Text: © Copyright by D. Goetz

Cover: © Copyright by D. Goetz

Publisher: D. Goetz

Tannenbergstr. 11

 73230 Kirchheim

Producer: epubli, neopubli GmbH, Berlin

….You're a piker, Marlowe. You're a peanut grifter. You're so little it takes a magnifying glass to see you….

Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

1

It tried to crawl up the pane vertically. It had covered already two thirds, then obviously changed its mind and turned to the left. I tried to count its spots, but didn’t get further than fifteen - fifteen black spots contrasting to the deep purple-red of its body. Its ancestors had come a long way across the Pacific before one of their offspring decided to say hello to me.

I liked the bug. It brought color into my room.  Finally it got apparently sick of being gazed at and spread its wings. Our short acquaintance and all the color were gone.

I got up got shaved and dressed and was ready to leave when the phone rang.

"Hello, my name is Coleman, Abigail Coleman."

 It was a rather low-pitched voice for a woman, something below alto, but still female. A gentle voice, a voice you are inclined to trust and which made you feel at home.

"How can I help you?"

"Well, Mr. Laydon, my husband is missing. I'd like you to find him."

"To be honest, I don’t' like to track down missing husbands who ran away from their wives for whatever reason. And I hate being hired to prove your husband was cheating you. By the way, why me of all PIs?"  

"Two statements, one question. Which one do you want to be answered first?"

Her voice was still gentle, pleasant and friendly, but between pleasant and friendly it had turned slightly tense.

"It's up to you."

"Well, to start with your question, a friend of mine recommended you to me. As for my husband, we've now been married for ten years and he never ever went away without telling me when he would be back. He has now been missing for three days."

I should have asked her who her friend was and why she had picked out me, but I didn't.

"Why didn't you report it to the police?"

"I did, their answer was similar to yours."

"So, Mrs. Coleman, how do think I could help you?"

"Well, I'd be pleased if you came to my home. We then could talk over everything unhurriedly and make a plan how to continue. Maybe, you could you make it by four this afternoon?"

If I had had a roster, the pages would have been full of the names of my clients, but there wasn't any roster. The rent for my flat had to be paid.

She gave me her address somewhere in East County. To get there, you had to drive about half an hour from downtown San Diego. People called this area San Diego's backyard - a region full of rolling hills and sparkling lakes. In springtime you could enjoy the bloom of thousands and thousands of wild flowers. In San Diego you can meet a lot of rich and a lot of less rich people. The less rich ones don't live in that part of East County.

One of the estates more or less randomly scattered in the rugged landscape was the modest home of Abigail Coleman. The driveway was lined with evergreen citrus trees that blossom in the spring and provide colorful fruits.

The parking area in front of the house was just big enough for my VW Beetle. If you tried hard you could spot without using binoculars two more cars parking, a Mercedes S500 Coupé and a sports car Porsche 911.

I rang the bell at the door. I immediately recognized her voice when she answered via intercom.

"Lawdon," I said. "Jacob Lawdon."

The release buzzer was pressed and I let myself in.

When I saw her, I knew I'd met her before. Strictly speaking it was only part of her that I remembered. I had seen the color of her suit not long ago.

The ladybug had lost its bug, but not its color. Only the dark spots were missing.

She was middle-sized, slender, but not too much, auburn hair which came down to her shoulders, sun-tanned complexion, aged about forty. Her eyes were wide set, but not too wide and their color was something between amber and night.

"I'm glad you managed to come, Mr. Lawdon. Have a seat, please. Like a drink, alcoholic or nonalcoholic?"

"I'd rather have a nonalcoholic one, one third orange juice and the little rest filled up with rye if you don't mind."

She gave me the faintest smile I'd ever seen, maybe it wasn't a smile at all. She got my drink and seated herself opposite to me on a davenport.

 "Well, Mrs. Coleman, would you tell me the whole story."

She gave me a rough outline. Obviously her husband, Michael Coleman, had left their house three days ago and promised to be back in two days. She told me he was working as a consulting engineer for an international group and had to go abroad quite frequently. She had already tried to contact his secretary, but didn't succeed. So she wanted me to find out about his whereabouts, at least to get in contact with his secretary.

"What's the name of his secretary?"

"Olivia, Olivia Jackson. She should be in the office downtown."

She really seemed to be concerned about her husband and I finally agreed to take care of the case.

"I charge a flat fee of $250 per day including all my expenses."

"I guess you require a retainer, don't you? Would $1000 be okay?"

She issued a check for $1000. It had been a very long time I saw a one followed by three zeros on a check. So I said good-bye and promised to do my best. She showed me out and I gave her my finest smile. Before I got into my car, I had a short glance back and saw her standing in the doorway. Somehow I felt a sense of envy and I thought Mr. Michael Coleman ought to be a happy man and it was neither his Porsche nor his estate he should be happy for.

I drove the way back to San Diego.

2

"Is Mr. Coleman available, please?"

The blonde behind the desk in Mr. Coleman's office threw a look at me she had been practicing for many years. I was just about to confess that I had lied to my father when I was three, but before I could, she said, "Who wants to know, friend, business friend?"

"Both, we've been friends since we played together in a sand-box some forty years ago. It was then that I dug out a dime and promised to split the amount fairly, but I'm afraid, I never did. So today I came here to do what I should have done for years - to give him his share and to beg his pardon. You know, I should have stuck to our bargain!"

Apparently she didn't disapprove my words totally - to be honest, she became quite talkative, but still kept a straight face.

"He's on a business trip abroad. His secretary can give you more details. I'm afraid, she has some days off. By the way, I'm disgusted with people who owe money and don't repay it. So beat it!"

She wrote down name and address of Mr. Coleman's secretary and gave me that look again, but the second time it wasn't so impressive any more. You got used to it after a while.

Before I tried to get in contact with Olivia Jackson, I went back to my apartment in East Village. In former times this neighborhood was well-known for its drug addicts, prostitutes and vacant buildings. Though there had been a lot of urban renewal recently, some of the buildings were still in a pretty bad shape. In one of them I had my apartment, third floor, no lift. It was a one bedroom apartment, besides there were a closet, a bathroom and a kitchen, not to mention the two windows. To claim that lots of natural light was entering this upstairs unit would be a slight exaggeration. Part of the living room I used as an office.

What I was really proud of, was the illuminated doorplate made of elegantly styled polished brass with the engraved words 'Jacob Lawdon, Private Investigator'. Each time I read this, it reminded me of the fact that I was still living there and my landlord hadn't yet arranged the eviction.

I always felt I owed this fact - at least to some extent - to my doorplate. So I cleaned the plate at least twice a day.

Some repainting and wallpapering would have been quite a good idea too, but I thought I shouldn't give my clients the feeling that I wasted their money.

Well, it had been a long while since somebody could have had this feeling.

I had a shower and was ready to see Olivia Jackson.

Olivia Jackson lived in the east of Carlsbad, not far away from Lake Calmora. So I went northward on the I-5.

As a rule, early spring is the best time in the region around San Diego. The weather is rather mild and temperatures can rise up to the mid-60s.

Well, actually spring hadn't started yet, though we were very close to it - February had one more day to go. But even for February it had been quite cold for the last three days. Temperatures tried to jump over the 50s, but didn't succeed. The sky was gray and overcast and now and then it began to drizzle. On the other hand this also was the time of year when the meadows and pastures were lush and green. As the year continued, the landscape then decided there had been enough green and bade farewell to it for the rest of the year and said hello to a rather nondescript brown.

I took the highway exit 48 and drove eastward on Cannon Road.

It was quite a nice property, where Olivia Jackson was supposed to live. There was a pool, a pond and a little orchard. A place you could feel at home, not quite as posh as Abigail Coleman's estate, but you wouldn't get depressed if you had to stay here for a longer time. No car parked outside in the parking lot, somehow nobody seemed to be at home.

I guess it was my negative aura which scared off all the people I wanted to talk to.

I stopped my car and approached the entrance. Before I could ring the bell, the door was opened by an elderly thickset man.

"Hello, my name is Lawdon, Jacob Lawdon, I wonder if Mrs. Jackson is at home."

I all at once realized that he didn't like me or maybe it was only my name he wasn't fully satisfied with. He eyed me suspiciously and didn't say a single word. So I decided to supply him with some more food for thought.

"Well, you see, Mr. Coleman, her boss, needs a document she took home to work on. He already tried to get in contact with her. But she didn't answer his call. He intended to see her this morning, but unexpectedly he had to go on a business trip. I'm his colleague and he asked me to see Mrs. Jackson in his place."

This caused a lot of scrutinizing. You could watch him weighing up the pros and cons. The pros won.

"We had a lot of riffraff roundabout here in the last weeks. I'm one of Mrs. Jackson's neighbors. She asked me to keep an eye on her property as long as she was away. Walden is my name."

"Of course, Mr. Walden, you were perfectly right to treat me the way you did. So Mrs. Jackson isn't at home?"

"No, I'm sorry she isn't. She wanted to meet up with her husband in the hills. They've got a cabin near Lake Calmora and they intended to pretty and prepare it for spring time. You know, they spend quite a time up there. Actually, she wanted to be back yesterday, but obviously the clean-up took more time as they expected."

He gave me a short description how to get to Mrs. Jackson's cabin. He seemed to like me now.

You could call Lake Calmora a hidden pearl amidst Carlsbad. The lake is not for swimming, but it is a nice hiking area with different trails from easy to difficult. I wouldn't call the view on the lake breathtaking but the surroundings are quite idyllic. During summertime you should start your hiking tour early in the morning, because it's likely to get sweltering hot in the afternoon. Quite a strenuous trail leads you up to the crater of a former volcano. From the edge of the crater you have a beautiful overview of Carlsbad.

There are several entrances to this area. Mr. Walden recommended me a parking lot in the park. He told me to leave my car there and to take a 30-minute walk to get to the cabin of Olivia Jackson and so I did.

When I approached the cabin, I realized that a dirt road lead to the cabin from the north-east. It struck me that none of the shutters was open and there were neither a car nor any human being. The place was absolutely deserted - at least I thought it was.

I knocked and rattled at the front door. Then I  tried the back door. There was a rustle in the undergrowth behind me. Could have been a California pocket mouse or a ground squirrel, both of them were fairly common in this part of Southern California.

In a split second I noticed an enormous shadow to my left. According to the size of the shadow it would have been an enormous oversized ground squirrel. It gave off a distinct, strong odor.

I felt a dull pain that rushed through my head. The ground squirrel had knocked me down.

3

The squirrel was talking to me and what a miracle - I understood it perfectly. I could even recognize that typical Californian vowel shift so common in this area.

I opened my eyes. It was a human face; the squirrel had disappeared. The human face bent down to me and shouted,

"Hey, mister, are you okay?"

Oh yeah, I was really fine. I'm fond of being socked and knocked down. I pondered whether I should tell him the whole story and my nice chat with the ground squirrel, but I wasn't sure he would appreciate it. So I decided not to give my secret away and simply said,

"Who are you and how come you are here?"

A good question, I thought. In the scale of all the questions I've ever asked it was ranking quite highly.

"Well, I was walking my dog and let him run off-leash. When I followed him, I found you lying on the ground and blood trickled out of your head."

"Where's your dog?"

"Oh, he lost interest in you and pursues again his favorite hobby. He is chasing ground squirrels. You know, they bustle about here in large numbers. I guess you should have come across some of them before you took a nap."

"I tripped over one of them. The result you know."

He got slightly peeved.

"You are kind of a smart-aleck, aren't you? I should have listened to what my mother said some forty years ago. She used to tell me over and over again not to talk to strangers. Actually I wanted to ask you if I could give you a lift with my car, but I won't."

He rather rapidly disappeared. I got up, still a bit dizzy, but the bleeding had stopped. Oh, what a tough guy I was. I even managed to balance on both legs.

I tried the back door a second time. Nobody socked me, hit me, punched me, but again the door didn't yield. But I spied a rather small window without a shutter. I suppose it belonged to the bathroom. It took me some efforts, but in the end I managed to open it and to wriggle through the opening.

It was quite dark inside. However, after a while my eyes got adapted to the darkness. I opened two more windows and now had enough light to search the cabin.

Somebody had been here before and had taken out all personal items. No photo, no notice, no evidence at all. When I was just about to leave, I spotted a scrap of paper jammed in a joint of the corner seat, easily to be overlooked.

It was part of an invoice of a car repair shop. Name and address of the car owner could be clearly read. Mike Young was his name.

It might be a good idea to see Mr. Young. Actually he was my only clue to find out where Mr. Coleman was and why he didn't contact his wife. Something was fishy about Mr. Coleman and all the people involved. Not even I was knocked down for nothing.

I set out for the way back to my car.

It was in the early afternoon when I got back to my car. The drizzle and all gray had gone. The sun broke through the sky and the temperature now clearly exceeded the 50s. If you disregarded the rest, it had been a perfect day up to now.

According to the address on the invoice, Mr. Young lived in the ranching community of Santa Ysabel. 

It took me about an hour to get there. When I approached, I realized the property included two parcels, one with the ranch house and one with the barn and some other outbuildings. A real estate agent would have called the property a bit of a fixer which needed TLC and some facelift.

If I wasn't a realtor, it would take a lot of euphemism to describe its condition as rundown.

The door opened and a woman aged between forty and fifty years appeared. When she had been young she probably was a looker. But now her face looked careworn and tired of the desperate struggle to survive from one day to the other. Her posture showed she had lost this struggle a long time ago.

"What's the trouble?"

"I'm sorry to trouble you. My name is Lawdon, Jacob Lawdon."

"Hell, that's you! Didn't I see you in America's Most Wanted some years ago?"

Well, my story about my colleague Coleman had worked once and I didn't feel like making up another one.

So I answered, "Could be. But to be honest, I'm looking for my colleague, Mr. Coleman."

"We had coleslaw the other day. Didn't come across the man."

This remark was at least as bright as my squirrel story, so I decided to stay polite.

"Well, my company gave me the address of his secretary, Olivia Jackson. Somebody told me she was in her cabin near Lake Calmora. But I missed her. In her cabin she left a note for me and asked me to contact Mike Young. So I came here to ask him how to find Mrs. Jackson."

She tried a touch of a smile, but it didn't work. She lacked the opportunities to practice.

"Mike is my son. He's over there fixing the roof of the chicken coop."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Young. I guess you don't mind if I exchange some words with him, do you?"

My carefully chosen words paved the way for success. Evidently they found her approval because without another word she turned around and slammed the door. I took that as her politest way to say yes and walked over to ask Mike Young about his relation to Mrs. Olivia Jackson.

4

Mike was a rather tall lanky lad. I estimated his age around eighteen, maybe nineteen. He was about six and a half feet tall, nearly half a foot taller than I. He had a smooth and - though it was still February - rather tanned skin. His eyelashes were a bit too long and too full for a man. Together with his full lips and his dark brown eyes his face had that dreamy look which women are so fond of.

"Hi, your mother agreed, when I asked her if I could talk to you."

"I'm sure my mother didn't agree. To agree is not part of her vocabulary."

"Well, I guess, you are right. She slammed the door in my face. I thought this could be interpreted as an approval."

"It could, but you never know."

He had a pleasant and friendly voice. However, it sounded a bit tense.

"Well, my name is Lawdon. I wanted to talk to Mrs. Jackson. I was told she was cleaning up her cabin near Lake Calmora. So I went there to see her. But nobody was there, only a note with your name and address. This gave me the idea that you might be a friend of hers. Thus I decided to come here and ask you if you knew where she may be."

"As a matter of fact, I'm not one of Olivia's friends. But her daughter and me are rather good friends."

"Rather good or rather more than rather good?"

"Rather more."

"Well, I guess, you know that cabin. I wonder if you happen to have been there recently."

Even under his tanned skin you could see him blushing down to the roots of his hair. He decided to opt for a preemptive strategy.

"I went there, not today, but yesterday."

"Did you go inside?"

He dithered. He chewed my question over and over again. Finally he had made up his mind.

"Yeah, I did."

For such a lot of brainwork these three words were a heart-stopping result. Maybe he was willing to pad his story with some more details if I kept being a nice guy.

"Did you have a key?

"There's a key underneath a stone to the left of the door. Actually, everybody would find it if he wanted to."

Well, everybody but one.

"And why did you go there?"

The brainwork started again. Not quite as long as before, however, the result was a bit more luxurious.

"I guess you'll find it out sooner or later. So here's my part of the story. Emma had picked a quarrel with me. You see, actually she's a wonderful girl. I am really fond of her. But when there's the slightest critical remark concerning her mother, she would crack up. You see, I suspected that her mother had an affair with another guy. I simply said that in my opinion this affair wasn't fair as far as her father was concerned. Emma began to yell at me. In the end we yelled at each other. She completely flew off the handle. She called me names and told me not to poke my nose in things that were none of my business. She ran out and said this was the end of our relationship."

"So, why didn't you run after her?"

"I wanted to wait until she calmed down again.

As a rule, she calls me the next day and apologizes."

"And did she apologize?"

"No, she didn't. This quarrel took place three days ago. I tried to call her, but there was no answer. At first I didn't worry about her because I was sure she would get in touch with me soon. I thought she might be up in the hills in their cabin. Therefore, I went there yesterday. Neither she nor her mother was there. In the meantime I'm deeply concerned."

"You have got no idea where they might have gone?"

"I'm afraid, I haven't."

I felt I had reached a deadlock. Though he had given some quite interesting pieces of information, it actually didn't take forward my investigation.

I gave him my card, one that didn't show my occupation. I asked him to get in touch with me if he remembered anything else. We then had some small talk, among other things about the warm welcome I'd received by his mother.

We agreed that it was certainly better to call it a day while we were still friends.

So I went over to my car and drove back to San Diego. Tomorrow morning I'd ring up Mrs. Abigail Coleman and ask her how to carry on.

What a successful day was coming to an end. I got to know Mrs. Coleman. I tried to find her husband and his secretary, but failed. I met ground squirrels, a dog and his owner. I was knocked down and I still didn't know by whom, though I had my preference. I met a friendly woman who slammed the door into my face and I had an interesting chat with the friendly woman's son.

My client should be really happy with me. Her money was obviously well invested.

Well, I guess, I had to do what I mostly did when I had to deal with such a situation. I had to play it by ear, which every now and then worked, at least more or less.

I arrived home at about 10 p.m. My brass doorplate was still there.

I felt it had been a hard day and I went to sleep.

5

The phone rang. I tried to ignore it, but in round five I lost the fight. I got up. My watch showed midnight.

"This is Abigail Coleman. Hope I didn't wake you up."

"Shall I be polite or honest?"

"Both, if you could make it."

"Okay, I really do appreciate the fact that you kept me from sleeping away the whole night. Polite enough?"

"Well done. But I'm afraid I had to call you. You know, my husband came back some minutes ago. So you don't have to investigate anymore."

"Good news. Where has he been all the time?"

"Oh, that's a bit complicated. I'd rather not talk about it."

"I still have a retainer of $1000. You know, even if I deduct my fee for one day, there's still quite a lot left."

"Well, it's not your fault my husband popped up so unexpectedly. So keep the money."

"You are really generous, Mrs. Coleman. But I don't like being paid for doing nothing."

"I didn't realize that you had such a strict code of ethics."

"I'm afraid there isn't much else I can stick to."

"So, what's your reason for being a PI?"

"I simply want to find out the truth."

"The truth is that my husband is back again. So, what seems to be the trouble?"

"Well, Mrs. Coleman, when I tried to find your husband, I learned that his secretary had disappeared too. I went to her cabin up in the hills near Carlsbad. I thought nobody was there, but that nobody knocked me down before I could get into the cabin. Later on, I got to know that neither your husband's secretary nor her daughter could be traced."

"Your task was to find my husband. He returned on his own. I didn't ask you to find his secretary and her daughter."

She hung up and I was left back with the $1000 retainer and the rest of the night.

I'd see Mrs. Coleman and maybe Mr. Coleman within the following days and give her back the rest of the money. I knew my VW was looking forward to a reunion with the Mercedes and the Porsche.

March had kicked out February. The gray and the drizzle had gone and the sun was shining. It was a perfect morning of a perfect forthcoming day. At least the morning tried as hard as possible to become a perfect day. However, the morning failed. 

I was just about to set out for Mrs. Coleman when the phone rang again.

It was Mike Young. Maybe he had finished the fixing of the chicken coop and just wanted to let me know.

"It's me, Mike. Remember, you gave me your card yesterday."

"Yeah indeed, I did. You wanted to check the phone number?"

"Not really. But you asked me to call you if I remembered anything else concerning Emma."

"Do you?"

"Actually not, but I received a postcard from her this morning."

I had the feeling that our chat had been a bit more fluent yesterday afternoon.

"Well, Mike, I'm so happy for you. I also like to get postcards. It may be asked too much if you told me what she wrote?"

"Actually she didn't write anything."

"Wow! And how do you know the postcard was sent by her?"

"Well, she signed it with Emma."

"Did she? So, what else did Emma write?"

Well, it was really great fun to go back to square one again.

"Nothing, it was a picture postcard with some preprinted greetings on it. Only her name was handwritten."

"Okay, now I got it. Where did the postcard come from?"

"It showed a picture of a beach somewhere in Florida."

"I see. Here's one more question. Did you receive a lot of postcards from your girlfriend Emma in the past?"

"In fact, it was the first one I ever got from her."

"Well, do you mind if I drop in on you - let's say this afternoon or maybe tomorrow? I'd like to have a closer look at the postcard."

"That's okay. See you."

Well, Mrs. Abigail Coleman was absolutely right. Anything concerning Olivia Jackson, let alone her daughter, was none of my business. There wasn't anybody who had given me any order to search for one or both of them. Even Emma's boyfriend hadn't asked me to do so. There was no big money to be made with any further investigation. Actually big money would be a slight exaggeration. No money at all, only expenses would fit better. Moreover, I knew I'd get into trouble if I carried on. I always got.

It was a short but tough fight between Jacob and Lawdon. This time it was Jacob who won. He decided to see Mrs. Coleman again. Well, actually I had to give back her money, but I would have gone there in any case. Money was a mere smokescreen. Lawdon knew this and Jacob knew this too. I'm not sure if there's a sucker born every minute. But I guess that this was at least likely to be true for East Village in the morning of the 1st of March.

It became a kind of habit to go to East County after breakfast, like taking a dog for a walk. I could get used to it, but I wasn't sure if Mrs. Coleman would. Her property looked very much the same as it did the day before. The parking area looked a bit more spacious as the Mercedes was missing. As it was a rather flat ground it still didn't take you more than ten minutes to walk over to the Porsche. This time I not even had to ring the bell or knock at the door. When I approached the entrance, the door opened and Mrs. Coleman appeared to welcome me. Apparently she didn't feel like showing me her home a second time.

She wore a red leather jacket over a white shirt, blue jeans and heeled black shoes. The night had disappeared from her eyes. They were mere amber now.

When she spoke her voice was still soft and gentle and at the same time firm and clear.

"I saw you coming up the driveway and I decided to receive you outside. So you can spare yourself the trouble of ringing the bell."

There was a bit more than irony and a bit less then sarcasm in her voice.

"I got it, Mrs. Coleman. You have a nice way to say 'get lost'!

"I didn't realize you were such a sensitive guy."

"Oh yes, I am. I expect people to cry over me all day long, at least when they can afford it."

"I'm afraid, I cannot afford it. So, Mr. Lawdon, what's it about?"

"We talked about it in the context with ethics, didn't we?"

"I remember, it was about ethics and money or was it the other way round?"

"I talked about your money, you talked about my ethics."

"I guess you are right. It was me who mentioned ethics. What a big word ethics is. Maybe the word fairness would fit better."

All of a sudden something had changed. It was in her voice, in her face and in her bearing. There was a touch of sadness in all of them.

"I think we should deal with ethics and fairness more thoroughly. You know, you can see them from various angles. Why don't we talk it over inside your house?"

"Yes, we should. Come in."

I followed her.

"Same drink as last time, Mr. Lawdon."

"No, thanks, orange juice will do. I only have rye in it the very first time. Someone told me a long time ago it would make people believe that I was a really tough guy. But times have changed. I guess somehow this doesn't work anymore. Neither do people believe it nor am I tough any longer."

"I like people who try to be honest."

"So, Mrs. Coleman, could you try to be honest to me too? Maybe it was a good idea to start with your husband."

"Well, I didn't lie to you when I called you last night. My husband turned up yesterday night. I then told him that I had been really concerned about his missing and that I didn't understand why he didn't get in touch with me."

"And what did he answer?"

"Actually he said nothing. And that really made me angry.  Well, Mr. Lawdon, you talked about honesty and me about fairness. I felt my husband was neither honest nor fair to me."

"What happened then?"

"I shouted at him. He shouted at me. Then he turned around and ran out of the house. He drove away with the Mercedes. I haven't heard of him since."

"How had he come here? When I saw you yesterday, I spotted his car on the parking area, so either he had been here yesterday or somebody had given him a lift yesterday night."

"The second alternative is the correct one."

"How do you know?"

"Before he opened the front door, the slamming of a car door was to be heard."

"Could you see the car, its type, color, make and so on?"

"No, I'm afraid, I couldn't. Before I had a chance to see it through the window, it had left already."

"How was your husband dressed? Any luggage or travel accessories?"

"He was dressed as he always is for business. Grey suit, blue tie, black shoes. And he had a briefcase and a small suitcase with him."

"Last time I was here, you didn't describe your husband nor did you show me a picture of him. Would be quite a good idea to know what was inside the grey suit, wouldn't it?"

Without a word she got up and was back within a minute. She gave me a picture. It showed her and her husband. He was a tall, handsome guy with broad shoulders, fair hair and a winning smile.

"It was taken on our wedding anniversary last year."

"Both of you look very happy."

"I'm still in love with him and up to yesterday I was sure he was in love with me too. But now I think he cheats on me with whomsoever."

"And how come you think he does?"

"His eyes lacked honesty."

"Come on, Mrs. Coleman, that's no evidence."

"And I found a ring with a ruby in his jacket. I wanted to take the jacket to the dry cleaner's this morning and checked it before."

"Probably the ring was a present for you."

"I hate rubies. Furthermore, the ring is a fake. It does not only look cheap. It is all cheap. I cannot imagine that my husband intended to give me this junk."

"People change their mind, at least sometimes."

"Don't be so cynical!"

"Apart from ethics it helps me to stay alive, Mrs. Coleman. Anyway, you might be right. So what do you want me to do?"

"Well, there's still some money left from the retainer I gave you yesterday. I know, you want to give it back to me because of what you call ethics. Please keep it and find my husband."

"As I mentioned the other day, I don't take divorce cases."

"You said that people sometimes change their mind, didn't you?"

"And you said I shouldn't be cynical. Anyway, I told you I'll be making some further inquiries concerning your husband's secretary. Maybe when I find her, I'll find your husband, too. By the way, do you happen to know his secretary?"

"Yes, I do. She's quite an attractive woman, approximately my age, half a head smaller than me, dark hair. I'd never had the idea that she had an affair with my husband."

"Well, Mrs. Coleman, things sometimes turn out to be different from what had originally been expected. There is one thing which just came to my mind. You talked about that ring with the ruby you found in the pocket of your husband's jacket. Was this ring packed in a small box or something like that?"

"Yes, indeed, it was inside a little box."

"Do you still have this box? Maybe it'll give us a hint to where it was bought."

She left the room and was back in a minute together with a little box in royal blue and the ring. The name and address of a jeweler was imprinted on the box. It was an address in Carlsbad.

"Could I have both? And a picture which shows your husband would also be quite helpful. I have to go to Carlsbad anyway. So I can see the jeweler. Perhaps he remembers who he sold the ring to."

She handed ring, box and a photo over to me. The sadness in her eyes hadn't disappeared, but part of it had been replaced by anger.

I said goodbye and went over to my car. I didn't look back. I knew she was standing in the doorway and if I had been her husband, she would have waved to me. I would have really liked it. But, as a matter of fact, she wasn't my wife nor was I her husband. 

If Mr. Coleman really had cheated on his wife, I failed to comprehend it.

6

I arrived in Carlsbad shortly after 11 a.m. and parked my car in front of the jeweler's shop. It didn't belong to those elegant and exclusive