There were two of them. One was a thin, sandy man in uniform and the
other was a massive middle-aged man in a gray suit with a pouched,
florid face.
"Your name Howard?"
"Yes, it is."
"Police. Come on along."
"What for?"
"Lieutenant wants to talk to you."
I went along. They put me in a police sedan and drove about eight
blocks and turned into an enclosed courtyard through a gray stone arch.
Other cars were parked there. They took me through a door that was one
of several opening onto the courtyard. We went up wide wooden stairs
that were badly worn to the second floor. It was an old building with
an institutional smell of dust, carbolic, and urine. We went by open
doors. One door opened onto a big file room with fluorescent lights and
gray steel filing cases. Some men played cards in another room. I could
hear the metallic gabbling voice of some sort of communication system.
We turned into a small office where a thin, bald man sat behind a
desk that faced the door. His face was young, with a swarthy Indian
harshness about it, black brows. His hands were large. He looked tall.
A small wooden sign on his desk said _Det. Lt. Stephen D. Prine_. The
office had cracked buff plaster walls. Books and pamphlets were piled
in disorder in a glass-front bookcase. A smallish man with white hair
and a red whisky face sat half behind Lieutenant Prine, on the small
gilded radiator in front of the single window.
One of the men behind me gave me an unnecessary push that made me thump
my knee against the front of the desk and almost lose my balance. Prine
looked at me with complete coldness.
"This is that Howard," one of the men behind me said.
"Okay." The door behind me closed. I glanced back and saw that the
man in uniform had left. The big man in the gray suit leaned against
the closed door. "Empty your pockets onto the desk," Prine said.
"Everything."
"But--"
"Empty your pockets." There was no threat in the words. Cold, bored
command.
I put everything on the desk. Wallet, change, pen and pencil, notebook,
cigarettes, lighter, penknife, folder of traveler's checks. Prine
reached a big hand over and separated the items into two piles,
notebook, wallet, and checks in one pile that he pulled toward him.
"Put the rest of that stuff back in your pockets."
"Could I ask why--"
"Shut up."
I stood in uncomfortable silence while he went through my wallet. He
looked carefully at every card and piece of paper, at the photograph
of Charlotte, at the reduced Photostat of my discharge laminated in
plastic. He went through the notebook and then examined the traveler's
checks.
"Now answer some questions." He opened a desk drawer, flipped a switch,
and said, "April 20, seven-ten p.m., interrogation by Lieutenant Prine
of suspect picked up by Hillis and Brubaker in vicinity of Hillston
Inn. What is your full name?"
"Talbert Owen Howard."
"Speak a little louder. Age and place of birth."
"Twenty-nine. Bakersfield, California."
"Home address."
"None at the present time."
"What was your last address?"
"Eighteen Norwalk Road, San Diego."
"Are you employed?"
"No."
"When were you last employed and by who?"
"Up until two and a half weeks ago. By the Guaranty Federated Insurance
Company. I had a debit. Health and life. I was fired."
"For what reason?"
"I wasn't producing."
"How long did you work for them?"
"Four years all together. Three and a half before the Korean war. The
rest of it since I got back."
"Are you married? Have you ever been married?"
"No."
"Parents living?"
"No."
"Brothers or sisters?"
"One sister. Older than I am. She lives in Perth, Australia. She was a
Wave and she married an Aussie during the war."
"Do you have any criminal record?"
"N--No."
"You don't seem sure."
"I don't know if you'd call it a criminal record. It was when I was in
school. One of those student riots. Disturbing the peace and resisting
an officer."
"Were you booked and mugged and fingerprinted and found guilty?"
"Yes. I paid a fine and spent three days in jail."
"Then you have a criminal record. How long have you been in Hillston?"
"I arrived here--Wednesday night. Two days."
"What is your local address?"
"The Sunset Motel."
"On this vehicle registration, do you own the vehicle free and clear?"
"Yes."
"You have a little over a thousand dollars. Where did you get it?"
"I earned it. I saved it. I'm getting a little sick of all this. It's
beginning to make me sore."
"Why did you come to Hillston?"
"Do I have to have a reason?"
"Yes. You need a reason."
"I knew Timmy Warden in prison camp. And I knew others there that
didn't come back. I'm going to write a book about them. There's my
notes. You have them there."
"Why didn't you tell George Warden that?"
"I didn't know how he'd take it."
"You didn't tell Fitzmartin, either?"
"He has no reason to know my business."
"But you went out there to see him. And you were both in the same camp
with Timmy Warden. It would seem natural to tell him."
"I don't care how it seems. I didn't tell him."
"If a man came to town with a cooked-up story about writing a book, it
would give him a chance to nose around, wouldn't it?"
"I guess it would."
"What else have you written?"
"Nothing else."
"Are you familiar with the state laws and local ordinances covering
private investigators?"