Her kittenish mood was depressing. I said: “When can I have a look at the Jaguar?”
“Any time, I guess. Maybe you better talk to Roy.”
“Where can I find him?”
“Don’t ask me. Tell you the truth, I don’t even know if Tommy brought it back yet.”
“Why did Roy say the car was stolen?”
“I dunno. I was half asleep when he left. I didn’t ask him.”
The thought of sleep made her yawn. She dropped her head and lay still. Traffic went by in the street like a hostile army. Then footsteps came down the corridor and paused outside the door. A man spoke softly through it:
“You busy, Fran?”
She raised herself on her arms like a fighter hearing a far-off count. “Is that you, hon?”
“Yeah. You busy?”
“Not so’s you’d notice. Come ahead in.”
He flung the door open, saw me, and hung back like an interloper. “Excuse me.”
His dark eyes were quick and uncertain. He was still in his early thirties, but he had a look about him, intangible and definite as an odor. The look of a man who has lost his grip and is sliding. His suit was sharply pressed, but it hadn’t been cleaned for too long. The very plumpness of his face gave it a lardlike inertness, as if it had stopped reacting to everything but crises.
His face interested me. Unless I was getting hipped on family resemblances, he was an older softer version of the boy who’d stolen my car. This one’s dark curls were thinner and limper. And the violence of the younger man was petulance in him. He said to his wife:
“You told me you weren’t busy.”
“I’m not. I’m only resting.” She rolled over and sat up. “This gentleman wants to buy the Jaguar.”
“It’s not for sale.” Lemberg closed the door behind him. “Who told you it was?”
“Grapevine.”
“What else did you hear?”
He was quick on the uptake. I couldn’t hope to con him for long, so I struck at his vulnerable spot:
“Your brother’s in trouble.”
His gaze went to my shoulder, my hands, my mouth, and then my eyes. I think in his extremity he would have liked to hit me. But I could have broken him in half, and he must have known it. Still, anger or frustration made him foolish:
“Did Schwartz send you to tell me this?”
“Who?”
“You needn’t play dumb. Otto Schwartz.” He gargled the words. “If he sent you, you can take a message back for me. Tell him to take a running jump in the Truckee River and do us all a favor.”
I got up. Instinctively, one of Lemberg’s arms rose to guard his face. The gesture told a lot about him and his background.
“Your brother’s in very bad trouble. So are you. He drove down south to do a murder yesterday. You provided the car.”
“I didn’t know whah–” His jaw hung open, and then clicked shut. “Who are you?”
“A friend of the family. Show me where Tommy is.”
“But I don’t know. He isn’t in his room. He never came back.”
The woman said: “Are you from the Adult Authority?”
“No.”
“Who are you?” Lemberg repeated. “What do you want?”
“Your brother, Tommy.”
“I don’t know where Tommy is. I swear.”
“What’s Otto Schwartz got to do with you and Tommy?”
“I don’t know.”
“You brought up his name. Did Schwartz give Tommy a contract to murder Culligan?”
“Who?” the woman said. “Who did you say got murdered?”
“Peter Culligan. Know him?”
“No,” Lemberg answered for her. “We don’t know him.”
I advanced on him: “You’re lying, Lemberg. You better let down your back hair, tell me all about it. Tommy isn’t the only one in trouble. You’re accessory to any crime he did.”
He backed away until the backs of his legs were touching the bed. He looked down at his wife as if she was his only source of comfort. She was looking at me:
“What did you say Tommy did?”
“He committed a murder.”
“For gosh sake.” She swung her legs down and stood up facing her husband. “And you lent him the car?”
“I had to. It was his car. It was only in my name.”
“Because he was on parole?” I said.
He didn’t answer me.
The woman took hold of his arm and shook it. “Tell the man where he is.”
“I don’t know where he is.” Lemberg turned to me: “And that’s the honest truth.”
“What about Schwartz?”
“Tommy used to work for him, when we lived in Reno. They were always asking him to come back to work.”
“Doing what?”
“Any dirty thing they could dream up.”
“Including murder?”
“Tommy never did a murder.”
“Before this one, you mean.”
“I’ll believe it when I hear it from him.”
The woman groaned. “Don’t be an idiot all your life. What did he ever do for you, Roy?”
“He’s my brother.”
“Do you expect to hear from him?” I said.
“I hope so.”
“If you do, will you let me know?”
“Sure I will,” he said.
I went down in the elevator and laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter in front of the room clerk. He raised a languid eyebrow:
“What’s this for? You want to check in?”
“Not today, thanks. It’s your certificate of membership in the junior G-men society. Tomorrow you get your intermediate certificate.”
“Another ten?”
“You catch on fast.”
“What do I have to do for it?”
“Keep track of Lemberg’s visitors, if he has any. And any telephone calls, especially long-distance calls.”
“Can do.” His hand moved quickly, flicking the bill out of sight. “What about her visitors?”
“Does she have many?”
“They come and go.”
“She pay you to let them come and go?”
“That’s between me and her. Are you a cop?”
“Not me,” I said, as if his question was an insult. “Just keep the best track you can. If it works out, I may give you a bonus.”
“If what works out?”
“Developments. Also I’ll mention you in my memoirs.”
“That will be just ducky.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jerry Farnsworth.”
“Will you be on duty in the morning?”
“What time in the morning?”
“Any time.”
“For a bonus I can be.”
“An extra five,” I said, and went outside.
There was a magazine shop on the opposite corner. I crossed to it, bought a Saturday Review, and punched a hole in the cover. For an hour or more, I watched the front of the Sussex Arms, trusting that Lemberg wouldn’t penetrate my literate disguise.
But Lemberg didn’t come out.
Chapter 13
IT WAS past five when I got to Redwood City. The commuting trains were running south every few minutes. The commuters in their uniforms, hat on head, briefcase in hand, newspaper under arm, marched wearily toward their waiting cars. The cop on traffic duty at the station corner told me how to get to Sherwood Drive.
It was in a junior-executive residential section, several cuts above the Marvista tract. The houses were set further apart, and differed from each other in architectural detail. Flowers bloomed competitively in the yards.
A bicycle lay on the grass in front of the Matheson house. A small boy answered my knock. He had black eyes like his mother’s, and short brown hair which stuck up all over his head like visible excitement.
“I was doing pushups,” he said, breathing hard. “You want my daddy? He ain’t, I mean, he isn’t home from the city yet.”