The Wycherly Woman

Chapter 13

I went back to San Francisco. It was a high clear January morning, one of those fogless winter days when the gods on Mount Diablo let the city tower in the sun, moated by wide blue water. I left the Skyway and drove down Market to Powell.

I parked under Union Square and bought a soft hat to conceal my bandage and talked a second time to the old dispatcher in the yellow cap. The driver he called Garibaldi hadn’t shown up on his line yet. If he did, the old man promised to hold him for me. I gave him a five-dollar bill to nail it down.

The St. Francis lobby was comparatively deserted. The clerk on duty at the desk had time to look up November’s records for me. Homer Wycherly had taken a two-room suite on November 1, and had paid in advance for a second day when he checked out on November 2. His daughter could have used the suite the night of November 2. The clerk had no way of knowing if she had.

I went back to the telephone booths and made a couple of calls. Willie Mackey was busy with a client for the next hour, but he agreed to meet me for early lunch. Carl Trevor would see me right away.

The offices of the Wycherly Land and Development Company were on the tenth floor of a ten-story stone-faced building south of Market Street. A girl who hadn’t quite made airline hostess took me up in an express elevator and let me out in a reception room decorated with hunting scenes.

I passed through several echelons of secretaries into Trevor’s private office. It had a picture window with a segment of red bridge showing between two buildings in the upper lefthand corner. It contained a lot of brown leather furniture, a conference table surrounded by a dozen chairs, a contour model of the Central Valley studded like a golf course with red flags, a desk which dwarfed the man sitting behind it. He had a telephone perched like a black bird against his short neck. Between remarks about Consolidated something and Mutual something else, Trevor told me to sit down.

I sat and looked him over carefully, trying to decide how far my client and I could trust him. Pretty far, I thought. Wycherly obviously trusted him. He seemed genuinely fond of Wycherly’s daughter, maybe too fond for his own comfort. His face showed blue puffiness under the eyes and other signs of a bad night.

He hung up. “Sorry to make you wait, Mr. Archer. The market’s been acting like a yo-yo lately.” He gave me a stern bright look which pulled his face together. “Judging by your appearance, you had a rough night.”

“I was just thinking the same about you.”

“It wasn’t much fun, to be perfectly frank. I spent a part of the night studying the photographs of unidentified women and girls. Some of them had been dead for months.” He grimaced. “I don’t envy you your business.”

“It has its compensations, when they turn up alive.”

He hunched forward eagerly. “Have you found some trace of my niece?”

“Just this.” I produced the copy of her name I had made from the hotel window and explained it to him. “It isn’t a perfect copy, but I tried to imitate the characteristics as well as I could. Would you say it’s Phoebe’s handwriting?”

He frowned over the page. “I couldn’t say for certain. I’m not too familiar with her signature.”

“Do you have any samples of it?”

“Not here. Perhaps at home. You think Phoebe was in her mother’s hotel room?”

“Possibly. Or else her mother wrote the name herself. Could this be Catherine Wycherly’s writing?”

“It could be. I don’t really know her writing.” He pushed the sheet across the desk to me. His eyebrows were still knotted, and the eyes in the blue cavities under them were puzzled. “What on earth was Catherine doing in a cheap Sacramento hotel?”

“Eating and drinking and crying.”

“She’s always been a great eater and drinker,” he said, “at least in recent years. But the crying part doesn’t sound like Catherine. She’s more the gay-divorcee type.”

“You didn’t see her last night.”

His head came up. “You mean to say you did?”

“I had quite a long conversation with her at the Hacienda Inn. It ended kind of suddenly. Some goon she’s travelling with hit me with a tire-iron.” I touched my bandage.

“What sort of people is she involved with?”

“Not the best.”

“This thing is getting complicated, Archer. Complicated and nasty. While I was in the sheriff’s office in Redwood City last night, a call came in from Atherton. A body had been found in Catherine’s empty house. It was the real-estate man that she’d been dealing with – a chap by the name of Merriman.”

“I know. I found his body.”

“You found it?”

“I phoned in an anonymous tip because I didn’t want to spend the night answering questions. I’d just as soon you didn’t mention that to your friends in Redwood City. What’s their theory on Merriman’s death, by the way?”

“They think he ran into a pack of vandals. There’s been an unconscionable lot of vandalism in unoccupied houses on the Peninsula. You know, Archer, whole strata of society seem to be breaking loose and running wild in this civilization – if civilization is the right word. It’s Ortega’s ‘revolt of the masses,’ with a vengeance.”

“Is that all part of the police theory? You must have some highly educated police.”

“Oh, we do. Of course they’re not confining their efforts to the wolf-pack line. I happen to know they want to talk to Catherine.”

“That sounds like a good idea. Her dealings with Merriman went further than the sale of her house. He beat her up in her room the night before last. It may have been a lover’s quarrel, but I doubt it. More likely it was thieves falling out.”

“I don’t understand you. Are you accusing my sister-in-law of being a thief?”

“She’s been running with thieves, or worse. Tell me this, Mr. Trevor. Assuming for the sake of argument that Phoebe is dead–”

“That’s a pretty stark assumption, isn’t it?”

“It doesn’t change the facts, whatever they are. Assuming she’s dead, who stands to benefit from her death?”

“Nobody would benefit,” he said with angry force. “It would be an unalloyed tragedy and waste.”

“I wonder. There’s money in the family.”

His forehead puckered. Under its overhang his eyes changed color, like blue water freezing into blue ice. “I see what you’re getting at. But you’re on the wrong track. Phoebe has no money of her own.”

“No trust fund that might revert to a relative?”

“No, I’m quite sure there’s nothing like that. If there was, my wife and I would know of it.”

“Does she carry any life insurance?”

Trevor sat in dubious silence. “There is a policy Homer took out when he – when Phoebe was born.”

“How much is the principal?”

“A hundred thousand or so.”

“Who’s the beneficiary?”

“Her parents. That’s usual.” He shook himself irritably. “You’re doing some pretty rough assuming.”

“It’s my job.”

“Let me get this straight. You can’t be suggesting that Catherine did away with her own daughter in order to get her hands on her insurance. That’s insane.”

“So is Catherine, I think. Not being a head-shrinker, I don’t know how far gone she is. She was flying last night, on broken wings.”

Trevor took a mottled green cigar out of a glass tube and lit it. He said through swirling blue smoke: “I’m not surprised, she’s been on the verge for some time. It doesn’t mean she’s capable of murder.”

“She’s capable of wanting murder done.”

“Is that another of your assumptions?”

“It’s a statement of fact.”

“You’d better explain yourself.”

“Let me ask you a question first – a personal question. How good a friend are you to the Wycherlys?”

“I’m trying to be a real friend,” he said in a real way. “I owe a great deal to Homer, and more to his father before him. And as you know, I married into the family. What is this all about?”

I took a breath, and a plunge on his integrity: “Catherine Wycherly tried to hire me to kill Ben Merriman last night.”

“Seriously?”

“She was serious. I wasn’t. I was simply letting her talk.”

“What time did this conversation take place?”

“Around two A.M.”

“But Merriman was already dead. The police think he died around dinnertime.”

“She didn’t know that, or she’d forgotten it.”

“What do you mean?”

“She may have killed him, or hired someone else to kill him, then blanked out on it. She’d been drinking heavily.”

“This is incredible,” Trevor said. “You mean she actually approached you and offered you money to murder the fellow?”

“I approached her, in the Hacienda bar. She noticed that I was carrying a gun. It brought out the worst in her, and her worst is no picnic.”

“I know that. She raised a hell of a fuss the day Homer sailed. But that’s still a long way from murder. What possible motive could she have for wanting Merriman dead?”

“He was asking for it. He beat her up the other night. I think he did more than that to her.”

Trevor’s cigar had gone out. He removed it from his mouth and looked at it with distaste. “What do you have in mind?”

“Blackmail. That’s only a hunch, but it fits the picture. She’s a woman with a load of grief and guilt. A lot of money’s been running through her fingers, with no visible outlet. You ought to see the hotel she’s been living in. The Champion’s about one short step from hunger.”

Trevor shook his large head. “It doesn’t sound like Catherine. What’s happened to her?”

“I can think of better questions. What happened to Phoebe, and what did Ben Merriman have on Phoebe’s mother?”

“You’re assuming again, aren’t you?”

“I have to. I don’t know the facts.”

“Neither do I, but I’m morally certain you’re wrong. Parents don’t kill their own children, outside of Greek tragedy.”

“Don’t they? Read the papers. I admit they don’t usually wait until the children grow up.”

Trevor regarded me with loathing. “Do you know what you’re saying, man?”

“I know what I’m saying. It isn’t pretty. Murder never is.”

“You’re seriously accusing Catherine of murdering her own daughter?”

“I’m bringing it up as a possibility that should be looked into.”

“Why bring it to me?”

“Because you’re in a position to help me. Catherine Wycherly is running loose around the countryside with murder on her mind. I think we should try to get to her before something else happens, or before the police pick her up. But I can’t drop my other leads and go on concentrating on her, as I’ve been doing. I was hired to search for Phoebe.”

“But you think Phoebe’s dead.”

“It’s not proven, one way or the other. Until it is, I’m sticking to her trail.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Use your influence with Homer Wycherly. We need someone to put a tab on his ex-wife. I know a good San Francisco detective agency with associates in all the major cities. I’m going to talk to the head of the agency as soon as I leave here – man named Willie Mackey – but I can’t bring him into the case without Wycherly’s go-ahead. You can get it for me.”

“Can I?”

“It shouldn’t be hard. Wycherly already knows Mackey. Will you put in a call to him? I left him at the Boulder Beach Hotel. If he’s checked out, they’ll know where he is.”

“Why don’t you call him yourself?”

“He’s a hard man to talk to. You’ve had more practice at it.”

“Have I not.” He pressed the button on his intercom and asked his secretary to get him Homer Wycherly on long distance. He said to me: “I’ll talk to him in private if you don’t mind.”

I waited in the anteroom until Trevor called me back.

“Homer wants to talk to you.” He handed me the telephone with a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

“Archer here,” I said into it.

Wycherly’s voice came over the line, strained thin by distance and tension: “I hear you’ve gone against my express orders. I expressly told you I didn’t want my ex-wife brought into this. I’m telling you again, keep away from her.”

I didn’t like his tone. “Why? Does she know where the body is buried?”

“The body?” His voice became thick. “Is Phoebe dead? Is that the fact you’re trying to conceal from me?”

“I’m not trying to hide anything from you, Mr. Wycherly. I have no evidence that your daughter is dead, but she’s still very much missing. So is your ex-wife. And I think Mrs. Wycherly may know more than she told me. You’re defeating your own ends if you don’t let me have her looked for.”

“By William Mackey? Is that what you’re trying to sell me?”

“He’s competent, and he has the connections. This case is getting bigger than we expected. I can use some help, both private and public. I want your authorization to work with Mackey and the local police.”

“You can’t have it! I don’t trust Mackey, and I don’t want the police butting into my private affairs. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do. I don’t know whether I have. A disappearance, a possible murder, isn’t a private affair. The police are already involved, anyway. Didn’t Mr. Trevor tell you about the killing of Ben Merriman?”

Trevor half-rose out of his chair, shaking his head at me.

“Ben who?” Wycherly said.

“Merriman. He’s a realtor on the Peninsula who had some business dealings with your wife. He was found murdered last night in her house in Atherton.”

“That has nothing to do with me. And nothing to do with Phoebe.”

“We can’t be certain of that.”

“I’m certain.” Uncertainty whispered and slithered through his voice.

I said: “It would be a good idea for you to come up here. You’d get a better feeling of what’s been going on.”

“I can’t. I’m to see the college chancellor this afternoon. Tonight I have a meeting scheduled with the entire board of trustees.”

“What can they do for you?”

“They’re going to admit that they’re at fault,” Wycherly said grimly. “I’m going to force them to admit official negligence. They claim they cabled me some time after Phoebe left, and notified Missing Persons as well. But I never received any cable. Such a thing could never have happened at Stanford!”

“That’s sort of a side issue, isn’t it?”

“You may think so. I don’t. They’re going to know who they’re dealing with before I’m through with them.”

I suspected they knew already: a foolish man full of passions he couldn’t handle.

“If you won’t come up here,” I said, “please give me the authority to co-opt Mackey. It won’t cost more than you can afford.”

“It isn’t a matter of money. It’s a matter of principle. I won’t touch Mackey, do you understand. If you can’t find my daughter without chasing red herrings up blind alleys – by God, I’ll get someone who can.”

His receiver crashed down, and there was nothing on the line but angry silence. I gave Trevor the dead telephone:

“He hung up on me. Is the whole family nuts?”

“Homer’s naturally upset. He’s very fond of Phoebe, and he never could handle situations well. You can be just as glad he isn’t here.”

“Maybe. But what in hell does he think he’s doing, calling meetings with the college trustees?”

“I suppose he’s doing the best he can with his problems. He’s always been a great one for official meetings.” Trevor’s tone was mildly satirical. “Incidentally, you were a bit rough on him. I didn’t like that remark about where the body was buried.”

“I’m a detective,” I said, “not a wet nurse. Anyway, I was doing him a favor. He doesn’t know what’s hitting him. I think it would be better if he knew.”

“Do you know, Archer?” A trace of satire lingered in his voice.

“I have a feeling. It isn’t a nice feeling.”

He sat down heavily. “I think you’re dead wrong, about Catherine and Phoebe. For that matter, Catherine and Merriman. It doesn’t fit in with what I know of Catherine. She isn’t a bad woman, really, underneath her rugged exterior.”

“People change, under pressure. She’s been under some kind of intense pressure.”

“No doubt. I’m beginning to feel the pressure myself.” He produced a small brown bottle from a desk drawer and took a capsule from it.

“Digitalis,” he said. “Excuse me.”

His mouth had turned grey. He leaned forward in his chair and rested his head on the desk-top. It lay there like a big pinkish brown egg half fledged with hair. He groaned, and said to the polished wood:

“Poor Phoebe.”

“You love her, don’t you?”

He lifted his heavy head, and gave me an upward slanting look, like a man spying up out of a hole. There were bitter lines of grief around his mouth:

“That’s a God damn silly question. I don’t mess with young girls.”

“You can love them without messing with them.”

“Yes. I know.” His mouth softened, and the color was returning to his lips. “I do love her.”

“It would be possible for you to authorize Mackey, you know. It doesn’t have to be Wycherly.”

“You want me to lose my job?”

“I don’t think you’re in any danger of losing your job.”

“You don’t, eh?” He looked around his handsome office. “Homer’s in a chancy mood, and he’s never liked me, not really. In-laws never really like each other. If you want the truth, he’s been looking for an excuse to push me out of the business. Not that he’s capable of running it himself.”

“You could get another job. There’s only the one girl.”

Trevor showed his teeth, not at me. He was biting into the decision he had to make. He made it:

“Go ahead and use Mackey. I’ll pay for him, if Homer won’t. And if there’s any beef, I’ll take the responsibility.”