I explained that I hadn’t been joking, that I really was puzzled.
He cleared his throat, frowned more or less importantly, said:
“It may well be, my dear sir, that you do not fully comprehend the peril that surrounds you, but it is indubitably preposterous that you should expect me to suppose that you are without any inkling of the difficulties–the legal difficulties, my dear sir–with which you are about to be confronted, growing, as they do, out of occurrences that took place at no more remote time than last night, my dear sir, last night. However, there is no time to go into that now. I have a pressing appointment with Judge Leffner. On the morrow I shall be glad to go more thoroughly into each least ramification of the situation–and I assure you they are many–with you. I shall expect you at ten tomorrow morning.”
I promised to be there, and went out. I spent the evening in my room, drinking unpleasant whiskey, thinking unpleasant thoughts, and waiting for reports that didn’t come from Mickey and Dick. I went to sleep at midnight.
XXIII. Mr. Charles Proctor Dawn
I was half dressed the next morning when Dick Foley came in. He reported, in his word-saving manner, that Bill Quint had checked out of the Miners’ Hotel at noon the previous day, leaving no forwarding address.
A train left Personville for Ogden at twelve-thirty-five. Dick had wired the Continental’s Salt Lake branch to send a man up to Ogden to try to trace Quint.
“We can’t pass up any leads,” I said, “but I don’t think Quint’s the man we want. She gave him the air long ago. If he had meant to do anything about it he would have done it before this. My guess is that when he heard she had been killed he decided to duck, being a discarded lover who had threatened her.”
Dick nodded and said:
“Gun play out the road last night. Hijacking. Four trucks of hooch nailed, burned.”
That sounded like Reno Starkey’s answer to the news that the big bootlegger’s mob had been sworn in as special coppers.
Mickey Linehan arrived by the time I had finished dressing.
“Dan Rolff was at the house, all right,” he reported. “The Greek grocer on the corner saw him come out around nine yesterday morning. He went down the street wobbling and talking to himself. The Greek thought he was drunk.”
“How come the Greek didn’t tell the police? Or did he?”
“Wasn’t asked. A swell department this burg’s got. What do we do: find him for them and turn him in with the job all tacked up?”
“McGraw has decided Whisper killed her,” I said, “and he’s not bothering himself with any leads that don’t lead that way. Unless he came back later for the ice pick, Rolff didn’t turn the trick. She was killed at three in the morning. Rolff wasn’t there at eight-thirty, and the pick was still sticking in her. It was–”
Dick Foley came over to stand in front of me and ask:
“How do you know?”
I didn’t like the way he looked or the way he spoke. I said:
“You know because I’m telling you.”
Dick didn’t say anything. Mickey grinned his halfwit’s grin and asked:
“Where do we go from here? Let’s get this thing polished off.”
“I’ve got a date for ten,” I told them. “Hang around the hotel till I get back. Whisper and Rolff are probably dead–so we won’t have to hunt for them.” I scowled at Dick and said: “I was told that. I didn’t kill either of them.”
The little Canadian nodded without lowering his eyes from mine.
I ate breakfast alone, and then set out for the lawyer’s office.
Turning off King Street, I saw Hank O’Marra’s freckled face in an automobile that was going up Green Street. He was sitting beside a man I didn’t know. The long-legged youngster waved an arm at me and stopped the car. I went over to him.
He said:
“Reno wants to see you.”
“Where will I find him?”
“Jump in.”
“I can’t go now,” I said. “Probably not till afternoon.”
“See Peak when you’re ready.”