Man Drowning

by Henry Kuttner

“How about it, Nita,” I asked, “is Mrs. De Anza up yet?”

  She shook her head.

  Rafael said, “She don’t care if you eat with her or don’t. Don’t care ’bout nothing. You hungry?”

  “Sure.”

  “Then you eat. Here.” He kicked back a chair with his foot, and spoke quick Spanish to Benita, who set a cup of coffee in front of me.

  “Thanks, Nita,” I said. “I’m driving Mrs. De Anza into Phoenix today, to do some shopping. If you need anything, let me know.”

  The zircon eyes touched me and moved away again. One shoulder lifted. I drank coffee.

  “You get the job, then? Rafe asked.

  “I guess so. I’m on trial.”

  “That don’t mean nothing. They don’t care. Veence, he quit—they no fire him. Easygoing, all time.”

  “What did he quit for?”

  “Maybe he got bored. Veence couldn’t take it easy. He say to me, ‘Goddam, Rafe, nothing ever happen out here.’ I tell him, ‘Sure, that’s fine thing, no? Mean nothing bad happen.’ No?”

  “Nothing good either, though, eh?”

  “Just nothing,” he said. “It’s the desert. Not bad, not good. Just take it easy. You get me some Camels in town, Nick?”

  “Carton? Okay. Anything else?”

  “No, guess not. I get everything yesterday.”

  “How about the spare on the Buick?” I asked. “Is it fixed yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll do it this morning. How many spares are there, anyway?”

  “Used to be two, now one. I run three miles on flat. The tire…not so good.”

  “I guess not.”

  Benita put a plate of eggs and ham in front of me, and a slip of paper with a short grocery list.

  “Want me to get these?” I asked her.

  She nodded, already back at the stove.

  “This all?”

  She nodded again.

  “Servidor,” I said, and Rafael giggled.

  “Where you learn to talk Spanish?” he asked.

  “Oh, around. Why, is it that bad?”

  “’Bout like my English, I guess,” he said.

  I began on the eggs. “Mrs. De Anza wants me to write, some letters for her,” I told him. “Is there a typewriter around somewhere?”

  “Sure. I show you. No hurry. They never hurry ’bout nothing.”

  Benita said something. Rafael shrugged.

  “What’s she going to town for?” he asked me. “You said shopping?”

  “Yeah. Clothes, I think. First she wanted me to buy her some fashion magazines.”

  There was a rapid outburst of Spanish between them, with much hand waving. I thought Benita won; at any rate, she made a dramatic gesture and turned her back on Rafael, who kept on talking for a while and then, finding Benita paid no attention, stopped.

  “Got the morning paper?” I asked.

  “We don’t get no paper,” Rafael said.

  “Well, I might as well get busy. It’s nearly eleven. Want to show me where the typewriter is? Then I can fix that tire afterward.”

  “Sure, Nick. Come on.”

  We got up. I thanked Benita for the breakfast, but she didn’t care.

  The typewriter was in fair shape, considering, though it needed a new platen. The one on it was hard as a rock. I made a note to get one in town, and a ribbon. After that, I went out to the garage and worked on the blowout. The tube was a mess. I found an old one hanging on a nail and made that do. I went over the motor, too, and found some bugs. The plugs needed cleaning and one of them was cracked. The oil was dirty. The fan belt was loose, but so old I thought I’d better get a new one—two new ones, one for a spare. After all, this was the desert. I crawled around under the car awhile with a flashlight, having thoughtfully put on my old clothes first, and I was ready to start on the Chewy when I remembered those bills and letters.

  I cleaned up and started to work on those. Callahan—or somebody—had made one of the rooms into an office, with a desk in it. There was paper, envelopes, pencils, everything I needed. In one of the drawers I found a new typewriter ribbon, so I put it on the machine. In another drawer I found a box of the Count’s special cigarettes, half empty. I tore one cigarette apart and looked at the tobacco. It was yellowish, and the odor stayed on my hand.

  That didn’t get my work done, so I got busy with the typewriter. I went through the Countess’s stuff carefully, writing checks and clipping them to envelopes I addressed. Then I answered some of the letters, the ones that made sense. Business stuff, mostly, routine. Finally I put a few aside to ask Mrs. De Anza about, and that was that.

  When I tried to ask her about them, she said to let ’em wait. De Anza would sign the checks later; there wasn’t any hurry, was there? What about starting for Phoenix?

  The Count wasn’t up yet. It was two o’clock. Mrs. De Anza wore a tight blue turban, as usual, and a lot of costume jewelry with blue stones, but she didn’t look so much like a ragpicker today. She had on a white blouse and a sort of gabardine suit. Her eyes had a little more life in them, but not much.

  I brought the Buick around, and she climbed into the front seat beside me. Then she settled back, shut her eyes, and went to sleep. Or hibernated. At any rate, she didn’t wake up even when I pulled into the combination lunch wagon and gas station I’d stopped at a couple of days before.

  It was hotter than ever. I had to let air out of the tires. But I inflated the spare, with a few pounds more than it called for, and then relaxed, feeling relieved that we hadn’t had a blowout or puncture before I’d got the spare ready. The old man came shuffling out of his shack, worked his mouth at me, and said hello, there, it was a hot day.

  I told him it was and I could use some gas. The oil was high enough, and since I was going to have it drained anyway there was no use bothering. A little white dog rushed around the house, barking shrilly, and then lay down in the shade and panted.

  “Looks like you got yourself a job chauffeuring,” the old man told me, while he fed gas into the tank.

  “I got me a job,” I said, and shut up, because I didn’t know whether or not Mrs. De Anza was really asleep.

  “With them, uh?” he asked, jerking his thumb at the Countess. I nodded.

  “Maybe you’ll get them cars fixed up,” he said. “That last fella didn’t even know how to drain the radiator. Afraid he’d get his hands dirty. So you’ll be around for a while now, eh?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Three-fifty, even,” he said, hooking the hose back on the tank. “Well, my name’s Hamilton. Walt Hamilton.”

  “I’m Nick Banning.”

  We tried to exchange money and shake hands at the same time. A dollar bill fluttered off, and the little white dog woke up, barked, and chased it out toward the road. Then she stopped, looked to right and left carefully, and, seeing the highway was clear, ran after the bill and snapped it up.

  “She’ll bring it back,” Hamilton said, when I started to go after the dog. “Watch and see.”

  She brought it back, all right. Hamilton took it out of her mouth, rubbed her ears, and grinned at me.

  “Smart dog,” I said.

  “That’s the truth. Betsy’s smart. She’s good on keeping snakes away. She can kill a rattler; maybe you wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve seen her do it. She waits till she can jump in and grab its neck, right behind the head.”

  I bent down and scratched the base of Betsy’s spine. The stub tail snapped back and forth like a wigwag. She draped her pink tongue over her teeth and panted.

  “Lots of rattlers here?” I asked.

  “You get ’em. But they always rattle first, unless you step right on ’em. They’re nothing to worry about. Thing to keep your eyes open for are cars. Eighty, ninety miles an hour, right along this highway. They don’t even rattle ’fore they strike.”

  “Well, take it easy,” I said, and got back in the car.
Betsy yelped and ran away around the house. Hamilton stuck the money in his pants pocket and shuffled off. I waited till a truck had passed; then I pulled out on the road and relaxed, listening to the motor. Mrs. De Anza was still asleep.

  I had decided to see Sherry. There was no reason why I shouldn’t look her up again, now I was working for the De Anzas. It would seem a lot more suspicious if I dodged her, under the circumstances.

  Besides, I was wondering what the setup would be now, as far as she was concerned, with Gavotte dead. Gavotte had owned the Green Lantern. That probably meant Sherry would be out of a job, and it was my fault—that was one way to look at it.

  There was Ted McElroy, too. I hoped he’d drive into a truck tonight, at ninety miles an hour.

  I thought about Ed Gavotte, but I couldn’t feel sorry, somehow. I mean, I was sorry the thing had happened, but personally I didn’t give a damn. I could still feel mad at Gavotte, for forcing the showdown.

  I pushed him out of my mind.

  I was afraid the Countess would want me to tag along while she shopped, to carry her packages, so I’d worked out a story about how I ought to supervise the repairs on the Buick. But when we got into Phoenix, she told me to drive north on Central and stop at the Westward Ho, which turned out to be a hotel like a desert resort—the luxury kind.

  “Amuse yourself,” she said. “It’s too late to do much today. We’d better stay over. If I can bring myself to wake up before noon, I might be able to accomplish something, though I doubt it.”

  “All right,” I said. “When will you want me again? I thought I’d leave the car as soon as I can find a good garage—you won’t be needing it till tomorrow, will you?”

  “There are taxis. You won’t have to carry me piggyback. I might even walk. I’ve seen it done.”

  “Okay. When shall I show up, then?”

  “I loathe making appointments,” she said vaguely. “It’s so difficult to keep them. Show up when you feel like it. I’ll reserve a room for you here, so if I need you I can leave a note or something. I can’t think of anything I’d need you for, though. If I’m going shopping tomorrow, I’ll have to get in the mood. You’ll find me in the Copper Bar for a while. Listen, buy me a nightgown and slippers and a comb and hairbrush and a toothbrush. Have them sent here by messenger. I may as well be comfortable.”

  “What sizes?”

  “Twleve nightgown, seven and a half slippers. What else? I don’t know. Make an appointment for me to get my hair done tomorrow afternoon. Joyce’s. It’s in the phone book. Don’t ask me another question. Use your own judgment. I want a drink. Good-by.”

  She walked rapidly toward the patio, and I sighed and drove off, trying to remember what equipment Sherry would have needed for an overnight stay. Finally I parked near a department store and got a girl clerk to help me. She picked out a batch of stuff, probably more than Mrs. De Anza could use, but it was my job to take care of details like this. After she’d asked me about the Countess’s coloring, she laid out a selection of blue and green and violet nightgowns, and kept trying to make me choose one. Finally I just grabbed the one in front of me and said that ought to do. Picking out nightgowns for Mrs. De Anza was my idea of nothing at all.

  I had the order sent to the Westward Ho, and, while I was in the store, started looking for what I needed. That didn’t take long—a tan sport jacket, plain, a couple of pairs of slacks, a few shirts and a necktie, and some shorts and socks. I spent more time picking out shoes. I like leather, and I’ve done enough walking to know it’s tricky to find shoes that look good and stay comfortable too. I got a pair of perfectly plain tan oxfords, good leather. They wouldn’t show the dust and would be easy to clean. I was keeping my mind off my troubles, and almost enjoying myself. In the shoe department I remembered the hairdresser, and phoned for the appointment the Countess wanted.

  It was getting late, so I changed to the new stuff, had my old gear wrapped up, and took it with me out to the car. I looked and felt a lot better. The next step was to find a garage—a good one. That took me half an hour. I left the Buick, with my bundle in it, and walked around till I saw a barbershop. The sky was turning green, and street lights were beginning to go on. I relaxed in the chair for a haircut, shave, and shine. Meanwhile, I read the paper the barber gave me.

  And there it was. Phoenix is only about 200,000 population, according to the Chamber of Commerce, so Gavotte’s death had made a splash.

  Right then, I felt myself relax. That is, there was a part of me that had been tense without knowing it, the same part that had kept me from hunting up a newspaper before this, and now it lay back and said, Okay, it’s happened. It was real. Gavotte’s really dead and his body’s been found. The miracle hasn’t happened.

  So I read the article.

  It didn’t tell me much I didn’t know already. Apparently Gavotte used to go back to the Green Lantern at night a lot, and drink, usually alone. The District Attorney or somebody said that it might have been a case of attempted robbery, since the door wasn’t locked. Somebody could have walked in, tried to pull a holdup, and got scared when Gavotte picked up a bottle for a weapon. And Gavotte could have been too drunk to defend himself in a scrap. The cash resigster was empty. Gavotte took the day’s take home with him every night, but the holdup man couldn’t have known about that. It was a theory, anyway, and I hoped the police would stick to it.

  Sherry wasn’t mentioned, but the Green Lantern was, by name. So that was all right. I wouldn’t need to be surprised when she told me what had happened. Except—I’d have to remember—I wouldn’t have any idea that she and Gavotte had been living together.

  By the time the barber had finished, it was dark. Phoenix isn’t big enough to be confusing, so I had no trouble finding the Green Lantern again. I felt ready for almost anything. The only part of me that wasn’t respectable was my fingernails, and I’d gone over them with a penknife. But when I walked along the street I missed something without knowing what it was. The neons, I found out. They weren’t lighted, and the Green Lantern was dark, closed and locked.

  I stood there, thinking it over. It was no secret that I’d driven Sherry home Monday night, so I’d naturally know where she lived. Except—I couldn’t remember the street. What made it worse was that I’d left the car in the garage. I couldn’t do it the easy way, driving around till I found a familiar view.

  I turned east and started walking. Every time I passed a cross-street I looked up and down it, trying to orient myself. My mind had suddenly stopped working. This began to feel like a small nightmare, walking around in a strange city trying to find somebody I had to find, while they shifted the scenery behind my back. Crazy.

  I smoked the last of my cigarettes and went into a drugstore to buy another pack. There I saw a stack of papers piled up by the door, and my frozen mind started to click again, one, two, three. Sherry was living with Gavotte. So all I needed was Gavotte’s address. The paper would give that.

  Before I could reach for one, I remembered the telephone book. I went toward the booth at the back of the store and opened the directory on its rack. I turned to the G columns, and there it was, Edward R. Gavotte, with the address.

  I didn’t need to write it down.

  When I bought my cigarettes, I asked the clerk where the street was, and it turned out to be only a few blocks away. I’d gone right past it. I said thanks, and cut back, hurrying now, my insteps rubbing a bit against the new shoes, where the leather wasn’t broken in yet.

  It was the same apartment house, all right.

  I went up the steps and looked over the letter boxes. Sherry wasn’t listed under any name I recognized. Gavotte was, but how the hell could I ring that bell and then answer the question Sherry would be bound to ask—how I’d known which bell to ring.

  Fine. Wonderful. Here I was, right on the doorstep, and I couldn’t figure out a way to get that door opened. What was I going to do? Wait around until Sherry came out?

&nb
sp; Don’t make it too hard for yourself, I thought. Take it easy. The police aren’t hiding in the letter boxes. Remember, you left Sherry here night before last, and then you drove right back to the De Anza place. Okay. Now you’re back. You’re looking for Sherry’s name on the boxes. It isn’t there. What would you do?

  Ask somebody. Ask the manager.

  So I did. She was one of those big, blocky women, built like an ox, with a face tomato-color and a trick of squinting like somebody trying to see through your disguise. I asked for Miss Knox, and she shook her face at me.

  “You’ve got the wrong address. There’s no Miss Knox here.”

  “Well, that’s her professional name,” I said. “Sherry—”

  “Oh, Mrs. Gavotte. Sure. But she’s left.”

  I stood there, trying to get my thoughts straightened out. The woman swung her head sidewise, a heavy slow motion that must have taken a lot of muscle, and tried to figure out who I was from that angle.

  “Do you know where I can reach her?” I said.

  “You a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “I guess you’re not. They’ve all been here already. You know about what happened, don’t you?”

  “I read about it.”

  “Oh. Mm. Well, excuse me a minute.” She retreated, and came back pretty soon holding a scrap of paper in her blue-red hand, like a gob of sour cream in borscht. “Here you are. I wrote it down. You drive about six blocks south—”

  “I know where it is,” I said, and went out, fast.

  Chapter 10

  I didn’t know, but I found it, all right. There was a phone number, which I decided not to bother about. Too much time had been wasted already. Somehow, now, I’d begun to feel that time was important, that I didn’t have all I wanted of it stretching ahead. The apartment house when I got to it was a cut below Gavotte’s, but still nice enough, and the apartment number was eight. On the letter box, that meant Miss Lillian Carlyle and Miss Rita Ferelli. I pressed the button, and when the buzzer sounded, outguessed it, got the door open, and started upstairs. Inside, it was still a nice place; they did cooking here, but not cabbage. And the halls weren’t so narrow you had to turn sidewise to walk through them.