Cat and Mouse Page 3

  After dinner, Corey went up to watch another Bogart picture with Mrs. Casey. Jan and I sat in the living room, the lawn lights on, me with McGee, she with the current New York Review of Books.

  Around nine-thirty, a car stopped in front. I turned off the lights in the living room; the headlights on the car went out.

  The front door light at the Criders’ went on, the door opened, and Bill was outlined in the glow from behind him. Both the Crider cars were on the driveway; it was probably the reason the stranger’s car had parked in front of our house.

  “Who is it?” Jan asked.

  A man and a woman came into view on the Criders’ walk-way. “It could be a real estate salesman and his customer. The Criders have their house up for sale.”

  “At this time of night?”

  “I guess they’re in a hurry to move.”

  I turned on the lights again and went back to McGee. Jan went into the den and turned on the tube, an opiate for the masses that had not been foreseen by kooky Karl.

  I joined her in there when Corey came down to take up his watch.

  She sighed. “I never felt this nervous in Los Angeles.”

  “That was a different time and place then and we were younger. This won’t last forever.”

  I drank a glass of warm milk before going to bed; my ulcer was acting up again. Patience has never been one of my virtues. Like the renowned Arnold Palmer, I hate to wait!

  My night was less troubled than the previous night’s and dreamless. Jan slept soundly, thanks to the sedative she had taken.

  At breakfast, Corey said, “That guy might be out of town by now. It could have been his dumb idea of a joke.”

  “I doubt it. Let’s give it a couple more days.”

  “And then move to Paris,” Jan said.

  Mrs. Casey had joined us for breakfast this morning. She shook her head. “I’m not running from something the likes of him! I still have my late husband’s hunting knife. I keep it on the table right next to the bed.”

  My kind of woman, Mrs. Casey. She asks for no quarter and grants none.

  The wind had shifted; the day was sunny. My friends at the golf course would be looking for me, the pigeon who kept them solvent. I phoned one of the pirates and told him I would not be able to join them today.

  He expressed deep regret, though I am sure it was more monetary than sentimental. Gambling golfers can afford camaraderie but not compassion.

  No golf, no poker, no freedom, held in house bondage by a puke who could be in Cucamonga by now, a man in the shadows who didn’t have enough guts to come out into the open, a man playing cat-and-mouse—and I was the 228-pound mouse. Though I had apologized to McClune and admonished Corey, I wanted that bastard!

  I went back to my files. A man could have turned bald since last we met, a man could get his face scarred. I went through the hoodlum files, sorting out the heavyweights, the ones I could remember. Bush leaguers, most of them, burglary, assault, theft. This was before I had started to get the carriage trade. The ones I remembered didn’t shape up as likely suspects for the game the shadow man was playing.

  I went to the kitchen for another glass of milk before lunch. Mrs. Casey had brought in the mail. There were only four pieces of junk mail today. There was one piece of first-class mail; two checks, each for seventy dollars, one made out to Jan, one to me, compliments of Larry Rubin.

  Jan’s smile was rueful. “Maybe it’s a lucky omen.”

  “Maybe. I’ll eat in the living room. Nothing heavy, though. My stomach is acting up.”

  “So is mine. Patience, Brock.” She kissed me. “We mustn’t panic. That only makes us more vulnerable.”

  Chicken soup, cheese and crackers, that was my lunch. Then Jan came in to tell me she would keep watch in the living room. “You need the exercise more than I do,” she explained. “And maybe it will help to calm you.”

  I shook my head. “I’ll go out and nap in the shade. I’m really bushed. I suppose it’s frustration.”

  “And rage,” she added. “How about a sedative?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “My macho man,” she said. “I almost hope, for his sake, the police find that cat killer before you do.”

  I dozed on a chaise longue in the shade but sleep wouldn’t come. I sat in the shallow end of the sun warmed pool, the water up to my chin. This was better. Some of the tension eased in my shoulder muscles, my stomach returned to near normal.

  Both the county and the city police had been alerted; something had to break in a town this size. But then I remembered it was Fiesta week. The town would be jammed with tourists. The city police would have more problems than usual with traffic control, invading sharpies, and drunks. They would need all the help they could get from the sheriff’s department. The restaurants, the motels and hotels, the liquor stores would be coining it; the police would be overworked.

  This was a vacation town for the tourists, a supposed sanctuary for the retired citizens who lived here. The Criders hadn’t found it to be enough of a sanctuary to make them comfortable. Even high-school burglars had panicked them.

  Day after day in this fair country the underprivileged in our big cities face violence and hunger, insult and injury, ghetto fires and racial wars. While the suburbanites fret about taxes, our vicious crabgrass invasion, and a declining water supply for our swimming pools. Maybe it was our turn to suffer.

  Over our drinks before dinner Jan said, “You feel better now, don’t you?”

  “Saner, maybe. More angry than scared.”

  “You were scared for Mrs. Casey and me, weren’t you? I’ve never seen you scared before.”

  “I have been.”

  “But this time it was for us, wasn’t it?”

  “I guess. Should we have another drink?”

  “I’ll make them.”

  I went out after dinner and circled the house, checking the shrubs that fronted the windows, looking for footprints in the loose soil in which they were planted. There were four sides to the house; an intruder could approach from any of the neighboring yards.

  Then Jan and I sat in the living room, she with the local evening paper, I trying to balance my checkbook. Arithmetic had never been my strong suit and my present state of mind was not rational enough to make it any easier. It had become more complicated to figure since my Uncle Homer died. Before my inheritance the bank had been kind enough to keep me informed about my daily balance every time I was overdrawn.

  I had it balanced within a few dollars by nine o’clock. That was close enough for me. I put some golden oldies on the record player, Dixieland jazz, turned the volume low so as not to bother Jan, and stared out at the full moon.

  Ten o’clock came and Corey had not arrived. Corey and I share this old-fashioned belief that a ten- or five- or two-o’clock promise means exactly that. One minute after any promised time is a broken promise.

  It was possible that his ancient Camaro had failed him. But that was hard to believe; he kept it in top mechanical shape. At a quarter after ten I phoned his house.

  His father told me he had left early, over an hour ago. “Call me when he gets there, won’t you, Mr. Callahan?”

  “I will. Maybe he ran out of gas or had a flat tire.”

  “Maybe. Call me.”

  The phone rang two minutes later. It was Corey. He said, “I’m being held at the sheriff’s station. I know you can’t leave the house, but could you send somebody?”

  “Yes. What are you being held for?”

  “Murder,” he said.

  CHAPTER 4

  “WHAT HAPPENED?”

  “Brock,” he said wearily. “I’m too groggy to talk. I was knocked out. Just send somebody!”

  I knew a lot of high-priced lawyers in town, most of whom played golf. But murder was no case for golfing lawyers. I phoned Stan Nowicki.

  “I know it’s late,” I apologized. “But Corey Raleigh is being held at the sheriff’s station and, for reasons I’ll explain later, I can’t go up there now. Would you?”

  “Of course. What’s the charge?”

  “Murder.”

  “Corey Raleigh—?”

  “That’s what he told me.”

  “Are you going to stay up? The station isn’t far from your house and I could drop in on my way home.”

  “I’ll be up.”

  I phoned Mr. Raleigh and told him what I had told Stan. I added, “I’ve sent my attorney up there. It has to be some kind of mistake. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Don’t bother,” he said. “I’ll go up there and find out for myself.”

  Jan had overheard both conversations. She said, “I think you should go there, Brock.”

  I shook my head. “It could be a ploy to get me out of the house. Stan Nowicki is going to stop here on his way home. He’ll have the story. Let’s not tell Mrs. Casey about it, not yet.”

  She nodded in agreement. “Corey—? Murder? That’s crazy!”

  “It could be a frame,” I said. “He told me he’d been knocked out.”

  “Do you think it was that man who—who—”

  “Threw the cat on our lawn?” I finished for her. “It could be. Let’s wait for Stan.”

  We were sitting in the living room, staring out the front window, when Mrs. Casey came in to ask, “Where’s Corey?”

  Jan looked at me. I said, “He’s in some trouble at the sheriff’s station. We’re not sure what it is. I sent Nowicki up there to find out.”

  Mrs. Casey sighed. “I’ll make some coffee.”

  We sat and sipped and stared. At eleven-thirty, Jan said, “Maybe you’d better call the station.”

  I shook my head. “Stan will be here.”

  He was with us fifteen minutes later. He sat on the couch next
to Jan and said, “I’ll give you the department’s version first.”

  A sheriff’s patrol car had been cruising the road we live on. About a mile and a half up the slope from our house the deputy saw an old gray Plymouth parked below a deserted cabin some distance from the road. He had called for backup. When it arrived they used the bullhorn for warning, got no response, and charged the house. Inside, they found Corey just gaining consciousness, his gun still in his hand. And they found the dead man, a large rock in his hand stained with blood and a bullet in his neck.

  “He was jobbed,” I said. “That would take some timing to get conked the same instant you pulled the trigger.”

  Stan nodded. “An absurdity I pointed out to them. Here’s Corey’s version.”

  He had been driving up the road to our house when he spotted the gray Plymouth about two hundred feet ahead. He turned off his lights and followed it, staying well behind. When he came around the last big bend near the top of the slope he saw the car parked near the cabin. He took out his gun and walked in from the road, keeping covered, he thought, by the high chaparral. He had never reached the cabin. He had been slugged from behind.

  “I believe him,” I said. “Did you get a description of the dead man?”

  He shook his head. “Is it important? I got his name. The car is his. His name is Jasper Belton.”

  It didn’t ring any bell in me. I asked, “Is Hurst commanding the night watch?”

  Stan nodded.

  I knew the man; we were semi-friends. I phoned the station, identified myself, and asked, “Is this man Corey is supposed to have killed a big man?”

  “Hell, no! Around a hundred and thirty-five pounds. Why do you want to know?”

  “Because I think the man who framed Corey is a big man.”

  “Framed? Come on, Brock!”

  “Framed,” I repeated. “What about bail for Corey?”

  “At this time of night? Do you want to wake up some judge and ask him?”

  I hung up without saying good-bye.

  “That’s a flimsy case they have,” I told Stan.

  “Maybe not to a jury. Mallory was up there. If they decide to prosecute he will probably be their man.” He smiled sadly. “Tom has a very sour view of private detectives. One of them helped his wife get an enormous cash settlement when they were divorced.” He rose. “Well, I have to get to bed. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, Brock.”

  I nodded. “Thanks, Stan. If we go to court, you’ll be our man. And not at your public defender fee.”

  “My wife will be happy to hear that,” he said.

  Stan could have done very well in private practice but he worked for the ACLU. Unlike his private-practice peers, he believed that lawyers should be concerned with justice, not with getting rich. A survey last year showed that lawyers had the highest median income of any profession in the country. Even doctors ranked only fifth.

  I had supported the ACLU for a decade, though I was quite often annoyed with the people they defended. Like Bernie, I believe the bad guys should be below the sod or behind bars.

  “I hope we can sleep tonight,” Jan said.

  “I can. I’m bushed. I’m sure the patrols will be going by more often after what happened tonight.”

  “I’ve hung a chime on my door knob,” Mrs. Casey said, “and I sharpened my knife this morning.”

  Jan started to chuckle as we were getting undressed.

  “What’s funny?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Casey. God help the poor bastard who tries to open her door. I wish I had her guts.”

  “She has more room for them. I like your contours better.”

  I was bushed, but it took a while for me to fall asleep. The way I read the events since the opening incident, I had been the original target for the shadow man. But after he realized the security was too tight at the house, he could have discovered my relationship with Corey and sent me, through him, a warning. Who is second…

  And the dead Jasper Belton? A stooge? A stooge who realized he was in water too deep for him and planned to get out of town or possibly make a deal with the local police by informing on his partner?

  All of this was supposition, none of it facts in evidence. I finally fell asleep. At nine-thirty Jan shook me awake to tell me Bernie was on the phone. I put on a robe and went down.

  “I just got a call from McClune,” he said. “He told me about Corey being picked up. What’s the scoop?”

  “It’s a long story,” I told him. “The gist of it is that Corey was framed.”

  “McClune tends to agree with that.”

  “But he doesn’t make the decisions. I guess Tom Mallory doesn’t agree with McClune, and Mallory is the D.A.’s fair-haired boy.”

  “Jesus, that’s a pair you can draw to! Headline hunters.”

  “Oh, yes! Do you have a record down there on a man named Jasper Belton?”

  “Not here. But McClune and I have sent inquiries to all the jurisdictions in this end of the state.”

  “Corey will be pleased to hear that. When did you two join his fan club?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass, Brock. You know damned well that neither of us would railroad an innocent man.”

  “I know, Bernie. I apologize. Is there any security guard outfit in town you would recommend?”

  “Coastal Guardian. Ask for Joe Hunter. Tell him you know me.”

  I phoned Coastal Guardian, asked for Joe Hunter, told him my name and address and that I wanted protection from eleven o’clock this morning until I came home for dinner.

  “We’ll have a man there, Mr. Callahan,” he promised. “Now, about our rates—”

  “I don’t believe there is any need to discuss that,” I told him. “My good friend, Lieutenant Vogel, has assured me you are the most competent and inexpensive agency in town.”

  A silence. “I understand. Thank you.”

  That should keep their bills within reason, being a friend of eagle-eye, poor-mouth Bernie Vogel.

  I told Jan at breakfast about the guard I had ordered and that I would be gone until dinner time.

  “Back on the hunt,” she said wearily. “Why didn’t I marry a banker or a lawyer?”

  I said nothing.

  The guard was already there when I went out at eleven o’clock, parked in front of the house.

  “After you pull out,” he explained, “I’ll park on your driveway. I can watch both sides of the house and check the other sides from time to time.”

  The man was a pro. “Sound thinking,” I agreed.

  McClune was in his outer office when I got there, talking with his secretary. I asked him if bail had been set.

  He shook his head. “Not yet. A couple of judges seemed to be inclined to set it, but that pukey Mallory talked them out of it. That man has more clout than he deserves.”

  “Anything on Belton?”

  He shook his head again. “According to his driver’s license, he lived in Tritown. He was a young man. He could still have parents living there. The way it usually works with these drifters, the address on their license is a couple of years old and they never stay in one place long enough to change it.”

  “May I talk with Corey?”

  “Of course. Tell the sergeant I gave you permission.”

  Corey was sitting on the bed in his cell, staring down at the floor. He looked up and managed a smile. “Have you ever been in jail?”

  “Not in San Valdesto. I suppose your father is pissed off at me.”

  He shook his head. “At you, never! At me, yes. He said I should have been more careful. He said you would have been.”

  “You can tell him I’ve been bonged on the head a few times.”

  “But never when you were carrying a gun, I bet.”

  “No. Mostly on the football field. Is there anything you can tell me that I don’t already know?”

  He shrugged. “Only what I’m guessing. I think that Belton is just a stooge for that guy asking about you in Los Angeles. I think they were out to get you, but decided you had too much security to take the risk. I think they trapped me into following that car up to the shack so they could frame me and send a message to you.”

  I stared at him in amazement. He had not only studied under me, he had inherited my instincts. “That is exactly the way I read it,” I told him.

  “And the way I figure it,” he went on, “that Los Angeles creep wants you to think framing me was the end of it, to put you off guard.”

  “I agree.”