by Steve Fisher
“Nice girl,” I said.
Jill didn’t say anything. She had finished her coffee and was looking into the empty cup. She was trembling. The hamburger was untouched on her plate. I sat down. I slipped a cigarette out of its pack and began fooling around with it. Jill was very pretty. There was color in her face. Her breasts were hard against the red dress as she breathed.
“You shouldn’t have come.” she said. She said it so low I scarcely heard.
“Why not?”
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“You wanted me to,” I said.
“No.”
“You were thinking of me.”
“That’s something else,” she said. “I didn’t want you here.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“A long time ago Vicky said you were in love with me.”
“It wasn’t true. It isn’t love.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“You’re trembling.”
“I wish you’d go.”
She scared me. “You’ve been talking to Ed Cornell again,” I said.
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t listen to him, Jill. He’s an hysterical fool.”
“Yes, he is.”
“Lanny, Hurd and Robin each had excellent motives to kill Vicky.”
“I know.”
“But he won’t consider them.”
She looked up. “It isn’t Ed Cornell. That isn’t what’s wrong with me.”
“Then what is it?”
“I don’t know. I keep thinking of you. I don’t know why I should. It started even before Vicky was killed. It started the first time I ever looked at you. You came into the room, and I was there and you stopped and we stared at one another. It was as though—we’d met before. It gave me a chill.”
“I remember,” I said. “But I didn’t know you’d felt that way.”
“Now I remember you all the time. And I hate you. But I have an insane impulse that makes me want to protect you. I don’t know why. It’s just there. It’s like you’re afraid in the dark and I’m telling you it’s all right.” She paused. “Worse than that—and this is the hideous part—it’s as though these things all took place somewhere before.”
I felt icy cold.
“At first I thought it was love,” she said. “I’d never loved anyone outside my family. But you aroused me. I kept wanting to see you. I kept wondering what you were doing. But in the past few weeks it seems to be repulsion and hatred. It’s like hatred, yet—” She leaned forward. “Are you ever afraid in the dark, Peg?”
“Jill, stop it!”
“It isn’t pleasant,” she said. “It’s turned my life into hell. Perhaps it’ll be better now that I’ve said it all. I don’t know why I should want to protect you. You don’t need it.”
“No.”
“Do you think we can forget?”
“I think so. I think so now. You had to say some ugly things. Ugly things get in your soul and make you wretched. It’s because you’ve been under a terrible strain. Vicky’s death, and everything. You’ve imagined these things.”
“That must be it.”
“If you felt anything toward me before—before Vicky was killed—that was just natural. It happens with a certain boy and a certain girl sometimes.”
“Yes—I guess so”
“Because nothing’s going to happen to me,” I said.
“No.”
“Ed Cornell’s just hysterical.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s have a drink, Jill.”
“All right; we’ve got some wine. It isn’t very good.”
“That’ll be all right. I’ll bring some good wine when I come again. Listen, that Wanda Hale’s a nice kid.”
“She’s had a tough time,” Jill said.
“Sure, I can see that. Shall we go in the other room and drink the wine? This kitchen’s stuffy.”
We sat on the divan. The wine was cheap and we didn’t drink much of it. But it was something to do with our hands. The room was depressing. The ceiling was low and the building next door seemed very close to the windows. Jill turned on the radio and there was a dance band. The bulbs in the electric globes were twenty-five watt and they were very dim. I was afraid of Jill and I talked, much about nothing. Then she got up to get a book to show me. She walked across the room. She had a lovely body. I got up and she handed me the book and I put it down. She looked at me, frightened. But we just stood there. I was shaking visibly. I reached up with one hand and turned off the lights. For a moment it seemed very dark. I could hear her breathing. But I couldn’t move. My heart was beating so fast that I had to lean against the wall. I wanted to turn the lights back on but I didn’t have the strength to lift my hand. I thought I was going to collapse. I felt hollow all through.
Now she came to me. She didn’t touch me but she stood very close. I knew I was a fool, but I couldn’t move. I felt cold sweat on my face. She put her hands on my shoulders and put her face very close to mine. Now I could see her. I imagined I could. I drew her hands down. My throat swelled up with a scream. I choked it off. But hysteria kept coming up through my chest.
“Jill—you look like Vicky!”
“Do I, darling?”
“You look exactly like Vicky in the dark!”
“You must be wrong.”
“No, you do. Jill—I’m afraid!”
“Are you afraid, darling?”
“Jill—”
She put her lips against mine. It was all right then. It was just for a moment that I was scared and now it was all over. But my heart was still pounding. Her lips were wet and her tongue was hot. I picked her up in my arms and carried her across the room. In the dark she was clinging to me, her fingers gouging into my skin.
12
IT WAS A FINE California winter, the days bright and warm, and the nights crisp with wind and crystal clear. I bought a season ticket for the Coliseum and Jill and I went every Saturday. We’d sit in the bleachers, a blanket over our legs, cheering for the Trojans until we were hoarse; after the game we’d hie ourselves to Nikabob’s and sit side by side at the bar, devouring popcorn and drinking Bacardis. Jill’d float a fluffy popped corn on her pink Bacardi. “White sails in the sunset.” Then we’d talk about the game. “Wasn’t that last touchdown a pretty thing, though!” At night we danced at the Biltmore Bowl or the Zebra Room; and on Wednesday afternoons I got away from the studio and we’d drive to Santa Anita. But sometimes, even as a winner thundered across the finish line, we’d never know it.
“You’re getting lipstick!”
“To hell with it!”
“Darling, we are at a race track! Your hand is—”
”—under your coat.”
“Aren’t you lecherous, though!”
“Insatiably so!”
“So am I.”
“But not as much as me.”
“Oh, yes, I am. More!”
“I say you aren’t.”
“But, darling, I am!”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where would you like to go, Miss Lynn?”
“Any place. Not a tourist camp, though.”
“How about a Pomona hotel?”
“No—I don’t like hotels. I’d feel cheap.”
“Then I’m afraid we’ll have to wait ‘til it’s dark—and find a plot of grass in the Civic Square.”
“Why, Mr. Pegasus—the very thing!”
“Certainly!”
On Sunday we rigged ourselves in official ski clothes I’d bought, and we went over to “a place in the Valley” and skied down a trail of pine needles. The pine was as slick as ice; but there was no snow anywhere about. Once we rode horseback on the Santa Monica bridle path, nodding at Rock Hudson and Tuesday Weld; but afterwards we ached so that we had to stand up at a chicken emporium in the Valley, eating off a chin-
high ledge, our riding habits greasy and our hands sticky. We laughed like fools about it. We kissed right there in the restaurant. It didn’t matter who saw us.
“They’ll get used to this,” I said. “My option’s been taken up at the studio.”
“Has it, Peg? Really?”
I nodded. “Just today. I was keeping it for a surprise. It means a jump in pay and six more months here in Glamour Junction.”
“How wonderful!”
“Do we celebrate?”
“Of course!” she said.
“Champagne?”
“What else?”
One weekend we hiked up Mt. Lowe, both of us puffing, and blowing steam. Jill’s breasts were bunched against a thick sweater, and her face was rosy and her eyes very bright; when it was night we sat in a little rented cabin on top of the mountain, watching the softly falling snow.
A few days later we splashed in the shiny blue surf at Malibu, and lay in the white sand, Jill wearing a tight yellow bathing suit, just one piece. I remember coming into the beach cottage once just as she was changing. She grabbed up a towel and covered herself with it.
“Please!”
“You’re lovely, Jill.”
“Peg, go ‘way. I’ll be right out.” She was shivering.
“But, mommy, I’m romantic!”
“Darling, I’ll be rheumatic if you don’t go!”
“Okay; I’m bribed. But how ‘bout a kiss?”
One evening we decided to drive down to Laguna for dinner, but the car raced through the night, making scarcely a sound, and we went on to San Diego. It was a navy town, and it was gay and bright and festive. The streets were thick with sailors and girls. Welcome Navy signs appeared everywhere. Night clubs blazed with color; inside, pretty painted girls in star-spangled tights danced in choruses, and sailors whistled and stomped. The Plaza was all lit up, trolleys clanging by, and every few minutes a stripped-down Ford, crammed with sailors and girls, skidded around a corner. Fords, motor-cycles and girls. The fleet was in.
Jill and I ate dinner and drove to the harbor. Warships lay at anchor, side by side. Destroyers, four abreast; long sleek submarines; cruisers and tenders. Their yardarms blinked; searchlights combed the sky. A night squadron of Navy Boeings roared overhead. Now and then we heard the echo of a bugle; and water taxis and motor launches kept coming in at the dock, disgorging uniformed men. The lights of Coronado flickered on the opposite shore.
“California’s beautiful, isn’t it? It’s pretty … and has sunshine, and some very nice people in it.”
”—Such as Jill Lynn.”
“You’re sweet! Only—”
“What?”
“I was thinking of Vicky.”
“Oh.”
“Do you ever remember, Peg?”
“You should ask: do you ever forget? Because I don’t.”
“She’ll always be between us, won’t she? No matter what fun we ever have. We both loved her, and she’ll be there …”
“Jill?”
“Yes?”
“I—want you to know something.” I was turned toward her, my elbow on the steering wheel. “Vicky was tops. She was all honey and silver. She was laughter at midnight. Only she wasn’t the first girl I ever had—maybe the nicest ‘til you, but not the first … see? And you are the first, because it’s all different… . I love you more than going to bed. I—Christ, this is a lousy speech, isn’t it? I’m supposed to be so eloquent. But I don’t know how else to tell you!”
She was looking down. “It’s—nice of you to say that, darling. Even if you don’t mean it.”
“But I do!”
She was crying suddenly. “Do you know—I believe it!”
“Drive, darling,” she said a bit later. “Drive along the shore.”
“Okay, and you sing.”
“Sure. I’ll sing—I’ll sing like Jerry Colonna!”
I drove down the long ribbon of road, the headlights glowing through the night, and Jill sang. The sky was silver with dawn when we arrived back in Hollywood. The streets were still and the rows of tall pahns stood like lonely totems. I pulled up to the apartment and walked to the door with her.
“Can I come up?”
“Darling, Wanda’s there.”
“If that’s the sad state of affairs—get some sleep. USC’s playing in the Coliseum today. I’ll be over at one and we’ll rush through breakfast.”
The dawn was bright and new and I felt swell. I walked back to the car, whistling.
Ed Cornell was sitting in the front seat.
13
NOT ED CORNELL,” I said. “Not the celebrated Temple Street nemesis!”
But he didn’t even look up. He wore a thin, shabby top coat, and he sat there shivering, his hands jammed in the pockets.
“Isn’t it rather early in the morning for ghouls, Mr. Cornell?”
No soap. His white face was gaunt and haggard. He was the most morose bastard I’ve ever seen. I walked around and climbed into the car. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and lit it. My fine mood was going to hell fast. I tried once more, feebly.
“Good old Cornell,” I said, “crêpe(s) of wrath. Look, Operator 13, don’t you think you’ve followed That Man long enough?”
“I’ll always follow you,” he said. “This is your murder story, pal. This is the one that don’t end happy.”
“This is the one that’s true.”
“Yeah. I’ve been waiting for you since midnight. I kept thinking you’d show up—then when you didn’t it got me sore. I decided to wait you out.”
“For Christ’s sake!”
“I know. Always living in the garbage cans of somebody else’s life. I scavenge old souls.” He raised his head. “I was over there—across the street. You didn’t even see me when you drove up.”
“I wasn’t looking for you. What do you want?”
“The usual things. I’ve run into quite a lot of damaging evidence just following you around. I don’t look for it. All I do is keep track of you and it comes to me.”
“The Cornell method.”
“Yes—without portfolio.” He coughed again, and talked through it: “You—you can drive me—to my hotel—if you will.”
“Will you stop coughing!”
“I can’t help it. A touch of T.B., you know; and I think I’ve caught pneumonia waiting for you. The buses haven’t begun running yet. I can’t afford taxi fare. It’s five miles.”
“You’ve got guts, I’ll say that.”
“I can’t help it. I’ve spent too much of my own money following you already. They won’t give me an expense account. It’s all my own time, and my own dough.”
“I’m crying.”
“But I imagine they’ll reimburse me when I bring in the material for your trial. They usually do in these cases. I nick a guy on my own time and send him up to the chamber— and then I get back pay.” He had begun snuffling. The sound made me itch. “You’ll drive me, won’t you?” He blew his nose and looked at what was in the handkerchief. “If you’re stopped for speeding I could probably fix the ticket.” He wadded the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.
I started the car and drove off. I hated his high-pitched voice. It was a sort of nasal tenor, all one tone. The car reached Western and I made a wide turn, the tires squealing.
“I hope it isn’t pneumonia,” said Ed Cornell. “That would be a crappy thing, all right, wouldn’t it? I shouldn’t have waited for you so long. There was nothing to gain standing there.”
“Naturally not.”
“It’d be a hell of a thing to get pneumonia—and be in bed in a hot room with a lot of bottles. I’ve got you just about where I want you and this is no time to stop. I could arrest you today, for that matter, but you’d get some hot shot lawyer and you might wriggle out with life instead of the death penalty.”
“Have you any idea what the hell you’re talking about?” He nodded. “A kind of running knowledge. I’ve been in the business a long time. I’ve
already got plenty of evidence on you. Just hung around the places you went, and it fell in my lap. I could take you to court tomorrow. But I still need a strong motive. I’m fairly sure I know what it is but I can’t prove it yet.”
The wet tires sirened on the black asphalt. I said: “What evidence have you got?”
“Enough, mister. Don’t worry about that. And I’ll have the motive in a week or two. It’s going to take some doing— getting the witnesses lined up—but I’ll do it.”
“You’re crazy!”
“Sure. You say that. That’s why I can tell you these things. I don’t scare you enough to make you commit suidde. And if you ran away they’d only get you again. A little man—a clerk or a butcher—he can hide for a while, but a guy so dumb he can only make dough writing words on paper—he ain’t got a chance.”
“No?”
“No. You make money and you forget how to live. You’d be screwed trying to live like a human being. You’d tip your hand—and wonder how in the hell you happened to do it.”
“I see.”
“They all think I’m nuts,” Ed Cornell went on. “And I never get tired seeing the surprise when we come up with Exhibits A to Z. Some of them scream. A few faint. A lot of them just get pale and light a cigarette with a trembling hand—like in a mystery. Maybe they say some crappy thing like: ‘The jig’s up, gentlemen.’ They always say something they’d never say at any other time. For one little minute they’ve got a spothght, and—scared as they are—they turn ham actor. But up in the death cell they look kind of pitiful. A human being never believes his own death is justified— no matter what he’s done. He’s spent his life from childhood doing wrong things and getting Just One More Chance—everybody is like that. God will forgive you. But the law won’t: and the victim finds it subconsciously unbelievable. That’s why some of them hang on and don’t crack. Up to the last minute they’re convinced they’ll get another chance.”
“Why do you tell me these things?”
“To persuade you that I’m not crazy. I’m just—well, inevitable. Like death. You’ll never escape me.”
“Listen—” I sucked for breath. “Listen—God damn it, I’m not guilty of anything! If—if you persecute me it’ll be wrong. Your mind is warped, and I don’t know what you intend to do-but whatever it is, it’ll be wrong!”
