Detour

by Martin M. Goldsmith

  “Go on, go on. You haven't the guts to call them!”

  But, folks, she did. And if it was a bluff, it was a good one; because I fell for it, and that is exactly how it happened. She went to the phone, began calling the police and I strangled her to death.

  Accidentally, though. Much as I feared and hated her, the last thing I wanted was for her to die. I was in enough trouble, liable to be suspected of a murder, without actually committing one. But when I heard her ask Information for the number of the Hollywood police station, heard her repeat it and heard her dial it, I rushed across the room and tried to get the receiver from her hand. Somehow, as we struggled for the thing, her throat got in the way. I grabbed on to it and squeezed. It was soft, much softer than I'd dreamed; because when she let the phone fall and slumped against me, I noticed the marks of my fingers, blue and deep. I let go of her then and she dropped to the floor. God, it's easy to kill a person.

  The world is full of skeptics. I know. I'm one myself. In the Haskell business, how many of you would have believed me if I had allowed myself to be arrested and brought to trial? And now, after killing Vera without really meaning to do it, how many of you would believe it wasn't premeditated? In a jury room, every last one of you would go down shouting that she had me over a barrel and my only out was force. Accidents are accidents, mistakes are mistakes, but coincidence is baloney, no matter how you spell it.

  All this became immediately clear to me in the minutes or seconds or hours that I stood over Vera's body, staring at it. I was like a kid, admiring his first bicycle—only it wasn't a bicycle and I wasn't admiring it. I was amazed and dreadfully shocked at what I saw.

  The room was still, so quiet that for a time I wondered if I had suddenly gone deaf. Then, gradually, as my senses returned, sounds began to fill my ears: the rumble of a bus on Sunset Boulevard, the whine of a vacuum cleaner, the sour notes of a trumpet being practiced somewhere in the building, the blasting voice of a radio politician. All this added to my astonishment. Here I had just snuffed out a human life as easily as falling off a log and the world was going on the same as always. The sun was still shining, the birds singing, the people eating, sleeping, working, making love, spanking their children, patting their dogs. It was undeniable proof that man is unimportant in the scheme of things, that one life more or less doesn't make a hell of a difference. Yet to me, who had taken a life and whose own life hung in the balance, this was crazy. God Almighty, I thought, man is important. A few seconds ago Vera was alive. Blood ran through her veins; saliva was in her mouth; she could feel things: the tickling sensation that made her cough now and then, the pimple on the lobe of her left ear.

  Now she lay still and dead. That must mean something. It must! Why, if I died... But I couldn't imagine myself dying. I couldn't imagine not being me any more.

  These thoughts ran through my mind rapidly and I could barely keep myself from running to the window and shouting, “Pipe down! Shut up! Don't you realize someone died? How would you like to die, you heartless sons of bitches?”

  I was hysterical—but without making a sound. My eyes clung to Vera as she lay twisted on the floor, her legs sprawled out awkwardly. Her face was flushed. Her hands, crossed on her breast with the fingers at her throat, were stiff as boards. The fingers themselves were bloodstained—which made me conscious for the first time that my wrists were aching. Looking at them, I saw that they were scratched to ribbons. Believe me, if I could have laughed, I would have. Now I was Charles Haskell to a 'T. As Vera kicked off she had added the final touch. It was only three minutes by Haskell's watch, strapped to the dead woman's wrist, that I stood there looking down at her. It seemed hours. Her hair had fallen across her face, so, thank God, I couldn't see her eyes; but her mouth was a little open, as if she had been struggling to yell “Copper!” when death came. The little whore. I wasn't sorry she was dead; just sorry it was me who killed her. After a time, my eyes reluctantly left Vera and traveled around the room. It was in disorder for we hadn't straightened up after our drinking-bout the night before. Cigarette stubs were strewn on the carpet, some of them with lipstick on them. There was a broken glass by the couch. My pyjamas lay in a corner where I'd tossed them. The telephone was still on the floor with the receiver off the hook. Something warned me that it might be a good idea to replace it. Nevertheless, I couldn't budge.

  I was aware that now, since I was undoubtedly a murderer, I had better be a successful one and not get caught. What evidence there was about the place had to be destroyed—and from the looks of things there was plenty. In a book, the murderer generally tries to pin the crime on someone else, the rat. Well, I didn't have anyone I could pin it on, so that was out. What first? Finger-prints. Surely everything was lousy with them. But where to begin? Where?

  I started to wipe a table before I saw the phone, and then I began wondering if fingerprints can be detected in human flesh. I was nervous. My heart was sinking so fast it hurt. I thought that if only I could compose myself and treat it like a game, maybe I'd get away with it. I'd get a sheet or a blanket first and cover Vera up....

  But as soon as I made a move towards the bedroom, the full realization dawned on me. There was no way out of this. I could polish off prints for ten years but there'd always be witnesses. The landlady, for one. She could identify me. Although we rented the place early in the evening and the transaction took place in a dim room without a light and Vera had done most of the talking, she most certainly noticed me. Then too, there was the car dealer. He could identify me. After Vera's demonstration of temper he wouldn't be likely to forget us for a long while. And the police. They might have received the call Vera put through. Even now they might be tracing it.

  I listened for the sound of sirens.... Yes! That was one now! And it seemed to be coming.... No, no. That wasn't a police siren. Only that damned vacuum cleaner.

  My nerves were shot to pieces. While once I had remained beside a dead body, planning carefully how to avoid being accused of murdering him, this time I couldn't. This time I was guilty—knew I was guilty and felt it. Stupid or not, I couldn't help doing the thing which once before I had managed not to do.

  I ran.

  VI. SUE HARVEY

  WHEN a person you have been very fond of passes away, you are supposed to cry—so I cried. However, hypocritical as it may seem, I didn't feel much like crying. I guess I was never really in love with Alex, for when I read he had been found dead in a ditch I was more relieved than anything else. It made things much less complicated. The article in the paper immediately blew away whatever fog had been obscuring my true feelings. I was very, very sorry about Alex—but it was Raoul I loved.

  It is strange how something pretty terrible must happen before we can accurately analyze things and place them in their proper grooves. If Alex had remained alive, I might have gone on for years thinking I loved him. I might even have married him. Things we have grown accustomed to in this life we cling to long after they have ceased to function. It took the news of Alex's death to make me conscious he was only a friend.

  Of course there is always a certain amount of sadness connected with a death—especially such a horrible one as had overtaken Alex. Nevertheless, it surprised and even annoyed me a little to find that Ewy, who had never even met the man, was taking it a good deal harder than I was. We were seated on the living-room divan with our arms around each other, and she was weeping on my neck rather than me weeping on hers.

  In a picture, when the heroine's brother or boy friend dies—in an airplane or performing some act of bravery in the war—the accepted reaction no longer calls for a copious flow of tears, bosom beating and hair-tearing. That went over big in the silent days. Now there is little more than a perceptible stiffening of the shoulders, a dullness about the eyes, and some graceful, expressive gesture. In close-up, the mouth may twitch a trifle—but no more than just that. Whether this is how a person would react in real life or not, I don't know, never having experienced a truly overwhelming sor
row. The news that Alex was dead came as a shock—but after the shock passed there was nothing.

  I am not trying to excuse myself for this cold blooded attitude by reminding you that in the four or five months I had been separated from him he had gone out of my life entirely. Nevertheless, such was the case. Hollywood is a peculiar spot. Once you're here, everything and everyone outside seems to be at the other end of the world. Live in Hollywood for a short while and then try to go home. You'll never be contented again. A week here will find you infected with that curious unrest that is so much a part of everyone in the colony. I could understand now why I seldom wrote letters to him. I had imagined that this was because I had nothing of interest to report, little dreaming that we were in the act of drifting apart and approaching permanent estrangement. His own letters to me, while always welcome, I now realized meant no more than a temporary escape from my problems.

  So Alex was dead, poor lamb. And murdered. Well, this was not surprising. A violent death was quite in keeping since all his life Alex had been a pugnacious sort, picking fights with people upon the slightest provocation. I remembered the time he had been fired from his job for just such antics. Imagine hitting a customer—and on the dance-floor, of all places. Oh, he thought he was doing me a favor, of course, upholding my honor and all that sort of rubbish. In reality, if he'd only known it, it caused nothing but trouble. Bellman warned me that if I had any more admirers with tempers like that he'd have to dispense with my services. Why do men persist in the belief that women relish brutality? That type of thing went out with the Stone Age.

  And that he should have died in Arizona also was not very surprising. Without a doubt he had been on his way out to see me, as I had begged him to do many times. From the looks of things, he had met up with bad company, become involved in a brawl on the road and someone had blackjacked him.

  My motto has and always will be: What is done is done. Therefore, after several minutes allotted to getting over the shock, I dabbed at my eyes and ceased thinking of him. He had been very sweet and considerate; but people die every day and, no matter how much they may have meant, life, like the show, must go on.

  Now I would have to concentrate on Raoul, whom I loved. If he in turn loved me—as I was positive he did—he must marry me before leaving for New York. Hollywood was more sickening than ever. The studios were still impregnable fortresses, so near and yet so far beyond reach. Then, too, I suddenly remembered I no longer had a job. Damn Selma.

  Well, I mused, maybe it was for the best. Back East I could land something in a minute, and with Raoul appearing in the new Harris production we'd be doing fine. But no more ruining my arches for Bellman. I'd wait until something decent turned up—a show job, or even a spot in the Paradise Restaurant chorus. This decided, and with my mind made up to be gone from Hollywood in a week, I began contemplating married life as Mrs. Kildare. But would he be willing to marry me? That was a dubious point. For some reason people in the profession regard marriage as a snare which is set to trap and extract their various personalities. The very thought of sacred bonds west of Vermont Avenue is abhorrent.

  Well, abhorrent or not, Raoul would marry me or I'd know the reason why. I'd think of angles. I patted Ewy on the head, pushed her away gently and rose from the divan.

  “Get me up in the morning, honey,” I said softly. “Before you leave for the studio be sure I'm out of bed. And now we'd better turn in. It's after three.”

  As I led her into the bedroom, still weeping, she turned towards me. “God, you're taking it bravely,” she choked.

  There are various ruses a girl may employ in wooing a man to the point of proposal. These are not new innovations, despite the hypocrisy of our grandmothers. Women have chosen and pursued their men since the beginning of time although they have graciously permitted the victim the misconception that they merely submitted.

  On my way to the hospital the next afternoon I considered these methods, discarding the most effective at once because it is nasty. Not only that, it defeats its own purpose. Sooner or later the man is bound to discover he has been duped and will see to it that life is made miserable for the girl—unless, of course, she really has a baby.

  The second of these is purely psychological: play up to the fellow's ego (they all have them); make him conscious how weak and helpless you are to battle life alone; paint a grim picture of your present surroundings, taking pains of course, to hide your new fur coat; and make the future look exceedingly black—at the same time insisting that you thoroughly dislike the idea of marriage. But, by all means, never let him suspect you are leading him on.

  And, lastly, is complete frankness—disarming if inadvisable, however a great time-saver. I decided that since the time element was so important to me—not having a job or even the remotest prospect of one—I'd come right out and tell him bluntly I wanted him to marry me. If he loved me he wouldn't find this objectionable. If he didn't—well, plenty of time to think of that later.

  Still, in all I was a little timid about proposing cold. I was brought up in the crinoline tradition. Ladies, to my mother's way of thinking, should be little more than animated dishcloths, tea-pourer's and bridge-fiends. Even on Leap Year she would have committed hara-kiri before asking an old friend to dance with her. Her instructions were that I take what I want only when it was formally offered to me, replete with red tape and Emily Post. Consequently, you can understand, it was a mighty nervous girl who stood beside Raoul's wheel-chair on the hospital sunroof.

  “Why, what is it, darling?” he asked. “You're jumpy as a cat. Is something troubling you?”

  Knowing now that I loved him, he had regained much of his poise, his sense of humor and his phony English accent. However, now he had a sincerity about him and the overbearing manner to which I objected before was missing.

  “No-o-o,” I replied.

  What was the sense, trying to kid myself. I couldn't do it. Each time I came to the point I stopped. It wasn't that I was bashful, exactly; it was just that I knew I couldn't make it sound right. Putting a hand on his arm, looking him squarely in the eye and saying: “Will you marry me?” was a speech for a man or for a Lesbian.

  “That's good, sweetheart. Everything's going to be all right from now on. Once we get to New York....”

  A good sign. Knock wood. I was going to New York with him.

  “... and I land that part in the Harris show, we'll be sitting on top of the world.”

  “Won't we though?” I sighed, loud enough for him to hear me. “It'll be swell, being together.”

  “Scrumptious. ”

  “We've got to make plans.”

  “Yes. Oh, I've made some already. I'll have to get two new tires for the Caddy before we leave. Retreads. And say, I'm short a suitcase. Have you room in your luggage for my tennis and riding kit?”

  “Of course. I'm going to throw out a lot of my junk. I need new clothes and plenty of them. Oh, Raoul, isn't it wonderful! Just think how seldom two people who love each other come together. It's so lucky our paths crossed. Why, if I hadn't taken that temporary job at Bloomberg's—as I almost didn't—and you hadn't driven in...”

  “I would never have met you.”

  “Wouldn't it have been awful?”

  “I can't conceive of it.”

  “We should be so grateful, darling. And I know everything's going to turn out fine for us. Just think—only the two of us.”

  He bit his lip absently. “Yes, the two of us...”

  “You and I...” I murmured, lowering my eyes a la Merle Oberon and squeezing his hand. Hope, at the moment, was strong. I took note of his furrowed brows indicating deep thought, and of his mouth which he opened and shut several times as if he was starting to say something.

  “Sue,” he said at last, after a few minutes of silence, “I'd like to ask you—”

  “Yes?” Breathlessly, breathlessly, breathlessly. Surely now he was about to pop that welcome question. Or wasn't he?

  “I'd like to as
k you if you think it's wise paying my back Guild dues, seeing that I'm leaving for New York?”

  I dropped his hand and turned to face him squarely. That was all I needed. “Raoul. Are you or are you not going to marry me?” I demanded.

  He gaped at me speechlessly for a minute, his face registering perfectly all the emotions necessary to an actor: surprise, horror, pathos, humor. He didn't seem to know what to say, whether to laugh, cry, or both.

  “Do... do you mean it?” he managed to get out.

  “Of course I mean it!”

  “Yes, yes. I... I rather thought you did. Well...” He paused, fumbling for words. His face was pale and drawn. But I was in no mood for evasion. He was on the spot and I intended to keep him there until I got a definite answer. “Well what? Are you or not?”

  “Why... why, yes. Yes, of course, Sue. Only...”

  I kissed him on the mouth. “Oh, Raoul you've made me so happy. I never knew I could love anyone like this.”

  “I love you, too. Only Sue...”

  “We can go down-town as soon as you're discharged from here and get the license. It takes three days, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  I kissed him again and this time I really enjoyed it. However, I noticed that he was pulling away from me slightly.

  “Now wait a minute, Sue. There's something you don't understand. We can't get married immediately.”

  “Of course we can't, silly. In California you have to wait....

  “Anywhere we'd have to wait. You're forgetting, aren't you?”

  “Forgetting what?”

  “Selma. We were never divorced.”

  The world came up and hit me on the chin. Selma. Selma, of all people. She was his wife.

  “We're only separated, you know.”

  “Oh.”

  “Now you understand, don't you?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand perfectly.”