“You remember when I saw you the other day, I asked if your brother ever smoked reefers. Ryan did, you know. You denied it. And today Kolmar denied that any of his people ever indulged. But that angle keeps coming into this case. When Ryan’s body was discovered, they found roaches— marijuana cigarette butts—in his trailer. Some viper broke into my apartment shortly after I started to work on the murder and left part of a stick there. I’ve reason to suspect Polly Foster was on tea herself.”
Billie nodded at me. “You sound as if you knew a lot about it.”
“I do. You see, I used to go off on a stick-kick myself. Oh, I wasn’t an addict, but a few years back I went to a party and somebody passed the muggles around just for laughs. I tried one and liked it. Didn’t get high, because I didn’t know the technique of smoking. You’ve got to suck in a lot of air along with the smoke when you inhale.
“Turned out that this girl—it was a girl and I’d been seeing quite a lot of her—was a regular user. She taught me how to use the weed. Pretty soon I was sending myself with the stuff any time I felt down. Never bought any of it directly: she got it from a pusher, but she wouldn’t tell me the source and I didn’t ask.
“Don’t get me wrong, now. I wasn’t dependent; the drug didn’t have a physiological hold on me. Marijuana works differently on different people, just like alcohol. Some people drink and get sick, others get drunk and get a glow. Some people have to drink, others can go out and get drunk and then lay off for as long as they like. That’s the way it was with me and reefers. I’d pad up with this girl once a week or so and go out of this world. I won’t deny I got pleasure from it, and I thought I knew what I was doing at the time. Until I found that I was starting to hit the stuff twice a week, then oftener. And not just in private, either. We went to a couple of parties when we were high. We never got into any trouble, because people thought we’d had a few drinks. Except for a few others like ourselves who knew the score because they indulged themselves.
“But you only think you know the score when you get into something like that. It creeps up on you gradually. You get careless about the amount you smoke, the frequency. Worst of all, you begin to get that smart aleck feeling, that snotty fraternity outlook, as though you were the privileged member of a secret society. Using your private language, your slang code, you think that you and your fellow addicts are just a little smarter and just a little better than anyone else. You’re a solid sender, the non-addicts are squares.
“Of course, the actual smoking helps to give you that sense of false security, false superiority. When you’re high you can do anything without getting hurt. Like piling into the car with your girl at two in the morning and barrelling off to Las Vegas to get married at a hundred miles an hour.
“That’s what I did, one morning last year. Both of us high, and the car sailing along on a little pink cloud while we giggled at nothing and watched the road curve like a snake. That’s what I told her, ‘It’s like driving over a snake’s back.’ I remember, because it was the last thing I said when we went around the curve without slowing down and I hit the side of the culvert.
“When I woke up, I was in the hospital, minus an eye. And she was already buried. End of story.”
“So that’s what happened,” Billie murmured.
“Yes, that’s what happened. They thought it was an accident, and I said it was an accident, but I know differently. I was responsible for that girl’s death. Sure, I paid for it in a way: lost her, lost an eye, lost a good business. But there’s still another installment due on the debt. I’ve quit the habit myself and I’d like to go after the source of the stuff. They peddle it all over town, you know that. Peddle it to people who are hungry for thrills, for kicks, for escape. And I know what kind of escape it brings. The kind it brought to Dick Ryan, the kind it brought to my girl.
“Now do you see why I want to go on? This thing is a racket, a big, vicious racket, involving important money and entangling important people. You’ve read enough about the estimates on the number of addicts in this country, the yearly take on the traffic. And you’ve read what addiction does to some people. As I said, not all of them turn into drug-crazed killers, the way the sensation mongers like to picture them. But plenty of them get into the kind of mess I got into. Thousands more ruin their health, ruin their reputations, ruin their lives because of the need to procure a regular supply from the pushers who bleed them white. They’ll do anything to get the stuff: beg for it, steal for it, even kill for it if they have to. I’m not turning moralist on you, just telling you the accepted facts. At least, that’s the way I feel about it. And it’s the reefer angle in these killings that makes me want to continue.
“I’ve never told anyone this before. I don’t quite know why I’m telling you except that maybe, if you understand, you can help me.”
I stopped. Now I looked at her. The brown eyes were still grave, but this time her hand was squeezing mine.
“I’m glad you told me,” she said. “Because it makes it easier for me to tell you. I was going to, anyway. That’s why I came.” She paused. “I—I lied the other day.”
“About your brother?”
“Yes. He did smoke reefers. He, and Ryan. I don’t know about any of the others. But that’s why he was so jittery and upset there at the last. He couldn’t get his usual supply.”
“Who was he getting them from?”
“I don’t know. He never talked about it to me, of course; he didn’t even realize I knew. But I’d read enough and heard enough to recognize a marijuana cigarette when I saw one, and he got careless about cleaning out his room. Gibbs knew, too, because he’d seen Tom smoking.”
“Did Gibbs have any ideas where your brother got his stuff?”
“No. I asked him. From Ryan, or Ryan’s friends—that’s what he thought. And then, after Ryan died, something went wrong.”
“Did you tell the police this?” I muttered.
“Of course not. That’s the part I couldn’t tell anyone. You know what it would do to Tom’s reputation. I was thinking of that the other day when I came to you, hoping you could find out something without the police getting wind of it. Now that Tom’s dead, I don’t want his name blackened.”
“But you should have told them,” I said. “If it helps them to find the killer...”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t do any good for me to say my brother was an addict. If I knew anything more than just that, yes. But that’s all. And they already have the information on Dick Ryan; that should be enough.”
“What’s their theory about your brother’s death?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. They just kept asking me questions. Who were Tom’s friends? Did he have any enemies?”
“Did he?”
“None that I know of.”
“How about him and this man Dean?”
“I don’t know.” She brushed her hair from her forehead. “You’re just as bad as the police.”
“Sorry.”
“I don’t really mean that.” Billie smiled at me. “It’s just that I’m so sick of questions, questions, questions all the time.”
“One or two more, and that’s all,” I promised. “Did they find anything out about who called your brother that last evening?”
“No. He answered the phone himself.”
“And that was the only call he got?”
She leaned forward again. “That evening, yes. But when we were leaving for the funeral, there was another.”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No. Because of what I said, about Tom’s reputation. She was nothing but a tramp. I hated her, and I wasn’t going to—”
“Who? Tell me.”
Billie hesitated. “That Mexican girl—Estrellita Juarez.”
“She phoned before the funeral?”
“Yes. I heard Tom talking to her in the next room. He didn’t speak to me about it after, but he let her name slip during the conversation.”
“What did he say?”
“I can’t remember. Something about wanting to see her, and why was it impossible. Something else, he was thanking her but he wasn’t scared.” She paused. “Yes, that’s what he said, I recall now! He wasn’t scared, and he wouldn’t think of leaving. But that doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“First sense I’ve heard,” I muttered. “Don’t you see now? The cops have been looking for this Juarez dame from the start. She disappeared right after Ryan’s death. Why? Obviously because she knows something about it and doesn’t want to be questioned. She called your brother to warn him, warn him about something or someone threatening his life. Told him to get out of town, probably.
“No wonder he was nervous; that, plus being deprived of weed. Then, sometime during the evening, he got another call. He went somewhere and the warning came true.”
Billie Trent frowned. “Then you think I should go to the police now and tell them about that call?”
It was my turn to frown. “You don’t want to, do you? Because your brother and Juarez were...?”
She nodded.
“All right. Let me handle it. I’ve got a hunch that even if the cops know she’s still in town, they won’t be able to find her. Even if they do, she wouldn’t talk. Maybe I’ll have better luck. At least, it’s worth a try.”
“You’ll be careful?”
This was my day, all right. Two women in a row telling me to be careful. I gave her hand a final pat. “Sure. Careful Clayburn, that’s me.” We got up and left the restaurant. “Can I drop you off?”
“No. I’m staying in town, at Gerry Summer’s house, until after the funeral. You’ll be there?”
I’d forgotten all about it. “Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow?”
“That’s right.”
“See you then.”
We parted on the corner. I went back to my office, and read the mail. I was particularly interested in a little bulletin from the editorial office of an eastern newspaper. They were starting a Sunday supplement and indicated they were open to the submission of short stories. Their requirements specifically emphasized that they were not interested in murders, crimes of violence, sexual transgressions, marital infidelity; no profanity or drinking in the stories, and absolutely nothing offensive to religious organizations or reflecting upon the morals and integrity of any group.
I did a little wondering about what would happen if they should apply the same standards to the real life stories on their front page, and then forgot it. Maybe they had something there; maybe their readers wanted a diet of pap for escape. Maybe they felt safer if they sat back and closed their eyes to the terrifying truth all around them.
But I couldn’t. I knew too much of the truth, because I’d been a part of it. And I had the rather stubborn personal conviction that the more people who knew the truth, the better. The truth about what makes people dope, and drink, and deviate and dissemble and destroy. Destroy...
I picked up the phone and called Bannock’s house. The maid answered.
“Hello, Sarah, this is Mr. Clayburn. Is Mr. Bannock there?”
“No sir, he’s out for the evening.”
“Mrs. Bannock?”
“She’s out, too.”
“Thank you. Tell Mr. Bannock I’ll get in touch with him tomorrow.”
That was that. Nothing to do now but go home and wait for tomorrow.
I locked the office and went downstairs.
Without realizing it, I’d had my luck working with me when I called and found Bannock was out. Because if he’d been home I’d have talked to him. And I wouldn’t have reached the street just when I did. Just in time to see the squad car pull up behind my heap.
I was out the door and down the street before anyone noticed. They didn’t go up right away; they were opening the door of my car. It took three cops to do it. One of them opened the glove compartment and brought out Kolmar’s gun. I could see him pointing at it, saying something.
He put it in his pocket and sat there in the front seat. The other two cops started for the doorway of the office building. I didn’t wait to see them go in. I knew all I needed right now.
Kolmar had started something. Probably cooked up some story about me coming out there and attacking him and Dean and stealing his gun. That’s a criminal offense. At least, it would be criminal enough to get me locked up. Locked up and out of the way.
So they’d come looking for me at the office. They’d be looking for me at the apartment, at the hotel. Technically now, I was a fugitive from justice.
What does a fugitive from justice do?
I know what I did. I walked over to the Hotel Mars and took a room under the name of Orville Wright. It was that kind of a fleabag. I could have brought in a blonde and registered her with me as my brother Wilbur and nobody would ask any questions. Any more than they did when they saw I didn’t have any baggage. Five bucks on the line in advance; that’s all they cared to know about.
I went upstairs and sat down in my crummy little room and spread my crummy little assets on the crummy little bed. Forty-four dollars and twelve cents in cash. A driver’s license, but no car any more. A key to an office which I wouldn’t dare to use. My own gun was up there, in the desk. A social security card, but no feeling of being socially secure to go with it.
There wasn’t much security left for me now, I realized; not with my name out, and my description. This eye-patch was easy to spot anywhere. I didn’t have much chance. And I didn’t have much time.
That was the rub. If I intended to do anything, I’d have to work fast from now on. The police were looking for me. Kolmar and his pals were looking for me. The murderer was looking for me, or was that last remark redundant? I didn’t know, but I’d better find out in a hurry. Somewhere in the streets below a siren wailed. I closed the window, pulled down the blinds and went to bed. That kept the siren out of everything.
Everything except my dreams.
Chapter Fourteen
I took a chance going out the next morning. I took a chance going into the barber for a shave, took another when I stopped off for breakfast.
But all this was only a rehearsal. A rehearsal for the big chance, when I called Bannock’s office.
The girl put me through.
“Mark. Where are you?”
“That’s what a lot of people would like to know. Have you heard?”
“Damned right I’ve heard. What’d you do?”
“Don’t want to talk about it over the phone. Where can I see you?”
“Better not come out here.”
“I didn’t intend to. But I want to go over some things fast. I’d counted on getting together with you at Trent’s funeral this afternoon. Now it looks as if I’m not going.”
Bannock was silent. “Hello?” I said, jiggling the receiver.
“I’m still here. Just thinking. Look, I’m leaving around noon to pick up Daisy. We planned to eat and then go to the funeral. Suppose I tell her to eat at home and I’ll come by for her later. That okay?”
“Fine.”
“Where’ll I find you?”
I hesitated. “You know Perucci’s?”
“You mean that spaghetti joint way down near the Union Station?”
“That’s the one.”
“Don’t tell me I’ve got to drive all the way down there.”
“Suit yourself,” I said. “It’s pretty tough on you, I know that. Me, all I have to worry about is how to dodge the police and a couple of strong-arm artists and a murderer.”
“All right, I’m sorry. I’ll be there. Twelve?”
“Good. Reason I picked it is nobody ever comes there at noon. And they’ve got a back room.”
“Fine. Mark, I’m awfully upset about getting you into such a mess.”
“Don’t be. If you want to help, here’s what you do. Try to get a line on Estrellita Juarez for me.”
“But I thought the cops—”
“Sure, they looked for her. Probably called Central Casting, stuff like that. You know a few people. Get on the phone this morning and ask around. Make it sound as if you had a part lined up, or she has a check coming for back work. Say anything. Do what you can for me. I think it’s important.”
“You do? You mean you’ve found something out?”
“Tell you when I see you.”
And I did.
He met me at Perucci’s and we ate spaghetti. That is, he ate spaghetti and I talked. While he was busy unraveling the stuff, I was busy unraveling the saga of the past two days, including, of course, my reasons for trying to locate Miss Juarez.
He shook his head. “No dice, pal. I tried. Called everybody in town. Nobody knows where she disappeared to. I even contacted Central Casting, just for the gag of it. They said her name had been dropped from the rolls. How do you like that?”
“I don’t. We need her, Harry.”
“If you say so, sweetheart.”
I stabbed my fork at him. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Matter? Nothing’s the matter. Why?”
“I don’t know. Anytime anybody makes with that ‘sweetheart’ stuff I get suspicious. Level with me, Harry. Has your wife been talking to you?”
He moved his head up and down between mouthfuls.
“Wants you to drop this investigation, is that it?”
Another movement.
“How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t know.” He pushed his plate back. “I’ve been doing some thinking, Mark. About this whole setup. Maybe she’s right. Maybe we made a mistake stirring up trouble when we didn’t have to. Just suppose I hadn’t gotten this idea of trying to clear Ryan’s name. So I wouldn’t sell the series to See-More for a while. What of it? In another five or six months or so, everybody’d have forgotten. I could sell it to them then, or someone else. But no. I had to play eager beaver. I had to get smart, call you in. And now where are we? With all these killings, Ryan’s name has fresh mud all over it.”
I tugged my mustache. “Is this you talking, Harry, or is it Daisy?”
“Oh, she gave me hell all right. But not about the business deal. It’s the murders that worry her. Ever since I got this call telling me to lay off she’s been frightened about it. Last night she told me about seeing you, made me promise to quit.”
“Did you promise?”
“Well—”
“Do you want to fire me?”
“Mark, what the hell are we going to do? I don’t want to get bumped off, and I don’t want to see you get bumped off, either. If Kolmar or anybody else finds out I’m responsible for you re-opening the case, my goose is cooked all over town. Look at the trouble he’s caused you already. You can’t expect to dodge the cops forever.”
“I don’t,” I said. “Just give me another twenty-four hours.”
“You really think you’re that close?”
“Just a hunch,” I answered. “If I could only talk to one or two people.”
“But couldn’t the police do it? If you went to them?”
“I can’t go to them. Kolmar’s fixed that. They’ll put me on ice so fast there won’t be a chance to get a word in edgewise. By the time they listen to me anything can happen. And you know what I mean by anything, Harry.”
“I know.”
“Besides, if I went to them, I’d have to go clean. Tell them the works, all about you hiring me and why. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Twenty-four hours, that’s all I ask. I’ve come this far. Maybe we can still save this deal for you. That’s worth a gamble, isn’t it?”
“If Daisy knew—”
“Don’t tell her, then. No sense of her worrying any more. Leave it to me, Harry. I’ll get word to you before tomorrow night. Either way.”
“Where you going now?”
“It’s best that you don’t know,” I said. “Give me a hundred on account, though. Hiding out costs money.”
He gave me two hundred.
“Thanks. Now run along and pick up Daisy and go to your funeral. Tell her I called you and you fired me over the phone because the cops are after me. Tell her anything that’ll make her happy. And just wait until you hear from me.”
Bannock scratched his head. “The way you act, anybody’d think you had some kind of personal interest in this case.”
I smiled at him. “Maybe you’ve got something there. After a guy gets his apartment broken into, his life threatened, his brains knocked out, and his liberty jeopardized by the police, he’s inclined to take a rather personal interest in such matters.”
Harry Bannock glanced around the back room, then pulled me over into the corner. “I almost forgot,” he murmured. “Can you use this?” His hand disappeared inside his coat, emerged again. I caught the glint of metal on a gun barrel.
“Where’d it come from?” I asked.
“It’s mine. I’ve been carrying it, ever since I got that call. But something tells me you’ll probably need it more than I will.”
“Something tells me you’re right,” I said.
I slipped the gun into my pocket.
“Careful, it’s loaded.”
I nodded. “Thanks.”
Then he went out and climbed into his big car, and I went out and climbed into the nearest drugstore.
They didn’t have what I was looking for, so I went to another, and another. Finally I hit a dingy little place which carried the product I was looking for. It was the City Directory.
Nothing so remarkable about that. You want to look somebody’s address up, that’s the first thing you go for. Even the cops use it.
But nine times out of ten, they look in the current issue. And nine times out of ten, that’s all they ever look in.
That’s why I tried the run-down drugstores, the ones with the dusty displays in the windows and the rubber goods counter up front. Sometimes they have an older edition of the Directory. This one did.
I turned to J in a hurry. Juarez. Plenty of names here; a lot of them right in this neighborhood, around Olvera Street. But no Estrellita. Of course, I could start calling or start hiking around. Maybe I’d strike a family sooner or later...if she lived with her family.
No, come to think of it, she wouldn’t have. She’d been Trent’s girl, and before that probably anybody’s. Including guys like Joe Dean.
Joe Dean. I went after the Ds now. Dean was living with Kolmar on the ranch, and he’d worked for Ryan. But where was he two years ago?
I found out. Dean, Joseph. And the address, on Broadway, not more than five blocks away.
Hunch, long-shot, call it whatever you like. I only knew that I had to start someplace. And it might as well be over on Broadway. That seemed to be the right neighborhood for what I was interested in.
I walked over, slowly. The afternoon sun was hidden by smog, and the streets were gray, gray as stone. And crawling along them were what you find when you turn over a stone.
This was Broadway. Not Broadway, New York. Broadway in L.A.; just a knife’s throw from Main and a blind stagger from Olive. Bumway. Skidway. Wrongway. The kind of a street you find in every big city. Even in that nice eastern city where the newspaper doesn’t want to contaminate its readers with sordid stories of unpleasant people.
I saw plenty of unpleasant people during my walk, and their sordid stories were usually quite apparent. There was a girl with platinum blonde hair who somewhat resembled Polly Foster in appearance. But her dress was sleazy, her eyes were puffy, and she was walking with a big Mexican who’d never put her in the movies; at least, not in the kind of movies that would lead to stardom in anything except a public health clinic. I noted a man of the same general physical build as Harry Bannock, up to a point. Down to a point, rather; he rolled along on a coaster platform because he lacked legs. I saw a baldheaded little fellow who might have passed for Abe Kolmar, except that Kolmar wouldn’t have been snoring in an areaway with an empty pint of rotgut cradled in his lap. A fellow resembling Al Thompson stood picking his teeth in front of a cigar store; he stepped out and offered to sell me some pictures Thompson would never have approved of, and said he could introduce me to the subjects if I so desired. I saw a man almost as handsome as the late Dick Ryan, in a Latin sort of way. He was cursing and being cursed by a fat Indian woman whose four offspring clung to her skirts and pummelled her pregnant belly. There was a girl about the same age and complexion as Billie Trent; at least I thought so until she turned her head and I saw the purple blotch covering the left side of her face. And there was a man with a mustache and an eye-patch, just like me. Only his patch covered both eyes, and he held out a battered tin cup. There but for the grace of God...
Yes, there but for the grace of God went all of us, and there seemed to be plenty the grace of God had somehow overlooked. Everybody overlooked them, including the nice, clean family newspapers and the smug little moralists who devoted their oracular pronouncements to solving the vital problems of people who couldn’t make up their minds between buying a new station wagon or taking a vacation in Hawaii this season.
I walked on, thinking there wasn’t anything particularly original about my philosophy. On the other hand, there wasn’t anything particularly original about a run-down neighborhood or its run-down inhabitants, either. Maybe they were happy. Maybe they pitied me. Most of them would, if they knew the police were looking for me. That they could understand.
And remembering, I kept a lookout for squads or patrolmen. My luck held. My luck held all the way to the Harcourt Apts.
That’s what the grimy stone lettering read: Harcourt Apts., in abbreviated grandeur. There hadn’t been much grandeur to begin with when they built this old three-story block of flats, and none of it remained now. The lobby was about the size of a pay toilet and looked no more inviting. To the right on the ground floor was a liquor store; the left had been retained as living quarters by someone who’d placed a sign in the front window reading Gypsy Horoscopes.
I walked up the steps, into the lobby. There were twelve buzzers to ring, but only seven names to choose from in the adjoining panels. Three of them I could read; the other four were either illegibly written or had been rendered illegible by the action of time and grime.
There was nothing resembling the name of Dean or Juarez that I could read. Maybe I was the wrong guy for the job. Fellow name of Jean-Francois Champollion might have had better luck. This stuff couldn’t be much harder to decipher than the Rosetta Stone. Say 50 percent harder at the most.
I was still squinting, wondering whether or not I ought to start ringing doorbells at random and going into a one-eyed version of a Fuller Brush Man routine, when somebody shuffled out into the hall and leaned against the side of the wall.
“Lookin’ for me?”
She was a fat woman with almost invisible eyebrows and pale yellow hair done up in pin curlers; she was wearing a pink housecoat decorated at the throat with braid and egg yolk. I smiled at her.
“Could be,” I said.
“You after a readin’? C’mon in.”
I remembered Gypsy Horoscopes. Victor Herbert should see this little Gypsy Sweetheart. But I followed the un-corseted amplitude of her behind into the musty flat off the first landing.
The front room was dark, rankly odorous. She waddled over to a gas burner.
“Sit right down,” she said. “First I gotta make the tea.” But she didn’t move away immediately. I noticed she had her paw out. “Two bucks,” she said. “Advance.”
I gave her two dollars. She turned away and busied herself at the stove. The tea came from a cabinet. I noticed that the better Gypsies were doing their tea leaf readings with Salada nowadays.
She put the pot on, then came over and planted herself in a chair across the table from me. A lamp switched on.
“Let me have your palm,” she said. “Give you a readin’ while you wait.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m in a hurry. I don’t need a regular reading. It’s something else.”
Her eyes narrowed. She watched me as I put my hand in my pocket.
“What?”
“Do you have any experience locating missing articles?”
“Lost somethin’, eh? What was it?”
“It wasn’t a something. It was a someone. A man named Joe Dean lived here a few years ago. I’m looking for a friend of his, a girl named Estrellita Juarez.”
She stood up. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I just thought you might be able to help.”
“Don’t know the name, mister. I just moved in here last year.”
“But I thought you might be able to use your divination—”
“Crap!” She stood up. “You a copper?”
“No. I’m an agent. I used to work for the same studio as Miss Juarez. She’s got some money coming to her for a bit she did some while ago. They asked me to find her. All we had on file was Dean’s old address.”
“I wouldn’t know nothin’ about it.” She started to get up.
I took my hand out of my pocket. “Maybe if you concentrate on this it might help,” I told her.
She stared at the twenty I held in my palm, then sat down again.
“You on the level about having money for her?”
I nodded. “I’m no cop, you ought to know that. If I was, I’d have put the cuffs on you the minute I came in and took a sniff. That tea on the stove isn’t the only kind you serve here.”
“You’re crazy.” Her upper lip was wet.
I held out the bill. “Knock it off,” I said. “I’m just interested in saving time. All I really have to do is start rapping on doors. But like I said, I’m in a hurry.”
She reached for the money. “Yeah. But if there’s any trouble.”
“There won’t be. I’m not even going to say where I found out.”
“Crap.” It must have been an old Gypsy expression of some sort, and I wondered what it meant.
“Well, if you won’t tell me where to find her, at least you might be able to tell me something about her. What she’s doing nowadays, and—”
“Oh, ast her yourself!” she sighed. “Number eight. Second floor rear.”
I stood up and made for the door.
“You won’t say nothin’ about who told you?”
“No. How could I? I’ve never been here. Let’s both try to remember that, shall we?”
I went out and closed the door on the mustiness behind me. Then I walked upstairs.
Number eight was easy to find. I knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again. Still nothing. I tried the door gently, turning the knob and pushing. It was locked, all right.
Well, there was only one thing to do—wait, sit it out. And perhaps it would be safer downstairs, across the street.
I turned and walked down the hall, started down the stairs. Somebody was coming up. There was the clatter of heels, the swish of skirt, a glimpse of a broad olive face with high cheekbones surmounted by dark curls. This was type casting if I’d ever seen it. She started to brush by me. I stuck out my arm.
“Miss Juarez,” I said.
“Yaiss?”
“I’ve been looking for you. My name’s Clayburn, Mark Clayburn.”
“So?”
“Can’t we go somewhere and talk?”
“I do not onnerstand. Why for we talk?”
“We’ve got mutual friends to discuss. Such as Joe Dean.”
“You know heem?”
“He sent me.”
She hesitated, then turned. “We go to my place, eh?”
I followed her up the stairs. The view was a distinct improvement over the pink posterior of my downstairs hostess.
Estrellita Juarez unlocked her door. “Come een,” she invited.
Her parlor was a cut above the average for a joint like this: new furniture, and in fairly good taste. I noted the door to a closet and a bedroom, both shut. There was a kitchen and a bath in back.
“Seet down.” She put her purse and gloves on the table, then turned. “Now, what ees all thees?”
“Friend of Joe’s, like I say. He told me about you.”
“How ees Joe? I ’ave not seen heem for long time.”
“Funny. He talked like he’d been in touch with you regular. As if you’d know all about me.”
“No. Heem I ’ave not seen for months.”
“Quarrel?”
She didn’t answer.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” I said. “Main thing is, he told me you’re the one to contact about the stuff.”
“Stoff? What you talk about?”
I tried my hands-in-pocket routine again, but this time I came out with a fifty.
“What’ll this buy?” I asked.
“I doan know what you talk about.”
“Business must be better than I thought, if you can turn down this kind of money.” I grinned and kept my hand extended. “All right, if you don’t want to help me out, there’s other places I can go. Right downstairs, for instance. She pushes a pretty good brand of weed, I hear. Or does she get her supply from you?”
Estrellita Juarez licked her lips. Then she took the money and put it in her pocket. She walked over to the closet door, opened it, and took out an upright vacuum cleaner. I watched her unfasten the dust bag attachment. She began to shake packages out on the floor.
“That’s enough,” I said. “This is all I need.” I stooped and picked up the manila-wrapped carton of muggles.
“Bot for feefty dollair—”
“This is all I need,” I repeated. “One package. So when I walk in and tell them where I got it, they’ll have evidence.”
Her mouth opened. “Why, you lousy, double-crossing stoolie!”
She came at me, trying to grab the refers. I got her arm and twisted it back.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You forgot the accent.”
“Never mind the accent,” she panted. “Give me that before I—”
“Before you what? Call the police? Or try to kill me?” I shook my head. “Better not. You’re mixed up in enough killing so far.”
“Who told you that? Joe?”
“No. He didn’t tell me. I lied to you. Joe hates my guts.” I let her arm go. “But I’m not lying to you now. And if you don’t lie to me, I’ll forget about going to the cops.”
“So that’s it, huh? Shakedown. I might of known.”
“No shakedown. All I want from you is a little information, information you should have given to the law a long time ago. You’ll have to sooner or later anyway, you know. They’re looking for you right now, Estrellita, or whatever your real name is.”
“Never mind about my real name. Suppose you tell me who you are, instead.”
“I already did. My name’s Mark Clayburn. Didn’t Joe tell you about me?”
“I haven’t seen Joe, honest I haven’t. Not since—”
“Not since Ryan was murdered?” I nodded. “That’s what I’m really here to talk about.”
“I don’t have anything to tell you. I already talked to the D.A.’s office.”
“Sure you did. But where were you when they tried to find you after Polly Foster’s death?”
“I had nothing to do with that setup.”
“Nevertheless, they wanted to question you, and you hid out here, in Joe Dean’s old apartment.”
“That’s no crime.”
“You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”
She shook her head. “I tell you, not since Ryan died.”
“He didn’t die. He was murdered.” I had to keep reminding people of that, it seemed. “Was that the reason for the quarrel? Were you afraid of Dean because you knew too much about what happened?”
“I didn’t know anything.”
“Yes you did. And you’re still getting information from some place. Enough information so that you called Tom Trent the night he was murdered, warning him to get out of town.”
“Who told you that?”
“His sister.” I pushed her back into a chair. “It’s bound to come out sooner or later, just like I told you. All you’ve got to decide is whether you want to talk to me or to headquarters.”
“What’s your angle?”
“I want to solve this case, that’s all. I’ve got no axe to grind, nothing against anyone except the killer. Which means you’re safe, as far as I’m concerned, unless you happen to be the guilty party.”
Her hand went to her mouth. “No. I’m not. Honest.”
“That’s the way I want it,” I said. “Honest. All right, let’s get on with it. How long have you been pushing this stuff?”
“Two years.”
“You work for a syndicate?”
“I don’t know.”
“Quit that talk.”
“I said I don’t know. I get it from a guy. I pay him when I make delivery. He tells me where to take it.”
“You’re a runner, in other words.”
“That’s all. I don’t have anything to do with the stuff, where it comes from. They wouldn’t be fools enough to tell me.”
“What about Dean? Does he push, too?”
“No, but he knew about it. He saw me pass some to Dick Ryan.”
“Ryan was one of your customers?”
“No. He only bought once. Said he was getting it for a friend.”
“How did he know you could supply him?”
“I asked, but he wouldn’t tell me. He could have heard talk, though. I had a lot of customers in the industry.”
“You’re sure Ryan wasn’t a viper?”
“Positive.”
I nodded. That’s what I’d started out to clear up, a long time ago. That’s what I’d wanted: a plain statement clearing Ryan of addiction, from somebody who knew.
But I felt no satisfaction in hearing it now. Even if I could get her to put it in writing, that wouldn’t help. Too much had happened since I began my search, too many murders.
“All right,” I said. “So he bought some for a friend. Who was it? Polly Foster?”
“No.”
“Didn’t she use tea?”
“Sometimes. But she knew where to get it. Right from me.”
“What about Trent?”
“He dealt with me, too. And Ryan wouldn’t be buying for him.”
“Well, somebody was smoking at Ryan’s trailer. You were all there that night.”
“Nobody took anything when I was around.”
“Kolmar?”
“I don’t know about Kolmar.”
“Joe Dean works for him now.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, either. I told you I haven’t seen Joe since.”
“But you left Ryan’s trailer with Dean the night of the murder. You spent the rest of the night with him in a motel, didn’t you?”
“Yes. The little rat! He was always after me, and when he caught me slipping the stuff to Ryan, he made me promise to go with him or else he’d squeal.”
“That’s how it was, eh?”
“That’s how it was.” She scowled. “In the morning I kicked him out and told him to go peddle his papers. I haven’t seen the little fink since, and I don’t want to.”
“But you’re sure Ryan didn’t take weed. And you’re sure Dean didn’t kill him.”
“Positive. Somebody else must have come to Ryan’s trailer after we left. Somebody he expected, somebody who liked kicks.”
“So Polly Foster said.”
“She did?” Estrellita Juarez clenched her fists.
“I talked to her the night she died. In fact, I found her body. You must have read about that. She told me over the phone that she’d gone back to the trailer later that evening. She’d seen someone there. Whether or not she could identify the party, I don’t know. But if she could, somebody made sure of getting to her before I did. So maybe your idea is right. Why didn’t you tell the police about it when Ryan died?”
“Why get into trouble? Let them do their own figuring.”
“Even if they suspect you? That doesn’t make sense.” I sat down and leaned forward. “Because they do suspect you, now. This business of disappearing after Polly Foster’s death looks mighty suspicious. Everybody else showed for questioning and gave an alibi. Everybody but you. Why?”
“I got my orders to lay low. Changed my territory on me; I don’t work the studios any more.”
“You’re sure it isn’t because you know who killed Polly Foster?”
“I haven’t any idea.”
“Then why did you phone Tom Trent and warn him to get out of town?”
“I—I was worried. I liked Tom. He was on the stuff, sure, and I used to get it for him. Then I was told to hide out here and that cut off his supply. From something he said to me after Ryan got killed, I got a hunch he might know who did it. I think he must have gone back that night, just like Polly Foster. Maybe he just guessed. But I figured he knew, and after Polly Foster died, I was scared for him. I called him up and told him maybe he’d better get out of town for a while. We figured maybe he’d be safe then.”
“We?”
“I mean, I figured.”
“Uh-uh. You were told to warn him, weren’t you?”
“You’re getting me all confused.”
“You’re confused plenty, if you ask me. You’re shielding somebody who’s put you on the spot.”
“I’m not on the spot.”
“Yes you are.” I talked right into her face. “Whoever this party is, he’s got you right where he wants you, the perfect suspect. You disappear the minute Foster gets murdered. You call Trent the night before he’s killed. Somebody came out to his place in a car and bumped him off—couldn’t that be you? The cops think so. They know about that call.”
“But I didn’t.”
“Don’t tell me. Tell them. Tell them when they come for you.”
“Nobody knows where I am. I’m safe. Unless you double cross me.”
“I’m not going to double cross you,” I answered. “I don’t have to. Because you’re not safe here. I found you in fifteen minutes. I used my head, and an old City Directory. Got your apartment number from that tea peddler downstairs. She sold you out for twenty bucks. I’ll bet you another twenty the police will be knocking on your door before tomorrow morning.”
“I won’t be here,” she said. “I’m getting out of town.”
“Suit yourself. But you’re a sucker if you keep on trying to protect somebody who’d line you up for a rap like this. Who is it, this guy you’re running for?”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
“Suppose you tell me his name?”
“No. I couldn’t do that—”
“Give you my word. I won’t say anything about it for twenty-four hours. You’ve got time to clear out of here.”
“I couldn’t.” She dug her fingers into the arm of the sofa. “He’d come after me.”
“I doubt that. Because if you ask me, he won’t have a chance. The police will grab him right away. Don’t you see? This guy’s the killer.”
Her fingers stopped clawing.
“Haven’t you figured that yet? It has to be that way. I’m not playing brilliant; it’s just simple elimination. He’s the only one left who’s linked to all three of the victims: Ryan, Foster and Trent.”
She stared at the wall behind me.
“Come on,” I said. “Is it Kolmar?”
“No.”
“Tell me his name.” I reached over and shook her. “Don’t be a fool. Do you want to end up like the others did?”
Estrellita Juarez stared.
“All right,” she said, tonelessly. “It isn’t Kolmar. The name is Hastings. Edward Hastings. He works for—”
She wasn’t staring at the wall any more. I realized that now. She was staring at the door, because it was opening, fast. I turned in my seat, my hand searching for the gun Bannock had given me. I felt the butt in my fingers, started to tug it out as I tried to get up.
I never got the gun out, never reached my feet.
Joe Dean came in right behind my chair. “Here’s what I owe you,” he said.
What he owed me was something hard, something that cracked down to split my skull and leave me sprawling on a floor that went spinning and spinning around. It was like one of those outfits you ride in the Fun House of an amusement park, where centrifugal force finally throws you off to the edge. It was throwing me off now.
I hit the edge and dropped into darkness.
Chapter Fifteen
The rungs were slippery, but I kept climbing. That was the only way to get out of the darkness again. I had to keep on climbing. It took years.
Then I was up, back on the floor, lying there with my face pressed into the rug. My mouth was open and I wheezed.
The rug tasted awful, so I rolled over. Still the same taste. It wasn’t the rug after all; it was something else. Something that clung to my mouth no matter how I turned my head. A gag.
Now I could feel the pressure of the cords on my hands and legs. They’d trussed me up, too. I opened my eye, but there wasn’t much to see. Quite dark in the room now. Dark, and lonely.
My head throbbed. Those Dean brothers were great ones for rapping you over the skull. Did an efficient job, too. I wasn’t bleeding, but I could tell I had been hit hard. When I rolled over onto my side, the room spun for a moment, then steadied.
I stared in the dimness. They were gone, all right. The closet door was open, and there weren’t any clothes on the hangers. The vacuum cleaner was right there on the floor. Thoughtful of them to leave it. Maybe they thought I’d want to clean a few vacuums. Such as the one inside my skull.
They’d opened the dust bag, of course, and emptied it. And I knew they had taken the package of muggles from my pocket. Estrellita probably did it while Dean tied me up. I even knew what they’d used to tie me with. I could see the rumpled sheet in the corner from which the strips had been torn.
I tried to move my arms and legs. It wasn’t easy. Maybe if I rolled over to the wall I could brace myself enough to stand up.
I tried. Just raising myself made my head ache. And standing on my numbed legs was almost impossible. After a few minutes of effort it became possible, though.
Now what?
I worked my wrists. The knots held. Maybe I could follow the wall into the kitchen, get a knife out of the drawer. Better roll into there, though.
I rolled. Once again there was the business of raising myself up. I found the cupboard and the drawer, inched my way upright alongside it, stood with my back to the drawer and got the edge under one hand. I tugged. The drawer opened, then fell to the floor with a thud.
A thud, not a crash. There was no tinkle. I stared down through the shadows on the kitchen floor. The drawer was empty. They’d thought of everything.
I started to roll back, passing the bathroom on my way. Too bad this wasn’t a hotel. In hotels they usually have that dojinger on the door for opening bottles and stuff.
Wait. Maybe...
I rolled back into the kitchen. I forced myself upright again. Then I saw what I was looking for on the far wall. I edged around towards it, hopping a step at a time and keeping my balance by sticking close to the wall. Then I reached the spot. There was a wall can opener and it had a bottle-opening attachment.
So far so good. But the rest was awful. The thing was set up too high for me to reach easily with my hands tied behind my back. I had to bend my arms. For a little while I thought I’d have to break them before I could make contact. Then I managed by twisting my left arm almost out of its socket.
I began to run my wrists back and forth against the knots. Of course there was no way of seeing what I was doing, and I had to be careful. The bottle opener was sharp; I didn’t want to puncture my wrists. A few gashes were to be expected, but that didn’t make them hurt any less when I felt them.
It took time. Quite a long time. Then I felt the knots giving. I pulled away and worked my hands. Something came loose. My hands were free.
I sat down, wrung a little circulation back into my fingers, and took the gag out of my mouth. Then I untied my feet. I rubbed my ankles, stood up again, felt the top of my head just for luck.
Then I looked at my watch.
No wonder it was dark. Almost nine o’clock. I’d been out for over five hours.
That was a long time. Long enough for the two of them to get a long, healthy head start.
I wondered where they’d run off to.
Switching on the lights, I made a brief tour of the apartment. They’d packed, all right. Taken everything, and left. I found a few ties in the bedroom, though; all were striped patterns. Dean had worn a striped tie. Which meant Estrellita had probably lied about not seeing him any more. The two of them were in this together.
All of which didn’t matter now. There were other puzzlers.
My gun, for instance, or rather Bannock’s gun. It was still in my pocket, I discovered. Thoughtful of them. Or thoughtless.
Well, there was nothing I could do about that. Nothing except go to the police and tell them what I knew. About Dean, Juarez, and this man Hastings. Edward Hastings. So he had to turn out to be the killer. Like those old-fashioned mysteries where everybody is suspected and it ends up that the butler did it. A fine thing. And I was a fine amateur private eye, too.
No sense looking any further. They wouldn’t have left anything around that might help.
I went out and closed the door behind me. Nobody lurked in the hall. Nobody opened up to peek at me from the Little Gypsy Tea Room. I hit the street and headed for the nearest drugstore.
It was about time I turned sensible and called Thompson. Yes, that was the only thing left for me. Call Thompson and try to work with him, for a change. We could still round up the murderer, if luck only held.
The drugstore wasn’t hard to find. I went in, looking around for a phone. I couldn’t see it, so I walked up to the clerk at the counter.
“Yes?”
“Have you got—?” I stopped. There was a pile of early morning editions on the counter. I picked up the top one and gave the clerk a buck. I started to walk away.
“Hey, mister, you forgot your change!”
I didn’t pick up my change. I kept right on walking. Walking and reading.
It was only a box on the front page; that’s all they had time for when the flash came in. Maybe there’d be an extra later. I didn’t know. I didn’t care.
Everything was over, now.
Hastings was dead. Edward Hastings, 42, of such-and-such an address, found shot through the head late this afternoon at...
I read the address again, read what Hastings did for a living.
Then I turned around and went back into the store.
“Where’s the phone?” I asked.
“Back there, behind the counter.”
“Thanks.”
I didn’t dial the police. I called Bannock, at his house.
“Hello.”
“Yes?” Daisy’s voice.
“This is Mark. Is Harry there?”
“No.”
“Where is he—police?”
“Of course not. Why should he be?”
“Then you haven’t heard?”
“Mark, what’s this all about? Harry ought to be in soon, he had to finish up at the office after the funeral this afternoon.”
I’d forgotten all about the funeral. I’d forgotten about a lot of things, apparently.
“Well, if he comes in, be sure to hold him. I’m on my way out.”
“Mark, is there something—?”
“Plenty,” I said. “Stay right where you are.”
I hung up and went out. I hailed a cab up the street and gave the driver Bannock’s address.
It was a long haul across town and I had plenty of time to think things out. No matter how I put the pieces together, they always fitted.
Over? Nothing was over. Not yet.
The moon was shining bright as we drove up in front of Bannock’s place. There was a light in the window for the wandering boy, too.
I got out and wandered up the walk.
Daisy let me in. “Sarah’s day off,” she told me. “And me with a stinking headache.”
“How was the funeral?”
“I didn’t go. Harry went, though.”
“Did he?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you.”
She looked at me. “What happened to you?” she asked. “Is it the police?”
“No. They haven’t caught up with me yet. I’m going to call them in a little while, though. But first let me tell you the whole deal.”
“Come in. I’ll mix a drink,” I did, and she did. It was pleasant to sit back and relax in the soft lamplight, with an easy chair to rest in, a tall glass in my hand, and Daisy’s presence vibrant before me.
Only I wasn’t relaxing. Not yet.
First I had to bring Daisy up to date. I told her about seeing Kolmar and Joe Dean, about my interview with Billie Trent and the police finding Kolmar’s gun in my car.
Then I went on and gave her a report of my interview with Harry. I told her how I’d found Estrellita Juarez; how Dean had found me again, and finally I told her about what I had just read in the paper.
“But I still don’t understand,” she said. “What does it all mean?”
“It could mean several things,” I said. “It could mean that Juarez and Dean were working together all along; that they killed Dicky Ryan, Polly Foster, Tom Trent. Or perhaps one of them did and the other knew about it.
“And so did this man Hastings, because Juarez was a runner for him in his dope peddling racket. So this afternoon, when things got hot, they decided to bump him off before they left town for good. Cover up the trail.”
Daisy nodded. “But why come to Harry with that? Why don’t you call the police?”
“I will. Only I won’t tell them this theory. Because I don’t believe it’s true.” I took a drink and felt a little better. “There’s one thing wrong with that setup. The motive. You see, there isn’t any. Why should Juarez and Dean, or either one of them separately, kill those three people? No reason.” I sighed. “Besides, both of them have alibis to account for their whereabouts during Ryan’s murder. And Dean has alibis covering him for the other killings, too.”
“But they still could have killed this man Hastings. If they were leaving town, and thought he was the murderer, maybe they went to him and tried to blackmail him.” Daisy took my glass and refilled it.
“I thought of that. It’s a possibility. Won’t know unless they’re picked up, of course. Until then all we have to go on is hunches, and my hunch is they’d be too frightened, too anxious about getting out. I don’t think they’d risk breaking in on Hastings cold and trying a fast shakedown.”
“Maybe it’s a coincidence, then,” Daisy mused. “You say this Hastings was operating a reefer peddling setup. He might have a lot of enemies in that business who would want him out of the way.”
I nodded. “That’s so. And if it turns out to be the answer, then we’re right back where we started from. We still don’t know the identity of Ryan’s killer, or Polly Foster’s, or Tom Trent’s.”
“What about Kolmar?”
“He was telling me the truth the other day, I think. Kolmar wouldn’t murder his own stars. Why should he kill the geese that laid the golden eggs?”
Daisy shook her head. “Must we go on like this, Mark? I’m sick of murder and murder talk—physically sick! Didn’t Harry tell you to lay off the case? Isn’t it bad enough to have your life threatened, get beat up this way, put yourself on the spot with the police?”
“Sure it is,” I answered. “But there won’t be any more of it. Not now.”
“Are you certain?”
“Positive.” I sat back and put my drink down. “Because I think I’ve got the answer now. It was sitting right under my nose all the time, of course. I should have spent less time figuring why these people were being killed and more time wondering why these things happened to me.”
“You?”
“Of course. I’m the clue to the whole business. Ryan died months ago and nothing happened. But the minute I was brought into the picture, trouble started again. Everybody who might know about Ryan’s death either disappeared or was permanently silenced. The murderer got there before I did. It wasn’t coincidence. The murderer must have known who I planned to see.”
“But how could that be?”
“There’s only one answer,” I said. “I must have told the killer myself just what I was going to do.”
Daisy made a little sound in her throat.
“Mark! No!”
“Yes,” I said. “Who hired me? Harry. Who arranged my interview with Polly Foster? Harry. Who did I tell beforehand that I was going to have a showdown with Tom Trent? Harry. And who knew I was still working on this business today? Harry.”
I paused. “The other night, when Trent was murdered, Harry said he was with a client in Pacific Palisades. Does he have proof? And what makes you sure he went back to the office today, after the funeral?”
“That’s absurd! When Polly Foster was murdered, both Harry and I were playing cards at the Shermans. The police checked his alibi about this client in Pacific Palisades. And he wouldn’t dare say he was at the office. He never works there alone, someone would be with him.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s figure it this way. See if it makes sense. Harry killed Ryan. He got someone else to kill Foster and Trent because he was afraid they’d talk. And then he got someone to kill Hastings.”
Daisy shook her head. “You’re crazy. Harry wouldn’t jeopardize his TV deal any more. He hired you in good faith, just to clear things up. And how would he know Hastings?”
I was silent for a moment. “That’s so. He didn’t have a motive, did he? And he didn’t know Hastings. That leaves only one person. One person who also knew what my movements would be, because Harry wouldn’t suspect anything wrong if he revealed them.”
Daisy looked at me. I nodded. “That’s right, Daisy. There’s only one person left. You.”
Chapter Sixteen
She stood up quickly.
I had the gun out of my pocket now. It felt good to be on the right end of a gun for a change.
“Sit down, Daisy,” I said. “First you’re going to listen. Then you’re going to talk.”
“You can’t bluff me.”
“I’m not bluffing. I’ve got the goods on you. Ever since I read about Hastings’ death tonight. When I read where he worked, I knew.”
“Where he worked?”
“The papers said he was an interne at Dr. Levinson’s clinic. The clinic you went to, the day before Ryan died.”
She sat down again. I held the gun on her.
“That was your alibi, wasn’t it, Daisy? Hastings covered up for you the night you sneaked out to visit Ryan at his trailer. You were the person he expected.
“You’d known Ryan since the old days, when he was your husband’s client. He was also your lover. Harry never suspected that, did he?
“Any more than he suspected you had the reefer habit. Or that Hastings was your source of supply. No wonder you went to the clinic he worked at instead of to a hospital. Am I right so far?”
She didn’t answer.
I went on. “Ryan was drunk when you got to his trailer. You started to smoke. There was a quarrel, a serious quarrel. Something set you off. The gun was there, and you used it. Then you went back to the hospital. Hastings covered up for you with an alibi after Ryan’s body was discovered. And for a while everything was all right.
“Then Harry bought those films, and he hired me to try and clear Ryan’s name. You were against that from the start. You called your friend Hastings, had him phone me and Harry with a warning. Hastings even paid a visit to my place when I was out.
“That didn’t stop us. Hastings also supplied Polly Foster with reefers, and one of his runners—Estrellita Juarez— knew Tom Trent. He contacted Foster and Trent right away, told them not to talk to anyone.
“But Polly Foster was frightened. She’d come back to the trailer later that night, evidently, and seen you. I don’t think she actually recognized you, but she knew a woman had been there. She wanted to find out if anyone had actually spotted her, so she came to see me.
“You learned that from Harry. He told you he’d made an appointment for me. So Polly Foster was killed.”
Daisy breathed hard, but she was smiling now. “Ridiculous! How could I have killed her? Ask the police—they know Harry and I were with the Shermans at their house all evening.”
“Sure. You didn’t kill Polly Foster. Your friend Hastings did that little job for you. I’ll bet when the police check back they’ll find he had a night off. He went to her place and heard her phoning me; then he came in and shot her.”
“Why would he do such a thing?”
“Two reasons. The first is, he couldn’t afford to have his reefer racket exposed. Must have made a nice piece of change off his big shot clients, and maybe he worked a little blackmail on the side. Reason enough for silencing Foster, but I think he had a better one. I think by this time he’d taken Ryan’s place with you.”
“Why, you—” Her voice quivered with indignant protest.
“No show, Daisy. You’re a little late with that innocence act. You forget, after Polly Foster’s death, that you offered me the same privileges if I’d lay off.”
“Rave on,” she said. “I suppose I also hired those thugs to beat you up out in the dunes.”
“No, I don’t think so. You might have, but I’m inclined to suspect Kolmar of that little deal. He was beginning to get paranoid delusions of persecution by this time, seeing his people get killed. Maybe he passed the word to Joe Dean that he’d like to know what I was up to in the case. And Dean told his brother to come after me with this other hood.
“Anyway, it didn’t work. Foster was dead, your friend Hastings told Estrellita Juarez to hide out, but I was still on the case. And I told Harry I meant to interview Tom Trent again about the murder of Ryan.
“He had several hours unaccounted for on the night of Ryan’s death, and you couldn’t be sure he didn’t know something. You had to act fast.
“Estrellita Juarez knew he was in danger and called to warn him. Then he got another call—from you. I don’t know what you told him; maybe you said you knew who the killer was and wanted his advice about going to the police. Anyway, you got him to do what you wanted—to meet him off the roadway alongside his property.
“While Harry was in Pacific Palisades, you drove over to Trent’s place and waited for him to come out. He climbed in the car with you. You shot him, dragged his body to the garage, tried to make it look like suicide. Then you drove off. Somebody saw the car, but didn’t pay any particular attention to it. That was the riskiest deal of all, but you were panicky.
“I don’t think you wanted to kill Trent, Daisy. I think by this time Hastings was forcing you, threatening to expose you, threatening to cut off your supply of muggles, making you go through with his plans and help protect him.
“He told you I had to be dealt with next. You promised you’d make Harry take me off the investigation. And Harry promised.
“Only I didn’t get off the case. I went to see Kolmar, he sent the police out after me because I took his gun, and then I told Harry I wanted another twenty-four hours to work in. I told him not to let you know about it.
“But he did, didn’t he? You wormed it out of him this noon, Daisy, isn’t that it? And you knew I’d be looking for Estrellita Juarez or Joe Dean, because they were the only suspects left on my list. If I found either of them, the trail would lead straight to Hastings and to you.
“I think you called Joe Dean and warned him this noon. Right after you told Harry you had a headache and didn’t want to go to the funeral. That would take care of me, you figured, if Dean found me.
“But there was still Hastings. Hastings, who knew the whole story, who had you under his thumb as long as he could threaten to talk. You decided to silence him. You went to the clinic—it wasn’t the first time you sneaked into his room when he was off duty—and surprised him...with a slug in the head. Then you came back here, and I called.
“Sarah’s gone and Harry’s at the office. I wonder what you had planned for me, Daisy? Surely you must have made some plans about me, in case it turned out that I knew the truth.”
She stood up again. “I was going to shoot you,” she said. “Shoot you and tell Harry you were the killer, that you’d come to me and confessed, tried to get me to run away with you. That you were an addict yourself.”
“You don’t think he’d have gone for such a whacky yarn, do you?”
“Why not?” She shrugged. “I was going to use the gun I’d used on Hastings, and say I had gotten it away from you during a struggle.”
“Where’s the gun, Daisy?”
“In the drawer.” She started to turn away.
“Don’t go any nearer,” I warned her. “I’ll shoot if you do. I mean it.”
She smiled at me over her shoulder.
I grinned back. “That’s the only thing you didn’t know about, Daisy. Harry forgot to tell you he gave me this gun of his when I saw him this noon.”
She shook her head. “He told me, all right.” She turned away again, walked over to the desk, reached for the drawer.
“Stop!” I snapped. “One more step and I—”
“Go ahead.”
She didn’t even look around. She took the step. She opened the drawer.
I could feel the sweat run down my arm, run down my hand, wet the finger that was pressing against the trigger. I had to press it, there was no other way. In another second she’d have a gun of her own. She’d killed before; she’d kill again. It was self-defense, it was the only way.
I sighted carefully and pulled the trigger.
She took the gun out of the drawer and pointed it at me.
I pulled the trigger again.
“Keep trying,” she said. “It won’t work. I fixed Harry’s gun a couple of days ago. Just in case.”
Her smile was broader now. “Smart operator, aren’t you? So smart you never even bothered to check a borrowed gun. Well, I’ve checked this one. So drop that and get your hands up. Fast.”
I did what she said.
“Sit down,” she told me. “Right there, where I can see you.”
I sat down, staring at the useless weapon on the floor. She was right. I’d never even looked at the gun, just took Harry’s word for it that it was loaded and set. No wonder Joe Dean hadn’t bothered to lift it from me when he knocked me out. It was useless.
It was useless, and I was useless. Everything I’d done was useless, now. She held the upper hand. And her gun was in it.
“You dumb jerk,” she said. “I could have taken you any time I wanted since you came in this room. But I thought I’d wait and hear what you knew, find out if you’d spilled to anybody else. You haven’t, so that makes it perfect.”
“Then I was right about the killings.”
“Yes, you were right, if that makes you feel any better.” She took a step closer, and she wasn’t smiling now. “You’ve got it all pretty straight. Except for a couple of things you wouldn’t know about. Like the reason I shot Ryan.
“I didn’t go to the clinic for appendicitis. I was pregnant. And Ryan was to blame. When I found out for sure, I went to his trailer that night and told him. I wanted him to know. I said I’d divorce Harry and he and I would get married.”
Her mouth twitched. “You know what he did? He laughed at me. He laughed, like it was all a joke. Well, I showed him what kind of a joke it was. I took the gun lying there and...”
Daisy shuddered. “You think it was easy? You’re wrong, Clayburn. It was hell. I went back to the clinic and had a miscarriage. And I quit reefers. That wasn’t easy, either, but I did it. From then on I was going to play straight, with Harry, and with everybody.
“But Hastings wouldn’t let me. Sure, I slept with him. Because he made me. He threatened to tell. About the murder, about the baby. I had to do what he said. And when this other trouble started, he told me what to do then. He killed Foster and he had me kill Trent. That was awful. Not only the risk, but doing it. I felt—dirty—inside.”
She gulped. “You don’t know what it’s like, do you? To feel dirty. To feel murder crawling around in your stomach, making you gag and throw up. I’ve felt that way ever since the beginning. Until today. When I went to kill Hastings today, I felt good again. I was happy to see him die, Clayburn, because when he died, the dirty part of me died with him.
“Now I’m clean again. And I’m going to stay clean. After this is over, after I finish with you.”
I shook my head.
“No, Daisy. You’ll never feel that way, not if you kill me. It’s too late.”
“Too late for you.” She took one more step forward. “I’m sorry. But I can’t stop now. I can’t.”
She wasn’t stopping. I saw the gun come up, noted the silencer attachment for the first time, realized that it explained why no one had heard the shot when Trent died. No one would hear the shot now, either.
This was it. A silly way to die, sitting in an armchair in a big house out in Laurel Canyon, watching a woman’s hand move, watching her finger squeeze the trigger on a gun mounted with a silencer.
She squeezed.
Funny. I heard the shot after all.
No, it wasn’t a shot. Somebody must have thrown a stone through the glass of the front window. Yes, because Daisy was turning to look.
Wrong again. She hadn’t turned to look. She’d turned to fall. And it was a shot after all, but not from her gun. Somebody had fired through the window.
I watched her drop to the carpet, watched the redness run out of her mouth.
Daisy Bannock lay on the floor, her body curled like a question mark.
I stood up. I walked over to her and started to kneel down.
Then the question mark straightened out once and for all, and Al Thompson walked into the room.
Chapter Seventeen
You never feel clean after a murder.
That’s what I’d tried to tell Daisy, and that’s what I found out now.
Hastings’ death had been a mess. Lucky for me, because when they went through his room they’d run across a notebook inside his mattress. Names of clients, including Daisy Bannock.
That’s what brought Al Thompson out to see her, and saved me.
For a while there, I wasn’t even happy about being saved. Not when I had to watch them break the news to Harry. They found him at his office, and he took it hard. The poor guy had never suspected. I felt bad about that.
I wasn’t rejoicing when they managed to pick up Joe Dean and Estrellita Juarez, either. They were traced to San Bernardino, where they’d holed up on a piece of property his brother Andy owned. Yes, they got Andy and this big guy Fritz, too. I had to testify against them.
They made a deal with Kolmar to drop his charges about the gun and the assault, so I was in the clear. And I did what I could to help in the weeks that followed.
It was some consolation to know that this particular reefer pushing outfit was broken up; turned out Dean’s brother Andy and his friend Fritz were both peddling for Hastings, too.
But they never were able to trace Hastings’ source. If there was anyone higher up, the police couldn’t find him.
And of course, I never got any eleven grand from Harry Bannock, either.
I haven’t seen him for months, but that’s my fault, I suppose. I could call him up and ask how’s tricks, sweetheart, and did he ever sell his films to See-More?
But I haven’t, and I won’t.
I just sit here in the office and tend to business. The literary agenting business, where all the murders are on paper and nothing is red except the ink of a typewriter ribbon.
Sometimes, though, when I happen to be working overtime, at night, I stop and stare out the window.
I can see across the city from here, and look down into the streets. And no matter what the hour, the streets are never empty.
They’re always moving down there, moving all over town—this town and every big town. The pushers and their customers, the big dealers and the little squealers, the future killers and the future victims. Along with a lot of other people: guys like Al Thompson, who do their best, and the anonymous thousands like Harry Bannock who never suspect.
When I stare out the window, I see them all, realize what’s happening outside. And I say to myself, It never ends, does it? What you knew was just a tiny fraction of the whole. Somewhere out there tonight there’ll be another murder. Another chapter in a book that’s never finished, even though it started way back with Cain.
That’s what I say to myself when I look out the window.
And then, I pull down the shades and go back to work.
Don’t Let the Mystery End Here. Try These Other Great Books From
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She was young, beautiful...and dead!
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Richard Aleas’ first novel, LITTLE GIRL LOST, was among the most celebrated crime novels of the year, nominated for both the Edgar and Shamus Awards. But nothing in John Blake’s first case could prepare you for the shocking conclusion of his second...
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THE WOUNDED AND THE SLAIN by David Goodis
BLACKMAILER by George Axelrod
SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas
FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich
KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall
SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr
DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane
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A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK
(HCC-042)
First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2008
For
GUSTAV MARX
who gave so much of his time to this book
One
The door was of blonde wood, highly waxed. Across its surface, in angular script, was lettered:
LARRY RICKERT
AND
ASSOCIATES
I snapped the brim of my hat, turned the doorknob, and walked into the office. A set of chimes made background music.
The walls of the small reception room were of glass brick. Torcheres gave off a soft, discreet light. There was an end table bearing the usual copies of Variety and Billboard. Two chairs and a sofa, overstuffed by a firm of reliable over-stuffers, completed the ensemble. It made me sick to look at the joint.
I headed for the ticket-window opening in the wall ahead, where a receptionist’s ponytail bobbed behind a panel of glass.
When I rapped, the ponytail switched around until I got a look at a long, thin face with about three dollars’ worth of fancy makeup on it.
The panel opened and the makeup cracked into a smile. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Haines.”
Well, that was something. At least she recognized me, even if she didn’t exactly swoon in my arms at the sight of my smiling face.
“Is Mr. Rickert in?” I asked.
“Have you an appointment?”
“No. Not exactly. But I only want to see him for a minute or two.”
She nodded, closed the panel, and manipulated the intercom system, or the TV set, or whatever they used to convey trivial messages around here. After a brief pause for station identification she opened the panel again.
“Mr. Rickert will see you in a moment. Won’t you be seated, please?”
I tipped my hat, smiled roguishly and hit bottom on the overstuffed sofa. The sliding panel closed again. I waited to see if she would put up a Sold Out sign, but nothing happened.
There were exactly three cigarettes left in my package. I lit one and watched my hand tremble. Inhaling, I leaned back and forced myself to breathe deeply and slowly. Gradually I calmed down. It was going to be all right as long as I kept a grip on myself. Sure, I was perfectly relaxed now.
I only jumped about two feet when the outer door opened and Peter Lorre came in.
It wasn’t Peter Lorre, of course. Rickert didn’t handle any movie talent. But the little guy in the black hat bore a fleeting resemblance to the star. He walked over to the reception window and mumbled something about an appointment. I avoided watching or listening too closely, and presently he took his place on the chair set at right angles to my sofa. Something began to burn inside my forehead. He was staring at me.
Right away, my jumpy feeling came back. It was silly, of course. Let him stare. What did he know about me? What could he know?
I was putting up a good front. Sitting down with my legs tucked back this way, it was hard to tell that the shine was on the seat of my pants and not on my shoes. He couldn’t guess that the reason I came to Rickert’s office instead of calling him was that my phone had been disconnected. For all he knew, I had a full, fresh package of cigarettes in my pocket, and plenty of money to buy more.
So why should I worry if he stared at me? But I did worry. I doused my cigarette and looked up. His eyes were stones set in flesh.
I could feel my shirt getting sticky under the sports jacket. And I got the funniest notion that he felt it, too. He could feel everything I was feeling, think everything I was thinking. Those stones set in flesh were magnets.
Maybe I was flipping my wig? Maybe that’s what was wrong with me? All these weeks in the apartment, waiting for Rickert to call, watching the money run out. Then no phone, and nothing to do but run around and try to break the doors down myself—carrying my own photos and recordings.
Rickert had warned me that I’d get no place, fast, on my own. And that’s exactly where I’d arrived. No place. You feel funny there, in no place. You feel as though you aren’t really alive, or have no right to be alive. So you take a couple of drinks and wait for tomorrow. You might be somewhere else, tomorrow. But you’re not. You wake up in the crummy apartment and you’re still no place. Mr. Nobody from nowhere.
But that’s your business, isn’t it? People haven’t got the right to stare at you and find it out. Damn it, there was nothing to be ashamed about. I knew what I was doing here. I had it all figured out, just how I was going to put it over. And then this little character had to come along and upset me!
I raised my eyes and looked at him. He wasn’t so much. Black suit, unusual for the West Coast, but nothing special about its cut. White shirt, quiet foulard tie. Flashy ring on little finger of left hand. Probably fake stone.
He saw what I was doing, of course. But his expression did not change. He stared. I stuck my chin out, folded my hands across my chest and stared back. It hurt a little. He refused to blink, and those two stones met my gaze. You can’t break stones with your fist. Constant dripping—
Sweat rolled down my forehead and I blinked first. But I wouldn’t turn my head. I stared at the bridge of his thick nose. Maybe if I thought of something else, it would help.
I thought about the trip out, thought about meeting Rickert for the first time, and the fast line of con he handed me, the buildup about what he would do for me. I thought about really getting a break, making the grade on a big show, wowing ’em. That would make my dumb brother wipe the sneer off his face for good. I’d wipe the sneer off all their faces, including this little puffy face in front of me.
But he kept staring. He knew. He knew I was a fake, he knew I was licked, that I’d never make it.
The hell he did! All imagination. Keep staring. He’ll break first.
I looked into his eyes. For the first time, the stones seemed to turn. His pupils were dilating. The lids crept back. The stones glittered. Diamonds. Diamond drills. Drills that bored.
Fakes. Like the diamond on his little finger. I wasn’t afraid. I stared.
All at once, his hand moved. Pudgy worms crawled into the handkerchief pocket of his coat. They emerged and carried something up to his left eye. It glittered. A monocle.
He fixed it into position without altering his line of vision. It hung there in the eye-socket and the eye behind it became huge. The distorted pupil glared at me. I thought that he looked like Erich von Stroheim. I thought that if I had to endure that wave of power beating into my brain, I’d get up and run. I thought—but I stared back.
And his mind told me something. Told me that I was really through, that it was no use, that I was washed up. I’d better get up and leave now. Yes, that’s what he told me, and he was right. I’d get up and—
“Mr. Rickert will see you now.”
I heard it somewhere in the distance. Then I was on my feet, stumbling through the inner office, walking down the hall to the big layout in back.
My head was splitting. Larry Rickert smiled at me across the desk.
“Sit down,” he said. “Good to see you, Eddie. Be with you in just a sec.”
He waved goodbye at me with his left hand and picked up a phone with his right. He began to talk, and a steady stream of conversation and cigar smoke drifted around the big red folds of his neck.
I lit my next-to-the-last cigarette. The headache was worse now. I tried to remember my canned speech, but I couldn’t. All I wanted to do was run away. When he finally hung up and turned to me again, I couldn’t even remember to smile.
“Now,” said Rickert, “what can I do for you, sweetheart?”
“That’s exactly what I want to know,” I told him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I came in here over two months ago, because your ads say you’re a good agent and that’s what I needed. You didn’t sign me up or anything like that. But you did manage to get over three hundred bucks out of me, for retainer fee and for photographs and audition records. What I want to know now is, when do I see a little action?”
He gave me the same grin he used for his advertising photos.
“Take it easy, Eddie. Relax.”
“I’ve been taking it easy, but I can’t relax. I want to know why you haven’t sold me or my show idea.”
Rickert stopped smiling. He leaned forward and waved the chewed end of his cigar at me. It dripped.
“Listen, son,” he said. “This isn’t Iowa. That package idea of yours—the Television Psychologist—may have sounded pretty good to you when you dreamed it up back there. And I was willing to give it a whirl. I sent out your audition discs to all the network reps. I’ve pitched you. But it’s just no dice.”
My headache was worse. Rickert’s face wavered in and out of focus as I answered him. “All right, drop the show idea. But remember, I’m still an announcer. I had a chance to get on in Des Moines, and I’m willing to start at the bottom here. There must be plenty of openings around town.”
“In manholes, yes.” Rickert lit a fresh cigar. It dripped nicely, too. “Look, sweetheart, here’s some free advice. Maybe you’re not ready for the big time yet. Why don’t you go back home, take that job? You won’t starve. So you’re out a couple of hundred on this deal—so what? Maybe you’ll click later on. Lots of these executives, they listen to the little stations. Who knows, maybe somebody will spot you and—”
“So I’m not ready for the big time yet, eh?” I stood up and tried to keep my balance in the rolling room. “All right, Mr. Rickert. Thanks for the analysis. But it’s a pity you didn’t tell me all this before I spent three hundred bucks with you—and two months of my life.”
“Hold on, now, sweetheart—”
I was holding on, hard. Even though my head was splitting, even though I wanted to kill somebody, I held on. I knew there was no use getting mad. He’d given me the answer. I was washed up.
“No hard feelings, Eddie,” said Rickert. “Go on home and think it over. Maybe something will still break. I’ll let you know.”
“Only if it’s your neck,” I told him. “This I’d love to hear about.” Then I stopped. “I—I really don’t mean that. Sorry, I’m not feeling too good.”
I went out and managed to wobble through the hall, back to the outer office. It was like walking under water, and the glass bricks wavered before my eyes.
The little man with the monocle was still sitting there. I swam past him. He looked up and started to open his mouth. Fat little fish, gulping air in the wavering water.
“Pardon me,” he said. Voice from far away. Sound under water.
I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. I opened the door and emerged upon the sunlit shore of the street.
He padded after me. “Please—” he murmured.
I shook him off. “Go away.” I knew that’s what my voice said, but I couldn’t control it. “Go away. Can’t you see I’m busy? I have to kill somebody.”
Rushing around the corner, rushing into the crowd, I wondered who it was I meant to kill.
All I knew was that it was going to happen soon.
Two
The sunshine swept all around me, and so did the people. These people walking along the Strip were no better or no worse than those in any crowd, but right now I couldn’t stand their faces: those horrid, impersonal wooden masks which everyone wears in public.
I see those masks on people everywhere: walking down the street, waiting on the corner for cars or busses, standing in elevators, eating in restaurants. All of them trying to pretend they’re alone, all of them behaving like toys wound up to walk, ride, stand or eat.
I saw them now, the hideously animated dolls, and as I hurried along I turned my head away. I breathed deeply but I couldn’t stop trembling. What was wrong with me, anyhow?
I knew what was wrong. I had nowhere to go.
Stopping in a doorway, I lit the last cigarette, and when I threw the package away I was tossing Rickert and the photos and the recordings into the gutter. Everything was gone.
And where did I go from here? The cigarette teeter-tottered in my mouth as I searched my pockets. I found crumpled bills and some change. Four dollars and thirty-five cents. I’d better have something to eat, first.
Eat? I never eat on an empty stomach...
The thoughts kept spinning around, bruising my brain. Why had I ever come out here, anyway? I was just a hick, like all the other Iowa farmers who dream of the trip for years, save up for years, finally travel 2000 miles to get here, and then have nothing to do but send a souvenir to the folks back home—a miniature wooden privy with the name of the city stamped on it.
Yes, I was a hick, but I couldn’t go back home. They’d laugh at me. My brother Charlie would laugh at me. I was laughing at myself.
Eddie Haines, the Boy Wonder. The star of the Senior Play. Just a high-school kid who never grew up. I used to think I was pretty good. They all thought so, then. “You ought to be in the movies. Or on the radio. Or television.”
Why not? It sounded great—in high school. And after high school I got this job at the local radio station. Things were looking up. Then came the idea for this Television Psychologist program and I thought I was all set. So I came to Hollywood and went to Rickert and here I was.
Here I was, right now, standing in the bar with half a snootfull. Funny, I wasn’t standing on the street any more. I was in this dark, quiet bar, and I kept telling these things to the bartender, and he said, “Sure, buddy,” and poured me another.
He didn’t care. He was my pal. He knew there was nothing else to do. Nothing else to do when you’re down to four dollars and thirty-five cents and can’t go back.
Then there wasn’t any more money and it was time to go home. Home? That one-room deal on the third floor with the disconnected phone and the mail slit that never had a letter sticking in it? And how much longer would I even have that to go back to?
Well, maybe I wouldn’t need it much longer. The important thing now was to get there, fast. Walk a little. Lurch a little. Up the stairs. Easy to find the key—it was the only thing left in my pocket.
Very close inside and dark. Close and dark, like a tomb. Shut the door, click the light against the night. There.
When the light came on, my headache started up again. Something about monocles crept into my brain, something about them staring at me. Did Charlie wear a monocle, or Rickert, or the bartender? I couldn’t remember. No, it was somebody else. I wanted to figure it out, but there just wasn’t any time left.
I had promised to do something and I must do it in a hurry. I must do it right now, to get rid of the headache. I walked quickly into the bathroom. The reflection in the mirror hit me in the face. I steadied myself and waited for the mirror to go away. It didn’t, but I knew how to make it go away. I pulled back the door of the medicine cabinet and that did it.
The objects on the shelves were unpleasant. I didn’t want to see them, but I was looking for something and couldn’t help but notice. Aspirin, toothpaste, cold tablets, pills, iodine, scissors—I hated all of it. The melancholy of anatomy...
Everything I saw reminded me of the way you have to fight just to keep alive. Fight with yourself, with your body. There’s always something. Like this headache. Or a cold, sinus trouble. Tooth decay. Bad eyes. Bruises, blisters, cuts, burns, aches, pains. An endless round of cleaning, brushing, scrubbing, combing. Cutting of hair and fingernails and toe-nails. Eating, eliminating, resting, sleeping. Fighting all the time and you can’t win.
I reached out and swept everything into the washbowl. Everything except what I wanted. The toothpowder spilled and the iodine splashed, but I didn’t care. I had what I wanted, now, in my hand.
That Charlie, that big brother of mine, was a tough egg. Always ready to hand out some patronizing advice. But one thing he told me I never had forgotten.
“There’s two things a man should always get straight—his whiskey and his razor.”
Well, I’d taken the whiskey. And now I had my razor. I held it for a moment and watched my hand tremble, as I thought of Charlie, and how we’d parted, back in Iowa.
I held a razor in my hand then, too. It was at the height of our final quarrel, and I’d been packing, and the razor had been resting on top of the table. Just resting, until I’d grabbed it up, groping for it through a red haze, and I went for Charlie, screaming, “So I’m no good, am I? I’ll kill you for saying that, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you—”
Would I have killed him?
Suppose he hadn’t caught my wrist in time. Suppose I’d let the razor slash down. Would I have gone through with it and murdered Charlie? I still didn’t know. I know that he did grab my wrist, knock the razor to the floor, and hold me until I quieted down and the haze cleared away.
But I also knew that whenever I got angry, really angry, the haze came back—and with it, the urge to kill. Perhaps I was a murderer, at heart. Perhaps I could go out again, right now, razor in hand, and run amok in the streets among all the wooden-faced people. I could carve new expressions on their faces with this razor of mine.
I held it in my hand, and my hand didn’t tremble now. I was thinking about a whole new way of life. A way of death, rather.
Suppose I took this razor and made it an instrument of Destiny. I could carve faces, I could carve a career with it for myself. All I had to do was stand in an alley and show it to most people and they’d give me anything I wanted. They’d give me everything I couldn’t seem to get any other way. Just the sight of it was threat enough. I could get money from the men, and from the women I’d take—
No. I was crazy to think of it. It would end in murder, and I’d become a killer, just as I feared. There was a killer inside of me, I knew that now. There’s a killer inside everyone if you probe deeply enough; my killer was strong and he sent out a red haze when he wanted to escape.
He wanted to escape now. And the only way to prevent that was to turn the razor on him. This whacky town was full of murderers—torso slayers, rippers, maniacs on the loose. It must be something in the air; perhaps the smog was a red haze in disguise.
Well, my killer mustn’t join the rest. I, and I alone, could prevent it, had to prevent it. Because if I went on, sooner or later somebody else would die. I was certain of it.
So I held the razor in my hand and I was ready. It was time to cut loose. Time for the unkindest cut of all. Time to kill the killer—
My headache almost blinded me. It sent sharp pains out against my eyes, but not sharp enough. Not nearly as sharp as the straight edge of my razor, pressing against my throat.
Then the haze was back and I said to myself, “This is the way it feels when you murder, this is what it’s like to be a murderer—and lucky for you that you’re murderer and victim too.”
My hand moved in the haze, and the razor’s edge was sharp. As it came down, I was thinking that the edge of a razor is the sharpest thing in the world.
Then it was the only thing in the world...
Three
Then there was something else in the world, after all. Noise. Knocking. Persistent knocking. And rattling. I could hear it somewhere, a million miles away. Knocking on my door, rattling the knob.
I wouldn’t answer. Maybe the noises would stop if I wouldn’t answer. Then my hand might be steadier and I could go ahead. But not with that thudding— It didn’t stop. I heard a muffled voice outside. What right did anyone have to interfere? I still didn’t have to open the door. This was my business.
“Go away!” I yelled.
The doorknob rattled again. Somebody was knocking on my door, pounding on my head.
I moved into the living room. The voice was now plainly audible.
“Open up—I want to see you.”
“No!”
Silence. I stood there, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps. Another moment now and I’d be alone again. Another moment and I could walk back into the bathroom and— I heard rustling. Something was sliding under the door. Something green slithered into view. I had to move closer, had to look down at it, had to see what it was. I stared. It was a hundred-dollar bill.
I bent down and picked it up in my left hand, the free hand. There was magic in the feel of it; I stopped trembling the moment my skin came into contact with the crispness. I could see it quite clearly and the pain behind my eyes receded. Who said money can’t work miracles? Miracles from outside the door. Opportunity knocks but once...
I turned the bolt, opened the door. He came in. The little guy, Peter Lorre. Only it wasn’t Peter Lorre. This man was bald. He had taken his hat off and the light from the bathroom shone on an absolutely hairless skull. If a fly lit on his head, it would slip and break an ankle.
I didn’t really think that; there was no room in my mind for a gag then. All I could do was stand there and look at him while I tried to slip the razor into my pocket.
He turned on the living room light, walked over to the sofa, sat down, and pulled out the monocle. This time it didn’t hurt my eyes. Nothing hurt my eyes. I could feel the hundred dollar bill in my hand.
The little guy looked up at me and smiled. “You are Eddie Haines,” he said. “Delighted to meet you. I am Professor Hermann.”
My left hand held the money, and my right hand stayed in my pocket with the razor. So I merely nodded at his introduction. Then all at once I felt that I must sit down. I took the chair. He watched me, still smiling.
“You will pardon my intrusion. I tried to call, but it seems your telephone has been disconnected. And it was important that I see you.”
“How did you get here?”
He waved his hand, the one with the diamond ring on the little finger. I wasn’t so sure it was a fake diamond any more.
“Mr. Rickert gave me your name and address. You remember, I was in his office this afternoon. You wouldn’t talk to me, but I went there for just that reason. I was looking for you, Mr. Haines.”
“But why?”
“I heard your voice on an audition record. That is what so interested me.”
“Are you in radio, Professor?”
“No. But I am interested in voices. I have something in mind which may also interest you.”
He had already interested me. Anybody who shoved hundred-dollar bills under my door interested me a lot. I’m funny that way.
I was sobering up. I started to withdraw my right hand from my pocket and nicked my finger on the straight edge of the razor. I forced a grin as I swabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.
“Afraid I must apologize to you,” I said. “You see, I was shaving when you rang. Came out in such a hurry I was still carrying my razor, and I stuck it in my pocket. Forgot all about it just now and cut myself a little.”
Professor Hermann nodded gravely. “I see there are some things I will have to teach you. Such as learning how to tell a lie.”
“What do you mean by that crack?”
“My dear young man! You’ll find it’s no use trying to deceive me. I happen to know you weren’t shaving. You were getting ready to cut your throat.”
I gaped at him and he chuckled. “And that would have been very stupid of you, my friend. Very, very stupid. Because you and I are going to make a million dollars— together.”
“When? Where? How?”
“I’ll tell you all about it at dinner,” he promised.
And that’s why I put on my coat and went out with him. That’s why we sat in the little restaurant until almost nine, eating and talking.
I did most of the talking, at first. The Professor didn’t say much, beyond encouraging me to tell about myself. I was perfectly willing to do so, as long as I could feel the crispness of that hundred-dollar bill in my pocket.
He sat there, nodding and smiling and shaking his head on cue. It wasn’t until I had several jolts of coffee inside of me that I came out of my talking jag. Maybe I was foolish in letting him pump me without knowing what he really wanted.
I lit a cigarette and pushed my cup away.
“Seems to me as though I’m doing a lot of talking.”
His bald head wobbled. “Go ahead. I like to listen to you. You have a wonderful voice.”
“Tell that to the radio and TV executives. They won’t listen to me.”
“Executives!” I caught the familiar wave of the hand, the glittering arc of the diamond swirling through space. “Your voice is too fine an instrument to be wasted on selling gasoline and laxatives.”
“Then what interests you?” I asked.
“I’ve already told you. It’s your voice. I’ve spent weeks now, listening to voices. Auditioning records and transcriptions with talent agents. I heard your voice by accident the other day in an advertising office. Mr. Rickert must have sent them a record.
“Right then I knew I had found what I was looking for. Because you do have a very fine voice, Mr. Haines. I’m not speaking of diction or phrasing. I’m talking about pitch and timbre. You have a persuasive voice. You sound sincere and convincing. Women like your voice, don’t they, Mr. Haines?”
What was the matter with this guy? I stared at him—a fat, ugly, bald-headed little stranger who tossed around hundred-dollar bills and talked about voices.
He smiled. “You don’t understand, of course. But you will. I’m sure of that. I like your inquisitive attitude. I like your self-confidence. The way you tried to stare me down in the office this afternoon. I often amuse myself by observing the reactions of strangers. And I’ve made up my mind that with proper training you will go far. You have the voice, the appearance, the youth and the background. It was no accident that brought us together. It was Destiny.”
Professor Hermann wasn’t smiling now. He hunched forward over the table and his eyes were glittering to match that big diamond.
“Cut the violin music,” I said. “What’s your proposition?”
He glanced at the restaurant clock and stood up, quickly. “We haven’t time to discuss that now,” he said. “It’s getting late. We’re due at the meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“Come and see. It’s important that you arrive before the testimony starts.”
“Wait a minute. I want to know what I’m getting into here. After all, I can’t afford to waste my time—”
He grinned. “You don’t trust me? Then I suggest you give me back that hundred-dollar bill and call it quits. I’ll go to the meeting, and you—you run along back home and cut your throat.”
I stared at him for a long second, and then it struck me. I began to laugh. I was still laughing as I followed him out of the restaurant and down the street.
“So you’ve decided to come along?”
“Right,” I said. “But I still wish I knew where I was going.”
“All you need to know,” Professor Hermann told me, “is that tonight we take the first step. The first step in the direction of a million dollars.”
Four
The professor led me down the street for about half a block and halted before my idea of a beautiful animal—a handsome new black Jaguar.
“Climb in,” he said.
“But we didn’t come in a car—”
He gave that grin again as he jangled a set of keys before my eyes. “Correct. I parked here before I went to see you. I had everything arranged.”
I matched his grin with a shrug and opened the door. I was relieved to know I wasn’t getting mixed up with a car thief, but at the same time I didn’t quite like the idea of his being so sure of me in advance. A smart apple, the Professor—a smart little bald-headed apple.
We pulled away, headed down the boulevard, then went northwest toward Beverly Hills. Neither of us said anything for a while and the Jaguar just purred.
The Professor glanced at the dashboard clock. “Right on time,” he said. “We’ll pick her up and then go to the meeting.”
“Her?”
“Oh, I forgot to mention that we’re bringing a guest. You will probably like her—I don’t suppose you’ve ever met a movie star before.”
“Movie star?”
“Well, a featured player. Seven hundred and fifty dollars a week. Lorna Lewis. You know the name?”
Lorna Lewis, the gal with the glamorous gams. The censor’s delight. I’d heard of her, all right. This was going to be interesting, after all.
“The movie colony is particularly impressionable,” remarked Professor Hermann. “I expect great results from them in our future work. For example, consider their interest in astrology. I can name you dozens of stars, producers, executives who won’t make a move unless the signs are right.
“I always think of one top name out here—she’s been in pictures ever since the original Lassie was a pup—who lives according to a carefully plotted horoscope based on her date of birth. The only thing is, as she gets older she keeps moving her birthdate forward. She’s changed her age four times now, and each time she gets a new astrologer and a new horoscope. But she won’t so much as sleep with an assistant producer without consulting the stars.”
The car climbed a hill. Poinsettias pressed myriad bleeding mouths to a garden wall.
“About this Lorna Lewis,” I said. “Is she gone on astrology too?”
Professor Hermann shook his head. “No. Spiritualism.”
I blinked and sat up. “Mean to tell me that’s what you have in mind for us—some kind of spook racket?”
“Far from it. My dear boy, don’t underestimate me. You and I are above such vulgar fakery. Our paths lead to higher things. But we’ll speak of all that at another time. Right now your cue is to observe—and be silent.”
We entered the driveway on a hillside. Past the palm-bordered path rose a rambling neo-Spanish hacienda. I caught a glimpse of a side terrace and a swimming pool in the back. Then we drew up before broad stone steps. The motor whimpered in death.
Professor Hermann led me to the door. The usual buzzer produced the usual chimes. We waited until the door opened.
“Come in,” said a voice. I recognized it immediately. I recognized the black jungle of curls, the almost Negroid lips, the slim sweep of the perfectly proportioned legs. Lorna Lewis, in person.
“Be with you in a minute.” She waved us to a love seat in the hall alcove and then dashed up the stairs, treating us to a profile and rear view of one of the finest pairs of peach-colored slacks I’d ever seen.
“Don’t stare!” hissed the Professor. “And from now on, remember, take your cues from me.” He produced his monocle and bent forward to polish it with a handkerchief as though it were a rare scientific lens.
“Remember, now, not a word. Let me do the talking.”
“But—”
She was running down the stairs again, still wearing the peach-colored slacks and a green blouse. I hadn’t appreciated the blouse before, but it was even better than the slacks.
“Ready? Let’s go, then. Our appointment’s for nine-thirty and we mustn’t be late.” Suddenly she seemed to notice me. She paused and blinked rapidly, just to show me she could do it without knocking any of the mascara off her eyelashes. “Who’s he?” she asked.
“Miss Lewis, this is Judson Roberts.”
This was me, apparently. I rose and started to open my mouth, but the Professor coughed.
“Mr. Roberts cannot answer you. He is committed to silence until midnight.”
This time her blink was genuine. “Oh—a vow or something?”
“Certainly not, my dear child! Mr. Roberts is no fake mystic. He’s a scientist. As such, he is engaged in an experiment of psychological conditioning. He has just arrived from the University of Lima and plans to collaborate with me in my work. I’d like to have him tell you about it some time— I’m sure you would be interested.”
“I know I will.” She gave me a long look and I found out she could do other tricks with her eyes besides the blinking act.
“I’ve invited Mr. Roberts to accompany us as an observer this evening.” The Professor hesitated. “If you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine with me. But I don’t know if Mrs. Hubbard will approve. I hear she’s very particular about strangers.”
“More than likely.” The Professor led us outside and slid behind the wheel of the car. Lorna Lewis followed and I edged into the front seat beside her. The peach-colored slacks pressed against my thigh. I pressed back. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to talk, but I managed to make an impression.
The Professor was doing most of the talking as he nosed the Jaguar south, then east. “Your Mrs. Hubbard probably doesn’t care for outsiders a bit. I wouldn’t, either, if I was working a nice soft racket—preying on motion picture people with phony spiritualism.”
Lorna Lewis tossed her head. Jungle-storm.
“You’ll see! Mrs. Hubbard is different. She doesn’t try to fool anyone with tricks or hocus-pocus.”
“No ectoplasm or apparitions? What about rope escapes and raps? Does she produce apports?”
“You’re making fun of me.” Her fingers caressed a silver cigarette case. “Mr. Roberts?”
“Mr. Roberts does not smoke,” snapped the Professor.
That was news to me. I wondered if I also did not drink. Probably I fasted a lot, too. Certainly I had nothing to do with women. Eyeing Lorna Lewis, I decided that was one rule which would be changed in a hurry.
“My dear Miss Lewis,” purred the Professor, “I am by nature a skeptic and by profession a psychologist. As such I have devoted much time to the investigation of so-called psychic phenomena. I am sorry to report that I have never seen a genuine medium.”
“But Mrs. Hubbard doesn’t put on a show,” the girl protested. “Why, I’ve only been there once before, and it was just like sitting down for a visit. The lights were on and everything. But the things she told me, the things she knew about me, it was simply uncanny!
“She knew my name—my real name, that is—and my age, and where I lived, and who my folks were, and what my next picture would be and who would direct it. She even told me I’d get Lester Vance opposite me, and I didn’t hear about it from the studio until three days later!”
The Professor chuckled. “You’re in pictures, my child. Such information is virtually public property.”
“But my real name, and my real age—”
“It’s all listed somewhere. Your birth certificate is surely available by mail. And certainly an unscrupulous woman would be willing to spend a few dollars on investigation. She probably has a line into the studio, paying someone to feed her advance tips on activities. She hopes to make you a regular client and attract others. Didn’t you say your hairdresser told you to go there in the first place? It’s all very obvious.”
I realized, suddenly, that he was talking to me more than he was to her—trying to tell me the angles. I listened carefully.
“If you are gullible enough, I predict that sooner or later your little ten-dollar readings won’t satisfy Mrs. Hubbard. She’ll give you some good advice about the future, and some even more intimate information about yourself; feed it to you bit by bit, just to keep you coming back for more. Sooner or later she will find out that you too have mystic powers, that you’re clairvoyant, clairaudient, a natural medium. She’ll give you slate-writing and then the old psychic force routine.”
“Psychic force?”
“Moving inanimate objects without touching them. Waving her hand over fruit, walnuts, coins. They’ll obey her, move and follow her hand. Psychic force. I’ll show you how it’s done, sometime.”
“Tell me.”
“Simple. She wears a magnetized ring. There’s another magnet planted inside the walnut or fruit or fake coin. Naturally, it moves. By varying the weight of the object she can produce anything from a stir to a jump. It sounds simple and stupid and obvious, but wait until she gives you the buildup—in the dim, quiet room with her voice pitched low and the spirits abroad.”
Lorna Lewis shook her head. “Mrs. Hubbard isn’t like that at all. You’ll see.”
“Very well. But remember, I’m here to protect you. Just introduce us as friends. I promise not to interfere in any way, but I want to observe what happens.”
“That’s right, Professor,” said Lorna Lewis, with the roguish smile that endeared her to millions. “Just hold your water.”
We turned into a street that looked like the butt-end of Tobacco Road. Lawns of brown weeds and sand, withered palmettoes decorated by the dogs, houses sagging behind rusted iron fences.
It was a hot night. On paint-peeled porches, unlovely women rocked and fanned futilely. Towheaded brats peered from behind phlegm-green window shades. Street lights lent a wavering distortion to the flight of myriad flies, but did nothing to cut the stench of shrivelled vegetation, rotting wood, sweat, garbage, and the frying odor of food.
“Here we are.” Lorna Lewis indicated a house. She might have been psychic at that; I couldn’t have distinguished this particular shack from any of the others. It was a wide two-story house which might once have been painted yellow. The shades were drawn, the door was shut, and the only sign of occupancy was a smear of cat droppings across the broken boards of the porch.
We parked, then swerved across the sidewalk in single file. I stumbled over a battered blue coaster wagon which lay on its side near the fence. Right then and there I almost forgot my vow of silence.
I fancied I saw the shades move slightly in a window to the left of the porch, but I was more interested in the movement of Lorna Lewis’s peach-colored slacks. We followed her up the porch steps.
She pressed the buzzer and a sour whine echoed from within the house. A sallow-faced Mexican girl opened the door. She brushed the perspiration from her mustache, wiped her hand on her stringy hair and said, “Yes, please?”
“We’ve come to see Mrs. Hubbard. We have an appointment.”
“I tell her. Wait here.”
She ushered us into the hallway and left us there.
The hall was dark and narrow, like a closet. And like a closet, it smelled of mothballs and mustiness. There were doors on either side of the hallway, and the girl departed through one at our right. Nothing supernatural about that—she opened the door before entering.
We settled down in wicker chairs and waited. My chair was next to a wicker end table piled high with tattered magazines. I picked one up. It was a copy of Film Fun for January, 1933.
Lorna Lewis found another cigarette. The Professor polished his monocle. I looked at “gag” still-shots of such forgotten cinema zanies as Harry Langdon, Jimmy Finlayson, Andy Clyde and Edgar Kennedy.
The silence was emphatic. The air was hotter, mustier. The hall became an oversized coffin. Time passed, but what’s time when you’re inside a coffin? Lorna Lewis stepped on her cigarette. The Professor adjusted his monocle. I sat there listening to the worms bore through the woodwork.
Then the door opened, and we jumped, and the Mexican girl said, “In here, please.”
Beyond the door was an ordinary parlor—“sitting room” in the day when this house was built—filled with the usual scrolled oak furniture, upholstered by a contemporary of Queen Anne. The wallpaper was Paris green, obscured in many places by large chromos of the Saviour in meditation, exaltation and agony.
The center of the room was occupied by a “dining room suite” consisting of six chairs and a round table. Mrs. Hubbard sat in one of the chairs, her elbows on the table top. She wasn’t exactly Mrs. Hubbard—“Mother Hubbard” would be a more accurate tag. A fat, blowsy, red-faced woman in her mid-menopause, with pork-bristles on her arms and chin. Coarse brown hair nestled in a bun against the back of her high-necked black dress. There was something tragic about her deep-set eyes; here, if ever I saw one, was a woman who had been suffering. From a hangover.
“Greetings.”
Her voice was as big as her body. It bounced off the walls and exploded against our ears.
“You are prompt, Miss Lewis. And I see you have brought some guests.”
“I thought you wouldn’t mind. This is—”
“I know.” Mrs. Hubbard smiled slightly. “Please be seated, and I will endeavor to convince the skeptical Professor Otto Hermann, Ph.D., that I am indeed a psychic sensitive.”
We selected chairs and sat around the table. The Mexican girl opened the door again and ushered four more people into the room. We turned and stared at the fat little red-faced man with the mustache, the portly matron in the flower-print dress, the pale, bespectacled blonde girl, and the gaunt, gray-haired woman who fiddled with her coral beads.
Mrs. Hubbard, unsmiling, waved them to places at the table. The Mexican girl brought in some extra chairs and then produced a card table which she set up in the corner of the room. Mrs. Hubbard rose and retreated to a seat behind the card table and we sat around the larger one, facing her, in a semi-circle.
Nobody said a word. Lorna Lewis watched Mrs. Hubbard. I watched Lorna Lewis. The Professor was watching me. Mrs. Hubbard didn’t appear to be watching anybody. The whole affair began to take on the charm and jollity of an inquest. I was waiting for something to happen. I was waiting for the closing of the blinds, the whisperings in the darkened room, the rappings and the wailings, the screech of chalk moving across a slate, the phosphorescent phantom issuing from the mouth of a moaning woman.
The Mexican girl appeared again. She carried a tablet of cheap blue-ruled paper, a package of envelopes, and a handful of sharpened yellow pencils. This assortment made a nice little mess on Mrs. Hubbard’s card table.
We watched and waited as the Mexican girl rotated chunky thighs towards the door. The red-faced man fingered his mustache, the matron played with her purse, the girl with the glasses coughed, the gray-haired woman used her coral beads for a private rosary. The Professor had his monocle to divert him and I had Lorna Lewis. Her black hair held a living lustre. I wondered how it would feel to dig my fingers into those curls, press that head back, and—
“Will everybody take a pencil, a sheet of paper and an envelope, please?”
Mrs. Hubbard was ready to go into her routine. We rose, filed past the table and returned to our places.
“Because our group tonight is a little larger than usual, and because there is a natural reticence in the presence of strangers, I feel it best to have you put your questions in writing.” Mrs. Hubbard smiled.
“I suggest that each of you write down one question, to begin with. If we have time, I shall be glad to work with your further inquiries personally—and privately, if you wish.
“At the moment the important thing, frankly, is to gain your complete confidence. Without it you will have no faith in my power, nor in my ability to help you. Since some of you are here for the first time tonight, I’m going to make use of a rather spectacular method to convince you of my extra-liminal perception.”
The deep voice rolled smoothly, easily, persuasively.
“I’m not very much of a showman—I cannot offer you a dark room, table-tipping, ghostly presences. But if each one of you will write a question on a piece of paper, fold it as much as you like, and personally seal it in an envelope— then perhaps I can demonstrate an interesting psychic phenomenon.”
There was a pause, a shared feeling of hesitation. Mrs. Hubbard didn’t have to be a mystic to sense the indecision.
“Please. It’s very simple. I am going to read your questions back to you as you have written them, without opening the envelopes. There’s no trickery. You can examine the paper, the pencils, the envelopes. You won’t find any carbon or wax or acid-treatments. There will be no waiting and no switches. I’ll read your questions back to you immediately and give you the answers as they come to me. So if you’ll write—and make your questions sincere—whatever is closest to your mind and heart—”
The red-faced man scrawled something on his ruled sheet and folded it carefully four times. The matron licked the tip of her pencil and frowned. Lorna Lewis pouted. I watched her lips pucker as if seeking kisses—or bites. The spectacle suggested several questions to my mind, but not the kind I cared to have read back to me in public.
I shielded my own paper and wrote, “Will my new venture be successful?”
There was much business of folding and sealing. Lorna Lewis ran her tongue across the flap. She was like a kitten lapping cream. I wondered how it would feel to—
Then I stopped wondering. Mrs. Hubbard lumbered around the table and took up the sealed envelopes. I watched her for obvious reasons; we all watched. But I could detect no switch or sleight-of-hand. She collected seven envelopes, shuffled them carefully, and placed them on the table. She spread them out fanwise before her and frowned. Our chairs scraped back as we faced her. She switched on a lamp behind her and produced a wire filing basket.
“I shall read your questions and answer them one at a time,” she told us. “In order to confirm this, I am going to ask the writer of each question to raise his or her hand and let me know if I’ve sensed it correctly. Then I’ll open the envelope containing it. Is that agreeable?”
We nodded. I looked at Professor Hermann. His face was utterly expressionless. I wondered what he was thinking, what he would do if Lorna Lewis seemed convinced by Mrs. Hubbard. So far he hadn’t opened his mouth.
Mrs. Hubbard stared down at the envelopes. Her forehead creased. A fat hand reached out at random and lifted an envelope from the center of the fan-shaped assortment. She placed the sealed envelope high against her wrinkled brow. Her eyes closed.
Then she was speaking, and her voice came from far away—as if from inside herself, as if from inside the envelope.
“Should I sell my property to the syndicate or hold out for the original figure?” she whispered.
A red-faced, mustached Jack-in-the-box popped up. “That’s it!” he shouted. “By golly, that’s my question, all right.”
Professor Hermann never blinked. Everyone else was leaning forward, tense with excitement.
Mrs. Hubbard smiled. “Please, control yourselves. It makes it more difficult for me to concentrate.” She opened the envelope now, unfolded the sheet, glanced at it carelessly, and I placed it in the wicker basket. And all the while, she continued to talk.
“As it comes to me, Mr. Rogers, this property you refer to consists of a block of eight lots just south of San Juan Capistrano, on the coast highway. This syndicate of which you speak, the—”
Rogers opened his mouth and she paused. “Of course I will not mention their names, if you prefer. But it is true, isn’t it, that they plan to build a hotel on this site? And that yesterday they offered you $18,000 cash for an outright sale, while you are holding out for $25,000? I thought so. It appears that if you refuse, they will offer you $20,000 on Thursday. If you still refuse, on Monday they will meet your price.”
Without pausing, the plump hand sought another envelope, pressed it to the red forehead. Her eyes closed and her mouth opened.
“Will Mike leave me?”
Lorna Lewis leaned forward. “Yes,” she murmured. “That’s my question.”
Mrs. Hubbard nodded, slitting the envelope. She tossed the unfolded paper into the basket, glancing at it and nodding at the same time.
“Mike will leave you soon—forever. He is preparing to depart right now. He hasn’t told you yet, because he doesn’t know about it himself, fully. But I see him going away from you, going far, far away—”
The girl’s mouth opened. Mrs. Hubbard apparently was used to this reaction, for she hurried on. “I could tell you much more, but it would not be discreet. Alone, perhaps, and later, if you desire.”
Again I tried to pierce Professor Hermann’s bland stare. I tried to figure it out. There must be an angle, an answer to all this, but where?
“Will my new venture be successful?”
She was reading my question!
My own mouth opened now. It sucked in air as I watched Mrs. Hubbard carelessly unseal the envelope and withdraw the folded paper. She unravelled it and then—her mouth opened.
Something red fluttered to the table; something bold and brazen, with the picture of a half-naked girl emblazoned on its crimson background.
It was the cover of the Film Fun magazine I’d been reading in the hall!
Professor Hermann was on his feet, snatching at the cover. “You made a mistake in the envelopes,” he said. “My question, I believe.”
Mrs. Hubbard’s open mouth gulped for words. When they came, they sounded in a sweetly audible cadence.
“You lousy rat!”
But she couldn’t escape. We were crowded around the table now and the Professor, inarticulate no longer, was holding forth.
“You see, it’s very simple. The whole trick is old as the hills. While the audience is looking for mirrors, electronic detectors, all kinds of elaborate devices, the fake mystic is merely using the old ‘one-ahead’ system. All she needs for that is a stooge. In this case, it was Rogers, here.”
The red-faced mustached man who had popped up like a Jack-in-the-box now looked as though he would collapse like one. But the Professor held his arm firmly.
“Here’s how it works. The stooge writes his question and seals it up like all the others, but he marks his envelope by nicking the flap with his fingernail. The medium spots it at a glance. Here.”
He held up an envelope—unopened.
“This she saves until the last. But she calls out the stooge’s question, first. She knows it in advance, of course. Then the stooge jumps up and makes a big production about hearing the correct question. She opens the envelope she’s held to her forehead. Naturally, it’s one of the others containing a legitimate question which she reads after opening the envelope. So while answering the stooge’s question, in convincing detail, she was actually reading Miss Lewis’ question from the envelope she opened. Then, with the next envelope, she answered Miss Lewis. Then she opened the flap and found Mr. Roberts’ question.
“But when she called Mr. Roberts’ question, she opened my envelope—and that was her mistake.”
“All right, fink,” muttered Mrs. Hubbard. “What do you want?”
The Professor shrugged. “Nothing at all, really, from you—except your promise to quit working a racket on people who are in need of genuine assistance from reputable consultants. I don’t think you’ll be trying these tricks around here very much longer.”
“Why you goddamn—”
“Careful, now! Watch your language. You aren’t very ladylike, Mrs. Hubbard. Of course, appearances are deceptive; you ladies and gentlemen must always remember that. For example, Mrs. Hubbard here does not use ladylike language because she really isn’t a lady. In fact—”
The Professor’s hand descended to Mrs. Hubbard’s head. It rose again, clutching a brown-bunned wig. We gaped down at a fat, bald-headed man who gripped the edge of the table and cursed like the producer of a sustaining show.
Professor Hermann ignored his victim as he turned to us with a little bow.
“My friends,” he said. “I think our little session with the supernatural is over.”
Five
We drove Lorna Lewis home. It was hard for me to remember that I was “Judson Roberts” and that I was under a vow of silence. But the Professor was in the driver’s seat. He drove, I fidgeted, and Lorna Lewis babbled.
“You were so right,” she sighed. “And I’m so grateful to you. If that racketeer had found out about me—I mean, if I’d trusted him and really told a lot of things I need advice on—”
She shivered. It felt good against me.
Professor Hermann smiled. “Perhaps in the future you will be more discreet. Only a reputable consultant should be trusted with your intimate problems.”
“That’s what Mike tells me.” She lit a cigarette, and it was agony for me to sit there and smell the smoke flaring from her mouth. “About Mike—there’s something I must know.”
“Bothering you, is he?”
“Yes. And I want you to help me. I can trust you, now. When could we talk about it?”
“Miss Bauer makes all my appointments. Call her at my office whenever you wish.”
He left it at that when we dropped her at the house. She said goodbye to me and hoped we’d meet again. I nodded calmly. As her peach-colored posterior wiggled its way up the walk, I was tearing open a package of cigarettes, fumbling with the matches. I got a light as we drove west.
“Can I talk now?” I asked.
The Professor nodded.
“I don’t get the pitch yet, but I can see that you’ve sold her a bill of goods.”
He smiled.
“That was a sweet idea, using the magazine cover. But what if it had been some other racket—were you sure of being able to expose it anyway?”
“Certainly. There is no possibility of failure, the way I operate. You will learn that in due time.”
“Where are we going now?”
“You shall see.”
“When are you going to tell me about those plans of yours?”
“Soon.”
I shut up and watched the lights of Santa Monica flash by. We kept going, hugging the edge of the ocean where, hours before, the sun had dropped into the water like a big California orange.
A lemon moon was in the sky as we neared the flickering street lights of Long Beach. The Professor parked on a side street and led me down a ramp to the boardwalk. We jostled through the late evening crowd and emerged on the midway.
“Follow me,” said the Professor, and led the way to a stand down the line.
Sideshow banners proclaimed the presence of SEERO THE MYSTIC—SECRETS OF PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE. Gaudy horoscopes decorated the sides of the ticket booth. A horse-faced woman with yellow hair and teeth to match smiled at us from behind the glass.
The Professor greeted her. “Is he here yet?”
“Just came in a minute ago. You can come in. There’s nobody with him now.”
We entered the pitch, going through a short passageway and emerging into a darkened, banner-draped room. A man sat behind a covered table, peering into a crystal ball. He wore a bathrobe and a turban. When he saw us he stood up, went to the door, latched it and returned to his seat at the low table.
No one spoke for a moment. I stared at the mystic and wondered where I’d seen that fat face before. He must have caught my thought, because he took his turban off and laid it down on the table. I recognized his bald head and then I knew.
The man was “Mrs. Hubbard.”
“You got here quick,” he said.
“I always keep my promises.” The Professor smiled. “Is everything all right, Jake?”
“Yeah, sure. All fixed but the payoff.” Jake gave me the kind of stare that would have cracked his crystal ball. “Who’s the savage?”
“This is Judson Roberts, my new associate. He’ll be working with me from now on.”
Jake now favored me with his normal smile, which would scarcely have wilted a flower at three hundred paces. “Please to meet up with you. You a dummy?”
“I can talk,” I said. “But I learn more from just listening.”
“A wisey, huh?” Jake swung around to the Professor. “Say, Rogers said for me to collect his split, too.”
“Very well.” Professor Hermann reached for his wallet and laid three engraved portraits of Benjamin Franklin on the table. Jake covered them with one big fist.
“Thanks,” he said.
“You did a good job. I’m glad the Lewis question came out before my envelope.”
“Kept my eye on it,” Jake answered. “I could of given her a cold reading if you’da let me.”
“None of that, if you please. Just follow orders when you work with me. I shall call you for something else in a few days. Meanwhile, stick to your pitch here. Forget the Mrs. Hubbard angle. It’s washed up. Too risky for such small stakes.”
“Gotcha.”
“And that goes for Rogers, too. He has other assignments to carry out for me.”
“Yeah. Well, be seeing you.”
We left. The Professor walked out to the beach and headed for the water’s edge. Surf lathered the tan cheek of the beach. He stood frowning off into the darkness.
“Now I understand,” I said. “You couldn’t possibly fail, could you? Because you rigged it all from the beginning. You planted a phony medium just to pull that stunt, so there never was a chance of anything going wrong.”
The wind tore the chuckle out of his mouth and carried it away across the water. “Of course. I never permit any margin for error. And this little affair tonight was more important than you know. Lorna Lewis had to be convinced. She is my opening wedge into the movie colony and the big money beyond that.
“You will find that I plan my projects perfectly. Everything we do will be carefully calculated in advance. That way we cannot fail. I will want your complete confidence. And I shall pay for it. Not with hundred-dollar handouts. I’m talking about real money now—thousands, perhaps millions. For me. For you.”
His white face stared up at me. “We can take over this town, you and I. Not with a phony cult or a fly-by-night racket. We’re going after the top, the cream. We’ll get next to them, get under their skin, get into their minds. We’ll start out by advising and analyzing them—but we’ll end up running their lives. We’re going to own them, body and soul!
“Today you saw me arrange events so that Lorna Lewis would ask me for help. If my plans work out, six months from now, I’ll order her to do anything I wish. And she’ll do it. She and dozens of others like her.
“That’s why I need you. That’s why I found you. Because this calls for a front man—young, good-looking, persuasive. He’ll work directly with the women and with the men, too. Of course, you must be trained for the role and that will take time. It will not be easy, for there’s so much to learn. The arts of social presence. Metaphysics. Psychiatry. Theology. Your personality must be molded for aggression and command. I am the guiding hand—you will be the instrument, ground to perfection for our work.
“I shall demand strict obedience, insist that you follow the program I lay down for you. But in return, you will receive everything you’ve always wanted. Fame, wealth, power.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I can sense it in you—that drive, that urge for power. Power over them all: the sleek, slim women you’ve never been able to have, and the hard, smug domineering men who’ve always ignored you. You can rule them if you wish, make them do anything you desire. Judges, doctors, politicians, financiers—the whole pack will come fawning at your heels, licking your fingers and whimpering for what you can give them.”
The surf lashed at my feet, the wind tore at my face, and his voice rode the surf and the wind to beat me down. Darkness and a white face and a voice that hinted and promised...
I had to say something. “But look, you can’t do this to people. Maybe they’ll fall for a line, but sooner or later they find out. I don’t feel right, selling them something phony.”
He laughed. “And yet you wanted to be a radio or television announcer.”
“That’s different—”
“Is it? Is it any more honest to read off gaudy lies about the nonexistent benefits of soap and toothpaste than it is to advocate self-help? You’d be perfectly willing to tell millions of pimply, bloated hags that they can become lovely and alluring if they buy a cake of perfumed fat to drop into their bath water. Isn’t that the same thing?”
“Well, not exactly. I mean—”
“Be honest with yourself, now. You’d have no scruples about trying to run people’s lives as a radio announcer, would you? You’d sell anything, use any threat or method. Fill poor little adolescent know-nothings with self-conscious fear, droning horrible warnings about acne and bad breath and perspiration odors. Frighten old folks with grave hints about the dreadful dangers of constipation and upset stomach. You’d promise wealth, success and happiness by inference to anyone who obeys your commands—runs down to the corner druggist, the neighborhood grocer, buys this, uses that, eats whatever you want to sell. Yes, and if your studio handed you the script, you’d use your best voice to shout the merits of a crooked politician, the virtues of a dishonest business policy. And yet you’re squeamish!”
I nodded. “Maybe you’re right, when you put it that way. But I still don’t think you can get away with your plans. There may be a few idiots who want to be fooled—who go for all the isms and ologies that come along. But most people are fairly sensible, after all. And I don’t see—”
“You will. Come along and I’ll show you.”
He led the way back across the beach. We nearly stumbled over a couple huddled on a blanket. The unshaven man in the T-shirt was fumbling at a high-school girl. Without removing his hands he raised his head and said, “W’yncha watch where tha hell ya goin’ta, ya dumb basserds?”
The Professor nodded and whispered. “We’re back in the world of normal people, my friend. Look at them.”
I looked.
The beach came alive all around me. A brawny, tow-headed man passed me, brushing so closely in the darkness that I could see his tattooed arm and smell the stench of tobacco from between his rotted teeth. He was grinning down at a giggling girl whose voice rose to a shriek as he dragged her into the water by her ankles.
“Oooooh, Ernie!” she yapped. “Oooooh, ya dog!”
A cannibalistic circle huddled around a small fire, gorging on half-raw weenies and rancid dill pickles. Troglodyte faces gaped in the firelight. A wrinkled, wizened old man’s head: white, bushy hair and beetling black brows that moved convulsively as he chewed with his whole face. There was a fat, blobby woman with stringy hair and a red neck; the rest of her flesh hung in dead white folds, broken here and there by bulging purplish veins that stood out like mountain ranges on a relief map. She slapped at a screaming brat with one beefy hand, slopping beer from a punctured can clutched in the other. A bullet-headed youth squatted next to a portable radio, fiddling with the volume control and scratching the hairy recesses of his armpits.
“Welcome to the world,” whispered the Professor.
A big kid hit a little kid. A broad-shouldered man whose back was covered with black fur now stood on his hands and walked over a group of three tittering girls who lay on a blanket exhibiting their charms—shaved armpits, vaccination scars, flabby breasts, hennaed curls on pimple-pitted foreheads. Two hulking sailors hurled a beach ball into the group, growling with oafish laughter to compel attention. A baby began to whimper in the darkness. We moved on, away from there.
I had sand in my shoes. I was hungry. I stepped through a tangle of crumpled paper, greasy cardboard plates, broken pop bottles. A small dog rushed up and nipped at my ankles, yapping hysterically.
“You see?” murmured the Professor. “Here are your normal people.”
“All right,” I said. “I don’t particularly care for them. But that doesn’t prove anything. It doesn’t prove they’ll fall for a line of phony advice about their lives and futures.”
The wind sent a dirty newspaper flying against my leg. I bent down and pushed it away, glimpsing the red letters of the headline: SEX MANIAC SOUGHT IN HATCHET SLAYING.
“Perhaps this will help to make you understand,” Professor Hermann told me. We turned onto the midway again.
Fluorescence and incandescence blinded me. My lungs gulped in popcorn oil, lard, the reek of frying meat, the stink of decayed fruit, and a rancid stench composed of tobacco, sweat, cheap perfume and whiskey.
Banners swirled all around me—before me, behind me, on either side, overhead. CONGRESS OF FREAKS. FLEA CIRCUS. ARCADE. EATS. FUN HOUSE. LEARN YOUR FUTURE. THREE SHOTS FOR A DIME. PLAY THE WINNERS. MAN-EATERS. RED-HOTS. A dozen jukeboxes blared and boomed, a merry-go-round seethed; against this background rose the whirling, rattling, clanking and grinding of the Whip, the Dodger, the plane rides and the roller-coaster. The sharp crack of rifles echoed from the shooting gallery. Barkers shouted in command, and amplifying systems carried their exhortations, roars, and raucous bawls of invitation. From the rides overhead I heard screams, shrieks, wails, and high, hysterical laughter.
“Close your eyes,” said the Professor. “Don’t look at them. I won’t even ask you to look at them. Just listen. And what do you hear?”
I closed my eyes and stood there, jostled by the crowd.
The harsh music suggested bands, and the boom-boom beat was a marching tempo. I thought of war. Yes, war—with rifle-shots and shouted orders. Grinding machinery: tanks, planes and armored cars, artillery wheeling up for action. And over that, the screams. The screams of the wounded and the dying. The screams of the killers, boring for blood with their bayonets.
Then the Professor was whispering again. “Normal people,” he told me. “Normal world. They’re out for entertainment tonight. Forgetting their troubles. Having fun, as they call it.
“Having fun! Look at them! Paying money to be locked in cages and whirled through the air upside down. Bolting themselves into cars that lurch and sway until their stomachs turn inside out and the blood churns in their stupid brains. Standing up in roller-coasters and risking death to attract attention. That’s all it is, you know. The shouting, the laughing, the posturing and screaming—it’s a cry of ‘Look at me! Look how brave I am, how important! See what I’m doing, I’m having a good time!’ And watch them smash into each other with the cars when they can, watch the play of sadism and masochism that passes for amusement.
“This is an amusement park, my friend. People come here to find what they want out of life—entertainment. They put their pennies into the peepshow slots because they want to do so. They know they’re being swindled and they love it. They love the lies, the phoniness, the cheats. They know the freak shows are fakes. They know the spielers are conning them about stepping up and winning the electric clocks. They don’t believe in our friend seero the mystic, but they pay their money and go inside because they want to be fooled.
“It’s not a new concept. Your showman, Barnum, said it long ago—and it was known and spoken of in ancient Egypt. But it is a truth that survives, for the desire for self-delusion never dies.
“People long for escape. Some of them pay their pennies to find it here. Others are able and willing to pay fortunes for something a little more convincing. For the sort of escape we will give them. These are the ones we shall rule. The seekers.”
“Suckers,” I said.
“The seeker is always a sucker,” said Professor Hermann.
Six
I showed up at the Professor’s office the next morning. Somehow I’d never pictured him in a downtown office. But there was the sign on the door in neat, discreet lettering:
OTTO HERMANN, PH.D.
PSYCHOLOGICAL CONSULTANT
The waiting room was cool and dark, well-furnished without the flash of Larry Rickert’s fake modern layout. The receptionist’s desk stood right out in the open. Behind it sat a plump, middle-aged brunette wearing a loose white smock and a tight red smile. She smiled up at me and her words filtered through a thick accent.
“You would be Mr. Haines?”
“I would.”
“The Professor is expecting you. Please to enter.”
I pleased to enter. Bookcases lined the walls of the private office. There was a red leather couch in the corner and a row of filing cabinets beside it. The Professor sat in a chair at the side of his desk. He was wearing the same black suit, or a reasonable facsimile. When I entered, he reached for the intercom.
“Miss Bauer—I do not wish to be disturbed.”
He glanced at his watch. Then his gaze ricocheted to me.
“You are late.”
“Sorry. I overslept. Yesterday took a lot out of me, I guess.”
“You are rested now?”
I nodded.
“Good. Then we can proceed to business.” He opened a drawer of his desk and drew out a thick sheaf of legal-bond typing paper.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Your book, of course. The one you wrote.”
I stared at the title page and read:
Y - O - U
by
Judson Roberts
“Take it and read it,” he said. “Memorize it. After all, you’re Judson Roberts, you know.”
“I didn’t know.” I riffled the pages and sat back. “What’s it all about?”
“Did you ever read Dale Carnegie? Walter Pitkin? Stuart Chase? They’re all in here. And Doctor Frank Crane and Elbert Hubbard, too. Also Madame Blavatsky, Mrs. Eddy, and a little bit of Thorstein Veblen. And of course, Herr Freud and Jung, and Aldous Huxley and Philip Wylie and Ouspensky and Spengler. A little bit of everyone. But with revisions and improvements, of course.”
“Did you actually write it?”
“No. Rogers wrote it. You remember, the little man with the mustache, at the seance. He has talent, when controlled. I commissioned him to start the book a year ago, when I began to plan all this.”
“What’s the point?”
“Perfectly obvious. Now that I’ve found my Judson Roberts, the book will be published. I can arrange for printing and for distribution. Rogers can set up a direct-mail campaign and we will sell it ourselves. It’s good for ten, twenty years. A small, steady income—though that’s not important in itself. But a published book is needed to establish Judson Roberts as an authority. That is most desirable. By the way, I’ve already sent your name in for a course and a diploma.”
“Diploma?”
“You’re going to be a Doctor of Psychology, just as I am. There’s a correspondence school in the East. Fifty dollars gets you a degree, and no questions asked. What are you grinning about?”
“It just struck me funny. All of a sudden I’m a Doctor of Psychology and the author of a book.”
“There’s nothing funny about that. It’s window dressing. And speaking of window dressing—”
The Professor rose and surveyed me critically. “Watch your posture. Your shoulders aren’t squared, you have a tendency to slouch. And you slump when you sit in a chair. We’ll correct that. You’ll need a wardrobe, of course, but that will come later. Hold your head a trifle higher and emphasize your height. You gain a certain advantage when people have to look up to you during a conversation. You might experiment with a different hairstyle. Those sideburns are all right for a cheap salesman, but I want more dignity. But enough of that for now. We have other work to do.”
“Such as?”
“Reading your book.”
I picked up the manuscript. “I’ll run through it this evening,” I promised.
The Professor shook his head. “Only the beginning. You’ll read it tonight and then you’ll read it again. And again. The content is the key to our whole system. It must be correlated with your other reading. For the next three months you’re going to sit in that apartment of yours and read. I’ll see that you eat, meanwhile.”
“Sounds pretty soft.”
“It won’t be. You’re going to study and sweat. I’ll quiz you. You’ll take tests. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to hold your own conversationally with any occultist, real or phony, and sound convincing.”
“Okay. You’re the Professor.”
“And you’re Judson Roberts.”
That’s how it started. I walked into the office as plain Eddie Haines and I walked out as Judson Roberts, with my book under my arm.
Judson Roberts took his book home and studied it. Then he studied the basic, selected writings of Freud, Adler, Jung, Brill, Moll and Stekel. He subscribed to psychiatric journals.
He read Swedenborg and Isis Unveiled. He read Frazer in bed, Charles Fort at the lunch counter, Briffault in the bathroom. He waded through it all, good and bad alike—Lully, Flammarion, Tyndall, Toynbee, Nietzsche.
At first I couldn’t make sense out of it all. Nothing seemed related. But gradually Judson Roberts made sense of it. For as I read, Judson Roberts took shape. He was born out of the books, weaned on the Professor’s nightly question sessions. Judson Roberts learned to discourse on affects and autistic phenomena. He could give a Rorschach test. He could explain the symbolic derivatives of a matriarchic culture pattern and analyze the inherent masochism of Kafka’s works. Roberts could improvise a relationship between the Sung Dynasty, Appolonius of Tyana, and enuresis.
It takes a few minutes to write down, but it took months of doing. Eight hours of reading a day, seven days a week, plus two or three hours of talk—questions and answers. But wading through theories and ideas, I began to understand people a little better. Motivation and compulsion and compensation. Sublimation and projection.
Meanwhile the Professor kept educating me on the practical level. He took me around to astrologers, palmists, phrenologists, spiritualists—men like Jake on the midway and top operators working out of mansions in the hills north of Hollywood. I saw how they worked, who they worked on. I learned that suckers are all alike, and the methods of handling them basically the same.
And through it all, he kept after me with questions. One afternoon towards the end of the third month, for example: “What are the twelve divisions of normal interest?” droned Professor Hermann.
“Time, personal magnetism, sex and marriage, investments, friends, obstacles, enemies, health, money trouble, changes and trips, surprises, and warnings.”
“What is yoga?”
“Yoga means unity, right action. Yoga is practiced by a Guru, or teacher, and a Chela, or pupil. There are five divisions of yoga.”
“Name them.”
“Raja-Yoga, the development of consciousness. Jnana-Yoga, or knowledge. Karma-Yoga, right action, and Bhakti-Yoga, right religious action. Then Hatha-Yoga, or power over the bodily functions. Govern your body and you govern the universe through Asana, the system of bodily posture, breath control, and the control of the circulation and nervous system.”
“Good enough. Now, define Turiya, Dharma, kalpa, mantavaras. And recite the laws of Manu.”
“Hey, take it easy!” I stood up. “You’ve got me so full of that stuff, it’s coming out of my ears.”
“I know. But there’s no time to waste. We must be ready to act soon.”
“I’m ready now. Ready for Utter-McKinley’s enbalming staff. Have a heart, Professor, I’m only human.”
“You must be more than human for this job. You might apply some of the principles of Hatha-Yoga for exercise.”
“I don’t need exercise. I need a rest, a chance to get out of this damned hot apartment. I haven’t had a drink for months, haven’t seen anybody to talk to but you.”
“That was our bargain.”
“Our bargain was for me to make a million dollars, to have anything I wanted. And what do I get? A little cigarette money and enough studying to kill Einstein. Look—I’m not Judson Roberts all the time, you know. I like a little fun once in a while.”
“So.” The Professor’s fingers caressed the nakedness of his skull. “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”
“What kind of a party—another seance in Pasadena?”
“No. I’m talking about the real thing. As a matter of fact, you’re invited to attend. She’s been inviting you for weeks, but I didn’t tell you.”
“She?”
“Lorna Lewis. She has inquired about you frequently. Yes, maybe that would work out—if you’re interested.”
“Count me in. I’ll be there with bells on.”
“No bells. You’ll be there in a nice, conservative gray Palm Beach suit. You’ll behave yourself and do the job I’ve laid out for you.”
“But—”
“You’ll do one thing and one only. Be nice to Lorna Lewis.”
“That,” I said, “is just ginger-peachy. I might even teach her a few yoga positions.”
Seven
I sat on the sofa at Lorna Lewis’ party and played footsie with myself. When I got tired of that, I just watched the crowd.
The movie bunch is peculiar. There are sets, cliques and a definite pecking-order here. The $500 per week mob doesn’t mix with stock contract players. The $1000 up-and-coming gang has nothing to do with the $3000 celebrities. Producers, writers and directors spend most of their time with the agents and the money men, if possible.
This happened to be the $500 crowd, with a sprinkling of $1000 eager beavers. I could figure that out after a little observation. Everybody was in there with the good old college try—a bunch of former extras who were now extroverts. The clothing was flashy, the conversation loud and brassy.
Lorna Lewis herself was a typical specimen. It was obvious that she had come to Hollywood via the contest-winner route. Probably she had talent, too—if not necessarily the kind that displays itself before a camera. But her language was coarse, her geniality forced.
I watched her race around the big living room and the miniature bar out on the terrace, displaying the incredible whiteness of those famous legs through a slitted black skirt. She was high on excitement, not alcohol.
I sat on the sofa and the sports jackets wove a pattern of tartan and checks before my eyes. I monitored a parade of sandals, moccasins, brogues. I eyed elkskin and surveyed suede.
The Professor had planted me here half an hour ago and then wandered away, after acknowledging a nod from our hostess. I was a little disappointed with that nod. I hadn’t really expected Lorna Lewis to throw herself into my arms and nibble my ears, but even so her cool reception didn’t sit well with me after all the buildup. So when the Professor vanished, I sat and fidgeted. All I’d gotten from that greeting was a distinct letdown.
Plump little Miss Bauer from the Professor’s office had been on hand, too, at first. It was she who had identified the stocky, freckled, curly-haired man who dug his fingers possessively into Lorna’s forearm.
“Mike Drayton. Is her husband.”
“Husband? Didn’t know she was married.”
“Yes. He is a professional player.”
“Playboy?”
“No, player. Of hockey.”
“Oh, sure. I remember now.” Lorna Lewis had talked about “Mike” to the Professor in the car, the night of the rigged-up seance. She had some problem with him. Well, he looked like a problem to me. If we tangled, I’d be a dead duck.
But now it appeared I’d never reach the tangling stage. Lorna was flitting around, greeting leisure jackets and evening wraps, offering glasses to Aloha shirts and gabardine slacks at the bar, being kittenish with a tall red-faced man who was obviously a producer and obviously aware of it.
Mike Drayton, the husband, had disappeared. So had Miss Bauer and the Professor. I caught one glimpse of him as I went to refill my highball glass; he was stalking Lorna Lewis on the terrace. Maybe he’d steer her over to me.
The highballs were good. After my long layoff, the second drink took hold. I had a third, but I was too nervous to enjoy it. What was I doing here? Obviously the Professor had a plan—he always had a plan. But what was it?
A trio of Filipinos wandered around making noises on mandolins and ukeleles—very corny. But most of the guests seemed to be far past the third drink and they shouted requests. A small group gathered around a blonde who kicked off her shoes for a hula. Another group sat on the stairs and talked shop. Through an archway I saw a fringe of bald, partially bald and gray heads huddled over a card table.
It looked too typical, too pat and according-to-formula for me. Too much like the Hollywood party you read about. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—certainly anything but this. And on top of it, I was all alone, ignored. I sat off in a corner with no Lorna Lewis to finger the lapels of my Palm Beach suit.
I thought I’d better get drunk in a hurry and forget it. I thought I might as well get out of here. I thought...
She had hair the color of ripe apricots. She even smelled like apricots—well, apricot brandy, then. Because she was carrying a load.
She sat down beside me and smiled up with green eyes. They were nice eyes, a bit on the glassy side.
“Hello.”
“Hello, yourself.”
“What’s the angle?”
“Angle? There’s no angle.”
“Come, now—everybody’s got an angle. Are you trying to get Himberg’s eye?” she asked.
“Who’s Himberg?”
“That red-faced character—the producer. You’re trying to break into pictures, aren’t you?”
“Not me, sister.”
“I could never feel like a sister toward you, chum. And you aren’t exactly the brotherly type yourself. So why the big isolationist act?”
“Sorry. I just came to watch the floor show.”
“Well, you might get me a drink. And seeing as how you’re getting so intimate and making advances, my name is Ellen Post.”
“No relation to Emily?”
“I’m going now. I can see I misjudged you. You didn’t look like the kind who’d pull that one.”
“Please, sit down. I’ll get you a drink. Let me guess. Would it be bourbon, straight?”
“Extremely straight, if you please.”
“I please.”
“Quit your bragging and run along.”
I went up to the bar and got a straight shot and another highball. Ellen Post watched me as I crossed the room toward her.
“So you’re Judson Roberts.”
“Who told you?”
“A little bird. A little bald-headed bird, with a monocle. A little sparrow, hopping after Lorna Lewis.”
“I see you don’t think much of psychological consultants.”
“Not much.” She downed her shot.
“You in pictures?” I asked.
“No. This is my line.” She tapped her glass. “Prescribe me another, Doc.”
I finished my drink slowly and made my way back to the bar. Professor Hermann was sitting on the terrace with Lorna Lewis. They glanced at me as I passed the doorway, and the Professor winked. I didn’t know what that was supposed to mean, so I ignored it. Right now I liked apricots better, anyway.
“Here we are.” I gave Ellen Post a glass and clicked my highball tumbler against its rim. “Forbidden fruit.”
“What kind of a toast is that?”
“You be the psychologist and figure it out. It so happens I was thinking of apricots.”
“Apricots?”
“Yes. You—your hair, your skin.”
She chuckled. It was a husky sound from deep within the throat, but it sounded surprisingly feminine.
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but that’s a new approach. I might add that I like it, Dr. Roberts. Or is it Judson? Or Judd?”
“Whichever you prefer.”
She put down her glass, frowned and rose. “Damn it!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m going.”
“Have I said something wrong?”
She shook her head. A scent came from her hair. It was a pleasant scent, but it didn’t match her mood. Her face was strained in the semblance of a smile.
“No—you didn’t say anything wrong. That’s the trouble, they never do. It’s always the right thing, and I have the right answer, and the drinks get good and the conversation gets better. Up to a certain point. And then, it’s no use. It’s just no use. So tonight, I’m going home.”
“Could I—”
“You could. But I won’t let you.” She walked swiftly, a little uncertainly, toward the terrace. “Goodbye, Dr. Roberts. See you in Alcoholics Anonymous.”
“But—”
She moved away, and then I became conscious of another scent behind me. Not perfume, but something more vital than that and heavier. Tiger lily. Not golden, but white. I didn’t have to turn to know that Lorna Lewis was smiling up at me.
“There you are,” she said. “I was coming to rescue you.”
“From what?”
“The Post. Miss Pillow-to-Post. Did she ask you to go to bed with her? She always does when she gets a few drinks in her.”
“What kind of a person is she?”
“Can’t you tell? A lush. One of those rich-bitch society types. She always crooks her little finger, even when she drinks out of the bottle. I can’t stand her, but Mike likes her. He would—he’s a rummy himself.”
Jet-black brows shaped a scowl. More tiger than lily right now. She peered up at me. “You seen him around lately?”
“Your husband?”
“Let’s just call him Mike—if you don’t mind. I suppose he’s upstairs with a bottle. He always goes into that routine when I throw a party.”
“You aren’t very fond of him, are you?”
“Let’s watch that talk, now. I take my troubles to your pal, Professor Hermann. I’ve been talking to him about you all evening.”
“Do I trouble you?”
“You might.”
“All right.” And I could see that it was. The way she held my arm and looked up, with her teeth flashing. I caught a heavy gust of Scotch. She’d been working the bar, making up for lost time.
I looked around for the Professor, waiting for a cue, a signal. He’d tell me how nice I was supposed to be, what I was supposed to do now. But the Professor had disappeared. This meant I was on my own. On my own, with six drinks under my belt, and a girl who knew exactly what she wanted. Maybe I should have remembered that I was Judson Roberts, Ps.D. Maybe I should have figured out how to play it carefully, slowly, cleverly.
Instead I looked down at those white legs, looked into the blue, blazing insolence of Lorna’s eyes.
“It’s hot in here,” I said.
“It might be even hotter, outside.”
“You’re thinking of your husband?”
“Don’t call him that. He hasn’t really been my husband since the Toronto game when somebody hit him with a stick. All he wants now is his bottle, understand?” She leaned close.
I understood, all right. I understood that she wasn’t in love with me, that she wasn’t in need of affection or anything else I could give her except sensation. But she had those legs and she was a movie star, or almost a star. And I was Eddie Haines, a nobody from nowhere. I was Eddie Haines, trying like hell to hold my liquor, trying like hell to remember my name was Judson Roberts.
There was only one answer within me.
“Let’s go outside,” I said.
Dark curls tumbled from side to side. “No, not now. I’m the hostess, remember? Wait until later, when I get rid of this gang. I’ll throw them out and check on Mike.”
“When?”
“Tell you what. It’s after eleven, so you come back about twelve-thirty. Most of these people are in pictures, they go home early during the week nights. Twelve-thirty will do it. I’ll wait for you down at the coach house. You know where it is—on the side, behind the swimming pool.”
“Right.”
“Clear out, now. I don’t want us to be seen together any longer—you understand.”
I understood. She squeezed my arm and rose. I stood up as I saw Himberg’s red face bobbing towards us, then moved away through a maze of low-cut peasant blouses, open sports shirts and drink-spattered jackets.
I made one last attempt to find the Professor. He wasn’t in the big room and he wasn’t on the terrace. Miss Bauer had melted away like an old ice cube.
Ice cube. I could use another drink. But not here. I made for the door. The night air was cool. I breathed slowly, deeply, evenly. But inside my chest, my heart was going like a dynamo. There was nothing to do for an hour and a half. Just nothing to do but wait...and drink.
I walked down the road a way and before I knew it I’d hit a highway. There was a little neon-lighted place not too far up, and I stopped in for a quick one. It had to be quick, because the bars close at twelve. When I found that out I had another, and another.
Somehow I remembered another bar, months ago, where I’d stood drinking the hours away before I went home to meet the Professor for the first time. Only, when I went, I hadn’t expected to meet the Professor. I’d expected to cut my throat. And now, just three months later, I was drinking again. And when I left here, I wouldn’t be on my way to cut my throat. No indeed.
I’d come a long way in three months. And I was going a long way. Money...women...power. Luck had changed for Eddie Haines, now that he was Judson Roberts.
Tonight was important to me. I knew that now. It marked the turning point, the real turning point. I’d find out, once and for all, if what the Professor promised was true: if I could reach out and take what I wanted from a world of suckers.
It was a little after twelve. I’d know very soon, now.
I staggered out, lurched up the road, breathing deep. I got my balance under control quickly, but my thoughts were still spinning.
It was a good night. It was a damned good night. Cool, but not too cool, and very clear. Stars up overhead. Millions of them. They went round and round. Why not? What the hell else did they have to do? That’s what they got paid for. Going around like that. That’s why MGM put them in the sky. I wondered who had the moon concession. Paramount, probably. No, they had stars, too—stars and a mountain. Well, I was also going to have a star.
The house was dark as I approached the terrace. Cars were all gone. Good. I cut across the lawn, went through the shrubbery. There was the swimming pool ahead. Mustn’t stumble and fall into the swimming pool. Show up all wet. Stars in the swimming pool, too. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might—
Well, I was going to.
Coach house. What the hell kind of a business was that, a coach house? Nobody had coaches. Not this little Cinderella, certainly. But here it was. Here it was in the dark, and here was I, and where was the door?
I found the door and it opened and somebody was waiting for me. Sure enough, I could see her: she was waiting. She came forward. What was I waiting for?
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Sure. Mike was upstairs. Out cold.”
“You’re not cold.”
“You’re not sober.”
“Do you mind?”
“What do you think?”
Then she laughed. I wanted to stop that, so I did. My mouth closed down on hers, and her mouth came up to mine, and all of her came up to me. Through the doorway I could still see the stars. Then the stars turned to buttons, and I began to give them my attention. And then—
“Wait a minute. What’s that?” she said.
“Forget about it, honey.”
“No. I hear something outside. Somebody’s coming.”
Now I heard it too: the crunch of gravel, then the fumbling and the sudden squeaking of the door.
“Mike!”
He stood there in the doorway, going round and round. I tried to focus my eyes on him. He was a big man, and it was hard to see him clearly or separate his bulk from the monstrous, menacing black shadow on the wall—the shadow of an ape.
He stood there and cursed us. He cursed us in a low, steady, monotonous voice, ripping his words off back-alley fences, off privy walls. He said other things, too.
“ž’N now I’m gonna kill ya. I’m gonna rip out ya guts an’—”
He was in the light, I was in the dark, and now was the time, if ever.
I went up to him and he reached out those hairy-ape arms of his. I weaved under them, straightened, and hit him hard. But not hard enough. He backed away and then he came up with one on the side of my head. I felt it, soft and far away, and I wobbled as he hit me again. He turned and knocked me outside.
Then we were both in the moonlight and Lorna said, “No...stop...please...” But it was nothing but cheap dialogue; it was a corny scene, a couple of drunks fighting over a tramp.
That made me mad, so I hit him again. He swung, not to hit this time, but to gouge at my eye with his thumb. He was good at it. I pushed my knuckles against his mouth, hard. He grunted and tried to tackle me.
All the while he was growling deep in his throat, and he kept coming in. Coming in for the kill. He had meant what he said—he wouldn’t stop now until he killed me. And I was beginning to realize he could do it.
Mike was heavy, Mike was strong, and he pushed me back towards the edge of the pool. I could see him gritting his teeth in the moonlight, and the blood running out of the corners of his mouth looked bright and heavy as quicksilver.
His knee came up suddenly, found its target. My loins lanced with pain. His thumbs sought my eyes. I pushed him off, but only for a moment. He growled louder.
Then everything went away, and I felt something tightening around my throat. He had my neck, he was choking me, trying to tear my windpipe out, trying to tear my head from my body.
Lorna whimpered and he growled louder, but I could only gasp from far away. Everything was far away, including life. It was oozing out of my body, my breath was going, my sight and senses. He was killing me.
I kicked up and in. It was a last convulsive movement, but something happened. The tightness suddenly relaxed. I could get to my feet, slowly. There was time to breathe now, time to fight off the pain and regain my awareness, time to watch him. He stood doubled-up at the edge of the pool, waiting for his pain to ease. Then he’d come in again and finish killing me.
I couldn’t wait. I moved towards him. He was getting ready, now. He spread his big hands and poised there, crouching to spring. I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and swung from the waist.
My hand hurt. I stood unsteadily, rubbing my fingers, watching him fall backwards into the pool. It took a million years before he hit the water, another million years before the splash came, another million before he disappeared.
Lorna stopped whimpering. Everything got very quiet. I could hear my panting subside. I could hear a little bird chirping a mile away. I could hear the stars going round and round on their courses. I walked over to the pool and looked down. There was nothing to see in the pool but bubbles. Pretty little silvery bubbles, gleaming in the moonlight.
Eight
The water stabbed me with novacained needles. I gulped, paddled, then dived. Silver pressed my eyeballs, but I could see through silver. I could see something dark and huddled, bobbing down there at the bottom of the pool.
I reached for it, tugged at it. Heavy. Heavy as the weight inside my lungs, my head. I went up for air, got it. Then I dived again, tugged again. This time I could lift. We came to the surface together, live and dead weight. Dead weight. He couldn’t be— I had to get him out.
“Help me lift him up!” I panted.
Lorna stared over the edge of the pool. Her lips twitched, and then her mouth tried to run away from her face. But she reached down and held Mike’s collar as I pulled myself over the side and then grabbed him under the arms.
I pushed and lifted. He was heavy as lead. Lead. Dead. No, he was all right. He had to be all right.
Then he was sprawled out on the grass, face down, and I was kneeling over him, pressing his back and lifting him, press and lift—
“Is wrong, perhaps?”
I jerked and Lorna jerked. Mike Drayton just lay there.
We stared up at the plumpness of Miss Bauer.
“What are you doing here?”
“She is with me.”
Professor Hermann emerged from the shadows of the walk. “What goes on here? We’ve been looking all over for you. When the party broke up, we left, and I called your apartment from a filling station. No answer, so I came back. Apparently it was wise that I did so.”
“We had a fight,” I said. “I hit him and he fell into the pool. I fished him out. But—”
The Professor pushed me aside. He knelt and took off his hat. The bald moon of his skull shone down over Mike’s face as he turned him over on the grass. A fat hand fumbled beneath the soggy wet shirt. It came to rest there, and it stayed forever.
The wind stopped moving. The grass stopped rustling. The stars stopped twinkling. The trees bent forward, listening...listening for a heartbeat.
“He’s dead,” said Professor Hermann.
Then everything was moving again, fast. Too fast.
“Steady up.” Miss Bauer was holding me.
“But he can’t be. We’ve got to work on his lungs, get the water out! He couldn’t have stayed under more than a minute or so—”
“He was unconscious,” the Professor said. “It is too bad.”
“Too bad?” We all looked at Lorna. Her mouth was twitching again, but this time a torrent of sound gushed out.
“I’ll say it’s too bad! Wait until the papers get hold of this, wait until Lolly finds out. I’m through! Himberg will tie a can to me. And the cops! God, somebody do something. You got to—”
I shook her. It only jumbled the sounds together.
“Oh God...Himberg...gotta...”
I slapped the mouth shut.
“Cut that out!”
The Professor put on his hat, rose and laid his hand on Lorna’s shaking shoulder. “He’s right. Hysteria will not help, now. We must be calm. We must think.”
“Think? What good will thinking do? Mike’s dead, and they’ll find out, they’ll get us—”
“No. Not if we’re calm.”
That stopped her for a moment. The Professor’s voice gained assurance as he went on.
“Listen to me, Miss Lewis. I may have a solution, but you’ll have to help me.”
“How?”
“By answering questions. Here.”
He gave her a cigarette, lit it for her. He watched it wobble between her lips, then steady a bit as she inhaled.
“Better? Now listen to me and answer. Are there any servants in the house now?”
“No. I told Frieda to clear out when the gang left. The rest were just hired for the party. They went home, all of them.”
“Good. Can you remember what Mike did at the party?”
“Mike—No—I don’t want to talk about him—”
“You must. It’s important. Your life, your career.”
He knew how to get to her, all right. Not with “life” but with “career.” She sobered at the word.
“What time did Mike go upstairs with his bottle?”
“How did you know about that?”
“I saw him. Miss Bauer saw him. Others must have seen him—that group on the stairway.”
“Yes, you’re right. Let me see, now. It was around eleven, I guess.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No more than usual.”
“He drank frequently?”
“He’s been lushed up, off and on, for the last six months now, like I told you the other day.”
“And people know that? Your friends?”
“Right.”
“Did they know why—the reasons he had for drinking?”
“Say, I don’t tell people everything. You know and Judd knows, because I told him tonight. But outside of that, nobody. I guess they all thought he was just a rummy.”
“But it is established generally that he drank a great deal. That he was moody, anti-social.”
“He pulled that stunt at every party I’ve given, or every one we went to. Not that he’d come with me very often, the louse. And when he did, he generally sneaked off in the middle of the evening and took the car with him.”
“You say he’d get drunk and then leave a party—drive off somewhere alone?”
“Sure. He wrecked the station wagon about four months ago. Drove it into a piling near Santa Barbara. How the hell he ever got way up there I don’t know. He didn’t know, he was that stiff. It was in the papers.”
“That time he wrecked the car—how long was he gone?”
“Two days, nearly. The cops picked him up. He wasn’t hurt, but I had a hard time helping him beat the rap. Himberg fixed it somehow.”
“Your friends know his habits. You’re sure?”
“Yes.” She gasped. “Please, Professor, don’t ask me anything more. I think I’m going to be sick.”
She weaved away and was sick—very sick—over by the trees. I turned and watched Miss Bauer as she worked silently, furiously, on Mike.
“Please,” said the Professor. “That is useless. Besides, I have a plan.”
He looked up at me. “Did anyone else know of your... visit here at the coach house?”
I shook my head. “I stopped in at a tavern below the hill here, but there was no one around except the bartender. I didn’t spill anything to him, of course.”
“Good. Then will you please take my car and drive yourself home? I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.”
“But Mike—the police—”
“I am taking care of Mike. And there will be no police, if you do as I say. Go, now. I must talk to Miss Lewis alone.”
Miss Bauer tugged at the Professor’s sleeve. “I do not like this,” she said. “Let me continue. The water is leaving the lungs. If we send for a rescue squad, he may yet be alive.”
The Professor faced her. “That is for me to decide.”
It was more than a statement. It was a command. Miss Bauer bowed her head. The Professor went over to Lorna and took her arm. She sobbed against him and he began whispering to her. His voice was soft, soothing, gentle. I couldn’t hear anything he said, and they both ignored me.
Then I was walking, walking away from the swimming pool; walking away from the thing that lay on the grass, shining white and bloated in the moonlight, like a dead fish. I walked to the car, climbed in, drove away. I went up to the apartment, closed the door. I ripped off my wet clothes and fell down on the bed.
First I was sleeping and then I was watching. I watched my smart-aleck brother Charlie sneering as he read about the murder in the papers. I watched myself run from the cops. I watched them catch me, grill me. I saw myself stumbling up the iron stairs to the cell block. I gripped the rail with hands that left a trail of sweat and blood.
I talked to my lawyer, I talked to all of them: the state’s attorney, the judge, the twelve good men and true. They looked like the people I’d seen on the beach. Lorna screamed at them, but they took her out of court.
The matron who dragged her away was “Mrs. Hubbard.” She had the same power, and I could see she was able to foretell my future. They could all do that. The jury did and then the judge did.
I saw the Professor at the last. He was better than a priest. I watched myself pleading, couldn’t he slip me something? Just one little favor, that’s all I asked, just for him to slip me something so I wouldn’t have to suffocate.
It was no use. Nothing was any use. No wonder my legs wouldn’t work, no wonder they had to drag me, no wonder I fell as they took me into the gas chamber. That gas chamber—nobody could hear me scream, and there was a hissing, and then I coughed. I choked, my meal came up and my lungs came up and my chest burned with a million novo-cained needles. Only this was different.
I watched them carry me and cut me. What was left went into the wagon. The grave diggers get union pay, and it’s steady work. The Professor brought flowers. Charlie didn’t want my body. But the Professor was kind, he brought flowers, and he was the only one who came. Then it rained that night on my grave, and the flowers melted into a soggy mess. Like the soggy mess inside the box.
But how could I know that if I was dead? I couldn’t be dead. This was all out of my imagination. I was safe in bed in the apartment. Safe until tomorrow, when they found out.
I opened my eyes, then fell forward into a pool of deeper sleep. Somewhere in that pool I found the body of Mike Drayton. We drowned there together...
Coming up out of the darkness, into the sunlight, I felt like a new man. A man who needed a shower, a shave, breakfast, a cigarette.
I had them all. But when I lit the cigarette, my hand trembled. The old yoga wasn’t working for Judson Roberts today.
I wondered if Professor Hermann was working. I wondered whether he had dumped the body in the ocean, tried to make it look like suicide by drowning. I wondered if something had gone wrong, if they were looking for me. Better pull down the blinds, quick, and—
No. That was wrong. I must trust him. I had to trust him. He told me to wait, that he’d get in touch with me. So I’d wait.
I read a little bit about totemism and tried to figure out how Lorna Lewis was taking it, if she’d gone to the studio today. I took some notes, and all the while I kept thinking what if Miss Bauer had been right, if resuscitation might have worked.
I threw down the book and asked myself what her angle was—why the Professor had hired her instead of a smart, fast-talking female who was never at a loss for a bright remark, a file folder, or a fresh box of Kleenex.
I picked up Flugel’s Psychology of Clothes and began to read about canes as symbols of personal extension, and wondered what Ellen Post was doing this fine day. Did she have a hangover? Did she remember me? I tried to picture her, place her in a setting. A hall bedroom? Obviously not the place. An apartment like this one? Wrong, again. A big house? Room next to her parents? Did she have money, live alone?
Why hadn’t I found out more about her, gotten her address, made a date?
Lorna said she was a lush. They were all lushes, according to Lorna—she lived in a world of them. Lushes. Hopheads. Queers. Crackpots. This town was full of them. People with quirks and delusions and dreams. People with money. The kind of people I was supposed to take over the jumps, if I got out of this jam.
But Ellen Post was different. Like ripe apricots. Charlie and I used to eat them when we were kids, a whole bagful at a time. They were soft and sweet.
This was no time to think about it. This was no time to read about canes as phallic symbols, either. I wanted to know what was going on. I had to know. Why, it was past noon already!
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