SLEEP WITH STRANGERS
DOLORES HITCHENS
LIBRARY OF AMERICA E-BOOK CLASSICS
Copyright © 1955 by Dolores Hitchens, renewed 1983 by Patricia Johnson and Michael J. Hitchens. Used by permission of the Estate of Dolores Hitchens.
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eISBN 978–1–59853–486–3
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Biographical Note
CHAPTER ONE
AT ABOUT two o’clock in the afternoon the rain began to blow in from the sea. It moved at first on irregular gusts, whistling hit-and-run spatters that promised the downpour to come. Woolen clouds rolled through the sky, and the sea was slate-colored. Below the bluff, the noise of the surf made a continuous thunder. The rain burst at last upon the terrace of the big house in Scotland Place and inside, by the glass doors, the girl who stood watching frowned and drew back. She was a slender, well-shaped girl with blond hair pinned up high, dressed in a dark blue suit, red shoes, and a lot of rhinestone jewelry. Her expression was anxious and trouble lay deep in the big gray eyes. Her worries seemed to concern the furniture on the terrace. All the gay cushions were getting wet.
On a covered swing lay what appeared to be a roll of bedding, tucked up into an army blanket of khaki wool. The girl’s gaze was searching and restless on this bundle, flitting back and forth over it as if inwardly she were tormented by a desire to rescue it from the rain. She put out a hand suddenly, perhaps for the door handle; but at this instant a bell buzzed in some other part of the house. She jerked her hand back, rubbed it for a moment, then turned quickly, crossed the room, and entered the hall. At its other end was a big door, flanked by greenery and topped by a fanlight. She paused in the hall, examining its gloom; and then before opening the door she clicked a wall switch, illuminating the chandelier in the ceiling.
The man on the step was in the act of lighting a cigarette. Rain lay in his hair, which was hatless, and which also, though obviously once reddish, now had faded to a tawny rust laced with gray. He had a lean, sharp, intelligent face. The hands that cupped the match wore a look of mobile strength. He was tall; his height was lessened by his being somewhat stooped. The girl met his gaze without speaking. Her attitude was watchful and reserved.
He dropped the packet of matches into a pocket of his belted raincoat. He took the cigarette from his mouth. “You’re Miss Wanderley? I’m Sader. You called me a little while ago.” His eyes went all over her in one swift summing up.
She stepped back into the hall. “Yes. Come in, please.”
She led the way back into the big room that joined the terrace and there paused as if uncertain about what to say. She stood twisting a finger in the loop of her belt. Sader pulled back the raincoat and fished a wallet from the hip pocket of his suit. He showed her his private operator’s license and other identification. “You don’t know me. I could be anybody.”
“Oh, I didn’t doubt who you were. You were recommended to me——”
“By whom?”
“A—a friend. Since I was quite determined——” Apparently she decided not to finish this. Perhaps she felt she had ventured too quickly upon the business between them. She spent a moment thinking, the gray eyes studying the buttons of Sader’s raincoat.
He gave her time to make up her mind. He went over to the plate-glass doors and looked out at the roiling storm. “Overdue,” he commented.
“Yes. It’s been dry too long.” She sounded as if her throat were suffering a drought, too. Her tone was scratchy, nervous.
He waited a little longer and then prodded her. “Can’t you tell me what kind of job it is?” She answered with an uncomprehending stare, so he went on: “Do you want somebody followed? Or does someone owe you money? Or could it be dirty and dramatic like blackmail?”
She roused, shook her head. “It isn’t any of those things, Mr. Sader. I want you to find my mother. She’s missing.” As Sader left the door she hurried over to it, pulled the draperies—stiff peach-colored brocade—not quite shut; and through the space left open she peered fleetingly at the furniture on the terrace.
Sader took a chair; she came to sit opposite. The furniture was nice. Sader decided that it had cost money, quite a lot of money, about eight or nine years ago and had had good care since. There was a mahogany grand in one corner, polished like a mirror. The couch the girl sat on was a good deal bigger than the one at home in his apartment. About eighteen feet long, he thought. Foam rubber hadn’t been used yet when it was built, so the springs must be good. It looked nearly new. It was finished in rose velvet, and the girl made a pretty and harmonious picture except for the red leather pumps. They clashed with the rose velvet.
“How long has your mother been gone?”
“She left the house three nights ago—Tuesday—at about eleven o’clock. I haven’t seen or heard from her since.”
“You’ve made inquiries?”
“Oh, yes. All the usual things. Her friends. Hospitals.”
“Jail?”
She smiled thinly as if he had made a poor joke but should be rewarded a little for effort. “Yes, I even tried that.”
“You reported her absence to the police?”
“No. I don’t think Mother would want it handled that way.”
“They’re your best bet,” Sader advised. She shook her head. He said, “Well, how about an ad in the newspaper?”
“Are you trying to tell me you don’t want the job, Mr. Sader?”
It was his turn to smile. He took a last pull on the cigarette and crushed it out in an onyx ash tray on a table by his elbow. “Tell me about her. Name, age, marital status. Who her friends are. What she likes for amusement.” He stretched his feet on the Persian carpet.
The girl looked at his feet as if she thought he shouldn’t relax quite that much, at first. He sensed that she wanted him to be stirred up and worried as she was about her mother’s being gone. She said, “Her name is Felicia Wanderley and she’s forty-seven. Dad died seven years ago and Mother never remarried. She’s lived in Long Beach all her life. As for amusements, well, she has a
few old friends she’s known for ages. Some of them give bridge parties, and they go to shows.” A quiver ran over the girl’s frame and Sader guessed how she held herself under rigid control. She was fearful, or embarrassed, or mystified; or perhaps a mixture of all of these feelings boiled in her mind.
“What about romantic attachments?” Sader asked.
“Mother’s?” She waited for him to correct his impertinence and when he didn’t she reproved him with: “Mother hasn’t had a man friend for years.”
“That you know of,” he put in gently.
She was going to be stubborn about this. The gray eyes were stony. “No, you mustn’t expect to find anything along that line. Mother had long ago lost interest in men. I don’t mean she was narrow-minded, a prude. She liked fun. But it was all platonic.”
Sader’s mouth took on a quirk. “How old are you?”
A quick color bloomed in her cheeks. “I’m twenty-two. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m like one of these stupid teen-agers, that I think middle-aged love is nasty. You’re wrong. I’d have liked it very much if Mother had met and fallen in love with a suitable man her age. It would have been normal and pleasant. Let’s not get confused. Mother hasn’t eloped. She wouldn’t, anyway, without telling me.”
“Very well,” Sader said, as if chastened. “Where do you think she is?”
Fright leaped in her eyes. “I don’t know. That’s why I called you.”
They looked at each other across the space between Sader’s chair and her rose velvet couch. The rhinestone earrings she wore glittered in the cloudy light let in by the windows. Between the earrings was a face that interested Sader; it had character as well as beauty—quite a bit of character for a girl just twenty-two. Her make-up had been applied lightly and skillfully. Sader took a small dog-eared notebook and a pen from his coat. He leafed through the book to a blank page. “Where were you when she left the house?”
“I was in my bathroom doing some stockings,” the girl answered. “Mother rapped at the door and when I answered, she peeped in. She said she’d called a cab and was going out for a short while, but that I wasn’t to worry if she happened to be late.”
Sader asked, “What was she wearing?”
“A white blouse, silk, with pleats down the front. Green slacks. A beaver coat. It’s a very nice coat. She carried a big brown handbag.”
“How much money in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Anything on her head?”
“She had a green scarf wound to keep her hair back.”
Sader tapped the notebook with the blunt end of the pen and looked at Miss Wanderley. “Did she give you any hint of where she was going?” When the girl shook her head, he said, “Was that the usual thing?”
She hesitated. “She nearly always told me where she meant to go. And yet I didn’t think too much about it, then. I didn’t worry. One of Mother’s cronies keeps pretty late hours. Sometimes she calls Mother to meet her somewhere, some bar or other. I thought that may have happened Tuesday night.”
“And did it?”
“No. Tina Griffin says she didn’t meet Mother.”
“Does your mother drink quite a bit?”
“Not too much.” Miss Wanderley’s expression showed her distaste for the query, perhaps for Sader’s presuming to ask it. Then she decided to add to her answer. “I suppose most people, if they drink at all, drink more as they get older.”
“I suppose most of us do,” he agreed. He noted that she controlled the sharp glance she must have wanted to give him. He examined the room again. “How does your mother make her living?”
“She dabbles some in real estate. It’s just a side line with her. Dad left property that supports us.”
Sader sat quietly for a couple of minutes. “Does your mother keep any record of appointments?”
“Yes, but in a haphazard fashion. I’ll get her desk memo.” She rose and hurried from the room and was gone for several minutes. During this time Sader strolled over to the glass door and looked out. He put away the pen and notebook and lit a cigarette. Outdoors, big drops were pelting the glass and wending their way downward in twiggy patterns, and beyond, the flagstone terrace with its gay swing and the awning-covered lounges looked like a circus lost in the rain. A corner of the army blanket which covered the roll of stuff in the swing had worked loose, and under it showed a scrap of something else that looked like wet fur. Sader studied it thoughtfully. Then he heard Miss Wanderley’s returning steps and turned around.
She stopped just inside the door as if his position surprised her. “Is something wrong?”
“Just taking a stretch.” He went back to the couch and she met him there. She carried a large photograph in a silver frame and a leather-bound desk pad. She handed him the picture.
“It was taken last year. It’s a very good likeness.”
He’d seen the picture before; its familiarity teased him.
“Mother never has looked her age,” the girl continued. “She’s small and slender. There’s no trace of gray in her hair. Most people think she’s in her thirties.”
“Until they meet you.”
She smiled fleetingly. “Yes. Until . . . and if . . . they meet me.”
He looked at her over the cigarette. She and her mother did not much resemble each other. There was something solid behind the girl’s prettiness, some quality of common sense or directness that he could sense; but the woman in the picture was like a fluffy bird. The small face was tipped up to meet the camera, perhaps also to give a flattering neckline. The soft hair curled and clung about the mother’s throat. It was the expression of the mouth he instantly disliked. Bee-stung, he thought; that’s what they used to call it. Actresses pouted like that in the twenties.
He gave her the framed picture. “If you have one, I’d prefer a snapshot. To take with me.”
She nodded. “Yes, I’ll get one.” She handed him the memo pad.
He sat down to leaf through it. As she had said, the entries were scattered and, to him, mostly meaningless. On Monday Mrs. Wanderley had written:
Beauty Shop 10:30
(Try the henna?)
See the man, house on Plenty Street
Phone 201–111
Margot’s, drinks, 5
He turned the sheet to Tuesday.
License for Tootsie
Get refund on car . . . $65, no less!
Cleaner’s
Charlie Ott, Plenty Street, 3:15
The girl was bending over the back of his chair. He flipped the pages. “I judge you’ve studied these.”
“Yes. This Mr. Ott has a duplex he wants Mother to sell for him. Margot is one of her old friends. She has a home on Signal Hill. I called her today and she said Mother was there Monday, late in the afternoon, and didn’t stay too long.”
“Have you phoned Mr. Ott?”
“I tried. I haven’t found him in yet.” Worry underscored each word.
“Who’s Tootsie?”
The girl drew a sharp breath. “Our little dog. On Tuesday Mother got a new license for her, about eleven according to the man at the pound. The item about her car concerns an argument she’s having with the garage over some repairs. They say she came in around noon, talked to the service manager, didn’t settle anything, and left. That’s the last definite check I’ve been able to make.”
Sader closed the desk memo, put it down, and took out his own notebook and did some scribbling. “I want names and addresses, your mother’s friends.”
She hesitated, and then out of sight behind him, she spoke in a rush. “Before you start, shouldn’t we discuss your fee, or wages?”
Sader didn’t turn to look at her. “It’s thirty-five a day, plus expenses.” To himself he thought, that’s going to stop her. She’ll tell me she’ll think it over and let me know. This house and everything in it speaks of a careful management of money—except that stuff getting drowned on the terrace.
But she said, “That’s all ri
ght. Do you want an advance?”
“No. I’ll send a bill when I’m finished.”
“When you’ve found Mother, you mean?”
Now Sader looked back at her. “When I can tell you where she is.”
She smiled the brief, disconcerted smile. “You mean—if she’s run off and won’t see anyone, but you trace her somehow. Is that it?”
“Am I right in thinking that you want to know whether your mother is alive and well and operating under her own power and volition? That she isn’t in trouble, or suffering from amnesia?”
The gray eyes were cloudy with torment. “I guess that sums it up.”
“I can’t drag her back if she doesn’t want to come. People walk out on their old lives all the time. When they’re through, they’re through.”
“There isn’t any romance.” The girl’s tone was definite, dismissing any question. “I’ll trust you to do whatever needs to be done.”
Sader handed her the notebook. “Give me the names of her friends and where I can find them. And then get me a snapshot.”
“Yes, sir,” she said primly, and sat down to write.
Sader climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to his office. The light was gray. The clouds had settled low over the city. He pushed in through the door; the small outer room was empty. In the inner office his partner, Dan Scarborough, was waiting for him.
Dan was younger than Sader, taller, heavier. He dressed carefully. He had a stocky frame, a shock of black hair, and the expression on his good-looking face was usually eager and helpful, what Sader called his St. Bernard’s look. He said, “Hi. Had lunch?”
“I took a call. I guess I forgot lunch. What about the job for Ajoukian?”
“I saw the old man,” said Dan. “The son has been missing since Tuesday. He went out in the evening for a few drinks, and maybe a little business afterward, and didn’t come home again. From what I could get out of the old man, his business now is buying and selling oil shares. He’s a close-mouthed old bugger where money lies. I met the son’s wife, too. Anybody who’d walk out on a dish like that ought to have his head examined. Here’s a couple of sandwiches.” He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a brown paper sack.
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