Bill Pronzini - Undercurrent

Quartermain looked at him blankly. "What?"

"Anita Hartman," Dancer said again. "An old lady, a pioneer type, who used to live in Cypress Bay. I think she died two or three years ago."

The blankness congealed into a frown. "Sure, I remember her; she was something of an institution in this area. What about her?"

"She was trying to start up this combination art and historical society back in the late fifties-a museum or something for the storage and preservation of artistic memorabilia relating to Cypress Bay and environs, supposed to date back to the time of the Spanish possession. I don't know why she was interested in an old pulp hack, but she found out I was a local writer and came to see me. She wanted me to donate some of my papers to this society of hers-she was seeing other writers and artists in the area and getting them to donate stuff and she wanted to include me. I guess I was flattered and so I said all right and gave her two or three boxes of stuff. She said she wanted all future papers, too, but the project fell through and I never heard from her again. I'd forgotten all about her until just now."

Quartermain and I were both on our feet, and there was a kind of electric tenseness in the air. He said, "You think there may have been copies of The Dead and the Dying among those papers of yours, is that it?"

"Not copies-the manuscript carbon. I don't know exactly what was in the boxes I gave her, but I'm pretty sure, now that I remember it, that most of the stuff was manuscript carbons and notes on some of the books and stories I'd done since 1950."

I said to Quartermain, "Do you know what happened, after she died, to all the memorabilia Anita Hartman had collected?"

"Hell yes. She willed it to the city of Cypress Bay, with the stipulation that it be stored safely until such time as it could be used to start or implement a local historical art society. There's been a lot of renewed interest in our local heritage of late, and a community group with city sanction and funding is in the process of creating a Cypress Bay Historical Museum of Art and Literature. Not long ago they bought an old schoolhouse on Gutierrez Avenue and have begun to restore it. All of Anita Hartman's collection, and other donations, are stored in the basement until restoration is complete and they can sort it and arrange displays."

"Is there a custodian, someone to let us in?"

"No, not yet; it's still a volunteer group and they won't get somebody in there until it's opened to the public. It's kept locked."

"Who would have the key?"

"I'm not sure. The head of the group, probably. I think that's John Benjamin, but I'd better-Wait a minute! Keith Tarrant belongs to the group; he got them the schoolhouse property through his real-estate office. He'd have a key; sure he would."

We pulled Dancer up from his chair-there was the chance we might need his help in combing the school-house basement, if not in further explanations, were we to locate the manuscript of The Dead and the Dying-and hurried the hell out of there…

The real-estate office which Keith Tarrant maintained in Cypress Bay was located on Newberry Road, just inside the northern city limits. We went there directly from the City Hall because it was close and because it seemed reasonable that Tarrant would keep a schoolhouse key there rather than at his Carmel Valley home; even if he had not as yet come in, the secretary he had told me about would more than likely have opened the office for Monday morning business.

Quartermain brought the car into the curb in front of the place-a pine-shaded, ivy-draped, one-story frame structure-and there were lights on inside and a sign in the glass front door reading Please Come In. The three of us crossed the sun-and-shade-dappled sidewalk and entered; a chunky brunette in her middle forties was sitting behind a dove-gray metal desk and doing something with a sheaf of papers. She was not alone. On the near side of the functionally appointed room, in one of those round, modernistic comfort chairs, sat Bianca Tarrant

She wore an emerald-green, lightweight pants suit, and her auburn hair had a sleek, carefully brushed appearance; there was artfully applied make-up around her eyes and on her mouth, and some to soften the tone of the sepia freckles across the bridge of her nose. She looked poised and assured-and yet, you could tell she was suffering a hangover. It was in her violet-rimmed eyes and in the faint pouches beneath them that the make-up could not quite conceal. Nothing like the hangover Dancer was suffering, but a hangover nonetheless.

She looked at us as we came in, and surprise parted her lips and put faint furrows in the pale smoothness of her forehead. A little uncertainly, she stood up; her eyes moved restlessly from one to the other of us; three haggard, unshaven, middle-aged men, two in rumpled suits, one in slacks and a sports shirt. Not exactly a trio to inspire ease or a sense of normalcy. She took a step toward us and then stopped, still uncertain.

Quartermain said, "Good morning, Mrs. Tarrant. Is your husband here?"

"Why… no, not at the moment, Chief." Her voice was husky and cultured, with none of the odd intensity that had inflected her words to me the day before. "He left about fifteen minutes ago, to see a client briefly. He should be back any time now; we're attending a luncheon in Monterey."

"Do you know if he keeps a key here to the old schoolhouse on Gutierrez?"

Her frown deepened. "I don't know, I suppose he does." She made a half-turn toward the secretary's desk. "Margot…?"

"Yes," the brunette said. "It should be in his office."

"Would you get it, please?" Quartermain asked her.

"Of course." She stood up and went through an unmarked door at the rear of the room.

Bianca Tarrant said, "Is something wrong at the museum?"

"No, it's nothing like that."

Her gaze strayed to Dancer. "Russ, we heard on the radio this morning about the fire. I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"

"Somebody set it deliberately."

"Oh no…"

Quartermain said, "I have a few questions, if you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Tarrant."

"Questions?"

"About Walter Paige."

She shifted the weight of her body uncomfortably, looked at me, looked away, looked at me again. "Because of what I said to you yesterday?" she asked in a soft, nervous voice. "Well, you know, I.. was a little high yesterday; Keith and I had been drinking quite a bit. I'm sorry about… well, I suppose I did act somewhat strangely, didn't I?"

"Somewhat," I said.

"It was just that I was a little high," she said. "I knew Walt Paige six years ago, and it was such a shock to learn that he had been murdered…" She cleared her throat. "Have you found out who killed him yet?"

"Not yet."

"Do you have any idea who it was?"

"Possibly."

"Who?"

"Do you know a bald man in his forties, heavy-set, dark?"

"I don't believe so. Is… he the one you suspect?"

"We're trying to find him," Quartermain said. "You and Paige were friends, is that correct?"

"Yes. We were friends."

"But you hadn't seen him in six years?"

"No. No, I hadn't."

"Did you know he had come back to Cypress City?"

"No. He… didn't try to get in touch with us or anything."

"But he did, Mrs. Tarrant."

"What?"

"He called your husband several weeks ago and tried to rent a vacant store here in Cypress Bay; your husband turned him down. You didn't know about that?"

"Keith didn't tell me, no." Her hands moved against one another like furtive lovers. "I can't imagine Walt trying to rent a vacant store-unless he was planning to move back to this area. Why did my husband turn him down?"

"He said he didn't care for Paige, that Paige was not the type of man he cared to have for a neighbor. Why would he say that if the three of you were friendly six years ago?"