shouldn’t complain. It’s better than murder.”
“Most things are,” said Hammett.
The phone on Spainy’s desk rang. He looked at it with irritation, looked at the door, looked at us as it rang on, and finally picked it up with a grunt.
“J.V., I am ensconced,” he said, and then put his hand over the mouthpiece to address us. “Fancy word, huh? You’re not dealing with bumpkins here, Mr. Writer.” He removed his hand from the mouthpiece and listened for a few more seconds before jumping in. “Yeah … okay … finish up that Postum and put him on.”
Spainy looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath and spoke into the phone. The folksy Spainy was gone. He could have been a prof down from Stanford.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Pintacki?” he said into the phone.
Hammett and I exchanged glances and Spainy looked up at us as he nodded his head and listened.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sure that can be arranged … with the greatest possible dispatch … who would? … yes, I will … Beverly or Salinas … glad to help … good-bye, sir.”
He hung up the phone, looked at it for inspiration, ran his tongue over his lower lip and turned his attention to us.
“Mr. Hammett,” he said politely in his Stanford voice. “You are free to go. There’s been an obvious misunderstanding and I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. If you think disciplinary action should be taken against the two officers who brought you in, just tell me.”
“I seem to have an influential friend,” Hammett said, standing up.
Spainy looked at the phone. “Oh, that,” he said with a shrug. “Had nothing to do with it.”
I got up to follow Hammett, who had headed for the door.
“Not you,” Spainy said. “Got a few more questions for you. We’re going to trade recipes for rabbit stew.”
Stanford was fast disappearing and the good old boy was almost back.
“Mr. Peters and I are together,” Hammett said.
“Just a question or two,” Spainy said, holding his ham hands up to show they were empty and he was honest.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Spainy beamed love, good will and underlying hostility worthy of Billy Sunday.
“I’ll wait outside,” Hammett said.
“Have a cup of Postum before you go,” said Spainy, as J.V., hair falling over her eyes, balanced her way through the door with a cup of hot liquid.
“No, thanks,” said Hammett and went through the door as J.V. put the hot cup on the table in front of the Chief. J.V. wiped her palms on her uniform and smiled tentatively, like a mother who had baked a special treat for her spoiled child. The Chief eyed the brew and J.V. with distaste.
“It’ll do,” he said.
J.V. looked at me and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“Good girl,” Spainy said, picking up the cup. “A bit obsequious.”
“Good word,” I said.
“Damn good word,” Spainy said, drinking and making a face. He put the cup down and added, “Can’t believe this stuff is good for you. Want to know another good word? Lepus . Means rabbits.”
I had a couple of good comments but I managed to keep from letting them spurt out.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he said.
Behind his back, through the window looking out on the street, I could see the traffic roll slowly by. Angel Springs wasn’t in a hurry. Neither was Chief Spainy.
“There’s a war going on,” I said. “Russian front is shaky. Rommel is backing up in North Africa. Port Moresby looks like it might fall in the Pacific:”
“You a joker?” asked Spainy, pointing his cup at me.
“No,” I said, straight-faced.
On the street behind his back, I saw Hammett come out of the station, shade his eyes and look toward the sun. He plunged his hands into his pockets, looked back at the station and stepped to the sidewalk to pace and wait.
“You’re a talker,” he said. “That’s good. I’m a listener. Now you just tell me what you know and I’ll listen.”
A car pulled up in
“Most things are,” said Hammett.
The phone on Spainy’s desk rang. He looked at it with irritation, looked at the door, looked at us as it rang on, and finally picked it up with a grunt.
“J.V., I am ensconced,” he said, and then put his hand over the mouthpiece to address us. “Fancy word, huh? You’re not dealing with bumpkins here, Mr. Writer.” He removed his hand from the mouthpiece and listened for a few more seconds before jumping in. “Yeah … okay … finish up that Postum and put him on.”
Spainy looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath and spoke into the phone. The folksy Spainy was gone. He could have been a prof down from Stanford.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Pintacki?” he said into the phone.
Hammett and I exchanged glances and Spainy looked up at us as he nodded his head and listened.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sure that can be arranged … with the greatest possible dispatch … who would? … yes, I will … Beverly or Salinas … glad to help … good-bye, sir.”
He hung up the phone, looked at it for inspiration, ran his tongue over his lower lip and turned his attention to us.
“Mr. Hammett,” he said politely in his Stanford voice. “You are free to go. There’s been an obvious misunderstanding and I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you. If you think disciplinary action should be taken against the two officers who brought you in, just tell me.”
“I seem to have an influential friend,” Hammett said, standing up.
Spainy looked at the phone. “Oh, that,” he said with a shrug. “Had nothing to do with it.”
I got up to follow Hammett, who had headed for the door.
“Not you,” Spainy said. “Got a few more questions for you. We’re going to trade recipes for rabbit stew.”
Stanford was fast disappearing and the good old boy was almost back.
“Mr. Peters and I are together,” Hammett said.
“Just a question or two,” Spainy said, holding his ham hands up to show they were empty and he was honest.
“I’ll be fine,” I said.
Spainy beamed love, good will and underlying hostility worthy of Billy Sunday.
“I’ll wait outside,” Hammett said.
“Have a cup of Postum before you go,” said Spainy, as J.V., hair falling over her eyes, balanced her way through the door with a cup of hot liquid.
“No, thanks,” said Hammett and went through the door as J.V. put the hot cup on the table in front of the Chief. J.V. wiped her palms on her uniform and smiled tentatively, like a mother who had baked a special treat for her spoiled child. The Chief eyed the brew and J.V. with distaste.
“It’ll do,” he said.
J.V. looked at me and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.
“Good girl,” Spainy said, picking up the cup. “A bit obsequious.”
“Good word,” I said.
“Damn good word,” Spainy said, drinking and making a face. He put the cup down and added, “Can’t believe this stuff is good for you. Want to know another good word? Lepus . Means rabbits.”
I had a couple of good comments but I managed to keep from letting them spurt out.
“You want to tell me what’s going on?” he said.
Behind his back, through the window looking out on the street, I could see the traffic roll slowly by. Angel Springs wasn’t in a hurry. Neither was Chief Spainy.
“There’s a war going on,” I said. “Russian front is shaky. Rommel is backing up in North Africa. Port Moresby looks like it might fall in the Pacific:”
“You a joker?” asked Spainy, pointing his cup at me.
“No,” I said, straight-faced.
On the street behind his back, I saw Hammett come out of the station, shade his eyes and look toward the sun. He plunged his hands into his pockets, looked back at the station and stepped to the sidewalk to pace and wait.
“You’re a talker,” he said. “That’s good. I’m a listener. Now you just tell me what you know and I’ll listen.”
A car pulled up in
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