Her eyes seemed to focus inward, on an image in her memory. She blinked, as though the image lay under brilliant light:
“I remember the very minute I made that judgment and washed my hands of her. I walked into her room with her dinner tray, and there she was in her mink coat in front of the full-length mirror. She was loading the gun and talking to herself, about how her father abandoned her—he didn’t, he just died, but she took it personally—and how her children were running out on her. She pointed the gun at herself in the mirror, and I remember thinking she ought to turn it around and put an end to herself instead of just talking about it. I didn’t blame her son for running away. She was a burden on him, and on the whole family.
“I know that’s no excuse for me,” she added stonily. “A wicked thought is a wicked act, and it leads to wicked acts. I heard her sneak out a few minutes later, when I was making her coffee in the kitchen. I heard the car drive up and I heard it drive away. I didn’t lift a finger to stop her. I just let her go, and sat there drinking coffee with the evil wish in my heart.”
“Who was driving the car?”
“Sam Yogan. I didn’t see him go but he was back in less than an hour. He said he dropped her off at the wharf, which was where she wanted to go. Even then, I didn’t phone the police.”
“Did Yogan often drive her into town?”
“She didn’t go very often, but Sam did a lot of her driving for her. He’s a good driver, and she liked him. He was about the only man she ever liked. Anyway, he was the only one available that night.”
“Where were the rest of the family?”
“Away. The Senator and Jerry had gone to Berkeley, to try and find out where Carl was. Zinnie was staying with some friends in town here. Martha was only a few months old at the time.”
“Where was Carl?”
“Nobody knew. He kind of disappeared for a while. It turned out afterwards he was in the desert all the time, over in Death Valley. At least that was his story.”
“He could have been here in town?”
“He could have been, for all I know. He didn’t report in to me, or anybody else for that matter. Carl didn’t show up until after they found his mother in the sea.”
“When did they find her?”
“Next day.”
“Did Grantland come to see you before they found her?”
“Long before. He got to the ranch around midnight. I was still awake, I couldn’t sleep.”
“And Mrs. Hallman had left the house around dinner time?”
“Yes, around seven o’clock. She always ate at seven. That night she didn’t eat, though.”
“Had Grantland seen her between dinner time and midnight?”
“Not that I know of. I took it for granted he was looking for her. I never thought to ask him. I was so full of myself, and the guilt I felt. I just spilled out everything about her and the gun and me letting her go without a by-your-leave, and my wicked thoughts. Dr. Grantland said I was overexhausted, and blaming myself too much. She’d probably turn up all right. But if she didn’t I was to say that I didn’t know anything about any gun. That she just slipped out on me, and I took it for granted she went to town for something, maybe to see her grandchild, I didn’t know what. I wasn’t to mention him coming out here either. That way, they’d be more likely to believe me. Anyway, I did what Dr. Grantland said. He was a doctor. I’m only a special nurse. I don’t pretend to be smart.”
She let her face fall into slack and stupid folds, as if to relieve herself of responsibility. I couldn’t blame her too much. She was an old woman, worn out by her ordeal of conscience, and it was getting late.
chapter 29
ROSE PARISH came quietly into the room. She looked radiant and slightly disorganized.
“I finally got her to sleep. Goodness, it’s past eleven. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.”
“It’s all right. You didn’t keep me waiting.”
I spent most of my working time waiting, talking and waiting. Talking to ordinary people in ordinary neighborhoods about ordinary things, waiting for truth to come up to the surface. I’d caught a glimpse of it just now, and it must have showed in my eyes.
Rose glanced from me to Mrs. Hutchinson. “Has something happened?”
“I talked his arm off, that’s what happened.” The old woman’s face had resumed its peculiar closed look. “Thank you for helping out with the child. You ought to have some of your own to look after.”
Rose flushed with pleasure, then shook her head quite sharply, as if to punish herself for the happy thought. “I’d settle for Martha any day. She’s a little angel.”
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Hutchinson said.
A rattle in the street drew my attention back to the window. An old gray pickup had come off the highway. It slowed down as it passed the house, and stopped abreast of the station wagon. A slight, wiry figure got out of the truck on the righthand side and walked around the back of it to the wagon. I recognized Sam Yogan by his quick unhurried movements.
The truck was rattling away on Elmwood by the time I reached the wagon. Yogan was behind the wheel, trying to start it. It wouldn’t start for him.
“Where are you going, Sam?”
He looked up and smiled when he saw me. “Back to the ranch. Hello.”
He turned the motor over again, but it refused to catch. It sounded as though it was out of gas.
“Leave it, Sam. Get out and leave it.”
His smile widened and became resistant. “No, sir. Mrs. Hallman says take it back to the ranch.”
“Did she tell you herself?”
“No, sir. Garageman phoned Juan, Juan told me.”
“Garageman?”
“Yessir. He said Mrs. Hallman said to pick up the car on Chestnut Street.”
“How long ago did he call?”
“Not so long. Garageman says hurry up. Juan brought me in right away.”
He tried the motor again, without success. I reached across him and removed the ignition key.
“You might as well get out, Sam. The fuel line’s probably cut.”
He got out and started for the front of the hood. “I fix it, eh?”
“No. Come here.”
I opened the back door and showed him Zinnie Hallman. I watched his face. There was nothing there but an imperturbable sorrow. If he had guilty knowledge, it was hidden beyond my reach. I didn’t believe he had.
“Do you know who killed her?”
His black eyes looked up from under his corrugated forehead. “No, sir.”
“It looks like whoever did it tried to blame it on you. Doesn’t that make you mad?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t you have any idea who it was?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you remember the night old Mrs. Hallman died?”
He nodded.
“You let her off on the wharf, I believe.”
“The street in front of the wharf.”
“What was she doing there?”
“Said she had to meet somebody.”
“Did she say who?”
“No, sir. She told me go away, don’t wait. She didn’t want me to see, maybe.”
“Did she have her gun?”
“I dunno.”
“Did she mention Dr. Grantland?”
“I don’t think.”
“Did Dr. Grantland ever ask you about that night?”
“No, sir.”
“Or give you a story to tell?”
“No, sir.” He gestured awkwardly toward the body. “We ought to tell the police.”
“You’re right. You go and tell them, Sam.”
He nodded solemnly. I handed him the key to the wagon and showed him where to find the sergeant’s party. As I was starting my own car, Rose came out of the house and got in beside me. I turned onto Elmwood, bumped over the bridge, and accelerated. The arching trees passed over us with a whoosh, like giant dark birds.
“You’re in an
awful hurry,” she said. “Or do you always drive like this?”
“Only when I’m frustrated.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Did I do something to make you angry?”
“No.”
“Something has happened, hasn’t it?”
“Something is going to. Where do you want to be dropped off?”
“I don’t want to be.”
“There may be trouble. I think I can promise it.”
“I didn’t come to Purissima with the idea of avoiding trouble. I didn’t come to get killed in an auto accident, either.”
The lights at the main-street intersection were flashing red. I braked to a hard stop. Rose Parish didn’t go with the mood I was in. “Get out.”
“I will not.”
“Stop asking questions then.” I turned east toward the hills.
“I will not. Is it something about Carl?”
“Yes. Now hold the thought.”
It was an early-to-bed town. There was practically no traffic. A few drunks drifted and argued on the pavement in front of the bars. Two night-blooming tarts or their mothers minced purposefully toward nothing in particular. A youth on a stepladder was removing the lettering from the shabby marquee of the Mexican movie house. AMOR was the only word that was left. He started to take that down.
In the upper reaches of the main street there was no one on foot at all. The only human being in sight was the attendant of an all-night gas station. I pulled in to the curb just below Grantland’s office. A light shone dimly inside, behind the glass bricks. I started to get out. Some kind of animal emerged from the shrubbery and crawled toward me onto the sidewalk.
It was a human kind of animal, a man on his hands and knees. His hands left a track of blood, black as oil drippings under my headlights. His arms gave away and he fell on his side. His face was the dirty gray of the pavement. Rica again.
Rose went to her knees beside him. She gathered his head and shoulders into her lap.
“Get him an ambulance. I think he’s cut his wrists.”
Rica struggled feebly in her arms. “Cut my wrists hell. You think I’m one of your psychos?”
His red hands struck at her. Blood daubed her face and smeared the front of her coat. She held him, talking softly in the voice she used for Martha:
“Poor man, you hurt yourself. How did you hurt yourself?”
“There was wire in the window-glass. I shouldn’t have tried to bust it with my hands.”
“Why did you want to bust it?”
“I didn’t want to. He made me. He gave me a shot in the back office and said he’d be back in a minute. He never did come back. He turned the key on me.”
I squatted beside him. “Grantland locked you up?”
“Yeah, and the bastard’s going to pay for it.” Rica’s eyes swiveled toward me, heavy and occulted like ball bearings dusted with graphite. “I’m going to lock him up in San Quentin death row.”
“How are you going to do that?”
“He killed an old lady, see, and I’m a witness to it. I’ll stand up in any court and swear to it. You ought to’ve seen his office after he did it. It was a slaughterhouse, with that poor old lady lying there in the blood. And he’s a dirty butcher.”
“Hush now,” Rose said. “Be quiet now. Take it easy.”
“Don’t tell him that. Do you know who she was, Tom?”
“I found out. It was old lady Hallman. He beat her to death and tossed her in the drink. And I’m the one that’s gonna see him gassed for it.”
“What were you doing there?”
His face became inert. “I don’t remember.”
Rose gave me a look of pure hatred. “I forbid you to question him. He’s half out of his mind. God knows how much drug he’s had, or how much blood he’s lost.”
“I want his story now.”
“You can get it tomorrow.”
“He won’t be talking tomorrow. Tom, what were you doing in Grantland’s office that night?”
“Nothing. I was cruising. I needed a cap, so I just dropped by to see if I could con him out of one. I heard this shot, and then this dame came out. She was dripping blood.”
Tom peered at his own hands. His eyes rolled up and went blind. His head rolled loosely sideways.
I shouted in his ear: “What dame? Can you describe her?”
Rose cradled his head in her arms protectively. “We have to get him to a hospital. I believe he’s had a massive overdose. Do you want him to die?”
It was the last thing I wanted. I drove back to the all-night station and asked the attendant to call an ambulance.
He was a bright-looking boy in a leather windbreaker. “Where’s the accident?”
“Up the street. There’s an injured man on the sidewalk in front of Dr. Grantland’s office.”
“It isn’t Dr. Grantland?”
“No.”
“I just wondered. He came in a while ago. Buys his gas from us.”
The boy made the call and came out again. “They ought to be here pretty quick. Anything else I can do?”
“Did you say Dr. Grantland was here tonight?”
“Sure thing.” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “Not more than thirty minutes ago. Seemed to be in a hurry.”
“What did he stop for?”
“Gas. Cleaning gas, not the regular kind. He spilt something on his rug. Gravy, I think he said. It must’ve been a mess. He was real upset about it. The doc just got finished building himself a nice new house with wall-to-wall carpeting.”
“Let’s see, that’s on Seaview.”
“Yeah.” He pointed up the street toward the ridge. “It runs off the boulevard to the left. You’ll see his name on the mailbox if you want to talk to him. Was he involved in the accident?”
“Could be.”
Rose Parish was still on the sidewalk with Tom Rica in her arms. She looked up as I went by, but I didn’t stop. Rose threatened something in me which I wanted to keep intact at least a little longer. As long as it would take to make Grantland pay with everything he had.
chapter 30
HIS house stood on a terraced lot near the crest of the ridge. It was a fairly extensive layout for a bachelor, a modern redwood with wide expanses of glass and many lights inside, as though to demonstrate that its owner had nothing to hide. His Jaguar was in the slanting driveway.
I turned and stopped in the woven shadow of a pepper tree. Before I left my car, I took Maude’s gun out of the dash compartment. It was a .32 caliber automatic with a full clip and an extra shell in the chamber, ready to fire. I walked down Grantland’s driveway very quietly, with my hand in my heavy pocket.
The front door was slightly ajar. A rasping radio voice came from somewhere inside the house. I recognized the rhythmic monotonous clarity of police signals. Grantland had his radio tuned to the CHP dispatching station.
Under cover of the sound, I moved along the margin of the narrow light that fell across the doorstep. A man’s legs and feet, toes down, were visible through the opening. My heart skipped a beat when I saw them, another beat when one of the legs moved. I kicked the door wide open and went in.
Grantland was on his knees with a red-stained cloth in his hand. There were deeper stains in the carpet which he had been scrubbing. He whirled like an animal attacked from the rear. The gun in my hand froze him in mid-action.
He opened his mouth wide as if he was going to scream at the top of his lungs. No sound came from him. He closed his mouth. The muscles dimpled along the line of his jaw. He said between his teeth:
“Get out of here.”
I closed the door behind me. The hallway was full of the smell of gasoline. Beside a telephone table against the opposite wall, a gallon can stood open. Spots of undried gasoline ran the length of the hallway.
“Did she bleed a lot?” I said.
He got up slowly, watching the gun in my hand. I patted his flanks. He was unarmed. He backed against the wall and leane
d there chin down, folding his arms across his chest, like a man on a cold night.
“Why did you kill her?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s a little late for that gambit. Your girl’s dead. You’re a dead pigeon yourself. But they can always use good hospital orderlies in the pen. Maybe you’ll get some consideration if you talk.”
“Who do you think you are? God?”
“I think maybe you did, Grantland. The big dream is over now. The best you have to hope for is a little consideration from a jury.”
He looked down at the spotted carpet under his feet. “Why would I kill Zinnie? I loved her.”
“Sure you did. You fell in love with her as soon as she got within one death of five million dollars. Only now she’s one death past it, no good to you, no good to anybody.”
“Do you have to grind my nose in it?” His voice was dull with the after-boredom of shock.
I felt a flicker of sympathy for him, which I repressed. “Come off it. If you didn’t cut her yourself, you’re covering for the ripper.”
“No. I swear I’m not. I don’t know who it was. I wasn’t here when it happened.”
“But Zinnie was?”
“Yes, she was. She was tired and ill, so I put her to bed in my room. I had an emergency patient, and had to leave the house.” His face was coming to life as he talked, as though he saw an opening that he could slip through. “When I returned, she was gone. I was frantic. All I could think of was getting rid of the blood.”
“Show me the bedroom.”
Reluctantly, he detached himself from the support of the wall. I followed him through the door at the end of the hallway, into the lighted bedroom. The bed had been stripped. The bloody bedclothes, sheets and electric blanket, lay in the middle of the floor with a heap of women’s clothes on top of them.
“What were you going to do with these? Burn them?”
“I guess so,” he said with a wretched sidewise look. “There was nothing between us, you understand. My part in all this was perfectly innocent. But I knew what would happen if I didn’t get rid of the traces. I’d be blamed.”
The Doomsters Page 18
