With a sense of curiosity about the woman who lived in such a neighborhood, he turned the car northward.
He was surprised when he saw the place. Though the house figured to be at least thirty years old and was surrounded by working rigs and oil tanks, it wouldn’t have been out of place on any quiet street in the residential sections. It was built of white stucco with a red tile roof; there was a neat lawn to the curb, a hedge of evergreens, a weeping willow. There was every indication of good care. A row of potted begonias and ferns lined the edge of the cement porch. Under the willow tree a white plaster mama duck led three little ducks in a parade.
A pickup truck went by, tools rattling in its bed. A steam whistle screeched from a refinery on Cherry. Not the quietest place on earth. Sader thought. But lots of privacy from the neighbors.
He parked the car at the edge of the street, went up the cement walk, and rang the bell. Almost at once he heard footsteps and then the door was pulled open by a woman.
He sized her up through the screen. She was about fifty and had coarse black hair pulled back into a knot. Her face was big-boned, its lines heavy, though her figure was pleasingly slim. The eyes were striking. They were the bluest Sader had ever seen, a color like bright paint, and the thick black lashes around them gave a look of shining through shadow. She wore a figured housecoat. “How do you do?”
Sader was pleased with her voice. You didn’t often hear that soft, rich tone. “Sader’s my name. I’m a private detective trying to trace your friend, Mrs. Wanderley.”
“Yes, Mr. Sader, I’ve heard about that.” She moved back and gestured for him to come in. “Excuse the house. I work nights, I don’t get much housework done anymore.” She ran around picking up newspapers, then indicated a chair for him.
The front door opened right into the living room. Sader could not see many signs of neglect, in spite of Mrs. Cole’s apology. The furniture was not in the same class as Mrs. Wanderley’s, but neither was it nondescript or shabby. There were more spindle-legged tables than he would have cared for, with white lace doilies and china figurines on them. Some African violets bloomed in a bright red pot over beside the window. The lace curtains looked crisply starched, immaculate. The brown rug hadn’t a stray thread or a trace of lint. He said, “I hope I didn’t interrupt your daytime nap.”
She came back to sit down near him. “I’m getting so I’m just like a cat. I sleep in little snatches, all through the day. I know it isn’t the right way to get a complete rest, but I can’t help myself. I guess in the end I’ll just have to get a day job.”
“Some people can adjust to nightwork and some can’t. If I were having trouble, I’d get out of it,” Sader advised.
She nodded. “I feel that way, too. I’ve stayed on as long as I have because I like the work and the pay is good. I’m night receptionist at the hospital.” She smoothed the skirt of the housecoat on her knee. “I guess you want to ask me about Felicia. Whether I know where she is. I don’t.” She lifted the strange blue eyes in a direct stare at Sader.
“Well, we might talk about her last visit here.”
“That was Monday, nearly a week ago. It’s awful how time flies.” She shook her head slightly. “I invited a few friends here Monday afternoon. It’s my night off. I served cocktails and a buffet snack.”
“When did Mrs. Wanderley arrive?”
“A little after five. She was here a couple of hours, I suppose. They’d all gone by eight.”
“You were lucky,” Sader told her, smiling. “I’ve had friends come for five o’clock cocktails and have taken them home and poured them into bed about two A.M. the next morning.”
She returned his smile. “Yes, I’ve had that happen too. But Felicia sort of put a frost on things. She was cross about something. Sometimes when she’d had enough to drink she went on rampages. I think everyone was a bit nervous, thinking of that.”
“What had upset her?”
Mrs. Cole shook her head. “I don’t know. She came in quiet enough. After she’d been here awhile, had talked to some of the others, she came out into the kitchen, following me when I went to replenish the drinks, and she wanted to talk to me about my . . . my divorce.” For the first time Margot Cole’s air of frankness broke down; she flashed him a look that was mostly defiance, and he judged that her resentment over Felicia’s prying was still fresh. “I’ve known Felicia since we were kids in school. Thirty-five years, anyway. And we’ve been friends all that time. But I felt she was overstepping herself. She said that real-estate people know a lot of law, and that she could help me with advice about the divorce settlement, and I had to speak very plainly to her. I told her I’d left the arrangement of the property settlement to my attorney, in whom I have complete confidence.”
From the heat in her voice Sader judged that his next question had better be phrased tactfully. “Perhaps her motive was kindly. Perhaps she thought you were being taken advantage of in some way.”
Margot Cole laughed shortly. “How could she? I hadn’t discussed my marriage or its breakup with her.”
“I’d better explain something.” Sader told her of the last scene between Kay and her mother, the gun and the threats to use it to scare somebody, and then of Mrs. Wanderley’s enigmatic remarks to Milton. When he had concluded he added: “It seems she must have gone off in a towering rage over some sort of dishonesty. Even though you know of no information she might have had about your divorce settlement, it’s possible she imagined some injustice was being done.”
The blue eyes were direct and frosty. “I’ll co-operate in every reasonable way, Mr. Sader, to help you find Felicia. But I won’t have you dragging my private affairs into it, I won’t have you poking into my divorce. I’ve gone out of my way to keep it quiet and respectable. My two children are enrolled in wonderful schools. I intend to see that no smear touches them. I might add that it’s quite impossible that Felicia should be running around looking for my husband. He’s in Texas.”
Sader kept his tone smooth and friendly. “I’m in complete sympathy with you, Mrs. Cole. But perhaps she felt your attorney wasn’t doing all that was possible.”
“My attorney is a woman.”
Sader saw no other avenue to pursue this lead. “Might I ask with whom Mrs. Wanderley talked here Monday evening?”
Some of her anger ebbed and she relaxed a little. “I noticed her once with Charlie Ott. Of course there is some kind of deal on between them, she’s signed him up to sell his place, and I suppose they talked about that. He isn’t the type she’d choose for banter. Tina Griffin and Felicia were together, I recall.”
“Was Milton Wanderley among your guests?”
“No.” She was looking at him curiously. “Did Kay have you look him up?”
“Mrs. Griffin took me to see him.”
“I feel sorry for Milton. Felicia acts as if he’s disgracing her with his pigs. He’s just making a living in one of the few ways open to him.”
Sader nodded. “You didn’t notice Mrs. Wanderley with anyone except Mr. Ott and Mrs. Griffin?”
She started to answer and then checked herself. He saw that she was debating a question, and he remembered the man in the field office and made a bet with himself: this wasn’t his day, and she’d clam up on him.
But she began to speak with an air of pulling the words out one by one from a sack, not sure what she’d draw next. “Felicia spoke to another man. His being here was an accident and concerned my divorce settlement. I saw Felicia and this man in the dining room where I had set up the buffet.”
Sader had noticed the large alcove at the rear of the room, filled by a big oak table and leather-cushioned chairs.
“You hadn’t wanted this man here because his business with you was private?” Sader hazarded.
“I haven’t cared for my friends to know anything about my divorce or the settlement which was being arranged,” Mrs. Cole said slowly. “I’m not just a perversely secretive woman, Mr. Sader. My husband was very unpopular with
my old friends, for reasons I shan’t go into here. That should explain to you why I have kept matters to myself and why I would have preferred Mr. Ajoukian not to have come that night.”
Sader blinked. He felt as if some kind of eclipse, upheaval, or other startling phenomenon had taken place in an instant when he had turned his head. “What did you say?”
“I said that my husband was unpopular with my friends. Their attitude would be prejudiced.”
“This man, this Ajoukian. Mrs. Wanderley spoke to him?”
“I think so.”
“Do you think they might have known each other?”
“Previously, you mean? I have no idea.”
“Was he introduced to her here?”
“I didn’t introduce them. When Mr. Ajoukian came, most of the others had gone. He looked in and saw a half dozen or so in this room, and said he wouldn’t interrupt a party; and then, not wishing to be rude, I asked if he would have a drink. He came in and I gave him a cocktail. Frankly, I didn’t want to take him around to each of the others and give his name, and explain who he was. So I let him get along as best he could.”
Sader could imagine Mrs. Cole’s predicament. She hadn’t wanted Ajoukian mixing with her friends but had been too squeamish to turn him off abruptly. No doubt she had feared he might drop some hint of the divorce settlement.
“Ajoukian’s business was buying oil shares,” Sader said. “Were you selling him some?”
“That has nothing to do with this matter of Felicia’s disappearance.”
“I’m not so sure. You see, young Mr. Ajoukian also dropped from sight last Tuesday.”
He was surprised at the lack, of response. The blue eyes remained fixed on his in placid determination to resist his probing. But she asked, “Are you investigating both of these disappearances?”
“Yes.”
“That’s odd.”
“In what way?” Sader asked quickly.
“To be such a coincidence.”
Sader looked at her thoughtfully. “You mean, for the families of the two who dropped from sight both to choose my agency?”
She nodded. “Of course there aren’t a great many agencies of your sort in Long Beach. I’d guess a half dozen, perhaps!”
“You’ve missed it by half.”
She smiled slightly. “However, I suppose some of the dozen-odd don’t look for missing persons. Some of them do private patrol, special police duties, that sort of thing.”
“Yes, you’re right. However, concerning this visit here by young Mr. Ajoukian——”
“No, you’re mistaken. Young Mr. Ajoukian wasn’t here at all.”
Sader made one of his few vexatious gestures in impatience at his own hurry to jump at a conclusion: he pounded a fist once into the palm of his other hand. “The old man?”
“Yes.” She turned her head a fraction of an inch, then caught herself. But Sader, noting the slight motion, was alerted to its cause. Somewhere in the rear of the house there had been a faint sound. A door had shut, almost silently. He judged from Mrs. Cole’s attitude that she was fully aware of what was happening, that she didn’t want him to know.
He gave no sign of wondering who might be back there. “Was Ajoukian’s manner toward Mrs. Wanderley familiar? Friendly? Placating? Or what?”
“Mr. Sader, perhaps in your work you’ve learned to examine other people with an X-ray eye. Perhaps you discover all sorts of meanings in their casual social behavior. You see guilt, and anger, and terror, and evil intentions under their outward appearances. But I don’t. When I glanced into the alcove and saw Felicia talking to Mr. Ajoukian, I thought only that they might have found a topic of common interest. Or at most, that she was being pleasant to an old and rather unattractive man.”
Sader sighed. “I wish I did possess those X-ray eyes you mention. But why do you speak of evil intentions? On whose part?”
A brief flash of irritation crossed her features. “Certainly not on Mr. Ajoukian’s.”
“You felt no antagonism between them?”
She looked at him as if she considered him exceptionally stupid. “You keep hinting at a possibility of foul play. Forget it, Mr. Sader. Felicia was always perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“Even when she’d been drinking heavily?”
“People got out of her way when she’d been drinking heavily,” Mrs. Cole said in a sharp tone. “I wouldn’t want such an idea to get back to Kay, but just between us, I think Felicia is having herself a spree. I know what Kay must have told you, that her mother was past the age for love affairs. Don’t believe it.”
Sader smiled. “Mrs. Wanderley had romantic notions?” This, then, was the first he’d heard of it.
“She was capable of falling for some man.”
“You were such an old friend of hers—had you noticed any particular symptoms?”
She stiffened under his glance. “Don’t ridicule what I’m saying.”
“That was far from my intention.”
He saw her eyes fixed on her wrist watch. “I wish I could help you find Felicia, but I can’t. I have this theory, which I hope you won’t repeat to Kay. That’s all I can offer.”
“I’ll have to contact Mr. Ajoukian,” Sader said, rising.
Real anger glittered in her strange blue eyes. “Do so without mentioning my name.” She stood up to face him. He saw her clenched hands at her sides, the tension in her throat, her shoulders. She was like a cat suddenly set to pounce.
“I’ll manage that,” he agreed. “You had other guests here, I’ll say that one of them mentioned Ajoukian’s meeting Mrs. Wanderley.”
He saw that this didn’t satisfy her. She didn’t want him seeing Ajoukian. There was an instant of angry silence, and in it Sader thought he heard a footfall. Whoever she had back there was being exceptionally quiet. Sader allowed no change to cross his face at the surreptitious sound.
“Please trust my discretion,” he pleaded. “You don’t have to be afraid I’ll pry into your divorce.”
She didn’t relent. “My interest is in the welfare of my children.”
The words followed him out into the gray light of the street, and he wondered at his own mistrust of them. There had been something flat and tinny in her tone, the ring of a false coin. He got into his car. Me and my X-ray ears, he jibed to himself. He looked back at Mrs. Cole’s house. He wished he knew who it was who had waited and listened to their conversation, whose movements had been so stealthy, of whose presence Mrs. Cole had been so secretly aware. Somehow he thought the unseen one was a man.
No reason for this, he told himself—the act of eavesdropping, of prying and peeping, was more like a woman. Or it might have been one of Mrs. Cole’s children, home from school.
He decided the impression that a man had been hiding out of sight in Mrs. Cole’s back bedroom arose from her attitude toward her divorce. She wanted the settlement, the suit, to go smoothly and quietly. Not because of the kids, Sader speculated, but perhaps because of another love.
She was fifty, or nearly, and to someone like Kay Wanderley, in spite of her denials, fifty was doddering and sexless and past all thought of romance. Let Kay live, Sader thought; she’ll learn it isn’t so.
He took a last look at the willow, at the plaster ducks, the potted plants along Mrs. Cole’s front porch. If I were having the kind of breaks the private dicks get on TV, he thought, young Ajoukian would sneak out of the house now and I’d nail him and he’d confess to murdering Mrs. Wanderley because she was going to tell his father on him and Mrs. Cole. Of course Mrs. Cole is old enough to be his mother; but he has a mother complex. He lost his so long ago, after she’d lived all those years in a shack behind the old man’s tool yard.
Or maybe it went this way. . . .
He was still embroidering on it when he walked into his office and found Dan there with the taxi driver who had seen Mrs. Wanderley at five o’clock on Wednesday morning.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE TAXI driv
er was a neat young man with thick dark hair and nervous eyes. He sat on the red leather lounge and twisted a uniform cap in his hands. “You understand, I’m trusting you to treat this confidentially.”
Dan glanced at Sader. “Can you do it?”
“It depends on what he means,” Sader said.
“It mustn’t get in the paper,” the taxi driver said firmly.
“I won’t put it in,” Sader said. “I can’t promise for the cops, if it turns out something’s happened to her.”
“She was okay at five o’clock Wednesday morning. Well, I’ll correct that—she said she had a cold. She was all wrapped up.”
Sader took out the snapshot and handed it to him. “Is that the woman you saw on Wednesday morning?”
The driver examined the snapshot critically. “Well . . . she had on a fur coat, a scarf tied under her chin. I guess it’s the same. The clothes matched the description you left in the dispatcher’s office. She told me her name. Wanderley.”
Dan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise; he looked again at Sader. “How did that happen?”
“She just did,” said the driver uneasily. “When she left the cab out at the Veterans’ Hospital, she told me.”
“Why do you want the trip kept quiet?” Sader asked.
“She—she accused me of something I didn’t do. She said I got fresh with her. I think she’d been drinking. Anyway, drunk or sober, I don’t want my wife to get hold of it. I’m having enough trouble at home.”
“Start from the beginning,” Sader said.
By the driver’s increasing uneasiness, Sader judged that he was beginning to wish he hadn’t come in. He shifted restlessly on the couch. “It seemed just a routine pickup. She signaled for me to stop on a corner below Pacific Coast Highway, near Cherry. She wanted a ride out to the Veterans’ Hospital. I went out there by way of Anaheim Street. Nothing happened during the trip that I knew of. When we got to the hospital, I parked the cab in the taxi zone by the front gates and got out and opened the door for her. She took a bill out of her pocket; and I returned her change. She was coughing meanwhile in a handkerchief. When I gave her the change my hand accidentally touched hers and she said, ‘You filthy beast, don’t dare to touch me like that.’ I said, ‘Gee, I’m sorry, lady,’ or something to apologize. But she coughed a little and then said, ‘I saw you staring at me in the rear-view mirror. I know what you’re up to.’ ” The driver suddenly waved the cap in desperation. “Honest to God, I didn’t have any such idea!”
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