assumed name, came out here a month ago to find out who he really is. I don’t say it couldn’t have happened the way he says, but it needs to be proved out.”
“What kind of a boy is he?”
“Intelligent, well spoken, fairly well mannered. If he’s a con artist, he’s smooth for his age.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You work very quickly,” he said.
“I was lucky. What about your end? Has Trask got anything on my car?”
“Yes. It was found abandoned in San Luis Obispo.”
“Wrecked?”
“Out of gas. It’s in perfectly good shape, I saw it myself. Trask has it impounded in the county garage.”
“What about the man who stole it?”
“Nothing definite. He probably took another car in San Luis. One disappeared late yesterday afternoon. Incidentally, Trask tells me that the Jaguar, the murder car, as he calls it, was another stolen car.”
“Who was the owner?”
“I have no idea. The Sheriff is having the engine number traced.”
I hung up, and spent the better part of fifteen minutes thinking about Marion Culligan Matheson and her respectable life in Redwood City which I was going to have to invade again. Then I called Sable back. The line was busy. I tried again in ten minutes, and got him.
“I’ve been talking to Dr. Howell,” he said. “Tony broke his right arm when he was in prep school. Howell didn’t set the break himself, but he knows the doctor who did. In any case, it was a fractured humerus.”
“See if they can turn up the X-ray, will you? They don’t usually keep X-ray pictures this long, but it’s worth trying. It’s the only means I can think of for making a positive identification.”
“What about teeth?”
“Everything above the neck is missing.”
It took Sable a moment to grasp this. Then he said: “Good Lord!” After another pause: “Perhaps I should drop everything and come up there. What do you think?”
“It might be a good idea. It would give you a chance to interview the boy.”
“I believe I’ll do that. Where is he now?”
“Working. He works at a gas station in town. How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’ll be there between eight and nine.”
“Meet me at the sheriff’s substation at nine. In the meantime, is it all right if I take the local deputy into my confidence? He’s a good man.”
“I’d just as soon you didn’t.”
“You can’t handle murder without publicity.”
“I’m aware of that,” Sable said acidly. “But then we don’t know for certain that the victim was Tony, do we?”
Before I could give him any further argument, Sable hung up.
chapter
12
I PHONED the Santa Teresa courthouse. After some palaver, I got Sheriff Trask himself on the other end of the line. He sounded harried:
“What is it?”
“Gordon Sable just told me you traced the murder car in the Culligan case.”
“A fat lot of good it did us. It was stolen in San Francisco night before last. The thief changed the license plates.”
“Who owns it?”
“San Francisco man. I’m thinking of sending somebody up to talk to him. Far as I can make out, he didn’t report the theft.”
“That doesn’t sound so good. I’m near San Francisco now, in Luna Bay. Do you want me to look him up?”
“I’d be obliged. I can’t really spare anybody. His name is Roy Lemberg. He lives at a hotel called the Sussex Arms.”
An hour later, I drove into the garage under Union Square. Bolling said good-by to me at the entrance:
“Good luck with your case.”
“Good luck with your poem. And thanks.”
The Sussex Arms was another side-street hotel like the one I had spent the night in. It was several blocks closer to Market Street, and several degrees more dilapidated. The desk clerk had large sorrowful eyes and a very flexible manner, as if he had been run through all the wringers of circumstance.
He said Mr. Lemberg was probably at work.
“Where does he work?”
“He’s supposed to be a car salesman.”
“Supposed to
“What kind of a boy is he?”
“Intelligent, well spoken, fairly well mannered. If he’s a con artist, he’s smooth for his age.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You work very quickly,” he said.
“I was lucky. What about your end? Has Trask got anything on my car?”
“Yes. It was found abandoned in San Luis Obispo.”
“Wrecked?”
“Out of gas. It’s in perfectly good shape, I saw it myself. Trask has it impounded in the county garage.”
“What about the man who stole it?”
“Nothing definite. He probably took another car in San Luis. One disappeared late yesterday afternoon. Incidentally, Trask tells me that the Jaguar, the murder car, as he calls it, was another stolen car.”
“Who was the owner?”
“I have no idea. The Sheriff is having the engine number traced.”
I hung up, and spent the better part of fifteen minutes thinking about Marion Culligan Matheson and her respectable life in Redwood City which I was going to have to invade again. Then I called Sable back. The line was busy. I tried again in ten minutes, and got him.
“I’ve been talking to Dr. Howell,” he said. “Tony broke his right arm when he was in prep school. Howell didn’t set the break himself, but he knows the doctor who did. In any case, it was a fractured humerus.”
“See if they can turn up the X-ray, will you? They don’t usually keep X-ray pictures this long, but it’s worth trying. It’s the only means I can think of for making a positive identification.”
“What about teeth?”
“Everything above the neck is missing.”
It took Sable a moment to grasp this. Then he said: “Good Lord!” After another pause: “Perhaps I should drop everything and come up there. What do you think?”
“It might be a good idea. It would give you a chance to interview the boy.”
“I believe I’ll do that. Where is he now?”
“Working. He works at a gas station in town. How long will it take you to get here?”
“I’ll be there between eight and nine.”
“Meet me at the sheriff’s substation at nine. In the meantime, is it all right if I take the local deputy into my confidence? He’s a good man.”
“I’d just as soon you didn’t.”
“You can’t handle murder without publicity.”
“I’m aware of that,” Sable said acidly. “But then we don’t know for certain that the victim was Tony, do we?”
Before I could give him any further argument, Sable hung up.
chapter
12
I PHONED the Santa Teresa courthouse. After some palaver, I got Sheriff Trask himself on the other end of the line. He sounded harried:
“What is it?”
“Gordon Sable just told me you traced the murder car in the Culligan case.”
“A fat lot of good it did us. It was stolen in San Francisco night before last. The thief changed the license plates.”
“Who owns it?”
“San Francisco man. I’m thinking of sending somebody up to talk to him. Far as I can make out, he didn’t report the theft.”
“That doesn’t sound so good. I’m near San Francisco now, in Luna Bay. Do you want me to look him up?”
“I’d be obliged. I can’t really spare anybody. His name is Roy Lemberg. He lives at a hotel called the Sussex Arms.”
An hour later, I drove into the garage under Union Square. Bolling said good-by to me at the entrance:
“Good luck with your case.”
“Good luck with your poem. And thanks.”
The Sussex Arms was another side-street hotel like the one I had spent the night in. It was several blocks closer to Market Street, and several degrees more dilapidated. The desk clerk had large sorrowful eyes and a very flexible manner, as if he had been run through all the wringers of circumstance.
He said Mr. Lemberg was probably at work.
“Where does he work?”
“He’s supposed to be a car salesman.”
“Supposed to
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