“Not a word. But I don’t think it was gambling. He was never that lucky.”
“Do you still have his letter?”
“Certainly not. I burned it, the same day I got it.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want it around the house. I felt like it was dirt tracked into the house.”
“Was Culligan a crook, or a hustler?”
“Depends what you mean by that.” Her eyes were wary.
“Did he break the law?”
“I guess everybody does from time to time.”
“Was he ever arrested?”
“Yeah. Mostly for drunk and disorderly, nothing serious.”
“Did he carry a gun?”
“Not when I was with him. I wouldn’t let him.”
“But the issue came up?”
“I didn’t say that.” She was becoming evasive. “I meant I wouldn’t let him even if he wanted to.”
“Did he own a gun?”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said.
I’d almost lost her. She wasn’t talking frankly or willingly any more. So I threw her the question I didn’t expect her to answer, hoping to gather something from her reaction to it:
“You mentioned an L. Bay in your letter to Culligan. What happened there?”
Her lips were pushed out stiff and pale, as if they were made of bone. The dark eyes seemed to shrink in her head:
“I don’t know what makes, you ask that.” The tip of her tongue moved along her upper lip, and she tried again: “What was that about a bay in my letter? I don’t remember any bay in my letter.”
“I do, Mrs. Matheson.” I quoted: “ ‘I could make trouble for you, double trouble. Remember L. Bay.’”
“If I said that, I don’t know what I meant.”
“There’s a place called Luna Bay about twenty-five or thirty miles from here.”
“Is there?” she said stupidly.
“You know it. What did Pete Culligan do there?”
“I don’t remember. It must have been some dirty trick he played on me.” She was a poor liar, as most honest people are. “Does it matter?”
“It seems to matter to you. Did you and Pete live in Luna Bay?”
“I guess you could call it living. I had a job there, doing practical nursing.”
“When?”
“Way back when. I don’t remember what year.”
“Who were you working for?”
“Some people. I don’t remember their name.” She leaned toward me urgently, her eyes pointed like flints. “You have that letter with you?”
“I left it where I found it, in Culligan’s suitcase in the house where he worked. Why?”
“I want it back. I wrote it, and it belongs to me.”
“You may have to take that up with the police. It’s probably in their hands by now.”
“Will they be coming here?” She looked behind her, and all around the crowded restaurant, as if she expected to find a policeman bearing down on her.
“It depends on how soon they catch the killer. They may have him already, in which case they won’t bother with secondary leads. Do you have any idea who it was, Mrs. Matheson?”
“How could I? I haven’t seen Pete in ten years, I told you.”
“What happened in Luna Bay?”
“Change the record, can’t you? If anything happened, which I can’t remember, it was strictly between me and Pete. Nothing to do with anybody else, understand?”
Her voice and looks were altering under pressure. She seemed to have broken through into a lower stratum of experience and a coarser personality. And she knew it. She pulled her purse toward her and held on to it with both hands. It was a good purse, beautifully cut from genuine lizard. In contrast with it, her hands were rough, their knuckles swollen and cracked by years of work.
She raised her eyes to mine. I caught the red reflection of fear in their centers. She was afraid of me, and she was afraid to leave me.
“Mrs. Matheson, Peter Culligan was murdered today–”
“You expect me to go into mourning?”
“I expect you to give me any information that might have a bearing on his death.”
“I already did. You can leave me alone, understand? You’re not getting me mixed up in no murder. Any murder.”
“Did you ever hear of a man named Anthony Galton?”
“No.”
“John Brown?”
“No.”
I could see the bitter forces of her will gathering in her face. She exerted them, and got up, and walked away from me and her fear.
Chapter 8
I WENT back to the telephone booths and looked up the name Chad Bolling in the Bay Area directories. I didn’t expect to find it, after more than twenty years, but I was still running in luck. Bolling had a Telegraph Hill address. I immured myself in one of the booths and called him.
A woman’s voice answered: “This is the Bolling residence.”
“Is Mr. Bolling available?”
“Available for what?” she said abruptly.
“It has to do with magazine publication of a poem. The name is Archer,” I added, trying to sound like a wealthy editor.
“I see.” She softened her tone. “I don’t know where Chad is at the moment. And I’m afraid he won’t be home for dinner. I do know he’ll be at The Listening Ear later this evening.”
“The Listening Ear?”
“It’s a new night club. Chad’s giving a reading there tonight. If you’re interested in poetry, you owe it to yourself to catch it.”
“What time does he go on?”
“I think ten.”
I rented a car and drove it up Bayshore to the city, where I parked it under Union Square. Above the lighted towers of the hotels, twilight had thickened into darkness. A damp chill had risen from the sea; I could feel it through my clothes. Even the colored lights around the square had a chilly look.
I bought a pint of whisky to ward off the chill and checked in at the Salisbury, a small side-street hotel where I usually stayed in San Francisco. The desk clerk was new to me. Desk clerks are always moving up or down. This one was old and on his way down; his sallow face drooped in the pull of gravity. He handed me my key reluctantly:
“No luggage, sir?”
I showed him my bottle in its paper bag. He didn’t smile.
“My car was stolen.”
“That’s too bad.” His eyes were sharp and incredulous behind fussy little pince-nez. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance.”
“All right.” I gave him the five dollars and asked for a receipt.
The bellhop who took me up in the old open ironwork elevator had been taking me up in the same elevator for nearly twenty years. We shook hands. His was crumpled by arthritis.
“How are you, Coney?”
“Fine, Mr. Archer, fine. I’m taking a new pill, phenyl-buta-something. It’s doing wonders for me.”
He stepped out and did a little soft-shoe step to prove it. He’d once been half of a brother act that played the Orpheum circuit. He danced me down the corridor to the door of my room.
“What brings you up to the City?” he said when we were inside. To San Franciscans, there’s only one city.
“I flew up for a little entertainment.”
“I thought Hollywood was the world’s center of entertainment.”
“I’m looking for something different,” I said. “Have you heard of a new club called The Listening Ear?”
“Yeah, but you wouldn’t like it.” He shook his white head. “I hope you didn’t come all the way up here for that.”
“What’s the matter with it?”
“It’s a culture cave. One of these bistros where guys read poems to music. It ain’t your speed at all.”
“My taste is becoming more elevated.”
His grin showed all his remaining teeth. “Don’t kid an old man, eh?” .