A Multitude of Sins (26 page)

“And yet you think she agreed to see him tonight? That doesn’t make sense.”

He took a long breath, aware of the aching of his arm.

“I know, but I’m sure she considered herself in no danger. Of course, I doubt she actually intended to betray him.”

Travers frowned. “I guess he didn’t get that message.”

“He was under a great deal of pressure, and I made it worse hinting around about marrying Dore. When you bring in the Canfield name, you’re dealing with money and power on a large scale. A conviction for drug peddling wouldn’t be just an inconvenient interruption in business for someone with ambitions in that sphere; it would be a total disaster.”

“Yes,
if
the pusher’s the one with the big ambitions; if he killed Canfield.”

Conan put out his cigarette and started to light another, then tossed the package aside irritably.

“He is, Steve. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have an open-and-shut case against Isadora.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, if he simply wanted to get rid of Jenny, why not make it an ‘accidental’ OD, or even suicide? Either one would be far more reasonable and entail far less risk.”

Travers nodded as he tipped up his glass.

“Okay, so why did he bring Isadora in on it?”

“Because he considered her as much a threat as Jenny. He disposed of Jenny by killing her, and with the same stone, disposed of Dore by framing her for it, and in the process reinforcing that history of mental illness. Dore wasn’t a threat to Jenny’s
pusher,
she didn’t even know she was addicted. She’s only a threat to her father’s killer.”

“But what about that phone call Jenny made to Isadora?”

“That’s part of the frame. Jenny didn’t make that call. She was already dead when her visitor in the sports car left the cottage, five minutes before the call was made. And I’m sure she was killed in her bedroom, by the way.”

“Because of the slipper and the mark on the door?”

“Yes, and the unmade bed, the open book on the floor, and because she kept her gun in the drawer by the bed. I think she was carried into the living room after she was shot; her foot hit the door and knocked the slipper off.”

“Okay, but why was the body moved?”

“So Isadora would all but stumble over it when she came in; so the gun would be handy and in all probability she’d pick it up, which she obligingly did.”

“And fired it at you.”

“Again, obligingly. But she wasn’t firing at me; only at a memory.”

Travers smiled crookedly. “She just happened to hit you. All right, let’s get back to the phone call.”

“After the killer left the cottage, he stopped at a convenient phone booth and called the Surf House, imitating Jenny’s voice. It didn’t have to be too good an imitation; Max had never talked to Jenny, and Dore was already embarked on her bad trip by then.”

“Then he went on home and let nature take its course?”

“After calling the county sheriff’s office. But he was ignorant of two vital facts. One was our county gendarmes’ lack of alacrity; he probably expected Sheriff Wills to walk in on that tableau. The other was Munson and Berg.”

“And you.” He finished off his drink and put the glass on the side table. “Well, for gut logic it makes some sense. But how’d your killer get a dose of LSD to Isadora tonight? By phone?”

Conan shrugged. “The timing, if nothing else, points to the coffee she had when she arrived at the Surf House.”

“I wondered why Carl was so interested in the part-time help down there.”

“He gave me their names. I suppose you have them?”

“I’ve already called in and run them through the computers.” He took out a notebook and thumbed through it. “Let’s see—here. One’s a local woman, clean as new snow, but the other you’ll be interested in. Mildred Weaver, known as ‘Milly.’ At the present time, she’s out on parole.”

“What was she sent up for?”

“Prostitution and possession of narcotics. And one guess who her defense counsel was.”

He smiled coldly. “C. Robert Carleton.”

“Himself. That’s all I’ve got on her now.”

“Steve, there’s another line to follow up, and you can put more heft behind it than I can.”

“The Worth Detective Agency?”

“Yes.” Then he frowned. “Although, I doubt whoever hired Worth would be fool enough to tell him too much.”

“It might help to know who did the hiring.” He paused, watching Conan. “Wouldn’t it?”

He was scowling at the patterns in the Lilihan.

“I don’t know. It seems…I mean, Canfield’s murder was so perfectly executed there isn’t a shred of real proof it
was
a murder. It seems a bit careless to leave such obvious trails through Milly Weaver or Everett Worth.”

“Let’s see where those trails lead before you start talking about carelessness. Do your theories include the name of this perfect executer? You keep using a masculine pronoun.”

“Mainly because our language has no really functional neuter pronoun, and of course, Harry was relatively sure Jenny’s visitor was male. No, I don’t have a name in my theories, Steve, but I was thinking about something Dr. Kerr said; that Isadora might be the victim of some sort of conspiracy. It was just a figure of speech, but maybe a conspiracy is exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“And who’s included in it?”

“In Canfield’s death, logically the people who were threatened by him or stood to gain by his death: his wife, his lawyer, possibly Jenny, and Jim.”

“Jim? I don’t see how he was threatened by Canfield, and his share of the estate wasn’t that impressive.”

“That’s relative, and don’t you think he’d be interested in his mother’s share? Of course, he’s neatly alibied.”

“But Carleton doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Neither does Catharine, and it’s unlikely someone could come into the house, commit a murder, and subdue and drug an unexpected witness, without her being aware of it. Her bedroom is just above the foyer, and Ben said the door was open when he took Isadora in.”

“I’d better have a talk with Meade.” He paused, pursing his lips. “You said he was serious about Isadora—maybe you’re looking in the wrong direction. Maybe he’s running an illicit pharmacy on the side, and Jenny was one of his customers. Like you said, she was no threat while she was hooked, but what if Canfield found out? That’d shoot down Ben’s hopes of marrying an heiress. So, the Senator had a handy heart attack. Then Jenny decided to get unhooked—”

“—and she got a handy bullet in her head. That did occur to me. Ben drives a sports car, incidentally.”

Travers sighed. “Beautiful.”

“But there are some flaws in the theory. Canfield’s murder took careful planning and special equipment. Heart failure and schizoid attacks can be induced or imitated, but not viral infections. Ben couldn’t
plan
on Dore’s illness, and without it, he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to kill Canfield. Not that night, at least. But the real flaw is Jenny’s murder. He’d be a damned fool to involve his potential bride in such a way that she could lose control of her inheritance
before
he managed to marry her.”

“So, we’re left with Carleton and the Canfields.”

“Maybe.” He rose to tend the fire, although it needed no help from him at the moment. “But there are some flaws in that theory, too. What bothers me is Catharine. I can accept her involvement in a conspiracy to kill Canfield, but not Jenny. Her own daughter, Steve, who played nurse to her all these years, who must’ve known about the blindness gambit, but never betrayed her.”

“How do you know she never betrayed her?”

He put the poker aside and stared into the flames.

“I can’t believe Jenny would go on living in the same house with her if she had. She wasn’t a game player.”

“And how can you be so sure of that?”

He closed his eyes, but only briefly. He wasn’t ready to face the image that waited there in memory.

“I have a painting of hers.”

Travers’s short silence and raised eyebrow were eloquent.

“The nice thing about being a professional dilettante is you can have fun playing around with theories and psychic analyses. Now, I’m just a plain, ordinary professional, and I have to deal with common
facts
.”

Conan laughed and turned to face him.

“Then we’d better get more facts to deal with, and we won’t collect any, common or rare, standing here talking.”

“We?
I’m
the one who has to go out in the rain and collect facts tonight.”

“And this is your day off. However, I think I’ve been out in the rain and collected enough facts for one night. Steve, we’d better make some plans.”

“I was afraid of that. Plans for what?”

“Protecting Isadora, for one thing. If the killer isn’t satisfied that he’s silenced her, she’s in danger, and not just physical danger. She’s already had several good doses of LSD. Too much of it can cause true psychosis.”

“I know. I’ve seen a few—well, never mind. But I hope you haven’t forgotten she’s still the most obvious suspect for Jenny’s murder, and I’ll be getting pressure from the brass to do something about it.”

“I’m counting on your doing something, but even your most brazen brass will probably admit that someone suffering a nervous breakdown, to use the tried and untrue euphemism, is in no condition to be put in the Taft County jail.”

“They’ll probably admit it for a while, anyway.”

“I want her in Morningdell, Steve. That’s the only place she’ll be safe, and Dr. Kerr is the only hope for recovering that lost memory.”

He considered this for a moment, then nodded.

“Okay, I can probably get away with holding her as a material witness under Kerr’s recognizance and with a police guard. For a few days, at least.”

“She must have the guard, full-time and live-in.”

“I can take care of that. What about Kerr?”

“I’ll call him tonight. I doubt he’ll offer any objections. And I want her out of town and in Morningdell
before
Carleton and Jim arrive tomorrow morning.”

Travers gave him a sardonic smile.

“I’ll have somebody on your doorstep with all the proper papers at eight. That’s A.M.
”

“You get somebody here, and Dore and I will be ready.”

“You’re going to Salem with her?”

“That’s where the action is—or will be.”

Travers pulled himself to his feet, stifling a yawn.

“Sure, but meanwhile, I still have some more action here before I can go home.”

Conan followed him to the hall closet, waiting while he shrugged on his coat.

“Steve, thanks for handing me the paddle.”

He laughed. “It’ll probably just put us both up the same creek. Call me tomorrow. I’ll be at the office.”

“On Sunday?”

“Listen, when this hits the papers, there won’t be any more days of rest in my department.”

CHAPTER 21

In spite of a flamboyantly blooming plum tree near the window, the view was depressing. Centered in a flawless expanse of lawn, a flagpole supported two limp banners; the blue Oregon state flag surmounted by the Stars and Stripes. Beyond that, a swath of asphalt and the flash of moving cars, then another stretch of lawn and another flagpole with the same banners. But that pole topped the corner turret on the concrete, slab-shaped walls of the Oregon State Penitentiary.

Conan stared at those walls, wondering how they could contain life in any form, then turned away, taking a quick look at his watch.

Steve Travers was on the phone, feet propped on his desk, the antique swivel chair tilted at a perilous angle. In the comfortably cluttered effluvium of his working existence, that relic of a chair seemed more appropriate than the other regulation, anodized appointments of the office.

Conan caught himself looking at his watch again, and turned to the window with a frown of annoyance. It was becoming a nervous habit, checking the time every few minutes.

Monday, and with the afternoon shadows crossing the lawns, another day was slipping away. His memory of the day before, beginning with the early morning drive in the wake of the police car that took Isadora to Morningdell, was a blur of frustrations exacerbated by closed offices, short staffs, and clamoring reporters.

The only hopeful note was the fact that Isadora had wakened with no apparent aftereffects from her ordeal by drugs, entirely rational and stubbornly defiant of public opinion or fate. Outwardly so, at least. Dr. Kerr had given up most of his Sunday to work with her, but in a private conversation with Conan this morning, he reported the amnesia still firmly entrenched. Even her memory of Jenny’s death was vague and fragmented.

Conan turned at the protesting squeal wrung from Travers’s chair when he leaned forward to hang up the phone without bothering to shift his feet from the desk.

“Donlevy’s sending Milly Weaver over. She finally saw the light when the situation was spelled out for her.”

“It’s about time,” Conan responded irritably.

“Well, the wheels grind slow, but we usually get there eventually.”

“Unfortunately, the wheels of journalism grind rather quickly if not exceedingly fine. Did you see this morning’s paper?”

“You’re only the tenth person to ask me that. Have you seen the
evening
paper yet?”

“I refused to read it out of consideration for my digestive processes. I just got around to lunch an hour ago.”

“Well, my digestive processes are shot to hell, and so are a few very highly placed processes. The governor called me this morning.”