The Galton Case (14 page)

“I’m afraid so.”

Mungan looked down at me in a disappointed way. Not surprised, just disappointed. We had had the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but I had proved unworthy.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I hope I do. You think about this Nelson angle. It’s worth going into. You could earn yourself some very nice publicity.”

“I don’t give a damn about publicity.”

“Good for you.”

“And you can go to hell.”

I didn’t blame him for blowing off. It’s tough to live with a case for half a year and then watch it elope with a casual pickup.

But I couldn’t afford to leave him feeling sore. I didn’t even want to. I went outside the counter and sat down on a wooden bench against the wall. Mungan resumed his place
at his desk and avoided looking at me. I sat there like a penitent while the minute hand of the clock took little pouncing bites of eternity.

At eight-thirty-five Mungan got up and made an elaborate show of discovering me:

“You still here?”

“I’m waiting for a friend—a lawyer from down south. He said he’d be here by nine o’clock.”

“What for? To help you to pick my brains?”

“I don’t know why you’re browned off, Mungan. This is a big case, bigger than you realize. It’s going to take more than one of us to handle it.”

“What makes it so big?”

“The people involved, the money, and the names. At this end we have the Red Horse gang, or what’s left of it; at the other end, one of the richest and oldest families in California. It’s their lawyer I’m expecting, a man named Sable.”

“So what? I get down on my knees? I give everybody an even shake, treat ‘em all alike.”

“Mr. Sable may be able to identify those bones of yours.”

Mungan couldn’t repress his interest. “He the one you talked to on the phone?”

“He’s the one.”

“You’re working on this case for him?”

“He hired me. And he may be bringing some medical data that will help us identify the remains.”

Mungan went back to his paperwork. After a few minutes, he said casually:

“If you’re working for a lawyer, it lets you off the hook. It gives you the same rights of privacy a lawyer has. You probably wouldn’t know that, but I’ve made quite a study of the law.”

“It’s news to me,” I lied.

He said magnanimously: “People in general, even law officers, they don’t know all the fine points of the law.”

His pride and his integrity were satisfied. He called the county courthouse and asked them to get a rundown on Nelson from Sacramento.

Gordon Sable walked in at five minutes to nine. He had on a brown topcoat and a brown Homburg, and a pair of yellow pigskin driving gloves. The lids of his gray eyes were slightly inflamed. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, and lines of weariness ran from them to the wings of his nose.

“You made a quick trip,” I said.

“Too quick to suit me. I didn’t get away until nearly three o’clock.”

He looked around the small office as if he doubted that the trip had been worth making. Mungan rose expectantly. “Mr. Sable, Deputy Mungan.”

The two men shook hands, each of them appraising the other.

“Glad to meet you,” Mungan said. “Mr. Archer tells me you’ve got some medical information about this—these remains we turned up last spring.”

“That may be.” Sable glanced sideways at me. “How much more detail did you go into?”

“Just that, and the fact that the family is important. Were not going to be able to keep them anonymous from here on in.”

“I realize that,” he snapped. “But let’s get the identification established first, if we can. Before I left, I talked to the doctor who set the broken arm. He did have X-ray pictures taken, but unfortunately they don’t survive. He has his written record, however, and he gave me the—ah—specifications of the fracture.” Sable produced a folded piece of paper from an inner pocket. “It was a clean break in the right humerus, two inches above the joint. The boy sustained it falling off a horse.”

Mungan said: “It figures.”

Sable turned to him. “May we see the exhibit in question?”

Mungan went into the back room.

“Where’s the boy?” Sable said in an undertone.

“At a friend’s house, playing chess. I’ll take you to him when we finish here.”

“Tony was a chess-player. Do you really think he’s Tony’s son?”

“I don’t know. I’m waiting to have my mind made up for me.”

“By the evidence of the bones?”

“Partly. I’ve got hold of another piece of evidence that fits in. Brown has been identified from one of Tony Galton’s pictures.”

“You didn’t tell me that before.”

“I didn’t know it before.”

“Who’s your witness?”

“A woman named Matheson in Redwood City. She’s Culligan’s ex-wife and Galton’s ex-nurse. I’ve made a commitment to keep her name out of the police case.”

“Is that wise?” Sable’s voice was sharp and unpleasant.

“Wise or not, it’s the way it is.”

We were close to quarreling. Mungan came back into the room and cut it short. The bones rattled in his evidence box. He hoisted it onto the counter and raised the lid. Sable looked down at John Brown’s leavings. His face was grave.

Mungan picked out the arm bone and laid it on the counter. He went to his desk and came back with a steel foot-rule. The break was exactly two inches from the end.

Sable was breathing quickly. He spoke in repressed excitement: “It looks very much as if we’ve found Tony Galton. Why is the skull missing? What was done to him?”

Mungan told him what he knew. On the way to the Dineen house I told Sable the rest of it.

“I have to congratulate you, Archer. You certainly get results.”

“They fell into my lap. It’s one of the things that made me suspicious. Too many coincidences came together—the Culligan murder, the Brown-Galton murder, the Brown-Galton boy turning up, if that’s who he is. I can’t help feeling that the whole business may have been planned to come out this way. There are mobsters involved, remember. Those boys look a long way ahead sometimes, and they’re willing to wait for their payoff.”

“Payoff?”

“The Galton money. I think the Culligan killing was a gang killing. I think it was no accident that Culligan came to work for you three months ago. Your house was a perfect hide-out for him, and a place where he could watch developments in the Galton family.”

“For what possible purpose?”

“My thinking hasn’t got that far,” I said. “But I’m reasonably certain that Culligan didn’t go there on his own.”

“Who sent him?”

“That’s the question.” After a pause, I said: “How is Mrs. Sable, by the way?”

“Not good. I had to put her in a nursing home. I couldn’t leave her by herself at home.”

“I suppose it’s the Culligan killing that got her down?”

“The doctors seem to think it’s what triggered her breakdown. But she’s had emotional trouble before.”

“What sort of emotional trouble?”

“I’d just as soon not go into it,” he said bleakly.

D
R.
D
INEEN
came to the door in an ancient smoking-jacket made of red velvet which reminded me of the plush in old railway coaches. His wrinkled face was set in a frown of concentration. He looked at me impatiently:

“What is it?”

“I think we’ve identified your skeleton.”

“Really? How?”

“Through the mended break in the arm bone. Dr. Dineen, this is Mr. Sable. Mr. Sable’s an attorney representing the dead man’s family.”

“Who were his family?”

Sable answered: “His true name was Anthony Galton. His mother is Mrs. Henry Galton of Santa Teresa.”

“You don’t say. I used to see her name on the society pages. She cut quite a swathe at one time.”

“I suppose she did,” Sable said. “She’s an old woman now.”

“We all grow older, don’t we? But come in, gentlemen.”

He stood back to let us enter. I turned to him in the hallway:

“Is John Brown with you?”

“He is, yes. I believe he was trying to locate you earlier in the evening. At the moment he’s in my office studying the chessboard. Much good may it do him. I propose to beat him in six more moves.”

“Can you give us a minute, Doctor, by ourselves?”

“If it’s important, and I gather it is.”

He steered us into a dining-room furnished in beautiful
old mahogany. Light from a yellowing crystal chandelier fell on the dark wood and on the sterling tea set which stood in geometrical order on the tall buffet. The room recalled the feeling I’d had that morning, that the doctor’s house was an enclave of the solid past.

He sat at the head of the table and placed us on either side of him. Sable leaned forward across the corner of the table. The events of the day and the one before it had honed his profile sharp:

“Will you give me your opinion of the young man’s moral character?”

“I entertain him in my house. That ought to answer your question.”

“You consider him a friend?”

“I do, yes. I don’t make a practice of entertaining casual strangers. At my age you can’t afford to waste your time on second-rate people.”

“Does that imply that he’s a first-rate person?”

“It would seem to.” The doctor’s smile was slow, and almost indistinguishable from his frown. “At least he has the makings. You don’t ask much more from a boy of twenty-two.”

“How long have you known him?”

“All his life, if you count our initial introduction. Mr. Archer may have told you that I brought him into the world.”

“Are you certain this is the same boy that you brought into the world?”

“I have no reason to doubt it.”

“Would you swear to it, Doctor?”

“If necessary.”

“It may be necessary. The question of his identity is a highly important one. A very great deal of money is involved.”

The old man smiled, or frowned. “Forgive me if I’m not
overly impressed. Money is only money, after all. I don’t believe John is particularly hungry for money. As a matter of fact, this development will be quite a blow to him. He came here in the hope of finding his father, alive.”

“If he qualifies for a fortune,” Sable said, “it ought to be some comfort to him. Were his parents legally married, do you know?”

“It happens that I can answer that question, in the affirmative. John has been making some inquiries. He discovered just last week that a John Brown and a Theodora Gavin were married in Benicia, by civil ceremony, in September 1936. That seems to make him legitimate, by a narrow margin.”

Sable sat in silence for a minute. He looked at Dineen like a prosecutor trying to weigh the credibility of a witness.

“Well,” the old man said. “Are you satisfied? I don’t wish to appear inhospitable, but I’m an early riser, and it happens to be my bedtime.”

“There are one or two other things, if you’ll bear with me, Doctor. I’m wondering, for instance, just how you happen to be so close to the boy’s affairs.”

“I choose to be,” Dineen said abruptly.

“Why?”

The doctor looked at Sable with faint dislike. “My motives are no concern of yours, Counselor. The young man knocked on my door a month ago, looking for some trace of his family. Naturally I did my best to help him. He has a moral right to the protection and support of his family.”

“If he can prove that he’s a member of it.”

“There seems to be no question of that. I think you’re being unnecessarily hard on him, and I see no reason why you should continue in that vein. Certainly there’s no indication that he’s an impostor. He has his birth certificate, which proves the facts of his birth. My name is on it as attending physician. It’s why he came to me in the first place.”

“Birth certificates are easy to get,” I said. “You can write in, pay your money, and take your choice.”

“I suppose you can, if you’re a cheat and a scoundrel. I resent the implication that this boy is.”

“Please don’t.” Sable moderated his tone. “As Mrs. Galton’s attorney, it’s my duty to be skeptical of these claims.”

“John has been making no claims.”

“Perhaps not yet. He will. And very important interests are involved, human as well as financial. Mrs. Galton is in uncertain health. I don’t intend to present her with a situation that’s likely to blow up in her face.”

“I don’t believe that’s the case here. You asked me for my opinion, and now you have it. But no human situation is entirely predictable, is it?” The old man leaned forward to get up. His bald scalp gleamed like polished stone in the light from the chandelier. “You’ll be wanting to talk to John, I suppose. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

He left the room and came back with the boy. John was wearing flannel slacks and a gray sweater over an open-necked shirt. He looked like the recent college graduate that he was supposed to be, but he wasn’t at ease in the situation. His eyes shifted from my face to Sable’s. Dineen stood beside him in an almost protective posture.

“This is Mr. Sable,” he said in a neutral tone. “Mr. Sable is an attorney from Santa Teresa, and he’s very much interested in you.”

Sable stepped forward and gave him a brisk handshake. “I’m glad to meet you.”

“Glad to meet you.” His gray eyes matched Sable’s in watchfulness. “I understand you know who my father is.”

“Was, John,” I said. “We’ve identified those bones at the station, pretty definitely. They belonged to a man named Anthony Galton. The indications are that he was your father.”

“But my father’s name was John Brown.”

“He used that name. It started out as a pen name, apparently.” I looked at the lawyer beside me. “We can take it for granted, can’t we, that Galton and Brown were the same man, and that he was murdered in 1936?”

“It appears so.” Sable laid a restraining hand on my arm. “I wish you’d let me handle this. There are legal questions involved.”

He turned to the boy, who looked as if he hadn’t absorbed the fact of his father’s death. The doctor laid an arm across his shoulders:

“I’m sorry about this, John. I know how much it means to you.”

“It’s funny, it doesn’t seem to mean a thing. I never knew my father. It’s simply words, about a stranger.”