You Live Once (17 page)

I got out of his way before he bounced me out of his way with a heavy shoulder. He went on into the house. I felt like a spanked child. I got into my Merc and drove away.

I had won my argument with Toni and moved some of my stuff into a second class hotel room. I won it by telling her that if I knew C.P.P., I wouldn’t remain in my job for more than another few days. We had taken a bag of cheese and liverwurst sandwiches and a cold six-pack of beer far into the country. Before we left, I had brushed off two reporters with more dispatch than finesse.

From the grassy bank we could toss crumbs into the river. Minnows struck the crumbs ferociously. I lay back and her slack-clad thigh fitted the nape of my neck as though designed for that special purpose.

“Stop frowning,” she said softly.

“Can’t help it.”

“It’s all over now.”

“A cold guy, Toni. A type who figured all the angles. A ruthless guy. Could he kill? Yes, if it would give him a big gain, and if he was logically certain he could get away with it. Would he kill himself? Perhaps, if he was aware that he would be caught. So how does it fit? Not at all. No gain in Mary’s death. And he wasn’t about to be caught.”

“In the immortal words of the bard, leave it lay.”

“Can’t.”

“Maybe it’s all different than it looks, Clint dear. So what? We’re out of it. You don’t
owe
anybody anything. Now we just think of us.”

“Female reasoning. Ten thousand years ago you’d have your own lady-weight club leaning against the cave wall, just inside the door. And uninvited guests—boom.”

“And ten thousand years ago you’d be seeing how close you could get to a saber-toothed tiger. Hah! Male reasoning.”

“But I can’t let go of it, girl. The package is too neatly
wrapped. The string is too carefully tied. Maybe too carefully tied around Dodd’s throat.”

“Don’t!”

“I’m not in love with his memory. I’ve got no yen to vindicate him. Good sense says to do as you suggest. Leave it lay. And spend a lot of the tag ends of the hours of my life wondering.”

She ran a gentle thumb along one of my eyebrows and then the other. She sighed heavily. “Meddler.”

“I know.”

“Big fool.”

“I know that too.”

“If you gotta, you gotta.”

“Mmmm. You are a special deal, MacRae.”

“The large economy size deal.”

“Three dimensional, color, bite-sized, built-in flavor.”

We kissed until the river ran uphill. The minnows goggled at us. All the trees applauded, and a brown and white cow strolled down to the river edge to watch with benign gravity. We gave her a spare sandwich. She ate it with the dignity of a baroness. Then we went back to the car. She took hold of my arm. Her fingers bit in. Her dark eyes spotwelded my soul.

“Be careful,” she said.

Yes, I would be careful. But it was something I had to do. I had to know. They had changed me—Kruslov and his hands, the damp cell, the dead girl. Before I had changed I could have said that it was none of my business. But I had changed and become more involved with life. As with John Donne and his talk of no man being an island.

Death had come very close to me, black gauze wings grazing my face. I could not tell myself it was all over. Not while I had these nagging doubts. I could not let Dodd Raymond be buried with that mark on him.

And I would be careful. Because afterward, there would be Toni.

There are few places where a man can dirty his hands with the dust of the past. After I left Toni off—a rather disconsolate but understanding girl—I went to the Warren Public Library. It was the same vintage as the police station. The young lady who came to my assistance wore a white angora sweater that struggled to contain two of the most enormously unreal breasts I have ever seen. She marched trimly behind them, using them as weapons of offense. I wondered how anybody ever remembered what question they had come to ask. They had a life of their own—mammalian, incredible—objects far beyond the realm of desire, creating only awe and consternation.

I managed to stammer my question about old records and newspapers. She pointed toward a side stairway with those breasts and said that they had booths up there and micro-film projectors and a girl who would help me. I went up the stairway.

The upstairs girl was of different construction. Between the two of them they had two sets of normal equipment. She explained the setup to me and told me that if I knew what I wanted, she would get the rolls and I could sign for them. I told her I didn’t know what I wanted. I told her I wanted to see any rolls a Mr. Dodd Raymond had looked at yesterday afternoon. She became skeptical and uncooperative. She had heard about Mr. Raymond and had recognized the name at once. I confessed that I was not with the police. Finally she allowed as how she could
look at the records and tell me. She came back from her desk in a few minutes and, with a relieved icy smile, told me that Mr. Raymond had not signed for anything. It was what I expected. Miss Ice kept her domain spotless.

I thanked her and went back down the stairs and out—not without trying for a last look at Miss Angora. She had disappeared.

The
Ledger
Building was a three story oblong, quite new, of tan stone and aluminum. A quote about freedom of the press was lettered in bronze beside the main door. I got there a few minutes after five. The business end of the paper, the people with regular hours, were leaving. Trucks were swinging out of the side alley with the afternoon final.

A girl behind the classified counter on the main floor stopped applying raspberry lipstick long enough to tell me, with calculated insolence, that it was late and maybe I could find what I wanted on the second floor.

The file of bound editions was in a small room next to the morgue. A bouncy, swarthy little girl with rhinestones set into her glasses frames looked at me carefully and told me I could help myself.

“Do you keep any record of who uses these?”

“Oh no. Nobody uses them very much any more except the news staff sometimes. The public library has them on micro-film going all the way back to 1822 when the
Ledger
first started to come out as a weekly. Why don’t you use theirs? They’re handier and cleaner.”

“Well, as long as I’m here.”

“That’s okay. Handle the old ones carefully, won’t you? They’re pretty brittle.”

“I’ll be careful.”

She left me in the small room. One set of bound copies covered one wall of the room, with boards locked across the fronts of the volumes so they could not be taken out; another set was unconfined. I had to find out which volume Dodd Raymond had been interested in—if my guess was right. I found the switch that controlled the
overhead light and moved close to the books. The recent years’ copies were quite free of dust. I ranged back over the years. One volume stood out, most of the dust gone from the spine. I slid it out and carried it over to the table.

Just as I set it down two men came in, so involved in a heated argument about the Giants that they barely glanced at me. They picked one of the recent volumes, spread it out, turned the pages with silent intensity. Then one pointed with his thumb and said, “Hah!”

“So okay. So I was wrong.”

“So you buy.”

They put the book back and left. I began to go through my volume. The paper was yellowed, the corners brittle, the type face more quaint than in the current editions.

A half hour later and two-thirds of the way through the volume, I found it. I read it carefully. It had warranted quite a splash in the paper.

I read it and read the follow-up stories in subsequent editions. The last little flicker was a page eight squib telling about the transfer of Mrs. Rolph Olan from a local hospital to a private mental institution in accordance with a court order.

I sat back and pulled the peanut-can ash tray closer and lighted a cigarette. It was not a pretty story. Mary Olan, on an October Wednesday, had been picked up at two-thirty at the private elementary school she attended by the Olan chauffeur driving Mrs. Olan’s car. The little girl had run into the house. She had seen her father’s car in the drive and was anxious to see him. Her baby brother was having his nap. The cook and maid had Wednesday afternoons off. She went in the front door. Her mother, Nadine Pryor Olan, was standing on the bottom stair of the main staircase. She held a bloody kitchen knife in her hand. Her husband was on his back on the floor in front of her, stabbed through the heart and quite dead. Nadine Olan was in a state of severe shock, unable to respond to questions.

It was established—though the paper was most coy about this—that Rolph Olan had led an active extramarital life and that this had been a cause of discord between them. Except for the sleeping child, they had been alone in the house. They were unable to establish why Mr. Rolph Olan had come home in the middle of the day. He had received a phone call at his office shortly before he left and it was believed that it was his wife who had called him home, though this could not be proved. He had a habit of answering his own phone, perhaps due to his concurrent intrigues.

At first Nadine Olan, whose health had always been delicate, had responded to treatment. She claimed that she had heard a fall shortly after she had heard her husband’s car drive in. She said she had been resting in her bedroom next to the nursery. She had thought little of it, had called to her husband, and then begun to worry when he didn’t answer. She had gone down and found him and she guessed she had instinctively pulled the knife from his chest. The next thing she knew, her daughter had come running in and had started to scream.

She had been quite calm for a few days and then, perhaps as she began to realize that everyone was quite certain she had killed him, her mind failed quickly. I guessed that it could have been due to her own uncertainty as to whether or not she had killed him. Faced with such an insoluble problem, a retreat into unreality would not be inexplicable, particularly in the case of an emotional, sensitive, unhappy woman.

During Mrs. Olan’s period of relative calmness, the paper speculated about two facts which seemed to spoil the picture of guilt. One man, who knew Rolph Olan by sight, was almost willing to swear that he had seen another man riding homeward with Mr. Olan that afternoon. And a neighbor woman reported that on that same afternoon a man had cut across her grounds and could have been coming from the Olan residence.

But when Mrs. Olan’s mind went, before she moved
back into the silent darkness where she could not be reached, she made a confession of sorts. Portions of it were reprinted in the paper. It was wildly incoherent. It spoke of angels of death and the vengeance of the Lord. It spoke of sin and retribution. Her obvious insanity put a halt to further speculations about her innocence.

During the days immediately following the murder, Mr. Willis Pryor, brother of the accused woman, spent countless hours by her side, even watching over her during the night, and was tireless in proclaiming her innocence. He wrote a letter to the paper criticizing the inertia of the police. After Nadine Olan’s collapse and the medical verdict that the prognosis was unfavorable, Willis Pryor ceased his efforts in her behalf, withdrew from many community activities and resigned from the boards of several local corporations.

I sifted over what I had. It wasn’t much. It was certainly less than Dodd Raymond had. He had known enough to kill him. This was his town; he’d know little things that hadn’t been in the paper. He had perhaps used the paper to confirm his memories. And he had known Mary Olan well. She would have talked to him about such things, though not to me.

All I had was a hunch. A hunch about the evil of righteousness.

I took Toni out to dinner that Saturday evening. I guess I was poor company. I would join our group of two for a while and be fine. And then I would drift away again. Toni was aware of it, and she was half amused, half hurt. I did as well as I could, returned her to my apartment and holed up at the hotel. I phoned her after I was in bed with the light out. I could picture her sitting by my phone. She said she was wearing another pair of those delightfully diaphanous pajamas, and that she too was in darkness.

We said the things you would expect to be said under such circumstances and it was all very very fine indeed.

Two hours later, nightmare yanked me out of dreams.
I felt as exposed and afraid and naked as if I had been flayed. The object of fear was gone; I couldn’t remember it. I could only remember running in slow motion with something coming after me that moved faster and faster.

The Pryor farm was, in its own way, as much a show-place as the house. Fat black cattle grazed on juicy grasses behind bone white fences. The aluminum roofs of the cattle barns blazed in the Sunday morning sun. I slowed down to watch a pack of horses running like hell. No reason. They felt good. It was that kind of a morning. Two big fieldstone posts marked off the entrance. The gravel road led straight from the entrance to the tenant house. Beyond the house, on the gentle slope of a hill, were the two cottages where the Pryors stayed when they stayed over at the farm. The cluster of barns and silos was behind the tenant house.

I ignored the severe private signs and drove on in and parked by the tenant house. A new red tractor stood in rigid angular dignity, like a strange Martian insect.

John Fidd came around from behind the tenant house and looked at me with disgust. “Yar?” he said.

“Came back down from the lake, eh?”

“No horses and no boats up there this summer. On account of Miss Mary. And that no good Yeagger. Good thing. I got too much to do here without going up there and being a stable boy. I got to watch the hands here.”

“I’d like to see the place where they found Mr. Raymond yesterday morning.”

John Fidd spat with emphasis. “Wouldn’t be anybody driving around the place at night if I was here. I can’t show you now. Too busy.”

“How do I find it?”

“You don’t,” he said.

That seemed to be that. He looked beyond me. A yellow jeep swung into the gravel road, rear wheels skidding dangerously. It was piloted by one of the Pryor girls.