next to a window in the rear, facing the lawn and the big Victorian house in back, and read about Malcolm Hunter.
There were photographs: a big man, over six feet, with a fine narrow head, cruel mouth, an arrogance in the black eyes that frowned at the camera. Even in the spotty news photo, an aura of money and power touched Barney. There were pictures of Malcolm Hunter playing polo, Hunter in night clubs, Hunter at Cannes. He’d been snapped at the Governor’s inaugural, at the dedication of the new high school, the opening of a wing to the Omega Public Library, the unveiling of a statue in the courthouse to Colonel Mauritius Hunter of the Continental Army that fought at Bennington, Vermont. There were pictures of Hunter in his private plane, in his Jaguar, aboard the racing schooner Clio in the annual Bermuda races. It formed a fairly thorough pattern.
There had been two marriages, one to a wispy New York deb named Georgette Freeley. Nothing was said about how she had been disposed of. There was only one story on the second marriage, to an Evelyn Smith of Reading, Pa. No background on Miss Smith. No further details. Presumably, she still lived in the sprawling English Tudor estate up at the head of the lake.
A sister existed in Paris, apparently in exile. The much older brother, Jan, was relegated to New York, and Barney had already met Jan. He was almost through with his research when he heard an apologetic cough at his elbow.
“Mr. Forbes?”
He looked up into a pair of soft, sad brown eyes in a narrow, effeminate face. The man said: “I’m Jase Franklyn. I’m the editor of the Omega Times.”
They shook hands. Franklyn was the fluttery type. He wore a black linen suit with a prissy blue polka-dot bowtie. He looked studious, with a white goatee and an intellectual forehead.
“You are interested in Mal Hunter, I understand.”
“You have a fine grapevine in Omega,” Barney said.
Hands fluttered up, down, sidewise. “Jake Hendrycks mentioned you. You won’t find anything in those clippings, Mr. Forbes.”
“Hunter gets fine coverage in your newspaper.”
“Not my paper, Mr. Forbes. It once was. When Mother owned it. The Omega Times now belongs to Malcolm Hunter.”
“Like everything else in Omega?”
A weak smile, more fluttering of hands that nevertheless closed firmly on the big book of clippings and replaced it on the dusty shelf. “I’m sorry, Mr. Forbes. We can’t help you.”
“Are you afraid of Hunter, too?” Barney prompted.
“Not exactly. I have other interests now. I am writing a history of Omega in Colonial times. This is an interesting part of the country in that respect. No one has ever done it justice. I’ve been working on my history of Omega for seven years.”
Barney looked through the window at the Victorian house in the rear. There were fine old oaks and maples, hedges that had grown rank and wild, peeling paint on the scroll and jigsaw work on porches and cupolas. Two copper deer stood in green splendor on the weedy lawn. Seated on the sagging porch steps, looking up at him as he stood at the window, were the two men who had followed him from the lakefront hotel.
They sat in the hot sun. The fat one mopped his face with a lavender handkerchief. The younger man nervously smoked a cigarette. They looked as if they wished they were back in some Broadway air-conditioned bar.
“Friends of yours?” Barney asked.
“Dear me, no.”
‘Who lives there?”
“I do. It was Mother’s house. I’ve always lived there.”
“Are those men waiting to see you?”
“I can’t imagine why,” Franklyn said. His thin, ivory face was covered with a faint dew of perspiration. His soft brown eyes were frightened. “I really must ask you to leave, Mr. Forbes.”
“No more research permitted?”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ll see you again, perhaps. I’d like to read your history of Omega.”
The hands fluttered. “Oh, but that would be impossible. After all, if you are leaving town today—”
“But I’m not leaving,” Barney said. “I’m looking for Malcolm Hunter.”
“He is not in Omega.”
“How do you know?”
“Why, everybody says he’s gone. After that trouble with young Alex Kane. But he’ll be back, of course. I wouldn’t want him to think that I caused him any trouble. I hope you understand, Mr. Forbes.”
“Then you are afraid of him,” Barney said. “I understand that.”
“Afraid?” The hands stopped fluttering. The little goatee stopped quivering. Briefly, Jason Franklyn’s face and manner changed. He said something in his soft, effeminate voice that Barney did not quite catch, but which sounded obscene.
“I am not afraid of Malcolm Hunter. I hate him. He robbed me of everything dear to me in this life. He caused Mother’s death when he took over the newspaper. Why shouldn’t I hate him?”
He stood looking down at the two men on the porch steps, but he wasn’t really seeing them. Whatever he was looking at, it was beyond Barney’s ability to see, also. There was a soft rumble of presses being started somewhere in the building, but Franklyn did not hear that, either. Barney started to speak, then put on his coat and went out.
Franklyn did not turn to say goodbye. The gray woman clerk at the desk behind the office rail looked at him quickly, pursed her mouth, and returned to her work.
As he went out, Barney seemed to hear the soft thud of another door being closed against him.
3
HE KNOCKED on other doors that morning.
Leaving the newspaper office, he crossed the tree-shaded square to the courthouse. The benches were crowded, there was a moderate press of traffic. Pigeons fluttered and lit and fluttered up again. Squirrels gorged on peanuts. The sun was hot, the shade of the oaks cool and peaceful.
The two men sauntered after him on the brick walk to the courthouse.
He knocked on the door of District Attorney Hiram—Straehle. Straehle was one of those small, energetic men with popping eyes and steel-rimmed glasses who give the impression of being impatient with all the frivolities of life. He wore a dark blue business suit and a fine silk four-in-hand and he sweated even with the droning fan blowing air over him. More pigeons rumbled and cooed on the granite window sill.
Straehle listened with thin lips that grew thinner as Barney spoke. Then he said in a metallic voice: “There is nothing here for you, Forbes. I have not ordered an investigation because there is nothing to investigate. We have no evidence of foul play anywhere.”
“What about Ferne Kane’s statement?”
“Nonsense.
