Росс Макдональд - The Zebra-Striped Hearse

Mrs. Leonard had made lemonade and egg-salad sandwiches, and laid them out on a coffee table in the small overfurnished living room. She poured two glasses of lemonade from a pitcher clinking with ice. Then she retreated into the kitchen, shutting the door with crisp tact. I had forgotten to eat, and I wolfed several sandwiches while Leonard talked.

“I’ve found the murder weapon,” he announced. “I didn’t find it personally, but it was my own personal idea that led to its disclosure. Ever since we uncovered Simpson’s body, I’ve had a crew of county prisoners out there mornings picking over the scene of the crime. This morning one of them came across the icepick and turned it in.”

“Let me see it.”

“It’s down at the courthouse, locked up. I’ll show it to you later.”

“What makes you certain it’s the weapon?”

“I took it into the L. A. crime lab today. They gave it a test for blood traces, and got a positive reaction. Also, it fits the puncture in Simpson’s body.”

“Any icepick would.”

“But this is it. This is the one.” He leaned toward me urgently across the plate of sandwiches. “I had to be sure, and I made sure.”

“Fingerprints?”

“No. The only prints were the ones from the prisoner that found it. It was probably wiped clean before the murderer stuck it in the dirt. I’ve got something better than fingerprints. And worse, in a way.”

“You’re talking in riddles, Sergeant.”

“It’s a riddle for sure.” He glanced at the closed door to the kitchen, and lowered his voice. “The icepick was part of a little silver bar set which was sold right here in town last October. I had no trouble tracking down the store because there’s only the one good hardware store here in town. That’s Drake Hardware, and Mr. Drake identified the icepick personally tonight. He just had the one set like it in stock, and he remembered who he sold it to. She’s a local citizen – a woman my wife has known for years.”

“Who is she?”

Leonard raised his hand as if he was back on traffic point duty. “Not so fast. I don’t know that I’m justified telling you her name. It wouldn’t mean anything to you, anyway. She’s a Citrus Junction woman, lived here all her life. Always had a clean record, till now. But it looks dark for her, or maybe her husband. There’s more than the icepick tying them into the murder. They live directly across the road from the site where we found the icepick and the body.”

“Are we talking about Mr. and Mrs. Stone?”

He looked at me in surprise. “You know Jack and Liz Stone?”

“I interviewed her this afternoon. He wasn’t there.”

“What were you doing – questioning her about the Simpson killing?”

“We discussed it, but I didn’t consider her a suspect. We talked mostly about her daughter Dolly – and what happened to her.”

Leonard made a lugubrious face. “That was a bad blow to the Stone couple. The way I figure it, psychologically speaking, the murder of their girl could of drove them over the edge. Maybe Simpson had something to do with that murder, and they killed him in revenge.”

“It’s a possible motive, all right. Simpson was definitely involved with Dolly and her husband. Have you questioned the Stones?”

“Not yet. I just got Mr. Drake’s identification of the icepick tonight. I talked it over with the Sheriff and he says I should wait until the D. A. gets back from Sacramento. He’s due back tomorrow. We wouldn’t want to make a serious mistake, the Sheriff says.” Clear sweat, like distilled anxiety, burst out on his forehead. “The Stones aren’t moneyed folks but they’ve always had a good reputation and plenty of friends in town. Liz Stone is active in the Eastern Star.” He took a long gulp of lemonade.

“Somebody ought to ask her about the icepick.”

“That’s my opinion, too. Unfortunately my hands are tied until the D. A. gets back.”

“Mine aren’t.”

He regarded me appraisingly. Clearly he was asking himself how far he could trust me. He tossed down the rest of his lemonade and got up.

“Okay. You want to take a look at it first?”

We rode in my car to the courthouse. The icepick was in Leonard’s second-floor office, where a map of Citrus County took up one whole wall. He got the thing out of a locker and set it on the table under a magnifying glass on a flexible arm.

A tag bearing Leonard’s initials was wired to the handle, and the wire sealed with lead. The square-cut silver handle felt cold to my fingers. The point of the icepick was sharp and dirty, like a bad death.

“There’s a corkscrew that goes with it, part of the set,” he said. “If Liz and Jack Stone have the corkscrew, it ties it up.”

“Maybe. Are they the sort of people that would use a silver bar set, or any kind of a bar set?”

“I never heard that they drank, but you never can tell. One of them could be a secret drinker.”

“Secret drinkers don’t fool around with fancy accessories. Do I have your permission to show them this thing, and ask for an explanation?”

“I guess so.” He wiped his forehead. “Long as you don’t go to them in my name, I guess it’s all right. But don’t make any accusations. We don’t want them to panic and go on the run.”

I let him out on the sidewalk in front of his house and drove to the west side. The Stones had an upstairs light on. The man who came to the front door was in his pajamas. He was a thin man with bushy sandy hair and defeated eyes.

“Mr. Stone?”

“Yessir.”

“I had some conversation with your wife today.”

“You’re the detective, are you?” he said in a flat voice.

“Yes. I’d appreciate a few minutes more with your wife, and with you, too.”

“I dunno, it’s getting pretty late. Mrs. Stone is on her way to bed.” He glanced up the stairs which rose from the hallway. “Is it about Dolly?”

“It’s connected with Dolly.”

“Maybe I can handle it, eh?” He squared his narrow shoulders. “It was a terrible sorrow to my wife what happened to Dolly. I hate to see her dragged back to it all the time.”

“I’m afraid it’s necessary, Mr. Stone.”

He took my word for it and went upstairs to fetch her, climbing like a man on a treadmill. They came down together wearing bathrobes. He was holding her arm. Her face and neck were shiny with some kind of cream or oil.

“Come in,” she said. “You shouldn’t keep a man waiting on the doorstep, Jack. It isn’t polite.”

We went into the living room, where the three of us stood and looked at each other. The awkwardness developed into tension. The woman pulled at the oily skin of her throat.

“What brings you here so late? Have you found something out?”

“I keep trying, Mrs. Stone.” I got the icepick out of my pocket and held it out by the tip. “Have you seen this before?”

“Let me look at it.”

She reached out and took it from me by the handle. Her husband leaned at her shoulder, one arm around her waist. He seemed to depend on physical contact with her.

“It looks like the one you bought for Mrs. Jaimet,” he said.

“I believe it is. What’s this little wire tag doing on it?”

“It’s just to identify it. Where did you buy it, Mrs. Stone?”

“At Drake Hardware. It’s part of a set I got for Mrs. Jaimet as a wedding gift. Jack thought I spent too much money on it, but I wanted to get her something nice for once. She was always good to us and Dolly. Twelve dollars wasn’t too much for all she’s done.” Her eye was on her husband, and she was speaking more to him than to me.

“It cost sixteen,” he corrected her. “I work all day for sixteen dollars take-home. But I’m not kicking. She was a good friend to Dolly.”