A Gambling Man (Archer #2)(121)

“When did you see him last?” he asked.

“I . . . I . . .”

He guided her to a chair as far away from Drake as possible and pointed away from the man’s corpse. “Just take a deep breath and collect yourself. I know this must be a shock. Archer, your flask?”

Archer drew it from his pocket and passed it over. Dash unscrewed the cap and encouraged the woman to take a sip, which she did. She handed it back and looked up at him.

“What’s your name, hon?” asked Dash.

“Ruthie.”

“Okay Ruthie, just take your time and tell us what you can about last night.”

She took another replenishing breath and began. “Mr. Drake had an early dinner and then sat up reading in the library. Around nine or so I saw him go to his room. That’s the last time I saw him.”

“He seem okay?”

“He seemed . . . normal. He’s never one for small talk, but he . . . he didn’t seem like a man ready to shoot himself, either.”

“Did you hear any noises? Like a gunshot?”

She shook her head. “Me and the cook sleep at the other end of the house. This is Mr. Drake’s private wing. I didn’t hear anything. Not until you knocked on the door.”

“Okay. Did he have any visitors last night? Phone calls? Get any messages delivered?”

“No, nothing like that. It . . . it was a typical evening.” She glanced at Drake’s body and shuddered.

Dash eyed the phone on the nightstand. He picked it up and dialed.

“Yeah, I want to talk to Ernie Prettyman, tell him it’s Willie Dash.” He paused and then stiffened. “When? Shit. Okay.”

He slammed down the phone and looked at Archer. “Ern’s in the hospital unconscious. Some goons jumped him and the two guys guarding Kemper.”

“And Kemper?”

“Looks like they took him. Son of a bitch!”

He picked up the phone again and stared at it like he’d never seen one before. Turning to Ruthie he said, “But you wouldn’t know if Drake called someone, would you?”

“No sir. I would have no way of knowing that.”

“Willie!” exclaimed Archer.

Archer was kneeling and looking down at the carpet near a set of French doors opening to the outside.

Dash hurried over to him.

“It was raining up until about an hour ago,” said Archer.

Dash examined the wet footprints on the carpet. “Those weren’t made by Drake; they’re too short.”

Archer opened one of the French doors. “Not locked.”

Dash walked over to the woman. “Ruthie, that young fellow we saw planting a bush when we were here before? Who is he?”

“You mean, Bobby?”

“Yeah, Bobby.”

“He’s the gardener. Takes care of everything outside.”

“He live here?”

Ruthie nodded. “In a room over the garage.”

“Thanks.”





THEY HEARD THE SOBS AS THEY APPROACHED the garage. They cut through the still morning air like a machete through bamboo. The garage was a three-bay setup with a full floor above, where, presumably, Bobby lived.

The exterior door was locked, but Archer managed to push up one of the garage doors and they went inside, passing a Buick and a trim little green Hunter convertible with the canvas top down on their way to the set of interior stairs. The sobs were now even louder, and in them Archer thought he could hear an anguish associated with only the deepest of personal losses.

They reached a doorway at the top of the stairs. The cries continued, with the person inside seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Dash whispered, “Pull your heater, Archer, just in case.”

The gun came out. Archer stepped in front of Dash, put his hand on the doorknob, and slowly rotated it. The next moment he eased the door open and peered into the room.

The space was small, with bead-boarded, whitewashed walls and plenty of windows to let the emerging dawn peek through; one of the windows was open. That was no doubt how they could hear the crying all the way outside. On the wall were framed publicity stills of Cary Grant, Montgomery Clift, and other male actors. A two-drawer dresser painted a pale blue, some built-in cabinetry, a banjo leaning in one corner, and a mahogany four-poster bed were the only things to be seen—other than the young man lying in the bed and sobbing his heart out.

Archer and Dash stepped into the room and Archer closed the door behind him hard enough to make the man sit up and stare in fear and confusion at them.

“Who . . . who are you?”

Dash came forward. “You’re Bobby, right?”

“Yes sir.” He sat up and pulled the covers up over his bare chest.

Seeing him up close, Archer figured he was no more than twenty years old, with fine, delicate facial features and large blue eyes.

“I’m Willie Dash and this here is Archer. We’re private eyes. You know about your . . . employer, I take it?”

Bobby wiped his eyes and nodded. “He shot himself. Did . . . did you see him, too?”

“Yeah. Hey, Bobby, let me see your hands for a sec.”

Bobby held out his hands, and Dash wiped them with his pocket handkerchief. He looked at the cloth and then sniffed it.