Man Sinister

“You—” Lucy muttered hoarsely. “You’re impossible! Thirty thousand, then, and that’s as high as we’ll go. I’m stopping at a local hotel, the Bradley. I’ll stop by tomorrow morning to take you to the airport.”

I watched her go. I felt tired and old, as if she had piled thirty years on my shoulders. My mind was shot through with memories of the way it had been.

Mr. and Mrs. Steve Martin. Residence, Atlanta, Ga. Occupations, heavy equipment salesman and housewife. Reason for big celebration, husband’s promotion to district manager. A few drinks, but not enough to back up the claim of the Quavelys. A spot of ice in the highway and the wheel of the car was suddenly lax and powerless in my hands. She’d been laughing at something I’d said when the skid started. Then she’d screamed and the sound had been muffled in the crash.

A long time later I’d clawed my way out of the wreckage. She was pinned beneath the car. She turned her head. I was filled with abject horror; she was still conscious.

“Steve,” she’d said, “there isn’t any feeling in my legs.”

The closing in of the irresistible wall as I exhausted one financial source after another until no more were left. She still needed specialists, care beyond my reach. The Quavely money was her only hope. I’d told myself I should feet grateful when Papa Quavely and Lucy had offered their bargain. I was, for Bryanne’s sake.

But making that bargain in no wise indicated that I was prepared to bargain again, on the terms Lucy had handed me tonight. I hoped she would enjoy the scenery during her stay here.

I allowed myself to feed on my anger as I walked up Northland into the business district. I found a cheap walk-up hotel. I had come out of my binge with nearly twenty dollars left, plus a watch I could pawn tomorrow morning. Any kind of job would do until I could manage the proper appearance for the right kind of employer. There was still the Atlanta sales office of the firm turning out big shovels, ditch diggers, and bulldozers. Perhaps it would be wise to return to the point where evil had begun and turn it into good.

Lucy, I accept the challenge.

After I had breakfast the next morning, I returned to the hotel. Two men in the dusty lobby left their lumpy chairs and started up the stairs behind me. I reached the third floor corridor, stopped at my room, slipped the key in the lock.

The two men came down the hallway and stopped, one on either side of me. The man on my left reached in his inner pocket, took out a small leather case, opened it, showing me a small, gold badge.

“I’m Captain Hagan,” he said. “This is Lieutenant Conroy. Police Headquarters. You’re Mr. Steven Martin?”

“Yes.”

“May we speak to you?”

“Of course.”

Opening the door, I motioned them into the room. Hagan was a large man, solidly built, with a wide, placid face. He looked as if he would enjoy quiet Sunday drives with his wife and kids. Conroy I judged to be ten years or so younger, about thirty-five. He was as big as Hagan, but on him it was stretched to a horizon six inches higher.

I thought, Watch it, Steve. They’ve found McGinty.

Hagan said, “You’re the foster son of Mr. Joseph Cranford, I believe.”

I waited.

He continued, “You’ve been staying with Mr. Cranford for a time?”

“The past week or so.”

“Before that?”

“I worked in Charleston. South Carolina.”

“What kind of work?”

“In Charleston I operated a bulldozer.”

“Make out pretty good?”

“You know the cost of bulldozing, grading work. I made enough to keep me for the time.”

“Prior to your return here, had you lived in your former home for some time?”

“No, it’s been several years since I lived in Asheville.” This, I thought, was a queer lead up to McGinty. Or maybe they always got some background information with their first questions.

Hagan spoke again in his molasses and corn pone accent. “You’ve been doing some drinking since your return?”

I gave him a quick glance. It seemed he already had tapped some source or other for background information.

“Yes,” I said

“Relations were of the best between Mr. Cranford and you?”

I hesitated. “Would you mind telling me if this line of questioning is relevant to whatever brought you here?”

“I assure you that it is. Will you answer my question?”

“I haven’t seen too much of Mr. Cranford since my return. Only at meal times, now and then in the evenings. And not at those times every day.”

“You’re evading what I asked you, Mr. Martin. Was there any ill feeling between you and Mr. Cranford?”

“A certain measure, I suppose.”

“You’ve argued with him?”

“To a certain degree.”

“And that’s why you left his home last night?”

“Partially. How do you know when I left, or where I came?”

“Your foster brother told us you had packed a bag and left. It doesn’t take long to check the hotels in a town of this size. Now, tell me, Mr. Martin, were you drinking when you returned home yesterday afternoon?”

“No.”

“But you do admit a heated argument with Mr. Joseph Cranford? And you were in a high state of nerves from previous drinking?”