He drove over to Wilshire, not knowing where he’d eat. The Savoy, on up Rodeo, Romanoff’s, the Tropics. He was after good food but he didn’t want to waste a lot of money on it. Not until Laurel went with him to those spots. There was always the Derby or Sheetz—not for tonight. Neither could fill the hollow within him.
He passed Judson’s, and the brilliant lights of the drive-in, Simon’s drive-in, glittered ahead. He thought only for a moment, a brilliant gash of thought that splintered his indecision. Quickly he slewed the car into the parking space.
It was a dare, a magnificent dare. He and he alone of those outside the case knew the police were watching Simon’s, knew the help was alerted for the face of an average young fellow. It was the kind of dare he needed, to return here openly, to take the chance. Knowing they were watching for a man of a certain height, of a certain look under the garish lights of the circular counter. They weren’t looking for a fellow in a big black coupe, shadowed in the twilight of a car. The same fellow and they couldn’t know.
Simon’s was always busy; even at this early hour cars were circled close in to the car hops’ pavement. There were a couple of holes and he pulled in boldly, cut his lights and waited for the hop. A middle-aged couple, a bleached blonde and a balding man, were in the car on his right. Two young fellows in the car on his left. He was certain neither was of the police. It would have amused him to smell cop. He was never more certain of himself than when he attacked. Cringing in corners alone was fearful. He was through with that stuff.
The girl who came with a menu and bright “Good evening” was young and pretty, as young as sixteen. Pert nose, blue eyes, long, light brown hair under her ugly brown cap.
He smiled at her. “Hello,” he said as if he’d been here often, as if he were one of the regulars. “I’m sure hungry tonight,” he told her before she went to service another car. He wanted to be noticed, wanted her to remember him as something usual.
Dust. Lochner and his dust. Dix would have plenty of Simon’s Drive-in dust in his car. He lived in the neighborhood; he could eat here often. Even the rich Mel Terriss ate here. Even Laurel Gray.
He wondered what name was on the identification card the girl had left on the outside of the windshield. He wasn’t foolish enough to investigate. But he hoped it was Gene, the girl who’d recognized Mildred from her picture in the paper. He wasn’t the same fellow.
She returned with her pad and he ordered steak, french fries, tomato-and-avocado salad, coffee. Cars pushed in and out on the lot. The late diners left and the first show crowd moved in. Constant motion, comings and goings, the counter men too busy to look up. the girl hops too busy running from car to counter to car to know whom they served. He was as safe as in a church.
The food was okay. He flicked the lights, ordered a chocolate shake for dessert. He wasn’t in any hurry. He’d give any and all of them a chance to look him over. He wished the police were here to look him over. But he didn’t go into the lighted building. He liked a chance but he was too smart for a risk.
No one paid any attention to him. When he drove out of the lot, no car followed. As soon as he was away from the lights, depression settled on him again. His hands itched to turn the wheel back towards the apartment. She might be there by now, waiting for him. He set the car forward. Let her wait. He’d waited enough for her.
He didn’t consciously plan to drive out Wilshire to the sea. But the car was set on its course and the road led to the dark, wet horizon. The fog blew in at Fourteenth Street and he should have turned back then. He didn’t. He went on, through the opaque cloud, until he had passed into the yellow spray that, falling into a pool, marked the Ocean Avenue intersection.
He knew then what he was going to do. He swung left and pulled in at the curb by the Palisades park. Out of the fog light glow, all things became an indistinguishable blur in the night. He left the car. The fog was cool and sweet as he drifted through it. Into the park, the benches, the trees assuming shape as he neared them. He walked to the stone balustrade. He could hear the boom of the breakers far below, he could smell the sea smell in the fog. There was no visibility, save for the yellow pools of fog light on the road below, and the suggested skyline of the beach houses. There was a soft fog-hung silence, broken only by the thump of the water and the far-off cry of the fog horn.
He drifted through the park on quiet feet, looking for the shape of a living thing, of a woman. But he was alone, the living were huddled behind closed doors, warming their fears of the night in the reassurance of lighted lamps. He came to the corner that jutted out over the cliffs, to the corner which was the beginning of the California Incline. He stood there quietly for a long time, waiting, remembering the night he had stood in the same place almost a month ago. The night he had pretended his hand was a plane swooping through the fog; the night he had seen the little brown girl. He waited, without allowing himself to know why. He kept his hands dug into his pockets, and he leaned over the edge of the balustrade, his back to the avenue. But no bus came to shatter the silence and the fog. There were not even cars abroad, not at this particular time and place.
He tired pretending after a time and he began to walk, down the Incline, past the mid-hump, pausing there to examine the beaten brush where, in the sunshine of the day, kids took the shortcut down the hill to the beach. It wasn’t a good cave, too small and shallow; it offered too little protection from the lights of cars traveling up or down on the Incline. Less protection from the beach road below. There were better places, places of seclusion, of quietness. He thought of the spiny trees in the eucalyptus grove, of the Winding road that dipped down into the canyon.
And he walked on. down the Incline to the pool of fog light at the intersection. He didn’t hesitate, crossing the deserted road to where the three houses huddled together in the night. He passed them slowly, as if reluctant to accept the closed gates, barring the intruders of the night. He went on to the open lot through which, in sunlight, the beach crowds passed over the broad sands to the sea beyond. He knew where he was going. He sludged through the sand until he stood in front of the third of the huddling houses. It was a tall peaked house, standing dark in the thick fog. He knew this was not the one. the brown girl had entered one of the two gates that stood side by side, the first or the second house.
He scraped through the damp sand to the center house, two stories, both pouring broad bands of light into the fog. There was warmth and gaiety within, through the downstairs window he could see young people gathered around a piano, their singing mocking the forces abroad on this cruel night. She was there, protected by happiness and song and the good. He was separated from her only by a sand yard and a dark fence, by a lighted window and by her protectors.
He stood there until he was trembling with pity and rage. Then he fled, but his flight was slow as flight in a dream, impeded by the deep sand and the blurring hands of the fog. He fled from the goodness of that home, and his hatred for Laurel throttled his brain. If she had come back to him. he would not be shut out, an outcast in a strange, cold world. He would have been safe in the bright warmth of her. He plowed on up the beach, to where there was no light, where the empty beach clubs loomed in the dark. Groping on, his feet chained in the sand, he stumbled and fell to one knee. He didn’t get up again, instead he slumped down there on the slope of a dune, and he buried his head in his arms.
He was there for a long time. Lost in a world of swirling fog and crashing wave, a world empty of all but these things and his grief and the keening of the fog horn far at sea. Lost in a lonely place. And the red knots tightened in his brain.
He was there for a long time but there was no time in this sad, empty shell of the night. He was there for so long that he was startled when he heard something running; almost frightened when the small dark shape hurtled upon him. He realized quickly that it was a dog, a friendly terrier. He said. “Hello, fellow.” and the dog nosed his hand. He wanted to cry. He said again. “Hello, fellow.”
; And then he heard footsteps coming over the sand, and he no longer wanted comfort of tears. Excitement charged him: where there was a dog there was a master . . . or a mistress. His hand slowly stroked the dog’s curly head. “Nice fellow,” he said.
The dog was nuzzling him when the girl came out of the fog. Dix looked up at her and he said, “Hello.” She wasn’t afraid. She said carelessly. “Hello.”
He smiled. She didn’t know that behind that smile lay his hatred of Laurel, hatred of Brub and Sylvia, of Mel Terriss. of old Fergus Steele, of everyone in the living world, of everyone but Brucie. And Brucie was dead.
Chapter Six
She hadn’t returned. All night again she had been away. The apartment was empty and cold. He put out the lights before the gray fog of night became the gray fog of morning. He sat there in the dark bedroom waiting for the morning.
He did not dare sleep. Not until he had covered the mistake. The first mistake he had made. The mistake of sand. For sand was an evil and penetrating thing, no matter how much of it you brushed away, particles adhered as if cemented, particles leered where there had been none a moment before. If dust divulged a story, sand screamed its secrets.
It hadn’t mattered before. When he could walk away from it, when he need answer to no one. Now uncertainty riddled him. Not knowing how much was in his mind alone, how much was real. It had been a mistake to look up Brub Nicolai, to embrace friendship. If he had remained lone, he wouldn’t have had to worry about sand. It was good he was leaving for New York soon. He’d had enough of this neighborhood. He was getting nervous. It was nothing but nerves. Yet he’d take no chance on sand fouling him up.
He didn’t smoke much while he waited. He was too physically exhausted even for that. He could have slept easily, slept long and deep, yet it was not hard to remain awake. His mind was alert. He knew exactly what he had to do and how he would do it. It was only necessary for morning to break. And for no one to come here until after what must be done, was done. He did not even want to see Laurel until he was again safe.
Safe. He was safe! He had no fear, no anxiety. He had never permitted fear to engage him. His annoyance at the occurrence of the word safe in his mind reawakened him and he saw it was morning. He stretched his arms and his body in the first pale gray of light. He felt as if he’d been cramped in a foxhole all night.
He scrubbed his face and hands again, scrubbed his teeth. His suit looked as if he’d lain all night on the sand. That was all right too. He took off the trousers now. put on bathing trunks, and pulled his trousers back over them. The trunks weren’t new. he’d bought them when he first came to California. He’d expected to spend quite a bit of the past summer on the beach. But he hadn’t had a car and he couldn’t take being packed into an ill-smelling bus or clanging streetcar. His swimming had been done at the community pools in the various neighborhoods where he’d lived. He hadn’t had a chance to enjoy the city until Mel’s car became available tor use.
It angered him that he’d wasted so much time, hanging around public swimming pools and cheap eating houses and neighborhood movies. If he’d known how to get started sooner, he’d be established by now, living high, clubbing with the right people, the people who had money and leisure. There was always room for a good fellow in those circles. For a moment he half-wished for Mel.
The day was lightening and it looked as if the break for which he’d dared not hope was coming his way. It looked as if the fog was clearing.
He fixed coffee at eight, drank two cups black. He was edgy now. No one ever came to the apartment in the morning, yet the very fact that he was up and about at this hour could draw a passer-by. There was yet one more thing he must do before leaving. He was reluctant, not afraid, merely reluctant to bring in the morning paper. Yet for his plan, it must be done.
He didn’t get a break on that. The delinquent who delivered the paper hadn’t left it on the doorstep. From the living-room window he could see it, not even on the porch but on the walk beyond. He waited at the window until a man he had never seen before hurried out of the patio. An oaf on his way to work, just a little late.
It was the wrong hour for Dix to be up, the hour when the members of Virginibus Arms set out to their jobs. Twice again he started to the door and each time he was forced to wait until a closing door and retreating footsteps were silenced. He finally opened his door a small wedge and watched from behind it. He could go put on his bathrobe, it would bolster his story of working all night, but he didn’t want to waste the time. He was in a nervous frenzy to get away, to do what must be done before it was too late. And there was within him still the fear of Laurel returning. He could not face a scene with her this morning. He hadn’t time.
He chose his moment to duck out for the paper. He didn’t hurry the act. He made it a matter of everyday business, something a man did without deliberation. He was lucky; he saw no one. But he didn’t know how many were watching behind their living-room windows, wondering what the young fellow in Mel Terriss’ apartment was doing up so early. Well, he had the answer to that one too. He’d worked all night. Finished his book! That angle hadn’t occurred to him before; it was a good one. He’d worked all night, finished his book. He’d been exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. He’d decided to go out to the beach, it wasn’t too good a day but it looked as if it might clear and there was nothing more relaxing than lying in the sand, listening to the roll of the water. So he’d packed up the manuscript, mailed it on his way, and gone to the beach.
For Christ’s sake, for whom was he plotting this minute alibi? He wasn’t going to be questioned. He was nuts to think he had to account for his time, as if he were a reform-school kid on parole or a henpecked husband. He didn’t have to do a damn thing but climb into bed. take a couple of pills and get the dreamless sleep he needed. Who cared what he’d done all night and today? Who in hell cared why he’d done it?
The answer was no one and he certainly wasn’t boob enough to proffer an alibi to Brub. He wasn’t reaching for trouble; there was only one reason for going to the beach, to put a day, today, on the sand which was in the car and imbedded in his shoes and tucked in unseen crevices of his suit. It wasn’t he had nerves; it was because he was smart, because he didn’t miss bets.
He had been standing in the middle of the living room, holding the folded paper in his hands. One thing more to do and he did. He opened the paper and looked at the front page.
Relief bathed him, relief flowed gently, excitingly, over him and through him. There was nothing on the front page of the paper, nothing. There was no way he could know what happened. He was off to the beach.
He flung down the paper on the couch, part of it spilled the floor. Good. As if he’d been reading it. He started for the kitchen but he hesitated. In case he should run into anyone at the garage, he needed a prop. He pulled out a large manila envelope, gave it bulk with some magazines, sealed it and carried it under his arm. He needed nothing more. The apartment would tell no story to anyone who came in while he was away. Who the hell was going to come in? Not even Laurel hung around any more.
He didn’t need the prop. He saw no one on his way back to the garage. No one showed up while he was taking out the car. He was on his way. Not as early as he’d expected to start out but this was better. He wouldn’t have to sit so long on the God-damned cold beach.
He had to stop at a post office somewhere along the line. Better to avoid the Beverly one, too much danger of running into Brub. The police station was too near the post office in Beverly. There were Westwood and Santa Monica offices. He decided on the latter; he knew where it was located. There was the danger of hearing rumors, but what if he did? It would make no difference now.
He drove Olympic to Sepulveda. then north to Wilshire, thus avoiding easily the Beverly business district. The road to Santa Monica was a new one by day, even on this dull day with a watery sun trying to break through the overcast. He didn’t have to hurry, there was no hurry now, no hurry at all.
&
nbsp; He maneuvered the car into the inner lane. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour but he was careful. He couldn’t afford an accident or a near accident, he couldn’t chance attention from a cop. It annoyed him that such an idea should enter his consciousness, and in annoyance he swerved too quickly. It was luck that nothing went wrong on the swerve. Pure luck. But it meant that luck was with him again. He could stop jittering.
He pulled in at the post office. There were people wandering in and out. like extras in a movie. No one who knew him, no one who would notice him. He addressed the envelope in the car. He hesitated over the address, wanting to make sure that this mail fodder would never turn up again. He rejected sending it to himself either at Mel’s, to General Delivery, or back to Princeton. If by any outside chance his mail should be checked, it wouldn’t be good. Not in his own handwriting; not in disguised handwriting, too many experts; not from a Santa Monica address. He rejected addressing it to Uncle Fergus or to Mel Terriss for the same reasons. He hit on the solution without particular thought and wrote out the name, a fellow who’d died over Italy a long time ago. The name dribbled into his mind, a simple name. Tommy Johns. The address. General Delivery, Chicago, Illinois. No return address; it would end in the dead letter department, where it wryly belonged.
He took it in to be weighed. The post office was fairly busy, he was third in line at one of the windows. No one knew him. no one noticed him. He paid for the stamps and took the envelope back to a desk as if to write on the return address. The desk he chose had no one at it; he affixed the stamp and mailed the envelope.
Nothing could have been more anonymous than the transaction yet the palms of his hands were wet when he returned to the car. He’d never had nerves like this: he couldn’t understand it. Yet looking at it rationally, it could be understood. He’d been under a terrific strain: that, followed by no sleep, would make anyone jumpy. Before he’d always been able to sleep long and heavily; he’d never had to go through stunts like this. He damned the circumstances which necessitated this stunt.
In a Lonely Place Page 17
