Эрл Гарднер - A Man Is Missing

Sheriff Bill Catlin spilled the contents of the envelope on his battered desk and glowered at the younger man across from him, who sat uncomfortably attentive.

“The trouble with these dudes,” the sheriff said, “is that they think out here in Idaho we ain’t civilized. Now, here’s Ed Harvel, the chief of police who was visiting out here three years ago. He wants me to locate an amnesia victim, and he writes me a two-page letter telling me how to go about it.”

Hank Lucas nodded vaguely as the sheriff’s steely eyes looked up over the top of his spectacles.

“Now, this here chap,” the sheriff went on, “had a previous attack. He wandered off on his own. Was gone for three months, came back, and didn’t know where he’d been. Never has been able to remember a thing about it. Didn’t know what he’d done, what name he went under, where he lived, or anything about it. He just left his office five o’clock one afternoon and started for home. He showed up three months later. Ain’t that a heck of a note?”

“That,” Lucas agreed, “is a heck of a note.”

“Now then,” the sheriff went on, “a year ago he did it again. Disappeared last September. But this time he writes his wife a picture postcard. Sends it to her ’way back last October.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Hank said. “If he sent his wife a picture postcard, his mind hasn’t gone plumb blank. How did he know where to address it?”

“I’m coming to that,” the sheriff said. “That’s the funny thing. He’d been married three years, but he addressed the postcard to his wife under her maiden name and sent it to the old address where she lived when he was courting her. Been married to her and still thinks she’s his sweetie pie.”

Hank didn’t say anything.

“Now, this here Ed Harvel,” the sheriff went on, “I guess he’s a bang-up chief of police hack East, but you put him out here and he’s just a dude. Had him into the Middle Fork country three years ago, and there wasn’t a single tenderfoot trick he didn't pull — even to getting lost. Now, when he writes to me, he tells me what he wants done and then goes on and tells me how I should do it. You’d think I’d never done any investigating at all. Suggests this chap, whose name is Frank Adrian, is still going under his own name, because he signed the postcard ‘Frank.’ Says it might be a good plan to check with the hanks to see if he’s opened an account, talk with the proprietors of some of the stores in town, go search the backcountry, and—”

“Ain’t that all right?” Hank asked.

The sheriff snorted. “It’s the idea of him telling me how I should go about finding the guy! Anyhow, I don’t think that’s the best way to do it.”

“No?” Hank asked.

“Nope,” the sheriff said positively, and then added, “Funny thing about dudes—”

“You said you wanted to see me official, Bill,” Hank interrupted, shifting his position uneasily.

“Now, don’t get impatient,” the sheriff said. “A man would think you’d been shooting meat outta season and was afraid you’d left a back trail.”

“You’d ought to know how it feels,” Flank said. “I can remember before you was elected when—”

“Now, this here amnesia guy,” the sheriff interrupted hastily but authoritatively, “seems to have gone over in the Middle Fork country and lived in a cabin. He had a camera, and someone took his picture standing in front of his cabin. It was sent to his wife — addressed to her, like I said, under her maiden name, Corliss Lathan.

“The postcard was mailed from Twin Falls, and darned if they didn’t waste a lot of time corresponding with the folks down in Twin Falls. Then finally someone suggested it might be the Middle Fork country, and it seems like the man who is in charge of the missing-persons department found out Ed Harvel had been out here three years ago. So he goes to Ed and asks Ed for the name of the sheriff. And instead of writing a letter of introduction, Ed takes over and writes me the whole story and—”

“You wanted to ask me something about it?” Hank interrupted.

The sheriff pushed the photographic postcard across the desk. “Take a look.”

Hank looked at the card. On the side reserved for the message was written: “Corliss, dear, this shows where I am living. It's the wildest, most inaccessible place you can imagine. I still feel the results of that auto accident six weeks ago, but what with climbing around these mountains, living on venison and trout, getting lots of fresh air and exercise. I'll be fit in no time at all.”

The card was addressed to Miss Corliss Lathan.

Hank turned the card over and studied the photograph of a mountain cabin, with a man standing in front of it smiling fatuously at the camera. “Auto accident?” Hank asked.

“According to Ed Harvel, that accident was three years ago. The date on the card shows it was sent about six weeks after the guy disappeared the second time. Apparently he got his head banged in that accident, and whenever his memory slips a cog, it goes back to the time of the accident. Everything after that is a blank.”

Hank studied the postcard.

“What do you make out of it?” the sheriff asked.

“A trapper’s cabin,” Hank said, “up on a ridge. It was built in the fall. You can see where the trees were chopped off around near the cabin — indicates there was about three feet of snow on the ground. The guy’s sure a tenderfoot.”

“He is, for a fact,” the sheriff agreed.

“Those high boots,” Hank went on. “Hobnails in ’em too. Bet they weigh a ton. Look at that hunting knife hanging on his belt. Pretty far front. No protection on the sheath. He'd go hunting, jump over a log, double up when he lit, and the point of that knife would run through that leather sheath right into his leg and cut the big artery. Then we'd have another dead dude to pack out... What makes you think the cabin’s around here?”

“Notice that little ‘T.M.’ up in the corner?”

Hank nodded.

“That’s Tom Morton’s initials. He puts ’em on the postcards he prints, with a string of figures after ’em. I don’t know just what the idea is myself. But I’ve seen those sets of figures on picture postcards Tom makes of the fishing country and places around town. Tom printed that postcard, all right.”

“You talk with Tom?” Hank asked.

“Nope, I was sorta waiting for you.”

“Why me?”

“Well, now,” the sheriff said, “you see, it’s like this, Hank. I want you to sorta help me out.”

“Now, wait a minute,” Hank said. “The way you're talking, Bill, you’ve gone and made some arrangements.”

“Nothing out of the way,” Sheriff Gatlin said hastily. “I’ve got you a couple of customers. A couple of dudes.”

“Who?” Hank asked.

“Seems like this Corliss Adrian has all of a sudden got in a helluva lather to get her husband located. Seems like there’s another man been hanging around, and maybe she’d like to get a divorce. To do that she’d like to make a charge of desertion and serve papers. Or, in case she's a widow, then she could get married again right away. This here new man has got lots of money, and he’s willing to spend it. He wants results quick. And the high-powered city detective who’s been in charge of the investigation, a chap by the name of James Dewitt, has a vacation coming up. So he and this Corliss Adrian are driving out together, and they wanted—”

“Absolutely not,” Hank said. “I can’t—”

“They’ll pay regular dude prices,” the sheriff finished triumphantly.

“Well...” Hank hesitated. “That’s different. How about the other guy, the one who wants to marry her? Is he coming?”