Badge of Evil (6 page)

Connie hadn’t waited up for him but in their bedroom one of the bedside lamps was burning. She had put on her laciest nightgown and the room held the delicate scent of the expensive cologne she reserved for special occasions. But she had fallen asleep waiting for him.

Holt sat beside her on the bed and she came awake, blinking. “Mitch! Oh, I must have dropped off. Honey, please forgive me for the way I acted tonight, won’t you?”

“When?” He had forgotten it. “Oh, that’s okay. You were right, Connie.”

“You’re sweet, Mitch, but it wasn’t right for me to say — ”

“No,” he interrupted impatiently. “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the other thing, the important one. You were right, Connie, and everybody else is wrong. Tara and Shayon didn’t do it.”

V
AN
D
USEN
had long, slender fingers that didn’t match his pudgy body. They were accomplished fingers, able to pick a lock, play a violin or blind an antagonist as the need arose. Right now, his fingers were engaged in fashioning a paper hat from the restaurant napkin.

When it was finished, he passed it across the table to Holt. It was a deer-stalker cap. “Here you are, Sherlock. See if it fits.”

Holt laughed. For the past quarter hour, he had been outlining his altered views of the Linneker case to the district attorney’s chief investigator and he guessed he had sounded a bit more didactic than he had intended. “Okay, Van, I’m just an amateur at this end of it. But I can’t help how it looks to me.”

“All right, counsellor. Sum up and tell me again why Tara Linneker and Delmont Shayon didn’t do it.”

“I’ve met them both. They’re not the type of person who plans and commits a cold-blooded murder of that sort.”

“Matter of opinion. Over-ruled.”

“The motive doesn’t stand up. Sure, Linneker didn’t approve of Tara’s fiancé, but Tara was old enough to marry with his consent or without it. This isn’t the Middle Ages. And Tara stood to get the money, anyway, sooner or later. Linneker had no one else to leave it to, and he couldn’t take it with him.”

“That presumes knowledge you don’t have. Over-ruled.”

“The dynamite. It’s not the right weapon. As we both know, Van, most murders are done with a gun, a knife, or other sharp implement, a blunt instrument — or with the hands. Occasionally, poison. But dynamite — heck, no. It’s uncertain, clumsy, dangerous to handle, attracts immediate attention to the crime; why, there’re a hundred reasons why you shouldn’t set out to kill anybody with dynamite.”

“Could have been an attempt to fake an accident. Over-ruled.”

“Exception, Your Honour. There was no attempt at all to make the murder look like an accident. The dynamite was simply shoved through a window and blooey! Nothing clever about it or cunning or sly — or womanly.”

“Exception noted.” Van Dusen grinned and banged his spoon like a gavel on the table. “Order in the court. What’ll you have, Mitch — more coffee?” Holt shrugged and the waitress came from behind the counter to refill their cups. When she had gone, Van Dusen asked, “What’s Adair’s opinion on this?”

“I haven’t discussed it with him yet,” Holt admitted. “Frankly, Van, you’re the only person I’ve talked to, except Connie last night. I sort of wanted your opinion.”

Van Dusen was silent for a long time, slowly swirling the coffee around in his cup. He eyed it like a medium gazing into a crystal ball. “Well, I’ll tell you. I can’t quite buy your story, Mitch. Which doesn’t mean that you’re wrong, of course. But I’ve worked with McCoy before and he’s a crackerjack, the best there is. I remember one deal we had a few years back, before your time. We were up against a stone wall, nothing to go on and McCoy pulled the answer right out of thin air. There was this sailor on a tuna clipper murdered his wife. He had a beautiful alibi, supposed to be out on a cruise at the time. But McCoy got a hunch and he hung on till he had it made. The fellow’s ship went into Mazatlàn for engine repairs, he grabbed a plane home under a fake name — his wife was two-timing him and he knew it — killed her and was back in Mexico before anybody knew he was gone. His shipmates thought he’d been holed up on a bender. But McCoy broke it and the man confessed. I’ve been in this business a few years myself and I’ll be the first to admit that I couldn’t have done it. So when McCoy says that Tara Linneker and Delmont Shayon murdered her father, I’ll go mighty slow contradicting the old man.”

“I’ve got a lot of respect for McCoy myself,” Holt said. “I don’t see how anybody could help but have, with his record. But he’s a man and man is fallible.”

“You’re a man yourself,” Van Dusen pointed out.

“Well, I’ve got no monopoly on truth. I’ve changed my mind once about this case. Maybe I’ll change it again. But when I go into court I want to be sure.” Holt extracted a page from his notebook and handed it to Van Dusen. “I got this from Shayon last night. It constitutes his and Tara’s alibi — what there is of it.”

Van Dusen studied the street names. “I don’t see what you’re worried about. I think Two-Gun could win this one by himself. This isn’t any alibi at all.”

“I wanted a sample of Shayon’s handwriting. It struck me last night that just riding around no place in particular was a funny thing for a young healthy couple to be doing for four or five hours on a cold winter night.”

“Isn’t that what McCoy thinks, too?”

“Now I ask you, Van. Suppose that you planned to kill somebody and knew that you were bound to be the principal suspect. Would you stand pat on an alibi like that — which you admit is no alibi at all? I don’t think so. Even that tuna fisherman did better than that, and Shayon is no dumb-bell. It’s my guess that those two kids have an alibi they’re not telling us about.”

“You mean you think they were shacking up some place,” said Van Dusen thoughtfully. “But why hold it back, considering the spot they’re in?”

“Tara is so crushed at the moment she doesn’t care what happens. And I think that Shayon has some crazy idea that he has to play the gentleman, prove that he’s better than ‘just a shoe clerk.’ And it’s also quite likely they believe that the fake alibi is as good as the real one, and less damaging to their reputations. What would you say to checking motel and hotel registers against Shayon’s handwriting and their descriptions?”

“It’s easy enough done, if that’s what you want,” Van Dusan hesitated. “You really want it, Mitch?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because you’re liable to wind up being a very unpopular guy. If you blow up the case against Tara Linneker and Delmont Shayon, there’ll be some hotheads who’ll say that you’re doing the defence’s work, not your own. And that number will include our distinguished patron, James P. Adair. Two-Gun is counting on the Linneker trial sewing up another term for him.”

“It still can — but not if we prosecute the wrong people.”

“But are they the wrong people?” asked Van Dusen sceptically. He reached for the check but Holt beat him to it. “Well, I’ll give it a whirl, Mitch. But I’ve got a strong feeling that everybody will be happier if I don’t find anything.”

Driving down the harbour boulevard in the cold February sunlight, Holt thought about what Van Dusen had said. Yes, everybody might be happier if he just let things ride — everybody except the suspected couple, that is. Just the same, Holt had to know. Otherwise, he could not in conscience ask a jury to bring in a verdict he himself wasn’t sure was justified. To be a successful prosecutor was the same as being a successful salesman or a successful preacher: you had to believe in your product.

But he couldn’t ignore the other side of the coin. All else aside, there had been a murder committed. This was a fact about which there was no argument. Therefore, a murderer was loose. If he was right and Tara and Shayon were not guilty this still did not end the matter. And since he was presently bent on destroying — or at least rigorously testing — McCoy’s hypothesis, it was his responsibility to find an alternate hypothesis. It was not enough merely to say, They are innocent, because the immediate rejoinder was, Well, who then?

He parked in front of the Linneker Lumber & Hardware Company. It occupied about five acres of reclaimed land, once tidewater marsh, just within the city’s southernmost limits. The bay had been dredged to allow the ocean-going lumber schooners to dock there. Close to the highway stood the company buildings, offices, planing mills and warehouses, with the towering stacks of raw lumber stretching away in orderly ranks behind them to the water’s edge. A spur railroad track led into the grounds, which were surrounded on three sides by a chain-link fence. Despite the recent death of the owner, business was going on as usual. Saws whined and moaned in the mill and fork-loaders trundled up and down the aisles like ants on seemingly pointless missions.

As Holt walked toward the general offices, he sniffed appreciatively the distinctive blend of smells — resin and fresh wood and salt water. It was pungent and invigorating, full of life. Yet directly across the harbour he could see the hillside homes of Landfall Point and the Linneker private beach.

The business manager’s name was Pitzer. He was a barrel-chested bull of a man who looked as if he had come up the hard way. Most of the building was panelled inside with rich mahogany but Pitzer’s upstairs office was the plainest of the lot. His manner was brusque and efficient. After a crunching handshake, he waved Holt to a chair. “District Attorney, huh? What can I do for you?”

“I’m investigating the Linneker case, as you’ve probably guessed. I’d appreciate any help you can give me, Mr. Pitzer.”

“I’ll do anything I can, of course,” said Pitzer warily and Holt reflected that the business manager occupied a delicate position. He was undoubtedly aware of the police suspicions, yet Tara Linneker was now his employer and he could hardly afford to antagonize her. “What’d you have in mind?”

Holt said bluntly, “The truth of the matter is that my office is still feeling its way. We’re not trying to build a case against anyone in particular. It did strike me that the murder — the way it was done and all — has the aspects of a grudge killing. I wondered if you might know of any enemies that Rudy Linneker had.”

Pitzer nodded slowly and seemed to relax somewhat. “Well, Rudy had his enemies, all right. Who doesn’t? But nothing that serious.”

“How about business rivals? Any bad blood there? Maybe somebody he got the best of in a deal or — ”

Pitzer chuckled. “Excuse me, Mr. Holt, but that’s so ridiculous I can’t help laughing. I think you people in government sometimes get queer notions about us businessmen. Believe me, that sort of thing just doesn’t happen.”

“Was Mr. Linneker popular with his employees?”

“Everybody likes Santa Claus, don’t they? Our scale is the highest in the area, paid vacations, Christmas bonus, good retirement plan, pensions for disability. This is a good place to work, Mr. Holt.” Pitzer added, “We’ve got a loyal bunch of men, most of them been here for years.”

“Never any trouble or threats, then?”

“Oh, we occasionally get a misfit but that kind doesn’t last long. We try to run a happy company.” Pitzer stared thoughtfully out the window. “I really don’t understand it at all.”

“These misfits, the people you’ve had to fire,” Holt pursued. “Would you have any recollection of them?”

“You bet.” Pitzer leaned close to the intercom on his desk and held down the switch. “Vera, bring me the carbon on that list of terminated employees. You know, the one you typed up for the police last week.”

Holt smiled disappointedly. “I guess the ground’s already been covered. I was wondering if you’d had to fire anyone around the first of December.”

“Don’t recall offhand.” Pitzer chewed his lip, pondering. “It’s our general policy not to let anyone go close to Christmas if we can help it.” The door opened and a secretary brought in two typewritten sheets of paper, stapled together. “Here we are. This covers the period from the beginning of the fiscal year.”

Holt looked over the list of names and addresses. Each entry was preceded by the date of dismissal. A large group was listed for August. He commented on this presumably mass firing and was told that a logging strike in the Pacific Northwest had forced the yard to suspend operations temporarily. “Most of those men are back to work for us now, though,” Pitzer added.

“What about these two?” asked Holt and read off a pair of names. Ernest Farnum. James O’Hara. The date of firing was the middle of November. They were the only dismissals listed close to the date he sought.

“Oh, yeah,” murmured Pitzer. “Forgot about Farnum and O’Hara. Couple of mill hands. They got into a fight about something, don’t know what, regular Pier Six brawl. Farnum got the tar beat out of him. Had to fire both of them, no choice, can’t have soreheads stirring up trouble. But I did it myself. Rudy didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I think I’ll do a little checking,” said Holt, putting the list in his pocket. “I don’t have so many leads that I can afford to overlook any.”

Pitzer rose with him. “Well, lots of luck, Mr. Holt. I hope this thing gets wound up soon.” He indicated the adjoining door with Mr. Linneker lettered on it. “As long as that office is empty, we’re sort of marking time here.”

“We’re doing our best.” Holt didn’t tell Pitzer that if his hunch was borne out the adjoining office would have a new occupant, although the name on the door would probably be changed to Shayon. He didn’t know what the veteran lumberman would think of that eventuality.

Holt went back to his office in the Civic Centre half hoping that there would be a message from Van Dusen. There was nothing on his desk but the usual routine of paper work. He disposed of it and went to lunch. The noon edition of the newspapers contained no new developments of which he was not aware. McCoy was keeping the dynamite story to himself for the present.

In the middle of the afternoon, when Van Dusen had still not reported in, Holt decided to wait no longer and went off himself to check on the two names that Pitzer had given him. But it apparently wasn’t his day for learning anything concrete. James O’Hara was no longer a resident of the city; he had, according to his former landlady, left for San Francisco shortly after being fired. Ernest Farnum was also among the missing; he had vacated his furnished room two weeks before by request due to a chronic slowness in paying the rent. He had left no forwarding address, possibly to dodge bill collectors.