Bill Pronzini - Bones

I went down there. “Mr. Porter?”

“Yes, that's right. You're the gentleman who called? The detective?”

I said I was, and he bobbed his head, coughed, wheezed a little, and let me come in. He was about sixty, a little guy with not much hair and delicate, almost womanish hands. The hands were spotted with dried clay; so was the green smock he wore. There was even a spot of clay on the knot of his spiffy red bow tie.

The room he led me into was a single, cavernous enclosure, brightly lit by flourescent ceiling tubes, that looked as if it had been formed by knocking out some walls. Along one side was a raised platform piled high with finished sculptures, most of them fanciful animals and birds. At the rear was a curtained-off area, probably Porter's living quarters. The rest of the space was cluttered with clay-smeared tables, a trio of potter's wheels complete with foot treadles, drums full of pre-mixed clay, and some wooden scaffolding to hold newly formed figures while they dried. Spread out and bunched up on the floor were several pieces of canvas, all of them caked with dried spatters of clay. But they hadn't caught all of the droppings, not by any means: what I could see of the bare wood underneath was likewise splotched.

“There aren't any chairs out here, I'm afraid,” Porter said. “We can go in back, if you prefer…”

“This is fine. I won't take up much of your time.”

“Well,” he said, and then turned away abruptly and did some more coughing and hacking, followed by a series of squeaky wheezes. When he had his breath back he said, “Emphysema.” And immediately produced a package of Camels from the pocket of his smock and fired up.

I stared at him. “If you've got emphysema,” I said, “why not quit smoking?”

“Too late for that,” he said with a sort of philosophical resignation. “My lungs are already gone. I'll probably be dead in another year or two anyway.”

The words gave me a chill. A few years back, when I was a two-pack-a-day smoker myself, I had developed a lesion on one lung and spent too many sleepless nights worrying that maybe I'd be dead in another year or two. The lesion had turned out to be benign, but I still hadn't had a cigarette since. It was a pact I'd made with whatever forces controlled the universe; and so far they had kept their end of the bargain by allowing me to go on living without medical complications.

I said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Porter,” and I meant it.

He shrugged. “Weak lungs and frail bodies run in my family,” he said. “My brother Adam died of lung cancer, you know.”

“No, I didn't know.”

“Yes. He was only fifty-four.” Porter sucked in smoke, coughed it out, and said wheezily, “You're interested in Harmon Crane. May I ask why?”

“His son hired me to find out why he shot himself.”

“His son? I didn't know Harmon had a son.”

“Neither did he.” I went on to explain about Michael Kiskadon and his purpose in hiring me.

Porter said, “I see. Well, I don't know that I can help you. Adam knew Harmon much better than I did.”

“But you were acquainted with him?”

“Oh yes. I was very young and impressed by his success. I used to badger Adam to take me along whenever he got together with the Cranes.”

“How did Crane feel about that?”

“He didn't seem to mind. At least, not until the last few weeks of his life. Then he wouldn't deal with anyone.”

“Do you have any idea what caused his depression?”

“Not really. But it was right after he returned from Tomales Bay that we all noticed it.”

“Oh? What was he doing at Tomales Bay?”

“He had a little retreat, a cabin; he went there when he was having trouble working in the city.”

“Went there alone, you mean?”

“Yes. He liked solitude.”

“How long did he usually stay?”

“Oh, a couple of weeks at the most.”

“How long was he there that last time?”

“I'm not sure. A week or so, I think. He came back the day after the earthquake.”

“Earthquake?”

Porter nodded. “I might have forgotten about that, if it hadn't been for the one last night. The quake in '49 was just about as severe, centered somewhere up north, and it did some minor damage in the Tomales Bay area. Harmon had a terror of earthquakes; he used to say that was the only thing he hated about living in San Francisco. Adam thought the quake might have had something to do with Harmon's depression, but I don't see how that's possible.”

“Neither do I. Did Crane say anything about his experience out at Tomales?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Not even to his wife? Didn't she talk to him after it happened? On the telephone, I mean.”

“Well, he did call her briefly to tell her he was all right. But that was all. And he wouldn't talk about it after he returned to the city.”

“How did Mrs. Crane feel about his trips to Tomales? Didn't she mind him going away alone like that?”

“No. Amanda was always very… passive, I suppose is the word. Whatever Harmon did was fine with her.” Porter paused, fought down another cough, and ground out his cigarette in a hollowed-out lump of clay. “You've talked to her? Amanda?”

“For a few minutes yesterday.”

“About Harmon's death?”

“No. She wouldn't discuss it.”

“It's just as well. She… well, she had a severe breakdown, you know, after Adam and that shyster, Yankowski, found the body. She hasn't been right in the head since.”

“So I gathered. She asked about you, Mr. Porter.”

“Did she?” A kind of softness came into his face; he smiled faintly. “I suppose she wonders why I haven't been to see her the past few months.”

“Yes. She said she'd like to see you again.”

He sighed, and it turned into another cough. “Well, I suppose I'll have to go then. I stopped the visits because they depress me. Seeing her the way she is…” He shook his head. “She was such a vital woman before the shooting. An attractive, vital, happy woman.”

He was in love with her too, I thought. At least a little. She must have been quite a woman before the night of December 10, 1949.

I said, “Crane's little retreat at Tomales-do you recall where it was?”

“No, not exactly. I never went there. Adam did, once, at Harmon's invitation; it seems to me he said it was on the east shore. But I can't be sure.”

“Did Crane own the place?”

“I believe he leased it.”

“Would you have any idea who from?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I would. An Italian fellow in Tomales. The town, I mean. Harmon used his name in one of his Johnny Axe books, made him the villain. He liked to do things like that-inside jokes, he called them. He had a puckish sense of humor.”

“Was the Italian a realtor?”

“No, I don't think so. A private party.”

“What was his name?”

Porter did some cudgeling of his memory. But then he shook his head again and said, “I just don't remember.”

“The title of the book?”

“Nor that. I read all of them when they were published, but I haven't looked at one in years. I believe I stored them away with Adam's books after he died.” Porter paused again, musingly this time. “You know,” he said, “there was a box of Harmon's papers among my brother's effects.”

“Papers?”

“Literary papers-manuscripts, letters, and so on. I don't know how Adam came to have them; probably through Amanda. If you think they might be of help, I'll see if I can find the box. It's somewhere down in the basement.”

“I'd appreciate that, Mr. Porter. You never know what might prove useful.”

“I'll start looking this evening.”

“Can you give me the names of any other friends of Crane's I should talk to?”