Twenty Plus Two

Chapter 4

Mrs. Woodson managed the El Toro Court for an owner who had a half dozen similar courts, or worse, scattered about town. Not to mention one in Pasadena. For her services, Mrs. Woodson received her rent and an infinitesimally small salary. The bill Tom Alder extended to her equaled one-sixth of her annual salary. So she led him to the door of Apartment C and unlocked it with her passkey.

“The police spent most of the day here. They took out boxes and boxes of letters and things.”

“I’m not going to take out anything,” Alder said. “I just want to look around. Alone.”

She didn’t like the last word, but she’d taken his money. “You won’t be too long?”

He shook his head and she went out. Alder looked around. The room was a small one, a combination living room and bedroom, a davenport serving the latter function. There was the tiniest of kitchenettes and a bathroom, which contained a toilet, a washbowl, and a stall shower. A small desk held a vintage Woodstock typewriter. Cartons and boxes were piled high everywhere.

On the floor was a chalked outline of the late fan secretary’s body. Here she had fallen and here she had been found.

Alder went to the desk. It had been thoroughly ransacked by the police and possibly, before them, by the murderer. It contained bills, receipts, memorandums, letters. Letters from fans of Leroy Dane, Georgia Gale, Tim Greedy. Pictures of all of them. Everything perfectly normal.

No personal letters to Julia Joliet.

No clippings.

The cartons contained fan letters. Hundreds, thousands of them. Many had not been answered, were tied in bundles with post-office twine.

The boxes contained envelopes, form letters, fan club bulletins. Pictures. Big, glossy eight by ten prints, but mostly smaller four by five reductions of the larger prints. Alder appropriated one of the four by fives, hesitated, then folded one of the mimeographed fan bulletins. He put them into his pocket.

He spent twenty minutes in the tiny apartment, took nothing else, found nothing else of interest.

He left the apartment.

That was the first time he saw the big man. He was an enormous man, easily six feet four and weighing a good two hundred and forty pounds. Alder would have guessed him to be in his late fifties. He was quite bald, although a heavy fringe of curling hair kept him from having an egg head. Oddly, he reminded Alder of the pictures he had seen of William Jennings Bryan.

He was coming toward Apartment C, but stopped. “I beg your pardon,” he said in a smooth, mellifluous voice, “could you direct me to, ah, Mr. Klinger’s apartment?”

“I don’t live here,” Alder replied. “Try the manager’s apartment.” He indicated the first door just inside the court.

“Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.”

The door of Mrs. Woodson’s apartment popped open. “There’s no Klinger lives here,” Mrs. Woodson chirped, conceding that she had been listening by a partly opened door.

The big man was concerned. “Why, he told me himself that he lived at the Grecco Apartments. This is the Grecco Apartments?”

“No, ’tain’t, it’s the El Toro. The Grecco’s two streets over.”

“My word! How could I have made such a mistake? I’m so sorry to have troubled you, Madam.” The big man actually bowed low to Mrs. Woodson and not so low to Alder. He walked toward the street, an enormous, dignified man.

Alder looked after him. “Always people comin’ in and out,” said Mrs. Woodson. “One of the reasons poor Julia kept her door locked. She was afraid of strangers.”

“Always?” Alder asked almost absently.

“Lately, anyways. You... you’re finished?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Woodson.”

“You... didn’t take anything? Nothing that the...” She did not like to say the word, “police”.

Alder shook his head.

Alder liked the stillness of Brentwood at night, but he had never before been so aware of it. There were lights in most of the homes, but the people on his street lived their own lives and had no time for neighbors. Alder did not even know the name of the people who lived just north of him. With those to the south he had a mere nodding acquaintance.

A car was in his driveway, a Cadillac Coupé de Ville. There was a light in the house. He parked his car behind the Coupé de Ville and got out.

He didn’t like it, but he went to the door and pushed the pearl button and heard the chimes in the kitchen. He waited for a moment, but no one came to the door and he took out his key and unlocked it. He went into the house, through the hall, into his book-lined den.

Linda Foster sat in the green leather chair. “You scared the life out of me,” she said, “ringing your own doorbell!”

“A strange car in the driveway, lights in the house,” said Alder, “what did you expect me to do? Walk in and get conked on the head? How’d you get in?”

“Patio door,” said Linda. “I broke one of the small panes and reached in.”

“That’s breaking and entering.”

“Have me arrested.” She raised her right foot, tucked it under her left and regarded him frowningly. “So this is how you live, Tom.”

He shrugged. “I’m a quiet man.”

“Are you?” She studied his face a moment. “I wonder.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ve had two. Yes, I’ve explored your house. It’s very nice, very expensive, very neat. You’re a good housekeeper, if you do the work yourself.”

“I’ve a lot of time.”

“That’s what I can’t figure out, Tom. I’ve been here an hour. I’ve pried and spied. You subscribe to a dozen newspapers all over the country, New York, Cleveland, Denver — Minneapolis. But why?”

“You said you’ve spied?”

“Yes. You said you weren’t a lawyer yet — there are letters from lawyers. They mention heirs, wills.”

“I find missing heirs.”

“I don’t understand. Why would you do that?”

“It’s a living. People die intestate. Sometimes they leave wills, but the next of kin can’t be located. Lawyers advertise for them. They want to settle the estates and get their fees. I find the heirs. For a fee.”

She looked at him narrowly. “I don’t know whether I like the sound of that, Tom. It... it’s somewhat like being a... a ghoul — living off the dead.”

“It’s a legitimate business. Nobody refuses an inheritance, especially an inheritance they hadn’t counted on. A lot of people have distant relatives with whom they’ve lost touch. I come along, out of a clear sky, tell them they’ve inherited five thousand dollars, ten thousand. Sometimes more. The heirs almost always forget to weep for their poor departed relatives. Cousin Minnie, Great Uncle Heber. They scarcely knew them, perhaps never even saw them. But they like the money they receive. They like it fine and they don’t even mind paying my fee. Well, they try to cut it down sometimes, but that’s about the worst of it.”

“You like that sort of thing?”

“Why not?”

“When I looked you up in the directory I saw the Brentwood address and it pleased me. You were successful. The house — it measured up to the expectation. But — I don’t know, Tom, I expected more.”

“You always did, Linda.”

She drew her right foot out from under the other, put it on the floor. “You think I... I wrote the Dear John letter because I wanted a husband who could give me more than a law student could?”

“You’re saying it, Linda. Not me.”

“You’re wrong, Tom, dreadfully wrong.”

She got to her feet, drawing herself up, somewhat like a model displaying an expensive evening gown. “I’m a good piece of merchandise, Tom. Harris Toomey has five million if he has a dollar. I’m not going to marry him. There’s only one man I ever loved. I think you know who that man is.”

“No, I don’t know.”

She got to her feet and came toward him. For one instant he thought of moving away from her. But he didn’t. She put her arms around him, raised herself up on her: toes. She kissed him, a soft, warm, lingering kiss. There was no passion in it, only caressing affection. His arms went about her.

“Hold me tight,” she said.

He tightened his hold. But not tightly enough.

“Damn you, Tom!”

“I remember the letter.”

She crushed her lips to his and the affectionate kiss became a carnal one. Her mouth was open, her tongue seared him. He was conscious of her breasts, her body. She strained against him. Then suddenly she pushed away from him.

“What do you want from me?” she cried poignantly.

“It’s been a long time, Linda.”

“Too long. But we can make up for the years.”

“Can we, Linda? Can you forget that you chose another man?”

“I didn’t love him!”

“You married him.”

“He was here and you were away. You were away so long. I was only nineteen.”

“Twenty-one.”

“You won’t even give me that, will you? I was afraid of you. You were too strong. You would have submerged me. I would have become a housewife, a drab little woman, fenced in by a kitchen and a nursery. I would have been making up laundry and grocery lists.”

“Has it been so good, the life you’ve had?”

She backed away from him. “I’ve lived, Tom!”

“Then why are you here now?”

“I don’t know. When I saw you I knew that what I wouldn’t admit even in the darkest moments was true. There was never anyone but you. There never will be.”

She came toward him again.