Blue City

chapter 18

I listened, and heard the quick footsteps on the boards of the back porch. The girl went to the kitchen door, opened it slightly, and peered through.

“It’s all right,” she said. “It’s Allister.”

“Allister!” I got up and moved towards the hall. “I better get out of here.”

“Wait, he’s not after you. He’s always coming here.”

“To see you?”

“Don’t be silly. I suppose I might as well tell you, he comes to see Francie Sontag. He supports Francie.”

The footsteps had ascended another flight of steps, and could no longer be heard.

“Why didn’t you tell me? You talked as if Allister was a saintly character.”

“I did not. Anyway, I don’t hold it against a man if he keeps a woman. He can’t marry her, because his wife won’t give him a divorce. And he doesn’t run around with other women. I feel sorry for him, the way he has to sneak up the back way to see her.”

“It doesn’t seem to be much of a secret.”

“Not around here, but we don’t try to make anything of it. It’s just that if it got around among the respectable people” – she gave the phrase an ironic twist – “it would finish him in politics.”

“Wait a minute.” I was remembering the man’s voice in Francie Sontag’s apartment, the man’s gray coat on the arm of her chesterfield. “Was Allister with her last night?”

“How should I know?”

“I heard a man in her apartment–”

“It could have been Joe Sault. He sleeps there sometimes. Slept, I mean.”

“No, it wasn’t his voice.”

“It was probably Allister’s then. She doesn’t mess around with anybody else – she hasn’t for a couple of years.”

My mind put two and two together and got a five-figure number. “What’s Francie Sontag’s phone number?”

“Two-three-seven-four-eight. Why? I can go and get him if you want to talk to him.”

“Do you think I can trust him not to call the police?”

“If you can convince him you were framed. I’ve seen him help more than one fellow out of a bad spot.”

“Go and get him, then,” I said. “I’ll take another chance.”

“Another chance?”

“It’d take too long to explain. Ask him to come down, but don’t tell Francie I’m here.”

“Don’t worry.”

As she was leaving I said: “You don’t have a razor, do you?”

“Not the kind you use. It’s a little round one. I’ll show you.”

“Mind if I try shaving with it? My story’ll sound better if I’ve got a clean face.”

“Come in here.” She led me through the disordered bedroom into a small bathroom that opened off it. She rummaged in the cupboard above the sink, handed me a toy-like safety razor, and laughed at the look on my face.

“You haven’t any shaving soap?”

“I just use ordinary soap. I’m sorry.”

While she went upstairs I took off my coat and shirt, washed, and shaved painfully. I felt better then. The engines of my body started to reverse themselves again, shifting from the defensive to the offensive. I began to outline the tongue-lashing I intended to give Allister, and to wonder again where Kerch was.

The hall door opened when I was putting on my coat, and the two of them came into the apartment.

“I don’t like this, Carla,” Allister was saying. “Who is it that wants to see me? You know I don’t like anybody to see me here.”

“It can’t be helped this time,” she said.

I crossed the bedroom and stepped into the living-room.

He stood up when he saw me. “My God, man, how did you get here?”

“Car, bicycle, truck, and foot.”

“What on earth has been happening? Francie was just telling me about your phone call. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“You’re damn right it was, but it’s a little late for you to be hearing about it. Sault is dead and buried.”

“Sault!” Allister said incredulously. “Did you say Joe Sault?”

“Sault’s dead, and Floraine Weather’s dead. And every cop in town is looking for me.”

“I know that. I just came from the police station.”

“If you had come when I phoned you, you could have fixed Kerch for good. But maybe you don’t want to fix him?”

“Don’t jump to conclusions, Weather. I didn’t get your message until five minutes ago.”

“Maybe it was convenient for you not to get the message.”

Allister went pale and his whole body trembled with rage, but he kept his voice steady. “Can you listen to reason, Weather? I was out for hours, walking the streets. She told me about it as soon as she got in touch with me. Surely I haven’t given you any reason to believe that I’ve been working with Kerch.”

“You’ve got a chance to prove it now. Whistle your cops off my trail–”

“I’m afraid I haven’t the power. I’ll do what I can.”

“All right, here’s something you can do. Kerch committed murder at the Wildwood Inn last night. Twice. Garland and Rusty Jahnke helped him. If I hit them as hard as I think I did, they’re still out at the Wildwood. You know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Garland and Rusty are on the floor in the back kitchen. Are there any cops you can trust at all?”

“There’s Hanson. He’s a good man. And maybe two or three others.”

“Take them, then, and round up Kerch’s accomplices. There’s plenty of evidence against them in that kitchen, and Sault’s buried in the back yard. That’s something you can do if Kerch hasn’t got you hogtied.”

“I’ll do it. Are you going to stay here?”

“I haven’t decided. But for God’s sake, don’t tell the police I’m here! For Carla’s sake, at least.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Carla said. “You’ve got him all wrong.”

“I promise you I’ll be discreet. Good luck.”

“Good luck to you.”

“You see?” Carla said when the door had closed behind him. “I told you you could trust Allister.”

“He hasn’t done anything yet. I’m waiting for him to produce. You notice he didn’t say anything about rounding up Kerch.”

“I think he’s afraid of him.”

“Why should everybody be afraid of Kerch? I’m not.”

“I know you’re not.” She put both her hands on my upper arm and squeezed hard. “I think you’re wonderful; I really mean it this time. You never stop fighting, do you?”

“Like hell I’m wonderful!” But she made me feel that way. “Kerch is a nasty sort of organism, but he’s the kind of thing that decent people brush off and forget about. How he ever got this town by the tail, I can’t figure out.”

“He’s evil,” she said with intensity. “There’s nothing he wouldn’t do. That’s why decent people like Allister can’t cope with him. He plays a game without any rules at all.”

“I’ve forgotten most of the rules myself. I wouldn’t mind playing another rubber with Kerch.” A desperate plan was forming in my mind. If I could get Kerch by himself, now that Garland and Rusty were out of the picture, if I could get him by himself in the back room of the Cathay Club …

“From what you said last night,” I said, “I got the idea that Kerch liked you. Is that right?”

“I don’t think he likes anybody. He wants to make love to me, if that’s what you mean – his idea of making love.”

“Would he come if you called him, do you think?”

“Here?” An undercurrent of panic changed her face.

“No, not here – the Cathay Club. Would he come out there if you asked him to?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to try, either. I can’t bear him.”

“You wouldn’t have to bear him. I’ll get there before he does and meet him there, instead of you. He doesn’t know there’s any connection between you and me. I’ll show him stranger love-making than he ever dreamed of.”

“You said you couldn’t go on the streets. How would you get out there?”

“Have you got a car I can borrow? I should be able to make it in a car.”

“Yeah, I’ve got an old coupé.” Then her voice recovered its strength, as if she had made a decision that released energy inside her. “I’ll drive you. You can ride in the trunk compartment.”

“You’d be taking a chance–”

“I’m not afraid to take a chance. I’ll bring the car around, and you can slip out the back door.”

“There’s no chance that he’d be out at the club now?”

“He never goes out there in the morning. I’ll make sure, though.”

She went to the phone in the hall and rang the Cathay Club. Nobody answered, which suited me. Then, she called the Palace Hotel and asked for Kerch’s suite. I stood behind her and saw that the hand which held the receiver was trembling.

“Go away,” she said impatiently. “I can’t talk to him with you right here.”

I stepped into the living-room and closed the door. I couldn’t hear what she said, but I could follow the intonations of her voice. It moved from a teasing coyness through soft persuasion and unexpected delight, ending on a note of gentle anticipation. She had done what I wanted her to do, and done it beautifully, but my feelings were mixed. Women had so many emotional strata, you were always breaking through a layer you thought you knew and finding yourself in an atmosphere that was hard to breathe, a situation that was quite new and a little frightening.

When she came back into the room, I saw how much the conversation had taken out of her. She was pale again, and breathing quickly. Her mouth had lost its firm line. I walked towards her and put my arms around her. Her body rested hard against me from breast to knee, but her mouth made no response to my kiss. Her eyes were open and perfectly calm and cool. Suddenly she closed them and gave me the sweet and terrible gift of her tongue. A slip-stream wind blew away time and space. We were lost and holding to each other in a new element as powerful and wild as a breaking wave carrying us in to shore. We swayed and almost fell.

“We mustn’t,” she said. “It makes me so weak I can’t even stand.”

“You make me feel strong. You’re like the other half of my body.”

“That’s a crazy thing to say.”

“It’s not so crazy. You know the story that every pair of lovers was originally one person.”

“Uh-uh. Aren’t I ignorant?”

“Anyway, that’s the story. The people in the world are really just halves of people. Everybody is looking for his other half. When he finds it, it’s love. The whole person. We’re like that.”

“Are we?” It was a rhetorical question which meant that she didn’t believe in any kind of love. “It’s a pretty story.”

“We fit, don’t we? Like the two halves of an apple.”

“And an apple a day keeps the doctor away?”

“Don’t be so damn cynical. It makes me want to wring your neck.”

“But that would be suicide, the way you tell it.” She kissed my cheek and broke my embrace. “Let’s go, John. You said you wanted to get there before he does.”

She brought her car around to the back steps, and I had an uncomfortable ride in the rear compartment – uncomfortable, but safe. When she raised the door, the car was parked in the deserted parking lot behind the Cathay Club. She unlocked the back entrance, let me in, and closed the door behind me. The windowless hall outside Kerch’s office was pitch dark.

“You’d better go away and leave me here,” I said. “You don’t want to be here when Kerch comes.”

“When he sees my car, he’ll come in. I can go up to his room.”

“You’d be safer if you went home.”

“I’ll be all right upstairs. You take care of yourself.”

“Worry about Kerch,” I said. “So long. You’ve got a lot of guts.”

“Don’t kid yourself, I’m scared. But maybe there’s something in that fairy story you told me. It makes me feel good to be around you.”

“Beat it. There’s a car coming.”

I saw her shadow for a moment against gray light at the end of the hall. Then the door closed and shut me into darkness again. I took Garland’s automatic out of my pocket and made it ready to fire. The darkness was so thick I could hardly breathe it. But two or three facts were as clear in my head as objects under a searchlight. This was my last chance. If Kerch was alone I could break him down. If there was another man with him, I would have to kill the other man.

A heavy car crackled across the gravel, paused briefly, and backed to a stop just outside the door. A car door was shut. Slow footsteps came up to the door, and the door opened. I hesitated a second too long, making sure that there was nobody with him, nobody sitting in the car. He saw me and backed outside, slamming the door in my face. He let out a violent cry of “Help!”

Then I was on him, my hand twisting his collar into the soft flesh of his neck. His pearl-gray hat fell off and rolled in the dirt. He stuck out his thick tongue at me, and his protuberant eyes seemed almost ready to leap from his head like live slugs. A thin current of breath whistled shrilly in his throat.

I half carried and half dragged him through the door into the hall. There I loosened my hold on his neck and pressed the gun into the roll of fat which girdled his hips. I frisked him, finding no gun.

“Unlock your office. We have things to talk over.”

“I have no key,” he said hoarsely.

“Then I’ll break it down, using your head for a battering ram.” I depressed his head and brought it in sharp contact with the door.

“I’ll unlock it.” He found the key and did.

“Turn on the light,” I said. He turned on the light and I closed the door.

“You’re a frightful fool, Weather,” he began. “You have no chance whatever of getting away with this–”

I hit his jaw, hard enough to knock him down but not out. “Don’t be urbane. Now, stand up.”

He sat on the floor with his legs spread, looking up at me blankly.

“I said stand up! You don’t know how to take orders.” I put my hand inside his collar and jerked him to his feet.

“This is ridiculous–”

I hit him between the eyes, a little harder this time. He staggered back halfway across the room and fell on the couch. He lay where he was, with open eyes. Something in the posture of his gross body reminded me of an overfed baby, but there was nothing touching in the similarity.

“Don’t be urbane, and don’t stall. Stand up again.”

He lay where he was, awkward and appalled. I took him by the collar and raised him to his feet. He stood swaying. The gauze bandage had come loose from his cheek and the wound was beginning to bleed.

“What do you want me to do?” he said. “I didn’t kill your father.”

I hardly heard him. Nothing that he could say meant anything, anyway. In a few hours I had learned to know him as well as if we had been intimate for years. The terrible figure who had cast his shadow across the city melted away in my hands to nothing much. An empty man bundled in layers of flesh – ruled, like an evil child, by cruel appetites and perverse little desires. The great body was loose with fear, sweating freely from every pore.

“Open the safe.”

“I haven’t got the combination,” he said without conviction. “Rusty has it.”

I struck his mouth with the back of my hand. Two narrow streams of blood trickled from its corners and beslobbered his chin. Tears formed in his large soft eyes.

“You can beat me,” he said brokenly. “But I can’t open the safe.”

I struck his mouth again. The lower lip split like a plum that was rotten ripe. He put his hands over his face and moaned. Then he spread his palms in front of him, frowning miserably at the blood that smeared them. Two tears detached themselves from the inner corners of his eyes and glided down on either side of his nose.

“I can’t,” he said wildly. “I can’t open it.”

I struck his mouth again.

“I can’t,” he sobbed. “Leave me alone.”

“I’ve been gentle with you, Kerch. But you haven’t cooperated.” I raised the automatic and clicked off the safety. “Now, you’ll open it or I’ll kill you. Hurry.”

“I told you I can’t,” he whined.

“I won’t wait any longer.” I brought the gun to shoulder level and aimed it at his head.

He stared incredulously into the round hole through which death would come, too frightened to move. I saw the realization of death enter his eyes slowly. The realization that there would be no more Kerch, no more money to count and no soft small hands to count it, no more power and no will to power, no means of satisfying perverse desires and no more cruel appetites. No more Kerch.

He couldn’t face the loss of himself. “Don’t shoot,” he said in a voice as thin as death. “I’ll open it.”

“Hurry.”

I stood over him while his fingers cleared the dial. Ten. Twice around clockwise to fourteen. Counterclockwise passing thirty once, stopping on twenty-four. He pulled the heavy door open.

“Give me the papers that Mrs. Weather wanted.”

“They don’t matter now,” he said. “She’s dead.”

I cuffed his left ear with my closed fist. “Don’t argue, give them to me.”

He opened a drawer in the upper right-hand corner of the safe, but I saw the gun before his hand could close on it, and hammered his knuckles with the muzzle of my gun. He lay down on the floor and rolled gently from side to side, crying to himself.

“You made a mistake. Get up and try again.” I nudged his head with the toe of my boot. “Hurry.”

He climbed to his knees and opened the next drawer. It was a filing drawer, containing tabbed cards in alphabetical order. He took a thick envelope from the back of the drawer and handed it to me. The name “Mrs. J.D. Weather” was typed across its face.

I pushed him out of the way and looked at the tabs in the drawer. The first name was unknown to me. The second name was Allister. The envelope behind it had “Mr. Freeman Allister” typed across its face.

Kerch was standing in the center of the room, bowed over his hurt hand. I sat behind his desk and set down my gun in front of me.

“Sit on the couch,” I told him, and he did so.

Floraine Weather’s envelope contained a marriage certificate, a newspaper clipping, and a notarized document giving her power of attorney, for all business and legal purposes, to one Roger Kerch. The marriage certificate stated that a woman named Floraine Wales had been married to a man named Roger Kerch in Portland, Oregon, on the 14th day of May 1931. The headline of the clipping, which was from a Portland newspaper of the same day, was: “Vows Taken by Popular Young Couple.” The story began:

There was a fairly clear picture of the two of them at the top of the page. Floraine looked young and pretty and virginal in her bridal veil, but she was recognizable. The man beside her, identified as Roger Kerch, did not look like the Kerch I knew. The young man in the morning coat who held her arm was lean and handsome, with romantic dark eyes and a flashing smile.

I glanced at the frog-faced man who was sitting on the couch sucking his knuckles, and then back at the picture. I could almost feel sorry for him, until I remembered the last time I had seen Floraine. Kerch had changed, but time and disease hadn’t been too cruel to him.

I opened Freeman Allister’s envelope, and laughed when I saw what it contained.

“My Dearest, Dearest Francie,” the first letter began:

The letter was signed: “Your own Freeman.” It was dated March 23, 1944, when Freeman must have been quite a big boy.

“It didn’t take much to scare Allister, did it?” I said to Kerch. “I suppose Sault stole these from his sister for you.”

Kerch looked at me, and then at the door. The knob of the door was turning. I picked up the gun and crouched behind the desk.

“Be careful,” Kerch shouted. “He’s got a gun.”

“Come out of there,” said a voice I knew. “There are three of us, and we’ll shoot to kill if you don’t come out unarmed, with your hands up.”

“Let him have it, Moffatt!” another man said. “He’s a killer.”

A pounding burst from a submachine gun stitched six holes across the door. The invisible bullets crossed the room high above my head like a flight of rapid insects.

“Stop it!” Kerch yelled. “I’m in here! Kerch!”

“It’s all right, Mr. Kerch,” Moffatt called. “We’ve got him. Now, you, are you coming out?”

I threw down my gun and stood up with my hands raised. “I’m coming,” I said. “You can open the door.”