The Galton Case (12 page)

“Yeah. You busy?”

“Not so’s you’d notice. Come ahead in.”

He flung the door open, saw me, and hung back like an interloper. “Excuse me.”

His dark eyes were quick and uncertain. He was still in his early thirties, but he had a look about him, intangible and definite as an odor. The look of a man who has lost his grip and is sliding. His suit was sharply pressed, but it hadn’t been cleaned for too long. The very plumpness of his face gave it a lardlike inertness, as if it had stopped reacting to everything but crises.

His face interested me. Unless I was getting hipped on family resemblances, he was an older softer version of the boy who’d stolen my car. This one’s dark curls were thinner and limper. And the violence of the younger man was petulance in him. He said to his wife:

“You told me you weren’t busy.”

“I’m not. I’m only resting.” She rolled over and sat up. “This gentleman wants to buy the Jaguar.”

“It’s not for sale.” Lemberg closed the door behind him. “Who told you it was?”

“Grapevine.”

“What else did you hear?”

He was quick on the uptake. I couldn’t hope to con him for long, so I struck at his vulnerable spot:

“Your brother’s in trouble.”

His gaze went to my shoulder, my hands, my mouth, and then my eyes. I think in his extremity he would have liked to hit me. But I could have broken him in half, and he must have known it. Still, anger or frustration made him foolish:

“Did Schwartz send you to tell me this?”

“Who?”

“You needn’t play dumb. Otto Schwartz.” He gargled the words. “If he sent you, you can take a message back for me. Tell him to take a running jump in the Truckee River and do us all a favor.”

I got up. Instinctively, one of Lemberg’s arms rose to guard his face. The gesture told a lot about him and his background.

“Your brother’s in very bad trouble. So are you. He drove down south to do a murder yesterday. You provided the car.

“I didn’t know whah—” His jaw hung open, and then clicked shut. “Who are you?”

“A friend of the family. Show me where Tommy is.”

“But I don’t know. He isn’t in his room. He never came back.”

The woman said: “Are you from the Adult Authority?”

“No.”

“Who are you?” Lemberg repeated. “What do you want?”

“Your brother, Tommy.”

“I don’t know where Tommy is. I swear.”

“What’s Otto Schwartz got to do with you and Tommy?”

“I don’t know.”

“You brought up his name. Did Schwartz give Tommy a contract to murder Culligan?”

“Who?” the woman said. “Who did you say got murdered?”

“Peter Culligan. Know him?”

“No,” Lemberg answered for her. “We don’t know him.”

I advanced on him: “You’re lying, Lemberg. You better let down your back hair, tell me all about it. Tommy isn’t the only one in trouble. You’re accessory to any crime he did.”

He backed away until the backs of his legs were touching the bed. He looked down at his wife as if she was his only source of comfort. She was looking at me:

“What did you say Tommy did?”

“He committed a murder.”

“For gosh sake.” She swung her legs down and stood up facing her husband. “And you lent him the car?”

“I had to. It was his car. It was only in my name.”

“Because he was on parole?” I said.

He didn’t answer me.

The woman took hold of his arm and shook it. “Tell the man where he is.”

“I don’t know where he is.” Lemberg turned to me: “And that’s the honest truth.”

“What about Schwartz?”

“Tommy used to work for him, when we lived in Reno. They were always asking him to come back to work.”

“Doing what?”

“Any dirty thing they could dream up.”

“Including murder?”

“Tommy never did a murder.”

“Before this one, you mean.”

“I’ll believe it when I hear it from him.”

The woman groaned. “Don’t be an idiot all your life. What did he ever do for you, Roy?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Do you expect to hear from him?” I said.

“I hope so.”

“If you do, will you let me know?”

“Sure I will,” he lied.

I went down in the elevator and laid a ten-dollar bill on the counter in front of the room clerk. He raised a languid eyebrow:

“What’s this for? You want to check in?”

“Not today, thanks. It’s your certificate of membership in the junior G-men society. Tomorrow you get your intermediate certificate.”

“Another ten?”

“You catch on fast.”

“What do I have to do for it?”

“Keep track of Lemberg’s visitors, if he has any. And any telephone calls, especially long-distance calls.”

“Can do.” His hand moved quickly, flicking the bill out of sight. “What about
her
visitors?”

“Does she have many?”

“They come and go.”

“She pay you to let them come and go?”

“That’s between me and her. Are you a cop?”

“Not me,” I said, as if his question was an insult. “Just keep the best track you can. If it works out, I may give you a bonus.”

“If what works out?”

“Developments. Also I’ll mention you in my memoirs.”

“That will be just ducky.”

“What’s your name?”

“Jerry Farnsworth.”

“Will you be on duty in the morning?”

“What time in the morning?”

“Any time.”

“For a bonus I can be.”

“An extra five,” I said, and went outside.

There was a magazine shop on the opposite corner, I
crossed to it, bought a
Saturday Review,
and punched a hole in the cover. For an hour or more, I watched the front of the Sussex Arms, trusting that Lemberg wouldn’t penetrate my literate disguise.

But Lemberg didn’t come out.

I
T WAS
past five when I got to Redwood City. The commuting trains were running south every few minutes. The commuters in their uniforms, hat on head, briefcase in hand, newspaper under arm, marched wearily toward their waiting cars. The cop on traffic duty at the station corner told me how to get to Sherwood Drive.

It was in a junior-executive residential section, several cuts above the Marvista tract. The houses were set further apart, and differed from each other in architectural detail. Flowers bloomed competitively in the yards.

A bicycle lay on the grass in front of the Matheson house. A small boy answered my knock. He had black eyes like his mother’s, and short brown hair which stuck up all over his head like visible excitement.

“I was doing pushups,” he said, breathing hard. “You want my daddy? He ain’t, I mean, he isn’t home from the city yet.”

“Is your mother home?”

“She went to the station to get him. They ought to be back in about eleven minutes. That’s how old I am.”

“Eleven minutes?”

“Eleven
years.
I had my birthday last week. You want to see me do some pushups?”

“All right.”

“Come in, I’ll show you.”

I followed him into a living-room which was dominated by a large brick fireplace with a raised hearth. Everything in the room was so new and clean, the furniture so carefully placed around it, that it seemed forbidding. The boy flung himself down in the middle of the green broadloom carpet:

“Watch me.”

He did a series of pushups, until his arms collapsed under him. He got up panting like a dog on a hot day:

“Now that I got the knack, I can do pushups all night if I want to.”

“You wouldn’t want to wear yourself out.”

“Shucks, I’m strong. Mr. Steele says I’m very strong for my age, it’s just my co-ordination. Here, feel my muscle.”

He pulled up the sleeve of his jersey, flexed his biceps, and produced an egg-sized lump. I palpated this:

“It’s hard.”

“That’s from doing pushups. You think I’m big for my age, or just average?”

“A pretty fair size, I’d say.”

“As big as you when you were eleven?”

“Just about.”

“How big are you now?”

“Six feet or so.”

“How much do you weigh?”

“About one-ninety.”

“Did you ever play football?”

“Some, in high school.”

“Do you think, will I ever get to be a football player?” he said wistfully.

“I don’t see why not.”

“That’s my ambition, to be a football player.”

He darted out of the room and was back in no time with a football which he threw at me from the doorway.

“Y.A. Tittle,” he said.

I caught the ball and said: “Hugh McElhenny.”

This struck him as very funny. He laughed until he fell down. Being in position, he did a few pushups.

“Stop it. You’re making me tired.”

“I never get tired,” he bragged exhaustedly. “When I get through doing pushups, I’m going to take a run around the block.”

“Don’t tell me. It wears me out.”

A car turned into the driveway. The boy struggled to his feet:

“That’s Mummy and Daddy now. I’ll tell them you’re here, Mr. Steele.”

“My name is Archer. Who’s Mr. Steele?”

“My coach in the Little League. I got you mixed up with him, I guess.”

It didn’t bother him, but it bothered me. It was a declaration of trust, and I didn’t know what I was going to have to do to his mother.

She came in alone. Her face hardened and thinned when she saw me:

“What do you want? What are you doing with my son’s football?”

“Holding it. He threw it to me. I’m holding it.”

“We were making like Forty-niners,” the boy said. But the laughter had gone out of him.

“Leave my son alone, you hear me?” She turned on the boy: “James, your father is in the garage. You can help him bring in the groceries. And take that football with you.”

“Here.” I tossed him the ball. He carried it out as if it was made of iron. The door closed behind him. “He’s a likely boy.”

“A lot you care, coming here to badger me. I talked to the police this morning. I don’t have to talk to you.”

“I think you want to, though.”

“I can’t. My husband—he doesn’t know.”

“What doesn’t he know?”

“Please.” She moved toward me rapidly, heavily, almost as though she was falling, and grasped my arm. “Ron will be coming in any minute. You won’t force me to talk in front of him?”

“Send him away.”

“How can I? He wants his dinner.”

“You need something from the store.”

“But we just came from the store.”

“Think of something else.”

Her eyes narrowed to two black glittering slits. “Damn you. You come in here disrupting my life. What did I do to bring this down on me?”

“That’s the question that needs answering, Mrs. Matheson.”

“Won’t you go away and come back later?”

“I have other things to do later. Let’s get this over with.”

“I only wish I could.”

The back door opened. She pulled away from me. Her face smoothed out and became inert, like the face of someone dying.

“Sit down,” she said. “You might as well sit down.”

I sat on the edge of an overstuffed chesterfield covered with hard shiny green brocade. Footsteps crossed the kitchen, and paper rustled. A man raised his voice:

“Marian, where are you?”

“I’m in here,” she said tightly.

Her husband appeared in the doorway. Matheson was a thin small man in a gray suit who looked about five years younger than his wife. He stared at me through his glasses with the belligerence of his size. It was his wife he spoke to:

“I didn’t know you had a visitor.”

“Mr. Archer is Sally Archer’s husband. You’ve heard me speak of Sally Archer, Ron.” In spite of his uncomprehending look, she rushed on: “I promised to send her a cake for the church supper, and I forgot to bake it. What am I going to do?”

“You’ll have to skip it.”

“I can’t. She’s depending on me. Ron, would you go downtown and bring me a cake for Mr. Archer to take to Sally? Please?”

“Now?” he said with disgust.

“It’s for tonight. Sally’s waiting for it.”

“Let her wait.”

“But I can’t. You wouldn’t want it to get around that I didn’t do my share.”

He turned out his hands in resignation. “How big a cake does it have to be?”

“The two-dollar size will do. Chocolate. You know the bakery at the shopping center.”

“But that’s way over on the other side of town.”

“It’s got to be good, Ron. You don’t want to shame me in front of my friends.”

Some of her real feeling was caught in the words. His eyes jabbed at me and returned to her face, searching it:

“Listen, Marian, what’s the trouble? Are you okay?”

“Certainly I’m okay.” She produced a smile. “Now run along like a good boy and bring me that cake. You can take Jimmy with you, and I’ll have supper ready when you get back.”

Matheson went out, slamming the door behind him in protest. I heard his car engine start, and sat down again: “You’ve got him well trained.”

“Please leave my husband out of this. He doesn’t deserve trouble.”

“Does he know the police were here?”

“No, but the neighbors will tell him. And then I’ll have to do some more lying. I hate this lying.”

“Stop lying.”

“And let him know I’m mixed up in a murder? That would be just great.”

“Which murder are you talking about?”

She opened her mouth. Her hand flew up to cover it. She forced her hand down to her side and stood very still, like a sentinel guarding her hearth.

“Culligan’s?” I said. “Or the murder of John Brown?”

The name struck her like a blow in the mouth. She was too shaken to speak for a minute. Then she gathered her forces and straightened up and said:

“I don’t know any John Brown.”

“You said you hated lying, but you’re doing it. You worked for him in the winter of 1936, looking after his wife and baby.”

She was silent. I brought out one of my pictures of Anthony Galton and thrust it up to her face:

“Don’t you recognize him?”

She nodded resignedly. “I recognize him. It’s Mr. Brown.”

“And you worked for him, didn’t you?”

“So what? Working for a person is no crime.”