In a Lonely Place (5 page)

The color under her sunbrown had returned as she did the little normal things of lipstick, cigarette. He could make it recede so easily, a word, or one more question on the subject. He could make her heart stop beating as easily. With a simple statement. His lips smiled. And his eyes again turned to the room. Away from temptation.

It was then that he saw her, the little brown girl. It almost shocked him for a moment. She didn’t belong here; she belonged out in the dark. She wasn’t a brown girl tonight, save for her healthy beach color. She was in starchy white, an evening dress, cut low on her brown back, flaring to her white sandals. She had a young, laughing face, short brown curly hair. She was at the table directly across the floor. He should have seen her earlier. He had, he realized, but only the brown back and white pique dress. She’d shifted her chair as Brub had, bringing her face to the room.

He took a long draw on his cigarette before he asked, deliberately casual, “Who’s the girl over there?”

Brub turned back to their table. “Which one?”

Sylvia followed Dix’s gesture.

“Over there. In white.”

Brub peered. “Oh, that one. I’ve seen her—who is she, Sylvia?”

Sylvia had placed the girl. “Betsy Banning. You know, Brub. The Bannings bought the Henry house up the beach.” Sylvia said to Dix, “I’ve met her but I don’t really know her.” She smiled, “Or I’d introduce you.”

Dix laughed. “Don’t start match-making. I’m happy. She looked familiar, that was all. Is she in pictures?”

No,” Sylvia answered. “She’s at the university, I believe.” She smiled. “She doesn’t need the pictures; the Bannings are Texas oil, floating in it. Otis Banning, her father, is the bald one. They say he has seven million in a little black box. No doubt an exaggeration.”

Brub said, “Sylvia ought to be the detective in the family. She knows everything about everybody.”

“Otis and I share the same dentist, darling.”

“She’s a cute kid.” Brub was again looking across at the girl.

“You’re married now,” Dix reminded him.

“To me,” Sylvia added sweetly. “I may not be a cute kid but I’m nice.”

They exchanged that happy intimate look. Then Brub turned his eyes again to the Banning girl. “You’re right, though. She does look familiar.” He was scenting her, the way a detective would, narrowed eyes, his brows pulled slightly together, his nose keen.

“Come on home,” Dix laughed.

Brub’s head snapped to Dix quickly. His dark eyes were lighted. “That’s it! You know who she looks like? Brucie!”

The name was spoken before he could warn Brub not to speak it. He’d known in that split second of Brub’s remembering, in the second before the name. It was said and for the moment he could see nothing, only the red blur before his eyes and the dread roaring of sound in his ears. He didn’t know his knuckles were white knobs gripping the table, his cigarette mashed between his fingers. The moment passed and he was in control of himself again. He let the cigarette brush to the floor. In another moment he could speak.

Sylvia spoke first. “And who is Brucie, darling?”

“A girl we knew in England. She was a Red Cross worker when we were stationed near Dover. Scotch—that’s where the Bruce, Brucie, came from. Cute as a button.”

Brub had noticed nothing. But he wasn’t sure about Sylvia. Behind her civilized attention, her humor, her casualness, he wasn’t certain. Something was there behind the curtain of her eyes, something in the way she looked at Dix, a look behind the look. She might have been watching him at that wrong moment.

Dix said, “She was, all of that.” His voice wasn’t thick; it was as casual as Sylvia’s.

“Wonder what ever happened to her? She was sure a cute kid. You kind of went for her, didn’t you, Dix?”

Dix laughed, a normal laugh. “You kind of liked her yourself, didn’t you?”

“Brub!” Sylvia’s eyes opened, wide surprise. She was pretending. She was too level-headed, too secure to care.

“You bet I liked her. I guess every man in the platoon sort of liked Brucie. But you needn’t worry, honey. No one had a chance with old lady-killer Steele present.”

Dix was very careful lighting his cigarette. Because Sylvia was watching him. With the look behind the look.

“You ever hear from her, Dix?”

He shook his head. He was surprised at how easy it was to talk. “No. Brub,never did.”

“Out of sight, out of mind. That’s the great Steele. Don’t ever fall for a guy like that, Sylvia.” Brub began on his neglected ice cream.

“No, darling,” Sylvia murmured. She wasn’t looking at him, yet Dix had a feeling she was seeing him. And probing him with her mind.

“If I’d had a girl like Sylvia,” he began, and he realized there was some honesty in the play, “I wouldn’t have looked at anyone else. I wouldn’t have been like you. ogling all those U.S.O. legs.”

“I’m learning things.” Sylvia nodded a severe head. “Go on. Dix, tell me more.”

He invented lazily but his mind wasn’t there. It was remembering Brucie and the ache in him was the ache of a wound torn open. His face covered his mind, as his voice covered the pain crying from his throat. “Remember the redhead contortionist?” and he remembered the redhead in the patio this afternoon. With a woman like that, he might be able to forget. Nothing else brought forgetfulness, only for a brief time. Another section of his mind moved as the brown girl stood up from her table with her young crew-cut escort. The look of Brucie, not the face, the swagger of her shoulders, the echo of laughter. Perhaps married to seven million dollars you could forget. You could have fast cars, fast boats, a good plane to climb up there into the vastness of eternity. Brub and Sylvia were happy. Marriage could be happy.

He realized there was music when the brown girl and her partner began to dance. He should ask Sylvia to dance. But he didn’t want to. He wanted to get out of here, to go home. He couldn’t leave abruptly, not two nights in a row. However, he didn’t think the Nicolais would stay much longer, off guard their faces returned to somberness. He could nudge them. He said abruptly, “You’re tired, Brub.”

Brub nodded, “Yeah. But I’ve got to go back to work.”

“No, Brub,” Sylvia cried.

“I shouldn’t have left when I did.”

“You’re worn out now. You can’t, darling. It’s an hour’s drive downtown—”

He interrupted, “I don’t have to go downtown, Sylvia. To the Beverly Hills station is all. That isn’t fifteen minutes. Why don’t you keep Dix—”

Sylvia shook her head.

Dix said, “I ought to get back to work myself. So don’t be polite.”

Sylvia said, “I couldn’t stay. You understand.”

He gave her an appreciative smile. “I understand.”

“It’s been a punk evening for you, Dix,” Brub was apologetic. “We’ll make it up to you.”

They almost hurried from the dining room into the lounge. As if, once it had been admitted, all three could make up with haste for the spent time. Sylvia said, “I’ll get my coat.” She hesitated, “You are on the case, Brub?”

He admitted ruefully, “Just a little bit, honey.”

She didn’t say anything, simply turned and went to the cloakroom. Brub watched her go.

“Why is she afraid?” Dix asked.

Brub started, “Wha—” He realized Dix’s question. “I guess it’s pretty much my fault. Ever since this thing started, I’ve been afraid for her. She’s lived in the canyon all her life. She never had any fear, wandered all over it, any time of day. But the canyon at night, the way the fogs come in—it’s a place for
him.”
His face was again angry, helplessly angry. “I’ve scared her. She’s alone so much. I never know what hours I have to keep. We have good neighbors, a couple of our best friends are right across the road. But you know our street. It’s dark and lonely and the way our house is set up there—” He broke off. “I’m the one who’s scared; I’ve infected her. And I can’t help it. I can’t pretend, until we’ve caught him—”

Sylvia was coming into the hall. She looked herself again, tall and lovely and unruffled, her gilt hair smooth, her movements unhurried.

Brub said under his breath, “If we could only find the why of the pattern—” He didn’t finish because she was there, and the three were moving out of the club into the sea-fresh darkness. The swish of the breakers was liquid against the night.

“I could take Sylvia—” Dix began.

“No, I’ll run her home, get her settled. Unless you’d like to sit with her until I—”

“Dix has to work,” Sylvia said. “And I’m tired.” She put out her hand. “Another time we’ll do better, Dix.”

“We certainly will,” Brub vowed.

He watched Brub wheel the car out of the drive. In a hurry, hurried to get back to the Beverly Hills police station. He would take Sylvia into the house, make sure there was no shadowy stranger lurking. They would cling together for a moment, fear in both of them. The woman fearing to have her man sniffing the spoor of a murderer, fearing lest he catch up with evil. Fearing less for herself; only the unease she must feel, infected by Brub’s fear for her. Brub fearing for her because she was a woman, because she was his woman, and women were being stalked in the night. Fearing, he would yet leave her, and quickly, because he was a hunter and this was a big hunt. For wild game.

Dix circled back to his car, Terriss’ car. The plain black coupe. He warmed the engine. It was a good car and he kept it functioning smoothly. He released the brake. Fifteen minutes at the outside and Brub would be gone. He could go there then; she’d let him in. Brub’s friend. He could have an excuse, Brub could have infected him too with the fear. She’d be glad to see him. He could coax her into driving up to Malibu. For a drink. For fresh air. She wouldn’t be afraid—at first.

He slid the car to the gates. Left lay the canyon. Left lay Malibu. Right was the California Incline. Right was Wilshire, the road back to town. She was Brub’s wife. Brub was his friend. Brub, the hunter.

He was very tired. He hadn’t had much sleep last night. He turned to the right.

The morning paper had columns on the case. Having been scooped by the afternoon papers on the original story, this sheet at least was making up its loss by intensive research. It had pictures of the girl, Mildred, of her family, of the apartment house where she’d played bridge, of the lonely spot in Beverly Glen Canyon where her body was found.

Her name was Mildred Atkinson and she had led a very stupid life. Grade school, high school—Hollywood High but she was no beauty queen—business college and a job in an insurance office. She was twenty-six years old and she was a good girl, her parents sobbed. She played bridge with girl friends and she once taught a Sunday-school class. She didn’t have any particular gentlemen friend, she went out with several. Not often, you could bet. The only exciting thing that had ever happened to her was to be raped and murdered. Even then she’d only been subbing for someone else.

The sleuths had found that she and the man had had a cup of coffee about midnight in a near drive-in. The couple had been served inside, not in a car. She’d been standing there alone, waiting for a bus. Her girl friends had waved goodbye to her. The man had seen her standing there alone, a little nervous. He’d said, “Busses don’t run often at night,” as if he too were waiting. She hadn’t wanted to talk; she’d been brought up not to talk to strange men. “Mildred was a good girl,” the parents sobbed. She’d never let a man pick her up, her girl friends chorused, but they wondered how much they hadn’t known about Mildred. “Not unless she knew him.” The cops were scouring the town now, talking to every man Mildred had known. They’d be thorough; they’d check men who’d passed through that insurance office. Believing they had a lead at last on a man apparently as normal as you or I, who tracked women at night. The lead editorial called him Jack the Ripper and demanded more and better police protection. The editorial—it was a non-administration paper— sneered politics and got in some snide cracks about the mayor.

She didn’t want to talk but he was a decent-looking young fellow waiting for a bus. And the mist grew cold on the lonely corner. When he knew she was ripe for the suggestion, he mentioned coffee at the drive-in up at the corner of Linden Drive. The pert car-hop remembered Mildred when she saw the picture in the paper. She’d been carrying out a tray when they entered. Remembered possibly because by then Mildred was pleased at having coffee with a good-looking young fellow. She’d preened a little.

The car-hop told the other girls, “That’s her”; the boss heard the gabble and he called the Beverly Hills police. The car-hop couldn’t describe the man, sort of tall, nice looking in a tan suit. She was sure he couldn’t be the strangler; he wasn’t that kind of a man at all. She would always be sure that what happened to Mildred happened after she left her drive-in escort.

He read every line of every story in the morning paper. He felt good today after last night’s sleep. It was a wonderful summer day. He stretched out in bed lazily and he thought about the redhead. She would be poison but it wouldn’t hurt to think about her. He couldn’t get mixed up with a woman, with a damn snooping dame. But God, she’d be worth knowing. It had been so long a time since he’d had a woman to hold to. He hadn’t wanted one.

He didn’t want one now; it was hangover from seeing Sylvia and Brub looking at each other. Maybe the crazy thought that had flickered in his mind about the little brown girl and her seven million dollars. It would be a good day to lie on the beach at Santa Monica. In front of Betsy Banning’s house at the foot of the California Incline. He might even find out which house was Banning’s.

He stretched off the bed. If he were going to sun on the beach, it might be smart to call Brub. Brub shouldn’t be working on Sunday. He should be beaching. Talking about the case. New developments. He smiled. It was neat to have a source of information on a case.

A quick shot of thought jabbed him. The tires. They were good tires, no patches, no distinguishing marks. Only somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered that all tires had distinguishing marks, like fingerprints. Could they get a cast of tire marks from dry concrete? He doubted it. As he had doubted it last night. But he should make sure.

Certain gambles were legitimate. Like appearing in a lighted place with Mildred. Gambling on the muddled memory of waitresses and countermen who served hundreds of average-looking men and women every day, every night. Risks were spice. Stunt flying. As long as you used them like spice, sparingly; like stunts, planning them with precision, carrying them out boldly.

He fingered his lip. He could grow a mustache. No reason why he should. He didn’t like lip brushes. He looked like a thousand other men. He’d never been in that drive-in before. He never intended to go in it again. Risks he took; mistakes he didn’t make.

It would be better to call up the Nicolais. He could find out where the Bannings lived easily enough. If he was going to marry the girl he’d have to find out where she lived. Too bad she wasn’t a pal of Sylvia’s. That would make it easy. He lifted the phone, dialed the Santa Monica number. There was no answer, only metallic ringing. Too late; they’d probably already gone to the beach. It was past one o’clock.

He wasn’t too disappointed. He dressed leisurely, tan gabardine slacks, a white T-shirt. He left the house by the front door. On the balcony were open doors, musical radios, laughter. If she lived in Virginibus Arms—he was certain she did; she hadn’t walked like a visitor—he’d run into her again. Plenty of time. Mel Terriss wouldn’t be back for a long time.

He walked around the block to the garage, opened the noiseless doors. Before taking out the car he circled it, kicking the tires. They were in good shape, not worn, good solid tires. He didn’t need new ones; there was no reason to go to that expense. Brub had said it: the police couldn’t check every pair of tires in L.A.

He backed out and swung over to Wilshire, turned west. The road to the beach. About three million other drivers had the same idea on this blue-sky, golden-warm day in late September. He took the San Vicente cut-off, as he turned noting the eucalyptus grove with one small corner of his mind. Not exactly secluded, yet late enough . . . At Fourth Street in Santa Monica he right turned again, descending into the canyon. The sign pointed this as an alternate road to the beach. He was prospecting. This descent would be pretty well deserted at night. But no underbrush except fenced. He dropped into the canyon and found Mesa Road. He didn’t expect to find the Nicolais at home, but it was worth a try.

It was well worth it; the door was open, through the screen he could see into the hallway. He pushed the bell, pleased with himself, relaxed, comfortable. It was Sylvia who answered and she was surprised to see him. By her startled look, you’d think he was someone unexpectedly returned from Limbo.

“Hello,” he said easily. “Anyone home?”

“Dix—” She unhooked the screen, pushing it open. “I didn’t recognize you at first. The sun behind you.” She had an open white beach robe over brief white shorts and a white cleft brassiere. Her skin was deep tan and her gilt hair was
loose
about her shoulders. Without the cool poise she seemed much younger. She was flustered. “Excuse the way I look.” Her feet were bare and dappled with sand. “We’ve just come up from the beach and Brub beat me to the shower. I didn’t expect you. Some friends were coming over—”

He cut her off, I’m a friend too.”

She colored. “Of course, you are. I mean, old friends.” She sighed. “I’m making it worse. Go on in and get comfortable. Help yourself to a drink. I’ll tell Brub.” She went quickly, too quickly.

Maybe his open admiration embarrassed her. He didn’t understand Sylvia. She was too many women. He settled himself on the living-room couch. Friends coming in. He wouldn’t stay on. He’d have a dinner date.

Brub wasn’t long. His face lighted when he saw Dix, it had been heavy at the doorway. “Where’s that drink? Sylvia said you were mixing them.”

“What am I, the bartender?” Dix lounged off the couch. “Name it.”

“No,” Brub waved him down. “I’ll do it. I’m handy.”

He felt too good to bother with a drink. “I don’t care. Whatever you’re having.”

“Then you’ll settle for Scotch and splash,” Brub said from behind the bar. “That’s the only English I learned in the service. We’ll have it with ice though.” He filled the glasses. “What you been doing all day?”

“Working,” Dix answered. “Tried to reach you earlier. I wanted to play hookey on the beach.” He took the glass. Thanks. I thought you were probably on the job.”

Brub frowned a little. “I worked this morning.” He pushed away the frown. “Spent the afternoon on the beach.”

Dix tasted his highball. “How’s the case coming?” He had just the right casual curiosity in his voice. It pleased him.

The frown returned to Brub’s forehead. “It’s not. Right where it was.”

Dix’s foot edged the paper on the floor. “But you found someone who saw her with the man.”

“Yeah.” Brub’s voice was flat. “Maybe if he’d walk in again, that car-hop would remember him.” He was disgusted. “She’s looked through the files of every known offender and she can’t even describe the guy any more. She thinks he was this and maybe he was that. She doesn’t even know the color of his eyes.”

“That’s too bad.” Dix was gravely sympathetic. “No one else noticed the couple?”

“If they did. they’ve got stage fright. No one else has volunteered any information. And it was a crowded time at the drive-in. The after-movie crowd. Somebody else must have seen them.”

“Yeah.” Dix said. “Though you can see people without noticing them.” He enlarged on it as if he’d never thought of it before. “How many times in a restaurant do you notice people around you? You don’t pay any attention to them when they come or when they go. At least I don’t.’”

“That’s it.” Brub agreed. He went on, “There’s one thing we do know.”

Dix lifted his eyes with renewed interest.

“We know he was in Beverly Hills on Friday night.” Brub was sardonic. “But whether he was in the neighborhood for an evening’s pleasure”—he bit his lip—”or whether he lives there, we don’t know. He can’t live all over Southern California. He’s probably never operated in his own neighborhood; he’d be too cagey for that.”

Sylvia came in on the end of his sentence. “Brub, you’re not talking the case again. I can’t take it.” She was as different from the girl who’d opened the screen door as from the frightened woman of last night. She looked glowing, slim as a birch, in pale gray slacks, a brilliant green sweater. Her damp hair was braided on top of her head. “That’s all I’ve heard this afternoon. Everyone on the beach hounding Brub for details. Do I get a drink, darling?”

“You do. Same as us?” Brub went to the bar again.

“Please, darling.” Sylvia dumped ash trays with zeal. “Why people are so damn morbid.” she returned to the subject with emphasis. She’d set up a hearty defense mechanism to battle her fears.

Dix remonstrated. “I don’t know that it’s exactly morbidity. Isn’t it rather self-importance?” He grinned. “It isn’t everyone who can get a first-hand account from the detective in the case.”

Brub said. “Yeah. Junior G-Man tells all. He don’t know nothing but he gotta say something.” He swizzled the soda.

Dix smiled into his drink. “I’m different. I have a personal interest in the case.” He let his eyes lift lazily as he spoke. Sylvia had frozen where she stood, her eyes alone moving, her eyes slewing swiftly to his face as if he’d suddenly revealed himself as the strangler. Brub went on swizzling.

“You see, I’m writing a detective novel,” Dix added.

Sylvia moved then, setting down the ash tray she held. It made a small clack on the glass-topped end table.

Brub brought her the highball. “Here you are, skipper.” He sat down, hanging his feet over the arm of the green chair. “So that’s what you’re writing. Who you stealing from. Chandler or Hammett or Gardner?”

“Little of each.” Dix agreed. “With a touch of Queen and Carr.”

“It should be a best-seller if you combine all those,” Sylvia said. She sat opposite Brub.

“Can’t miss.” Dix admitted. “But for God’s sake don’t tell Uncle Fergus what I’m doing. He thinks I’m writing literature.”

“I don’t know Uncle Fergus,” Sylvia murmured.

“You wouldn’t like him. He’s vehemently conservative. He hasn’t relaxed since Hoover left Washington,” he added cheerfully. “He won’t mind what I’ve written when the royalties roll in. He won’t read it anyway.” She tried to stymie him on his questioning; he’d fixed that. He said. “Now you take that business about tire tracks that Brub mentioned last night. Instead of beating my brains out at the library, all I have to do is ask him. It’s a good touch for a story. Makes you sound like an expert.” He lifted his glass. “Do they really make plaster casts of tracks. Brub?”

“They try,” Brub said gloomily. “But it takes cooperation. For good ones you need skid marks or mud or virgin territory. No chance this time. There weren’t more than several hundred tracks superimposed on that particular stretch. Not worth lifting them.”

“But you lifted them, didn’t you?” Dix wondered. “The thoroughness of the police—”

“Sure,” Brub grunted. “Thorough as hell. Maybe next time—” He broke off. Sylvia had gone tense. “There mustn’t be a next time,” he said heatedly. “Only now—”

Dix said seriously, “Let’s skip it. Brub. With you working on it, feeling the way you do, you’ll get him.” Sylvia’s eyes were grateful. “I’ll take a refill and I’ll tell you about the redhead at my apartment. You still like redheads?”

Sylvia’s gratefulness was gay. “He’d better not.”

“Who is she?” Brub played up, taking Dix’s glass and his own. But it was an effort, he was pulling by his bootstraps.

“Well, I haven’t met her yet,” Dix laughed. “But I’m working on it.” He knew better than to be talking about a woman publicly; he knew he shouldn’t even think about her. “As soon as I find which apartment is hers, I’m going to get a job reading the light meter or delivering laundry. She”s the sweetest built job I’ve seen in Hollywood.”

“You better have me look her over before you make any commitments.” Brub said. “Don’t forget that blonde in London. Whew!”