Chapter 17 Chapter 17 Under the Obtuse Angle

The next morning, around ten o'clock, the phone rang to wake me from my sleep.Mitch Linehan called from San Francisco to say that Corden had arrived at his mother's place between seven and seven-thirty on Saturday morning.The marshal slept there for five or six hours--told his mother he'd stayed up all night waiting to catch a thief--and then left for home at six o'clock that night. Corden was coming across the street when I got to the lobby.His eyes were bloodshot and he was tired, but his will remained strong. "Caught Whedon?" I asked. "No, fuck it, but I'll catch it. Yeah, it's a good thing you gave me a push, even if that got him away. I—well, sometimes people err on the side of excitement."

"That's right. We stopped by your house on our way back to see how you were doing." "I haven't been home yet," he said. "Damn it, I've been up all night looking for that guy. Where's Vernon and Finny?" "Still fast asleep. I think you'd better get some sleep too," I suggested, "I'll call you if something happens." He strode home.I went into the coffee shop to order breakfast, and Vernon joined me halfway through.Both the San Francisco Police Department and the Marin County Sheriff's Office cabled him, verifying Fitzstephan's alibi.

"I just got a report," I said, "that Corden was at his mother's place around seven on Saturday morning and left at six that night." "Around seven?" Vernon wasn't too pleased.Had the lawman been in San Francisco at that time, the chances of him kidnapping the girl were slim to none. "you sure?" "No, but this is the best we can do at the moment. Fitzstephan is here." Through the door of the coffee shop, I saw the novelist's slender figure appearing at the hotel counter, "Please wait a moment." I walked over to Fitzstephan, took him back to the table, and introduced him to Vernon.The D.A. got up to shake his hand, but he was a little distracted because he was preoccupied with Corden.Fitzstephan said he had had breakfast before leaving town, so he only ordered coffee.Just then, someone called me.

It was Corden's voice, but it was hard to make out because of the excitement. "For God's sake, bring Vernon and Finny here!" "What's wrong?" I asked. "Hurry up! Something is wrong! Hurry up!" he yelled, before hanging up. I went back to the table and told Vernon that he had spilled Fitzstephan's coffee when he jumped up.Fitzstephan stood up too, looking at me hesitantly. "Let's go," I invited him, "Maybe it's something you like to see." Fitzstephan's car was parked in front of the hotel.The marshal's house is only seven blocks away.The front door of the house stood open.Vernon knocked on the door frame as we entered, but we walked in without waiting for an answer.

Corden meets us in the hallway.His eyes were round and bloodshot, and his face was white and hard as marble.He wanted to say something, but the words were stuck between his teeth.He pointed to the door behind him with his fingers gripping the brown paper. Across the porch we see Mrs. Corden.She was lying on the blue carpeted floor in a pale blue dress with a dark bruise all over her throat.Her lips and tongue were darker than a bruise—the tongue was swollen and hanging out of the lip.Her eyes were wide open, protruding and turned upside down, lifeless.Her hand was still warm when I touched it.

Corden followed us in, showing the brown note in his hand.It was a haphazardly torn piece of wrapping paper, with words written on both sides—tense, trembling, scrawled pencil writing.The graphite is softer than the one used by Fitzstephan, and the paper is darker. I was the closest to Corden, so I took the paper, skipped the insignificant lines, and read aloud hastily: "Whedon came over last night... said my husband was chasing him... put the Collinson case on him... I hid him in the attic... all he said to save him was that he was here on Friday night ...said he'd hang if I didn't conform... When Mr. Vernon came, Harvey said I'd kill me if I didn't conform...so I did...but he wasn't here that night...I was Didn't know he was guilty...told me later...tried to kidnap her Thursday night...her husband nearly caught him...he came over when Collinson sent the telegram...followed him and killed him...run to San Francisco, drinking whiskey... decided to go ahead with the kidnapping plan... called someone who knew her to find out where I could get the money...drunk limp... wrote a letter and came back... ran into her on the road ...take her to where the bootleggers used to hide, somewhere under the 'obtuse angle'...by boat...for fear he'll kill me...I'm locked in the attic...while he's downstairs looking for I can't help but write... the murderer... Daisy Corden."

While I was still reading, the Sheriff and Rowley arrived.Finney's face was as pale and hard as Corden's. "You wrote it," Vernon growled at the lawman, baring his teeth. Finney snatched the note out of my hand and read it, then shook his head and said hoarsely: "No, it is indeed her handwriting." Corden murmured, "No, for God's sake, I didn't. I planted him, I admit, but that's all. When I got home, she was like that. For God's sake!" "Where were you on Friday night?" "Watching here. I thought--I thought he might--but he didn't come that night. I watched until dawn, and then I went into town. I didn't—"

The sheriff's sharp voice drowned out Corden's words.He waved the dead man's letter and shouted: "'Blunt angle' down! What are we waiting for?" He sprinted out of the house, and the others followed.Corden and Rowley drove to the coast in the deputy's car.Vernon, the sheriff, and I were in Fitzsteph's car.The sheriff wept for the short drive, tears spattering the automatic pistol he was resting on his lap. When we got to the shore, we took a green and white boat, and the boat was driven by a pink-faced, light-blond boy named Tim.Tim said he didn't know of any hiding places under the Obtuse Horn for a liquor dealer, but if there was one, he'd find it.The speed of the skiff was impressive under his control, but neither Finney nor Corden felt it was enough.They stood at the bow of the ship with pistols in their pockets, sometimes craned their necks to look forward, and sometimes turned their heads and shouted to urge to speed up.

Half an hour after leaving the pier, we rounded the obtuse-shaped headland known as the "obtuse angle".Tim slowed down and steered the boat closer to the spiky rocks that towered over the water's edge.Our eyes were wide open—the midday sun was blinding, but we couldn't take our eyes off it.Twice, we saw a gap in the rocks on the shore, and we drove in hopefully, but it was all dead ends, and there was no way to hide. The third rift looked even more hopeless at first glance, but now that we were some distance from the obtuse angle, we couldn't let go of any possibility.We came in with the wave, got close and decided it was another dead end, gave up, and Tim kept going.We were rushed another two feet before the fair-haired boy turned around.

Corden, standing at the bow, leaned over and shouted, "Here it is!" He pointed his gun at the other end of the chasm.Tim let the boat drift a foot or so closer.Stretching our necks, we realized that what we had previously taken to be the shoreline was actually a towering, thin, jagged ledge separated from the cliff face on our side by twenty feet of sea. "Get the boat in," Finny ordered. Tim frowned towards the water, and said hesitantly, "The boat can't get in." The skiff shuddered without warning under our feet, confirming his opinion with a harsh scrape.

"Go to hell!" the sheriff yelled, sticking his neck out. "Get in." Tim saw the sheriff's manic expression and drove in. The boat jerked again under our feet, more violently this time, and the scraping was mixed with a tearing sound.But we steered into the crevice, skirting the jagged ledge. We entered a V-shaped concave bay.The entrance was twenty feet wide and about eighty feet long, and was separated from the land by high rocks, and could only be accessed by the sea we had just passed.The ocean water that carried us--now rushing in--covered one-third of the depression, and the other two-thirds were filled with white sand.A small boat docked against the beach, empty.No one was around.Looks like there should be no hiding place.There were footprints large and small, empty tin cans and campfires in the sand. "Harvey's." Rowley nodded towards the boat. Our ship ran aground beside it.Everyone jumped ashore, splashing water.Corden took the lead, and the others split up to follow. As if appearing out of nowhere, Harvey Whedon appeared on the other side of the V-shaped bay.He stood on the sand, holding a rifle, with anger and shock on his sullen face, and the same emotion in his voice when he shouted. "You thundered and broke your promise this day—" The noise of the rifle drowned out the other words. Corden rolled over and lay down.The rifle missed him by an inch, the bullet whizzing between Fitzstephan and me, chipping off the brim of his hat and hitting the rocks behind him.Four of our guns fired simultaneously, some more than once. Whedon fell on his back, legs spread apart.He was dead when we ran over—three shots in the chest and one in the head. We found Gabrielle Collinson crouching in the corner of a narrow hole in the rock face.It was a long, triangular cave, which we could not have discovered because of the angle.Inside were a few blankets spread out on a pile of dried seaweed, cans of food, a lantern, and another rifle. The girl's face was flushed with fever, her voice was hoarse, and there was cold air in her chest.She was incoherent in panic at first, and didn't recognize Fitzstephan and me at all. The dinghy we were in was broken down.Whedon's boat appeared to be able to carry no more than three people across the sea.Tim and Rowley jumped on it and drove to Quesada for help.It takes an hour and a half to go back and forth.After they left, we comforted the girl with gentle words, assuring her that she was surrounded by her friends and that there was no need to be afraid now.Her eyes slowly returned to calm, her breathing eased, and her nails were no longer tightly embedded in her palms.It took almost an hour before she began to answer our questions. She said she had no knowledge of Whedon's attempt to kidnap her on Thursday, or that Eric had telegraphed me.On Friday she stayed up all night, waiting for Eric to come back from his walk.At dawn, because he didn't show up, they panicked and went out to look for him.She found him—as did I.Then she went home, intending to kill herself—to end the misfortune of the curse with one shot. "Twice I tried," she whispered, "but I couldn't do it. I just couldn't do it. I was too cowardly. I couldn't bring the gun to myself. The first time I wanted to shoot on the temple, then on the chest; But I didn't have the guts. Twice I turned the gun away just as I was about to fire, and after both I didn't even have the guts to try again." Then she changed—the evening dress was dirty and torn from looking for Eric—and drove off.She didn't say where she was going; she didn't seem to know either.Or perhaps no purpose—just to get out of the house where her husband was cursed. Not long after she drove, she saw a car approaching, and the driver was the one who brought her here.He turned the car around on the road ahead of her, blocking the way.Afraid of a car accident, she took a sideways turn and bumped into a tree—by the time she woke up, she was already in the cave.She has been here ever since.Men left her alone most of the time.She had neither the strength nor the courage to swim away, and could think of no other way of escape. The man didn't tell her anything, asked her no questions, and limited himself to "here's for food" or "before I bring you water, eat a can of tomato to make it up when you're thirsty," or something like that.She didn't remember seeing him before, and she didn't know his name.He was the only person she had seen since her husband died. "What did he call you?" I asked. "Mrs. Carter? Or Mrs. Collinson?" She frowned and thought about it, then shook her head and said, "He never called my name, he never spoke unless necessary, and he rarely came here. I'm usually alone." "How long has he been here this time?" "Come before daylight. The sound of his boat woke me up." "Are you sure? That's important. Are you sure he'll be here before dawn?" "right." I squatted in front of her.Corden was standing to my left, next to the sheriff.I looked up at the marshal and said, "The arrow is pointing at you now, Corden. Your wife wasn't cold when we saw her—it was after eleven o'clock." He stared at me and stammered, "You... what did you say?" The sound of Vernon gnashing his teeth came from the other side of me. I said, "Your wife wrote that statement because she was worried that Whedon would kill her. But he didn't kill her because he's been here since daybreak. You found the statement and learned that they were very connected. So what?" , what's your next step?" "Nonsense," he cried, "not a word of truth. She was dead when I found her. I didn't—" "You killed her," Vernon howled at him over my head, "you strangled her, and that confession can be blamed on Whedon!" "Nonsense!" the marshal yelled again, and made the mistake of trying to draw his gun. Finny punched him so hard that he fell to the ground and was handcuffed before he could get up.