In a Lonely Place (4 page)

He swung out the archway fast. He wouldn’t let her reach the balcony, look over the balustrade and see him standing there. He’d find out about her some other way, if she lived here, or whom she visited. He’d left his car down the block a bit, by the curb. Although he’d intended driving to the Beverly postoffice to mail the letter, he didn’t. He half ran across the street to the corner mail box, clanged in the letter and ran back to the court. He was too late. She was already out of sight.

He went back into his own apartment, sauntered in as if he weren’t damning luck. If he’d bumped into her on his return from the box, he could have bungled at his doorway for the key, discovered which apartment she entered. He walked inside, slamming the door after him. It had been years since he’d seen a girl who could set him jumping. The redhead was it. He went out to the kitchen and although he didn’t want a drink, he poured a double jigger of rye and drank it neat. The slug calmed him but he wandered back into the front room, wanting an excuse to slip out into the patio, to look up at the second-floor balcony.

The excuse came as he wished for it. He heard, just short of the doorstep, the thud of the flung newspaper. He moved quick as a cat. But as soon as he picked up the paper, unfolding it, he forgot why he’d hurried outdoors. He saw only the headline:
Strangler Strikes Again.

It was quarter past seven when Dix pulled up in front of Nicolai’s gate. There was no woolly fog tonight, only a thin mistiness lay in the canyon. It was like gauze across the windshield. He could see the flagstoned steps clearly, even the geranium border framing them. The windows of the house were golden with light; the porch light was also on to welcome him.

He was again pleased that he had decided to come. He had dressed for deliberate effect, an eastern friend of the Nicolais, well off, the right background, even to ex-Air Corps Gray flannel suit; an expensive tie, patterned in navy maroon, and white; a white shirt; well-polished brown shoes, English shoes. He settled his tie before climbing to the porch. He didn’t hesitate before ringing the bell and there was no hesitation in the opening door.

Sylvia was standing in the doorway. She had on her coat, a soft blue coat, and her bag, a white envelope, was under her arm. “Hello, Dix,” she said. “I’ll be right with you.”

She didn’t ask him in; the screen door was between them and she didn’t push it open. She left him standing there on the lighted porch while she turned back into the hall and switched off some overhead lights. There was dim light still glowing in the hall and living room when she came outside.

“We’re meeting Brub at the club,” she said in her high, clear voice as she started down the steps. “He called and asked me to bring you there for drinks. He couldn’t make it home.”

He followed her. He had to raise his voice to speak to her, she was that far ahead of him. She was accustomed to the steps: he must watch them. “Brub pretty busy?”

“Yes,” she said but she didn’t continue on that. “Do you want to take your car or mine? It isn’t far, only a few blocks.”

She wasn’t talking particularly fast yet there was a breathlessness to it, as if she didn’t want any silence between them, as if she were too conscious of him. She stood there by his car, tall and cool and lovely, but not quiet as she was last night.

He smiled at her; he put no intimacy into the smile. “We might as well take mine, it’s here. You can direct me.”

“All right.” she agreed.

He helped her in and went around, took his place at the wheel. She’d rolled the window down on her side, and she rested her arm on the frame. She remained there in the far corner as she gave directions. “Just down to the beach road, turn left, the club’s on the ocean side.”

It didn’t take five minutes to get there, no time for the furthering of acquaintance. She talked of club friends, names he didn’t know. There was no silence on the short ride. On direction, he drove through the pillared gateway into the parking court. She let herself out of the car, not waiting for him to help her.

The clubhouse wasn’t large. There was a young feel to it, like an officers’ club, the couples in the entrance hall, in the lounge beyond, were the kind you’d expect the Nicolais to know. A pattern you found all over the country, decent, attractive young people. The norm. They didn’t look dull to Dix tonight. He was warmed by their safeness.

Sylvia said, “I’ll drop my coat.” She smiled at him, an open, friendly smile. “Be right back, Dix.”

She wasn’t long. She looked lovely, her dress was cream color, an expensively simple dress. He had pride entering the lounge with her.

“Brub doesn’t seem to have shown up yet. Unless he’s beaten us to the bar.” She nodded to several couples as they crossed the room. There were more couples in the nautical bar but Brub wasn’t there. “I’ll substitute for Brub and buy you a drink while we wait,” she said.

“I approve the substitution. But I’ll buy the drink,” he told her.

She moved away from him to a table. “You can’t. Not at the club. This is Brub’s party.”

She introduced him to all who stopped by their table. The question of the passers-by was inevitably the same. “Where’s Brub?” It didn’t occur to any of them that she had any interest in Dix.

Her answer was always the same. “He’ll be along soon.” And her introduction never varied. “. . . Dix Steele. Brub’s best friend in England.” Only once did she show any disturbance. She said it quietly, “I wonder what’s keeping him.”

At eight the bar was emptied of all but those whose goal was alcoholism. Her nervousness lay near the surface now. She pushed away from the table. “We might as well go to dinner. I’m sure he’ll be here any moment.”

He deliberately broke through the commonplaces then. “Don’t apologize, Sylvia. I’m not missing Brub.” His voice smiled at her. “I’m enjoying you—quite as much as I would Brub.”

She laughed. And she said with a small moue, “I’m missing him. I haven’t seen him since morning.”

He mock sighed. “Still on your honeymoon.”

“Definitely.”

But he’d broken through, only a wedge perhaps, yet enough for a starter.

He waited until they were at the dinner table before he asked the question casually. “Is he on a big case?”

She looked at him. Her eyes were anxious. Then she looked away. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “He didn’t say. Only he’d been delayed.”

She hadn’t seen the evening paper. He could have told her but he didn’t. Let Brub tell her. What she feared.

He saw Brub at that moment crossing the room. Brub looked worn, he put on a smile in answer to greetings as he passed the various tables, but it was a thin smile, it slipped away as quickly as it came.

Sylvia saw him almost as soon as Dix did. Anxiety sharpened her face. They were tacitly silent until Brub reached the table. He bent and kissed Sylvia. “Sorry I’m so late, darling.” He didn’t smile at them; he didn’t need to pretend with his wife and best friend. He put out his hand to Dix, “Glad you could join us,” then he sat down, dog tiredness in every muscle. His suit was dog tired too and his linen showed the wilt of the day. His dark hair was crumpled. “I didn’t have time to change.” He smiled at Sylvia. “You can pretend I’m your chauffeur.”

The waiter, a young colored man, whiter of skin than the beach-brown guests, was unobtrusive at the table.

Brub looked up. “Hello, Malcolm. Do you suppose you could get me a double Scotch from the bar before you start my dinner? I’ve just come from work and I need it.”

“I’m sure I can, Mr. Nicolai,” Malcolm smiled. He went way.

Sylvia’s hand covered Brub’s on the table. “Hard day, darling?” She’d started casual but she couldn’t keep it up. Something about the set of Brub’s mouth released her fear in a little gust. “It wasn’t another—”

Brub’s mouth was tight; his voice deliberately matter of fact. “Yes, another one.”

“Brub!” She whispered it.

He began to light a cigarette, the flame wavered slightly. Dix watched the two with the proper attentiveness, and the proper curiosity. When neither spoke, he let his curiosity become audible. “What’s it all about?”

“Another woman killed . . . The same way.”

Sylvia’s hands were clenched.

Malcolm brought the drink.

“Thanks,” Brub said and saw Dix. “I’m sorry, chum. How about you?”

“The same,” he grinned. He didn’t want it for himself; an extra for Brub. To relax Brub. He began on his shrimp cocktail. “Are you assigned to the case?”

“Everyone in the department is on it.” Brub said. He drank again and he grimaced. “No, it’s not my case, Dix. They don’t put juniors on big stuff.” He turned to Sylvia. “The commissioner called in the whole department. We’ve been with him since five, since I called you. Even hizzoner the mayor sat in.” His mouth tightened. “We’ve got to stop it.”

“Yes “ Sylvia said. Her eyes were frightened, the color under her tan was gone. It was as if she had personal fright, as if the horror were close to her.

Dix said, “Someone important who was killed?” Malcolm set down the highball. “Thanks.”

“No.” Brub was halfway through his drink. “It’s never anyone important.” Again he realized he was talking to someone, not thinking aloud. “I forgot. You wouldn’t know about it. Being a visitor.” He could speak about it calmly; it seemed to relax him as much as a highball would. “The first one was about six months ago. March to be exact.”

“March sixteenth,” Sylvia said. “The night before the St. Patrick’s party.”

“We didn’t know it was only the first then. It was a girl down on Skid Row. She was a nice enough kid for the life she lived, I guess. Danced in a bump-and-grind house down there. We found her in an alley. Strangled.” He picked up his glass, emptied it. “No clues. Nothing. We wrote that one off as the neighborhood even though we didn’t get any leads. You usually can on Skid Row. The next one was in April.” His hand reached for his empty glass.

Dix shoved his across. “Take mine. The shrimp are too good to dilute. Try them, Sylvia.”

“Yes, don’t wait for me,” Brub said.

Sylvia picked up her fork but she didn’t do anything with it. Just held it loosely, her eyes on Brub’s face.

He took a drink before continuing. “In April. We found her in Westlake Park. There wasn’t any reason for it. She was a nice normal girl, young, attractive. She’d been to a movie with a couple of girl friends. She lived in the Wilshire district, blocks from the park. No clues. She’d been killed the same way.” He looked at Dix angrily. There wasn’t any reason for her to be killed. There’s been no reason for any of them.” Again he drank.

“There’ve been others?”

“Last night was the sixth,” Brub said heavily. “One a month. Since March.”

“Except last month,” Sylvia said quickly. “There was none in August.”

Brub continued, “No motive. No connection between any of them. Never the same neighborhood.”

“Last night’s—” Sylvia’s voice was hushed, as if she dreaded the question.

Brub said, “A new neighborhood. Beverly Glen Canyon—up where it’s country. She wasn’t found until late this morning. She was lying in the brush at the side of the road.” Anger clanged in his voice again. “It’s like hunting a needle in a haystack. Los Angeles is too big—too sprawling. You can’t patrol every street every night, all night. He’s safe. A maniac walking the streets, looking just as normal as you or me, more normal probably.”

“You’ll get him,” Sylvia said, pushing conviction into her wish.

“We’ll get him.” Brub believed it. “But how many women will be murdered first?” He tipped up the glass.

“You’d better eat, dear,” Sylvia said. She forced herself to start eating.

“Yeah.” Brub began spearing the shrimp, eating hurriedly, not tasting the food. “Take this girl last night. A nice girl like the others—except perhaps the first was a different cut. This one was a stenographer. Worked downtown. Lived in Hollywood. She’d been playing bridge with friends in Beverly. On South Camden. Just four girls. They played once a week, rotating the meeting place. They always quit early. None of them wanted to be out late, alone that way. Last night they stopped around eleven. The three left together, walked up to Wilshire together. The other two lived downtown farther. They took the Wilshire bus. Mildred was taking the Hollywoodland bus. Her name was Mildred Atkinson. She was still waiting when the girls’ bus came along. She waved goodbye to them. No one saw her after that.”

Sylvia had stopped eating. “It’s horrible,” she said.

“Yes. it’s horrible,” Brub agreed. “There’s no reason for the pattern. If we could just get at what’s behind it.”

Dix put on a thoughtful frown. “Have you no leads at all?”

“Not much.” Brub said. “There are no clues, there never are: no fingerprints or footprints, God, how we’d like just one fingerprint!” He returned to monotone. “We’ve double checked all the known sex offenders.”

“It’s a sex crime?” Dix interrupted.

Brub nodded. “That’s a part of it.”

Sylvia’s shiver was slight.

He continued, “We know one thing, of course. He works from a car.”

Malcolm brought the chowder.

“How do you know that?” Dix asked.

“He has to. Take last night, for instance. The place is inaccessible without a car.”

Dix scowled. “Can’t you check tire prints?”

“We can’t check every car in L.A.,” Brub said helplessly. “It’s the same as footprints. We can’t check every pair of shoes in L.A.”

“I understand that,” Dix nodded. “Excellent chowder.” But they’d have the tire tracks in plaster. If you could get them off concrete.

“We have an excellent chef at the club,” Sylvia said. She had no appetite. Her soup was barely tasted when Malcolm brought the abalone steaks.

Dix began on his with relish. “What you know then is that there is a man and he has a car—”

‘Yes. In the fourth case, he was seen.”

Dix’s eyebrows lifted. He held his fork in mid-air. ‘You mean you have a description?”

Brub sighed. “The fourth girl was seen leaving a movie with a man. As for description, hell!” He gestured. “The guy who noticed them, a tailor waiting for a street car, was half a block away. All he knew was the man was kind of young and sort of tall and normal looking. Only one head and no fangs!”

Dix smiled slightly. “Maybe he saw two other people.”

“He saw them all right. But he was so busy looking at the girl’s red suit, he didn’t notice the man.”

“No one else has ever seen him?”

“If they have, they’ve taken a vow of silence. You’d think he—”

Sylvia broke in, “Brub, let’s talk about something else. Please, Brub. We asked Dix to a party, not a postmortem.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” He patted her hand. “I’m sorry. Sorry, Dix. How about another drink? Malcolm!”

Dix smiled. “I’ll have another with you.” He hid his annoyance. Just like a woman, interfering, imposing her whims on the party.

“Who’s here tonight?” Brub edged his chair to look around. He lifted his hand to the group at the next table. “Hi, there.”

Dix lit a cigarette and also surveyed the room. Nice people, healthy and wealthy. Normal as you and me. Normal as Sylvia when she didn’t have the megrims. But you didn’t know what was beneath beach-tanned faces and simple expensive clothes. You didn’t ever know about thoughts. They were easily hidden. You didn’t have to give away what you were thinking. No one exchanging pleasantries now with Brub would know that the man’s mind was raw with murder. No one watching Sylvia replacing her lip rouge, smiling over the mirror of her bleached wooden compact, would know that fear was raveling her nerves. Even he, permitted as friend to know that there was fear in her veins, didn’t know whether the fear was for Brub’s safety or her own. Or an atavistic fear of reasonless death.