Deadfall(12)

He spread his hands. “I just have no idea. Someone he was involved with on one of his real estate deals, possibly.”

“Quasi-legitimate, some of those deals, according to the papers.”

“Yes. So I understand.”

“In what way?”

“I really couldn’t say.”

“Did Leonard know?”

“I suppose he did.”

“But he wouldn’t discuss it?”

“No. He didn’t approve, I can tell you that.”

“Did Leonard happen to say anything about his brother’s missing snuff box?”

“No, nothing.”

“Kenneth collected snuff boxes, didn’t he?”

“Snuff bottles, too,” Washburn said. “And humidors, cigarette boxes—anything rare and valuable connected with tobacco.”

I made a note on the pad in front of me; I had been making notes right along. While I was doing that Eberhardt burst in. He doesn’t just walk into a room, like most people; he barrels in as if he’s one of the vanguards in a raiding party. Washburn, looking startled, swung around on his chair. I got up, saying, “Just my partner,” and introduced them.

Eberhardt wanted to know if he was intruding; I said no, Washburn’s and my business was about finished. He nodded, muttered something about it being like an icebox in here, poured himself some coffee, and went to his desk and picked up his phone.

I said to Washburn, “So your theory is both Kenneth and Leonard were killed by the same person—Leonard so he wouldn’t expose the truth about his brother’s death.”

Washburn nodded. He seemed a little ill at ease now that someone else was in the room.

“But why didn’t Leonard expose the truth? Why contact the murderer instead of the police? Why let him or her know that the crime against Kenneth had been found out?”

“Leonard might have been trying to make him admit something incriminating, just so he could be sure. He had to’ve known the person; he must not have believed his own life was in danger.”

Plausible answers—up to a point. But it still didn’t quite add up for me. I said as much to Washburn. I also pointed out to him that Leonard’s murderer didn’t have to be the same person who had pushed Kenneth to his death—if Kenneth had been pushed. It could just as easily have been the man on the telephone.

“But what motive would he have? Leonard must have paid him the two thousand dollars; the police didn’t find it in his office and it certainly isn’t in the house.”

“Maybe he didn’t give Leonard the name once he had the payoff,” I said. “Maybe he didn’t have a name; it could have been a straight extortion ploy, no truth to it at all. And maybe he demanded another payoff and went to the house to collect it. Leonard refused, the man threatened him with a gun, something happened to make him use it …”

“Yes, I see what you mean. But I don’t really care who it was, or why; I just want him caught and put in the gas chamber.” He folded his pale, delicate hands together again. “You know, it’s funny,” he said. “I never believed in capital punishment until now. Now I want to go to San Quentin when the time comes and watch that motherfucker die. ”

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say to that.

“You will work for me?” he said. “Do what you can to find him?”

I kept silent a while longer. The thing was, I felt sorry for him. He was so small and alone, sitting there, so empty; and I kept seeing him the way he’d been last Thursday night, after he had looked into the dining room and seen what was left of his lover. I couldn’t turn him down. How could I turn him down?

“If the police have no objections,” I said finally, “yes, I’ll investigate what you’ve told me. But you have to understand that if they don’t think Kenneth was murdered, or that there’s any connection between his death and Leonard’s, chances are they’re right and I won’t find out anything.”

“I understand. But they’re not right, I know they’re not.”

“Also I don’t come cheap,” I said. “I get two hundred and fifty dollars a day plus expenses.”

“That doesn’t matter. Money doesn’t matter. I have enough.”

“All right then.” I got one of the agency contracts out of the desk and filled it in and had him sign it. Then I asked, “Where can I reach you? You’re not staying at the house?”

“No. I couldn’t spend a night there, not any more. It was all I could do to make myself go back last Friday to take inventory for the police. I’m staying with a friend.” He gave me a name and an address on upper Market, on the fringe of the Castro district, and said that he would be there days as well as nights, at least until next Monday: he had taken a leave of absence from his job at Bank of America. He also gave me a check for a thousand dollars and insisted I let him know when I wanted more.