After all, they’re going to catch me sooner or later, so I haven’t got much to lose. But you have, haven’t you?”
“What is it you want?”
“The name of the other man.”
“What other man?”
“Listen —when you called me, you said Roberts wasn’t the only one. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“All right. You’re asking for it.”
“I tell you, I don’t know. All I know is there was one. It was when I was still working for her, before she married.”
“How do you know there was?”
“I just do,” she said sullenly.
“I said how ?”
“I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? The stuck-up witch, she didn’t fool me—”
“You really hated her, didn’t you?”
“So what if I did?”
“Why?”
“That’s my business. And, anyway, she was the one got Roberts killed, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out”
“Now, there’s a hot one. That’s a real gas.”
“Did you ever tell Roberts about this man?”
“No.”
“Because he didn’t exist, isn’t that right?”
“All right, you have it your way. I still know what I know.”
“Did Roberts ever ask you anything about her?”
“No. Except once, I think he did ask me what her name was before she was married. And where she came from.”
“Did he say why he asked?”
“No.”
“When was this?”
“It was way last summer.”
“Do you remember exactly?”
“Why are you asking all these stupid questions? I think it was the first time we dated. In July, or June—I don’t know. Stop bothering me. I don’t want to talk about it any more.” The line went dead.
The intercom came on, and Barbara asked, “What do you make of it?”
“Not much. Maybe she’s lying about the other man.”
“I’m not too sure; though she is bitter about something. It might be Roberts’ death, of course. But there’s still something odd about the way she held out on that one point—I mean, how she knew there was somebody else.”
“And still doesn’t know who he is. Or says she doesn’t.”
“Or who he was. I just remembered something while you were talking. Didn’t she used to date Junior Delevan?”
I frowned. “Yes. Now I think of it, she did.”
“I don’t know what that could have to do with this, but she does have bad luck with her boy friends.” The speaker went silent.
Delevan was a wild, good-looking kid with a penchant for trouble; he’d been arrested several times for car theft while still in high school, and later had been convicted of burglary and given a suspended sentence. Then just about two years ago they’d found his body on the city dump one morning with the top of his head broken in. The police never found out who’d done it.
As I recalled now, it was just before Frances and I were married, while she was still running the shop, but she couldn’t have had anything to do with him. She was twenty-five then, and he couldn’t have been over nineteen. She probably didn’t even know him, except she might have seen him with Doris a time or two.
The intercom hummed. “Telegram,” she whispered. I grabbed the phone just as she started to dial.
“Sheriff’s office, Mulholland.”
“Could I speak to Mr. Scanlon, please? This is Mrs. Ryan.”
“I think it could be arranged, honey; but wouldn’t I do?” You could see the smirk on the stupid bastard’s face. I wondered how it would look with a boot sticking out of it.
“If you don’t mind,” she said coolly, “I’d rather speak to Mr. Scanlon.”
“Right you are, sweetie.”
When Scanlon came on the line, she said, “This is Barbara Ryan again. I’ve just received another telegram—”
“From Warren?” he broke in.
“No. It’s from Houston, Texas, and it is addressed to Mr. Warren. The text reads as follows: DAN ROBERTS BORN HOUSTON 1933, ORPHANED AT AGE TWELVE, RAISED BY OLDER BROTHER CLINTON ROBERTS OWNER DOWNTOWN SPORTING GOODS STORE STOP JOINED HOUSTON POLICE FORCE 1954 BECAME
“What is it you want?”
“The name of the other man.”
“What other man?”
“Listen —when you called me, you said Roberts wasn’t the only one. What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“All right. You’re asking for it.”
“I tell you, I don’t know. All I know is there was one. It was when I was still working for her, before she married.”
“How do you know there was?”
“I just do,” she said sullenly.
“I said how ?”
“I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? The stuck-up witch, she didn’t fool me—”
“You really hated her, didn’t you?”
“So what if I did?”
“Why?”
“That’s my business. And, anyway, she was the one got Roberts killed, wasn’t she?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out”
“Now, there’s a hot one. That’s a real gas.”
“Did you ever tell Roberts about this man?”
“No.”
“Because he didn’t exist, isn’t that right?”
“All right, you have it your way. I still know what I know.”
“Did Roberts ever ask you anything about her?”
“No. Except once, I think he did ask me what her name was before she was married. And where she came from.”
“Did he say why he asked?”
“No.”
“When was this?”
“It was way last summer.”
“Do you remember exactly?”
“Why are you asking all these stupid questions? I think it was the first time we dated. In July, or June—I don’t know. Stop bothering me. I don’t want to talk about it any more.” The line went dead.
The intercom came on, and Barbara asked, “What do you make of it?”
“Not much. Maybe she’s lying about the other man.”
“I’m not too sure; though she is bitter about something. It might be Roberts’ death, of course. But there’s still something odd about the way she held out on that one point—I mean, how she knew there was somebody else.”
“And still doesn’t know who he is. Or says she doesn’t.”
“Or who he was. I just remembered something while you were talking. Didn’t she used to date Junior Delevan?”
I frowned. “Yes. Now I think of it, she did.”
“I don’t know what that could have to do with this, but she does have bad luck with her boy friends.” The speaker went silent.
Delevan was a wild, good-looking kid with a penchant for trouble; he’d been arrested several times for car theft while still in high school, and later had been convicted of burglary and given a suspended sentence. Then just about two years ago they’d found his body on the city dump one morning with the top of his head broken in. The police never found out who’d done it.
As I recalled now, it was just before Frances and I were married, while she was still running the shop, but she couldn’t have had anything to do with him. She was twenty-five then, and he couldn’t have been over nineteen. She probably didn’t even know him, except she might have seen him with Doris a time or two.
The intercom hummed. “Telegram,” she whispered. I grabbed the phone just as she started to dial.
“Sheriff’s office, Mulholland.”
“Could I speak to Mr. Scanlon, please? This is Mrs. Ryan.”
“I think it could be arranged, honey; but wouldn’t I do?” You could see the smirk on the stupid bastard’s face. I wondered how it would look with a boot sticking out of it.
“If you don’t mind,” she said coolly, “I’d rather speak to Mr. Scanlon.”
“Right you are, sweetie.”
When Scanlon came on the line, she said, “This is Barbara Ryan again. I’ve just received another telegram—”
“From Warren?” he broke in.
“No. It’s from Houston, Texas, and it is addressed to Mr. Warren. The text reads as follows: DAN ROBERTS BORN HOUSTON 1933, ORPHANED AT AGE TWELVE, RAISED BY OLDER BROTHER CLINTON ROBERTS OWNER DOWNTOWN SPORTING GOODS STORE STOP JOINED HOUSTON POLICE FORCE 1954 BECAME
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