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eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Doris Bentley? I didn t think
of her.
Ernie said Roberts had gone out with her. And,
remember, she used to work for Frances. I ve got a
hunch there s a connection somewhere.
She nodded. Could be. Do you think you d recognize
the voice if you heard it again?
It s worth a try.
Do you think she knows something about it?
I don t know, I said. I told her just what the girl had
said over the phone. There s another man mixed up in
the thing somewhere, and if we find out who he is, we
might get somewhere. Then I went on and told her
briefly about the money and the fact Norman believed
Frances had been tailed by a private detective at least
part of the time she was in New Orleans.
She looked up eagerly. Could we find out who hired
him?
No, but the police can.
She crossed her fingers. Good luck. I d better get back
out there.
I stood up. I don t know how to thank you.
She smiled. You can t. You re in El Paso. She started
to turn away. Oh, incidentally, the phones will be on the
line together, so if we don t want two separate clicks,
we ve got to pick them up at the same time. How about
the middle of the third ring?
Right, I said. Smart girl.
She went out, through the side door into the passage.
In a moment the typewriter resumed its clatter. I lit a
cigarette and tried to think. There must be some
The Long Saturday Night 63
connection between the money Frances had got rid of
and Roberts mysterious source of income that puzzled
Ernie. But how could there be? The seven thousand
dollars had all disappeared within the past week, while
from what Ernie had said, the strange business of
Roberts seeming to have more money than he took in
must have been going on for months. Well, there was one
thing I could check while I was waiting; all the monthly
statements of our joint bank account for the past year
were here in the desk where I d been going through them
for items deductible on my income tax return. I softly
eased the drawer open, arranged the twelve brown
envelopes in order on the desk, and started through
them, sorting out and writing down the amounts of all
checks she had made out to cash. On another sheet of
paper I put down the totals by months. It took about a
half hour. I was just finishing when the phone rang.
On the third ring I picked it up, holding my hand over
the mouthpiece. Warren Realty, Barbara said. Good
morning.
It was a woman s voice, charged with venom. Then it
is true! When I heard it, I didn t believe it was possible.
What do you mean? Barbara asked.
What do I mean? She sounded as though she were
strangling. I mean that you re still working for that
monster! Or don t you have any sense of decency at all?
Barbara broke in sweetly, Oh, has he been convicted?
I didn t even know they d held the trial.
Well, of all the loathsome There was a crash, and
the line went dead. I replaced the receiver.
The typewriter resumed its cadence in the outer room.
There was a momentary pause, and I heard faint
background noise from the intercom at my left elbow.
Charming old biddy, she said, as if she were speaking
out of the side of her mouth. The finance company must
have repossessed her broom. The speaker went dead.
I wondered how much of that she d had to contend with
yesterday, and how much there d be today. I felt guilty,
leaving her out there to endure it alone, while I hid.
Wrenching my mind away from it, I returned to the
column of figures, trying to find some pattern. Roberts
had come here and opened his shop in April, but for the
first seven months of the year, from January through July,
The Long Saturday Night 64
the checks she had written for cash had averaged about
$200 per month, ranging from a low of $145 to a high of
$315. Then in August the total had jumped to $625,
including two for $200 apiece. September was $200
again. October was $365, November $410, and
December $500.
It wasn t very conclusive. From the time Roberts had
arrived in April, until August, there was no change. Then
from August through December she d cashed checks for
a total of $2100, or an average of a little over $400 per
month. That would be about $200 above the average for
the rest of the year. It might be significant, but it
certainly wasn t enough to account for Ernie s story. In a
carelessly run business, $200 a month could disappear
without a trace.
But still the similarity of the ways they had come here
was too much of a coincidence. Had they known each
other before? You could concede that one person might
come to a small town where he knew no one at all and
open a business, a town apparently chosen at random
but two? It was improbable.
I heard the front door open. It was probably Evans or
Turner. But when I looked at my watch I saw it was
already nine-fifty-five; they probably weren t even going
to show up. There was an indistinguishable murmur of
voices, and then the door opened again. The intercom
came on. Here we go, she whispered. I snatched
eagerly at the telephone. The telegram had come.
The Long Saturday Night 65
7
She dialed the operator and put through the call. In a
moment a girl s voice said, Norman Detective Agency.
Detective agency? Barbara asked.
Yes. Are you sure you have the right number?
Well, it must be, if this is the Norman agency. Could I
speak to Mr. Norman, please?
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