The Blue Hammer

XVII

I drove downtown and cashed the Biemeyers' check before either of them could cancel it. Leaving my car in the parking lot behind the bank, I walked a block to the newspaper building on the city square. The newsroom, which had been almost deserted in the early morning, was fully alive now. Nearly twenty people were working at typewriters.

Betty saw me and stood up behind her desk. She walked toward me smiling, with her stomach pulled in.

"I want to talk to you," I said.

"I want to talk to _you."_

"I mean seriously."

"So do I mean seriously."

"You look too happy," I said.

"I'm seriously happy."

"I'm not. I have to leave town." I told her why. "There's something you can do for me in my absence."

She said with her wry intense smile, "I was hoping there was something I could do for you in your presence."

"If you're going to make verbal passes, isn't there someplace private where we can talk?"

"Let's try here."

She knocked on a door marked "Managing Editor," and got no answer. We went inside and I kissed her. Not only my temperature rose.

"Hey," she said. "He still likes me."

"But I have to leave town. Fred Johnson is probably in Tucson now."

She tapped me on the chest with her pointed fingers, as if she were typing out a message there. "Take care of yourself. Fred is one of those gentle boys who could turn out to be dangerous."

"He isn't a boy."

"I know that. He's the fair-haired young man at the art museum but he's very unhappy. He unburdened himself to me about his ghastly family life. His father's an unemployable drunk and his mother's in a constant state of eruption. Fred's trying to work his way out of all this, but I think in his quiet way he's pretty desperate. So be careful."

"I can handle Fred."

"I know you can." She put her hands on my upper arms. "Now what do you want me to do?"

"How well do you know Mrs. Chantry?"

"I've known Francine all my life, since I was a small child."

"Are you friends?"

"I think so. I've been useful to her. Last night was embarrassing, though."

"Keep in touch with her, will you? I'd like to have some idea of what she does today and tomorrow."

The suggestion worried her. "May I ask why?"

"You may ask but I can't answer. I don't know why."

"Do you suspect her of doing something wrong?"

"I'm suspicious of everybody."

"Except me, I hope." Her smile was serious and questioning.

"Except thee and me. Will you check on Francine Chantry for me?"

"Of course. I was intending to call her anyway."

I left my car at the Santa Teresa airport and caught a commuter plane to Los Angeles. The next plane to Tucson didn't leave for forty minutes. I had a quick sandwich and a glass of beer, and checked in with my answering service.

Simon Lashman had called me. I had time to call him back.

His voice on the line sounded still older and more reluctant than it had that morning. I told him who and where I was, and thanked him for calling.

"Don't mention it," he said dryly. "I'm not going to apologize for my show of impatience. It's more than justified. The girl's father once did me a serious disservice, and I'm not a forgiving man. Like father, like daughter."

"I'm not working for Biemeyer."

"I thought you were," he said.

"I'm working for his wife. She's very much concerned about her daughter."

"She has a right to be. The girl acts as if she's on drugs."

"You've seen her, then?"

"Yes. She was here with Fred Johnson."

"May I come and talk to you later this afternoon?"

"I thought you said you were in Los Angeles."

"I'm catching a flight to Tucson in a few minutes."

"Good. I prefer not to discuss these things on the telephone. When I was painting in Taos, I didn't even have a telephone on the place. Those were the happiest days of my life." He pulled himself up short: "I'm maundering. I detest old men who maunder. I'll say goodbye."