Undercurrent (The Nameless Detective)

by Bill Pronzini

  *****

  She opened the door and looked out at the three of us standing there under the bougainvilleaed arbor—and she knew. It was all there in our faces, unmistakable and irrefutable. Her right hand went out and clawed whitely at the doorjamb, supporting her weight there; her left hand came up to her throat, clutching at the neck of her quilted housecoat in that pathetic little gesture women involuntarily seem to make at such times. Her face was the color of winter slush and her eyes were sick little animals hiding in caves formed by ridges of bone and taut, purplish skin; she was no longer ethereal, no longer hauntingly beautiful, she was on old woman facing the loss of the only real loved one she had in the world. I could not look at her directly any longer. I turned my head away, with emptiness and helplessness heavy inside me; it was the way I had felt facing Judith Paige's grief and the way I would feel facing any grief at all. And I wondered why I had come, knowing what it would be like—why I had not stayed in the car, why I had not asked them to let me off at City Hall, why I did not get out of it and go the hell home.

  Quartermain said gently, "May we come in, Miss Winestock?"

  She just stood there, motionless, a chunk of gray stone wrapped in bright-colored quilt. Then her mouth and her throat worked, and she got the words free. She said, "It's Brad, isn't it? He's dead, isn't he?"

  Hesitation. You never know what to say, or how to say it. So you pause—and when the pause becomes awkward you say it as Quartermain said it; you say, softly "I'm sorry."

  "Oh God," she said. "Oh my God." She was still standing absolutely still: no hysterics, no tears. Just "Oh God, oh my God." And somehow, there in the cold dawn, it was worse than if she had fainted or cried or broken down completely.

  There was more heavy silence, and then Quartermain said again, "May we come in, Miss Winestock? It would be better than trying to talk out here."

  In mute answer she pushed herself away from the door-jamb and moved stiff-legged down the hall—an animated figurine, brittle and graceless. Favor, Quartermain, and I followed her through the archway and into the parlor. It was dark in there, with the curtains closed, and I touched the wall switch to chase away some of the shadows with suffused light from an overhead fixture. Beverly sat down on one of the chairs, her arms flat on the chair arms; her eyes seemed to be seeing inward instead of outward, glistening like rain puddles under a streetlamp.

  We took seats here and there, and the silence grew and became awkward again. Quartermain cleared his throat, and she said "How did it happen?" in a flat, dull voice.

  Quartermain answered simply, "He was shot."

  The eyes closed, briefly. "Murdered, you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "Who did it? This bald man you keep asking about?"

  "We don't know yet, Miss Winestock."

  "But you think it might have been that man."

  "There's a good chance of it, yes."

  "Where did you find him—Brad?"

  "Spanish Bay. In his car."

  "I see. And you say he was shot?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he seem to have had much pain, can you tell me that?"

  "No, I don't think he did. No."

  "That's good," she said. "That's something anyway."

  "Miss Winestock . . ."

  "Can I see him? I'd like to see him."

  "I'll have a car take you to Monterey. But there are some questions first. Do you feel up to answering a few questions?"

  "Yes. All right"

  "Were you telling the truth last night—that you didn't know where your brother had gone?"

  "Yes."

  "And about the bald man?"

  "I don't know who he is. I'd tell you if I had any idea."

  "Before he left, did your brother make any phone calls?"

  She nodded. "One. Just after you'd gone."

  "Did you hear any of the conversation?"

  "No. I was out of the room and he spoke too softly."

  "Then you don't know who he called, or what number?"

  "No."

  "He said nothing to you before he went out?"

  "I asked him where he was going, I begged him to stay home. He wouldn't talk to me."

  "Did he talk to you when he came home yesterday afternoon?"

  "No. He was very nervous—afraid. He told me to leave him alone and then he started drinking, just sitting in here drinking by himself."

  "Was he mixed up in the killing of Walter Paige?"

  "I . . . I'm not sure. He didn't kill Walt, he wasn't capable of killing anyone. And he was home on Saturday; he told you that. I overheard part of your conversation with him."

  "Do you think he knew who did kill Paige?"

  "He might have. He was very afraid."

  "He was involved in something, wasn't he? Something to do with Paige."

  "Yes. Yes."

  "What?"

  "I don't know."

  "You're holding something back," he said. "You've been holding something back all along. I think you'd better tell what it is, Miss Winestock."

  She exhaled tremulously, and there were deep, shadowed hollows in her cheeks and her eyes seemed ringed in black in the room's pale light; she was a century old, sitting there, and aging more rapidly with each passing minute. "There's no point in not telling you now. It's too late now, isn't it?" She sighed again. "Brad let himself get talked into some kind of scheme of Walt Paige's; he was like a little boy, you could talk him into anything once you got him to listen to you. Walt called him on the phone several weeks ago—out of the blue, after six years—and Brad met him somewhere later on. I think he saw him on other occasions after that."

  "Here in Cypress Bay?"

  "Yes, as far as I know."

  "Then you knew Paige had come back to the area, that he had been here off and on for several weeks."

  "I suspected it."

  "But you never saw Paige yourself?"

  "No."

  "Did you ask your brother what Paige wanted, why he had called after all those years?"

  "Yes. Brad wouldn't tell me. But he talked about going away, about having enough money to buy a boat down in Florida and go island-hopping. That was always his dream, to have a boat of his own in the Florida Keys." She laughed emptily. "I think he got the idea from reading Hemingway."

  "That's all he would tell you?"

  "Yes. He seemed constantly excited, constantly on edge. It worried me. Brad was never . . . well, never too bright in addition to being easily swayed. I was afraid for him, knowing Walt Paige as I did."

  "How do you mean that?"

  "The kind of man Walt was—using people, not caring if they got hurt or not. And I always felt there was something a little . . . shady about him. He always had money and he didn't have a job." She seemed to remember that I was in the room, and turned her head slightly to glance at me. "When you told me yesterday that Walt had been in prison for four years, I was even more frightened for Brad. I thought it must have been some kind of crime or something that Walt had talked him into. That's why I didn't say anything about Brad's involvement. I wanted to protect him. I . . ."

  She broke off, closing her eyes, and you could see her blaming herself—hating herself—for not having made some sort of saving decision in her brother's behalf. It was obvious that she had been protecting him for years in her own way, and now she had failed him and he was dead, he was gone forever. It was false logic, and maybe she would realize that later on, when some of the shock wore off; maybe she would fashion another thick layer of skin, as she seemed to have fashioned one on top of the other at past injustices, and go on spitting in life's eye. Maybe she would.

  Quartermain was saying, "Did your brother ever mention Russell Dancer's book The Dead and the Dying?"

  "No," Beverly said. "I'd never even heard of it until yesterday morning. Could it . . . is it really important somehow?"

  "It's important, but we don't know how just yet," Quartermain told her. He paused. "Would you mind if we looked around the house
—in your brother's room?"

  "No, I don't mind," dully. "But there's nothing for you to find. Brad has some books in his room, but they're mostly westerns—and Hemingway. He loved Hemingway, even though I'm sure he never really understood any of the writing. Isn't that strange?"

  Quartermain said softly, "Would you show Lieutenant Favor the location of your brother's room?"

  "Yes, all right."

  Favor helped her up, steadying her with his arms, looking as if he wished to God he was a long, long way from this room and this house; I knew exactly how he felt. They went out through the archway, with Beverly still moving in that brittle, graceless way. Momentarily I could hear them climbing stairs to the second floor.

  Quartermain and I began to prowl the parlor, the hall, the kitchen, a dining room, a small sitting room; no copies of Dancer's book—no books at all—and nothing pointing to the balding man or Paige or anyone else connected with the case. We came back into the parlor, and Quartermain said, "Well, what do you think?"

  "About her story? I think it's the truth, Ned. She's too grief-stricken to be an effective liar, and to hold anything else back. But she hasn't given us a great deal except confirmation of her brother's involvement with Paige and of a scheme between the two of them, and we both pretty much suspected that. The bald guy's mixed up in the scheme, too, and so is the book."

  "Some kind of crime, she said. That could be what this whole thing is about—a felony of one type or another, with profit as the motive."

  "It's beginning to look that way," I agreed. "But it could be just about any kind of felony. The book's back cover blurb didn't mention any specific crime except murder—and there was nothing in those first five pages I read."

  He went over to one of the wall murals and brooded at it until, finally, Favor and Beverly came down the stairs and entered the parlor again. She had put on a dark skirt and blouse and thrown a coat over her shoulders. She had not bothered with her hair—it was still piled loosely on top of her head—and there was still no make-up on her wide mouth; you do not think about personal appearance at a time like this.

  Favor came over to where Quartermain and I were standing. "I went through his room and hers, too, after she'd finished dressing. No sign of Dancer's book; two westerns by him, recent issue, but that's all."

  "What about an address book—like that?"

  Favor shook his head. "If he had anything that might lead to the bald man, he didn't keep it in his room."

  "Or anywhere else in the house."

  Beverly said, "I'd like to see Brad now, please." The sorrow in her face was stark and piteous. "There's nothing else I can tell you, there's nothing else that I know."

  "All right, Miss Winestock."

  He used her phone to call Donovan and request a patrol unit to escort her to Peninsula Community Hospital in Monterey, where Winestock's body had been taken. We waited for the car in silence, and it came in ten long minutes, and the four of us went out and down the steps into the bright morning with Beverly trying to hide her trembling hands in the pockets of her coat. At the patrol car Favor said, "It might be a good idea if I went along, Ned," and looked meaningly at Quartermain.

  "So it might," he agreed, thinking—as Favor was, as I was too—that it would be easier on her if she had a little more authority at her side to get her in and out of the hospital morgue as quickly as possible. Favor was some cop, and some man; as much as he hated confronting Beverly's grief, he was willing to face it for another hour or two to help ease some of her pain.

  He helped her into the patrol car, and it pulled away, and a few moments later Quartermain and I were on our way back to City Hall. The image of Beverly's tragic face was still with me, and I felt a sudden wish that there had been something meaningful for each of us at our first meeting yesterday—some kind of attraction, some kind of magic. But then I thought about Cheryl Rosmond and her brother and how it had been for us afterward, and I knew it was far, far better that there had been nothing after all.

  Sixteen

  We came into City Hall, and Quartermain's office, through the police entrance at the rear. He folded his big, loose body into his chair, picked up the phone, and called out to the front desk. Donovan, it seemed, was plagued by local, San Francisco, and wire-service reporters who had gotten wind of Winestock's murder and the fire-gutting of Dancer's shack. The reporters wanted to know, since Quartermain and I had been on the scene both times, if the events had any connection with the killing on Saturday of Walter Paige. Did the Chief want to come out and give them a statement?

  Quartermain was in no mood for reporters. He told Donovan to tell them he had nothing to say at this time, that a statement would be issued when events warranted it; then he asked if there was any word as yet on Russell Dancer or on the balding man. Donovan said that there wasn't. Wearily Quartermain cut off and called the Highway Patrol office in Monterey and talked for a while to Daviault. When he broke that connection, he said to me, "They dug two steel-jacketed thirty-eight slugs out of Winestock, both from the heart region, and they figure death was instantaneous. Probably shot somewhere else and taken to Spanish Bay in the car; the blood on the seat was smeared and there's the absence of powder burns. No prints except Winestock's on the car, inside or out; killer apparently wore gloves. Winestock had nothing helpful in his pockets or his wallet: no address book, no papers with phone numbers or addresses, nothing at all. If he ever had anything, it was removed before the killer got out of there. Another frigging dead end."

  I shook my head and glanced up at the sunburst clock; it was seven-forty. "It's still too early to reach the book dealer in San Francisco," I said. "The two I told you about don't open until ten A.M., and I don't know the last names of the owners."

  "I'll call the Monterey police, about the bookshop over there; they ought to know the owner, and they can get him out of bed and down to look through his stock. I've got a feeling it won't do much good, but we've got to try it."

  He made the call, slapped the receiver down, and looked across at me. "How about some coffee?"

  "I don't think so—but you go ahead."

  "I guess I don't want any either."

  "You know, I can't help thinking now that we could figure out why that damned book is important without it and without Dancer—that we know enough facts to be able to take a reasonably accurate guess. But the pieces are so well scattered, and relatively unimportant by themselves, that I can't pick them out and fit them together."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "The trouble is, we've been up all night, and we're so close to this whole thing that we maybe can't see the forest for the trees. But we might try going over it again anyway . . ."

  We went over it again, and failed to come up with a viable guess, and finally lapsed into a frustrated silence. And more time passed. And nothing happened.

  And so you keep on sitting there, willing the phone to ring, the door to open—and the phone remains silent and the door remains closed. You listen to the rhythm of the clock, very loud in the stillness. The chair is uncomfortable, and there is dull pain in your temples and a murkiness to your vision, as if a coat of transparent lacquer had been sprayed over the surface of your eyes. Your throat is dry and gritty, your tongue thick and wrapped in sourness. Your joints feel stiff and atrophied, and your legs ache, and your thoughts are heavy and oddly detached.

  You're in fine shape, all right, sitting and waiting and fighting off sleep and not knowing why you're doing it to yourself, why you're there, because you're not getting paid for any of this and the reason you got into it in the first place is sitting home alone in the fine old bitch city San Francisco, where nobody should ever be alone. You should be home, too, you should be out of it, you should be doing something for Judith Paige and for yourself. So why are you here, you wonder, why are you still involved? Because you're a cop and you've always been a cop and you can't let go of the scent once you've got onto it? The old argument—but there's more to it than that, really, you know there is. How
about this, then: because it's there—the case, the human folly, the human misery—and you feel you have to surmount it; it's like one in a long string of Everests, only where you're concerned, it isn't mountains but evil. That might be it, that just might be it, because down underneath it all you're a dreamer, a romantic, an optimist masquerading as a bitter realist—you poor tired old bastard you.

  I felt as if I were petrifying in the chair and pulled myself up and began to walk around the office. Quartermain was sitting tensely, hands flat on his thighs, his eyes dull and hard. Grayish beard stubble patterned his long cheeks, and his throat, visible where he had long since pulled away his tie, was a V of loose skin hollowed above his collarbone. I thought, looking at him, that he was almost certainly a mirror image of myself—and the thought was somehow a little frightening.

  Without thinking about it, I got out a cigarette and put it between my lips and fired it. I had the first drag and then remembered the tender condition of my lungs, but it was not too bad; the smoke burned harshly at first and I coughed a couple of times, and after that it was all right. The taste of it was gray ash, but I smoked it down anyway.

  The clock on the wall said it was five past eight.

  Quartermain slapped the desk top with the palm of his hand, so abruptly and so sharply that I jumped and wheeled around to look at him again. He stood up. "The hell with this," he said. "This goddamn sitting around is driving me nuts. Let's get out of here, let's go for a ride, let's get something done."

  "I'm for that," I said. "Where do we go?"

  "Out to Cypress Point."

  "The Lomaxes?"

  "The Lomaxes," he said. "And they'd damned well better be home when we get there."

  *****

  They were home.

  The entrance gate on Inspiration Way was closed but not locked, and when we got down far enough into the small valley the forest-green Mercedes appeared in front of the terrace wall. Quartermain parked behind it. The front door of the house opened just as we got to it, and Jason Lomax came out and shut the door behind him. He wore an olive-green business suit and a silk tie and alligator-skin shoes, and with his razor-cut hair and barbered mustache, the attire gave him the look of a successful if stuffy advertising or corporation executive. A professional, intelligent smile would have completed the image; but Lomax's mouth was a thin, hard incision, with ridged muscle at the corners, and his eyes held the glitter of synthetic diamonds.