“Who was that man who answered the phone in your office?”
“I don’t know his name,” I said. “He works for Val Every. He had a twenty-two on me, when the phone rang.”
“A twenty-two on you?” She looked up from her knitting. “You’ll have to be more explicit, Mr. Jones. What did you mean by that?”
“I mean this man had a gun pointed at me. The gun was a twenty-two caliber revolver. The same caliber that killed Lundgren.”
The needles stopped. “Lundgren?”
“The detective Every hired. He was killed yesterday. Didn’t you read about it in the papers?”
She shook her head. For the first time since I’d known her, her ice-blue eyes held apprehension. “Are we getting mixed up in this, in — murder?”
“I think we are. The police have been after me to reveal your identity. I’ll hold out as long as I can.”
She looked down at the floor, and up at me. “You’re on good terms with them, aren’t you? You can protect me in this?”
I had no answer for her, and said nothing. I had only questions.
Maybe she realized that, for she said: “You must be rather puzzled about this place. I feel that I should be frank with you.”
“You can rely on my discretion,” I said, in my smooth way.
“This place is used for curing alcoholism,” she said, and the needles were back at work. “Our patients are wealthy, all of them. We use a cure that might be frowned on in some medical circles. It’s a... a shock cure. We have had exceptional success. But, of course, publicity would destroy any hopes we might have for continuing the work. You can understand that, Mr. Jones?”
I said I could. But I asked: “The fences, with the barbed wire? The heavy gate?”
The needles never stopped. “There is a period in the cure when they want to quit. Despite the solemn promises they made, before they were admitted, they try to run out during that period. They try to leave at night. We can’t permit this. You may have wondered at Carl’s vigilance. Carl is my watchdog.”
I asked if Carl was the chauffeur, and learned that he was. I asked. “Is alcoholism the only thing you treat here, Miss Townsbury?”
“It is.” She put the needles in her lap, and looked at me with eyes that were suddenly, surprisingly soft. “There’s another story I’ve never told others, Mr. Jones. I’d like to tell you. I want you to understand that money doesn’t motivate me in this work. I have all the money I’ll ever need.”
I waited, wondering at this new softness.
“There was a man,” she said, “a young man, back when I, too, was young.” She hesitated, smiling faintly, sadly. “He was gifted, Mr. Jones, a man of promise, of talent and breeding. He could have been one of our great composers. He was headed for the stars. Until that vile alcohol ruined him, dulled that brilliant mind, blunted his sensitivity.” She paused. “It — killed him, finally.”
There was some more conversation, after that. I promised her I would protect her as well as I was able, that I would contact the Missing Persons Bureau confidentially. I didn’t tell her I already had.
I left her then, with her knitting and her memories.
Outside, the sun was hiding behind a cloud. I looked over at the stand of virgin timber, and over at Carl, still fiddling with the Mercedes. I heard the voices in the back, quieter, now.
Carl came over to stand next to the Dusy. “Everything’s going to be all right, isn’t it?” he asked me. “Miss Townsbury isn’t going to get into any trouble?”
“Time will tell,” I said. “Where’s the redhead this morning?”
He smiled. “She’s cured. She’ll be all right, now.”
“She was all right yesterday,” I said. “She’ll always be all right in my book.”
His smile was still there. “Well, that’s something else.”
He went back to the Mercedes, and I started the motor. The Dusy went murmuring down the drive, talking to herself.
So the bootlegger and the lady in silk were at odds. One who had made his fortune selling it, and one who was using her fortune in curing it.
That’s the way it looked, but there were so many angles, so damned many angles... And there was always Devine in the background, itching for my scalp.
Why couldn’t I get Stone-eyes off somewhere, and work him over a little? He was the small type I could handle, if he didn’t have the .22. But I was no longer with the department — I would need to use considerable finesse, instead of force.
And this Rodney Carlton, the poet with the nine iron? Who loved Miss Harlin desperately, but hadn’t seen her for a month. He struck me as being a trifle on the phony side. But I could be wrong — I’d been wrong before, on lots of people.
I decided to go to Mac’s first, to see if he had anything edible. There was a faint hollowness in my stomach. I upped the Dusy’s pace a bit, and let my mind wander where it would while I kept my eyes on the road.
I can be wrong, all right. I’d been wrong about Mac. There was a crudely penciled sign in the glass of his locked front door. Gone for the day it read. Out where the grass was green, where the wind swept the hills, my Mac would be now. Sans apron, sans dialogue, sans frown, out where it might already be raining.
For there was thunder in the north.
There was dampness in the air, here on my poor street. There was that quiet that precedes a storm sometimes. And there was a Chrysler Highlander sedan parked at the curb in front of my office.
The girl behind the wheel got out when she saw me, and stood waiting. She was wearing something simple in a printed blue, some draped material that did her proud.
“Good morning, Hawkshaw,” she said.
“Hello, Judy.” I feasted my eyes a while. “Won’t you step into my parlor?”
“Let’s sit in the car and watch the storm come up,” she suggested.
She climbed back in, and I followed her. “Every send you again?” I asked.
“Mmmmm. He didn’t disapprove.” She looked at me and smiled. “I think you did me some good, last night.”
The first drop of rain hit the windshield, and there were others, on the metal top. “The kiss?” I asked. “Or the dancing, or the brightness of my conversation? Or just my generally seedy appearance? That could be good for your ego, in a comparative way.”
“Just you. Just Mortimer Jones, that easy, gallant, good guy.”
“Enough,” I said, looking into the dark blue, the knowing eyes. “I’m blushing. I’m no ladies’ man.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “I’m no lady. But for a while, last night, I could have been. You treated me like a lady, Jonesy. It’s kind of early to tell, but you might even have cured me. Wouldn’t that be fine, wonderful?”
I said: “It could be temporary. Nobody’s ever confused me with Tyrone Power.”
Her laugh, a low musical chuckle from her lovely throat “No, your charm isn’t that tangible. Don’t be frightened, Philo. It’s not only you. There must be lots of other wonderful guys like you.”
I said stiffly: “I don’t remember coming off a production line.”
“Jonesy!” Her hand found mine. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, there must be other tolerant, gentle, decent men who’d find me attractive. I’m not hopeless, am I?”
“You could do all right,” I assured her, “in any league. If you really think this stupid infatuation of yours with Curly is finished, you could do all right.”
“It could be,” she whispered. “I’m hoping it is. Will you hold your thumbs for me, Jonesy?”
“I will,” I promised. And then the thought hit me. “Do you know Miss Townsbury? The nice little old lady who runs that place for alcoholics?”