Read Online Dead Letter by Jonathan Valin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Valin
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she
flared. "Just because my father hired you to do a job for him
doesn’t give you the right to harass me and grill me like I was
some derelict in a police line-up."
"There was a murder committed in this house,"
I said, "and a theft. You may think the police fit your
description of a detective, but don’t count on it. They’re going
to find out that the O’Hara boy is lying. And they’re going to
find out, from Bidwell, that a government document is missing.
They’re going to find out you’re a communist, too. And the whole
world knows how you felt about your father. One fine day those dumb
cops are going to plod their way right up to your door."
"I didn’t kill him," she said serenely.
"And I don’t know anything about a government document."
"That may be true. But that’s not going to
stop the police from investigating you and your friends of nature."
Sarah Lovingwell eyed me distrustfully. "Why do
you care what the police do to me?"
"I told you before. I promised your father I
would look after you."
"That’s very noble," she scoffed.
"It’s not," I said. "Your father
left me in a tight spot. Technically, I’m withholding evidence
right now. For all I know, evidence that would help the police tie up
this case or help the FBI stop an important secret from falling into
the wrong hands."
"Communist hands?" she mocked.
"Look, I’m apolitical. You can start as many
revolutions as you want, once I’m in the clear on this thing."
"We don’t start revolutions. The people do."
"Fine," I said. "You tell the people
it’s all right with Harry, once this case is settled. All I’m
asking for is a little pre-revolutionary cooperation."
"What kind of cooperation?"
"Now we’re getting somewhere. I want you to
hire me."
"For What?"
"Let’s say . . . to look into your father’s
death."
"I’ve already told you, I don’t care who
killed my father."
"Well, pretend he was someone close to you,"
I said.
"Someone you liked. That way I have a legal
justification for not telling the cops about the document."
"And what do I get out of this°!" Sarah
asked me.
"You get me out of your hair." She glared
at me. "It’s the only way," I said to her. "It’s
me or me. Take your pick."
8
By the time I left for Sloane, Sarah and r I had
fashioned an uneasy truce. She agreed to hire me to investigate her
father’s murder; and I agreed to stay out of her affairs. Just how
that last neat trick was going to work I didn’t know. She wasn’t
happy about the arrangement either. But then annoying someone isn’t
the surest way to earn their trust.
I couldn’t get a handle on Sarah Lovingwell. She
was a smart, attractive, self-assured young woman; and she was
carrying around the sort of grudge that most folks take a lifetime to
work up to—a genuine hatred so implacable that it can’t be
explained. You have to be hurt beyond forgiveness to reach that
plateau of anger. And for the life of me, I couldn’t see how
dapper, Shavian Daryl Lovingwell could have fathered such a hate.
I was about to step out the door when one of the
biggest young men I’d ever seen in my life came striding up the
front lawn. He must have been six-foot nine if he was an inch—he
had a good half foot on me. But if you can believe it, it wasn’t
his size that startled me. You’ve probably seen, in grocery stores
and shopping centers, children, six or seven years old, running
around in cowboy suits—fancy checked shirts with western piping,
blue jeans with a runner down the leg and bunting at the cuff, big
leather belts with silver-metal buckles, furry white vests,
ten-gallon Stetsons, and cap guns with mother-of-pearl handles. If
you left out the guns and the holsters, that’s exactly how this
giant was dressed.
"Howdy ’pard," he boomed in a voice that
would have made a good bass in a barbershop quartet. He swept the big
hat off _ with a flourish and smiled. "Lester O. Grimes,"
he said daintily. "Friends call me ‘Cowboy.
"No
flared. "Just because my father hired you to do a job for him
doesn’t give you the right to harass me and grill me like I was
some derelict in a police line-up."
"There was a murder committed in this house,"
I said, "and a theft. You may think the police fit your
description of a detective, but don’t count on it. They’re going
to find out that the O’Hara boy is lying. And they’re going to
find out, from Bidwell, that a government document is missing.
They’re going to find out you’re a communist, too. And the whole
world knows how you felt about your father. One fine day those dumb
cops are going to plod their way right up to your door."
"I didn’t kill him," she said serenely.
"And I don’t know anything about a government document."
"That may be true. But that’s not going to
stop the police from investigating you and your friends of nature."
Sarah Lovingwell eyed me distrustfully. "Why do
you care what the police do to me?"
"I told you before. I promised your father I
would look after you."
"That’s very noble," she scoffed.
"It’s not," I said. "Your father
left me in a tight spot. Technically, I’m withholding evidence
right now. For all I know, evidence that would help the police tie up
this case or help the FBI stop an important secret from falling into
the wrong hands."
"Communist hands?" she mocked.
"Look, I’m apolitical. You can start as many
revolutions as you want, once I’m in the clear on this thing."
"We don’t start revolutions. The people do."
"Fine," I said. "You tell the people
it’s all right with Harry, once this case is settled. All I’m
asking for is a little pre-revolutionary cooperation."
"What kind of cooperation?"
"Now we’re getting somewhere. I want you to
hire me."
"For What?"
"Let’s say . . . to look into your father’s
death."
"I’ve already told you, I don’t care who
killed my father."
"Well, pretend he was someone close to you,"
I said.
"Someone you liked. That way I have a legal
justification for not telling the cops about the document."
"And what do I get out of this°!" Sarah
asked me.
"You get me out of your hair." She glared
at me. "It’s the only way," I said to her. "It’s
me or me. Take your pick."
8
By the time I left for Sloane, Sarah and r I had
fashioned an uneasy truce. She agreed to hire me to investigate her
father’s murder; and I agreed to stay out of her affairs. Just how
that last neat trick was going to work I didn’t know. She wasn’t
happy about the arrangement either. But then annoying someone isn’t
the surest way to earn their trust.
I couldn’t get a handle on Sarah Lovingwell. She
was a smart, attractive, self-assured young woman; and she was
carrying around the sort of grudge that most folks take a lifetime to
work up to—a genuine hatred so implacable that it can’t be
explained. You have to be hurt beyond forgiveness to reach that
plateau of anger. And for the life of me, I couldn’t see how
dapper, Shavian Daryl Lovingwell could have fathered such a hate.
I was about to step out the door when one of the
biggest young men I’d ever seen in my life came striding up the
front lawn. He must have been six-foot nine if he was an inch—he
had a good half foot on me. But if you can believe it, it wasn’t
his size that startled me. You’ve probably seen, in grocery stores
and shopping centers, children, six or seven years old, running
around in cowboy suits—fancy checked shirts with western piping,
blue jeans with a runner down the leg and bunting at the cuff, big
leather belts with silver-metal buckles, furry white vests,
ten-gallon Stetsons, and cap guns with mother-of-pearl handles. If
you left out the guns and the holsters, that’s exactly how this
giant was dressed.
"Howdy ’pard," he boomed in a voice that
would have made a good bass in a barbershop quartet. He swept the big
hat off _ with a flourish and smiled. "Lester O. Grimes,"
he said daintily. "Friends call me ‘Cowboy.
"No
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