"Are you licensed in any state?"
"No. I don't know what--"
"If you were licensed, it would be necessary for you to find out
whether this state has any reciprocal agreement. If so, you would
merely have to make a courtesy call and announce your presence in this
county and give the name of your employer."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Do you know a woman named Rose Fulton?"
"No. I've never heard of her."
"Were you employed by Rose Fulton to come to Hillston?"
"No. I told you I never heard of her."
"We were advised a month ago that Rose Fulton had hired an investigator
to come here on an undercover assignment. We've been looking for the
man. He would be the third one she's sent here. The first two made a
botch of their job. There was no job here for them in the first place.
Rose Fulton is a persistent and misguided woman. The case, if there was
any case, was completely investigated by this department. Part of our
job is to keep citizens of Hillston from being annoyed and persecuted
by people who have no business here. Is that clear to you?"
"I don't understand what you're talking about. I really don't."
He looked at me for what seemed a long time. Then he said, "End of
interrogation witnessed by Brubaker and Sparkman. Copies for file.
Prine." He clicked the switch and closed the desk drawer. He leaned
back in his chair and yawned, then pushed my wallet, checks, and
notebook toward me. "It's just this, Howard. We get damned tired of
characters nosing around here. The implication is that we didn't do our
job. The hell we didn't. This Rose Fulton is the wife of the guy who
ran off with George Warden's wife, Eloise."
"That name Fulton sounded familiar, but I didn't know why."
"It happened nearly two years ago. The first inquiry came from the
company Fulton worked for. We did some hard work on it. Fulton was in
town for three days. He was registered at the Hillston Inn. He stayed
there every time he was in town. On the last night he was here, Friday
night, he had dinner at the hotel with Eloise Warden. She waited in
the lobby and he checked out. They got in his car. They drove to the
Warden house. Eloise went in. Fulton waited out in the car. It was the
evening of the eleventh of April. A neighbor saw him waiting and saw
her come out to the car with a big suitcase. They drove off. George
Warden hadn't reported it to us. He knew what the score was when he got
back to town and saw the things she'd taken. It was an open and shut
situation. It happens all the time. But Rose Fulton can't bring herself
to believe that her dear husband would take off with another woman. So
she keeps sicking these investigators on us. You could be the third. I
don't think so. No proof. Just a hunch. She thinks something happened
to him here. We know nothing happened to him here. I've lost patience,
so this time we're making it tough. You can go. If I happen to be
wrong, if you happen to be hired by that crazy dame, you better keep
right on going, friend. We've got a small force here, but we know our
business."
The big middle-aged man moved away from the door to let me out. There
was no offer of a ride back to where they had picked me up. I walked.
The walk wasn't long enough. By the time I got to the Inn I was still
sore at Prine and company. I could grudgingly admit that maybe he
thought he had cause to swing his weight around. But I didn't like
being picked up like that. And it had irritated me to have to tell them
I had no job, no permanent residence. I wasn't certain what legal right
they had to take that sort of a statement from me.
I had a drink at the dark bar at the end of the cocktail lounge at the
Inn. Business was light. I nursed my drink and wondered how they had
picked me up so quickly. I guessed it was from the motel register. I'd
had to write down the make of my car and the license number. They'd
known who I'd talked to and what had been said. It was a small city and
they acted like men who made a business of knowing what was going on.
Just as I ordered the second drink I saw a big man come in and stand at
the other end of the bar. He looked like the man I had seen in the blue
sedan. But I couldn't be certain. I had forgotten him and the effect
he had had on Fitzmartin. He became aware of my interest. He turned
and gave me a long look and turned back to the drink the bartender put
in front of him. He had moved his head slowly when he turned to look
at me. His eyes were in shadow. I had a sudden instinctive premonition
of danger. Fitz was danger, but a known quantity. I did not know this
man or where he fitted in. I did not want to attempt to ask him. He
finished his drink quickly and left. I looked down into my drink and
saw myself lying dead, sprawled, cold. It was a fantasy that had been
with me in the prison camp and later. You think of your own death. You
try to imagine how it will be--to just cease, abruptly, eternally. It
is a chilling thought, and once you have started it, it is difficult to
shake off.
The depression stayed with me the rest of the evening. Thoughts of
Ruth, of the new emphasis she had brought into my life, did little to
relieve the blackness and the hint of fear. My mission in Hillston
seemed pointless. It was part of running away from myself. There was no
chance of finding the money and even if there was and I did find it, I
couldn't imagine it changing anything. Somehow I had become a misfit
in my world, in my time. I had been jolted out of one comfortable rut,
and there seemed to be no other place where I could fit. Other than
Charlotte--and, too optimistically, Ruth--I could think of no one who
gave a special damn whether I lived or died.
After the light was out I lay in darkness and surrendered myself to
the great waves of bathos and self-pity. I wondered what would become
of me. I wondered how soon I would be dead. I wondered how many other
lonely beds there would be, and where they would be. Finally I fell
asleep.