In a Lonely Place

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  Yet the game would be heightened if he teamed up with a detective. Dix went into the bathroom, plugged in the razor and began to shave. Hating the noise, the grinding buzz of noise. He could have used a safety razor but there were mornings when his hands had the shakes. He didn’t know when those mornings would occur. Better the buzz than to have people noticing the cuts on your cheeks and chin. His hands were steady as iron this morning.

  He finished shaving as quickly as possible, scrubbed his teeth and sloshed mouth wash. He was feeling better. Under the shower he felt considerably better. It might be definitely amusing to be with the Nicolais tonight. It might be that Sylvia was the one who wanted him along, that her play of indifference was a cover-up. He was clinically aware of his appeal to women. He’d seen their eyes sharpen as they looked at him. Sylvia’s hadn’t, true, but she was smart. She wouldn’t let it happen with Brub there. He’d like to see Sylvia again.

  He thought of her as he stood scrubbing himself with the towel. The long lines of her, the silvery look and sound of her. He’d like to know a woman of her caliber. Brub was lucky. He flung the towel on the floor. Brub was born lucky. For an instant he stiffened, as if a cold hand had touched his spine.

  His laugh shot from his throat. He was lucky too; he was more than lucky, he was smart. He strode out of the bathroom. It was close to two; he’d have to hump it to get out before the ugly beldame of the brooms showed up.

  He put on a blue sports shirt, blue slacks, comfortable loafers. No jacket. From the open windows he knew the day was a sultry one, September was summer in California. He transferred his wallet and keys and other stuff from the crumpled gabardines he’d worn last night. He rolled the gabardines, opened his closet and gathered up the other suits and odd trousers needing a cleaner’s attention. He’d beaten the maid; he was ready to leave. The phone started to ring as he reached the front door. He ignored it and left the apartment.

  The garages were in back of the court. His was almost a half block away. Just another of the advantages of Terriss’ quarters. No insomniacs sitting up in bed checking you in and out. The garages fronted on an alley; a vacant lot across. He unlocked the one housing Terriss’ car. A nice car Terriss had left for his use. He’d have preferred something flashier, a convertible or open brougham, but there was advantage in a black coupe. All black coupes looked alike at night. He drove away.

  He dropped the bundle of clothes at the cleaner’s on Olympic, then drove leisurely up Beverly Drive, parking near the delicatessen. He was hungry. He bought an early edition of the News at the corner and he read it while he ate two smoked turkey sandwiches and drank a bottle of beer. The delicatessen was fairly crowded even this late. It was a popular place and a pleasant one. Noise was a blur here, like in a club.

  There was nothing in the paper. After checking the headlines, he read the comics, the café columnists and Kirby, Weinstock, and Pearson, loitering with his beer. He looked over the movie ads, sometimes he went to a movie in the afternoons. It was too late today. He had to phone Sylvia Nicolai.

  He walked down to the Owl after eating and bought a carton of Philip Morris. It was after three then. The beldame would be out of his apartment, he could return, call Sylvia, and catch a nap before joining the Nicolais at their club The afternoon heat and the beer had made him sleepy again. Or he could get the letter written to Uncle Fergus. Damned old fool expected a letter once a week. It had been two weeks since Dix had written him. He wouldn’t put it past Uncle Fergus to stop sending checks if he didn’t get his damn letter from Dix pretty soon. He’d say he’d been sick. Maybe he could jack up the income for medical expenses. Something needing treatment, something acquired overseas. A back or a kidney. Not anything that would jerk the strings, drag him back East.

  He got in his car, backed out, and drove a little too fast around the block. Uncle Fergus didn’t have to be so dirty cheap; he didn’t have another living relative. Two hundred and fifty a month was pennies. Medical treatment was a good idea, he should have thought of it before. He could get three hundred for sure, maybe three fifty. He’d write a whale of a letter. He was the boy could do it. He knew Uncle Fergus like the palm of his hand. He felt all hopped up returning to the apartment.

  He flung the Philip Morrises on the divan, got out the portable and opened it on the desk. He rolled in the paper and started, “Dear Uncle Fergus,” before he remembered the phone call to Sylvia. He left the desk and went to the bedroom. Before dialing—Terriss had extended service of course, Terriss had everything easy—he lit a cigarette.

  Sylvia answered the phone. Her hello was natural. When he said, “Sylvia? It’s Dix,” her voice became a bit more formal. She was conscious of him all right. She was fighting that consciousness. He’d played the game so often of breaking down that withdrawal but never with this variation, the wife of his best friend. It stimulated him.

  He asked. “Do you still want me tonight?”

  She was conscious of his phrasing because there was a minute hesitancy before she counter-asked, “You mean you can join us for dinner?”

  “If I’m still invited.”

  “Yes, indeed.” She acted pleased. “Can you make it about seven? That will give us time for a drink before we go to the club.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  He was pleased that he had decided to go. He lay back on the bed to finish his cigarette. He was still leisurely there when the phone sounded. He was surprised, more so when it was Sylvia again. Her voice wasn’t standoffish now. “Dix? I forgot to say, don’t dress. We’re informal at the beach.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “You eased my mind. My dinner coat is out at the seams. It shrank while I was away flying.”

  “Brub’s too. They fed you gentlemen altogether too well,” she laughed.

  They had some easy conversation before ringing off. He didn’t want to return to the damn typewriter. He was comfortable here on his spine; he wasn’t sleepy now, just restful. It was just such delaying tactics that had let two weeks go by without writing the old skinflint. He pushed himself up and returned to the machine. Today there was incentive. He needed money for medical treatments.

  Inspiration returned to him at the typewriter. He wrote a peach of a letter; it was just right, not too much nor too little. He didn’t ask for money. He was certain his back would be all right without the treatments the doctor ordered. Stuff like that. He reread the letter twice before putting it in the envelope. He decided to go and mail it now. It was a little after five. Before sealing the envelope, he drew the letter out and read it again. Yes, it was right. He sealed it quickly, put on an airmail stamp, and left the apartment.

  He was walking fast. That was why he didn’t see the girl until he almost collided with her at the arched street entrance of the patio. It shocked him that he hadn’t noticed her that he hadn’t been aware. He stepped back quickly. “I beg your pardon,” he said. It wasn’t a formality as he said it; shock made each word apology for a grave error.

  The girl didn’t move for a moment. She stood in his way and looked him over slowly, from crown to toe. The way a man looked over a woman, not the reverse. Her eyes were slant, her lashes curved long and golden dark. She had red-gold hair, flaming hair, flung back from her amber face, falling to her shoulders. Her mouth was too heavy with lipstick, a copper-red mouth, a sultry mouth painted to call attention to its premise. She was dressed severely, a rigid, tailored suit, but it accentuated the lift of her breasts, the curl of her hips. She wasn’t beautiful, her face was too narrow for beauty, but she was dynamite. He stood like a dolt, gawking at her.

  After she’d finished looking him over, she gave him a small insolent smile. As if he were a dolt, not Dix Steele. “Granted,” she said and she walked past him into the patio.

  He didn’t move. He stood and watched her, his mouth still open. She walked like a model, swaying her small buttocks. She had exquisite legs. She knew he was watching her and she didn’t care. She expected it. She took her time, skirting the sma
ll sky-blue oblong of the pool which lay in the center of the patio. She started up the stairway to the balcony of the second-floor apartments.

  He swung out the archway fast. He wouldn’t let her reach the balcony, look over the balustrade and see him standing there. He’d find out about her some other way, if she lived here, or whom she visited. He’d left his car down the block a bit, by the curb. Although he’d intended driving to the Beverly postoffice to mail the letter, he didn’t. He half ran across the street to the corner mail box, clanged in the letter and ran back to the court. He was too late. She was already out of sight.

  He went back into his own apartment, sauntered in as if he weren’t damning luck. If he’d bumped into her on his return from the box, he could have bungled at his doorway for the key, discovered which apartment she entered. He walked inside, slamming the door after him. It had been years since he’d seen a girl who could set him jumping. The redhead was it. He went out to the kitchen and although he didn’t want a drink, he poured a double jigger of rye and drank it neat. The slug calmed him but he wandered back into the front room, wanting an excuse to slip out into the patio, to look up at the second-floor balcony.

  The excuse came as he wished for it. He heard, just short of the doorstep, the thud of the flung newspaper. He moved quick as a cat. But as soon as he picked up the paper, unfolding it, he forgot why he’d hurried outdoors. He saw only the headline: Strangler Strikes Again.

  Chapter Two

  It was quarter past seven when Dix pulled up in front of Nicolai’s gate. There was no woolly fog tonight, only a thin mistiness lay in the canyon. It was like gauze across the windshield. He could see the flagstoned steps clearly, even the geranium border framing them. The windows of the house were golden with light; the porch light was also on to welcome him.

  He was again pleased that he had decided to come. He had dressed for deliberate effect, an eastern friend of the Nicolais, well off, the right background, even to ex-Air Corps Gray flannel suit; an expensive tie, patterned in navy maroon, and white; a white shirt; well-polished brown shoes, English shoes. He settled his tie before climbing to the porch. He didn’t hesitate before ringing the bell and there was no hesitation in the opening door.

  Sylvia was standing in the doorway. She had on her coat, a soft blue coat, and her bag, a white envelope, was under her arm. “Hello, Dix,” she said. “I’ll be right with you.”

  She didn’t ask him in; the screen door was between them and she didn’t push it open. She left him standing there on the lighted porch while she turned back into the hall and switched off some overhead lights. There was dim light still glowing in the hall and living room when she came outside.

  “We’re meeting Brub at the club,” she said in her high, clear voice as she started down the steps. “He called and asked me to bring you there for drinks. He couldn’t make it home.”

  He followed her. He had to raise his voice to speak to her, she was that far ahead of him. She was accustomed to the steps: he must watch them. “Brub pretty busy?”

  “Yes,” she said but she didn’t continue on that. “Do you want to take your car or mine? It isn’t far, only a few blocks.”

  She wasn’t talking particularly fast yet there was a breathlessness to it, as if she didn’t want any silence between them, as if she were too conscious of him. She stood there by his car, tall and cool and lovely, but not quiet as she was last night.

  He smiled at her; he put no intimacy into the smile. “We might as well take mine, it’s here. You can direct me.”

  “All right.” she agreed.

  He helped her in and went around, took his place at the wheel. She’d rolled the window down on her side, and she rested her arm on the frame. She remained there in the far corner as she gave directions. “Just down to the beach road, turn left, the club’s on the ocean side.”

  It didn’t take five minutes to get there, no time for the furthering of acquaintance. She talked of club friends, names he didn’t know. There was no silence on the short ride. On direction, he drove through the pillared gateway into the parking court. She let herself out of the car, not waiting for him to help her.

  The clubhouse wasn’t large. There was a young feel to it, like an officers’ club, the couples in the entrance hall, in the lounge beyond, were the kind you’d expect the Nicolais to know. A pattern you found all over the country, decent, attractive young people. The norm. They didn’t look dull to Dix tonight. He was warmed by their safeness.

  Sylvia said, “I’ll drop my coat.” She smiled at him, an open, friendly smile. “Be right back, Dix.”

  She wasn’t long. She looked lovely, her dress was cream color, an expensively simple dress. He had pride entering the lounge with her.

  “Brub doesn’t seem to have shown up yet. Unless he’s beaten us to the bar.” She nodded to several couples as they crossed the room. There were more couples in the nautical bar but Brub wasn’t there. “I’ll substitute for Brub and buy you a drink while we wait,” she said.

  “I approve the substitution. But I’ll buy the drink,” he told her.

  She moved away from him to a table. “You can’t. Not at the club. This is Brub’s party.”

  She introduced him to all who stopped by their table. The question of the passers-by was inevitably the same. “Where’s Brub?” It didn’t occur to any of them that she had any interest in Dix.

  Her answer was always the same. “He’ll be along soon.” And her introduction never varied. “. . . Dix Steele. Brub’s best friend in England.” Only once did she show any disturbance. She said it quietly, “I wonder what’s keeping him.”

  At eight the bar was emptied of all but those whose goal was alcoholism. Her nervousness lay near the surface now. She pushed away from the table. “We might as well go to dinner. I’m sure he’ll be here any moment.”

  He deliberately broke through the commonplaces then. “Don’t apologize, Sylvia. I’m not missing Brub.” His voice smiled at her. “I’m enjoying you—quite as much as I would Brub.”

  She laughed. And she said with a small moue, “I’m missing him. I haven’t seen him since morning.”

  He mock sighed. “Still on your honeymoon.”

  “Definitely.”

  But he’d broken through, only a wedge perhaps, yet enough for a starter.

  He waited until they were at the dinner table before he asked the question casually. “Is he on a big case?”

  She looked at him. Her eyes were anxious. Then she looked away. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He didn’t say. Only he’d been delayed.”

  She hadn’t seen the evening paper. He could have told her but he didn’t. Let Brub tell her. What she feared.

  He saw Brub at that moment crossing the room. Brub looked worn, he put on a smile in answer to greetings as he passed the various tables, but it was a thin smile, it slipped away as quickly as it came.

  Sylvia saw him almost as soon as Dix did. Anxiety sharpened her face. They were tacitly silent until Brub reached the table. He bent and kissed Sylvia. “Sorry I’m so late, darling.” He didn’t smile at them; he didn’t need to pretend with his wife and best friend. He put out his hand to Dix, “Glad you could join us,” then he sat down, dog tiredness in every muscle. His suit was dog tired too and his linen showed the wilt of the day. His dark hair was crumpled. “I didn’t have time to change.” He smiled at Sylvia. “You can pretend I’m your chauffeur.”

  The waiter, a young colored man, whiter of skin than the beach-brown guests, was unobtrusive at the table.

  Brub looked up. “Hello, Malcolm. Do you suppose you could get me a double Scotch from the bar before you start my dinner? I’ve just come from work and I need it.”

  “I’m sure I can, Mr. Nicolai,” Malcolm smiled. He went way.

  Sylvia’s hand covered Brub’s on the table. “Hard day, darling?” She’d started casual but she couldn’t keep it up. Something about the set of Brub’s mouth released her fear in a little gust. “It wasn’t another�
�”

  Brub’s mouth was tight; his voice deliberately matter of fact. “Yes, another one.”

  “Brub!” She whispered it.

  He began to light a cigarette, the flame wavered slightly. Dix watched the two with the proper attentiveness, and the proper curiosity. When neither spoke, he let his curiosity become audible. “What’s it all about?”

  “Another woman killed . . . The same way.”

  Sylvia’s hands were clenched.

  Malcolm brought the drink.

  “Thanks,” Brub said and saw Dix. “I’m sorry, chum. How about you?”

  “The same,” he grinned. He didn’t want it for himself; an extra for Brub. To relax Brub. He began on his shrimp cocktail. “Are you assigned to the case?”

  “Everyone in the department is on it.” Brub said. He drank again and he grimaced. “No, it’s not my case, Dix. They don’t put juniors on big stuff.” He turned to Sylvia. “The commissioner called in the whole department. We’ve been with him since five, since I called you. Even hizzoner the mayor sat in.” His mouth tightened. “We’ve got to stop it.”

  “Yes “ Sylvia said. Her eyes were frightened, the color under her tan was gone. It was as if she had personal fright, as if the horror were close to her.

  Dix said, “Someone important who was killed?” Malcolm set down the highball. “Thanks.”

  “No.” Brub was halfway through his drink. “It’s never anyone important.” Again he realized he was talking to someone, not thinking aloud. “I forgot. You wouldn’t know about it. Being a visitor.” He could speak about it calmly; it seemed to relax him as much as a highball would. “The first one was about six months ago. March to be exact.”

  “March sixteenth,” Sylvia said. “The night before the St. Patrick’s party.”

  “We didn’t know it was only the first then. It was a girl down on Skid Row. She was a nice enough kid for the life she lived, I guess. Danced in a bump-and-grind house down there. We found her in an alley. Strangled.” He picked up his glass, emptied it. “No clues. Nothing. We wrote that one off as the neighborhood even though we didn’t get any leads. You usually can on Skid Row. The next one was in April.” His hand reached for his empty glass.