away,” Chalmers said. “I didn’t get any sleep last night, and I’m afraid he caught me with my wits down. He locked himself in an upstairs bathroom. It never occurred to me that he could squeeze himself out the window. But he did.”
“How long ago?”
“Hardly more than half an hour,” Truttwell said. “That’s too damn bad.”
“I know it is.” Chalmers was taut and anxious. The slow grinding passage of the night had worn flesh from his face. “We were hoping you could help us get him back.”
“We can’t use the police, you see,” his wife said.
“I understand that. How was he dressed, Mr. Chalmers?”
“In the same clothes as he was wearing yesterday—hewouldn’t undress last night. He had on a gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue tie. Black shoes.”
“Did he take anything else with him?”
Truttwell answered for them: “I’m afraid he did. He took all the sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet.”
“At least they’re missing,” Chalmers said.
“Exactly what is missing?” I asked him.
“Some chloral hydrate capsules, and quite a few ¾-grain Nembutal.”
“And a good deal of Nembu-Serpin,” his wife added.
“Did he have money?”
“I presume he did,” Chalmers said. “I didn’t take his money away. I was trying to avoid anything that would upset him.”
“Which way did he go?”
“I don’t know. It took me a few minutes to realize he was gone. I’m not a very good jailer, I’m afraid.”
Irene Chalmers made a clucking noise with her tongue. It was hardly audible, and she made it only once, but it conveyed the idea that she could think of other things he wasn’t very good at.
I asked Chalmers to show me Nick’s escape route. He took me up a short tile staircase and along a windowless corridor to the bathroom. The rifled medicine cabinet was standing open. The window, set deep in the far wall, was about two feet wide by three feet high. I opened it and leaned out.
In a flower bed about twelve feet below the window I could see deep footprints, toes pointed inward to the house. Nick must have climbed out feet first, I thought, hung from the sill and dropped. There was no other trace of him.
We went downstairs to the living room where Irene Chalmers was waiting with Truttwell. “You’re wise,” I said, “not to think in terms of the police. I wouldn’t tell them, or anyone, that he’s gone.”
“We haven’t, and we don’t intend to,” Chalmers said.
“What kind of emotional state was he in when he left?”
“Pretty fair, I thought. He didn’t sleep much, but we did some quiet talking in the course of the night.”
“Do you mind telling me what about?”
“I don’t mind. I talked about our need to stick together, our willingness to support him.”
“How did he react?”
“Hardly at all, I’m afraid. But at least he didn’t get angry.”
“Did he mention the shooting of Harrow?”
“No. Nor did I ask him.”
“Or the shooting of another man fifteen years ago?”
Chalmers’s face lengthened in surprise. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Skip it for now. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“I prefer not to skip it.” Irene Chalmers rose and moved toward me. She had dark circles under her eyes; her skin was yellowish; her lips moved uncertainly. “You can’t be accusing my son of another shooting?”
“I simply asked a question.”
“It was a terrible question.”
“I agree.” John Truttwell got to his feet and came over to me. “I think it’s time we got out of here. These people have put in a hellish night.”
I gave them a semiapologetic salute and followed Truttwell toward the front door. Emilio came running to let us out. But Irene Chalmers intercepted him and us.
“Where did this alleged shooting take place, Mr. Archer?”
“In the local hobo jungle. Apparently it was done with the same gun that killed Harrow.”
Chalmers came up behind his wife. “How can you know that?” he said to me.
“The
“How long ago?”
“Hardly more than half an hour,” Truttwell said. “That’s too damn bad.”
“I know it is.” Chalmers was taut and anxious. The slow grinding passage of the night had worn flesh from his face. “We were hoping you could help us get him back.”
“We can’t use the police, you see,” his wife said.
“I understand that. How was he dressed, Mr. Chalmers?”
“In the same clothes as he was wearing yesterday—hewouldn’t undress last night. He had on a gray suit, a white shirt, and a blue tie. Black shoes.”
“Did he take anything else with him?”
Truttwell answered for them: “I’m afraid he did. He took all the sleeping pills in the medicine cabinet.”
“At least they’re missing,” Chalmers said.
“Exactly what is missing?” I asked him.
“Some chloral hydrate capsules, and quite a few ¾-grain Nembutal.”
“And a good deal of Nembu-Serpin,” his wife added.
“Did he have money?”
“I presume he did,” Chalmers said. “I didn’t take his money away. I was trying to avoid anything that would upset him.”
“Which way did he go?”
“I don’t know. It took me a few minutes to realize he was gone. I’m not a very good jailer, I’m afraid.”
Irene Chalmers made a clucking noise with her tongue. It was hardly audible, and she made it only once, but it conveyed the idea that she could think of other things he wasn’t very good at.
I asked Chalmers to show me Nick’s escape route. He took me up a short tile staircase and along a windowless corridor to the bathroom. The rifled medicine cabinet was standing open. The window, set deep in the far wall, was about two feet wide by three feet high. I opened it and leaned out.
In a flower bed about twelve feet below the window I could see deep footprints, toes pointed inward to the house. Nick must have climbed out feet first, I thought, hung from the sill and dropped. There was no other trace of him.
We went downstairs to the living room where Irene Chalmers was waiting with Truttwell. “You’re wise,” I said, “not to think in terms of the police. I wouldn’t tell them, or anyone, that he’s gone.”
“We haven’t, and we don’t intend to,” Chalmers said.
“What kind of emotional state was he in when he left?”
“Pretty fair, I thought. He didn’t sleep much, but we did some quiet talking in the course of the night.”
“Do you mind telling me what about?”
“I don’t mind. I talked about our need to stick together, our willingness to support him.”
“How did he react?”
“Hardly at all, I’m afraid. But at least he didn’t get angry.”
“Did he mention the shooting of Harrow?”
“No. Nor did I ask him.”
“Or the shooting of another man fifteen years ago?”
Chalmers’s face lengthened in surprise. “What on earth do you mean?”
“Skip it for now. You’ve got enough on your mind.”
“I prefer not to skip it.” Irene Chalmers rose and moved toward me. She had dark circles under her eyes; her skin was yellowish; her lips moved uncertainly. “You can’t be accusing my son of another shooting?”
“I simply asked a question.”
“It was a terrible question.”
“I agree.” John Truttwell got to his feet and came over to me. “I think it’s time we got out of here. These people have put in a hellish night.”
I gave them a semiapologetic salute and followed Truttwell toward the front door. Emilio came running to let us out. But Irene Chalmers intercepted him and us.
“Where did this alleged shooting take place, Mr. Archer?”
“In the local hobo jungle. Apparently it was done with the same gun that killed Harrow.”
Chalmers came up behind his wife. “How can you know that?” he said to me.
“The
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