Read Online Death in Donegal Bay by William Campbell Gault - Free Book Online

snorted. “They’re all Mikes today—rootless, careless drifters.”
    Duane Detterwald was my kind of man, if my instincts were sound. Unfortunately, my instincts are not always sound.

Chapter Eight
    W HEN WE PARTED, I told Duane to drop in any time he was down our way. He and Jan could reminisce about their high-school days.
    “My high-school memories aren’t that pleasant,” he said, “but looking at Jan again would make the trip worthwhile. You treat her right, Callahan, or you’ll answer to me.”
    “I will. And you keep an eye on Mike. If Cyrus Reed Allingham is out to get him, Mike could be in more trouble than he can handle.”
    “Mike has always been in more trouble than he can handle. At least outside of the ring. If you learn anything—”
    “I’ll phone you. Give my love to Marilyn.”
    He laughed. “We finally got an offer on that house, two hundred and thirty-two thousand. That’s what three-bedroom, two-bath fixer-uppers are going for in Donegal Valley. She asked me half a dozen times when you were coming back to make an offer. I told her you were waiting for an offer on your Brentwood home before you made a decision on hers.”
    Realtors—they’re almost as tricky as private eyes. …
    Up the steep and winding road the Mustang moved, past the houses on the bluff and down into the valley. Felicia’s lie was still a lie; she knew what Mike was doing now, even if she didn’t see him. Why would she lie about it?
    Possibly because her husband had been in the room when I asked her. He must have known her history, traveling in the circles he did. And she must know he knew. So why the secrecy, so long as she was innocent (to use the word loosely)?
    There was a slight breeze from the ocean, and the sun’s glare was softened by stationary cumulus clouds. It was a day for golf, but here I was, back on the prowl. When would I join the leisure class Uncle Homer had made possible for me? Not until I ran out of more interesting things to do.
    I had shaken the hand of Cyrus Reed Allingham. I had pretended to share his views. I had avoided the final ignominy; I had not asked for his autograph.
    Faith was what Cyrus was selling, faith in the time-honored American values and traditions. Time had not exactly honored many of our traditions. Among them are slavery, killing Indians, civil war, denying women the right to vote, child labor, depletion of our natural resources, and a still-virulent bigotry.
    Faith may be wonderful, as some cynical sage has pointed out, but it is doubt that will get you an education. I would have to stay committed to the immoral minority. To camouflage that, I was forced to remain devious.
    When I came home, Mrs. Casey informed me that Lieutenant Vogel had phoned and asked that I call him back. I got him at the station.
    “When you were working down in L.A.,” he asked me, “did you ever run into a private investigator named Max Kronen?”
    “Occasionally. As a matter of fact, I talked with him only a couple of hours ago. Why do you ask?”
    “You mean he came up here to see you?”
    “Answer my question first.”
    “I was hoping that you might give me a line on his reputation. He could be working for Joe Farini.”
    “Are you still watching Joe?”
    ‘“Yes. Your turn.”
    “I was leaving Cyrus Allingham’s wigwam up in Veronica Village this morning when Max drove in. My hunch is that he’s working for Allingham.”
    “What reason did you have to visit Cyrus Allingham?”
    “I was obeying the instructions you gave me in your office yesterday afternoon.”
    “I never gave you any such instructions!”
    “Your memory is weak. You told me to keep you informed. You wished me good hunting.”
    “All right, all right! What did you learn up there?”
    “I learned that a French engineer named Vauban was the acknowledged master of fortification and siegecraft. I’ve forgotten his first names. He had a lot of ’em.”
    “Damn you! Talk sense.”
    “Bernie,” I said