The Nothing Man (9 page)

But perhaps he would stiffen up; perhaps, given a day or so, he would become his usual resentful self, a man dedicated to the proposition that what was demanded of him should automatically be withheld. Perhaps the very arrogance and in-turned sullenness that had got him into this mess would get him out of it. It seemed logical that it would. Fate would have to be very cruel indeed to reform his dully dogged spirit now.

So I resisted his begging. I gave him drink for his stomach and steady pep talk for his nerves, and if the bottle was exhuasted-and it was-by the time we arrived at the
Courier
building, it had nothing at all on me.

Sighing heavily, Tom opened the door and slowly eased one foot out to the curb. He hesitated, then suddenly turned around again.

"Brownie. I-"

"No," I said. "No, no, no, no! Think of the brave little woman. Think of the wee kiddie. And drag yourself to hell upstairs!"

"I'm going, Brownie. But I may not see you again and you've been so swell-"

I groaned. I removed my hat and slapped myself on the forehead.

He frowned slightly, but he didn't budge. "It's about Dave. He's always been nice enough to me and you-well, you know how you've been. But things are different now. Maybe Dave's never done anything against me, but you've done plenty for me. We're on the same side, and anyone that's got it in for you-"

"Got it in for me?" I said. "Not that there is anything serious in my sniping at the colonel-the colonel understands my playful nature-but aren't you just a little confused?"

"I know." He nodded. "You're all the time riding him, and maybe you've been asking for it. But that doesn't cut any ice with me. You start noticing him, Brownie. Notice how he'll load you up-try to swamp you with work- when he's got other guys doing nothing. And he's always getting you out of the office, shooting you out on assignments. He doesn't want you around where you can shine up to the old man. He's jealous and-"

I stopped him. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, I was angered by what he said.

Dave was my own particular little target, and I wasn't going to have anyone else tossing darts at him. They had no reason to; there was such a thing as being fair. If Dave kept me loaded with work, it was because of the high percentage of incompetent staffers such as Tom Judge. If he tried to keep me out of Mr. Lovelace's way, it was because of a well-warranted fear that I might do or say something irreparably embarrassing.

I said as much, in a properly oblique way.

"I want to set you straight on this, Tom," I said firmly. "Dave would be the last person in the world to do anything to harm me. He's so constructed that he'd feel strongly responsible for any misfortune I suffered. I know; he's proved it. Every time I've lost a job he's quit also and hired me on at his next paper."

"Maybe he was afraid not to. You might have hung around drinking and needing him, giving him so much trouble he'd get fired himself."

I wouldn't have done that. Dave wouldn't have had to put up with it if I had done it. All he would have had to do was reveal a certain secret, and I would never have shown my face in another newspaper office… Of course, if he did reveal it- It was as though Tom were reading my mind, reading a thought that had never been there until now.

"It's none of my business, Brownie-but you got something on him? I mean, did he pull a bad boner somewhere or-"

I shook my head, to myself as well as him. A boner, yes, but there'd been hundreds and thousands of boners, and the war was a long time over. It was simply a mistake. No culpability had attached to it then, and certainly none could now.

Dave had nothing to fear from me. He put up with me only because of his own stricken conscience. Naturally, he didn't want- "Dave's all on edge, Brownie. It wouldn't take much to throw him completely. He's got a lot of dough tied up in a house here, and he's not a kid any more, and newspapers are folding all over the country. If he thought he might lose out here-"

"He won't. There's no reason why he should," I said. "You're utterly and completely wrong, Tom. Dave and I are actually pretty good friends. If we weren't, he'd have fired me long ago."

"No, he wouldn't. The old man wouldn't let him. Why, I'll bet if you took a notion to knock him to Lovelace he'd-"

"Go on," I said. "Just get the hell up there and get to work. You're the boy with the troubles, remember? Well, don't forget it. Just forget about me, and remember what you have to do."

He nodded grudgingly, climbed out, then leaned back inside again.

"You watch him," he said. "Sneak a look at him sometime when he thinks your back is turned. You'll see. That guy could kill you and enjoy doing it."

I pointed out that this posed a difficult situation. It would mean that the burial couldn't take place before Sunday, which might be impractical for the undertaker and undoubtedly would increase his charges. Moreover, it would crowd me seriously for time, if I was to be back at work on Monday morning.

He shrugged. My troubles, he indicated, were no concern of his.

I have never got along with coroners. They are either laymen of the lower orders who must pretend to be much, or they are fatheaded medical failures who are sore at the whole world for that which only they have wrought.

Our discussion continued on an increasingly less amiable plane. I finally suggested that if he simply had to have a body around I would buy him one from the local rendering plant, a cow, horse, or anything he named, and when he tired of playing with it he could stuff it-he, personally, and not a taxidermist.

That did it. Ellen's body would be released Saturday, he said, and not a goddamned day before. Meanwhile, I was to get out of his office and stay out.

I got out and called Dave. As I saw it, the funeral couldn't be held before late Monday, or more than likely, Tuesday; in other words I would probably be off until the following Wednesday.

Dave hesitated, studying the calendar, I imagine. He said it would be all right, he guessed. He'd have to get Lovelace's okay, but he was sure it would be all right.

"How about coming out to the house for dinner before you leave?" he added. "Do you good to get some homecooked food. Kay told me to ask you."

"Good, sweet Kay," I said. "Dear, kind Kay. Tell me, Colonel, wouldn't you say she has a truly wonderful soul?"

"Good-by," he said shortly. "I'll talk to you when you're not half stiff."

"You misunderstood me," I said. "I said soul, not-"

"Look, Brownie," he snapped. "I'm trying as hard as I know how to-"

"You're fed up with me, aren't you?" I said. "You've had it up to here. It would suit you fine if I dropped dead."

It slipped out involuntarily.

Dave made a sound that was midway between a grunt and a gasp. I didn't blame him for being startled. I was myself.

He was silent for a long moment; then his voice came back over the wire, worried, warm with concern. "Look, boy. Where are you calling from? I'll come and get you and take you home."

"I'm sorry, Colonel," I said. "Sergeant Brown presents his apologies. I have become patrol happy; the maneuvers have got me clobbered."

"They must have when you talk like that. Where are you calling from?"

"I'm all right," I said. "Forget it, forgive it, and God bless you. 'Twas a slip of the tongue and nothing more."

"But… I just don't understand. Of course, I get a little annoyed with you at times, but I thought you knew how I felt about you. Entirely aside from friendship, you're the best man I've got. I couldn't run the place without you."

"Thanks," I said. "Thanks a lot, Dave. I said a damned foolish thing, and I'm sorry, and let's leave it at that."

"Well… look." He was still troubled. "I was thinking about that dinner invitation. Naturally, you don't feel up to social occasions so soon after-afterward. Why don't we make it next week, sometime after you get back from Los Angeles?"

I didn't want to make it any time. My idea of an agonizingly misspent evening was one in the company of Kay Randall. I was afraid to refuse, now, however, in view of what I had said to Dave. He would think I had meant it. And somehow-whatever I felt about him and however I acted-I did not want him to think that.

So I accepted with thanks, and a mental note to kick Tom Judge's tail. I went home, knocked myself out with booze, and fell asleep.

The next day, Thursday, I had another talk with Lem Stukey. He hadn't turned up anything with the streetcar company, and he'd had the same result with the taxi operators. But he was by no means discouraged.

"We didn't expect nothing on the streetcars." He shrugged. "Just checked them out as a matter of form. The bastard took a cab, and don't think hell ain't going to pop when I turn it up."

"But you've already-"

"We've checked the trip sheets, we've talked to all the drivers who worked that night. Now we pull 'em in one at a time and find out which one's lyin'. Don't you worry none, keed. He's makin' it tough for us-and he'll sure as hell regret it-but he ain't making it impossible."

"I don't get you," I said. "Why would he lie about it?"

"Probably got a criminal record. Afraid of getting mixed up with cops. Or maybe his license has run out. Hell, there's all kinds of reasons. Maybe he knocked the fare down. Maybe he did a hit-and-run and doctored his trip sheet to put him in another neighborhood."

"You amaze me, Stuke," I said. "I had thought you cunning but never intelligent." And I realized, with further amazement, that Stukey was constantly coming up with little things like that, things that maybe didn't stamp him a genius but that sure as hell proved he was no slob.

"We'll get him," he promised. "We're just gettin' warmed up."

I left Lem and paid a visit to the express company and an undertaker. I made a long-distance call to a Los Angeles undertaker and repaired to the Press Club. Dave had been trying to reach me. I called him, immediately following maneuvers.

He had talked to Lovelace, and it was all right for me to lay off the extra time. Perfectly all right. However- "Oh-oh," I said. "Pray proceed, Colonel, while I hoist my pack and rifle."

"I wouldn't ask you myself, Clint. The old man wants you to handle it if you possibly can. It's a pretty big thing, and…"

He gave me the essential details. The president of one of the Mexican Federal banks, immediately across the border, had embezzled several million pesos. The fraud hadn't been made public yet, and the president, who was en route from New York after a vacation, was unaware of its discovery. But he was due to be arrested as soon as he stepped off the plane in the morning. I was to be on hand to get the story.

I should point out here, perhaps, that the yarn wouldn't have been a big one in New York or Chicago. For that matter it wouldn't have got a very big play in Los Angeles. But because of our geographical location-because it concerned a neighboring city, although a Mexican one-it would be of prime interest to our readers.

I agreed to handle it.

I got up at six in the morning. At seven I was at the border city's airport, where I met the plane.

The president was on it, but so also were two Federalistas. They had got on at Los Angeles, and they took charge of Seсor Presidente as soon as the plane touched in Mexico. They hustled him into a waiting limousine and sped away. I learned that they intended taking him fifty miles down the coast to another city, but that was all I learned.

I called Dave. He talked with Lovelace while I waited. The decision was for me to continue to the second city.

I did. The president had been put aboard a government plane and was on his way to Mexico City.

So there went my story, for the local authorities could give me no information on the case. The chief of police, a surprisingly young, friendly guy, sympathized volubly and insisted on drinking his lunch with me.

We drank and drank
and
drank, tequila mainly with an occasional mescal and chasers of that wonderful creamy
cerveza-beer
such as I have seldom tasted outside of Mexico. The chief became very gay. It was too bad, he said, that I was driving a car. Otherwise he would take his car and we would go to the island together-"your Rose Island, Cleent"-and then I could cross over to Pacific City on the ferry.

I blinked, rather owlishly, according to the mirror in the back bar. I said, "Now, wait a minute, _amigo caro_. Just how in the-?"

"You do not know, yes? You think I keed, no?" He grinned delightedly. "Come. I show you."

He led me over to the wall, stabbed a shaky finger at a framed map of Baja California. The finger weaved, slid, and came to a stop at a point near the Mexico-California border.

"Here is-_hi c_-is how you say, pen-pen-in-?"

"Peninsula."

"Yes. Pen-in-well, you see eet, yes? How way out here eet come? Yes. And here is teep of island. And here… what you say is here, Cleent?"

"Something never to be taken internally," I said. "An insipid beverage, somewhat salty in this instance-"

"Ha, ha. Is water, you say, yes? You be wrong, Cleent. _Poquita, si_. Two, three inches, yes, but no more. Underneath is beeg-how you say?-reef. Rock. Like pavement."

"You're joking," I said. "You mean to tell me you can drive a car from here to here?"

"Si.
Many time I have. Many peoples they do. Like I say, is rock. _Muy bueno camino_-ver' fine road."

Many peoples they do, but I never had. In fact, I had never heard of the reef. It wasn't so surprising, I guess; I seldom got over to the island. I could do all the drinking I wanted to at home or in the Pacific City bars. And as far as the cat-houses went- So you see, I had no reason to know much about the island, and how you got there other than by ferry or charter boat.

But still, the information disturbed me. It was an extra little item in a story I thought I knew pretty well letterperfect. Now I saw I didn't know it all. It was another piece of jigsaw puzzle that I thought I had all locked together.

The information shouldn't
really
have disturbed me. Since Stukey knew everything else that might possibly be of use to him, he doubtless knew of this land route to the island. And he had quite properly ignored it as a factor in shaking my alibi. I couldn't have made this roundabout round trip on the night of the murder; I wouldn't have had time. For that matter no one could have done it during the storm. To have driven across almost four miles of reef- almost three times the width of the bay-to have done that on a pitch-black rainy night with a heavy sea running, well, it was simply out of the question. It was many times as fantastically dangerous and impossible as what I had done.

It had no bearing, then; otherwise, Stukey would have mentioned it and have looked into it. It didn't affect me. It didn't affect Tom Judge. It didn't-it was meaningless. But somehow it bothered me.

It lingered in my mind, nagging me, long after I had shaken hands with the Mexican police chief and headed back toward the border. It reached the U.S. customs station early in the afternoon. I knew several of the guards there, and I asked them about the reef. They knew about it, of course. It wasn't worthwhile to keep a customs officer there, but it was kept under observation by the border patrol.

I wondered about that-whether any very close watch had been kept on the night of the storm. I doubted it like hell.

We talked a minute or two more, and I mentioned casually that they had probably had an easy time of it during the storm. They admitted as much. "Sat around on our cans all evening, Brownie. Didn't a thing cross over but one taxi."

"Do you re-?"

I cut off the question abruptly. I didn't want them curious, and anyway, they couldn't have told me anything. A dark stormy night outside and a snug, comfortable guardhouse. And cabs always got a very fast check. They weren't searched as private passenger cars were. There would have been a quick glance through the window, and fast, "Birthplace? U.S. Citizen?" and then a wave onward-dismissal.

I drove on, still vaguely disquieted. I stopped in Pacific City for a few groceries and some bottles and went on out to the house. I mixed eggs and whisky. I drank them, took a bottle into the living-room, and sat down on the lounge. I got up and sat down on the floor. I stared at the telephone.

Tom Judge was on a very bad spot. Stukey was certain to find him soon unless he was diverted from him. An element of doubt should be introduced; another person should be brought into the case. Why not push that reef business at Lem? Talk it up to him? Why not sic him on that lone taxicab that had crossed the border? Point out that a man might have gone down in a cab, and walked across on the reef?

No, no. No! That was stupid. Lem would already have thought about it. Crossing on foot would have been even more hazardous than by car. And what would have been the purpose in it, anyway? What could he-Dave Randall-have hoped to accomplish by it? To catch me there, perhaps? To go in after I had left and-and-?

And nothing. It was reasonless. It was impossible. Absolutely without basis. How in the hell had I started thinking about this? Why did I persist in so thinking?

A taxicab had crossed the border. There was a submerged reef connecting with the mainland. And that fathead Tom Judge had said Dave had it in for me… That was all I had to go on. The reef, the cab, and the twisted imaginings of Tom, a guy who was always trying to stir things up, dividing the world into enemy and friendly camps, and attaching to first one side, then the other. And out of that-and despite the fact that I
knew
who had killed Ellen- But did I know? She'd got up after I left. Somebody had wiped away fingerprints. She'd died of asphyxiation, not- Suddenly I laughed out loud. I laughed so hard that the whisky slopped out of my glass. For at last I'd remembered, and I was almost foolish with relief.