Bill Pronzini: The Snatch

She was in her late twenties, tiny and compact, breasts a little large-pleasantly so-for the petiteness of her body, and a waist no thicker than a big man’s thigh. She had one of these freckled pixie-ish noses that would wrinkle up like a rabbit’s when she laughed, and carelessly fluffed hair the color of burnished copper, and large, innocent, gold-flecked green eyes. A bulky beige sweater and black flare slacks and a frilly apron with large heart-shaped pockets comprised her dress.

She asked quizzically, “Yes? May I help you?”

“Mrs. Shanley?”

“Yes?”

“I’d like to speak to your husband, if I may.”

“Oh, well, I’m afraid he’s gone to San Jose,” she said. “His lodge is holding some sort of bowling tournament down there. Was it something to do with business?”

“Not exactly,” I said. I got my wallet out of my suit coat and opened it and let her look at the photostat of my operator’s license. “I wanted to ask him some questions concerning the kidnapping of Louis Martinetti’s son.”

She blinked rapidly, and her mouth became a small, moist circle. “You’re that detective in the newspapers, the one who was stabbed, aren’t you?”

I nodded. She seemed a little awed, and her eyes moved down to my stomach, as if she expected to see blood there-or gaping flesh; then she blinked again and brought her gaze back up to my face. “Such a terrible thing, a kidnapping,” she said gravely. “An awful, evil thing. Has there been any news yet?”

“As a matter of fact, there has,” I told her. “Good news. The boy has been found, unharmed, and he’s home with his parents at the moment.”

The gravity gave way to a gladsome smile, and her freckled little nose wrinkled exactly the way I had thought it would. The relief in her eyes appeared to be authentic. “I’m so relieved!” she said. “Did the police arrest anyone?”

“A woman accomplice.”

“A woman murdered that man and stabbed you?”

“I don’t think so, Mrs. Shanley.”

“Oh. Do you know who did yet?”

“Not yet, I’m afraid.”

“Well, at least the boy is safe and that’s the main thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She took her lower lip between her teeth and nibbled on it and put her hands in the pockets of her apron. “I suppose you want to ask Glen a lot of routine questions,” she said. “He’s been sort of expecting it.”

“Why is that, Mrs. Shanley?”

“Isn’t that the way it’s done?” she asked. “I mean, don’t you investigators go around to everyone who knows or works for the victim in a case like this and try to find clues?”

“Yes, that’s usually the way it’s done.”

“Glen is a good citizen,” Mrs. Shanley said firmly. “He’s always willing to cooperate with the authorities.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Yes. I don’t think he can be of much help, though.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, when he came home the night that poor little boy was taken and told me about it, I asked him a million questions and he couldn’t tell me anything at all.”

“He knew about the kidnapping the day it happened?”

She inclined her head vigorously. “It was his day to work at the Martinettis’-he goes there once a week, in the afternoons-and he happened to be weeding under the study windows, you see, when Mr. Martinetti and that friend of his, Mr. Channing, were talking inside about what had happened. Glen isn’t the type to eavesdrop, but, well, you don’t just walk away when you hear something like that, do you?”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” I said. “I wonder if you’d mind telling me if your husband was home the following night, Mrs. Shanley? The night I was attacked and the kidnapper murdered.”

“Yes, certainly he was. We watched television for a while, and then some friends came over for drinks and we played canasta until after midnight.”

“Do you know if your husband told anyone else about the kidnapping that first day?”

“I don’t think he did.” She frowned thoughtfully.

“We didn’t go out that night either, and no one dropped by … Oh, he might have told Art, I guess. Art telephoned about something just before supper and they talked for quite a while; I was in the kitchen, and I didn’t hear any of the conversation.”

“Who would Art be, Mrs. Shanley?”

“Glen’s brother. He lives in Half Moon Bay.”

“Anyone else he might have told?”

“Not that I know of,” she answered. “Glen said that it was the kind of thing you didn’t want to go spreading around, and he told me not to say anything about it.”

“And you didn’t, of course.”

“Oh no.”

I turned my hat around in my fingers. “Would your husband happen to have an interest in electronics, Mrs. Shanley?”

“Electronics?”

“Yes.”

“Do you mean stereo equipment?”

“Generally, yes.”

“Glen isn’t very interested in things like that, really,” she said. “His only hobby is his work.”

“I see.”

“But Art fools around with stereo equipment,” she said. “He’s built a couple of things from component kits or whatever you call them. Why do you ask?”

I rubbed at the bridge of my nose. “No special reason,” I said noncommittally. “Would you happen to have your brother-in-law’s address, Mrs. Shanley? You did say he lived in Half Moon Bay?”

“Yes,” she said. “He has an ocean-view cottage on Dreyer Road-that’s a little winding lane a couple of miles south of the village; there are only two cottages at the end of the lane, and his is the nearest one at the fork.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“Well, he’s unemployed at the moment. Usually he works as a plumber’s helper, but there’s been such a building depression lately that he can’t find work.”

“All right, Mrs. Shanley,” I said. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very cooperative.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t have much to tell you,” she said. “Will you still be wanting to talk with Glen?”

“It’s very likely,” I said. “I’ll be by tomorrow-or perhaps one of the District Attorney’s investigators instead.”

“He should be home until about noon,” Mrs. Shanley said. “He doesn’t have an appointment until one o’clock.”

“Thanks again, Mrs. Shanley,” I said, and managed a small smile for her and then turned around and went out to the street again. I sat in the darkness inside the Valiant and thought: Well, what have you got now? A brother who dabbles in electronics like a million other people in this country, who is unemployed like a few million others on top of that, and who may or may not have known about the kidnapping the same day it happened. That’s all you’ve got, too, because if that girl was lying about her husband being home with her the night of the hijack, she’s as good as Hepburn and twice as good as Taylor.

So what now? A talk with Art Shanley? Well, you’ve got nothing better to do tonight, and no place better to go than Half Moon Bay, because home is no more appealing than it was a little while ago. If it’s a dead end, then you’ve made a full cycle out of it and you’ll have something to report to Donleavy and Martinetti in the morning, even if it is negative.

I sat there awhile longer, thinking, but Erika came into my thoughts with her whispering words and her softness and her rejection, and abruptly I started the car and put the heater on high; it had grown very cold in there.

I drove over to Skyline Boulevard, and it took me fifteen minutes to make the nine-mile drive across the mountains to Half Moon Bay. I turned into one of the service stations at the Highway 1 junction there, got gas for the Valiant, and went into the attendant’s office to look at a posted area map on the wall. Dreyer Road was a thin black line extending erratically south in a rough parallel to Highway 1; it began on Cliffside Drive, a road which right-angled seaward off the highway about three miles south, and according to the map scale, dead-ended less than a mile after it commenced.