A. Fair - Owls Don't Blink

I said, “But you do want to get in touch with the police, is that it?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

I said, “Then the police will know as much about it as you do.”

“Well, why not?”

I said, “I don’t know anything about why you want Roberta Fenn or who wants her, but I suppose there’s a reason.”

He said, “Businessmen don’t pay out good money to find people just to ask them to subscribe to a magazine.”

I said, “Perhaps you don’t realize what I’m leading up to.”

“Go ahead. Lead up to it.”

“Let’s suppose a businessman wants to find Roberta. He undoubtedly wants her to do something, or wants her to tell him something, or wants to find out something. Here’s a thirty-eight caliber gun and some old newspaper clippings. You take those to the police, and you’ll never find Roberta Fenn and get a chance to talk with her. That thing will be headlined all over the country. Right now the police think Roberta may have been a second victim, or they think she may have been frightened away. There’s some speculation as to whether she might be the one who shot Nostrander, but she’s not what you’d really call hot. Once you take this to the police, the police will reopen that old murder case. Then the California authorities will go crazy looking for her. You’ll have both Louisiana and California police on her trail. You’ll have her picture published in every newspaper in the country. You’ll have posters made, and distributed in every post office, and mailed to every police officer in the land. Roberta will read all that stuff. She’ll duck for cover. What sort of chance do you think we have of finding her ahead of the police of two states?”

“When we do catch up with her she’ll be in a cell. If you want her to do something, being in a cell might cramp her style.”

He regarded me steadily for several seconds, his eyes batting every few seconds.

Abruptly he pushed the gun toward me. “All right, Lam, you take it.”

“Not me. I’m simply a detective employed to find Roberta Fenn for a client whose identity I don’t know. You’re the big shot who’s determining policies.”

“Then,” he said, “as an attorney in good standing, I would have no choice but to go to the police.”

I got up from the floor and brushed my trousers. “Okay,” I said, “I just wanted you to understand the situation.”

I was halfway to the door before he called me back.

“Perhaps I should give the matter a little further consideration. Lam.”

I didn’t say anything.

He went on: “You know it’s rather a serious matter to accuse a person of crime. I — er — I’ll think it over.”

I still didn’t say anything.

“After all,” he went on, “I’m assuming that this is the gun with which that crime in California was committed. That is pure inference on my part. I think it would be wise to make an investigation in greater detail. We really haven’t anything to report to the police right now. We merely have found some newspaper clippings and a revolver concealed in an old desk. Thousands of people keep revolvers, and newspaper clippings are not necessarily significant.”

“Done it?” I asked.

“Done what?”

“Convinced yourself that it’s all right for you to do the thing you want to do.”

“Hang it, Lam, I’m not doing that. I’m merely weighing the pros and cons.”

“When you get them weighed, let me know,” I told him, and turned once more toward the door.

This time he called me back before I had taken more than three steps.

“Lam.”

I turned. “What is it this time?”

Hale was through beating around the bush. “Forget about this,” he said. “We won’t tell the police anything about it.”

“What are you going to do with the gun?”

“Put it back in that desk just where we found it.”

“Then what?”

“Later on, if it becomes necessary, we can discover it again.”

I said, “You’re the doctor.”

He nodded and beamed at me. “The more I see of you. Lam, the more I appreciate you. Now I’d like to have you do something for me.”

“What?”

“I understand the police have a witness who can fix the exact time Nostrander was murdered. One who heard the shots. A young woman, I believe.”

“Yes.”

“I wonder if it would be possible for you to arrange to have me meet her. Not in the capacity of a person seeking information, but merely casually.”

I said, “It’s all fixed. Be waiting out in front of the Jack-O’-Lantern Club about nine o’clock tonight. I’ve already paved the way.”

“Well, well, that’s efficiency! You seem to anticipate my every thought, Lam. You really do.”

I said, “Nine o’clock tonight in front of the Jack-O’-Lantern,” and went out.

I looked at my watch. It was two hours earlier in California. I sent a wire to the agency: Howard Chandler Craig murdered June 6, 1937. Possibility of connection with case here. Get all details. In particular find out about habits and love life of victim .

Hale said, “What a peculiar place.”

“It’s like all New Orleans nightclubs — that is, the ones in the French Quarter,”

A waiter came over. “You want a table?”

I nodded.

We followed him over to the table he indicated and sat down. “Marilyn Winton works here?” Hale asked.

“Yes. She’s the girl in the cream-colored satin.”

“Marvelous figure,” Hale commented appreciatively.

“Uh huh.”

“I wonder if we could arrange to — well, you know, how are we going to get a chance to talk with her?”

“She’ll be over.”

“What makes you think so?”

“I have a hunch.”

Marilyn had been in the game long enough so that when men’s eyes started boring a hole in her back she turned instinctively.

She smiled; then she came over.

“Hello,” she said to me.

I got up and said, “Hello. Marilyn, this is a friend of mine, Mr. Hale.”

“Oh, how are you, Mr. Hale?” She gave him her hand.

Hale was standing up at his full height beaming down at her. The expression on his face was like that of a kid who is looking through a plate-glass store window at Santa Claus two days before Christmas.

“Won’t you sit down?” I asked.

“Thanks.”

We had no more than seated her when the waiter came up for an order.

“Plain water and whisky,” she said.

“Gin and Coke,” I ordered.

Hale pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, let me see. Do you have any real good cognac?”

I answered for the waiter. “No,” I said. “Since you’re here in New Orleans, why not drink a New Orleans drink? Gin and Seven-Up; gin and Coke; rum and Coke; or bourbon and Seven-Up?”

“Gin and Coke?” he inquired as though I’d suggested he try a chloride of lime cocktail. “Do you mean they mix them?”

“Bring him one” I told the waiter.

The waiter went away. Marilyn said to me, “Why did you run out on me — that other time?”

“Who said I did?”

“A little bird — and then I have eyes, you know.”

“ I’ll say you have.”

She laughed. “What’s your name?”

“Donald.”

“Next time don’t get a girl all interested and then walk out”

Hale said to me, “You’ve talked with Miss Winton before?”

“No. I’ve wanted to, but-well, somehow, it just didn’t come off.”

She said, “Faint heart never won fair lady. Don’t let things get you down, Donald.”

The waiter brought our drinks. Hale paid for them. He picked his glass up, an expression of austere disapproval held in escrow on his face, ready to be delivered as soon as the first sip of liquid passed over his tongue. I saw a look of surprise on his face; then he took another sip and said, “Good heavens. Lam, that’s good! ”