Go Home, Stranger

Ten

Why didn’t they take off his headgear and relieve the pressure? His whole head was an immense, throbbing receptacle of pain, which was going to burst like a soap bubble with the next breath he took. He tried to open his eyes and look up at the circle of anxious faces that would be leaning over him, the officials and his teammates, Then he remembered. . . .

He tried to sit up and it hit him again, the stab of pain at the back of his head. It was a long time before he could get to his feet, clinging weakly to the doorframe, and then the vertigo and nausea swept over him again. When he got the light on he staggered into the bathroom and turned on the shower, collapsing onto his knees with his head under it. This is a stupid thing to do, he thought. If I pass out again, I’ll drown. He let the water run, washing over him like a soothing spring rain.

When he got to his feet and turned off the water, the cut on his head was still bleeding a little, but he was able to feel it with his fingers and determine that it was not a bad one. Wrapping a towel about his head, he went into the other room.

Just how had it happened? The man had forced the bathroom window to get in—that much he knew, for the window was still open. And he had apparently ducked back into the bathroom when he heard the key in the lock. But what about the sound outside? Had he only imagined it, or had there been two of them?

He picked up the, flashlight and went back outside, walking unsteadily and feeling the pain like a pressure inside his skull. Because he had an idea what he was looking for now, he threw the light on the ground and found it almost immediately. It was the soap dish from the bathroom, lying near the bayou’s edge.

Suckered, he thought bitterly. By an old Indian trick like that. The man had been there in the bathroom all the time and, knowing he didn’t have a chance of getting back out the window in time, had sailed the dish out to create a diversion. A thing like that took cool nerves and a devilish intelligence.

Back inside the cabin, he looked grimly at his scattered belongings. The letter from the man in the FBI was still inside the pocket in the ripped suitcase. Had the prowler read it and put it back? As far as he could see, nothing had been stolen. Somebody was looking for information, he thought; and the sad part of it is I don’t know how much he got.

He took the letter into the kitchen and burned it in the stove, swearing silently at himself because he hadn’t done it before. This was poor country in which to get careless.

* * *

It was after sunrise of a hot, brilliant morning when he awoke. His head was better, but sunlight stabbed at his eyes and started it aching again. He put on a straw hat and went fishing anyway. Maybe he wasn’t fooling anybody now, but he couldn’t give up.

It could have been anybody, he thought. I had my hands on him, and all I know is that his shirt was wet with sweat. That and the fact that he was smart and had nerves like ice to wait me out. That would fit Counsel. . . . He shrugged irritably. Robert Counsel couldn’t have been here all this time unless he was dead. He would have been seen and recognized.

What about the Lasater girl; where did she fit in? There was no doubt, of course, that she could have followed him over to the Counselor to act as a decoy to keep him there while the man shook down his cabin. But had she? He was only guessing. He recalled the strange silence that had fallen over her while Griffin talked about the explosion. It obviously wasn’t the first time she’d heard the story, but still it fascinated her.

Thinking about it now, he remembered his own odd feeling about it, the illogical hunch that it could be somehow connected with the mystery in which he was already entangled. There was no basis for it except that it had been an explosion and Gage had said Counsel was an explosives expert. But still, Counsel could have been here then. He’d returned from Italy about that time.

He abruptly reeled in his lure and rowed back to camp. Mildred Talley was lying on the float in her bathing suit. She propped herself on one elbow and waved with a cigarette.

“Hello,” she said. “How are the bass and all the little bass?”

“Feeling no pain. At least, not from hunger,” he replied, tying up the skiff.

She smiled. “If you really want to catch the silly things, you ought, to go along with Max Easter. He never has any trouble.”

He looked at her curiously. “He doesn’t?”

“Not from what I hear—” She stopped abruptly and sat up. Reno looked up the path. Delia Malone had come out of the kitchen and was staring coldly at the girl.

“Oh, oh, I’d better get to work,” Mildred said, climbing to her feet. “Dell’s on the warpath this morning.”

Delia’s jumped her about talking too much, Reno decided as he changed clothes. He remembered Skeeter’s purring drawl: “If you can’t shut her big mouth, I can.” But talking about what? Most of her conversation appeared to be harmless.

Easter was a good fisherman; so what of it? She was a bird brain. But maybe that was the trouble—they didn’t know what she would talk about.

Delia was alone at the counter. She took his order with cold efficiency and as she departed for the kitchen Reno pulled the morning paper toward him. He unfolded it, and Vickie’s picture leaped up at him from the front page. “Actress Near Collapse,” the headlines read. “Maintains Innocence.” His eyes were bleak as he skimmed through the lead. They couldn’t leave her alone; they had to have more pictures and more rehash of the same old story. “In a highly charged and dramatic interview in the city jail today, Vickie Shane McHugh, radio and motion-picture actress held in connection with the August tenth slaying of her husband, tearfully reiterated her innocence.”

The screen door opened and closed. Reno looked around. It was Patricia Lasater, disturbingly good-looking in a summery cotton and spectator pumps. She smiled when she saw him, and sat down one stool away at the counter. He was grudgingly conscious of the fact that her smile was a distillation of pure charm, the velvety brown eyes just faintly bantering and amused and yet full of warmth and fringed with the longest and darkest lashes he had ever seen.

So she’s pretty, he thought, instantly savage. Isn’t that nice? Why don’t I tell her she’s a cute little thing and we can organize a club and just forget about everything else?

His face expressionless, he slid the paper along the counter toward her.

“Here,” he said. “I was just looking at the headlines.”

“Thank you,” she murmured politely.

“They really got that actress dead to rights,” he went on. “She hasn’t got a prayer.”

She glanced down at the picture, and when she looked up he saw her face had gone suddenly still. “Do you think they’ll convict her?” she asked anxiously.

“Sure.” He gestured’ with offhand confidence. “It’s open and shut. She drops in on her husband, finds him wandering into the hotel with some stray dish, and blasts him. She might get off with life, but I doubt it.”

“But I think she’s innocent—”

“Innocent?” he scoffed. “Fat chance. With the motive she had? She caught her husband playing around, didn’t she?”

There was something trapped and desperate in the brown eyes now, and she looked away from him. “But maybe it wasn’t the way it looked, at all,” she protested.

He turned the knife, suddenly and inexplicably detesting himself for doing it. “Well, all I can say is that she’s going to have a sweet time proving it. It’s obvious what it was, the way this good-time babe ducked out and left the country.”

She made an effort to regain control of herself now, and she said coldly, “You are quite definite in your opinions, aren’t you, Mr. Reno? Are you always as sure of everything?”

He shrugged. I had her going there for a minute, he thought grimly. Then he felt very little pride in it. Something was bothering her, and he had the feeling there was a lot here he hadn’t seen yet.

“No,” he answered: “There are a few things I’m not sure of. Are you going to town this morning?”

“Why, yes.”

“I’m going in for a couple of hours, if you’d like a ride. No use taking both cars.”

She considered it briefly, and her tone thawed to its accustomed friendliness as she accepted. Maybe I’m being stupid, he thought, as they went out onto the highway. Maybe I’m doing it all wrong. What I ought to do is pull right in front of the police station and take her in. She could skip.

No, he decided impatiently. He was up against the same old argument. If he turned her over to the police and she refused to verify Vickie’s story his sister would be in a worse position than ever, and he would be exposed. They’d know who he was, and he didn’t need a blueprint to see what that could mean.

Once, during a long period of silence, he turned his head and looked at her. The lovely face was troubled, as she stared moodily ahead at the road. Is that the only reason I don’t take her in, he wondered, or am I getting soft in the head?

She turned, and caught him looking at her. The brown eyes were a little flustered as she tried to smile.

“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “Did you say something? I was thinking.”

“Yeah.” He faced the road again. “Yeah. So was I.” Counsel and Easter weren’t the only explosives experts in this part of the country. There was just a touch of dynamite about this dark-haired girl.

It was a little after ten when he parked near the post office. “Meet you here at twelve-thirty,” he said shortly. “All right?”

“Yes. That will do nicely,” she said..

He started into the post office, but halted before he was up the steps. There wouldn’t have been time to receive a letter from Mrs. Conway. Maybe she hadn’t even reached San Francisco yet; at any rate it might be another two or three days before he heard. He turned away with disappointment and started toward Gage’s office.

Nuts, he thought, I might as well try, now that I’m here. Ducking into a drugstore telephone booth, he put through the call to San Francisco, listening anxiously while the long-distance operator asked Information for the number. Then he heard the telephone ringing. There was just a chance, a slight chance, she had arrived and hadn’t left yet.

Then his heart leaped eagerly as he heard her answer with a sleepy voice. It wasn’t until then that he realized it was only a little after eight on the Coast and that he’d got her out of bed.

“Oh,” she said quickly, when she learned who it was. “Have, you—I mean, is there anything new?”

“No. Not yet.” He was sorry for her. She knew her husband had married her under an alias, and that he was either dead or he had tried to kill her, but still she couldn’t quit hoping. “I wanted to ask something,” he went on. “Do you remember the date Mr. Conway arrived in Waynesport when he came back from Italy?”

“Why, yes,” she said slowly. “It was around the first week in May, I think.”

“But you don’t know the exact day?”

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t think he ever said—”

“How about the name of the ship?”

“Yes, I know that, if I can just think of it. Wait . . .” He could tell she was trying to concentrate. She was still dull from sleep. “It was the Silver something. Silver, ah Silver Cape. That’s it. Why, Mr. Reno?”

“Just a wild idea,” he said. “I’m still grabbing at straws.”

“You’ll let me know, won’t you? I’ll be at Carmel.” She gave him the address.

“Yes,” he said. “The first thing.”

The public library was a small ivy-covered building on a quiet street asleep under its trees. He asked for and received the bound copies of the Waynesport Express for May, and sat down alone at a table. Beginning at the first, he began skipping through the pages, skipping over to the back of each paper where the shipping news was carried. By the time he had progressed as far as May seventh without success he was growing tense.

The ship did not arrive on the eighth, or ninth, and as he opened the paper for May tenth, hope was dying. He hurriedly scanned the ship arrivals, and sat back in defeat. There was no mention of the Silver Cape.

Another hare-brained idea shot to hell, he thought. There wasn’t any connection. Robert Counsel was still at sea when the explosion took place. Automatically, and without interest, he went on to the following paper. And there it was.

The SS Silver Cape, inbound from Genoa, Marseilles, and Barcelona, had berthed at Weaver Terminal at 1:30 A.M. So what? He wearily asked himself. That was May eleventh, the day after the explosion. No. He sat up, suddenly alert. Griffin had said the tenth, but it was after midnight. He flipped eagerly back to the front page. There was no need to look for it; the headline shouted! “Mysterious Blast Demolishes Boat.”

He hurriedly skimmed through the story and the follow-up news in subsequent papers. It was essentially as Griffin had told it. Experts said the explosion had come from inside the boat. There was no clue as to the cause. Two men were believed to have been aboard, but their identities were a complete mystery. Griffin was quoted as having no idea who had stolen the craft.

He quietly closed the binder and sat there for a moment in the hush of the reading room, his face showing none of his furious intensity of thought. The whole thing could be a coincidence. It almost had to be. How could Counsel have caused the blast? He was on the ship, and he couldn’t have got off until after he had been through customs later in the morning, long after the explosion. But still the ship had gone up the channel just before the boat blew up.

It’s there somewhere, he thought, feeling the goadings of helpless anger. This whole rotten mess fits together like a prefabricated birdhouse, if I just had the key. Mac had it, and they killed him. For just a few minutes, or maybe less, he had the answer to all of it, and then they got him because he’d found out too much. Why can’t I see it if he did?

And, he wondered coldly, would he have any more warning than Mac had, if he did find it? He started over to Gage’s office.

He was approaching the entrance to one of the banks when he slowed abruptly. Patricia Lasater had just emerged from the doorway. She did not see him, and now she stood in the center of the sidewalk looking uncertainly about her. Then she turned as if she had found what she sought, and started walking away from him. She stopped at a pickup truck that had pulled to the curb. The door opened, and a big man climbed out. It was Max Easter, dressed in khaki trousers and a cotton undershirt.

They were no more than fifteen yards away. Reno leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, watching them speculatively. She took something from her handbag and handed it to Easter. Reno could see it quite plainly—it was money. For moving a trailer, he wondered coldly, or for shaking down my cabin and slugging me with a sap? Or is he putting the squeeze on her?

Easter took the bills, shoved them carelessly into his pocket, and made a gesture with his other hand that was part acknowledgement and partly a farewell chopped off with curt insolence as he turned abruptly away from her and started up the sidewalk toward Reno. When Easter came abreast, Reno turned and looked squarely at him. It was the first time he had seen him at close range, and he marked the well-shaped head, the short, iron-gray hair, and the cold, deep-set pale eyes.

As he went past, Easter turned his head and their eyes met. There was no recognition in them, but Reno could feel the hair tingle at the back of his neck. This could be the man. He could be the one who had killed Mac, who had shot at him and Mrs. Conway with the rifle . . . Then he was gone.

Howell Gage looked up from the brief he was reading and waved toward a chair. “Anything new?” he asked.

“Nothing any good. I walked in on somebody going through my gear, and got sapped.” He related the story briefly.

Gage’s eyes were thoughtful. “He may know who you are. If he does, you’re a bum risk.”

Reno shrugged. “I don’t think he’s sure yet. There wasn’t anything to prevent him from finishing the job then.”

“He might be waiting.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know. But you’re taking chances.”

“Never mind that.” Reno jerked an impatient hand. “Tell me what you know about Max Easter.”

“Uh-uh.” Gage shook his head slowly. “I think you’re on the wrong track. Easter’s as big as a horse, and he dresses like a tramp. He couldn’t have got in and out of the Boardman without being noticed by somebody.”

“I know,” Reno agreed reluctantly. “But then it wouldn’t have been easy for anybody, and we know somebody did. What do you know about him?”

“Not too much. Except that he’s a bad one to fool with. Has a reputation for being radical and a troublemaker, but keeps pretty much to himself. Don’t think he works any more. Lives out there on the bayou in a houseboat. Guides duck hunters in winter, and probably does a little commercial fishing.”

“What about this scuttlebutt that Counsel ran off with his wife?”

Gage lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at the lighter. “I see what you’re driving at. But it may be only a rumor; nobody ever knew for sure. Easter’s not the confidential type.”

“When was it?”

“Just before Counsel was drafted, in forty-two. He’d have been oh, twenty-three, I think. Easter was working at the Mid-Gulf refinery then, as I remember, and hadn’t been married more than a year or so. I never met his wife, but saw her once or twice. Nice-looking kid with big, serious eyes, but a lot younger than Easter. He must have been around forty, even then. Anyway, Mrs.Easter disappeared, along in June, I think it was. And Counsel was gone, too. There was talk they’d been seen together here and there, and then of course there was the inevitable story that somebody ran across them in New Orleans or Miami at some hotel. You’ve probably heard of Counsel’s reputation with the women. He was smooth, and he had a way with them.

“And about that time Easter got in trouble at Mid-Gulf. I don’t know whether he was drinking or not, but it was pretty messy, from what they say. Got in a fight with his foreman and damn near killed him. He was fired, of course, and as far as I know he’s never worked at anything since. People leave him pretty much alone except duck hunters and fishermen who persuade him to guide them now and then. Have to catch him in the right mood, or he might not even answer you.”

“His wife never came back?” Reno asked.

“No. At least, nobody’s ever seen her.”

“But Counsel did show up again?”

“In a way. He was here for maybe a day and a half. He’d received his induction notice, and had to show up. Then he was shipped out.”

Reno stared thoughtfully out into the sun-blasted street. It tied in, that way. Maybe Easter didn’t know Counsel’d returned in forty-two until he was gone again. Then he had to wait nine years for another chance. And it was easy to see why Counsel had tried to slip in without being seen. But why had he come back at all? He had nothing to gain, and he knew he might be killed if Easter saw him. The puzzle wasn’t all there yet.

“Where is this houseboat of his?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I can tell you how to find it. I’ve been up there two or three times duck-hunting, but it’s tricky. Starting out from Malone’s deadfall, you turn off to the right at that first arm of the bayou going north. It’s about three miles, and the bayou forks several times. If I remember correctly, you take the left-hand fork the first time, and then the next two you go to the right.”

“Thanks,” Reno. Said. He stood up.

“But listen, Pete. Your sister’s already lost a husband.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. She couldn’t take another shock like that. Don’t monkey with Easter unless you know what you’re doing, and have the police with you.”

“It’s all right.” Reno paused with his hand on the door, and looked back at the young lawyer without expression. “I’m just going to hire a guide.”

“Remember, he may know who you are.”

“Yes,” Reno said softly. “And maybe I know who he is.”