Donleavy to drop his investigation of the sixty or seventy people who had been at Martinetti’s party two nights before the boy’s abduction-people who were just as suspect — and rush out to the gardener’s place to interrogate him.
But it was still a lead, I could not deny that, and because it was-because I still needed that something tangible to hold on to, that weapon to ward off the loneliness — I could follow it up myself. Martinetti was paying me to investigate, and Donleavy had given me his blessings, if I needed any rationalizations-why not? If I learned anything of importance, then I could get in touch with Donleavy and let him take it over.
I began hurrying again, onto Broadway, along it to the cafe where I had eaten. In the phone booth at the rear, I opened the Peninsula directory; under the B section I found:
Burl Lndscp amp; Grdng Srv
87 Valldemar Dr (Bg) ………… 344-1134
I shut the book and went out to the Valiant and rummaged in the glove compartment until I found a series of maps I knew Erika kept in there, bound with a rubber band. I located the one for the San Francisco Peninsula and looked up Valldemar Drive.
It was on the western edge of Burlingame, near Cuernavaca Park. That was a residential area, and it seemed logical to assume that whoever the young guy was, he ran his gardening and landscaping service from his residence.
The steering wheel had the feel of Erika’s fingers on it as I drove away into the night.
* * * *
19
Valldemar Drive turned out to be two blocks of split-level and ranch-style development homes, with a lot of trees and flowers and well-thought-out landscaping. Number 87 was of the former type, constructed of redwood with a fieldstone facade, and there was a large horse chestnut tree growing in a carpetlike front lawn to set it off somewhat from its neighbors.
I parked just off the curving front drive and got out and went up onto the sidewalk. At the foot of the drive there was a black metal pole with a carriage-type gas lamp on top of it; pale electric light shone through the cut-glass sides. An iridescent plastic sign in a wrought-iron frame was fastened to the center of the pole; The Shanleys-and below that, Peggy and Glen-was imprinted there.
The drive was bordered on the right with neat rows of yellow and white narcissus and lavender iris and pale pink gladiolas, and on the left by a low rough-hewn split-rail fence. At the back, parked in front of a darkened garage, was the green panel truck; there was no other vehicle in sight. I went along to where there was an opening in the fence, and a path made of variegated concrete blocks cut diagonally through the lawn, under the chestnut, and blended into a concrete porch covered with an arbor of honeysuckle. The fragrance of the vines’ pale white flowers was rich and cloying in the cool night air.
I passed under the arbor and stepped up to the door. There was another gas lamp set on the wall beside it, this one dark, and below it I could see an ivory bell button. I pushed the button and stood there holding my hat in my left hand, trying to decide how I was going to handle things-and then the soft pad of footsteps sounded inside and a light came on in the lamp. The door opened and a woman looked out.
She was in her late twenties, tiny and compact, breasts a little large-pleasantly so-for the petiteness of her body, and a waist no thicker than a big man’s thigh. She had one of these freckled pixie-ish noses that would wrinkle up like a rabbit’s when she laughed, and carelessly fluffed hair the color of burnished copper, and large, innocent, gold-flecked green eyes. A bulky beige sweater and black flare slacks and a frilly apron with large heart-shaped pockets comprised her dress.
She asked quizzically, “Yes? May I help you?”
“Mrs. Shanley?”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to speak to your husband, if I may.”
“Oh, well, I’m afraid he’s gone to San Jose,” she said. “His lodge is holding some sort of bowling tournament down there. Was it something to do with business?”
“Not exactly,” I said. I got my wallet out of my suit coat and opened it and let her look at the photostat of my operator’s license. “I wanted to ask him some questions concerning the kidnapping of Louis Martinetti’s son.”
She blinked rapidly, and her mouth became a small, moist circle. “You’re that detective in the newspapers, the one who was stabbed, aren’t you?”
I nodded. She seemed a little awed, and her eyes moved down to my stomach, as if she expected to see blood there-or gaping flesh; then she blinked again and brought her gaze back up to my face. “Such a terrible thing, a kidnapping,” she said gravely. “An awful, evil thing. Has there been any news yet?”
“As a matter of fact, there has,” I told her. “Good news. The boy has been found, unharmed, and he’s home with his parents at the moment.”
The gravity gave way to a gladsome smile, and her freckled little nose wrinkled exactly the way I had thought it would. The relief in her eyes appeared to be authentic. “I’m so relieved!” she said. “Did the police arrest anyone?”
“A woman accomplice.”
“A woman murdered that man and stabbed you?”
“I don’t think so, Mrs. Shanley.”
“Oh. Do you know who did yet?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid.”
“Well, at least the boy is safe and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She took her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled on it and put her hands in the pockets of her apron. “I suppose you want to ask Glen a lot of routine questions,” she said. “He’s been sort of expecting it.”
“Why is that, Mrs. Shanley?”
“Isn’t that the way it’s done?” she asked. “I mean, don’t you investigators go around to everyone who knows or works for the victim in a case like this and try to find clues?”
“Yes, that’s usually the way it’s done.”
“Glen is a good citizen,” Mrs. Shanley said firmly. “He’s always willing to cooperate with the authorities.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Yes. I don’t think he can be of much help, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, when he came home the night that poor little boy was taken and told me about it, I asked him a million questions and he couldn’t tell me anything at all.”
“He knew about the kidnapping the day it happened?”
She inclined her head vigorously. “It was his day to work at the Martinettis’-he goes there once a week, in the afternoons-and he happened to be weeding under the study windows, you see, when Mr. Martinetti and that friend of his, Mr. Channing, were talking inside about what had happened. Glen isn’t the type to eavesdrop, but, well, you don’t just walk away when you hear something like that, do you?”
“No, I suppose you don’t,” I said. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me if your husband was home the following night, Mrs. Shanley? The night I was attacked and the kidnapper murdered.”
“Yes, certainly he was. We watched television for a while, and then some friends came over for drinks and we played canasta until after midnight.”
“Do you know if your husband told anyone else about the kidnapping that first day?”
“I don’t think he did.” She frowned thoughtfully.
“We didn’t go out that night either, and no one dropped by … Oh, he might have told Art, I guess. Art telephoned about something just before supper and they talked for quite a while; I was in the kitchen, and I didn’t hear any of the conversation.”
“Who would Art be, Mrs. Shanley?”
“Glen’s brother. He lives in Half Moon Bay.”
“Anyone else he might have told?”
“Not that I know of,” she answered. “Glen said that it was the kind of thing you didn’t want to go spreading around, and he told me not to say anything about it.”