Эрл Гарднер - The Case of the Backward Mule

“Something in the way he looked?”

“Well, not exactly. Something in his manner.”

“Can’t think what it was?”

“I’m trying to.”

Clane watched her intently. “Something in the way he was breathing?” he asked after a moment.

“ That’s it,” she said. “Why didn’t I think of it in the first place? He was breathing as though he was excited about something when he came in.”

“Or as though he’d been running?”

“Well, not just before he came in here, but he might have been running earlier and... you know, he was breathing short and quick-like. You’re wrong about one thing, though. It wasn’t just before we closed up. It was just about ten-thirty when he came in here, and he was out by quarter of eleven.”

Clane thought that over. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely. I was sort of keeping an eye on the clock. I had a date.”

“You’d know him if you saw him again?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t suppose you could give me any clue as to the number he called?”

“Gosh, no, except that the exchange number was down by the bottom of the dial and the number was up near the top. The exchange number might have been — oh say, Twin Oaks or something like that and he was dialing the T and then the W.”

Clane pushed the dollar bill across to her and then extracted a five-dollar bill from his billfold and pushed that over to keep the one company. “Thanks a lot,” he told her.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re welcome. Could I... did you want to leave a number and in case he should come in again, I...”

“No, that’s all right,” Clane said. “I think I know everything that I need to know. You’re sure the car was a convertible?”

“Yes. I know that, a dark convertible.”

“And it was driven by a woman?”

“I’m pretty certain she was a young woman, but I didn’t get a good look at her — through the doors, you know, and looking out into the night. It was foggy and...”

“Yes, I know. Thanks.”

Outside of the restaurant, Terry Clane paused for a moment to take into consideration the various aspects of the problem which confronted him.

Edward Harold had left the warehouse in something of a panic. He had been running. And the time element indicated the facts were not as the police had reconstructed the murder of George Gloster. In fact Edward Harold had, perhaps, a perfect alibi if he had only remained long enough in the company of this mysterious woman.

This woman had not been the party to whom he had first appealed for aid. That party had not answered. So then as a last resort Harold had called an alternate number and that number had responded. A woman in a convertible automobile had come to meet him. That woman could hardly have been Cynthia. Could it have been her sister, Alma?

Clane gave that matter consideration and called Alma by telephone. “Let’s try being casual,” he warned. “I didn’t get you up, did I?”

“Of course not, I’m a working woman.”

“Working on a portrait?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyone I know?”

“No. Some rich nabob wants his wife portrayed on canvas. She admits she isn’t looking quite her best right now but next summer she intends to take off ten pounds and those lines on her face are because she’s been under quite a strain lately and hasn’t been sleeping well. She’s quite certain they’ll disappear.”

“In other words, she wants you to paint her the way she’ll be next summer and she thinks that will be the way she looked ten years ago.”

“Exactly.”

“Nice going,” Terry said.

“Oh, it isn’t so bad. After all, art deals with composition and lighting and character. The envelope of flesh in which that character is contained is not quite as important as many people think. You know, Terry, I sometimes think that a really good portrait painter could paint a subject at any age from ten to seventy and if the portrayal were really faithful, there shouldn’t be a great deal of difference in the eyes, the pose of the head, the set of the mouth. That isn’t as absurd as it sounds. It’s just expressing a principle of character. What have you heard from Cynthia?”

“I think she’s all right, Alma. I’m not in touch with her right at the moment. Say, how about borrowing a car?”

“Why, certainly, you may have mine.”

“What is it? Roadster, coupé, or...”

“It’s a nice conservative, quiet sedan.”

“Not a convertible?”

“No.”

“I’m trying a find a convertible automobile,” Clane said. “I want to drive past a building and take some movies of the lines of almost perpendicular perspective. You don’t know anyone that has a convertible, do you?”

“Gosh, no. Not unless you feel on friendly terms with Daphne.”

“Who’s Daphne?”

“Daphne Taonon. Ricardo Taonon’s wife.”

“Eurasian?”

“Heavens, no! She’s a blond showgirl with a figure like an art calendar. And she likes to show it.”

“She has a convertible?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is it hers or her husband’s?”

“Hers individually. No one else ever drives it. Not that I’ve seen. That is, her husband doesn’t.”

“You don’t know her well enough to borrow it?”

“Heavens, no. Tell me about Cynthia, Terry. What’s she doing? Have you heard anything...?”

“I don’t know where she is,” Terry said, “and even if I did... well, you know, the walls have ears and telephone lines have feelers.”

“You don’t think they’d tap my line, do you?”

“Can’t tell what they’d do,” Clane said. “But don’t worry about Cynthia. She’s thoroughly able to take care of herself. I understand, incidentally, the police have some clues that weren’t given to the press. You’ve read the papers?”

“You mean about Gloster?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve read them. They say someone was hiding in the warehouse and that police think it was Edward Harold. If he was there, well, that should let Cynthia out of it, shouldn’t it? She couldn’t have put him there.”

“I should think that’s right,” Clane said, “but let’s wait to talk about that.”

“When will I see you, Terry?”

“I’ll be dropping by later on in the day.”

“Do, Terry, and... well, you know.”

“I know,” Clane said, and hung up.

So Ricardo Taonon’s wife had a convertible and it was her own property and no one else ever drove it and Edward Harold had called her not as his first choice but as his second. A woman with a superb figure who liked to show it. Edward Harold’s second choice.

Terry Clane, standing in the doorway of the telephone booth at the service station from which he had placed his call, began to breathe regularly and deeply, filling his blood with oxygen, letting the rhythm of his breathing furnish the preliminary foundation for concentration. Then when he had properly readied himself, he threw his mind completely into pin-point focus on the problem which confronted him.

Edward Harold had an alibi — or did he? When had he jumped from that window? Why had he jumped? Had it been because Gloster had walked in? If that were so, then Gloster had been in the warehouse probably as early as ten-thirty. Yet he had telephoned Clane shortly after eleven. And what of Edward Harold? That man at the time he had jumped through that window was already being sought by the police, a fugitive from justice with a death sentence hanging over his head. Bouted unexpectedly from the hideout where he had established himself for a long stay, fleeing out into the city without hat or coat... The police, already hot on his trail, would redouble their efforts to find him. Every new occupant of a hotel would be subject to suspicion. A man who would try to find a room without baggage at eleven o’clock at night... Airports watched, train terminals under surveillance... What would a man do under those circumstances? Where would he go? How would he hide?