Take my face

by Held, Peter

  "I just got back from telling him." Carr gingerly felt the bandage. "I'm lucky my skull wasn't fractured."

  "What did he hit you with?" asked Joe.

  "I don't know," said Carr. And he added sarcastically, "He wasn't polite enough to show me.

  "Did the sheriff say anything about the cloak? Whose it was?"

  "He said he'd trace it. It must be one somebody brought to the Masque."

  Julie's hands moved nervously in her lap. "He must have been at the Masque."

  Carr shrugged. "Anyone could have come. There wasn't any way to check up. Until two o'clock, of course. All he needed would have been the costume."

  "It's weird," said Julie. "It gives me the creeps ..."

  "You should see the newspapers," said Carr. He rose to his feet. "I'm going to telephone the district attorney in San Francisco. I think he ought to hold up Bavonette's execution." He walked slowly back across the terrace, disappeared through the trees.

  Julie sat up straight in the chair, pushed out her chin. "I'm going to stop brooding. I'm just

  going to get used to it." Tears trickled down her cheek. "Carr's always hated Robert Struve."

  "Why?"

  "Oh, just one of those high-school situations. Robert had a terrible scar on his face. The bottom of his face was an awful mess ..." She hesitated. "I suppose I might as well tell you the whole thing. When I was very little, my father let me steer the car. Somehow or other—I don't know whose fault it was—the car ran into him. He was on a motor-scooter. It caught on fire, and burned him terribly. I guess he thought I was responsible." She thought back over the years. "And then when he was a senior—I was a freshman—some of the girls played a mean trick on Robert, at a sorority initiation. They sent me and Dean Pendry and Cathy and Lucia in to kiss Robert. It was part of the initiation. He must have caught on to what was going on. I suppose it hurt him . . . Well," she said blushing, "when I went in, he grabbed me. The other kids didn't hear me yelling ... In fact, Sheriff Hartmann was raiding the place." She arranged her skirt over her knees. "Well, anyway they caught him and charged him with attack and assault and battery, and sent him to reform school . . . And that's the last we heard of him." She said as an afterthought, "His mother died while he was in reform school."

  They sat quietly. Julie suddenly beat her knees with her fists. "I wish I were a million miles away . . ."

  Carr came back around the swimming pool, his face flushed and angry. He sat down. "They think I'm a crank."

  The maid came out of the house. "Miss Julie, Sheriff Hartmann wants to talk to you."

  "Oh . . . Will you bring him out here, please?"

  Hartmann came sauntering out, looking more like a prosperous bond salesman than a sheriff. "Hello, Julie . . . Carr . . ."

  "Sheriff Hartmann—Joe Treddick," said Julie.

  Carr burst out, "I just called Maynard in San Francisco. The District Attorney. He politely told me to mind my own business."

  Hartmann nodded. "He couldn't stay an execution merely because a similar crime is committed elsewhere. Bavonette was found guilty in a jury trial, sentenced to death. There's no new evidence bearing on that trial."

  Carr suddenly subsided. "I've done all I can. If they kill him, it's on their own heads."

  The sheriff shrugged. "Well, I'm afraid it's outside of my province." He looked at Julie. "I'd like to ask a few questions."

  "Of course."

  "Did Cathy have any new boy friends?"

  "Nothing serious . . . She was always meeting new men, naturally, but none of them meant anything to her."

  "Anyone pay her special attention? Abnormal attentions?"

  "No," said Julie. "I'm sure not."

  "How about at the party? Did she dance with any strangers, make any dates?"

  "Of course not!" snapped Carr.

  The sheriff rose to his feet. "Can you think of anything that might throw light on the matter? Any of you?"

  Julie shook her head. "Sorry," said Joe Tred-dick.

  "Well," said Hartmann, "if you do, let me know."

  He made a graceful departure. Carr muttered passionately, "That's what comes of electing a playboy for sheriff . . . For two cents, I'd— I'd . . ."

  "Run for sheriff?" asked Joe.

  Carr glared. "This isn't any time to be flippant."

  Lucia came through the house. "I thought I'd find you all here."

  She was wearing a simple dark green cotton dress, her dark hair hung loosely; her face looked clean and fresh, as if she'd just washed it in cold water.

  Julie said, "Lucia, it's a sin looking so pretty at a time like this."

  Lucia sat down in one of the white iron chairs. There was a glow in her eyes, a flush to her skin.

  "Thanks for taking me home," she said to Joe. "I don't know what on earth got into me."

  "Some call it alcohol," said Carr sourly.

  Lucia tittered. Julie looked at her curiously.

  "I don't usually drink so much. It must have been awfully early."

  "About one," said Joe.

  Lucia looked from face to face. "Any news?"

  Julie shrugged. "Carr says it was Robert Struve that hit him."

  "Robert Struve!" Lucia was astonished. She twisted in her chair, looked Carr up and down. "Carr's got Robert Struve on the brain."

  Carr looked away, controlling his retort.

  Lucia said, "Why should Robert Struve go to all that trouble? Why should he single out Cathy?"

  "He's a maniac," said Carr. "But they'll catch him . . ."

  "The only time Cathy had anything to do with him," Julie mused, "was that awful Tri-Gamma initiation."

  Lucia's eyes widened, then narrowed. She licked her lips. "I was there—and you, too, Julie. And Dean."

  "Dean's dead," said Carr curtly. "Also Cathy . . . Neither one of you better go anywhere alone."

  Julie said nervously, "Oh, Carr, it's ridiculous." "Yeah," said Carr sardonically. "It is, isn't it?" Joe rose to his feet. "I think I'll be on my way." Julie went with him out to his car. "I don't know what she sees in that guy," said Carr. "He doesn't have brains or money or family or looks."

  Lucia glanced at him appraisingly. "Girls are funny."

  "You can say that again," muttered Carr.

  CHAPTER XI

  On Tuesday morning, the day of Cathy's funeral, Julie received an anonymous letter in a square white envelope. She opened it, pulled out a piece of white cardboard, apparently cut by hand to fit the envelope.

  She sat at her desk and studied the envelope. The address had been stamped in purple ink, with rubber type obtainable in any stationery store.

  Slowly, she read the words neatly stamped in thin purple ink:

  IF ONLY YOU KNEW WHAT I KNOW. WHAT A JOKE.

  Julie was perplexed, and more than a little frightened.

  Who had written the letter?

  Which of the faces she knew concealed this strange soul?

  What did the letter mean? "If only you knew what I know." Something was going on that she ought to know about. The person who wrote the letter knew but wouldn't tell her. The person must hate her!

  Julie shuddered. Never in her pampered young life had the idea occurred to her that someone seriously disliked her.

  Here was the evidence. Someone detested her.

  What to do! Show the letter to her father? No. He would take the letter, reassure her with bluff generalities. That wasn't what Julie wanted. The letter was alarming, but it was exciting, too. She wanted to know who had written it; to watch the person; to detect the roiling in the superficial skin of friendship. Julie shivered with a strange new delight.

  She lay on the bed, looking at the letter. Never again would she be the same feckless Julie Hovard. A phrase came out of the past: "rattlebrained little twerp." Cathy had said that.

  Cathy ... If only Cathy could come back, if only she could tell what had happened.

  Julie jumped up, went downstairs and called Lucia.

  "This is Julie, Luci
a."

  "You sound pretty low."

  "I am . . . How would you like to go for a ride?"

  "I've got other things on my mind," said Lucia. "Such as the anonymous letter that came this morning."

  "You got one? So did I! What did yours say?"

  Lucia hesitated. "Are you going to be home?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll drop by."

  Julie hung up; as she turned away, the phone rang.

  "Julie? Carr."

  "Hello, Carr."

  "Er—how are you?"

  "Okay. How are you?"

  "Oh—just as usual. Five foot ten of solid muscle."

  "Including the skull."

  "That's not a nice thing to say." Carr sounded arch; Julie wondered what he thought he was up to. Flirtation? Today was Cathy's funeral. She decided she was doing him an injustice.

  "Carr—something's worrying me."

  "What?"

  "I got an anonymous letter."

  Carr sounded surprised—and oddly relieved. "You did? So did I!"

  "And so did Lucia . . . What does yours say?"

  "Oh, well." Carr sounded vague and distant, as if he had moved back from the phone. "It's a kind of threatening letter."

  "Well, what does it say?"

  There was a pause, a crackling of paper—" 'I hold two lives in my careless hands.''

  "Golly."

  "What's yours?"

  ' 'If only you knew what I know. What a joke.' "

  Carr was silent; there was only the hum of the telephone.

  "Carr?" said Julie. "Who would write something like that, Carr?"

  "I don't know ..." A moment later, he said briskly, "I'll drop by and take you to the funeral."

  "Joe is coming."

  "Oh. Well, I'll see you there."

  When Lucia arrived, Julie led the way up to her room. "I haven't said anything to my folks about this thing . . . They'd get all excited."

  "I haven't, either."

  "Carr got one, too."

  "He did? Did he tell you what was in it?"

  " 'I hold two lives in my hands.''

  Lucia sat down. "And what did yours say?"

  Julie tossed it to her. Lucia read it. Her face twitched. She gave it back.

  "Let's see yours," said Julie.

  Lucia slowly bent over her handbag. "It's not nice—it's not like yours. It's obscene."

  "Oh, come, Lucia. Let's see the silly thing."

  Lucia passed it over.

  Julie compressed her lips. "It is nasty . . ."

  Lucia looked out the window. "There's a maniac loose."

  Julie snorted. "That's no news." She appraised Lucia's clothes: a black afternoon dress, a black hat. "Is that what you're wearing to the funeral?"

  Lucia nodded.

  "I don't have anything black—except my faille suit. It's a rag, but a funeral isn't supposed to be a social event." She looked up at her wall clock. "Golly—I'd better get started. Do you want to wait, Lucia? We can go together. Joe's coming by."

  "All right."

  An hour later Joe rang the bell. Julie opened the door.

  "Come on in, Joe. Mother thinks we'd better all go together."

  Joe hesitated. "Maybe I'd better go ahead."

  Julie took his arm. "Oh, nonsense. Come in." She led him into the living room where Lucia was waiting.

  "Look what I got this morning," said Julie. She handed him her letter.

  Joe read it without comment.

  "Aren't you surprised?" asked Julie.

  "No. I got one, too."

  "You did! What did it say? Do you have it with you?"

  "No. I threw it away."

  "Well, what did it say? Don't keep us in suspense."

  Joe grinned painfully. "It said that you'd never marry me. Never, never, never."

  Julie was indignant. "Isn't that awful!"

  Margaret Hovard came downstairs; Darrell Hovard met them in front with the Cadillac and they drove to the funeral.

  Joe stayed to dinner; afterward, he and Julie went out on the terrace. They were sitting in a lawn swing, rocking idly back and forth.

  "Joe," said Julie, "what do you think about this business?"

  "You mean—Cathy? And the letters?"

  "Yes."

  Joe took his time answering. "I'm not sure just what I do think."

  Julie knit her brows. "What's so puzzling is the Robert Struve angle. I can understand his killing Cathy—but why should he send out anonymous letters?"

  Joe smiled grimly. "The person who wrote the letters didn't do the killing."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I've got a very strong hunch who wrote the letters."

  "Who?"

  "Lucia."

  Julie looked at him in astonishment. "Lucia? But Joe—why should Lucia write letters like that? And the awful one she got herself!"

  "What did it say?"

  Julie blushed. "It was—well, it wasn't nice. It said that—well, that she'd make a good prostitute."

  Joe nodded. "Lucia's a frustrated old maid."

  "But Joe—she's only twenty!"

  "Some girls are old maids at six."

  "Do you think she knows anything—about Cathy? What time did you take her home?"

  "About twelve-thirty. I got back just in time to see Carr stagger into the pavilion. And I was with her an hour before I took her home."

  "Then she couldn't have known anything about Cathy. You're all wrong, Joe. Someone else wrote those letters. Why not Robert Strove?"

  "I suppose anything's possible." Joe rose to his feet. "I'd better go before your father chases me away with a horsewhip."

  Julie said good night to him on the porch, and stood watching the red taillight disappear around the curve of the road. She turned to go back inside, but paused, and went listlessly out on the front lawn. The night was dark and clear; the stars glimmered, clean, remote, dispassionate

  . . . What was up there, among those far suns? If the spirits of the dead persisted, perhaps they might drift out there, out among the stars . . . Her skin crawled as she thought of Cathy. Pale, lonesome Cathy, wandering among those far black places . . .

  As she turned to go back into the house, headlights came up the driveway. Julie recognized the Jaguar. She sighed; Carr was the last person she wanted to talk to. But she couldn't escape.

  "McDermott's hired a detective," he told Julie. "I've just come from his house."

  "That's—that's very interesting," Julie said weakly.

  Carr nodded grimly. "But he's got to get on the ball. Today's the thirteenth. On July seventh they execute Bavonette."

  "But Carr—"

  Carr interrupted in a hard voice: "Not that I care a tinker's damn for Bavonette. I just hate to see him paying for Struve's fun." He patted Julie on the shoulder. "Well, old girl, Cathy's gone; it looks like you and I are about what's left of the old gang."

  "I'm going in, Carr," said Julie.

  "Oh? Wouldn't you like to come for a ride? Let the fresh air blow away the vapors?"

  "No, Carr."

  "Just as you like . . . Good night."

  CHAPTER XII

  Julie sat at her desk, looked at the envelope, afraid to open it, afraid of what it might say.

  The address, stamped in the purple ink, looked back at her:

  MISS JULIE HOVARD

  10 JAMAICA TERRACE

  SAN GIORGIO, CALIFORNIA.

  Julia touched the envelope; was it really Lucia? She opened the letter.

  CATHY IS QUITE DEAD.

  I KNOW WHO QUIETED HER. MAYBE YOU

  WILL BE QUIETED TOO.

  "Hello, Julie!" Lucia was wearing blue denim shorts, a red blouse, moccasins. Her hair was

  loose, she wore no lipstick; she looked rather pretty.

  "Julie," said Lucia breathlessly, "can you guess what came this morning?"

  "Yes," said Julie.

  Judge Small came into the room, a tall stern old man, deaf as a post, with gaunt cheeks,
a brush of white hair, a minatory eye of which Julie had always been in awe. He wore a baggy gray twill suit, with round-toed black shoes, a heavy gold watch chain. Julie had never seen him otherwise, morning or night.

  "Good morning, Judge," she called politely.

  Judge Small nodded. "Good morning." He cleared his throat raspily. "You're the Hovard child, aren't you?"

  Lucia said, "Of course, Father—you've known Julie for years. She's in college now."

  Judge Small nodded jerkily, stamped off to his library.

  Lucia looked at her sidelong. "What's the trouble?"

  "I got another letter this morning."

  "I did, too. That's what I started to tell you!"

  Julie nodded. "I know you did." The seed of suspicion had suddenly become certainty. In the flicker of an eyelid, Lucia was a different person, and all the qualities Julie had known and respected had to be re-interpreted.

  Julie set her mouth into a thin line of resolution. "Let's go up to your room, where we can talk." She started up the gloomy echoing stairs.

  Lucia's bedroom was a large airy chamber at the southeast corner of the house. The ceiling was twelve feet high, festooned with gilt ornamental plaster. Six tall windows, veiled in lace and apple-green draperies, rose almost to the ceiling, with window seats below. The furniture was rather elaborate—antiques of a period Julie could put no name to. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood, and the impeccable tidiness jarred on Julie after the cheerful disorder of her own room.

  Lucia followed Julie slowly through the door, her eyes narrow with calculation. "What's all the mystery?"

  "Certainly not the letters," said Julie.

  Lucia said crisply, "What about the letters?"

  "I want to know one thing, Lucia. Did you write them?"

  Lucia laughed. "What a question, Julie!"

  "Did you? Or not?"

  "Of course not. Do you think that I'm— Julie!" she cried in anxiety as Julie ran to her tall desk, pulled down the flap. Tucked neatly into a pigeonhole was a printing set. In another were white cards. In still another were square white envelopes.

  Lucia slammed the desk shut, turned and slapped Julie's face. Her eyes glittered.

  Julie laughed. "So you know who killed Cathy, Lucia. Who?"