The Four Johns

Chapter 3

“I am not an original man,” said Oleg Malinski from the darkness, “and I concede the triteness of the emotion that overtakes me when I stand out here on a clear night. But looking over these millions of lights, these thousands of roofs, feeling this twinkle of motion — no more than a vibration, really — I can never avoid a sense of wonder at the sheer volume of human activity under my eyes. It is almost oppressive.” Malinski waved. “Look out there. As we watch, death is seizing scores of human beings. Marriages are being consummated. Babies are being born. Unhappy persons alone in their rooms contemplate suicide. Social gatherings are in progress, some of the most remarkable sort. In certain dark houses — perhaps there, or there — a criminal finds a terrified little girl who has heard his footsteps. Now! He is laying his hands on her shoulders! In other houses men and women stare stupidly at each other, or at the television. And in one of these houses — who knows? — maybe Mary talks with her mysterious John.”

Susie stirred.

There was a short silence.

“Have you called home to Ventura?” Oleg asked.

“No.”

“But if she had perhaps prevailed upon ‘John’ — whoever he may be — to drive her to Ventura, she would be at home now, and your worries would be at an end. Mervyn, is this not sensible?”

“I should think so.”

“But I’m not worried,” said Susie evenly.

“In that case we will be gay! Come! Will you dance the czardas with me?”

“I’m not very good at such things.”

“It is not necessary to be good. I am a man badly uncoordinated, yet I dance the czardas with enthusiasm.”

“I don’t even have the enthusiasm.”

“Then I must dance alone. In any event, there is wine to drink, and perhaps in the wine you will find enthusiasm.”

“In vino you’re supposed to find veritas,” said Susie with sudden energy. “So let’s all drink.”

She went back into the living room, poured herself a glass of wine, and took it to a long couch. Here sat John Thompson, the librarian, in murmured conversation with a generous blond woman who had been introduced simply as Lalu. She wore a black flannel skirt, a broad black patent-leather belt, a white jersey blouse. She was barefoot, and as she listened to John Thompson she wriggled her toes. Thompson appeared not to see Susie, who in contrast to Lalu seemed prim and demure.

Mervyn replenished his own glass, then effaced himself in a corner. Susie evidently had put aside the thought of immediate departure and Mervyn was content to sit quietly. He had fallen into a mood which, in him, occasionally accompanied fatigue. It was a curious sensation, not unpleasant: detachment utter and complete. Events occurred as if seen through a lens. He surveyed the room. Susie sat decorously, intent on thoughts of her own. Beside her John Thompson leaned his barbered head close to the shoulder of the blond Lalu; his expression was one of placid contentment. As Mervyn watched, the librarian lazily gnawed at the blonde’s arm. Lalu inspected her bare toes, wriggling them in a sort of ritual agitation.

A noisy altercation across the room attracted Mervyn’s attention: John Boce and John Viviano were in disagreement. Boce sat in a big black canvas campaign chair, knees apart, belly between, while Viviano strode back and forth like a nervous secretary bird. The subject under discussion appeared to be the definition of female beauty. The accountant rested his case upon the Iliad. “This woman who launched a thousand ships. Helen. Don’t tell me she was one of these concentration-camp types.”

“Elegance!” shouted the photographer. “Where is the elegance in these wads and masses of flesh? I seek the beauty of the nerves!”

Harriet ranged herself earnestly beside Boce. “But seriously, Viviano, don’t you feel that ideals change? So far as we women are concerned, it’s unquestionably so. Certainly you can’t find the women Rubens painted attractive? Or Vermeer?”

“Rubens was a Dutchman,” sneered Viviano. “Venneer was no better.”

“Art is universal,” said Harriet. She raised her glass in graceful gesture. “To Art!” She drained the glass.

“Bah!” growled Viviano. “‘Art’ is a word I never use. It has no meaning. It is a mass-produced toy for middle-aged females and culture-chasers to play with.”

Boce said, “I’ll tell you for sure that when I get hold of a woman, I want to feel some meat. I’ve seen pictures in the fashion magazines where the women look as if they’d come up out of a drain.”

That seemed to end the argument.

Harriet had gone to join Oleg; he was loading the hi-fi. Pipes and violins burst out in the room. Oleg put his hands over his head and began to perform some sort of Slavic jig. Harriet studiously tried to follow him, but after a few tentative hops and kicks she went to pour herself more wine.

Mervyn glanced toward Susie, found her eyes on him. She looked away before he could decide the nature of her expression.

Oleg Malinski tired of his dance. He turned down the music. “One cannot dance alone. We will drink wine and talk.”

“I have already talked,” said Viviano. “I have also drunk your wine. Tomorrow I must dress and photograph four beautiful women.”

“You will need a clear head, undoubtedly,” said Oleg.

The photographer made a flamboyant gesture. “You may think that this is unalloyed delight. I assure you that serious problems arise. Only a man can subdue these creatures. They are like mindless panthers in a cage.”

Boce said thoughtfully, “It’s a funny trade. I never suspected so much went on.”

Viviano began to pace. “Every day the most incredible difficulties arise. Do you know that I am like a god to these women? I am the agency that manifests their beauty. I am worshiped by them, blasphemed. But now I must leave.” He made gestures to left and right, bowed to Olga Malinski and departed.

John Boce exhaled a vinous breath, mingled with garlic. “I’m glad I’m normal. I think I’m glad I’m normal.”

Harriet had seated herself at his feet with a new glass of wine. “But we still haven’t learned whom Mary ran away with.”

Oleg drew up a chair. “It is a fascinating problem. Assuming that the facts we have been given are correct.”

“Indeed they are,” said Harriet. “I heard Mary very distinctly. ‘John,’ she said, ‘you mustn’t be late.’ And she said, ‘I love you dearly.’”

Susie made a hissing sound between her teeth.

“Why would she worry if he were late?” asked Oleg, shaking his head. “Unless, of course, she were talking to John Thompson, who is notoriously hard to find of a weekend. I am surprised that he came tonight. What do you say, John?”

Thompson, propped against Lalu, chuckled but made no comment. Lalu stroked his hair.

Boce said, “Harriet probably heard her wrong. She might have said Don or Ron or Lon.”

“Or Juan.”

“Or Con.”

“Or even Yvonne.”

“Did you say Ivan? or Yvonne?”

“It was John,” said Harriet.

The accountant puffed out his big cheeks. “Susie, you know everyone Mary knows. How many Johns are on the list?”

“Oh, not too many. John Boce—”

“Not John Boce!” cried Harriet. “John is a better, stronger man!”

Susie ignored her. “John Thompson. John Viviano — I introduced him to Mary. Like bringing coals to Newcastle.”

Thompson disengaged himself from Lalu, sat up on the couch and straightened his tie. “There’s the lad who came to work in the stacks. John Pilgrim. I fired him last week, incidentally. Mary seemed to take quite a fancy to him.”

“Telephone this man!” cried John Boce. “Ask to speak to Mary.”

Harriet tittered. “John, you’re not at all nice.”

“Let’s get the facts,” roared Boce. “Telephone the skunk.”

“Telephone him yourself,” said Harriet.

“I’ll do just that! Where’s the phone?”

Oleg suavely pointed. Boce lurched across the room, consulted the directory, then dialed Information. He noted a number, dialed once more. Everyone in the room became still. At the fifth ring a tired voice responded.

“Let me speak to Mary,” said Boce smartly.

“Nobody here named Mary,” said the voice. Everyone could hear it. “You’ve got the wrong number.”

“Mary Hazelwood? Aren’t you a friend of Mary Hazelwood?”

“Go to hell,” said the voice.

Boce looked inquiringly at the instrument, replaced it in the cradle. “He admits nothing.”

Lalu leaned back on the sofa, sybaritically stretching her bare legs. “Why bother?”

Susie tersely bade Oleg and Olga Malinski good night and left without looking to see whether Mervyn was following.

Mervyn rose and made hurried farewells. Boce heaved himself upright. “I’m not quite ready to go, Mervyn. Oleg’s got some Polish sausage he’s planning to break out. Maybe you can talk Susie into hanging around?”

“I’m ready to leave myself.”

“How are we supposed to get home?”

“If you want to leave now, I’ll be glad to take you.”

“I’ll get John Thompson to drop us off.”

Mervyn started for the door before Boce could change his mind. But Boce said, “Hold on. I’d better see if Harriet wants to go.”

Harriet, face flushed, hair in wisps, was in the process of pouring herself another glass of wine.

“She’s settling in,” said Mervyn, edging toward the door.

“Yeah. Maybe so. But on the other hand—”

“On what other hand?” asked Mervyn in irritation.

“I need a set of wheels tomorrow. For maybe half an hour. I’ll take the convert, if you’re not using it?”

“Yes, yes, anything. Put some gas in it. Last time you used it I had to coast to the service station.”

“Right.” The accountant was once more all jolly good humor. “Good night, old man, happy dreams, drive carefully.”

Mervyn departed, his relief at being able to leave Boce and Harriet Brill soured by the knowledge that once more the fat man had outwitted him. Monday, for sure, he’d sell the car.

Susie was not waiting in the Volkswagen. Mervyn was not surprised. He backed around, started down the hill.

A hundred yards down, his headlights picked up Susie’s slender figure. She was marching along with the determination of an Amazon. Mervyn stopped the car and opened the door. Susie climbed in.

Mervyn said in a mild voice, “I suppose it’s useless to inquire into the reason for your peculiar behavior?”

Susie answered in an even milder voice, “I’m in the process of learning things about myself. The way I act under peculiar conditions. Peculiar conditions seem to call forth peculiar behavior.”

Mervyn puzzled over the remark. It seemed almost a covert challenge, as if Susie was daring him to ask for an explanation.

The silence became oppressive, so Mervyn asked. “What are you going to do this summer?”

“I’m not going to Tahoe.” Susie and Mary had half-seriously considered taking summer jobs at one of the Lake Tahoe resorts. “I’ll probably sign up for summer session.”

She looked at him for the first time since she had got in the car. Mervyn could not read her expression in the dark — but, for that matter, he seldom could do so in the full light of day. “What about you?”

“I’ve still got my thesis,” Mervyn answered. “I suppose I’ll concentrate on that.”

“No classes?”

“None till fall.”

They reached the bottom of the hill and Mervyn slowed down. He drove south along Perdue Street to the Yerba Buena Garden Apartments. Susie jumped out, thanked him briefly, ran up the stairs to the balcony, and along the deck to Apartment 12. Mervyn proceeded to his own apartment. As he opened his door he glanced back and saw Susie in the process of opening her door, looking down over her shoulder at him. Then the door closed behind her.

The next morning Mervyn was awakened by a rattling of the doorknob and vigorous pounding. Groaning, he looked at his clock: ten minutes to ten. He swung his legs out of bed and shuffled to the door.

The noisemaker was John Boce, dressed in suntans and glossy white windbreaker. He had on a long-billed blue baseball cap and dark glasses. Before Mervyn could speak, he raised a monitory hand. “I regret the intrusion, Mervyn. I come about the Chevrolet. You have practically convinced me that it’s a sound investment.”

“Take it,” growled Mervyn. “Take it and go away.”

“Exactly,” said Boce. “Where is it?”

“Where is it? Where it always is — out in the back garage.”

“I’m afraid not.”

Mervyn stared. “What are you talking about? It’s got to be there.”

“Well, it isn’t. Go look for yourself.”

Mervyn donned slippers and bathrobe and went with the accountant through the gate at the rear of the court. The long shed that served as garage for the apartments was open. Three cars were housed here, none of them the mint-green convertible.

Mervyn walked to the street and looked up and down. No convertible in sight.

“Did you lend it to anyone?” asked John Boce suspiciously.

“No.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Thursday or Friday, I suppose.”

“Better report it stolen.”

“Who’d steal a beat-up old crock like that?”

“This,” said Boce in a measured voice, “is the car you’ve been trying to sell me.”

Mervyn ignored him. “Whoever took it must have known about the trick ignition switch.”

“Which of your friends would be most likely to steal your car?”

“Any of them. All of them.”

They returned to Mervyn’s apartment. Mervyn started the coffeepot. While he waited, he went to the telephone and called several of his acquaintances. No one had seen the convertible.

“This is a fine how-de-do,” Boce said, with a suspicious glance at Mervyn. “Unless you’re putting me on.”

“No,” Mervyn answered wearily. “You conned me fair and square. I’d resigned myself.”

“Could Mary Hazelwood have taken it?”

“I’d hardly think so.”

“It’s possible. She knew about the ignition switch.”

“She wouldn’t have taken it without telling me. It’s been stolen.” Mervyn took up the telephone, called the State Highway Patrol and reported the loss. “That’s that.”

The accountant poured himself some coffee. “It’s a loss I feel as deeply as you.”

“Even deeper, since you weren’t troubled by maintenance costs.”

“Come now, Mervyn. As you know, I was on the point of buying the car.”

“I wish we’d completed the transaction last week.”

Boce shook his head. “Mervyn, this is a quality in you I can’t admire. Think big, man! What else is there in life but bringing happiness to others?”

“It’s great, I agree. If others bring happiness to me. Instead, they steal my car.”

“You’ll get it back. In the meantime I’ve got this ravishing creature waiting, and no wheels.”

“If it’s Harriet, why not use Harriet’s car?”

“It’s not Harriet and I don’t dare borrow her car. Not any more. I used my sick uncle in San Francisco once too often. She telephoned and found he’d gone to Las Vegas for the weekend. Something I couldn’t explain. So here I am, relying on you.”

“In other words, you want the Volkswagen.”

“I don’t see how you can say no under the circumstances.”

“It’s hard, I agree,” said Mervyn. “I don’t have a leg to stand on, except that I want to use it myself.”

“I thought you were working on your thesis.”

In the end, protesting and complaining, Mervyn tossed over the keys. John Boce jingled them with satisfaction. Mervyn muttered, “I must still be half asleep. How about leaving me a gallon or two of gas?”

The big man heaved himself to his feet. “Say no more. John Boce’s generosity is proverbial.”

At nine o’clock on the morning of June eighteenth, Mervyn’s telephone rang.

“Hello.”

“This is Sergeant Erickson, State Highway Patrol. Mr. Mervyn Gray, please.”

“I’m Mervyn Gray.”

“Mr. Gray, we’ve found your Chevrolet convertible.”

“In one piece?”

“Apparently. Hasn’t been stripped, anyway. Somebody must have taken a joy ride. It turned up on the outskirts of Madera.”

“Madera?”

“That’s right. Just this side of Fresno.”

“That’s a hundred and fifty miles!”

“You’re lucky it wasn’t San Diego.”

“I guess you’re right. What do I do now?”

“You can pick it up any time. We’ve towed it to the Sterling Garage in Madera, at Fourth and Willow. Bring identification and proof of ownership, and she’s yours. There’ll be a day or two storage charges.”

“No indication who took it?”

“We make a routine check for fingerprints. Chances are there won’t be any. Your insurance should cover retrieval expenses.”

“I only carry public liability.”

“That’s too bad. You’ve got the address?”

“Yes. Sterling Garage. Fourth and Willow, Madera.”

“Right.”

“Thank you very much.”

“Glad to be of help.”

Mervyn poured a cup of coffee, but made no move to drink it. He looked out across the court, testing, rejecting a variety of disturbing ideas. Madera. Mervyn knew Madera very well. He had been brought up there, and his mother still lived there; she was vice-principal of the Madera Junior High School. (Mervyn’s mother, a forthright woman, had given him the Volkswagen after an unnerving near-accident.) So his car had been taken to Madera... Coincidence?

He shoved his chair back suddenly, dressed, phoned to check on the bus schedule, then called a cab. At the depot he immediately boarded a bus, and ten minutes later he was en route south — along the Eastshore Freeway, past Livermore, over the tawny hills of the Diablo Range, down into the Central Valley; through Tracy and Manteca and out on old Highway 99.

The towns of the valley fell behind, with their intervening orchards, vineyards and grazing land. Modesto, Turlock, Merced, Chowchilla: to the casual eye all exactly alike. Service stations, hamburger stands, packing sheds for fruit and grapes, motels along the highway, the more sedate and substantial central districts three or four blocks inland. The air-conditioned bus was cool; outside, heat and an aroma of earth and eucalyptus resin and sunburned paint, a fume less palpable than dust.

The Giant Orange stands were crowded with men in shirt sleeves and women in cotton dresses: mostly Middle Westerners, assimilated Okies. These were sights and sounds and odors common to all the valley towns, and if Mervyn had not been otherwise preoccupied he might have felt homesick. But his attention was turned inward. Someone he knew had stolen his car and taken it to Madera to abandon it. Why?

The bus turned into Madera, a town like other towns. At the bus depot Mervyn got out and walked over to Fourth and Willow.

The Sterling Garage was a barn of a building, with walls of corrugated steel. In the dim interior, he at once spotted his car. He went over and circled it. The exterior was undamaged. He gingerly opened the door and looked inside. Nothing wrong that he could see.

He went into the office of the service manager, a fresh-faced young man with “Tim” embroidered above the breast pocket of his white jacket. Mervyn felt a faint stirring; he must have known Tim, probably in high school. Tim failed to recognize him. He was not surprised; he was a far cry from the withdrawn, rather sickly boy who had left Madera. Not even the name on his driver’s license, which he produced for the service manager’s inspection, struck a spark in the man. Mervyn was not surprised at that, either. Very few of his schoolmates in Madera had known his Christian name; to them, from middle grade school, he had been “Booksie” — Booksie Gray.

Mervyn signed a receipt and paid the storage charges. The service manager went back with him to the Chevy. “I didn’t look her over, but she looks like she’s O.K.”

Mervyn climbed in and reached under the dashboard to snap on the ignition switch installed by the previous owner. He pressed the starter button; the engine caught without hesitation. The service manager leaned through the window. “They leave you any gas?”

Mervyn glanced at the gauge. “A bit less than a quarter of a tank.”

“How’s the oil pressure?”

Mervyn looked, his mind working at a new idea. “Everything seems O.K.”

“You’re a lucky guy, mister.”

Mervyn was suddenly anxious to depart. He backed out of the stall, swung around and drove out into the blaze of the afternoon sun.

He went by old remembered routes around the downtown area and through a pleasant residential district of poplar trees, picture windows and green lawns. He passed within three blocks of the junior high school, where at this hour his mother would be conducting the school orchestra (in which Mervyn as a thin-faced, big-eyed urchin had played first violin). At the outskirts of town, in a neighborhood of small frame cottages, drooping trees and dusty gardens, he turned into a rutted dirt road, drove another two blocks and pulled over to the shady side of an abandoned packing shed.

For a moment Mervyn sat motionless. Then he checked the ashtray: empty. He opened the door, looked under the seat. Nothing but a pencil, several bobby pins, a few curls of dust. In the jump seat, nothing.

He took a deep breath; the car almost certainly had been taken by someone who knew the idiosyncrasies of the ignition system. He investigated the glove compartment. He found road maps, a pair of broken sunglasses, a road flare, a pair of rusty pliers, two paper clips, three hairpins, a pack of facial tissues, a beer-can opener, and the key he used’ for locking the trunk.

He went around the car and unlocked the trunk. At once he recognized the twisted thing in the sky-blue skirt and jacket. He realized now that he had expected to find it.

For five seconds, while the galaxy receded, he stared at the body of Mary Hazelwood. The knees were folded almost daintily; even in violent death Mary Hazelwood could be nothing but graceful. The distorted face peered sightlessly forward. Wisps of hair curled flirtatiously over the pale cheek.

Mervyn lowered the lid of the trunk with infinite care. He turned the key in the lock and, impelled by some primitive impulse, stooped for a handful of sand, powdery and dry, which he worked between his fingers.

He looked up the street, down the street. Three or four sun-bleached cottages. A black panel truck crossing a far intersection.

Mervyn climbed gingerly back into the car. He reached for the steering wheel, hesitated as if the black ebonite had become infected. But then he gripped the wheel. Queasiness was a luxury he could not now afford. Henceforth he must be unemotionally decisive and ruthless.