“The trouble with people in these cases,” Lochner droned, “is that they’re not articulate.”
“What about the tailor?” Dix asked.
“What tailor?” Brub frowned.
“The one you told me about. The one that saw this fellow and that earlier girl come out of the movie in Hollywood.” He’d nearly said the Paramount. He took a swallow of his beer. “Are you working on him too?”
Brub shook his head. “He wasn’t close enough to them to be any good at identification. The guy could go in and be measured for a suit and he wouldn’t know.”
“He might,” Dix smiled. “Mightn’t he? A tailor might be expected to recognize the shoulders or the body length, don’t you think?”
Lochner hmmed and Brub thought that the tailor might. Dix had given them an idea. And welcome to it. Brub was thinking out loud again. “Walking right into that battery of lights. What a nerve!”
Dix said. “Maybe he didn’t intend to do anything to her. Maybe it wasn’t so much nerve but no intention.”
“We’ve considered that,” Brub said thoughtfully. “But it doesn’t fit the pattern. He picked them up to kill them. It wasn’t ever without intention.”
“According to your reconstruction.”
Brub’s smile was a little abashed. “I don’t think I’m far off base. He’s first of all a killer, that we know. He kills because he’s a killer.” He tallied on. “He’s a gambler. He’s reckless. I mean he’ll take chances, like that drive-in, or taking the other girl to the movies. But he’s not so reckless that he doesn’t realize his chances; it’s the recklessness we had at the sticks during the war, we took chances but we were sure, God willing, that we’d pull out of them.”
“He’s an ex-serviceman,” Lochner supplied.
Dix raised his eyebrows. When Lochner didn’t explain, he said. “That’s something new.”
“Ten to one,” Lochner said. “He’s the right age, good healthy specimen, average. The average were in the service.”
“He’s a nice-looking fellow, nice clothes,” Brub said, “We know that from our inarticulate observers. He’s well off, he has a car. He has a pleasant approach, we know that too or these girls wouldn’t have let him pick them up. Except maybe that first one.”
“What was a fellow like you reconstruct doing on Skid Row?”
‘That’s one of the things we don’t know.” Brub admitted.
“Maybe he was slumming,” Lochner said.
“Maybe he knew he was off on a kill,” Brub was feeling it out, “maybe he didn’t want to do it. Maybe he thought it wouldn’t matter so much if he picked a girl that didn’t matter.”
“And after the first time, he didn’t care?” Dix asked soberly.
“It wasn’t the first time,” Lochner said with authority. Dix’s eyes slewed to him, letting his surprise show through.
“It was too professional.” Lochner explained. He picked up his check. “I’m going back to the station and go over those Bruce reports again. Coming?”
Bruce reports. Bruce wasn’t an uncommon name. There must be a hundred thousand Bruces in the United States. Hundreds in L.A. Dix didn’t show any reaction to the name. He went right on eating the sandwich. They could have been examining him, putting out this information to get reaction from him. There was no reason for them to have any suspicion of him. There was nothing at all that made him open to suspicion. Absolutely nothing.
“I’ll be along shortly.” Brub said. “Soon as I finish eating.” He’d ordered apple pie and coffee, the girl was bringing them now.
Dix waited until Lochner was at the door. “Smart guy.” he said.
“The best.” Brub was testing the pie.
Dix got away from the subject, onto a natural one. “You and Laurel hit it up pretty chummy last night, didn’t you?”
Brub didn’t grin it off. He said seriously, “I like her.”
“I didn’t realize you and Sylvia had known her before.”
“Just met. Never had a chance to talk to her until last night.”
“You did pretty well last night. Looked like a serious confab.” He was fishing. But he could fish openly; Laurel was his girl. He didn’t catch anything.
Brub said. “I have my serious moments.”
Dix said, “Won’t do you any good. Looks like Laurel and I aren’t going to be around much longer.”
Brub wiped his mouth. His eyes were opened in surprise.
“Didn’t she tell you about the show she’s going into? And its about time for me to head back to New York.”
“You’re going back East?” Brub was surprised. He added with mock rue, “Just when I thought we had you sold on California.” He took another bite. “What’s the trouble? Mel Terriss coming home?”
Laurel had talked to Brub about Mel Terriss. Brub wouldn’t have had the name so glibly if she hadn’t. Harping on Mel. Wondering aloud to Brub if Mel was in Rio? He bit his anger between his teeth. “I haven’t heard from Mel. No telling about him. I’ve got to go back and get financed.” He remembered the check. “By the way, Brub, wonder if you could help me out?” He was quick, “This isn’t a touch, pal. I tore up my check, got the envelope mixed in with a bunch of ads. I’m too stony to wait for Uncle Fergus to send another, and the old boy wouldn’t wire money if I were selling pencils. Would you want to vouch for me at the bank here?”
“Sure. I don’t know the rules but it’s worth a try.” Brub picked up both tabs. Dix took them out of his hand. “I’m not that stony. My turn.”
The gray day settled over them as they emerged. It was depressing: no matter how good you’d been feeling, to step to this dirty wash was depressing.
The bank was only across the street. He’d borrowed trouble about the check. There was none. Brub’s identity as good. The bank manager was pleasant, saying, “I don’t know why anyone should be penalized for making a mistake. As long as you have all the parts.” You could tell by his manner he considered Dix an honest young fellow, friend of the Nicolais was certain to be all of that.
He felt better with the two fifty in his billfold. The day even looked brighter. He said, “Thanks, Brub. Thanks a million.” He was ready to go. He’d buy a present for Laurel, he’d never given her anything. He couldn’t splurge, not on these peanuts, but he could buy her something, if only one orchid. He’d drape her in orchids someday.
It was Brub who was making the delay. Brub who blurted it out, “Those reports.”
He knew what was coming. He felt the gray close in on again but he showed only polite courtesy.
”Would you want to look them over? They’re the reports on Brucie.” Brub was rattling. He was embarrassed. Expecting Dix to break down? Or ashamed that he was suspecting a friend, a friend he had no reason to suspect? A shocked, grave look was the right one from Dix.
“I was talking to Lochner about her. I couldn’t help talking about her, I was knocked off my pins when I heard the news. He cabled for a report on the case from the London police.” Brub was speaking more slowly now. Because Dix hadn’t burst into sobs? Because he was warning Dix? “He thought it might help us out. That maybe Brucie was one of a series, like our series. It’s far-fetched, but the killer might have been an American, England was full of G.I.’s at that time. Maybe even a California man.”
He asked only one question, “Was she one of a series?”
Brub’s face was torn. “They don’t know. There was a series but it didn’t start right after Brucie. A couple of months—and then it began. The same pattern. A strangler.”
“He was never caught?”
“No, he was never caught.” Brub hesitated. “After six months it stopped. As suddenly as it had begun. Maybe he was shipped back home.”
“And did it start then, over on this side?” It was a good question.
Brub slurred it. “N-no.”
No series, no pattern. Isolated cases. They hadn’t caught up with the isolated cases. On the east coast. Or had they? Was Brub keeping qui
et because it might sound too pointed? Why should Brub suspect him?
He knew he’d better get away. He was beginning to grow angry. Brub had no business suspecting him. Yet he didn’t believe that was any part of it. Only a part of his own depression. He said, “I don’t think I could take the reports, Brub. You understand?”
”Yes, Dix.” Brub’s face showed sympathy. “See you soon.”
He watched Brub’s stocky figure roll away in the crowd. He shook his head, regretfully. Poor guy. Going around in circles trying to find an invisible man. Brub must be desperate if he were suspecting his best friend. Dix felt better. He rambled down Beverly Drive, shopping the windows as if he were one of the chattering females obstructing the walks. At Leonard’s he took a chance, turned in. The moment he’d decided to chance it, he felt right. The whole trouble with these past weeks was playing it safe; that was what love did to you, love and being stony; and the result, the megrims.
He walked in and he put it over smooth. Too bad he couldn’t get a suit out of it but he did well enough. Several jackets, navy flannel, white tweed, gabardine in tan, pinks was what it was called a couple of years ago; shirts, ties, a nice haul all wrapped up to be shipped to Rio. Dix Steele signing for it, he’d established that fact when he first moved into Mel’s. Dix Steele taking care of Mel’s affairs while Mel was in Rio. Maybe the credit was strained a bit but he brushed that off, first of the month, check coming any day now. And Mel wanting some of Leonard’s good stuff, Rio togs didn’t suit him. A dust of flattery and man-to-man and gab, and he’d mail the box himself as he was on his way to the post office. His car just around the corner.
He wished for the car as he lugged the heavy box down the street. He’d get the address label ripped off as soon as he got home, before Laurel snooped around and saw it. She might try writing Mel at Avenida de Perez, nice-sounding street. Letters could go astray. However, she might be anxious enough to cable. Not so good. Besides he’d said he hadn’t known Mel’s address.
He shifted the box. He should have had it delivered. But he wanted the navy flannel jacket for tonight, wanted to show her that the check was bigger than she thought it was. He shifted it again as he passed the Beverly Theatre. And he stopped. It was only four o’clock. Laurel didn’t ever return until six. nearer seven. There was a special showing of some big picture, hence there was continuous run. He hadn’t seen a picture in weeks. He went in.
It was after six when he came out. The street lamps were lighted in the early, hazy dark. He was a damn fool for walking, not bringing the car. There was no crosstown bus line that serviced his neighborhood. He had to walk it. carrying the awkward box. No taxis in sight.
It wasn’t far but his arms ached when he reached the dark apartment. Automatically he looked to the balcony, her apartment too was dark. He went in and lighted his. He wondered if she’d tried to call, to tell him she’d be late. Not tonight. After the wrangle of last night, she’d get home tonight. She’d go places with him. He took another shower, leaving the door open to listen for the phone.
He dressed elegantly, the gray flannels, the navy coat. He looked like a million dollars. And felt like it. Although it was past seven and she still hadn’t phoned. He was certain that she was coming, otherwise he’d have heard from her before now.
He went out and mixed himself a tall, comfortable highball. He stretched comfortably in the chair, took up the evening paper. Tonight he wasn’t going to get annoyed waiting for her. he felt good.
She didn’t come at all.
4
Discomfort wakened him. He’d fallen asleep in the chair, his legs were cramped, his neck was rigid. He turned off the lamp and the windows became gray. He didn’t care what time it was, he didn’t think about time. There was no reason to go again into the court, to gaze up at her apartment. He wouldn’t know if she were there or not. She hadn’t been there at four. Her lights wouldn’t be on now if she had slunk back like the alley cat she was.
She could wait. He was too foggy now to knock her wake and demand explanation. Even if foggy, he was smart. No one in the Virginibus Arms was going to remember him at Laurel Gray’s door.
He flung himself fully dressed on the bed. If he could sleep without taking anything, he would. He didn’t want to be put out, he must be alerted for the ringing of the telephone.
His sleep was sodden although much too brief. The gray of daylight was still pasty on the panes. He felt dirty and sick. The new flannel jacket was a sweaty mass. He peeled it off d hurled it to the floor. The best gray slacks were crumpled like an ocarina. He pulled off the heavy brogues that leaded his feet. They were good shoes: he’d bought them in England. When he had money and position. When the best was none too good for Colonel Steele. He rubbed his fist hard across his upper lip. No tears. He hadn’t the strength for tears.
He pulled off the slacks, left them where they fell. A shower would revive him, at least enough to put him on his feet for a few hours, until she came home.
He stayed under the gentle shower for a long time. The water was soothing, even the sound of it was soothing. He’d always, all of his life, loved the sound of breaking water. Nothing that had happened had changed that. The crawling of water over sand, the hush of a word no . . . no . . . no . . . not even that had changed his love of the power of the sea.
He put off shaving. His hands were trembling when he picked up the razor, he knew what the rasp of it would do to his nerves. Undo the good of the water. Yet he must shave. A man didn’t look like just any ordinary man unless he were clean-shaven.
It was almost six o’clock before he was dressed. In the protective coloring of tan gabardines, a white sports shirt. Too late to take the discarded clothes to the cleaners. He wadded them into a bundle and pushed them in the closet. It hurt him to see the navy-blue flannel jacket, the good-looking, high-style jacket, dumped there. He rubbed his lip again. He’d wear it yet, he’d wear it to the best places in town, the places where that kind of a jacket ought to be worn. He was through living in a hole; he was going places and doing things. Big places and big things.
He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. His head felt light as mist. No wonder, he hadn’t eaten since noon the day before, a couple of sandwiches then. He wasn’t hungry. His mouth tasted stale as the smoke of the cigarette. He didn’t want to go out into Mel’s kitchen, eat the old stuff that had been in the refrigerator for days. If only she would come.
There was no reason to believe that she wouldn’t come. Something she couldn’t foresee had happened last night. Maybe a job out of town. He hadn’t returned to the apartment until almost seven. She must have called him all afternoon, then had to leave without getting word to him. There was no way that she could leave a message. No possible way.
She’d return any minute now. She’d explain as she had the other time—and what had her explanation been? He’d explained to her but had she ever explained to him? She’d said it was none of his business. She’d talked about the big show she might land. But she hadn’t said where she was all night.
She’d meant to. And he’d meant to question her after he explained himself. But the conversation had channeled; they’d never returned to the subject. It didn’t mean that she hadn’t a simple and reasonable explanation, as she had the night when she’d been caught by her lawyer.
She’d come in pretty soon now. She’d be full of news about the show. There wouldn’t be any wrangle tonight; they’d talk it all over, make plans for New York. God, it would be good to be back in New York again! Where no one knew you; where there weren’t Nicolais parking on your doorstep. Brub was a great guy—the old Brub. But marriage changed a man. Being a cop changed a man.
The phone hadn’t rung all day. It wasn’t going to ring now, not while he stood here in the bedroom looking at it. There wasn’t any girl worth getting upset over. They were all alike, cheats, liars, whores. Even the pious ones were only waiting for a chance to cheat and lie and whore. He’d proved it. he’d proved it over and again
. There wasn’t a decent one among them. There’d only been one decent one and she was dead. Brucie was dead.
Laurel couldn’t disappoint him. He’d known what she was the first time he’d looked at her. Known he couldn’t trust her, known she was a bitchy dame, cruel as her eyes and her taloned nails. Cruel as her cat body and her sullen tongue. Known he couldn’t hurt her and she couldn’t hurt him. Because neither of them gave a damn about anyone or anything except their own skins.
He was neither surprised nor disappointed that she hadn’t turned up. He’d expected it. He wasn’t going to fight with her when she came back; he was going to take her out and show her the town. Whatever she was. she was his. She was what he wanted.
He wouldn’t sit around any longer, yenning at the phone. He turned on his heel, half-expecting its ring to summon him back, and he went into the kitchen. The bread was dry. the cheese hard, but he put together a sandwich. His throat closed to the tasteless stuff; he was hungry, he needed a well-cooked dinner, something good to eat, served in style. He threw away most of the sandwich; he couldn’t stomach it.
It was after seven, way after, and she hadn’t come, hadn’t called. He wouldn’t wait around any longer. He was hungry. He strode through the living room and out the front door into the blue courtyard. There were no lights in her desolate apartment; she wasn’t there, she hadn’t been there.
Slowly he went back into his apartment. At the door he sprinted; he thought he heard the phone, but the ringing was only in his mind, the apartment was quiet as dust. She wasn’t coming. She hadn’t come last night and she wasn’t coming tonight. Only a fool, only a mawkish loon would hang around waiting for her to come.
This time he did quit the apartment, definitely, defiantly. Without leaving a note behind. The car was in the garage, he hadn’t had it out for two days, time it was moving again. The garage doors opened in smooth silence. He backed out the car, left the motor running while he closed the doors after him. Just in case he didn’t get back until late. Just in case his garage neighbors, not one of whom he’d laid eyes on, were the kind who’d wonder what a fellow was doing out so late.
In a Lonely Place Page 16
