Chapter 15 Chapter Fifteen I Killed Him
Sheriff Finney was fat, ruddy, with a thick brown mustache.Prosecutor Vernon is shrewd, competitive, and bent on seeking fame.The two men had come down from County Hall, listened to us, looked around, and agreed with Rowley that Gabrielle Collinson had killed her husband.Marshal Dick Corden—a man in his forties, stupid and pompous—had returned from San Francisco and cast a second vote in favor.The medical examiner and coroner jurors also agreed, but officially they still had to state that "the murderer was one or more persons, unidentified," and proposed an investigation of the girl.
Collinson's time of death was determined to be between 8pm and 9pm on Friday night.He bears no marks other than those from the fall; the pistol found in his room has been certified as his, and has no fingerprints on it.I think some of the county officials probably suspected me of tampering, but no one said it out loud.Marie Nunez stuck to her claim of being sick with a cold, and she had a whole bunch of Mexicans to back her up.I can't think of a way to find a loophole in this statement.We also couldn't track down anyone Whedon had met.I went to Baker's again myself, to no avail.The magistrate's wife was a delicate young woman, delicate and beautiful, with a virtuous disposition.She worked at the telegraph office, and said Collinson had telegraphed me on Friday morning.According to her, Collinson was pale, trembling, with bloodshot eyes and black eye sockets.She thought he was drunk, but there was no smell of alcohol.
Collinson's father and brother had come from San Francisco.His father, Herbert Collinson, was a large, poised and restrained man who controlled the lumber business along the Pacific Coast and seemed capable of making as much money as he wanted.Laurence Collinson was a year or two older than his dead brother, and very similar in appearance.The Collinsons were careful not to say anything in their words to suggest they believed Gabrielle was responsible for Eric's death, but there was no doubt that they did.
"Go ahead and get to the bottom of it," said Herbert Collinson quietly to me.He became the fourth client to come to our agency to spy on Gabrielle.
Madison Andrew drove up from San Francisco to meet me in my hotel room.He sat in a chair by the window, cut a piece of tobacco from a yellow pipe, stuffed it into his mouth, and said that Collinson had committed suicide.
I sat on the edge of the bed, lit a Fatima cigarette, and retorted: "If he jumped of his own accord, he wouldn't drag the bush down root by root."
"That was an accident. It's dangerous to walk that road in the dark."
"I don't believe in accidents anymore," I said. "He sent me a distress telegram. Besides, a shot was fired in his room."
He leaned forward, his eyes were hard and alert, and he looked like a lawyer checking witnesses.
"You think Gabriel is responsible for that?"
I said I had reservations about that, and said, "He was murdered. As for whoever killed him—I told you two weeks ago, we're not done with that damned curse, but we're going to Clearly, the only way is to uncover the details of the temple."
"Yes, I remember," he said, with a hint of teasing in his expression, "your theory is that her parents' death had something to do with the trouble she caused at the Haltons. What connection. Don't you think that flaw seems to make your theory a little - er, how should I put it - unrealistic?"
"Really? Her father, stepmother, doctor and husband died one after another in less than two months; her personal maid was imprisoned for murder. They are the closest people to her. This Doesn't it look like it was deliberately arranged? And—" I grinned at him, "Dare you say that things won't go on? If that's the case, aren't you the next closest person to her?"
"It's so unreasonable!" Now he was really annoyed. "We know that the death of her parents and Reese's death have nothing to do with each other. The person responsible for Reese's murder is either dead or in prison. There are other possibilities. It is ridiculous for you to say that there is something that is clearly not involved!"
"We don't know." I insisted. "We only know that the connection in the middle has not been found. These things have happened, and who will benefit—or have the potential to benefit?"
"As far as I know, there is no one."
"What if she dies? To whom will the property go?"
"I don't know. Some distant relation to England or France, I suppose."
"That's not going to help us," I snorted. "Anyway, no one wanted to kill her. Her friends were the only ones who died."
The lawyer scowled and reminded me sourly that until she was found, it was too early to say that no one wanted to kill her—whether they did or not.I can't argue with him on this.The pursuit of her was still limited to the eucalyptus tree that cut down Chrysler.
Before Andrew left, I persuaded him: "No matter what you think, there is no need to take unnecessary risks. There may be some kind of conspiracy here, and you may be the next one on the blacklist. It is always right to be careful."
He didn't thank me.Obviously I think he should hire a private detective to protect him, he said irritably.
Madison Andrews offered a reward of a thousand dollars to anyone who could lead to the girl's whereabouts.Herbert Collinson made up a thousand dollars; and if his son's killer was arrested and pleaded guilty, he was willing to pay another twenty-five hundred dollars more.Half the county's blood boiled.Wherever you go, you can see people walking or climbing in the fields, trails, hills and valleys, intent on finding clues, and there are probably more lay detectives in the woods than there are trees.
Her picture has been distributed and posted everywhere.From San Diego to Vancouver, the major newspapers gave us enough face and tried their best to stir up this matter.All the Continental Detective Agency agents in San Francisco and Los Angeles, who could possibly put off other work, were busy scouting every way out of Quesada, hunting, questioning, and returning in vain.The radio announcer also helped.The police everywhere and all the branches of our society were in a state of commotion.
And by Monday, all the hustle and bustle had come to nothing.
I got back to San Francisco on Monday afternoon and told the old man all about my troubles.He listened politely, as if he was listening to some interesting story that had nothing to do with him, and his smile was unpredictable.Then, instead of giving me advice, he kindly stated that he thought I would eventually be able to successfully complete the job. Then he told me that Fitzsteph had called and wanted to reach me. "It might be important. If I hadn't told him you would come, he would have found Quesada." I dialed Fitzsteph's number. "Come here," he said, "I have some clues. I don't know if it's the key to the puzzle or another layer, but it's important." I took the cable car up to Norbichu, and within fifteen minutes I was at his apartment. "Okay, let's talk." Sitting in his living room full of books, newspapers and magazines, I said. "Any leads on Gabrielle?" he asked. "No. But you still have to tell the thread. Don't give me a literary orgasm, I'm a slob, and that stuff just makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Just say it." "That's what you are," he said, trying to look disappointed and resentful, but unsuccessful, because he was secretly excited about something. "Someone, a man, called me on Saturday at one o'clock in the morning. Half. 'Is that Mr. Fitzstephan?' he asked. 'Yes.' I answered. Then the voice said, 'Listen, I killed him.' That's what he said. I didn't say a word It's just that he doesn't speak very clearly. There is a lot of noise on the line, and the voice seems to be far away. "I don't know who it is or what he's talking about. 'Kill who? Who are you?' I asked. I only understood one word 'money' in his answer. He said something about money , repeated several times, but that's the only word I got. I had guests—the Marquards, Laura Joynes and a boy she brought, Ted and Sue Vanslak— — We're having a literary contest. I was about to make a quip — if Gamble was a Romantic, the Trojan Horse was made — and I didn't want to be put off by some drunk freak on the phone. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just hung up and went back to greet my guests. "It didn't occur to me until yesterday morning when I saw the news of Collinson's murder that there might be something serious about that conversation. I was at the Cormans' house, up north in Ross. I went over on Saturday morning for the weekend, and I managed to find Ralph. He smiled slightly, "I was tossing too hard, and he sent me away happily this morning." He became serious again, "Actually, even if I knew that Collinson was dead, I didn't think the phone call was serious, because it was really Ridiculous. But of course I meant to tell you. And lo and behold—I saw this in the mailbox when I got home this morning." He took the envelope out of his pocket and threw it lightly at me.These cheap white envelopes are available everywhere.The four corners of the envelope were black and wrinkled, as if it had been in the pocket for a while.Fitzstephan's name and address were printed on it in hard-tip pencil, badly written - but possibly deliberately misleading.It was postmarked in San Francisco, and the time was nine o'clock on a Saturday morning.Inside was a dirty, crumpled brown wrapping paper with just one sentence, scrawled in penciled print like the address. No date, no title, no signature. "She was seen driving alone at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning," I said, "and this letter was posted eighty miles from here, with a nine o'clock postmark—it should be It was sent out first in the morning. That alone is outrageous enough. But it is even more ridiculous that the letter should be sent to you, and not to Andrew, who is in charge of her case, or her rich father-in-law." "Amused, but not really," Fitzstephan replied.His thin face was full of enthusiasm, "This may be a glimmer of light. You know, I spent two months in Quesada last spring, and I finished "The Wall of Ashdod", and that place is where I am. Introduced Collinson. I also gave him a business card of a Quesada real estate agent named Rowley, the father of the deputy sheriff there. I told them his name was Eric Carter. Quesada Local people may not know that his wife is Gabrielle Collinson, whose real name is Leggett. In this case, the kidnappers can only contact her family through me, because I introduced the couple. So, this letter Although the letter was sent to me, it stated 'no matter who it is' at the beginning, which means that I should forward it to the relevant person." "It's possible that the locals did that," I said slowly, "or it could be that the kidnappers were misleading—so we wouldn't suspect that he was familiar with the Collinsons." "That's right. And as far as I know, no one in Quesada has my address here." "Where's Rowley?" "Unless Collinson tells him. I just scribbled an introduction on the back of my card." "Did you mention anything to anyone about that phone call and this letter?" I asked. "I told all the guests about the phone call that night—because I thought someone was joking or dialed the wrong number. No one else has read this letter. In fact," he said, "show you my original A little bit worried - and still is. Do you think I'm going to get in trouble?" "Well, yes. But you don't give a damn. Don't you always love first-hand trouble? Better give me the list and address of your guests. If only they and Coman could prove you were there on a Friday night and the whereabouts of the weekend, you will be fine. Although you still have to go to Quesada and have the county officials question you." "Shall we go now?" "I'll go back tonight, and we'll meet there tomorrow morning at the Sunset Inn. That'll give me time to get the officials in order first—before you're thrown into the dungeon as soon as you show up."
I went back to the agency and called Quesada.I couldn't make contact with Vernon or the Sheriff, but I found Corden.I relayed to him the news Fitzsteph had given me, and promised to take the novelist for questioning next morning. Law enforcement officers said they were still unsuccessful in tracking down the girl's whereabouts.Reports kept coming in that she had been seen—literally at the same time—in Los Angeles, Eureka, Carson City, Denver, Portland, Tijuana, Ogden, San Jose, Vancouver, Boston. Special Town, and Hawaii.They've tracked down all but the most nonsensical news. The phone company told me that Owen Fitzstephan's call on Saturday morning was not long distance, and there were no calls from Quesada to San Francisco on Friday night or Saturday morning. Before I left the agency, I went to the old man again and asked him if he could try to persuade the D.A. to let Elona Halton and Tom Fink go on bail. "It doesn't do us any good if they stay in jail," I explained. "If we let them go, we can track them down and find out something. The prosecutor should not care: he knows the current case is confusing and he wants to detain them." Any murder charge is harder than going to the sky." The old man promised to do his best, saying that if the two were released from prison, two detectives would be assigned to follow them. Then I went to Madison Andrew's office and told him what Fitzstephan had said, and our interpretation.The lawyer has a prominent skull with white hair.He nodded slightly. "Whether that explanation is true or not, it is time for the county to abandon the idea that Gabrielle killed her husband." I shake my head. "What?" He burst out. "They'll say the letters and phone calls were a ploy to get her off the hook," I predicted. "Do you think so?" The masseter muscles at the base of his ears tightened, and his eyebrows and eyes were tangled together. "I hope they don't think so," I said, "because it's childish if it's a ploy." "How is that possible?" he demanded loudly. "Don't talk nonsense. We didn't know anything at that time, and the body hadn't even—" "Yes," I agreed, "so, in the end, if it turns out to be a fraud, Gabriel's dead." "I don't understand you," he said angrily. "You're talking about someone persecuting Gabrielle and the next as if she's the murderer. What's going on in your mind?" "Both theories may be true at the same time," I replied, not in a very pleasant tone. "Besides, what does it matter what I think? It will be up to the jury to decide. Now the question is: How do you plan to deal with this eventuality?" Yuan blackmail - if the other party is serious?" "In my case, the bounty for finding her will be increased, and if the kidnapper is caught, there will be additional money." "It's not right," I said. "The bounty is high enough, and if you're kidnapped, you should just pay it. I'm as reluctant as you, but it's the only way out. Anxiety, nervousness, fear, these things can Drive a kidnapper crazy. First buy the girl a way out, and then do the real thing. Whenever the other party asks for money, you just give it." He stroked his messy beard vigorously, his chin raised stubbornly.Concern wells up in his eyes, but in the end it's his jaw that has the final say. "It's impossible for me to bow my head," he said. "That's your business." I stood up and reached for my hat. "I'm only responsible for finding the murderer of Collinson. It's good for me that she's dead." He said nothing. Next I went to Herbert Collinson's office.He wasn't there, but at the end of my talk with Laurence Collinson I said, "Can you push your father to get the money? It'd be better if the kidnappers got their word and it could be delivered." "Don't rush him," he said decisively. "Of course we will pay the full amount, as long as her safety can be ensured."
Notes:
I got back to San Francisco on Monday afternoon and told the old man all about my troubles.He listened politely, as if he was listening to some interesting story that had nothing to do with him, and his smile was unpredictable.Then, instead of giving me advice, he kindly stated that he thought I would eventually be able to successfully complete the job. Then he told me that Fitzsteph had called and wanted to reach me. "It might be important. If I hadn't told him you would come, he would have found Quesada." I dialed Fitzsteph's number. "Come here," he said, "I have some clues. I don't know if it's the key to the puzzle or another layer, but it's important." I took the cable car up to Norbichu, and within fifteen minutes I was at his apartment. "Okay, let's talk." Sitting in his living room full of books, newspapers and magazines, I said. "Any leads on Gabrielle?" he asked. "No. But you still have to tell the thread. Don't give me a literary orgasm, I'm a slob, and that stuff just makes me laugh until my stomach hurts. Just say it." "That's what you are," he said, trying to look disappointed and resentful, but unsuccessful, because he was secretly excited about something. "Someone, a man, called me on Saturday at one o'clock in the morning. Half. 'Is that Mr. Fitzstephan?' he asked. 'Yes.' I answered. Then the voice said, 'Listen, I killed him.' That's what he said. I didn't say a word It's just that he doesn't speak very clearly. There is a lot of noise on the line, and the voice seems to be far away. "I don't know who it is or what he's talking about. 'Kill who? Who are you?' I asked. I only understood one word 'money' in his answer. He said something about money , repeated several times, but that's the only word I got. I had guests—the Marquards, Laura Joynes and a boy she brought, Ted and Sue Vanslak— — We're having a literary contest. I was about to make a quip — if Gamble was a Romantic, the Trojan Horse was made — and I didn't want to be put off by some drunk freak on the phone. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just hung up and went back to greet my guests. "It didn't occur to me until yesterday morning when I saw the news of Collinson's murder that there might be something serious about that conversation. I was at the Cormans' house, up north in Ross. I went over on Saturday morning for the weekend, and I managed to find Ralph. He smiled slightly, "I was tossing too hard, and he sent me away happily this morning." He became serious again, "Actually, even if I knew that Collinson was dead, I didn't think the phone call was serious, because it was really Ridiculous. But of course I meant to tell you. And lo and behold—I saw this in the mailbox when I got home this morning." He took the envelope out of his pocket and threw it lightly at me.These cheap white envelopes are available everywhere.The four corners of the envelope were black and wrinkled, as if it had been in the pocket for a while.Fitzstephan's name and address were printed on it in hard-tip pencil, badly written - but possibly deliberately misleading.It was postmarked in San Francisco, and the time was nine o'clock on a Saturday morning.Inside was a dirty, crumpled brown wrapping paper with just one sentence, scrawled in penciled print like the address. No date, no title, no signature. "She was seen driving alone at seven o'clock on a Saturday morning," I said, "and this letter was posted eighty miles from here, with a nine o'clock postmark—it should be It was sent out first in the morning. That alone is outrageous enough. But it is even more ridiculous that the letter should be sent to you, and not to Andrew, who is in charge of her case, or her rich father-in-law." "Amused, but not really," Fitzstephan replied.His thin face was full of enthusiasm, "This may be a glimmer of light. You know, I spent two months in Quesada last spring, and I finished "The Wall of Ashdod", and that place is where I am. Introduced Collinson. I also gave him a business card of a Quesada real estate agent named Rowley, the father of the deputy sheriff there. I told them his name was Eric Carter. Quesada Local people may not know that his wife is Gabrielle Collinson, whose real name is Leggett. In this case, the kidnappers can only contact her family through me, because I introduced the couple. So, this letter Although the letter was sent to me, it stated 'no matter who it is' at the beginning, which means that I should forward it to the relevant person." "It's possible that the locals did that," I said slowly, "or it could be that the kidnappers were misleading—so we wouldn't suspect that he was familiar with the Collinsons." "That's right. And as far as I know, no one in Quesada has my address here." "Where's Rowley?" "Unless Collinson tells him. I just scribbled an introduction on the back of my card." "Did you mention anything to anyone about that phone call and this letter?" I asked. "I told all the guests about the phone call that night—because I thought someone was joking or dialed the wrong number. No one else has read this letter. In fact," he said, "show you my original A little bit worried - and still is. Do you think I'm going to get in trouble?" "Well, yes. But you don't give a damn. Don't you always love first-hand trouble? Better give me the list and address of your guests. If only they and Coman could prove you were there on a Friday night and the whereabouts of the weekend, you will be fine. Although you still have to go to Quesada and have the county officials question you." "Shall we go now?" "I'll go back tonight, and we'll meet there tomorrow morning at the Sunset Inn. That'll give me time to get the officials in order first—before you're thrown into the dungeon as soon as you show up."
I went back to the agency and called Quesada.I couldn't make contact with Vernon or the Sheriff, but I found Corden.I relayed to him the news Fitzsteph had given me, and promised to take the novelist for questioning next morning. Law enforcement officers said they were still unsuccessful in tracking down the girl's whereabouts.Reports kept coming in that she had been seen—literally at the same time—in Los Angeles, Eureka, Carson City, Denver, Portland, Tijuana, Ogden, San Jose, Vancouver, Boston. Special Town, and Hawaii.They've tracked down all but the most nonsensical news. The phone company told me that Owen Fitzstephan's call on Saturday morning was not long distance, and there were no calls from Quesada to San Francisco on Friday night or Saturday morning. Before I left the agency, I went to the old man again and asked him if he could try to persuade the D.A. to let Elona Halton and Tom Fink go on bail. "It doesn't do us any good if they stay in jail," I explained. "If we let them go, we can track them down and find out something. The prosecutor should not care: he knows the current case is confusing and he wants to detain them." Any murder charge is harder than going to the sky." The old man promised to do his best, saying that if the two were released from prison, two detectives would be assigned to follow them. Then I went to Madison Andrew's office and told him what Fitzstephan had said, and our interpretation.The lawyer has a prominent skull with white hair.He nodded slightly. "Whether that explanation is true or not, it is time for the county to abandon the idea that Gabrielle killed her husband." I shake my head. "What?" He burst out. "They'll say the letters and phone calls were a ploy to get her off the hook," I predicted. "Do you think so?" The masseter muscles at the base of his ears tightened, and his eyebrows and eyes were tangled together. "I hope they don't think so," I said, "because it's childish if it's a ploy." "How is that possible?" he demanded loudly. "Don't talk nonsense. We didn't know anything at that time, and the body hadn't even—" "Yes," I agreed, "so, in the end, if it turns out to be a fraud, Gabriel's dead." "I don't understand you," he said angrily. "You're talking about someone persecuting Gabrielle and the next as if she's the murderer. What's going on in your mind?" "Both theories may be true at the same time," I replied, not in a very pleasant tone. "Besides, what does it matter what I think? It will be up to the jury to decide. Now the question is: How do you plan to deal with this eventuality?" Yuan blackmail - if the other party is serious?" "In my case, the bounty for finding her will be increased, and if the kidnapper is caught, there will be additional money." "It's not right," I said. "The bounty is high enough, and if you're kidnapped, you should just pay it. I'm as reluctant as you, but it's the only way out. Anxiety, nervousness, fear, these things can Drive a kidnapper crazy. First buy the girl a way out, and then do the real thing. Whenever the other party asks for money, you just give it." He stroked his messy beard vigorously, his chin raised stubbornly.Concern wells up in his eyes, but in the end it's his jaw that has the final say. "It's impossible for me to bow my head," he said. "That's your business." I stood up and reached for my hat. "I'm only responsible for finding the murderer of Collinson. It's good for me that she's dead." He said nothing. Next I went to Herbert Collinson's office.He wasn't there, but at the end of my talk with Laurence Collinson I said, "Can you push your father to get the money? It'd be better if the kidnappers got their word and it could be delivered." "Don't rush him," he said decisively. "Of course we will pay the full amount, as long as her safety can be ensured."
Notes: