“Get out of my way,” she said, her voice a shaking whisper. “I know what I’m going to do. Fifty thousand! A hundred thousand. A million. All the money in the world. And a monkey, too…. No, I’ll try it now. I’m not afraid. Not any more. I’m going to do it now. Right now, because it’s night. No more … I don’t want any more nights.”
Walking stiffly, she sidled around him, reaching for the door. “Don’t follow me” she said. “Stay away from me. Unless you want this bottle in your face.”
Gray said in one last urgent try, “Blanche, if you need a fix right now, I—”
“Shut up. Two million dollars, that’s what I’ll get. Enough for two monkeys, or maybe two million monkeys. Get out of my way!”
She slashed with the bottle. Gray leaped back. The door opened fast and then slammed behind her. The outer door opened and slammed.
Gray dialed a number with slightly unsteady hands, and asked for Zucker.
Zucker said in a voice of restraint, “What is it now? I was just leaving.”
Gray told him.
There was deep silence. Then Zucker said, “I thought I told you to keep out of—”
“I didn’t invite her, for God’s sake,” Gray said. “According to Avery she’s been making the rounds of everyone with any connections with this case, pulling this same act for all I know.” Belatedly he realized he shouldn’t have mentioned Avery. But Zucker didn’t pick up the allusion, and Gray went on urgently.
“You didn’t see the woman, Harry. She’s got withdrawal symptoms so bad she’s just about in a psychotic state. She’s got to be found.”
“All right, all right,” Zucker said. “You sure she’s a hophead?”
“Of course she is. That’s one reason she’s been so close-mouthed. It’s why she’s stayed clear away from Eddie. She’s scared to death of any kind of investigation that might turn up the truth.”
Zucker said, “We’ll find her.”
“Find her fast. If you don’t, I’m afraid of—” He hesitated. He hadn’t clearly formulated what it was he feared until this moment.
“Afraid of what?” Zucker asked.
“Another murder,” Gray said flatly.
Zucker said in a weary voice, “Oh, sure, sure.”
“She knows something,” Gray told him. “Something worth money. I don’t think that was a pipe dream. I think she’s been trying to raise money on her information everywhere but at the source. Nobody has enough to satisfy her. Tonight I think she realized it. I think she decided to go straight to the man the information’s about. Whatever it is. Maybe it’s a woman she’s going to blackmail. Anyhow, tonight she made up her mind. She’s on her way now.”
“Where to?”
“To the murderer of Ann Avery—maybe.”
Zucker snorted. “Forget it, Mike. I said we’d find her. Now leave this to us, for God’s sake, and stay out of the case!” He slammed the phone down with a crash.
Gray stood looking down at the round black mouthpiece. Presently he put the phone down and walked to the window. The city was all darkness and dazzling light now, and the Bay had taken on its full blackness, a great empty space in the midst of the dazzle. Like the emptiness at the center of all his thinking about the Udall case. Like that unknown factor, that unknown person, about whom all that he had learned seemed to circle.
Strangely, against the blackness, for the first time he began to see the image of a face emerge in his mind’s eye. Stranger still, he thought, it was the face of Blanche.
Everyone he had talked to so far about Eddie Udall had somehow, quite unknowingly, seemed to lead into the subject of Blanche. For all her absences from the fabric of this case, Blanche kept emerging and re-emerging as a central figure.
The Reiners had complained of her. Avery’s reaction to Blanche wasn’t a thing that quite rang true, but Blanche had certainly led Gray straight to Avery’s theater. Stella and Blanche…Ann and Blanche…Eddie and Blanche…
And Quentin? Had Quentin spoken of her? Gray couldn’t quite remember, and in his present state of mind this very lack began to loom enormously, as if it were food for a vast suspicion.
If Gray’s newborn theory had any substance behind it, then the person Blanche was heading for now had money. Or access to money. Quentin didn’t. Teachers are notoriously underpaid. But still—you can get money from other sources than the job you work at. Jobs have been held as cover-ups before now. Did Quentin really have money? It was worth thinking about.
And if Blanche’s was the face at the center of the web, then one of the strongest strands of the web itself was the narcotics trade. The web so many of them were trapped in. One by one the knowledge of the prisoners in the web had emerged. Whitey. Stella. Blanche.
It was more than coincidence. It had to be. Somewhere back of the web the still unknown face hovered, the face of the narcotics dealer who had sent Whitey to Gray, who knew where Stella and Blanche got their supplies. Who might be twitching a strand of the web now to send another Whitey after Gray.
And Ann Avery?
A sudden conviction blossomed in Gray’s mind. Ann Avery was more of a key in this problem than anyone had yet admitted. Unless her death had been the purest of accidents, and Gray could not now believe that, then there had been strong reasons behind what had happened to her. And the reasons? The motive Ann Avery had had for being murdered?
Too many people knew more than Gray knew about Ann Avery. Quentin did. His strong emotion said so. Stella did. The Reiners certainly did…
Gray turned abruptly away from the window. He was going to pay the Reiners one last visit. He was going to find out what they knew about Ann Avery if he had to—well, what? He grinned ruefully. You couldn’t force people like that. But it was worth a try. The sense of pressure was rising in his mind like a barometer reading when a sudden heat wave is in the making.
Zucker would raise hell.
Gray shrugged and reached for his hat.
Twenty minutes later Gray parked his car around the corner from the Reiners’ tall, shabby house. A street light shed misty light in the fog as he walked quickly up the steps and twisted the old-fashioned bell handle.
Leonard Reiner in old, clean slacks, a brown sweater, and felt slippers with holes in the toes opened the door and said, “Oh, hello. Come on in.”
He sounded much more cordial than last time. Gray wondered if the dressing down Zucker had given Gray here on the porch this morning had had anything to do with it. To the Reiners, perhaps anybody the police were against must be on their side. Gray reminded himself not to count on that. But he was clutching at straws now.
The living room was shabby and comfortable. A fire of sawed railroad ties burned in the iron grate, and the old spaniel slept on the hearth much too close to the fire, not even bothering to open his eyes this time, though his nose twitched in recognition of a strange scent.
“Is Mrs. Reiner around?” Gray asked.
“In the kitchen. She’ll be right in, soon as she’s through. Anything we can do for you?”
Gray sat down with a sigh.
“God, I’m tired. Yes. There’s a lot you can do.” He looked at Reiner, wondering where to begin, wondering how to convey his sense of urgency without scaring the Reiners off.
Reiner said, “Things have been happening?”
Gray nodded.
“They have,” he agreed. “One thing—after I left you this morning I had a talk with Stella Ingram. I think she knows something about Eddie and Ann Avery. It might be important. But she won’t talk. Witczak won’t let her.”
“Can’t the police do anything?”
Reiner’s tone showed that this was not all he was asking, but Gray decided to answer literally.
“I don’t think they’d believe anything they got out of her,” he said, and shrugged. “So there goes one lead that might help Eddie. My hands are pretty well tied. And this is a time when I need both hands. Blanche Udall came to see me tonight.”
He told Reiner brief
ly about Blanche and the broken bottle.
Reiner shook his head.
“Hell of a thing,” he said. “She’s on the ragged edge, isn’t she? You think she really knows anything?”
“If she does, she’s like Stella. She isn’t talking.” Gray waited a moment. “Like you,” he said quietly.
“Me?” Reiner asked. His gaze shifted toward the sleeping spaniel. “What d’you mean by that?”
“Stella knows something. Blanche knows something. I think you and Mrs. Reiner know more than you’ve told the police. Maybe it isn’t important. Maybe it is. Nobody seems to care enough about Eddie to take any risks.” Gray, too, moved his gaze toward the old dog.
Reiner was silent.
“Well,” Gray said, “that’s the way it is. I don’t know what happens next. Eddie must be wondering, too. But I’ve got to keep trying.”
Still Reiner said nothing.
“How old is he?” Gray asked, nodding toward the hearth.
Reiner coughed.
“Seventeen. You know—”
“I mean your dog.”
“Oh. Jerry.” Hearing his name, the spaniel twitched his stub tail, but he didn’t waken. Reiner said, “He’s pretty old. We’ve had him a long time.”
Reiner got up abruptly and walked over to the fire. He rubbed the dog’s back with his toe.
Now it was Gray’s turn to be silent.
The other man said, “Things could be worse for Eddie. Once the trial’s over, the Youth Authority will take charge. Right now, the boy doesn’t know what to expect. In Preston he will. They’ve a good program there.”
“Yes,” Gray said, “they have. But I don’t think it would be good for Eddie.”
Reiner stared into the low flames, his back to Gray.
“Preston’s in Ione. That isn’t too far from here. Nora and I figure on going up to see him every chance we get. And we’re going to let him know that when he gets out, he can count on us.”
Gray said, “He’s refused to talk to you ever since Ann Avery’s murder, hasn’t he?”
“He’ll get over that. You can’t push things when a kid’s in trouble.”
Gray said thoughtfully, “You mentioned that things could be worse for Eddie. Do you feel they could be any better?”
Reiner turned, his square, brown face puzzled.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, put it this way. How could things be worse?”
Reiner hesitated.
“Eddie might have been twenty-one.”
“What difference would that make?”
Reiner suddenly saw the trap. He scowled, shook his head, and turned back to the fire.
Gray said, “The difference is that he’d go to the gas chamber. That’s how things could be worse. And you can’t think of any way things could be better. It adds up to one answer, Mr. Reiner. You must be pretty sure Eddie murdered Ann Avery.”
Reiner swung to face Gray.
“Listen,” he said in his deep voice. “Sometimes it’s better to let things work themselves out. You can make a bad job worse, you know. I guess you’re trying to help Eddie, but maybe…maybe there’s more than one way to help the kid. He needs to know there’s somebody he can count on. While he’s in Preston, and after he gets out. Nora and I talked it over. We know what we’re going to do. The best thing is to get the trial over fast. A lot of extra information now would just hold it up. Stella and Blanche—I don’t have any idea what they know, but suppose you do find it out? What makes you think it would help Eddie?”
“What makes you think it wouldn’t?”
Reiner said heavily, “All right. You called the shot. I’m not saying Eddie didn’t kill that woman. Maybe he did. But that doesn’t mean he’s no good. He won’t be acquitted. But the sooner he gets out of Preston, the more Nora and I can do for him. The best chance of that is—letting things ride.”
Gray said, “In other words, any more evidence we turn up will just make things look blacker for Eddie.”
“That’s my guess, that’s all.”
“The boy needs psychotherapy,” Gray said. “He’s needed it for a long time. He should have had it, and he didn’t get it. Now if he goes to an institution he’s going to need very intensive, careful, thorough therapy, or his next step will be San Quentin. A good home’s important. You and Mrs. Reiner gave him a lot of help. It wasn’t quite enough. It still won’t be enough.”
Reiner said, “Won’t he get therapy at Preston?”
“Yes. But once he’s sent there, it’s going to be very hard to get him to accept it. If he doesn’t it won’t help. Useful psychotherapy depends on knowing as much as you can find out about the patient.”
Reiner nodded.
Gray went on, “Eddie’s future may depend on how much his therapist knows about him. And no matter what evidence is turned up, it won’t prejudice any competent therapist against the boy. I don’t need to tell you that. What it can do is give the therapist extra ways to help Eddie rehabilitate himself.”
Reiner glanced at the spaniel.
Gray said, “Your dog’s got a good home. Suppose he ate something and had convulsions. You’d take him to a vet Would you tell the vet what Jerry had eaten?”
Reiner said, “Sure I’d tell him. I’d have to.”
Gray said, “All right. Eddie’s sick. If he killed Ann Avery, that was a symptom of his sickness. We’ve got to cure him if we can. But first we’ve got to find out what made him sick.”
“That boy’s not insane.”
“No, he isn’t,” Gray agreed. “He’s fighting society, though. That’s a result of something else. He’s been fighting himself for years. I’ve got to find out why. And there’s something else involved, too. I’m not as sure as you are, Mr. Reiner. I don’t know whether Eddie really did kill Ann Avery.”
Reiner sat perfectly silent for a moment. He let out a long sigh.
“He killed her…All right. You win.”
“I’m not fighting you,” Gray said gently. “I think we’re both on the same side.”
Reiner stood up. His big shoulders sagged a little. He said, “Wait a minute,” and shuffled out of the room slowly. The house was silent. Gray waited.
When Reiner came back he had a pale-gray envelope in his hand. Without a word he offered it to Gray. The postmark was seventeen days old. The address said Edward Udall. It had been mailed in the city, and there was no return address. The flap had been neatly slit. Gray pulled out the single sheet inside.
In a hasty, sprawling hand, written so rapidly the pen sputtered here and there, the letter said:
Eddie dear—I’ve been trying for hours to reach you by phone—don’t think the Reiners like me—Eddie, I have to see you right away. Something very important has come up that involves you. I’ve been realizing more and more lately that I’ve fallen in love. [Here three words had been crossed out heavily.] I’ve tried to hide this, but now something’s happened and I don’t need to hide it any more. I’d rather not put this down in writing, because in some ways I’m ashamed of what I’ve done. I must see you right away, Eddie. I should have told you some things long before now.
What I’m praying is that after I’ve told you the truth you won’t hate me too much. [Here a sentence had also been inked out.] But you have to know.
I’ve just found out something about—[The about was crossed out lightly]—something I’m not supposed to know. It’s about narcotics in your part of the city, Ed. That and some other things. I’m very much upset this evening and I want to see you. Everything may change from here on in.
Please come over as soon as you possibly can.
Love,
Ann
Gray looked up and met Reiner’s eyes. “When did this come?” he asked. “Did Eddie see it?”
Reiner shook his head. “It came the day after the murder. Eddie had already taken off for Newport Beach by then.”
Gray glanced over the letter again, frowning.
“Why didn’t you hand
it over before?”
Reiner’s face creased with indecision.
“Nora—I opened it. I knew who it was from. Nora said Ann Avery had been phoning the night before, trying to reach Eddie. We didn’t know what to do about it. We just couldn’t decide. Whether it wouldn’t do Eddie more harm than good, I mean, if the police saw it.”
“What do you think Mrs. Avery had in mind?” Gray asked.
“Well—all that about falling in love and being ashamed of what she’d done and having to see Eddie right away—it sounded as if she might be pregnant. And Eddie might be the father. I don’t know what else, do you? And we—I thought it might look worse for Eddie than if the police never saw the letter at all. I mean, if he went up there and she got to carrying on about this affair with Eddie—I don’t know—” Reiner was floundering.
“You think he might have lost his temper and killed her when she tried to push him too far about something?”
Reiner shook his head. “You could think almost anything if you tried to go by that letter.”
Gray looked at him, waiting.
“Then there’s the narcotics angle. That God-damn columnist in the papers would jump at a chance to tie Eddie in with the pushers around the school.”
“Was he tied in?”
“Hell, no! Not that boy.”
“But you’re willing to believe he committed a murder.”
“I tell you, I don’t know what to believe. Maybe he did.”
“My guess is that once you’d decided Eddie probably killed Ann Avery, all you could see in this letter was more proof of his guilt.”
“But it does make things look worse for him.”
Gray didn’t argue. He was looking at the letter, holding it to the light, trying to make out the obliterated words. The second inking out of a sentence had been done with ink just a little bluer than the other ink in the letter. Gray wondered if the crime lab could bring out the hidden writing.
Reiner said, “I suppose…this letter has to go to the police?”
“You know the answer to that one.”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I just hope Eddie won’t find out we turned it over to you. But I guess that’ll have to come out in court.” Reiner bowed his head. “That’s why we—why I couldn’t make up my mind to say anything about it. The way things have been going, Nora and I are the only friends he has left. I told you what we’d decided to do. Stick with him, and let him know he had a home to come to when they let him out of Preston, or wherever he’s sent. He’s got to have somebody he can trust. And he’d never trust us if we gave the police evidence against him.”
Michael Gray Novels Page 25
