Jack Vance

by Take My Face (epub)

  “Maybe I’d been waiting for a chance; maybe I was battle-happy. I don’t know. What happened was I picked up Treddick’s dog tag, gave mine to what was left of Joe. I didn’t really figure out what I was going to do. The way it turned out, I didn’t have to. The Commies came over the hill; they took me away. From then on, I was Joe Treddick.”

  “Kinda tough on Treddick’s folks, wasn’t it?”

  “He didn’t have folks. Third cousins in Boston; that’s all. Also, Joe was getting his discharge the same time I was getting mine.

  “To make a long story short, I got away from the Commies. I hid out two days and three nights and finally made it back to our own lines. I had a broken arm and an infection where the shrapnel nicked me in the neck. I went to the hospital and never did get back to my own outfit.”

  “That was kinda lucky for you,” said Hartmann. ,

  “It wouldn’t have made any real difference. I wasn’t trying to pull anything. It was just a gesture—”

  “So that’s why you came back to San Giorgio?”

  “Sheriff, you wouldn’t understand why I came back to San Giorgio if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “I lived in San Giorgio fourteen years. I got to know certain people. They knew me as Robert Struve. I wanted to come back and know them as Joe Treddick, somebody other than the town monster.”

  The sheriff thought about it, and nodded. “Go on with your story. You were in the hospital.”

  “I took my discharge in Japan, signed on a Panamanian freighter, and came back to the States the long way. In New York I legally changed my name to Joe Treddick. That’s my name today.”

  “What about the Army?”

  “That score is even. Struve for Treddick.”

  “What if they found out?”

  “If they find out, I tell them about the mix-up in dog tags.”

  “You’re willing to let another man go to the gas chamber for a crime you committed?”

  Joe looked surprised. “What crime is this?”

  “You killed Dean Bavonette. George Bavonette takes the rap.”

  Joe laughed shortly. “Seems to me he confessed.”

  “Okay. Why did you cut up Cathy McDermott and Lucia Small?”

  “Are you accusing me?”

  “I’m just asking. Why did you do it?”

  Joe lit a cigarette. “I didn’t.”

  “Can you prove that you didn’t?”

  “I don’t need to.”

  The sheriff became angry. “What do you say about this?” He opened a manila folder. Scotch-taped to the inside was a card. Letters printed in purple ink read: HELLO ROBERT. YOU WON’T PULL IT OFF.

  “What’ve you got to say?”

  “Nothing very much. Lucia Small sent it.”

  The sheriff nodded. “What’s it mean?”

  “She thought I was planning to marry into the Hovard family.”

  “Were you?”

  Joe looked at him stonily. “What do you think?”

  The sheriff opened another manila envelope, displayed it to Joe.

  ROBERT STRUVE IS A SAVAGE LOVER.

  HE CUTS THROATS AND FACES.

  HE’S THE MAN TO FIND.

  Joe frowned. “Where did you get this?”

  “Lucia mailed it the day she was killed. To

  _ j>

  me.

  “Let’s see the envelope.”

  The sheriff tossed Joe the envelope.

  Joe looked at it. “The postmark is for the day after she got it.”

  “She probably mailed it in a box, after last pickup.”

  “I don’t believe it. She knew I was Robert Struve.”

  “That’s what’s puzzling me,” said Sheriff Hartmann. “How did she know?”

  “I took her home from that Mountainview Masque. The Turrets is pretty hard to find unless you know just where to go. I drove straight out there. She said, ‘How come you know this road? You’re a stranger around here!’

  “I couldn’t give her any answer. Then she said, ‘You always have looked familiar to me, in an odd kind of way.’ And about two minutes later, she said, ‘I know who you are! You’re Robert Struve!’

  “I told her she was crazy, but she just laughed. It was while I was taking her home that Cathy McDermott got it. Lucia knew I was clean out of it. If she wrote that letter, it was out of spite.”

  “Spite? Why?”

  “She wanted to park. I didn’t.”

  The sheriff grunted. “We got the goods on you, Treddick.”

  Joe laughed.

  “You had motive—opportunity—”

  “No more motive than anybody else. And as for opportunity, I was taking Lucia home when Cathy was killed.”

  “That would make a good alibi—if Lucia were alive to bear you out.”

  “So it would.”

  The sheriff looked at Joe for a long minute. “Joe—you’re a pretty smart boy. But I’m gonna get you for these killings.”

  “Okay,” said Joe. “I can stand it if you can.”

  Julie wandered around the house. She changed into a bathing suit, walked out across the lawn to the swimming pool, where she settled into a deck chair.

  Joe Treddick—Robert Struve. The two images melted, merged into each other, separated. Robert’s terrible scar just wouldn’t seem to fit on Joe’s strong jaw and flat cheeks. Once or twice she had noticed a long mark under his chin; it must have been the edge of the skin graft. His nose—how could Joe’s short straight nose cover the black gape of Robert’s nostrils? Somehow it did … Anyone could be horrible with their face cut and torn … Think of Cathy and Dean and Lucia …

  Joe. Robert.

  All the rest of her life those names would give her an inward stir … What would have happened if Robert had never been hurt? If she hadn’t been driving the car one evening when she was eight? Five lives. Dean Pendry. Cathy McDermott. Lucia Small. George Bavonette. Robert Struve.

  Joe Treddick?

  Julie’s thoughts faltered to a stop. Could there be good in Joe Treddick? She sighed. What a terrible force must drive him! Sharp as lightning, grinding and harsh as a bulldozer in gravel! Certainly he must feel nothing but agony at his own acts . . .

  Margaret called her to lunch. At two, Julie walked listlessly downtown. She bought an early edition of the Herald-Republican and looked through the headlines for the words “Sex Slayer.” Nothing leapt at her eyes. She looked more carefully and found a cautious half-column which quoted Sheriff Hartmann as expecting an arrest within the next twenty-four hours.

  She wandered home, lay down on her bed and presently fell asleep. She woke up about four-thirty.

  When she went downstairs, she found her mother drinking tea with Carr Pendry.

  “You got back early,” said Julie, the faintest of sardonic overtones in her voice.

  Carr looked tired; Julie felt immediately sorry. “Did you accomplish anything at all?”

  Carr shook his head. “A stone wall—everywhere. Nobody seems to care a tinker’s damn. They just look blank.” He banged his fist on the table. “And you’d never guess what.”

  “What?”

  “He’s let Struve go.”

  “Let him go! Why?”

  Carr shrugged. “Lack of evidence. It doesn’t mean anything. They’re just giving him rope. They’ll get him.”

  “What a horrible creature,” murmured Margaret. “I can’t get over it. Here—at this very table. Eating our food.”

  Carr returned to the events of the day. “I spoke to the judge. He refused to see the connection between Dean’s death and what’s happened up here.”

  “Did you tell him about Robert?” Julie asked.

  “Of course I told him.” Carr continued, “On my way home, I dropped into San Quentin and was allowed to talk to Bavonette.”

  “On the day he’s being executed?” asked Margaret. “That sounds so morbid somehow.”

  Carr looked at his watch. “It’s now four-thirty. In two and
one half hours … Well, as a relative—I’m his brother-in-law, after all—”

  “I should think that would be more reason they wouldn’t let you in,” said Julie. “Brother of the girl he’s supposed to have killed.”

  Carr frowned. “He looks terrible. Like a death’s-head. His face is all caved in.”

  “Poor fellow,” said Margaret.

  “His hands are like claws,” said Carr. “You’ve heard the expression about somebody’s eyes glowing. Well, that’s how Bavonette’s eyes were—as if there was a little lamp in each of them.”

  “Did he seem pleased to see you?” Margaret asked.

  “He didn’t seem to care. I told him the situation, told him that even now if he’d deny that confession there might be a chance.”

  “What did he say?”

  Carr drank his tea before replying. “He gave me the most peculiar look I’ve ever seen on a man’s face. It was a man laughing at death, anxious for it. He’s actually glad he’s being killed!”

  “Isn’t that strange!” said Margaret.

  “There’s something weird involved there. He’s crazy as a bedbug, of course. But he’s expiating something …”

  “Just what did he say?” asked Julie.

  “He told me to mind my own business. He

  said—let’s see. His exact words were something like this. He almost sang them. Like bop music. ‘Brother, this life has been one long round of hell. I’ve fought it on the weed. I’ve fought it on the piano. They say there’s another life where they play harps; brother, I’m ready. You can take this one—’ ” Carr broke off with a sad smile for Margaret. “He told me what I could do with it.”

  “The poor man is obviously crazy,” Margaret said indignantly. “He should be in an institution.”

  Carr nodded. “Instead, they’re killing him”— he looked at his watch—”in two hours and twenty-five minutes.”

  Julie rose to her feet. Margaret looked at her curiously. “Where are you going, dear?”

  “Upstairs.”

  Carr jumped up. “I was going to suggest—if you’d like to go for a ride tonight, Julie—”

  “No, thanks,” said Julie.

  “Why, Julie, I think it would do you good,” said Margaret.

  “Okay,” said Julie. She turned, facing Carr. “On one condition.”

  “Sure. Anything you like.”

  “We go just where I want to go. Do what I want to do. Without argument. Is it a deal?”

  “If you insist.”

  “Okay.” Julie started from the room.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Carr took Julie’s arm as they descended the steps, led her toward the Jaguar. Julie pulled back. “Let’s take my car.”

  Carr acquiesced. “This is your evening.”

  Julie went to the driver’s side. Carr climbed in on the right, sitting very straight, looking stiffly ahead. Julie said, “You might as well know where I’m going now, so there won’t be any argument. I’m going to talk to Joe Treddick.”

  Carr turned his head in shock. “Julie—I don’t think that’s very smart.”

  “Okay. Do you want to come? Or do I go alone?”

  “But why, Julie? Why in the name of merciful heaven?”

  “I want to see him,” said Julie. She shook her head. “Maybe he’s a murderer—but he’s honest. Anyway, Carr, I want to talk to him! I’ve got to get straightened out!” she cried passionately. “I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. If he’s not a murderer, I want to know that I was right about him.”

  “Say he’s innocent. He’s still an impostor—”

  She looked at him levelly. “What would you have done, Carr, if you’d had a face like Robert Struve’s?”

  “That’s neither here nor there. I thought tonight we were going out, maybe have a drink—”

  “Okay, Carr. Please get out.”

  Carr said tersely, “I’ll come.”

  “No more argument?”

  “Anything you like.”

  Julie started the car, drove down Conroy Avenue, out Third Street to the Fair Oaks Guest House.

  She parked, jumped out. Carr started to follow. “No,” said Julie. “I want to talk to Joe, alone. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Your folks would skin me alive,” Carr protested in real distress. “After all, they trust me to look after you!”

  “Once and for all, Carr, you’re along tonight for the ride. If you don’t like it, you can go home.”

  She climbed the steps, rang the bell; Mrs. Tut-tle came to the door.

  “May I speak to Joe Treddick, please?”

  Mrs. Tuttle looked at her in careful speculation. “You know who Joe Treddick is?”

  “Certainly I know who he is.”

  “His real name is Robert Struve, and unless I miss my guess—”

  “May I speak to him?”

  Mrs. Tuttle snorted. “Do you think he’d be in my house a single minute after I found out who he was? Run along, young lady. He’s not here.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I’ve not the slightest idea.”

  “Thank you.” Julie went back to the car.

  “Well?” said Carr.

  “He’s not there.” Julie pressed the starter button.

  Sheriff Hartmann was not in his office; the deputy suggested they try his home.

  The sheriff lived in a new three-bedroom house in one of the developments springing up around San Giorgio. Carr agreed to ask the whereabouts of Joe Treddick. Julie went with him to the door.

  In answer to the bell, Sheriff Hartmann appeared in his shirt sleeves. When Carr made his inquiry, the sheriff put on a thoughtful frown.

  “Seems to me he said something about one of the motels. Just what do you want with him?”

  Carr looked at Julie. “We just want to chat a bit—old times, you know.”

  “Oh,” said the sheriff, nodding wisely.

  “For the life of me,” said Carr, “I can’t see why you let him go!”

  “For a very good reason. There’s no evidence against him.”

  “What about all this false-name stuff, the letters—”

  “That’s background, Carr. A lot different from evidence. It’s good for filling in the chinks and crannies of a case, but first you’ve got to get a case. We just don’t have one. Not even the beginnings of one.”

  “Come on, Carr,” said Julie.

  He followed her sulkily back to the car. “Now where?”

  “I thought we’d just run down the road, look for his car.”

  “Now, Julie, there’s a dozen motels in town— we can’t explore all of them.”

  “I guess you’re right,” said Julie.

  “Now, where are you going?” asked Carr.

  “Home.”

  “Home? The night’s young!”

  Julie said nothing. She turned up Conroy Avenue, into Jamaica Terrace and up into her driveway.

  “Julie,” said Carr, “this hasn’t been my kind of party at all.”

  “What did you want to do? Neck?”

  Carr stiffly opened the door. “Good night, Julie … I don’t think I’ll come in.”

  “Good night, Carr. I didn’t ask you to.”

  Carr jumped into the Jaguar, started the motor, swung around, roared out the driveway and back toward town.

  “Big overgrown baby,” Julie muttered to herself. She started her car, quietly backed around, drove out, down to the highway.

  Julie turned south. The highway led past dingy service stations, used-car lots, taverns, two veterinary hospitals.

  Nothing in the Bon Haven, the San Giorgio Courts, the Kozy Kourts, or Bender’s Motel. The Green Gables was past the farthest street light, out where the country began. A dozen duplex cabins, with green asphalt-tile roofing, surrounded a central area which once had been graveled. Two oak trees with whitewashed trunks grew in the center. The cabin marked OFFICE displayed a light; all the others seemed dark and untenanted. Julie parked off t
he road, walked quietly into the court.

  Down at the far end, she saw Joe’s car. She stood looking at the cabin, wishing she had someone with her.

  She went back out to the car, got in. She put the key in the lock, then hesitated. She’d come this far … Slowly she got out of the car, went back into the court, looked at the cabin.

  Inside was Joe. Robert Struve. Joe. She stood

  looking at the blank door for two minutes. All the cabins seemed vacant except Joe’s.

  She went slowly up to the door, her heart pounding. She paused, her hand raised to knock. A foolish thing to do, really. But it had to be done. It was the breaking crest to a wave of events that had started ten years ago, when a little girl steered a car into a motor-scooter.

  Her fist came down. She knocked.

  Inside, a bed creaked, feet hit the floor. The door opened.

  “Hello,” said Julie. “Can I come in?”

  The door closed behind her with a soft sound. Four candles burned on the bedside table. There was no light in the room other than the glow from the four flames.

  Julie looked around in quizzical curiosity. “Why the candles?”

  “Just a whim.” Joe sat down on the bed. “Have a seat.”

  Julie moved a cane-bottomed rocker around, settled herself. They looked at each other. The candles cast a rich paleness on one side of their faces, left the other side in velvet-black shadow.

  “Well, Robert?” said Julie in a soft voice.

  “My name is Joe Treddick.”

  Joe stared at her. Julie saw that he had lost weight. His face looked thin.

  “You’re a strange creature, Robert.”

  Once more, he said, “My name is Joe Treddick.”

  Julie made a sound of scornful amusement. “Just how dumb do you think I am?”

  “Oh—medium.”

  “How about yourself? What do you think of yourself?”

  “I try to avoid it.” He swung his legs up, lay back on the bed, lit a cigarette. “I suppose you’re entitled to an explanation.”

  Julie waited. Her courage was beginning to thin out. She became conscious of her youth, her inexperience, her lack of toughness. Then she hardened. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Let him lie there, with as much flinty self-assurance as he cared to assume … Joe was speaking.