In a Lonely Place (18 page)

There was a double bill. A mild comedy; a tear-jerking problem story. Neither was absorbing, he could scarcely stay awake during the tear-jerker. But the time was passed; it was midnight when he came out of the theatre. There was nowhere else to go now, the streets of Beverly were quiet as the streets of a nine-o’clock town. Nowhere but back to the apartment.

He dreaded sleep, sleep and dreams. If only she would come back, if only she’d take him and comfort him as she had on that other night. He didn’t tell himself a tall tale now, that she might be waiting for him, in all her beauty and warmth. He went into the soda fountain next to the theatre. It was closing but he didn’t care. He gathered a handful of magazines from the stand, the only kind of magazines there, movie stuff, crime stuff. Anything to keep his mind serviced until he was forced into sleep.

He didn’t put the car up. It didn’t matter who saw him coming in. And he wasn’t going out again. If he changed his mind and did want to go out again, it was nobody’s business.

He came to a sudden stop just inside the patio. It wasn’t lone and desolate, a figment of a blue dream. Someone was there. A dull red circlet was burning in the shadows, back by the rear apartments. For a moment he thought it might be Laurel, but in the silence he heard the flat-paced steps of a man, an unknown man.

Dix covered his pause, stooping down as if he’d dropped something on the ground. Something small that had fallen without sound. Feeling for it until he found it, perhaps his latchkey or a packet of matches. Without another glance to the red circlet, he went to his own place, entered and shut the door, shut away the menace that might lie in the night. He was breathing heavily.

It was ridiculous to have let the presence of a man affect him simply because there had not before been a man waiting in the shadows. How did he know but that this man had a last cigarette nightly in the patio before turning in? How could he know? He, Dix, always came the back way when he was late. The man might be a musician just home from work, pumping the stale air out of his lungs before bed. Maybe it wasn’t a guy who walked nightly, maybe he was locked out tonight and waiting for his wife to get home. Or it could be a guest, somebody’s uncle or cousin, who beat the family home. Dix could think up a thousand and one explanations. Any of them good. Any of them stamped with logic. Any except the first one that had hit him. that for some unfathomable reason the man had been put there to find out what time Dix Steele came in. As if anyone would care.

He was all right now. He dropped the magazines on the couch and made for the bar. He’d have a nightcap, a small one before turning in. He was slightly chilled: there was a definite hint of autumn, if only the mildness of California autumn, in the air tonight.

The guy might be, he smiled, a private dick. Somebody’s ex might have put him there to see how the lady was behaving. Maybe Dix wasn’t the only one wondering where Laurel was keeping herself. There was something funny about the divorce relationship between Laurel and her ex; she was so damn careful to keep men out of her apartment.

He tossed off the drink, gathered up the magazines, and put out the lights in the living room. He needn’t worry about the man outside, it wasn’t someone interested in— He heard the footsteps then, the flat, muffled footsteps. They were coming this way. Panic squeezed him. Unhurried, inexorable, the footsteps were bringing the man up the portal to Dix’s door. Without sound, Dix quickly crossed to the window, flattening himself against the long drape. He could see out; the man could not see Dix even if he stopped and peered into the room.

Dix stood, not breathing, not having breath. Listening, seeing the shadow, the approach of the red dot, the shape of the man himself, a dumpy, shapeless shape topped by a shapeless hat. The man did not pause. He walked past Dix’s door and out into the patio, crossed to the opposite Portal and started again to the rear.

Dix leaned weakly against the curtain. Within his head his thoughts sounded shrill, falsetto. No one cared what he did. No one cared. No one cared . . .

He left the window, walked the silent blue-dark room to his bedroom. He didn’t put on the lights, he lay on the bed with the darkness broken only by the red dot of his own cigarette. No one cared; Laurel didn’t care. She’d gone off without saying goodbye. She’d known, known that night that it was their farewell. He’d almost known it himself— he’d even questioned her. And she’d denied. She’d lied in his face, lied in his arms . . .

He hated her. She was a cheat and a liar and a whore, and he hated her while the tears rolled from his eyes down his cheeks to salt his mouth. No one cared, no one had ever cared. Only Brucie. Brucie who had gone away leaving him alone, alone forever, for all of his life.

He ground out the cigarette. It wasn’t ended with Laurel. He didn’t end things that way. She’d find that out. She’d come back; she had to come back. She wouldn’t walk off and leave everything in her apartment, her clothes would be important to her if nothing else was. If no person was. When she came back, he’d be waiting. He’d end it his way, the only way that meant a thing was finished.

Startled out of sleep, he snatched up the phone, with the wild lurch of hope that it was she. The humming of dial tone answered his shout, “Hello.” And the long sound of the buzzer brought him fully awake, it was the door, not the phone, which had wakened him.

The door at nine in the morning, with dreams heavy in his mouth and smarting in his eyes. Sometime in the night he had undressed, sometime he had fallen into frightful sleep.

He pushed out of bed. Taking his time. Knowing that nothing of meaning to him could be leaning on the door buzzer at this morning hour. Knowing he did not want to answer the summons. Yet knowing that he must. It might be a wire from her. It might be Brub.

He grumbled, “Keep your shirt on,” while he roped the belt of the silken Paisley robe about him, slid his feet into the morocco leather scuffs. He plodded into the living room, any man disturbed at his rightful slumbers, making no pretense at a smile as he flung open the front door.

There were two men waiting outside; he had never seen either of them before. One was a portly man in a brown suit, a man with a heavy inexpressive face and spaniel-brown eyes. The other was a young fellow in gray, a neat-looking young fellow with bright gray eyes. The portly man wore a shapeless gray hat with a faded hatband; the young fellow wore a well-shaped brown fedora. It wasn’t that each hat belonged to the opposite suit; it was that they wore hats at all. Men didn’t wear hats in Beverly Hills. These men were strangers, strangers with purpose.

The younger said, “We’re looking for Mel Terriss.”

Dix didn’t say anything. He didn’t believe what he heard for the moment, it was shock but it was a dull shock. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn’t this. After a moment he managed to say, “He isn’t here.”

“This is his place, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Dix said. “But he isn’t here.”

The young fellow looked a little disappointed or maybe he was perplexed. He seemed to be trying to figure it out. He said finally, “Mind if we come in? I’m Harley Springer.” He gestured to his partner. “And Joe Yates.”

Dix didn’t want them in. He didn’t want to talk about Mel Terriss at any time, certainly not now before his eyes were open, before his brain was quick. But there was nothing he could do outside of shutting the door on Harley Springer’s foot. The young fellow had it in the door.

Dix said, “Yes, come on in. I’m Dix Steele.”

“Looks like we got you out of bed,” the big Yates commented. He had a snicker in the corner of his mouth.

“You did,” Dix agreed. He wasn’t going to get angry at this pair. Not until he found out why they’d come to him. And he wondered if Laurel had set them on it, Laurel with her stubborn determination to get Mel’s address. He didn’t believe Mel owed her any seven hundred. She’d put that in hoping Dix would think it was important enough to give out with the address. Thinking money would tempt him.

He led the way into the living room. A neat living room, he hadn’t hung around it last night. “Sit down,” he said. There were no cigarettes in his pocket, none on the tables. He had to have a cigarette. A drink would help too but he couldn’t take a drink at this hour. It wouldn’t be a good tale for them to carry back to whomever had sent them. A cigarette was essential.

He said, “Excuse me while I get my cigarettes, will you?” He went quickly into the bedroom, gathered up a pack and his lighter, returned before the men could have had time to walk over to the desk. They were still on the couch, the younger man with his leg crossed one way, the big fellow with his crossed the other. They hadn’t moved, only to light cigarettes of their own. He took the chair across from them. He was as much at ease as a man could be, dragged out of bed, entertaining a couple of strangers while he was wrapped in a bathrobe. Entertaining without knowing why. But he smiled at them. “What can I do for you?”

The young one, Harley Springer, took off his hat. As if he should have remembered to do it before. As if he were a cop, someone from the D.A.’s office, not used to taking off his hat when he invaded a man’s privacy. He repeated then his first remark, “We’re looking for Mel Terriss.”

“And he isn’t here,” Dix smiled.

“Where is he?” Yates flipped.

The young Springer gave Yates a look, a look that meant: Shut up, let me handle this. A look that meant: You’re an oaf and this guy’s a gent, let a gent handle it.

Dix was actually beginning to feel at ease. He didn’t have to worry about being on his toes with Springer and Yates. They weren’t that well coordinated; it wasn’t like being with Lochner and Brub. He answered Yates as if Yates weren’t oafish. “He’s in Rio,” he told him. “He went down there on some big job. I subleased from him before he left.”

The two exchanged a look. Dix waited. Let them explain it. Make them do the talking. He’d changed his mind about these two being cops, more like from a collection agency, trying to get on Mel’s trail over those unpaid accounts.

“You’re sure he went to Rio?” Springer frowned.

Dix laughed. “Well, I didn’t fly him down and get him settled. But he told me he was going there. I took his word for it. I don’t know why he should have told me that if it weren’t true.” He laughed again. It was his turn now. Time for their explanation. He stopped laughing. “Are you friends of his?” he demanded.

“Nah,” Yates said.

Springer gave his partner another shut-up look. He said, “We’re from Anson, Bergman and Gorgonzola. Lawyers. Our firm handles Mel Terriss’ trust.”

It was time to walk softly. He didn’t know about trusts.

Springer continued, “We haven’t heard from Mel Terriss since July.” Evidently it was unusual. The way that Springer said it. “He hasn’t even been around for his check.”

“He didn’t communicate with you from Rio?” Dix showed surprise.

”No. We had no idea he’d gone to Rio until recently. Mr. Anson or Mr. Bergman heard something about it.”

Or Mr. Gorgonzola. From an alley cat who’d blabbed, who for some reason wanted to get in touch with Mel Terriss. Bad enough to ask her lawyer about him. Her lawyer and Mel’s lawyer. There wouldn’t be two Gorgonzolas prominent in legal circles.

“It’s strange he didn’t communicate with Mr. Anson before leaving. Or since. Particularly since it was Mr. Anson who had so often urged he go there.”

Yates said, “Anson thought he might straighten up if he got out of town.”

Harley Springer gave a light sigh.

Yates went on doggedly, “Mel’s been gassing about getting a job in Rio long as I can remember. Every time he was extra loopy. He never had no intention of going to work.”

Springer cut in quickly, “Do you know when he left?”

“He told me I could move in the first of August. He’d be gone before then.”

“You don’t know by any chance if he went by boat or plane?”

“I don’t,” Dix smiled slightly. They were going to check passenger lists. “He did say something about going by freighter, a sea voyage to get in trim.” He shrugged, widened his smile. “I can’t say I believed him. He was too fond of comfort for such rigors.” Let them try to check all the freighters that steamed out from the California ports. They’d get nowhere.

He’d had enough of this. He wanted his coffee. He wanted peace. He prodded them, “I’m sorry I can’t help you any more than this, gentlemen.” He rose. “I didn’t know Terriss particularly well. He’d hardly confide his plans to me. I’m a tenant, that’s all.”

Yates was going to stick his big foot into it again. There was a malicious look in his soulful brown eyes. “The trust pays Mel’s rent in advance. To keep him off the street. How’d you arrange to pay him?”

Even Springer’s embarrassment didn’t quiet the rage in Dix. He smiled wryly as if it were none of Yates’ business to so question a gentleman, but being asked, he would reply. “I gave him a check for a year’s rent, Mr. Yates. He said he intended to be away at least that long.” This time he was polite but firm. “If that is all—”

He waited for them to rise. Springer made apology. “I’m sorry to have had to bother you. Mr. Steele. You understand it’s a job—when Mr. Anson—”

“Or Mr. Bergman or Mr. Gorgonzola,” Dix smiled wholeheartedly. “I understand.” He didn’t include Yates in his understanding. He moved the two men to the door, opened it. Yates went on outside. Springer stopped on the doorstep. “Thanks for your help.”

“Little enough,” Dix said.

Springer had another question. He’d been holding it, now he sprang it. “What about his mail?”

It came too fast for preparation. But Dix could think fast. He could always think fast in a pinch. “I suppose some has been coming,” he said as if it had never occurred to him. “I’ll ask my secretary—” He laughed, “She keeps everything so efficiently I wouldn’t know where to look. I’ll tell you, leave your address and I’ll have her forward it.” He accepted the card from Springer, said goodbye. Yates was already out in the patio, watching the gardener plow up geraniums.

Dix shut the door with a thud. He crushed the card in his fist. Damn snoops. Why should they or anyone care what had happened to Mel Terriss? Stupid, sodden, alcoholic Mel. The world was better off without Mel Terrisses in it. Why should Laurel care? Unless she were trying to get Dix into trouble.

Let them prove, let them try to prove he didn’t have a secretary. He’d go through the bills and the ads. Send the harmless ones, the ones without purchases after July. He shouldn’t have used the charge accounts, but it was an easy way to do it. So easy.

It was Mel, fat-headed Mel, who was going to run him out of California. Before he was ready to go. Before Laurel came back. He’d be damned if he would. He’d settle with Laurel before he left. They couldn’t hang a man for using a friend’s charge accounts. Particularly if the friend had told him to make use of them. No one could prove Mel hadn’t told him that.

He wanted a drink more than ever; he was so angry he was rigid. Again he didn’t dare. At least not until lunch time. It was legitimate then, not before, unless you were a confirmed alcoholic like your friend, Mel.

He should have asked them about another disappearing client. He should have said: By the by, what’s happened to your client, Laurel Gray? She’s missing too, didn’t you know? Maybe she’s gone to join Mel.

His face darkened with rage. He flung the crumpled card into the basket. He wasn’t going to sit around and be questioned by any lugs who happened by. He’d dress and get out of here. Quick.

But the phone stopped him. The silent phone by his bed. He sat down and he dialed Laurel’s number. The sound of ringing went on and on until he hung up. She hadn’t sneaked back in. There was an idea nagging at the back of his mind: it had been there last night; it was there again now. It had to be faced. Laurel could have moved out of the Virginibus Arms.

He didn’t dare go to the manager’s apartment and ask. The old bag might start thinking up her questions about Mel. He’d had enough of Mel today. He could go up to Laurel’s apartment; that he would dare. But it was pointless; she wasn’t at home. She’d answer the phone if she were; she’d be afraid not to, afraid it might be a business call. He picked up the phone book, then laid it down. He wouldn’t phone the manager from here. Not and chance having the call traced. Go out to a booth, disguise his voice. Not that the manager would know it, but someone might be around who did.

He was thinking as if it were Laurel the lawyer’s narks were asking about. As if it were Laurel’s life the cops were prying into. He could ask anything he wanted about Laurel. It was perfectly safe. Yet he didn’t pick up the phone.

He was just starting to the shower when the doorbell buzzed again. His fists clenched. It couldn’t be those two back again. It couldn’t be anything important. Yet he must answer. Slowly he returned to the living room.

There was only one man on the doorstep this time. And he didn’t look like he’d come from the cops or the lawyers. He was hatless, coatless, an ordinary guy in pants and shirt. “I’m from the telephone company,” he stated.

Dix had the door half-closed as he spoke, “You have the wrong apartment. There’s nothing wrong with my phone.”

“Yeah?” The man talked fast before the door was further closed. “There’s something wrong with the lines running into these apartments. We got orders to check.”

“Come in,” Dix said wearily. “The phone’s in the bedroom.” He led the way, pointed it out. “There.”

The fellow had a black satchel, like a plumber’s satchel. He was going to rasp and ring bells and yell to Joe somewhere on the line. Dix said, “Listen, I’m late. If you don’t mind, I’ll start getting dressed.”

“Sure, go ahead,” the man said comfortably. He was already taking the phone apart.

Dix went into the bathroom, closed the door and locked it. With the shower running he didn’t have to listen to the racket. When he’d finished bathing and shaving, he opened the door. The man was just repacking wire in his little black bag.

“Find any bugs?” Dix asked.

“Not here. Thanks. Shall I let myself out?”

“Go ahead.”

Dix lit a cigarette. Maybe there’d been something wrong with his phone. Maybe Laurel had been trying every night to get in touch. It was fixed now, if that were it. That was no longer excuse.

He heard the front door close and at the same time he heard the clip-clip of the gardener outside the window. If he didn’t get out of here, his head would split. He hadn’t noticed the weather, he’d had too much on his mind. It was still gray, but there were splits of blue in it. Clearing. He put on the same tweeds he’d worn last light. He didn’t know where he was going but he’d be dressed for no matter what. He knew the first stop, the cleaners. With the sandy gabardines, and the sweaty clothes in which he’d slept two nights ago, two hundred nights ago. He rolled the bundle of clothes under his arm, left by the back door. The goofy, mustached gardener offered his daily bright saying, ‘”Allo.”

Dix acknowledged it with a nod, striding on down the alley to the garage. The garage doors were closed. He swung them open. The car wasn’t there. It was shock. And then he remembered; he hadn’t put it up last night. He hadn’t even closed the garage. He began to tremble. With sick anger, sick, frustrated anger. He couldn’t pass the gardener again. He’d smash the man’s stupid face to a pulp if he heard, ‘”Allo.”