Square in the Middle

by William Campbell Gault

  “Dyke knows I’m working on the gang. He might learn where I went today.” He shrugged. “Well, I can handle that, I’m sure. What made you guess it was Wallace you gave the matches to? Or did you remember?”

  “No, I didn’t remember. Wallace seemed like the only one who’d make a remark that sarcastic. He seems to hate moneylenders more than the others.”

  “He’s had reason to. Well, don’t do anything drastic without talking to me first. Or your lawyer.” He smiled. “Or Dyke.”

  “I won’t. See you, Mike.”

  He left and I sat there thinking of what he’d told me. And I added it to what I’d told him and was fairly sure in my mind that we had a prime suspect. But not enough for a jury or a judge.

  At five o’clock, Max came in to ask me, “Why don’t you come to our house for dinner and the three of us will take in a show tonight? You’ll enjoy it, Jim.”

  “I’m sure I would, Max, but I’ve some people to see.”

  He looked at me sadly. “In Bel Air?”

  “Don’t pry, Max. Why don’t you go home? I’ll sit out the last hour.”

  He nodded, studying me. “Jim, you’re not planning to do something the police could do better, are you?”

  I shook my head.

  “Be careful, won’t you?”

  I nodded.

  Miss Padbury had an appointment with her hairdresser; she left soon after Max did. I sat and thought and thought and sat. At six I closed the office and drove over to Santa Monica Canyon.

  Old Ironsides was at the curb. I parked behind it and walked up to the front door.

  There was only a trace of surprise on Lynn’s sensitive face. “Welcome, stranger. I thought we’d said our good-byes.” She held the door wider. “Come in.”

  I came into an odor of wine, sweet wine. There was no bottle of it in sight. I said, “I’ve been thinking of a better good-bye, a sort of farewell gesture.”

  She looked at me questioningly. She said nothing.

  “A party,” I explained. “With champagne and a lot of fancy foods and maybe even dancing girls.”

  Her eyes appraised me and she smiled. “You’re kidding….”

  “I am not. I’ll pay for it and you furnish the house and we’ll have the whole gang in for one hell of a ‘good-bye Jim’ wing-ding. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  “Jim Gulliver, you’re not serious….”

  “I was, but if you don’t like the idea …?”

  “Like it? I love it. Come on into the kitchen and have a cup of coffee.”

  There was an empty muscatel bottle on the kitchen drainboard. My eyes didn’t dwell on it, but Lynn must have noticed my glance.

  She said smilingly, “I’m no wino, Jim. But the stuff is only thirty-nine cents a fifth.” She turned on a flame under a half-filled pot of coffee. “When did this — gesture come to you?”

  “This afternoon. It was a dull day. There’ll be a lot of dull days. I would like to make a favorable, final impression on the gang.”

  “If there will be a lot of dull days, why are you going back to it?”

  “For just two reasons,” I lied. “One is eight and the other ten.”

  Silence, for seconds, and then she said, “I guess I should be able to understand that. When did you want the party?”

  “Tomorrow night. Do you think they’ll all come?”

  “For champagne?” Her smile was faintly cynical. “I guarantee it.”

  We drank coffee and talked. She talked about her dead brother and her two years as a studio extra and her year and a half as a model.

  I said, “You should be in demand as a model now. You’re certainly the type that seems to be in vogue.”

  “I — don’t like the people in the trade,” she told me. “They expect too much for their money. I can live without them.” Contempt was in her voice, the same butterfly contempt of the ants.

  We planned what food we’d buy and how many bottles of champagne and I told her I’d order it all and have it sent to the house. And I asked her if she’d had dinner.

  She smiled at me airily. “Not until eight o’clock, and at Ciro’s it will be. George Wallace put over a big deal today, and he’s taking me to dinner in celebration.”

  “Good for George,” I said. “He’s a real go-getter, isn’t he?”

  “To answer in your Rotarian phraseology, he’s a humdinger. You’re not jealous, Jim?”

  I stood up. “I guess. Well, it will be a fine party, I think, don’t you?”

  “We’ll make it one, Jim.” She looked at me archly. “And perhaps all is not lost.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Be good tonight.”

  She rose and kissed her fingers and pressed them to my lips. “I’ll do my best.”

  Big-deal George Wallace and free soul Lynn Bedloe would eat at Ciro’s on Miss Padbury’s money. All the false fronts in this area are not confined to the studio lots. I had a sandwich at a drive-in and drove back to the motel.

  This time I got further into Tender Is the Night and it occurred to me that in their pathetic and minor league fashion, the Heeney gang probably thought of themselves as characters like these. Stutz Bearcat holdovers in the atomic age … Even in Iowa, we were a little more modern than that.

  My phone rang and I answered it and it was Mike Chopko. “I’ve got an item. You know, the hours of incineration were changed the other day.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, a neighbor of our suspect’s put in a complaint that she’d smelled rags burning the other morning. Just a routine complaint and routine handling. Because, though it’s now illegal to use the incinerator in the morning, the law was so new that the police are lenient about it.”

  “Rags could be clothes; is that what you mean?”

  “That’s what I mean. And another thing; the neighbor complained there was too much flame for it to be plain rags. She thought she smelled burning gasoline, too.”

  “It’s a straw, Mike. Could blood spots be determined from the ashes?”

  “No. So, again, it’s nothing that could be taken to court.”

  “I see.” I paused. “How would you like to come to a party tomorrow night?”

  “What kind of party?”

  “A ‘good-bye Jim Gulliver’ party. It’s my formal resignation from the Heeney gang, to be held at Miss Lynn Bedloe’s Santa Monica Canyon home.”

  Silence, and then, “Do you know what you’re doing, Jim?”

  “No, but it’s better than doing nothing. Bring a girl if you want, but I wouldn’t make it Rita Edlinger.”

  Chopko was silent again. Then, “All right; I’ll come. I can be your friend from out of town.”

  “From Ames,” I said. “You’ve got the face for it.”

  I went back to the book, but couldn’t keep my mind on the words. I gave it up and lay on the bed thinking ahead to the party.

  A drunken person is likely to say things that a sober person won’t. But I couldn’t imagine anyone getting drunk enough to admit committing a murder.

  Unless under the terrific pressure of conscience and the still vivid memory of a bloody victim on the floor. Perhaps, against that background, the alcohol could work an admission that police pressure could never bring about.

  And perhaps not.

  thirteen

  I ordered the food and the champagne from Jorgenson’s the next morning. I told them not to put it on my bill; I’d send a check for this separately, if they would send the bill to the office.

  Business had picked up yesterday; it was even better today. If both Max and I are in the office, we have an understanding that I will take the majority of the applications. I was busy right through until lunchtime.

  The afternoon was quieter, but by the time I’d finished dictating to Miss Padbury, it was five o’clock.

  Max came in around 5:15. He shook his head wearily. “What a day. I haven’t even seen you since you came to work this morning, Jim.”

  “Business has certainly picked up.�
� I smiled at him. “Maybe it’s the publicity I’ve been getting for us.”

  He didn’t answer that. He asked, “Busy tonight, again? I wouldn’t even ask you if Adele hadn’t insisted on it. I’m getting sick of being turned down.”

  “This will be the last turndown, I promise you. But tonight, I am running a farewell party for the Heeney gang.”

  He looked at me oddly. “At Heeney’s?”

  “No. At Lynn Bedloe’s. Why don’t you come, Max?”

  “I just might, at that.” He studied me. “What’s in the wind, Jim? What are you planning?”

  “A pleasant way to say good-bye to them. Don’t you think it’s time I said good-bye to them?”

  “It’s time. But I can think of a better way to do it. By telephone — long distance. You’re crazy, baby.”

  “You might be right. Tell Adele it hurts me to say no to her, and it won’t happen again.”

  “I’ll tell her.” He continued to study me. “Cured, are you?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of Lynn Bedloe?”

  I shrugged. “I hope so. A man can surely get himself into a mess, can’t he?”

  “An honest man can. Honesty can be a bad habit. Jim, be careful tonight.” He went to the door. “I might drop in.”

  He left, and Miss Padbury came in to tell me there was nothing that needed my attention. She’d be glad to lock up.

  The Santa Ana wind was still blowing; my lips were dry, my teeth edgy. I went to the motel and shaved carefully and showered. I wore a suit fresh from the cleaners and a brand-new tie.

  I ate at Ted’s Grill in the Canyon, and I was the first to arrive at Lynn’s. She’d filled both tubs in the service porch with ice and she had the champagne that wouldn’t fit into the refrigerator keeping cold there.

  She had all the furniture out of the living room and it was clear for dancing. George Wallace had wired a big speaker and an amplifier to her little record-player.

  “He helped me with the furniture, too,” she told me. “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

  I nodded. “He’s a real loyal friend, George is.”

  Loyal George arrived a few minutes after that, bringing his blonde of the previous party with him. Then Jackie came with her flyboy and a couple I didn’t know, and whose names I have forgotten now. The Paiges came with another man I didn’t know, a comic-book artist named Desmond Colvey.

  Mike Chopko brought the real bomb, a natural blonde with a show-stopping figure and a delightfully wanton face. One of his old Arthur Murray instructors, he told me quietly, and I’d find her on his expense account.

  I sliced the ham and tongue and corned beef. I carried discarded napkins and full ash trays to the incinerator and kept the crockery clean. I drank very little of the champagne.

  Mike and his bomb gave an exhibition and after that all the girls wanted to dance with Mike. And all the men with the bomb.

  In the dinette archway, Lynn stood next to me and said lightly, “Don’t you dance, Jim Gulliver?”

  “Not well but eagerly,” I answered. “Shall we?”

  We danced. And her small but woman’s body was close to mine and I was glad I hadn’t taken too much of the champagne.

  “Who is this Chopko person?” she asked me.

  “A friend of mine from Ames.”

  “I’ve seen him somewhere; I know it.”

  I thought of the bar beyond Malibu. I said, “I doubt it. He just came to town the other day.”

  “That girl isn’t from Ames.”

  “I guess not. I would have noticed her in a town that size.”

  She leaned back to look up at me. “Jim, I’m going to miss you.”

  I started to answer, and then George Wallace cut in and I went out to the kitchen. Mike Chopko and Janis Paige were out here. Mike had a cup of coffee in his hand and Janis had a small glass of beer.

  “Sissies,” I said. “There’s plenty of champagne.”

  Janis made a face at me. Mike said, “Have you seen the blonde? She isn’t dancing.”

  I shook my head.

  From the doorway, Jackie said, “She’s out in the back yard with Tex. Why don’t you run out and get her, lightfoot?”

  Mike smiled. “She doesn’t need me. Want to dance, Texas?”

  “In a minute. I want some more of that bubbly stuff first.” She walked carefully over to the drainboard and filled a ten-ounce tumbler with champagne.

  There were champagne glasses Lynn had uncovered from somewhere, but Jackie was in a hurry.

  Mike said, “Easy, Jackie. That stuff can hit you.”

  “A lot of things can hit you, glide-boy. This hits me the way I want to be hit.”

  Mike looked at me and shrugged. Janis looked thoughtfully at the floor.

  Jackie lifted the glass high. “To hell with all of you.” She gulped deeply.

  Janis said, “Would you dance with an old married woman, Jim?”

  I danced three steps with her and the man named Desmond Colvey cut in. I got a glass of champagne and went out to sit on the concrete of the small front porch.

  It was a clear and beautiful night. I could see the traffic of the Coast Highway and a plane overhead coming into the International Airport.

  I could see a couple in a Buick parked down at the curb, and they were sitting very close. Lynn came out to sit next to me.

  “I know where I’ve seen that man, Jim. He was with Rita Edlinger at that bar near Malibu.”

  I shook my head.

  “Don’t lie to me, Jim. What’s going on? Do you think you’re a detective, or something? Is that the reason for this party?” Her voice was high.

  From the doorway behind us, George Wallace called out, “Don’t fight, children.”

  I sipped the champagne.

  Lynn said hoarsely, “Answer me, Jim Gulliver.”

  “Sit down and turn off your motor,” I said. “You’re imagining things, Lynn.”

  She paused for a moment, and then sat down beside me, her legs dangling over the end of the porch. “I’m sorry. You couldn’t be that monstrous, could you?”

  “How monstrous?”

  “To send a friend to the gas chamber.”

  “If he were a murderer, I could send my brother.”

  “All right, all right,” she said impatiently. “But that wasn’t why you wanted this party?”

  “No, that wasn’t why. Do you actually mean you would shield a murderer, Lynn?”

  “If he were a friend, of course. Loyalty to a friend; that’s number one with me, Jim.”

  “How about loyalty to society and its laws?”

  “Those are just words. If a person can’t be loyal to a friend, how can he be loyal to an idea?”

  “You mean Tom Edlinger wasn’t a friend?”

  “Tom’s dead. Nothing can hurt him now.”

  Loyal to the living, breathing flesh, that’s what she meant. Not to an idea or a corpse, just to the live and living — who still had the strength to pick up a check.

  No, that last thought was unfair.

  From the doorway, Jackie asked, “Why don’t you two make love? Why are you wasting all that darkness?”

  Lynn muttered something and I asked, “Would you like to dance?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too nice out here.”

  Tex and the Arthur Murray blonde were coming around from the back yard now. They came into the light from the doorway, and Lynn said, “You’d better get that lipstick off your neck, Tex, before Jackie sees you.”

  “Jackie who …?” he said mildly, and they went past us, into the house.

  Lynn stood up. “I’m going to get some more of that champagne. See you, Jim.”

  Maybe, maybe not. Chopko came to the doorway and out to the porch.

  “They’re getting wound up,” he said. “The girls are getting wobbly on their pins. I ought to know; I’ve danced with all of them in the last ten minutes.”

  “How’s our suspect doing?”

  “Getting glassy-e
yed. Compulsive drinking, it looks like.”

  I sipped my champagne. “Do you think I’m a monster, Mike?”

  He sat down beside me. “No worse than any of us, I guess. Who said you were?”

  “Lynn.”

  Nothing from him. The music of some Latin orchestra and the high-pitched laughter of a woman came through the doorway.

  “Where are you from, Mike?”

  “Gary, Indiana. Tough town, but nothing like Hollywood.”

  “This isn’t Hollywood; this is the Santa Monica Canyon.”

  “So it’s a cheap imitation of something that’s phony to begin with. I’m glad I’m full of sensible Hunky blood.”

  “And virile Hunky beauty. You do all right for yourself, don’t you?”

  “With the ladies? Yes. Always did. Almost as many tramps in Gary as in Hollywood.”

  “Rita Edlinger’s no tramp, Mike.”

  “I know, I know, I know.” He sighed. “I think I’ll hit some of that champagne.” He stood up. “Be careful, Jim. A drunk can be unpredictable.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  He went back into the house and I watched the traffic on the Coast Highway. The voices behind grew shriller and the music louder. In the Buick below, the couple climbed over into the back seat.

  Joe Paige came out to ask, “Have you seen Janis, Jim?”

  “Not recently. Sit down, Joe.”

  He sat down next to me, a tumbler of champagne in one hand, a lighted cigarette in the other. “Some party.”

  “They seem to be having fun.” I sipped my champagne. “Are you impotent, or just sterile, Joe?”

  Silence. The music and laughter behind seemed to grow. Finally, “What the hell kind of question is that? You’re drunker than I thought.”

  “I heard you used to talk about it all the time. I didn’t think, because of that, you’d be so sensitive about it, Joe.”

  “All right, wise guy, so I had an operation a little while ago. So now I’m all man again.”

  “That isn’t the way I heard it, Joe. I heard the operation wasn’t successful.”

  “Did you? Who told you that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I was just wondering about the baby in Janis. Whose is it, Joe? Is it Tom Edlinger’s?”

  His voice was almost a whisper. “You son-of-a-bitch. You snooping son-of-a-bitch.”