The Goodbye Look (4 page)

“Let go of me, George. We have company.”

He released her and backed away, red-faced and wet-eyed. He was a large middle-aged man who moved awkwardly, as if he was the intruder instead of me.

“This is my wife,” he said, more in self-excuse than introduction.

“What was she yelling about?”

“It’s all right,” the woman said. “He wasn’t hurting me. But you better leave now, George, before something does happen.”

“I have to talk to you some more.” He reached out a thick red hand toward her. The gesture was both menacing and touching, like something done by Frankenstein’s innocent monster.

“You’d only get stirred up again.”

“But I’ve got a right to plead my case. You can’t cut me off without a hearing. I’m not a criminal like your father was. But even a criminal gets his day in court. You’ve got to give me a hearing.”

He was getting very excited, and it was the kind of spinning excitement that could change to violence if it came up tails.

“You better go, Mr. Trask.”

His wild wet gaze roved to me. I showed him an old Special Deputy badge I carried. He examined it closely, as if it was a curio.

“Very well, I’ll go.” He turned and walked away, pausing at the corner of the building to call back: “I’m not going very far.”

The woman turned to me, sighing. Her hair had been disarranged,
and she was fixing it with nervous fingers. It was done in a fluffy doll-like fashion that didn’t go with her forty years or so. But in spite of Betty’s description of her, she wasn’t a bad-looking woman. She had a good figure under her blouse, and a handsome, heavy face.

She also had a quality that bothered me, a certain doubt and dimness about the eyes, as if she had lost her way a long time ago.

“That was good timing,” she said to me. “You never know what George is going to do.”

“Or anybody else.”

“Are you the security man around here?”

“I’m filling in.”

She looked me up and down, like a woman practicing to be a divorcee. “I owe you a drink. Do you like Scotch?”

“On the rocks, please.”

“I have some ice. My name is Jean Trask, by the way.”

I told her my name. She took me into the living room of the cottage and left me there while she went into the kitchen. Around the walls of the room a series of English hunting prints followed some red-coated hunters and their hounds over hills and through valleys to the death of the fox.

Ostensibly studying the prints, I circled the room to the open door of the bedroom and looked in. On the nearest of the two beds a woman’s blue weekend case lay open, and the gold box was in it. On its painted lid a man and a woman in skimpy antique clothes disported themselves.

I was tempted to walk in and take the box, but John Truttwell wouldn’t have liked that. Even without him, I’d probably have let the thing lie. I was beginning to sense that the theft of the box was just a physical accident of the case. Any magic it possessed, black or white or gold, was soaked up from the people who handled it.

But I took two steps into the bedroom and lifted the heavy
lid of the box. It was empty. I heard Mrs. Trask crossing the living room, and I retreated in her direction. She slammed the bedroom door.

“We won’t be using that room.”

“What a pity.”

She gave me a startled look, as if she was unaware of her own rough candor. Then she shoved a lowball glass at me. “Here.”

She went into the kitchen and returned with a dark-brown drink for herself. As soon as she had taken a swallow or two, her eyes turned moist and bright and her color rose. She was a drinker, I thought, and I was there essentially because she didn’t want to drink alone.

She knocked her drink back in a hurry and made herself another, while I nursed mine. She sat down in an armchair facing me across a coffee table. I was almost enjoying myself. The room was large and tranquil, and through the open front door I could hear quail muttering and puttering.

I had to spoil it. “I was admiring your gold box. Is it Florentine?”

“I suppose it is,” she said, offhandedly.

“Don’t you know? It looks quite valuable.”

“Really? Are you an expert?”

“No. I was thinking in terms of security. I wouldn’t leave it lying around like that.”

“Thanks for your advice,” she said unthankfully. She was quiet for a minute, sipping her drink. “I didn’t mean to be rude just now; I have things on my mind.” She leaned toward me in a show of interest. “Have you been in the security business long?”

“Over twenty years, counting my time with the police.”

“You used to be a policeman?”

“That’s right.”

“Perhaps you can help me. I’m involved in a kind of nasty
Situation. I don’t feel up to explaining it all right now, but I hired a man named Sidney Harrow to come here with me. He claimed to be a private detective but it turned out his main experience is repossessing cars. He’s a fast man with a tow bar. Also he’s dangerous.” She finished her drink, and shivered.

“How do you know he’s dangerous?”

“He almost killed my boyfriend. He’s a fast man with a gun, too.”

“You also have a boyfriend?”

“I call him my boyfriend,” she said with a half-smile. “Actually we’re more like brother and sister, or father and daughter—I mean mother and son.” Her smile turned to a simper.

“What’s his name?”

“That has no bearing on what I’m telling you. The point is that Sidney Harrow nearly shot him the other night.”

“Where did this happen?”

“Right out in front of my boyfriend’s house. I realized then that Sidney was a wild man, and he’s been no use to me since. He has the picture and stuff but he’s not doing anything with them. I’m afraid to go and ask for it back.”

“And you want me to?”

“Maybe. I’m not committing myself yet.” She spoke with the foolish wisdom of a woman who had no feeling for men and would always make the wrong decisions about them.

“What should Sidney be doing with the picture and stuff?”

“Finding out facts,” she said carefully. “That’s what I hired him to do. But I made the mistake of giving him some money and all he does is sit in his motel room and drink. I haven’t even heard from him in two days.”

“Which motel?”

“The Sunset, on the beach.”

“How did you get involved with Sidney Harrow?”

“I’m not
involved
with him. A man I know brought him to the house last week and he seemed so lively and alert, just the man I was looking for.” As if to renew the promise of that occasion, she raised her glass and drained the last few drops, coaxing them with her tongue. “He reminded me of my father when he was a young man.”

For a moment she seemed at ease in the double memory. But her feelings were very shifty, and she couldn’t hold this one long. I could see her quick-remembered happiness dying in her eyes.

She rose and started for the kitchen, then stopped abruptly, as if she’d come up against invisible glass. “I’m drinking too much,” she said. “And I’m talking too much.”

She left her glass in the kitchen and came back and stood over me. Her unhappy eyes regarded me suspiciously, as if I was the source of the unhappiness.

“Please get out of here, will you? Forget what I said to you, eh?”

I thanked her for the drink and drove downhill to the Ocean Boulevard and along it to the Sunset Motor Hotel.

It was one of the older buildings on the Pacific Point waterfront, two-storied and solidly constructed of red brick. In the harbor across the boulevard, sailboats lay in their slips like birds with their wings folded. A few Capris and Seashells were scudding down the channel before the January wind.

I parked in front of the motor hotel and went into the office. The gray-haired woman behind the desk gave me a bland experienced glance that took in my age and weight, my probable income and credit rating, and whether I was married.

She said she was Mrs. Delong. When I asked for Sidney Harrow, I could see my credit rating slip in the ledger of her eyes.

“Mr. Harrow has left us.”

“When?”

“Last night. In the course of the night.”

“Without paying his bill?”

Her look sharpened. “You know Mr. Harrow, do you?”

“Just by reputation.”

“Do you know where I can get in touch with him? He gave us a San Diego business address. But he only worked part-time for them, they said, and they wouldn’t assume any responsibility
or give me his home address—if he has a home.” She paused for breath. “If I knew where he lived I could get the police after him.”

“I may be able to help you.”

“How is that?” she said with some suspicion.

“I’m a private detective, and I’m looking for Harrow, too. Has his room been cleaned?”

“Not yet. He left his Do Not Disturb card out, which he did most of the time anyway. It was just a little while ago I noticed his car was gone and used my master key. You want to look over the room?”

“It might be a good idea. While we think of it, Mrs. Delong, what’s his car license number?”

She looked it up in her file. “KIT 994. It’s an old convertible, tan-colored, with the back window torn out. What’s Harrow wanted for?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Are you sure you’re a detective?”

I showed her my photostat, and it satisfied her. She made a careful note of my name and address, and handed me the key to Harrow’s room. “It’s number twenty-one on the second floor at the back.”

I climbed the outside stairs and went along the alley toward the rear. The windows of number twenty-one were closely draped. I unlocked the door and opened it. The room was dim, and sour with old smoke. I opened the drapes and let the light sluice in.

The bed had apparently not been slept in. The spread was rumpled, though, and several pillows were squashed against the headboard. A half-empty fifth of rye stood on the bedside table on top of a girlie magazine. I was a little surprised that Harrow had left behind a bottle with whisky in it.

He had also left, in the bathroom cabinet, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, a three-dollar razor, a jar of hair grease,
and a spray can of a spicy scent called Swingeroo. It looked as if Harrow had planned to come back, or had left in a great hurry.

The second possibility seemed more likely when I found an unmatched shoe in the darkest corner of the closet. It was a new pointed black Italian shoe for the left foot. Along with the shoe for the right foot it would have been worth at least twenty-five dollars. But I couldn’t find the right shoe anywhere in the room.

In the course of looking for it I did find, on the high shelf of the closet under spare blankets, a brown envelope containing a small-size graduation picture. The smiling young man in the picture resembled Irene Chalmers and was probably, I decided, her son Nick.

My guess was pretty well confirmed when I found the Chalmerses’ address, 2124 Pacific Street, penciled on the back of the envelope. I slid the picture back into the envelope and put it in my inside pocket and took it away with me.

After reporting the general situation to Mrs. Delong, I crossed the street to the harbor. The boats caught in the maze of floating docks rocked and smacked the water. I felt like getting into one of them and sailing out to sea.

My brief dip into Sidney Harrow’s life had left a stain on my nerves. Perhaps it reminded me too strongly of my own life. Depression threatened me like a sour smoke drifting in behind my eyes.

The ocean wind blew it away, as it nearly always could. I walked the length of the harbor and crossed the asphalt desert of the parking lots toward the beach. The waves were collapsing like walls there, and I felt like a man escaping from his life.

You can’t, of course. An old tan Ford convertible with a torn-out rear window was waiting for me at the end of my short walk. It was parked by itself in a drift of sand at the far
edge of the asphalt. I looked in through the rear window and saw the dead man huddled on the back seat with dark blood masking his face.

I could smell whisky and the spicy odor of Swingeroo. The doors of the convertible weren’t locked, and I could see the keys in the ignition. I was tempted to use them to open the trunk.

Instead I did the right thing, for prudential reasons. I was outside of Los Angeles County, and the local police had a very strong sense of territory. I found the nearest telephone, in a bait and tackle shop at the foot of the breakwater, and called the police. Then I went back to the convertible to wait for them.

The wind spat sand in my face and the sea had a shaggy green threatening look. High above it, gulls and terns were wheeling like a complex mobile suspended from the sky. A city police car crossed the parking lot and skidded to a stop beside me.

Two uniformed officers got out. They looked at me, at the dead man in the car, at me again. They were young men, with few discernible differences except that one was dark, one fair. Both had heavy shoulders and jaws, unmoved eyes, conspicuous guns in their holsters, and hands ready.

“Who is he?” said the blue-eyed one.

“I don’t know.”

“Who are you?”

I told them my name, and handed over my identification.

“You’re a private detective?”

“That’s right.”

“But you don’t know who this is in the car?”

I hesitated. If I told them it was Sidney Harrow, as I guessed, I’d have to explain how I found that out and would probably end up telling them everything I knew.

“No,” I said.

“How did you happen to find him?”

“I was passing by.”

“Passing by to where?”

“The beach. I was going to take a walk on the beach.”

“That’s a funny place to take a walk on a day like this,” said the fair one.

I was ready to agree. The place had changed. The dead man had bled it of life and color. The men in uniform had changed its meaning. It was a dreary official kind of place with a cold draft blowing.

“Where you from?” the dark one asked me.

“Los Angeles. My address is on my photostat. I want it back, by the way.”

“You’ll get it back when we’re finished with you. You got a car, or you come to town by public carrier?”