Square in the Middle

by William Campbell Gault

  Silence, and then, “Some dame, I’ll bet. Tom sure played the field. Well, see you at dinner.”

  “Not tonight,” I said. “I’ve explained it to Adele. I’ll see you in the morning, Max.”

  “Look, Jim … Oh hell, the boys are screaming for me. Okay, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I hung up and phoned Lynn, but there was still no answer. I went out to ask Miss Padbury if there were any other appointments for today, and there were none.

  I told her, “You can lock up any time. I’m going home.”

  • • •

  The Japanese gardener who comes twice a week was watering the flower beds when I pulled onto the driveway. Across the street, the neighborhood kids were throwing darts at a big cork target on Nolan’s garage door.

  This morning’s Times was still on the driveway; I picked it up and nodded to the gardener and went into the house to mix myself a bourbon and seltzer.

  I was going to hear again from Sergeant Dyke, I felt sure. Because a girl alone in a barroom had appealed to me, I was going to be under police scrutiny and interrogation. I’d been restless and bored; I was no longer bored.

  Who else had been at the party? The Paiges and Tom Edlinger, and who else? There’d been that thin and quiet man, Tex Newman, a test pilot at Douglas. And that trade magazine editor and his girl friend. I’d forgotten both their names. And that blonde girl with the freckles, that Jackie something-or-other. Had she come with Tex, or when had she joined the party?

  It was 5:30 when I phoned Lynn again and this time she answered. I asked, “Did you hear about Tom Edlinger?”

  “No, I’ve just come from the beach. What about Tom?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Oh God, Jim! How …?”

  “Murdered. The police will be questioning you, I’m sure. Will you meet me at Heeney’s for dinner, in an hour?”

  “All right. Jim, who — I mean, do the police know who killed him?”

  “Not to my knowledge. But they’ll want to talk to everybody who was at that party last night.”

  “Yes … Oh, I suppose …” Silence. Then, “Jim, you’re not involved with this gang of nitwits. I’m not going to tell the police you were at the party.”

  “I’ve already told them, Lynn. Now don’t get all excited. I’ll see you in an hour. We’ve a lot to talk over.”

  Her voice was tired. “All right, Jim. I — spent the day thinking about you. That’s bad, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. I’m flattered that you did, though. In an hour. And chin up.”

  “All right. You’re a rock. You’re a haven.”

  “I’m a square.” I hung up.

  I had a quick shower and a change of clothes and was at Heeney’s before Lynn got there. Heeney wasn’t behind the bar, this evening, for which I was glad, though I don’t know why. He didn’t approve of my new friends, I knew, but I’d never previously been impressed with a bartender’s judgments.

  From the bar, I could see through the glass of the front door, and I saw the old Packard as it parked across the street. I had a martini waiting for her, when Lynn came through the door.

  She looked frightened and nervous. She put a hand on my forearm and gripped it tightly. “The afternoon papers have it. I saw one on the stand at the corner.”

  “You should have brought one along.”

  “I didn’t have a dime — handy. It’s a self-service rack. Jim, how did you know about it?”

  “Come on over to the booth. I’ll tell you. What would you like to eat?”

  “Just some soup. He has fine onion soup.”

  We both had onion soup while I told her about my finding Tom Edlinger and about my talk with Sergeant Dyke.

  Then she asked, “Why did you go over to see Tom, Jim?”

  “I don’t honestly know. I told the sergeant it was because I wanted some advice on a house. I think I went to him to talk about you.”

  She looked at me blankly. “Playing cupid …?”

  “No. Being nosy, I suppose, though. I wanted to know about you. I want to help you get straightened around.”

  Her eyes were suddenly cool and her face stiff. “Stop it, Jim. What do you mean by ‘straightened around’?”

  “Financially, I meant. And don’t think that isn’t important.”

  “It isn’t. Not to me.”

  “Yes, it is. There’s no point in having debts when you can readjust your assets and pay them without any loss to you in the long run. Being in debt is just stupid under those circumstances.”

  Her face softened, and the brown eyes looked happier. She chuckled. “All right, Jim. I thought you meant to change my way of living.”

  “Why should I?” I asked. “You’re having fun.”

  “No, I’m not. But my life is mine, mine, mine.” She took a deep breath. “I could eat something else, couldn’t you?”

  We were working on some chops when the blonde with the freckles, Jackie, came in. She slid into the booth, facing Lynn, and asked her, “Where have you been? Have you seen the police?”

  Lynn shook her head. “Have you? How did they learn you were at the party?”

  “From the Paiges. And they learned about the Paiges from our host, Heeney, and that sergeant told me they haven’t been able to locate you.” Jackie paused. “But that was at three o’clock this afternoon. I thought, by now …” She shrugged.

  “I was at the beach,” Lynn said. She looked at me. “Do you think I should phone the police?”

  I nodded. “I’d phone them right now, if I were you. From here.”

  Lynn started to get out and then stopped, to ask, “Has anyone a dime? I …”

  “Never mind,” Jackie said. “Here comes the old grouch now.”

  I looked up to see Sergeant Dyke making his way toward our booth. Lynn stared beseechingly at me. She’d never looked more vulnerable.

  five

  Dyke’s smile was thin. “Well, Mr. Gulliver, we meet again.”

  “Were you looking for me, Sergeant?”

  He shook his head. “I’m looking for a Miss Lynn Bedloe.” He glanced at Jackie and then his eyes came to rest on Lynn.

  Lynn said, “Here I am. What have I done now?” Her voice was tight.

  I said, “Sit down, Sergeant, and have a drink.”

  “I’ll have a cup of coffee,” he said. He slid in next to me and looked at Lynn. “I suppose Mr. Gulliver has briefed you on what happened last night?”

  Lynn nodded.

  I said, “Last night? Have you learned what time it happened?”

  He nodded. “I suppose morning would be the right word. It happened at three o’clock, about, this morning.” The waitress came and he ordered a cup of coffee.

  Lynn said, “The party broke up around two. Nobody stayed later than that.”

  He stared at her steadily. “Nobody?”

  Lynn colored. Jackie glanced at me, and away.

  Lynn looked down at the tabletop.

  Dyke said, “Five people have told me that Mr. Gulliver was sound asleep on the living-room couch when they left — around two o’clock.”

  Nobody said a word.

  Dyke looked at me. “Married man, aren’t you, Mr. Gulliver?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant.”

  “Does your wife know what time you came home?”

  I shook my head. “She’s up at Lake Arrowhead on vacation.”

  “Nobody else was home?” His coffee came and he sipped it.

  “Nobody.”

  His smile was nasty. “I suppose that would mean your children are up at Lake Arrowhead with your wife?”

  I said nothing. Lynn blushed. Jackie said, “If we want a lecture, sourpuss, we can go to the Mission.”

  Dyke looked at her coldly. “I wasn’t addressing you.”

  “No, but you’re annoying me.” She took her drink and slid out of the booth. “I think the air is cleaner over at the bar.”

  Dyke watched her walk over to the bar and then his
gaze swung back to us.

  Lynn said, “My reputation means nothing, Sergeant. But Mr. Gulliver is a respected businessman in this town.”

  “I don’t work in this town,” Dyke said. “Anything else you’d like to tell me, Miss Bedloe?”

  She looked at me and back at Dyke. “After they had all left but Mr. Gulliver, I cleaned up the place, washed all the glasses and ashtrays and aired the place out. Then I found an electric blanket I had stored away in the garage storage area and I brought it in and covered Mr. Gulliver with it. Then I went into my room and went to bed.”

  “I see. And what time was it when you left Mr. Gulliver under the electric blanket?”

  “It was after four o’clock, I know. I’d guess around 4:30.”

  “And what time did you get up?”

  “I can’t say, exactly. It was after ten. I had to hurry to make a luncheon appointment with Mrs. Paige at noon.”

  “And Mr. Gulliver was still sleeping when you left?”

  She shook her head. “He wasn’t there when I got up.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “I don’t know. I was asleep.”

  Sergeant Dyke looked at me. “What time did you leave Miss Bedloe’s place?”

  “I’ve no idea, Sergeant. What difference does it make?”

  “A man’s been killed, Mr. Gulliver.”

  “Not by me. Wouldn’t I be a damned fool to kill a man and then go over there next noon and find him for you and phone?”

  “Maybe you didn’t know you killed him and you went over to find out.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “I wouldn’t phone him to find out, I suppose? If I thought he was alive, I’d phone my lawyer. If I thought he was dead, I sure as hell wouldn’t be found anywhere near the place. And murder needs a motive, doesn’t it, Sergeant?”

  He sipped his coffee. “Not drunken murder. You’ve — ah — evidently — captured the interest of Miss Bedloe. From what I’ve learned, Mr. Edlinger might have resented that. He might have made some remarks at the party.”

  “Yes,” I said wearily, “and Molotov might have come rushing over from Russia to do it, too. It makes about as much sense.”

  Dyke said evenly, “I can do without your insolence, Mr. Gulliver.”

  “And I can do without yours,” I answered. “Good night, Sergeant. If you’ve anything more to say to me, you can reach me through my lawyer.”

  “I can take both of you right down to the station, now,” he said, “and I think I will.”

  “I’m not sure you can,” I said. “Remember, you’re in Santa Monica. I’ll phone my lawyer and the Chief of Police here to make sure it would be legal for you to take us in.” I started to get out.

  “Relax,” he said. “I can always pick you up.” He finished his coffee and stood up. “I’ll have to check these stories of yours, of course. I imagine your neighbors might know what time you came home. I’ll be seeing both of you again. Don’t leave town.”

  He had gone through the doorway before Lynn said, “He’s going to check your neighbors. Won’t that be nice?”

  “He probably already has,” I said, “or he wouldn’t have warned me. I’ve got good neighbors.”

  “And a nice wife and children. How many children, Jim?”

  “Two. A boy of ten and a girl eight.” I signaled for the waitress.

  Lynn started to cry. “And now you’re in the middle of this horrible mess, and only because …”

  “Nobody’s in a mess,” I said. “Not yet. And if we keep cool, the chances are nobody will be. Here’s the waitress; what do you want to drink?”

  Jackie came back, bringing her drink along. She expelled her breath and patted Lynn’s hand. “Easy does it, honey. The cops are always nastiest when they haven’t anything to go on. We know none of us could have killed poor Tom. And that stupid flatfoot will learn it.”

  I said, “I wonder where Heeney is tonight?”

  Jackie said, “He’s probably hiding, the stinking stoolie. Bigmouth Albert Heeney.”

  I couldn’t help it; I laughed. And Lynn smiled. And then Jackie said, “And here comes flyboy, my alibi for last night.”

  The test pilot, Tex Newman, was coming over from the doorway.

  He was thin and fairly tall, with extremely brilliant blue eyes and a quiet, casual attitude. He said, “Have you all been grilled?”

  Jackie nodded. “He caught the last one right here, in the thieves’ den, Miss Two-gun Bedloe.”

  Tex said quietly, “Honey, a man’s dead. That’s never funny.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jackie said. She avoided his eyes.

  Lynn said, “Tom dead … I just can’t accept it. He was too much alive for me to think of him any other way.”

  Jackie said, “How about that wife of his? I understand she was still carrying a torch for Tom. I wonder if Sergeant Dyke has talked to her?”

  Tex said, “Dyke didn’t hit me as the kind of man who’d overlook anybody.” He paused. “Or anything.”

  Silence. Tex went over to the bar, and Jackie followed. Lynn looked at her drink and up at me.

  “Why don’t we go to your house and total up your bills?” I asked. “We can’t do ourselves any good here tonight.”

  She shook her head impatiently. “I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to sit and slowly get drunk. If you don’t want to do that, Jim, it doesn’t matter.”

  I didn’t want to do it. But I didn’t want to go, either.

  About two drinks later, the Paiges came in. Both of them looked like they’d just seen the end of the world. If their grief was genuine, I wondered how they could come here tonight.

  Both of them were in a black mood; I suppose coming here was a habit pattern too strong to break. Janis told us the funeral would be Friday.

  Lynn sat quietly huddled between Joe and me, offering no dialogue. Her glass emptied too quickly, but I didn’t think I should say anything about that.

  I was uncomfortable. Before the Paiges came, there had been regret in the air but not this almost maudlin pall of gloom. I was not conditioned to believe that a barroom was the proper place to mourn the dead.

  Jackie stayed away from the booth, as did Tex.

  I’d had almost as much of it as I could stand when the door opened again and that trade paper editor came in. He stopped at the bar to talk to Jackie and the door opened again.

  It was Sergeant Dyke and he didn’t stop at the bar. He came right to our booth, looking at me every step of the way. The others didn’t see him until he stood in front of us.

  Then Lynn said, “Oh, Lord — you again …”

  Dyke said, “I’d like you and Mr. Gulliver to come over to the West Side Station, Miss Bedloe. There are certain errors in your stories.”

  “We can correct them here,” Lynn said. “We’re not too proud to let our friends hear us.”

  Dyke’s face was stone. “It would be best if you came along quietly. It’s been a long day, Miss Bedloe, and I’m not in a mood for nonsense.”

  “May I phone my lawyer first?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Later. Not now.”

  I wrote my attorney’s name on a coaster and handed it to Joe Paige. “That’s his name; he lives on San Vicente, in Brentwood. The number will be in the book. Phone him and tell him where I am, will you?”

  Joe nodded. “Right now.”

  He was walking toward the phone as Lynn and I went out with Sergeant Dyke. From the bar, Jackie and Tex and the editor stared at us as we went past.

  There was another detective behind the wheel of the Department car, and the Los Angeles insignia brought home to me the fact that we were really out of Dyke’s jurisdiction.

  But perhaps it would be wise to play along as much as possible. I knew Lynn hadn’t killed Tom and Lynn knew I hadn’t. But both of us knew something that wouldn’t look good in the newspapers. We knew where we had been and what had happened. And perhaps, now, Sergeant Dyke knew where we had been and he could guess wh
at had happened.

  If we co-operated with him, it was logical to expect that he would be inclined to co-operate with us. Homicide was the Sergeant’s business, not scandal.

  In the back of the car, Lynn huddled close to me. I could hear her sniff but it was too dark to see her tears. Dyke sat on the other side of me, erect and rigid.

  I found Lynn’s hand and held it.

  In a small room at the West Side Station, Dyke sat behind a table and we sat on hard, straight-back chairs. The room smelled of cigar smoke and sweeping compound; the only windows looked out on a dimly lighted alley.

  “All right,” he said, “as soon as a man comes in to take the dictation, I want you two to tell me the real story of where you went last night, and what you did. I’ll want your story first, Miss Bedloe.”

  Lynn looked at me, and I said, “Perhaps we’d both better wait until my lawyer gets here.”

  Dyke started to answer, and then a uniformed man came in.

  The man said, “I was due to go home in five minutes, Sergeant. Can’t Daly take this?”

  Dyke looked at him bleakly and shook his head. He looked back at us. “Why do you need a lawyer? Are you admitting your earlier stories were lies?”

  Lynn looked at me and I looked at Lynn. She said quietly, “It’s your reputation, Jim. Mine can’t be touched.”

  Dyke said, “Your neighbors have been checked and so has the attendant at the parking lot. I suppose you could have a number of reasons for lying.”

  I said quietly, “I’m a married man, Sergeant. And Miss Bedloe is a decent, fine girl. But people jump to conclusions. Even if our stories were lies, you can’t believe that either of us had reason to kill Tom Edlinger.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why should we?”

  “Miss Bedloe hasn’t been getting as much attention from Edlinger as she formerly did. She could resent that. You seem to have taken Edlinger’s place in her affections and perhaps you resented Edlinger’s history with her. Or perhaps Miss Bedloe cooled toward Edlinger and he threatened you. There are a number of possibilities.”

  Lynn took a deep breath.

  I said, “Possibilities based on unproved conjecture. That isn’t the way murders are solved, is it, Sergeant?”

  “We work with what we can get,” he told me. “When we’re lied to, we have to work on rumors, lacking the facts.”