by James Ellroy
He crept back down the stairs and out through the kitchen to the porch. Then he remembered the pick. It would have no fingerprints on it. He considered returning for it and his stomach rebelled.
So there were no fingerprints on the death weapon. So what? Most house prowlers with the sense of gnats wore gloves. It was nothing for him to worry over.
He walked silently, unseen, back to his car and examined his gloves in the dash light. One was slightly splattered with blood but there seemed to be none on the cuffs of his suit. All that remained to be done was to rid himself of the gloves.
It was over, done. He was free. There was nothing to stop him now, nothing to stop the boys from running him for whatever office they pleased. Frances had made her last scene. He was young, under forty. His new life was just beginning.
As he drove, the horror of the thing that he had been forced to do left him. He wanted to sing, to yell, to shout to the stars that he was free. He contented himself with a grin.
It had been a relatively simple matter, after all. He wadded the gloves into a ball and tossed them out the car window. They could not be traced to him. There was nothing to tie him to the murder but the fact that he and Frances were married. Back at the Eldorado, he parked the coupe in the same space it had occupied before and glanced at his watch before switching off the lights. It was eleven minutes past one. He was four minutes ahead of schedule.
He expended them by walking to the corner and peering around it cautiously. The doorman and Jackson were deep in some discussion. Satisfied that he had not been missed, he entered the side door.
Telling Evelyn would take some doing. She would be horrified at first, but she was quick-witted enough to realize that no other course had been open to him. It didn't matter now. All that mattered was that the thing was done.
His throat and mouth were normal again. In the bright light of the cage he could see no bloodstains on his suit. He had been fortunate. He was whistling softly, almost cheerfully, as he inserted his key in the door.
The radio was still playing softly. A bottle of his best scotch beside her, Frances was sitting in one of Evelyn's easy chairs. "I knew you'd come here first," she said. "What's a matter? Was your plane late?"
He stared at her open-mouthed, screams he was unable to utter tearing at his throat.
"You poor damn fool," his wife continued. "Why didn't you let me meet her? Why didn't you make me realize what a swell kid she really was? Why didn't you tell me that the boys wanted to run you for senator? You should have known me better, John. You're my man. You always will be. No tramp was goin' to take you from me. But a sweet kid like that is another matter." She fluffed at her frowsy hair. "I feel kind of honored like."
Sorrel managed to gasp one word, "Evelyn..."
Frances nipped at the scotch. "Oh, you didn't know. Well, she showed at the house this morning and gave me a song and dance about being a maid out of work, her with fingernails that long." She laughed, shortly. "So I hired her and I pumped her. She's probably goin' through all my things right now, spyin' on me." Frances picked an oblong scrap of yellow paper from the table. "She never even got a chance to see her telegram because I copped her key from her purse and come over here shortly after I got the telegram that you sent me. Mine was all right. But after I read this one I kinda wondered." She read it aloud: "'Sweetheart. Be in your apartment at twelve tonight. Don't leave it for any reason. And don't let anyone in but me. This is important, more important than you realize.'"
His voice sounding strange to himself, Sorrel asked, "You—knew?"
Frances Sorrel smiled thinly. "I know you," she admitted. "But don't worry. Think nothing of it. As long as your plane was late, you've got nothing to worry about."
THE HOMECOMING
1946: Dorothy B. Hughes
DOROTHY B(ELLE) HUGHES (1904–1993). Born in Kansas City, Missouri, Hughes received her journalism degree from the University of Missouri and did postgraduate work at the University of New Mexico and Columbia University. She worked as a journalist in Missouri, New York, and New Mexico before becoming a mystery writer.
This underappreciated author is historically important as being the first female to fall squarely in the hard-boiled school. She wrote eleven novels in the 1940s, beginning with The So Blue Marble (1940) and including The Cross-Eyed Bear (1940), The Bamboo Blonde (1941), The Fallen Sparrow (1942), Ride the Pink Horse (1946), and In a Lonely Place (1947), the latter three all made into successful films noir. The Fallen Sparrow was filmed by RKO in 1943 and starred John Garfield and Maureen O'Hara; Ride the Pink Horse (Universal, 1947) starred Robert Montgomery and Thomas Gomez; In a Lonely Place (Columbia, 1950) was a vehicle for Humphrey Bogart, Gloria Grahame, and Martha Stewart, and was directed by Nicholas Ray. This classic film noir portrays an alcoholic screenwriter who is prone to violent outbursts and is accused of murdering a hatcheck girl. He is given an alibi by his attractive blond neighbor, who soon becomes fearful that he really did commit the crime, and that she might be next. In the book, the writer is, in fact, a psychopathic killer, but the director found it too dark and softened the plot.
At the height of her powers and success, Hughes largely quit writing due to domestic responsibilities. She reviewed mysteries for many years, winning an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for her critical acumen in 1951; in 1978 the organization named her a Grand Master for lifetime achievement.
"The Homecoming" was first published in Murder Cavalcade, the first Mystery Writers of America anthology (New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1946).
***
IT WAS A DARK night, a small-wind night, the night on which evil things could happen, might happen. He didn't feel uneasy walking the two dark blocks from the streetcar to her house. The reason he kept peering over his shoulder was because he heard things behind him, things like the rustle of an ancient bombazine skirt, like footsteps trying to walk without sound, things like crawling and scuttling and pawing. The things you'd hear in a too-old forest place, not on the concrete pavement of a city street. He had to look behind him to know that the sounds were the ordinary sounds of a city street in the autumn. Browned leaves shriveled and fallen, blown in small whirlpools by the small wind. Warped elm boughs scraping together in lonely nakedness. The sounds you'd expect on a night in autumn when the grotesquerie of shadows was commonplace. Elm fingers beckoning, leaves drifting to earth, shadows on an empty street. The little moans of the wind quivering his own flung shadow, and his own steps solid in the night, moving to her house.
He'd be there. The hero. Korea Jim. He'd be there a long time, since supper. She'd have asked him to supper because this was her folks' night out. Her folks always went out Thursday nights, ladies' night at the club. Cards and bingo and dancing and eats and they wouldn't get home till after one o'clock at least.
She'd say it cute, "Come over for supper Thursday. I'm a terrible cook. All I can fix is pancakes." And you'd know there was nothing you'd rather eat Thursday night than her pancakes. Better than thick steak, better than chicken and dumplings, better than turkey and all the fixings would be pancakes on Thursday night. She'd say it coaxing, "If you don't come I'll be here all by myself. The family always goes out on Thursday night." And even if there weren't going to be pancakes with sorghum or real maple syrup, your choice, your chest would swell until it was tight enough to bust, wanting to protect her from a lonely night at home with the folks out.
She was such a little thing. Not tall enough to reach the second shelf in the kitchen without standing on tiptoes. Not even in her pencil-point heels was she high enough to reach his chin. She was little and soft as fur and her hair was like yellow silk. She was always fooling you with her hair. You'd get used to the memory of her looking like a kid sister with her hair down her back, maybe curled a little, and the next time she'd have it pinned on top of her head like she was playing grownup. Or she'd have it curled up short or once or twice in two stiff pigtails with ribbon bows like a real kid. Won dering about her
hair he forgot for a moment the dark and the wind and the things crawling in his mind and heart; he quickened his steps to cover the blocks to her house.
Then he remembered. It wasn't he who had been invited to pancakes for supper; it was the boy with the medals, the hero, Korea Jim. By now she and Jim would be sitting on the couch, sitting close together so they'd both avoid the place where the couch sagged. Her brother, the one in the Navy, had busted it when he was a kid.
She and Jim would be sitting there close and only the one lamp on. Too much light hurt her eyes. Her eyes were big as cartwheels, blue sometimes, a smoky blue, and sometimes sort of purple-gray. You didn't know what color her eyes were until you looked into them. It was like her hair only she did it to her hair and her eyes did themselves. Her nose didn't change, it was little and cute like she was. Just turned up the least bit, enough to make her cuter when she put her eyelashes up at you and said, "Aw, Benny!" Her mouth changed colors, red like a Jonathan sometimes, sometimes like holly, sometimes like mulberries. Her father didn't like that purple color. He'd say, "Take it off, Nan. You look like a stuck pig" Red like blood. But the colors didn't change her mouth really, red like fire, red like soft warm wool. Her mouth...
He picked up his steps and shadows flickered as he moved. This time he didn't look over his shoulder. Nothing was back there. And beyond, a block beyond her house, he could see the blur of green light, the precinct police station house. It was somehow reassuring. There couldn't be anything behind you with the police station ahead of you. Besides he had the gun.
It was heavy in his overcoat pocket. On the streetcar riding out to her neighborhood he'd felt everyone's eyes looking through the pocket and wondering why a nice young fellow was carrying a gun. He could have told them he was going to Nan's house though she wasn't expecting him. Though she'd told him for the twelfth night in a row, "I'm so sorry, Benny, but I'm busy tonight." Except the one night he hadn't phoned, the night he'd walked the streets in the chill autumn rain until his shoes were soggy and his mind a tight red knot.
He could have told them he was going to surprise Nan and especially surprise Hero Jim, Korea Jim. He'd find out how much of a hero Jim was. He'd see what big bold Jim would do up against a real gun. She'd see, too.
They'd be sitting on the couch so close, and the lamp over on the far table the only light. Not much light from that lamp. Her mother had made the lampshade. She'd bought a regular paper shade at the ten-cent store for thirty-nine cents, then she'd pasted on it colored pictures of kids and dogs and handsome sailors and soldiers and Marines. All put together sort of like a patchwork quilt in diamond shapes. After that she'd shellacked over the pictures and it made a swell shade. Only it didn't give much light.
When he'd ring the doorbell they'd sort of jump apart, she and Jim, wondering who it was. Wondering if her folks had left the club early, before the spread. Wondering who it could be. She'd say, "I wonder who it could possibly be this time of night." The way she'd said it the night the wire came that her brother was married in San Diego. Jim would say, "Probably your folks," just the way Benny had said it the night of the telegram. And she'd say, wrinkling her forehead the way she did when she was disturbed by something, "It couldn't be. Pop would never leave before the cheese. Unless someone's sick—"
Then Jim would go to the door. She wouldn't come because she'd be wondering who it was. Besides she was nervous at night, even walking down the street with a man she was nervous, looking over her shoulder, skipping along faster. As if she felt something was after her, something that someday would catch up to her. It might have been from her that he got the nervousness of walking down this street at night. No reason why he should be nervous. It wasn't late, hardly eleven yet. He'd only sat through half the show. He'd seen it before.
Jim would come to the door. He ought to let Jim have it right then and there. The dirty, cheating, lying —. Sitting around saying, "I don't want to talk about it, Nan." Waiting to be coaxed. And she'd coaxed him, turning the sweet smell of her body to big Jim, handsome Jim, the hero of Korea. She got him started, bringing up things about the raid that had been printed in the newspapers along with the picture of Jim. He didn't want to talk about it but once she got him started, you couldn't turn him off. He went on and on, not even seeming to see her big blue smoky eyes, not even seeming to hear her little soft furry hurt cries. On and on, practically crawling around the floor, and then he'd stopped and the sweat had broken out all over his red face. "I'm sorry, Nan," he'd said so quietly you could hardly hear him.
She didn't say anything. She just was looking at Jim. He, Benny, had put a hot number on the phonograph, a new Les Brown, and he'd said, "Come on, Nan. Let's start the joint jumping." He'd had enough of Jim's showing off. He'd said it again louder but she didn't answer him. She sat there looking at Jim, and Jim looking at the floor. Les Brown played on and on not knowing nobody was listening to him. Benny knew that night what was going to happen. Her and Jim. And him out of it.
It had always been like that for Jim. He got everything. In High he was the one elected captain of the basketball team. He was the junior class president. He was the one the girls were always looking their eyes out at in the halls. He was the one the fellows wanted to double-date with. He'd always got everything. Nan and him sitting together in assembly. Everything. When other guys had pimples, Jim didn't. When other guys had to sleep in stocking tops and grease their hair to keep it out of their eyes, Jim's yellow hair was crisp enough to stay where it belonged. When other guys' pants needed pressing and they forgot their dirty fingernails, Jim didn't. Korea Jim. The hero. Even in the war he'd come out the big stuff.
War was supposed to make all men the same. Not one guy with more stripes a hero and another guy already back in civvies. It wasn't Benny's fault he hadn't been sent over. The Army didn't say, "Would you like to go to Korea and be a hero?" They said you were doing your part just as much being a soldier in your own hometown in the recruiting office. Benny had been pretty lucky being in his own hometown for the war, being in clean work, in safe work. He'd thought he'd been lucky until Jim came back with all those pretty ribbons and his picture in the paper. It wasn't Benny's fault. He didn't ask the Army not to send him over; if he'd been sent he could have been a hero too. He could have led the raiders through frontline fire and liberated those poor starved guys. High school kids like yourself only they were men now, old men. It made Benny shiver to see them in the newsreels. It made him know he was lucky to have been in the recruiting office, addressing envelopes and filing papers.
Even if Jim had come back a big-shot hero. Jim who'd always had everything and now had this. And Nan, too. He wasn't going to get away with it this time. He wasn't going to have Nan. Nan was Benny's girl. She'd been his girl for almost two years. Jim hadn't meant anything to her those years. Just one of the gang in Korea. She didn't talk about him any more than she did about any of the other kids, wondering what they were doing on certain nights while she and Benny were out jumping and jiving at the USO.
Jim wasn't going to come back and bust up Benny and Nan. He wasn't going to be let do it. He could get him plenty of other girls; there were always plenty of girls for a good-looking guy like Jim. All he had to do was whistle. Just because he'd been Nan's fellow in high school before the war started didn't mean he could walk back in and take over. Not after leaving her for four years. Jim had left her. He hadn't even waited for the draft. He'd quit high school and signed up right away.
It wasn't Benny's fault he'd had to wait to be drafted. Jim's folks had given him permission to sign up. Benny's mom had just cried and cried and wouldn't talk about it. So he'd had to wait for the draft. Besides he wasn't as strong as Jim. He always had colds in the winter just like Mom said. Besides none of that made any difference. He'd been a soldier just like Jim. It wasn't his fault he hadn't got to be a hero. None of that mattered at all. There was only one thing counting. Nan. His girl. Benny's girl. Jim was going to find that out. Tonight.
He was t
here at the white cement steps, the familiar steps, gray in the night. He didn't walk on by like he had the night he walked in the soggy rain, his stomach curdled and his thoughts tied in wet red knots. Tonight he climbed the steps without breaking the firmness of his stride. Without trying to be quiet. He wasn't afraid of Jim. He had as much right here as Jim had. He continued up the short cement walk to the gray stoop, climbed the gray steps and was on the porch.
The drapes were drawn across the front parlor windows. Only the little light was on inside. He knew from the dim red glow against the drapes, almost purple-red. He pushed the bell once, hard and firm and not afraid. Like he had a right. Like he'd been pushing it for the two years since he ran into Nan at a USO party.
It happened the way he knew it was going to happen. A wait. Waiting while she and Jim jumped apart and she smoothed her hair while she was wondering who it could possibly be. The wait and then the footsteps of a man coming to the door. Of Jim. Benny's hand gripped tight on the gun in his pocket. Holding tight that way kept his stomach from jumping around. He had to keep tight so he wouldn't let Jim have it the way he ought to when Jim opened the door. The dirty, double-crossing, lying ...
The door opened sudden. Before he was quite ready for it to open. Jim was standing there, tall and lanky in the dim hallway, peering out to see who was standing outside. Not expecting Benny. Not expecting him at all. Because his face came over with a real surprised look when he figured out who it was. Jim said, "For gos' sake! It's Benny." He said it more to her, back there in the parlor, than to himself.
