A Multitude of Sins (22 page)

His frown was equally unconscious as he wandered down the darkened hallway to the library and slumped into the chair behind the desk.

Jenny had reached out for help, and there was satisfaction in that. But few answers. He didn’t know how her addiction was related to John Canfield’s death or the surveillance, but he was convinced a relationship existed, and the vital link was the “family,” which in his mind included Bob Carleton. Tuesday night, Jenny had a clandestine meeting with someone driving a Lotus Elan. Her pusher? The secretive nature of the rendezvous suggested that, and the Elan pointed to the family. And Canfield’s death, if it were in fact murder, had all the earmarks of a family affair.

But he had no proof Canfield didn’t die of natural causes, and despite the odds against the coincidence, the Elan might have belonged to someone other than Jim or Carleton. Or more likely, their cars could have been used by someone else.

Jenny had the answer to that and many other questions. Questions about her mother, for instance. But it was futile to look to her as a source of information. Not now.

He turned on the desk lamp. In the premature twilight, the gray sheets of rain curtaining the windows and its hammering beat produced a disquieting sense of isolation. He took the special line phone from the compartment, his uneasiness transmuted to vague annoyance as he recognized the voice that answered his call.

“Jamie, is your father home?”

“Ye-es,” came the reply with an unprompted giggle.

“Ask him to come to the phone. Tell him it’s Conan.”

“Oh, hello, Conan. You didn’t say it was you.”

“Yes, well, it is. Now, tell Steve—”

“Y’know what, Conan?”

He sighed. “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t.”

“Daddy and me caught a great big fish today.”

“That’s marvelous, Jamie, now—”

“Mamma cooked it for lunch, on’y she wouldn’t take the insides out. She said if Daddy caught it, he’d hafta take the insides out and peel it. Huh?” A muffled query was audible, then Jamie was hastily replaced by Steve Travers.

“Conan?”

“Yes, Steve. I’ve been hearing about your exploits as a fisherman.”

He groaned. “One stunted, polluted steelhead, and for that I got up at five o’clock in the morning?”

“Try the fish market next time. It’s cheaper.”

“This was supposed to be an educational experience for Jamie. How’re you coming on that Canfield case?”

“Glad you asked. I have a couple of new developments.”

“Okay, but I hope you realize this is my day off.”

“Sorry about that. I’ll try not to ruin it.”

“Sure. So, what are your developments? Any more drugs or anything like that you want to hint around about?”

“No, but I have a user who wants to quit, and I doubt her pusher’s too happy about it. And to answer your next question, I won’t tell you who the user is, and I don’t know who the pusher is. I wasn’t going to force that issue or I’d end up with nothing but a lot on my conscience.”

“So, why tell me about it? To ease your conscience for holding back on a duly appointed officer of the law?”

“Maybe, but I was thinking that as a duly appointed, etcetera, you could find out if there’ll be any state patrol cars cruising around here tonight.”

“Oh, so that’s it. Sure, there’ll be patrols around, at least, on 101. Why?”

“Just nerves, I guess.” He took a cigarette from the box on the desk. “But I’d like to have a state cop handy. Shanaway is unincorporated, so it falls under state or county jurisdiction, and Sheriff Wills isn’t notably alert.”

“Yes, I know. Okay, I’ll check and make sure there’ll be a patrol in the area. Now, I hope that’s all you’ve got on your mind. There’s a hockey game on TV tonight, and I’m damned if I’ll miss
this
one short of murder.”

Conan lit the cigarette, smiling to himself.

“Well, there
is
something else—speaking of murder.”

Travers asked cautiously, “Speaking of whose murder?”

“John Canfield’s.”

“Not again. Okay, you have somebody I should arrest?”

“No, but I have something for you to think about. Catharine Canfield is
not
blind.”

There was a tense silence, then a long, resigned sigh. “All right, Conan. I suppose you have some reason for jumping feet first to that particular conclusion.”

“You know Catharine left the hospital rather suddenly two weeks after the accident?”

“Sure, it was a little odd, maybe, but that doesn’t mean she can see.”

“Dore and I paid a visit to the old homestead today, and this was Sean’s first day as up- and downstairs maid.”

“Oh, yes. How’s she doing as a domestic?”

“Beautifully, of course. Anyway, when we arrived, Sean told me she hadn’t had a glimpse of Catharine; she’d been closeted in the library with Carleton. But she emerged to play hostess to Dore and me, then later, Jim arrived, and she made an offhand comment to Sean that her darling boy has a penchant for redheads. Steve, there was no way she could know Sean is a redhead unless she could
see
it.”

Travers was still dubious. “Well, what about the regular housekeeper? Maybe she told her.”

“No, she couldn’t have because Sean has a penchant for wigs. Maud knew her as a
blonde
.”

“What? Conan, are you sure?”

“Yes. There’s no other explanation for it.”

“But when she was in the hospital—I mean, maybe Emil Johnson would cover for her; he’s what you call a society doctor, and he wouldn’t spoil her game. But what about—”

“She did have head injuries; it may have been traumatic blindness, or even psychosomatic. I don’t doubt she was blind immediately after the accident, but I’d stake my life on this: she recovered her sight within two weeks.”

“But that means she’s been playing blind for five years. That’s—that’s
nuts.
”

“Here’s something else for you to think about. Before the accident, Canfield was ready to divorce her, and for a woman like Catharine, that would be nothing less than a disaster. But afterward, he couldn’t go through with it; he felt responsible for her blindness.”

“Yes, that does make it interesting.” A thoughtful pause, then, “But she didn’t think she could get away with something like that indefinitely.”

Conan frowned at the glowing tip of his cigarette.

“It was probably just a straw grasped in desperation to stop the divorce, then she was stuck with it. I’m sure Jenny must know about it; she’s been playing nurse to her.”

“What about her son? Or that lawyer?”

“Carleton?” Conan’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know. I’m not sure how close their relationship is.”

“Well, if you put any stock in local gossip, it’s plenty close. Marcie told me there’s a rumor going around that the Widow Canfield plans to take on a new husband soon.”

“A logical move. He probably knows, then. As for Jim…
”
He paused, thinking of the gift of the sunglasses. Jim had no way of knowing there would be unexpected guests at the house to impress with that gambit. Unless…

“What about Jim, Conan?”

“I can’t say, and I’m only worried about whether John Canfield finally tumbled. He spent a lot of time in Washington, and I doubt he spent much time with Catharine even when he was home, but he was bound to catch on eventually, and if he did, she was threatened not only with divorce and possibly being cut out of the will—and maybe her children, too—but with public exposure of her ruse.”

“Okay, so maybe Canfield caught on and Catharine got scared, but what’d she do?
Talk
him into a heart attack?”

“There are ways of inducing heart attacks, but I can’t prove anything, and I’m not even convinced Catharine did the inducing. She isn’t the only one who was threatened by him, or stood to gain by his death, and the whole thing is getting confused with the little problem of the drugs.”

Travers gave a sardonic laugh.

“Well, I’ll give
you
something to think about. Bob Carleton’s been on the defense in a hell of a lot of drug cases in the last few years. The guys in Narcotics told me that. Maybe it’s just the way the cases fell, but the word is he damned well knows his way around the business.”

“Thanks. That’s all I need to make the waters muddier.”

“I thought you’d appreciate it. Hold on.” There was a distant exchange of voices, then, “Anything else, Conan? Marcie’s hollering about the pot roast getting cold.”

He laughed, suddenly aware that he was hungry.

“I envy you the pot roast. Go to it, and give Marcie my love. Oh—enjoy your hockey game.”

“Don’t worry. I intend to.”

Conan eyed the remains of a tuna salad sandwich, then pushed the plate aside and looked at his watch: 8:15.

He frowned at the open books on his desk. Seth’s
The Executioners.
Decker’s
Experiments with Psychotomimetic Drugs.
Serious study was beyond him now; they’d devolved into diversions; something to distract him from the slow passage of time.

He’d already consumed a quantity of the inching minutes in long conversations with Berg and Munson. The latter had been particularly protracted and frustrating. The storm made radio communication almost hopeless.

Munson assured him he’d come prepared with boots and a waterproof parka. His only complaint was the lack of visibility. For Conan, that was more than a complaint; it was a source of intense anxiety that made him decide to let Carl watch Isadora tonight. As soon as Sean called, he intended to join Munson in his damp vigil at the cottage.

The windows went white, then almost before the flash registered, they were black again; molten, like obsidian. He waited for the thunder, adding another stub to the overflowing ashtray, then rose to begin aimlessly prowling the room. At one end, the Knight brooded out of its shadowed niche; at the other, he faced the storm-washed windows. He was at the windows when the phone buzzed, but he reached the desk before the second buzz.

“Hello, Sean?”

“Sorry, Conan, this is Carl. I’m at the Surf House.”

“Oh. What’s going on down there?” He could hear a steady undercurrent of sound in the background.

“It’s a madhouse; spring vacation. The place is packed and Max put on two part-time waitresses. But the reason I’m calling is Hicks hasn’t shown up, and it’s twenty after.”

He frowned uneasily. “See if you can smell out any replacements. What about Dore?”

Berg’s slight hesitation brought him to full alert.

“Well, she’s here, and she seems okay.”

“What’s wrong, Carl?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she isn’t feeling good, or it’s just nerves. There’s nothing tangible.”

“There must be something tangible or you wouldn’t be worried.”

“I mean she hasn’t pulled a faint or gone into hysterics. Conan, she just isn’t quite with it tonight. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was a kid with a good case of stage fright.”

“Stage fright? Dore?”

“That’s what I mean. It doesn’t figure.”

Conan looked at his watch, feeling a crawling chill. “How does she look?”

“Gorgeous, as usual. Maybe a little flushed and—well, just shaky, I guess; nervous.”

“Has she had anything to eat or drink since she arrived?”

“She got here early, and when I came in—that was about ten to eight—she was having a cup of coffee. Since then she’s been working. Look, maybe it’s just my tin ear.”

“Carl, you have a fine ear for anomalies if not for music, so keep listening and call me if there’s any change.”

Conan made yet another turn down the length of the library and found himself again facing the Knight. He thrust his hands into his pockets, crossed to the desk and glared at the silent telephone and radio, then checked his watch again and moved on to the windows: 8:38. The rain was coming in pounding torrents.

This time it was a static-blurred voice from the radio that sent him rushing back to the desk.

“Harry?”

“Yes, Conan. I’ve got some action up here.” His voice was strained against the static.

“What kind of action?”

“About three minutes ago a car drove up to the cottage and pulled over at the south side. I couldn’t see anything but the headlights. This damn rain is worse than fog, and there aren’t any lights except in the house.”

Conan sank slowly into his chair. “Which lights are on?”

“Uh—that must be Jenny’s bedroom, but the shades are down. The living-room light was on. I can’t see it now, but I could when the front door opened.”

“What was that about the front door?” He was manipulating dials but with no apparent effect on the reception.

“Whoever was driving that car went in by the front door, and either he had a key or it was unlocked.”

“It was a man?”

“I think so, but I just had a fast look while the door was open.”

“All right, get down to the cottage and try to find out what’s going on. And get a good look at that car—Harry?” The radio erupted with a fusillade of static that dissolved into a grating whine. “Harry, can you hear me?”

“…coming in now. That lightning’s getting too damned close for comfort. What did you say about the car?”

“Try to get a look at it and—” He jumped at the buzz of the telephone and reached for the receiver. “Sean?”

“Yes, I’m—”

“Thank God. Hold on a second. Harry, I’ll call you back. Get down to the cottage, but be careful.”

“I’m on my way, if I just don’t break a leg crawling through this damned jungle.”