I picked up the agency crock at the Red Rooster.
Rolling along toward Mono Drive, I noticed headlights in the rear mirror. They were quite a way behind. I stepped on the throttle a bit and moved along at a pretty good clip.
The headlights kept behind at just about the same distance, too far really to be following me.
I got more speed out of the car.
As a matter of driving habit, I glanced at the petrol gauge on the dashboard.
The hand showed the tank was empty; yet I’d filled up before starting out for the Red Rooster.
Of course, it could have been that the gauge had developed trouble. In any event, this was a good time to use up what petrol I had as fast as it would flow through the carburettor.
I put the throttle down to the floorboards.
I was on a lovely stretch of road cutting across the back part of the city. It travelled through an industrial centre with a few factories scattered around, spur tracks crossing the highway at intervals, vast vacant spaces — little traffic and lots of darkness.
The agency car coughed and went dead, picked up again for a few seconds, then coughed, spluttered, and this time quit for keeps.
I had the door open by the time the car came to a stop. There was no traffic anywhere along the road, but behind me those steady, persistent lights coming with dogged purpose.
I looked around and didn’t like what I saw. Over to one side was a factory, standing dark and silent, surrounded by a high fence that had signs placed along it at regular intervals, “Keep Out.” There was a spur track, with some box cars standing on the siding just clear of the road. Farther down, I could see a storage yard with a high board fence blotting out all view of what was inside of it.
The logical thing of course was to stick around the car and beg some motorist for a push to the nearest petrol station.
I didn’t feel that it was advisable to do the logical thing.
I looked around for a good place to hide. There wasn’t any.
I ran across the road and climbed under the rods of one of the box cars. I huddled up in the shadows.
It was a damn poor hiding place.
Headlights danced shadows along the road, then the car that had been rolling along behind me came to a stop. I heard doors open and slam shut. A man’s voice called, “Hello, what’s the trouble? Everything okay?”
In the night silence I could hear the smooth running of the other motor.
A second voice, a woman’s voice, said, “He’s around here someplace. He must have run out of petrol. He was right ahead of us.”
I kept stiffly silent under the freight car. The pair prowled around. I could see their shadows and occasionally get a glimpse of their legs. The man’s legs were stocky and muscular; the feminine voice went with a pair of legs that would have made a swell stocking ad, but her voice was hard.
The man said, “That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. He was right ahead of us, wasn’t he, Babe?”
“Yes. It must have been this car. He can’t have gone far. How about those freight cars?”
“Why the hell would he jump out of his automobile and crawl in a freight car?” the man asked irritably. “Naturally he’d do what anyone else does when he runs out of petrol. He’d have stood by the car and waited for someone to come along. When he saw our car coming he should have flagged us down and asked for help.”
“Well, he didn’t do what he should have done,” the woman said, and then added, “Guess why?”
“We weren’t close enough to him for him to get frightened.”
“Then he’s still in the car,” the woman said sarcastically.
I could hear the man climbing up the iron rungs on the freight cars. Then I heard his steps along the runway on the roofs. The woman went along the ground, looking in between the cars.
I slid out from my place of concealment, kept close to the shadows and sprinted forward along the cars.
I could hear the motor on their automobile purring away with a sound that was smoothly reassuring.
From behind me. I heard the man say, “Well, let’s start looking under the cars. He isn’t on top.”
“He has to be around here somewhere,” the woman said angrily. “He couldn’t have climbed one of the fences, and... Hey, there he is!”
The man yelled, then both of them started to run.
I jumped in the other car, slammed the car door shut, snapped the car in gear, and started moving.
I’d gone almost fifty yards before I saw a series of luminous pin-pricks in the darkness behind me. Then suddenly the window in the rear radiated into myriad cracks and the rear-view mirror didn’t do me any good.
I slowed down when I first hit the crossroad, turned to the left, then turned to the right on the next crossroad. I wound up in a residential district and located a tram before I abandoned the car. Then I took the precaution of looking at the licence number and the registration certificate which was attached to the steering column.
The car was registered in the name of Samuel Lowry and the address of the certificate of registration was 968 Rippling Avenue.
I flagged the tram and rode on it until I saw a taxi standing by the kerb. I got off the car and picked up the taxi. I gave the taxi driver the number of 1810 Mono Drive.
When we got out there the house was dark and the cab driver wanted to wait, but I assured him that my friends would be home shortly, paid him off, and, after he had gone, walked the block and a half down to 1925.
The homes in this vicinity had cost money to put up. It wasn’t the swanky neighbourhood of extreme wealth, but it was definitely above the average. It was a new sub-division. The houses were modern, with lots of glass, and were, for the most part, low, one-storied affairs that had sweeping curves, intriguing designs and patios. They weren’t quite in the private swimming pool class, but they were getting close to it.
The house I wanted had curving lines around the living-room, then the house swept back to a garage. On the other side there was a long wing which stretched out to protect a patio.
I thought I’d like to have a look at that patio before I went in.
There was a bit of lawn, some ornamental shrubbery and a hedge.
I walked along the edge of the hedge, crowded past the shrubbery, skirted around behind the garage and came to the patio.
I wished I’d had a flashlight to help me find my way. Part of the patio was cement, part of it was where someone had recently planted a lawn. I blundered in the soft soil before I realised where I was and back out to the hard cement.
The house was so constructed that out here in the patio there was absolute privacy, so far as the bedrooms on this wing of the house were concerned. The girl who was standing in the lighted bedroom hadn’t bothered with the blinds on the bedroom windows.
It was modern construction, with steel sash, leaded glass french windows, wide steel-framed windows which opened and closed by simply turning a crank on the inside. It was a bedroom designed for a maximum of sunlight and fresh air. Privacy could have been insured by running heavy curtains across the entire side of the bedroom, but now these curtains were to one side, neglected.
The taffy-haired blonde who was standing in front of the mirror, surveying her partially clothed figure with quite evident approval, was the girl who had picked me up the night before as her escort, and had taken me to the motor court.
I hesitated a moment, then decided it was time for a showdown and kept on walking.
She heard my steps on the cement when I was close to the little balcony which led out to the patio, the balcony on which the french windows opened. She raised a hand mirror, caught reflected motion, and whirled round, surveying me with wide eyes. She started to scream and then checked herself.
With incredulous dismay, she watched me climb the four brick stairs which led to the little balcony.
“May I come in?” I asked.
Wordlessly, as though in a hypnotic trance, she opened the french windows. “How... how did you find me?”
I said, “It took a little work. Want to talk?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think you would, but I think you’d better.”
She said, “I... I’ve been thinking of you,” and then suddenly raised her finger to her lips and motioned me to be quiet, “My sister can hear us if we talk loud,” she said. And then, with a little nervous laugh picked up a robe that was on the foot of the bed and slipped it over her shoulders. “I’m afraid,” she said, “I’m making up in scenic generosity for anything I…”
“Deprived me of last night?” I prompted.
“Yes,” she said, and smiled. “I guess you think I was a terrible heel.”
“It isn’t what I think; it’s what the police think.”
“The police? What have they to do with it?”
I said, “You played it pretty carefully. You went to the parking lot and got Dover Fulton’s automobile. Then you started looking for a sucker. You picked on me. You got me out to the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT. You knew that I would register under the name of Dover Fulton. You knew that Dover Fulton and Minerva Carlton were in one of the cottages. You pretended to be drunk. You…”
“I was drunk.”
“You’re lying.”
She flushed.
I said, “Don’t be silly. We were both playing a game. You gave the waiter five dollars to bring you straight ginger ale every time you ordered Scotch and soda. I gave him ten dollars to tell me what your game was and bring me straight ginger ale every time I ordered Scotch and soda.”
“Why, you... you…”
“Exactly,” I said.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. Suddenly she laughed.
I came over and sat down beside her. She reached over and took one of my hands. “Donald, please don’t be angry,” she said. “It wasn’t the way you’re thinking it was.”
I didn’t say anything.
She crossed her knees. The robe slid away from the smooth flesh. She made no effort to pull it back, but sat there kicking her foot back and forth, a few inches at a time, nervous, seductive, trying to think, the robe sliding provocatively each time she kicked.
I said, “The truth will be a lot better for you right now than any lie you can think up. You have just one stab at rehearsal and then you’re going to be talking to the police.”
“Not to the police, Donald.”
“To the police,” I said.
“But what have I done, for the police to bother me?”
“Murder, for one thing.”
“Murder?” she exclaimed, and then suddenly put her hand over her lips, as though to push the word back in when she realized how loud her exclamation had been.
“Donald, you’re crazy!”
I said, “You left me there in the auto camp. You went out and prowled around the place until you found the cabin you wanted. You knocked on the door. You went in and started to make a scene. Dover Fulton pulled his gun and took a shot at you. You…”
“Donald, you’re crazy! Absolutely stark crazy!”
“All right,” I said, “suppose you tell me.”
“All right, I will,” she said. “I’m going to tell you the truth. You’ll hate me for it. I don’t want you to hate me, Donald. I... I like you. I…”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Another scene of well-modulated seduction. You have a sweet little body. It’s done a lot of work for you. It gets what you want as you go through life. You gave me a great come-on last night. Let’s try the truth tonight.”
I reached across the bare flesh, picked up the end of the robe. She sat motionless, waiting, not resisting. I pulled the robe back up and tucked it under the leg.
She laughed. “You can’t take it.”
“No,” I said.
“You’re a funny boy.”
“I suppose I am. I’m quaint. I’m old-fashioned. I like to hear the truth once in a while. Legs confuse the issue.”
She said. “All right. I’m going to tell you the truth because... because... damn it, because right now I can’t think of any convincing lie. Your presence disturbs my equanimity as much as my legs disturb yours.”
I said, “Go ahead. Shoot the works while you’re in the mood.”
She said, “I’ll give you the whole story. My real name is Lucille Hollister. I’ve been married. I didn’t like it. I had a property settlement from my husband when we split up. I have money and…”
“Never mind the biographical sketch,” I told her. “Get down to what happened last night. You’re sparring for time. That makes me more and more suspicious. If you wanted to tell the truth you’d plunge right into it.”
“I am telling the truth, Donald, but I want you to understand me. I want you to — I like you more than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. You — well, you give a girl a break. You were wonderful to me last night.”
I said, “Let’s quit stalling and start talking.”
“But that’s what I’m trying to explain — that it’s not a stall.”
She twisted her position slightly on the bed. Her hand was on my shoulder. Her eyes were pleading up at me. “Donald,” she said, “please, please believe me.”
“Give me something to believe,” I said, “and let’s have it fast. The police are on their way out here.”
“The police! On their way out here!”
I nodded.
“Donald, they can’t. — You wouldn’t do that to me.”
“It isn’t what I’m doing; it’s what you’ve done to yourself.”
“But, Donald, what can I do?”
“For one thing,” I said, “you can tell me the truth. Then perhaps I can help you.”
She said, “You’re going to think I’m a louse.”
I didn’t say anything.
She said, “All right, here it is in chunks. My sister has never been married. Her name is Rosalind Hart. We’re from Colorado. We’ve been visiting here for the last three or four weeks. My sister is four years younger than I am. She’s a sweet little thing. She doesn’t — well, she doesn’t play around. She’s romantic, intense, and she’s been in love with Stanwick Carlton ever since she met him, absolutely crazy in love with him. They were engaged at one time. He was the first man in her life, the first one who wakened her to the fact that she had grown up and was a woman. She loves him. She loves him too much.”
“You know how it is, Donald. When a girl really goes all out for a man, after a while he gets tired of it. There’s a sense of assurance that he has — a man wants to pursue his women. He wants to have to make a sale. He doesn’t want the merchandise all wrapped up and tossed in his lap every time he leaves an opening. He wants to feel that he’s the salesman.”
“A smart girl, a girl who knew more about men than Rosalind, would have had Stanwick Carlton absolutely crazy about her. He was for a long time, and then she was just too easy, too accessible. I tried to warn her about it but she laughed at me. She said they were going to be married and live happily ever after. You know what happened.”
“What happened?”
“After a while he got tired of it. She was always there, always adoring him, always ready to obey his slightest wish. She wouldn’t even look at any other man or let any other man look at her. She didn’t have sense enough to ever play hard-to-get.”
“And so Minerva entered the scene?”
“That’s right — Minerva. She was shrewd and fast and hot. I’m not kidding. I know what I’m talking about. One woman can tell a lot about another.”
“All right, she’d played around. So what?”
“She came to Colorado. She sized up the situation in an instant and she started playing hard-to-get.”
“So Stanwick Carlton immediately married her?”
“Don’t be silly, it wasn’t that way at all. He became interested in her, and she simply tilted her chin, looked over her shoulder at him and moved away. He had to take that challenge. He wanted to show her, I guess, that he could dent her armour if he wanted to, then he was going back to Rosalind. The first thing he knew, he was completely snared and there was a run-away marriage. I don’t think the poor chap knew what really had happened to him until he woke up, safely married, after what the papers called a whirlwind courtship. A whirlwind courtship!” she added scornfully. “I’ll say it was. Only he wasn’t the one who did the whirlwinding.”
“Go on,” I said.
“They’d been married two years. I knew that Minerva was going to play around. I kept an eye on her. She came here and visited an old friend of hers, a girl by the name of Bushnell. They had a vacation at the beach and — well, did some stepping around. Then Minerva went back to Colorado. This time when I knew she was going to visit California again I had things arranged so I could keep an eye on her.”
“Playing detective, eh?”
“That’s right, and it was simple, dirt simple. She got in touch with Dover Fulton as soon as she hit town, and the first night she was here she had dinner with some other man. She had been seeing a lot of Fulton. Last week they went out to that auto court and registered as man and wife. They stayed there until after midnight. Then she drove him back to town. He picked up his car at the parking place and went on home.”
“I presume all that marital infidelity made you sick at your stomach.”
“Don’t be a sap,” she said. “I loved it. It gave me all of the aces in the pack. I just wanted to know how to play them.”
“So what?”
“So last night, when I knew they were going out to the same auto court where they’d been before, I — well, I decided I’d frame them good and proper and let them have their names in the paper.”
“So what did you do?”
“Picked you up. Got you to take me out to the auto court, register as Dover Fulton and wife, and I saw to it that you were driving Dover Fulton’s car. Then I sneaked out and telephoned the police that the car had been stolen. I knew that one of the first things the police do under those circumstances is check up on the motor courts because every motor court has to keep a register in which is entered the make of car and the licence number. I knew the police would have a line on Dover Fulton’s car before midnight.”
“And you felt they’d pick on me as a sucker?”
“Be your age! I didn’t want you in the picture at all. I wanted to get with someone who was smart enough and suspicious enough so that when I walked out on him, he’d — well, he’d smell a rat and get out too. I saw you pull out and start walking.
“The police would locate the stolen automobile at the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT. Then I intended to ring Mrs. Fulton and tell her not to let her husband fool her, that that business about the car being stolen was just a stall; that actually he’d been there at the court, registered with this woman for two weeks in succession. The fact that his car had been recovered there would make her go to investigate and then, of course, the woman who ran the place would have to identify Dover Fulton as the one who had registered as Stanwick Carlton.”
“And of course you intended to let Stanwick Carlton know about what his wife had been doing?”
“You’re damn right I did.”
“Sweet little thing, aren’t you?”
“I’m not sweet,” she said. “I’m a cat; I’ve got claws. I’m fighting for Rosalind. As a matter of fact, Stanwick loves Rosalind and always has loved her. This Minerva woman just came in and helped herself to a piece of cake. She saw a good eligible male that she could grab by the use of a little applied psychology. She applied the psychology. Rosalind was a sweet, innocent little lamb who didn’t stand a chance. I tell you, this Minerva was a woman who knew all the answers.”
I said, “And after you went out and ditched me, did you hear the sound of the shots?”
For a moment her eyes faltered.
“Did you?” I asked.
Her fingers dug into my arm.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“In one of the garages. I waited until I saw you get out of the cabin. Then I decided I’d hitch-hike my way and — and I heard the sound of the shots.”
“Have you any idea what they were?”
“I... I thought they were shots, but if I’d known what cabin they came from, I... well, I’d have… well, I guess I wouldn’t have, either.”
“No,” I said, “I guess you wouldn’t. How many shots were there?”
“Three.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
She said, “It was exactly seven minutes past ten. I looked at my watch.”
“And then what?”
“Donald, I’m going to tell you the truth. I was frightened. I hid. I watched. I tell you, I saw people moving around in that cabin after the shots and I saw a car drive away. Then I beat it. I could hardly walk. My knees wouldn’t work.”
“Then what?”
“Then I hitch-hiked. I gave the usual story about being out with a man who had made me walk home. The man who was driving the car was very gallant.”
“He drove you here?”
“Don’t be simple, Donald! I didn’t want to leave a back trail. I had him take me to a downtown hotel. I told him I lived there. Then after he’d gone, I picked up a taxicab and came out here.”
“And I suppose you handed the man a story that was very well embellished with all of the lurid details.”
“Naturally,” she said. “When a man picks up a woman at a time like that he expects at least a good story.”
“At least?” I asked.
She laughed. “You’re a sweet, naive man, Donald.”
“And he made passes at you?”
“Of course he did, Donald. Don’t be silly. I’m attractive, and he thought I went out for a good time but just didn’t like the man I was with.”
I said, “How did it happen that you wrote down KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT on the back of that menu, and…”
“Donald, I didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?”
“Write that.”
“It was in that packet of cigarettes that you…”
“I know it was, but I didn’t write it, Donald.”
“Who did?”
“If I knew that I’d know a lot. I’m trying to find out. You see, Donald... No, I’m not going to tell you until... until I know you better.”
I said, “You’re a scheming little bitch, aren’t you?”
She swung round on the bed so her eyes locked with mine. “Yes,” she said. With that, she cupped her hands on my cheeks, drew my face towards hers and kissed me.
It was a kiss to remember. It lasted a long time. Then she suddenly pushed me away.
“Now,” she said, “you know all the answers, don’t you?” There was a provocative challenge in her eyes.
“Yes,” I said, I got off the bed and started for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“First,” I said, “I’m going to get a friend of mine on the phone — Sergeant Sellers. He’s on Homicide, and he thinks I’m a damn liar. I’m going to let you talk with him.”
“Donald, you can’t go out that way.”
“All right, I’ll go out this other way.”
“No, no, not that way, either. Look, Donald, my sister is in the front room.”
“Where’s Mrs. Arthur Marbury?”
“She’s out tonight. Donald, darling, please — give me a break. I’ll go — anywhere.”
“What do you mean, anywhere?”
“Exactly what I said. If you want to turn back the hands of the clock by twenty-four hours, it’s okay by me.”
“You mean…”
“My God, do I have to draw you a diagram, or something?”
I said, “Get your clothes on.”
“I’ll hurry and get dressed,” she said. “Look, Donald, go in the bedroom at the front end of the hall. That’s my sister’s bedroom. Wait in there, I’ll come in as soon as I’m dressed. Then we’ll go in together and I’ll introduce you to my sister. I’ll make her think that you came to get me and that I let you in the side door by the patio. She’s reading a novel and…”
“And suppose she should quit reading a novel and…”
“She won’t. Donald, you’d love my sister. She’s a sweet, innocent girl. Her heart’s been absolutely broken, and the only thing she does is read. She reads all the time. She doesn’t go out. She’s eating her heart out. It’s the most pathetic thing. Donald, when you see her you’ll realise the truth of what I’m telling you. You won’t hold it against me what I’ve done. And I’ll — I’ll show you I’m really a good scout, Donald. Honest I will. I’ve been thinking about you. I couldn’t sleep last night. I didn’t want to play you for a — well, you know — do the way I did.”
She took my arm, pushed me out of the door, pointed to the door down the corridor. “Right in there, Donald, and wait. It won’t take long. I’ll be with you.”
I walked a few steps, waited until she’d closed the door, then tiptoed to the end of the corridor, down a short flight of stairs, and peered through a curtained, arched doorway into a living-room furnished in Mission style.
A brunette was spread out on a chaise-lounge, a book in her hand, a cigarette in her fingers. She was reading so intently that her eyes seemed to bore holes in the page. Apparently there was no one else in the house.
I went back to the bedroom door Lucille had indicated. It was a bedroom very similar to the other, except that the windows opened on the side of the house that was toward the adjoining lot. A cord had been pulled which stretched the curtains all the way across the windows on the side.
It was a girl’s bedroom, with toilet things spread out on the dresser, a nice bed, a deep, comfortable chair with a standard lamp behind it, a table with some magazines and a book.
I settled down in the chair to wait, then I remembered the lipstick on my face. I went over to the mirror, took my handkerchief and rubbed off the sticky red stain which had smeared my mouth.
I looked around for a telephone. There was no phone in the bedroom.
I settled down in the chair, glanced at a magazine, then picked up the book.
It was a story of two kids who were in love, I glanced through the volume, then I became interested and started to read.
It opened up as a darned sweet story. Then a woman who was a shrewd, unscrupulous bitch entered the picture. The man became all confused. She was taking a green kid who didn’t know too much about life and rubbing all the new off his soul. The thing he had felt for the other girl was something so much deeper than sex it wasn’t even funny. The book had been read until the binding was limber. The cover had been wrapped in cellophane. You’d have thought it was the kid sister’s Bible.
I moistened my lips, felt uncomfortable for a minute and couldn’t realise what it was. Then I knew that it was the taste of Lucille’s lipstick that somehow still clung to my lips.
I got my handkerchief and scrubbed hard and then I went back to the book.
I was vaguely conscious that time was passing. I thought Lucille was taking a long time getting her clothes on. Suddenly it occurred to me that she might have gone out through the french doors into the patio. I didn’t know what good it would do her. I’d found her now and knew who she was. Her kid sister was sitting in the front room, reading a novel — all I had to do was walk out there, introduce myself, or I could go back the other way, out through the bedroom..
The door was open. Someone was standing there.
“Well, it’s about time,” I said.
I heard a choking scream, and looked up.
It wasn’t Lucille who stood in the doorway, but the brunette, the kid sister.
Looking at her startled, white face, the big black eyes, the hollow cheeks, I could see from the family resemblance that she was Lucille’s sister. She was younger than Lucille, and she was fragile and sensitive. There was a soulful quality in her eyes, and she was getting ready to scream again.
I got up, and said, “I’m waiting for Lucille. She’s dressing. She told me to wait here.”
That calmed her down. “But how did you get in?”
“Lucille brought me in through the side door.”
“Through the side door?”
I nodded.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
I said, “You were reading a book and you were completely hypnotized by it.”
“I was reading, but I wasn’t... well…”
I said, “Lucille motioned me to silence and put me in here. She said she wanted to change.”
“I can’t understand her putting you in here. This is my bedroom.”
I said, “Well Lucille should be dressed by this time and we’ll let her make the explanations.”
“Where is she?”
“Down the corridor somewhere,” I said, indicating the end of the house vaguely. “I suppose her room is down there.”
Rosalind was looking at me with startled, frightened eyes. She didn’t know whether to run screaming, or to walk down the corridor.
I moved towards her and that touched off the reaction. She fairly flew down the corridor. “Lucille!” she cried, “Lucille!”
She flung herself at the door of Lucille’s bedroom and opened it, then stood motionless in the doorway.
I grinned and said, “It’s okay, Rosalind. You’ll get to know me better after a while.”
She took one step into the room, then I heard her scream, a shrill knife-like scream of terror. Then she was yelling at the top of her voice. “Help! Police! Police!” The whole neighbourhood could hear her.
I stepped to the doorway so I could look over her shoulder. Lucille had taken the robe off. She’d also taken off the filmy other thing that had been around her when I first saw her. She had on just the bra and black panties.
She’d been choked to death with one of her own stockings. It was knotted tight around her throat and the girl was lying sprawled in death, her body a delicate, graceful, beautiful thing, her face mottled and disfigured.
“Police! Police! Murder!” screamed Rosalind.
A man’s voice from the house across the way called out, “What’s the trouble?”
“Help, police! Murder!” Rosalind screamed.
I heard a door bang, a man’s steps running across cement.
I turned quickly, walked down the corridor, down the half-dozen steps to the living-room, across the living-room to the door on the side of the patio, out into the night and to the sidewalk.
I needed a hell of a lot of time to think and I wasn’t going to get it there in that house, not with the only story I had to tell.