In the trunk of my car I keep a small overnight bag for unplanned layovers such as this one. I got it out, carried it into the motel office to register, and then took it up to the room I was given. The cold seemed to have seeped into my bones; my feet felt as if I had been walking barefoot in six inches of snow. So I took a quick shower and afterward made a cup of instant coffee with one of those hot-water dispensers motels put in for guests these days. Then I propped myself up on the bed to do some thinking.
Jerry Carding. He was a central figure, all right. And I was becoming convinced that if I could find him, or discover what had happened to him, I could begin to piece together an explanation for everything.
Go over the facts again, I thought. What did I know and what could I surmise from that knowledge? Well, I knew that he had disappeared sometime after nine o’clock last Sunday night, after leaving the Darden house with a couple of manila envelopes presumably containing an article he’d written. Had he mailed the stamped and addressed envelope? No way of knowing yet. If he had, to whom? Newspaper, maybe, or a news magazine: Jerry had seemed to think the article was important, which meant its subject matter had to be of some news value. But then why hadn’t the article surfaced by now, been turned over to the police? Blank. Why had Jerry taken the unaddressed envelope with him? Planning to show it to somebody, possibly-but that seemed inconsistent with the cloak of secrecy he had wrapped around this project of his. Unless-Blackmail?
No, I didn’t like that. From all I had found out about Jerry Carding, a blackmail scheme would be foreign to his nature; what he seemed to care most of all about was establishing a career for himself as an investigative reporter. And if blackmail was what he’d been up to, why take the trouble to write the article at all? Whatever he’d found out, the knowledge alone, would have been enough.
Try it another way, then. Suppose he had uncovered something not only newsworthy but damaging to somebody; and suppose this somebody, call him X, found out in turn that Jerry was writing his article and was afraid of public exposure. X could have waylaid him at the post office, before the stamped envelope could be mailed. That would explain Jerry’s sudden disappearance-why he failed to ask Kellenbeck for his salary, why he left all his belongings behind-and it would provide a grim probable answer to the question of whether or not he was still alive.
Better theory, that one, but not much better. How could X have known Jerry was on his way to the post office? From watching the Darden house? Farfetched. And if X knew about the article, why wait until Jerry had finished it before going after him? And how could X have found out in the first place, with Jerry being as close-mouthed as he was?
Questions.
And more questions: How could a discovery in Bodega Bay, or an article written about it, tie up with a shooting in San Francisco two days later and a shooting in Brisbane two days after that? Where did the Talbot/Nichols family fit in? Where did Bobbie Reid fit in? What was the significance of the threatening letters and telephone calls to Christine Webster? Why had my office been vandalized? Did the torn corner from the label or decal I had found in Jerry’s room mean anything? Did Andy Greene’s surly reticence mean anything?
It was like trying to make your way through a labyrinth: you kept moving around, taking this path and that, and all you seemed to find were new and more confusing twists and turns. Unless you figured out the right turns before too much time had passed, or blundered into them, you could become hopelessly lost.
And right now I felt about as lost as you could get.
Hunger pangs drove me out of there at six, down to the Wharf Bar and Restaurant. Where I ate a Crab Louie, drank two bottles of Schlitz, and brooded out at the dark waters of the bay. No rain yet, but the fog had dissipated somewhat and the sky was thick with swollen clouds; the wind made angry moaning sounds and rattled the window glass from time to time. The weather and the nonproductive brooding combined to make me feel frustrated and a little depressed.
I went back to my room and put in a long distance call to Eberhardt’s home in San Francisco to see if he had any news. No answer. Out somewhere with his wife for dinner, probably. I tried Dennis Litchak’s number; he was in, as he almost always was, and he assured me that everything was fine with my flat. I told him I would be spending the night in Bodega Bay. He told me not to worry, he’d keep on checking until I got home. So much for that.
The first drops of rain began to splatter against the window.
I debated calling Laura Nichols, decided what the hell, she was paying my wages, and had the motel operator dial her number. It was Karen Nichols who answered. I told her who was calling and asked if her mother was home.
“Yes,” she said, “but our lawyer’s here and they’re having a conference. I suppose I can interrupt them if you want to talk to her.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m just checking in.”
“Where are you? You sound far away.”
“In Bodega Bay. Trying to get a line on Jerry Carding.”
“Oh. Then you’re still investigating?”
“Still at it, yes. But I haven’t found out much so far.”
“How long will you be there?”
“Until tomorrow sometime. Let me give you the number here, just in case.” I did that, and then said, “While I’ve got you on the phone I’d like to ask you a couple of things.”
“What things?”
“Do you or your mother know anyone in Bodega Bay?”
“No.”
“Is the name Bobbie Reid familiar to you?”
“Who?”
“Bobbie Reid. R-e-i-d.”
“No. Who’s she?”
“Someone whose name came up. How about Steve Farmer?”
“No.”
“Dave Brodnax?”
“No.”
“Lainey Madden?”
“No.”
So much for that, too.
I could not think of anyone else to call except Donleavy, and I had already wasted enough long-distance money as it was. So I turned on the TV set and sat staring at it. Opiate of the masses-but not for me, not tonight. I got up again after ten minutes and shut if off.
Sheets of rain now, buffeting the window.
Mournful whistle-and-howl of the wind.
Saturday night, I thought. Not a good night for a man to be alone, especially not in a storm and place where he has no friends. A night for company, for good conversation, for a warm fire. For a woman. How long since I had last gotten laid? Too damned long. Crusty old bachelor with a beer belly, sloppy habits, and a collection of pulp magazines. No wonder I wasn’t getting laid; who would want to climb into the sack with somebody like that? Getting old, too. The last of San Francisco’s lone-wolf private eyes…
Nuts. San Francisco’s only private eye who sits around motel rooms feeling sorry for himself.
I went to the window, stood looking out for awhile and watching rain drool down the glass. Too early to go to bed… did I feel like reading? No, but it was better than thinking myself into a blue funk. I took out one of the pulps tucked into the overnight case with the rest of my stuff-a 1940 issue of Detective Fiction Weekly — and lay down under the covers with it.
One of the featured novelettes was called “Finger of Doom” and I started to read that first. But I must have been a lot more tired than I’d thought; halfway through the story my eyelids began to feel heavy, my attention wavered and dulled. And I dozed, woke up, tried to read some more, and promptly dropped off for good.
Which had to be one of the few times anybody ever fell asleep reading a story by Cornell Woolrich…