In a Lonely Place (16 page)

He was there for a long time. Lost in a world of swirling fog and crashing wave, a world empty of all but these things and his grief and the keening of the fog horn far at sea. Lost in a lonely place. And the red knots tightened in his brain.

He was there for a long time but there was no time in this sad, empty shell of the night. He was there for so long that he was startled when he heard something running; almost frightened when the small dark shape hurtled upon him. He realized quickly that it was a dog, a friendly terrier. He said. “Hello, fellow.” and the dog nosed his hand. He wanted to cry. He said again. “Hello, fellow.”

And then he heard footsteps coming over the sand, and he no longer wanted comfort of tears. Excitement charged him: where there was a dog there was a master . . . or a mistress. His hand slowly stroked the dog’s curly head. “Nice fellow,” he said.

The dog was nuzzling him when the girl came out of the fog. Dix looked up at her and he said, “Hello.” She wasn’t afraid. She said carelessly. “Hello.”

He smiled. She didn’t know that behind that smile lay his hatred of Laurel, hatred of Brub and Sylvia, of Mel Terriss. of old Fergus Steele, of everyone in the living world, of everyone but Brucie. And Brucie was dead.

She hadn’t returned. All night again she had been away. The apartment was empty and cold. He put out the lights before the gray fog of night became the gray fog of morning. He sat there in the dark bedroom waiting for the morning.

He did not dare sleep. Not until he had covered the mistake. The first mistake he had made. The mistake of sand. For sand was an evil and penetrating thing, no matter how much of it you brushed away, particles adhered as if cemented, particles leered where there had been none a moment before. If dust divulged a story, sand screamed its secrets.

It hadn’t mattered before. When he could walk away from it, when he need answer to no one. Now uncertainty riddled him. Not knowing how much was in his mind alone, how much was real. It had been a mistake to look up Brub Nicolai, to embrace friendship. If he had remained lone, he wouldn’t have had to worry about sand. It was good he was leaving for New York soon. He’d had enough of this neighborhood. He was getting nervous. It was nothing but nerves. Yet he’d take no chance on sand fouling him up.

He didn’t smoke much while he waited. He was too physically exhausted even for that. He could have slept easily, slept long and deep, yet it was not hard to remain awake. His mind was alert. He knew exactly what he had to do and how he would do it. It was only necessary for morning to break. And for no one to come here until after what must be done, was done. He did not even want to see Laurel until he was again safe.

Safe. He was safe! He had no fear, no anxiety. He had never permitted fear to engage him. His annoyance at the occurrence of the word safe in his mind reawakened him and he saw it was morning. He stretched his arms and his body in the first pale gray of light. He felt as if he’d been cramped in a foxhole all night.

He scrubbed his face and hands again, scrubbed his teeth. His suit looked as if he’d lain all night on the sand. That was all right too. He took off the trousers now. put on bathing trunks, and pulled his trousers back over them. The trunks weren’t new. he’d bought them when he first came to California. He’d expected to spend quite a bit of the past summer on the beach. But he hadn’t had a car and he couldn’t take being packed into an ill-smelling bus or clanging streetcar. His swimming had been done at the community pools in the various neighborhoods where he’d lived. He hadn’t had a chance to enjoy the city until Mel’s car became available tor use.

It angered him that he’d wasted so much time, hanging around public swimming pools and cheap eating houses and neighborhood movies. If he’d known how to get started sooner, he’d be established by now, living high, clubbing with the right people, the people who had money and leisure. There was always room for a good fellow in those circles. For a moment he half-wished for Mel.

The day was lightening and it looked as if the break for which he’d dared not hope was coming his way. It looked as if the fog was clearing.

He fixed coffee at eight, drank two cups black. He was edgy now. No one ever came to the apartment in the morning, yet the very fact that he was up and about at this hour could draw a passer-by. There was yet one more thing he must do before leaving. He was reluctant, not afraid, merely reluctant to bring in the morning paper. Yet for his plan, it must be done.

He didn’t get a break on that. The delinquent who delivered the paper hadn’t left it on the doorstep. From the living-room window he could see it, not even on the porch but on the walk beyond. He waited at the window until a man he had never seen before hurried out of the patio. An oaf on his way to work, just a little late.

It was the wrong hour for Dix to be up, the hour when the members of Virginibus Arms set out to their jobs. Twice again he started to the door and each time he was forced to wait until a closing door and retreating footsteps were silenced. He finally opened his door a small wedge and watched from behind it. He could go put on his bathrobe, it would bolster his story of working all night, but he didn’t want to waste the time. He was in a nervous frenzy to get away, to do what must be done before it was too late. And there was within him still the fear of Laurel returning. He could not face a scene with her this morning. He hadn’t time.

He chose his moment to duck out for the paper. He didn’t hurry the act. He made it a matter of everyday business, something a man did without deliberation. He was lucky; he saw no one. But he didn’t know how many were watching behind their living-room windows, wondering what the young fellow in Mel Terriss’ apartment was doing up so early. Well, he had the answer to that one too. He’d worked all night. Finished his book! That angle hadn’t occurred to him before; it was a good one. He’d worked all night, finished his book. He’d been exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. He’d decided to go out to the beach, it wasn’t too good a day but it looked as if it might clear and there was nothing more relaxing than lying in the sand, listening to the roll of the water. So he’d packed up the manuscript, mailed it on his way, and gone to the beach.

For Christ’s sake, for whom was he plotting this minute alibi? He wasn’t going to be questioned. He was nuts to think he had to account for his time, as if he were a reform-school kid on parole or a henpecked husband. He didn’t have to do a damn thing but climb into bed. take a couple of pills and get the dreamless sleep he needed. Who cared what he’d done all night and today? Who in hell cared why he’d done it?

The answer was no one and he certainly wasn’t boob enough to proffer an alibi to Brub. He wasn’t reaching for trouble; there was only one reason for going to the beach, to put a day, today, on the sand which was in the car and imbedded in his shoes and tucked in unseen crevices of his suit. It wasn’t he had nerves; it was because he was smart, because he didn’t miss bets.

He had been standing in the middle of the living room, holding the folded paper in his hands. One thing more to do and he did. He opened the paper and looked at the front page.

Relief bathed him, relief flowed gently, excitingly, over him and through him. There was nothing on the front page of the paper, nothing. There was no way he could know what happened. He was off to the beach.

He flung down the paper on the couch, part of it spilled the floor. Good. As if he’d been reading it. He started for the kitchen but he hesitated. In case he should run into anyone at the garage, he needed a prop. He pulled out a large manila envelope, gave it bulk with some magazines, sealed it and carried it under his arm. He needed nothing more. The apartment would tell no story to anyone who came in while he was away. Who the hell was going to come in? Not even Laurel hung around any more.

He didn’t need the prop. He saw no one on his way back to the garage. No one showed up while he was taking out the car. He was on his way. Not as early as he’d expected to start out but this was better. He wouldn’t have to sit so long on the God-damned cold beach.

He had to stop at a post office somewhere along the line. Better to avoid the Beverly one, too much danger of running into Brub. The police station was too near the post office in Beverly. There were Westwood and Santa Monica offices. He decided on the latter; he knew where it was located. There was the danger of hearing rumors, but what if he did? It would make no difference now.

He drove Olympic to Sepulveda. then north to Wilshire, thus avoiding easily the Beverly business district. The road to Santa Monica was a new one by day, even on this dull day with a watery sun trying to break through the overcast. He didn’t have to hurry, there was no hurry now, no hurry at all.

He maneuvered the car into the inner lane. There wasn’t much traffic at this hour but he was careful. He couldn’t afford an accident or a near accident, he couldn’t chance attention from a cop. It annoyed him that such an idea should enter his consciousness, and in annoyance he swerved too quickly. It was luck that nothing went wrong on the swerve. Pure luck. But it meant that luck was with him again. He could stop jittering.

He pulled in at the post office. There were people wandering in and out. like extras in a movie. No one who knew him, no one who would notice him. He addressed the envelope in the car. He hesitated over the address, wanting to make sure that this mail fodder would never turn up again. He rejected sending it to himself either at Mel’s, to General Delivery, or back to Princeton. If by any outside chance his mail should be checked, it wouldn’t be good. Not in his own handwriting; not in disguised handwriting, too many experts; not from a Santa Monica address. He rejected addressing it to Uncle Fergus or to Mel Terriss for the same reasons. He hit on the solution without particular thought and wrote out the name, a fellow who’d died over Italy a long time ago. The name dribbled into his mind, a simple name. Tommy Johns. The address. General Delivery, Chicago, Illinois. No return address; it would end in the dead letter department, where it wryly belonged.

He took it in to be weighed. The post office was fairly busy, he was third in line at one of the windows. No one knew him. no one noticed him. He paid for the stamps and took the envelope back to a desk as if to write on the return address. The desk he chose had no one at it; he affixed the stamp and mailed the envelope.

Nothing could have been more anonymous than the transaction yet the palms of his hands were wet when he returned to the car. He’d never had nerves like this: he couldn’t understand it. Yet looking at it rationally, it could be understood. He’d been under a terrific strain: that, followed by no sleep, would make anyone jumpy. Before he’d always been able to sleep long and heavily; he’d never had to go through stunts like this. He damned the circumstances which necessitated this stunt.

He was careful to avoid the California Incline approach to the beach: he was taking no chances on getting mixed up with a police inquiry. He drove on down Ocean Front and followed the winding canyon way to the beach. He wasn’t the only one who had come for a day on the sands. There were a fair dozen cars parked in the enclosure by State Beach. He parked his own car and went down the concrete steps to the sand.

The beach wasn’t crowded. There were a couple of fellows and girls, sweaters over their bathing suits, backed against the concrete wall. They were playing cards, a portable radio giving out music. There was a heavy set man and his scrawny wife farther down the sands. A scattering of young men, singly and together, beach athletes. Dix chose a place against the wall on the other side of the lifeguard station. He took off his coat, folded it, laid it on the sand. He took off his trousers, folded them on top of the coat. He kept his shirt on, the off-shore wind was chill under the streaked sky. He took off his socks and shoes, set them aside, and stretched out, his head on his folded suit. The ocean was a hushed sound, the sun was beginning to break through, even faint strips of blue were appearing in the sky. He closed his eyes and he slept.

On waking he was amazed. He had evidently dropped into the pit of sleep as soon as he lay down for he had no memory past that moment. Luck was with him that he hadn’t slept too long, it was only a little past three. Discomfort had evidently aroused him for the afternoon had turned chill, the sky was completely grayed again. Dix shook out his clothes and put them on, their wrinkles, their sand were legitimate now. The same was true of his shoes and socks. He could take all these clothes to the cleaners not caring who might snoop. He could go home, have a warm shower, clean things, sleep in a comfortable bed.

First he must make certain that he was remembered. He had planned that last night. He drove the car into the gas station across, said to the dark-haired owner, “Fill her up, will you?” and as if in afterthought, said, “If you don’t mind I’ll phone while you’re filling her.” The gas-station operator might not remember him. but he could be reminded by the call. He called his own number; when there was no answer, his coins were returned.

The car was ready; Dix drove away. He would have liked to stop at the hamburger stand for food and coffee, particularly coffee. He was chilled from his sleep on the cold sand. But he didn’t want to chance running into Sylvia or even Brub; this was their corner. He drove on, winding up through the canyon to San Vicente. There were no eating places on this boulevard, nor were there any drive-ins until he reached Beverly. He had no intention of dropping into Simon’s at this odd hour, no intention of forcing his luck. Thinking about food had made him ravenous, yet he could not face going into a restaurant until he’d changed clothes. He wouldn’t pass unnoted at any place in Beverly in his doubly wrinkled suit. By now everyone would be babbling about the latest murder, anything out of line might be suspicious. Anything sandy would be suspicious to the yokels.

He drove on back to the apartment. He didn’t want to put the car away; he’d be going out again as soon as he was clean. It was double work putting up the car, yet it meant getting into the apartment without walking openly through the patio. He preferred entering without being observed.

Reviling the need of precautions, he went through the routine. Brake the car in front of the garage, get out of the car, open the garage doors, get in the car, unloose the brake, run the car into the garage, get out of the car, close the garage doors. Doggedly he walked through the alley to the rear door of his apartment. He slowed his walk as he approached. He wasn’t unobserved. A yahoo was trimming the hedge just beyond his doors. A little measly Mexican fellow in faded overalls, a battered hat bending his ears, a mustache drooping over his mouth. The shears were bigger than the man. Clip, clip, clip clip, the shears chopped with Dix’s approaching footsteps. The fellow looked up as Dix reached the back door. ‘”Allo,” he said brightly.

Dix didn’t say hello, he nodded only, and he went into his apartment. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find something wrong, he’d been thrown that much off beat by the unexpected gardener. But the apartment was unchanged. The slattern had been in and cleaned, that was all. The coffee pot and cup were clean, the newspaper in the living room was folded on the table. The ash trays in the bedroom had been emptied, the bed he hadn’t slept in was smoothed. Everything was okay.