“The matches you carried in your pocket,” I went on, “wound up on Tom’s living-room floor. Was that why you burned the suit, or was it because of the blood?”
Silence, for seconds, and then he said, “Janis talked to you the other day. She …”
From behind us, Janis Paige said, “Shut up, Joe. I didn’t tell him anything.”
He twisted around to face her. “You told him you were pregnant. Don’t lie to me, you …” And then he stopped talking and turned back to me. “How much did she tell you?”
“Nothing, Joe. I was there when she got sick. I’ve seen morning sickness before.”
Silence. Too much had been said, already. Janis came out and down the steps to the grass in front of the porch. Her voice was a whisper. “What does all this mean, Jim? Why did you say what you said?”
“The ‘why’ doesn’t matter. Was it true?”
“Of course it wasn’t true.”
I jumped down and stood on the grass, too. “Then, I apologize. I thought, perhaps if you were guilty, it would be better to confess. It would go easier on you, I think. We were all drunk and there are juries who think a betrayed husband can legally kill. But you’re not guilty and I’m out of line. Say ‘good-bye’ to the gang for me, won’t you?” I started toward the street, and my car.
“Wait …” Janis said. “Jim, where are you going?”
“I’m going to get out of here before the police come. I’ve had enough trouble with the police.”
“Jim — wait, please …” Janis’ voice was shrill. She ran down to where I was waiting. “Honestly, now, Jim, do the police know what you do?”
I lied with a nod.
“And they’re coming here? How do you know that?”
I was looking past her, and I saw Joe finish the champagne in one gulp. I said, “Mike Chopko knows some people at the West Side Station. One of them phoned him.”
She stared at me. “Mike Chopko? What is he? I thought he was from Iowa.”
I shook my head. “He’s a private investigator, Janis. He’s been working on this case.”
Joe had jumped down from the porch now, and he was standing on the grass, swaying. Then he put his hand to his forehead and fell face forward.
Janis turned in time to see it. She looked at him blankly. Then she whispered, “Help me get him to the car. And are you sober enough to drive us to the station, Jim?”
“We’d better get Mike Chopko,” I said. “He can see that everybody’s interests are protected.”
• • •
In the side room opposite the squad room, Sergeant Tom Doyle said, “This is really Dyke’s baby. He’s going to be very unhappy that you didn’t phone him.”
“That’s the way we want it,” Chopko said. “Does it bother you that Dyke might be unhappy, Tom?”
Doyle’s smile was unholy. “Huh! I’m bleeding. The doctor’s in with Mrs. Paige now. When he’s through with her, I’ll get him to give Paige something to bring him back to this world. It really knocked the missus out, didn’t it?”
“She’s pregnant,” I said.
“Yuh.” He looked at me. “You got any reason to hate these people?”
“Why should I have?”
He looked at his desk and shrugged. “I mean, the woman pregnant and all, and you partying around with them, and — I mean, what the hell, it looks cold-blooded, kind of …” His gaze swung back to meet mine. “If the man was a criminal, or something, but — I mean if somebody got into my wife, I’d be just as …”
“Save it, Sergeant,” I said. “You’re overlooking one thing. A man is dead, just exactly as dead as though he’d been killed by a prowler. Let’s stay with that fact, Sergeant. Let’s leave the sentimentality for the people who can’t face facts.”
Sergeant Tom Doyle glared at me, saying nothing.
Chopko said, “Mr. Gulliver’s in the loan business, Tom. That’s no place for sentimentalists.”
• • •
The Santa Ana had increased, driving the litter along the curbs on Wilshire, rattling the dry fronds of the palm trees, blowing the skirts of a woman waiting for a bus on Lincoln.
I turned into the motel parking area and locked the car doors before walking toward my apartment. And then, a few steps from the door, I stopped.
There was a light on in my apartment. I could see it through the edges of the closed Venetian blinds. Had I left a light on?
I opened the door slowly and found Carol standing near the TV set. She had evidently just turned it off.
“How did you get in?” I asked her.
“The manager gave me a key. I showed him my driver’s license. Though I don’t think that was really necessary. Those were lovely orchids, Jim.”
Orchids …? I hadn’t sent any orchids to Carol. Had Max? I’d sent roses to Rita but no orchids to anybody. But it didn’t seem like the right time to ask about orchids I hadn’t sent.
Carol smiled. “I brought the card along, Jim. I wrote my answer on it.”
She came over to hand me the card, and I suddenly realized what had happened. Because it was the card I’d sent Rita. I read my own words: With love, with hope and prayer for both of us. Jim.
Trust a Latin to know what to do with a card that ambiguous. Rita had sent Carol orchids and enclosed my card.
I looked at what Carol had added to the card, her answer. It was a single word, and the word was: Yes.
Carol said, “Migawd, that must have been a hundred dollars’ worth of orchids you sent me, Jim.”
For a moment, my perverse honesty compulsion stirred in me, but I stilled it. I said, “Orchids aren’t nearly good enough for you, honey.”
She came over and I took her in my arms. I said, “I suppose we’d better go home.”
She stirred. “It’s not necessary. Mrs. Regan is with Sue and Jim. She’s staying for the night.” She looked up. “Couldn’t we stay here for tonight? It seems so — deliciously illegal.”
That all seems so long ago now. I never go to Heeney’s any more and I never see the gang anywhere.
But the other night, at Ted’s Grill, there was this girl sitting at a small table near the fireplace. She looked younger than I guessed she was, a slim girl with jet black hair and dark blue eyes, a girl who looked — oh, I guess the word is — vulnerable….
Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, western, and romance genres. Discover more today:
www.prologuebooks.com
This edition published by
Prologue Books
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.prologuebooks.com
Copyright © 1956 by William Campbell Gault, Registration Renewed 1984
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
eISBN 10: 1-4405-4067-5
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-4067-7
Cover art © clipart.com
Square in the Middle Page 17
