The New Black Mask (No 4)

Edward D. Hoch was born in Rochester, New York, in 1930 and resides there now. A former advertising executive, he sold his first story in 1955. Since then he has published more than seven hundred short stories as well as novels. A former president of the Mystery Writers of America, he was awarded an Edgar for “The Oblong Room.”

Mr. Hoch comments that “this story is probably my favorite of the thirteen stories I’ve written about private eye Al Darlan. I wrote it in 1981 for a contest sponsored by the Third International Congress of Crime Writers in Stockholm, Sweden... Although it didn’t win one of the three top prizes, it was the first of the runner-up winners to be named.” “The Other Eye” was published in a British collection, but this marks its first American publication.

The day started poorly with the arrival of the morning mail. The only first-class letter was a reminder from my landlord that the office rent was overdue. I was wondering what to do about it when Mike Trapper walked through the partly open doorway.

“Pardon me, are you Al Darlan?”

He was tall and blond and young — young enough to be my son. “That’s me,” I admitted. “Al Darlan Investigations, just like the sign says. What can I do for you?”

“I’m looking for a job. I want to learn the private detective business.”

“Afraid I’m not taking on any help this week, kid.”

He sat down without being asked, and slipped off his sports jacket. The office was muggy with late July heat. “Look, I’m just out of college, and I’ve got a little money saved up. I don’t want a job. I’m looking for a small business I can buy into.”

“Buy into?” I frowned and thought of the letter from my landlord. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Mike Trapper.” He stuck out his hand and I shook it. “I’ve had four years at Cornell, including a lot of pre-law courses. I was going to enter law school like my dad, but I decided I couldn’t take another couple years of classes and books. I’m twenty-two and I want to get started with my life.”

“What makes you think you want to be a private investigator?”

“I figure it’s the closest thing to the law. You do a lot of work for lawyers, don’t you?”

“Occasionally,” I admitted. “But there’s nothing glamorous about this work. If you’ve been stuffing your head with books about California private eyes, let me tell you—”

“I know.”

“It’s not even messy divorce cases anymore. Nobody needs a private detective to win a divorce case in this state. It’s staking out department stores to catch some employee going out the back door with a camera or a couple of shirts. It’s chasing after some kid who’s been kidnapped by its father after the mother won custody in a divorce case. It’s maybe even doing an illegal telephone tap for some guy who doesn’t trust his business partner.”

“I know,” he repeated.

“And you still want to do it?”

“Sure.”

“I’ve got a small operation here.”

“That’s why I picked it. I can’t afford to start big.”

“There’s not even a secretary right now. I had to let her go.”

“How much would it cost me to buy in for, say, a third of the business?”

“I’d have to think about that. I can’t rush into this.”

“Ten thousand is all the money I could afford to invest.”

“Where’d a college kid manage to save ten thousand?”

“Here and there. My dad said he’d stake me to part of it.”

I sighed and scratched my head. “Look, Mike, I’ve got to level with you. There’s not even enough business here to keep one person busy. The one-man private agency is a thing of the past. I outlived my profession. Go down to one of the big outfits and start out working on insurance cases. They always need smart young kids like you.”

“I don’t want that, Mr. Darlan. I want a place like this.”

“There’s no liquor in the desk drawer. And I keep my gun in that big iron safe most of the time. I just turned fifty years old—”

“Ten thousand dollars, Mr. Darlan. Will it buy me a third of the business?”

I looked over at the dirty window and the dusty bookshelves and wondered what the hell I was letting myself in for. Was I just going to pull this kid into bankruptcy with me?

“Maybe a quarter of the business,” I said quietly.

And so it happened.

A week later he moved in, and I had a sign painter change the lettering on the door to read Darlan & Trapper, Investigations.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, seeing it for the first time.

“Not bad,” I admitted. “I used some of your money to spruce up the office a bit, and to get you a good used desk. And I took out a small announcement ad on the business page of the morning newspaper. That might bring us in something.”

He looked over the desk and tried the chair. “I guess I’ll need a typewriter too, for letters and reports.”

I was about to suggest he could use mine, but that didn’t seem right on his first day. “I’ll rent you one for a month, till we can find a good one to buy.”

“Swell.”

“Your dad coming by to see the office?” I asked casually.

“Uh, no — not right away. He wanted to, but I thought he should wait awhile till we get settled.”

“That’s probably best,” I agreed.

I set to work on the telephone trying to drum up business then, because I couldn’t have the two of us sitting around doing nothing all day. I got lucky on the third phone call, to one of the big agencies. Some of their people were on vacation, and they were farming out a few routine insurance jobs. I told them my new partner Mike Trapper would be right over.

He was gone all afternoon and hadn’t returned by the time I locked up the office a little before six. At the bar around the corner where I often stopped for a drink, I ran into Sergeant O’Keefe from Headquarters. We’d been casual friends for years, and as he slipped on to the stool next to me he said, “I hear you got yourself a partner, Al.”

“Yeah, kid just out of college. Wants to learn the business. I was down yesterday and got him a license.”

“Who in hell’d want to be a private eye these days? Does he think he’ll get rich?”

“Family’s got money. Maybe the pay doesn’t matter to him.”

“What’s his name?”

I took a sip of Scotch. “Mike Trapper. You’ll probably see a request for a gun permit come through for him.”

O’Keefe patted my shoulder. “Hell, Al, maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe it’s like having a son to carry on the business.”

“Yeah.”

The next morning I had to wind up some business on a shoplifting case. After that, on my way down to the office, I stopped by a gun shop and picked out a five-shot Smith & Wesson caliber .38 Terrier. I told the clerk to put it aside, that we’d be in with the permit in a day or two. I figured if the kid invested ten grand in my business I could afford to buy him his first gun.

When I reached the office I was surprised to see the door standing open. Mike Trapper was inside at his desk, over in the opposite corner from mine. But he wasn’t alone. A tall white-haired man occupied the visitor’s chair. Mike jumped up as I entered.

“Al, we have a client! This is Craig Winton; Al Darlan. I met Mr. Winton over at the insurance office, He has a perplexing problem and he thinks we can help him.”

Craig Winton’s handshake was firm, and his eyes reflected a shrewd intelligence I’d often noticed in successful middle-aged businessmen. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Darlan. Your young partner here impressed me at the office this morning. I decided your firm might be able to help me with an annoying situation.” He glanced around at the big single room as he spoke, and I feared for a moment that the kid had oversold us.

“We’re hoping to move to larger quarters soon,” I explained. “My secretary is on vacation, but when she returns we’ll be moving to a suite of offices on the fifth floor.”

His cool eyes studied me and he smiled slightly. “I chose your agency because I wanted a small outfit. Our insurance firm deals routinely with the larger agencies in fraud investigations. I know those people, and I don’t want them involved in my personal affairs. It wouldn’t be good for our future business relation-ship.”

“I understand completely,” I said. “What’s the nature of your problem, Mr. Winton?”

“I explained it to Mike on the way over. Someone seems to be impersonating me. It started about three months ago when I flew to Las Vegas for a convention. The clerk at the hotel insisted I’d arrived a day earlier, stayed one night, and then checked out that morning. I considered it a foolish mix-up, and didn’t think too much about it. But a month later there was a similar occurrence. This imposter or double actually showed up at a meeting where I was to speak. Several people saw him, but he disappeared just before the time of my arrival.”

“Have you reported this to the police?” I asked.

“There’s been nothing to report. The imposter has committed no crime, and in fact has shown no attempt to harm me in any way. And yet—”

“There must have been more recent instances,” I said. “The last one you mentioned was two months ago. What caused you to act now?”

“I suppose it’s that the appearances of this phantom double are becoming more personal all the time. Last month, while I was out of the office for lunch, he actually walked past my secretary, entered my private office, and remained there for five minutes. When I returned from lunch she asked me what I’d come back for. Believe me, I was prepared to call the police that time! But nothing on my desk had been disturbed, nothing was missing.”

“What did you tell your secretary?”

“I insisted it hadn’t been me. She dropped the subject, probably thinking I’d had too many luncheon martinis.”

“And the latest appearance?”

Craig Winton gave me another of his tired smiles. “Yes, there was one just yesterday. You may have guessed that’s why I’m acting today. My wife saw him in our garage yesterday morning, after I’d left for the office. She thought it was me.”

“Did he speak to her?”

“Yes. He muttered something about forgetting his briefcase. Then he left before she could get a good look at him. She phoned me later at the office and asked if I was all right.”

“And you told her about this double?”

“I told her the whole story last night for the first time. She insisted I go to the police with it. We finally compromised, and I agreed to hire a private detective.”

Mike Trapper shook his head. “Weird, isn’t it, Al?”

“Strange,” I agreed. “And just a bit menacing. You’re aware of the pattern in all this, of course.”

“Pattern?” the kid asked, but Craig Winton gave a little nod. He knew what I meant.

“Yes. The first time he appeared, the double was seen only by a hotel clerk who didn’t know me. The second time he was seen by some casual business associates who knew me slightly. The third time my secretary saw him. And the fourth time my wife saw him.”

“It’s leading up to the grand finale,” I said. “The next time you’ll see him.”

“I read a story in college about a doppelganger,” Mike said. “That’s German for a sort of ghostly double. When someone sees his own doppelganger it’s supposed to kill him.”

I picked up a pad and started making some notes. “Do you have a weak heart, Mr. Winton?”

He shook his head. “Strong as an ox. I have a checkup every year.”

“So we can assume no one’s trying to scare you to death. What about a twin? Do you have any brothers?”

“Only a sister living out west. You can be sure there’s no secret twin hiding someplace.”

I turned to the kid. “You want to work on this, Mike?”

“I sure do!”

“All right.” I pulled a figure out of the air and told Winton how much we charged per day, plus expenses. He didn’t bat an eye, and I wished I’d made it higher. “I want you to give Mike here a schedule of everything you’ll be doing for the next week. Every business meeting, every luncheon or dinner engagement, even social events with your wife. Mike’s going to be one step ahead of you, and sometimes one step behind you. Meanwhile, I’ll do some investigating on my own.”

Craig Winton got to his feet and shook hands once more. “I believe I’m in competent hands. You’ve taken a load off my mind already.”

“We’ll want to speak with Mrs. Winton, and possibly with your secretary as well.”

“Go right ahead.”

After he’d gone, Mike Trapper was beaming with pleasure. “I got us a client, Al! The first real client for Darlan and Trapper!”

“That was good work. I couldn’t have done better myself.” I meant it, yet I was puzzled as to why a man like Winton would have chosen a kid he’d never met before. I’d listened to his explanation about wanting a small agency and it made sense. And yet—

“You don’t really think it’s a ghost, do you? A doppelganger sort of thing?”

“I stopped believing in ghosts a long time ago. For one thing, they’ve got no money to pay my bills.”

In the morning we drove out to the suburbs and visited Rina Winton. Somehow I wasn’t surprised when she turned out to be a curly-haired blond at least twenty years younger than her husband. Divorce and remarriage to a younger woman seemed to go with success in the executive suite these days.

“What can you tell us about this man who impersonated your husband, Mrs. Winton?”

Though I asked the question, her eyes were all over Mike, like she was undressing him while we talked. “Frankly, Mr. Darlan, I don’t know what to think. We only have one car right now and we’re not planning to get a second one till fall, so I’m pretty much tied down to the house when Craig is at work. The other morning after Craig drove off to the office I heard a noise in the garage. I went out there and saw someone I thought was Craig.”

“Did he speak to you?”

“He muttered something about forgetting his briefcase and then went out again. But our car wasn’t in the driveway. He simply walked down the road. I phoned his office later and he said it wasn’t him. You know the rest. I insisted he hire a detective.”

“Was Craig married before?”

“Yes. He was divorced five years ago.”

“Any chance his first wife bears a grudge?”

“Why should she? He certainly made a generous settlement!”

“Is she here in the city?”

“No, she moved to Arizona after the divorce. There were no children.” Her eyes kept shifting to Mike, and she asked him, “Don’t you have any questions for me?”

He blushed and said, “Al is handling it pretty well.”

As she saw us to the door she asked, “Is my husband in danger?”

“Possibly. We’re checking out every angle.”

We left her standing in the doorway of the fashionable ranch home and drove back to the city. “She seems quite nice,” Mike commented.

“Watch yourself, kid. That kind could eat you alive.”

“I just meant—”

“I know. Look, I’ve got a surprise for you on the way back.”

“What sort of surprise?”

“You’ll see.”

I took him to the gun shop and produced the permit he’d signed for the police. The clerk handed over the .38 Terrier and I thought Mike’s eyes would pop out of his head. “This is mine?” he asked.

“Yeah. A little gift. Do you want a shoulder or belt holster for it?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“A belt holster’s a lot cooler in the summer.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I’ve arranged with Sergeant O’Keefe for you to use the police pistol range for practice.”

As we left the gun shop he said, “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

“Not bad. I’ll tell you better when we see what happens with the Winton case.”

Later that afternoon I took him to the bar around the corner for a drink. “You ever been married, Al?” he asked me.

“Yeah, when I was a kid about your age.”

“What happened?”

I shrugged. “Nothing. I guess kids today are smarter to live together. One day we just decided to call it quits.”

“Have you got any family?”

“Parents are both dead. I’ve got a sister who sends me Christmas cards.”

“Isn’t it sort of lonely? Didn’t you ever want to get married again?”

“Sure, kid.” I gave him a smile. “Maybe I will some day.”

“What about the Winton case? What should I do?”

I pulled out a copy of Craig Winton’s schedule. “Cover him like we discussed. Look for anyone who resembles him and is dressed like him. Meanwhile I’ll go talk to his secretary.”

I did that the next day but I didn’t learn much. Winton was a middle-level executive with the insurance company and she was a middle-level secretary. Her name was Milly Scorese and she was a fortyish redhead, a bit overweight. When I mentioned it, she remembered the month-old incident. “Oh, yes. Mr. Winton seemed quite disturbed by it.”

“Did the man speak to you at all?”

“No. He entered through that private door and went right into Mr. Winton’s office.”

“So no one else saw him?”

“No.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Well,” she admitted, “more at his clothes than at him. He went by my desk so fast I just got a glimpse of the pink sports jacket Mr. Winton was wearing that day. But I certainly thought it was him. When he left a few minutes later it looked like him from the rear. But he didn’t speak.”

I gave her a smile. “Thanks, Milly. Look, here’s my card. If anything unusual like that happens again, call me right away.”

“I’ll help any way I can. Mr. Winton told me to cooperate.”

On my way out of the office I thought I saw Winton ahead of me, getting on the elevator. I hurried to catch up, but it wasn’t him. I decided there were a lot of tall white-haired men in the business world.

The case dragged on for a couple of weeks without noticeable progress. I saw Mike Trapper only during the hours when Winton was safely in his office with no plans to leave. The rest of the time Mike was watching the Winton home, or shadowing him at business meetings. Once, when Winton flew to New York, the kid went ahead on an earlier flight and was at the airport to pick up the trail when our client landed.

But there was no sign of the double.

“Maybe only Winton can see him,” Mike speculated one evening after he’d trailed him home.

“You’re back to your doppelgangers again.”

“I just like to consider all the possibilities.” He had a sudden thought. “Hey, my dad’s in town tonight and I’m meeting him for a late dinner. Come along with us! I know he’s been wanting to meet you.”

“Well, it’s sort of short notice,” I replied.

“Come on! He’ll love it!”

James Trapper was a stout friendly man who wore thick glasses and a checked vest. “I never imagined Mike would end up the partner in a detective agency,” he admitted. “How’s he doing, Mr. Darlan?”

“He’s learning.”

“Had any good murder cases yet?”

I laughed. “I haven’t had a case involving murder in four years. They don’t come along every week, despite what you see on TV.”

Dinner was pleasant, and somehow they made me feel like part of the family. It was a good feeling. At one point James Trapper said, “Mike’s always had an eye for the ladies. You’ve probably noticed that already.”

“I’ve noticed they have an eye for him,” I said, remembering our client’s wife. “But I keep him pretty busy.”

As we were leaving the restaurant Mike asked me, “How long we going to keep on with this Winton case?”

“As long as he pays us. Speaking of Winton, I have an appointment to meet with one of the vice-presidents at his insurance company tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know if I learn anything. What’s Winton’s schedule?”

“Routine during the day, but he has a Civic Club meeting in the evening, out at the Expressway Motel.”

I nodded. “I’ll check with you tomorrow. It’s been better than two weeks. The double might be getting ready to show himself again.”

James Trapper shook my hand at the car. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Darlan.”

“Please call me Al.”

“I know my son is in good hands, Al.”

“I hope so.”

The next morning I met with Isaac Rath in the executive suite of Winton’s company. He was a balding man in his sixties, with brown spots on the backs of his hands. He frowned at me and said, “I don’t quite understand the reason for this meeting, Mr. Darlan.”

“Craig Winton has hired me about a personal matter. I’d be interested in anything you could tell me about him.”

Isaac Rath touched the tips of his fingers together. “Craig is one of the finest executives. He runs our investments division and has full authority over a good share of company funds.”

“I know that much already. I guess what I’m getting at is this. Would it be possible for someone impersonating Winton to get his hands on any large amount of company money?”

“Impersonating—? I don’t understand.”

I tried to make it simple. “Could Craig Winton, or someone pretending to be Craig Winton, steal any money from this company?”

“Well, of course! He could divert investments into phoney accounts. He could—”

“Thank you, Mr. Rath. That’s all I wanted to know.”

I went back to the office and waited for the kid to call in. I waited all afternoon and never heard from him. Finally I went home to my apartment, hoping nothing was wrong. It was after dark, around ten o’clock, when the phone finally rang.

“Al?”

“Mike! Where in hell are you?”

“At the Expressway Motel.” His voice sounded awful. “Al, could you get out here fast? Craig Winton’s dead. Somebody shot him in the parking lot.”

“OK, kid. Are the cops there?”

“I just called them.”

“I’ll be along.”

I had to drive through downtown anyway, so I went up to the office for just a minute. I got my revolver out of the old iron safe.

A ring of police cars had their spotlights trained on the body as I walked up. The police photographer was snapping pictures and Sergeant O’Keefe was standing off to one side. I got near enough to see that Winton had been shot at least once in the center of the chest. Then I went over to O’Keefe.

“That was your client?” he asked, looking up from his notebook. “His wife’s driving down to make an official identification.”

“Yeah. Where’s the kid?”

“Trapper? Inside with one of my boys. His story is that he was waiting in his car for Winton to leave the meeting. Apparently Winton decided to leave early, before the meeting broke up. Trapper didn’t see him, but he heard a shot. He found Winton dead between a couple of parked cars, with no one else around.”

“I want to see him,” I said. “Now.”

O’Keefe led me into the motel. Mike was seated in a corner of the lobby with one of the detectives. He looked terrible. O’Keefe motioned his man away and let me have a few words alone with the kid.

“Look,” I said, “first of all, it’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.”

He looked like he was going to cry. “I bungled it, Al. And now he’s dead!”

“Tell me everything that happened, right from the beginning. When’s the last time you saw him alive?”

“When he drove his car up to the motel and went inside.”

“How come you didn’t check in with me this afternoon?”

He looked edgy. “I was out at Winton’s house for a while, seeing if his wife had any new information.”

“All right,” I said with a sigh. “What happened tonight?”

“I scouted the area before Winton drove up. There was no sign of a double or anything else out of whack. He parked the car and went into his meeting. I already knew it wouldn’t be over till ten o’clock so I sat in the car playing the radio. Once the meeting started I didn’t notice anyone else in the parking lot at all. Winton had gone in the motel’s front entrance and I figured he’d come out the same way. But he came out the side door instead. The first thing I knew, I heard a shot. I got out of the car and ran over and found him lying out there between the cars.”

“There was no sign of anyone else?”

He shook his head. “I called the police, and then I phoned you. I didn’t know what to do.”

I had an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Kid,” I said quietly, “let me have your gun.”

“What?”

“If you didn’t see Winton before he was shot, how’d you know he came out the side door?”

“I—”

“Come on, give me your gun.”

He froze then, staring at me with that terrible expression on his face, and I wondered what I would do if he resisted. My fingers were only inches from my gun, but I knew I couldn’t shoot him any more than I could have shot my own son.

His shoulders slumped and he pulled the revolver from its belt holster. I took it and opened the cylinder. All five chambers were loaded but I could catch the unmistakable scent of gunpowder in the barrel. It had been fired recently. “You killed him, didn’t you, kid?” He couldn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah,” he said huskily, close to tears. “I killed him.”

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Was it that wife of his, Mike?”

He raised his head then. “Is that what you think? She had nothing to do with it! I was watching for the double and Winton came out the wrong door, a half hour early. I called to him and he acted funny, started going the other way. When I went after him he pulled out something that looked like a gun. I panicked and shot him.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police that?”

“Because I was scared when I saw that I’d killed the real Winton. The police didn’t find any weapon by the body and I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Don’t you realize that?”

I realized it. I realized I’d have to phone his dad and tell him what had happened. He’d been too fast to pull a trigger, and we were both going to pay for it.

I walked over and handed the gun to O’Keefe. “Here’s your murder weapon,” I said. “The kid’s ready to tell the truth now. For God’s sake, go easy on him.”

I didn’t go home that night. Instead I went back to the office and sat in my swivel chair staring out at the city. I wanted to go down to Headquarters just to be near him, but I knew there was nothing I could do for him now. After a long time I fell asleep in my chair, and when I woke up it was morning.

I drove through the streets only beginning to come awake, not knowing at first just where I was headed. I passed out of downtown, away from the jail where they’d be holding Mike until his dad came up with the bail money. I just drove.

After a while it came to me where I was headed. Maybe I’d known all along. The suburban traffic was all headed into the city as the morning rush hour began, and I made good time going against the stream. It was just eight o’clock when I pulled into the driveway of the Winton ranch home. Craig Winton’s car was in the garage.

It took me five minutes of ringing the doorbell before she’d answer. When she finally came she was wearing a rumpled T-shirt and faded jeans, looking like she was dead instead of her husband.

“God, what is it? What do you want? Haven’t you done enough to us already?”

“I’d like to come in, Mrs. Winton. It’s very important.”

She seemed ready to bar my way, but finally she stepped aside. “You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, passing a hand over her eyes. “I took a sleeping pill and I just woke up.”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your husband.”

“Is it true that Mike Trapper killed him?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He was just here yesterday asking more questions. He was really trying to help us. How could he have killed Craig?”

“I drove out here to ask the same question.” I’d followed her into the kitchen and taken a chair across the table from her.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“That would be fine.” She rose to make it and I continued, “Your husband’s death still leaves the problem of the double unresolved.”

“It hardly matters now. Just send me your bill.”

“It’s not as simple as that.”

“Why not?”

“There wasn’t any double, was there, Mrs. Winton? It was Craig Winton all the time.”

She turned from the coffee percolator. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It was a scheme of Craig’s to embezzle money from his company, and a clever scheme at that. He created a double who made a few appearances. He even hired a two-bit private detective agency to find the double. Last night was to be a key element of his plan. Mike Trapper would testify to having seen the double. He’d know it wasn’t our client because the double would run from him and even draw a gun. Unfortunately for Craig Winton, he didn’t know that a nervous kid like Mike, investigating his first case, would shoot and kill him.”

“That’s guesswork.” She poured two cups of coffee.

“Not entirely,” I said. “Craig’s secretary, Milly, told me the double didn’t speak to her. At first this made sense but then I remembered the supposed double had spoken to you in the garage here. If his voice could fool you it could certainly fool his secretary. Yet he hurried in and out of the office, giving Milly only a glimpse. It didn’t sound like a true impersonation to me. It sounded like someone trying to fake an impersonation. The same goes for the two earlier events. Craig made a fuss at the hotel and at the meeting just so the incidents would be remembered.”

“It still could have been a double.”

“Then consider this. That day at the office Milly saw the supposed double wearing a pink sports jacket like Craig’s. And obviously he was wearing the same clothes as Craig that day in the garage. Duplicating those clothes — the correct clothes for each day — would be next to impossible, unless you believe in the supernatural. Either the double had prior knowledge of each day’s costume, or there was no double. Either way Craig had to be involved in the plot.”

“I don’t know a thing about that,” she insisted.

“I believe you do, Mrs. Winton. You were there last night when Mike shot your husband in the parking lot.”

“What? That’s insane!”

“Is it? The first time I spoke to you I learned the two of you had only one car, and didn’t plan to buy another one till fall. Mike saw Winton drive up to the motel in that car last night, yet the police made no mention of the car later. O’Keefe even told me you were driving over to identify* the body. And the car is sitting in your garage right now. How did it get from the motel parking lot back to this house before the police called, unless you were there to drive it back?”

“I—”

“Mike said he saw a gun in Winton’s hand, yet by the time the police arrived there was no sign of one. That’s one reason the kid tried to lie about the shooting. I think you saw it all from nearby. When Mike ran into the motel to phone the police and me, you hurried over to the body, picked up the gun, and drove the car home. You didn’t want the police finding the gun and guessing this double business had been part of an embezzlement scheme. And you had to take the car because you couldn’t risk a cab driver identifying you later. And you had to be home before the police called.”

“All right,” she said quietly. The fight had gone out of her.

“You admit you took the gun?”

“It was only a starter’s pistol. Craig wasn’t going to harm anyone. He simply wanted your partner’s testimony that a double existed. He’d been manipulating his company’s money for years, ever since that big divorce settlement took all his cash. He tried to create a double who could be blamed for unauthorized bank withdrawals and other shady business. It was a farfetched scheme, but it would have been enough to raise a reasonable doubt in any jury’s mind.”

“What about the car?”

“I took a cab to the motel hours earlier for just that purpose. After Mike saw him Craig planned to jump in a cab and get away. While Mike was chasing him I was to drive the car home, as if Craig had come out of his meeting and left with it. When Mike returned to the lot and found Craig’s car gone, it would be extra proof there must be two Craig Wintons.”

I finished my coffee. “Mike’s in jail and you’re the only one who can get him out. I want you to come with me and tell all this to the police.”

“Is he that important to you?”

“I guess he is. I want him out.”

Our eyes met for just an instant. She may have been trying to tell me something, to offer me something, but we both knew it was useless.

She picked up her purse and I followed her out to the car.