Free Talk of The Town by Charles Williams Page A

that night,” I said. “What was it about the fake accident? They figure the two of them were going to leave Langston’s car down there?”
    Ollie nodded. “That’s right. Langston had all his tackle and his motor in the station wagon, and was supposed to be going fishing.”
    ”At four-thirty in the morning?”
    “Sure. You fish for bass at daybreak.”
    “But what about the fake accident? Are they sure of that?”
    “Yes. There was never any doubt of it. You see, Langston was a man about forty-seven years old and not very strong. He’d been sick. Well, there at Finley’s Cut where he kept his boat tied up, there’s a steep climb down about an eight-foot bank to get to the edge of the water. And a big log at the bottom of it that they padlock their boats to. His outboard motor weighed nearly fifty pounds. So you can see yourself what everybody would naturally think when he was found down there with his head busted open against the log with the motor on top of him.”
    I nodded. “And what was Strader doing when Calhoun jumped him?”
    “He was down there by the water with a flashlight and a piece of the bloody tarp, fixing up the log.”
    “There’d have to be more blood than that.”
    “That’s right. And Strader knew it. He had his knife out and had just sliced it into the heel of his left hand when Calhoun told him to stand up and turn around.”
    I nodded. Ollie went on, his eyes thoughtful. “You see? Strader's a complete stranger around here, and not supposed to know either of the Langstons. So how did he know any of this? Where Langston kept the boat, how to get there, about the steep bank, and the log at the bottom of it?”
    “I don’t know,” I said. It was deadly, all right. It was planned, premeditated murder, and one of them had got away with it. But did it have to be Mrs. Langston? Not so far. Any number of local people would have known all those things. But the really damning part of it was the attempt to make it look like an accident. That meant somebody involved knew he would be, or could be, suspected if it were discovered to be murder. Somebody with a known and provable connection with Langston. And since it didn’t seem to be Strader. . .
    “How did Calhoun happen to be down there?” I asked. “He’s one of the town police, isn’t he?”
    “Just one of those things,” Ollie replied. “He was on a fishing trip too, camped right below there. The car woke him up.”
    “I see. And how do they know it was a woman driving Strader's car?”
    “My cook saw the car stop over there and a woman get out.”
    “Was he able to describe her?”
    Ollie shook his head. “No. It was just a little after five, and that time of year it’s still dark. He’d just come into the dining-room from his room in the back to start coffee, and happened to glance out the window. This car drove into the motel and parked in front of one of the rooms over there on the right. He didn’t pay much attention, of course, and the light wasn’t very good in that spot, but he did notice it was a woman. He thought she had dark hair, but he wouldn’t swear to it. She walked across towards the office, but she didn’t go in. She disappeared into that open space between it and the end of the left-hand wing of the building.”
    “And when the police found the car, it was parked in front of the right room? The one Strader was registered in?”
    “That’s right.”
    I shook my head. “It’s too pat. Do they think she’d be stupid enough to drive the car right back here to the motel?”
    He exhaled smoke and studied it thoughtfully. “The theory is that she didn’t know Calhoun got the license number. It’s logical. She couldn’t have seen him chasing her, in the dark, and he didn’t shoot because he fell down and lost the gun. And if she left it somewhere else, she’d have to walk back, with the chance of being seen.”
    “But she was seen. And she didn’t go into the office.”
    “There’s a rear