He said, "Yeah? What is it?"
His voice was thick, and his eyes-a flat brown with too much white showing-were hazy and restless. There was a thin film of sweat on his forehead. Quartermain glanced at me, and I nodded slightly to confirm that this was the man who had been with the balding guy, the man I followed here from Grove Avenue.
He stepped forward and said to Winestock, "My name is Quartermain-the Chief of Police of Cypress Bay. I'd like to ask you a few questions."
Winestock seemed to stiffen slightly, and his eyes were furtive things that touched this and that in the room without focusing on anything at all. He was nervous and he was somewhat afraid, and you could see that the last man on earth he wanted to have in his living room was the local Chief of Police.
"What questions?" he asked heavily. "What about? I haven't done anything."
"Nobody said you had," Quartermain told him.
"What do you want, then?"
"I understand you knew a man named Walter Paige at one time."
Winestock opened his mouth and wet his lips the way a man who has been drinking will do. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I knew him once."
"You know he's dead, of course."
"It was on the radio."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"Hell, I don't know. Six or seven years."
"You didn't know he'd returned to Cypress Bay?"
"No, I never knew it."
"Who do you suppose killed him?"
"How would I know who?"
"Are you aware of any enemies he might have had?"
"Walt was a good guy, he didn't have enemies."
"I thought you hadn't seen him in six or seven years."
"Six or seven years ago, I meant. He didn't have any enemies then." Winestock's eyes jerked away from Quartermain and moved over me like fevered hands. "You're the guy that came around here bothering Bev today, the one who found Walt."
"That's right," I said.
"She doesn't know anything," Winestock said. "What do you want to bother her for?"
"What do you know, Winestock?" Quartermain asked him.
"Nothing. Why should I know anything?"
Quartermain went over and sat down on one of the chairs; I remained where I was, not far from the door. To Winestock he said, "Would you tell us where you were today?"
"Today? Why?"
"Just answer the question."
"I was right here, mostly."
"But you did go out, is that right?"
"Yeah, for a little while."
"To where?"
"For a drive. Just for a drive."
"Where did you go on this drive?"
"Down the coast. To Big Sur."
"Alone?"
"Why? What difference does that make?"
"Were you alone, Winestock?"
"Yeah, for Christ's sake, I was alone!"
"All right," Quartermain said quietly, "tell me about the bald man-the one who was seen getting out of your car on the corner of Grove and Sierra Verde earlier this afternoon."
Winestock blinked rapidly three times, and his hands went out in a convulsive movement toward the bottle and glass on the table; but the hands were spasmodic and he seemed to have lost control of them momentarily. The glass tipped over and fell off the table and rolled under the sofa. He said "Shit!" in a thin voice and sat back and folded his arms tightly across his chest.
"Well?" Quartermain asked.
Winestock hesitated, and you could watch him searching for an answer. Then: "A hitchhiker. A hitchhiker I picked up down the coast. I didn't even think about him before." Pause. "Listen, why are you interested in him?"
"Hitchhiker," Quartermain said.
"That's right."
"You in the habit of picking up hitchhikers, are you?"
"Sometimes, what the hell."
"Tell us about this one."
"What about him?"
"Was he a stranger to you?"
"I never saw him before today."
"What was his name?"
"He didn't say."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing. We didn't talk much."
"Where was he headed for?"
"I don't know."
"What was he doing out on the highway?"
"I told you, we didn't talk much."
"Why did you let him out at Grove and Sierra Verde?"
"That's where he wanted to get out."
"Did he have business in Cypress Bay, in that area?"
"Goddamn it, I don't know!"
"You're sure you never saw him before?"
"How many times do I have to tell you?"
"He was a friend of Paige's, did you know that?"
"What? How do you-?"
"He was seen with Paige yesterday."
"I don't know anything about it."
"That's your story, then: a hitchhiker, a stranger."
"It's the truth," Winestock said. "I'm telling you."
"Where were you yesterday, say five-thirty P.M.?"
"Listen, now, I didn't have anything to do with Paige getting killed. I didn't have anything to do with that."
"Tell us where you were," Quartermain said patiently.
"Next door. Yeah, five-thirty, I was next door with Harry Jacobs." He looked somewhat relieved, although his face still shone with the bright sweat of fear. "Yeah, Harry and me were working on his cat."
"His what?"
"Catamaran, he's got this cat. We were working on it."
"Who else was there?"
"Harry's wife, she was there, she saw us."
Quartermain stood up. "Let's go talk to the Jacobses."
"Sure," Winestock agreed. "Sure, they'll tell you."
We went out through the rear of the house. There was no sign of Beverly, but I had the feeling she was somewhere close by, perhaps watching, perhaps listening. The rear yard was small and shaded by a pair of pepper trees, and there was a low redwood fence separating the Winestock property from a similar lot-and a similar Old Spanish house-next door.
Winestock stepped over the stake fence and led us along a narrow path to the rear door. He rapped loudly on the screen and called, "Harry! Hey, Harry, it's me, Brad!"
Pretty soon the door opened, and a guy about thirty-tanned, running to fat, wearing dungarees and a white sweatshirt-looked out at us. Quartermain asked him if he was Harry Jacobs, and the guy said that he was-hello, Brad, who're your friends? Quartermain said that he was the Chief of Police and Jacobs looked surprised and puzzled, but hardly upset; he told us, readily enough, that sure, Brad had been with him yesterday afternoon around five-thirty, working on the cat, he'd had her out on the bay that morning and she "Did Winestock leave at any time between four and six?" Quartermain asked.
"No, he didn't leave until after dark."
"Is your wife home, Mr. Jacobs?"
"Sure. You want to talk to her?"
"If you wouldn't mind."
"Sure, sure. Hey, Angie, come here, will you?"
Angie was a faded blonde, tanned, also running to fat, wearing dungarees and a white sweatshirt; superficially at least, I thought, they were the ideal couple. She confirmed the fact that Winestock had been with her husband, working on their catamaran from about three the previous afternoon until after dark-and that Winestock had not left during that time.
"All right," Quartermain said, and thanked the two of them.
"Say, what's it all about?" Jacobs asked.
"Nothing, Harry, just a mistake," Winestock said, and laughed nervously.
Quartermain and I did not have anything to say. We returned to the Winestock house, and there was still no sign of Beverly. In the parlor again, Winestock retrieved his glass from under the sofa and poured himself a good hooker and had it off without taking a breath. Quartermain and I watched him dispassionately.
"What else can you tell us about Walter Paige?" Quartermain asked him finally.