Double

Timmy nodded, gave me a shy smile, and was off again. Nancy Pollard moved to stand next to Ferguson; the two of them were like a barrier between the running boy and me. None of us said anything until Timmy was out of sight. Then Ferguson said, controlling the words, “You’re not taking him. Not unless you’ve got a platoon of Mexican policia waiting outside.”

“I didn’t come here for that, Mr. Ferguson.”

“No? Then why did you come?”

“To meet you. And to find out some things.”

“What things? Who the hell are you?”

“He’s a private detective,” Nancy Pollard said. “He was at the hotel in San Diego. He’s the one I caught talking to Timmy before that woman died.”

Ferguson said to me, “Who are you working for? Lauterbach? Or my ex-wife?”

“Neither one. I’m here on my own.”

His mouth took on a bent, bitter look; he thought he had me pegged now. He said contemptuously, “Blackmail.”

“Wrong. But it might have worked out that way if Lauterbach hadn’t been murdered.”

Both of them reacted to that, with surprise that seemed genuine enough. “What happened to him?” Ferguson asked. He sounded puzzled again. “How was he killed?”

“Somebody shot him Sunday morning. In his office building.”

Nancy Pollard caught her breath — a second reaction almost as sharp as the first. When I looked at her, she wouldn’t meet my eyes; she turned a little to one side to make avoiding them easier.

I said, “You know something about Lauterbach’s murder, Miss Pollard?”

“No, of course not.”

“When did you and Timmy arrive here?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Nancy,” Ferguson said. “Let’s get to the bottom of this.” Then, to me, “They arrived yesterday morning around ten.”

“Were you here to meet them?”

“Certainly.”

“Were you here all weekend?”

“Yes. Are you trying to imply that Nancy or I had something to do with Lauterbach’s death?”

“The thought crossed my mind,” I said. “He recognized Timmy somehow, at the Casa del Rey hotel, and put two and two together. One of the things he did was call your ex-wife and tell her he could find the boy for her. She’s put up a five-thousand-dollar reward for Timmy’s return. Or maybe you already know about that.”

He didn’t say anything.

I said, “Lauterbach could’ve traced you, gotten in touch, and tried to blackmail you for more than the five thousand.”

“Well, he didn’t. I didn’t even know he’d moved away from Detroit until—” Abruptly he broke off.

“Until what? Until Miss Pollard told you she saw him at the Casa del Rey?”

They exchanged glances.

“Yeah,” I said. “She’s the one he tried to put the bite on, isn’t she?”

Ferguson said, “Neither Nancy nor I is a murderer. Believe that or not, but it’s the truth.”

“Let’s say I believe it. I still want to know what happened between her and Lauterbach.”

Nancy Pollard glanced at Ferguson again, wet her lips, and said, “All right. Friday night was the first time I saw him. He and some other men from the convention were drunk. Timmy heard them singing and went outside when my back was turned — he’s a very curious little boy.”

“What happened then?”

“I ran out and got Timmy, and Lauterbach saw me too. I didn’t know who he was; I’d never seen him before. He went away with the others and I didn’t think anything more about it until Saturday morning. Then he showed up at our bungalow, alone.”

“Demanding money?”

“Yes. I was terrified that he’d call the authorities and they’d arrest me and take Timmy back to his mother. I told him I’d call Carl, try to raise some money. He wanted to stay there while I made the call but I wouldn’t let him. It was obvious he didn’t know where Carl was and I wasn’t about to let him find out. He said I’d better not try to run away because he’d be watching the bungalow, and finally he left.”

“And what did you do?”

“Tried to call Carl, but the telephone service down here isn’t very good and I couldn’t get through. Then Timmy slipped out again and I found him talking to you. I thought you were working for Lauterbach, that he’d hired you to keep tabs on us. I was half frantic by then. I tried calling Carl again, still couldn’t get through. I was still on the phone when the assistant manager, Ibarcena, came and said there’d been an accident, a woman had been killed. We weren’t supposed to leave the hotel until Sunday morning but he wanted us to go immediately.”

I asked, “Did you see Lauterbach around anywhere when you left?”

“No.”

“Where did Ibarcena take you?”

“To a motel on the edge of the Mexican quarter.”

“He left you and Timmy alone there?”

“Yes. That’s where we spent Saturday night.”

“Did you see or talk to Lauterbach again before you left San Diego?”

“I... no.”

“Try to get in touch with him at all?”

She hesitated. “Why would I do that?”

“You might have been afraid he’d think you left the Casa del Rey because of his blackmail demand. Afraid he’d be angry enough to call the authorities. Did you try to contact him, Miss Pollard?”