Free The Third Figure by Collin Wilcox Page B

Johnny?”
    “At this moment, you mean? Now?”
    “Well, not—not especially right now. But I just wondered whether you’d seen him, lately. Your mother hasn’t, but I thought that maybe you’d—”
    “No,” he said quickly, his tone slipping up to a harsh treble. “I haven’t seen my father for two years. Almost exactly two years. Since he left, I haven’t seen him.”
    “The reason I asked,” I said slowly, “I was wondering whether he might be the third man. I’m not suggesting that he was the murderer. I’m just wondering whether he might’ve been—in the background, watching.”
    He promptly shook his head. “No, no. It wasn’t my father.”
    “But how can you be so sure, if you’ve never seen this person? I mean, it all seems to be a—a feeling you have. Nothing more.”
    “A feeling?” He arched an elaborate brow, burlesquing a sophisticated irony.
    “Well, isn’t it?” I asked, suddenly irritated. “You said it yourself: you don’t know his identity. And if you don’t know that, then I don’t see how it’s possible for you to know that this—this fictitious man is the murderer. Not unless you—” I paused, struck by the thought. “Not unless you were in the habit of following your mother, at a distance, say.” I looked at him closely. “Have you followed her?”
    Slightly smiling, he shook his head. Teasing.
    “Have you ever been to the beachhouse, for instance,” I pressed, “when your mother and Vennezio were there?”
    He continued to shake his head, still smiling. Then, with a sigh, he glanced at his watch.
    “It’s five thirty,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to get back to school soon.”
    I nodded, opening the door and stepping out of the Mustang.
    “Thanks for your information, Johnny,” I said. “If I can be of any help to you—or you think of anything that might help me, I’d appreciate a call. I’m staying at the Prescott Motel.”
    “The Prescott.” He nodded. “I know where it is.”
    “Good. You won’t forget, will you?”
    “No, Mr. Drake,” he answered, also getting out of the car and striding toward the house. “I won’t forget.”

5
    I DECIDED TO RETURN to my motel, have dinner and phone Mrs. Vennezio, reporting my progress. Then I planned to watch TV for an hour or so and go to sleep. The day had left me drained, and as I ate my dinner I tried to analyze the causes. The answers, unhappily, were obvious. At ten o’clock that morning, standing in the phone booth and wrestling with my timid conscience, I’d been someone recognizable to myself: Stephen Drake, age thirty-two. Intelligence—better than average; physical courage—average or less. Lucky with some girls, unlucky with most. Physically tall and spare, with a receding hairline and dark, intense eyes, well suited to ESP publicity pictures. Vocationally I was a better-than-competent crime reporter. I had a by-line on the San Francisco Sentinel and a columnist’s contract. I was also the grateful possessor of a modicum of modest fame. That some of my reputation as a clairvoyant derived from hokum was not really disturbing. I could honestly claim proficiency both as a reporter and as a clairvoyant, however labored and sketchy might be my private processes of ESP.
    At ten o’clock that morning, therefore, I was a reasonably happy man, secure in the knowledge of my own achievements.
    By noon—two short hours later—I’d become a servant of the underworld. And, worse, I’d been warned. It had all happened exactly as Captain Larsen had predicted it would.
    Walking down the long corridor to my room, I was aware that I was thudding my heels angrily into the thick hallway carpeting. I’d made a fool of myself. What could I do about it? The choice was obvious: either return the thousand dollars and leave town or stay and try to earn the other nine thousand, quickly.
    Nine thousand dollars …
    Larsen had anticipated that, too. ‘It always begins with money,’ he’d said.
    With an