After a moment’s thought, he rang the Rockalta Transport Hire Company and was answered by a bored female voice. “Lethbridge Police Department,” he said brusquely. “Lieutenant Beasley Osgood of the traffic branch speaking.”
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?” The voice sounded less bored.
“There’s been a hit-and-run accident at the west end on the McLeod highway. One of the witnesses says a blue Dodge with the name of your outfit was involved.”
“Oh, my! That’s just dreadful.” The voice had become animated.
“Yeah. Well, we’re still checking the story out. Can you let me have the names and addresses of people who rented blue ’81 Dodge vans lately?”
“You bet!” There was a rattling of paper, mingled with excited whispers, and Ripley consoled himself with the thought that he had at least brightened up an otherwise dull day for somebody. “You’re certain it was an ’81 Dodge, Lieutenant?”
“The witness seemed pretty definite about that.”
“We have only one of last year’s models out at the moment—so that’s a help, isn’t it?”
“A great help—can you give me the man’s name and address?”
“Of course. People renting from us for the first time always have to show their licences and insurance. That van was rented this morning to a Mr. Melvyn Parminter of … let me see … 4408 Champlain Avenue, Red Deer, Alberta.”
“I see—and when’s it due back?”
“Oh, it isn’t due back. Not with Mr. Parminter in it, I mean. It’s to be dropped at our Red Deer depot tomorrow.”
“Thanks.” Ripley rang off and sat heaving nervously for a moment at the success of his playacting. When the schoolboy amusement had subsided to occasional flutters in his chest he leaned back and considered what he had gained. He now had what was probably Parr’s real name and address, but very little more. He had no idea, for instance, why Parr/Parminter should secretly buy a computer and turn it into an electronic busybody capable of spying on a whole city.
Saturday morning was sharp and clear, filled with the special aureate radiance which—Ripley had often noticed—the sun could emit only on days when there was no work to do. After breakfast he sat around for almost an hour, pretending he was not going to make the longish drive north to Red Deer, then went down to the parking lot and got into his car. Even when sitting behind the wheel he found it difficult to admit he was going to spend a whole day of his adult life playing detective and was expecting, furthermore, to enjoy it. He smoked a cigarette, waited another few minutes, cleaned his fingernails, and drove off with studied carelessness.
Once on the road, and away from the divining gaze of the neighbours to whom his bacherlorhood seemed to be an affront, he shed his self-consciousness. The route took him west to Fort McLeod and from there he followed the McLeod Trail up through prairies where the cattle shared the ground with patient, unattended oil pumps. He reached Red Deer by noon, ate sparingly at a diner and ascertained that Champlain Avenue was the core of a plush residential development on the north side. Twenty minutes later he was parked close to the tree-screened cube of pastel stucco which was Melvyn Parminter’s home.
Six hours later he was still parked there, had seen no signs of life, and was rapidly losing enthusiasm. He had got out of the car several times but had not dared to slip through the entrance gates of Parminter’s miniature but beautifully tailored estate. Now he was tired, bored, hungry and—to make things worse—had just thought of a perfectly good explanation for Parminter’s behaviour. Supposing he was in some highly competitive business in which a new application for a computer would give him an edge on the opposition? The dictates of commercial security could make a person behave as oddly as a criminal or an enemy agent.
Ripley decided to wait another ten minutes before going home. He was nearing the end of the third ten-minute spell when a Continental saloon, resplendent in polychromatic grey, wafted through the wrought iron gates and dwindled silently into the distance. Parminter was at the wheel. Ripley, taken by surprise, started his engine and drove off in pursuit. The ground-hugging shape of the Continental was deceptively fast, and he had to swoop down the quiet avenue at dangerous speed to catch up with it. He got within two hundred yards and concentrated on following the big vehicle across the city and out to the south side. Finally it swept into a tree-lined street in one of the oldest parts of town, and turned into the driveway of a large frame house situated well back from the street.
Ripley stopped his car and got out. Darkness was coming down rapidly, the air smelled of dusty foliage and genteel decay, and suddenly he felt a cold disquiet at the thought of meddling in Parminter’s private affairs instead of being back home for the Saturday night poker session. He hesitated for a moment, then his eyes distinguished a sign set just inside the opening where Parminter’s car had vanished. The street was deserted, but he glanced all around before approaching the gently creaking sign. It was fretted out in the shape of an open book and said:
“RED DEER TEMPLE OF THE VITAL SPIRIT”
“Pastor: M. Parmley”
Ripley looked at the gloomy old house—it looked exactly as he had always visualised a crackpot spiritualist temple—and back to the gold Gothic lettering on the varnished board. Was Pastor M. Parmley another manifestation of Mervyn Parr/Melvyn Parminter? And if so why should he want a computer set up to … ? Ripley abruptly remembered the cash with which the computer had been bought—each bill crinkled as if it had been folded into a tiny square. A startling idea flickered across his mind like a will o’ the wisp. It was an unpleasant thought, and if his guess was correct he wanted nothing more to do with Pastor Parmley. Ripley shivered slightly in the near-darkness as he noticed that one of the tall shrubs close to the sign was shaped like a human being. He was turning away when the shrub spoke to him.
“What a shame,” it said. “Must you leave so soon?”
“Mr. Parry,” Ripley yelped. “How nice to … I mean, I was just passing by …”
“Of course, of course—and now that you’re here you must come in for a proper visit.”
“Some other time, perhaps.” Ripley turned with the intention of walking away very quickly, but suddenly a thick forearm was clamped around his throat and his left arm was twisted up behind his back.
“Don’t make me twist your arm,” Parminter whispered.
“That’s a good one,” Ripley said, wondering how long his shoulder joint was going to hold out. “What do you think you’re doing? Look—I just happened to be in Red Deer for the day, and …”
“And you spent it sitting outside my house.” Parminter forced Ripley to walk up the black tunnel of the driveway.
“Oh. How did you catch on?”
“I was expecting you. The Rockalta people rang my home to find out if I’d damaged their van, and there was only one person who could have given them that story about a hit-and-run accident. It was quite clever.”
“Thank you.”
“Yes—I misjudged you, Mr. Ripley. I wonder how much you’ve guessed.”
“The lot, I think.” The pain in Ripley’s arm discouraged him from playing dumb.
“Too bad—for you, I mean. I won’t be able to let you run around loose.”
“Don’t try anything with me,” Ripley warned. He was striving for a convincing threat when they reached the entrance of the big house. The door was ajar. Parminter thrust Ripley through it and turned on a light to reveal a large, heavily furnished lobby.