The Expendable Man (25 page)

She didn't know Venner, she could never have been exposed to a Venner. When they approached the Scottsdale station, he asked, “Won't you drop me and get something to eat at Victor's? To tide you over?”

“No,” she replied, as if her answer had been waiting for this question since they left the motel. “You and I have a dinner date. We dressed for it, we're ready to go on with it as soon as the marshal finishes his business with you. I'm going in with you simply to remind him tacitly of these items. Maybe next time he'll be more considerate.”

She didn't intend to change her mind, therefore he didn't argue with her. Instead he helped her from the car and down the steps into the station. The two deputies in the anteroom did not conceal their wonder over Ellen's entrance. Hugh stopped before the nearest man and said, “Marshal Hackaberry called,” as if he had never before entered the place.

“He's waiting for you.” The man was eying Ellen, but not offensively, rather with a cool curiosity. “You can wait here, miss.”

“Thank you very much,” she said. She walked with Hugh only as far as a corner chair. “I hope it won't take long.” She smiled, as if they both knew the call was trivial. The play-acting carried him to the marshal's door without tremor.

Hackaberry wasn't alone. Ringle's chair was pulled close to the desk and he was prodding with a heavy forefinger the contents of a report. Venner wasn't present; it was too much to be hoped that this respite would continue.

When Hugh entered, the two men were immediately silent. They glanced down the room at him, not speaking; Ringle with a ponderous satisfaction, Hackaberry rather as if he'd never seen Hugh before. Hugh waited just inside the door, unsure, unable to understand the changed attitude of the marshal. They could not have found anything damaging in the medical kit or on his car tools. There was nothing to find.

The marshal pushed back his chair. “Did you drive out here this evening?”

“Why, yes.” He didn't comprehend.

“Will you show us where you left your car?” The marshal strode down to Hugh, nodded at him to follow. Ringle ambled in the rear.

Hugh said, bewildered, “It's outside, right in front of the Town Hall.” He didn't glance toward Ellen as he accompanied the men through the outer office, out the door and up the steps to where the car was parked. One of the deputies, the one who had been in charge of Mr. Crumb, joined Ringle as he passed. For one awful moment Hugh wondered if something had happened to Iris' father, if somehow his car could be involved. But this was impossible. The car had not been left by the motel long enough last night or today to be borrowed and returned. It could not have happened at his grandparents' home; if the killer knew that Hugh had moved there, the harassment would also have moved.

He asked, “Do you want the keys?”

He was ignored. Ringle was half stooping, examining the fenders. Marshal Hackaberry was close by his side. The deputy was there to guard Hugh. Not overtly; he stood apart, but when Hugh moved, he too moved. And his thumb absently rubbed over the leather gun case at his hip.

Ringle was surprisingly agile as he suddenly squatted beside the left front fender. His hand disappeared under it and he looked up at the marshal. “Something's there.”

Hugh swept forward, his shadow with him. “That's crazy,” he said. “There couldn't be.”

The marshal had bent down and pushed his own hand under the curve. He stood up again. He said to Ringle, “Let's see it.” Then he looked at Hugh and he sighed. He said nothing, turning his back to watch Ringle. The heavy man was on his knees, his hands working to free something affixed beneath the fender.

Hugh watched, hypnotized, unable to believe. When had this frame been stealthily fitted to him? Last night at Ellen's? The night before? Or as early as Sunday night; while he slept, did the murderer prearrange proof of guilt, to be divulged at the right moment?

Ringle puffed to his feet. What he held was wrapped in a grease-stained piece of flannel, one that might have been discarded at any garage. It was wound with copper wire and heavy black masking tape. The ends dangled unevenly. Ringle loosed the wire and unwound the tape without destroying the pattern made by the cloth. He shook out the contents on his open palm. It was a small, common wrench, indistinguishable from any other of its size and years of use.

Hugh became aware that all three men were studying his face. He said, and he knew he sounded hysterical, “It isn't mine. Someone's trying to frame me. I never saw it before. You know it isn't mine. You took my tools to the lab.”

Hackaberry broke through. “We'll go back inside.”

Ellen would know from his face as they passed. She would get to Skye in time, before he could be formally arrested, printed, locked up with no hope of proving the truth. He didn't dare look at her lest he start babbling again.

The marshal marched over to his desk. “Sit down,” he ordered. They sat as they had on other occasions, Ringle to one side of the desk, Hugh opposite the marshal. The difference was the deputy guarding the door. Ellen wouldn't know, she couldn't hear through that closed door.

Hackaberry bumped down into his chair and picked up his pipe. Ringle carefully deposited the weapon on top of the marshal's papers, as if it were another paperweight. The silence was unendurable, but Hugh kept it during the interminable time it took the marshal to pack his pipe and set it to smoldering. He then said to Hugh, “You're entitled to call your lawyer.” There was no more hope, he was to be charged with the murder. “I'll get him if you like.”

There was no trickery to the offer, the phone was at the marshal's hand. “Thank you. I would like him here.” At least the hysteria was out of his throat, he could speak as factually as the others.

Hackaberry spoke into the mouthpiece. “Get Skye Houston for me.”

Would Skye be at home yet? Or was he at the airport meeting Meg? Or with some other clients at dinner? He must be found in time to prevent this arrest.

Hackaberry said, “You deny knowledge of this?”

“You know it isn't mine.” Hugh tried to make the words reasonable. “You went all over my car the other night.”

“Not under it,” Ringle stated.

Hugh continued, separating his thoughts with care, “If it had been mine, if I had used it to murder, you can't believe I'd have kept it in such a precarious hiding place. I'd have had plenty of time and opportunity to get rid of it.”

“I don't know about that.” Ringle's absent smile held all the knowledge and vagaries of uncounted criminals met in years of service. “Might have been you'd be afraid somebody'd see you throwing it away. Might have worried you that somebody would stumble across it, somebody always does, and it would be traced back to you. Might be you'd figure it was safer to hide it until we let you go home, where you'd know how to get rid of it so it would never turn up.”

Hugh said, “You can't trace it to me because it isn't mine.”

“We won't find your fingerprints on it.” Ringle poked at it with a pencil. “You can tell it's had a good run. But may be we'll find out where it was bought and who bought it.”

“I hope so,” Hugh declared.

“May be we won't. May be it was bought a long while ago at the five-and-ten or some big hardware store where they won't remember. Could be it was sold in L.A.”

It would confirm his guilt to them. It was too much to believe that the murderer had once gone to Los Angeles and bought a simple tool.

The telephone jangled and the marshal grabbed it. “Yeah,” he said. “We've got your boy here. The probable murder weapon was hidden under his car.” He scowled at the crackling of the earpiece. “That's your opinion. Do you want to get over here before I charge him?” Briefly he listened, then said, “I'll wait just that long.” He broke the connection with an angry hand. He said to Hugh, “The lab will find out if this is the weapon. You know that. We'll wait for your lawyer to get here before we continue.”

Ringle took out a cigar and lit it. It was a good cigar. He spoke almost affably. “Why don't you make it easy on yourself and tell us what happened?”

Hugh repeated hopelessly, “I've told you and told you. I never saw Iris alive again after I sent her away Friday night. I had nothing to do with the operation or with her death.” His words fell into a vacuum of unbelief. And there came to him what should have come before, if he hadn't been disturbed beyond reasonable thought. “Who told you to look under the fender of my car? Did you have another anonymous tip?”

The marshal had the decency to look abashed, but Ringle said, “I don't mind where a tip comes from. As long as it proves out.”

Hugh cried to the marshal, “And you don't believe I'm being framed?”

The marshal studied his face, then his eyes went beyond to the door. Skye Houston was entering. He greeted Hugh with a quiet “Hello there” in passing. He stood before Hackaberry, tall, arrogantly disgusted. “Just what is this all about?”

Hackaberry said, “A call came in late this afternoon from a man who identified himself as staying at The Palms. Two nights ago he saw a man—the description fitted Densmore—hiding something under the fender of a white Cadillac with California license plates. This is what we found there.” He indicated the wrench.

“Did your informant have a name?”

Hackaberry flushed angrily. “He'd been reading about the murder and worrying about what he'd seen and decided to call us before he left town. No, we didn't get his name. He wouldn't give it. He's a businessman and doesn't want the publicity of being involved in a murder case.”

Ringle said without interest, “Venner's looking into it but he won't find out anything. They come and go at the motels. This guy was checking out right then.”

Houston was icy. “On this you intend to arrest my client?”

The marshal snapped, “On this and other evidence, I intend to hold him on suspicion of abortion and murder.” The scorn on Houston's face made him break out in an appeal to the lawyer, “For God's sake, Skye. With all I have, how long do you expect me to sit on my hands?”

“Until you have one shred of proof.”

“Proof? How much proof do I need? He brought the girl here, he admits she came to him to ask—”

Houston interrupted, “You might like to learn the name of the man the girl was involved with.”

Ringle's sleepy face quivered to alertness. Hackaberry stared up at the lawyer. He asked finally, “What kind of a gag is this?”

“It's no gag. I can't give you his full name yet but I do have a description and dates of some of his visits to Indio.”

“Sit down,” Hackaberry ordered.

Skye pulled up a chair, on the far side of the desk.

“Where did you get this dope? How good is it?”

Skye waited, as if considering whether or not he would answer. Eventually he said, “You know I don't have to tell you my source. You could have had these facts before I did if you'd half believed my client's story.” With a touch of acid he added, “My information isn't anonymous, it's good. I have a witness.”

“Damn you, Skye,” Hackaberry began.

“Do you want what I have or don't you?”

Ringle's smoldering anger became a roar. There would no longer be hope of any favor from him, if ever there had been.

The scowling marshal drew paper under his pen. “Shoot.”

“His first name is Fred. His surname begins with an O. He lives in Phoenix.”

“How many Fred O.'s are there in Phoenix?” the marshal disparaged.

“I haven't checked them out yet. But not too many, I daresay. Not that will fit the other facts. He is young, probably in his twenties. Medium tall.”

The description was too vague. The marshal continued making notes but Ringle made no pretense of his loss of interest.

“He wears his hair long, it's bleached blond. When my witness saw him, he was wearing a dark leather jacket and dark trousers.”

“And where did this witness see him?”

Skye said with pleasure, “With Bonnie Lee Crumb. When he brought her home after a date.”

Ringle was awake again. The marshal put down his pen. “You going to put a name on your witness?”

“Are you going to hold my client on this piece of junk?” Skye's forefinger jeered.

Hugh waited in the awful silence. He could be held; there was more than sufficient circumstantial evidence to hold him on suspicion, the marshal was right when he'd said that. That Houston by legal process might have his client released by morning was of little value. Once Hugh was arrested, once his name became public property, his family was shamed, his medical future without hope.

“You going to give me a name?”

In the silence, Ringle grunted, “Who needs it?” but the two men facing each other didn't hear him. The two were friends. But at this moment there was nothing between them but the contest of their wills shaped by their legal knowledge.

Skye barked a laugh. “All right, I'll give you a name.” Hugh felt suddenly weak. It was that close, his being under arrest. Otherwise Skye would never have capitulated. “Lora Mattinor.”

“Where does she live?” Ringle was stubbing the name in his book.

“You want me to do all your leg work?” Skye stood up. “Indio, of course. I don't know the address. My client is free to leave, Marshal?”

Hackaberry gave a grudging inclination of his head. “You'll be responsible for his appearance when I want him again?”

As if the suggestion of Hugh's running out was too absurd for comment, Houston gave a short “Yes.” He gestured to Hugh. “Let's go, Doctor.”

Without a backward glance, Hugh walked out with him. Ellen rose from the chair in the office outside, her eyes deep with anxiety. Hugh had forgotten she was there waiting. Skye put a strong hand under her arm. “It's all right,” he assured her. He moved her to the door and up the steps, Hugh behind them.