“It rules in the possibility of murder.”
Dineen nodded gravely. “There’s rather more than a possibility of murder. One of the cervical vertebrae had been cut through by a heavy instrument. I’d say John Brown, if that is who he is, was decapitated with an ax.”
Chapter 10
BEFORE I LEFT Dr. Dineen, he gave me a note of introduction to the deputy in charge of the local sheriffs office, written on a prescription blank; and the address of the gas station where John Brown, Jr., worked. I walked back to the drugstore in a hurry. Bolling was still at the fountain, with a grilled cheese sandwich in his left hand and a pencil in his right. He was simultaneously munching the sandwich and scribbling in a notebook.
“Sorry to keep you waiting–”
“Excuse me, I’m writing a poem.”
He went on scribbling. I ate an impatient sandwich while he finished, and dragged him out to the car:
“I want to show you somebody; I’ll explain who he is later.” I started the car and turned south on the highway. “What’s your poem about?”
“The city of man. I’m making a break-through into the affirmative. It’s going to be good – the first good poem I’ve written in years.”
He went on telling me about it, in language which I didn’t understand. I found the place I was looking for on the southern outskirts of the town. It was a small independent station with three pumps, one attendant. The attendant was a young man in white drill coveralls. He was busy gassing a pickup truck whose bed was piled with brown fishermen’s nets. I pulled in behind it and watched him.
There was no doubt that he looked like Anthony Galton. He had the same light eyes set wide apart, the same straight nose and full mouth. Only his hair was different; it was dark and straight.
Bolling was leaning forward in the seat. “For Christ’s sake! Is it Brown? It can’t be Brown. He’s almost as old as I am.”
“He had a son, remember.”
“Is this the son?”
“I think so. Do you remember the color of the baby’s hair?”
“It was dark, what there was of it. Like his mother’s.”
Bolling started to get out of the car.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Don’t tell him who you are.”
“I want to ask him about his father.”
“He doesn’t know where his father is. Besides, there’s a question of identity. I want to see what he says without any prompting.”
Bolling gave me a frustrated look, but he stayed in the car. The driver of the pickup paid for his gas and rattled away. I pulled up even with the pumps, and got out for a better look at the boy.
He appeared to be about twenty-one or -two. He was very good-looking, as his putative father had been. His smile was engaging.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Fill her up. It’ll only take a couple of gallons. I stopped because I want you to check the oil.”
“I’ll be glad to, sir.”
He seemed like a willing boy. He filled the tank, and wiped the windshield spotless. But when he lifted the hood to check the oil, he couldn’t find the dip-stick. I showed him where it was.
“Been working here long?”
He looked embarrassed. “Two weeks. I haven’t caught on to all the new cars yet.”
“Think nothing of it.” I looked across the highway at the windswept shore where the long combers were crashing. “This is nice country. I wouldn’t mind settling out here.”
“Are you from San Francisco?”
“My friend is.” I indicated Bolling, who was still in the car, sulking. “I came up from Santa Teresa last night.”
He didn’t react to the name.
“Who owns the beach property across the highway, do you know?”
“I’m sorry, I wouldn’t know. My boss probably would, though.”
“Where is he?”
“Mr. Turnell has gone to lunch. He should be back pretty soon, if you want to talk to him.”
“How soon?”
He glanced at the cheap watch on his wrist. “Fifteen or twenty minutes. His lunch-hour is from eleven to twelve. It’s twenty to twelve now.”
“I might as well wait for him. I’m in no hurry.”
Bolling was in visible pain by this time. He made a conspiratorial gesture, beckoning me to the car.
“Is it Brown’s son?” he said in a stage whisper.
“Could be.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“I’m waiting for him to tell me. Take it easy, Mr. Bolling.”
“May I talk to him?”
“I’d just as soon you didn’t. This is a ticklish business.”
“I don’t see why it should be. Either he is or he isn’t.”
The boy came up behind me. “Is something the matter, sir? Anything more I can do?”
“Nothing on both counts. The service was fine.”
“Thank you.”
His teeth showed bright in his tanned face. His smile was strained, though. He seemed to sense the tension in me and Bolling. I said as genially as I knew how:
“Are you from these parts?”
“I could say I was, I guess. I was born a few miles from here.”
“But you’re not a local boy.”
“That’s true. How can you tell?”
“Accent. I’d say you were raised in the middle west.”
“I was.” He seemed pleased by my interest. “I just came out from Michigan this year.”
“Have you had any higher education?”
“College, you mean? As a matter of fact I have. Why do you ask?”
“I was thinking you could do better for yourself than jockeying a gas pump.”
“I hope to,” he said, with a look of aspiration. “I regard this work as temporary.”
“What kind of work would you like to do?”
He hesitated, flushing under his tan. “I’m interested in acting. I know that sounds ridiculous. Half the people who come to California probably want to be actors.”
“Is that why you came to California?”
“It was one of the reasons.”
“This is a way-stop to Hollywood for you, then?”
“I guess you could say that.” His face was closing up. Too many questions were making him suspicious.
“Ever been to Hollywood?”
“No. I haven’t.”
“Had any acting experience?”
“I have as a student.”
“Where?”
“At the University of Michigan.”
I had what I wanted: a way to check his background, if he was telling the truth; if he was lying, a way to prove that he was lying. Universities kept full dossiers on their students.
“The reason I’m asking you all these questions,” I said, “is this. I have an office on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood. I’m interested in talent, and I was struck by your appearance.”
He brightened up considerably. “Are you an agent?”
“No, but I know a lot of agents.” I wanted to avoid the lie direct, on general principles, so I brought Bolling into the conversation: “My friend here is a well-known writer. Mr. Chad Bolling. You may have heard of him.”
Bolling was confused. He was a sensitive man, and my underhanded approach to the boy troubled him. He leaned out of the car to shake hands:
“Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m very glad to meet you, sir. My name is John Brown, by the way. Are you in the picture business?”