Bill Pronzini: The Snatch

“Don’t worry,” Eberhardt said. “We’ll see that you get the hero’s mantle, hot shot.”

“Oh, thanks,” I said.

They got into the dark brown Ford-the Plymouth was gone, now-and Donleavy took it away up the street. I watched it turn right at the first corner and leave Tamarack Drive empty and silent again.

I retraced my steps across the footbridge and through the gate. I was conscious of a gnawing sensation in my stomach now, but it had nothing to do with the knife wound; I had eaten nothing all day except a couple of pieces of toast while I waited for the taxi this morning. After I talked with Martinetti, I decided I would drive into Burlingame and get something to eat before returning to San Francisco.

I went along the gravel path, and Martinetti was on the terrace, at the outdoor bar, motioning to me. I angled across the lawn on the circular stepping stones and walked across the terrace to where he was standing. The drapes across the bay window were parted in the center, and as I passed by I could see Karyn Martinetti still sitting on the couch with her son. I could not tell if they were alone, or if Proxmire was in there with them.

Martinetti had a tall, thin glass in his hand, filled with a darkly amber liquid. He raised it slightly as I reached him, and said, “Would you like a drink?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Not just now.”

He sat on one of the leather-topped stools and leaned his elbows on the marble surface of the left-hand bar face, rolling the glass distractedly between his palms. He did that for a time, and then turned his head and looked at me somberly. He said, “Will you continue working for me now?”

“If you like, Mr. Martinetti.”

“Yes. Yes, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

He looked at his glass again. “I’d better tell you something, then,” he said. “I didn’t tell Donleavy or the other investigator this, but I suppose somebody should know. It’s … a little painful.”

I waited, not speaking.

He took a full, tired breath and put his eyes back on my face. He said, “Dean Proxmire is having an affair with my wife.”

The surprise in my expression was due to his blunt admission of the fact, his knowledge of it, and not to the fact itself. I had considered telling Donleavy myself about the affair, what I had overheard the night of the ransom drop, but I hadn’t done so simply because it seemed purposeless to air a lot of dirty linen unless it was absolutely necessary. Apparently Martinetti, at this point, felt it more necessary than I did.

I said awkwardly, because it was the thing to say, “Are you certain of that, Mr. Martinetti?”

“Yes.” He raised the drink and swallowed some of it and ran his tongue over his lips with the open-mouthed carelessness of a toothless old man. “I’ve known about it for some time. Months, in fact.”

“How long has it been going on?”

“Almost a year now, I think.”

“And you haven’t done anything about it in that time?”

“What would I do?” he asked. “Confront them with the knowledge, like an indignant cuckold? No, I’m afraid not. Karyn and I have been … out of love for a long, long time now. We haven’t shared the same bed in more than a year. The only reason we’ve stayed together at all is because of the boy.”

I was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable in this kind of discussion, but it was necessary enough from an investigative standpoint. I said, “You could have fired Proxmire.”

“Would that have ended the affair?”

“I suppose not.”

“The fact of the matter is, I’m a practical man,” Martinetti said. “I’m also a relatively virile man, I think, and I understand the biological urge very well; I’ve had a number of casual affairs myself this past year, frankly. Why should I deny Karyn her release?”

That was what the progressive liberals referred to as being “the modern outlook.” My uneasiness gained magnitude, and I did not speak.

“Besides that,” Martinetti went on, “Proxmire is an extremely capable secretary. From a purely selfish point of view, it was simply easier to keep him on as long as he performed his duties as well as he has.”

I looked over at the quiet blue-green water in the pool for a moment. A couple of eucalyptus leaves were floating on its surface like miniature canoes in a placid Lilliputian lake. I said at length, “Why are you telling me this now, Mr. Martinetti? Do you suspect Proxmire of having something to do with the death of Lockridge and the theft of the ransom money?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “I will admit that the idea has crossed my mind a couple of times, because I know how much he wants Karyn-and Gary, too, for that matter; I can tell it by the way he looks at the boy-and the only thing keeping him from them is money.”

“How long has he worked for you?”

“About a year and a half now. Why?”

“Then you should know him pretty well by this time,” I said. “Is he the kind of man who would conspire to commit murder to obtain what he doesn’t have?”

“Any man is capable of murder,” Martinetti said quietly, “if he’s pushed far enough, tempted strongly enough. A man is capable of a lot of things-and murder is one of them, just one of them.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Martinetti.”

“That’s the best answer I can give you.”

“You just said yourself that Proxmire had strong feelings for Gary. Would he jeopardize the boy’s life by engineering a hijack of the ransom money? Would he risk the happiness, the completeness, of the woman he supposedly loves on the off chance-and that’s all he could expect it to be-of the police finding Gary unharmed after the kidnapper was disposed of?”

Martinetti drank again from his glass, deeply this time. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”

“That’s the only reason I mentioned it at all.”

“Would you like Proxmire to be guilty?” I asked him.

His smile was faint and sardonic. “In a way, I suppose I would. In another way, for Karyn’s sake, I hope he isn’t.”

“And if he isn’t, do you intend to allow this situation to go on indefinitely?”

“Our little triangle, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll have to make a decision, either way. Karyn will be the one to do that, and I doubt if it will be very long before she does-especially after all that’s happened in the past few days. If she loves Proxmire enough, and I suspect that she might now, she’ll ask me for a divorce and custody of the boy.”

“Will you agree to that?”

The faint and sardonic smile again. “Is that relevant to your investigation?”

“No,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

He made a dismissive gesture and drained the last of his drink without saying anything. There was the sound of a glass door sliding open, and Proxmire came out on the terrace. “Allan Channing just phoned,” he called to Martinetti. “I told him about Gary, and he’ll stop by for a few minutes on his way to San Jose.”

“All right,” Martinetti said.

Proxmire retreated into the house. I said, “If you don’t mind, Mr. Martinetti, I’ll be going now.”

“You don’t want to be here when Channing arrives, do you?”

“Not particularly.”

“I can understand that, after the call he made to you this morning.”

“You know about that?”

“He told me about it,” Martinetti said, “after he’d made it. I told him he was a damned fool, for all the good it did. He’s a very rich man, but he’s also a very opinionated and very selfish man. He doesn’t know how to handle relationships, except on a strict money-making basis.”