She said, "Have you any idea who killed Walter Paige?"
"Not at the moment. The police are working on several possibilities."
"He was a good man," she said softly. "He didn't deserve to die the way he did."
"Did you know him well, Mrs. Tarrant?"
"We were good friends six years ago."
"Had you seen him since he returned to Cypress Bay?"
"No. No, I hadn't seen him. I didn't know he'd come back."
"And if you had?" I asked gently.
"What?"
"Would you have liked to see him again?"
"Yes," she answered, "yes, I would have liked to see him again." The pale eyes seemed depthless now. "I hope you find his killer. I hope you make him pay dearly for his crime."
She turned before I could say anything else, and walked quickly and somewhat unsteadily back to the house. The door clicked shut after her. I stood there by the car, looking at the closed door and listening to the soft voice of a late-afternoon breeze calling across the rim of the canyon-and thinking again about those deep and black and far-reaching undercurrents.
Eleven
I wedged my car into a parking space on Balboa Street and went over to look at the newsstand Walter Paige had attempted to rent.
It was still unoccupied and there was not much to see. It had a narrow adobe front with a padlock on the door, and an oblong facing window that was partially obscured by soaping and imprinted with the words Martin’s News Agency; there was a sidewalk awning, but it had been rolled back above the door and window. The shop's immediate neighbor to the north was a combination candy store and soda fountain; to the south, a dark and cobblestoned little alley led eastward through the center of the block to Pine Street, and its opposite wall belonged to a curio shop. I was able to look inside the newsstand past the soaped glass, but there was nothing except shadowed emptiness. Apparently the new tenant had not as yet taken possession; or if he had, intended to renovate before moving in fresh stock and opening for business.
I went down the alley a little way, and the newsstand had a side door that showed signs of having been forcibly entered at one time-the vandals Tarrant had mentioned-and which now was also padlocked from the outside. I thought that it would open on a storeroom, since the building was considerably longer than it was wide and the interior I had glimpsed through the window was less than three-quarters of the overall length. The rear wall of the structure was set flush with the rear wall of another building facing on Pine Street; just for the hell of it I went through to Pine and looked at the storefront there, and it was a mod boutique that specialized in hand-tooled leather garments for men and women "of discerning taste."
There was nothing in any of this that I could see. Maybe Paige had had the honest intention of opening a small newsstand in Cypress Bay, although that seemed pretty much out of character; or maybe he had had some ulterior motive that I could not even begin to interpret; or maybe Tarrant had been lying about Paige's call for some reason of his own.
More things to wonder about, I thought-too many things. The Lomaxes and the Winestocks and the balding guy and what Russ Dancer had not told me about his relationship with Walter Paige and just what Bianca Tarrant’s relationship had been with Walter Paige and whether or not Keith Tarrant had been completely honest and why Paige had tried to rent a vacant store in downtown Cypress Bay. And Dancer's damned book, The Dead and the Dying, and why Paige had had it and just what it meant, if it meant anything at all…
I returned to Balboa Street and got into my car and started for the City Hall again. But I had to pass near the Bay Head Inn to get there, and I decided it was about time I looked in again on Judith Paige. I felt vaguely guilty about neglecting to check on her since the morning; it was not healthy for her to sit up in that dark room alone, grieving, perhaps brooding, and I wanted to make sure everything was all right.
I parked in front of the place and went inside and up the curving staircase to the second floor. She opened the door herself this time, in response to my knock, and she looked considerably better than she had earlier. She had put a touch of coral lipstick on her mouth and brushed her hair a little, and the wistfulness and the sorrow were tempered with a certain resolve. I felt myself relax, looking at her. She was going to be okay now; you could tell it by her eyes and by the way she carried herself.
I said, "Hello, Mrs. Paige. I just thought I'd stop by to see how you were feeling."
"Much better, thank you," she said, and gave me a small, brave smile.
"Have you been alone here all day?"
"Well, Chief Quartermain came by twice-once this morning, after you left, and once a little while ago."
"That's good. How about food? Have you eaten?"
"We went for a walk, and he bought me some soup and a sandwich. I didn't think I wanted to go out, or to eat anything, but now I'm glad I did."
So am I, I thought. "Did the Chief have any… news?"
"No, I don't think so. He didn't say, if he had."
And I was not going to say either, not at this point. There were too many intangibles, for one thing, and for another she was starting to bear up fine now and the kind of facts I did know for certain could only have upset her. I said, "Did he tell you whether or not we-you-could leave for San Francisco tonight?"
"Yes. He said it was all right."
"Good. I've got to go over to see him now, and there's the chance I'll have to stay on here for another day or so. If so, I'll call you and let you know-and I'm sure the Chief will assign someone to drive you to the airport in Monterey, and make arrangements for someone else to meet you in San Francisco and take you home."
"All right," she said. "But why should you have to stay another day?"
"I'm not certain that I will have to; it just may work out that way." I paused. "If it does, would you mind if I called you in San Francisco when I get back? And maybe dropped out to see you?"
She had another of those small smiles for me. "No, of course I wouldn't mind. I think I'll need someone to talk to, until I can return to my family."
We touched hands, and hers was soft and moist and very tiny in mine-a child's hand. Christ, she made me feel paternal. I resisted an impulse to kiss her cheek, smiled at her, and left her again with some regrets.
I drove on to City Hall, and this time Quartermain was there. The fat sergeant told me he had come in a half-hour earlier, apparently just after he had left Judith for the second time; the sergeant got a phone okay for me to go in, and buzzed open the electronic doors. Less than a minute later I opened the door to Quartermain's private office.
He was sitting behind the walnut desk with the heels of his hands pressed against his temples, as if he were suffering a savage headache. His sad face had a weary, houndish look. I shut the door quietly, and he said, "I would have been back two hours ago, but I stopped at the Bay Head to see Mrs. Paige."
I sat down in the same armchair I had occupied that morning. "I know," I said. "I just left her myself."
"She seems to be holding her own now."
"I thought so too. It was good of you to take her out for a walk and something to eat."
"Yeah, well, she needed it," he said. He lowered his hands and swiveled around to look at me. "Donovan, out on the desk, said you'd stopped by twice to see me while I was gone. What's on your mind?"
"Quite a few things," I told him. "I've spent the day putting my nose into things, where it probably doesn't belong."
"Paige's death, you mean?"
"Yes."
"In what way?"
"Well, it started with the book."
"The paperback from Paige's bag?"
"Uh-huh. There was a lead in it after all."
"What sort of lead?"