You could feel the undercurrents lying blackly under the surface of it all, deep and swift, and you wondered where the bald man came into it and where the others came into it and who else might still come into it. You wondered how Russ Dancer's book worked into the scheme of things, if it worked in, and if Dancer had maybe been holding back something, too, for some reason of his own. And you wondered how far the undercurrents extended, and whether or not they formed a kind of intricate pattern, and just how deep and black they really were…
Ten
Quartermain was still in Salinas, and the fat sergeant still did not know when he would be back.
I stood looking at him and debating whether or not I should give him what I had learned thus far. I decided again that it should go directly to Quartermain, because the telling would take a while and Quartermain was patient and a good, careful listener; and, too, because I thought Quartermain would understand my own unauthorized involvement a little better. I told the sergeant the same thing I had earlier-that I would be back-and I went out to my car.
It was coming on late afternoon now, and I had not eaten anything all day. I stopped at the first cafe I saw and had coffee and a cheeseburger, and came to the conclusion that I would not be wise to confront Brad Winestock on my own. All I could justify in my own mind was the laying of a little groundwork, and if Winestock was directly involved in Paige's death, he could be dangerous. More important, I could conceivably do more harm than good with an unofficial visit-put him on his guard, perhaps even set him on the run if his involvement was deep enough. Quartermain was the one to talk to Winestock, all right; but I saw no harm in carrying out my previous intention of seeing Keith Tarrant and perhaps finding out a little more about those undercurrents which had been created by the catalyst, Walter Paige.
I went over to Highway 1 and south to Carmel Valley Road; Del Lobos Canyon was five miles in, judging from the map scale, and on the northern side. I drove into the valley and pretty soon I could see the lazy silver-blue path of the Carmel River, flanked by sycamore and willow trees-and pale-green artichoke fields and strawberry patches, and the well-known Carmel Valley pear orchards with their fragrant white spring blossoms like high, soft drifts of sun-bright snow. Cattle still grazed peacefully on the sloping sides of the valley, the way they had when the California rancheros led their quiet and languid lives on the fertile fields and flowing meadows that comprised the old Spanish land grants.
Del Lobos Canyon Road was narrow and wound upward along the side of the ravine itself; lichen-coated fence posts lined both sides, and on the left there were towering redwoods and moss-shawled oaks and an occasional home set high among the trees. Down in the canyon you could see flaming poison oak and sycamores and long multicolored carpets of wildflowers.
I came around a sharp bend, and ahead on my right-a hundred yards or so off the road-was one of these modern architectural wonders built in tiers at the edge of the canyon and a short distance down the sloping wall. The upper level of the house had a rear balcony that protruded above the second tier and its wider balcony, which in turn looked down on a deep, squarish brick terrace leaning out over the ravine on heavy steel girders. The construction materials were predominately redwood and brick, with a lot of glass that caught the rays of late-afternoon sunlight and transformed them into burning, flame-tinged reflections, like demon eyes radiating images of an Old Testament hell.
I could see most of the terrace from the road, and it looked to be occupied by at least one person. It was the kind of day for sitting on your terrace, if you happened to have one. I drove a little further along and came to an unpaved connecting drive; at the head of it was an unobtrusive metal-on-wood sign that said: Keith Tarrant-Realtor. I turned in. The drive itself was shaded with thick-branched walnut trees, and a Japanese gardener had worked up a kind of bonsai garden with dwarf cypress in the fronting yard.
A large two-car port, attached to the side of the house, contained a cream-colored Chrysler Imperial and a sleek powder-blue Lotus; as I neared there, I saw that a winding series of steps had been cut out of the upper canyon wall, beyond the port, and that they led down toward the terrace. I parked to one side, in front of a second unobtrusive sign reiterating the fact that Keith Tarrant was a realtor, and walked over to the cut-out steps and looked down and around at the terrace. A man was standing at the front railing-a plump, light-haired guy with something that looked like a highball glass in his hand.
I went down the steps to where a narrow cut-out path, railed in redwood like the balconies and the terrace, led over to the second-tier platform. "Hello!" I called out to him. "Is it all right if I come down?"
He turned to look up at me, and then came away from the railing and took several steps across the brick flooring. He was smiling loosely. "Business or pleasure?" he asked, and his voice had a mild whiskey edge to it. It was that kind of day, too.
"Business, Mr. Tarrant," I told him, "but nothing to do with real estate, I'm afraid."
"Well, come ahead anyway."
I made my way down to the terrace and stepped through a kind of gate in the side railing and onto the smooth bricks. Tarrant came up to me, and I saw then that he only gave the impression of being plump, that he was not overweight at all. He had a round, convivial face and pale-brown hair thinning across the crown and a nice, easy, precise way of using his hands. He wore a pair of chino slacks and a dark-brown sports shirt and brown loafers, and there was just enough shine in his eyes to confirm the whiskey lilt in his voice. I thought that he was probably coming up on forty.
He said, "What can I do for you, Mr.-?"
I told him my name, but there was no immediate reaction. I said then, "I'm here about a man named Walter Paige, Mr. Tarrant; he was killed in Cypress Bay last night."
Tarrant blinked at me, and frowned, and then the furrows smoothed on his brow and he said, "Oh, you're the private detective, the one that found Paige at the motel."
"Yes."
"We heard about it on the radio this morning. Are you working with Chief Quartermain on the investigation?"
"Not exactly. This is an unofficial visit, more or less."
"I see. Well-what brings you to me?"
"I understand you knew Paige at one time."
"Unfortunately, yes. How did you discover that?"
"From Russ Dancer."
"Oh? And what led you to him?"
"Paige had one of Dancer's books at the motel," I said. "A paperback, published in 1954, called The Dead and the Dying. Do you know it, Mr. Tarrant?"
He shook his head. "I don't have much time to read, and I don't usually go in for the kind of things Russ Dancer writes, anyway. Why would Paige have a copy of one of Russ's old books?"
"That's a question that has no answer just yet"
"Doesn't Dancer have any idea?"
"No, he doesn't."
"That's rather odd about the book," Tarrant said. "I can't imagine Paige being interested in anything of Dancer's; the two of them never got along."
"You mean there was hostility between them?"
"I suppose you could say that."
"What was the cause of it?"
"I don't remember exactly."
"A woman?"
"It might have been."
"Was it an open hostility?"
"How do you mean?"
"Did they have words, something more maybe?"
"Words, I guess. It's pretty hazy in my mind. Why don't you ask Russ about it?"