The Galton Case (18 page)

I dropped a ten in her lap as I went out. Before my plane took off for Los Angeles, I had time to phone Sheriff Trask. I filled him in, with emphasis on Culligan’s probable
connection with Schwartz. In the rational light of day, I didn’t want Schwartz all to myself.

I
N THE
morning, after a session with my dentist, I opened up my office on Sunset Boulevard. The mailbox was stuffed with envelopes, mostly bills and circulars. There were two envelopes mailed from Santa Teresa in the past few days.

The first one I opened contained a check for a thousand dollars and a short letter from Gordon Sable typed on the letterhead of his firm. Sad as was the fact of Anthony Galton’s death, his client and he both felt that the over-all outcome was better than could have been hoped for. He hoped and trusted that I was back in harness, and none the worse for wear, and would I forward my medical bills as I received them.

The other letter was a carefully hand-written note from John Galton:

It seemed to be pure gratitude undiluted by commercialism, until I reflected that he was taking credit for the check Sable had sent me. His letter stirred up the suspicions that had been latent in my mind since I’d talked to Sable in the hospital. Whatever John was, he was a bright boy and a fast worker. I wondered what he wanted from me.

After going through the rest of my mail, I called my answering-service. The girl at the switchboard expressed surprise that I was still in the land of the living, and told me that a Dr. Howell had been trying to reach me. I called the Santa Teresa number he’d left.

A girl’s voice answered: “Dr. Howell’s residence.”

“This is Lew Archer. Miss Howell?” The temporary crown I’d just acquired that morning pushed out against my upper lip, and made me lisp.

“Yes, Mr. Archer.”

“Your father has been trying to get in touch with me.”

“Oh. He’s just leaving for the hospital. I’ll see if I can catch him.”

After a pause, Howell’s precise voice came over the line: “I’m glad to hear from you, Archer. You may recall that we met briefly at Mrs. Galton’s house. I’d like to buy you a lunch.”

“Lunch will be fine. What time and place do you have in mind?”

“The time is up to you—the sooner the better. The Santa Teresa Country Club would be the most convenient place for me.”

“It’s a long way for me to come for lunch.”

“I had a little more than lunch in mind.” He lowered his voice as though he suspected eavesdroppers. “I’d like to engage your services, if you’re free.”

“To do what?”

“I’d much prefer to discuss that in person. Would today be possible for you?”

“Yes. I’ll be at the Country Club at one.”

“You can’t drive it in three hours, man.”

“I’ll take the noon plane.”

“Oh, fine.”

I heard the click as he hung up, and then a second click. Someone had been listening on an extension. I found out who it was when I got off the plane at Santa Teresa. A young girl with doe eyes and honey-colored hair was waiting for me at the barrier.

“Remember me? I’m Sheila Howell. I thought I’d pick you up.”

“That was a nice thought.”

“Not really. I have an ulterior motive.”

She smiled charmingly. I followed her through the sunlit terminal to her car. It was a convertible with the top down.

Sheila turned to me as she slid behind the wheel: “I might as well be frank about it. I overheard what was said, and I wanted to talk to you about John before Dad does. Dad is a well-meaning person, but he’s been a widower for ten years, and he has certain blind spots. He doesn’t understand the modern world.”

“But you do?”

She colored slightly, like a peach in the sun. “I understand it better than Dad does. I’ve studied social science at college, and people just don’t go around any more telling other people who to be interested in. That sort of thing is as
dead as the proverbial dodo. Deader.” She nodded her small head, once, with emphasis.

“First-year social science?”

The color in her cheeks deepened. Her eyes were candid, the color of the sky. “How did you know? Anyway, I’m a sophomore now.” As if this made all the difference between adolescence and maturity.

“I’m a mind reader. You’re interested in John Galton.”

Her pure gaze didn’t waver. “I love John. I think he loves me.”

“Is that what you wanted to say to me?”

“No.” She was suddenly flustered. “I didn’t mean to say it. But it’s true.” Her eyes darkened. “The things that Dad believes aren’t true, though. He’s just a typical patriarch type, full of prejudices against the boy I happen to like. He believes the most awful things against John, or pretends to.”

“What things, Sheila?”

“I wouldn’t even repeat them, so there. Anyway, you’ll be hearing them from him. I know what Dad wants you to do, you see. He let the cat out of the bag last night.”

“What does he want me to do?”

“Please,” she said, “don’t talk to me as if I were a child. I know that tone so well, and I’m so tired of it. Dad uses it on me all the time. He doesn’t realize I’m practically grown up. I’m going to be nineteen on my next birthday.”

“Wow,” I said softly.

“All right, go ahead and patronize me. Maybe I’m not mature. I’m mature enough to know good people from bad people.”

“We all make mistakes about people, no matter how ancient we are.”

“But I couldn’t be mistaken about John. He’s the nicest boy I ever met in my life.”

I said: “I like him, too.”

“I’m so glad.” Her hand touched my arm, like a bird alighting and then taking off again: “John likes you, or I wouldn’t be taking you into our confidence.”

“You wouldn’t be planning on getting married?”

“Not just yet,” she said, as if this was a very conservative approach. “John has a lot of things he wants to do first, and of course I couldn’t go against Father’s wishes.”

“What things does John want to do?”

She answered vaguely: “He wants to make something of himself. He’s very ambitious. And of course the one big thing in his life is finding out who killed his father. It’s all he thinks about.”

“Has he done anything about it?”

“Not yet, but I know he has plans. He doesn’t tell me all he has on his mind. I probably wouldn’t understand, anyway. He’s much more intelligent than I am.”

“I’m glad you realize that. It’s a good thing to bear in mind.”

“What do you mean?” she said in a small voice. But she knew what I meant: “It isn’t true, what Father says, that John is an impostor. It can’t be true!”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know it here.” Her hand touched her breast, ever so lightly. “He couldn’t be lying to me. And Cassie says he’s the image of his dad. So does Aunt Maria.”

“Does John ever talk about his past to you?”

She regarded me with deepening distrust. “Now you sound just like Father again. You mustn’t ask me questions about John. It wouldn’t be fair to John.”

“Give yourself some thought, too,” I said. “I know it doesn’t seem likely, but if he is an impostor, you could be letting yourself in for a lot of pain and trouble.”

“I don’t even care if he is!” she cried, and burst into tears.

A young man in airline coveralls came out of the
terminal and glared at me. I was making a pretty girl cry, and there ought to be a law. I assumed a very legal expression. He went back inside again.

My plane took off with a roar. The roar diminished to a cicada humming in the northern sky. Sheila’s tears passed like a summer shower. She started the engine and drove me into town, very efficiently, like a chauffeur who happened to be a deaf-mute.

John was a very fast worker.

B
EFORE
she deposited me in the main lounge of the clubhouse, Sheila apologized for her emotional outburst, as she called it, and said something inarticulate about not telling Daddy. I said that no apology was necessary, and that I wouldn’t.

The windows of the lounge overlooked the golf course. The players were a shifting confetti of color on the greens and fairways. I watched them until Howell came in at five minutes after one.

He shook my hand vigorously. “Good to see you, Archer. I hope you don’t mind eating right away. I have to meet a committee shortly after two.”

He led me into a huge dining-room. Most of the tables were roped off and empty. We took one by a window which looked out across a walled swimming-pool enclosure where young people were romping and splashing. The waiter deferred to Howell as if he was a member of the stewardship committee.

Since I knew nothing about the man, I asked him the first question that occurred to me: “What kind of a committee are you meeting?”

“Aren’t all committees alike? They spend hours making up their collective mind to do something which any one of their members could accomplish in half the time. I’m thinking of setting up a committee to work for the abolition of committees.” His smile was a rapid flash. “As a matter of fact, it’s a Heart Association committee. We’re laying plans for a fund campaign, and I happen to be chairman. Will you have something to drink? I’m going to have a Gibson.”

“That will do for me.”

He ordered two Gibsons from the hovering waiter. “As a medical man, I feel it’s my duty to perpetuate the little saving vices. It’s probably safer to overdrink than it is to overeat. What will you have to eat?”

I consulted the menu.

“If you like sea food,” he said executively, “the lobster Newberg is easy to chew. Gordon Sable told me about your little accident. How’s the jaw?”

“Mending, thanks.”

“What precisely was the trouble about, if you don’t object to the question?”

“It’s a long story, which boils down to something like this: Anthony Galton was killed for his money by a criminal named Nelson who had just escaped from prison. Your original guess was very close to the truth. But there’s more to the case. I believe Tony Galton’s murder and Pete Culligan’s murder are related.”

Howell leaned forward across the table, his short gray hair bristling. “How related?”

“That’s the problem I was trying to solve when I got my jaw broken. Let me ask you a question, Doctor. What’s your impression of John Galton?”

“I was going to ask you the same question. Since you got
to it first, I’ll take first turn in answering. The boy
seems
open and aboveboard. He’s certainly intelligent, and I suppose prepossessing if you like obvious charm. His grand—Mrs. Galton seems to be charmed with him.”

“She doesn’t question his identity?”

“Not in the slightest, she hasn’t from the beginning. For Maria, the boy is practically the reincarnation of her son Tony. Her companion, Miss Hildreth, feels very much the same way. I have to admit myself that the resemblance is striking. But such things can be arranged, when a great deal of money is involved. I suppose there’s no man alive who doesn’t have a double somewhere in the world.”

“You’re suggesting that he was searched out and hired?”

“Hasn’t the possibility occurred to you?”

“Yes, it has. I think it should be explored.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. I’ll be frank with you. It occurred to me when the boy turned up here, that you might be a part of the conspiracy. But Gordon Sable vouches for you absolutely, and I’ve had other inquiries made.” His gray eyes probed mine. “In addition to which, you have the marks of honesty on your face.”

“It’s the hard way to prove you’re honest.”

Howell smiled slightly, looking out over the pool. His daughter, Sheila, had appeared at the poolside in a bathing-suit. She was beautifully made, but the fact seemed to give her no pleasure. She sat by herself, with a pale closed look, undergoing the growing pains of womanhood. Howell’s glance rested on her briefly, and a curious woodenness possessed his face.

The waiter brought our drinks, and we ordered lunch. When the waiter was out of hearing, Howell said:

“It’s the boy’s story that bothers me. I understand you were the first to hear it. What do you think about it?”

“Sable and I gave him quite a going-over. He took it well, and his story stood up. I made notes on it the same night.
I’ve gone over the notes since I talked to you this morning, and couldn’t find any self-contradictions.”

“The story may have been carefully prepared. Remember that the stakes are very high. You may be interested to know that Maria is planning to change her will in his favor.”

“Already?”

“Already. She may already have done. Gordon wouldn’t agree to it, so she called in another attorney to draw up a will. Maria’s half out of her mind—she’s pent up her generous feelings for so long, that she’s intoxicated with them.”

“Is she incompetent?”

“By no means,” he said hastily. “I don’t mean to overstate the case. And I concede her perfect right to do what she wants to do with her own money. On the other hand, we can’t let her be defrauded by a—confidence man.”

“How much money is involved?”

He raised his eyes over my head as if he could see a mountain of gold in the distance. “I couldn’t estimate. Something like the national debt of a medium-sized European country. I know Henry left her oil property that brings in a weekly income in the thousands. And she has hundreds of thousands in securities.”

“Where does it all go if it doesn’t go to the boy?”