Labyrinth

NINE

The weather shifted again on Friday morning, the way it often does from day to day in San Francisco: A thick fog had come rolling in and turned the city into a bleak study in gray. It was particularly heavy in Sea Cliff, obliterating most of the ocean and Bay and all of the Golden Gate Bridge when I got out there a few minutes past nine. Most of the time I like the fog-it can create a certain sinister atmosphere, or the illusion of it, that appeals to my imagination. But not on this day; it seemed more depressing than anything else and made me feel as gray as everything looked.

I left my car in front of the Nichols house and plodded up the terraced steps and pushed the doorbell button. Pretty soon the peephole opened; the eye that peered out at me this time belonged to Laura Nichols. The peephole closed again and the door swung inward.

She was wearing a lavender pants suit today, but she did not look quite as poised or self-assured; the blonde hair was less carefully coiffed and there were dark smudges under the amber eyes. When she said, “Come in, please,” her voice seemed subdued, with none of the coldness or arrogance of Wednesday night. So maybe she isn’t going to give me any trouble, I thought. Which would be a good thing for both of us; the way I felt I was just liable to backtalk her if she started in on me.

I entered, gave her my coat, and then followed her down the tiled hallway. The living room seemed even darker and more cheerless today because of the fog swirling on the patio beyond the glass doors. I sat on the sofa again and she sat on the same chair as before, and we looked at each other.

She said, “Thank you for coming.”

“Sure. I’m sorry about your brother, Mrs. Nichols.”

“Yes. So am I, God knows.”

“How is he?”

“Not good.” She played with the diamond ring on her finger, took a breath as if preparing herself for a difficult chore, and looked back at me. “I… well, I owe you an apology. It seems you were quite right about Martin’s mental state.”

I did not say anything.

“I should have listened to you,” she said. “But it seemed so… I just couldn’t believe…”

She broke off and glanced away; emotions flickered across her face. She was under a good deal of strain, it seemed-and it was not easy for a woman like her to admit to a serious mistake in judgment. But at least she was admitting it, which was a point in her favor. And to a virtual stranger at that. I felt myself softening toward her. Not much, but a little.

I asked, “What do the doctors say?”

“That Martin has suffered a severe guilt trauma followed by suicidal depression.”

“Will they be able to bring him out of it?”

“They have no opinion yet,” she said. “What they’re afraid of is that he’s lost all will to live and may never regain it.”

“Do they believe his confession?”

“They say they can’t be sure. Martin keeps insisting he murdered Victor Carding; he seems to believe it even if it isn’t true.”

“Has he been charged yet?”

“Yes. The county policeman, Donleavy, claims they had no choice.” She appealed to me with her eyes. “You told them he couldn’t have done it. Why wouldn’t they believe you?”

“They don’t disbelieve me,” I said. “But it’s your brother’s word against mine, and all the evidence seems to agree with his version of what happened.”

“Damn the evidence!” she said with sudden vehemence. “That’s all I’ve heard since last night-from the police, from my attorney, and now from you. Martin is innocent. ”

“Yes, ma’am. And the chances are good the police will prove that themselves, even if your brother won’t retract his confession. They’re not going to stop investigating; sooner or later they’ll dig up the truth.”

“Will they? And if they don’t?”

“I can’t answer that, Mrs. Nichols,” I said. “I don’t think he’ll be brought to trial; but if he is, my testimony might be enough to convince a jury-”

“Martin must not be brought to trial,” she said. “I couldn’t bear the ordeal, the publicity… no, it has to be resolved now, as soon as possible.”

My feelings toward her quit softening and went the other way again. The ordeal, the publicity-yeah. She was suffering, all right, but it was as much for herself as it was for Martin Talbot. Bad enough that he was mentally ill and had been charged with homicide; what if he was put on public display in a courtroom and then convicted? What would her friends and neighbors say? How could she hold her head up?

“I want you to conduct your own investigation,” she said.

That caught me off guard; I was still thinking what a cold and self-pitying woman she was. I blinked at her. “Me?”

“Yes. I have confidence in your ability and your methods. If anyone can get to the bottom of this quickly, you can.”

Sure I can, I thought. I said, “I doubt that, Mrs. Nichols. There’s nothing much I could do that the police aren’t already doing themselves.”

“The police think Martin is guilty; they won’t be trying to prove his innocence. You will be because you know he’s innocent. ”

“I’m not sure they’d allow me to work on a murder case, even on a peripheral basis,” I said. “They don’t like private citizens getting involved.”

“You won’t be interfering with them, will you? Why should they prevent you from earning your living? Besides, aren’t you already involved?”

I hesitated. She was right, of course, and not just about my being already involved. I had got permission in the past to make private inquiries on cases involving homicide, so long as I did not get in the way and promised to report any findings immediately. I doubted that Eberhardt would turn me down on this one; he might even feel my poking around was a good idea, considering the circumstances. And the same went for Donleavy, too.

What could I do? I had asked myself last night. Well, this was the answer. If I undertook an investigation it would give me a chance to help Talbot if I could-for his sake, not for Laura Nichols’-and a chance to do something about the death of Christine Webster. It would also keep me active, and keep me involved so maybe I could find out for myself why I was involved.

And then there was the money…

“All right,” I said, “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Nichols. But on two conditions.”

“Yes?”

“One, that the police allow it. And two, that you’re completely honest with me.”

She bristled a little at that. “Do you suppose I haven’t been honest with you?”

“I didn’t say that. I only meant that I can’t do anything at all for your brother unless I know everything you know. Is there anything you didn’t tell me the other day? About him, or about the accident, or about Victor Carding?”

“Of course not. I kept nothing back.”

“You’d never heard of Carding before the accident?”

“I had not.”

“What about his son Jerry?”

“I didn’t know he had a son until the police told me at the hospital last night.”

“Christine Webster?”

“No.”

“Lainey Madden?”

“No. Who is she?”

“The dead girl’s roommate.”

“I’m not familiar with the name.”

“Was anybody else involved in the accident?”

“No. Only Martin and the Cardings.

“Did Carding make any other threats against your brother? Call him at home later, write him a letter?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. Martin would have told me.”

I had been watching her pretty closely; if any of her answers had been lies or evasions, I could not tell it from her expression or from her voice. “Just one more question,” I said. “How did you happen to pick me when you decided to hire a detective?”

“You were recommended to me.”

“By whom?”

“My attorney, Arthur Brown. I asked him for the name of a competent investigator and he gave me yours. He said you had once done some work for another of his clients.”

The name was familiar; I remembered meeting Brown once a couple of years ago, through the client she’d mentioned-a civil case involving a substantial damage suit. He was a partner in an old, established Sutter Street law firm and had, as far as I knew, an impeccable reputation.

So much for that. I got up on my feet; I was more than ready to be on my way-not just because I was anxious to go to work, but also because I wanted out of that dark cheerless house and out of Laura Nichols’ company. Working for her was one thing. But the less I had to do with her otherwise, the better I would feel.

We said a few more things to each other, about my calling her right away if I had any trouble with the police, about money, about verbal and written reports. Then she showed me to the door. Neither of us bothered to say goodbye.

I drove through the fog to Geary Boulevard, stopped at a service station there, and called the Hall of Justice from their pay phone. Eberhardt was in his office-and in a foul mbod, too. When he came on the wire he said irascibly, “You going to check in ten times a day, maybe? There’s nothing new; I just got off the phone with Donleavy.”

“I didn’t call to check in,” I said. I told him about the interview with Mrs. Nichols and her proposal that I conduct a private investigation.

“I might have figured,” Eberhardt said. “You don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“I guess not. Is it okay if I go ahead?”

“Hell, I don’t care. You know the rules.”

“You mind if I talk to Lainey Madden?”

“Be my guest.”

“Could you let me have the address?”

“What am I, your flunky? Look it up in the goddamn phone book. She’s listed.”

And he banged the receiver down in my ear.