask a personal question — where did she get the money to travel?”

Grace Benjamin took the question evenly. “From her father. He doesn’t approve of the marriage and I think he hoped that Alice might change her mind.”

“And what do you think?”

“If she doesn’t want to marry Marsh, she might as well find out sooner as later. Marriage is a permanent contract.”

Joe re-read the postcard. Alice was well, enjoying herself and planned to be returning shortly to Paris. Joe glumly returned the card. Superficially, all was in order; Alice was in Europe and remote from the Pleasant Grove murders. On the other hand, jets flew daily between Paris and San Francisco.

Mrs. Benjamin began to make restless motions. “If you’ll excuse me, Sheriff, I think I had better get dressed, or I’ll be late for the shower — which after all is in my honor.”

“When do you expect your husband home, Mrs. Benjamin?”

“As to that, I’m not quite sure. Why don’t you write him and ask?”

“I’ll probably do that.” Joe departed the Benjamin house. He stood on the sidewalk a discomfited moment or two, then jumped into his car and drove to Shortridge’s Department Store.

Marsh Shortridge was not in his office. The receptionist looked twice to make sure. “He was here a few minutes ago. I know he’ll be back because there’s a sales conference scheduled for three.”

“I’ll wait,” said Joe. He went into Marsh’s office, where he examined a studio portrait of Alice on Marsh’s desk: a winsome face, lacking Grace Benjamin’s grimness. Married to Marsh, this might come in the course of the years, thought Joe. On the other hand, the marriage might be a glorious success. “Each has what the other wants,” thought Joe. “Maybe that’s how it should be.” And he recalled his own raggle-taggle marriage.

Marsh Shortridge came into his office. He paused at the sight of Joe, then came forward, his round pale face void of expression. “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

“Just a few questions, Mr. Shortridge. You know, I suppose, that Bill Whipple was killed last night?”

“So I’ve been informed.”

“Do you have any ideas in regard to the situation?”

“I’m afraid I don’t. Nothing very illuminating at any rate. I imagine that Bill and Ken Mooney got involved with some rough people.”

“That’s about what I figure too,” said Joe. “The closest I can get to those rough people is that they live on Madrone Way. Incidentally, are you acquainted with any of Ken Mooney’s girl friends?”

Marsh allowed an incredulous smile to cross his face. “I hardly think so.”

“Have you ever visited Halfway House?”

“I’ve driven past. I’ve never stopped. It’s a rather untidy old place.”

“Did you know that Ken owned Halfway House?”

Marsh frowned. “I vaguely recall someone making a remark to this effect, but I didn’t pay any great attention.”

Joe picked up Alice’s photograph. Marsh made a small motion, as if he wanted to take it from Joe’s hands. “A beautiful girl,” said Joe. “When is the marriage?”

“Early this fall.”

“Where will you live?”

“We haven’t decided definitely. I’d like to build a house up on top Spanish Hill, and I think that’s what we’ll do.”

“That should be fine. You’d have a wonderful view, out over the valley.”

Marsh gave a short nod.

“Incidentally, did you talk to Bill Whipple last night?”

“I did not.”

“Hm, that’s odd. I guess my informant was mistaken.”

Marsh made no comment.

Joe controlled his exasperation, departed. Marsh was a cold fish. Joe wondered if Alice’s Catholicism and her views toward marriage were as strong as those of her mother. She couldn’t be too wild about Marsh Shortridge, what with Christmas parties and long engagements and gadding about Europe.

Joe went for a drive in the country to clear his mind, and was somewhat surprised to find himself pulling into the Pandora Realty driveway.

Luna prepared tea, which Joe accepted gingerly.

Luna listened attentively while Joe analyzed the case. “In theory, anybody along Madrone Way could have killed Bill Whipple. It was just a case of meeting him somewhere, then a whack with the hammer, and hiding him until late at night. That’s the theory. In practice, Mrs. Bazzarini is out. The Whipples are out. If we assume the same person killed both Ken and Bill, the Taylors are just about out. The extra-pregnant Grace Benjamin is just about out. Sam and Miriam Shortridge are too unbelievable, and besides they had alibis for Ken’s death. Caspar Hubman? Laura Hubman? Marsh Shortridge? Starr Shortridge? Sally Wagner? Which reminds me, I want to talk to Sally Wagner tonight. I’d swear that she had some kind of illumination.”

“Telephone her, if you like,” Luna suggested.

Joe checked the number, dialled, but received no answer. “Ten to one she’s gone to stay in a motel,” said Joe. “And I can’t say as I blame her … I wonder what she saw that I didn’t. She was looking at the wheelbarrow and the lawn.”

He telephoned headquarters and spoke to Rex Kelly. “I don’t have much,” said Kelly. “A couple of iron-clad alibis.”

“That’s better than none. Who?”

“Sam and Miriam Shortridge were out to dinner, at the residence of Dr. and Mrs. Luther Norman; Tom and Ethel Taylor and all their kids were driving home from picnicking on Genesee Slough. Aside from this: nothing. Blanks.”

“About what I feared,” said Joe. “Well, if anything comes up call me at this number. I’ll be here another hour or so.”

Joe hung up. “What a mess.”

“Will you have more tea?” asked Luna.

“Well — just about two fingers. Come over here and tell me about Arthemisia, and get my mind off my troubles.”

“All three at once?” asked Luna demurely.

She poured the tea, which stimulated Joe’s mental processes.

Presently the telephone rang. Luna answered. “Pandora Realty … It’s for you, Joe.”

“What now?” sighed Joe. “Joe Bain speaking.”

“Ace Wardell here, Sheriff. There’s a homicide on Madrone Way: Mrs. Sally Wagner.”

“With a hammer, no doubt.”

“With a hammer.”

Chapter XI

1

Sally Wagner had disdained to attend Grace Benjamin’s baby shower. She had locked herself in her house, concentrated on catching up with her domestic duties. She washed dishes, changed the bed-linen, vacuumed rugs, burnt rubbish in the back-yard incinerator. About three o’clock she went to the telephone, either to make a call or to answer one. While she sat talking, someone came up behind her, struck her with a hammer, then hung up the receiver. Through oversight, haste, or hysteria, the hammer had been forgotten and remained on the gray-violet rug under the telephone table: an ugly little tool with curved claws, one broken off near the tip, and a make-shift handle.

Investigating the scene of the crime, Joe traced Sally Wagner’s activities. The dishes had been stacked to dry but not put away. The vacuum cleaner had been wheeled into the hall, possibly for use elsewhere. The trash baskets were yet outside by the incinerator, not all of their contents burned. There was no sign of forcible ingress; either the front or the back door had been unlocked. Or had Sally Wagner admitted the murderer of her own free will? Feather-brained woman, thought Joe.

The afternoon had been overcast; Sally Wagner had turned on the lights in her living room. As soon as dusk arrived, Grace Benjamin, looking from her bedroom down across fence and hedge, had seen the sprawled body through one of the picture windows.

The ambulance backed up the driveway, watched by residents, curiosity seekers, reporters from as far away as San Jose. Joe and Rex Kelly went out on the front porch to catch a breath of air.

“What gets me,” said Joe peevishly, “is why? Did she figure out what was going on, who was responsible? If so, would she be idiotic enough to make the fact known?”

“Idiotic or not,” said Rex Kelly glumly, “if she had any notion at all, she’s smarter than I am.”

“Well, we have the murder weapon, which is our first break. Here’s another matter: who was Sally talking to when she got whacked? You better go find her personal phone book. Call all her friends, find out who she talked to today around three o’clock.”

“Right.” Rex Kelly went back into the house.

Tom Taylor approached Joe. “What’s it look like, Sheriff?”

Joe, choosing among the responses which came to his mind, said, “We’re following down every lead we can think of.”

“How did the murderer get in?”

“At a guess, through the back door,” said Joe. “I don’t imagine the killer would dare use the front door.”

“That’s also a risk, with the Benjamin house overlooking the back yard.”

“True, unless Grace Benjamin is guilty. And since I can’t imagine her leaping that seven-foot fence in her current condition it must be somebody else. Hence, the murder occurred after Grace Benjamin left for the shower, when there wouldn’t be any risk.”

“Poor Sally Wagner,” said Tom Taylor. “She was a good-hearted soul, although she made a lot of enemies with her voice. If she’d stayed on good terms with Grace Benjamin and gone to the shower, she’d be alive right now.”

Another voice, gruff and sardonic, the voice of Howard Griselda, spoke: “She’d also be alive if the murderer had been apprehended. What about it, Sheriff?”

“Don’t worry,” declared Joe energetically, “I’ll get him.”

“Possibly by the process of elimination, when he and you are the only two persons in town left alive.”

From the onlookers came chuckles and titters.

Joe grunted and went off to search the back yard.

2

On the following morning Life was again delivered to subscribers along that route which formerly had been serviced by Ken Mooney. The addresses of these magazines were listed, checked against the list which had been prepared from the previous week’s distribution. No discrepancy was found, a fact which caused Joe to hold his head. “As if I didn’t have enough on my mind. Now it’s a case of an extra magazine!”

“Is it so important?” inquired Casey Miggs, who had assisted in the comparison of lists.

“Whatever can’t be explained has got to be important. Where did the extra magazine come from?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” shrugged Miggs.

Joe made no reply. He went to the laboratory, tucked the murder weapon into a cellophane envelope, drove to Madrone Way, where he carried the hammer from house to house asking questions. To Joe’s great surprise, Fred Whipple identified the hammer, declaring it to be a tool which he had inherited from his father — almost an heirloom. Seven or eight years previously Bill had lost the hammer while building a tree-house.

“And where was this tree-house?”

“Up on Spanish Hill. The Shortridge kids found it and pulled it down.” Fred Whipple looked off through the smoke of his cigarette, seeing an immeasurable distance. “They just couldn’t tolerate someone getting enjoyment out of their land. Bill wasn’t doing a thing wrong. They chased him out like he was a bill collector. He always carried a grudge on account of that old tree-house and I guess I have too. Oh well. It’s all in the past. Things are so different now. I think we’ll sell out and go back to Oregon …”

Starr Shortridge remembered Bill Whipple’s tree-house clearly. She spoke in a voice of studied coolness behind which Joe detected both anger and bewilderment. “I could show you the exact tree if you were interested. He made a dreadful mess — scraps of lumber, paper bags, orange peels. It was as if he had decided to lay claim to that part of Spanish Hill.”

“What of the hammer?”

“I don’t remember it. I mean I don’t remember what it looked like. I know it was there — a hammer and a saw.”

“What happened to the tools?”

“I don’t know. I never thought of them again.”

Joe spoke to Marsh at his office in the department store. He seemed more starchy and condescending than ever. Joe contained his irritation with an effort. Marsh wore an urbane black suit with a white shirt, a striped tie; he flicked a glance up and down Joe’s whipcord trousers and dark brown poplin jacket as if he found them hard to believe.

“You remember Bill Whipple’s tree-house?”

“Certainly. It was in an oak tree at the north end of our property. As soon as Starr and Alice called my attention to it, I went up and destroyed it.”

“What did Bill Whipple say to this?”

“Nothing. He wasn’t there.”

“He had left his tools?”

“I believe so.”

“What became of them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you return later to the site of the tree-house?”

“Oh yes. Sometime later, to clean up the rubbish. So far as I could see there had been no further trespass. The tools were gone.” Marsh began to manipulate objects on his desk, as if he had urgent matters to which he must attend.

Joe said politely, “I won’t take too much more of your time. Have you heard from Alice?”

“Not in the last week or so.”

“She’ll be on her way home pretty soon?”

“I believe so.”

“A shame you couldn’t have been married and gone to Europe on your honeymoon.”

Marsh drummed the surface of his desk with his finger tips. “I’ve already been to Europe. Twice, as a matter of fact.”

“So you considered it a good idea that Alice should go?”

“Naturally. She’s having a wonderful time.”

3

The death of Sally Wagner, like that of Ken Mooney and Bill Whipple, posed many puzzles. From the evidence of the half-empty wastebaskets it would seem that Sally Wagner had been burning rubbish immediately prior to her death. Joe theorized that her work had been interrupted by the phone call. Hearing the bell she had run into the house without locking the door, allowing the murderer an easy ingress. But what a fortuitous circumstance! And how dared the murderer attack while Sally Wagner was talking on the telephone? If she chanced to look up, to scream, to call out a name, the murderer’s goose was cooked.

Rex Kelly had interrogated all of Sally Wagner’s friends; he had called all the numbers listed in her private phone book, all the tradespeople with whom Sally Wagner did business — to no avail. No one admitted talking to Sally Wagner at the time of her death. A long distance call? A wrong number?

Henrietta Freycinet, head librarian at the county library and Sally Wagner’s best friend, had telephoned about an hour before her death. According to Henrietta Freycinet, Sally Wagner had been strange and fey. “There was something on her mind. Definitely. It wasn’t just normal excitement. Sally was an excitable woman, but this was perturbation. She said something about footprints on Mrs. Benjamin’s lawn —”

“Footprints on Mrs. Benjamin’s lawn? We didn’t see any footprints.”

“That’s what she said. And then she said something like: ‘I have a funny feeling, as if I’m dreaming. I see something and I can’t believe it.’ Naturally I asked her what she knew, but she wouldn’t tell me. I was just a bit miffed, and I suppose I sounded it. I told her that if she knew anything she had better tell the police.”

“And what did she say to that?”

“She was very vague and evasive.”

Henrietta Freycinet had nothing more to offer, and Joe was left to grope among imponderables. Sally Wagner either had not known the identity of the murderer, or she had. In the first case, why was she killed? In the second case, why did she not immediately communicate her knowledge to the police?

Paradoxes, contradictions.

Days passed. From the photograph which Bill Whipple had taken from the bar at Halfway House Joe isolated and blew up the face of the dark-haired girl. He showed this face to the Mooney family, to the residents of Madrone Way, to the faculty at Pleasant Grove High School and Aurora High School. He found no one who recognized the girl.

Ennis Mooney, the older of Ken’s sisters, thought that Ken had mentioned driving to Gilroy, in Santa Clara County. Extending his inquiries to Gilroy, Joe finally identified the girl. She was Helen Ferguson, a stenographer in the office of Gilroy Building Supply.

Helen Ferguson, when Joe finally spoke to her, was irritable and emotional. “I haven’t done anything wrong, and I don’t want to talk to you!”

“I didn’t accuse you of anything,” said Joe. “I just asked if you knew Ken Mooney.”

“Who I know is my own business!” And Helen Ferguson, putting her face in her hands, began to weep noisily.

Joe exhibited the entire photograph. “There’s Ken Mooney, there’s Bill Whipple, there’s Alice Benjamin. Both of these boys are dead. You say you still don’t know them? Maybe I better talk to your father.”

“No!” exclaimed Helen Ferguson. “Don’t tell my father. And don’t show him that picture!”

“Well then, who were you with: Ken or Bill?”

“Ken.”

“Alice was with Bill?”

Helen nodded sullenly. “I didn’t like either one of them. Bill was a big pain, thinking he was so good. Alice — well, she thought she was pretty good too. They deserved each other. I told Ken I’d never go out with them again. They acted like I was some kind of little country girl. Even Ken got mad about the way they acted.”

“You’d never met Bill or Alice before?”

“I’d seen Bill before, when we fixed up the party. He was real nice then. But as soon as he got with Alice he changed.”

“Changed? How?”

“Well, I can’t hardly describe it. I was surprised to see a girl like Alice with him. She seemed so prissy and lady-like, as if she thought she shouldn’t be there. For a fact she shouldn’t have been. Because once she took a drink she really discarded her inhibitions. I guess I did too. That’s all the boys have in their minds: to take a girl somewhere and try to get her to drink.”

“They succeeded, eh?”

“Yes,” said Helen ruefully. “They succeeded. Oh how they succeeded. They had champagne. I love champagne.”

“I assume then that things got a little out of hand.”

“Yes, they did.” Her lips curved in a vague retrospective smile.

“You split up and went to the bedrooms?”

“I don’t want to say. If anything ever got back to my father —”

“I don’t plan to say anything to him.”

“Well then — yes, we did. I don’t know about Bill and Alice, because Ken and I went first. It looked to me as if Alice was having second thoughts.” Helen gave a little shudder. “It wouldn’t have cut any ice with Bill. He was single-minded. He didn’t even seem to be having fun! He came for one thing. I imagine he got it. Ken at least was considerate.”

“Did you see Bill and Alice again?”

“No. I went out with Ken a few more times, until my father put a stop to it.”

Joe took Helen backward and forward over the story. “Did Alice act like she was in love with Bill?”

“I don’t know how she acted,” said Helen irritably. “I didn’t like her; she hardly talked to me.”

Joe cautioned Helen against drinking champagne if she wanted to stay out of trouble and returned to Pleasant Grove. What had he learned? Alice Benjamin and Bill Whipple for reasons more or less complicated had gone to bed together during the previous Christmas holidays, although Alice had been engaged to Marsh at the time. Alice might not be too anxious to marry Marsh, thought Joe. She gained wealth, social position, a new house — but the bargain included Marsh Shortridge. No wonder she drank champagne and discarded inhibitions.

4

A week went by, then another, and another and another. Along Madrone Way there was no relaxation, and there never would be until the identity of the murderer was made known. If this never happened, then for all the years to come the folk would watch each other askance, knowing that among their number was someone who had killed three people.

Toward the end of August Joe happened to meet Ethel Taylor on Courthouse Avenue. “Have you heard the news?” she asked.

“If it’s another murder, don’t tell me,” said Joe.

Ethel Taylor responded to the pleasantry with an uncertain smile. “It’s rather more cheerful. Mrs. Benjamin has had her baby, a month early. She’s named it Beatrice.”

Joe made a congratulatory remark. “What else do you know that’s new and interesting?”

“The Whipples have their house up for sale. Sally Wagner’s house has gone to her sister, Mrs. Wanda Tobias. And wonder of wonders, I saw Mrs. Bazzarini taking a walk the other day. The old lady is actually improving.”

Joe reflected a moment. “I still can’t think of her as a suspect.”

Ethel Taylor gave an uneasy laugh. “I suppose we’ve all had the same thoughts. But it couldn’t be poor Mrs. Bazzarini. I know it wasn’t Tom. He’s the kindest man in the world. And it wasn’t me, I assure you of that.”

“It doesn’t leave much of a list,” said Joe. “Well, I must be off about my duties.”

5

The Pleasant Grove Messenger, after a quizzical silence on the subject of the murders, gave Joe no respite. Every day a polite paragraph reported Sheriff Joe Bain in a state of bafflement, and occasionally there was speculation as to who might be the next victim, since murder in San Rodrigo County seemed so effortless: “A safe and convenient method of taking out your aggressions,” wrote Howard Griselda. “While we do not recommend murder as a means of achieving mental health, still, if murder you must, San Rodrigo County appears as salubrious an environment as any.”

For a period Griselda became distracted by the Secretary of Agriculture’s bracero program. Not until the first week in September did he make a new reference to the murders. On September 10 he called upon Joe to make a forthright announcement as to whether or not he considered the crimes beyond his capacity to solve. “If so,” wrote Howard Griselda, “it appears that appropriate assistance from Sacramento should be, or more properly, should have been, requested. Or does Sheriff Bain disdain expert assistance at the price of some new atrocity?”

The society page of the same edition announced the return of Alice Benjamin from Europe, and revealed that her marriage to Marshall Shortridge was to occur on September 21, less than two weeks away.

Already ruffled by Howard Griselda’s editorial, Joe gave a growl of exasperation. “Why doesn’t somebody let me in on things like this? Don’t they know there’s a murder investigation in progress?” He telephoned the Benjamin residence. Grace Benjamin responded.

“Sheriff Joe Bain, Mrs. Benjamin. I understand that Alice is home.”

“Yes, she is.” Grace Benjamin seemed less acerb than usual.

“I want to ask her a few questions. Is she home now?”

Mrs. Benjamin’s voice became doubtful. “I think she’s getting ready to go to Pebble Beach with Marsh.”

“I’d better send a car out to pick her up,” said Joe. “I want to talk with her.”

“I’m sure she would prefer to talk with you here,” said Mrs. Benjamin coldly.

“Very well,” said Joe. “I’ll be there in ten minutes or so.”

Grace Benjamin met Joe at the door and grudgingly allowed him into the living room. “Alice is still tired from traveling. I hope you won’t be too long.”

“If she’s so tired, why is she going to Pebble Beach? You don’t seem to realize that this is a murder investigation. Everything else stops. It’s like a big fire truck coming down the street. And why didn’t you notify me that Alice was home?”

“If you must know,” said Mrs. Benjamin frigidly, “I didn’t want her harassed and molested.”

“Your wants in a situation of this kind are unimportant, Mrs. Benjamin. Now if you’ll please ask Alice to step in here.”

Grace Benjamin walked to the stairs. “Alice? Will you please come down for a moment?”

Chapter XII

1

Joe had seen pictures of Alice, he had heard legends of her astounding beauty, but still his jaw dropped when she came into the room. She was perfect in every aspect: more than perfect, through indefinable graces and fascinating contradictions. She looked delicate but durable, youthful but knowing, slender and frail but supple and sure. She was an angelic being superior to the ordinary ruck; her substance, compared to human stuff, was like sugar to sand. Her style, compounded of artlessness, wistful charm, melancholy, was hers alone. No man’s heart could fail to skip and flutter at the sight of her.

Joe heaved a sigh, introduced himself, looked pointedly at Mrs. Benjamin, who looked back. Finally Joe said, “I’d like to talk to Alice alone, if I may.”

“I’d prefer to be present,” said Mrs. Benjamin.

“Maybe you would. But when I ask her a question, I don’t want her looking at you before she answers.”

“She can answer without looking at me. But I wish to be present.”

“Now look here, Mrs. Benjamin, let’s get something straight. This is a murder case. Either you want to cooperate or you don’t. If you don’t, I’ll have to stop being friendly.”

Mrs. Benjamin’s face took on a mulish set. She groped for words. Before she could speak, Joe asked, “You want her to tell me the truth, don’t you?”

“Of course, but —”

“Are you afraid she won’t tell me the truth?”

“No.”

“Then why do you want to stay?”

Grace Benjamin turned on her heel and left the room.

“Let’s go sit down over here,” said Joe. Alice wordlessly obliged. She was wearing a smoke-colored cotton frock with a white collar, and Joe thought she looked good enough to eat. But she seemed ill at ease, almost frightened.

“Relax,” said Joe. “I’m not as harsh as I sound. Your mother is the kind of woman that has to be dealt firmly with.”

Alice smiled wanly. “She’s pretty firm herself.”

“You can be glad you don’t take after her,” said Joe. “Well, then. I guess you know what I want to talk about?”

Alice shook her head, and Joe again sensed apprehension.

“The murders of Ken Mooney, Bill Whipple and Sally Wagner — all friends of yours.”

Alice nodded numbly.

“What do you think about these murders?”

“Just what everyone else thinks. They’re awful.”

“Have you any idea why they were killed?”

“No.”

“You’ve been in Europe all summer?”

“Yes,” said Alice hesitantly. Watching closely, Joe saw her shoulders droop.

“When did you get back?”

“A few days ago.”

“Maybe I better take a look at your passport.”

“Passport?”

“Yeah. The little blue book with your picture in it.”

“I don’t quite know where it is.”

“When did you get back — exactly?”

Alice’s face became doleful. She looked down at her hands, then looked across the room toward the door. Joe looked too, but Mrs. Benjamin was nowhere to be seen. Alice said in a husky voice, “I arrived in San Francisco about a month ago. On the first of August, to be exact. I’ll show you the passport if you like. It’s upstairs in my room.”

“August first.” A month and a half after Ken had been killed, something over a month after the deaths of Bill Whipple and Sally Wagner. “Where have you spent the last five weeks?”

Alice looked over her shoulder again, then shook her head miserably. “I don’t want to tell you. I don’t want anyone to know.”

“Why not?”

“I just don’t.”

“Does your mother know?”

Alice shook her head.

“What about Marsh?”

Alice shook her head decidedly. “Definitely not.”

“In other words — your mother knows.”

Alice licked her lips. “I hope not.”

“Well, you can tell me,” said Joe. “I’ll check up, and if there’s no connection with the murder, no one will know.”

Alice began to cry: quietly, with great restraint. Joe waited. Finally Alice said, “In a week I’m being married — to a very respectable young man. He’s about as respectable as my mother.”

Joe managed a crooked grin. “They’d make a good pair.”

Alice went on in a dismal voice. “I’m not respectable at all. Frankly — if you must know — I’m marrying Marsh for his money. My mother approves of the marriage. I do too. I don’t have anything against being secure. I don’t want to be poor.”

“What’s wrong with being poor?” argued Joe. “I’ve been poor all my life.”

“So have I,” said Alice. “Don’t judge us by the house.”

“Well — what of that missing month?”

“I don’t like to tell you.”

“You were with a boy friend?”

Alice nodded, and again peered over her shoulder toward the door.

Joe cleared his throat. “If you want some unsolicited advice: don’t marry the man. Marsh is as warm and enthusiastic as an oyster.”

“I know … But he’s — well, he’s kind enough. And he’s dependable.”

“Life might be pretty uninteresting. Dependability and money aren’t everything.”

A hint of suppressed fury came into Alice’s voice. “I’m doing it because I have to! We can’t live otherwise! We’re broke! Father isn’t coming back from India. He’s not sending any more money.”

“What? That seems strange. Are you sure?”

“My mother says so.”

“What of the baby — Beatrice? Doesn’t he care about his offspring? He’s responsible for child support.”

Alice paused, as if this were an entirely new facet to the case. “I don’t know about that.”

“Are your mother and father getting a divorce?”

“Heavens no! My mother’s a Catholic. She almost became a nun.”

“Your father knows you’re getting married?”

“I wrote him about it.”

“Have you had an answer?”

“Not recently.”

“How come you didn’t marry Bill Whipple? You seemed to like him well enough.”

Alice turned Joe a startled look. “What do you mean?”

“You went out to Halfway House with him.”

“How do you know about that?” asked Alice breathlessly. “Does Marsh know?”

“No.” Joe showed her the photograph. Alice stared at the picture as if it held the secret to her life. “That was so long ago … I felt so young then.”

“You’re young now.”

Alice gave a wistful grimace. “I told you I’m not respectable.”

“You’re probably as respectable as most people. It seems to me you’re just reacting to an overdose of respectability.”

Alice heaved a sigh. “Probably so.”

“Was this the first time you went out with Bill?”

Alice gave her head a quick shake. “The second time.” She laughed. “He asked me to marry him … Poor Bill.”

“What did you say?”

“No. Bill didn’t really love me. He was mad about Starr. She wouldn’t look at him. He asked me out to spite her. And Marsh and all the Shortridges. That’s why he wanted to marry me — from spite.”

“Don’t talk yourself down.”

“It’s true enough. And as far as I was concerned — well, I wasn’t very happy. I really didn’t want to be engaged to Marsh. I don’t have very much will power … Not very much decency, I suppose.”

“Did your mother know about you and Bill?”

Alice winced. “She detested Bill. She thought he was vulgar and heathen.”

“Seems to me that your mother runs things around here.”

“Well, not altogether. As far as Bill was concerned, I didn’t want to marry him. I was being defiant toward my mother and Marsh. Bill was defying Starr.” Alice laughed — a forlorn sound. “Starr couldn’t care less what Bill or I did.”

Joe rubbed his chin. “Forget I’m sheriff. Pretend I’m an old friend.”

“That’s not hard.” Alice gave Joe a smile that made his head swim.

“You’re Catholic like your mother?”

“I’ve never had much choice. I guess — yes.”

“You don’t believe in divorce, things like that?”

“I — guess not.”

“Well, you better ditch Marsh now, before the knot is tied. Otherwise you’re stuck with him.”

Alice smiled wanly. “If I did, who’d support us? Myself and Mother and now there’s a little baby. None of us knows how to earn a living. It would kill Mother to give up the house.”

“Your father undoubtedly will furnish child support.”

Alice made a sudden gesture of fatigue. “I’m so sick of the entire business! I can understand how people sometimes want to kill themselves.”

“Here, here,” said Joe. “Things aren’t that bad. Heavens, for two cents I’d marry you myself. Except I’ve got a daughter not much younger than you. It would look silly. Howard Griselda would take me to task in an editorial.”

Alice laughed, and looked so charming that for a wild instant Joe thought that he might propose in earnest. Alice asked, rather archly, “Even after you know how wicked I’ve been?”

“We’d both be taking our chances.”

“You don’t know how bad I really am.”

“How bad is that?” asked Joe. “Does it extend to hitting Ken and Bill and Mrs. Wagner with a hammer?”

“Oh no. I could never hurt anyone. Physically …” Her voice drifted away. Then she said, “You can come to my wedding.”

“Not even second best,” said Joe. “Oh well, that’s neither here nor there. I probably couldn’t stand your mother. I sure as hell wouldn’t support her.”

Alice nodded as if this were precisely the point she had been trying to make. “Right now I feel a hundred years old. All I can think about is peace and quiet.”

“No more wild oats?”

“No. I’ve finished.”

“And who was the most recent boy friend? I’m asking now officially.”

“It was nothing serious. Please don’t ask me his name. Because I won’t tell you.”

Joe reflected. “Let me look at your passport. If you got back after Sally Wagner died, I suppose it doesn’t make any great difference.”

Alice wordlessly left the room, returned a moment later with her passport. Joe checked the stamp at the port of entry: SAN FRANCISCO, AUGUST 1. “How come your mother hasn’t seen this date?”

“She never looked. She disapproved of the European trip — pretended that it never existed.”

“I’ll bet you a dollar she knows everything that’s in that passport.”

Alice shrugged listlessly. “I don’t care. I’m just tired of everything. Worry, poverty, being dutiful.”

“Don’t say I never advised you,” said Joe.

2

Joe went out to his car, head buzzing with thoughts. Impossible to suspect Alice of homicide. She was too sad, too beautiful, too sweet-natured. What did she have to gain? Furthermore, she was six thousand miles away at the time of the murders.

Suppose, thought Joe, just suppose, that Starr Shortridge was really mad about Bill Whipple, that she had been dissembling her love all these years. Suppose then that she heard about the Christmas party at Halfway House — was it conceivable that the news would have driven her into a state of insane rage?

A theory even less convincing than most of his others. But for want of anything better Joe drove his car up the Shortridge driveway, parked, rang the doorbell. To his relief Starr herself answered the ring; Joe was not up to facing Miriam Shortridge’s cool stare.

“Hello, Sheriff,” said Starr. She came out on the terrace.

“Hello, Miss Shortridge,” said Joe. “Tell me, did you commit three murders out of unrequited love for Bill Whipple?”

“No.”

“I didn’t expect you had. Do you know who did?”

“Not really.”

“Naturally you know Alice is home from Europe.”

Starr nodded. “Marsh has had her here to dinner — twice. She’s a patient girl. I wouldn’t marry Marsh for all the money in the world.”

Marsh drove up in his white Ford hardtop, alighted, paused to look at Joe. Then, nodding curtly, he came forward. “What’s new, Sheriff?”

“I’ve just been talking to Miss Benjamin and your sister, hoping for some fresh ideas.”

“It’s time fresh ideas were coming from somewhere.”

“I keep learning things,” said Joe. “I have the curious feeling that something obvious is lurking just out of sight; that if I turned my head quick I’d see it … I take it you haven’t thought of anything which might have a bearing on the case?”

“Not a thing.”

“I guess you’re getting pretty excited, wedding so close and all.”

Marsh opened his mouth, then closed it. If he said yes, he subscribed to Joe’s arch whimsy. If he said no, he became a churl. “It’s something everyone has to bear up under,” he said stiffly.

“Out of curiosity, are you turning Catholic?”

Again Marsh struggled to find words. Starr looked off up Spanish Hill, face grave and impassive.

“I was brought up to Episcopalian doctrine,” said Marsh. “Alice’s church asked me to take instruction and I had no profound objection; essentially the teachings are similar.”

“The Catholics use more incense,” said Starr.

Marsh deigned no reply.

“Where does the wedding take place?” asked Joe. “I might even come.”

“It’s to be a private affair,” said Marsh. “It will take place here at the house.”

“Oh? Not in the Catholic church? I thought that was the accepted thing.”

“We’ve decided upon a civil ceremony,” said Marsh tersely.

Starr amplified the remark. “Marsh was married once before, to a musician. And divorced, of course. It won’t be bigamy.”

“What’s your opinion,” asked Joe, “on divorce and contraception and affairs like that?”

“I hold conservative views,” said Marsh. “I really don’t care to discuss the subject.”

“Sorry,” said Joe. “I understand that you and Bill Whipple had a big fight a week or so before his death.”

Marsh glared at Starr, who returned an expression of limpid innocence. Marsh looked away, mouth turned savagely down at the corners. “It wasn’t a week before,” he muttered. “It was two days before. He’d been bothering Starr. He thought to attack her through me and made some vile accusations.”

“Against whom?”

“That’s quite irrelevant.”

“In a murder case nothing is irrelevant.”

Marsh paid no heed. “There was no ‘big fight’, as you put it. I merely told him off. He’d always had a very strange attitude toward Starr and myself, some sort of emotional instability: ambivalence, I think it’s called.”

“That’s no reason to kill him.”

Marsh stuttered with indignation. “Are you suggesting that I killed him?”

“Somebody did.”

Marsh turned on his heel, strode into the house. Joe gave a rueful shake of his head and departed.

3

Back at headquarters, Joe immured himself in his office and tried to think.

If the motive for the killings derived from Mrs. Bazzarini’s money, then Caspar Hubman and/or Laura Hubman were the prime suspects. If the murders stemmed from the Christmas party at Halfway House, then the people most obviously, if remotely, motivated included Marsh, Alice’s parents and Helen Ferguson’s parents. The Fergusons, not resident on Madrone Way, could be dismissed. Grace Benjamin had been too pregnant to get into Ken’s uniform, let alone wheel Bill Whipple in a wheelbarrow, or climb the fence intervening between her house and Sally Wagner’s. Guy Benjamin was in India.

Joe sat up in his chair. He reached for his telephone, called the Benjamin house.

Mrs. Benjamin responded. In the background could be heard the whimpering of the baby.

“Sheriff Joe Bain here, Mrs. Benjamin. Whom does your husband work for?”

“An engineering company which is building a dam in India.”

“Which company?”

“The Amonette Construction Company, 29 King James Parade, Darjeeling, India.”

“Where is the home office of the company?”

“In San Francisco.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Benjamin.”

Joe telephoned the Amonette Construction Company in San Francisco and was connected to the personnel department. “This is Joe Bain, Sheriff of San Rodrigo County. I want some information regarding one of your employees.”

“Very sorry, sir. We don’t give out information regarding our people over the telephone.”

“All I want is his address.”

“Sorry, sir. You can write him in care of this office.”

“Confound it, I’m Sheriff of San Rodrigo County, a law-enforcement officer. Call me back if you don’t believe me.”

“It’s firm company policy, sir. I can’t do anything about it. If you’ll bring your credentials to the office or submit your question by registered mail on official stationery, we’ll help you as much as we can.”

Joe hung up, sat seething on the edge of his chair. A minute passed. He jumped to his feet, spoke briefly to Ace Wardell and Miss Curdy, then, cursing and muttering, started north for San Francisco.

4

The headquarters of the Amonette Construction Company occupied the eleventh floor of the Golden State Building on Montgomery Street. Joe walked along a corridor separated by glass panels from an enormous drafting room, entered through a door bearing the inscription PERSONNEL DEPARTMENT. A brisk young man in a white shirt and bow tie came to the counter. “Yes, sir?”

Joe opened his wallet, displayed his badge. “I want to talk with the head of the department.”

“Mr. Trask, sir. Just a minute.”

Joe was ushered into an office twice as large as his own, decorated by photographs of jobs and crews. Trask rose to his feet, a man a foot taller than Joe with a great gaunt face, the mildest of brown eyes, a few sparse strands of hair.

Joe once more displayed his badge, which Trask inspected with amiable interest. “And what’s your problem?”

“I want some information in regard to one of your engineers, Mr. Guy Benjamin. I want proof or at least high-level assurance that he is in India and has been there since the first of the year.”

Trask leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on his chest, shook his big head. “I can’t help you.”

“Eh? How come?”

“Guy Benjamin’s been here at the home office since spring.”

“What!” cried Joe. “Here in San Francisco?”

“Go into the third office down the hall,” said Trask. “Maybe Benjamin can prove he’s in India. I can’t.”

Joe ran his fingers through his hair. “The least I can do is ask him.”

The door to the third office down the hall carried the information CHIEF EXPEDITER.

Joe entered. The air reeked with cigarette smoke. Three desks were crowded into the room; at each a man in shirtsleeves sat talking earnestly into a telephone. None of the men was Guy Benjamin, none of them did more than glance up.

Joe crossed the room, looked into the inner office. Here sat Guy Benjamin, tapping a calculator and making check marks on a list. He looked up. “Yes, sir?”

Joe studied him a moment before speaking: the redoubtable Grace Benjamin’s husband. Joe wondered why. Guy Benjamin was a slender man with an easy indolent face, well-brushed bronze hair, a neat bronze mustache. In some indefinable way he looked old-fashioned, like an early photograph of John Gilbert. It was apparent, thought Joe, that Alice had inherited both her charm and her flexibility — ‘weakness’ was much too strong a word — from her father. Grace Benjamin was of a different mettle.

“I’m Joe Bain, Sheriff of San Rodrigo County.” Joe displayed his badge.

Guy Benjamin nodded glumly. He pointed to a chair. “Sit down, Sheriff.”

Joe drew the chair forward. “I’m surprised to find you here. I understood you to be in India.”

Guy Benjamin made a small gesture, implying that this was the impression he wanted to give. “I had the chance to transfer home; I took it. Much more comfortable here. Although Darjeeling isn’t really all that bad.”

“Have you been in communication with Pleasant Grove?” Joe asked delicately.

“I’m afraid not,” said Guy Benjamin with a faint smile.

“You know what’s been going on along Madrone Way?”

“I can’t say as I do.”

“When was your last visit to Pleasant Grove?”

“The holiday season of last year. I doubt if I’ll be going back. My wife and I have come to an understanding. She won’t divorce me, I can’t divorce her. So — she lives her life; I live mine. What’s going on that’s so all-fired exciting?”

“I’ll come to that in a minute or two,” said Joe. “You know your daughter is getting married.”

Guy Benjamin nodded, offered Joe a cigarette. Joe refused. Guy Benjamin struck a match, lit up. He said, “I wouldn’t pick Marsh Shortridge myself but after all I don’t have to live with him.”

“You’re not going to the wedding?”

Guy Benjamin shook his head. “I’d have to be civil to Grace; I might slip. Why risk it?”

“Alice doesn’t know you’re here?”

“No. She’d tell her mother, which isn’t in my scheme of things. I’m not heartless, Sheriff, just gutless. You don’t know Grace. That woman is the original irresistible force. She put me through the wringer; I gave her the house as a financial settlement, which she found satisfactory. I’ve been making Alice an allowance of a hundred and fifty a month, which naturally I’m glad to do. Aside from that I’m on my own.”

“What of the baby?” asked Joe. “Aren’t you interested in taking care of your child?”

“What baby?” asked Guy. “You don’t mean Alice. She’s Marsh’s baby now.”

“I mean young Beatrice, whom Grace gave birth to last month.”

Guy Benjamin sat bolt upright in his chair, mustache bristling. “Grace has a baby?”

“I’ll vouch for it myself.”

“My, my, my,” murmured Guy Benjamin, slumping back into the chair and pulling at his mustache. “This is indeed a surprise … I won’t go into any details, but whoever the father is, include me out.”

Joe frowned in perplexity. “You mean that when you were home last winter you didn’t sleep with her?”

“Those were the details I wasn’t going into. I did not. Well, well, well. This is utterly fantastic. Grace. Her religion. Her qualms. Her scruples. Her religion. Her ethics. Her religion …”

Joe scratched his head. “Who in the world is the father?”

“If you ask me,” said Guy Benjamin, “it’s an immaculate conception. Will you be so kind as to tell me what in tarnation you’re here for?”

“Do you know Ken Mooney?”

“No.”

“How about Bill Whipple?”

“I know young Bill. Girl-chaser from up the street.”

“And Sally Wagner?”

“Sally Wagner, of course.”

“Well, they’re all dead — murdered.” Joe described the crimes.

Guy Benjamin laughed weakly. He stubbed out his cigarette, leaned back in his chair. “I don’t have any alibi. The theory of my killing these people is so far-fetched I can’t even worry about it.”

“This is the case with all my suspects,” said Joe. “If you could definitely clear yourself you’d be helping me locate the real killer.”

“I’m dreadfully sorry, Sheriff. I can’t prove where I was two days ago, much less a month.”

Joe sat back, glumly considering Guy Benjamin, whose presence in San Francisco he had hoped would be a break in the case.

“Incidentally,” inquired Guy Benjamin, “are you informing Grace of my whereabouts?”

“If I make inquiries about the baby —”

Guy Benjamin winced. “That’ll take guts.”

“— I’ll have to bring you into it.”

Guy Benjamin threw up his hands. “I might as well go to the wedding. I am fond of Alice.” He squinted off through the window, where the afternoon sunlight slanted across the building opposite. “When I think back, oh Lord it seems so long ago, what a young fool I was …”

“That’s how people go mad,” said Joe. “Well, it’s getting late. I don’t know whether you’ve helped matters or not.”

“If I were guilty, I’d be glad to confess,” said Guy Benjamin politely. “Just to save you further trouble.”

Joe rose to his feet. “Why can’t everyone be so considerate?” He brought out his notebook. “I’ll want your address and telephone number. Please call me before you make any moves, or out of sheer hysteria I might have you arrested.”

5

Joe returned south down Highway 101 to San Jose, then swung off at a slant to Aurora, where he telephoned Luna. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No,” said Luna. “I’ve been so terribly busy, I haven’t had time even to think of eating.”

“If I brought over two large steaks, a loaf of French bread and a six-pack, do you think we could manage?”

“I’ll start some onions frying.”

After dinner Joe helped Luna shift the concrete pans into a possibly more effective configuration. Then they sat in the lawn swing discussing the murders. “I have a feeling I’m right on top of the case,” said Joe. “But why? why? why? Why kill Ken Mooney? Why kill Bill Whipple? Why kill Sally Wagner? Grace Benjamin couldn’t hope to conceal her baby. If Laura or Caspar Hubman wanted to protect their inheritance they wouldn’t kill Ken on his route, they’d do something more subtle. Marsh Shortridge is too much of a poltroon to slaughter anybody. Starr doesn’t give a damn. Alice Benjamin was in Europe. Guy Benjamin …” Joe shook his head. “I’m running around in circles.”

“When is the wedding?”

“In about a week.”

“Are you going to ask Mrs. Benjamin about the father of the baby?”

“Hell, no. She’d just say it’s none of my business. And I’d say, ‘Mrs. Benjamin, in a murder case, everything is my business’. Then she’d change the subject. I can’t put her in jail for refusing to state who she was sleeping with.”

Luna shook her head dubiously. “Even I find this very confusing.”

Chapter XIII

1

The week went by. On the morning of September 20 three youths, sixteen, seventeen and eighteen years old, robbed a bank in San Jose and fled into San Rodrigo County. Joe, deploying his entire crew, herded the bandits toward a Highway Patrol road-block. They approached at ninety miles an hour, tried to make a screeching turn, spun out of control into a ditch, rolled out again and down the road, amid a hellish crunching din. There were no survivors.

During the afternoon the Shortridge–Benjamin wedding rehearsal took place; afterwards the Benjamins were guests at the Shortridge house for dinner.

Joe, in a travail of dissatisfaction, paced the living room floor until his mother, unable to watch TV, became disgusted and went to bed.

“Don’t ever get elected sheriff,” Joe told Miranda. “It’s the shortest route to gray hairs … How is it that old Cucchinello never had these problems? He died a happy man.”

Miranda tried to soothe him. “Something will turn up.”

“That’s not how I want it!” Joe exclaimed. “I’m supposed to be in charge; I’m supposed to be able to figure things out. Can Howard Griselda be right? Am I a meathead? I’m swaying over toward that opinion.”

“Now, Daddy, remember what you’ve always told me. If you don’t have faith in yourself, nobody else will either.”

“True. I also know what a miserable fiasco these murders have been.”

“Let’s think together,” suggested Miranda. “First of all, we know the murders weren’t suicide.”

“Right,” said Joe. “We can also eliminate death through the onslaught of enraged canaries.”

“Now you’re being sarcastic.” Miranda sniffed. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know, I know.” Joe paced up and down. “Go snatch open a can of beer. For me, not you. It helps to lubricate my thinking processes.”

Three cans of beer lubricated Joe’s thinking processes to such an extent that he went to bed.

Next morning at his office he continued pondering. Sheer logic ought to solve these crimes. “Sally Wagner did it merely by looking at a wheelbarrow,” Joe told himself, “and she didn’t know as much as I know. I guess I don’t have a flexible mind. I should be speculating more freely instead of trying to prove things. For instance, what if someone has been living in the Mortimer house all this time? What if Marsh never got divorced? Who is the father to Grace Benjamin’s child? Marsh? Ken? Bill? Caspar Hubman?”

Joe jerked upright as if Miss Curdy had dropped an ice cube down his neck.

“Can it be? Could it happen?” He looked at his watch. Nine forty-five, with the wedding in fifteen minutes. “If I’m wrong I might as well pack my clothes and emigrate.”

2

Madrone Way was dense with parked cars; Joe pulled up into the Shortridge driveway as far as he could go.

The old house wore a festive air. Bouquets of red and white carnations decorated the balustrade; from within came the sound of a string quartet.

Joe ran up the steps, pushed his way into the great living room. The wedding had not yet started. At the end of the room an altar and a pulpit had been set up. White candles burned in bronze candelabra. Guests were everywhere: important folk from the whole of San Rodrigo County. By the altar stood Sam Shortridge in formal morning attire, Milo Gentry, Howard Griselda, Mr. and Mrs. Wilfred Mortimer, Laura Hubman, Grace Benjamin, and Porter Barrett, owner of Rancho La Zuñada in the Indian Hills.

Joe approached the group, tapped Sam Shortridge’s arm, signaled him aside. “I’m sorry to barge in just at this time, Mr. Shortridge …”

“Not at all, Sheriff,” said Sam Shortridge jovially. “Glad you could make it. We’re just about ready to throw open the chute.”

“This is a very awkward situation,” said Joe in a worried voice. “Maybe the wedding had better be postponed.”

Sam Shortridge’s face became loose in wonder. “What did you say? Postpone the wedding?”

Joe put on his most affable smile. “Now is a peculiar time to be investigating a murder, but ten minutes ago I finally got things straight. Or so I hope.”

Miriam Shortridge, effulgent in pink, approached. “What is the trouble, Sam?”

Sam Shortridge said in a puzzled voice, “The Sheriff wants to postpone the wedding.”

“That’s simply ridiculous!” exclaimed Miriam Shortridge. “How in the world can he even think of such a thing?”

“What’s all this?” demanded Grace Benjamin, and once again Sam Shortridge explained Joe’s request. Grace Benjamin said to Joe: “You must be insane.”

Joe opened his mouth but Howard Griselda spoke first. “Sheriff Bain has a regrettable flair for spectacle and melodrama.”

“Excuse me for disagreeing, Mr. Griselda,” said Joe. “I could easily let the marriage proceed, but there might be a lot of consternation afterwards. Then everyone would come at me and say, ‘Sheriff Bain, you callous rumdum, why didn’t you halt the ceremony?’”

Sam Shortridge, suddenly haggard and harried, said, “Just what do you have in mind?”

Joe rubbed his chin irresolutely. He looked around the room. To the side, Guy Benjamin, bland and self-possessed, chatted with Caspar Hubman. Starr, wearing a bright green frock, sat grimly on a couch with young Orlando Bennett, son of Basil Bennett, Aurora’s most distinguished attorney.

Joe said slowly, “The easiest thing might be for you just to announce that the wedding has been postponed.”

Grace Benjamin made a bleating sound. “I won’t have it. I think it’s disgraceful. Couldn’t all this wait till after the ceremony?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Benjamin. It’s a miserable situation. But don’t forget, three people have been killed, which is even more miserable.” He met Howard Griselda’s sardonic glance, turned to Sam Shortridge. “I want to ask a few questions. I can either do it in private or out in front of everybody, which will be more embarrassing but quicker.”

“Embarrassing for whom?” inquired Miriam Shortridge.

Sam Shortridge made an impatient gesture. “Get on with it, get it over with. It’ll be public property in any event.”

“Please call in Marsh and Alice.”

Miriam Shortridge started to protest, but Sam cut her short. “Do as the Sheriff requests. He’s not fooling.”

“I hope I’m not,” muttered Joe. Alice, in her wedding gown, Marsh in formal morning clothes, along with Charles Beasley, his best man, wonderingly entered the room. Sam Shortridge gave them a peremptory signal. “Over here. Sheriff Bain is halting the marriage.”

Marsh began to swell with outrage. Sam Shortridge in a brittle voice said, “First let’s hear what he has to tell us.”

Joe hesitated. “You’re sure you don’t want this in private? There’s going to be some ticklish subjects raised.”

“Get on with it,” rasped Sam Shortridge.

Joe shrugged. “Maybe it’s the best way. Mr. Benjamin, will you please step over here?”

Guy Benjamin approached.

“Mr. Benjamin, are you the father of Beatrice Benjamin?”

“No,” said Guy Benjamin pleasantly. “I am not. Very definitely.”

Miriam Shortridge gasped and made a hissing noise between her teeth.

“Is this true, Mrs. Benjamin?” asked Joe.

Grace Benjamin went geranium red. “What an outrageous thing to ask!”

“Well, now that I’ve asked it, what’s the answer?”

“I refuse to discuss the subject.”

“Can we see the baby’s birth certificate?”

“You can see nothing.”

“In which hospital was the baby born? Who was the doctor who attended you?”

“That is none of your affair.”

“Come now, Mrs. Benjamin. This is a perfectly innocent question. Nobody is going to crucify you for an indiscretion; just tell us where the baby was born, and the name of the doctor.”

“I refuse to discuss my personal affairs in public.”

“Will you tell me in private?”

“I’ll tell you nothing whatever. It’s none of your business.”

“Your last chance to answer, Mrs. Benjamin. Where was the baby born? Who was the doctor?”

Howard Griselda said impatiently, “There’s no point in not supplying the information, Mrs. Benjamin.”

“No. I won’t. I won’t deign to answer.”

Joe turned to Starr, who sat frozen-faced on the couch, then looked at Marsh and Alice. “Seven or eight years ago you three demolished a tree-house built by Bill Whipple. True?”

“True,” said Marsh, in a nervous and high-pitched voice.

“What happened to the tools?” He looked from face to face.

Alice said haltingly, “I took them. I gave them to my father.”

Guy Benjamin nodded. “Yes, I remember. Quite distinctly. A hammer and a saw.”

“That hammer killed three people.” Joe turned to Alice. “Do you know where Beatrice Benjamin was born?”

Alice glanced at her mother. Joe stepped forward. “Just answer my question.”

Alice said in a quavering voice, “I’m not sure …”

“Do you or do you not know?”

“Yes, I do.”

Grace Benjamin said, “He has no right to inquire into my private business. Don’t tell him a thing.”

Alice looked pleadingly at Joe. “I don’t want to answer.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Benjamin, but it’s all got to come out. All. Everything. You arrived home from Europe August first. Correct?”

“What?” cried Marsh.

Alice heaved a deep shuddering sigh. “Yes.”

“Did you try to telephone Bill Whipple, to tell him that you were pregnant with his child, only to find that he was dead?”

“Alice!” blared Grace Benjamin. “Don’t you dare say a word!”

“Yes!” cried Alice. “I’m sick of the whole thing! I’m glad to tell the truth! I did! I did.”

Marsh gave a croak of dismay. Sam Shortridge, dumfounded, stood looking from face to face. Guy Benjamin examined his fingernails. Starr Shortridge laughed: a merry rollicking laugh.

“Ken Mooney was killed on a very hot day,” said Joe. “The Taylor kids had a lemonade stand going. Ken bought a glass of lemonade on credit. He collected some money on a C.O.D. package from Marsh, but he never paid the Taylor boys. Ken never left Madrone Way. He had a registered letter for Mrs. Benjamin, which was never delivered. Superficially it would seem that somewhere along in here Ken was killed. The murderer should therefore be a Shortridge, a Taylor or a Benjamin, who thereupon got into Ken’s uniform and delivered the rest of the mail.

“It wasn’t a Taylor. Mrs. Benjamin was ostensibly pregnant. She really wasn’t. She got herself into the situation by the most ridiculous blunder imaginable. It’s no wonder that she hated Sally Wagner. It’s so tragic it’s funny. Sally Wagner found her buying pregnancy capsules or vitamins or some such stuff, and Grace Benjamin was so rattled that she admitted to being pregnant. It seemed the only way out at the time, and oh what trouble it caused! Actually Mrs. Benjamin was buying pills for Alice.

“Mrs. Benjamin’s religion wouldn’t allow an abortion. She anticipated Alice having a quiet birth somewhere, then putting the baby out for adoption and going along with the marriage as planned. Grace Benjamin desperately needs this marriage. She’s broke. If Marsh doesn’t marry Alice and make her an allowance she’ll have to go to work. But alas: Sally Wagner surprised her. All Grace Benjamin could think to say was that yes, she was pregnant. It was the worst misfortune of her life. Because after that she had to act out being pregnant. It also meant she had to keep the baby.

“One hot day — June eighteenth, to be precise — Ken Mooney comes along with a registered letter. Now this is my guess. I suspect he rang the bell, got no answer and decided that Mrs. Benjamin was in the back yard. He pushed open the gate, walked around the house — and there, lo and behold! was Grace Benjamin fixing a trellis or hammering stakes for her chrysanthemums, maybe in a sun-suit? Anyway, without her padding. She was straight as a pencil! Ken probably stood stock-still and said, ‘Why, Mrs. Benjamin! I thought you were pregnant!’ Or maybe he didn’t say a word, but just looked in amazement.

“Mrs. Benjamin sees her world crumbling. Ken’s next stop is Sally Wagner’s. The whole story is sure to come out. Grace can almost hear Sally Wagner laughing. Unluckily for Ken, there at hand is the hammer Alice brought down from the hill. She clouts Ken in a sudden terrible fury. The rest we know. What about it, Mrs. Benjamin?”

The room was quiet.

Howard Griselda cleared his throat. “Mrs. Benjamin, is the allegation true or false?”

Grace Benjamin said, “False, of course! There’s no evidence whatever for all this! It’s slander, defamation.”

“It certainly is,” said Joe, “provided that it’s not true. There’s one bit of evidence: the Life magazine. When you clouted Ken you took the magazine he had just brought you, shoved it under his head. Afterwards when you thought about it, you tore your name from the cover. After the body was found you got thinking that inevitably the police would check on the Life. You bought a Life from the drug store, soaked away an old label, pasted it on the cover. You probably didn’t think that this made one too many Lifes. I’ll pick up that Life and use it in court.”

Alice was drooping, sagging, staring at Joe with glazed eyes. Marsh, suddenly ridiculous in his finery, had gone limp.

Joe went on. “Alice doesn’t particularly want to marry Marsh. She doesn’t want to marry anybody. She was probably half in love with Bill Whipple; at least he appealed to the woman in her. She might have called him in the spring, when she first learned she was pregnant.”

“He said no!” cried Alice. “He didn’t want to get married!”

“I’d say he showed poor taste,” stated Joe gallantly. “Well, be that as it may, for some mysterious reason, he changed his mind.”

Starr spoke in a clear voice. “The reason is not all that mysterious. He was furious with me, and thought he saw a way to get even.”

“Maybe so. Well, he went out to Halfway House for a photograph he remembered sticking on the wall, then he went to see Mrs. Benjamin, maybe to ask Alice’s address, maybe to acquaint her with the way things were going to be. I imagine the conversation went something like this. Bill says, ‘Mrs. Benjamin, Alice and I are getting married. I’m going to make her an honest woman and give our child a wonderful home’. ‘What child? What are you talking about?’ asks Grace Benjamin, already reaching for the hammer. ‘I mean the baby I bred out at Halfway House last Christmas. See this picture?’ ‘But Alice is engaged to wealthy young Marsh Shortridge,’ says Grace Benjamin. ‘Can you support us in the same style that Marsh Shortridge can?’ ‘No, I can’t. Furthermore I don’t intend to try. So give me her address, otherwise I’m on my way to see Marsh Shortridge.’ ‘Well, okay, if that’s the way you want it. Hand me my pencil, I dropped it on the floor.’ As Bill reaches for the pencil: whack! with the hammer.

“The wheelbarrow is handy. Late at night Grace Benjamin trundles Bill Whipple up the street and dumps him behind Mrs. Bazzarini’s shed.”

Howard Griselda once more looked toward Grace Benjamin. “Is this true, Mrs. Benjamin?”

“There’s not a jot of evidence,” said Grace Benjamin. “Not a jot or tittle.”

“There’s a great deal of evidence,” said Joe. “Once we realize your pregnancy was a fake, there’s evidence everywhere. The wheelbarrow, for instance. It started Sally Wagner thinking. I couldn’t figure out what she saw even though you told us a dozen times to be careful of your new lawn. The murderer very fastidiously had circled the new lawn, about a hundred feet out of his way, both coming and going. The murderer was lawn-conscious, even while wheeling a corpse. Strange! Sally Wagner saw this right away. But thinking you seven months pregnant, it all seemed impossible. But you saw her and you knew what she was thinking. You knew she wouldn’t let the matter rest. Maybe she was more definite, maybe she made her suspicions clear in some unmistakable manner. There I can’t even imagine what happened. But you knew that Sally Wagner was about to break things wide open. How to get at her? She kept her doors locked. Since she suspected you, sure as thunder she wouldn’t let you into the house. This is how you solved the problem, or so I imagine. It probably came to you as you stood in your upstairs window watching Sally Wagner burn trash in her incinerator. I’ll insert the information that we haven’t been able to locate the person to whom Sally Wagner was talking when she was killed. Why not? Because it was you. Sally Wagner’s telephone rings; she rushes into the house, not bothering to lock the back door. Then you say something like this, in a disguised voice, ‘Mrs. Sally Wagner? Long Distance call from Washington D.C. Please hold the line.’ Then it’s quick over the fence by the step-ladder and into the house. Sally Wagner sits with her ear glued to the telephone. Whack! with the hammer. And you’re off to the shower at Mrs. Taylor’s house. But after you hung up the telephone you forgot the hammer. Not a bad mistake, you thought. Nobody will recognize that old thing.

“It just so happened that the hammer figured in another little drama eight years or so previously. Lots of people remember the hammer.” Joe sighed. “There it is, Mrs. Benjamin. That’s the story. You don’t have to say a word until you’ve seen a lawyer.”

Grace Benjamin seemed neither perturbed nor unduly distressed. She stood thinking, mouth moving in and out as if she were chewing thread. Howard Griselda stared in fascination. Guy Benjamin turned away to study a bouquet of red and white carnations. Alice suddenly screamed. She screamed again and again, fists clenched in the air beside her shoulders. Then she ran from the room, down the steps, down the driveway and off along Madrone Way, her wedding gown fluttering. Marsh hesitated a grudging instant, then muttered something under his breath and ran after her.

Grace Benjamin paid no heed. She asked Joe, “Am I under arrest?”

“Yes, Mrs. Benjamin.”

“There is no evidence against me.”

“The jury can decide that.”

3

Searching the Benjamin house, Joe and Rex Kelly found that copy of Life dated June 21, purportedly delivered by Ken Mooney on the last day of his existence.

Joe held the label to the light. “Look at that smear. It’s airplane cement, something of the sort. We’ve got her cold.”

Chapter XIV

1

At the trial Grace Benjamin’s attorney argued that the entire case of the prosecution was circumstantial, indirect and hypothetical; that no single direct link connected Mrs. Benjamin with the murders. He dismissed the Life magazine, the hammer, the fictitious pregnancy as inconsequential.

The judge instructed the jury that circumstantial evidence was as good as any, that they were not required to invent improbable or fantastic alternate hypotheses. The jury found the defendant guilty and made no recommendations for mercy. Mrs. Benjamin heard the verdict in stony silence, and was sentenced to life imprisonment.

2

Guy Benjamin requested and secured a transfer back to India. Alice and the baby went with him. Marsh Shortridge became more terse, more clenched, more bitter than ever. Starr suddenly decided to travel and would not be denied. She wandered to London, took a job as a receptionist and presently married a marine architect.

On Madrone Way the three houses in which had lived the Benjamins, the Whipples and Sally Wagner were put on the market and presently sold. Three new families moved to Madrone Way and life went on as before.

3

In San Francisco newspapers appeared an advertisement:

HALFWAY HOUSE

The historic old stagecoach stop on
the road between Monterey and Vallejo
is now an old-fashioned country hotel.

Home-cooked meals. No TV, no juke-box.

Marian Bain, Manager

Contreras Road, seven miles south of Jordan

San Rodrigo County

Miranda decided that she absolutely needed a car. Joe jestingly told her to fire up the 1926 Marmon roadster in the barn to the back of Halfway House. To Joe’s dismay and Marian Bain’s horror she accepted with enthusiasm. Five young bucks appeared with tools; the Marmon was overhauled, rechromed, repainted, refurbished, and presently became the rage of Pleasant Grove High School.

Miranda was thought lucky to have such a wonderful father.

4

Luna was called to another destination.

“Arthemisia?” Joe asked.

“No, not yet,” replied Luna. “I’m needed once again in Texas. But after that, who knows where?”

“Drop me a postcard from wherever you are,” said Joe.

“I’ll remember … I’m so sorry to leave.”

“I’m sorry to have you leave. Things are going to be much too sedate. I’ll never want to drive out Hankinson Road any more. I love this little house out here under the trees. Especially at sunset when the wind blows up out of the valley.”

“Now don’t. You’ll have me crying in a minute. I’ve got to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye, Luna.”

“Goodbye, Joe.”

The Genesee Slough Murders

Chapter I

On the afternoon of Saturday, June 15, Sheriff Joe Bain encountered several persons in the full vigor of life, who, to their horrified amazement, would shortly be killed by a mysterious enemy.

The day began in an ordinary fashion. Joe’s seventeen-year-old daughter, Miranda, scrambled eggs for his breakfast, while he drank a cup of coffee and read an editorial on the front page of the morning Clarion:

AN UNCOMFORTABLE DILEMMA,

AN ACCEPTABLE COMPROMISE

Often in life one set of praiseworthy endeavors collides head-on with another set. This predicament is currently our own. The tree-shaded waterways of San Rodrigo, Contra Costa, San Joaquin, Sacramento, and several other counties, are esthetic assets to our beautiful state. The fields and farms surrounded by these waterways are a source of wealth to those who till them, and by economic convection to the whole population. The line of division between land and water, namely the levees, have become a cause of bitter conflict. The levees must be strong and sound to prevail against the spring floods. On the levees grow lordly cottonwoods, poplars, oaks, willows, weeping willows; mulberry, fig and elderberry trees; wild rose and blackberry tangles, to create many miles of delightful vistas. Alas! the roots weaken the levee on which the trees grow.

The Army Engineers, to protect the waterways, are engaged in removing the trees and lining the banks with rip-rap. Conservationists, nature-lovers, yachtsmen, ecologists, a number of plain ordinary crack-pots, as many plain ordinary trouble-makers, intend to halt the work, and they mean Now. The Sierra Club, a responsible and far-sighted organization, has instituted legal action to halt the levee stripping.

Where does the Clarion stand on this difficult question?

We would hope for a compromise.

On islands and berms where the levees are not endangered, let the trees stand! But where the roots weaken the levee and imperil the economic well-being of our county — regretfully they must go.

Beauty is meaningless to farmers whose fields are flooded. They earn no more money; they pay no more taxes.

Which leads us to the basic thrust of this editorial.

San Rodrigo County has the fourth lowest tax rate of any county in California, and one of the lowest gross incomes. As a result our public buildings are ghastly Victorian jokes; our school system is barely adequate; our Sheriff’s Department is a languid and amateurish operation working by fits, starts, spasms and frantic improvisation.

We must accept a bitter reality. We need to pay higher taxes. Only then will we be able to attract able career officials who will bring San Rodrigo County into the Twentieth Century.

We need the tax money.

The trees endanger the fields which provide tax money.

Hence, with regret, the trees must go.

Today a number of people will gather along Genesee Slough to prevent any further stripping of the levees.

How shall we regard this demonstration? We hope that appropriate laws will be enforced.

Joe flings aside the paper in annoyance. “Howard Griselda has lost none of his zeal. He’s on my back again.”

Miranda tries to soothe him. The telephone rings; she goes off to answer. “Who’s that?” Joe asks.

“Oh, just someone.”

Joe goes down to his office. The night has been relatively calm; two cars stolen and a burglary.

The department is chronically short-handed; Joe has put a trusty, Dave Merrick, to work as relief despatcher, handling the radio during slack hours. Dave is twenty-one, a ham radio operator, whose crime was stealing his father-in-law’s airplane and cracking it up. Joe considers him impulsive and naive rather than criminal, and allows him considerable latitude. Besides he can use the help.

Joe goes out to look over the scene of the burglary. The victims are Victor and Jessie deGiorgio. While they attended a wedding their house was entered, and goods to the value of $1200 were stolen.

They live in a frame house under five big oak trees, at the center of a vineyard. Joe looks around the premises. He asks, “Who knew the house would be empty?”

“Just the family; that’s all. We don’t tell our business to nobody.”

“Looks to me like somebody knew you’d be out of the way for awhile. Who lives in that house yonder?” Joe points across the field.

“Just some poor-class people. Hicks is their name. I never talk to them; they never talk to me.”

“They might have noticed something; I’ll go have a word with them.”

Joe drives up the sand road to the Hicks house. A dog barks. Chickens move aside. Under a tree is an old pick-up. A young man is working on a fancy hot-rod. Joe thinks he looks sullen and shifty. “You’re Mr. Hicks?”

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“You live here with your family?”

“They’re back in Arkansas for a bit. Me and my brother stayed home.”

“I see. Where’s your brother?”

“Inside the house. What’s the trouble?”

“Somebody robbed the deGiorgios last night. I wonder if you noticed anything unusual.”

“No sir. Not a thing.”

“How about your brother?”

“Not a thing, so far as I know. In fact we weren’t home.”

“Where did you go?”

“Into Aurora. We looked at some stuff in Monkey Wards; we got some hamburgers. Then we came home.”

“You drove your pick-up?”

“That’s right.”

“What time do you think you got in?”

“About ten I guess.”

“You didn’t go out this morning to buy groceries, for instance?”

“No sir. How come you’re so interested?”

“Just suppose,” says Joe, “that you noticed the deGiorgios leave, all dressed up, and decided to rob their house. Where would you hide the loot?”

Tom Hicks laughs. “I sure don’t know. I never thought about it.”

“The attic? Or maybe the barn?”

“I can’t understand why you’re talking like this, Sheriff.”

“Because of the way your pick-up is pointing. It’s facing down the driveway. I think when you came home at night you’d drive up to the front door.”

“Sometimes I turn it around.”

“Show me how.”

Tom Hicks says, “Why all the interest in how I turn the pick-up?”

“Because it looks to me like you drove up to the barn, turned around, unloaded, and pulled up to where you are now. I can’t see any other reason for the pick-up to be where it is.”

“You’re getting mighty fancy, Sheriff. Wasn’t anything like that.”

“Let’s go take a look in the barn.”

“Now just a minute. I don’t think that’s the right thing to do. It’s against my civil liberties.”

“I can get a warrant in two shakes. Also don’t say anything you wouldn’t want to hear in court. Do I look at your barn the easy way or the hard way?”

Joe makes them load the stuff back on their pick-up; all drive to the deGiorgios.

Joe tells the deGiorgios: “I figure the young one will get off with a warning; the oldest one will draw about six months if it’s his first offense … Could you use six months worth of work out of these two miserable wretches?”

“I could use some help, sure. If they’d work.”

“What do you say, boys? Do you want to go to jail or work six months for Mr. deGiorgio? And I mean work. Because if there’s any soldiering you’ll be back in the soup.”

The choice is grudgingly made.

Joe goes home for lunch. Miranda is again on the telephone. “Who are you talking to? Seems all you do is languish on that damn blower.”

“Oh, just somebody.”

“I see.”

Chapter II

Joe and four deputies drive out to the Genesee Slough, where the demonstration against the levee stripping is already underway. Hippies are perched in trees, men and women sit on the levees blocking the path of a bulldozer. A tall handsome woman of about 30, distinguished by a striking pile of red hair, marches back and forth. Joe watches her in awe; a Celtic war-goddess wearing a white trench-coat and shades. In the water a barge supports an enormous power-shovel. Dusty Rhodes, the operator, watches the demonstration with sardonic detachment.

Howard Griselda, smoking a pipe, ambles up to Joe. “Well, Sheriff, what do you think?”

“I’m beyond thought. I’m just watching and hoping it’s all a dream. That red-headed lady looks to be a fearless adversary.”

Griselda grunts. “What do you propose to do?”

“As of this moment, nothing.”

“They’re interfering with the work; they’re trespassing on the levee.”

“If I told them to disperse, and they just laughed at me, I’d feel an awful fool.”

“The Sheriff isn’t supposed to play the fool; he’s supposed to take effective action.”

“I didn’t say ‘play’, Howard; I said ‘feel’.”

Griselda puffs a cloud of smoke from his pipe. His nephew and employee, Lloyd Griselda, an intense young man of twenty-four, is taking pictures of the demonstration. Lloyd Griselda has a round bulldog face, blond curly hair, conservative mutton-chop sideburns.

In the high branches of a cottonwood stands a tall hippie. He jeers at Dusty Rhodes, and to make his feelings absolutely clear he urinates toward the barge: a perfect half-parabola sparkling in the sunlight. Somebody calls out in rapture: “Oh please! Do it again!”

Griselda looks at Joe. “Well, Sheriff?”

“Well what?”

“I saw an indecent act.”

“So did I.”

“Well?” asks Griselda.

“Were you offended?”

“To some extent.”

“Want to sign a complaint?”

“No.”

“I don’t either.”

The hippy in the tree climbs down. He decides to lead an attack against the barge and runs up the plank. After a brief tussle Dusty Rhodes hurls him over the side.

Griselda looks at Joe. “What are you going to do?”

“About which?”

“I thought I noticed an act of assault.”

“The operator doesn’t look too outraged.”

Griselda nods with profound understanding.

“Out of curiosity,” Joe asks, “what kind of editorial do you plan to write about my feeble behavior?”

“You’ve said it all right there.”

“Now Howard, be honest. Do you really want those trees pulled out?”

“Did you read my editorial this morning?”

“I did. You said you wanted the trees cut down so you can get money enough to fire me. I almost feel like joining the demonstrators. In fact, unless my eyes deceive me that’s my daughter out there, protecting her household.”

Griselda has already stalked away to confer with his nephew Lloyd.

Joe walks down the levee to where Miranda stands under a weeping-willow: a long-legged dark-haired saucy-faced girl, now wearing a semi-hippy costume, also a headband stuck with two jaunty feathers.

Joe looks her over. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m protecting the beauty of California.”

“Those are awful tight shorts you’re wearing, speaking of beauty. I wouldn’t take a deep breath if I were you.”

“Oh, funny Daddy, you’re so square.”

“Strange how one man can cultivate so many different reputations. Howard Griselda, now, thinks I’m a lazy hound for not leading all these people off to justice … That rangy red-headed lady is giving me the eye. She thinks I’m God’s gift to the fair sex. What’s her name?”

“I don’t know her name. She came with the Aurora delegation; I think she’s in charge of something.”

“She looks like a real goer. Good Lord, here she comes.”

The red-headed lady strides down the levee to confront Joe. She has sparkling icicle-blue eyes; she stands as tall as Joe, not even counting the amazing pyramid of red curls on her head. “I understand that you are Sheriff Joe Bain.” Her voice is cold and clear. Her dispassionate gaze makes Joe feel like a Russian peasant.

“I have that honor.”

The woman is Suzanne Staffe. She orders Joe to arrest Dusty Rhodes for assault.

“Assault on who?”

“On this person here, Dakota Slim.”

The hippy comes forward, and adds his own expostulations to those of Miss Staffe. Lloyd Griselda comes up and takes pictures of the three, to Joe’s annoyance.

Dusty Rhodes, a tall saturnine man in tan whipcord, saunters past; his relief has arrived. Dakota utters an unmentionable phrase. Dusty Rhodes pauses, shrugs, goes his way. Dakota runs screaming after him; Rhodes seizes him by the nape of the neck and seat of the pants, runs him down the bank and pitches him into the tules.

Suzanne Staffe demands that Joe take action. Joe says: “The main thing I saw was Dakota charging Dusty.”

Suzanne Staffe makes a brittle comment, and Joe complains: “Everybody wants me to destroy their enemies!”

“I’ll destroy my own enemies!” screams Dakota Slim.

Joe looks up into the tree from which Dakota had urinated and assesses the distance to the barge. “You’ll never reach the deck.”

Joe drives to Cap’n Henry’s Riverview Haven for a beer. When Joe returns to the demonstration the sun is low and the mob has dwindled. Howard Griselda has gone; Lloyd Griselda is sitting in his red VW, hoping for some dramatic event. Joe looks around and finds Miranda. They drive back down the levee to Cap’n Henry’s and have dinner. Joe doesn’t want to be bothered or even recognized; he takes a table to the back, in the shadows.

Miranda has been much impressed by Suzanne Staffe. “Don’t you think she’s striking? So poised!”

“She reminds me of those Aubrey Beardsley pictures you got hanging in your room,” says Joe.

“You’re so unperceptive, Daddy. She’s an exciting person to be around. I’d like to do something important too — not just get married and start keeping house.”

“I sure as hell don’t want you to start keeping house without being married.”

“Don’t be silly! I’m only half in love, anyway.”

Joe is startled by the sudden change in subject. “Indeed? Who is the lucky fellow?”

“Well — I don’t really know his name.”

“You mean you don’t know his real name?”

“I don’t know any of his names. I don’t even know what he looks like. He telephoned our house on a wrong number; we got to talking and he’s called back every day since.”

“The attachment can’t be too serious.”

“It is in a way. I’ve never met anyone like him.”

Joe shakes his head in wonder. “If he can do this over the phone, what a high-powered cuss he must be in person. How old is he?”

“I’ve never asked him.”

The demonstration is the sole topic of conversation. The dining room is a pleasant place overlooking Genesee Slough, with docks in front and a marina to the side. Cap’n Henry has been incapacitated; his wife, Leona Eklund, runs the place. She is a dynamic assertive, very blonde lady of forty-five, thin as a mink, wearing over-young clothes and too much make-up. Cap’n Henry sits at the bar, wearing a nautical cap and drinking an occasional glass of beer. He has a bland red face; he speaks very little and walks slowly with a cane. Leona likes to think of herself as an alluring seductress; she dances to the juke-box with Ralph Henigson, who owns a big cabin-cruiser. Cap’n Henry watches without apparent interest.

Suzanne Staffe comes into the dining room with Dakota Slim. Leona Eklund confronts them. “I’ve had trouble with this person, and I don’t allow him in the dining room!”

Suzanne Staffe draws herself up. “He’s here as my guest.”

Joe tries to make himself even more inconspicuous. “There’s a fight I definitely don’t want to have to break up,” he tells Miranda.

But Leona Eklund sniffs and turns away. Lloyd Griselda appears. He speaks a moment or two to Suzanne Staffe; she gives her head a regal nod; Lloyd takes flash-pictures.

Another altercation: Leona Eklund refuses to serve Dakota Slim because he has no driver’s license. “How do I know how old he is? I can’t see his face!”

Suzanne Staffe and her friends leave in disgust, to Joe’s relief. Twilight falls across the water; bats flicker through the trees. The dining room is now almost empty; custom has shifted to the bar. Joe and Miranda finish dinner and leave. Joe checks into headquarters; everything quiet.

They drive home. Miranda takes a shower and goes to bed with a book; Joe sits down with a can of beer to watch a baseball game.

A half-hour passes. Joe gets ready to take a shower. The doorbell rings. Joe hesitates out of caution and distrust. He switches on the outside lights. Howard Griselda stands outside. Joe lets him in. “What the devil are you doing here, Howard?”

Griselda looks around. “Home alone?”

Joe thinks his manner strange. “More or less. My mother’s up at Halfway House for the summer. What’s on your mind?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just thought I’d drop in for a chat.”

“I’m game if you are. Have a beer?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, what did you want to talk about?”

Griselda slowly stuffs his pipe. “You asked about that red-headed woman. I think she’s planning to enter politics.”

“So long as she doesn’t run for Sheriff, it’s great by me. What does she do for a living?”

“She’s an attorney; she’s just gone into partnership with James Malony in Aurora.”

“Well, that’s interesting news. Do you have anything else to tell me?”

Griselda stuffs his pipe. “Well, I’ve got a little problem.”

The doorbell rings; this time it’s a city policeman. “Good evening, Sheriff. We had a report of a prowler.”

“A prowler? That would probably be Howard Griselda.”

“No, this was somebody trying to get in your windows.”

“Hmm. Let’s check around a bit.”

Joe looks in the kitchen and the back porch: all okay. He knocks on Miranda’s door. “Yes Daddy?”

“Can we come in? We want to look under your bed.”

“Come in.”

The house is checked: no sign of a trespasser. The policeman leaves, Griselda is smoking his pipe with great energy. Joe asks, “So what’s your problem?”

Griselda shrugs. “It can wait.” He unceremoniously takes his leave.

Joe rubs his chin in perplexity. “Isn’t that the strangest thing. Is Griselda going mad? What in the world was he doing around here?”

No solution to the problem is forthcoming; Joe goes to bed.

The next morning is Sunday. Joe calls into headquarters. Another quiet night. A hit-and-run attracts Joe’s attention. The victim was LaVon Kellums, an outboard motor mechanic at Riverview Haven. Deputy Wardell, returning from the demonstration, found him staggering along the road at 9 o’clock. Wardell called for an ambulance, then tried to extract information, but Kellums, in a state of shock, could report nothing. Wardell took Kellums’ wristwatch, which had been smashed and had stopped at 8:07.

After the ambulance had taken Kellums to the hospital, Wardell had driven to Slough House. At the service station Wardell asked Bill Quarles the proprietor if he had paid any heed to passing traffic. Quarles said, no, nothing particular, except that at about eight o’clock a red VW coming from the direction of Pleasant Grove had almost missed the bridge, owing to speed and erratic driving. Several other cars had passed later, all coming from the east, toward Pleasant Grove. The red VW Quarles saw might well have been the car which had struck Kellums, since the cracked crystal of Kellums’ watch shows microscopic flakes of red enamel.

Joe goes to see the victim. LaVon Kellums is a man of twenty-five, of medium height, with a flat undeveloped face. His eyes are small and pale blue, his kinky blond hair is worn in a nondescript ruff. He is vague, almost incoherent in his remarks. Joe derives no information from the interview.

Chapter III

Joe goes home. Miranda is talking into the telephone.

“Your phantom lover, I presume,” says Joe.

Miranda breaks off the conversation with dignity. “He’s a very nice person.”

“Why doesn’t he come over and call on you? Not that we need any more Romeos hanging around this place.”

“I don’t know. I’ve asked him to come over, but he says no.”

“He’s probably baby-sitting the kids while his wife works.”

Miranda shakes her head. “I don’t think so. He sounds — well — almost noble, with very high principles.”

“Maybe he’s a priest.”

Miranda changes the subject.

During the afternoon Joe telephones Lloyd Griselda and asks him to come down to headquarters. Lloyd arrives with a truculent Howard Griselda, who wants to be present while Joe questions Lloyd. Joe refuses. Lloyd Griselda then wants to have a lawyer. Joe says, “Sure, if you insist. It makes you seem awful guilty.”

“No such thing,” says Howard Griselda. “He doesn’t want to be tricked!”

“How can he be tricked if he tells the truth?”

Howard and Lloyd confer a moment, then Lloyd says, “I’ll be glad to make a statement to you.”

“Very good. Come this way then.”

Joe takes Lloyd into his office. “I’ll be recording the statement. The tape will pass into the next room where a stenographer will type up the statement for your signature.”

“I guess that’s all right.”

“These questions are in regard to the hit-and-run accident involving LaVon Kellums at about 8 o’clock on the evening of Saturday, June 15. What were your movements from, say, seven o’clock on?”

“After leaving the demonstration I drove to the Riverview Inn, arriving there about seven-thirty or maybe a little later. I took some pictures. Then I met my uncle, Howard Griselda, and he accompanied me home.”

“He was in your company at eight o’clock?”

“That’s right.”

“You mean from the time you left the Riverview Inn?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m a little puzzled here. You drove from the demonstration to the Riverview Inn in your own car?”

“Yes.”

“And you met Howard Griselda at the Riverview Inn?”

“I met Howard Griselda there, yes.”

“How did he get from the demonstration to the Riverview Inn?”

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

“You don’t know?”

“What has it got to do with the accident?”

“What I’m trying to get at, which car did you drive back to Pleasant Grove in?”

“In my car.”

“That’s a red VW?”

“Yes.”

“Where was his car?”

“I couldn’t say out of my own personal knowledge.”

“When you met him at Riverview Haven, was he in his car?”

“No.”

“Where was he?”

“In my car.”

“Where did he enter your car?”

“Does it make any difference?”

“I want to establish how much road you covered in the company of Howard Griselda.”

“I picked him up at his home.”

“So we finally get it worked out. You drove from the demonstration to Pleasant Grove, picked up Howard Griselda at his home, and both of you drove to Riverview Inn?”

“Yes.”

“Why in the world didn’t you say so? Is it a crime to be seen riding with Howard Griselda?”

“Naturally not.”

“At Riverview Haven, you went in to take pictures?”

“Yes.”

“And Howard Griselda waited in the car?”

“Yes.”

“Why was that?”

“He chose not to go in.”

“I’m profoundly puzzled by all this. He sat in the car while you went in to take pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t he go in?”

“You’ll have to ask him that.”

“Let’s go on. What time did you leave Riverview Haven?”

“I’m not sure. About nine o’clock.”

“Nine o’clock? I didn’t leave till about that time.”

“I’m only making an estimate.”

“You drove the car?”

“I drove the car.”

“Let’s see. You live in an apartment out the south end of town?”

“That’s right.”

“You drove Howard Griselda home, then went home yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Stranger and stranger. Howard Griselda came out to my house at about ten o’clock. Were you with him?”

“What’s that got to do with the hit-and-run case? That happened at eight o’clock?”

“Kellums’ watch stopped at eight. Maybe his watch was wrong. For all I know you dropped Howard Griselda off at home and drove back out to Genesee Slough.”

“Well, I didn’t.”

“You can’t prove it. You haven’t proved anything yet. You could have dropped Howard Griselda off and still got back to Genesee Slough in time to run over LaVon Kellums.”

“No, I couldn’t have done so.”

“You can’t prove it. You haven’t covered the time. I think I’d better arrange a line-up and see if Kellums can pick you out.”

“I was with Mr. Griselda when he went out to your house.”

“Why did you go out to my house?”

“That has no bearing on the case.”

“Maybe not, but you’re sure trying to keep something quiet. So you were in the car when Howard Griselda was visiting me.”

“That’s right.”

“And afterwards you drove Mr. Griselda home.”

“Yes, I did.”

“And went home yourself immediately after?”

“I did.”

“Why did you take pictures of Miss Staffe at Riverview Inn?”

“She asked me to do so. For the paper’s picture file.”

“You drove all the way to Pleasant Grove, picked up Howard Griselda, drove all the way back to Riverview Haven, just to take some pictures of Miss Suzanne Staffe?”

“What difference does it make what my motives were? I didn’t run over LaVon Kellums and Mr. Griselda is a witness to this.”

“OK, that’s all.”

The statement is brought out. Lloyd reads it and signs it. Joe takes it to Howard Griselda. “This is all most peculiar. Do you verify all these crazy activities?”

Griselda, looking somewhat downcast, reads the statement. “It seems generally accurate. I’ll sign it.”

“But why, Howard, why? All this nocturnal activity when a man your age ought to be home in bed.”

“My activities are none of your affair, Joe.”

“I sure hope they’re not, speaking as Sheriff. You state that you were in Lloyd’s company from seven-thirty to ten o’clock.”

“Approximately those times. He ran into no one during this period.”

“Well, temporarily I’ll have to accept that. You can write a news story to the effect that my main suspects are Lloyd Griselda and his uncle Howard Griselda, but that I had to let them go for lack of evidence, especially after Lloyd carefully washed his car and ironed out some dents in his fender.”

“I don’t like your implications, Joe.”

“Sorry, but run the story as I gave it to you.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

Two days pass. Joe gets a complaint from Ralph Henigson, owner of the Dodge agency in Aurora. He keeps a big cruiser at Riverview Haven, and he asserts that a local character named Bill Jiggs has threatened to blow up his boat. “This old coot scares me, because he’s vicious. The water skiers don’t dare go near him; he shoots them with a BB gun.”

“What’s he mad at you for?”

“He doesn’t like the wake my cruiser kicks up. It’s a big boat; it’s bound to make a wave; nothing I can do about it, except crawl past his houseboat.”

Joe doesn’t want to offend Ralph Henigson, a man of influence. “I’ll have a word with him; maybe we can work out a compromise. You go slow past his mooring and he won’t blow up your cruiser.”

Joe catches Bill Jiggs at Riverview Haven, buying gasoline from Leona Eklund, who is impatient with Jiggs and suggests that he buy his gasoline elsewhere. Jiggs says he’s going to report her to Standard Oil and have her franchise taken away. Leona Eklund gives back as good as she gets, and Bill Jiggs is steaming when Joe talks to him. Jiggs claims that Henigson makes a practice of cruising full-speed along the slough, setting up five-foot waves which bounce his houseboat up and down. Joe explains that this is one of the hazards of living in a houseboat; Jiggs walks off shaking his head.

A grisly discovery is made which seems to exculpate Lloyd Griselda. At low tide a fisherman discovers a red VW sunk in the slough where it ran off the road. Inside are the bodies of a young woman and a baby. Her drivers’ license says she is Ileda Wilkin of Pomona. Joe calls her address, to find that it is three years old, that no one knows anything about her.

Two days pass. On the night of June 20 three people are killed. Leona Eklund is shot through the window of her home. Ralph Henigson is shot aboard his cabin cruiser. Dusty Rhodes is shot in the doorway of his trailer.

The bullets are 30 caliber and all have been fired from the same gun.

Chapter IV

Joe investigates: Leona Eklund, Dusty Rhodes, Ralph Henigson; someone hated all three.

He suspects Dakota Slim, who lives in a commune on a tule island, subsisting on natural produce: tule flour, roots and foliage; acorns, mud-clams, cat-fish, blackberries. He also checks out Bill Jiggs.

Chapter V

Miranda talks on telephone to her phantom lover. Joe finally lays down the law. “This is preposterous. Tell this unseen Lothario to show his face or else!”

“Daddy, please don’t be coarse. He’s frightfully intelligent; he knows everything about everything.”

“If he’s so damn intelligent, ask him who killed those three people.”

“All right, I will ask him.”

Miranda asks. “He says he knows, but he doesn’t want to say.”

“Oh?” Joe, in spite of himself, is impressed. “And why not?”

“He says that under the circumstances he might do the same thing.”

“Tell him that the father of the girl he loves is jumping around like a scalded cat trying to locate the killer.”

“He knows that too, but he doesn’t care.”

“That’s a fine how-de-do. Ask him how he knows.”

Miranda’s unknown admirer will reveal nothing of his claimed knowledge, and Joe is troubled and uneasy.

The calls abruptly cease. Miranda is first on edge, then worried. Joe becomes infected with her mood. The telephone silence seems almost sinister.

Joe tried to find who the caller was. Miranda can supply no clues, except that he loved the sea and wanted to sail to the most remote part of the Indian Ocean.

Chapter VI

Joe goes out to Bill Jiggs’ houseboat. Jiggs is an irascible old man, suspected of much petty illegality, such as lamp-fishing by night from a hole in the floor of his houseboat, and shooting at water-skiers.

Jiggs looks Joe over with suspicion, then says, “Yeah, come aboard; I thought at first you was the game warden.”

Joe inspects the houseboat. He sees a shotgun, a rifle, a BB gun. “Which of these do you use to tweak the water-skiers with?”

Jiggs scowls. “What’s it to you?”

“There’s been complaints.”

“I see. Well, I don’t know nothing about it. There’s bees and wasps flying around here. If some jackass of a water-skier gets stung while he’s racketing around and breaking up my crockery I ain’t gonna worry one bit.”

“Maybe you better move your boat.”

“I was here first.”

“That may be, but suppose you put somebody’s eye out?”

“I’m a better shot than that. With them big rear-ends sticking out, how could anyone miss? If I was to do such a thing.”

“What caliber is that rifle?”

“.30-’06. Why?”

“Some people got killed by a .30-’06 a week or so ago.”

“Not by that .30-’06.”

“Do you mind if I check it out?”

“Sure I mind.”

“Well, I might have to check on it anyway. You threatened Henigson.”

“If you was sent bouncing around by his monster of a boat you’d threaten too. What are we supposed to do? Sit here and take all that big-time guff? I thought this was supposed to be America.”

“You called Mrs. Eklund names, and vowed to get even.”

“Why not? Henry’s been cashing my checks for years. She made him put a stop to it because she didn’t like to see me in the bar. She’s trying to be real spiffy, and I guess I’m not what she calls high-class!”

“You told Dusty Rhodes you’d see him in hell before he moved you out with his rig.”

“I might just have done that.”

“Everything considered, I think I better check out your rifle.”

“Keep away from my belongings, Sheriff, unless you got some legal right to do so.”

“You got any idea who shot these people?”

“I haven’t given the subject any thought.”

Joe goes to look at a parcel wrapped in newspaper. “What have you got here?”

“Nothing much of anything.”

“A young striper maybe?”

A headline catches his eye:

DESCENDENT OF CLIPPER-SHIP DESIGNER

DIES AFTER LONG ILLNESS.

Donald Stang, age 20, whose great-great-grandfather was Donald Stang, designer and builder of the famous clipper-ship China Pearl …

The remainder is torn away.

Joe looks at the date. Pleasant Grove Clarion, June.

Chapter VII

Joe fires the .30-’06 into a bucket of water, takes the bullet and returns to Pleasant Grove.

He goes to the office of the Pleasant Grove Clarion where he reads the rest of the paper. Howard Griselda asks him how his investigation progresses.

“I have three investigations going on. Who was the hit-run artist? Who killed Mrs. Eklund, Ralph Henigson and Dusty Rhodes? Who’s been phoning my daughter? I just solved two of the problems.”

“You found who was calling your daughter?”

“Yes. Donald Stang, or so it would seem.”

“Hmm. The hit-run driver?”

“Your boy Lloyd is off the hook. It was a lady named Ileda Wilkin, who ran her car into the slough. We can close the books on that one.”

Chapter VIII

Joe goes to the hospital. Young Donald Stang had half a double room, with a telephone. An old man in the bed opposite had little information. “He knew he was dying and made no complaint. All the nurses cried when he died.”

If Donald Stang had in fact been calling Miranda, if he knew the identity of the murderer, Joe wonders where he got the knowledge. The old man says, “Donald never mentioned any murder. He spent a lot of time talking on the telephone.”

Joe visits Donald Stang’s family. “Did he leave any papers?”

There are papers: sketches of sail-boats, islands with palm trees, sunsets over the ocean.

“A diary? A journal?”

“No.”

“Did he have any friends? Anybody he might have confided in?”

They didn’t know.

Joe wonders what to tell Miranda. He decides that she has a right to know the truth. Miranda is extremely upset. Presently she says, “I wonder how he knew anything about the murders? What about the old man who shared the room. Could he be the murderer?”

Joe hasn’t thought of this. He checks on the old man and learns that he was hospitalized three days before the murders and so could not possibly be guilty.

Chapter IX

Joe has been trying to find Ileda Wilkin’s next-of-kin. The Pomona police are no help. Her address is two years outmoded; no one remembers her.

In her purse is the picture of a bearded man.

Joe goes out to the commune to talk to Dakota Slim. On the way he stops where Ileda Wilkin ran through the brush. In the weeds he finds a flashlight. He proceeds to the commune, and finds Dakota Slim. He hears a subdued ‘Oink’ from a big hippy wearing a straw hat.

“Oink, is it,” says Joe. “I’ll give you oink.”

“Don’t fool with him,” says Dakota Slim. “He’s trained in yoga.”

“Be that as it may,” says Joe. On a hunch he pulls out the picture from Ileda Wilkin’s purse, also her drivers’ license. “Any of you people know this girl or this man?”

Ileda Wilkin’s sister lives at the commune. The man is her husband. “He’s gone straight, and Ileda says he’s the squarest of the square!”

“What is his name? I want to tell him his wife is dead.”

“LaVon Kellums.”

Chapter X

Joe drops into the outboard-motor shop. “How come you didn’t tell me Ileda Wilkin was your wife?”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Well, what happened out there? You weren’t hit like you said you were.”

LaVon Kellums smiles sourly. “I was hit. I tried to stop a car, and it ran me down.”

“So why didn’t you come forward and identify your wife?”

Kellums shrugs stonily. “She was dead. The kid was dead. I didn’t care about anything else.”

“I see. In the meantime the county pays the funeral expenses. Did you think of that?”

Kellums shrugs again.

“You had a big flashlight. What kind of car hit you?”

“A Volkswagen. I think it might have been red.”

“So you were in the car. Who was driving?”

Kellums freezes. “Ileda.”

Joe says, “Let me see your driver’s license.”

“What for? I’m not driving anything.”

Joe holds out his hand. “Give. Don’t forget, your position is pretty shaky.”

“I don’t have any. I got busted.”

“Why?”

“Driving under the influence.”

“Little by little it comes out,” says Joe. “I suspect you were driving that night. You ran the car into the ditch, and you had lots of reasons for keeping quiet about it.”

“That’s your story.”

“It’s my guess … Well, in your shoes I might have done the same thing.”

“You going to take me in?”

“I don’t know what I’d charge you with, unless you care to confess something.”

LaVon Kellums gives a hoarse chuckle and bends over his work. “Not bloody likely.”

“You couldn’t identify the driver of the car that hit you?”

“No.”

Joe thinks, finally, at last, I got that mess cleared up. Not that it does anybody any good.

Chapter XI

The investigation has petered out. Joe is at a loss as to what to do next. Nobody seems to have any real reason to kill either Mrs. Eklund, or Dusty Rhodes, or Ralph Henigson, let alone all three.

Suzanne Staffe calls on Joe, in her capacity as attorney for Dakota Slim. Cap’n Henry won’t serve Dakota Slim or his ilk; Suzanne Staffe insists that such discrimination is unconstitutional, and she wants Joe to enforce this point of view upon Cap’n Henry.

Joe is doubtful. “I don’t believe the Supreme Court has gone all the way on this as yet —”

“I’ll make it a test case, with great pleasure.”

“Don’t do that,” says Joe. “I’ll have a word with Cap’n Henry one of these days.”

“Why not now?”

With her red hair, classic features and flashing blue eyes Suzanne Staffe is regally beautiful. Joe gallantly agrees. “You ever been married, Suzanne?”

“No.”

Joe and Suzanne Staffe drive out to Genesee Slough. At Riverview Haven business is proceeding as usual; Cap’n Henry seems capable of managing the business without the assistance of his wife.

When Joe and Suzanne Staffe arrive he is out fishing with old Bill Jiggs. Joe and Suzanne have lunch. Out of idle curiosity Joe asks why Lloyd Griselda was taking pictures of her.

Suzanne Staffe laughs scornfully. “Mr. Griselda was taking pictures of someone else whom he did not want to put on his guard.”

Joe rubs his chin. “Now who might that have been??” He thinks back. “Not me, certainly. Why take a picture of me? What was I doing that was so interesting?”

Suzanne Staffe watches him with curiosity. “Whatever is the trouble, Sheriff?”

“Nothing much. Hardly anything at all. I just thought of something.”

Suzanne Staffe insists on telephoning Howard Griselda, in order that Cap’n Henry’s policy of discrimination be brought to public attention. Griselda says he’ll meet them at Riverview Haven.

Howard Griselda ambles into the restaurant with Lloyd. They join Joe and Suzanne Staffe. Howard Griselda takes out his pipe, stuffs it with tobacco with easy condescension.

Joe says, “You know, Howard, I believe you’d give half your fortune to get the goods on me.”

“What are you complaining about now, Sheriff?”

“I’m not complaining; it’s too funny. I just figured it out a minute ago. Your boy Lloyd doesn’t know my daughter Miranda. He sees me with a pretty young thing; he thinks he’s going to catch me in the act. He takes pictures, he gets you so excited that you hot-foot out to my house in order to hear me explain away my crimes. You sure look silly in this one, Howard.”

Griselda says, “I’m only a journalist, Joe. My job is to keep the public informed.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t run the story anyway. The headline is a natural:”

LAST NIGHT SHERIFF JOE BAIN

DID NOT SEDUCE AN UNDERAGE FEMALE.

Griselda blows out a cloud of smoke. “That aspect didn’t occur to me.”

Some hippies chug up in an old rowboat. Dakota Slim enters the dining room with his friends. The waitress won’t serve them. Suzanne Staffe orders Joe to arrest the management. Joe says he can’t arrest anybody unless they commit a crime or unless he has a court order.

Cap’n Henry returns with Bill Jiggs and LaVon Kellums. He tells the waitress, “Forget it. Serve them just as if they was human.”

“Leona wouldn’t have liked it,” sniffs the waitress.

“There goes the trip to Washington,” Joe tells Suzanne Staffe. “Cap’n Henry is now on your side. Even old Jiggs is allowed in. Now if I could only catch that murderer we could all go home happy.”

Howard Griselda valiantly returns to the attack. “I suppose you haven’t made any progress on the case?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” says Joe. “In fact I got a pretty good notion — but I better not disclose anything more. The murderer might hear me. Just say as usual:”

SHERIFF JOE BAIN BAFFLED;

TRIPLE MURDERER STILL AT LARGE

Joe rises to his feet. “I’ll bid you all good evening.”

Howard Griselda says sardonically, “After the next election, Joe, come to the office; maybe I can put you to work writing my headlines.”

“I sure hope it doesn’t turn out like that,” says Joe somberly. He departs into the twilight.

“What a strange man!” says Suzanne Staffe. “He seems to have the instinctive intelligence of a wild animal!”

Howard Griselda gives a sour grunt. “He’s as unprincipled as a tom-cat, if that’s what you mean. One of these times he won’t land on his feet.”

Lloyd Griselda goes out to his car where it’s parked under the cottonwoods. A figure stirs in the shadows. “Is this your car?”

Lloyd Griselda peers into the murk. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“You might like to know that I’m going to kill you.”

Lloyd Griselda’s knees become loose. “Just a minute! You’ve got the wrong man. I’ve never done anything to you!”

“Yes you have. When I needed help, when I begged for your help, you drove past and knocked me down with your car. My wife bled to death and my baby smothered. Three other people passed me by. I swore I’d kill them and I did.”

“That’s no reason to kill me!” blurts Lloyd. “I didn’t know you were in such trouble!”

The voice is implacable. “You refused me help. You killed my wife and baby.”

A flashlight snaps into LaVon Kellums face. Joe Bain says, “That’ll do for now. I’ll take that gun. Give it here!”

LaVon Kellums fires at the flashlight, which Joe had been holding far to the side. As he fires, Joe tackles him and takes the gun.

Lloyd Griselda is indignant. “You used me for bait. You knew he was out to kill me!”

“It was the only way to get him to rights,” said Joe. “I hadn’t an ounce of evidence against him.”

Howard Griselda says in a voice quivering with emotion, “Suppose the man had fired his gun instead of taking time to explain himself? You’d be morally responsible for the murder!”

“I was pretty sure LaVon would want to talk a bit,” says Joe reasonably. “After all, he had something to say: his wife lays dying, he tries to flag down a car and Lloyd here knocks him into the ditch. It’s enough to make anybody upset. Just consider yourself lucky, Lloyd.”

Lloyd draws a deep breath. “I’m lucky all right. I might have been killed just then!”

“Sometimes we have to take risks to get results,” Joe tells him. “It all worked out pretty well.”

LaVon Kellums is in jail. Suzanne Staffe has agreed to defend him. She and Joe leave the courthouse. The time is close on midnight.

Joe says, “I’m so weary, but in a nice easy way. Let’s not talk crime any more. Look at that full moon up there; it makes me want to relax. How’s the Scotch situation up at your place?” He puts his arm around her waist. She is unexpectedly flexible. Joe stops to look around the parking lot.

Suzanne asks, “What’s the trouble?”

“It’s just like Lloyd Griselda to be skulking around with his camera … I don’t see him anywhere …”

“Let him skulk,” says Suzanne Staffe. “I’m old enough.”

Table of Contents

- Cover
- Title Page
- Contents
- The Fox Valley Murders
- - Chapter I
- - Chapter II
- - Chapter III
- - Chapter IV
- - Chapter V
- - Chapter VI
- - Chapter VII
- - Chapter VIII
- - Chapter IX
- - Chapter X
- - Chapter XI
- - Chapter XII
- - Chapter XIII
- - Chapter XIV
- - Chapter XV
- - Chapter XVI
- - Chapter XVII
- The Pleasant Grove Murders
- - Chapter I
- - Chapter II
- - Chapter III
- - Chapter IV
- - Chapter V
- - Chapter VI
- - Chapter VII
- - Chapter VIII
- - Chapter IX
- - Chapter X
- - Chapter XI
- - Chapter XII
- - Chapter XIII
- - Chapter XIV
- The Genesee Slough Murders
- - Chapter I
- - Chapter II
- - Chapter III
- - Chapter IV
- - Chapter V
- - Chapter VI
- - Chapter VII
- - Chapter VIII
- - Chapter IX
- - Chapter X
- - Chapter XI