The Galton Case

Chapter 11

THE SHERIFF’S SUBSTATION was a stucco shoebox of a building across the street from a sad-looking country hotel. Bolling said he would stay in the car, on the grounds that skeletons frightened him:

“It even horrifies me to think that I contain one. Unlike Webster in Mr. Eliot’s poem, I like to remain oblivious to the skull beneath the skin.”

I never knew whether Bolling was kidding me.

Deputy Mungan was a very large man, half a head taller than I was, with a face like unfinished sculpture. I gave him my name and occupation, and Dineen’s note of introduction. When he’d read it, he reached across the counter that divided his little office, and broke all the bones in my hand:

“Any friend of Doc Dineen’s is a friend of mine. Come on in around behind and tell me your business.”

I went on in around behind and sat in the chair he placed for me at the end of his desk:

“It has to do with some bones that were found out in the Marvista tract. I understand you’ve made a tentative identification.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that. Doc Dineen thinks it was a man he knew – fellow by the name of John Brown. It fits in with the location of the body, all right. But we haven’t been able to nail it down. The trouble is, no such man was ever reported missing in these parts. We haven’t been able to turn up any local antecedents. Naturally we’re still working on it.”

Mungan’s broad face was serious. He talked like a trained cop, and his eyes were sharp as tacks. I said: “We may be able to help each other to clarify the issue.”

“Any help you can give me will be welcome. This has been dragging on for five months now, more like six.” He threw out a quick hooked question: “You represent his family, maybe?”

“I represent a family. They asked me not to use their name. And there’s still a question whether they are the dead man’s family. Was there any physical evidence found with the bones? A watch, or a ring? Shoes? Clothing?”

“Nothing. Not even a stitch of clothing.”

“I suppose it could rot away completely in twenty-two years. What about buttons?”

“No buttons. Our theory is he was buried the way he came into the world.”

“But without a head.”

Mungan nodded gravely. “Doc Dineen filled you in, eh? I’ve been thinking about that head myself. A young fellow came in here a few weeks ago, claimed to be John Brown’s son.”

“Don’t you think he is?”

“He acted like it. He got pretty upset when I showed him the bones. Unfortunately, he didn’t know any more about his father than I do. Which is nil, absolutely nil. We know this John Brown lived out on the old Bluff Road for a couple of months in 1936, and that’s the sum-total of it. On top of that, the boy doesn’t believe these are his father’s bones. And he could just be right. I’ve been doing some thinking, as I said.

“This business about the head, now. We assumed when the body was first turned up, that he was killed by having his head cut off.” Mungan made a snicking sound between tongue and palate, and sheared the air with the edge of his huge hand. “Maybe he was. Or maybe the head was chopped off after death, to remove identification. You know how much we depend on teeth and fillings. Back in the thirties, before we developed our modern lab techniques, teeth and fillings were the main thing we had to go on.

“If my hypothesis is right, the killer was a pro. And that fits in with certain other facts. In the twenties and thirties, the Bluff Road area was a stamping ground for hoods. It was until quite recently, as a matter of fact. In those days it was a real hotbed. A lot of the liquor that kept San Francisco going during Prohibition came in by sea and was tunneled through Luna Bay. They brought in other things than liquor – drugs, for instance, and women from Mexico and Panama. You ever hear of the Red Horse Inn?”

“No.”

“It stood on the coast about a mile south of where we found the skeleton. They tore it down a couple of years ago, after we put the stopper on it. That was a place with a history. It used to be a resort hotel for well-heeled people from the City and the Peninsula. The rum-runners took it over in the twenties. They converted it into a three-way operation: liquor warehouse in the basement, bars and gaming on the first floor, women upstairs. The reason I know so much about it, I had my first drink there back about 1930. And my first woman.”

“You don’t look that old.”

“I was sixteen at the time. I think that’s one of the reasons I went into law enforcement. I wanted to put bastards like Lempi out of circulation. Lempi was the boss hood who ran the place in the twenties. I knew him personally, but the law got to him before I grew up to his size. They got him for income tax in 1932, he died on the Rock a few years later. Some of his guns were sent up at the same time.

“I knew those boys, see, and this is the point I’m coming to. I knew what they were capable of doing. They killed for pay, and they killed because they enjoyed it. They bragged in public that nobody could touch them. It took a federal indictment to cool Lempi. Meantime a number of people lost their lives. Our Mr. Bones could be one of them.”

“But you say Lempi and his boys were cleaned out in ’32. Our man was killed in ’36.”

“We don’t know that. We jumped to that conclusion on the basis of what Doc Dineen said, but we’ve got no concrete evidence to go on. The Doc himself admits that given the chemistry of that particular soil, he can’t pinpoint time of burial closer than five years either way. Mr. Bones could have been knocked off as early as 1931. I say could have.”

“Or as late as 1941?” I said.

“That’s right. You see how little we have to go on.”

“Do I get to take a look at what you have?”

“Why not?”

Mungan went into a back room and returned lugging a metal box about the size of a hope chest. He set it on top of his desk, unlocked it, lifted the lid. Its contents were jumbled like kindling. Only the vertebrae had been articulated with wire, and lay coiled on the heap like the skeleton of a snake. Mungan showed me where the neck bone had been severed by a cutting instrument.

The larger bones had been labeled: left femur, left fibula, and so on. Mungan picked out a heavy bone about a foot long; it was marked “right humerus.”

“This is the bone of the upper arm,” he said in a lecturer’s tone. “Come along on over to the window here. I want to show you something.”

He held the bone to the light. Close to one knobbed end, I made out a dun line filled and surrounded by deposits of calcium.

“A break?” I said.

“I hope in more senses than one. It’s a mended fracture, the only unusual thing in the entire skeleton. Dineen says it was probably set by a trained hand, a doctor. If we could find the doctor that set it, it would answer some of our questions. So if you’ve got any ideas…” Mungan let his voice trail off, but his eyes stayed hard on my face.

“I’ll do some telephoning.”

“You can use my phone.”

“A pay phone would suit me better.”

“If you say so. There’s one across the street, in the hotel.”

I found the telephone booth at the rear of the dingy hotel lobby, and placed a call to Santa Teresa. Sable’s secretary put him on the line.

“Archer speaking, the one-man dragnet,” I said. “I’m in Luna Bay.”

“You’re where?”

“Luna Bay. It’s a small town on the coast south of San Francisco. I have a couple of items for you: a dead man’s bones, and a live boy. Let’s start with the bones.”

“Bones?”

“Bones. They were dug up by accident about six months ago, and they’re in the sheriffs substation here. They’re unidentified, but the chances are better than even that they belong to the man I’m looking for. The chances are also better than even that he was murdered twenty-two years ago.”

The line was silent.

“Did you get that, Sable? He was probably murdered.”

“I heard you. But you say the remains haven’t been identified.”

“That’s where you can help me, if you will. You better write this down. There’s a fracture in the right humerus, close to the elbow. It was evidently set by a doctor. I want you to check on whether Tony Galton ever had a broken right arm. If so, who was the doctor that looked after it? It may have been Howell, in which case there’s no sweat. I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes.”

“Wait. You mentioned a boy. What’s he got to do with all this?”

“That remains to be seen. He thinks he’s the dead man’s son.”

“Tony’s son?”

“Yes, but he isn’t sure about it. He came here from Michigan in the hope of finding out who his father was.”

“Do you think he’s Tony’s son?”

“I wouldn’t bet my life savings on it. I wouldn’t bet against it, either. He bears a strong resemblance to Tony. On the other hand, his story is weak.”

“What story does he tell?”

“It’s pretty long and complicated for the telephone. He was brought up in an orphanage, he says, went to college under an assumed name, came out here a month ago to find out who he really is. I don’t say it couldn’t have happened the way he says, but it needs to be proved out.”

“What kind of a boy is he?”

“Intelligent, well spoken, fairly well mannered. If he’s a con artist, he’s smooth for his age.”

“How old is he?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You work very quickly,” he said.

“I was lucky. What about your end? Has Trask got anything on my car?”

“Yes. It was found abandoned in San Luis Obispo.”

“Wrecked?”

“Out of gas. It’s in perfectly good shape, I saw it myself. Trask has it impounded in the county garage.”

“What about the man who stole it?”

“Nothing definite. He probably took another car in San Luis. One disappeared late yesterday afternoon. Incidentally, Trask tells me that the Jaguar, the murder car, as he calls it, was another stolen car.”

“Who was the owner?”

“I have no idea. The Sheriff is having the engine number traced.”

I hung up, and spent the better part of fifteen minutes thinking about Marian Culligan Matheson and her respectable life in Redwood City which I was going to have to invade again. Then I called Sable back. The line was busy. I tried again in ten minutes, and got him.

“I’ve been talking to Dr. Howell,” he said. “Tony broke his right arm when he was in prep school. Howell didn’t set the break himself, but he knows the doctor who did. In any case, it was a fractured humerus.”

“See if they can turn up the X-ray, will you? They don’t usually keep X-ray pictures this long, but it’s worth trying. It’s the only means I can think of for making a positive identification.”

“What about teeth?”

“Everything above the neck is missing.”

It took Sable a moment to grasp this. Then he said: “Good Lord!” After another pause: “Perhaps I should drop everything and come up there. What do you think?”

“It might be a good idea. It would give you a chance to interview the boy.”

“I believe I’ll do that. Where is he now?”

“Working. He works at a gas station in town. How long will it take you to get here?”

“I’ll be there between eight and nine.”

“Meet me at the sheriffs substation at nine. In the meantime, is it all right if I take the local deputy into my confidence? He’s a good man.”

“I’d just as soon you didn’t.”

“You can’t handle murder without publicity.”

“I’m aware of that,” Sable said acidly. “But then we don’t know for certain that the victim was Tony, do we?”

Before I could give him any further argument, Sable hung up.