"We will have to tell Nan right away," Copeland said anxiously.
"We haven't got McCauley's permission to tell her yet." "WhatI He's the one who swears Dick Bartee killed his wiiel"
"Now he wants to believe different," Johnny said. "To spare Nan. Not to break her heart. He wants to be shown that he has been wrong."
Copeland stared. "He's been wrong," he said shortly. "I never could believe the boy did it. But what does he mean?" "I'm to check. I've already tested that ahbi." Johnny told about George Rush. "Trouble is," Johnny confessed, "this Rush is very sour on Bartee. Could be just malice. And he won't swear. Doesn't mean much?" He looked at the man of law.
"No," said the lawyer. "Nothing."
"That's why I haven't called Father Klein. I don't have an\'thing either way."
"We are going to have to do something about stopping this marriage," Copeland fumed. "Tell Nan he's after her money."
"\Ve haven't a grain of proof that he is" said Johnny. "Look at the way it seems. Bartee meets you because his grandfather does business with you. He meets Nan through you. He falls for her. That's simple. Easy to grasp. Happens every day. What are we going to tell her? Something complicated. We say Bartee maneuvered the whole thing, ferreted her out, got himself introduced to her, because he knew she had money. Also, when we say he wants her money, we are saying he doesn't want her. And that is something Nan may not want to believe." Johnny knew this with a sickening certainty.
"What are you suggesting?" Copeland said rather angrily.
"I would like the proof" said Johnny. "If Clinton Mc-Cauley is sick and obsessed, I'd hke to be sure of that. And if not, then I'd like to get Bartee for the murder of Christy McCauley, if he did it. And get Nan's father out of prison, by the way. It scarcely seems enough, just to break up a romance. Does it?"
"No," said Copeland. "Not if Bartee is guilty. But even if he isn't guilty of anything but fortune-hunting—I tell you I don't like this marriage."
"If Bartee is a killer and I can prove it, that will stop the marriage,^ut good" Johnny said. "I thought I -could' scavenge around. While there is time. I've done this, although never for real, iii exactly the same way."
"You think you can turn up anything?"
"McCauley wants me to try."
"Let's talk to McCauley."
"O.K. I'll drive you over. Let me call Father Klein."
When Johnny got the chaplain on the Hne, Father Klein broke in. "McCauley is in the infirmary. He's gone about out of his mind. The dilemma . . ."
Johnny stiffened. "What am I going to do, then? I promised to wait for his permission. But a decision, about telling the girl, is going to have to be made pretty soon."
"McCauley does not want her told at all."
"What!"
"Last clear thing he said to me. He realizes that he has judged Dick Bartee without proof. And that is wrong."
"But, listen to mel" Johimy began to explain about the money.
The chaplain was not the man for understanding about money. He broke in. "McCauley said that unless there is courtroom proof . . ."
"He must be out of his mind," snapped Johimy. "Doesn't he claim a court found him guilty?"
"Yes, but he understands , . ."
"Look here, sir. You say he's about out of his mind?"
"The man is trying to beheve what he does not beUeve," said the chaplain severely.
"I have to do something," Johnny said. "Tell me what I am to dol"
The chaplain said, in a moment, "You care for this girl, his daughter? You have her welfare at heart?"
"I do. I have." Johnny's voice began to shake with foreboding.
"Yes, I thought so. I will say this to you. If you ever become personally certain that this man Dick Bartee is a murderer, then feel released from your promise. Make it your responsibility to decide."
"Mine?" said Johnny.
"Mr. Copeland may help you some. But I rather think the dead lady—the girl's aunt—gave it to you."
"I'll—do the best I can," choked Johnny.
He hung up. The lawyer, who had been listening in, said sympathetically, "I'll help you tell her."
But Johnny said angrily, "You heard? McCauley is out of his mind?"
"Yes. Sad."
"Did you hear Father Klein say whether to tell her? Yesterday he thought we must. How long do you think McCauley may have been out of his mind? We don't know, said Johnny. "We are basing an awful lot of theory on that man's integrity. If it weren't for McCauley, would it have crossed our minds that Bartee read a letter? Or plotted to meet Nan? Or any of it?"
"Why don't you—er—hunt around a little?" the lawyer said unhappily. "I guess it's true enough that we can always break her heart another day."
Johnny bought himself two sandwiches and a small carton of milk. He drove to the park where he sat on a bench, ate one-and-a-half sandwiches and fed the other half to some birds. During tliis time he tried not to thinjc at all. At the
end of the time, a sentence came clear and cool into his head, and he knew exactly what he was going to do.
He drove to the fat-walled stucco fortiess where Roderick Grnncs lived.
"I've got an old murder case," Johnny told him, "that I am going to dig into for reasons of my own. I don't ask you to take an interest at all but I do a.sk you this: Would you be willing to say, to anyone who inquires, that I'm working on it for you?"
Roderick Grimes took him by his lapels. "Come in here. If you think you are going to say no more—Sit down. Expound."
Johnny sat down. "You can't use this," he warned. "Or even talk about it. I'll have to have your word. Any decision to talk has to be mine." Mine, his heart echoed.
"Granted."
So Johnny expounded.
"You're right," Grimes said at the end. "It's possible, and even probable, that this McCauley is slightly off his rocker. A guilty man who has made up a fantasy to bury the guilt under. Either so that he can see himself as a noble martyr, or because this makes the punishment he desperately needs all the more Qjuel." -'•
John nodded unhappily.
"On the other hand, your Dick Bartee sounds like—what was that phrase?—a ring-tailed doozer, all right. According to Rush."
"Yeah," said Johnny miserably.
"I'll back you up," said Grimes. "I'll even—No, I won't either. I was going to say I might even come down and throw my weight around. But I can't ofiFer. Know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I'm the armchair type," said Grimes, "creaking back, neither young nor spry, nor foolish. All's safe enough, if McCauley's a psycho. But hasn't it occurred to you that Dick Bartee, if he's a killer, may not sit still while you snoop among his Httle secrets?"
"He's not going to murder me" scoffed Johnny.
"My boy," said Roderick Grimes quaintly, "you could be murdered and you'd never know it. Well, report to me, mind. Of course, if I can't use it, I won't pay you."
"I realize that," Johnny grinned.
"Meanwhile," promised Roderick Grimes, "I'll do you another favor. I will sit here and think about it." Johnny felt comforted, somehow.
CHAPTERS
Johnny spent the rest of the day hunting old newspapers and magazine indices for accounts of the murder of Christy McCauley, in Hestia, Cahfomia, seventeen years ago. A no-good, drunken, womanizing bum had killed his young wife. Only the prominence of the Bartee family gave the stale plot much news value. Nothing new.
He walked into his parents' house about eight o'clock in the evening and was shocked stock-still on the carpet by the sight of his father at the card table, playing a placid game of Russian Bank with a pretty girl named Dorothy Padgett.
"Where's Nan?" Johnny said.
Dorothy turned her head and smiled. "Surprisel" she said. "Your dear mama said I must come . . ."
"She certainly mustn't stay alone," said Barbara Sims, busthng in.
"Where's Nan?" Johnny repeated. His feet had not moved another inch.
"Oh, she flew home with Dick," said Dorothy cheerfully. "He had to go back and he didn't want to leave her and she's never met his folks, you know. He thought it would be good for her to get away."