Women Crime Writers

by Sarah Weinman

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think there’s something the matter with Douglas?”

  A trickle of sweat oozed down the side of Blackshear’s face, leaving a bright moist trail like a slug. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

  “No. No, of course not,” she said quietly. “I shouldn’t have asked. You don’t know him, really. He’s a—very sweet boy. He has many fine qualities.”

  “I’m sure he has.”

  “And he’s extremely talented, everyone says that. Harrison was so strict with him, I tried to make it up to Dougie on the side, I encouraged him to express himself.” She put the half-empty glass on the mantel and leaned closer to the fire, her bony little hands stretched out until they were almost touching the flames. “Harrison was a very cruel man sometimes. Does that surprise you?”

  “Not much. Most of us are cruel on occasion.”

  “Not the way Harrison was. He used to . . . But it doesn’t matter now. I can tell I’m depressing you.” She turned from the fire, making an obvious effort to control her emotions. “You’ve listened to my troubles, now you may tell me yours, if you like.”

  “They aren’t very interesting.”

  “All troubles are interesting. Perhaps that’s why we have them, to keep ourselves from being bored to death. Go on, tell me yours.”

  “Sorry, there isn’t time, Mrs. Clarvoe.”

  “Don’t leave yet. You haven’t seen Dougie. He’s upstairs getting dressed. Tomorrow’s his birthday. We’re having a little party at the Brown Derby.”

  While the maid waits for her salary, Blackshear thought grimly. “Wish Douglas a happy birthday for me.”

  “I will.”

  “There’s just one more thing, Mrs. Clarvoe. Do you know a young woman named Evelyn Merrick?”

  She looked surprised. “Well, of course.”

  “Of course?”

  “She’s Dougie’s wife. She was, I mean. The marriage was annulled and she took back her maiden name.”

  “She lives here in town?”

  “In Westwood. With her mother.”

  “I see.” It was as simple as that. There’d been no need to ask Miss Hudson or Terola or Harley Moore. Evelyn Merrick wasn’t a waif or a stranger. She had been Douglas Clarvoe’s wife, Helen Clarvoe’s sister-in-law. “Did Helen know the girl?”

  “Know her? Why, that’s how Douglas first met her. Evie and Helen went to a private school together years ago in Hope Ranch and Helen used to bring Evie home for week-ends. After graduation they went to different colleges and lost touch, but Evie used to come over here once in a while, mostly to see Douglas. Douglas had always adored her, she was such a lively, affectionate girl. She used to tease the life out of him but he loved it. There was never any malice in her teasing.”

  There is now, Blackshear thought. “Tell me about the wedding.”

  “Well, it was a very quiet one, being so soon after Harrison’s death. Just the family and a few friends.”

  “Was Helen there?”

  “Helen,” she said stiffly, “had already moved out. She was invited, of course, and she sent a lovely gift.”

  “But she didn’t come?”

  “No. She was ill.”

  “How ill?”

  “Really, Mr. Blackshear, I don’t know how ill. Nor did I care. I didn’t want her to come anyway. She might have ruined the wedding with that gloomy face of hers.”

  Blackshear smiled at the irony. Helen might have ruined the wedding, but Verna had ruined the marriage.

  “Besides,” Verna said, “she and Evie weren’t best friends any more, they hardly ever saw each other. They had nothing much in common, even when they were at school together. Evie was quite a bit younger, and the very opposite in temperament, full of fun and laughter.”

  “You saw her this afternoon.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she still full of fun and laughter?”

  “Not so much any more. The breakup of the marriage was hard on her. Hard on all of us. I wanted grandchildren.”

  The second drink had brought color to her face and made her eyes look like blue glass beads in a doll’s head.

  “I wanted grandchildren. I have nothing to show for my life. Nothing.”

  “You have Helen. I think perhaps the two of you have reached the stage where you need each other.”

  “We won’t discuss that again.”

  “Very well.”

  “I don’t want any advice. I hate advice. I don’t need it.”

  “What do you need, then?”

  “Money. Just money.”

  “Money hasn’t helped you much in the past. And it’s not helping Helen much now. She’s in the position of being able to indulge her neurosis instead of trying to do something about it.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “I think you’re the logical person to tell, since you’re her mother.”

  “I don’t feel like her mother. I never did, even when she was a baby. The ugliest baby you ever saw, I couldn’t believe it belonged to me. I felt cheated.”

  “You’ll always be cheated, Mrs. Clarvoe, if you put your value on the wrong things.”

  She raised her clenched right fist and took a step forward as if she meant to attack him.

  Blackshear rose to meet her. “You asked me to be impolite.”

  “I’m asking you now to get out and leave me alone.”

  “All right, I’ll go. Sorry if I’ve disturbed you.”

  Her hands dropped suddenly and she turned away with a sigh. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’ve had—it’s been a bad day.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Clarvoe.”

  “Good night. And when you see Helen, tell her—tell her hello for me.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Good night.”

  As soon as he had gone, she went upstairs to Douglas’ room, leaning heavily on the bannister for support. I must be firm, she thought. We must reach some decision.

  The door of his bedroom was open.

  “Dougie, there are some things we should . . . Dougie?”

  He had changed his clothes as she had ordered him to—the terry-cloth robe and the beaded moccasins he’d been wearing were on the floor beside the bed—but once again he’d made her regret the order. Instead of coming down to the den to meet Blackshear, he had left the house.

  She said, “Dougie,” again, but without hope. She knew he was gone, she could even visualize the scene. Douglas coming downstairs, pausing at the den door, listening, hearing his name: Do you think there’s something the matter with Douglas, Mr. Blackshear?

  She turned and moved stiffly toward the staircase. As she walked through the empty house she had a feeling that it would always be empty from now on, that the day had held a finality for Douglas as well as for herself, and he had fled the knowledge of it.

  Pressing her fists against her mouth, she thought, I mustn’t get silly and hysterical. Of course Dougie will be back. He’s gone out to get a pack of cigarettes. Or for a walk. It’s a lovely evening. He likes to walk at night and name the stars.

  The telephone in the hall began to ring. She was so sure that it was Douglas calling that she spoke his name as soon as she picked up the receiver.

  “Douglas. Where are . . . ?”

  “Is that the Clarvoe residence?”

  The voice was so muffled and low that Verna thought it was Douglas playing one of his tricks, talking through a handkerchief to disguise his identity. “Where on earth did you disappear to? Mr. Blackshear was . . .”

  “This isn’t Douglas, Mrs. Clarvoe. It’s me. Evie.”

  “Evie. What a coincidence, I was just talking about you.”

  “To whom?”

  “A friend of mine, Mr. Blackshear.”

  “Did you say nice things?”

  “Of course I did.” She hesitated. “I said hello to Douglas for you. He was very pleased.”

  “Was he?”

  “I—I know he’d love to see you.”r />
  “Would he?”

  “He said, why don’t you come over some time, we’ll talk about old times.”

  “I don’t want to talk about old times.”

  “You sound so funny, Evie. Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing. I only called to tell you something.”

  “What about?”

  “Douglas. I know you’re worried about him. You don’t know what’s the matter with him. I’d like to help you, Mrs. Clarvoe. You were always kind to me, now I will repay you.”

  She began to explain in detail what was the matter with Douglas and some of the things that went on in the rear of Mr. Terola’s studio.

  Long before she had finished, Verna Clarvoe slumped forward on the floor.

  Chapter 6

  IT WAS nine-thirty.

  The woman had been in the telephone booth for half an hour and Harry Wallaby was still waiting to call his wife in Encino and tell her the old Buick had broken down and he was going to spend the night with his brother-in-law.

  “You’d think the dame’s tongue’d drop off,” Wallaby said over his third beer.

  The bartender, a middle-aged Italian sporting a bow tie in Princeton colors, shook his head knowingly. “Not hers. The more exercise it gets, the stronger it gets. Phoneitis, that’s what she has, phoneitis.”

  “Never heard of it before.”

  “It’s like a disease, see. You gotta phone people. With her it’s bad.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Just a dame who comes in once in a while. Everytime it’s the same routine. A couple of drinks and it hits her, wham. She gets a buck’s worth of dimes and parks herself in the phone booth, and there she sits, yackity, yackity, yackity. I’ve often wondered what in hell she talks about.”

  “Why don’t you find out?”

  “You mean go over and listen?”

  “Sure.”

  “It wouldn’t look right, me being the owner and proprietor,” the bartender said virtuously.

  “The same don’t go for me. Is there a law says a guy can’t stand beside a telephone booth, innocent-like?”

  “It’s a free country.”

  “Damn right it’s a free country.”

  With an elaborate pretence of casualness, Wallaby slid off the bar stool, walked toward the front entrance as if he intended to leave, and then crept up on the telephone booth from the left side. He listened a moment, his hand cupping his ear, and returned to the bar, grinning a little sheepishly.

  The bartender raised his eyebrows in silent inquiry.

  “She’s talking about some guy called Douglas,” Wallaby said.

  “What about him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything?”

  Wallaby flushed. “I must of heard wrong. I mean, I must of. Jeez, I never heard nobody talk like that before.”

  “Well, for Pete’s sake, tell me.”

  “I need another drink first.”

  At a quarter to ten Evelyn Merrick stepped out of the telephone booth, stretched her left arm to relieve the cramp and smoothed her skirt down over her hips. Usually, after making a series of telephone calls, she felt a certain relief and relaxation, but tonight she was still excited. The blood drummed double-time in her ears and behind her eyes, and she lurched a little as she made her way back to the bar. Her old-fashioned was untouched on the counter. She didn’t pick it up, she just sat down, staring at it suspiciously, as if she thought the bartender had added something to it in her absence.

  “O.K., Wallaby,” the bartender said loudly and pointedly, “you can phone your wife now.”

  Evelyn caught his meaning at once and looked up, a flush spreading across her cheekbones. “Did I use the telephone too long?”

  “Just nearly an hour, that’s all.”

  “It’s a public phone.”

  “Sure, it’s a public phone, meaning it’s for the public, for everybody. Someone like you ties it up and the rest don’t get a chance. If this was the first time, I wouldn’t beef.”

  “Do you talk to all your customers like this?”

  “I own the joint. I talk how I please. People that don’t like it don’t gotta come back. This includes anybody.”

  “I see.” She stood up. “Is that your liquor license beside the cash register?”

  “Sure, it’s my license. Paid for and up to date.”

  “Your name’s Florian Vicente?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, good night, Mr. Vicente.”

  Vicente’s jaw dropped in astonishment at her pleasant smile and friendly tone, and he felt a little ashamed of himself for being so brusque with her. After all, she was harmless.

  Outside, the first rain of the season had begun, but Evelyn Merrick didn’t notice. She had more important things to think about. Mr. Vicente had been rude and must be taught a lesson in manners.

  She began walking along Highland toward Hollywood Boulevard, repeated the bartender’s name to imprint it on her memory. Florian Vicente. Italian. Catholic. Very likely a married man with several children. They were the easiest victims of all, the married ones with children. She thought of Bertha and Harley Moore and threw back her head and laughed out loud. The rain sprayed into her open mouth. It tasted fresh and good. It tasted better than Mr. Vicente’s old-fashioneds. Mr. Vicente should serve drinks like that. Give me a double rain, Mr. Vicente. In the morning I will phone Mrs. Vicente and tell her her husband is a pimp.

  She tripped down the slippery street, her body light and buoyant, bobbing like a cork on the convulsed seas of her emotions.

  People huddling in doorways and under awnings looked at her curiously. She knew they were thinking how unusual it was to see such a gay pretty girl running alone in the rain. They didn’t realize that the rain couldn’t touch her, she was waterproof; and only a few of the smart ones guessed the real reason why she never got tired or out of breath. Her body ran on a new fuel, rays from the night air. Occasionally one of the smart ones tried to follow her to get her secret, to watch her refueling, but these spies were quite easy to detect and she was always able to evade them. Only in the strictest privacy did she store up her rays, breathing deeply first through one nostril and then the other, to filter out the irritants.

  She turned east on the Boulevard, toward Vine Street. She had no destination in mind. Somewhere along the way there would be a small bar with a telephone.

  She hurried forward across the street, not seeing the red light until a woman yelled at her from a passing car and a man behind her grabbed her by the coat and pulled her back up on the curb.

  “Watch your step, sister.”

  She turned. The man’s face was half-hidden by the collar of his trenchcoat and the pulled-down brim of a green fedora. The hat splashed water like a fountain.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  He tipped his hat. “Welcome.”

  “You probably saved my life. I don’t know how to . . .”

  “Forget it.”

  The light turned green. He brushed past her and crossed the street.

  The whole episode had not taken more than half a minute, but already it was expanding in her mind, its cells multiplying cancerously until there was no room for reason. The half-minute became an hour, the red light was fate, the touch of his hand on her coat was an embrace. She remembered looks that hadn’t been exchanged, words that hadn’t been spoken. Lover. Dear one. Beloved. Beautiful girl.

  Oh, my dear one, wait for me. I’m coming. Wait. Lover. Lover dear.

  Soaked to the skin, exhausted, shivering, lost, she began to run again.

  People stared at her. Some of them thought she was sick, some thought she was drunk, but no one did anything. No one offered her any help.

  She refueled in an alley between a hotel and a movie house. Hiding behind a row of garbage cans, she breathed deeply first through one nostril and then the other. The only witness was a scrawny gray tomcat with incurious ambe
r eyes.

  Inhale. Hold. Count four.

  Exhale. Hold. Count three.

  It must be done slowly and with proper care. The counting was of great importance. Four and three make seven. Everything had to make seven.

  Inhale. Hold. Count four.

  By the time she had finished refueling, she had completely forgotten about lover. The last thing she remembered was Florian Vicente who had called her wicked names because she had discovered his secret, that he was a pimp. What a shock it would be to his wife when she found out. But the poor woman must be enlightened, the truth must be told at all costs, the word must be spread.

  Shaking her head in sympathy for poor Mrs. Vicente, Evelyn walked on down the alley and into the back door of the hotel bar. She had been here before.

  She ordered a martini, which had seven letters.

  A young man sitting on the next stool swung round and looked at her. “It’s still raining, eh?”

  “Yes,” she said politely. “It doesn’t matter, though.”

  “It matters to me. I’ve got to . . .”

  “Not to me. I’m waterproof.”

  The young man began to laugh. Something about the sound of his laughter and the sight of his very white, undersized teeth reminded her of Douglas.

  “I’m not joking,” she said. “I am waterproof.”

  “Good for you.” He winked at the bartender. “I wish I was waterproof, then I could get home. Tell us how you did it, lady.”

  “You don’t do anything. It happens.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  “It just happens.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  He was still laughing. She turned away. She couldn’t be bothered with such an ignorant fool who had teeth like Douglas. If he persisted, of course, if he became really rude like Mr. Vicente, she would have to get his name and teach him a lesson. Meanwhile, there was work to be done.

  She paid for the martini, and without even tasting it she approached the phone booth at the rear of the room and opened the folding door.