The Far Side of the Dollar (17 page)

“I’ll leave you men together then,” Bastian said. He went out, and a minute later I heard his car go down the drive.

Hillman deputed Mrs. Perez to stay with his wife. He led me into a wing of the house I hadn’t visited, down an arching corridor like a tunnel carved through chalk, to a spacious study. Two of the oak-paneled walls were lined with books, most of them in calfbound sets, as if Hillman had bought or inherited a library. A third wall was broken by a large deep window overlooking the distant sea.

The fourth wall was hung with a number of framed photographs. One was a blownup snapshot of Dick Leandro crouching in the cockpit of a racing yacht with his hand on the helm and the white wake boiling at his back. One showed a group of Navy fliers posing together on a flight deck. I recognized a younger Hillman on the far right of the group. There were other similar pictures, taken ashore and afloat; one of a torpedo-bomber squadron flying formation in old World War II Devastators; one of an escort carrier photographed from far overhead, so that it lay like a shingle on the bright, scarified water.

It seemed to me that Hillman had brought me to this specific room, this wall, for a purpose. The somnambulistic precision of his movements was probably controlled by the deep unconscious. At any rate, we were developing the same idea at the same time, and the photograph of the escort carrier was the catalyst.

“That was my last ship,” Hillman said. “The fact is, for a few weeks at the end I commanded her.”

“A few weeks at the end of the war?”

“A few weeks at
her
end. The war was long since over. We took her from Dago through the Canal to Boston and put her in mothballs.” His voice was tender and regretful. He might have been talking about the death of a woman.

“She wasn’t the
Perry Bay
by any chance?”

“Yes.” He swung around to look at me. “You’ve heard of her?”

“Just last night. This whole thing is coming together, Mr. Hillman. Does the name Mike Harley mean anything to you?”

His eyes blurred. “I’m afraid you’re confusing me. The name you mentioned earlier was Harold Harley.”

“I had the wrong name. Harold is Mike’s brother, and he’s the one I talked to last night. He told me Mike served on the
Perry Bay.”

Hillman nodded slowly. “I remember Mike Harley. I have reason to. He caused me a lot of trouble. In the end I had to recommend an undesirable discharge.”

“For stealing a Navy camera.”

He gave me a swift responsive look. “You do your homework thoroughly, Mr. Archer. Actually we let him off easy, because he wasn’t quite responsible. He could have been sent to Portsmouth for stealing that expensive camera.” He backed up into a chair and sat down suddenly, as if he’d been struck by the full impact of the past. “So eighteen years later he has to steal my son.”

I stood by the window and waited for him to master the immense coincidence. It was no coincidence in the usual sense, of course. Hillman had been in authority over Harley, and had given Harley reason to hate him. I had heard the hatred speak on the telephone Monday.

The fog over the sea was burning off. Ragged blue holes opened and closed in the grayness. Hillman came to the window and stood beside me. His face was more composed, except for the fierce glitter of his eyes.

“When I think of what that man has done to me,” he said. “Tell me the rest of it, Archer. All you know.”

I told him the rest of it. He listened as if I was an oracle telling him the story of his future life. He seemed particularly
interested in the murdered woman, Carol, and I asked him if he had ever met her.

He shook his head. “I didn’t know Harley was married.”

“The marriage may not have been legal. But it lasted.”

“Did Harley have children?”

“One at least.”

“How could a man with a child of his own—?” He didn’t finish the thought. Another thought rushed in on his excited mind: “At any rate this disposes of the notion that Tom was mixed up with the woman.”

“Not necessarily. Harley could have been using her as bait.”

“But that’s fantastic. The woman must be—have been old enough to be his mother.”

“Still, she wasn’t an old woman. She was born about 1930.”

“And you’re seriously suggesting that Tom had an affair with her?”

“It’s an academic question under the circumstances, Mr. Hillman.”

His patrician head turned slowly toward me, catching the light on its flat handsome planes. The days were carving him like sculpture. “You mean the fact that Tom is dead.”

“It isn’t a fact yet. It is a strong possibility.”

“If my boy were alive, wouldn’t he have come home by now?”

“Not if he’s deliberately staying away.”

“Do you have reason to believe that he is?”

“Nothing conclusive, but several facts suggest the possibility. He was seen with the woman on Sunday, under his own power. And he did run away in the first place.”

“From Laguna Perdida School. Not from us.”

“He may expect to be clapped back into the school if he returns.”

“Good Lord, I’d never do that.”

“You did it once.”

“I was forced to by circumstances.”

“What were the circumstances, Mr. Hillman?”

“There’s no need to go into them. As you would say, the question is academic.”

“Did he attempt suicide?”

“No.”

“Homicide?”

His eyes flickered. “Certainly not.” He changed the subject hurriedly: “We shouldn’t be standing here talking. If Thomas is alive, he’s got to be found. Harley is the one man who must know where he is, and you tell me Harley is probably on his way to Nevada.”

“He’s probably there by now.”

“Why aren’t you? I’d fly you myself if I could leave my wife. But you can charter a plane.”

I explained that this took money, of which I’d already spent a fair amount in his behalf.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

He produced the two-thousand-dollar check that Dr. Sponti and Mr. Squerry had given him on Monday, and endorsed it to me. I was back in business.

S
TELLA
, in her hooded blue jacket, was waiting for me part way down the driveway. The girl had a heavy pair of binoculars hung around her neck on a strap. Her face was bloodless and thin, as if it had provided sustenance for her eyes.

When I stopped the car, she climbed uninvited into the seat beside me. “I’ve been watching for you.”

“Is that what the field glasses are for?”

She nodded gravely. “I watch everybody who comes in or goes out of Tommy’s house. Mother thinks I’m bird-watching, which she lets me do because it’s a status-symbol activity. Actually I am doing a bird study for next year’s biology class, on the nesting habits of the acorn woodpeckers. Only they all look so much alike they’re hard to keep track of.”

“So are people.”

“I’m finding that out.” She leaned toward me. Her small breast brushed my shoulder like a gift of trust. “But you know what, Mr. Archer? Tommy tried to call me this morning, I’m almost certain.”

“Tell me about it.”

“There isn’t much to tell, really. It was one of those calls with nobody on the other end of the line. My mother answered the phone, and that’s why Tommy didn’t speak. He wanted me to answer it.” Her eyes were luminous with hope.

“What makes you think it was Tommy?”

“I just know it was. Besides, he called at five to eight, which is the exact same time he always used to call me in the morning. He used to pick me up and drive me to school.”

“That isn’t too much to go on, Stella. More likely it was a wrong number.”

“No. I believe it was Tommy. And he’ll be trying again.”

“Why would he call you instead of his parents?”

“He’s probably afraid to call them. He must be in serious trouble.”

“You can be sure of that, one way or another.”

I was only trying to moderate her hopefulness, but I frightened her. She said in a hushed voice: “You’ve found out something.”

“Nothing definite. We’re on the track of the kidnapper. And incidentally, I have to be on my way.”

She held me with her eyes. “He really was kidnapped then? He didn’t go to them of his own accord or anything like that?”

“He may have in the first place. After that, I don’t know. Did Tommy ever mention a woman named Carol?”

“The woman who was killed?”

“Yes.”

“He never did. Why? Did he know her?”

“He knew her very well.”

She caught my implication and shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“That doesn’t prevent it from being true, Stella. Didn’t you ever see them together?”

I got out my collection of pictures and selected the one that Harold Harley had taken of Carol in 1945. The girl studied it. She said with something like awe in her voice:

“She’s—she was very beautiful. She couldn’t have been much older than I am.”

“She wasn’t, when the picture was taken. But that was a long time ago, and you should make allowances for that.”

“I’ve never seen her. I’m sure. And Tommy never said a word about her.” She looked at me glumly. “People
are
hard to keep track of.” She handed me the picture as if it was heavy and hot and would spill if it was tilted.

At this point a female moose deprived of her calf, or something closely resembling her, came crashing through the oak woods. It was Stella’s mother. Her handsome red head was tousled and her face was brutalized by anxiety. She spotted Stella and charged around to her side of the car. Stella turned up the window and snapped the lock.

Rhea Carlson rapped on the glass with her fist “Come out of there. What do you think you’re doing?”

“Talking to Mr. Archer.”

“You must be crazy. Are you trying to ruin yourself?”

“I don’t care what happens to me, that’s true.”

“You have no right to talk like that. You’re ungrateful!”

“Ungrateful for what?”

“I gave you life, didn’t I? Your father and I have given you everything.”

“I don’t want everything. I just want to be let alone, Mother.”

“No! You come out of there.”

“I don’t have to.”

“Yes you do,” I said.

Stella looked at me as if I had betrayed her to the enemy.

“She’s your mother,” I said, “and you’re a minor, and if you don’t obey her you’re out of control, and I’m contributing to the delinquency of a minor.”

“You
are?”

“Reluctantly,” I said.

The word persuaded her. She even gave me a little half-smile. Then she unlocked the door and climbed out of the car. I got
out and walked around to their side. Rhea Carlson looked at me as if I might be on the point of assaulting her.

“Calm down, Mrs. Carlson. Nothing’s happened.”

“Oh? Would you know?”

“I know that no harm will ever come to Stella if I’m around. May I ask you a question?”

She hesitated. “I won’t promise to answer it.”

“You received a phone call this morning at five to eight. Was it local or long distance?”

“I don’t know. Most of our long-distance calls are dialed direct.”

“Was anything said?”

“I said hello.”

“I mean on the other end of the line.”

“No. Not a word.”

“Did whoever it was hang up?”

“Yes, and I’m sure it wasn’t the Hillman boy. It was just another stupid mistake in dialing. We get them all the time.”

“It was so Tommy,” Stella said. “I
know
it.”

“Don’t believe her. She’s always making things up.”

“I am not.” Stella looked ready to cry.

“Don’t contradict me, Stella. Why do you always have to contradict me?”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

I stepped between them. “Your daughter’s a good girl, and she’s almost a woman. Please try to bear that in mind, and treat her gently.”

Mrs. Carlson said in scornful desperation: “What do you know about mothers and daughters? Who are you, anyway?”

“I’ve been a private detective since the war. In the course of time you pick up a few primitive ideas about people, and you develop an instinct for the good ones. Like Stella.”

Stella blushed. Her mother peered at me without understanding. In my rear-view mirror, as I started away, I saw them walking down the driveway, far apart. It seemed a pity. For all I knew, Rhea Carlson was a good girl, too.

I drove downtown and took Sponti’s two-thousand-dollar
check to the bank it was drawn on. I endorsed it, under Ralph Hillman’s signature: “With many thanks, Lew Archer.” It was a weak riposte for being fired, but it gave me some satisfaction to think that it might bring out the purple in Dr. Sponti’s face.

The transfusion of cash made me feel mobile and imaginative. Just on a hunch, I drove back to Harold Harley’s place in Long Beach. It was a good hunch. Lila answered the door.

She had on an apron and a dusting cap, and she pushed a strand of black hair up under the cap. Her breast rose with the gesture. Lila wasn’t a pretty woman, but she had vitality.

“Are you another one of them?” she said.

“Yes. I thought you left Harold.”

“So did I. But I decided to come back.”

“I’m glad you did. He needs your support.”

“Yeah.” Her voice softened. “What’s going to happen to Harold? Are they going to lock him up and throw the key away?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Are you with the FBI?”

“I’m more of a free lance.”

“I was wondering. They came this morning and took the car away. No Harold. Now no car. Next they’ll be taking the house from over my head. All on account of that lousy brother of his. It isn’t fair.”

“It’ll be straightened out. I’ll tell you the same thing I told Harold. His best chance of getting free and clear is to tell the truth.”

“The truth is, he let his brother take advantage of him. He always has. Mike is still—” She clapped her hand to her mouth and looked at me over it with alarm in her brown eyes.

“What is Mike still doing, Mrs. Harley?”

She glanced up and down the dingy street. A few young children were playing in the yards, with their mothers watching them. Lila plucked at my sleeve.