Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  Bert Taylor had been shocked when I pointed out our situation. “It’s like this,” I told him, “we’re fighting rumors… a piece of silk in a breeze without substance enough to cut down. We’re being forced to prove a negative, which is the most difficult thing in the world to prove.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Taylor said.

  “The term… homosexuality can be tossed around, accusations hurled and denials made. If the act takes place, it is done in secret. There are no witnesses. It’s nearly impossible to prove or disprove.”

  Taylor thought it over, then said, “Unless one of the participants makes a confession. Arthea Simpson is dead, and obviously there’s no confession involved. If it’s impossible for us to disprove it, it’s equally impossible for Willard to prove it.”

  “Except for one point.” I lit a cigarette, thinking, holding the match until it burned my fingers. “The mere accusation is enough to prejudice a jury. It’s something that an average normal jury can’t forget. Regardless of the judge’s instructions, they remember… and dammit—it does influence their decision!”

  “I should think that Ivy Lorents would be her own best witness. You can’t look at her and believe the charges!”

  “I can’t, and you can’t,” I agreed. “But if you’re a woman—it’s different. And there’ll be women on that jury… Willard will see to that.”

  “Why?”

  “Kinsey’s report on Sexual Behavior in the Human Female states that nineteen percent of the females admitted sexual contact with other women. That’s nearly one out of every five!”

  “I know you usually prefer to keep the defendant off the stand, but how about Ivy? I think she’d be terrific.”

  “By the time Willard got through with her on cross-examination, he’d have her story in shreds. Her story is full of holes, now, innocent enough, but Willard would make her sound guilty as hell.”

  Taylor fidgeted a moment, then said, “Well, let’s get back to the witnesses again. What about them?”

  “All right, what about them? Take a look at who we have. There’s Robert Knox, Sid Jefferson, Conrad Ishman, Norma Ulrich… and Gordon Kerman. For all practical purposes, they’re little better than character witnesses.”

  “It isn’t much,” Taylor agreed.

  I stood up, stretched, and walked to the front of my desk. Swinging a leg over the corner, I said, “Now, here’s the point, Bert. If I decide not to put Ivy on the stand, I won’t use these witnesses. So in actuality, I’ll put on no defense at all. We’ll have to keep Willard guessing as to what we’ll do. Right now, perhaps I’m just talking out loud. We’ll have to decide as we go along.” I returned to my chair and sat down. Taylor and I broke up the conference.

  Tim Nordeen came in. He tossed some papers on my desk. “Here’s the report from New York on Ivy Lorents.”

  “Have you read it?”

  “Yes.” He stood heavily beside my desk. “It only covers her activities in New York… doesn’t go back to her folks in New Jersey. You said not to contact them.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Okay. If you decide to later, we can do it.” As Nordeen turned to leave, I picked up the typewritten report, and started to read: “… The person investigated is female, aged 27; white; born in Walnut Grove, Pennsylvania, was moved to Paterson, N.J., at age five… Born Iverlene Lauritz, daughter of Iver Lauritz and Lena White Lauritz, natural-born citizens of the United States… Brother Thomas Lauritz, age 25, present whereabouts not established.

  “After graduating from high school, Iverlene moved to New York City. For several years worked at small jobs, while enrolled in night classes at the City College of New York where she studied speech, drama, and design.

  “Paid private tuition for full course at the Futura School of Modeling, under the direction of a Miss Helen Campbell.

  “Miss Campbell remembers subject well. At the suggestion of the school Iverlene Lauritz changed her name professionally to Ivy Lorents, had extensive work done on her teeth, and some advisable plastic surgery to remove scars and moles from her face. Although this involved a considerable expenditure of money, Ivy Lorents apparently made financial arrangements to pay the costs, on a weekly basis, from her income.

  “The school reports a moderate success as a model, never greatly in demand as a high-fashion photographic model—the highest paying of all the modeling fields.

  “Ivy Lorents was approximately twenty-one when she started modeling. During the next four years, she earned a comfortable living in her profession. After four years, began to receive less work; continued to model, although less frequently, for another year after that. During the last year, she again started to study acting.

  “Discussed with Miss Campbell the idea of moving to Hollywood, to begin new career. Miss Campbell did not believe she had the necessary talent to become a successful actress. However, Miss Lorents insisted on making the move, and stated that it was a financial necessity.

  “To the best of Miss Campbell’s knowledge, Ivy Lorents was never involved with the law, nor took part in any scandals. She had a number of acquaintances, both men and women, but apparently few close friends. Also, according to Miss Campbell, Ivy Lorents seldom spoke about herself or discussed her background or past activities, but to the best of the Campbell woman’s knowledge, Ivy Lorents was never married.

  “This concludes the report at this time. According to your instructions, no effort was made to contact the father Iver Lauritz, the brother Thomas, or the mother Lena, who, it is believed, may be deceased.

  “If additional information is required, we will pursue the subject further…”

  All in all, the report conformed pretty well with Ivy’s story to me. The fact that she had been using a professional name hadn’t occurred to me, but it was unimportant, especially in Hollywood. The few discrepancies which did exist, like her age, were easily matters of emphasis or interpretation. What did bother me, however, was Ivy’s statement to Helen Campbell that she had to move to Hollywood because of financial necessity. This linked back to possible motivation for Willard to believe that Arthea Simpson had been giving money to Ivy. With Ivy’s high overhead, low income, and admitted insolvency, Willard might have a telling point. It was necessary to clear up the matter with Ivy. Although I was completely in love with Ivy, I had not yet lost control of my legal senses and there was no fallacy in my concern regarding Joe Willard.

  During the three weeks I had been preparing the case, I had arranged for Ivy to have dinner with me at my home on a number of occasions. It was a safe retreat. After dinner one night, we were again in the patio.

  “Are you chilly?” I asked.

  “No.” She looked at me and smiled. “It’s peaceful here… I love it. I hate to go back to the hotel. All day I hide in my room, afraid to go out.”

  “The reporters haven’t bothered you yet.”

  “The hotel has been very good about that…”

  I reached in my pocket and brought out two keys. “I just remembered. Here’s the key to your apartment which you let me use. While Bert and I were there, I found a second one to the front door. Are there any others?”

  “I have a bad habit of losing keys. I’ve had several made.”

  “Do you think that Arthea Simpson might’ve found one?”

  Ivy shivered. “I don’t know.” She added in a small voice, “I have no way of knowing.”

  “Arthea had been to your apartment… quite often?”

  “Not often… but sometimes.”

  “Isn’t it possible that she might’ve found an extra? She took it… without you knowing?”

  “It’s possible…”

  “Then she could’ve let herself in, that night, while you were in the shower.” I paused and considered my next words carefully. I had to know, for Ivy’s own sake, about her relationship with Arthea Simpson, and whether she was involved financially with her. I jingled the two keys in my hand, and said, “Willard might believe that if Arthea Simpso
n had a key, she also had a reason for being there.”

  Ivy remained motionless. “You’re angry at me again, aren’t you?” Her voice was emotionless.

  “You should’ve told me before.”

  “But I didn’t know… not really… about Arthea, I mean. I had heard whispers about her, that sort of thing…”

  “You’ve been making a bad situation worse. First… with the police, then with me.”

  She turned and placed a hand pleadingly on my shoulder. “I knew… what everyone… even you… would think about Arthea and me. I could only hope that the police wouldn’t find out about her.” I sat quietly, and she shook my shoulder gently, “Cyrus… won’t you listen? Please?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “But… darling, it wasn’t that way at all… not what you’re thinking. Arthea had been very generous to me—inviting me out when I was a stranger and all that. Whatever Arthea’s private life was, it was no concern of mine. She never bothered me, Cyrus.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “No.” Her hand dropped from my shoulder.

  “If she had tried to force herself on you, if you had been afraid of her, you might have had a reason to protect yourself.”

  “But Cyrus! We never had anything to do with each other. Not sexually!”

  “And Arthea Simpson never offered you money? Gave you money?”

  Her face looked tortured, and in the light, as pale as silvered death. “Oh… sometimes, she’d send me gifts… little things. But I sent them back—and laughed them off the next time I saw her.”

  “I don’t mean inconsequential little presents. I mean expensive presents. Or gifts of money.” Ivy shook her head. “All right,” I continued, steeling myself, “but even small… personal, intimate gifts indicate that Arthea was not quite as detached about your friendship as you were…”

  “I don’t know what Arthea thought!” I lit a cigarette, and in the burst of flame, I thought I saw a trace of tears in her eyes. She looked at me and asked, “Don’t you believe me?”

  I told her that I did, but I also pointed out something else. “It might’ve been Arthea who made the anonymous phone calls to you.”

  “I never thought of that…” Ivy mused for a moment. “The voice was disguised, but Arthea could have… it sounded like a man…”

  “If we could prove it was Arthea, it’d help.” Ivy looked at me questioningly. “It’d show that she was pursuing you. If she had already established a relationship with you, there would’ve been no point to the phone calls.”

  “That’s blunt enough,” she told me.

  “I’m sorry.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll take you back to the Claymore.”

  Ivy shook her head, and settled back firmly on the bench. “I don’t want to leave right now. Each minute that I’m out of that room—it’s an escape!” Suddenly, she leaned forward. “Couldn’t I go away… for just a few days?”

  “Where?”

  Her voice was excited, pleased with the prospect. “Anywhere… Las Vegas… Reno…”

  “You’re under bail,” I reminded her gently “You’d have to get permission—and the court would never permit you to leave the state.”

  “Oh…” Her voice dropped in disappointment. “Well… how about San Francisco?” That was nearly as bad, it was out of the county, I told her. “Couldn’t you come with me?” she asked. “You could pretend it was regarding my case… or something.”

  “Unfortunately… I’d probably be recognized. You, too. The papers would have an orgy going in the next edition.”

  “Please!” She took my hand, pressing it to her, holding it tight. Suddenly it was difficult for me to breathe. “Please, Cyrus… if it’s only for a day. This weekend… it’ll be the last one before the trial!”

  I heard myself saying, “All right. But it’ll have to be someplace out of the way. And even then, it’s dangerous.”

  She smiled, content.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The restaurant seemed to grow on a great ledge of rock which was shaped like the prow of a ship. Below, the ocean stretched west, unbroken, to Asia. At three hundred feet above the water, the muffled running and pounding of the breakers rose in a spray of sound. It was inescapable, the ocean, as it gnawed at the feet of the towering cliffs, burrowing and tunneling with the skill of an ancient sapper into the rocks—digging out trenches and caves, inlets and peninsulas.

  It had been with both reluctance and anticipation that March had driven Ivy Lorents to Big Sur. He had arrived at their destination with a sense of finality as if his emotion and mind had recognized from the beginning that some day he would make the drive. The journey had seemed a test of his commitment. Ivy, as yet, remained uncommitted.

  March realized that after the trip, for better or worse, his life would never be the same again. What it would be, he didn’t know. He held up a small glass of brandy and regarded its glow. March handled the liquor as he would a loaded gun. Even to hold the glass in his hands was dangerous. He was resigned that he could not drink as another man might drink; he would never be able to do so. The glass of beer in the bar, the occasional sips of wine at dinner, had all been desperate gambles. He had been anxious to prove that he was less vulnerable than before. And he had also been anxious that it appear, to Ivy, that alcohol was not a problem. So far, he had been able to escape disaster.

  And he had gambled again. This time with the brandy. But he had not yet sipped it.

  Beside him, Ivy asked, “What are you looking for?”

  March turned to her and smiled. “The ability to play God.” He raised his glass and sipped the liquor. The hot taste raced through his body, touching each nerve, warming each muscle. He forced his hand to lower the glass. “It’s a heavy responsibility. God doesn’t like it, and I don’t either.”

  Ivy’s eyes were fixed on him. Her hand touched his, and she asked intuitively, “Are you frightened about something? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  March could feel her fingers, clasping his hand, tighten. “No. But to me the law is the instrument by which man becomes civilized.”

  Ivy was silent, listening intently.

  “The basic laws of human behavior are built, I suspect, on certain universal truths. It’s not the law which sometimes errs, it’s the application of it.” March shifted slightly in his chair. The ocean had disappeared behind a curtain of black. Night had fallen. “It’s the unknown factor of human administration which enters into the application of the law… the individuals on juries, the witnesses, the attorneys, the judge himself… which can’t be predicted. The time and place where the trial is conducted can also alter its outcome.”

  Ivy slipped her hand over March’s arm. “Why did you become a lawyer?” she asked.

  “I can’t remember when I wasn’t interested in the law,” March told her. “My father was an attorney… he was in corporation law, and we moved out here when I was a boy. My grandfather had been a supreme court judge in Minnesota.” He shrugged lightly. “So, I became a lawyer, too.”

  “But… why did you take up criminal law?” Ivy asked.

  March stared. “Someone has to…” he said, finally. “But of course, that’s not the real answer, either. Real estate… corporations… companies… products. How can they be hurt… except through their pockets?” He added, musing, “But a person… he is hurt.” He glanced down at the listening woman. “Now… let’s change the subject.”

  After dinner, they returned to the Lodge. Crossing the wide low lobby, they passed a fieldstone fireplace in which embers of a large log occasionally flared, and continued down a hallway to their rooms. In front of Ivy’s door, they turned to each other. March was gripped in an awkward silence, then… hesitantly… he took her in his arms and kissed her. Ivy stepped back to unlock the door. Then she paused, and turned to March.

  “Goodnight…” he told her.

  A slight smile of amusement touched her lips. “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked.

/>   March told her honestly, “I don’t know if you want me.”

  “Do you think I’d invite you… if I didn’t?” She waited, relaxed, as if she had anticipated his reply.

  March awakened with light in his eyes. Beside him, curled beneath the covers, Ivy was still asleep. His cautious movements, however, awakened her. Rolling to her side, she took the cigarette he had already lighted. “Good morning, dear,” she smiled, “but not a word until I’ve smoked this…”

  Swinging from the side of the bed, March walked to the door and opened it slightly to peer out. He brought in a tray which had been standing in the hall. He grinned as he regarded the breakfast for one. “Shall I go to my room and bring back my tray?”

  Ivy’s eyes crinkled. She sat up in bed and reached for the tray. “We’ll share this.” After pouring the coffee into the cup, she tasted it, then passed the cup to March. “What time is it?” she asked, flinging back her hair.

  “A little after ten…” March sat on the side of the bed, sipping the coffee.

  Ivy reached out her hand. “Let me have some of it.” March watched her with an intense pleasure as she propped her shoulders against the headboard of the bed, enjoying her coffee. In the sunlight her skin was white with golden overtones of ivory, and despite the cramped position of her body, her figure assumed a supple flowing curve. Her hands curled around the coffee cup, rested on the smooth flatness of her stomach. Occasionally, she arched her neck to meet the cup as she raised it to her lips. “Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

  “Because you’re lovely!” He stopped, then added, “and you… remind me… I can’t describe it. You have pride… in your beauty…”

  She lifted her great green eyes. “Pride?… I thought pride was a sin.”

  “It’s now unfashionable.” March smiled, “but I like pride—pride in anything—especially in being beautiful, in being a woman.”

  Slowly, Ivy’s hand pulled the sheet over her naked body. The lightness had left her voice. “I think perhaps… you have the wrong idea… about me…”