Square in the Middle

by William Campbell Gault

  “You and Adele go,” I said. “I’ve got to go to a funeral this afternoon.”

  He stared at me. “Edlinger’s?”

  “Right.”

  He shook his head and continued to stare at me. “What’s he to you? And the newspapers just waiting for another shot at you.”

  “I promised his friends I’d come, Max. Let’s not argue.”

  “All right.” He smiled. “You’re a gutty son-of-a-bitch, Jim.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said. “See you, Max.”

  Back at the motel, I considered dropping in to see the manager, but realized he probably considered it his professional duty to inform the police of guests who had been involved in murder.

  My clothes weren’t hung as carefully as I usually hang them, but I might not have noticed it if I hadn’t been warned by Chopko. I put on a blue suit and a dark blue tie and phoned Lynn.

  There was no answer.

  The services would be held at the Ritter-Barclay chapel on Barrington. There weren’t many cars on the Ritter-Barclay parking lot when I drove onto it about ten minutes later.

  Inside the small chapel, the Paiges and Jackie Teller and two people I didn’t know were grouped in one of the front pews. Rita Edlinger sat alone in a rear pew. She nodded at me and I went over to sit next to her.

  She whispered, “Everything all right with you?”

  “Not so good,” I whispered in return. “I’m temporarily at a motel.”

  She reached over to pat my hand. “Make it temporary, Jim. Work at it.”

  Then Lynn came in. And with her was George Wallace. She looked at me and away. George smiled and nodded. They went down to join the group near the front.

  Next to me, I could almost feel Rita stiffen. She kept her eyes on the group in front of us and her eyes were cold and hard.

  An organ played softly and then a woman’s voice came through from somewhere, singing “Abide with Me.”

  I whispered, “No relatives? Who arranged for the funeral?”

  “No relatives. I did. And will pay for it. Poor — Tom.” She began to cry.

  I remembered Heeney saying, “… when one of these butterflies dies, somebody else has to pay to bury him.”

  The minister came out and began to talk. Next to me, Rita was audibly sobbing now. From the rows ahead, Janis Paige looked back at her and frowned. Janis looked at me, shook her head, and turned around again.

  Well, they weren’t Latins, any of that gang in front of us, and maybe they couldn’t understand this kind of grief. Rita’s sobs were now as loud as the minister’s quiet voice.

  I sat there, dry-eyed, and a picture came to me of myself in that casket beyond the minister, and I wondered how many there would be in this room, if that was Jim Gulliver up there, sleeping in satin.

  Rita gripped my arm and whispered, “Will you drive me to the cemetery? I don’t think I …”

  “You can go in my car,” I told her, and took her hand.

  She didn’t break down completely but she was close to it. She leaned on my arm for support when we walked to my car and she needed the same support when we walked from the driveway of the cemetery to the open grave.

  Of the group who had been at the funeral home, only the Paiges came to the cemetery. We didn’t talk to them; they carefully avoided us. It was a gray, damp day and there was something almost unbearably pathetic about the scene. Four people didn’t seem like many to watch a man being buried.

  In the car, going back, Rita had regained her control. She asked me, “Do the police have anything new?”

  “They seem to think I’m the logical suspect.”

  She turned to stare at me. “No … Are they crazy?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Get a lawyer, Jim,” she said. “Get a good one.”

  “I’ve got a good one,” I said. “I wonder if men ever do get — railroaded for something like this.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. It doesn’t seem logical. And you, of all people … It’s ridiculous.”

  “But it could happen. It’s ridiculous that I should be living in a motel, and that the motel manager should phone the police right after I registered. But it happened. Nothing’s impossible from here on in.”

  She stared bleakly out through the windshield, saying nothing. I had a feeling that she hadn’t even heard my words.

  At the funeral home I asked her, “Will you be able to drive all right? I’d be glad to take you home.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll be all right. Nothing’s as final as seeing them in the coffin, is it?”

  “You’re alive,” I told her. “You’re young and attractive and intelligent. Everybody dies, Rita.”

  Her smile was sad and the luminous eyes were damp. “Amigo. You make up with that wife of yours, Jim Gulliver, and damned soon. Promise me?”

  “I’ll do my best,” I promised. “And if I can’t, I’ll remember what you told me at lunch yesterday.”

  She patted my hand and got out. She was walking erectly and with poise toward her car as I drove away.

  nine

  Where now? Back to the office? Back to the motel? Neither of these places held any special allure at the moment. And neither did Heeney’s, but it was a place to go, slightly less undesirable than the others.

  I’d had a big breakfast but no lunch and now it was only about two hours before my usual dinner time. I wasn’t going to Heeney’s to see the gang; I was going there for food, I told myself.

  George Wallace and Joe Paige, Lynn and Jackie were in the big corner booth. Only George smiled a welcome as I approached them. Was I now an outsider because I’d been with Rita Edlinger?

  I stood in front of the booth, and George said, “Have one on me, Jim.”

  “I’d better take another booth,” I said. “I want to eat and I don’t want to crowd you.” I looked at Jackie, and she smiled. I looked at Lynn and she looked away.

  George glanced at his watch. “I could eat, too. I’ll join you, Jim.”

  “And me,” Jackie said. “It isn’t often I get a chance at a Heeney steak, lately.”

  The three of us went to a smaller booth, and there, after we’d ordered, George looked at me anxiously.

  I didn’t wait for his question. I said, “I didn’t get a chance to go over to your house, George. Max went, I think. I’ll let you know.”

  He frowned. “Max? Max Schuman? Oh, Jim …”

  The unfinished sentence hung in the air. I said, “He’s my partner, George. If anybody has the money, Max will get it for you.”

  Wallace looked despondent. Jackie asked, “Did the police check your clothes, Jim? They’ve checked the others.”

  I lied with a shake of the head.

  “I wonder what it means?” she persisted.

  “They might be looking for blood spots,” I suggested. “Let’s not talk about it.” In the big booth, Lynn was facing me and our eyes met and she didn’t look away for a moment, this time. She seemed friendly again.

  Joe Paige rose, and went to the bar to pay his check. He went out without saying good-bye. And I had the sudden and shameful thought that Lynn’s imagined friendliness was because of that. One picker-up-of-tabs was leaving, and I was the only other one in sight.

  Jackie called, “Come on over and join the hungry ones, Lynn.”

  Lynn looked doubtfully at me and I beckoned, and rose to let her slide in. She brought her drink along.

  Jackie glanced at Lynn and then at me and I think Jackie voiced for Lynn what she thought was between us. She asked me, “What’s with you and Rita Edlinger, Jim? When I saw you sit next to her — well …”

  Lynn flushed. George Wallace frowned.

  I said to Jackie, “Rita seemed to need a friend at the time.” And then I looked at Lynn. “Couldn’t you eat something?”

  Her chin lifted. “I’m — not hungry, thank you.”

  Silence for moments and then Jackie had to put some words into the void. “Gawd,” she said bleakly, �
�there was nobody there, just nobody.”

  “I guess he hasn’t any relatives,” I said. “It’s usually relatives, at a funeral.”

  Lynn looked at me, her face soft. George Wallace frowned. Jackie said, “When my time comes, I want them to burn me. I want to be cremated.”

  “Please, Jackie …” Lynn said. “Can’t you talk about something else?”

  Outside, the traffic was getting heavy, the going-home traffic pouring toward the ocean. Suburbanites going home to the wife and kids, to the drink before dinner and the Friday night fights on TV. Solid citizens with humdrum routines, like ants following each other to the anthill. Maybe some of them wanted to escape it, but not into this, I was sure.

  George Wallace said, “Somebody say something.”

  Lynn said, “I think maybe I could eat a ham sandwich. But I couldn’t pay for it and my credit here isn’t so good.”

  I said easily, “When there are gentlemen present, you’re not supposed to pay for anything, Lynn. Is that really all you want?”

  She looked at me levelly. “That’s all, thank you, Jim.”

  I wished that Jackie and George would go away and leave me here with Lynn. They stayed to eat and it was a quiet meal. Jackie did her best, but even Jackie sensed after a while that words wouldn’t brighten the group. She began to look bored and restless.

  Over the coffee, George said, “I’d better be getting home.” He looked at me. “I’ll wait to hear from you, Jim.”

  I nodded.

  Jackie looked at me and at Lynn and said quietly, “I think I’ll run along, too. Wait, George, I’ll need a ride.”

  When we were alone in the booth, Lynn sighed. “Jackie can be trying, can’t she?”

  “She’s nice,” I said. “She’ll be all right when Tex says ‘yes.’ “

  Lynn shook her head. “Him … He’s so quiet and dull.”

  I smiled. “More coffee?”

  She nodded, and I gestured to the waitress.

  When the waitress had gone away again, I asked, “Have you decided what you want to be, what you want to do?”

  “I want to be Lynn Bedloe. Is that all right with you, Mr. Gulliver?”

  “If it is with you. Is it all right with you, Lynn?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You’re broke, aren’t you?” I said. “I mean horribly, stony broke?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she said.

  “And you’re bored with yourself. I don’t think you want to be this Lynn Bedloe any longer.”

  “I’m not clay,” she said. “And you’re not a sculptor. You’re getting stuffy again, Jim.”

  “I’m trying not to be, Lynn. I want to help you; it’s very important to me.”

  Her voice was softer and her smile was tender. “I know you do, and I’m sorry. Why don’t we take a ride and look at the ocean? I think that Santa Ana wind is back; it’s going to be clear and dry.”

  That’s what we did. With a minimum of dialogue and none of it about her. I asked her about George Wallace.

  She told me he was editor and publisher of the Dairy Journal and it seemed to be making him an adequate income.

  I said, “He’s married, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “He wasn’t at that party with his wife, was he?”

  “No, he wasn’t. Are you playing detective, Jim?”

  “I suppose. Is that wrong?”

  She didn’t answer. The quiet Pacific was to our left, the hills above Malibu to our right. The moon was yellow and clear.

  “Is that wrong?” I asked again.

  Her voice was dull. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t do it among my friends.”

  “Tom Edlinger was murdered, Lynn. Could you be a friend to a murderer?”

  She didn’t answer, and I didn’t pursue the subject. She had an almost pathological loyalty to that gang and I wondered if it wasn’t due to the basic insecurity of all of them. Butterflies in an ants’ world and their only defense was contempt of the ants.

  Why did I bother with her; what was she to me? It couldn’t be completely physical, though that attraction was still strong. Did I want to be like her and her friends? They looked carefree and happy enough in a bar, but most people do. That’s why they’re in the bar, I suppose.

  “You’re quiet,” Lynn said.

  “So are you.”

  “Have you a cigarette?” she asked.

  “There’s a package in the glove compartment, all for you.” I pushed in the instrument-board lighter.

  Beyond Malibu, we stopped at a small barroom, built on a pier overlooking the water. It was Lynn’s suggestion.

  There I asked her, “Why do you resent my interest in you?”

  “I don’t. I was miffed because you — told your wife about me. Confession is one thing, but involving someone else is another. And then, after knowing me a few days, you want to change me over into something else. To top it, you pal up with Rita Edlinger. We’re in different worlds, Jim, and it isn’t going to change. I could change a little; you can’t change at all.”

  “And you don’t want me to help you get your financial problems straightened out?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t want to depend on you for anything. There’s simply no future in it, Jim.”

  “I didn’t think you thought much about the future.”

  She sipped her drink. “I used the wrong word. I meant there’s no — percentage in it.”

  I smiled. “That’s a word I can understand, percentage. All right, Lynn, I won’t crowd you any more.”

  Good-bye, Lynn Bedloe. Good-bye, Carol and Sue and young Jim and Colonel Dean. Good-bye, everybody but Max Schuman, the way it seemed to be shaping up.

  Into my thoughts came Lynn’s quiet voice, “Is that Rita Edlinger over there in the corner? It’s too dim for me to see.”

  I looked over and saw the man at the same table. It was Mike Chopko. I said, “I can’t be sure, but it looks like Rita. She wouldn’t be following us, would she?”

  “No, they were here when we came in. Tom and — I mean Tom introduced the gang to this place. I wonder who the man is.”

  I shrugged. “Want to go?”

  She nodded.

  We went out into the clear night and she asked, “Could I drive? It’s been a long time since I drove anything peppier than Old Ironsides.”

  It seemed to cheer her up. She was like a little girl with a bright new toy. On the straight stretch, coming into Malibu, she ran it up to nearly a hundred miles an hour.

  It was a divided highway, with few intersections, but I sat rigidly in the seat just the same. Then she took a deep breath and her foot relaxed its pressure on the accelerator.

  “Scare you?” she asked me.

  “A little.”

  “It’s a lot of car, isn’t it? And so beautiful. I think it’s what gave me the wrong impression of you. You should be driving a — a business coupe, Jim — dull and proper.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  We were doing only about thirty-five now, and she asked, “Is there a radio? Turn it on, if there is one.”

  I pressed the selection bar until I found a platter program. The Olds went breezing along, whispering to herself.

  Lynn said, “Rita Edlinger and a man. That stops me.”

  “Why not? I told her it was about time she began to live again.” I looked out at the water. “She’s a very attractive woman.”

  “If you like the heavy type.”

  I didn’t answer.

  Lynn said, “I suppose some men do.”

  “I suppose.”

  No more words from either of us all the way to a stop in front of her house. There she said, “Golly, I’m tired. That drive was just what I needed. I can sleep now.”

  “Good night, Lynn,” I said. “Good luck.”

  She looked over at me curiously. “Don’t sound so final, Jim. Or were you really saying good-bye?”

  “That’s right. And I’ll take your advic
e about the business coupe.”

  “Jim — you’re sensitive. I … Oh, Heavens, that remark didn’t mean anything.”

  “It did to me. Good night, Lynn.”

  Quiet in the car while her face stiffened. And then, in a near-whisper, “Good night, Jim.” And she was out of the car and moving quickly up the slope to her little house.

  To hell with her. To hell with her and all her idiot friends. I drove to the motel in a subdued rage that would have been funny and adolescent if it had happened to somebody else. Somebody young and unmarried.

  I had a feeling that Dyke or some other officer might be waiting for me back at the motel. In the light of what Chopko had told me, I couldn’t understand why Dyke hadn’t already sent for me. But he wasn’t there. Perhaps he wanted an airtight case, first.

  It was a restless night. No dreams, but I wakened time and again for long stretches of sleeplessness.

  In the morning, I tried for the deliberate approach again, eating slowly, reading the paper carefully. Any problem can be solved or circumvented if one goes at it carefully and without emotion.

  Max had been right, of course; my major problem was getting Carol back. All the other problems were minor next to that one. And if Max and Adele could help me there, I’d be a stiff-necked fool not to welcome the support.

  When I got to the office, one glance at Miss Padbury’s face showed me we were facing another crisis. She nodded toward my office door and whispered, “Colonel Dean is in there. He’s boiling.”

  “Mr. Schuman here?”

  She nodded. “He’s in his office.”

  Colonel Dean was sitting in my customer’s chair when I entered the office. He didn’t get up.

  “Good morning, Colonel,” I said.

  He nodded.

  I took my time. I went to the water cooler and slowly drank a paper cup full of water. Then I came over to my desk and sat down. His face was like gray iron.

  “I never expected it from you, Jim. I judged you wrong, I guess.”

  “Begin at the beginning, Colonel,” I said. “I don’t quite follow you.”

  “You follow me,” he said. “I’m talking about all that property you’ve been buying around Knapp and Pico. And what you’re not buying, you’re getting options on.”