Man on a leash - By Charles Williams Page 0,7

is to keep questioning people, the same as we have been ever since it happened, till we locate somebody who saw that car that night, to get some kind of description of it, a place to start. Your father had an unlisted telephone number and a post office box address, so they had to ask somebody to find out where he lived.”

Brubaker began to put the file back into the folder. There were several questions Romstead wanted to ask, but they could be answered by Bolling just as well or maybe better. “We’ll let you know when we come up with anything,” Brubaker concluded.

Romstead stood up, and they shook hands. “Thanks for your time.”

“Not at all. Incidentally, who’s the owner of that boat you were on?”

“A man named Carroll Brooks. You can reach him at the Southland Trust Bank in San Diego.”

Brubaker shrugged. “Just standard routine.”

“No sweat.” Romstead went out and walked over to Aspen Street, trying to collect his thoughts. What in God’s name had the old man intended to do with a quarter million dollars in cash, even assuming he had that much in the first place? Why’d he bought a farm here, or ranch, or whatever it was, and then rented an apartment in San Francisco? The whole thing seemed to get murkier by the minute.

* * *

Bolling’s office was on the third floor of the Whittaker Building, a large corner room with windows on two sides. The desk was a massive one of some dark wood, the carpet was gray, and there were two leather armchairs. The walls were lined with identically bound volumes of an extensive law library. Bolling himself appeared to be well into his sixties, but erect, with a homely, angular face and sparse white hair. The eyes were a sharp and piercing blue. He smiled as he got up from behind the desk. “By God, you’re almost as big as he was.”

“Not quite,” Romstead said.

“Somehow I expected you to be darker, since your mother was Cuban, but you look exactly like him.”

“She was blond, too.”

“He said you were quite a baseball player.”

“Prep school and in college,” Romstead replied.

“Professional, too, I understand.”

“I only lasted one season; I couldn’t hit big-league pitching. It was a way to get through school, but I couldn’t see minor-league ball as a career.”

“You put yourself through college?”

“Not entirely. I had a jock scholarship and worked summers, but he sent me money and would have sent more, but I didn’t need it.”

“You’re in his will, of course. Or have you seen a copy of it?”

“No. I didn’t even know he had one.” Romstead paused and then went on musingly. “I guess the reason I’ve never thought about it is that I must’ve always assumed he’d outlive me. I know that sounds crazy as hell—”

“No. Not to anybody who knew him. You haven’t seen his place, of course?”

“No. I didn’t even know about it until last night. And now I’ve just found out he had an apartment in San Francisco.”

Bolling nodded. “He rented it about five months ago. I tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted.”

“But why?”

“Why did I advise against it, you mean? On account of taxes.”

“No, I mean the whole bit. Why did he retire here, and buy a place, and then rent an apartment there?”

“There were several reasons, actually, but the primary one, of course, was taxes. It’s easy to get to San Francisco, which he loved, but still not in California, which he detested. But the sad truth is he was bored here, and he spent more and more time in San Francisco, going over for the opera, concerts, plays, and so on, always having to get confirmed hotel reservations each time, so he decided to rent the apartment. He said that as long as his voting residence was here and he owned property here and only spent a total of a couple of months a year in San Francisco, California could go to hell for its income and inheritance taxes. He was a very stubborn man, and beyond a point there was no use arguing with him.”

“But why this obsession with taxes? Would it have made that much difference?”

“Well, considerable. Your father’s income was in excess of fifty thousand a year, from his retirement pay and his securities. A lot of it was political bias, however; he loathed the whole idea of the welfare state, Social Security, unemployment benefits, the welfare rolls, and so on. He was a very charming and talented