Talk of the town

  And why was there any reason to assume she even knew Strader? How could you prove it if there were? And if we did find out she was actually Strader’s girl friend, what possible connection did it have with Langston’s death? There simply was no motive for their killing him. And who was the man who was trying to drive Georgia Langston insane or run her out of business? And why? Where was the connection between him and Mrs. Redfield? Was it Talley? Merely because they were cousins? That didn’t make sense.

  And in the end, it was not only deadly, but utterly futile. If we did learn beyond a doubt she was the one Strader had come to see and that there was a connection with Langston, where did we take our charge? To Redfield? Why, naturally. He had jurisdiction, didn’t he?

  Redfield, old boy, if you’ve got a minute to spare, I’ve just learned your wife is a tramp and, I’d like to have her arrested for adultery, and murder, and a number of other things—let’s see, I’ve got the list right here—

  Right here where you just emptied the clip.

  Well, we had to do something.”Do you know,” I asked, “if there’s any chance the Sheriff may be back on the job any time soon?”

  She shook her head. “Practically none, from what I’ve heard. I think they did learn the stomach condition he went up there for wasn’t malignant, but he’s over sixty and the ulcers are so bad the doctors told him he’d just have to retire. Redfield will probably remain in charge and run for the office next election.”

  “Okay,” I said wearily. “Let’s take it from the top again. Mrs. Redfield. What else do you know about her?”

  “It’s sketchy, as I told you,” she said. “Her first name is Cynthia. I’d say she was twenty-eight or twenty-nine, and I think they were married two years ago last June, just after school was out. It seems to me she taught third grade, and just for the one school term, and that somebody once told me she came here just before school started in September. That would be 1954. I don’t know whether she came directly from Warren Springs or not, but somehow I have the impression that was the last place she taught.”

  “You don’t know what her maiden name was? It might have been Talley, but not necessarily.”

  “No-o, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, that one’s easy, anyway,” I said. I went out to the desk and called City Hall for the name of the local Superintendent of Schools. He was a Mr. J. P. Wardlaw. I looked up his number, and called him at home.

  “I’m trying lo locate a Miss Talley, or Miss Tanner,” I said. “She teaches one of the elementary grades here, or used to, and I thought perhaps you could help me.”

  “Hmm, no,” he replied, “I don’t have any records here at home, of course, the name’s not familiar at all.”

  I laughed sheepishly. “Well, to tell the truth, Mr. Wardlaw I could be all fouled up on it. You see, she’s an old friend of my wife’s was supposed to call on on my way through here, but I’ve lost the slip she gave me. All I can remember is that her first name was Cynthia and I think she taught the third grade—”

  “Wait. I know who you mean. That would be Mrs. Sprague. Cynthia Sprague. She’s married now to a Mr. Redfield. Kelly Redfield. You can find her in the book.”

  “Thanks a million,” I said.

  I called the garage to see if my car was ready yet. The girl was sorry, but there’d been a little delay in getting the radiator from Tallahassee. It should be ready tomorrow morning. She was sorry again. I came in on the second chorus and was sorry with her.

  I went back to the bedroom. Georgia Langston looked at me inquiringly. I couldn’t figure out why just seeing her always gave me a lift. “Besides being a very honest and deserving girl with exquisite feet,” I said, “you also have a station wagon I’ve been driving for the past few days. Can I drive it again?”

  She smiled. “I’m an invalid; so how could I stop you? Where are you going?”

  “Warren Springs,” I said. “Cynthia Redfield was married before. To a man named Sprague. Somewhere, if we go back far enough, we might find a tie-in with Strader. If I’m late getting back, keep Josie here with you.”

  I was going out the door when she said, “Bill.” I turned.

  “Be careful,” she said simply.

  I was within ten miles of Warren Springs before it dawned on me at last that I was an idiot on a wild-goose chase. I hadn’t even thought of it before, but there was no chance at all Cynthia Redfield could have been the woman who called me on the phone to set me up in that barn. Her voice was deeper, down in the contralto range, and the inflection and accent were entirely different.

  Well, meat-head, I thought, law enforcement certainly didn’t lose anything when you got out. I shrugged and went on; there was no point in turning back now.

  * * *

  Warren Springs appeared to be slightly larger than Galicia. It was built around a square where magnificent old trees did their best to hide a turn-of-the-century courthouse that set your teeth on edge. At two-fifteen on a Thursday afternoon in July it was less than hectic. I had no difficulty in finding a parking place, and ducked into the nearest drugstore. Ordering the inevitable coke, I went back to the phone booth. There were two Spragues listed. There was no answer at the first, and at the other I raised a charmer who sounded as if she were talking through a wide gap in her front teeth and who said Mommy was gone to the store and that she’d never heard of Cynthia Sprague.

  I got some more dimes and tackled it through the Superintendent of Schools. When I’d run down his name, I called his home. He was out of town, and his wife didn’t know whether a Cynthia Sprague had ever taught here or not.

  “What you ought to do is call my husband’s secretary,” she said. “She’s been with him for fifteen years or longer, and she’d know whatever it is you want.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Where can I get hold of her?”

  “Her name’s Ellen Beasley, and in the summer she always works vacation relief at the telephone-company business office. They’re on Stuart Street, just off the north side of the square.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  Ellen Beasley proved to be unmarried and forty-ish, with a petite face, a small bud of a mouth, and earnest but friendly blue eyes. She looked up at me from her desk and smiled inquiringly.

  “Not phone business,” I said. “I’m trying to locate a girl who used to teach here in town, and I understand you’d know her if anybody would. Have you got time for a cup of coffee?”

  “Why, I think so,” she said. She said something into the telephone at the corner of her desk, gathered up her purse, and we went out. There was an air-conditioned café just around the corner on the square. We went back to a table and ordered the coffee. I offered her a cigarette, but she refused with an apologetic smile.

  “The girl’s name was Cynthia Sprague,” I said. “And if she taught here it would probably be three or four years ago.”

  She frowned thoughtfully, “You don’t know whether she usually taught in high school or junior high? Or is the elementary grades?

  “No,” I said. “But she would have probably been pretty young. Not over twenty-four or twenty-five, so I’d imagine in grade school. She was married, but I don’t know her husband’s first name.”

  “Oh, well, sure, I know who you mean.” she said quickly. “She wasn’t a teacher, though; at least, not the last two years she was here. She was married to a teacher. Her husband was principal of the junior high school. Robert Sprague. I remember quite well now; her maiden name was Cynthia Forrest.”

  “Did she live around here long?” I asked.

  “Well, yes. I think she and her mother came here from Georgia about the time she was in high school. When she got her certificate she started teaching in the third grade in—let’s see—that would be about 1950. It seems to me she and Robert Sprague were married in 1952, in the spring, and that she quit teaching. But she did do part-time clerical work in his office. That is, up until the time he was killed—”

  I glanced up quickly. “Kill
ed?”

  She nodded. “It was an accident. One of those awful bathroom things people are always being warned about, and that you just can’t believe really happen. I mean, that people would do the things they do. You see, a lot of the older houses here don’t have central heating, and they had a portable electric heater in the bathroom. Mrs. Sprague heard him fall, and rushed in, and the heater was right in the water with him. He must have tried to turn it off, or on, while he was sitting in the tub.”

  So? No grown man could be that stupid or careless, I thought. Then I knew I was reaching for it; it not only could happen, it did. All the time. And the police and insurance company—if any—would have taken a long, slow look.

  “When was this?” I asked. “Do you recall?”

  “Hmm. They’d been married less than two years, so it must have been early in 1954. January or February. I went to the funeral, of course, and I remember it was quite cold, with a north-wester blowing. She was very broken up about it.”

  “She didn’t go back to teaching?”

  “No. Mr. Snell told her she could have all the part-time work she wanted until the next term started and then have her job back in the third grade, but she said she was going away. Her mother had died the previous year, as I remember, so there was really nothing to keep her here. She must have left shortly after the funeral. Maybe the latter part of February.”

  ”You don’t know where she went?”

  She shook her head. “No. If she wrote to anyone here, I don’t remember hearing about it. I’m sorry; I do wish I could help you.”

  “You have,” I said. So she’d left here in February, and started teaching in Galicia in September. Where was she and what was she doing for six months?

  “I suppose there was some insurance?” I asked.

  “Not very much, I’m afraid.” She smiled gently. “Teachers don’t make a great deal, you know. It seems to me there was a policy for about five thousand.”

  Ten, with a double indemnity clause, I thought. “Would there be anybody else in town who might know where she went?” I asked. “Any of his family, perhaps?”

  “No,” she said. “He came from Orlando. There are some Spragues here, but no kin.”

  She finished her coffee. I thanked her, and walked back to the office with her. Apparently I was up against a dead end now. There was nothing in any of this to link her with Strader, and I had no lead at all on where she could have spent that six months. I was in the station wagon and just turning on the ignition when it hit me. How fat-headed could you get? I reached for my wallet and snatched out the sheet of paper on which I’d scribbled the dope Lane had given me. The dates jibed, all right. Eager now, and very excited, I strode back into the drugstore and headed for the phone booth.

  I couldn’t pull it on her, because she’d recognize my voice. But I could start with her. I dialed the business office of the phone company and asked for Ellen Beasley.

  “This is that quiz man again,” I said. “If you’ll answer just one more for me I’ll quit bothering you.”

  “Why certainly,” she replied.

  “Who is the present principal of the junior high?”

  “Mr. Edson. Joel Edson. And I believe he’s in town now. He just came back from some summer work he was doing at Gainesville.”

  “Thanks a million,” I said.

  I looked up Edson’s number and dialed. I was in luck.

  “Yes, speaking,” he said. “Who is it?”

  “My name’s Carter, Mr. Edson,” I said heartily. “And you’re just the man I was hoping to get hold of. I’m with Bell and Howell, and I wanted to see if I couldn’t work out a little demonstration for you and some of the School Board members—”

  “For what kind of equipment?” he asked.

  “Sound-motion picture projectors. You’ve got to see these to—”

  He laughed. “You people ought to keep records. We’ve already got one of your projectors. And it’s working fine.”

  I could feel excitement running along my nerves. That’s odd,” I said, mystified. “I wonder how the office fell down on that. You’re sure it’s one of ours?”

  “Sure,” he replied. “We’ve had it about—hmm, four years, or something like that.”

  “You didn’t buy it second-hand?”

  “No. We got it direct from you people. I remember now, exactly when it was. It was October of ‘fifty-three, just a few months before Bob died. Bob Sprague, that is—he was the principal here before me. I was teaching physics and chemistry in the high school, and got in on the demonstration when Bob and his wife and your man were trying to wear down the Superintendent and School Board. Your man was here for several days, and as a matter of fact he sold the Board on buying one for the elementary school too.”

  “Well, that’s one on us, Mr. Edson. Somebody just goofed in the office. I’m sorry I troubled you.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “You don’t remember who the salesman was, do you?”

  “No-o. I don’t recall anything about him except that he was a pretty big guy, and he talked a good game of football.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  My luck was really running. I was hot, and I knew it. I went back to the soda fountain and talked the clerk out of a handful of change and put in a call to Lane’s office in Miami.

  “He’s not in,” his girl said. “But, wait a minute. He called in a little while ago on his way to see somebody in Miami Beach, and he gave me a number. Give me yours, and he should call you back in a few minutes at the outside.”

  I gave her the number and sat down at one of the tables to wait. I had to be right; the hunch was too strong and the pieces were going together so beautifully I couldn’t miss. I gazed out through the window at the sun-blasted square, thinking about it, and then I was thinking of Georgia Langston. Goofing off, I thought. But it was pleasant.

  The phone rang in the booth. I waved off the soda clerk and ducked in.

  I have a long-distance call for a Mr. Chatham,” the operator intoned mechanically.

  “This is Chatham,” I said. I accepted the charges and pushed in quarters until she was satisfied. “Hello. Lane?

  He came on. “Yeah. My girl just got hold of me. I’m glad you called; I was just about to buzz you.”

  “Good,” I said. “But first I’ve got a question. In ‘fifty-three, Strader was selling sound gear and motion picture projectors to schools and churches and so on. Whose projectors?”

  “Bell and Howell.”

  It was perfect, right down the line. “Well, look. Did he have an exclusive territory?”

  “No-o. Not exactly, as I get it. The distributor’s territory, the one I gave you, was exclusive, but I think there were two salesmen working it for him.”

  That wasn’t quite so good. But the odds were still much better than the mathematical fifty-fifty would indicate. “What’s new there?”

  “Couple of things. I still haven’t come up with a girl friend with any Galicia angle to her, but I haven’t much more than scratched the surface. God, that guy—I wish he’d written an instruction manual before he kicked off, and let some of the rest of us in on his M.O. But to get back. I’ve filled in a couple of soft spots in the employment record. Remember I told you I thought he’d been in New Orleans for a while?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I nailed down that lead. I may have racked you up for a little additional expense—couple of toll calls and a bill for twenty-five dollars for a boy I do business with there once in a while—but I figured you’d want the dope.”

  “Sure,” I said. “That’s all right. What did he find out?”

  ”Strader was there in ‘fifty-four. Spring and summer, from March until about the end of July. Shacked up, of course. This one was a smooth job with hair about the color of a good grade of burgundy, and he called her Sin. I don’t know whether he had a sense of humor, or whether it was just short for Cynthia. Still no line on anything criminal. But this t
ime he wasn’t working for somebody else. He had a bar, on Decatur Street. Or at least, he did till he went broke. I don’t know where he got the money to buy it—”

  “From an insurance company,” I said. “Sin’s husband tried to take a bath while holding onto a light circuit.”

  “God, do they still get away with that up there?”

  “There’s a chance it could have been the McCoy,” I said. “There was only five involved—ten if it carried double Indemnity.”

  “Yeah. Either that, or she was just smart enough not to take out any more. That’s where they usually goof.”

  “Well, they’ll never prove it one way or the other. But we’ve got our own headaches. You come up with anything else?”

  “Just one other item. I found out what he was doing with this Electronic Enterprises Outfit in Orlando. It was burglar alarms. New patent of some kind.”

  “Oh?” That was an odd one.

  “Yeah. He had a good background for that kind of sales job, because of the Navy training. Anyway, he was selling them, and supervising installation. Georgia, Alabama, and Florida. Jewelry stores, mostly. Now, is there anything else you want me to run down? I gather you’ve already found the girl?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve found her. I may never prove it, but I know who she is.” I paused, frowning thoughtfully at the blank wall of the booth. “There is one other thing you could do. What’s your big newspaper there, with the best State-wide and Southern coverage?”

  “The Herald.”

  “If you can get hold of back copies. I’d like November eight of last year. The same day the Langston story broke. Airmail it to me.”

  “Langston story’d be in the ninth. It’s a morning paper and it wouldn’t have made the deadline.”

  ”Sure. Be faster, though, if I looked up whatever you want and called you.”

  “That’s the hell of it,” I said. “I don’t know what I am looking for. Maybe nothing. Anyway, shoot your bill along and I’ll send you a check.”