The Threepersons Hunt

A galleried wooden verandah ran the length of the front of the house. There were double doors made of hand-hewn planks four inches thick. Watchman found a push button and pressed it; within the house a bell rang.

2.

“The stupid fool needs a bib,” Charles Rand said in his muted Texas twang.

“Maybe you don’t understand what I’m trying to tell you, Mr. Rand. Maybe you want me to spell it out in blood.”

“I understand all right. The bastard’s chucked a hell of a big rock into the pond.”

“Maybe that’s because the water’s getting up over his head. Joe Threepersons got taken. Like a hick in a whorehouse. He wants his money back.”

His face rigid with suppressed feelings, Rand presented his back to Watchman and looked out the window, indicating he didn’t want further disputations. The window looked out into the trees and not much light filtered through. The room was big, dark-paneled, rendered gloomier by its somber velvet drapes; massive furniture was strewn around with masculine carelessness and there were antlers over the mantel.

Finally Rand said, “Don’t shit a shitter.” He turned and fixed Watchman with baggy eyes. “Legally, Trooper, you can’t even ask me if the sun’s shining. You’ve got no proof of any of these allegations.”

“We’re not in court, Mr. Rand.” Watchman tucked his chin in toward his Adam’s apple. “I’m not slinging accusations. I’m telling you what Joe believes. Whether it’s true or not, he believes you had his wife and boy killed.”

“Maybe instead of barging in here you ought to be out there stopping him before he does take a shot at somebody.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do. I need your help.”

Rand inhaled to argue but then abruptly stalked toward the door. “Wait here.” He left the room and Watchman went over to the window and examined the woods outside. A dead-easy place to creep up on the house; Joe could be out there right now not more than twenty-five feet from him, unseen.

When Rand returned something was dragging down the pocket of his leather jacket. Probably a handgun. His breath was touched with whiskey. The heat wasn’t intense up here but it seemed to be getting to him; chest-hair showed through his white shirt between the lapels of the jacket and sweat pimpled his forehead. He didn’t look as urbane as he wanted to; when his eyes flicked Watchman’s they were as bright as the eyes of a nocturnal animal pi

“He’s a stinking ingrate,” Rand said. “It’s a tissue of lies, you can see that for yourself. Why should I kill his wife and boy?”

“He thinks you got tired of paying for their support.”

“I never paid for their support. Who told you that?” It was a question but Rand didn’t await the answer. “Three-persons, of course. I never thought he had that much imagination. But it’s pretty flimsy. You’ll never prove I paid anything for their support, because I didn’t. My records of cash flow are wide open, God knows—the Internal Revenue boys see to that.”

“Fight me tomorrow, Mr. Rand. Help me today. Help yourself, you’re the one he’s gu

Rand’s indignation seemed ready to soar to its peak but he kept a flimsy rein on himself; Watchman couldn’t tell how long it would hold. “This is getting out of hand. Way out of hand.”

He went over to his desk. Picked up a letter-opener and turned it in his hands while he spoke. It was Turkish in appearance, a brass weapon with a carved handle. His voice was measured, every word dropping like a separate brick:

“All right. This goes no farther than this room. I’ll deny it if you bring it up afterward. Understood?”

“I don’t sign that kind of blank check, Mr. Rand.”

“You’re an Indian. I state it as a plain fact, I’m not trying to insult you. Your word wouldn’t stand up against mine in court. You understand?”

“I’m listening.” Watchman did understand. It didn’t matter that Watchman was a state police officer and a non-Apache; in court a good lawyer would make him out a biased witness because of his skin and Rand was right, they’d discount his testimony.

“It’s not that I don’t sympathize with that poor stupid fool,” Rand said. “I’ve got a little company doing biological experiments. I’ve watched a time or two when they put a laboratory rat into a no-exit maze. That kind of vexation, that’s where Joe is right now. He’s no thinker, he lives from crisis to crisis, he grabs at straws and I’m the only straw he can think of. All right, I understand that, but I’m not ready to get killed on that account. I didn’t kill his wife. I’ve never killed anybody. I guess I could but I’ve never had to.”

Rand circled the desk and sat; he kept his concentration on the letter-opener, twirling it so that it shot fragments of reflected light off its blade.

“Nearly six years ago somebody walked into my foreman’s house. Took a pistol off the wall and shot him to death. You saw the house outside there, it’s the small one just this side of the fork in the driveway—over there on the far side of the fountain. I was the only one here that night. I heard the shot. By the time I got outside there was a car going away and the lights were still burning in the windows over there. I went over to see what the trouble was. I didn’t recognize anything about the car, all I could see was the taillights going away. I went in and found him dead. I have no idea to this day who killed him.

“But it put me in a bad spot. Calisher had been having an affair with my wife, the woman who was my wife then. She’s married to Dwight Kendrick now but that’s neither here nor there. The point is I believe several people knew about this affair. I’d only found out about it a day or two previously. Now my own story was damned flimsy when you come right down to it. I was the only one there that night besides Calisher himself. I had the opportunity. I had the motive—it could have been demonstrated in court that I had just learned about him screwing my wife. I probably wouldn’t have been convicted, there was no direct evidence to prove that I’d killed him—how could there be if I didn’t kill him? But I was involved at the time in several very sensitive pending mergers and takeover bids and I simply couldn’t afford to have my name linked, even remotely, with a sordid crime like that. It would have been one of those tedious cases where a rich man bought himself off in spite of his guilt, you see what I mean? Nobody would have believed in my i

“I persuaded Joe Threepersons to get me off the spot. In the privacy of this room I’m ready to admit to you that I was guilty of suborning Joe to perjury and tampering with evidence and maybe half a dozen other crimes on that level. But I didn’t force Joe to do it, there was no extortion. I offered him a deal and he took it. I knew he would; I make it a point to know the character of the people who work for me.

“Now it may well be that whoever killed Ross Calisher decided he had a reason to kill Joe’s wife and boy but I wouldn’t know anything about that. All I’m sure of is. that if he’s gu

3.

Watchman said, “A few minutes ago you told me in no uncertain terms that you weren’t the one who was paying his family off.”

“Well I’m not exactly retracting that. Let’s just say I plead nolo contendere. Suppose we drop that. It’s just a sideshow anyway.”

“There’s another item doesn’t ring true. You’re telling me your wife was having an affair with your foreman. That’s not the way I’ve heard it.”

“Then you’ve heard it wrong. If I wasn’t in a position to know, who was?”

“Your ex-wife,” Watchman murmured. “Kendrick’s wife.”

He watched for the effect and was rewarded. Rand didn’t move at all but somehow his look became the look of a man who was holding his arm before his face.