I took a deep breath and stared at the black bunting on the walls. “All right, I believe you.”
“Good,” he said. “Now what are we going to do about it?”
I stood up and started pacing the carpetless floor in front of the settee. “Someone must have convinced Preston that he'd killed Cindy Ann. Probably because she was murdered and I was asking embarrassing questions and they needed a patsy to take the fall for her death.”
“That's what I think, too. And I know who set him up and who planted those disgusting pictures.”
“Laurie?”
“It's her kind of fun,” Tray said.
“All right. So, let's say Laurie dropped by Preston's apartment some time before I was scheduled to arrive. She brings the pictures with her and tells Preston he killed Cindy Ann in a drunken rage. Would that be enough to drive him to suicide? You knew the man. What do you say?”
“I don't think so,” Leach said. “He was impressionable, certainly. And he was easily manipulated and impulsive. But, I don't think that mere words would have driven him to shoot himself. She must have shown him something terrible—something that broke his spirit. Because when he left here on Sunday night, he was ready to cooperate with you. When he left here, he really thought he was going to get Cindy Ann back. He was very happy. Like a boy.”
“So Laurie shows up and, instead of Cindy Ann, she's brought something—a picture, a slide, something—that makes Preston think he's killed Cindy Ann.”
“She must be dead,” Leach said.
“Seems likely, although it could have been faked.”
“Look,” Leach said suddenly. “Would you please sit down! You're driving me crazy pacing around like that.”
“Sorry.” I plopped down into a creaky Queen Anne chair and Tray's face collapsed with pain.
“That's a valuable antique!” he groaned.
I put my right hand on the armrest, dangled my left, and tried to think of ways to prove that Cindy Ann had not been killed by Preston LaForge. It would have been nice if I could have asked her what had happened to her on that bleary festive night. But how can you ask a dead girl how she died? You can't, I thought, but it gave me an idea.
“When's the last time you did business with the Jellicoes?” I said to Leach.
“Three weeks before that party. Over a month, now.”
“Are you still on their preferred list?”
He shrugged. “As far as I know.”
I studied his old man-young man face. It was grim and abstracted. I knew the look. I'd had it on my own face the night before. He'd lost someone he'd loved, and he was meditating revenge.
“How badly do you want to strike back at the Jellicoes?” I said.
“Badly enough.”
“Enough to take a chance?”
“What's on your mind?”
“Give them a call. They're still in business. At least, they were as of last night. Place an order for this evening. Take delivery and . . . well, you do what you have to do.”
“That's all?”
“That's enough. Remember they're going to be very cautious now. Especially with you, since you were so close to LaForge.”
“And where do you fit in?”
“Not in. Out.” I pointed through the black bunting to the street. “Right out there. Someone has to deliver the child and someone has to pick him up. And when that someone picks him up, he'll have to take him back to wherever they keep the rest of the children.”
Tray Leach's face brightened. “I see. You'll follow him.”
“That's it. If Cindy Ann is dead, there will be other children there who knew her and who were at that party. Maybe they know what became of her. The only problem is getting in and getting to talk to one of them.”
“That may not be easy, given the current situation.”
“Leave that to me,” I said. “If I get there, I'll get in. Your job is to make sure that the Jellicoes make delivery. And remember, Tray. If they do get wise to us, whoever comes tonight will be coming to kill you.”
23
IT WAS almost five o'clock when I got back to the Delores. Jo was up and sitting, Indian-style, in a patch of sunlight on the living room floor, sorting papers into neat stacks. She had a terry robe cinched around her and, in the sunlight, with her black hair dishevelled and the white swell of her breast just visible through the folds of her robe, she looked like a teenage girl dreaming over a pile of letters.
“How old are you?” I said to her from the door.
She looked up and squinted in the sunlight. “That's a helluva question to ask a person. I'm twenty-eight. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“It'll never work,” she said and looked back down at the stack of papers.
“Find anything interesting?” I walked into the kitchenette and took the bottle of Scotch and two tumblers from the top of the refrigerator.
“You mean aside from the brass knuckles, the blackjack, the machine gun, and the carton of grenades?”
“Did you find my pistols?” I said, walking back into the living room.
She pointed distastefully at the desk top. A snub-nosed .38 and a .357 magnum with a checked walnut stock and vented barrel gleamed dully in the sun.
I poured two drinks, handed her one, and plopped down on the couch.
“Anything new?” I said, sipping the drink.
“Hugo called.”
I sighed heavily. “That's not new. When?”
“Around four.” She looked up and squinted again. “He's back in town, Harry. He wants you to come see him.”
“What!” I almost spilled the drink as I slammed it down on the table in front of me. “That stupid old man,” I said as I walked to the phone.
“He didn't sound well to me,” Jo said. “I'm worried about him, Harry. He said his head had hurt him all the way back from Dayton.”
“That's just an act,” I said.
“I don't think so. He had me so worked up that I almost called a cab and went over there myself. But I thought I'd better wait for you.”
“If this turns out to be one of his cons . . .”
Jo looked at me disdainfully.
“All right. We'll take a look.”
While Jo was dressing in the bedroom, I fished through the junk on the floor and located two holsters—a shoulder model and a quick release belt-holster made for a .38. I clipped the belt holster on and glanced at the pistols. Both were relatively clean and fully loaded. I tucked the snub-nosed Police Special at my waist and put the heavier and more lethal magnum in the shoulder holster. Then I stripped off my coat and gingerly worked the harness up over my weak arm and across my back.
“Let's get going,” Jo said as she walked back into the room. When she saw me standing there with the harness half-on, her mouth dropped open and she said, “My God.”
“Can't be too careful these days,” I said with an attempt at a smile.
She wasn't having any of it.
“You're going to get yourself killed,” she said with awful certainty, as if it were something she had known all along but never before admitted to herself. “I love you and you're going to get yourself killed.” She dropped both arms to her sides and gaped at me in disbelief. “Why?”
I slipped the jacket back on and emptied a box of shells into my coat pocket. “I don't know why,” I said.
“Surely you can do better than that?” she said, coloring. “I don't understand. You could turn it over to the police. Why don't you turn it over to the police?”
“Because they'd botch it.”
“While you, Harry Stoner, the man they can't keep down . . .” Her voice died. “I love you. Doesn't that mean anything to you?”
“It means everything to me.”
“Then why . . .” She scoured her eyes with her palms. “I won't take it,” she said flatly. “I've already lost one man to senseless violence. I won't take two.”
“You're not making this any easier for me,” I said
angrily. “I'm doing it because I have to do it. Because I can't just turn my back and pretend that I don't care why a deranged teenager with a soft heart was murdered. Look—three people are dead. One of them at my hands. And if I hadn't been damn lucky last night, it could have been four or five.” Suddenly I was very angry. I gripped her by the wrists and glared into her face. “How do you think I felt last night, tossing you in the goddamn bushes and watching that shotgun shell burst behind me and wondering if you were being torn apart by it? Do you think I'd let anyone do that to me? Do you? Do you think I'd let anyone try to kill me or someone I love? Do you?”
“You're hurting me!” she squealed.
I dropped her wrists. “Are you coming?”
She didn't look up at me as she swept out the door.
******
We drove in silence over to North Clifton, Jo sitting sternly by the window. Her face rapt and cheerless. Twice I started to apologize, but held back. She didn't want to be disabused and I didn't want to explain it.
It took me ten minutes to get to Cornell. I turned left and drove up that maple-shaded street, full of picturesque houses and calm, tree-filtered sunlight, and pulled into the driveway by the hedge of rosebushes. The air was thick with late afternoon sun and heavy with that dead, ghost-filled silence that had weighed on me five days before, when I'd first driven up Cornell to donate half an hour's time to a crusty old man who'd lost his little girl and didn't know where to find her.
We walked up to the porch, where the swing and the lawn chairs huddled mournfully in the shade, and down that crabbed hallway to Hugo's flat.
I knocked once at the door and it opened under the weight of my hand. The old man must have had another key on him. Or left one with his friend George.
He was sleeping in the chair with the yellow throw. The T.V. was talking to him idly from the flecked metal stand. His face looked pallid and ill.
“Hugo?” I said.
He opened his watery blue eyes and smiled at me. “Hello, Harry.”
“Hugo, why didn't you stay in Dayton like I asked you to?”
“Couldn't stand it no more. Too damn loud and busy.” He grimaced suddenly and rubbed his temple. “Man, my head hurts.”
“You're not playing around Hugo? You're not pulling a trick, are you?”
He smiled through the pain. “No, Harry. No trick this time. I think this time, the trick's going to be on me. I shouldn't have exerted myself like I done. Went and gave myself another stroke.”
Jo walked to the telephone on the octagonal table. “I'm calling an ambulance,” she said hoarsely.
“Getting loose of that damn Ralph is what done it to me. You know I had to pay one of his snot-nosed kids three bucks to get himself lost for a couple of hours? Ralph's such a milquetoast he got all excited—just like I figured he would—and went off looking for Kevin. Then it was just a matter of getting my bag packed and hiking down to the terminal.” Hugo laughed remorsefully. “But I went and lost that damn bag in the depot and made myself sick on the ride sitting in the sun.” He closed his eyes and sat back in the chair. “I told you I wasn't going to survive this thing. And I was right.”
“If you'd have stayed there, damn it, you'd be O.K.”
He opened his eyes and looked over at me. “Did you find her, Harry? Did you find my little girl? Don't lie to me, now, son. It don't make no difference any more. I ain't going to survive this in one piece no matter how you slice it. And I got to know. I got to know while it still makes sense to me. In a few hours, I'm going to be a stalk of celery. I know. It happened like this before. And then the truth won't move me one way or another.”
Jo touched his hand and he smiled at her. “Don't get yourself worked up, honey. It may sound strange, but I ain't scared of this anymore. It just don't matter to me. I been to Dayton. I seen what being old is like. Didn't fancy it a bit. Knew I wouldn't. Always been a loner, 'cept for George and Cindy Ann.” He swallowed hard. “She's dead, ain't she, Harry? My Cindy Ann?”
I smiled at him and said, “Hell no! She's not dead. If you'd have just stayed in Dayton awhile longer, I would have come up there and told you all about it.”
He perked up a bit. “She ain't dead?”
I shook my head. “But you were right about the Jellicoes. They were using her as a prostitute in Newport. It's a long story, but I found out through one of the Jellicoes’ other girls that Cindy wanted to quit and run. This friend worked with her in Newport. And helped her get away.”
“Where'd she go?”
“The girl says Denver.”
A twinge of pain made him grimace. “Boy, I hope you're telling me the truth. Sure enough, she ain't dead?”
“Yep.”
“I don't see why she had to run away like that. I'd have protected her from them damn bastards myself.”
“I guess she didn't want to see you get hurt,” I said softly.
“Could be,” he said, thinking it through. “She was always one to think of others before she thought of herself. You going to be able to find her?”
“I'll find her all right,” I said cheerfully.
He chuckled and said, “I believe you will. You'll tell her when you find her that I loved her, won't you, Harry?”
I didn't say anything.
“Here's the ambulance,” Jo called from the window.
A minute later, two uniformed attendants knocked on the door. They wheeled a gurney into the room and Hugo said, “Aw hell, I don't need that.” He started to get up and sat back, stunned, in the chair. “Well, maybe, I'd better,” he said sheepishly.
I helped him out of the chair and over to the stretcher. He was a bag of sticks beneath that cardigan and those loose khaki slacks.
They strapped him on and, suddenly, Hugo looked terribly frightened. “You weren't lying to me, were you, Harry?”
“No, Hugo.”
He sighed. “Goddamn, ridiculous way to die, ain't it? Being carried out to it like a cord of kindling. So long, Harry,” he said, holding up a hand.
I held it for a few seconds and he smiled that sickly, broken-toothed smile. “Let go of my hand, now,” he said softly. “Never was crazy about being touched by another man.”
“I'll come visit you tomorrow, Hugo.”
“Sure you will,” he said.
The attendants took him out the door.
Jo started after them. “I'm going to ride down there with him.”
She paused at the door. “I don't suppose it'll do any good to say be careful. Or to try to convince you not to do ... whatever it is you're going to do?”
I shook my head.
She started to cry. “Then I don't know what to say.”
They were wheeling Hugo into the ambulance. Jo squeezed my hand once and whispered, “Goodbye, Harry.” Then walked quickly out the door. I watched her from the bay as she climbed in beside Hugo and, in a minute, both of them were gone.
******
I circled among the narrow, San Franciscan streets of Mt. Adams until night fell, then dropped down St. Martin's to Paradrome and up to Ida, where I parked beneath an arching willow some three houses down from Tray Leach's home. I'd bought five styrofoam cups full of coffee at a little grocery on St. Regis, and, as I sat there watching the western sky go purple and then deep blue, I flipped the plastic lid off one of them. It was bad, bitter coffee. But I was feeling numb and disoriented after Cornell Street and I had to keep alert all night long, if I was going to bring this thing off. I had a few bennies in a prescription bottle in my slacks. If worse came to worse, I'd pop them, although I didn't want to have to do that. On speed you think too much of the first thing that comes into your head. I pried the lid off another cup of coffee and sat back in the car seat and tried, unsuccessfully, not to think about Jo or about Hugo Cratz.
Around ten, a yellow Dodge van pulled up in front of Leach's house. It was dark beneath the willows, too dark, at first, to make out the man behind the wheel. I slipped the .38 out of the holster and pulled the
hammer back. If anyone got out of that van without a kid on his arm, I was prepared to go charging across the street. I could see the blinds rustle in one of Tray's front windows and then one red door opened and a porch light clicked on. Leach came out on the stoop in a Japanese kimono and sandals and waved to whoever was driving the truck. The driver's door opened and rangy Lance Jellicoe stepped out into the street. He looked around nervously, then held his hand back up to the truck door. A much smaller hand grasped his, and Lance pulled a beautiful little boy into his arms. He smiled broadly at the kid and patted him on the rump. The kid grinned back and Lance lowered him to the ground. The little boy was about twelve, dressed in a T-shirt and short pants. His blonde hair was cut straight across the forehead, like the little Dutch boy's, and he had a vain, pretty, slightly prepossessed face—Tray's face, but thirty years younger. The boy ran around the rear of the van and up to Tray's door. Tray said something to him and he laughed. Leach took his hand, waved with the other to Jellicoe, and guided the boy into his house. The porch light went off, the red door closed, Jellicoe hopped back in the van and drove off. I ducked down beneath the window as he passed me and watched him through the rearview mirror until the truck lights disappeared down the Ida Street hillside.
I sat back up in the car seat and stared at Leach's house. It made me sick to think what was going on in there. Sick and sad and philosophical about means and ends. A bad joke that made me laugh.
I checked my watch. It was a quarter past ten. O.K., Harry, I said to myself. Only six or seven more hours and Jellicoe or his wife would be driving back up the street and out would come Junior and the chase would be on in earnest. I sipped some coffee and settled back and waited.
24
THERE WASN'T much to do for the next six hours.
I sat in the car and stared at the houses along Ida Street and listened to the faint music drifting down the hillside from Celestial. For about half an hour I watched through an attic window a young couple court and spark. She was blonde, in her early twenties, dressed in a peasant skirt and loose white blouse. He was young and fresh-faced, and he already carried himself like a businessman—bowed and brisk and rather officious-looking. They made an odd couple, and they courted politely over a china tea set before lighting candles and settling down on a divan. I don't know what happened after that. I didn't care.
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