The Best American Noir of the Century

by James Ellroy

  "Donna!" I croaked. "My good God, it's Donna!"

  I half fell down the stone steps and lifted the lifeless body into my arms. Getting back up those steps and along the hall to the nearest bed-room is something I would never remember.

  And then she was on the bed and I was staring down at her. My heart seemed to leap once and shudder to a full stop, and a wordless cry tore at my throat.

  The girl on the bed was Helen Wainhope!

  IX

  I once heard it said that a man's life is made up of many small deaths, the least of them being the final one. I stood there looking at the dead woman, remembering the charred ruins of another body beside a twisted heap of blackened metal, and in that moment a part of me stumbled and fell and whimpered and died.

  The telephone was there, waiting. I looked at it for a long time. Then I took a slow uneven breath and shook my head to clear it and picked up the receiver.

  "Put it down, Clay."

  I turned slowly. He was standing in the doorway, holding a gun down low, his round face drawn and haggard.

  I said, "You killed her, you son of a bitch."

  He wet his lips nervously. "Put it down, Clay. I can't let you call the police."

  It didn't matter. Not really. Nothing mattered anymore except that he was standing where I could reach him. I let the receiver drop back into place. "Like something left in the oven too long," I said. "That's how I have to remember her."

  I started toward him. Not fast. I was in no hurry. The longer it lasted, the more I would like it.

  He brought the gun up sharply. "Don't make me shoot you. Stay right there. Please, Clay."

  I stopped. It took more than I had to walk into the muzzle of a gun. You have to be crazy, I guess, and I wasn't that crazy.

  He began to talk, his tongue racing, the words spilling out. "I didn't kill Donna, Clay. It was an accident. You've got to believe that, Clay! I liked her; I always liked Donna. You know that."

  I could feel my lips twisting into a crooked line. "Sure. You always liked Donna. You always liked me, too. Put down the gun, Dave."

  He wasn't listening. A muscle twitched high up on his left cheek. "You've got to understand how it happened, Clay. It was quick like a nightmare. I want you to know about it, to understand that I didn't intend ..."

  There was a gun in my pocket. I thought of it and I nodded. "I'm listening, Dave."

  His eyes flicked to the body on the bed, then back to me. They were tired eyes, a little wild, the whites bloodshot. "Not in here," he said. He moved to one side. "Go into the living room. Ahead of me. Don't do anything ...foolish."

  I went past him and on along the hall. He was close behind me, but not close enough. In the silence I could hear him breathing.

  I sat down on a sponge-rubber chair without arms. I said, "I'd like a cigarette, Dave. You know, to steady my nerves. I'm very nervous right now. You know how it is. I'll just put my hand in my pocket and take one out. Will that be all right with you?"

  He said, "Go ahead" not caring, not even really listening.

  Very slowly I let my hand slide into the side pocket of my coat. His gun went on pointing at me. The muzzle looked as big as the Second Street tunnel. My fingers brushed against the grip of the .38. A knuckle touched the trigger guard and the chill feel was like an electric shock. His gun went on staring at me.

  My hand came out again. Empty. I breathed a shallow breath and took a cigarette and my matches from behind my display handkerchief. My forehead was wet. Whatever heroes had, I didn't have it. I struck a match and lit the cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke. My hand wasn't shaking as much as I had expected.

  "Tell me about it," I said.

  He perched on the edge of the couch across from me, a little round man in a painful blue suit, white shirt, gray tie, and brown pointed shoes. He had never been one to go in for casual dress like everyone else in Southern California. Lamplight glistened along his scalp below the receding hairline and the muscle in his cheek twanged spasmodically.

  "You knew Helen," he said in a kind of faraway voice. "She was a wonderful woman. We were married twelve years, Clay. I must have been crazy. But I'm not making much sense, am I?" He tried to smile but it broke on him.

  I blew out some more smoke and said nothing. He looked at the gun as though he had never seen it before, but he kept on pointing it at me.

  "About eight months ago," he continued, "I made some bad investments with my own money. I tried to get it back by other investments, this time with Donna's money. It was very foolish of me. I lost that, too."

  He shook his head with slow regret. "It was quite a large sum, Clay. But I wasn't greatly worried. Things would break right before long and I could put it back. And then Helen found out about it...

  "She loved me, Clay. But she wouldn't stand for my dipping into Donna's money. She said unless I made good the shortage immediately she would tell Donna. If anything like that got out it would ruin me. I promised I would do it within two or three weeks."

  He stopped there and the room was silent. A breeze came in at the open window and rustled the drapes.

  "Then," David Wainhope said, "something else happened, something that ruined everything. This isn't easy for me to say, but ... well, I was having an ... affair with my secretary. Miss Kemper. A lovely girl. You met her."

  "Yes," I said. "I met her."

  "I thought we were being very—well, careful. But Helen is—was a smart woman, Clay. She suspected something and she hired a private detective. I had no idea, of course...

  "Today, Helen called me at the office. I was alone; Miss Kemper was at lunch. Helen seemed very upset; she told me to get home immediately if I knew what was good for me. That's the way she put it: 'if you know what's good for you'!"

  I said, "Uh-hunh!" and went on looking at the gun.

  "Naturally, I went home at once. When I got here, Donna was just getting out of her car in front. Helen's convertible was also in the driveway, so I put my car in the garage and came into the living room. I was terribly upset, feeling that Helen was going to tell Donna about the money.

  "They were standing over there, in front of the fireplace. Helen was furious; I had never seen her quite so furious before. She told me she was going to tell Donna everything. I pleaded with her not to. Donna, of course, didn't know what was going on.

  "Helen told her about the shortage, Clay. Right there in front of me. Donna took it better than I'd hoped. She said she would have to get someone else to look after her affairs but that she didn't intend to press charges against me. That was when Helen really lost her temper.

  "She said she was going to sue me for divorce and name Miss Kemper; that she had hired a private detective and he had given her a report that same morning. She started to tell me all the things the detective had told her. Right in front of Donna. I shouted for her to stop but she went right on. I couldn't stand it, Clay. I picked up the poker and I hit her. Just once, on the head. I didn't know what I was doing. It—it was like a reflex. She died on the floor at my feet."

  I said, "What am I supposed to do—feel sorry for you?"

  He looked at me woodenly. I might as well have spoken to the wall. "Donna was terribly frightened. I think she screamed, then she turned and ran out of the house. I heard her car start before I realized she would tell them I killed Helen.

  "I ran out, shouting for her to wait, to listen to me. But she was already turning into the road. My car was in the garage, so I jumped into Helen's and went after her. I wasn't going to do anything to her, Clay; I just wanted her to understand that I hadn't meant to kill Helen, that it only happened that way.

  "By the time we reached that curve on Stone Canyon I was close behind her. She was driving too fast and the car skidded on the turn and went over. I could hear it. All the way down I heard it. I'll never get that sound out of my mind."

  I shivered and closed my eyes. There was no emotion in me anymore—only a numbness that would never really go away.

/>   His unsteady voice went on and on. "She must have died instantly. The whole front of her face ... My mind began to work fast. If I could make the police think it was my wife who had died in the accident, then I could hide Helen's body and nobody would know. That way Donna would be the one missing and they'd ask you questions, not me.

  "The wreckage was saturated with gasoline. I—I threw a match into it. The fire couldn't hurt her, Clay. She was already dead. I swear it. Then I went up to the car and looked through it for something of Helen's I could leave near the scene.

  "I came back here," he went on tonelessly, "and hid Helen's body. And all the time thoughts kept spinning through my head. Nobody must doubt that it was Helen in that car. If I could just convince you that Donna was not only alive after the accident, but that she had gone away...

  "It came to me almost at once. I don't know from where. Maybe when staying alive depends on quick thinking, another part of your mind takes over. Miss Kemper would have to help me—"

  I waved a hand, stopping him. "I know all about that. She told me. And for Christ's sake stop calling her Miss Kemper! You've been sleeping with her—remember?"

  He was staring at me. "She told you? Why? I was sure—"

  "You made a mistake," I said. "That note you signed Donna's name to was typed on the office machine. When I found that out I called on your Miss Kemper. She told me enough to get me started on the right track."

  The gun was very steady in his hand now. Hollows deepened under his cheeks. "You—you told the police?"

  "Certainly."

  He shook his head. "No. You didn't tell them. They would be here now if you had." He stood up slowly, with a kind of quiet agony. "I'm sorry, Clay."

  My throat began to tighten. "The hell with being sorry. I know. I'm the only one left. The only one who can put you in that gas chamber out at San Quentin. Now you make it number three."

  His face seemed strangely at peace. "I've told you what happened. I wanted you to hear it from me, exactly the way it happened. I wanted you to know I couldn't deliberately kill anyone."

  He turned the gun around and reached out and laid it in my hand. He said, "I suppose you had better call the police now."

  I looked stupidly down at the gun and then back at him. He had forgotten me. He settled back on the couch and put his hands gently down on his knees and stared past me at the night sky beyond the windows.

  I wanted to feel sorry for him. But I couldn't. It was too soon. Maybe some day I would be able to.

  After a while I got up and went into the bedroom and put through the call.

  THE LADY SAYS DIE!

  1953: Mickey Spillane

  MICKEY (born FRANCIS MORRISON) SPILLANE (1918–2006) was born in Brooklyn, New York, and raised in a tough neighborhood in Elizabeth, New Jersey. He sold his first stories to the top American magazines at the age of seventeen, then switched to pulp magazines and comic books; he was one of the creators of superheroes Captain Marvel and Captain America. He took time out for World War II, in which he flew combat missions and trained pilots for the Air Force, then he returned to continue his writing career while also becoming a trampoline performer for Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus and working with the Federal Bureau of Investigation to break up a narcotics ring.

  Spillane created his most famous character, Mike Hammer, for a comic book, but when the publisher failed he converted the story and hero into a novel, I, the Jury (1947), which became a national phenomenon, selling many millions of copies, as did his next six books. At one time, his first seven books all ranked among the top-ten best-selling novels in U.S. history. While most critics savaged them, partly because of their relatively (for the time) graphic depictions of violence and references to sex, partly because of his avowed right-wing patriotism, readers loved him, and the objectivist philosopher Ayn Rand wrote of him admiringly, comparing reading his books to listening to a military band in a public park. Most of his early novels were made into motion pictures, including I, the Jury (1953), with Biff Elliot as Hammer; the noir classic Kiss Me Deadly (1955), with Ralph Meeker as Hammer; and The Girl Hunters (1963), in which Spillane himself played the detective. The Mystery Writers of America named him a Grand Master for lifetime achievement in 1995.

  Although Spillane was a better novelist than short story writer, his name on a magazine cover was certain to increase circulation; he was eagerly pursued for new works and was often accommodating. "The Lady Says Die!" originally appeared in the October 1953 issue of Manhunt, the ultimate hard-boiled digest magazine of its time.

  ***

  THE STOCKY MAN handed his coat and hat to the attendant and went through the foyer to the main lounge of the club. He stood in the doorway for a scant second, but in that time his eyes had seen all that was to be seen; the chess game beside the windows, the foursome at cards, and the lone man at the rear of the room sipping a drink.

  He crossed between the tables, nodding briefly to the card players, and went directly to the back of the room. The other man looked up from his drink with a smile. "Afternoon, Inspector. Sit down. Drink?"

  "Hello, Dunc. Same as you're drinking."

  Almost languidly, the fellow made a motion with his hand. The waiter nodded and left. The inspector settled himself in his chair with a sigh. He was a big man, heavy without being given to fat. Only his high shoes proclaimed him for what he was. When he looked at Chester Duncan he grimaced inwardly, envying him his poise and manner, yet not willing to trade him for anything.

  Here, he thought smugly, is a man who should have everything, yet has nothing. True, he has money and position, but the finest of all things, a family life, was denied him. And with a brood of five in all stages of growth at home, the inspector felt that he had achieved his purpose in life.

  The drink came and the inspector took his, sipping it gratefully. When he put it down he said, "I came to thank you for that, er ... tip. You know, that was the first time I've ever played the market."

  "Glad to do it," Duncan said. His hands played with the glass, rolling it around in his palms. His eyebrows shot up suddenly, as though he was amused at something. "I suppose you heard all the ugly rumors."

  A flush reddened the inspector's face. "In an offhand way, yes. Some of them were downright ugly." He sipped his drink again and tapped a cigarette on the side table. "You know," he said, "if Walter Harrison's death hadn't been so definitely a suicide, you might be standing an investigation right now."

  Duncan smiled slowly. "Come now, Inspector. The market didn't budge until after his death, you know."

  "True enough. But rumor has it that you engineered it in some manner." He paused long enough to study Duncan's face. "Tell me, did you?"

  "Why should I incriminate myself?"

  "It's over and done with. Harrison leaped to his death from the window of a hotel room. The door was locked, and there was no possible way anyone could have gotten in that room to give him a push. No, we're quite satisfied that it was suicide, and everybody that ever came in contact with Harrison agrees that he did the world a favor when he died. However, there's still some speculation about you having a hand in things."

  "Tell me, Inspector, do you really think I had the courage or the brains to oppose a man like Harrison, and force him to kill himself?"

  The inspector frowned, then nodded. "As a matter of fact, yes. You did profit by his death."

  "So did you." Duncan laughed.

  "Ummmm."

  "Though it's nothing to be ashamed about," Duncan added. "When Harrison died, the financial world naturally expected that the stocks he financed were no good and tried to unload. It so happened that I was one of the few who knew they were as good as gold and bought while I could. And, of course, I passed the word on to my friends. Somebody had might as well profit by the death of a ... a rat."

  Through the haze of the smoke, Inspector Early saw his face tighten around the mouth. He scowled again, leaning forward in his chair. "Duncan, we've been friends quite a while. I
'm just cop enough to be curious and I'm thinking that our late Walter Harrison was cursing you just before he died"

  Duncan twirled his glass around. "I've no doubt of it," he said. His eyes met the inspector's. "Would you really like to hear about it?"

  "Not if it means your confessing to murder. If that has to happen, I'd much rather you spoke directly to the DA."

  "Oh, it's nothing like that at all. No, not a bit, Inspector. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't do a thing that would impair either my honor or reputation. You see, Walter Harrison went to his death through his own greediness."

  The inspector settled back in his chair. The waiter came with drinks to replace the empties and the two men toasted each other silently.

  "Some of this you probably know already, Inspector," Duncan said ...

  Nevertheless, I'll start at the beginning and tell you everything that happened. Walter Harrison and I met in law school. We were both young and not too studious. We had one thing in common and only one. Both of us were the products of wealthy parents who tried their best to spoil their children. Since we were the only ones who could afford certain—er—pleasures, we naturally gravitated to each other, though when I think back, even at that time, there was little true friendship involved.

  It so happened that I had a flair for my studies, whereas Walter didn't give a damn. At examination time, I had to carry him. It seemed like a big joke at the time, but actually I was doing all the work while he was having his fling around town. Nor was I the only one he imposed upon in such a way. Many students, impressed with having his friendship, gladly took over his papers. Walter could charm the devil himself if he had to.

  And quite often he had to. Many's the time he's talked his way out of spending a weekend in jail for some minor offense — and I've even seen him twist the dean around his little finger, so to speak. Oh, but I remained his loyal friend. I shared everything I had with him, including my women, and even thought it amusing when I went out on a date and met him, only to have him take my girl home.