“I want to know when you’re going to send somebody out here.”
“Don’t heave your weight around. We’re sending a man.”
“When?” I asked. “Try to make it this week, will you? I want to neutralize that acid and wash the place out before it eats it down to the foundations.”
“Well, wash it out. You’ve got our permission.”
“Look, don’t you want pictures for evidence? And how about checking the hardware for prints?”
“Get off my back, will you? For Christ’s sake, if he was working with acid, he had on rubber gloves. Prints!”
There was a lot of logic in that, of course. But it wasn’t infallible, by any means, and as an assumption it was slipshod police work. And I had an odd feeling he knew it. He was being a little too hard, a little too vehement
“And another thing,” he went on, “about this pipe dream that he was using your plates. I don’t like gags like that not even a little. I just called the garage, and both plates are right there on your car.”
I frowned. Had she seen them or merely taken he word for it? Then I remembered. She’d said they were California tags, but all he’d put down on the card had been the number. She’d seen them herself.
“So he put them back,” I said. “Don’t ask me why.”
“I won’t. I’d be goofy enough if I even believed he’d taken them.”
“Did they report the garage had been entered?”
“No. Of course not.”
“All right, listen. It’s very easy to settle. But why not get off your fat and go do it yourself instead of telephoning? If you’ll check that garage, you’ll find it’s been broken into somewhere. And you’ll also find those plates have been taken off, and then put back. There’s no strain. California didn’t issue a new plate in ‘fifty-seven, just a sticker tab. So they’ve been bolted on there for eighteen months. If the bolts are still frozen, the drinks are on me. But how about dusting them for prints first? Not that I think you’ll find any: the joker is too smart for that.”
“Do you think I’m nuts? Why the hell would anybody go to all that trouble to get a license plate?”
“If you ever get out here,” I said, “I’ll tell you about it.”
“Stick around. There’s going to be somebody. You’re beginning to interest me.”
“Well, that’s something,” I said, but he’d already hung up.
I put down the instrument, and was just going out the door when it rang. I went back. “Hello. Magnolia Lodge motel.”
There was no answer, only the faint hiss of background noise and what might have been somebody breathing. “Hello,” I said again.
The receiver clicked in my ear as he hung up.
The creep, I thought. Or was it my friend this time, checking to see if I was still around? Then a sudden thought arrested me, and I wondered why it hadn’t occurred to me before. It could be the same man. Maybe he wasn’t a psycho at all. Maybe it was a systematic and cold-blooded campaign to wreck her health and sanity and ruin her financially. And he’d wanted to get rid of me in case I was trying to help her.
But why? There was suspicion here, God knows, like a dark and ugly stain all over town, and distrust and antagonism, but they couldn’t explain a thing like this. A deliberate attempt to drive somebody crazy was worse than murder. It had to be the work of a hopelessly warped mind. But could a deranged mind call the shots the way he had last night? I didn’t know. The thing grew murkier every time you turned around.
Out behind the building I found some planks that would do to stand on, and dragged them up in front of No. 5. Just as I was throwing them down on the gravel a police car turned in from the highway. There was only one officer in it. He stopped and got out, a big man still in his twenties, with the build and movements of an athlete. He had a fleshy, good-looking face with a lot of assurance in it, a cleft chin, green eyes, and long dark hair meticulously combed. He could have attacked you with the creases in the khaki trousers and the short jacket, but he wouldn’t have needed to. The gunbelt about his waist carried a .45 with pearl handles, and dangling from the trouser belt was an embossed leather case containing his handcuffs. With