Charles Williams: Go Home, Stranger

Reno nodded thoughtfully. “In other words, a dish. A girl people would notice. But why haven’t the police been able to find her?”

She sighed. “I don’t know whether the fantastic noodle-heads have even tried. Or if they have, they’ve been looking in the wrong places. Their idea is she was some floozie Mac picked up in a bar. She wasn’t, quite obviously.”

“O.K,” Reno said, with more assurance than he felt. “It’s something to start with. But now—did you get even a glimpse of the guy? I mean, when you ran out of the bathroom?”

She shook her head wearily. “No. That’s the horrible part of it, Pete. He was right there within ten feet of me, and by the time I got out into the room he was gone. But maybe I wouldn’t have seen what he looked like, anyway. I was looking at Mac. He was crumpled, lying—” Her voice started to break up on her. She stopped and took a deep breath, looking away from him. When she turned back she had everything under control again and she went on calmly, “Mac was dead. That’s what I was trying to say.?

“But you did hear them talking? Before, I mean?”

“Yes. But I wouldn’t recognize his voice. It was only a mumble.”

“You didn’t hear even one word that was said?”

She put both hands up alongside her face with an infinite weariness. “Pete, I've gone back and forth through it a thousand times. And I don’t think so. I keep having an impression I heard somebody say something that sounded like ‘counsel,’ but it could be just imagination, because Mac was an attorney.”

“But nothing else?”.

“No. Not a thing. If I even heard that.”

Reno was silent for a moment. He was scared, and trying not to show it. There wasn’t anything here to go on except the thin lead of that girl, and the police hadn’t come up with her after ten days. He reached out and put a big, sunburned hand over one of hers, and as he did so he remembered the detective. He turned, and the man was watching them unwaveringly.

“What about those attorneys Carstairs arranged for you when he came down?” he asked. “Durand and Gage, isn’t it? What are they doing?”

“Being obscenely cheerful, most of the time, just like doctors. Pete, thank God you woolly-eared construction stiffs don’t have to take a course in Bubbling Optimism when you’re going to school.”

“We’ll find out who did it; Vick.”

“Is this your bedside manner?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s a hunch. There’s something about this Conway thing that smells. If I can’t tout the police onto him, I’m going to buy a piece of him myself. I want to have a nice, long talk with Mr. Conway.”

She gestured hopelessly. “But, Pete, Mac used to be in the FBI. And if he couldn’t find him—”

“Uh-uh,” Reno said. “I think that’s where everybody’s missed the boat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mac did: But he got in front of him.”

Two

It had sounded brave and convincing enough there at the jail while he was trying to give her something to cling to, but where did he go from here? Suppose it was Conway? And suppose Mac had found him? Everything he had learned was gone now, into the grave with Mac himself.

He had come back to the hotel, knowing he had to get some sleep before long or collapse, but it hadn’t been any good. Every time his eyes closed he started seeing black headlines that screamed, “Actress Found Guilty in Slaying.” He stopped his pacing up and down the room and wearily ground another cigarette into the tray.

He reached for the telephone again. Two previous attempts had been fruitless. Carstairs was in court, the girl had said.

He jiggled the hook. “Operator, will you try that call to San Francisco again? Person-to-person to Carstairs of Carstairs and McHugh. . . . Oh. Good. Yes, I’ll hold on.”

This time his luck was better. In a moment he heard the familiar voice on the other end. He and Carstairs and Mac had all gone to college together. “Hello, Dick?” he said. “This is Pete Reno, in Waynesport.”

’Oh, Pete. I was just about to call you,” Carstairs replied. “Has anything new turned up?” Carstairs had flown to Waynesport when it happened. He had arranged for attorneys for Vickie and had taken Mac’s body back to San Francisco for burial after the inquest.

“No,” Reno said. “Maybe they figure they’ve got it made. They’ve got her.”

“Pete, we’ve known each other too long for me to try to kid you. They’ve got a case. A hell of a case. A D.A.’s dream.”

“Except that she didn’t do it.”

“Check. But that’s because we know her. They don’t. All they’ve got is the only thing they’re supposed to pay any attention to, and that’s the evidence. Motive, for one thing. And she was there in the room with him, and can’t prove anybody else was.

“I know they’ve got a case. If they didn’t, I’d get some sleep. But I called about something else.”

“What?”

“Conway. We find him, we’ve got the guy who killed Mac.”

“You’ve been going to movies.”

“No,” Reno said. “Listen. Conway didn’t need looking for because he didn’t know the way home. Any filling station would give him a road map. So maybe he didn’t want to be found. And suppose Mac was getting too warm.”

“But, dammit, Pete, Conway wasn’t a gangster.”

“Well, what was he?”

“Frankly, you’ve got me there. I never met him. But I know his wife, and she’s no gun moll. Very wealthy, in a quiet sort of way, cultured, old California family—that sort of thing.”

“I’m not talking about Conway’s wife. Maybe she was Joan of Arc, or Little Bo Peep. I’m talking about Conway himself. What do you know about him?”

“Well,” Carstairs said hesitantly, “not too much. They’d been married only a few months, I understand. He was her second husband.”

“All right. But just why was Mac looking for him?”

“Because she was paying us.”

“I thought you guys were running a law office. When’d you go into the keyhole and dictaphone business?”

“We didn’t. This was a sort of special deal. You see, she knew Mac had been in the FBI and was a trained bloodhound, and she insisted. We’d done quite a bit of legal work for her and hoped to do more in the future, and as I say, she’s well to do. You just don’t brush off that kind when you’re trying to build up a legal practice.”

“Why didn’t she go to the police?”

“Well, there could be a number of reasons for that. A desire to avoid publicity and embarrassment, for one thing. She’s a shy type. Maybe she just didn’t want to face them, and the inference they would draw—that her husband was running out on her.”

“You think that’s all?” Reno asked, conscious of bitter disappointment.

“Actually, I couldn’t say. You see, Mac handled the whole thing. But wouldn’t that be your guess?”

“I suppose so,” Reno said wearily. “But listen, Dick. I’ve got to have something to start with. I’ll go off my rocker, just sitting around here, and Conway’s the only thing I’ve got. So will you get hold of her and see what you can find out? I mean, any reports Mac might have sent her . . .”

“She wouldn’t go for that,” Carstairs protested. “I mean, the thing was confidential, or she wouldn’t have come to us in the first place.”

“But for God’s sake, Dick, will you try?” Reno said desperately. “Ask her. Get a description. Find out why Mac was looking in Waynesport, of all places, Find out anything you can. And any way you can. Tell her I’ll try to find Conway for her.”

“All right, Pete, I’ll try. But I can’t promise anything.”

“Good. Now you’re talking. Call back in an hour. Boardman Hotel.”