In the last episode of The Crowded Streets, Rocky was in the office of congressional candidate George Wilson, asking him what he had to do with the mysterious spiritual advisor Inglehoff, who may have caused the death of Wilson's opponent's legal counsel:
The most impressive thing in George Wilson's office, to my eyes, was a garrison cap hanging on a nail in the corner of his bookshelf. A small gold cluster near the front of it identified his rank as a major, and a faint, brownish stain near the back identified him as the kind of man who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty if circumstances called for it. He stood to make himself look taller. I stood so he could get a proper comparison.
He liked that. Even though he didn't like the idea I had just tossed out into the conversation, that Inglehoff had targeted his wife as a client because of her looks, he smiled. “You a veteran, Stone?”
I nodded. “Captain in the Army. Hit the beach at Normandy.”
He smiled changed to one of slightly embarrassment, as if he didn't have anything to top that. “I was in the Pacific,” he finally said. “Didn't see much action, if you want to know the truth.”
“You saw some, though.”
Wilson nodded absently as he briefly remembered what little action he had seen. The edge of his armchair was the closest thing for him to sit on so he rested there for a moment. I found myself standing at ease before I realized he wasn't a major anymore.
“Can I ask who hired you and what they want?” he sighed.
I shook my head. “Not at liberty to say who. But I was hired to find out about your opponent, Mr. Dixon. Some improprieties. That's what brought me to Inglehoff. He was the spiritual advisor to a man on Dixon's staff. One day I show up at Inglehoff's office and the man is sitting there in a trance. I ask a few questions and Inglehoff says a word to him, like a trigger. The man ran off like he didn't have control over himself. Name of Carl Franklin. Maybe you've heard of him.”
It would have been a shock if he hadn't. Franklin's picture had been on the top of every paper in town. George Wilson looked thoughtful for a moment as he reviewed the facts that had been in whatever rag he chose to read in the morning: Carl Franklin, legal counsel of Congressman Howard Dixon, drives his car at full speed off San Carlos Pier. Reason why, still unknown. After a few seconds it dawned on him: Inglehoff is connected. I was seen with him. I'll have to explain why I was seen with him.
He spoke quickly: “My wife put me in touch with Mr. Inglehoff. I visited him at his office a few weeks ago, but I can't see why that would have anything to do with... You see, Inglehoff is reasonably well-connected. There was a possibility that he could get me in touch with Gilbert King, possibly an endorsement.” He shrugged. “Nothing more than that.”
Gilbert King was the kind of name that made politicians in Los Diablos listen, the same way the name Cecil B. DeMille made actors sit up and take notice. King had built up a fortune in the last twenty-five years through Millways Construction, the largest company in town. You could say that he had built half of Los Diablos and the half he didn't build wouldn't have been around either if not for his approval. A man with King's power and fortune behind him was a shoo-in. He was smart. The newspapers rarely talked about King and if they did it was always for some philanthropic deed or other, donating to a children's home here or a library there. He had spent millions, yet nothing in town bore his name, not even his own company.
George Wilson's wife put him in touch with Inglehoff. She was one of those young, attractive clients I had mentioned earlier, and Wilson didn't like the insinuation, even though it had crossed his mind more than once. So I asked him: “What does your wife know about Inglehoff?”
He stood again. “My wife has nothing to do with this.”
“I beg to differ. You wouldn't know Inglehoff from a hole in the wall without her.” I made tracks for the door. “Let's ask her, shall we?”
Wilson made good time following me but I beat him to the door, threw it open. The secretary's eyes opened wide at the motion, then narrowed like a nanny's at an unruly child. By now Wilson was already yelling something to the effect that I had outstayed my welcome, alerting everyone in the area that something was going on. But he stopped when he realized something: there were plenty of people in the waiting area and the surrounding offices whose heads had turned, but there was a notable exception. His wife was no longer waiting patiently for him.
He cleared his throat and looked hopefully at his secretary. “Miss Hobbs, where is Martha?”
“I'm not certain, Mr. Wilson,” she replied. “When you went into your office, she stood up and simply walked out. She left in a hurry. I asked her where she was going, but she didn't say a word. It was almost like she was...”
“...in a trance,” he said, finishing the sentence.
“Just like Carl Franklin.” I added. “We've got to find her.”
Can Rocky get to Martha Wilson on time, or will she suffer the same fate as Carl Franklin? Find out in the next episode of The Adventures of Rocky Stone!
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