The Blue Hammer

"What reason would they have to do that?"

"To keep you quiet about your son William's murder."

"William's death was public knowledge. What was there to be quiet about?"

"Who killed him. I think it was Richard Chantry. He left Arizona for California right after the murder and never went back. The case against him was quashed, or never developed. If you had any suspicions, you kept them to yourself."

She shook her head. "You don't know me. I loved my son. When they showed me William's body, I almost died myself. And don't forget he was a Chantry, too. Felix Chantry was his natural father. And there was no bad blood between William and Richard."

"Then why did Richard leave Arizona immediately after William's death?"

"I don't know. Perhaps he was afraid of being murdered, too."

"Did he say that?"

"I never discussed it with him. As a matter of fact, I haven't seen Richard since then."

"Since William's death?"

"That's right. I haven't seen Richard once in thirty-two years. Nobody's seen him in the last twenty-five years. And I didn't find out why until tonight, from you." She moved restlessly, and looked at the bottle beside her. "If you're pla

"No, thanks. I have a few more questions, and that should do it. I understand that when your son William was killed he left behind a wife and a small son."

Her eyes changed as if she were looking inward and downward into the past. "I believe he did."

"You mean you don't know?"

"I've been told about them. I've never seen them."

"Why not?"

"It wasn't through any wish of mine. They simply dropped out of sight. I did hear a rumor that the woman, William's widow, married another man and changed the boy's name to his."

"Do you know the name?"

"I'm afraid I don't. They never contacted me."

"Do you think they contacted Richard Chantry?"

She looked away. "I wouldn't know about that."

"The woman and the little boy who came to Chantry's house twenty-five years ago-could they have been William's widow and son?"

"I don't know. It seems to me you're really reaching."

"I have to. It's all a long way back in the past. Do you have any idea who the man was-the man who got himself killed and buried in the greenhouse?"

"I haven't the slightest."

"Could it have been your son William?"

"You must be crazy. William was killed in Arizona in 1943-seven years before that."

"Did you see his body?"

"Yes."

"I understand it was pretty chewed up. Were you able to make a positive identification?"

"Yes. I was. My son William died thirty-two years ago."

"What happened to his body after you identified it?"

"I don't know exactly."

"That's surprising."

"Is it? He had a wife in California, you know. She wanted his body shipped back here for final burial. And I had no objections. Once a man is dead, he's dead. It doesn't matter where he's finally planted."

Her voice was rough and careless, and I got the impression that she was deliberately violating her own feelings.

As if she realized this, she added, "I want my own body cremated-it won't be long now-and the ashes scattered on the desert near Tucson."

"Near Lashman's?"

She looked at me with irritation, and renewed interest. "You know too damn much."

"You tell me too damn little, Mildred. Where _was_ your son William buried?"

"Someplace in California, I was told."

"Did you ever visit his grave?"

"No. I don't know where it is."

"Do you know where his widow lives now?"

"No. I never was much interested in family. I left my own family in Denver when I was fourteen years old, and never went back. I never looked back, either."

But her eyes were in long focus now, looking back over the continent of her life. She may have been feeling what I felt, the subterranean jolt as the case moved once again, with enough force to throw a dead man out of his grave.

XXXVI

It was nearly three by my car clock when I got out to Sycamore Point. At the foot of the beach, the sea was coughing in its sleep. My own tides were at a low ebb and I was tempted to go to sleep sitting up in the front seat.

But there was a light in Jacob Whitmore's cottage. I let myself hope for a minute that Betty was there. But Jessie Gable turned out to be alone.

I noticed the difference in Jessie as soon as she let me into the lighted room. Her movements were more assured, her eyes more definite. There was wine on her breath, but she didn't seem to be drunk.

She offered me a chair and said, "You owe me a hundred dollars. I found out the name of the woman who sold Jake the picture."

"Who was it?"

She reached across the table and laid her hand on my arm. "Wait a minute, now. Don't be in such a hurry. How do I know you _have_ a hundred dollars?"

I counted out the money onto the table. She reached for the stack of bills. I picked them up again from under her hands.

"Hey," she said, "that's my money."

"You haven't told me the woman's name yet."

She tossed her blond hair. It fell like a soiled silk shawl over her shoulders. "Don't you trust me?"

"I did until you started not trusting me."

"You sound like Jake. He was always turning things around and upside down."

"Who sold Jake the picture?"

"I'll tell you when you give me the money."

I dealt fifty onto the table. "There's half. I'll give you the other half when you tell me who she is."

"It's worth more than that. This is an important case. I was told I should get a big reward."

I sat and studied her face. Two days before, when I had first come here, she hadn't seemed to care about money.

"Who's going to pay the reward?" I said.

"The newspaper."

"Did Betty Siddon tell you that?"

"More or less. She said I'd be well paid for my information."

"Did you tell Betty who the woman was?"

She disengaged her eyes from mine and looked away into a shadowed corner of the room. "She said it was important. And I didn't know if you were coming back or not. You know how it is. I really need the money."

I knew how it was. She was selling Jake Whitmore's bones, as survivors often do. And I was buying them. I dealt the rest of the hundred onto the tabletop.

Jessie reached for the bills, but her hand fell on the table short of them. She looked at me as if I might interfere, or possibly hit her.

I was sick of the game. "Go ahead and take it."

She picked up the tens and twenties, and put them inside her shirt against her breast. She looked at me guiltily, close to tears.

I said, "Let's not waste any more time, Jessie. Who was the woman?"

She said in a low hesitant voice, "Her name is Mrs. Johnson."

"Fred's mother?"

"I don't know whose mother she is."

"What's her first name?"

"I don't know. All I got from Stanley Meyer was her last name."

"Who is Stanley Meyer?"

"He's a hospital orderly who paints in his spare time. He sells his stuff at the beach art show. His booth is right next to Jake's. He was there when Jake bought the picture from her."

"You're talking about the portrait of a woman that Jake later sold to Paul Grimes."

She nodded. "That's the one you're interested in, isn't it?"

"Yes. Did your informer Stanley Meyer describe the woman to you?"

"Sort of. He said she was a middle-aged woman, maybe in her fifties. A big woman, broad in the beam. Dark hair with some gray in it."

"Did he say how she was dressed?"

"No."

"How did he happen to know her name?"

"He knew her from the hospital. This Mrs. Johnson worked there as a nurse, until they fired her."