Detour to Death (8 page)

“He probably chucked it,” Arthur suggested. “What’s the difference, anyway?”

“A little matter of evidence, for one thing. If we could find that wallet someplace where Danny has never been-”

“It’s a big country,” Arthur said.

It was a big country all right. Big and wide and lonely—and frightening, like those scenes painted on the walls of the dinosaur room in the Field Museum. Danny crawled back in the tarpaulin again, as if the night was really as icy as it seemed at the moment. Nobody had to paint pictures for Danny Ross. He knew the hole he was in was a lot deeper now than it had been a dozen hours ago. If only Trace had told him about Laurent sooner! If only he’d known it was more than just himself against the world! But was it really? He balanced the gun in his right hand, and the weight of it still made him feel better than anything Trace had said. He’d keep it handy, anyway, just in case they tried any funny business at Cooperton.

• • •

It was long after midnight when the signboard with the population figures showed up on the shoulder. The only lights showing were a few widely spaced naked bulbs hung overhead across the highway, because at this hour Cooperton was as dead as a churchyard—and it had one of those, too.

“Remember, you two,” Danny called up to the front seat, “you’re not turning me over to that sheriff!”

Trace yawned. He’d slept most of the way in, and came out of his slumber with much stretching of arms. “Relax,” he murmured. “I’ve got just the hiding-place for you.”

“Not the farm!” Arthur insisted. “If Virgil finds out you were in Junction City tonight, that’s the first place he’ll look.”

“You give Virgil entirely too much credit—”

Trace got no farther. It was exactly then that Arthur slammed on the brakes and Danny fell on his face to the floor boards. “Keep your head down!” Trace muttered as he started to rise, and a heavy hand on the top of his head added persuasion to the directive. But not before Danny caught a glimpse of what had caused the sudden stop. They were just even with the cemetery, but that wasn’t a stone figure pinned in the beam of the headlights; it was a woman.

“Oh, Mr. Cooper! You gave me such a start!”

The Cooper came out Cupper, but Danny would have recognized Ada’s voice, anyway. Everything she said sounded like an apology.

“You gave us a fright, too,” Trace said. “We weren’t expecting pedestrians at this hour. What are you up to, anyway?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Ada answered. “Lately I don’t sleep well at all, and it seems such a waste of time just to go on tossing and turning when it’s so nice outside. Have you noticed how lovely the mockingbirds sing these nights, Mr. Cooper?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“You should. We miss so much out of life by just not noticing things.”

There were a few things Danny would just as soon Ada didn’t notice right now; a few lumps under the canvas in the back seat. He was hoping Arthur would get the jeep rolling again, but Trace had to go right on making conversation.

“Does Virgil know you’re out?” he asked.

“Heavens, no! He’s away looking for that poor boy. I thought it was him coming back when I saw your lights—that’s why I got excited and ran in front of your car. Virgil thinks it’s wicked for me to go walking about like this, but Virgil thinks so many things are wicked. I wonder if that isn’t the most sinful thing of all—thinking all the pleasant things are wicked.”

Ada was talking to herself by this time. Danny could hear her voice getting fainter and fainter in the distance and there was no reply when Trace called out, “Can’t we take you home?” Leave it to Trace to invite a passenger at a time like this! For a moment there was no sound at all except a mockingbird singing in the cemetery.

“That settles it!” Arthur announced, kicking the jeep into motion. “The farm is out! If that buzzy dame tells Virgil she saw us on the road—”

“She’ll get herself into a peck of trouble,” Trace finished.

But Trace didn’t put up an argument when Arthur held his ground. The farm was risky. Ada Keep wasn’t noted for her discretion; she might easily blurt out the story without realizing what she was saying. And she might even have caught a glimpse of Danny crouched in that back seat, a glimpse to be remembered when the mockingbirds were through singing.

So they took Danny to their crude little farmhouse at the edge of town, fed him eggs and coffee and thick slabs of bacon, and then made up a bundle of food and blankets. The last moonlight was fading when the jeep took to the road again. There was a deserted cabin at a place called Peace Canyon, and so long as it had a bed in it, Danny was satisfied.

T
RACE WAS UP EARLY
in the morning. The day was going to be difficult enough without the added worry of Danny’s safety, a worry not a little agitated by the uncertainty of what Ada Keep might have told her husband. There was only one way to set his mind at ease on that score, and only one way to seek out an answer to a new question that had been bothering him since that midnight ride. Both ways led straight to Virgil’s office.

As could be expected, Virgil was not in good humor.

“I knew I should have stayed in bed,” he muttered, at the sight of Trace coming through the doorway. “Didn’t you cause me enough trouble yesterday without coming back for more?”

“Trouble?” Trace echoed innocently. “What did I do?”

“What did you do? In the first place, you got me to take that kid out to Mountain View. That wasn’t so bad because there was me and a couple of my men to keep an eye on him, but then you had to insist on that wild-goose chase up to Raney’s mine!”

“It wasn’t a wild-goose chase. We learned there was a man in a raincoat.”

“Was is right! Was is just right!”

Ada came in with a pot of coffee just then, but Virgil didn’t so much as acknowledge her presence. The pressure must be getting pretty rough, Trace reckoned, because the big man’s blustering manner had a graveness in it and lacked its usual steam even when he pushed back from the desk and began pacing the floor like an angry bull.

“Do you know what your precious Danny Ross has done now?” he stormed. “That man in the raincoat, Steve Malone, was found in Junction City last night with a bullet in his head. And who do you think was seen in Junction City last night? Who do you think held a gun—my gun—on a man parked at a drive-in, and then slugged him so he could follow Malone?”

“Was Malone shot with your gun?” Trace asked.

He shouldn’t have been so casual about it. He should have shown some surprise, because Virgil calmed down right away.

“We don’t know yet,” he said.

“Then you don’t know that Danny shot him.”

“Well, what does it look like?”

“It looks,” Trace murmured, helping himself to the coffee Virgil still ignored, “like three murders in a row. First Francy, then Doctor Gaynor, and now Malone. It looks like somebody trying desperately to silence anyone who might know the truth. That’s the trouble with murder. It multiplies.”

“Was Francy really murdered?” Ada asked.

It was easy to forget about Ada. She blended with the walls and the woodwork. Trace watched her over the rim of the coffee cup, trying to decide if she’d said anything about meeting him last night. He guessed not since Virgil had made no mention of it.

“Are you still here?” Virgil howled, giving her a push toward the hall. “I’ve told you a thousand times to keep your nose out of this office!” He returned to his desk and gave back the frown Trace had sent him. “You can’t trust a woman,” he muttered. “They pick up a little here, a little there, and then they go buzzing all over town until everybody’s up in arms and ready to throw a necktie party at the first tree they come to. You may not know it, Trace, but that kid would be a lot safer in this jail than wherever he is now.”

It could have been just conscience that made Virgil’s words sound so deliberate. “I’ll tell him if I see him,” Trace muttered.

“You be sure and do that. And tell Laurent, too.”

It definitely wasn’t conscience, and this time Trace was caught way off base. “Laurent?” he echoed.

“Don’t act innocent, Trace, it’s not your type. Yes, I know all about Alexander Laurent coming into town night before last and having that heart-to-heart talk with you at the Pioneer bar. Of course, I’m not a smart, educated man like you two, but even a dumb sheriff knows a little of what happens in his own town.” Virgil smiled, and he looked much less ominous without it. “The people on the street know about it, too,” he added, “and if they should get the idea that a great lawyer like Laurent was going to get Danny Ross out of paying for old Charley’s death—”

“Only if he’s innocent!” Trace cut in.

“You’ll have to prove that.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do! I know the heat’s all on you, Virgil, for letting Danny get away. But use your head. If it turns out he’s just an innocent, scared kid, running the way any innocent, scared kid might run, then the last laugh is yours. But if you follow the mob and spend so much time looking for Danny you can’t find the real murderer then you’re not fit to be wearing that badge!”

Anyone but a Cooper would have caught a fist in his face for saying that. Virgil’s face was white with fury. “Maybe you could wear it better!” he snapped.

“Maybe I could. Maybe I’d start by finding out something about Danny Ross—where he’s from, what kind of a family, if he has a record. Just because he’s a stranger doesn’t make him a killer. And then I’d want to know what possible motive he could have had for doing these things. If he killed the old man for his money, why did he kill Malone?”

“Malone could have been a witness.”

“To an act of Danny’s? That doesn’t make sense, Virgil. You wouldn’t have known a thing about Malone if Danny hadn’t insisted there was such a man. Why would he start a search for a man who could convict him? And while we’re on the subject of Malone, how was he fixed for folding money when they found him?”

It hit home. Virgil knew as well as Trace that a common laborer at Raney’s camp didn’t drag down that kind of money, plus room and board, for a couple of weeks work. Besides, Malone had left a trail of twenty-dollar bills all over Junction City. But Virgil wasn’t cowed for long.

“Get the kid back here and I’ll try to get some answers for those questions,” he said. “I can’t examine a suspect when he’s not on hand.”

“You can check his background.”

“Hell, man, he wouldn’t give us any!” Virgil ripped open one of the lower desk drawers and brought up a canvas zipper bag, a paper-covered book, and a well-worn wallet. “That’s all he had on him,” he said. “Some underwear and socks, this darned book, and the two hundred dollars.”

“No identification?”

“The usual. Driver’s license, social security—”

“Then he had been working.”

“Why not? He’s old enough. Over eighteen.”

“Over eighteen?” Trace picked up the wallet and studied the driver’s license inside. Chicago, the address was. Just as he expected. It was a couple of years old so the address might be out of date, but it would b
e
all right for a starter. The snapshots were cute but uninformative, and there was nothing to indicate Danny Ross was anything but what he claimed to be: a kid on the loose seeing the country. Nothing except what was missing. Trace was on the verge of mentioning it when he caught himself. Danny was in enough trouble already without stirring up more, and he might be jumping to conclusions, anyway. It was just that the kid had been so reluctant to give himself a past—and so eager to leave a murder charge hanging over him by skipping over the border. Trace fingered the language dictionary thoughtfully.

“Like I said before,” Virgil remarked, “we’ll get all kinds of answers when Danny’s back in that cell, but until then my one and only interest is finding him before some not so law-abiding citizens do. Right now I’m going to pay a call on your friend Laurent.”

“Do you think he’s keeping the kid?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that one of the boys reported seeing headlights moving out that way late last night, and they’ve combed all over Junction City.”

Trace still had the feeling that Virgil wasn’t telling him all these things just to make conversation. The headlights could have been the jeep hurrying off to Peace Canyon, and Virgil’s proclaimed visit to the ranch could be a ruse to send him out after Danny so he could be followed. If so Virgil was out of luck, because now Trace had to go to a funeral.

• • •

Two funerals were held that morning in the little frame church adjoining the Cooperton cemetery. This unusually crowded calendar brought great mental anguish to the man in charge of operations, particularly in the instance of the woman named Francy Allen. The Reverend Mr. Whitlow, a placid man of sufficient years to make such a condition possible, had no objection to performing such services for a sinner. As a matter of fact, it was his private opinion that such as Francy needed his prayers far more than the good Dr. Gaynor; but his discomfort at the thought of these two more or less consecutive ceremonies concerned not the dead but the living. It was common knowledge that Francy Allen had come between Trace Cooper and Joyce Gaynor, and so solemn an occasion was hardly the time to renew old bitterness.

Francy’s funeral was brief and her mourners few. The entire party consisted of four members: Trace, looking strangely dignified in a dark suit specially pressed for the occasion—no doubt about it, the Coopers were a striking breed even in decline; an individual named Murphy, who carried on the dubious profession of tending bar at the Pioneer Hotel and who insisted on crossing himself at prayer; Fisher the mortician, and Trace’s dark companion whose presence in the Cooperton church and cemetery might be tolerated in life but never in death. This situation was not particularly to the Reverend Mr. Whitlow’s liking, but it was not without experience that he had become a placid man.

The last amen was uttered with a profound sense of gratitude that there had been no overlapping of mourners. The trouble between Trace and Joyce Gaynor seemed to worsen with the passing of time. It was, Reverend Mr. Whitlow reckoned, due in great part to the attentions paid her by the young doctor who had come to carry on a practice death would have ended in due time at any rate. It was none of the Reverend’s business, of course, but he did hate to see a courtship of such long standing fail. Trace and Joyce had been going out together even before he went into the service. Adjustments had to be made later, particularly in view of Trace’s loss of the ranch, but Joyce wasn’t one to let money or the lack of it come between her and the man she loved. But Francy was a different matter. If only Trace hadn’t taken her under his roof—with the whole town knowing what she was!

The last amen and the scraping of spades on the dry earth. Murph and Arthur left the churchyard, and Fisher hurried off to attend to the new procession already creeping up the road, but Trace stayed on. He knew exactly what the minister was thinking; he knew exactly how the town would buzz if he remained for the doctor’s funeral. It was a ridiculous situation. Old Doc Gaynor had brought him into the world and watched over him for years like a benevolent grandfather, but because of one quarrel, one misunderstanding, and all the heartaches that went with it, he was now an outsider.

Trace watched them come—the hearse, the black limousine, and just about every vehicle of transportation in the county following behind. All of Cooperton, it appeared, would be at Charley Gaynor’s funeral, not to mention representatives of all the outlying areas that had known his friendly smile and merciful hands. A good man dies poor but with many mourners, and none of the Coopers sleeping under their ornate stone angels had inspired such a cortege as this! Reluctantly, Trace moved off toward where Arthur waited in the jeep. Absence was the best way to pay his respects; what’s more, the sight of that long, crawling train had given him an idea. What better time to do a few of the things that must be done than when so many of the cats were away?

And so the Reverend Mr. Whitlow drew a sigh of heartfelt relief, and all the Coopertonians were cheated of an anticipated scene that could in no way approach the scandalous behavior of Trace Cooper’s next move.

The first move was to send Arthur off on the bus to Red Rock. From there he could send a telegram that wouldn’t immediately become public property, as well as make a few inquiries at the hospital where Francy had died. Trace didn’t know exactly what to look for, but he was beginning to get an idea. All of this meant delaying the report to Laurent until sometime later in the afternoon, but with Virgil already at the ranch it was wiser to stay away for a while, anyway. The time wouldn’t be wasted.

Nobody locked doors in Cooperton. The bank, the gas pumps, a few houses of business—yes; but not the tall, old-fashioned doors of the houses where people lived and died. Dr. Gaynor’s house was no different from the others. A sad-eyed collie guarded the wide front porch, his long muzzle sunk deep within his paws, but he was an old dog and Trace was an old friend of the master who wouldn’t return. A few words of comfort, a pat on the head, and the responding slap of a shaggy tail on the plank step comprised the only formalities to this entrance.

Inside the house all was silent and heavy with the perfume of death, of wreaths and bouquets that had stopped by on the way to the churchyard and become mingled with the faintly medicinal odor of the doctor’s home office. Trace slid open the double doors and stepped into the dispensary. White and clean were the walls, black and shiny were the leather swivel chair and the rolled-top desk. Where did the search begin? Where was the evidence that might spell murder if seen by understanding eyes? Trace moved over to the desk.

A doctor’s life was a life of confidences, sometimes freely, sometimes reluctantly given, and his records were meant for his eyes alone. Trace knew these things but he had to go on prodding every pigeonhole and rifling every drawer. The fat-faced clock hung over a glass-front cabinet with locked doors ticked off a steady warning, but the search continued. Old records, old secrets, old X-rays—these were no good! What was needed was something recent, some starting place for murder such as the day before Francy died. There must be an appointment book somewhere.

Trace was reaching for yet another drawer when noises on the front porch brought a sudden halt to his activities. So soon? He swung about and looked at the fat clock, and was astonished at the time. The funeral must be over. The noises were footsteps and voices on the porch.

“I don’t like leaving you alone at a time like this,” the young doctor was saying as the front door opened. “I’d be only too glad to stay.”

“No, Lowell, please—I don’t mind. I’d rather be alone.”