Day of the Ram

by William Campbell Gault

  “Juan? Oh, you mean the man who’s painting the garage now?”

  “That’s the man, Juan Duarez. Do you like Mexicans?”

  “Nationalities have no meaning to me. Don’t you?” She expelled her breath. “I’m afraid not. And I guess that’s bigotry. I was born in this town.” I said nothing.

  My hostess went on quietly. “When Elinore first moved here, she did quite a bit of drinking. That’s how I happened to learn the story of this Quirk boy. And then I read about his murder and now you’re here and I can guess you’re not here for a credit check, and I’m wondering why you are here.” She was facing me.

  “On a very wild hunch.” I said. “I thought she might have a knowledge of Johnny’s history that would help me to trap his killer. I wasn’t getting anywhere on that suspect merry-go-round in Los Angeles, so I came here to back a wild hunch.”

  “Is Juan Duarez the wild hunch?”

  “No. I never heard of him until you told me his name.”

  “Isn’t he awful? He lives with her. I haven’t seen much of Elinore since he moved in.” I didn’t answer. “More punch?” she asked.

  “No, thank you, though it is delicious. Do you want to tell me now where I can find Miss Arness?”

  The woman stood up. “There’s no reason why I shouldn’t, I suppose. Her business address is in the phone book under her name. Don’t you investigators ever look up addresses in the phone book?”

  “Only the experienced investigators, ma’am,” I said humbly.

  sixteen

  IT WAS a small shop on a quiet side street downtown. The lettering on the window informed me that “The Bay” was ready to supply me with stationery, greeting cards, magazine subscriptions, new and used typewriters and the services of a rental library.

  The natural blonde who sat at the small desk in the rear of the shop was slim and tall and would have been considered willowy except for an exceptional bust development.

  Her smile was pale and her “Good morning” was delivered in a refined and pleasing voice. She stood up and I saw her long, fine legs. She came closer and I saw her very delicate coloring.

  “Miss Arness?” I asked, and she frowned slightly, but nodded.

  “My name is Brock Callahan,” I said. “I’m — ”

  “Are you the man who was out at the house?” she asked. “Are you the man who threatened Juan?”

  I shook my head. “I’m the man Juan threatened. I come as a friend, Miss Arness.”

  Her voice was soft but tense. “Please leave, Mr. Callahan. Juan is sure you could be jailed for trespassing, but I don’t want any trouble. Please leave now.”

  “You could have a lot of trouble, getting your legal advice from Juan,” I told her. “Johnny Quirk came to me for help before he died, Miss Arness.”

  Her voice was higher. “Please go. Please!”

  Her face had blanched to a whiteness that unnerved me. She seemed poised on the rim of hysteria. I turned around, and walked out.

  Across the street there was a coffee shop, and though I didn’t want any coffee, the front tables in the place were excellent vantage points. I went over to toy with a milk shake.

  Nothing happened. A few people, obviously customers, went into the Bay and came out carrying books or packages. Juan Duarez didn’t put in an appearance; he was probably still painting the garage.

  Maybe he hadn’t been the one who’d phoned Elinore Arness; perhaps the tanned neighbor had performed that chore. I thought of the neighbor and compared her to the pale elegance of Miss Arness. How could a girl keep that complexion in this climate?

  Miss Arness had that inbred British look — but at the same time motherly. Her impressive mammary development would be the major appeal to a lad with an Oedipus complex. They can never seem to get weaned.

  Vulgar thoughts about a lovely lady; there was a bad taste in my mouth and it wasn’t from the milk shake. But to continue, what had Johnny had that attracted her?

  More than Juan Duarez, certainly, I told myself, and who can understand a woman’s taste in men? Or a man’s taste in women? At fifteen, Johnny had undoubtedly tired of the budding promises under the unnecessary brassières of his classmates. I know I had.

  I paid for the milk shake and walked over to a haberdashery and bought a pair of cheap swimming trunks. I drove back to the motel and used the pool. The chances seemed to be good that I’d get nowhere here, but I wasn’t doing any better in Los Angeles.

  I continued to think of the tanned and friendly neighbor. After my shower I bought a quart of ice cream and two orders of barbecued chicken and drove back there.

  The station wagon wasn’t on the drive of the Arness place when I went past. One wall of the garage was painted and the garage door was closed.

  My tanned friend came to the door with an apron on. She looked quizzically at the packages. “Migawd, now what?”

  “Barbecued chicken and ice cream for two,” I told her. “I suppose it’s presumptuous of me, but you seemed so friendly …”

  A pause, while she studied me. “Are you on the make or something, young man?”

  “I’m not so young,” I said. “My mistake, huh?”

  “Come in,” she said. “I’m just putting the coffee on.”

  I came into a large, beamed living room with adobe walls and through a fair-sized dining room to a real ranch kitchen. There, she sniffed the chicken and said, “Needs a little warming.” She opened an oven door that led directly into the adobe wall.

  “The Betty Furness of the West,” I said. “You’ve really fixed yourself up, haven’t you?”

  “And for what?” she asked me. “You don’t have any friends a few years older, do you?”

  “You wouldn’t want a man any older than I am.”

  She turned to look at me. “I want a man around forty. I’m thirty-seven.”

  I grinned at her. “I’ll screen my friends when I get home. Weren’t you ever married?”

  She nodded. “Once. To a man considerably older. He died two years ago and left me one small oil well. It’ll never make me rich, but it just keeps pumping along.”

  Her name was Bella, Bella Carruthers, and she told me about her twenty years with the late Sam Carruthers. Sam had tried everything that wasn’t tied to a time clock, from oil painting to oil prospecting, and had been killed by an oil casing that erupted when his first big one came in.

  I told her I shared her late husband’s aversion to working for somebody else, and couldn’t we go into the living room with our coffee? I wanted to watch the house across the street.

  She sniffed. “I see the light, finally. All right.” The station wagon was nowhere in sight; the garage door was still closed. I asked Bella, “Did you see him drive away?”

  “No. I was working in the back yard.”

  “Did you phone Miss Arness and tell her about me?” A pause, and she nodded. “She’s still my friend, you know.”

  “I know. Tell me about her.”

  “She’s highly emotional, at times. She’s very well read. She was an English teacher, you know.”

  I nodded. “When did this Duarez move in?”

  “About a month ago. He came into the store asking for work. He said he wanted to be around books. Some line, eh?”

  “Maybe. And she didn’t want him in the store?”

  “Not in Phoenix. Her customers would prefer getting their literary recommendations from her. But there was work for a man around her house, and here was this seeking mind, you see, thirsty as a new blotter, and — ”

  “And young and handsome,” I finished for her. “And here was this extra bedroom, and history about to repeat itself.”

  “Let’s try not to be nasty,” Bella said quietly.

  “I’m trying. I suppose I could go over there with a bottle tonight.”

  “If you were a real son-of-a-bitch you could. Elinore didn’t join the A.A.; she cured herself. A man would need to be some bastard to put her back on that toboggan.”

 
“I’ve been called worse, Bella.”

  Silence in the beamed living room. I turned around to see Bella glaring bleakly out into space. I said, “I wouldn’t be that much of a bastard.”

  She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of the month after Sam died. I really hit the bottle that month. It’s easy to go down that road, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.” I finished my coffee. “Juan said something about all the bastards having bothered her enough. What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he meant reporters. They gave her a bad time in Los Angeles when that mess broke.”

  “Maybe he thought I was a reporter. I’ll bet that’s it.”

  Nothing from Bella.

  “I wonder what Juan’s history is,” I said musingly.

  Bella sipped her coffee. “It could be very innocent. Your trade has made you suspicious and my heritage has made me bigoted, but he might be a real nice boy.”

  “A real nice boy with a sharp knife,” I added. “I suppose I’m keeping you from something?”

  She shook her head and stared at me quietly. “Mr. Callahan, you don’t intend any harm for Elinore, do you? You’re going to be very tactful if you talk to her, aren’t you?”

  “I mean her no harm. All I want is some information for a crazy theory.”

  “All right, I’ll phone her.” Bella stood up. “Maybe she could meet you here, tonight, after she closes the shop. Juan wouldn’t bother you here.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Assure her I’m no scandalmonger.”

  I didn’t get all of her dialogue with Elinore Arness, but she seemed to be making progress. When she came back to the living room she told me, “I think it’s going to be all right. Could I phone you at your motel?”

  I told her she could, and that I’d be waiting. I looked up the phone number of the Bide A While Motel and wrote it on the back of my business card.

  Then I went back to the swimming pool to bide a while. When I began to turn red over my tan, I moved over into the shade with a two-bit book.

  I’d rather read anything than read nothing; I read on. The sun stayed as hot, but continued toward the west. Some teen-age girls in skimpy suits drove up; probably friends of the manager’s daughter. I watched them cavort in my elderly and licentious way and thought of all the girls I’d known in high school and cursed myself for all the opportunities I had undoubtedly overlooked in my adolescent urge to be a nine-letter man.

  My almost unblemished morality hadn’t been the result of self-discipline; it had resulted from my following the more important urge toward a school athletic record.

  Johnny, too, had been a nine-letter man, but his extracurricular activities had gone far beyond the scope of the playing field, all the way to involvement with the faculty. Had he died because of that? It could very well be.

  The teen-agers went away in a squeal of farewells and the water in the pool became placid. The afterwork traffic had diminished and I went to my room to check my watch. It was six o’clock.

  The stationery store should be closing now; I would soon hear from Bella Carruthers.

  At 6:45, I was in the manager’s office, explaining about the importance of the call I might get while I was out eating dinner. I hadn’t finished when the phone rang, and it was for me.

  Bella said, “Juan will be going to school tonight. Elinore will see you at home, after seven o’clock.”

  “Thanks, Bella,” I said. “You’ve been a real friend, to both of us.”

  “Remember that when you get back to L.A., Callahan. And send me someone serviceable.”

  I ate at the motel up the road again and I ate lightly. I arrived in front of the Arness place about seven-twenty. The station wagon wasn’t in sight, but there was a Studebaker Champion parked in front of the garage.

  The sun was only a red glow over the mountains; there was just enough light for me to see Bella in her back yard. She waved as I got out of the car and I waved back.

  I was nervous, for some reason, walking up to the front door of Elinore Arness’ home. I had visions of a lad with a knife lurking behind the shrubs that bordered the house.

  Miss Elinore Arness was in a powder-blue dress of some filmy material and her house was a blend of pastels, pale and cool. She sat on a light gray love seat; I sat on a light green chair.

  “I wanted to know about Johnny and his friends,” I told her. “And about Moira Quirk. Did she go to Beverly Hills High School, too?”

  Elinore Arness told me about Johnny and his friends. She’d been the faculty adviser for the school paper and had founded its literary discussion group. She had been, if one accepted all her claims as true, the real cultural center of Beverly Hills High School during her time there. She’d been a student favorite.

  She avoided discussion of the “incident” unless I asked her direct questions about it. I asked her several, and the color rose in her cheeks and her voice grew tighter, but she answered me fully and, I hoped, honestly.

  I didn’t need to prompt her very often; I seemed to have triggered a storehouse full of reminiscences that had been in the dark too long.

  She talked on and on and I waited patiently for additional items to buttress my case.

  When she’d finally run out of memories, it was almost nine o’clock. I thanked her and told her she’d been a great help. At the door I asked her, “Do you know that Juan carries a switch knife?”

  She nodded. “Is that his sin, or society’s?”

  “I don’t know. The knife is Juan’s and the attitude is society’s, I suppose. I thought you could do something constructive about the knife.”

  Elinore Arness sighed. “Time, Mr. Callahan — it takes time to change an attitude.”

  I didn’t argue with her. The first job, from my pedestrian viewpoint, would be to take away the knife and then work on the attitude. I thanked her again and went down to the car.

  It was dark, and I could see the lights in Bella Carruther’s cozy fortress and I contemplated going over there for a cup of coffee. But I decided against it. That desert would be murder tomorrow; I’d drive back to Los Angeles tonight.

  Going back to the motel, I thought of a seed for murder, planted years ago and being nourished by envy and watered by hate. A case I had for my own mind, but not for a court of law. Facts, facts, facts, where were the facts, as Sergeant Friday would say.

  I saw the station wagon just before I turned into the motel driveway. It was parked across the street.

  The night air was cooler than the day had been, but not enough to give me a chill. I stopped at the office to tell the manager I was checking out, and tried to case the whole parking area while he prepared a bill for my expense account.

  I was brushing my teeth when there was a knock on the door.

  seventeen

  I OPENED the door and Juan said, “I told you to leave her alone.”

  I looked at him steadily. “Come in, Juan. I’m just getting ready to leave.” I turned my back on him and returned to the bathroom.

  When I came out of the bathroom Juan stood near the doorway and the door was closed. “Gringo,” he said.

  I nodded. “Miss Arness, too. She helped me to search for a killer. You can believe that Miss Arness’ first concern would be with justice, wouldn’t you? And tracking down a killer is that.”

  “I told you to leave her alone.”

  “I know you did. But you’re not my boss, Juan. I’ll never see her again, probably. Don’t threaten me.”

  He stood with his back to the door, both hands empty. I wondered how long they’d stay empty. I said quietly, “I’m leaving now. I’m not coming back.”

  His face was doubtful, for a change. “You’re not coming back?”

  I smiled. “I’ll make a deal with you. You give me that knife in your pocket, and I’ll never see you again.” He stared at me, still doubtful.

  I said gently, “Hasn’t Miss Arness got enough trouble? Can a knife bri
ng her anything but more trouble?” He took a deep and labored breath. “Gringo talk.”

  “That’s right. And you’ve decided to live in a gringo world. Well, I’m going, whether you give me the knife or not.” I moved toward the door.

  He paused and stepped aside.

  He was next to me when I opened the door; he was behind me when I went through it. My shoulder blades hunched but I resisted the impulse to turn around.

  Five steps past the doorway I heard his “Wait, Mr. Callahan.”

  I turned and waited.

  His hand was in his pocket now, and it came out holding the knife. But there was no click this time. He came over to give it to me.

  “Thanks, amigo,” I said, “and good luck. Look me up if you ever get into Los Angeles.”

  He smiled for the first time in our acquaintanceship. He nodded.

  He was still standing in the parking area when I drove away, heading west.

  The stars were out and there was a three-quarter moon. The flivver was full of gas and talking quietly to herself. My mind wasn’t in the here and now, it was back in Beverly Hills High School some years ago.

  Miss Arness was a perceptive woman. She’d been all teacher, before and after the school bell, and she had a sound memory. She’d filled me in exceptionally well on the roster of names I’d given her.

  We can’t always prove what we believe. Particularly to a judge or a jury of our peers.

  I wondered if Juan Duarez had ever gone to high school. I should have asked him. I wondered what had happened in town during my absence and if they had buried Jackie Held and where.

  Lights from approaching cars flickered in the clear desert air and took minutes to reach me across the flat wasteland. This is the way the world ends, this is the way the world ends, this …

  I would need some coffee somewhere along the route.

  Not with a bang but a whimper. Who were the whimperers in this case? Not Moira nor Pascal nor the Heffners. Mr. Quirk could be a whimperer, and Elinore Arness, and Sergeant Gnup had the attributes, bluster though he did.

  In the police laboratories trained men could fashion a case sound enough for a prosecutor to take into court. When amateurs commit premeditated murder, they are inclined to leave clues because they try to weave a pattern of misdirection to cover the murder. And once the pattern is clear, the murderer is found. Though not necessarily tried. That takes the facts, ma’am.