“Me neither,” Horn said. “All I know is, half of what I’ve heard lately is lies, and I’ve got no idea which half.”
When Mad Crow didn’t respond, Horn looked over at him. “You still want De Loach?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Mad Crow said slowly, appearing to study the road ahead. “This puts a different light on things, doesn’t it? I suppose I can give the man a little more time to walk around upright and enjoy the bounty of this world. So…all right. Just lay low tonight, like the man says, and go see the lovely Eden tomorrow. If she’s at the hotel, the two of you’ll get something useful out of her. If she’s not, then this Coby isn’t half the cop he pretends to be, and I’ll keep my rendezvous with Mister De Loach.” When Horn started to object, he quickly added, “With you along to referee, naturally. All right?”
“All right,” Horn said. “But the thing that worries me most is Alden. He could be next—”
“You could be next.”
Fifteen minutes later, the Cadillac stopped behind Horn’s car next to the Anchor mission.
“You got a parking ticket,” Mad Crow observed.
“That makes everything just about perfect.” Horn got out. “Can you wait a minute?”
“Sure.” Mad Crow looked across the street, where Rosie Torres and her bananas were now installed high above Main Street. “I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”
Inside the mission, he saw no sign of Emory Quinn. He went straight to Quinn’s office behind the stage, sat at the desk, and dialed “0” for the operator. A minute later he was calling the switchboard at the Beverly Hills Hotel. When he reached the front desk, he said, “Miss Peggy Jean Turner, please. I don’t have her room number, but I think she’s in one of the bungalows.”
After looking, the clerk said in practiced Beverly Hills tones, “I’m sorry. We have no one by that name registered here.”
“How about Miss Eden Lamont?”
Another pause. “I’m sorry, no.”
He replaced the receiver. Finding Eden there would have confirmed Coby’s story. But not finding her proved nothing. She could be using any name. Or she may not be at the hotel.
Something was wrong. There was no time to sift through all the various stories, the clashing accounts, he had heard in recent days. But a few isolated memories swam up to the surface, like bubbles from something that lived far below.
Of all the conflicting stories he was being told, he was still unable to sift through the faulty recollections, half-truths and outright lies to find any nuggets of truth. Just one example was the question of whether Dexter Diggs went upstairs with Rose on that New Year’s Eve. According to Dolores Winter, he did. According to Evelyn Diggs, he did not. One was clearly lying, or mistaken.
Another example: Eden Lamont either had left town for good or was holed up at an exclusive hotel and would receive a surprise visit tomorrow morning along with her room-service breakfast. Either she or Coby had lied to him.
Time was running out. Before long, Horn was going to have to gamble on who was trustworthy and who was not. A few lives, he thought, could depend on it.
One more call, and when Alden Richwine answered, his voice sounded far away and somewhat sleepy, as if he’d been awakened from a nap.
“Alden? It’s John Ray Horn. Did I wake you up?”
“Why, no,” Richwine said tonelessly. “I’m just… Who is this, please?”
“It’s John Ray Horn.” He’s drunk, Horn thought. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’d like to come over. Right now.”
“Well, I….”
“It’s important. I’ll see you in a few minutes.” He hung up without waiting for an answer. If he’s drunk, Horn thought, he’ll be easier to handle.
He went out to the car. “I’m going over to Alden’s house,” he said to Mad Crow. “Whoever’s next on the list, it’s clear that Alden can’t look after himself, and Coby said there may not be anybody watching his house until tomorrow. I’m going to stay with him until the cops show up.”
Mad Crow looked doubtful. “All right, buddy,” he said. “But you’re talking about a long time. I’ll help. How about I come over and relieve you sometime tonight?”
“What are you going to do until then?” Horn’s suspicion showed on his face.
“You still think I mean to call out De Loach? I had a quieter evening in mind. Dinner, maybe a couple of drinks.”
“Drinks’ll just make you sleepy, and it could be a long night,” Horn said. “Why don’t you take in a movie? I think there’s a new Burt Lancaster playing over on Broadway.”
“Really?” Mad Crow showed interest. “I ever tell you about the time I arm-wrestled him on the bar at Musso’s?”
“Many times.”
“Okay. Well, then I’ll show up around ten or so. You can go home, get some sleep, and be all fresh and clean-shaven for your meeting with the lovely Eden.”
“Thanks, Indian. I appreciate it.”
“You got an equalizer?”
“Hmm? Oh…. No, not with me.”
“What kind of cowboy goes around without his trusty hog leg?” Mad Crow got out and unlocked the trunk. He rummaged around inside and came up with a large knife in a scabbard. “Remember this? Cassie’s.” He pulled it smoothly from its sheath. “I gave it a good cleaning, but I left this.” He pointed to a tiny fleck of blood on the blade near the base. “Just to remind me that somebody needs to finish the job.”
He rummaged deeper. “Here we go.” He held up a dusty .22-caliber revolver. “Not exactly heavy armament. Remember that time at the dump? I slaughtered every bottle and tin can for miles.” He handed it to Horn. “It’s loaded. I don’t have any more shells in the car, but you know what they say. If you need more than six or eight, chances are you’re already dead.”
“Thanks.” Horn stuck the pistol in his belt. “I mean it.”
“Don’t mention it.” Mad Crow got behind the wheel. “Cassie was buried today,” he said, looking straight ahead. “I’ve been to that cemetery once, years ago. It’s not very fancy. A lot of the markers are plain wood. But it’s kind of a pretty place. You can see the Big White River from there, and a stand of evergreens. And the Black Hills are off to the west….”
He started the engine. “You got any idea how much I want this guy, whoever he is? I dream about him sometimes.”
“I know,” Horn said. “Me too.”
* * *
He drove west out of downtown. On his way through MacArthur Park, he saw ducks on the water of the little lake, spotlighted in a brilliant circle of sunshine that had just poked through a dark-underbellied cloud that sailed overhead in the shape of a huge galleon. At the same instant, a few raindrops spattered his windshield.
“Devil’s beating his wife,” he muttered, echoing one of his mother’s folk sayings from her mountain upbringing. He had never quite understood that description of light rain amid bright sunshine, but it had always struck him as strangely appropriate.
By the time he turned into Alden Richwine’s driveway, the sun was hidden again, the raindrops were growing fatter, and a stiff breeze caused a palm frond to rock nervously back and forth on the gravel driveway. He parked by the kitchen door under drooping greenery, heavy with moisture, that almost blotted out the sky.
“Alden?” He knocked on the kitchen door but got no answer. He walked around to the front door and swung the heavy knocker, with the same result. Retracing his steps, he followed a damp pathway around to the back of the house, where he found himself in the small garden, with access to the library and living room through two sets of French doors.
The library was unoccupied, but he saw a light in the living room. Stepping carefully up to the glass doors, he could make out two people sitting in large wing-backed chairs before a table. In the nearest chair, partially glimpsed in profile, was Alden Richwine. In the other, facing him, was Dolores Winter, who sat with head bent, apparently studying something on the table.
He could see no one els
e in the room. With one hand on the grip of the .22 in his belt, he tried the door handle. It turned, and he stepped into the room.
Dolores Winter looked up, recognized him, and smiled a welcome.
“Hello, Doll,” Horn said. Richwine did not move. Horn wondered why he had not seen her car outside. Then, as he came around the nearest chair, he saw that Richwine’s expression was vacant, his jaw slack. And a vertical line of blood neatly bisected his forehead and the ridge of his nose.
Horn jerked at the pistol grip just as a faint noise caused him to turn to his right. Too late. Something slammed against the side of his head, sending him reeling, reaching out for support. His left hand found the armrest of Richwine’s chair. Trying to steady himself, he pulled the pistol free of his belt just in time to feel another blow, this one at the back of his head. It cracked like a thunderclap. Then nothing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
He stood just outside the bedroom door, full of pain and sick with knowledge. Inside the room, he knew, terrible things were about to happen. He had only to open the door, step inside, and stop it. He could save Tess. And Rose. All he had to do….
But the door was locked. And the pain in his head was a raucous Charleston, with every squeal of the trumpet threatening to split his skull wide open.
From inside the bedroom, he heard a scream. And he could do nothing…
He opened his eyes, then shut them. Even the light from the floor lamp seemed too bright. Voices spoke. A shoe nudged his shoulder. “I would imagine that floor’s not very comfortable. Get up and join the party.” He almost recognized the voice.
Strong hands lifted him, then deposited him. He opened his eyes again. He was slumped in one of the large wing-back chairs. To his right sat Doll; farther away, Alden.
A figure moved into view, and the voice spoke again. “It was thoughtful of you to call,” Lewis De Loach said, sounding almost friendly. “It allowed us a little time to prepare our welcome.”
Horn felt surreptitiously at his midsection. The pistol was gone. He heard a sound and looked to his right. Alden Richwine was truly the gray man now, with skin the color of mottled parchment. His eyes appeared unfocused, and a faint rasping noise came from his throat. His bathrobe looked even more tattered than before. The thin line of blood that ran from hairline to the tip of his nose was dried and dark.
“What did you do to him?” Horn asked. Even those few words made his head throb anew. He reached up, feeling for the source of the pain, and found two patches of matted and sticky hair.
“We just tapped him on the noggin,” De Loach said. He wore dark trousers, a hand-painted tie in an abstract design, and a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Horn’s pistol was in his belt. “When he understood you were coming over and we would be lying in wait, so to speak, he threatened to get unruly.”
“I’m sorry, Alden,” Horn said, but he wasn’t sure if the other man understood.
“And he had been so cooperative up to that point,” De Loach went on. “He helped us find what we were looking for.” The suggestion of boyishness had left his face. The veneer of gaiety in his manner barely covered his tight-wound nervousness.
“You’re looking a lot better than last time,” Horn said to him.
“Oh, you mean the arm and all the rest?” De Loach held up his left arm and worked the wrist back and forth, grinning delightedly. “I recover quickly.”
“It was never broken, was it?”
“No, no, just play-acting. Except for Doll’s little head wound. We decided that would be our touch of authenticity.”
“And the black eye?” As soon as Horn asked, he remembered a comment from Dexter Diggs and realized that he knew the answer. “Doll likes to do her own makeup,” he muttered.
“Exactly,” De Loach said. “You’re finally getting it all sorted out. Just a little too late, that’s all.”
His expression suggested a mixture of amusement and pity. “You don’t look particularly heroic today. In fact, you’re quite a mess. I made a point of seeing one of your movies just recently. Curiosity, mostly. It caused me to change my mind about writing a western. The problem is, the western doesn’t reflect real life in any significant way. The cowboy may be heroic, but he’s also made of cardboard. The plots are simplistic, the acting is…well, the less said about you and your friend, that Indian character, the better. No offense, but I think I’ll stick to writing for adult audiences.”
“No offense,” Horn said, wanting to keep him talking. “You mentioned that Alden helped you find something. What was that?”
De Loach was about to answer when Horn heard Doll’s voice. “These,” she said. He turned to see her gesturing to a dozen or so large photos strewn over the top of the oaken coffee table.
He looked at her. She was dressed for an evening out, in a midnight blue satin number with long sleeves and a square neckline embellished by a simple string of pearls. Her hair was brushed out, ungathered, and lustrous in the light from the floor lamp. Her expression was hard to read, but he knew he was looking at a new Doll. The acting was over. This woman was all business, and she regarded Horn almost as she would a stranger.
Moving slowly to keep down the throbbing in his head, he picked up one of the photos. It was a group of people, unposed. He glimpsed a circular staircase in the background, the same staircase that began its winding journey to the second floor only about thirty feet from where he sat. Details of clothing, along with the presence of a few costumes, told him the rest. It was the New Year’s Eve party.
“Alden took them,” Doll said in a conversational tone. “They were candid shots; he was just playing with his camera. When you visited him, he showed you things related to Rose’s movie, but it never occurred to you—”
“To ask if anyone had taken pictures at the party,” Horn finished.
“That’s right. For years I never knew about them until just the other day, when he mentioned having them. And I knew I couldn’t leave them with him. So, since it was almost time to deal with Alden anyway, and since we had a date today to take him out for a drive and then have dinner, we thought this would be a good time to take care of everything. And….” She smiled for the first time, as if in appreciation of the convenience of it. “And then when you called to say you were coming over….” She let the rest hang in the air.
“You must have thought I was really dumb,” he said.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said. “You’re just not as smart as I am.”
He continued looking at the picture but saw nothing unusual. His eyes refused to focus properly. She took it from him and handed him another. “This is the only one that really matters,” she said.
He studied the black-and-white image. More elegantly dressed people, more costumes. A servant carrying a tray of champagne glasses. A glimpse of the band off to the right, the trombone player bent over his instrument.
Then he saw it, in the background. A slender figure in a tuxedo mounting the stairs, one graceful hand on the railing, the other carrying a bottle. The man in the…. No. Not a man in a tux.
Dolores Winter.
The face, in profile, was twenty years younger but unmistakable. She stood out in the crowd, Horn recalled. Evelyn said so.
“You recognize me, don’t you?” she said. “My hair was cut very short then. This is the only shot of me taken that night. I thought it best not to leave it lying around. Some people might put two and two together.”
His head still hurt, but the throbbing was starting to lessen a little. “Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Be careful what you tell him,” De Loach said to her. He stood on the other side of the table, listening to them, his eyes occasionally darting around the room.
“Shut up, Lewis,” she said without too much concern. “John Ray is curious, and I owe him a few answers. It’s not as if he’s going to run off and tell the police, is it?”
She turned to Horn. “You mean Tess? It’s a little complicated. I didn’
t mean for it to turn out that way, actually. I’m sorry, in fact. But you see, I was in love with Rose.” She stopped and looked almost embarrassed. “Can you imagine the scandal sheets getting hold of that today? ‘Star Confesses to Depraved Love.’
“I’m afraid I was too aggressive with her. I frightened her off, and she told me I should get over this…this crush, she called it. I hated her so much for putting it that way, minimizing what I felt. By the time of the party, I was in a…I guess you could call it a kind of quiet rage. She barely noticed me that night. She was too busy with Dexter and others. I just wanted to hurt her, any way I could.
“I’d seen her go upstairs a couple of times, to that same bedroom each time, and I knew something was going on. This time I followed her. I suppose I was drunk, like everyone else that night. I had only a hazy notion of what I wanted to do. But I had the bottle….”
Her voice grew reflective. “Do you know this is the first time I’ve ever told this to anyone? The whole story, I mean. I suppose that’s a compliment to you.”
Sorry, he said to her silently. Flattery won’t work with me anymore.
“You could have told me, sweetness,” De Loach said to her.
She ignored him. “When the lights went out, I was at the top of the stairs,” she said to Horn, “and a moment later I heard a scream from inside and felt a man brush past me. I had no idea Tess was in the room. I thought Rose was alone. I went inside and felt my way to the bed. She was there, naked. And with another woman, but I didn’t care about that.”
“How could you mistake Tess for Rose?” Horn asked.
“It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But it was a natural mistake. They were very similar physically. And I later found out that Tess was wearing Rose’s perfume that night.”
That’s right, he recalled. Rose said so.
“And you,” he said slowly, remembering Rose’s feverish words filtered through Madge’s drunken monologue, “were wearing a man’s aftershave.”
“Now, how in the world did you—” She stopped. “Well, you’re right. My way of completing the portrait, you might say. It was actually a sweetish scent, and it went very well on me. But to finish answering you…. I admit I wasn’t thinking clearly. I suppose I wanted Rose to be the naked one, the one I could…. I hated her so much, all I wanted was revenge. I used the champagne bottle on her, and I didn’t hold back. The other woman was holding her, keeping her from…I couldn’t believe my luck. But then suddenly I heard Rose’s voice—it was all muffled, coming from underneath—and I felt her hands pushing me away, and I knew the terrible mistake I’d made. It was too late. I left the room as quickly as I could, and then left the house. Days later, I saw the story in the paper, and I finally realized what had happened.”
While I Disappear Page 34
