The Moving Target

23

The sun was over the mountains when I reached Santa Teresa. It put an edge on everything, each leaf and stone and blade of grass. From the canyon road the Sampson house looked like a toy villa built of sugar cubes. Closer up I could feel its massive silence, which dominated the place when I stopped the car. I had to unwire the ignition to cut the motor.

Felix came to the service entrance when I knocked. “Mr. Archer?”

“Is there any doubt about it?”

“You were in an accident, Mr. Archer?”

“Apparently. Is my bag still in the storeroom?” I had fresh clothes in it, and a duplicate set of car keys.

“Yes, sir. There are contusions on your face, Mr. Archer. Should I call a doctor?”

“Don’t bother. I could do with a shower, though, if there’s one handy.”

“Yes, sir. I have a shower over the garage.”

He led me to his quarters and brought my bag. I showered and shaved in the dinky bathroom, and changed my sea-sodden clothes. It was all I could do not to stretch out on the unmade bed in his neat little cell of a room and let the case go hang.

When I returned to the kitchen he was setting a tray with a silver breakfast set. “Do you want something to eat, sir?”

“Bacon and eggs, if possible.”

He bobbed his round head. “So soon as I have finished with this, sir.”

“Who’s the tray for?”

“Miss Sampson, sir.”

“So early?”

“She will breakfast in her room.”

“Is she all right?”

“I do not know, sir. She had a very little sleep. It was past midnight when she came home.”

“From where?”

“I do not know, sir. She left at the same time as you and Mr. Graves.”

“Driving herself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What car?”

“The Packard convertible.”

“Let’s see, that’s the cream one, isn’t it?”

“No, sir. It is red. Bright scarlet. She drove over two hundred miles in the time she was gone.”

“You keep a pretty close watch on the family, don’t you, Felix?”

He smiled blandly. “It is one of my duties to check the cars for gas and oil, sir, since we have no regular chauffeur.”

“But you don’t like Miss Sampson very well?”

“I am devoted to her, sir.” His opaque black eyes were their own mask.

“Do they give you a rough time, Felix?”

“No, sir. But my family is well known on Samar. I have come to the United States to attend the California Polytechnic College when I am able to do this. I resent Mr. Graves’s assumption that I am suspect because of the color of my skin. The gardeners also resent it for themselves.”

“You’re talking about last night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think he meant it that way.”

Felix smiled blandly.

“Is Mr. Graves here now?”

“No, sir. He is at the sheriff’s office, I think. If you will excuse me, sir?” He hoisted the tray to his shoulder.

“You know the number? And do you have to say ‘sir’ every second word?”

“No, sir,” he said with mild irony. “23665.”

I dialed the number from the butler’s pantry and asked for Graves. A sleepy deputy called him.

“Graves speaking.” His voice was hoarse and tired.

“This is Archer.”

“Where in God’s name have you been?”

“I’ll tell you later. Any trace of Sampson?”

“Not yet, but we’ve made some progress. I’m working with a major case squad from the F. B. I. We wired the classification of the dead man’s prints to Washington, and we got an answer about an hour ago. He’s in the F. B. I, files with a long record. Name’s Eddie Lassiter.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I eat. I’m at the Sampson place.”

“Perhaps you’d better not.” He lowered his voice. “The sheriff’s peeved at you for running out last night. I’ll come there.” He hung up, and I opened the door to the kitchen.

Bacon was making cheerful noises in a pan. Felix transferred it to a warming-dish, inserted bread in the toaster beside the stove, broke the eggs in the hot grease, poured me a cup of coffee from a steaming Silex maker.

I sat down at the kitchen table and gulped the scalding coffee. “Are all the phones in the house on the same line?”

“No, sir. The phones in the front of the house are on a different line from the servants’ phones. Do you wish your eggs turned over, Mr. Archer?”

“I’ll take them the way they are. Which ones are connected with the phone in the pantry?”

“The one in the linen closet and the one in the guest cottage above the house. Mr. Taggert’s cottage.”

Between mouthfuls I asked him: “Is Mr. Taggert there now?”

“I do not know, sir. I think I heard him drive in during the night.”

“Go and make sure, will you?”

“Yes, sir.” He left the kitchen by the back door.

A car drove up a minute later, and Graves came in. He had lost some of his momentum, but he still moved quickly. His eyes were red-rimmed.

“You look like hell, Lew.”

“I just came from there. Did you bring the dope on Lassiter?”

“Yeah.”

He took a teletype flimsy out of his inside pocket and handed it to me. My eye skipped down the closely printed sheet.

Those were the high points in Eddie’s record, the dots in the dotted line that marked his course from a delinquent childhood to a violent death. Now it was just as if he had never been born.

Felix said at my shoulder: “Mr. Taggert is in his cottage, sir.”

“Is he up?”

“Yes, he is dressing.”

“How about some breakfast?” Graves said.

“Yes, sir.”

Graves turned to me. “Is there anything useful in it?”

“Just one thing, and it isn’t nailed down. Lassiter had a sister named Betty who was arrested with him on a narcotics charge. There’s a woman named Betty in Los Angeles with narcotics in her record, a pianist in Troy’s clipjoint. She calls herself Betty Fraley.”

“Betty Fraley!” Felix said from the stove.

“This doesn’t concern you,” Graves told him unpleasantly.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “What about Betty Fraley, Felix? Do you know her?”

“I do not know her, no, but I have seen her records, in Mr. Taggert’s cottage. I have noticed the name when I dusted there.”

“Are you telling the truth?” Graves said.

“Why should I lie, sir?”

“Well see what Taggert has to say about that.” Graves got to his feet.

“Wait a minute, Bert.” I put my hand on his arm, which was hard with tension. “Bulldozing won’t get us anywhere. Even if Taggert has the woman’s records, it doesn’t have to mean anything. We’re not even certain she’s Lassiter’s sister. And maybe he’s a collector.”

“He has quite a large collection,” Felix said.

Graves was stubborn. “I think we should take a look at ft.”

“Not now. Taggert may be as guilty as hell, but we won’t get Sampson back by being blunt about it. Wait until Taggert isn’t there. Then I’ll look over his records.”

Graves let me pull him back into his seat. He stroked his closed eyelids with his fingertips. “This case is the wildest mess I’ve ever seen or heard of,” he said.

“It is.” Graves only knew the half of it. “Is the general alarm out for Sampson?”

He opened his eyes. “Since ten o’clock last night. We’ve alerted the highway patrol and the F. B. I., and every police department and county sheriff between here and San Diego.”

“You’d better get on the phone,” I said, “and put out another state-wide alarm. This time for Betty Fraley. Take in the whole Southwest.”

He smiled ironically, with his heavy jaw thrust out. “Doesn’t that fall under the category of bluntness?”

“In this case I think it’s necessary. If we don’t get to Betty fast there’ll be somebody there ahead of us. Dwight Troy is gunning for her.”

He gave me a curious look. “Where do you get your information, Lew?”

“I got that the hard way. I talked to Troy himself last night.”

“He is mixed up in this, then?”

“He is now. I think he wants the hundred grand for himself, and I think he knows who has it.”

“Betty Fraley?” He took a notebook out of his pocket.

“That’s my guess. Black hair, green eyes, regular features, five foot two or three, between twenty-five and thirty, probable cocaine addict, thin but well stacked, and pretty if you like to play with reptiles. Wanted on suspicion of the murder of Eddie Lassiter.”

He glanced up sharply from his writing. “Is that another guess, Lew?”

“Call it that. Will you put it on the wires?”

“Right away.” He started across the room to the butler’s pantry.

“Not that phone, Bert. It’s connected with the one in Taggert’s cottage.”

He stopped and turned to me with a shadow of grief on his face. “You seem pretty sure that Taggert’s our man.”

“Would it break your heart if he was?”

“Not mine,” he said, and turned away. “I’ll use the phone in the study.”