Read Online Detour to Death by Helen Nielsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Nielsen
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Malone.”
He had to relate the whole story then: Danny’s version of Malone’s behavior in the café, the way he’d met him running for the bus, and finally the discouraging results of that trip to the mine. It was the tale of a rolling stone, a little man in a raincoat whose destination was always unknown but might be the west coast. “That covers a lot of territory,” he conceded, “but the sheriff will get out a ‘man wanted’ on him. He may not want to, but it’s his duty and Virgil’s a stickler for duty. Of course, that may take time.”
“During which Malone could easily spend the evidence,” Laurent added.
“But he would still have the doctor’s wallet.”
“Possibly.” Laurent leaned back in his chair again, but his eyes were busy. “Then I assume you intend to sit tight until the sheriff brings in Malone,” he said. “An easy way, Mr. Cooper, but hardly practical. Suppose the man is found and questioned. What’s to stop him from turning state’s evidence against Danny Ross in order to save his own skin? After all, there’s a great deal of difference between the penalty for theft and the penalty for murder. No, I’m afraid Malone isn’t going to be very helpful to Danny unless we find him first.”
It was Trace’s turn to crowd the edge of his chair now. “But how?” he demanded, and Laurent smiled. “Imagination, Mr. Cooper, imagination,” he said. “As you were telling me about Malone just now I received the distinct impression that I’d come across his type before—restless, unreliable, fond of easy money and a good time. Now let’s assume that Danny Ross is innocent and that our Mr. Malone did kill the doctor and take his wallet. What did he do then?”
“Caught the bus for Junction City,” Trace said.
“And when would that bus have reached its destination?”
“About six-thirty.”
“At the end of the day,” Laurent mused, “and our Mr. Malone had been living in a camp on the side of a mountain for several weeks. Now he has money in his pockets; now he’s not on that mountainside. I put it to you, Mr. Cooper, do you really think it likely that he boarded the first bus going west?”
“He was running away,” Trace reminded.
“But it’s so easy to find a man when he’s running. He boards a bus and there he is, all locked in and ready for that policeman waiting at the end of the line. But if he holes in somewhere—”
It was the crash of battered notes from the piano that broke into Laurent’s conjecture. He smiled and nodded to the silent servant near by. “You may start serving now, Ramón,” he directed. “It seems that Douglas has concluded his practicing. I don’t believe you have met my son, Mr. Cooper—”
At first Trace thought it was a boy who came through the doorway onto the patio. He was slender, lithe, and casually dressed in white slacks and a knitted sport shirt. Just a boy, fair and delicately handsome; but as he came closer the years crept into his face until they were gathered almost forty in number. Douglas Laurent, the only child of an illustrious father.
“Come sit down, Douglas,” Laurent urged. “This is Mr. Cooper, the gentleman from whom I purchased the ranch.”
“It’s hot,” Douglas said, with a brief nod toward Trace. “I simply can’t work when it’s hot.”
“Douglas is writing a concerto,” the elder Laurent explained. “It’s quite an undertaking.”
“It’s impossible!” Douglas snapped. “This weather, this country, this house!”
“What’s wrong with the house?” Trace demanded.
“It’s cavernous! The acoustics are terrible! This time of year back home—” Douglas’s face grew radiant with remembrance, “—this time of year we would go to the lake house. It was small and quiet, and I had a little studio of my own over the barn. But what’s the use of talking about it? Father likes it here.”
“I used to have a cabin—you might call it a cottage—at the rim of Peace Canyon,”
He had to relate the whole story then: Danny’s version of Malone’s behavior in the café, the way he’d met him running for the bus, and finally the discouraging results of that trip to the mine. It was the tale of a rolling stone, a little man in a raincoat whose destination was always unknown but might be the west coast. “That covers a lot of territory,” he conceded, “but the sheriff will get out a ‘man wanted’ on him. He may not want to, but it’s his duty and Virgil’s a stickler for duty. Of course, that may take time.”
“During which Malone could easily spend the evidence,” Laurent added.
“But he would still have the doctor’s wallet.”
“Possibly.” Laurent leaned back in his chair again, but his eyes were busy. “Then I assume you intend to sit tight until the sheriff brings in Malone,” he said. “An easy way, Mr. Cooper, but hardly practical. Suppose the man is found and questioned. What’s to stop him from turning state’s evidence against Danny Ross in order to save his own skin? After all, there’s a great deal of difference between the penalty for theft and the penalty for murder. No, I’m afraid Malone isn’t going to be very helpful to Danny unless we find him first.”
It was Trace’s turn to crowd the edge of his chair now. “But how?” he demanded, and Laurent smiled. “Imagination, Mr. Cooper, imagination,” he said. “As you were telling me about Malone just now I received the distinct impression that I’d come across his type before—restless, unreliable, fond of easy money and a good time. Now let’s assume that Danny Ross is innocent and that our Mr. Malone did kill the doctor and take his wallet. What did he do then?”
“Caught the bus for Junction City,” Trace said.
“And when would that bus have reached its destination?”
“About six-thirty.”
“At the end of the day,” Laurent mused, “and our Mr. Malone had been living in a camp on the side of a mountain for several weeks. Now he has money in his pockets; now he’s not on that mountainside. I put it to you, Mr. Cooper, do you really think it likely that he boarded the first bus going west?”
“He was running away,” Trace reminded.
“But it’s so easy to find a man when he’s running. He boards a bus and there he is, all locked in and ready for that policeman waiting at the end of the line. But if he holes in somewhere—”
It was the crash of battered notes from the piano that broke into Laurent’s conjecture. He smiled and nodded to the silent servant near by. “You may start serving now, Ramón,” he directed. “It seems that Douglas has concluded his practicing. I don’t believe you have met my son, Mr. Cooper—”
At first Trace thought it was a boy who came through the doorway onto the patio. He was slender, lithe, and casually dressed in white slacks and a knitted sport shirt. Just a boy, fair and delicately handsome; but as he came closer the years crept into his face until they were gathered almost forty in number. Douglas Laurent, the only child of an illustrious father.
“Come sit down, Douglas,” Laurent urged. “This is Mr. Cooper, the gentleman from whom I purchased the ranch.”
“It’s hot,” Douglas said, with a brief nod toward Trace. “I simply can’t work when it’s hot.”
“Douglas is writing a concerto,” the elder Laurent explained. “It’s quite an undertaking.”
“It’s impossible!” Douglas snapped. “This weather, this country, this house!”
“What’s wrong with the house?” Trace demanded.
“It’s cavernous! The acoustics are terrible! This time of year back home—” Douglas’s face grew radiant with remembrance, “—this time of year we would go to the lake house. It was small and quiet, and I had a little studio of my own over the barn. But what’s the use of talking about it? Father likes it here.”
“I used to have a cabin—you might call it a cottage—at the rim of Peace Canyon,”
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