They volleyed the point back and forth, while the shadow of the Sierras crept closer, and presently enveloped the Domino in luminous blue. Benny, the pencil clicking against his teeth, studied the limited vocabulary which must form the basis of the projected composition, and presently started to write, first in pencil on scratch paper, then with the fountain pen on Vicki’s crested stationery. Soon talk ceased, and an uneasy silence fell on the room. He wrote slowly, trying every word on the scratch paper, smoking and considering. He must have been under a strain, for when Dmitri complained at the rate of progress, he snapped back: “Shut up and lemme alone. To do justice to me skill I got to take me time.” When the note was done he handed it over, first reminding them to handle it with handkerchiefs. Though Tony refused even to look, Dmitri and Mr. La Bouche read the following:
Dienstag
Silvya, Switt Puss, Kuss Kuss:
Be oder
not be, that is quashon. Todayheute comes Divarse-peper, todayheute comes And. Silvya Puss, I can no live wit out You. My Son go don, nort Star come opp, is batter Vicki go out. So, Gottbei. Gottbei Dimmy, Gottbei Buschka, Gottbei, Gott hehute Hezelchen. Wiedersehen & Kuss Kuss.
Dein
Vicki
Be gut gegen “Spiro.”
Chapter Nine
The sheriff spent a solitary afternoon on the front porch of his home, which was a pleasant house in the middle of a ranch four or five miles from town, on a road that forked off the road that led past the Galloping Domino. It was a cattle ranch, and he sat staring at his beeves; as to what was going on in his mind his face gave no clue. Once he went inside, picked up the phone that stood on a small table in the hall and called Mr. Flynn, to see if anything had been heard of the missing girl. Once Mr. Flynn called him, to say that there was such a jam of calls from the special writers who were arriving by plane, train, car and bus, that nothing was coming in from outlying parts of the state at all. The Sheriff told him to notify the police what he was doing, then lock the office and go out to the Galloping Domino, having all long distance calls transferred to there. Then, if the police learned something, they could report it, while other dial calls would simply get no answer. Mr. Flynn said O. K. The Sheriff, as soon as he had eaten a light supper served him by the Mexican woman who kept house for him, got in his car and drove over there. He found Mr. Flynn in the office, studying a pile of photostats, charts and reports. “What do they show, Flynn?”
“Not a thing.”
“All checks up?”
“So far, it does. Only fingerprints on the gun are Spiro’s, but the way he tells it he was the one had hold of the barrel, and it’s only on the barrel you get clear prints. Trajectory of the bullet corresponds right. Fired from an angle, on the right, which would just about be the way it would be doing the scene the way they said they did it. I don’t see anything wrong with it. What do you want the girl for?”
“Sister’s worried about her.”
“When are you having the inquest?”
“Soon as we find her. Did you eat?”
“Not yet I haven’t.”
“You better go, then. I’ll sit in here and take anything that comes along. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”
When Mr. Flynn had gone, the Sheriff dug into the pile of evidential matter a bit grimly, and perhaps more carefully than Mr. Flynn had done. Soon the door opened and Dmitri came in. He said: “He told you, Sharf? Mr. Flynn? About this stuff?”
“What stuff?”
Dmitri pointed to the stack of communications brought from the hotel, explained why they had not been given to Sylvia. The Sheriff said: “O. K. I’ll release them to you after the inquest.”
“This one note—”
“Yes?”
“It’s from Vicki. I can tell by the crest. He borrowed my pen last night to write her a note. I didn’t give it to her yet. Might make her feel bad.”
The Sheriff picked up the note, dropped it in his pocket, went back to his photostats. Dmitri said: “You’re not reading it?”
“It’s to her, isn’t it?”
“I thought maybe, was evidence.”
“Of what?”
“Skip, skip.”
“You did right in turning it over to me, and I’ll see that she gets it. Now, is there anything else you wanted to see me about?”
“No, sir. No, thanks. You want me, I’ll be at Sylvia’s hotel at seven o’ clock.”
“O. K.”
Dmitri had barely gone when a call came, and the Sheriff answered. “Officer Enders talking from Lone Pine.”
“Sheriff Lucas. What is it, Enders?”
“We found her.”
“Alive?”
“No, sir.”
“That’s what I expected. Shoot.”
“The Army planes reported it, right after dark. Two lights pointed straight up at the sky. They took it for some kind of signal at first, and we got over there. The car was standing on its rear bumper, jammed against a ledge. It couldn’t be seen from the road. She must have driven it over on purpose, because there was no way it could have swerved that far by accident.”
“What have you done with the body?”
“Nothing. Waiting orders.”
“You have an ambulance there?”
“Yes, sir. Called one before I climbed down there.”
“Then send her right in to town. No inquest necessary, that I see. Come in yourself and report to me here at the Galloping Domino at nine thirty. I’ll call the Adlerkreutz inquest for ten.”
“Yes, sir. Is Flynny there?”
“He’s at supper.”
“I got one on him. I turned up more dirt on the other one, the sister Sylvia, that picture actress he was bragging about.”
“You — did what?”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.”
“He met her today. She shook hands with him, or so he says. Boy, was he letting me know it. Well, it just so happens that when we went looking for Hazel, we turned up a trail on Sylvia that would make a hooker in the Red Mill at Tijuana look like a Minnesota schoolteacher. If there’s any tinhorn sport in this state she hasn’t checked in with at some hotel the last two months, I don’t know who he could be. Tell Flynny we found another one: Mrs. John L. Smith, registered at Bill’s Place, six miles below here, exactly one month ago today; except that Mrs. Smith, when somebody went up and asked her to autograph the lunchroom menu, signed it Sylvia Shoreham. Will you tell him, Sheriff? I just love to rib Flynny.”
“I sure will.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
When Mr. Flynn returned, the Sheriff said: “Is this all the stuff you got?”
“That’s all. This other stuff, the picture people brought it from the hotel, but I couldn’t see what we had to do with it. I didn’t even open it.”
“Where’s the report from Enders?”
“From — who did you say?”
“Enders. At Lone Pine.”
“...That wasn’t a report. That was a rib.”
“What he told me was a report.”
“Then write it up.”
“It was a report and you wrote it and where is it?”
Mr. Flynn hesitated for a moment, said nothing. He was a big, heavy-set man of forty, darkly sunburned, vividly handsome in his slacks and flannel shirt. Presently he said: “What’s the big idea, Parker? You’ve been stuck on this woman four or five years now, and I don’t blame you. She shook hands with me this morning, and when she came out she remembered my name, and when I rang her a little while ago to tell her how we were coming, she still remembered it. She’s a swell girl. Well, so she’s been playing around? Well, so what? What have you got to do with that?”