Man Sinister

“I’ve got to do something. I’m Hagan’s boy so far. I’ve got a feeling that he’d have me in jail already if Wilfred hadn’t disappeared to cast a small measure of uncertainty in the police mind.”

Harold breathed deeply. “You can’t prove anything to Hagan about McGinty. You’d only be hurting yourself.”

“Not if McGinty and Papa Joe’s death are tied together.”

“They’re not.”

He didn’t intend to talk; that much was clear, reflected in the hard light in his eyes, the set of his mouth. He still believed McGinty was dead, that I had spirited his body away. He believed I was too much involved to drag the McGinty angle before Hagan.

“I wish I could convince you of the truth, Harold,” I said soberly. “And that truth is that McGinty will return.”

Fear flared in his eyes. “Will you stop being so irrational?” he cried. “Stop torturing me with impossibilities!”

I gave him a moment to calm down. “Then for such a large favor as you think I did for you,” I said, “you should be prepared to do a small one for me.”

“What is it?” he asked sullenly.

“Find Wilfred.”

“Hagan will find him. Wilfred killed Papa Joe. That’s obvious. When Wilfred is found Hagan will wring the truth out of him and this whole dirty thing will be over.” His words carried all the conviction his wishful thinking could summon.

“All the more reason for finding Wilfred,” I said.

“What makes you think I could find him?”

“Because I think Ellen knows where he is. You’re the one person who might get it out of her. He hasn’t run far, and he has let Ellen know where he is. This morning I found her fixing a plate of food, and it was not for herself. Not for me. She didn’t bring it up here, did she?”

“No.”

“Then who else but Wilfred? She wanted the food ready when she found the chance to slip it out to him.”

“It’s a slim premise.”

“I know, but it’s the only one I can think of. Will you talk to her?”

He shrugged. “Why not?”

I turned to leave the room. A small lump pressed against the sole of my shoe as I started to open the door. I moved my foot, reached down, and picked up a small leaden pellet that lay between the edge of the carpet and the wall. As I walked downstairs that pellet gave me ideas and the ideas brought excitement stirring inside me.

I was feeling equal to facing Hagan when he returned an hour later.

He took possession of the parlor and had Conroy summon us one by one. I walked into his presence at about three-thirty.

He was placid, even friendly, during the half-hour I spent with him. He did his best to turn the question session into a chatty period. I repeated the answers I had given him that morning. He made no mention of the arrival of a woman in a taxi. I hoped that meant he believed Bryanne to be one of the sympathetic callers who’d besieged the house during the morning.

Hagan made the pointed suggestion that none of us should entertain the thought of leaving town, no matter how urgent the business, until Papa Joe’s death was cleared up. When I left him I had the distinct feeling that he had struck a dead end. I was still his man, but the hole was still a trifle square for the peg. He was playing out rope, waiting for a break, for someone to hang himself.

In the afternoon paper, the murder hit the front page. The heading was heavy and black, but the story was barren of real details.

Vera and Harold came downstairs and we formed a restless trio in the parlor until Harold excused himself. I caught his glance. He was going to see Ellen.

I kept Vera occupied with small talk. She was not at all reluctant to tell me about herself. She came from a small town in Michigan, she told me. After finishing college, she’d gone to New York with an eye on the publishing business. Nothing unusual. A girl of her beauty might have led a more exciting life.

When Harold returned, he gave me a short nod over her shoulder. After a while, he mentioned Papa Joe’s financial affairs. “I wonder,” he suggested, “if we’ll find anything of value in that cottage Papa Joe owned on Hickory Street.” The glance he gave me was meaningful.

I relaxed. There was nothing to do now but wait until darkness was heavy enough to cover my trip to the cottage.

I let an hour or more elapse after our quiet, desultory dinner before I set out for the cottage. Before leaving the house I turned off the light in the rear hallway, and opened the door to the back porch.

Standing in the shadows of the porch my gaze searched until it found Hagan’s back yard stake-out. I was sure he would have one. The man was lounging on a stone bench near an old rock pool that was filled with leaves and dirt. Ellen would have seen the man and had not dared take a chance on slipping out. Wilfred was doubtless a hungry boy, waiting for food that would not arrive.

A light summer breeze rushed across the yard. I let the sound of it in the trees cover any slight sounds I might have made as I eased off the porch, clinging to the shadow of the house.