“Sardines. ‘Look where he ate the sardine’? I don’t like crazy shit,” he muttered softly.
Since I agreed with him, there wasn’t much for me to say. I nodded. “The other officer over there behind me,” he went on, “he’s my brother. He likes crazy shit even less than I do.”
The other brother was losing the grinning battle with Nelson, though I knew the sheriff was doomed to lose the war.
The big Rangley said, “Keys.”
Sheriff Nelson pulled his keys out and handed them to the patrolman, who threw them to his brother, who, without removing his brown eyes from me, held up his hand to catch them. The keys flew past him and landed inside the cell at my feet.
“All the good receivers were drafted,” I said, reaching down for the key ring.
It was the wrong thing to say.
“Just pick up the keys and open the cell,” he said. “Officer Rangley and the sheriff are going a few doors down to wait for the evidence truck and the county coroner while you and I palaver.”
I swear he said “palaver,” but the way he said it convinced even me that I’d be better off playing second banana in this Kermit Maynard western.
“The prisoner is-” Nelson began.
“-about to be interrogated,” said the big Rangley as his brother ushered Nelson to and through the front door.
I got up and opened the door. Rangley came around the corner and entered. He put out his hand and I gave him the key.
“Been locked up before?” he asked.
“A few times. Once before in this cell.”
“Tell me about sardines,” he said.
“Not much to tell,” I answered. “When I was a kid I liked to make sardine salad-mash up a can with onions and mayo. Still like it once in a while. Or a sandwich on white with butter and a thick slice of onion.”
Rangley nodded, muttered something like “hmmpff” and closed the cell door. The keys went into his pocket.
“This came at a bad time …”
“Peters,” I said. “Toby Peters. I’m a private investigator. I was-”
“… about to sit,” said Rangley.
I sat on the cot.
“You know there’re springs in that cot?” he said, standing over me.
“Yes,” I said.
He looked around the cell and shook his head.
“Even a half-assed short-timer could pull a spring at night and cut the eyes off Nelson or his homo Mex deputy,” he went on.
“That’s an idea,” I said.
He laughed and the heel of his right hand came forward and slammed against what was left of my nose. That wasn’t too bad, but I flew back on the cot and hit my head on the wall. That was bad. I rebounded and thought I heard a musical saw.
“How’s the head?” he asked gently, handing me his pocket handkerchief.
“Fine,” I said, accepting the handkerchief and putting it to my nose.
“Don’t worry about the blood,” he said with a smile, sitting next to me. “Can I give you a little advice?”
“You have my undivided attention.”
He put his hand on my knee and whispered, “Don’t answer me smart again.”
“That’s good advice,” I said, checking the handkerchief. It was wet and dark red.
“Keep it,” he said gently.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You kill the guy?”
“The one with the yellow wig?”
“Is there more than one?”
“I just saw the one,” I said.
“How’s your head?” he asked again, touching my arm. I got the point.
“I didn’t kill him. I was trying to find him. Someone stole three Salvador Dali paintings and three clocks from my client.”
“Three clocks, three paintings,” he repeated with a knowing nod of the head. “Big clock in there one of the clocks?”
“Yeah.”
“And that painting? That grasshopper on the egg crap in there. That one of the paintings?”
“Right,” I said.
“This Dali’s a crazy asshole,” he said.
“That could be,” I said, putting the handkerchief back to my nose.
Big Rangley chuckled. I didn’t know what was funny but, as Wild Bill Elliot says, I’m a sociable man. I made a sound that might well be taken for a chuckle.
“Remember what I said when I came in this place, Peters?”
“You don’t like crazy shit.”
“Don’t like it at all,” he agreed, clapping me on the back. He reached into his vest pocket and came out with a little notebook, which he flipped open to the first page and read:
“Time is running out. One clock. One painting. Last chance. ‘Look where he ate the sardine.’”
He closed the notebook, returned it to his vest pocket and buttoned it.
“Now,” he said. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
Beyond the window a Mirador crowd was gathering. A crowd in Mirador was somewhere between two and six people. This crowd included two girls around ten, the kid from the gas station where I had used the phone book, and a vacant-looking fat man in overalls whose palms and nose were pressed to the window the way they had been pressed against the antique shop window when I had driven down Main Street about an hour ago. Another car pulled up at the curb. The crowd turned and a man about seventy got out of a black Ford coupe. He came to the door of the sheriffs office, opened it and saw Rangley.
“Two doors over, Doc,” said Rangley, pointing past me. “Melvin’s in there.”
Doc was wearing a wrinkled long-sleeved blue shirt and suspenders, no tie. He was carrying one of those black doctor bags. Doc looked at me.
“Don’t hit him again, Beau,” the doctor said and left the office, closing the door behind him.
“Doc’s a humanitarian,” Rangley confided. “But Doc doesn’t have to talk to many living people during business hours. Easy to be a humanitarian when you don’t have to meet humanity.”
“Trooper,” I said. “You’re a philosopher.”
“And you’re one hell of a fool if you think what the doc said and those village half-wits out there watching are going to stop me from ripping what’s left of your nose off if you smart off.”
The punch was low, short, and hard. It caught me about where my kidney must be.
“I didn’t kill him,” I said, trying to keep the pain from my voice.
I knew the next question and my next answer. I considered throwing an elbow into Trooper Beau Rangley’s throat. It might work, but what then? A run for L.A. in my Crosley? I tightened my muscles, those that would still pay attention, and waited.
“Who you working for, Peters?”
I looked at the retarded man with his face against the window. He grinned at me. It was a nice friendly grin. He pulled his left hand from the window. It left a bloody handprint.
“I can’t tell you that without the client’s permission,” I said, forcing myself to look at Rangley and not at the window.
The outer door to the sheriff’s office came open before Rangley could throw the punch, and his brother came in with Sheriff Nelson.
“Doc wants to see you, Beau,” Mel Rangley said.
Beau smiled and stood up. He straightened the creases in his brown uniform and gently slapped my cheek. He got blood on his palm.
“We’ll talk again in a few minutes,” he said, moving to the cell door and opening it.
I kept my mouth shut until Beau and Mel were out the door. The crowd, except for the retarded man, followed them in the direction of the Old California Antique Shop.
“You see,” said Nelson, pointing his hat at me.
I wasn’t sure what it was I was supposed to see, but I doubted Nelson planned to explain and I knew I didn’t care. He sat in his chair and swiveled so that his back was to me again. He looked up at the retarded man and shouted, “Martin Sawyer, you are, as you have been for the past thirty-five years, looking through the wrong window.”
Nelson pointed to his right; the retarded man watched with curiosity and no understanding.
“Nelson,” I said. “I didn’t do it.”
Nelson swung around and looked at me.
“Well,” he said with a deep sigh. “I am relieved. Why did you not make that clear to me when I first found you, gun in hand? I think I’ll just let you out and apologize.”