Last night it had been too dark to see how little the Indian School Road had been changed by time. He drove quite slowly; it wasn’t a road for speed, it was no more than a winding, country lane. The canal wasn’t visible behind the high banks. Opposite was the old canopy of leafy trees.
They came to the gates of the once serene acres of Brown-moor. Hugh remembered, from years ago, a Sunday afternoon drive with the family; remembered with a pang the dappled walks, the deep shade of the tall trees, the voices of the school-girls. Now the grounds stood sad and overgrown and shabby, waiting the final destruction of subdivision. The stables were already gone. At one time, his grandfather had told him on that long-ago day, every variety of native tree and plant had been perpetuated here. It hurt to think that the poison of uncontrolled development, the money greed, if unchecked, would soon reduce not only this oasis but the whole of the beautiful desert valley to the sterility of the tract.
As they followed the road, past a remembered row of neat bungalows with their grass aprons, there was no way to know at what spot Iris’ body had been found. All traces of police and sheriff and laboratory activity had been removed. She wouldn’t have been visible from the road. Whoever had flung her away had not known how thoroughly the canals were patrolled by the Zanjaros.
In a matter of minutes they were in the town, at the intersection of Scottsdale Road. If it hadn’t been for the heavy pattern of traffic lights, and the widened pavement, it might still be yesterday when there was no evil in his stars. He turned north with the lights and drove as far as Lincoln, then cut back to Tatum. It led to the other side of the mountain where the country was molded of golden sand in the setting sun. The homes lay apart from each other, chameleon blurs against the desert earth and sky. Mockingbird Lane wandered north and south and east and west. He followed its contours to the mailbox where HOUSTON was painted in tall letters.
The house was perhaps a quarter mile from the road, long and low, and from the front landscaped only with what was native to the barren land. Saguaro and ocotillo and yucca, and rose-black volcanic rocks. A cedar rail fence surrounded the property. Hugh got out, opened the gate, and after Ellen had driven through, relatched it. He took the wheel again, following the sandy burro path to the house. Ellen lifted the bronze knocker, but before it fell, the door was opened by Houston himself. His smile at Ellen was a welcome untouched by the rigidity of the noon meeting. He was in a terry robe and zoris; he carried a high-ball glass.
“You’ll excuse me for not waiting for you.” He divided the smile with Hugh. “I was too damned hot.” He closed the door after them and called, “Marcia?” giving the name the Spanish pronunciation.
From what must have been a kitchen wing, a middle-aged Mexican woman emerged. She was wiping her hands on her white apron.
“Marcia, this is Miss Hamilton. And Dr. Densmore. Marcia will show you where to change, Ellen.” He explained, “My wife and daughter are on the Continent. I’m hoping to join them in June if I can ever clear my calendar.” As Ellen followed Marcia into yet another wing, Houston said, “Hugh, you come with me.” He didn’t comment on using first names, he made it natural.
“I decided not to swim,” Hugh told him.
Houston made no comment which might have induced an explanation, he merely said, “You’ll have a drink then while we do?” and led across the huge Western living room to a lanai, and through it onto a patio. There was an outdoor fireplace where mammoth logs were already smoldering. A brazier hung from a spit over glowing coals, ready for the steaks. The long wrought-iron table was set only for the three, all at one end, a hurricane lamp at each place.
The patio was large but not too large to be uncomfortable. It was walled with whitewashed brick, against which the pink and red and snow of oleanders with their glistening dark leaves made a brilliant pattern. The tiled pool, lighted underwater to increase its cerulean blue, lay beyond the dining area.
Skye asked, “What will you drink?” There was no fancy bar, merely a white brick ledge where materials for mixing were set.
Hugh glanced over the bottles. “A light Scotch. I may need a clear head.” He took the piece of paper from his pocket. “This call came for me this afternoon. My grandfather took it. I haven’t yet called back. It was too late when I received it, if I was to get here in time.”
Skye read the number and dismissed it. “Hack will be at home now. I’ll ring him later. Don’t worry about it.” He stuffed the memo in his pocket and took off his robe. In his black wool swimming trunks with his brown skin, he was an even finer figure of a man.
He had seen Ellen coming through the lanai before Hugh did. Hugh said quickly, “I didn’t mention it to Ellen.” Skye’s brief nod was acknowledgment.
She must have known from long experience the impact of her face and figure, for she wore both unselfconsciously. The enormous bright flowers of her suit seemed painted on her. She carried her towel over one shoulder and swung a plain white bathing cap from her forefinger.
Skye walked to meet her. There was an indefinable something which matched them as if they were meant to be a pair. Both were slim, long-limbed, sleek, expensive. Both were tanned, he darkly, she golden. Hugh watched them come together; he didn’t hear what Skye said to her.
The first impact of seeing them thus together smote Hugh with the awful aloneness of a stranger in a strange place. He didn’t belong where they were. He thrust away such megrims. He’d known from the beginning that Ellen wasn’t for him. Nor was she for Skye Houston. This wasn’t a social gathering.
He watched them go across to the pool, watched her cleave the air and water in one swift motion. At the splash, Skye seemed to emerge from his dream. He too ran to the tiled edge and shallow-dived into the water.
Hugh drank his Scotch slowly, admitting to himself his envy of them. They swam in long lazy strokes the length of the pool. They were arrows feathered from the high board. They floated with their laughter under the darkling sky and early yellow stars. And he could have held his own in the water with both of them. Being landlocked was his penance for envy.
The fireplace logs were blazing by now; they warmed away the first chill of the desert night. Marcia came and went, lighting the candles, bringing silver and china.
Ellen and Skye finally came out, glistening from the water. She wrapped herself in her towel and let her hair free of the cap before she sat down beside Hugh. “It was wonderful. You should have come in.”
Skye said, “Yes.” He put on his robe and poured drinks. “You’ll have a fresh one, Hugh? Light.”
He agreed. There was dinner to come. If he had to see the police later, the alcohol would be dissipated. He couldn’t make an obsession of remaining apart from the two.
Skye said, “I’ll put on the steaks. They’ll be ready to turn when we’ve had the drinks.” It seemed somehow out of character for him to preside over a cook-out but it made him more human. No one mentioned the case as they enjoyed the slow highballs. The talk was cabbages and kings. When the steaks were turned, Skye said, “They’ll be ready by the time we’re dressed. You’ll excuse us for a few minutes, Hugh?”
Hugh said, “Of course,” and watched the two vanish into the house. As if it were their home and he the guest. He wondered what it would be like to have a house like this one. With Ellen. Perhaps by the time he could afford it, if ever such time came, it would be possible to build it wherever he wished. Even on Mockingbird Lane. But he wouldn’t have Ellen to preside over it. An Ellen couldn’t be kept waiting that long. He laughed silently at himself. By the time he had the house, she’d be marrying off her granddaughters.
Skye was the first to return; Marcia behind him brought the coffee container. She and Skye conferred at the brazier until Ellen appeared. This time Skye’s smile for her was as if they’d known each other for years. “Your timing is perfect,” he complimented. “Now if you’ll both come to the table, we can eat.”
He served the oversized plates. Marcia brought them to the tabl
e and she went away. There was little conversation while they dined. It was close to nine o’clock; the others were as hungry as Hugh was, it was a long time since noon. After eating they rolled chaises into the perimeter of the fireplace. In the flickering light, all of their faces were golden dark. The desert stars were brilliant in the black-blue sky overhead. It was too peaceful to prod with the sharp stick of Hugh’s danger. But Skye hadn’t forgotten the reason they were here.
He said, “Before I came home tonight, I talked to the marshal.”
Hugh spoke without rancor. “He doesn’t believe my story.”
“Let’s say he has a reasonable doubt of it. That’s fair. On one side are the things in your favor, on the other the things against you. And some of them work both ways. It’s in your favor that you’re a doctor at UCLA. It’s also against you that you’re a doctor, a doctor knows how to abort.”
“A doctor knows how to abort. He doesn’t bungle it.” He spoke with passion.
“He might. If he were in a hurry, without proper facilities. Or if he were doing it under pressure.”
“Or if he were a Negro doctor.” The words came out more harshly than Hugh intended.
Skye said, “It’s in your favor that you’re a Negro.”
The absurdity of the idea curled Hugh’s lips.
“It happens to be true,” Skye stated. “In today’s climate, no thinking man wants to turn a simple case into an international cause célèbre. Furthermore, if he’s in politics, he can’t risk being branded a bigot. Hackaberry’s no different from any of the others. One of these days he’s going to have to stand for re-election. So he’s leaning over backwards.”
“I don’t doubt what you say. It’s true in a good many cities these days,” Hugh admitted. “But my color is also against me. If as a Negro I’m no longer the expendable scapegoat, I am a complication. You know the marshal would rather I was a white man.”
“He would,” Skye admitted freely. “He wouldn’t have to walk on eggs. Possibly he’d be holding you right now as a material witness.”
Ellen said, “You must also admit, Skye, that if a reputable white doctor had given Iris a lift, there wouldn’t be this under-current to it.”
“Maybe so, maybe not.”
“At least a white doctor would be given the benefit of the doubt.” Hugh tried to keep his voice empty of emotion. “It wouldn’t be taken for granted that a quixotic act had a sexual base.”
“I’m sure Hackaberry gives you that benefit. As sure as I can be about any man whom I know fairly well.”
“That’s not the way Ringle and Venner see it.”
“Fortunately, it’s Hack we have to convince. He knows that your story could be the way you’ve told it. But it’s your unsupported story and it could be another way.” He looked directly at Hugh. “How do we go about proving the truth?”
He knew how. He didn’t want to divulge it lest somehow the sound of his words would filter through the night and give warning to the hidden men. But this was his lawyer, the man he’d retained to help him. This afternoon had proven he would need all the help he could find. He said, “We must find two men. The one she came to meet and the one who committed the abortion.”
Skye thought about it before saying, “It won’t be easy.”
“I know that. But if we can find the first man, he can give us the second.” The police would have ways of getting that information.
“We have no name, no description, no faint clue.” Skye was thinking aloud. “How do we find him?”
Ellen spoke. “Her father might have an idea.”
“From what he told the marshal, and the marshal believes him beyond doubt, this whole thing is entirely without comprehension to him. He had no idea that his daughter knew a man in Phoenix, much less that she’d been meeting him, shall we say, intimately?”
Hugh said morosely, “The way she lied about everything, as if lies were truth, it wouldn’t have been difficult for her to keep it from him.”
Ellen suggested, “She may have known her father would disapprove of this man. Perhaps he does know but isn’t aware of it.”
“That could be,” Skye accepted. “But he was most certain that she didn’t know anyone in Phoenix. According to him, she hadn’t been in Phoenix since she was six years old.”
“And that needn’t be true,” Hugh added. “She could have told her father she was spending the weekend with a girl friend in Banning or Beaumont, and come to Phoenix plenty of times.”
Skye said, “If this man killed her to keep his wife from finding out, I don’t believe he’d be seeing her in Phoenix.”
“If that is the case”—Hugh was figuring out loud—“he met her in Indio. Their affair was carried on in Indio. And he must have had some legitimate excuse to be in Indio. Either business or relatives.”
“And some of her girl friends must know who he is.” Ellen was suddenly touched with excitement. “I think we start there. With her friends. Girls confide in each other.”
Hugh’s heart quickened. If they could get a name, they could start moving. All three were silent, examining the idea.
At last Skye said, “I think you’re right. We start there. I’ll arrange to fly Meg to Indio in the morning. She’s young enough to talk to teen-agers on their own level, she won’t scare them off as I might.” He interjected with some regret, “I wish we could have got to them before their mothers told them to say nothing, not get involved.”
“Even so they’ll talk,” Ellen said, with certainty.
“As to the abortionist, don’t think the police have settled on you, Hugh. That’s the first action Hackaberry took, in concert with the Phoenix chief. The police have been out covering that ground since the autopsy results were announced.”
“They won’t find out anything,” Hugh said.
Skye lifted his shoulders. “Perhaps not. The muck who are in that filthy business don’t come out from under their rocks under average circumstances. With a murder, I doubt if anyone can lift enough rocks to find them. But it could be some informant will come up with something.”
“That’s why we have to find the boy friend,” Hugh said. “He’s the only one who can tell us who did it.”
“Suppose he won’t.” Ellen spoke sharply. “How does one go about finding an abortionist? Let’s say I wanted to find one. Where would I start?”
“It’s an underground,” Skye began. “All word of mouth. It isn’t something the police have much documentation on, it’s even too secret for that. But they figure it starts, and my apologies to Hugh, in the medical profession. A girl is in trouble. She goes to a legitimate doctor. He turns her down. She tries another one, and so on until she finds a medico who’s on the ethical borderline, let us say. He’s straight but he knows someone who isn’t. Perhaps a surgeon barred for malpractice, or a nurse or student who prefers money to ethics. Or it may be a doctor with criminal inclinations; there are such, as in any profession. Perhaps he’s gone over the line into illegal operations for quick money. At any rate, she gets a name, and that’s the beginning. The word is then passed around. In the office, on the campus, in the bars—God help us, wherever frail man and woman meet together. When the next fellow gets a girl in trouble, he or she doesn’t have to go through the initial routine. They ask around and find a friend who knows a friend who has the word.” Skye took an angry breath. “The police problem is that neither side will talk. Unless the case becomes a murder, they don’t ever hear of it.”
“What I was wondering,” Ellen said thoughtfully, “is how this man found an abortionist so quickly, after Hugh refused.”
“The police are wondering the same thing,” Skye stated. “It’s not something you can discover in a hurry. It is most likely that he was a previous customer or that he had it set up before the girl came here. Certainly he knew where to go.”
Hugh thought aloud. “Iris had told him she was coming to Phoenix and when. She must have. She had none of the hesitancy of a girl who doesn’t know wh
ether or not she’ll find someone waiting at the end of the journey.”
“But you believed she was holding a secret joke,” Ellen argued. “It could have been she meant to surprise him.”
“No,” Hugh denied. “She must have known he would be waiting for her. She couldn’t take a chance on not finding him. She had no money.”
“How could she write to him? He couldn’t have let her know where he lived.”
“They had some way to communicate.” Hugh was certain.
“By telephone,” Skye suggested.
“I doubt that. She couldn’t have made a long-distance call from her father’s without its showing up on the bill.”
“Reverse the charges.”
“Not to the man’s home. The wife might have answered. And not at his job, unless he has his own business.”
It wasn’t important now. Skye proceeded, “Somehow she sent word she was coming. And why. And he got ready for her.”
There was gall in Hugh’s mouth. “He was ready, but when she told him how she hitchhiked to Phoenix with a doctor, he saw a way to save money.”
“But why did he kill her?” Ellen cried out. “Why go to the expense of an abortion if he meant to kill her?”
“Did he kill her?” Skye asked rhetorically. “Or did the abortionist kill her when he saw the operation was bungled? Right now that’s the most important question for the police. Not the abortion, that problem is always at hand. When they catch one operator, there’s a peculiar leniency in the laws that lets him free in no time. But murder’s a different matter. It’s the murderer they’ve got to find. They’ll admit there may be a man she came to meet, as Hugh claims, but they aren’t convinced that man killed her. The operation was a bad one, she was going to die—the logical killer is the abortionist.”
The Expendable Man Page 15
