May There Be a Road (Ss) (2001) (29 page)

The man glared balefully at him. "She was sick," he said, "she wasn't right in the head."

Neff Shannon tightened, but his face did not change. Now he had something. At all costs, he must not betray how little it was, how the connection was based on one man's memory, a memory almost three years old. "Tell me about it."

He reached in his pocket and drew out a ten-dollar bill, smoothing it on his knee. The woman stared at it with eager, acquisitive eyes.

"He found her," she said. "She was on the beach, half' naked, and her head cut. He brought her here."

"Shut up, you old fool!" The man was furious. want to get us into trouble?"

"Talk, and maybe you can get out of it. You're in trouble," Shannon assured them. "If the girl was jured, why didn't you take her to a hospital?

Or report the police?"

"He wanted her," the slattern said "That's why he did it. She didn't know who she was nothin'. He brung her here. He figured she'd do like said. Well, she wouldn't! She fought him off, an' made so much fuss he had to quit."

"What about you?" the man sneered. "You and your plans to make money with her?"

Sickened, Shannon stared at them.

What hands for an injured girl to fall into!

"What happened?" he demanded. "Where is she now?"

"Don't know," the man said. "Don't know nothin' about that."

Neil got up. "Well this is a police matter, then."

"What about the ten?" the woman protested. "I talked."

"Not enough," Shannon said. "If you've more to say, get started."

"She'd been bumped or hit on the head," the woman said. "First off, I thought he done it, but I don't think he did from what she said after. She was mighty bad off, with splittin' headaches like, an' a few times she was off her head, talkin" about a boat, then about paintin', an' finally some name, sounded like Brett."

"Where did you find her?" Shannon asked the man. He looked up. "On the beach past Malibu," he said. "I was drivin' along when I thought I saw somebody swimrain', so I slowed down. Then she splashed in an' fell on the sand.

No swimmin' suit, nor any dress, either, nor shoes." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"She was some looker, but that gash on her head was bad. I loaded her up an' brung her on home."

"What happened to her?" Shannon watched them keenly. Had they murdered the girl?

"She run off!" The man was vindictive. "She run off, stole a dress an' a coat, then took out of here one night."

"You ever seen her again?"

"No." Shannon felt sure the man was lying, and he saw the woman's lips tighten a little.

"Never seen nor heard of her after."

When he was back in the street, he walked a block, then crossed the street and came back a little ways, easing up until he could slip close to the house, the dripping rain covering his approach.

Listening, he could hear through a partly opened window, but at first nothing but the vilest language and bickering.

Finally, they calmed down. "Must be money in it," the man said. "Mage, we should've got more out of that feller. Private detective. They ain't had for nothin'."

"How could we ever git any of it?" the woman protested.

"How do I know? But if there's money, we should try." "I told you that lingerie of hers was expensive!" Mage "An a proclaimed triumphantly, yw y, she ain't writ this month. She ain't sent us our due."

"This time," the man said thoughtfully, "I think I'll go: see her. I think I will."

"You better watch out," Mage declared querulously. "That detective will have an eye on us now. We could into trouble."

There was no more said, and he saw them move into bedroom where the man started to undress. Neil Shannon eased away from the window and walked down the He was in a quandary now. Obviously, the two had been getting mail from the girl, and from the sound of money. But for what?

They had found her with a cut on her head. That would fit in all right, but what would she be doing in sea?

And who had hit her? If she had been struck, might have amnesia, and that would explain her not returning to her apartment. That she was an excellent swimmer, he knew. She had several clippings for distance swimming, and others telling of diving contests she had won.

She must have come from a boat. Yet whose boat, and what had she been doing on it? One thing he resolved. These two must never learn that she was Darcy Lane, and heiress to a half million-- if they did not already know it.

Before daylight, he was parked up the street, and he saw the man come from the house and start in his direction.

From where he sat, he saw the man draw nearer and, without noticing him, drop a letter in a mailbox. As soon as the man was out of sight, Shannon slid from his car and, hurrying across the street, he shoved a dozen blank sheets of paper from his notepad after it.

They would, he knew, provide an effectual marker for the letter he wanted to see. It was almost two hours later that the mail truck came by, and he got out of his car and crossed the street again. He flashed his badge.

"All I want to see is the top envelope under those blank pages I dropped in."

"Well'--the man shrugged his shoulders--"I guess I can let you see the envelope, all right, but only the outside."

From their position, there were three letters that it could have been. He eliminated two of them at once. Both were typewritten. The third letter was written in pencil, judging by the envelope, and it was addressed to Miss Julie McLean, General Delivery, Kingman, Arizona. The return address was the house down the street, and the name was Sam Wachler.

"Thanks," Shannon said and, noting the address, climbed into his car and started back for his office.

When he opened the door, a tall, slender man with features and a white face rose. "Mr.

Shannon? I am Potifer, one of the Buckle heirs."

Shannon was not impressed. "What can I do for he asked, leading the way into his private office.

"Why, nothing, probably. I was wondering how you were getting along with your search for Darcy Lane?"

"Oh, that?" Shannon shrugged. "Nothing "There isn't much time left, Mr. Shannon, and she has been gone a long time. Do you really think it worthwhile to look?"

Shannon sat down at his desk and took out some papers. His mind was working swiftly, trying to grasp what was in the wind.

"I get paid for looking," he replied coolly, "it's my business."

"Suppose"--Potifer's dry voice was were given a new job? Something that would keep here in town? Say, at one hundred dollars a day?"

Nell Shannon looked up slowly. His eyes were and he felt his gorge rising. "Just what are you implying? That I occupy myself here, and stop looking for Lane?"

"At one hundred dollars a day--that would be seven.. no... six hundred dollars." Potifer drew out his "How about it?"

Shannon started to tell him to get lost, then hesitated. sudden thought came to him. Why should Potifer call him at this time? What was the sudden worry? It to understand that he might not want Darcy to show now and lay claim to her share, which otherwise would be divided among the remaining three heirs. But why come right now? There was little time left and no indication that the girl would ever be found. So what did Hugh Potifer know?

Shannon shrugged. "Six hundred is a nice sum of money," he admitted, stalling. "On the other hand, you'd stand to make well over a hundred thousand more if she doesn't appear. That's a nicer sum, believe me!"

Potifer pursed his thin lips. "I'll make it a thousand, Mr. Shannon. An even thousand."

"Why," Shannon asked suddenly, "did you specify that I stay in town? Do you have reason to believe she is alive, but out of town?"

From Potifer's expression, Shannon knew he had hit it. Certainl Potifer knew something, but what? And how had he found out? Suppose he had been the one who--but no. None of these three admitted to knowing each other or Darcy before becoming heirs to the Buckle estate. Further, Darcy had vanished six months before Buckle died, and none of them had known about the will. Or had they?

"You forget," Shannon said quietly, "there's a five hundred-dollar bonus if I find her--and one would suspect that she might be quite grateful herself.

Why, she might give a man four or five thousand dollars for finding her in time!"

"Well?" Potifer got to his feet. "You're trying to boost the ante. No, Mr. Shannon. You have my offer."

Neil Shannon tipped back in his chair. "So you know something about Darcy Lane's whereabouts? If I were you, I'd do some tall talking, right now and fast!"

"You can't frighten me, Shannon,"

Potifer said coldly. "Good day!" When the door had closed behind Potifer, Shannon rose. Thrusting all the papers into a briefcase, he raced around to his apartment and hurriedly packed a bag with the barest necessities for a ,vo-day rip. Then he went down to his car.

He was afraid to take the time, but he drove by Braith's office to check in. He met the attorney coming toward the street. Braith was a tall, handsome man with a quick smile.

"Any luck, Sh. arm on he asked. "Only a week left, you know."

"That's what I was coming to see you about," he said.

"I got a lead."

"What?" Watt Braith was excited. "You don't mean it!"

"Yes, I'm going to investigate now. I'm driving over to Kingman."

"Arizona?" Braith stared at him. "What would a model be doing over there?"

"Well, she was a secretary before she was a model, you know. A year of it, from the records.

Anyway, I've a good lead in that direction. I think," he added, "that Potifer knows something, too.

He dropped around today and tried to bribe me to lay off."

"I'm not surprised. He stands to make more money if she's not found; however, I doubt if he had anything to do with her disappearance. What information do you have?"

"Not enough to be definite. But, from what I know, I'm fairly certain that we have our girl."

"Kingman, eh? Any idea what name she's using?" Shannon hesitated, then he said, "If I did, I'd be a lot better off. But there will be lots of ways of finding out, and she's a girl who is apt to be remembered."

Watt Braith studied him sharply. "You know anything!] you're not telling, Shannon, I hired you, and I want what-ll ever information you have.

Shannon just looked at him.

Braith didn't like it. "Have it your own way.

It's probably a wild-goose chase, anyway.

If she had been able to, she would have communicated with us long since."

"She may not have known anything about this Buckle will.

Even if she has returned to her right senses and normal attitude, she may have decided to stay on."

Braith shook his head. "I doubt it.

This trip to Kingman seems a wild-goose chase.

Probably the girl drowned or something, and her body simply wasn't recovered."

"Drowned?" Shannon laughed. "That's the last thing I'd believe."

"Why, what do you mean?" Braith stared at him.

"She was a champion swimmer. It was an old gag of hers to tell new boyfriends that she couldn't swim, and seven or eight of them gave her lessons, and Darcy Lane started winning medals for swimming when she was twelve!"

Watt Braith shrugged. "Well, a lot of other things could have happened. Only, I hope none of them did. Let me know how you come out."

After the attorney had left, Neil Shannon stood there in the street, scowling. Braith acted funny; that part about the swimming had seemed to affect him strangely.

He was imagining things. Only three people stood to gain from an accident to Darcy Lane, and they were Amy Bernard, Stukie Tomlin, and Hugh Potifer. There was no use considering Braith, for that highly successful young lawyer stood to profit in no way at all. And, anyway, Darcy Lane had been missing for six months before the death of Jim Buckle brought the matter to a head.

Neil Shannon stood there scowling, some sixth sense irritating him with a feeling of something left undone. It was high time that he started for Kingrnan, yet walking down the street he debated the whole question again, and then he got on the telephone.

When he hung up, he sat in the booth, turning the matter over in his mind, and then he dialed another number and still another. He placed a call to the Mojave County sheriff's office, in Kingrnan.

Another to a real estate agent, and a third to a lawyer that he sometimes worked for. Details began to click together in his mind, and as he worked, he paused from time to time to mop the sweat from his face and curse telephone booths for being so hot.

His last call convinced him, and when he left the booth, he was almost running. He made one stop, and that a quick one at his own apartment. There he picked up the diary of Darcy Lane and hurriedly leafed through it. At a page near the end, he stopped, skimming rapidly over the opening lines of the entry. Then he came to what he was seeking. At the Del Mar today, met a tall, and very handsome young man whose name was Brule. One of those accidental meetings, but we had a drink together and talked of yachting, boating and swimming. He noticed my paints and commented on them, expressing an interest. Yet, when I mentioned Turner, he was vague, and he was equally uncertain about Renoir and Winslow Homer.