The Galton Case (19 page)

Howell smiled mirthlessly. “I’m not supposed to know that. It happens that I do, but I’m certainly not supposed to tell.”

“You’ve been frank with me,” I said. “I’ll be frank with you. I’m wondering if you have an interest in the estate.”

He scratched at his jaw, violently, but gave no other sign of discomposure. “I have, yes, in several senses. Mrs. Galton named me executor in her original will. I assure you personal considerations are not influencing my judgment. I
think I know my own motives well enough to say that.”

It’s a lucky man who does, I thought. I said: “Apart from the amount of money involved, what exactly is bothering you?”

“The young man’s story. As he tells it, it doesn’t really start till age sixteen. There’s no way to go beyond that to his origins, whatever they may be. I tried, and came up against a stone wall.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you. The way John tells it, he was in an orphanage until he ran away at the age of sixteen. The Crystal Springs Home, in Ohio.”

“I’ve been in touch with a man I know in Cleveland—chap I went to medical school with. The Crystal Springs Home burned to the ground three years ago.”

“That doesn’t make John a liar. He says he left there five and a half years ago.”

“It doesn’t make him a liar, no. But if he is, it leaves us with no way to prove that he is. The records of the Home were completely destroyed in the fire. The staff was scattered.”

“The Superintendent should be traceable. What was his name—Merriweather?”

“Merriweather died in the fire of a heart attack. All of this suggests the possibility—I’d say probability—that John provided himself with a story
ex post facto.
Or was provided with one. He or his backers looked around for a foolproof background to equip him with—one that was uncheckable. Crystal Springs was it—a large institution which no longer existed, which had no surviving records. Who knows if John Brown ever spent a day there?”

“You’ve been doing a lot of thinking about this.”

“I have, and I haven’t told you all of it. There’s the question of his speech, for instance. He represents himself as an American, born and raised in the United States.”

“You’re not suggesting he’s a foreigner?”

“I am, though. National differences in speech have always interested me, and it happens I’ve spent some time in central Canada. Have you ever listened to a Canadian pronounce the word ‘about’?”

“If I did, I never noticed. ‘About’?”

“You say aba-oot, more or less. A Canadian pronounces the word more like ‘aboat.’ And that’s the way John Brown pronounces it.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.”

“About the theory, I mean?”

“It isn’t a theory. It’s a fact. I’ve taken it up with specialists in the subject.”

“In the last two weeks?”

“In the last two days,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to bring this up, but my daughter, Sheila is—ah—interested in the boy. If he’s a criminal, as I suspect—” Howell broke off, almost choking on the words.

Both our glances wandered to the poolside. Sheila was still alone, sitting on the edge and paddling her feet in the water. She turned to look toward the entrance twice while I watched her. Her neck and body were stiff with expectancy.

The waiter brought our food, and we ate in silence for a few minutes. Our end of the dining-room was slowly filling up with people in sports clothes. Slice and sand-trap seemed to be the passwords. Dr. Howell glanced around independently from time to time, as if to let the golfers know that he resented their intrusion on his privacy.

“What do you intend to do, Doctor?”

“I propose to employ you myself. I understand that Gordon has terminated your services.”

“So far as I know. Have you taken it up with him?”

“Naturally I have. He’s just as keen as I am that there should be further investigation. Unfortunately Maria won’t hear of it, and as her attorney he can’t very well proceed on his own. I can.”

“Have you discussed it with Mrs. Galton?”

“I’ve tried to.” Howell grimaced. “She won’t listen to a word against the blessed youth. It’s frustrating, to say the least, but I can understand why she has to believe in him. The fact of her son Anthony’s death came as a great shock to her. She had to hold on to something, and there was Anthony’s putative son, ready and willing. Perhaps it was planned that way. At any rate, she’s clinging to the boy as if her life depended on it.”

“What will the consequences be if we prove he’s crooked?”

“Naturally well put him in prison where he belongs.”

“I mean the consequences to Mrs. Galton’s health. You told me yourself that any great shock might kill her.”

“That’s true, I did.”

“Aren’t you concerned about that?”

His face slowly, reddened, in blotches. “Of course I’m concerned. But there are ethical priorities in life. We can’t sit still for a criminal conspiracy, merely because the victim has diseases. The longer we permit it to go on, the worse it will be in the long run for Maria.”

“You’re probably right. Anyway, her health is your responsibility. I’m willing to undertake the investigation. When do I begin?”

“Now.”

“I’ll probably have to go to Michigan, for a start. That will cost money.”

“I understand that. How much?”

“Five hundred.”

Howell didn’t blink. He produced a checkbook and a
fountain pen. While he was making out the check, he said:

“It might be a good idea if you talked to the boy first.

That is, if you can do it without arousing suspicion.”

“I think I can do that. I got an invitation from him this morning.”

“An invitation?”

“A written invitation to visit the Galton house.”

“He’s making very free with Mrs. Galton’s property. Do you happen to have the document with you?”

I handed him the letter. He studied it with growing signs of excitement. “I was right, by God!”

“What do you mean?”

“The dirty little hypocrite is a Canadian. Look here.” He put the letter on the table between us, and speared at it with his forefinger. “He spells the word ‘labor’ l, a, b, o, u, r. It’s the British spelling, still current in Canada. He isn’t even American. He’s an impostor.”

“It’s going to take more than this to prove it.”

“I realize that. Get busy, man.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll finish my lunch first.”

Howell didn’t hear me. He was looking out of the window again, half out of his seat.

A dark-headed youth in a tan sport shirt was talking to Sheila Howell at the poolside. He turned his head slightly. I recognized John Galton. He patted the shoulder of her terrycloth robe familiarly. Sheila smiled up full into his face.

Howell’s light chair fell over backwards. He was out of the room before I could stop him. From the front door of the clubhouse, I saw him striding across the lawn toward the entrance of the swimming-pool enclosure.

John and Sheila came out hand-in-hand. They were so intent on each other that they didn’t see Howell until he was on top of them. He thrust himself between them, shaking
the boy by the arm. His voice was an ugly tearing rent in the quietness:

“Get out of here, do you hear me? You’re not a member of this club.”

John pulled away and faced him, white and rigid. “Sheila invited me.”

“I dis-invite you.” The back of Howell’s neck was carbuncle red.

Sheila touched his arm. “Please, Daddy, don’t make a scene. There’s nothing to be gained.”

John was encouraged to say: “My grandmother won’t like this, Doctor.”

“She will when she knows the facts.” But the threat had taken the wind out of Howell’s sails. He wasn’t as loud as he had been.

“Please,” Sheila repeated. “John’s done no harm to anyone.

“Don’t you understand, Sheila, I’m trying to protect you?”

“From what?”

“From corruption.”

“That’s silly, Dad. To hear you talk, you’d think John was a criminal.”

The boy’s head tilted suddenly, as if the word had struck a nerve in his neck. “Don’t argue with him, Sheila. I oughtn’t to’ve come here.”

He turned on his heel and walked head down toward the parking-lot. Sheila went in the other direction. Molded in terrycloth, her body had a massiveness and mystery that hadn’t struck me before. Her father stood and watched her until she entered the enclosure. She seemed to be moving heavily and fatally out of his control.

I went back to the dining-room and let Howell find me there. He came in pale and slack-faced, as if he’d had a serious loss of blood. His daughter was in the pool now,
swimming its length back and forth with slow and powerful strokes. Her feet churned a steady white wake behind her.

She was still swimming when we left. Howell drove me to the courthouse. He scowled up at the barred windows of the county jail:

“Put him behind bars, that’s all I ask.”

S
HERIFF
T
RASK
was in his office. Its walls were hung with testimonials from civic organizations and service clubs; recruiting certificates from Army, Navy, and Air Force; and a number of pictures of the Sheriff himself taken with the Governor and other notables. Trask’s actual face was less genial than the face in the photographs.

“Trouble?” I said.

“Sit down. You’re the trouble. You stir up a storm, and then you drop out of the picture. The trouble with you private investigators is irresponsibility.”

“That’s a rough word, Sheriff.” I fingered the broken bones in my face, thoughtfully and tenderly.

“Yeah, I know you got yourself hurt, and I’m sorry. But what can I do about it? Otto Schwartz is outside my jurisdiction.”

“Murder raps cross state lines, or haven’t you heard.”

“Yeah, and I also heard at the same time that you can’t extradite without a case. Without some kind of evidence,
I can’t even get to Schwartz to question him. And you want to know why I have no evidence?”

“Let me guess. Me again.”

“It isn’t funny, Archer. I was depending on you for some discretion. Why did you have to go and spill your guts to Roy Lemberg? Scare my witnesses clear out of the damn country?”

“I got overeager, and made a mistake. I wasn’t the only one.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You told me Lemberg’s car had been stolen.”

“That’s what switched license plates usually mean.” Trask sat and thought about this for a minute, pushing out his lower lip. “Okay. We made mistakes. I made a medium-sized dilly and you made a peacheroo. So you took a beating for it. We won’t sit around and cry. Where do we go from here?”

“It’s your case, Sheriff. I’m just your patient helper.”

He leaned toward me, heavy-shouldered and earnest. “You really mean to help? Or have you got an angle?”

“I mean to help, that’s my angle.”

“We’ll see. Are you still working for Sable—for Mrs. Galton, that is?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Who’s bankrolling you. Dr. Howell?”

“News travels fast.”

“Heck, I knew it before you did. Howell came around asking me to check your record with L.A. You seem to have some good friends down south. If you ever conned any old ladies, you never got caught.”

“Young ones are more my meat.”

Trask brushed aside the badinage with an impatient gesture. “I assume you’re being hired to go into the boy’s background. Howell wanted me to. Naturally I told him I
couldn’t move without some indication that law’s been broken. You got any such indication?”

“Not yet.”

“Neither have I. I talked to the boy, and he’s as smooth as silk. He doesn’t even make any definite claims. He merely says that people tell him he’s his father’s son, so it’s probably so.”

“Do you think he’s been coached, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know. He may be quarterbacking his own plays. When he came in to see me, it had nothing to do on the face of it with establishing his identity. He wanted information about his father’s murder, if this John Brown was his father.”

“Hasn’t that been proved?”

“As close as it ever will be. There’s still room for doubt, in my opinion. But what I started to say, he came in here to tell
me
what to do. He wanted more action on that old killing. I told him it was up to the San Mateo people, so what did he do? He made a trip up there to build a fire under the San Mateo sheriff.”

“It’s barely possible he’s serious.”

“Either that, or he’s a psychologist. That kind of behavior doesn’t go with consciousness of guilt.”

“The Syndicate hires good lawyers.”

Trask pondered this, his eyes withdrawing under the ledges of his brows. “You think it’s a Syndicate job, eh? A big conspiracy?”

“With a big payoff, in the millions. Howell tells me Mrs. Galton’s rewriting her will, leaving everything to the boy. I think her house should be watched.”

“You honestly believe they’d try to knock her off?”

“They kill people for peanuts. What wouldn’t they do to get hold of the Galton property?”

“Don’t let your imagination run away. It won’t happen, not in Santa Teresa County.”

“It started to happen two weeks ago, when Culligan got it. That has all the marks of a gang killing, and in your territory.”

“Don’t rub it in. That case isn’t finished yet.”

“It’s the same case,” I said. “The Brown killing and the Culligan killing and the Galton impersonation, if it is one, all hang together.”

“That’s easy to say. How do we prove it?”

“Through the boy. I’m taking off for Michigan tonight. Howell thinks his accent originated in central Canada. That ties in with the Lembergs. Apparently they crossed the border into Canada from Detroit, and were headed for an address Culligan gave them. If you could trace Culligan that far back—”

“We’re working on it.” Trask smiled, rather forbiddingly. “Your Reno lead was a good one, Archer. I talked long distance last night to a friend in Reno, captain of detectives. He called me back just before lunch. Culligan was working for Schwartz about a year ago.”

“Doing what?”

“Steerer for his casino. Another interesting thing: Culligan was arrested in Detroit five-six years ago. The FBI has a rap sheet on him.”