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I switched the tape off temporarily and thought bitterly about Matt finding the bug. I hadn’t had a chance to remove it: on my first night visit to the farm the car in the garage had been the one he’d hired while his own was being cleaned of paint. But neither had I looked upon it as a very great hazard, because the little capsules were light and clung tightly. It had been long odds against him groping for cigarettes while driving in the dark, and dislodging it. I hadn’t taken it into account.

Some time on his way back to the farm it must have struck him that the insurance appointment might be phoney; that if we had tricked him into going to Las Vegas once already, we might be tricking him again. If we’d got him out of the way, it could only be to take the horses. So he’d wait; in the dark, ready to spring.

He must have begun to think, when he’d sat out the three hours it took to mend the gasket, that Uncle Bark was right and he was wrong: but all the same he’d gone on waiting. And, in the end, we had come.

I switched the tape on again for the rest. The whole night had been telescoped into the few seconds’ silence, because when Offen made his next call it was clearly morning.

‘Yola, is that you?’

A faint clacking reached the bug. Yola’s higher pitched voice disturbed more air.

‘Have you heard from Matt?’

‘...’

‘No, he said he’d call me this morning, and he hasn’t. I can’t get any answer from the farm.’

‘...’

‘Well, not really. He called me last night because he had some crazy idea Hawkins had traced the horses...’

A loud squawk from Yola.

‘Something about a listening bug and yellow paint.’

Yola talked for some time and when Offen answered he sounded anxious.

‘Yeah, I know he found the first one when we thought that was impossible... do you really think Matt may be right?’

‘...’

‘Yola, that’s right out. Why don’t you go yourself?’

‘...’

‘Close the ranch then. Send them all home.’

‘...’

‘Look, if you’re right, if Matt’s right... say when he went back last night the DA’s men were sitting there waiting for him? Say they’re sitting there right now, waiting for me to turn up and see why Matt doesn’t answer his calls? No, Yola, I’m not walking into that farm and find I have to answer questions like what am I doing there, and what are those two horses in the barn, with Moviemaker and Centigrade’s registrations tattooed inside their lips? I’m not going.’

‘...’

‘Matt may be off on some plan of his own.’

‘...’

‘No. I’ll give him today. If I haven’t heard from him by morning I’ll... well, I’ll think of something.’

Yola’s final remark was loud, and I heard it clearly. Full of anxiety, full of anguish.

‘If anything’s happened to Matt...’

The end of the tape ran off the reel, and I switched off the recorder. For Yola, as for Walt’s wife, life would never be the same again.

I went to bed and lay awake, feeling feverish from lack of sleep. Relaxed every limb, but my mind would have none of it. It was filled too full, as it had been all day, of a picture of Walt still lying on his back in the farmyard. The sun had risen and blazed on him, and set again. He would have no shelter until tomorrow. I couldn’t sleep until he had. I tried to, but I couldn’t.

On my way back to Santa Barbara I’d stopped for coffee and a handful of change, and I’d telephoned to Paul M. Zeissen in the Buttress Life office on Thirty Third Street. It had been nearly 6 PM New York time. Zeissen was preparing to go home for the weekend. I was a little worried, I told him, about Walt. He had gone to do some life insurance business on a farm in Arizona, and I hadn’t heard from him since. Zeissen and I talked it over for a few minutes in unurgent civilized tones, and arranged finally that if I hadn’t heard from Walt by morning, Buttress Life would ring the Arizona State Police in Kingman, and ask them as a favour to go out to the farm, just to check.

In the morning I would ring Zeissen at his home. By noon, perhaps, the Kingman police would reach the farm. They would read the story: insurance salesman arrives for appointment, gets out of car. Matt Clive, hurrying back to meet him, swings into the yard, sees a dark figure too late, hits him, runs straight on into the wall because judgement suspended by horror at collision. Matt, with whisky inside him, and a bottle in the car. Inside the house the 9 PM insurance appointment written in Matt’s hand. And nothing else. No horses. No suggestion of visitors. No sign that it could have been anything but a tragically unlucky accident.

Matt had been good at accidents.

So was I.

I lay on my stomach on the beach all morning while Lynnie sat beside me and trickled sand through her fingers. Eunice had gone to Santa Monica, down the coast.

‘Are you really going home this evening?’ Lynnie said.

‘First hop, yes.’

‘Would you mind... if I came with you?’

I stirred in surprise.

‘I thought you wanted to stay here for ever.’

‘Mm. But that was with you... and Eunice. Now you’re going... and Eunice hasn’t been here much this week, you know. I’ve spent ages all on my own, and there isn’t that much to do on a beach, when you do it every day...’

‘Where had Eunice been?’

‘Santa Monica, like now. There’s some place there she spends all her time in, where they import vases and bits of sculpture and expensive light fittings, and things like that. She took me there the day before yesterday... I must say it’s pretty gorgeous. Marvellous fabrics, too.’

‘She might feel hurt if you just pack up and leave her.’

‘Well, no. I mentioned it to her before she went this morning, and honestly I think if anything she was relieved. She just said if I really wanted to go, OK, and she would probably be moving down to Santa Monica in a day or two anyway.’

‘If you really want to, then. I’m catching the night flight to Washington... I’ve a visit to make in Lexington tomorrow morning. After that, back to New York, and home.’

‘You don’t mind if I tag along?’ She sounded a scrap uncertain.

‘Come to think of it,’ I said, ‘you can wake me at the stops.’

We had a sandwich for lunch which I couldn’t eat, and at two the girl from the reception desk came to say I was wanted on the telephone. Paul M. Zeissen told me in a suitably hushed voice that the Arizona police had been most co-operative and had gone to Bellman’s farm as asked, and had found Walt dead. I made shocked noises. Zeissen said would I pack Walt’s things and send them back? I said I would.

‘I suppose,’ he suggested diffidently, ‘that you and he had not completed your other business?’

‘The horses?’

‘One horse. Allyx,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Showman was insured with another company.’

‘Oh... yes. Allyx should be in circulation, safe and authenticated within a month or so. I expect the Bloodhorse Breeders’ Association will be getting in touch with you. Walt worked very hard at this, and it was entirely owing to his efforts that Buttress Life will be recovering most of the million and a half it paid out.’

‘Where did he find the horse?’

‘I can’t tell you. Does it matter?’

‘No...’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Goods back, no questions asked... we work on that principle, the same as any other company.’

‘Right then,’ I said. ‘And you’ll of course pay his commission to his widow?’

‘Uh... of course. And naturally Walt had insured his life with us... Mrs Prensela will be well provided for, I feel sure.’