The Night Remembers

32

Irma Ozmanski said, “You going over to Big Boy?”

“I hadn’t thought of it. Why, would you like something?”

“Well, I don’t want you to make a special trip.”

“I suppose I could do with a donut.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. What would you like, Irma?”

But before she gave her order, she wanted some praise for what she’d done to the office. I didn’t blame her. After she’d pushed furniture around, dusted, hung bright new drapes, and lugged out maybe two dozen cardboard boxes with files we neither needed nor wanted, the office looked as good as Don and I always said it should.

She said, “I know I kinda get people down.”

“Nonsense, Irma.”

“I can be pretty pushy.”

“You?”

“No sense you being nice, Walsh. You know what I’m like and I know what I’m like.” Her pudgy hand swept the office. “But this is the only home I’ve got left so— So I just want you to know I’m gonna shape up. You understand?”

“I understand.”

“And I hope that someday you even let me help you out on a case. When you’re married to a cop as long as I was, you just naturally pick things up.”

“Right.”

“So anytime you want me to do anything more than just sort of be a secretary, you let me know, all right?”

“All right.”

“I won’t put any pressure on you.”

“Right.”

“It’ll be up to you. When I start being your assistant.”

“Right.”

“Glazed would be great. Two of them.”

“Glazed. Got it.”

When I walked back through the door ten minutes later, she was holding the telephone receiver and saying, “There’s a call for you.”

I immediately thought of Faith. “A woman?”

“No. A man.”

“Oh.”

I handed her the sack. Grease had stained the bottom. I took the receiver, wound the cord around the desk, and sat down.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Walsh, my name is Marvin Scribbins. I’m returning your call from yesterday.”

“Oh, yes, thanks for calling back.”

“Quite all right. How may I help you?”

“I’m a private investigator.”

“Yes, that’s what the woman said.”

“I’m doing some background work for a client and I wondered if you could help me with a few things.”

For the first time he sounded slightly hesitant. It meant nothing. People are automatically hesitant about talking to investigators of any kind. They feel that all questions are trick questions and that they will inevitably give the wrong answer.

“I’ll help you if I can.”

I asked him if he knew Conroy.

“No, I don’t believe so. But that name— Wait a minute. Wasn’t he killed last night?”

“Yes.”

“Just what kind of investigation is this, Mr. Walsh?”

“It’s not directly involved with the murder, Mr. Scribbins.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“All right, then. You have another question?”

“You used to own property out on Mount Vernon Road, correct?”

“Right. In fact, I owned two or three different parcels of land out there. Which one did you have in mind?”

“The one where the Drive-Mart is today.”

“Oh. Right. What about it?”

“Somebody tried to buy that land?”

“Yes.”

“Could you give me the name?”

He hesitated. “I guess there’s no reason not to. Jerry Vandersee was his name. Unfortunately for me, the deal fell through. He’d been going to spend a lot of money but then his partner backed out at the last minute.”

“His partner?”

“Yes, it was one of those things where two men put up equal amounts of capital. Only his partner lost interest and found some other investment.”

“Do you remember this partner’s name?”

“I think so. I deal with so many names—”

I waited.

He said, “Heckart.”

I tried to conceal my surprise. “H-e-c-k-a-r-t?”

“Correct.”

“Do you remember his first name?”

“Oh, let’s see; Robert — no; Richard — yes; Richard Heckart.”

Behind him a phone rang.

“You sound like a busy man, Mr. Scribbins.”

“You know how it is when you just get back from a business trip.”

“I’ll let you go.”

“I hope I was some help.”

“A great deal. Thanks, Mr. Scribbins.”

He sounded pleased I wasn’t going to ask him any more questions.

I knew it was too early for Faith to be back. But I called my place anyway. It was like making some sort of inexplicable contact with her. There was no answer. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what she was doing, saying. I felt my control go. On the steering wheel, my fingers trembled.