Man on a leash - By Charles Williams Page 0,3
A teletype clattered briefly in the communications room. Orde lit a cigarette and stared at the form in his typewriter.
“What happened anyway?” Romstead asked.
“Didn’t Crowder tell you?”
“Just that he’d been shot. Executed is the word he used.”
“Crowder watches a lot of TV.” Orde leaned back in the swivel chair and dropped the book of matches onto the desk. “But then I guess you can’t argue with it, even if it is a little Hollywood. He was found on the city dump, shot in the back of the head. I’m sorry.”
“But for Christ’s sake, who did it?”
“We don’t know. Except that it was real professional and some action he brought here with him. We could have done without it.”
This made no sense at all, of course, and Romstead was about to point it out but did not. He’d come this far to get the facts from somebody who knew what he was talking about, so he could wait a few more minutes. At that moment the door opened at the rear of the room, and a white-hatted deputy came in, ushering ahead of him an emaciated middle-aged man whose face was covered with a stubble of graying whiskers. The latter looked around once with an expression that managed to be sly and hangdog at the same time and then down at the floor as he shuffled forward when the deputy released his arm and gestured toward the chair by Orde’s desk. “Park it, Wingy.”
“Not again?” Orde asked.
“Again,” the deputy replied.
The prisoner sat down, still looking at the floor, and began to pat his clothing for nonexistent cigarettes. Orde tossed the pack across the desk.
“Who’d he unveil it for this time?” he asked. “The League of Women Voters?”
“Rancher’s wife out on the Dennison road.” The deputy sighed and went over to the table to pour a cup of coffee. “I wish to Christ I had one I was that proud of.”
The prisoner was now patting his pockets for matches. Orde tossed him the book. “Here.” He shook his head as he rolled a new form into his typewriter and spoke in the tone of one addressing a wayward child.
“Wingy, someday you’re going to wave that lily at some woman’s got a cleaver in her hand, and she’s going to chop it off and stuff it in your ear.”
A phone rang. Orde punched a button on the desk and answered it. “Okay,” he said. He looked over at Romstead and gestured toward the corridor. “That was Brubaker. Second door on the left.”
“Thanks.” Romstead let himself in through the gate in the railing and went up the hallway. The door was open. It was a small office. Brubaker was at the desk with his back to a closed Venetian blind, removing the contents of a thick manila folder. He stood up and held out his hand, a heavy, florid-faced man with spiky red hair graying at the temples. The handshake was brusque and his manner businesslike, but he smiled briefly as he waved toward the chair in front of the desk.
“You’re a hard man to get hold of.” He sat down, picked up his cigar from a tray on the desk, and leaned forward to study the material from the envelope. “We’ve been trying to run you down for two weeks.”
“I was out of town,” Romstead said. “I just got back last night.”
“I know. We got your address from your father’s attorney. We kept trying to call you and finally asked the San Francisco police to check your apartment. The manager said he didn’t know where you were. Crowder’s note here says you were on a boat somewhere. You a seaman, too?”
“No,” Romstead replied. “Just some cruising and fishing in the Gulf of California. A friend of mine had a motor-sailer down there, and we brought it back to San Diego. I flew up to San Francisco last night, and your wire was waiting for me along with the other mail.”
“So you were on this boat at the time? Where?”
“If it was two weeks ago, we’d have been somewhere around Cape San Lucas.”
“Where’s that?”
“The southern tip of Baja California.”
“I see. What do you do for a living?”
“Nothing at the moment. I’ve been in Central America for the past twelve years but sold my business there about four months ago.”
“And what was that?”
“Boats. I had the distributorship in Costa Rica for a line of fiber glass powerboats—runabouts, fishermen, cruisers, and so on.”
“And when’s the last time you saw your father?”
“About four years ago. I came