She stood there quietly while he opened the door, but she waited to enter, waited until he touched her again and explained, “We’re home, honey. Wake up.”
He had left the lamp burning in the living room. He shut out the blue mist and turned to the welcome of the light. It was good to be home. With her. “Go get undressed and I’ll fix you a drink.”
“I don’t want a drink,” she said. A little shiver twisted her shoulders.
“Something hot,” he said. “Milk? Coffee?”
“Coffee,” she said. “I’d like coffee. Hot, black coffee.”
“Coming up!” He filled the electric percolator in the kitchen, he’d make it in the bedroom. With her. He fixed the tray and hurried back to her.
She hadn’t started to undress. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, just sitting there looking into the monotone of the rug.
He plugged in the percolator. “Be ready in a minute. Why don’t you get undressed while it’s perking? I’ll serve you in bed, solid comfort.”
She didn’t make any move, not even to take off her coat. She just looked up at him. Not saying anything, not even with her eyes. Not even hostility now in her eyes.
He came over to her and he sat down beside her on the bed. “Look,” he said gently. “Get it off your chest. What’s bothering you?”
She shook her head and her hair fell across her cheek. As if mist were bright as sun. it obscured her face.
“It isn’t fair not to tell me. Laurel,” he continued. “You don’t give me a chance. How can I explain if you don’t let me know what’s the trouble?”
Her sigh was audible. She started to say, “What’s the good—” but he stopped her, turning her to face him.
“You’re the most important thing in the world to me, Laurel. No matter what it is, I want to get it right with you.” He didn’t mean to say much, he meant to keep it light, but he couldn’t when he had touched her, when he was looking into her face. “I couldn’t bear to lose you, Laurel. I couldn’t take it.”
She studied his face while she released her shoulders gently from his hands. She could see in him truth of what he had said. Her voice was very tired. “All right, Dix,” she said. “Let’s talk about it. Let’s start at the beginning. Where were you last night?”
That was easy. “But I told you. At Nicolai’s.”
“Where were you after you left Nicolai’s?”
She’d been checking up on him. He got up from the bed and began to walk the room. She was Laurel, but she was a woman and she was snooping on him. His laugh was short. “So you didn’t believe me. You checked with Brub. “That’s what you two were talking about.”
“That was part of it,” she admitted.
“What did Brub tell you?”
“You needn’t get annoyed. I didn’t ask him outright. I simply found out you’d been there early and left early.”
“You didn’t believe me,” he accused.
“I didn’t believe you’d come from Nicolai’s at four in the morning in the shape you were in,” she said flatly. The coffee was beginning to bubble. It was a small sound, a bubble forming, breaking, a small, annoying sound. He shut it out of his ears. He wouldn’t let it start roaring. He didn’t have to listen to sounds any longer; he had Laurel. He had her voice and her presence to shut away sound. He could explain to her and he didn’t mind explaining. He didn’t mind anything that would keep Laurel near to him.
“How much did Brub tell you?” he asked. “Did he tell you the news he gave me last night?” If Brub had, she wouldn’t be asking these questions. She’d be avoiding the subject as did Brub and Sylvia. He was pleased that Brub had kept silent; it was better that he tell Laurel himself; it was another tie to her. “No, I didn’t come right home from Nicolai’s. I couldn’t. You see Brub had just told me that Brucie was dead.”
Her eyes widened. With a kind of terror of disbelief.
“I couldn’t see anyone. I was too shocked. I drove. Just drove. I don’t know where, up the beach, I guess. I remember hearing the water.” The shush of the water, the hush of a girl’s voice. His own voice was uneven. “That’s why I came home—the way I did.”
She said, “No.” In disbelief. In pity. And then she said, “Brucie must have meant a lot to you.”
“She did.”
“More than anyone.”
He came to her swiftly, knelt before her, taking her hands. “That was true until I met you, Laurel. But there’s never been anyone like you. Not ever.” His hands tightened over hers. “Marry me. Laurel. Will you? We’re meant for each other, you know it. You knew it the first time we looked at each other just the way I knew it. Will you, Laurel?”
She had released her hands. And the weariness on her face wasn’t because she was tired, it was because she was sad. She shook her head. “It’s no good, Dix. If I married you, I wouldn’t have a dime.”
“But I—” He didn’t get a chance to build a dream.
She looked at him out of seeing eyes. “You don’t have a dime either, Dix. Don’t bother to lie. I know you. Yes, I knew you the first time I looked at you just like you knew me. Because we’re just alike. We’re out to get it, and we don’t care how we get it.”
He had left her, he was walking around again, listening to what she had to say, hating what she knew, hating that there wasn’t truth with which to demolish it. Because he couldn’t lie to her now. She knew too much.
“I thought I could get it marrying St. Andrews. All the money in the world and a position where I could look down my nose at the small-town big shots that looked down their noses at me when I was a kid. I didn’t know how hard it was. I couldn’t take it. The St. Andrews weren’t a bit different from the Buckmeisters back in Nebraska, they just had more money and bigger noses. So I got out. But I’m still going after what I want. And I’ll get it. I’ll get it on their money, and don’t think that doesn’t burn them. And when I get there I’ll be up so high I won’t even know they’re down there under my nose.” There was an excitement in her as well as hate. She was getting there. That was all the business she’d been attending to while he slept; she knew she was getting there. When she did, she’d carry him along. But he couldn’t risk waiting; when she did, there might be someone else. He walked around trying to figure what he could do. If he had Uncle Fergus’ money, he could have her right now. They’d go to the top together. If there were some way to get the money that was his, that was going to be his. He heard her voice again.
“—I don’t know how you got rid of Mel so you could take over here. I don’t even care. But I know you’re living on borrowed time. I know Mel will come back from wherever he is—”
“He’s in Rio.”
”Rio or taking the cure again, I don’t know.”
“He’s in Rio,” he insisted.
“Maybe he finally went. He’d been talking Rio ever since I met him three years ago, and before that. The big job he was going to take over in Rio. Next week. Next month. Maybe you got him to take it, I don’t know. Anyway you fell into the apartment and the clothes he didn’t want and his car. How you wangled it, I don’t know; he wouldn’t give his best friend the cork out of a bottle. But he’s going to come back and take them all again and then what are you going to do? Move in on somebody else? You can’t carry a wife with you living that way. Get a job? You don’t want a job. And you couldn’t get one that would pay enough to keep me in war paint. I’m expensive, Dix.”
He was choked up. “My uncle—”
“What uncle?”
“My uncle, back in Princeton. You’re wrong about that, I’ve got an uncle and he’s got the chips.”
“You haven’t got them,” she said cruelly. “Don’t try to tell me he’s cutting you in. I know guys in the chips. They don’t keep a girl cooped up in an apartment, they’re out spending.”
In the silence, the roar of the coffee percolator blurred his ears. He saw her as she walked over to the table, he was grateful when she shut out the sound. She dr
ew two cups, handed one to him.
“Let’s face it, Dix. It’s been swell but—”
Panic made his voice too loud. “You’re not calling quits?”
She spoke quickly, stammering a little. “No, no. I didn’t mean that. But it can’t be for keeps, Dix. You know that as well as I. I’m not saying that if you had half the money that stinker of an ex had, I wouldn’t marry you. Want to marry you.” She finished her coffee and drew another cup.
Automatically, he said, “Don’t drink too much of that. You won’t be able to sleep.”
”I don’t expect to sleep very well.” There was sadness in her voice again.
She moved to the dressing-table bench as he went to the end table. He put sugar and cream in his coffee. He stirred it, the spoon whorled the liquid, churned it as a storm churned the sea. He put away the spoon and he drank some of the coffee. He said, “You’re not telling me everything, Laurel. You’re keeping something back. You’re through with me.”
“No, no, I’m not,” she protested quickly. He ought to tell her to stop saying that—no, no, no.
She went on haltingly, “There’s only one thing. If I land what I’m after, it’ll mean leaving town.”
He waited until he could speak quietly. “What kind of a job is it?”
“It’s a show. Musical. They’re casting it here on the coast. I’ve got a good chance.” Life returned to her eyes. “It means Broadway—after that, the pictures. Starring, not a peasant in the background.”
“Broadway.” He could go back East, he could get things fixed up with Uncle Fergus! Everything was going to be all right. He was sick of California anyhow. “Broadway,” he repeated and he smiled. “Baby, that’s wonderful. Wonderful.”
A childish surprise came into her face at his reaction. He finished his coffee, set down the cup. He walked with excitement. “That’s terrific, Laurel. Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve got to go back home in a couple of months anyway. You’re right about my uncle. The old skinflint has hardly given me enough to eat on, that’s why I’ve been pinching the pennies. And if it weren’t for Mel letting me use this place, I’d have been in a furnished room somewhere, I’d never have had a chance to lay eyes on you. Good old Mel.”
He was burned up with the radiant promise of the future. Even if he couldn’t fix things with Uncle Fergus, by that time she’d have so much money she wouldn’t need the St. Andrews’ income, she wouldn’t need Dix’s income. She’d move him in and he’d get a chance to pick off the outer leaves of dough. The rightness of it all laid a sanctity on it. And he could embellish a bit now, because of the rightness it would ring true. “We’ll be hitting the east coast about the same time. You’re wrong about my not wanting a job, I’m used to working. I was raised on work.” He laughed. “You don’t know my Uncle Fergus! The only reason I’ve been laying off a year was to get a chance at writing a book. Now I’ll go back and take on the job he wants to give me, and it’ll pay for more than your war paint. He’s got a factory that turns out stocks and bonds. He wants me to handle the advertising. That means New York. Baby.” he grinned, “and I think by the time your run is over with we’ll be doing some California advertising. I’ll be around, Laurel!” She laid down her cup just in time. He caught her tightly in his arms. “Laurel,” he was laughing, he was half-crying. “Laurel. I knew we were meant to be. Forever. For always.”
She didn’t say anything. She couldn’t say anything. She was trembling within the cup of his arms.
3
His sleep was restless. Even with her beside him. dreams drove him fretfully to the surface of the night. Too often. She too was restless. For he heard her stirring each time he half-awakened, heard her breath of wakefulness, not sleep. The dreams were shapes in the mist, he could not remember them when he awoke at last from the final stretch of deep if uneasy sleep.
He hadn’t slept long enough. She was gone, as she was always gone when he awoke these days. There was no sun in which to remember her. The morning was a dirty gray rag. He felt cramped within the misshapen room. The dregged coffee cups were there, one on the dressing table, one by the tray.
He had to get out of here. He showered, hating the sound of the rushing water; shaved, hating the buzz of the razor. He dressed quickly, not caring what he put on. He had no plan, only to get out of this room, to get away from the unremembered shape of his dreams.
He didn’t take the car. In order to breathe, in order to put motion into the staleness of his body. He didn’t know why he should feel this way; everything had been right, everything was going to be right. Laurel had made it right. There’d be a few weeks of separation while she was on the road but that was unimportant. A separation would whet the emotions of both. Absence was a heady spice.
He felt better by the time he’d walked as far as Wilshire. and he continued up Beverly Drive to his favorite delicatessen. He turned in there, he was suddenly hungry. He was a little ahead of the noon crowd, he ordered salami and swiss on rye and a lot of coffee. It was when he was paying for it, breaking his last ten, that he realized he must do something about the torn check. The envelope was in his pocket, he had automatically transferred it with the rest of his stuff when he dressed.
He was pretty sure he’d need help to cash it. He’d only been in the bank twice in Beverly; no one knew him well enough to accept a mutilated check. The deal called for Brub’s help, a Nicolai and a cop ought to throw a little weight.
He finished eating, left the delicatessen, and went into the nearest drugstore. He called Santa Monica first but there was no answer. It was a guess but he called the Beverly Hills station. It wasn’t Brub’s bailiwick but at least they could steer him to the right number.
The cop who answered said Detective Nicolai wasn’t there. Dix hadn’t expected Brub to be there. He said. “I know. I just want to find out what number to call to get in touch with him.” He thought the cop was stupid but the cop was thinking the same thing of him; it finally cleared up, Brub was in Beverly but he’d gone out to lunch. The cop didn’t know where.
Dix was irritated when he left the booth. It shouldn’t have taken that long to find out that Brub was in the neighborhood. He didn’t want to go sit in the police station to wait; he wasn’t in the mood for that kind of amusement today. He hadn’t anything to do. He could probably run into Brub if he made the rounds of the near-by eating spots. It would be better to run into him instead of seeking him out. Make it casual.
He was lucky. He found Brub in the second place, the one he called the Ice House. Always a carved cake of ice in the window. Dix said surprised, “Well, look who’s here!” Before he saw the other man, the lean-visaged Lochner. Before he wondered why the two were together again in Beverly Hills.
Brub was surprised to see Dix. “Where’d you come from?”
“A guy gets hungry.” He spoke to Lochner, “How d’you do. Captain Lochner.”
Brub moved over in the booth and Dix sat by him. It was invitation to join them. He had to eat again but he didn’t care, he ordered a chicken sandwich and a bottle of beer. It was a good omen, running into Brub as he’d wanted, not having to seek him out. It made him feel more cheerful. “More trouble in Beverly?” he asked.
“No.” Brub shook his head, took a big bite of spaghetti, blurring his words. “Same old case.”
“You’re still working on that?” He was surprised.
“We don’t give up,” Lochner said in his flat voice.
He really was surprised. “It’s still important enough that the head of Homicide is giving special attention to it?”
Lochner said, “We aren’t going to let it happen again.”
“Then you honestly believe it stems from this neighborhood.”
Lochner shrugged. “It’s the last clue we have.”
“Seems rather hopeless.” Dix said kindly. Brub’s words were audible again. “We pick up a little every time we check.”
Dix didn’t show any disturbance. He was as calm as an innocent bystander.
“But where do you check? How?”
“We’ve been talking to the help again. At the drive-in where he stopped with her that night.”
He was more calm. When there was anything to face he could play up to it. “Any luck?”
There wasn’t. He could tell by Brub’s expression. Lochner said, “There may be. Nicolai’s got a good idea there.” The chief left it for Brub to tell.
Brub said. “I don’t know that it will amount to anything. But in these neighborhood spots, a lot of the same faces recur pretty regularly. Down at Doc Law’s, for instance, in the canyon, you get to know people just seeing them over and again. I got to thinking about it. There must have been some of the regulars around that night when he took Mildred in for coffee.” He let out a gust of breath. “God, the nerve of him! Walking in there, facing all those lights and gambling no one would remember what he looked like.”
“Like you and me.” Dix dared, “an ordinary man.”
Brub nodded slowly. “Yeah. An ordinary man. With the nerve of a jet pilot.” He took another bite of spaghetti fast and talked through it. “My idea, whatever good it is, is to have the help ask questions of the regulars when they come in. Were they at the drive-in the night of the murder, and did they notice the couple?”
“Not bad.” Dix said, as if he were thinking about it. “And I suppose you’re hoping this fellow is a repeater too.” “Yeah. That would be a break.” Brub was exasperated quickly. “What a break, but no chance. Except for his nerve.”
“You mean he might have the nerve to walk in again.”
“Yeah.”
“And you think the help would spot him in that case.”
“I’m sure they would. At least I think they would. They’re keyed up to remember. The little girl. Gene, her name is, is sure she’d know him if he came in again. She says she’d know him if she ever saw him. Only she can’t describe him.”
In a Lonely Place Page 15
