Jack Vance
Page 10
Joe stayed to dinner; afterward, he and Julie went out on the terrace. They were sitting in a lawn swing, rocking idly back and forth.
“Joe,” said Julie, “what do you think about this business?”
“You mean—Cathy? And the letters?”
“Yes.”
Joe took his time answering. “I’m not sure just what I do think.”
Julie knit her brows. “What’s so puzzling is the Robert Struve angle. I can understand his killing Cathy—but why should he send out anonymous letters?”
Joe smiled grimly. “The person who wrote the letters didn’t do the killing.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve got a very strong hunch who wrote the letters.”
“Who?”
“Lucia.”
Julie looked at him in astonishment. “Lucia? But Joe—why should Lucia write letters like that? And the awful one she got herself!”
“What did it say?”
Julie blushed. “It was—well, it wasn’t nice. It said that—well, that she’d make a good prostitute.”
Joe nodded. “Lucia’s a frustrated old maid.”
“But Joe—she’s only twenty!”
“Some girls are old maids at six.”
“Do you think she knows anything—about Cathy? What time did you take her home?”
“About twelve-thirty. I got back just in time to see Carr stagger into the pavilion. And I was with her an hour before I took her home.”
“Then she couldn’t have known anything about Cathy. You’re all wrong, Joe. Someone else wrote those letters. Why not Robert Strove?”
“I suppose anything’s possible.” Joe rose to his feet. “I’d better go before your father chases me away with a horsewhip.”
Julie said good night to him on the porch, and stood watching the red taillight disappear around the curve of the road. She turned to go back inside, but paused, and went listlessly out on the front lawn. The night was dark and clear; the stars glimmered, clean, remote, dispassionate … What was up there, among those far suns? If the spirits of the dead persisted, perhaps they might drift out there, out among the stars … Her skin crawled as she thought of Cathy. Pale, lonesome Cathy, wandering among those far black places …
As she turned to go back into the house, headlights came up the driveway. Julie recognized the Jaguar. She sighed; Carr was the last person she wanted to talk to. But she couldn’t escape.
“McDermott’s hired a detective,” he told Julie. “I’ve just come from his house.”
“That’s—that’s very interesting,” Julie said weakly.
Carr nodded grimly. “But he’s got to get on the ball. Today’s the thirteenth. On July seventh they execute Bavonette.”
“But Carr—”
Carr interrupted in a hard voice: “Not that I care a tinker’s damn for Bavonette. I just hate to see him paying for Struve’s fun.” He patted Julie on the shoulder. “Well, old girl, Cathy’s gone; it looks like you and I are about what’s left of the old gang.”
“I’m going in, Carr,” said Julie.
“Oh? Wouldn’t you like to come for a ride? Let the fresh air blow away the vapors?”
“No, Carr.”
“Just as you like … Good night.”
CHAPTER XII
Julie sat at her desk, looked at the envelope, afraid to open it, afraid of what it might say.
The address, stamped in the purple ink, looked back at her:
MISS JULIE HOVARD
10 JAMAICA TERRACE
SAN GIORGIO, CALIFORNIA.
Julia touched the envelope; was it really Lucia? She opened the letter.
CATHY IS QUITE DEAD.
I KNOW WHO QUIETED HER. MAYBE YOU
WILL BE QUIETED TOO.
“Hello, Julie!” Lucia was wearing blue denim shorts, a red blouse, moccasins. Her hair was
loose, she wore no lipstick; she looked rather pretty.
“Julie,” said Lucia breathlessly, “can you guess what came this morning?”
“Yes,” said Julie.
Judge Small came into the room, a tall stern old man, deaf as a post, with gaunt cheeks, a brush of white hair, a minatory eye of which Julie had always been in awe. He wore a baggy gray twill suit, with round-toed black shoes, a heavy gold watch chain. Julie had never seen him otherwise, morning or night.
“Good morning, Judge,” she called politely.
Judge Small nodded. “Good morning.” He cleared his throat raspily. “You’re the Hovard child, aren’t you?”
Lucia said, “Of course, Father—you’ve known Julie for years. She’s in college now.”
Judge Small nodded jerkily, stamped off to his library.
Lucia looked at her sidelong. “What’s the trouble?”
“I got another letter this morning.”
“I did, too. That’s what I started to tell you!”
Julie nodded. “I know you did.” The seed of suspicion had suddenly become certainty. In the flicker of an eyelid, Lucia was a different person, and all the qualities Julie had known and respected had to be re-interpreted.
Julie set her mouth into a thin line of resolution. “Let’s go up to your room, where we can talk.” She started up the gloomy echoing stairs.
Lucia’s bedroom was a large airy chamber at the southeast corner of the house. The ceiling was twelve feet high, festooned with gilt ornamental plaster. Six tall windows, veiled in lace and apple-green draperies, rose almost to the ceiling, with window seats below. The furniture was rather elaborate—antiques of a period Julie could put no name to. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood, and the impeccable tidiness jarred on Julie after the cheerful disorder of her own room.
Lucia followed Julie slowly through the door, her eyes narrow with calculation. “What’s all the mystery?”
“Certainly not the letters,” said Julie.
Lucia said crisply, “What about the letters?”
“I want to know one thing, Lucia. Did you write them?”
Lucia laughed. “What a question, Julie!”
“Did you? Or not?”
“Of course not. Do you think that I’m— Julie!” she cried in anxiety as Julie ran to her tall desk, pulled down the flap. Tucked neatly into a pigeonhole was a printing set. In another were white cards. In still another were square white envelopes.
Lucia slammed the desk shut, turned and slapped Julie’s face. Her eyes glittered.
Julie laughed. “So you know who killed Cathy, Lucia. Who?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” panted Lucia.
“I thought Joe took you home early.”
“What I know I know. Now, get out of this house! I don’t ever want to see you again!”
“It’s not as easy at that, Lucia. You’ve been writing vicious threatening letters. I don’t know whether it’s a criminal offense or not—but we can ask your father.”
Lucia sat down in a chair, tears forming in her eyes. They were tears of fury.
“I want to know what you mean,” said Julie. ” ‘Cathy is quite dead. I know who quieted her. You may be quieted too.’ “
Lucia’s mouth twisted. “You think you’re smart, don’t you?”
“Who killed Cathy, Lucia? If you know, you ought to tell the police … Is it someone we know?”
Lucia smiled. “Maybe.”
“Is it Robert Struve?”
“Maybe.”
“Well— do you know for sure?”
“Yes,” said Lucia. “I would say so.”
“How did you find out?”
“I used my common sense.”
“And you think that whoever did it might do it again?”
Lucia shrugged. “I don’t know.” The two girls sat in silence. Lucia stared into the air as if listening to secret voices. She began to speak in a soft monotone, not addressing Julie, but speaking for Julie to hear.
“I’m twenty years old. I’ve never let a man touch me—and I’ve gained what? Not a thing. No one likes me or respects
me; they think I’m cold … But I don’t care any more. I’m going to do what I want to do—and I’m not going to give a damn.”
“Lucia,” said Julie breathlessly, “listen. I’m your friend …”
“You’re my friend? You’re nobody’s friend but stuck-up little Julie Hovard’s.”
“That’s not true!” cried Julie, tears coming to her eyes. “Think, Lucia! Just think! Suppose you know who killed poor Cathy—and suppose whoever did it knows you know! Think what might happen!”
Lucia smiled. “I’ve taken care of that. I’ve made it clear. He’d just better be careful.” She jumped to her feet. “And as for you, Julie Hovard — I hate you! I don’t care what happens to you!”
“Okay,” said Julie. “We know where we stand. But—if I wanted to find out who killed Cathy —where would I start?”
“It’s in the paper. In Sunday’s paper, the society section. Right in front of your nose. But you’ll never see it, not in a million years. I could show it to you and you still wouldn’t see it.”
“All right,” said Julie, “show it to me.”
“Oh, get out of here,” said Lucia. She flung herself on the bed.
Julie said irresolutely, “Lucia—if you’ve got something on your mind, maybe we could talk it over …”
Lucia turned her head, and they stared at each other.
“Cathy was killed!” cried Julie. “Don’t you understand? She’s dead!”
Lucia turned her head away. “I wish I had been there to watch.”
Julie ran out the door, down the long dark steps. At the newel post she stopped, and looked into the library. Judge Small lay asleep in a tremendous black leather chair.
Julie drove slowly back to town. She found a parking place, went into the city hall, around the cool corridors to the sheriff’s office.
Sheriff Hartmann was not in, the woman at the desk said.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“As soon as he gets a week’s quota of wetbacks.”
I
156 TAKE MY FACE
“Will you tell him Julie Hovard wants to see him?”
“All right, Miss Hovard. I’ll leave the message.”
Julie wanted company; someone to talk to, someone to soothe her.
Cathy was dead.
She thought, I’ll take a run up to Mountainview and see how things are coming along. As she passed the contractor’s shack, she noticed one of the dump trucks standing idle. She parked, jumped out of the car and ran into the office.
“I want to see Joe Treddick; can you tell me where he is?”
A tall man in dusty suntans looked her over. “Search me. He quit this morning.”
“Quit! What for?”
“That I don’t know … He just up and quit.”
Julie gunned the convertible back to town. She was very angry. Joe had no business to do a thing like that without consulting her. Well, he could go chase himself … Somehow the way home led past the Fair Oaks Guest House.
The old Plymouth sedan was nowhere in sight.
Julie parked, walked up to the screen door, rang the bell. A middle-aged woman with straggly gray hair appeared on the other side of the screen.
“I’m looking for Joe Treddick,” said Julie.
“You’ve missed him by half an hour.”
“You mean he’s—moved out?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did he—leave an address?”
The woman peered sharply through the screen. “No, he didn’t.”
“Very well,” said Julie wearily. “Thanks very much.”
She drove home, feeling very low. Joe’s car was in the driveway. Joe was just coming out of the house.
Julie tried hard to control her face. “Joe!”
He came over to the convertible. “Hello, Julie. I was afraid I was going to miss you.”
“Joe—where are you going?” She took his hand.
“I’ve quit, Julie. I’m leaving San Giorgio.”
“But why?”
He smiled. “I don’t like what’s happening around here.”
Julie looked at the house. Very probably her mother was watching from one of the windows. “Get in, Joe. Let’s go for a ride. I want to talk to you.”
He got in; Julie drove around the circle, down to the highway, and away from San Giorgio.
“Tell me the truth, Joe.”
He was slow in answering. “I should never
have come up here in the first place, Julie.”
“Did you get another letter this morning?”
“Yes.”
“What did it say?”
“I’d rather not go into that.”
Tears were welling up behind Julie’s eyes. “I got a letter, too. You can read mine.” She pulled over to the side of the road, opened the glove compartment, gave him the letter.
He read it in silence.
Julie said, “I went over and saw Lucia. We— had a showdown. You were right. She’s been writing the letters.”
Joe nodded.
“I don’t want you to go, Joe! Suppose Lucia was right—suppose somebody ‘quieted’ me.”
“That’s not too likely.”
“Why not? Suppose Robert Struve is in San Giorgio? Suppose he is a maniac?”
“If he killed Cathy, and he’s got any sense at all, he’ll get the hell out of San Giorgio.”
“Joe—would you desert a sinking ship?” And they both laughed.
“I’ve quit my job.”
“We’ll go up there right now and un-quit.”
“But—Julie!”
“Suppose you read in the paper that my corpse had been found. Victim of a sex-mutilation murder. Would you ever forgive yourself?”
He was clenching and unclenching his hands. “I don’t know whether I would or not.”
She kissed his cheek. “Oh, Joe, the world’s such a terrible place!” She looked up into his face. “Tell me you’ll take care of me, Joe.”
“Yes,” said Joe. “I’ll take care of you.”
She closed her eyes. Joe hesitated a second, then kissed her. Julie put her arms up for another. They separated slowly.
“Right in broad daylight,” said Julie. “Sometimes I wish I weren’t so affectionate … Lucia’s stored hers up. And now it’s broken loose on her,” Julie mused. “I just hope she doesn’t get into trouble.” She rapped the steering wheel with her knuckles. “That reminds me.”
“What?”
“Well—” Julie hesitated. “She said I could find who killed Cathy by looking at Sunday’s society page.”
“Yeah?” Joe pondered a moment. “Let’s go look.”
They sat close together on the couch in the Hovard living room, heads bent over the Herald-Republican society section.
“She said I’d never see it—not in a million years,” said Julie. “And I guess she’s right, because we’ve been looking ten minutes and I don’t see a thing.”
Joe squinted up and down the page. “Let’s give it one more try. From the headline down.”
EVENT OF THE SEASON MOUNTAINVIEW MASQUE.
“It was an event all right,” said Joe.
Once more, they examined the photographs. There were eight of these, arranged around a central box of text describing the most noteworthy of the costumes and those who wore them.
Julie took the paper, bent over it. “There’s Mother and Father in this picture”—she pointed —”and that thing there is my leg; I’m sitting right behind the woman in the snake-goddess hat … Here’s you and Lucia at the bar.”
Joe took the paper. He and Lucia were standing a little aside from the black and white throng. Lucia had her head tilted to the side; Joe, by a trick of reproduction, looked somber and heavy.
“Why are you so glum?” asked Julie.
Joe shrugged. “I was just taking her home … We were pushing over to the door.”
“She looks a little silly,” said Julie.
Joe nodded. “She
was fairly tight—but not too tight.”
Julie looked up in sudden speculation. “Not too tight—for what?”
Joe grinned. “Gentlemen never talk.”
“Oh. So there’s something to talk about.”
Her tone surprised Joe; she seemed suddenly years older. “No … Nothing very much. I just got the notion she was willing.”
“And so you parked?” Joe shook his head. Julie’s voice was skeptical. “Lucia’s nice when she isn’t looking down her nose at something.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
Julie sniffed. “Oh, well. If you really admire Lucia …”
Joe tossed the newspaper to the table. “I don’t really.”
“But you parked with her on the way home.”
“How could I park with Lucia and get back to the Masque in half an hour?”
“You left earlier.”
“I didn’t. But I’d have a hell of a time proving it.
Julie picked up the paper. “One last look.”
“I think Lucia’s more than a little nuts,” said Joe.
“Maybe. But she was so darn triumphant! … Look, maybe this is it.”
“What?”
Julie pointed. “This man.” She pointed to a shape on the dance floor.
“What about him?”
“He’s got his mask on. He danced with Cathy
several times. No one knew who he was. No one does yet.”
“A man danced with Cathy. So what?”
“He might be Robert Struve.”
Joe laughed. “You’re letting Robert Struve hypnotize you.”
“Somebody killed her. Nobody else had any reason to.”
“But what reason could Struve have? That’s something I’ve never got straight.”
Julie sighed. “It’s a long story. I only know what Cathy told me … It all goes back to that awful Tri-Gamma initiation.”
Joe waited.
“Cathy and Lucia and Dean went into the room. To kiss Robert. They thought he was passed out—drunk—and made some silly cracks. Nothing serious—but I suppose they were rather mean. Enough to make Robert hate them all.”
“That was years ago. It sounds farfetched.”
“Cathy and Dean both had their faces cut up. Just where Robert’s face was so awful. And Carr heard him—heard what he said to Cathy.”