“They think he ran into a pack of vandals. There’s been an unconscionable lot of vandalism in unoccupied houses on the Peninsula. You know, Archer, whole strata of society seem to be breaking loose and running wild in this civilization – if civilization is the right word. It’s Ortega’s ‘revolt of the masses,’ with a vengeance.”
“Is that all part of the police theory? You must have some highly educated police.”
“Oh, we do. Of course they’re not confining their efforts to the wolf-pack line. I happen to know they want to talk to Catherine.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Her dealings with Merriman went further than the sale of her house. He beat her up in her room the night before last. It may have been a lover’s quarrel, but I doubt it. More likely it was thieves falling out.”
“I don’t understand you. Are you accusing my sister-in-law of being a thief?”
“She’s been running with thieves, or worse. Tell me this, Mr. Trevor. Assuming for the sake of argument that Phoebe is dead–”
“That’s a pretty stark assumption, isn’t it?”
“It doesn’t change the facts, whatever they are. Assuming she’s dead, who stands to benefit from her death?”
“Nobody would benefit,” he said with angry force. “It would be an unalloyed tragedy and waste.”
“I wonder. There’s money in the family.”
His forehead puckered. Under its overhang his eyes changed color, like blue water freezing into blue ice. “I see what you’re getting at. But you’re on the wrong track. Phoebe has no money of her own.”
“No trust fund that might revert to a relative?”
“No, I’m quite sure there’s nothing like that. If there was, my wife and I would know of it.”
“Does she carry any life insurance?”
Trevor sat in dubious silence. “There is a policy Homer took out when he – when Phoebe was born.”
“How much is the principal?”
“A hundred thousand or so.”
“Who’s the beneficiary?”
“Her parents. That’s usual.” He shook himself irritably. “You’re doing some pretty rough assuming.”
“It’s my job.”
“Let me get this straight. You can’t be suggesting that Catherine did away with her own daughter in order to get her hands on her insurance. That’s insane.”
“So is Catherine, I think. Not being a head-shrinker, I don’t know how far gone she is. She was flying last night, on broken wings.”
Trevor took a mottled green cigar out of a glass tube and lit it. He said through swirling blue smoke: “I’m not surprised, she’s been on the verge for some time. It doesn’t mean she’s capable of murder.”
“She’s capable of wanting murder done.”
“Is that another of your assumptions?”
“It’s a statement of fact.”
“You’d better explain yourself.”
“Let me ask you a question first – a personal question. How good a friend are you to the Wycherlys?”
“I’m trying to be a real friend,” he said in a real way. “I owe a great deal to Homer, and more to his father before him. And as you know, I married into the family. What is this all about?”
I took a breath, and a plunge on his integrity: “Catherine Wycherly tried to hire me to kill Ben Merriman last night.”
“Seriously?”
“She was serious. I wasn’t. I was simply letting her talk.”
“What time did this conversation take place?”
“Around two A.M.”
“But Merriman was already dead. The police think he died around dinnertime.”
“She didn’t know that, or she’d forgotten it.”
“What do you mean?”
“She may have killed him, or hired someone else to kill him, then blanked out on it. She’d been drinking heavily.”
“This is incredible,” Trevor said. “You mean she actually approached you and offered you money to murder the fellow?”
“I approached her, in the Hacienda bar. She noticed that I was carrying a gun. It brought out the worst in her, and her worst is no picnic.”
“I know that. She raised a hell of a fuss the day Homer sailed. But that’s still a long way from murder. What possible motive could she have for wanting Merriman dead?”
“He was asking for it. He beat her up the other night. I think he did more than that to her.”
Trevor’s cigar had gone out. He removed it from his mouth and looked at it with distaste. “What do you have in mind?”
“Blackmail. That’s only a hunch, but it fits the picture. She’s a woman with a load of grief and guilt. A lot of money’s been running through her fingers, with no visible outlet. You ought to see the hotel she’s been living in. The Champion’s about one short step from hunger.”
Trevor shook his large head. “It doesn’t sound like Catherine. What’s happened to her?”
“I can think of better questions. What happened to Phoebe, and what did Ben Merriman have on Phoebe’s mother?”
“You’re assuming again, aren’t you?”
“I have to. I don’t know the facts.”
“Neither do I, but I’m morally certain you’re wrong. Parents don’t kill their own children, outside of Greek tragedy.”
“Don’t they? Read the papers. I admit they don’t usually wait until the children grow up.”
Trevor regarded me with loathing. “Do you know what you’re saying, man?”
“I know what I’m saying. It isn’t pretty. Murder never is.”
“You’re seriously accusing Catherine of murdering her own daughter?”
“I’m bringing it up as a possibility that should be looked into.”
“Why bring it to me?”
“Because you’re in a position to help me. Catherine Wycherly is running loose around the countryside with murder on her mind. I think we should try to get to her before something else happens, or before the police pick her up. But I can’t drop my other leads and go on concentrating on her, as I’ve been doing. I was hired to search for Phoebe.”
“But you think Phoebe’s dead.”
“It’s not proven, one way or the other. Until it is, I’m sticking to her trail.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Use your influence with Homer Wycherly. We need someone to put a tab on his ex-wife. I know a good San Francisco detective agency with associates in all the major cities. I’m going to talk to the head of the agency as soon as I leave here – man named Willie Mackey – but I can’t bring him into the case without Wycherly’s go-ahead. You can get it for me.”
“Can I?”
“It shouldn’t be hard. Wycherly already knows Mackey. Will you put in a call to him? I left him at the Boulder Beach Hotel. If he’s checked out, they’ll know where he is.”
“Why don’t you call him yourself?”
“He’s a hard man to talk to. You’ve had more practice at it.”
“Have I not.” He pressed the button on his intercom and asked his secretary to get him Homer Wycherly on long distance. He said to me: “I’ll talk to him in private if you don’t mind.”
I waited in the anteroom until Trevor called me back.
“Homer wants to talk to you.” He handed me the telephone with a helpless shrug of his shoulders.
“Archer here,” I said into it.
Wycherly’s voice came over the line, strained thin by distance and tension: “I hear you’ve gone against my express orders. I expressly told you I didn’t want my ex-wife brought into this. I’m telling you again, keep away from her.”
I didn’t like his tone. “Why? Does she know where the body is buried?”
“The body?” His voice became thick. “Is Phoebe dead? Is that the fact you’re trying to conceal from me?”