Jack Vance

by Take My Face (epub)

  “As far as I’m concerned, Robert Struve died in Korea. I never cared much for Robert. Mother-ridden little mollycoddle.”

  The dispassionate contempt startled Julie. She felt an impulse to defend Robert Struve. She remembered the Robert Struve she had known in high school—the boy who had played football like a maniac, who studied like a monk, who made no friends and walked by himself. Mother-ridden mollycoddle? Hardly!

  “Joe Treddick was a different kind of man,” said Joe. “He did things because he liked them.

  I changed my name. I’m Joe Treddick. Now I do things because I like to do them.”

  “Such as—murder?”

  Joe puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette; the smoke spiraled toward the ceiling. The candles flickered.

  Joe said, “You’ve got me arrested, tried, sentenced, hanged, and buried out of sight—even before you ask whether or not I’m guilty.”

  “Is there any question? All this sneaking around, this—maneuvering, coming up here under false pretenses.”

  “My name is Joe Treddick. If you’d asked me about Struve, I would have told you. But Struve is dead. Joe Treddick is alive. I took no unfair advantage of you or anyone else.”

  Julie leaned forward, her voice passionate. “How about Dean Pendry? George Bavonette died two hours ago. You murdered him just like you murdered his wife.” Joe started to speak, but Julie rushed on. “I know why you did it. Four girls at the Tri-Gamma initiation. Dean, Cathy, Lucia, me. Four silly little girls. They hurt your feelings. And you got your revenge.”

  Joe was grinning painfully. “Do you honestly believe that?”

  “I know what you did to me.”

  “Yeah,” said Joe. “I paid for it … I’m sorry about that.”

  “Your apology comes five years late.”

  “Better late than never.”

  “How about Dean? I suppose you didn’t wreck her home.”

  Joe laughed shortly.

  “Well?”

  Joe shrugged. “I saw Dean in a bar on Market Street in San Francisco. I knew her; she didn’t know me. I made a pickup. Maybe the idea of revenge entered into it. I suppose it did. She never mentioned she was married—with her husband banging the piano not twenty feet away. When I found she was married, I laid off. I saw her twice after that. The last time was the night she was killed. That’s when she recognized me.”

  Julie looked at him. “It’s a wonder I never did.”

  “She saw me with the bottom of my face behind a magazine. I was reading. She stopped in the middle of the room, and told me I was stubborn and had no soul—that I reminded her of a boy she used to know in high school—a horrible boy named Robert Struve. She looked again.” Joe laughed shortly. “Her eyes were the size of pie plates. She ran into her bedroom. I left.”

  Julie held up her hand, blocking the bottom of Joe’s face from her vision. He was suddenly Robert Struve. She took away her hand. He was Joe again.

  “The next-to-last time I saw Dean was up on Telegraph Hill. You and Cathy were there. In Cholo’s apartment.”

  Julie was startled. “I didn’t notice you.”

  “I noticed you. I knew who you were right away.” He sat up on the bed. “And I knew right away what I wanted out of life—more than anything else. You. I made sure of a seat next to you in English 1B. I wanted a fair chance at you, on even terms with everyone else—without the past hung around my neck like an albatross.”

  Julie said in a subdued voice, “That’s all very well—but Dean? Why did she have to die?”

  “Do you mean, why did I kill her?”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed bitterly. “Could it be possible that the man who got executed for Dean’s murder was the man that did it?”

  “I’ve thought about it … But there’s Cathy and Lucia.”

  “Why pick on me?”

  “You had the motive.”

  Joe laughed. “And five years later I cut their throats?”

  Julie was silent.

  “Sure,” said Joe. “At the time my feelings were hurt. I was going to make lots of money, get a handsome face. They’d fall in love with me, come on their hands and knees crying for a kind look. Then I’d jilt ‘em.” Joe put on a tired smile. “Those were daydreams. I got over them about the same time I joined the Army.”

  “You tell a good story, Joe.”

  He turned his head quickly. “You called me Joe.”

  “Yes, what of it?”

  “That means you believe me.”

  Julie looked away, watched the candles. “I never did—completely—have you hanged, drawn and quartered.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Did you come alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “You’re a trusting little soul.” He put out his cigarette. “Suppose I’m the San Giorgio murderer after all?”

  She moved in the chair, looked down at her hands. She was blushing.

  He rose to his feet, went to look at the candles. She came slowly across the room, stood beside him. Her flesh was tingling, her mouth dry. “Inside,” she said, “I suppose we’re all a little strange …”

  He looked down at her, his eyebrows arched, his mouth tight. He put his arm around her. The

  touch was like a spring; the tenseness went out of Julie; she leaned against Joe, and the strange inner feelings gave way to warmth and quiet. She put her arm around him and together they stood looking into the flames.

  “Will you marry me, Julie?”

  “As soon as I’m eighteen.”

  Presently Julie asked, “Why the candles, Joe?”

  “It’s a demonstration.”

  He reached to the dresser, picked up a glossy 8” x 10” photograph. “Look at this.”

  Julie took the photograph. “Well?”

  It was one of the pictures which had appeared on the Herald-Republican society page: the bar at Mountainview Masque, with Joe and Lucia near the door.

  “What do you see?”

  She studied it in the light of the four candles. “Only what we saw the other day. With more detail, of course … Oh. The candles!”

  “Right,” said Joe. “I can measure how long they are in this photograph.”

  “How? How can you be sure—”

  “The label on this bottle of Scotch is exactly four inches high. I measured it this evening in a liquor store. That gives me a scale to measure the candles with. These new ones here”—he pointed —”are twelve inches long. These in the holder are all a little less than six and a half inches long. Say six and three-eighths. In other words, they’ve burned five and five-eighths inches.”

  “I see,” said Julie. “And now—you’re checking how long it takes for these to burn five and five-eighths inches.”

  “That’s right.” He laid a steel tape along the side of the candle, measured, looked at his watch. “It works out just about an inch and a half to the hour. Five and five-eighths divided by one and a half.” He calculated further. “Three and three-quarters hours.”

  “Mrs. Hutson lit those candles,” said Julie. “We got there about eight-thirty. And she’d just finished.”

  “Eight-thirty. Add three and three-quarters hours. Twelve-fifteen. That cinches it,” said Joe. “This photograph was taken at quarter after twelve. I couldn’t possibly have taken Lucia home and gotten back before one. It lets me out.”

  “Shall we call the sheriff?”

  Joe looked toward the dresser, for a reason Julie could not fathom at the time. “He’ll find out soon enough.”

  Julie laughed. “What’s the joke?” asked Joe.

  “Mother thinks you’re the devil incarnate.”

  Joe grinned. “She’ll never forgive me.”

  She put her arms around him. “Joe, do you

  think you can go on loving me? I’m such a spoiled brat.”

  “I think it’ll work out.”

  “Remember the night I telephon
ed you—the first night we went out?”

  “Yes.”

  “I told Cathy that I was going to marry you.” Julie’s face fell. “Poor Cathy … Joe—who did kill her?”

  Joe looked at her in surprise. “Do you mean you don’t know?”

  “Of course not!”

  “But it’s obvious.”

  “Well—tell me. Don’t be mysterious.”

  “Dean Bavonette told Carr she had seen Robert Struve. Dean was killed; Carr was sure that Struve had hacked up his sister. He was very much upset when the police arrested George. That meant that Struve was getting away with something. The idea just about drove him nuts. He’s always hated me.

  “On the night of the Masque he got a little tight. He parked with Cathy, probably began pawing her.”

  Julie nodded. “And Cathy told him to stop— that was the mood she was in.”

  “Then Carr got mad. Maybe she threatened to tell, maybe he killed her out of jealousy. But she was dead. Carr had a problem: how to get out from under? And he thought of Dean. If Robert Struve had hacked up Dean—why couldn’t Robert Struve be blamed for hacking up Cathy? So he takes his pocket knife and goes to work. When he’s all done, he bangs his head somewhere —maybe on the bumper—smears himself with dust and gore, comes staggering back claiming someone hit him on the head. Next day he says this man is Robert Struve. The joke is that I’m standing there all the time. I know Carr is lying. It’s an absolute cinch that he’s done it himself.”

  “Lucia knew who you were—so she knew Carr was lying, too.”

  Joe nodded. “She figured she’d have some fun writing letters. She figured wrong. Carr fixed her, too. Then to set the sheriff after Struve, he prints a letter with Lucia’s equipment, and mails it.”

  The door opened. Carr edged into the room. “I heard what you said about me.” He looked at Julie. His round face was flushed and twisted. It looked purple in the candlelight. “I thought I’d find you! You wouldn’t go out with me —”

  Julie pressed back against Joe, watching Carr as if he were something weird disguised as a man.

  “You believe this liar, this impostor!” cried Carr. “You take his word ahead of mine!”

  “It’s not a matter of taking his word,” said Julie. “He couldn’t have done it. He wasn’t there when it happened.”

  “He was there! He hit me on the head—all his life he’s tried to get the best of me!” Carr looked from one to the other. “Julie—I’m about to pay you the most extreme compliment I can think of.” Carr blew out his cheeks. “I want you to be Mrs. Carr Pendry. I want you to be my wife.”

  Julie laughed—a breathless half-hysterical titter.

  “Well, Julie?” Carr was his most pompous self.

  “You’ve got to wait your turn. Joe asked me first.”

  “Don’t be funny,” growled Carr. He took a gun from his coat pocket.

  “Carr!” said Julie. “That’s my gun! You took it out of my car! Give it to me this instant!”

  And it seemed as if Carr were ready to obey. He leaned forward—but reconsidered. “No, Julie. Struve here thinks he can wriggle free.”

  “But he didn’t do anything!”

  “All his life he’s worked against me. I’m going to show him it doesn’t pay.”

  “How?” Joe asked.

  Carr grinned, moved the automatic. “Tomorrow they’ll find you two in here. You’ll be shot— with this gun. Julie’ll be holding the gun; you’ll have a knife. They’ll think that you started to cut her—and then she shot you.”

  “That’s a nice idea,” said Joe.

  “Oh, I’m getting to be a connoisseur in these things,” said Carr. “This’ll be the third.”

  “The future governor of the state talking,” said Joe.

  Carr looked disturbed. “So what? Who’s going to know?”

  “First,” said Joe, “there’s yourself.”

  “I’m not going to tell,” grinned Carr.

  “Then there’s the deputy sheriff in the cabin next door. He’s catching it all on a tape recorder.”

  Carr was suddenly pale. “Deputy sheriff?”

  “Certainly. His name is Clifford. You don’t think Hartmann would let me run around loose, do you?”

  Carr looked around the room. “This cabin isn’t wired.”

  “The bug’s behind the dresser, in case you’re interested. The wire runs through the corner behind the molding.”

  Carr sidled across the room, the gun pointed at Joe. He pushed the dresser away from the wall, glanced behind it. “There’s nothing here.”

  “Look on this side,” said Joe.

  Carr stepped around the front of the dresser. He shoved the dresser out from the other wall, glanced into the gap. Candlelight glinted on metal. Carr stared down at the microphone; it winked back up at him. He stood like a man entranced. Julie reached out, gave Carr a push. He lurched into the gap behind the dresser, tried to brace himself with the hand holding the gun. Joe crushed the wrist across the corner of the dresser, wrenched away the gun.

  Carr slowly pulled himself out of the gap.

  “Just sit in that rocking chair,” said Joe, “or I’ll have to shoot you in the knee. And that hurts.”

  The door opened. Clifford, the deputy sheriff, came in behind a big .45. “Everybody sit or stand just exactly like they are.”

  “It’s safe now,” said Joe.

  “I wasn’t worried about safety,” said Clifford. “I just wanted to get as much of that on tape as I could.”

  “And in the meantime,” said Julie, “Carr cuts a couple more throats.”

  “You trying to tell me my business, young lady? Now you run across to the saloon and call the sheriff.”

  The rising sun shone in their faces.

  “Five-thirty,” said Julie. “We made good time.” She patted the dashboard. “Good old Plymouth … And what are you grinning about?” she asked Joe.

  “I’m just wondering how long before your father and mother will speak to me.”

  “They’ll speak when I tell them to,” said Julie. “I’m one day older than eighteen, and if nothing else in the world I’m going to pick my own husband.”

  A large sign arched over the road ahead of them. It read:

  RENO CITY LIMITS

  THE BIGGEST LITTLE CITY

  IN THE WORLD

  “Oh, Joe,” said Julie, “I’m so happy.”

  Joe took her hand and kissed it. “I am, too.”

  “What’ll we do first? Eat breakfast or get married?”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “Ravenous.”

  “Let’s eat first, and then we won’t have to get the judge out of bed.”

  They passed another sign:

  ORANGE BLOSSOM CHAPEL MARRIAGES PERFORMED ANY HOUR OF

  DAY OR NIGHT ONE HUNDRED YARDS ON THE RIGHT

  “Oh, hell,” said Joe. “Let’s get married first. We can always eat.”