Just before three I got two phone calls from Police Headquarters.
The first was from Leroy Powder.
When I answered my phone he said, ‘Go away. I want to talk to your machine.’
‘Pretend,’ I said.
‘The message is that there is no record of a birth in California, August to December 1940, to a woman with any of the combinations of name you gave me.’
‘Oh,’ I said.
He hung up.
Miller was the second caller.
‘I have a message that I should get in touch.’
‘I’m looking for a favour. You can hardly refuse the man who introduced you to Wendy Winslow.’
‘One day maybe,’ he said. ‘But not today.’
‘It ought to be simple enough. I need a taxable income history.’
‘IRS?’ he asked. ‘That’s supposed to be easy?’
‘All the private eye agencies can get them. I’ve just had a guy in here saying so.’
‘I’m not saying it can’t be done.’ He sounded thoughtful.
‘The taxpayer is one Tamae Mitsuki.’
I spelled it for him.
‘And I’m looking for 1946 onwards.’
‘How soon?’
‘Ten minutes?’
He laughed.
‘There is a possible tie-up with the Murchison case.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The housekeeper.’
‘That’s right.’
I heard the furrow on his brow manifest itself. ‘What’s happening, Al?’
‘If her income is bigger than it ought to be, then it supports an involvement.’
‘She was the last person associated with the family to see Murchison alive,’ he said.
‘I’m not saying she did it.’ Then, for a moment, I wondered if I was.
‘An involvement,’ Miller said, stressing each syllable of the words I’d used.
‘According to one of my scenarios.’
‘How does it go?’
‘I’m still in rehearsals.’
‘I would like to know, Al.’
‘And somebody’s just come into the office.’
‘Like hell.’
Suddenly, I heard somebody come into the office.
‘I wouldn’t lie to you, Jerry.’
I went.
My visitor was Glass Albert Connah, landlord. He looked unseasonably gloomy.
‘Cheer up,’ I said. ‘If one of Santa’s reindeer breaks down on the way to your house, he’s bound to have a spare roped to the back of the sleigh.’
‘Feel like shooting some hoops?’ he asked.
The weather was poor, and he didn’t have sneakers on.
‘Sure,’ I said.
We went outside to the backboard and basket mounted at the back of the residential section of the property. The light was fading and there was slush in the key. I gave him the ball and cleared a little space with a snow shovel. He bounces the ball each time before he shoots. It’s a technical point, a fault. I’m great on coaching tips.
We played ‘long and short’, in coats and gloves.
In the middle of the second game I asked, ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Glass,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t the insurance cover it?’
‘Oh yes. But it doesn’t seem sensible to restock when the cash might be better used on other things.’
He shot for a while, but blew the turn on an easy short.
As he handed the ball to me he said, ‘And I’ve had an offer for the place.’
During his next turn I tried to remember the terms of the agreement we had drawn up when I moved in. Which was due to cover ten years. And which represented more security of office tenure than I had ever had before.
‘You going to take it?’ I said.
‘I’m thinking about it,’ he said, and the ball zinged hard off the back of the rim so that by the time he caught up with it, his short was considerably longer than his long.
‘I see.’
He made the shot.
‘We’ll come to an agreement.’
‘Have you already decided?’
‘Not yet.’
My hands were cold from the wet of the ball penetrating the gloves. He won the game and left.
I took a shower and luxuriated in the warmth of the water. It made me feel physically good and I cheered up. I remembered that in 1953 two songs were released almost the same day: ‘Santa Got Stuck in the Chimney’ and ‘When Santa Got Stuck in the Chimney’. Only one of them became a hit, which was poor return for the other guy with the same idea.
It showed there is no justice in life.
I was being evicted for Christmas.
But what can you do?