STAN DUVAL

 

The Beginning of a Crime Story

The big man walked to the empty stool beside him. He probably weighed twenty pounds more than two hundred, and his face was splotchy red.

Stan cupped his hand around the Bourbon and soda. He could feel the big man staring at him in the mirror. He was in no mood for trouble but he could sense something building up in the man.

The big man ordered a drink and the bartender put it on the bar in front of him, standing with his hands on the edge of the bar, waiting for the man to pay. The red faced man took a thick wad of bills from his pocket, tossed one of them on the bar without looking at it and stuffed the rest back in his pants.

There was a girl down the bar who was on the make. She was sitting with another woman who looked like the girl would twenty years from now. Probably her mother. He smiled to himself. The girl looked like a chippie off the old block.

He avoided her eyes. In avoiding her eyes, he caught the sardonic expression of the big man beside him. There was something in those eyes that made anger rise within him. He started to speak, then took a drink of liquor and tried to forget about it. He was a stranger in town and about to start looking for work. Getting arrested in a bar would be a poor way to start.

“You’re wasting time,” the big man said suddenly. He had spoken without lifting his head. Neither did he turn. “If I were you, I’d light out.”

“What do you mean?”

The big man was turning his glass in his fingers, and suddenly, Stan was afraid. This man was not trying to start trouble, that was his imagination. There was something else going on.

Lifting his glass to his lips the big man spoke softly. “Well, she’s lying back there dead. There’s sure to be somebody dropping by at some point. Then the cops will be looking for you.”

“Are you nuts?” Stan stared at the big man in the mirror. He had a wide neck. His hands were thick fingered and heavy. He was a bruiser. In a brawl he would be hard to handle.

“Me? You’re the one that’s nuts. If I’d killed my wife I wouldn’t be sitting here!”

Killed his wife?

Stan felt a chill of apprehension go over him, and his hands shut down hard on the bar. He glimpsed his face in the mirror and he looked pale.

Then it hit him. The man was insane. Stark mad. Stan forced a smile and shrugged. “I wouldn’t either,” he said, “but then I haven’t killed anybody.”

“You don’t have to kid me,” the big man said, “I ain’t a bull. But the cops won’t figure it that way. If I were you, I’d blow out of here, but fast!”

Stan was puzzled and angry. Who was this guy? Who did he think he was talking to? “Listen, chum,” Stan said, “I don’t know what your angle is, or who you’re trying to kid, but I don’t have a wife, never had a wife, and I wouldn’t have killed her if I did!”

The man hunched his big shoulders and leaned his elbows on the bar. He was one of the most powerful men Stan had ever seen. “Isn’t your name Duval?” the big man asked. “Henry Stanley Duval? Weren’t you in Klamath Falls for awhile?”

Stan felt the tightness go out of him. He felt at that moment much as he did before a close shot at a tiger. The cold sense of awareness, the instant of waiting before the big head shoved through the bushes, the knowledge that one shot would be all he might get. His muscles and his mind relaxed and he felt wariness creeping over him with a faint, remote chill.

He spoke, and his voice was quiet, very calm. “Yes, my name is Duval. I have been in Klamath Falls. I am a man who has been many places. But I am not married, I never have been, and I know no one in this town.”

“Nobody but her, and she’s dead. You better blow, bud. I ain’t a squealer. Nobody else knows so far.”

“But you know,” Stan suggested. “How do you know? Maybe you killed this woman you say is my wife?”

“Me?” The big man chuckled. “I liked Madge. She was a good kid, only maybe she had too many friends. But don’t get any ideas. I got an alibi. I got a honey of an alibi. How’s yours?”

Alibi? He didn’t have the shadow of an alibi. An hour before he had come into town with a man in a Buick sedan. The man’s name was Gardiner. He had dropped Stan off at the bar and told him he would meet him there in a hour or so and they would have dinner together.

Madge?

The name struck fire in his brain. Madge? Klamath Falls? He took a swallow of liquor, then said without turning his head, “This supposed wife of mine. What was she like?”

“Hell, you should know. A honey of a blonde. Tall, willowy babe, with a little scar on her ear lobe.

“Don’t get me wrong,” the big man was saying, “I don’t blame you. You guys come back from overseas and find your wives playing around. Hell, I wouldn’t blame you.”

Stan wasn’t listening. Madge. That would be Madge McClean, but his wife? Why, he had known her for no more than a week. They had dinner, he recalled. She was a dancer and singer, and pretty good…well, pretty good for Portland.

She had been going up Morrison Street tucking some things in her bag. As she passed him she dropped her coin purse. He had to follow her two blocks and through two traffic signals before he could catch her to return it.

They had talked a little, had a drink together, and then dinner.

It was one of those cases of two lonely people, mutually attracted. He had some business in Klamath Falls, and by that time they were liking each other quite a bit. She knew who he was, had read all three of his travel books, and he liked her. They had decided to make it a twosome.

They had registered at a hotel there…it hit him right in the wind…as man and wife.

Stan Duval took another drink and stared at the big man’s reflection. “I don’t get it,” he said, and his voice was suddenly hoarse. “What’s your angle?”

The big man shoved back off the stool. “Hey,” he said, “I’m just a friendly guy. Always doin’ things for people! My name’s Fin Campo, if you want to know. I just hate to see a good guy in a bad spot. And brother you’re in one!”

Campo turned and went out. Stan sat there, staring at his drink. It didn’t make sense, none of it did. He hadn’t seen Madge McClean in four years…almost five. Before he went into the Army. Nor had he heard from her in all that time.

The whole thing was insane. He was married to no one, and had never been married. How had Campo found him in that bar? Who was Fin Campo? And what, he wondered suddenly, had become of Gardiner?

If there was anything to this he was going to need Gardiner. Gardiner could prove when he got to Los Angeles, where he had been until he walked into the bar.

Stan got up suddenly. The telephone directory gave Madge McClean’s address as 2203 Parkington Row and the map in back showed it to be close by, a stiff twenty minute walk…shorter if he could get a ride.

“Listen,” he said to the bartender, “if a small man with a broken nose comes in here asking for Duval, tell him I’ll be back in about an hour.”

He walked out into the street, his mind suddenly made up. No matter what happened, he must know. He saw a cab and flagged it down. “Twenty Two O Three Parkington Row,” he said, and sat back in the seat, staring ahead of him.

It didn’t make sense no matter how you looked at it. He had returned from overseas two months before. He had gone through the war, and then because of his experience they had asked him to stay on. Having made some good friends, he volunteered to remain one more year.

When he got back he was tired of everything. He wanted some time to adjust himself, to relax, think, and make plans for the future. Before the war he had been an explorer, hunter, and professional wanderer who wrote books of his travels and lectured.

A friend in New York had a car he wanted to sell so Stan bought it and started west. He was in no hurry. He had stopped many times, wrote a little, camped out here and there. In San Diego he sold the car, and while trying to make up his mind on the next move, dropped into a bar.

That was where he met Gardiner. They were sitting side by side, and started talking. When Stan mentioned his name, Gardiner was immediately interested. They had talked and Gardiner had told him he knew just the man he should see in Los Angeles, somebody who wanted some jungle films made. The plan was to head north by the end of the week; it had seemed like an opportunity to restart his life.

---

—

The cab rolled up in front of the door and he got out. All the lights were on in the house and a police car stood at the curb.

“Looks like the joint’s been raided!” the cabbie said.

He paid the man off and started up the walk. Four men were standing in the front room, looking at the body of a girl.

Stan stared down at her. Her golden and beautiful hair lay around her head like a halo, a halo stained at the top with blood. There was a widening pool of it on the carpet and floor.

They looked up when he entered. There was a tall, very lean man with sandy hair and a sad face. “Who are you?” he asked.

“My name is Stanley Duval.”

“Duval?” The sandy haired man smiled. “You’re her husband, then?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

“I’m Lieutenant Haynes,” the officer said. “Let’s get this straight. You say you aren’t her husband? She’s listed as Mrs. Stanley Duval?”

“There’s a mistake somewhere. Her name is not Duval, and I am not married to anyone and never have been.”

A plain clothes man with a beefy face and small mustache smiled cynically. “I suppose next thing you’ll be saying you didn’t know her!”

“Oh, no,” Stan said. “I knew her all right. I met her about five years ago in Oregon, but her name was McClean, not Duval. We saw a good deal of each other for about a week, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Haynes shook out a smoke, then handed the pack around. He studied the girl thoughtfully. “You say you haven’t seen her in all that time? Then how do you account for this?”

In his hands he held a letter, which he showed to Stan. It was addressed to Stan Duval, General Delivery, San Diego. It was a letter he had picked up at the post office the day before. He controlled the urge to check the pocket in which he had placed the letter…that would be the action of a guilty man.

Fear came to him then, a cold fear that crept up his legs and left him standing in an icy chill. “I don’t account for it,” he said, “I can’t account for it. You found that…here?”

Haynes was looking at him through the cigarette smoke. “Yeah. Right over there by the divan.”

“You say,” the other plain clothes man said, “you weren’t married to her. Here’s a rental receipt made out to Mrs. Stanley Duval. She’s been paying rent under that name for two months.”

“How did you know this address if you haven’t seen her in five years?” Haynes was speaking in a conversational tone, quiet, almost lazy. “How’d you happen to come here tonight?”

“Why, there was a man in a bar gave it to me. A fellow named Campo. He said a woman with my name was murdered here.”

“My God! I’ve heard some yarns in my time. How’d this guy know you?”

“I don’t know.” Stan’s mouth was dry and he felt empty in the pit of his stomach. “He just came in and sat down beside me and started talking, said this girl was murdered and that I’d better get out of town.”

“In spite of this letter you say you haven’t seen this girl in five years?”

“That’s right. I just got in town tonight. Came up from San Diego.”

“How’d you come? Plane or train?”

“Neither. I rode up with an acquaintance. A fellow I met in San Diego.”

“Oh, where’s this guy now?”

“I don’t know. He was coming back to meet me in the bar where I met Campo. But after I talked with Campo I thought I’d run out here and try to find out what this was all about. He may be there now. His name was Gardiner.”

“In other words,” Haynes said, “you’ve no alibi for the time of the murder?”

“No,” Duval said, “I’ve no alibi. I’d no idea I was going to need one. This girl,” he added, “was just an acquaintance. She was okay, a pretty nice kid, but except for one week I never knew anything about her.”

“That,” Haynes said, “is the thinnest yarn I ever heard. You understand,” he glanced up at Duval, “I’m not saying it isn’t true, but without doubt it is the worst yarn I ever heard anybody tell. You say you haven’t seen her in five years, but there’s a letter of yours on the floor. A letter that from the date must have been dropped here tonight or yesterday.

“You say you got her address from a guy in a bar who told you she was murdered. Hell, man, we hadn’t been here over three minutes when you got here. How could anybody know? We found the body.”

“Maybe this guy Campo killed her.”

Haynes rubbed his chin. “Duval, you don’t know what you’re saying. I haven’t a doubt you met Campo in a bar. He spends a lot of time in bars. But him telling you anything like this…it’s just plain goofy.”

“You know him?”

“He’s a special investigator for the District Attorney. Not much goes on in town that he doesn’t know. I might add that he’s got enough political pull to make it felt anywhere.”

Haynes looked around at the other plain clothes man. “Potter, see what’s wrong with the medical examiner. He should be here by now!”

“The car’s just pulling up, Lieutenant. He’ll be right in.”

Two men walked through the open door. One of them had a black bag. He knelt over the body, and Haynes leaned over to watch. The policemen were craning their necks and Potter had stepped into the next room.

It was a moment, a fleeting instant that might never come again. Stan Duval turned and walked quietly from the room.

His heart was jumping and his mouth was dry. When he got to the door he stepped out on the porch, then off onto the lawn, and walking across it, leaped the hedge into the next yard. He was going through the gate into the alley when he heard a yell from the house.

He started running. He was frightened now, frightened as he never had been. Running on his toes, he made the end of the alley, his heart pounding. A siren started somewhere behind him, and he walked across the street, forcing himself to walk, then sprinted another block.

Stan came out on the street. Ahead of him and on the corner was a drug store, and beyond it, as he turned the corner, was a neighborhood theatre. It was a large theatre, and several people were buying tickets. Coolly, forcing himself to be calm, he stepped into line.

The siren was whining behind him, and he could hear it turning a corner, then stop. They would be flashing their spotlight down the alleys. He got his ticket and walked into the theatre.

He had no more than a few minutes at best, and no plan of action. They might not think of the theatre; it would seem a trap. Maybe it was. He went into the men’s room and glanced at himself in the mirror. His face looked white. Turning, he walked out. The usherette had stepped inside the curtains to watch the picture; the lobby was empty. Directly opposite him was a huge Chinese vase, over six feet high. There was one on either side of the lobby.

Stan started for one, and then he saw the girl. She was watching him, but when their eyes met, she looked away. Her figure was trim, neat and her eyes beautiful. She walked toward the curtains.

There was an overstuffed chair near the vase. Putting one foot on the back, he caught the top and pulling himself up, dropped lightly inside. Then, his heart pounding, he sat down.

His heart was throbbing painfully and he was perspiring profusely. Sitting still, scarcely daring to breathe, he waited. It was late. Within an hour and a half the theatre would close. He would be safe. He would have a long night before him to plan.

Then he heard the voice. It was so soft he scarcely heard it, but it was unmistakable. “Why did you get in there?”

A woman. It must have been the girl who had been watching him. “I’m powdering my nose,” she whispered then. “Even if anyone sees me they won’t guess about you. Why did you get in there?”

It sounded silly, but he whispered back, “I’m hiding.” He hesitated. Oh, well. She knew he was here. “From the police,” he said.

“That siren was for you? I saw you buying a ticket. What did you do?”

“They think I killed my wife. I’m not even married. I got away.”

There was silence, and he could almost hear the girl thinking. Who was she? Why hadn’t she reported him at once?

“Better stay here all night,” she said.

He heard her moving away, and he could hear voices from the outer foyer, from the snack bar. Footsteps approached again, and he could hear her humming. Then her voice. “Catch.”

Stan glanced up. Two candy bars came over the top. He caught them deftly, then heard her moving away.

He put the candy in his pocket, suddenly aware that he was hungry. Next time he ran away from the police, he told himself, he would wait until after dinner.

Time dragged slowly. The bottom of the vase was just large enough for him to sit with his knees against his chest. There was no room to stretch his legs, and he dare not stand up for fear someone would hear him.

The girl puzzled him. Why her interest?

His flight had been instinctive. Considering the plight he was in it had seemed the only obvious course. Haynes could not be blamed. His story was absurd. It was absurd, and it was the truth, all of it.

What was it all about? Thinking back over it, he began to realize that his involvement had not been due to accident nor to a coincidence.

A lot of things began to click into place. The letter was the key to it all. He had received that letter in San Diego. He had put it in his pocket to be answered the next day. Then he met Gardiner, and decided to take a chance on the jungle film deal. In any event, he had planned on going to L.A.

The last he had seen of the letter was when he put it in his pocket. Had his coat been off since? No. Therefore, if the letter left him, and it had, it had to be taken from his pocket while the coat was on him. That necessitated opportunity. Who had the opportunity?

Gardiner. Stan remembered then that he had fallen asleep several times on the trip north from San Diego. But that meant that Gardiner was involved.

Well, why not? Campo had come into the bar while Duval waited for Gardiner. Could Gardiner have sent Campo there? How else could Campo have known?

But what was behind it? Why?

Why had Madge been killed? Why was she using his name? Who had killed her?

He remembered how struck Gardiner had been when he heard his name. Stan had merely believed he was another man who had read his books; now it seemed to mean something else. Somehow, or some way Gardiner had known something about him, or about Madge. Perhaps Gardiner was the murderer. Possibly he had been planning the crime even then, when suddenly a scapegoat was offered in the person of Stanley Duval!

A coincidence, but it still didn’t make sense. He was satisfied with his solution of his own involvement. Gardiner could have lifted the letter from his pocket, got in touch with Campo, who was somehow involved, and arranged the whole setup.

The show was ending and he could hear people leaving. Somebody tossed a gum wrapper into the vase. Bit by bit people drifted out of the show, and he could hear their comments on the picture.

“I thought he was simply wonderful! Don’t you like his voice, though? It just does something to you!”

Then another voice, close beside the vase. “Listen, Ruth, it’s early yet. Let’s go up to my place for awhile?”

“George, I’ve told you that I’ll never—besides, Andy’s home.”

They drifted out, and silence settled. Then he heard a rattle of brooms. “Let’s get it over with,” somebody said, “I want to get home. My kid’s sick.”

“Yeah? What’s the trouble?”

“I don’t know, the Doc says…” The voice dwindled.

They moved away and Stan let himself relax. He waited, his legs asleep. Finally, he heard them leave. By the luminous dial of his wrist watch he waited a half hour longer. Then he got to his feet, straightening his cramped legs. He chafed them, rubbing the circulation back into action. Then he reached up and catching the top of the vase, pulled himself up.

Waiting an instant for correct balance, he dropped to the chair, and then the floor.

All was dark and still. Through the doors he could see the street. A police car stood by the corner. The drug store was still open. No, it was closing. The reflected light snapped out, and then he heard voices. Two policemen got into their car, but they just sat there and did not go away.

Stan sat down in the chair and took out a bar of candy. He couldn’t remember ever being so hungry before.

Under the wrapper was a white card with a name—Judith Baird Kegley Apts. On the back was the note.

If before 8 a.m. or after 5:30 p.m. come.

He ate the candy thoughtfully. Why the devil was she helping him? Or willing to help? Who was she?

Undoubtedly the police would be patrolling the area. The prowl car in front of the theatre was an example. They had lost him near here, and they would be watching closely. In any event, he would find a better place to hide. The vase was too dangerous.

Going down the side aisle he walked through the vast and empty theatre. All was pitch dark here, the light from outside killed by the thick, velvet curtains.

Striking matches, he found his way backstage. There was a small backstage office, probably used now by the janitor. In the office, he prowled, striking many matches, but putting the stubs in his pocket. In one drawer he found a flashlight.

If he left the theatre now, and he was sure he could leave through one of the exits used for fire or emergencies, he would be on the streets in a section of town where anybody might be questioned…after all there had been a murder nearby.

His best chance was to wait until morning, and to mingle with people on their way to work. Money was no handicap. He had nearly three hundred dollars in his pockets. That should be sufficient for any immediate purposes.

Stan got up and, using the flashlight sparingly, he made a careful reconnaissance of the theatre. The door of the manager’s office was unlocked, and he stepped inside and looked around. Seeing a knob in a panel, he turned it and found another door. It was a small closet with a wash basin and mirror, and…an electric razor!

When he had the plan of the theatre clearly in mind he chose a loge seat and sat down, leaning back, and went to sleep. He was not worried about sleeping too late. He had always been able to awaken when he wished.

Yet it was after six when he opened his eyes again. He got to his feet and for five minutes by the watch, listened for any sound. Assured that no one had yet entered the theatre, he went to the manager’s office, shaved, washed and combed his hair.

Replacing the flashlight he went to a ground floor exit and pushed down on the handle. It opened easily, and holding it open a crack, he studied the situation. The exit opened on an alley. Opposite the theatre was a market. A truck was backed up, unloading boxes and crates. It was a new truck, still bright and without dust.

When the driver had a load in his arms and turned toward the market, Stan Duval opened the door and stepped out. He walked over to the truck and was standing there, admiring it, when the driver came out of the market.

Stan grinned at him. “That’s a slick looking rig you’ve got there!”

“Yeah,” the driver was in his twenties, “she sure is. Better’n the one I been driving.”

“You in the service?”

“Sure was. Infantry. How about you?”

“Tank Destroyers. It was just about as bad.”

“Yeah.” The fellow wiped the sweat from his brow. “What you doing now?” he asked, looking curiously at Stan’s tailored suit.

“Thinking about buying me a couple of trucks. That’s why I was looking.”

The driver glanced at the remaining cases. “Stick around until I get those last cases off and I’ll drive you where you’re going. You can see for yourself how she is.”

“I’d like that! Okay, I’ll wait.”

The driver came out and they got in. Stan commented on the cushions. “Pretty nice, all right,” the boy said. “Softer than those G.I. trucks!”

He swung the truck around and slowed at the alley entrance, then seeing the way clear, pulled out. A prowl car was standing at the corner, facing them. Stan looked straight ahead, making conversation.

“Which way you headed?”

“Going down to Spring,” he said, “Seventh and Spring or anywhere close to it.”

When he got there, the kid dropped him off. “Thanks!” he called, then he walked over to a newsboy and bought two papers. He started up the street. “I hope,” he told himself softly, “they don’t have a picture!”

Stopping in a small café he sat at the counter and opened the papers. They had a picture, all right. He should have known they would. After all, before the war he had been a sort of minor celebrity.

It was not a good picture. It was undoubtedly the worst ever made of him. A newspaper photographer had snapped the photo when he was returning from Guatemala and recovering from a hard bout of malaria.

He ordered coffee and a sandwich, and then looked at the headline. It was a jolt.

EXPLORER FLEES MURDER SCENE

Henry Stanley Duval, noted explorer and author of three books on his adventures, is the object of a statewide search today. Duval is wanted for questioning in regard to the murder of a woman alleged to be his wife.

COMMENTS: Here we have a fragment of a crime story written for the postwar pulp magazines. It’s a classic concept, a regular in noir fiction: a man caught between two unforgiving forces—a criminal conspiracy and the relentless and impersonal process of law enforcement. He must escape the law and confront the criminals to clear his name.

Below are some of Louis’s notes. These were created prior to the story fragment above in an attempt to work out the plot. Typical of a healthy writing process, Louis’s manuscript did not stick exactly to the plan. In my opinion, the critical juncture in any story comes when what you are writing begins to diverge from what you intended. Those differences can, of course, stop a story in its tracks (as, perhaps, it did with this one), but it can also be where the magic happens. It’s where the elements of the story take on a life of their own and lead the author through the process.

Later in his career, Louis learned to forgo the planning to a great extent and dwell more and more in that magic creative zone. Though Louis L’Amour’s Lost Treasures Volumes 1 and 2 document the times he did not immediately succeed, the Lost Treasures materials that we have added as “Bonus Feature” postscripts to many of Louis’s completed and long-reprinted novels are testament to the fact that he was able to pull off that combination of skill and minor miracle more often than just about anyone.

CAST OF CHARACTERS:

Stan Duval—ex soldier and explorer.

Judy Baird—secretary to Pres. of Culloden Airlines.

Madge McClean—casual girlfriend of Duval.

Cord Becker—multimillionaire inventor and manufacturer.

Gardiner—racketeer and crook.

Fin Campo—spec. inv. for D.A. and in pay of Becker.

Donna Gregg—show girl friend of Madge.

Sam Gaynor—inventor, murdered before story begins.

Stan Duval returns from overseas. He is tired, and wants to relax. Also, he just wants to get around the country a little.

He goes west to San Diego and…one night comes into a club and [meets] Gardiner [who] tells him about heading to L.A. He himself is going to Reno…would Duval like to ride to L.A. with him? Duval would. The journey up is leisurely. Twice Gardiner turns off the road to look at pieces of property.

They arrive in L.A. at night and Gardiner lets him off near a bar. He is there when a big man who calls himself Fin Campo tells him he had better leave town as the police will be wanting him for murdering his wife.

He has no wife. The man mentioned her name, Madge Darnal [also referred to as Madge McClean], and he places her as a girl he once knew and liked, and once spent a night with in a hotel, registered as man and wife.

He has not seen the girl in five years. He goes to the address Campo gives him, and finds the police making an investigation. He denies being married to Madge, denies killing her, denies ever having been in the house before.

The detective shows him a letter, addressed to him, with a date only two days earlier. They had found it on the floor.

Also, a neighbor woman declares she has seen him coming and going, declares she heard a conversation in which his wife said “Oh no, Stan, wouldn’t…!” And “But, Stan!”

Madge has been killed by a blow on the head with a water pitcher. She has been dead for about an hour. No fingerprints are on the pitcher except those of Madge.

Several men had been seen coming and going to the apartment.

— Stan finds himself faced with these facts!

• He has no alibi.

• The letter and the testimony of the woman next door place him at the scene of the crime at the right time.

• The letter proves to the police he is a liar.

• The motive: jealousy.

• The girl had been passing herself off as Mrs. Stan Duval.

• Records prove they were registered that way at a hotel in 1941.

• He says he was given the address by Campo.

• Campo when found denies it.

• No Gardiner can be found in Reno or elsewhere.

• Record of a marriage is found in Stentora, Arizona.

While the police are occupied, he walks out. He escapes after quite a chase, registers in a small hotel, and tries to figure something out.

• Why should Madge be killed?

• Why involve him?

• How about the marriage?

It becomes obvious that he is the victim of an elaborate and carefully worked out plot.

• Yet why was Madge using his name?

• How did the letter get to her floor?

Obviously, Gardiner must be involved. How else could the letter have gotten there? A letter that was in his pocket when he left San Diego. How could Campo have known where to find him? Yet why? What was behind it all?

Madge, he discovers, was one of three nieces of Bernard Thornton, millionaire impostor. There is also a nephew. He also learns that Madge had been blind for three years.

Elsie, one of the nieces, had been killed in an auto wreck a year previously.

Another niece is married to Roderick Howard, owner of a large Funeral Home.

The key to the problem lies in a conversation Madge Darnal had with Stan on the weekend in Klamath Falls.

It was a chance remark, a remark that returns to him and enables him to find the solution to the crime.

Stan discovers that Madge had drastically changed her way of living in the past two years, living in seclusion and moving often.

He decides she was afraid of something. Yet, of what? The origin of the fear seems to begin with his meeting with her. Could it have been something he said? Something she learned while with him?

He wonders: why does one kill? What are the motives for murder? He decides: for wealth, for love, for protection.

He believes he can eliminate love as there is no evidence of it.

Therefore the killer must have killed for wealth or for protection.

Madge had no wealth. She was an heiress to no fortune.

Therefore, the killer must have killed for protection.

Protection from what?

Madge was making no effort to harm anyone. She herself seemed in fear.

Hence, the killer must have been afraid of something she knew.

What did Madge know?

The answer would lie in Madge Darnal’s past life.

He had met her in Portland. She had seemed willing and anxious to leave Portland. Therefore the answer might lie in Portland.

What had she been doing there?

He remembered her saying something about being a bridesmaid at a wedding.

Had the killer committed a previous crime? One that would warrant murder to prevent its being known?

That would seem to imply two possibilities. Either the previous crime had also been murder or the killer now held such a position that his previous crime being known would cause disgrace and ruin him.

That held that either the crime had been murder, or the position held was a good one.

The solution lies in the past life of Madge Darnal. He has little time and few resources. Perhaps the solution lay in his own subconscious.

He and Madge had talked. What had they talked about? In intimate moments women talk of many things close to them. They had been together for days. He remembered her eagerness to leave Portland. He recalled one occasion when she showed fright while they were in Klamath Falls. What was that occasion?

…He must dig out every memory, write all he could think of on paper and try to reconstruct those past hours. Where had they gone? What had they done?

He remembered then her reluctance to leave him. How she had clung to him at the last moment. Love, or fear?

She knew something, became aware about the time he met her that her knowledge was dangerous, and stayed with him for protection.

Then he remembers a girl she knew. A girl who had once worked in a show with her. The girl’s home was in Whittier. He finds she is working in a night club.

She tells him that Madge often spoke of him with affection. That he apparently was the one man in her life. That she had loved him. He discovers Madge had moved frequently, had used other names, finally his name.

Had Madge ever expressed fear of anyone or anything?

No, but she had seemed frightened. She hated to stay alone. She often moved. She patronized various stores in different parts of town. She watched closely for any mention of Stan’s name, wanting to find him again.

Had they [the women] been together in San Francisco? Yes. Why had they left? A sudden notion of Madge’s. They had been at the Top o’ the Mark, came down in the elevator, and she bought a paper. Something in the paper seemed to disturb her.

What day? She didn’t know. What paper? She didn’t recall. On an inside page? Yes. The month? August. The week, perhaps the first week of August.

He delves into the papers, searching for a clue. He finds one. He returns to Madge’s friend to ask more questions. She is dead. She has been murdered.

What next?

He will be murdered.

He has no clue.

Something in the papers? What?

What could suddenly make her wish to leave town? All had been well. Only one of two things, probably: that the police had started investigating something in which she was implicated, or someone had come to town of whom she was frightened.

If it was mentioned in the papers, it meant the man was of some importance.

He has a feeling the police are closing in on him now. All right. He must find and lead them to the real criminal. He must force him to act, force him to fear, force him to disclose himself. The…murder was evidence that he was becoming desperate…

Suddenly, Stan realizes something. The killer would no longer want him captured!

The killer would want him free! He would be afraid of what Stan might have learned. Therefore there was a chance that he might aid Stan to escape and therefore disclose himself!

Yet, that meant Stan must put himself in the killer’s hands!

When on their trip they had stopped all night with a friend in his home near Ashland [Oregon]. When they entered, Madge had two bags, and when she left, but one!

He must contact his friend. Find out if that bag still existed. He starts north. Discovers he is being followed. Tries to lose his pursuer, and fails. He recalls a small hamburger place, and stops there to eat. A car pulls up and two men come in. One is Fin Campo, the other Gardiner. One sits on each side of him.

When he finishes eating, they try to take him out with them. He refuses to go. Succeeds in throwing Gardiner, then slugs it out with Campo. He rushes out, a third man fires at him but he escapes.

He gets to his friend, finds the bag, and learns that Madge had mailed a package [to the friend] only a week before! The package is addressed on the inside, to him. It is a diary…

In the diary he finds a report of Madge dating a man. A man named Cord Becker.

Cord Becker! The inventor, the manufacturer! He reads on.

They had played cards one night with a man named Sam Gaynor. He and Becker had talked for a long time, and later she had met Gaynor on the street, and he had seemed worried, had asked her many questions about Becker, his honesty, how long she had known him.

Then there had been a boating accident and Gaynor had drowned.

Shortly thereafter, Becker patented some new process and began building a fortune based on that process.

She had unwittingly mentioned to him that she had a long talk with Gaynor, his [Becker’s] manner had seemed very strange…he had pried into her conversation, finding out enough to become suspicious. Then putting two and two together, he had decided she knew more than she told. Then she had become frightened, and left.

Stan, through a private detective friend, digs into Becker’s and Gaynor’s past. He discovers that Gaynor had been working on these processes for a long time, that he had come to Portland to secure capital. There was no record of previous experimentation on Becker’s part.

Stan goes to the former district attorney in Portland. He talks to him of Becker and arouses his interest.

He explains he is wanted, does not tell his name, begins the discussion of the case.

You can tell from the scattered nature of these notes that Louis was putting every idea forward that might help him work out the mystery and therefore the plot. At some point Dad began a less bewildering outline:

Duval is deliberately involved in a plot to cover the murder of Madge McClean, a girl who had once used his name. In struggling to clear himself, he escapes from the police, enlists the aid of Judy Baird, and begins investigating Madge’s background. He discovers she knew of an invention by one Sam Gaynor. That Gaynor had been murdered and Becker patented the discovery.

Donna Gregg is also murdered to prevent her talking. Duval recovers bag and diary, but is slugged and the bag taken away. He retains the diary.

Gardiner, in San Diego, encounters Duval and calls Campo who directs him to bring Duval to L.A. The crime has been decided upon, and with Duval in L.A. the time has come. Not only can they rid themselves of Madge, but have a made to order suspect!

Duval meets Judy in the theatre.

Unfortunately, my father never went further with this second set of notes, which might have given us a simpler overview of his concept for the story. You can see, however, that it was becoming more streamlined and easier to tell…all part of the process of working through the details.

Within this story fragment there are a number of slight references to places and events in Louis’s earlier life. Dad had lived in Portland, Oregon, for a couple of years and in Klamath Falls before that. While there he visited Ashland on a number of occasions.

Dad served in the Tank Destroyers stateside until the combination of his age (too old, at thirty-four, to begin combat duty) and his unit’s deployment forced a reassignment to the Transportation Corps. While in the Transportation Corps and managing cargoes for the Army in the Bay Area, Dad was billeted at the Mark Hopkins Hotel…where there is a penthouse restaurant and cocktail lounge by the name of Top of the Mark.

During his getaway, Stan talks to a young truck driver who is a war vet, and they commiserate about how hard-riding G.I. trucks were. Louis had ended up as a lieutenant in a Quartermaster Truck Company delivering tank and aviation fuel all over France, Holland, and Germany. Most of the time he was lucky enough to have a jeep and driver, but he knew all too well the fatigue driving a heavy-duty truck could cause.