In a Lonely Place

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  This wasn’t the night to take issue with Laurel over any of her notions. He’d coddled her into a fairly decent humor, try to keep her there.

  He looked up the beach club, dialed, waited while someone went to find Brub. He hoped it was too late, that the Nicolais had long ago gone home to bed. But it was only nine o’clock and Brub’s voice denied his hope.

  “What happened to you?” Brub asked.

  “Laurel was delayed. Are we too late?” He hoped they were too late but he couldn’t deliberately try to call it off. Because he’d won the scrap with Laurel, he couldn’t pull out of it now.

  Brub said, “No. It’s buffet tonight. We’re serving until ten. Can you make it by then?”

  “We’ll be there right off.”

  “I’ll try to hide out a couple of plates. Hurry up.”

  He hung up; they were committed now. He lit a cigarette and went back to the living room. There was still half a martini in the shaker. He drank it; it wasn’t very good.

  There was no reason to stand around here waiting. The old bag couldn’t get her morals up if a man went to his girl’s doorway to fetch her. Yet he didn’t go. He started twice but he didn’t go. He didn’t want another fight precipitated.

  He was pushing out his second cigarette when she returned. He hadn’t seen this dress before; it was some knit stuff, dull amber like her flesh, and it clung like flesh. It was cut low, sleeveless, and the short coat about her shoulders was cornflower blue. He whispered, “You’re wonderful.”

  He went to her but she sidestepped. “Later, Dix. There’s no time to make up all over again. Let’s go.”

  They were outside in the court before he remembered that his car was in the garage. “Do you want to wait here until I get it? Or shall we take yours?”

  “I put mine up.”

  She went with him; he didn’t want it, through the alley, the block to the far garage. But she was stubborn and again there was the fear she would vanish if she weren’t at his fingertips. She didn’t say a word until they reached the garage, until he was opening the noiseless door. Then she said, “No one at the snoopery would ever hear what time you got home.”

  He laughed it off. “It’s rather a jaunt.”

  She didn’t go into the dark garage with him; she waited until he’d backed out before she got in the car. He headed to Wilshire. He said, “I’m surprised Mel would walk that far.”

  ”He never put the car up. When’s he coming back?”

  “Who? Mel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know.” He headed west on Wilshire. There was a faint haze in the night, the approaching headlights had a misty look. A few coming in from the beach showed golden fog lights.

  “Don’t you hear from him?”

  “Good God, no.” He laughed at the idea. “Can you imagine Mel writing me?”

  “He might like to know how his apartment’s getting along. And his car.”

  She was being deliberately nasty again. He said, “The rent I’m paying him. he should worry.”

  “You never gave me his address.”

  “I don’t have it,” he said. Why did she have to get on Mel? Why had he mentioned Mel tonight?

  “You told me you’d give it to me.”

  “When I got it. He said he’d send it but he never has.”

  “Is that why you’re holding his mail?”

  She had snooped. His jaw was tight. He snapped, “That’s why.” She had snooped so she knew what kind of mail was coming for Mel. He said, “Maybe he doesn’t want his bills, maybe that’s why he doesn’t send his address.” He said, “I still don’t know why you want his address.”

  “You don’t know why,” she slurred. Then her voice edged. “I’ll tell you why. Because he went off owing me seven hundred dollars, that’s why.”

  Dix was honestly amazed. “Mel owed you seven hundred dollars!”

  “Yes. And I’d like to collect.”

  “Was Mel broke?” He couldn’t believe it.

  “He was always broke at the end of the quarter. Before his check came. This is the first time he didn’t pay up as soon as it came.”

  They were in Santa Monica, and the haze was a little heavier. Not too much. The fronds of the palms in the parkway on the Palisades were dark against the mist-gray sky. The fog smelled of sea.

  “Mel was a heel but he paid his debts.”

  Again she could be meaning something, but her face, as the car rolled through the orange fog light on Ocean Avenue, meant nothing.

  “It’s probably the Rio mails,” Dix dismissed it. He pushed the car right on the avenue, and down the California Incline to the beach road. The car rolled down the dark, lonely Incline. No one walking there tonight. He said briskly, “I hope Brub saved us a lot of food. I’m hungry.” He reached over and put his hand on her thigh. “I’m glad you decided to come. Baby.”

  She hadn’t thawed. She said. “I just came for the ride. But maybe I can entertain your best friend while you muse with his fancy wife.”

  He withdrew his hand. He said from his heart, “I don’t want anyone but you. Baby.”

  She was silent. Even her face said nothing.

  Chapter Five

  The club doors opened as if they had been seen approaching. They hadn’t been, it was dark in the mist-hung forecourt and they had been silent as they left the car. The opening of the door, too, was quiet and some trick of silence held sound within the clubhouse for the moment before the girl appeared.

  It was trick again that she appeared alone and within the veilings of mist assumed another’s form and face.

  He choked, “Brucie,” yet beneath his breath the word was aloud.

  He knew at once, even before speaking the word, that this was no apparition of Brucie. The word was no more than reflex. This was the little brown girl, the Banning girl, and she was not alone. Two young fellows followed her. They didn’t notice Laurel and Dix standing in the mist and the night; the trio cut across to a car on the opposite side of the court, laughing together.

  He knew that Laurel had heard the name even before she spoke. “Who’s Brucie?”

  “A girl—I used to know.” He walked away quickly from the words and the memory. Into the lighted club, the clear, unmisted light of the living. He didn’t know or care that Laurel followed him. Yet he was grateful to find her there. He was all right again in the light, he smiled at her. “Come on. let’s find Brub fast. I’m starving.”

  Brub lifted a greeting hand from a table by the far windows of the dining room. Dix took Laurel’s arm. “There they are.” Laurel hadn’t softened any; there was a sulkiness in the arm he touched. She’d get over the mood; put some food into her and she’d cheer up. She hadn’t come along just to stage a scene; that hadn’t been the purpose of her reversal of mood. Yet he looked at her with a touch of apprehension as they reached the table. He was reassured; Laurel was civilized. She had on the same company-polite smile that Sylvia was wearing.

  She didn’t revert until after dinner and leisurely coffee. Until he asked her to dance. Even then he was the only one could know. “You’ve forgotten your manners. Dix.” she said, so sweetly, so ladylike. “A guest dances first with his hostess.”

  It was mild enough and he played up. “If Sylvia will do me the honor.”

  “He’s a wonderful dancer,” Laurel cooed.

  She didn’t know; she’d never danced with him. But as long as she didn’t act up any more than this, he was satisfied.

  Sylvia’s long and lovely lines fit well against him just as he’d known they would the first time he saw her. He was stirred by the touch of her, almost exulted by it. If she were not Brub’s wife, if he were to be alone with her—the fact that she consciously withheld herself from intimacy was knowledge that she too was aware of body. They danced well and easily, whatever awareness lay beneath the mind and perceptions.

  He knew the absurdity of his reaction; he had a woman, a far richer woman than this. He had no need of Sylvia, and
yet there was need, the sensual need of pitting his mind against the mind of another. Until this moment he had not realized his itch for the chase, deprivation had made him jumpy these last days. Even in this incident which could not be furthered, he had begun to soar. He was breathing as a man could breathe when he was lifted into the vastness of sky, when he knew himself to be a unit of power, complete in himself, powerful in himself.

  Sylvia said, “Laurel is very lovely, Dix.”

  Her commonplace words brought him thudding to earth. Brought him to annoying consciousness of the noisy room, the disturbing shuffle of dancers’ feet, the coils and scraps of conversation, the metallic music of the phonograph. He said, “Yes,” although for the moment he hardly knew to what he was assenting. His inner ear echoed her statement and he said with more enthusiasm, “Yes, isn’t she? Something special.” He turned Sylvia in order that he too might look upon Laurel, he had not ever seen her in dance motion. She should be something special.

  She was not dancing. She was sitting with Brub at the table, their heads together, their words intent. He didn’t understand, he knew that Brub had risen to dance with Laurel as Sylvia and Dix left the table. But they hadn’t danced; they had remained together to talk; they were talking as if they had waited a long time for this moment. “You’ve known Laurel before!” he said quickly. He didn’t mean it to sound suspicious but he spoke too quickly.

  Sylvia’s answer was unperturbed. “We’ve met her. When she was married to Henry St. Andrews. I didn’t realize it when you introduced me at your apartment. Not until she mentioned Gorgon. We met her at Gorgon’s.”

  “Who is Gorgon?”

  “He’s a lawyer.” She wasn’t as easy now, she was making up words. “A friend of Henry St. Andrews. And Raoul Nicolai, Brub’s oldest brother. We don’t know them well, we don’t travel in that crowd. Can’t afford it.”

  He remembered it now. Gorgon had had opinions on the case. Laurel had quoted Gorgon’s opinions. And he remembered he’d seen the name, it must be the same name. Thomas Gorgonzola. Criminal lawyer. A name to conjure with in L.A. courts, a name that meant a feature to the newspapers. He smiled: not Sylvia, not anyone would know the meaning of that smile. Laurel’s friend, the great criminal lawyer.

  “What is St. Andrews like?” he asked curiously.

  “I didn’t like him,” Sylvia answered. She wasn’t hesitant any longer; she was on even keel. “One of those spoiled young men. too much money, mamma’s darling, an ego inflated by too much attention and absolutely no discipline all of his life.”

  “Heavy drinker?” St. Andrews sounded like Mel. Laurel hated the first: it was a cinch she hadn’t had any doings With Mel.

  “That goes without saying. Liquor is such a nice substitute for facing adult life. I understand Laurel took quite a beating.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “She doesn’t say much, but I gathered that.”

  “She wasn’t good enough for the sacrosanct St. Andrews. And anyone with a functioning mind is an insult to their irrationality. You know, before I met Brub I was afraid he’d be that kind. The Nicolais and the St. Andrews—all that clan.”

  “Aren’t you?” He was a little surprised.

  She laughed. “What you said! My grandfather was delivering babies, and not getting paid for it, while the clans were grabbing everything that might turn into silver dollars. No, I’m just a poor girl, Dix. And fortunately Brub’s a throw-back to when the Nicolais worked for a living.”

  The music ended. He would have liked to continue the talk, to ask more about Gorgon. But she started to the table and he followed. The dark head of Brub and the glowing head of Laurel separated as they approached. He put Sylvia in her chair. “Thank you,” he said with mock formality. “It was indeed a pleasure.” He sat down beside her. “Now that my manners have been made, let me tell you it really was a pleasure.” There was a drink in front of him and he sampled it. “What’s the matter, Brub? Laurel step on your new shoes?”

  Laurel said, “I was tired. I didn’t want to dance.” She hadn’t lost her hostility although her words seemed simple statement of fact. Her eyes were watching him with the same intensity as earlier. He ignored it. He said pleasantly, “I’m sorry. I wanted to dance with you. Couldn’t you take one little spin?”

  “I’m too tired,” she said. She wasn’t sorry. She had no intention of dancing with him, of giving in to him. It didn’t matter. He could handle her later. He could handle anyone. He was Dix Steele, there was power in him.

  “Who is Brucie?”

  He was shocked that she would ask, that she would deliberately instigate a quarrel before Brub and Sylvia. He’d even forgotten the episode in the doorway; she too should have forgotten it until later tonight when they were alone, when he could explain it in private. His eyes went quickly to her but she wasn’t asking the question of him. and he realized she’d tricked it in a small, curious voice, asked it to all.

  Brub could have answered her, Sylvia could have, but both were silent. Brub was looking into his drink, turning it in his worried hand. Sylvia was shocked as Dix, her eyes were wide on him. It was up to him to answer. He said it quietly, “She was a girl I knew a long time ago. That Brub and I knew. In England.” He was furious but he was quiet. He’d told her that much outside, she shouldn’t have nuzzled the name, kept it alive in her consciousness. He completed her knowledge. “She’s dead.”

  He opened his eyes on her as he spoke and he saw the shock come into hers. He wanted to shock her. He wouldn’t have said it otherwise, not bluntly, not out like that. He didn’t know if there were fear in her as well as shock; you couldn’t tell; it was hard to tell what lay behind gem-smooth, gem-hard, amber eyes.

  “Dead,” she repeated, as if she didn’t believe him. “But she was—”

  He smiled, “That girl wasn’t Brucie.” He explained to Sylvia, to Brub who had looked up at him again. “As we were coming in tonight, we saw that girl, the one who was here that other evening. You knew her name, Sylvia, and she reminded you of Brucie, remember, Brub?”

  Sylvia said, “The Banning girl.”

  ”Yes.” His voice wasn’t quite steady remembering that moment in the mystery of the night and fog. “She looked so much like Brucie tonight, it—” He smiled ruefully, “it was rather startling.”

  He was pleased now that Laurel had brought up the name when she did. Brub and Sylvia were corroboration of the fact that there was no Brucie in his life; Laurel might have doubted him if he’d explained it away in private. He was pleased too that the name had remained with her, that it had given her jealousy. He was still important to her. She had thought he was shaken because he’d run into a girl out of his past.

  Again he asked her to dance and this time she didn’t refuse. He held her closely, he said to her hair, “You didn’t think there was anyone else for me, did you, Baby?”

  “I don’t know what I thought,” she said. “How does anyone ever know what they really think?” She was defensive but she was weary, it was in the strands of her voice.

  He said, “Let’s go home.”

  “All right,” she agreed.

  He didn’t wait for the music to end; he danced her to the table and saw Sylvia and Brub move apart, in the same fashion that Laurel and Brub had earlier. He didn’t wonder at the repetition; only briefly did it occur to him that Brub must be in one of his confidential moods. And that Brub too must be tired tonight, otherwise he’d be cutting capers on the dance floor.

  2

  It didn’t occur to Dix to wonder why Brub was tired. Not until he and Laurel had ridden in the silence of her weariness almost to the apartment. He’d been thinking of Laurel, watching her as she rested there in the corner of the seat, her eyes closed, her lips parted as if she slept. He’d been thinking of her beauty and her fire, and tonight, her lack of fire. Thinking without thoughts, conscious of her and of the fact that this many mist-dulled streets must be covered before he could put the car at the curb, until he and Laurel could be alo
ne.

  He didn’t consciously bring Brub to memory. It was one of those minnows of thought, darting through the unruffled pond of his thinking. But why should Brub be beaten? The case was closed, insofar as work activity was concerned. In the files of unfinished business there was an entry; girl murdered, murderer unknown. There were plenty of like entries, another wouldn’t mean that a young fellow playing cop should have all the high spirits knocked out of him. Plenty of reasons why Brub could have been tired, he could have thrown one the night before, he could have sat up reading all night; he and Sylvia could have continued their dissension, if there had been one, far into the dawn. Or they could have pitied Dix far into the dawn. Because of Brucie.

  And that had been only last night, the revelation of Brucie’s death. Dix should have been the one holding his head in his hands. But he knew how to get away from trouble, from grief and from fear. He knew better than to indwell with it. He was smart.

  He said aloud, “I don’t know why everyone should be so tuckered tonight, I’m not.”

  She wasn’t asleep. She didn’t open her eyes but she said. “Why should you be? You slept all day.”

  It wasn’t much further home. And he waited to answer, waited until they could be alone. It wasn’t worth while to whittle off little edges of disagreement; you must get at the roots. As soon as he found out what was in back of her hostility, he would uproot it. They’d have it out tonight, before she slept.

  He said, “We’re here.”

  He held the door and she slid under the wheel to get out of the car. She might have slept on the way home, her eyes were half-closed yet. She walked ahead of him under the arch into the blue-lighted patio, dulled in tonight’s mist. She must have been half-asleep for she didn’t turn to Mel’s apartment, she was starting back to the steps when he caught her arm, asking softly, “Where you going, Baby?” He turned her, holding her arm, “You’re walking in your sleep.”