Chapter 16 Chapter 16 Night Hunting

I took the 5:25 train down south and arrived in Boston, a smoky town twice the size of Quesada, at 7:30.An open stagecoach brought me to my destination half an hour later, and I was the only passenger.It was going to rain when I got out of the car and walked across the street to the hotel across the street. A San Francisco reporter named Jack Santos rushed out of the telegraph room and asked, "Yo, any news?" "Probably, but I'll have to talk to Vernon first." "He's in his room—ten minutes ago. You mean that blackmail letter someone got?" "Well. He already talked?"

"Corden was going to say it, but Vernon silenced him and told us not to ask." "why?" "Isn't it because it was Corden who spoke?" Santos's thin lips drooped downwards, "Vernon, Finney and Corden are now wrestling—I want to see whose name and photo are the most exposed .” "What else do they do besides this?" "What can they do?" He asked back with a look of disgust. "Ten hours a day are spent trying to get on the front page, and the other ten hours are spent hindering opponents, and they have to find time to sleep."

In the hotel, I told several other reporters "no news", then checked in again, put my luggage in the room, and then walked through the corridor to Room 204.After I knocked, Vernon opened the door.He was by himself, and had obviously been reading the paper—a stack of red, green, and white papers on the bed.The smoke from the cigars cast a grey-blue color on the room. The District Attorney was in his thirties, with dark eyes and a chin that stood high, much more prominent than it should have been.He bared his teeth when he spoke, and he was very aware of his obsession with fame and fortune.He shook my hand briskly and said, "Glad to see you back. Come in. Sit down. Anything new?"

"Corden told you what I said?" "Hmm." Vernon posed in front of me, with his hands in his pockets and his legs spread apart, "How serious do you think the situation is?" "I suggested that Andrew get the money ready, but he didn't want to. The Collinsons would." "They would," he said, as if confirming my suspicions. "What else?" He was still grinning, his teeth still bared. "Here's the letter," I handed him. "Fitzstephan will be here in the morning." He nodded vigorously, held the letter closer to the light, and carefully checked the letter envelope.When he was done, he threw the letter on the table contemptuously.

"Clearly forged handwriting," he said. "So, specifically, what does this Fitzstephan—is that his name?—say?" I told him word for word.When he was done, his teeth clicked together, and he turned to the phone for someone to tell Finney that he—Mr. Vernon, District Attorney—wanted to meet right away.Ten minutes later, the sheriff walked in, stroking the rain from his big brown mustache. Vernon pointed at me with his thumb and ordered, "Tell him." I repeated what Fitzstephen had said to me.The sheriff listened with great concentration, his ruddy face turned purple, and he was breathing heavily.As soon as I finished my last word, the district attorney snapped his fingers.

"Very well. He said there were other people in the apartment when the call was made. Get their names. He also claimed he went to the Ross area at the weekend looking for that—what was it called, Ralph Cole Man? Very well. Sheriff, check it all out and see how much of it is true." I gave the sheriff the name and address that Fitzsteph had given me.Finney wrote one by one on the back of the laundry list, and then went out, panting, ready to activate the county government's criminal detection agency. Vernon has nothing to say to me.I left him reading the newspaper alone, and went downstairs by myself.The sissy night watchman beckoned me to the counter and said, "Mr. Santos wants me to tell you that he's in his room tonight."

I thanked him and went upstairs to Santos' room.He was playing stud with three other reporters and a cameraman.At half past twelve, when I had won sixteen dollars, I was called to the phone and heard the aggressive voice of the district attorney. "Can you come to my room at once?" "Okay," I told Santos, picking up my hat and coat, "give me some cash. I have an important call. I'll get one every time I win a little." "Vernon?" he asked, counting my chips. "That's right." "It must be nothing important," he teased, "otherwise he will call the red-haired one over too." He nodded towards the photographer, "so that tomorrow's readers can see that he is full of ambition."

Corden, Finney, and Rowley were in the D.A.'s room.Corden was of medium height, with a chubby, dull face and a dimple under his chin, and was wearing black rubber boots, a long raincoat, and a hat, all wet and muddy.He stood in the middle of the room, with a rather complacent look in his round eyes.Finny was straddling a chair, twirling his mustache, his red face sullen.Rowley stood beside him, rolling a cigarette, looking as friendly as ever. Vernon shut the door behind me and said angrily, "Corden thinks he's made a discovery. He thinks—" Corden straightened up and stepped forward, interjecting, "I don't think so. I know pretty damn well—"

Vernon snapped his fingers at the law enforcement officer and me, and said sharply, "Stop talking nonsense, let's go and have a look." I went back to my room and got my raincoat, gun and flashlight.We went downstairs and climbed into a mud-spotted car.Corden drove, Vernon sat next to him, and everyone else followed.The rain was beating on the roof and curtains, and water droplets were leaking through the cracks. "Walking around in such a goddamn day," said the Sheriff in a nasty voice, turning his head away from the dripping water. "Dick should be kind enough to mind his own business," echoed Rowley. "What does it matter to him what's not happening in Quesada?"

"If he spends more time in Quesada, he won't have to worry about the seaside." Finney took the conversation, and then smirked with his deputy. Whatever the point of this conversation is, I have no idea.So I asked, "What is he doing?" "Nothing," the sheriff told me, "you'll know there's nothing in a minute. Then, for God's sake, I'm going to show him what I'm doing! Don't know what's up with Vernon, what's the point !" I have no clue about that either.I looked out through the curtains, and the rain and darkness obscured my vision, but I knew we were heading somewhere on Strand.The ride was awful - wet, loud, bumpy.Finally, the car stopped somewhere as dark, wet and muddy as the previous section of the road we had traveled.

Corden turned off the lights and went out, and the rest followed, staggering through ankle-deep mud. "Fucking enough," the sheriff grumbled. Vernon was about to say something, but the lawman was already far down the road.We followed heavily and slowly, maintaining contact with each other by the sound of muddy footsteps rather than sight.It was dark. It wasn't long before we left the main road, struggling to climb over a high fence made of twisted wire, and the next step was not mud but slippery grass.We climbed a hill, and the wind and rain blew across our faces.The sheriff was out of breath and I was sweating.We climbed to the top of the knoll and went down the other end, with the sound of waves lapping on the shore ahead.The slopes became more rugged, and pebbles began to protrude from the weeds.Corden slipped once and tripped over Vernon on his knees, and he grabbed me to steady him.The sheriff's gasp sounded like a moan now.We turned to the left, lined up, and the sound of the waves was right next to our ears.Then we turned left again, climbed a slope, and stopped under a low, wallless shelter—a wooden roof supported by a dozen pillars.A larger building looms before us, a black shadow beneath an almost black dome. Corden said quietly, "Let me see if his car is here." He walks away.The sheriff let out a breath and complained, "It's been a damn hard journey!" Rowley also sighed. The lawman returned beaming. "The car isn't here, so he shouldn't be here," he said. "Come on, you can get shelter from the rain anyway." We followed him down the dirt path between the trees to the dark house and up the back porch.We stood there waiting for him to pry open the window, roll in and unlock the door.For the first time, we turned on the flashlights we had brought and saw a tidy little kitchen.We went in and made a muddy floor. Corden was the only member of the group who was still interested.His expression, from under the brim of his hat to his dimpled chin, looks like a host who is about to climax and surprise everyone.Vernon looked at him suspiciously, Finny looked disgusted, Rowley looked indifferent, and since I didn't know the purpose of my trip, I was of course full of curiosity. It turned out that we were here to search for houses.We did - at least Corden was doing it, and the others were just pretending to help.The house is very small, there is only one room on the first floor except the kitchen, and there is only one undecorated bedroom upstairs.I saw the grocery bills and the tax bills in the drawer, and I knew the owner was Harvey Whedon—the same tall, slow Whedon who had seen Gabrielle Collinson and the stranger drive off the Chrysler. We found nothing on the ground floor so went upstairs.After ten minutes of fiddling there, we made our discovery.From between the bed board and the mattress, Rowley pulled out a small flat bag wrapped in white linen. Corden, who was lifting the mattress for the sheriff to examine underneath, let go now, and squeezed in to follow us around the package Rowley had found.Vernon took it from the deputy and spread it out on the bed.There was a bag of barrettes in the sackcloth, a white lace handkerchief, a silver comb engraved with GDL, and a pair of small black sheepskin gloves for women. I was more surprised than anyone else. "GDL." I had to say something, so I said, "Probably Gabrielle Leggett, insert middle name starting with D. Leggett is Mrs. Collinson's real name." "You're really fucking right." Corden said triumphantly. A deep voice came from the porch: "Do you have a search warrant? If not, what are you doing here? This is called breaking and entering, you understand." Harvey Whedon was there.His burly body was wrapped in a yellow raincoat, which blocked the door firmly, and his face with deep features was gloomy and angry. "Whedon, I—" Vernon spoke. "That's him!" the marshal screamed, drawing a pistol from his coat. I pushed him as he shot the man at the door.The bullet went into the wall. Now Whedon's expression was more frightened than angry.He jumped back from the door and rushed downstairs.Corden was stunned by my push. He straightened up, cursed me, and chased me downstairs.Vernon, Finney, and Rowley all stood back and stared. I said, "We've done nothing wrong, but I'm confused. What the hell is going on here?" No one said anything.I said: "That comb was on Mrs. Collinson's desk when we last searched the house, Rowley?" The deputy sheriff nodded uncertainly, still staring at the door.There was no sound outside the door now.I asked again, "Would Corden have any motive to frame Whedon?" "They're not really good friends." The sheriff said something I'd noticed. "What do you think, Vernon?" The district attorney looked away from the door.He wrapped it back in the sackcloth and put it in his pocket. "Come on," he snapped, and started walking downstairs. The front door was open.Corden and Whedon were neither seen nor heard.A Ford—Whedon's—was parked at the front gate, doused with rain.We got in the car, driven by Vernon, and drove to the Cove Cabin.We banged on the door until an old man in gray underwear opened it.He was put there by the sheriff as a guard. The old man told us that Corden had been here at eight o'clock that night, saying he just wanted to see it again.The gatekeeper saw no reason to stare at the law enforcement officer, so he didn't hinder him, and let him go.And as far as he knew, the marshals hadn't taken anything from the Collinsons—although that was a possibility. Vernon and Finney yelled at the old man, and we drove back to Quesada. Rowley sat with me in the backseat.I asked him, "Who is this Whedon? How did Corden come to him for surgery?" "Uh, on the one hand, Whedon has a bad reputation. He also got involved in the rum smuggling here before, and got into trouble from time to time." "Oh? What about the other side?" The deputy frowned, pondering his words in hesitation; and before he could figure it out, we had stopped in front of a vine-covered cottage on a dark corner.The D.A. leads the way to the front porch and rings the bell. Not long after, a woman's voice came from above. "Who is it?" We had to back up the steps to see her—Mrs. Corden appeared at the second-floor window. "Is Dick back yet?" Vernon asked. "No, Mr. Vernon, not yet. I'm still worried. Wait, I'm coming down." "No more trouble," he said, "we won't wait for him. I'll come and see him in the morning." "No, wait," she said eagerly, and disappeared from the window in a flash. A moment later she opened the front door, her blue eyes dark and excited, and she was wearing a rose-red bathrobe. "You needn't bother," the D.A. said. "It's nothing special. We just broke up with him and just wanted to know if he's back. He's all right." "Is he—" she folded her hands over the flimsy bathrobe on her chest, "is he—is chasing Harvey—Harvey Whedon?" "Yeah." Vernon didn't look at her as he spoke, and his teeth didn't show.Finney and Rowley looked as uncomfortable as Vernon. Mrs. Corden's face flushed.Her lower lip trembled, and her speech was unclear. "Don't believe him, Mr. Vernon. Don't believe a word he says. Harvey has nothing to do with the Collinsons, either of them. Don't listen to Dick, Harvey doesn't." Vernon stared at his feet without saying a word, while Rowley and Finney focused on the rain outside the door - we were standing a few steps away from the door.It seemed that no one was going to speak. "No?" I asked, with more doubts in my tone than I realized. "No, he didn't!" She cried out, turning her face to me, "Impossible. He couldn't have been involved in anything." The blood on her face faded, leaving only a paleness of despair, "He—his that Here at night--all night--from before seven till dawn." "Where's your husband?" "In the city, where his mother is." "address is?" She gave me the address.In Neue Street. "Someone—" "Oh, come on," protested the sheriff, still staring at the rain, "haven't you asked enough?" Mrs. Corden turned her face from me back to the D.A. and took him by the arm. "Don't say it, please, Mr. Vernon," she begged. "What will I do if word gets out? But I have to. I can't let him kill Harvey. Please, you Won't you tell it?" The D.A. swore that no matter what, neither of us would tell anyone else what she said, and the sheriff and his deputy both blushed and nodded. But by the time we left her and returned to the Ford, they put their embarrassment behind them and resumed their murderous looks.In less than ten minutes, they had concluded that Corden hadn't been to his mother in San Francisco on Friday night, but had stayed in Quesada, killed Collinson, called Fitzstephan into town, and mailed letter, and then returned to Quesada in time to kidnap Mrs. Collinson; from the very beginning, he planned to frame Whedon, and Corden has always disliked him, doubting the well-known fact-Whedon is Mrs. Corden lover. The sheriff, who had acted like a gentleman a few minutes ago and prevented me from interrogating the woman carefully, is now laughing until his stomach wobbles. "That's crazy," he giggled. "He designed Harvey, and Harvey got an alibi on his bed. When we tell him, I'm sure Dick's face could be used for an illustration. We We will find him tonight." "Better wait," I suggested. "It wouldn't hurt to check up on his trip to San Francisco before telling him. All we have now is that he wants to set Whedon up. If both the murderer and the kidnapper are In his case, he would have done too much of this." Finney frowned and glared at me, defending their point of view: "It's possible he wants to do nothing but frame Harvey." "Maybe," I said, "but it wouldn't do any harm to trick him a little more and see how he handles it." Finney objected, wanting the sergeant to be arrested immediately.But Vernon begrudgingly supports my view.We drove Rowley home and went back to the hotel. I went back to my room and called the agency in San Francisco. While I was waiting for the line to be connected, there was a knock on the door.I opened the door and let Jack Santos in.He was wearing pajamas, a bathrobe, and slippers. "Have a nice trip?" he asked, yawning. "Exhilarating." "What breakthrough?" "There's nothing to report, but I'll just tell you privately: what's going on is that our marshals are trying to put the blame on his wife's lover - by planting a frame in his family. Several other bigwigs say the case is Corden did it himself." "Then they'll all be in the headlines." Santos sat at the foot of my bed and lit a cigarette, "I just happened to hear that Finney and Corden were rivals in love before Mrs. Corden saw the lawman. , I also want to hold the little hand of the telegraph operator—is the dimple defeated the mustache?" "Never heard of it," I admitted. "So what?" "How would I know? Just overheard it. Some guy in the garage." "how long ago?" "You mean they're jealous? It's been less than two years." Santos yawned and left while I was on the phone when the San Francisco call connected and I asked Feder—the night shift in the agency—to find someone to check on the marshal's trip to Noy Street.After talking, I went to bed.

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