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Authors: Bill Pronzini
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willing to turn himself into the likeness of a chimney sweep, particularly on a minor fire out in the middle of nowhere.
As near as I could determine, the candle had been made of purple-colored tallow. Which told me nothing much; purple candles were not uncommon. It had probably been stuck inside the cup-shaped stone to keep it from toppling over and starting the fire before it was intended to.
I was peering at the stone, and it wasn’t telling me much either, when I heard and then saw the jeep come up. It rattled to a stop behind my car, and a guy about six-four unfolded from behind the wheel and plunked himself down on the road. He stared over at me for a couple of seconds, shading his eyes against the sun. Then he yelled, “Hey! You there! What do you think you’re doing?”
I saw no point in yelling back at him. Instead I put the stone into my trenchcoat pocket, swatted some of the soot off my hands, then made my way through the rubble and across to where the guy stood alongside his jeep. He was in his forties, beanpole thin, with a shock of fiery red hair and a belligerent expression to match it. Behind him in the jeep I could see a folded easel, a couple of blank three-foot-square canvases, and a box that probably contained brushes and oil paints.
When I stopped in front of him he scowled down at me and said, “What’s the idea of messing around over there? You a scavenger or something?”
“No,” I said, “I’m a detective.”
“A what?”
“A detective.” I told him who I was and where I was from and that I had been hired to investigate the death of Munroe Randall.
He didn’t like hearing it. His expression got even more belligerent; his eyes were flat and shiny-black, like circlets of onyx. “Who hired you? Northern Development?”
“No. The insurance company that carries the policy on Randall’s life.”
“So what the hell are you doing here? Randall died in a fire in Redding.”
“You had a fire here too,” I said.
“Coincidence.”
“Maybe not, Mr. Robideaux.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know the names of everybody who lives here. The Northern people supplied them.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“The list includes an artist named Paul Robideaux.” I nodded toward the paraphernalia in the jeep. “I get paid to observe things and make educated guesses.”
Robideaux grunted and screwed up his mouth as if he wanted to spit. He didn’t say anything.
I said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the fire.”
“Which fire?”
“This one. Unless you know something about the one in Redding too.”
“I don’t know anything about either one. I wasn’t in Redding when Randall’s place burned. And I wasn’t here when those old shacks went up.”
“No? That isn’t what you told the county sheriffs men. According to their report, you were one of the residents who helped dig the firebreak.”
“Is that so?” Robideaux said. “Well, I had to talk to the law. I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s right, you don’t. But suppose I told you I can prove this fire was deliberately set. Would you want to talk to me then?”
His eyes got narrow. “How could you prove that? You find something in the debris?”
“Maybe.”
“What is it?”
“I have to tell that to the law,” I said. “I don’t have to tell it to you.”
He took a jerky half-step toward me, the menacing kind. I stayed where I was, setting myself; he was not big enough for me to be intimidated. But if he’d had any ideas about mixing it up, he thought better of them. He turned abruptly and stalked around to the driver’s side of the jeep.
Only he didn’t get in right away. Instead he pointed a finger in my direction and said, “You think Randall was murdered, is that it? Well, why don’t you go sniff around those partners of his? One of them killed him if anybody did.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because nobody here did it, that’s why. There’s nothing for you
As near as I could determine, the candle had been made of purple-colored tallow. Which told me nothing much; purple candles were not uncommon. It had probably been stuck inside the cup-shaped stone to keep it from toppling over and starting the fire before it was intended to.
I was peering at the stone, and it wasn’t telling me much either, when I heard and then saw the jeep come up. It rattled to a stop behind my car, and a guy about six-four unfolded from behind the wheel and plunked himself down on the road. He stared over at me for a couple of seconds, shading his eyes against the sun. Then he yelled, “Hey! You there! What do you think you’re doing?”
I saw no point in yelling back at him. Instead I put the stone into my trenchcoat pocket, swatted some of the soot off my hands, then made my way through the rubble and across to where the guy stood alongside his jeep. He was in his forties, beanpole thin, with a shock of fiery red hair and a belligerent expression to match it. Behind him in the jeep I could see a folded easel, a couple of blank three-foot-square canvases, and a box that probably contained brushes and oil paints.
When I stopped in front of him he scowled down at me and said, “What’s the idea of messing around over there? You a scavenger or something?”
“No,” I said, “I’m a detective.”
“A what?”
“A detective.” I told him who I was and where I was from and that I had been hired to investigate the death of Munroe Randall.
He didn’t like hearing it. His expression got even more belligerent; his eyes were flat and shiny-black, like circlets of onyx. “Who hired you? Northern Development?”
“No. The insurance company that carries the policy on Randall’s life.”
“So what the hell are you doing here? Randall died in a fire in Redding.”
“You had a fire here too,” I said.
“Coincidence.”
“Maybe not, Mr. Robideaux.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know the names of everybody who lives here. The Northern people supplied them.”
“I’ll bet they did.”
“The list includes an artist named Paul Robideaux.” I nodded toward the paraphernalia in the jeep. “I get paid to observe things and make educated guesses.”
Robideaux grunted and screwed up his mouth as if he wanted to spit. He didn’t say anything.
I said, “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the fire.”
“Which fire?”
“This one. Unless you know something about the one in Redding too.”
“I don’t know anything about either one. I wasn’t in Redding when Randall’s place burned. And I wasn’t here when those old shacks went up.”
“No? That isn’t what you told the county sheriffs men. According to their report, you were one of the residents who helped dig the firebreak.”
“Is that so?” Robideaux said. “Well, I had to talk to the law. I don’t have to talk to you.”
“That’s right, you don’t. But suppose I told you I can prove this fire was deliberately set. Would you want to talk to me then?”
His eyes got narrow. “How could you prove that? You find something in the debris?”
“Maybe.”
“What is it?”
“I have to tell that to the law,” I said. “I don’t have to tell it to you.”
He took a jerky half-step toward me, the menacing kind. I stayed where I was, setting myself; he was not big enough for me to be intimidated. But if he’d had any ideas about mixing it up, he thought better of them. He turned abruptly and stalked around to the driver’s side of the jeep.
Only he didn’t get in right away. Instead he pointed a finger in my direction and said, “You think Randall was murdered, is that it? Well, why don’t you go sniff around those partners of his? One of them killed him if anybody did.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because nobody here did it, that’s why. There’s nothing for you
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