“It won’t ever come up.”
Dockerty wasn’t in. He wouldn’t be back until after one. Jay debated going back to town and facing McGay again. But that would be pointless. McGay would deny it again. And there was nothing he could do.
He drove back to the Terrace Inn. The bar in the Palm Patio was closed. He went to the casino. The talkative bartender, Tommy, was on duty. He smiled a greeting.
“Has it been like I said it would be?”
Jay forced a smile. “Almost.” He hunched forward confidentially. “Tommy, how would I go about getting in touch with one of the maids. Her name is Amparo.”
Tommy pursed his lips and shook his head sadly. “Nice, but no dice. She’s got a husband. She’s helping him get through the University of New Mexico. She’s a good kid. She plays dumb. That’s the smart thing to do if you’re a maid. But she’s got a good education herself.”
“Where does she live?”
“Out in back where the maids live. It’s nice there. But like I said, you better skip that idea.”
“Have they got a phone out there?”
“Sure, but—”
Jay put a five-dollar bill on the bar. “Could you get her on the line for me?”
Tommy shrugged. “It’s your time we’re wasting.” He took the phone from under the bar, lifted the receiver. “Jo Anne? Give me thirty-seven, huh? Thanks.” He waited, rattling his fingernails on the bar-top, looking into space. “Who’s this? Carolita? Kid, this is Tommy. Casino bar. Amparo around? Put her on. Thanks.” Again he waited. “Amparo? Yeah. There’s a guy here wants to talk to you.”
Tommy handed the phone across the bar with an ironic bow. Jay stared at him until he moved away, still smirking.
“Amparo, you talked to Mrs. Christianson today. This is a friend of hers. It’s very important you tell me what you told her.” He kept his voice down.
“I do not unnarstan’, señor.”
“Believe me, this isn’t a gag. It’s very important. Mrs. Christianson may be in trouble. I want to see you.”
“You are who?”
“My name is Shell. I’m a guest in the hotel. I’d like to see you right now. It’s very important.”
“Why you no ask her what I say, señor?”
“Because she has disappeared.”
There was a long silence, and then the girl spoke again, the heavy accent quite gone. “There are chairs and tables east of the casino, Mr. Shell. Wait there for me. I won’t be long.”
He hung up. Tommy sauntered back. “Told you, didn’t I?”
“You were right. Well, it was an idea.”
“One on the house? Drown your sorrow?”
“No, thanks. See you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He went out and found the chairs and round metal tables, silvered by faint starlight. After a time he saw her coming, heard the whisper of her steps against the grass. He could not see her clearly, and he got the impression of sturdiness.
“This isn’t some sort of a joke?” she asked quietly.
“The woman who drowned — Mrs. Shelby — she was my wife, Amparo.”
The girl stood motionless, then moved and sat in the chair beside his. “What has happened to Mrs. Christianson?”
“I don’t know. It may have something to do with what you told her today. What did you tell her?”
His eyes were more accustomed to the darkness. He saw the strong, high cheekbones, the stubborn brows. “She wanted to know about Mrs. Shelby’s clothes. She wanted to know if there were any clothes there when I packed her things that hadn’t been there before. I didn’t understand what she was driving at. I was Mrs. Shelby’s room maid. I told her there were no extra clothes as far as I could see. Then she asked me if there was any blonde dye or nail polish. I couldn’t remember either. But speaking of dye made me remember. The bathroom was cluttered with badly stained towels. It hadn’t occurred to me before.
“Then I realized and told Mrs. Christianson that perhaps Mrs. Shelby had tinted her hair black and had rubbed the tint out that night she drowned. Mrs. Christianson kept asking me questions about what I found when I packed her things. There was nothing strange. Then I remembered and told her about the hotel stationery. She had put used sheets back in the desk drawer. Three sheets, and on them she had written over and over again, Lisa Tasher, Lisa Tasher. There was nothing else I could tell Mrs. Christianson. Would that get her in trouble?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really know.”
“If she has disappeared, you should go to the police. You should go to Dockerty.”
“There’s no one else. I wish there was.”
“Why? Don’t low-rate him, Mr. Shelby. He is tough and honest, and he is good with my people. He is — how do you say it? — his own man.”
He stared at the girl in the darkness. “Why do you put on that accent, Amparo?”
She stood up. “Ees local color, señor. Ees más fácil. Let me know about Mrs. Christianson. I will worry. She is a nice person.” She went silently into the darkness. Moments later, across the lawn, a door opened and brightness silhouetted her for a moment before she closed it behind her. He looked at the luminous hands of his watch. Dockerty would not be back yet. He went to his room. He opened his suitcase and took out the small picture of Joan in its silver frame. It had been pure habit, packing it, taking it from his bureau top, dropping it in the suitcase open on the bed. He studied her face. He turned the frame over, pulled out the tiny nails, took the photograph out from behind the glass and laid it on the desk blotter. He had brought no materials with him. There was a bottle of ink on the desk. He improvised a brush, using a twist of tissue. With practiced deftness he turned her into a brunette. He wiped the ink away, dissatisfied with the hair style, and tried again. On the third attempt he stared at the altered photograph, and sat there, quite motionless, until the ink dried. He picked it up carefully, folded it into the newspaper, and left the room.
The lights were bright in the office. Dockerty sat behind the desk, his shirt open to the waist. He yawned. “Okay, okay,” he said. “You’re repeating yourself. And maybe you’ve been out in the sun without a hat. And maybe you haven’t been getting the rest you came for.”
“Look,” Jay said with great patience. “I told you. McGay lied to me. I have a witness to that.”
“Whose name you will not give.”
“Because I promised.”
“What do you think this is? A Scout jamboree? With oaths?”
“I can’t help that.”
“You say this Mrs. Christianson may be in a jam. So you want me to help. So you tie my hands by being a Boy Scout. Skip that for a minute. Go back to this other business.” He picked up the altered picture of Joan Shelby and placed it beside the newspaper cut of Sheila Star. “I tell you there’s no resemblance.”
“I tell you, you didn’t know her. You didn’t know how clever she was. She was an actress. She could change the way she walked, talked. She could wear the habitual expression of the person she was imitating. Good Lord, she could imitate me so well that people could guess who it was. I know this for a fact. Tint her hair, give her some sort of a veil to help the illusion — and I happen to know that Sheila Star liked veils — dress her the way that girl dressed, and I’ll bet she could convince casual acquaintances that she was Sheila Star.”
Dockerty sighed. “For a minute I’ll go along with you, just to show you it doesn’t make any sense. Your wife died first. Suppose it was the other way around. Suppose somebody killed Sheila Star. Then to give themselves an alibi, they want her seen someplace after she’s dead, I could go along with that, fantastic as it seems. But your wife died first! So there’s no point in it. Now, is there?”