John Lutz - Buyer beware

"You were careful to explain that to me yesterday."

Dockard picked at an imaginary wart on his palm. "I understand the confidence you owe Mr. Carlon," he said, weighing each word for its potential to boomerang, "but you also have some responsibility to the law. Mr. Carlon means well, but he's not a professional like we are. He might get some mistaken notions…"

"Any particular notion in mind?" I asked.

A large mosquito droned in unpredictable circles around Dockard's head, sizing him up. Dockard swatted the air where the mosquito had been. "What I mean, Nudger, is that the more people we have working on this case, the sooner it's likely to be solved. I wouldn't want you to think it would be best to withhold anything from the Layton police. And of course we'll share whatever we know with you."

There was a something-for-nothing offer. Dockard wouldn't dare withhold anything pertinent from me now that I represented Dale Carlon.

"I'm aware of my obligation to the law," I said.

"I'm sure. It's just that Mr. Carlon, well-meaning as he is, might instruct you to operate, sometimes, with us still in the dark. And I think, considering the circumstances of the case, that I owe you a certain confidence if you keep me informed."

"Without Carlon's knowledge?"

"I'm only asking you to obey the law, Nudger." He flicked a hand again at the phantom mosquito.

What Dockard was saying was that whenever Carlon instructed me to keep something from the Layton police, I could tell Dockard without fear of Carlon's finding out. It was less serious to betray a client's trust than to withhold evidence in a murder investigation, and Dockard was giving me the opportunity to exchange one transgression for the other. I remembered his words of yesterday, about Carlon being the one man not to cross; and today he was asking me to do just that.

"You're telling me I can have it both ways," I said.

"If that's how you want to think of it. Either way I'd like you to keep this talk confidential."

"You've got that."

"At least my way, if Mr. Carlon does have some wrong suggestions, you've got an out."

At the risk of fifty thousand dollars, I thought, not to mention the possibility of Carlon's revenge. I doubted if Dockard knew the stakes were that high. People like Carlon confused things.

"If the situation comes up," I said to Dockard, "I'll think about it."

There was something in his face that made me feel he knew the situation already had come up. He nodded, removed his foot from the dusty chrome bumper. "It's something for you to consider."

Now the mosquito began droning about me. I'd thought it was my friend. Dockard walked around to the driver's side of the car and opened the door.

"I remember Joan Clark," he said before he got in. "She's not going to be found easily if she doesn't want to be."

I stood and watched Dockard drive off the lot. He yielded to an overloaded station wagon making a left to get to the Clover Inn's office, then his plain car, with its square-tipped shortwave antenna, merged with the light traffic on Main Drive.

Dockard had given me something to think about. Was his proposition made out of a genuine concern to solve Branly's murder and find Joan Clark as soon as possible? Or was he trying to make sure that the Lay-ton police department and Lieutenant Dockard accomplished whatever was needed and received full credit from Carlon? I didn't doubt that the latter might be his motive. A man like Carlon could do a lot for a police lieutenant like Dockard in a town like Layton.

I swatted at the mosquito.

There was another very strong possibility I couldn't overlook. Was Carlon aware of Dockard's visit? After our conversation at the Star Lane house, had he asked the lieutenant to put the proposition to me to test me?

That possibility was reason fifty thousand and one for me to play the game straight with Carlon and to not mention to Lieutenant Dockard that I was going to Chicago.

My flight arrived at Chicago's O'Hare International on time to the minute. After making my way through the crowd that was bustling to the incomprehensible rhythm of the public address speakers, I claimed my luggage and took a Continental limo into the city.

At one of the big hotels on North Michigan, I got out and left my luggage in the check room. There was no point in registering anywhere yet; I had no way of knowing if my stay in Chicago would last for days or for hours. Outside the hotel I got into one of the cabs parked in single waiting line at the curb and gave the driver Roger Horvell's address.

After a drive through the hippiness-mellowing-to-campiness of Old Town, the taxi entered an area of recent renovation and pulled to the curb in front of a fairly new tall building with a glassed-in lobby that gave off a silvery mirrored effect. I paid the driver, left the cab, then watched my image ascend the concrete steps and reach for the push plate on one of the wide glass double doors.

The lobby featured a small, bubbling Florentine fountain that on close inspection appeared to be constructed entirely of plastic. I walked around the fountain and crossed the scuffed tile floor to a bank of metal mailboxes by an ornate wrought iron gate that blocked access to the elevators. I pressed the pearled plastic button beneath Horvell's mail slot.

He was home. I identified myself over the intercom and told him I wanted to see him regarding David Branly. His nasal voice betrayed confusion and maybe a little fright as he invited me to come up. I understood how he felt; my own gut was beginning to tighten with apprehension. A buzzer sounded, and I passed through the wrought iron gateway and rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

Roger Horvell was a small man in his late twenties, balding prematurely, with thick glasses and a large nose a bit too bulbous to be charitably called hawklike. He was wearing window-check pants and a loose-fitting brown knit pullover shirt with an alligator sewn above the pocket. His casual attire didn't fit his nervousness.

"What is it about David?" he asked, pacing to a large window that afforded a view of the building across the street. It was a taller building than the one we were in, with draped and private windows.

Horvell's nervousness made me feel more confident. I sat on a modern, uncomfortable and obviously inexpensive sofa, noticing that the plush blue carpeting in the new apartment was already beginning to wear. "I need some information about Branly," I said, "and unfortunately he's in no position to help me."

Horvell turned to face me, scratched a scrawny arm as if he had poison ivy. "Is Dave in some kind of trouble?"

"It could be put that way," I said.

He nodded jerkily, sighed, as if he'd expected to hear that news. "You said you were a private detective. What has that to do with David?"

"Nothing directly. Where do you know Branly from?"

Horvell hesitated, then the apprehensive, magnified eyes behind the thick lenses seemed to register the expression of a man waist deep in cold water who has decided to submerge the rest of himself. "We worked together, for the same company."

"What company?"

"David hasn't done anything, has he?"

"No," I said, and waited silently for the answer to my question.

Horvell ran a hand over his balding head as if he still had a mop of hair. "High Grade Hardware," he said in a resigned, nasal tone. "I still work there."

"How long has Branly been gone?"

"Almost a year."

"Fired or quit?"

"Neither," Horvell said hastily. "He was a good company man, one of the best at High Grade, but his job of secondary cost analyst became obsolete."

"If he was so competent, why didn't the company keep him and work him into some other job?" I asked, wondering just what a secondary cost analyst was.