Leave Her to Hell (3 page)

Silas Lawler was, in brief, not a man to be taken lightly, or a man who would take lightly any transgression against himself or his interests. It was, I reflected, wholly incredible that he would be indifferent to the disappearance of a brother. Whatever the reason for the disappearance, whatever the technique of its execution, Silas Lawler knew it, or thought he knew it, and he might be prevailed upon to tell me in confidence, or he might not. But in any event it would be necessary for me to talk with him as soon as I could, which would probably be tomorrow. I would see Graham Markley at two, and later I would try to see Silas Lawler. If nothing significant came of these two meetings I would go again to see Faith Salem, which would be a pleasure, and terminate our relationship, which would not.

Having thought my way back to Faith Salem, I closed my eyes and tried to find her, but the sun had left the terrace, and so had she. Opening my eyes, I lowered my feet and stood up. I had determined an agenda of sorts, and now there seemed to be nothing of importance left to do on this particular day. Besides, it was getting rather late, and I was getting rather hungry, and so I went out and patronized a steak house and afterward spent one-third of the night doing things that were not important and not related to anything that had gone before. About ten o’clock I returned to the room and bath and hot plate that I euphemistically called home. I went to bed and slept well.

I woke up at seven in the morning, which is a nasty habit of mine that endures through indiscretions and hangovers and intermittent periods of irregular living. In the bathroom, I shaved and necessarily looked at my face in the mirror. I
like you, Mr. Hand,
Faith Salem had said. I
like your looks.
Well, it was an ambiguous expression. You could like the looks of a collie dog or a pair of shoes or a shoebill stork. It could mean that you were inspired by confidence or amusement or the urge to be a sister. Looking at my face, I was not deluded. I decided that I was probably somewhere between the dog and the stork. I finished shaving and dressed and went out for breakfast and arrived in due time at my office, where nothing happened all morning.

Two o’clock came, but Graham Markley didn’t. At ten after, he did. I heard him enter the little cubby-hole in which my clients wait when there is another client ahead of them, which is something that should happen oftener than it does; and when I got to the door to meet him, he was standing there looking antiseptic among the germs. His expression included me with the others. “Mr. Hand?” he said.

“That’s right. You’re Mr. Markley, I suppose?”

“Yes. I’m sorry to be late. I was detained.”

“Think nothing of it. In this office, ten minutes late is early. Come in, please.”

He walked past me and sat down in the client’s chair beside the desk. Because I felt he would consider it an imposition, I didn’t offer to shake hands. I felt that he might even ignore or reject the offer, which would have made me indignant or even indiscreet. Resuming my place in the chair behind the desk, I made a quick inventory and acquired an impression. He sat rigidly, with his knees together and his hat on his knees. His straight black hair was receding but still had a majority present. His face was narrow, his nose was long, his lips were thin. Arrogance was implicit. He looked something like the guy who used to play Sherlock Holmes in the movies. Maybe he looked like Sherlock Holmes.

“Precisely what do you want to tell me, Mr. Hand?” he said.

“Well,” I said, “that isn’t quite my position. What I want is for you to tell me something.”

“Indeed? I gathered from our conversation on the telephone yesterday that you were in possession of some new information regarding my wife.”

“Did I imply that? It isn’t exactly true. What I meant to suggest was that the available information isn’t adequate. It leaves too much unexplained.”

“Do you think so? The police apparently didn’t. As a matter of fact, it was quite clear to everyone what my wife had done. It was, as you may realize, an embarrassing affair for me, and there seemed to be no good purpose in giving it undue publicity or in pursuing it indefinitely.”

“Is that still your feeling? That there is no purpose in pursuing it any further?”

“Until yesterday it was. Now I’m not so sure. I don’t wish to interfere with whatever kind of life my wife is trying to establish for herself, nor do I wish to restore any kind of contact between her and me, but since our telephone conversation I’ve begun to feel that it would be better for several reasons if she could be located.”

“Are you prepared to help?”

“Conditionally.”

“What conditions?”

“Are you, for your part, prepared to tell me who initiated this investigation?”

“What action would you take if I told you?”

“None. The truth is, I’m certain that I know. I merely want to verify it.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Miss Salem? I thought so. Well, it’s understandable. Under the circumstances of our relationship, she’s naturally concerned. She urged me once previously to try again to locate my wife, but I wasn’t inclined to reopen what was, as I said, an unpleasant and embarrassing affair. Apparently I underestimated the strength of her feeling.”

“You don’t resent her action, then?”

“Certainly not. I’m particularly anxious to settle any uneasiness she may feel. I’m even willing to assume the payment of your fee.”

“That’s between you and her, of course. Will you tell me why, in your opinion, your wife disappeared?”

“As to why she disappeared, I can only speculate. As to why she left, which is something else, I’m certain. She was having an affair with a man named Regis Lawler. They went away together. The relationship between my wife and me had deteriorated by that time to such an extent that I really didn’t care. I considered it a satisfactory solution to our problem.”

“Satisfactory? You said painful and embarrassing.”

“Painful and embarrassing because it was humiliating. Any husband whose wife runs away with another man looks rather ridiculous. I mean that I had no sense of loss.”

“I see. Did she give you any idea that she was leaving before she went?”

“None. We didn’t see each other often the last few months we lived together. When we did see each other, we found very little to say.”

“You said you could only speculate as to why she disappeared instead of leaving openly. I’d like to hear your speculation.”

“You would need to have known her before you could understand. She was, to put it kindly, rather unstable. Less kindly, she was neurotic. She may have been almost psychotic at times. I don’t know. I don’t understand the subtle distinctions between these things. Anyhow, she had had a bad time when our child died. At first, after the initial shock, she became withdrawn and depressed, totally uninterested in living. Later there was a reaction. A kind of hysterical appetite for activity and experiences. It was then that she met Regis Lawler. It’s my opinion that she disappeared because she wanted to cut herself off completely from the life that had included our marriage and the death of our child. It’s difficult to believe, I know.”

“I wouldn’t say so. Not so difficult. I’ve already considered that motivation, as a matter of fact. It seems compatible with the little I know about her. There’s another point, however, that bothers me. Was Regis Lawler the kind of man to fall in with such a scheme?”

“I can’t answer that. If he was devoted to her, it’s fair to assume that he would do as she wished, especially if she convinced him that it was something she desperately needed.”

“Possibly. I didn’t know Lawler well enough to have an idea. Miss Salem said that Mrs. Markley’s family had quite a lot of money. Did Mrs. Markley herself have any?”

“No. Her mother and father were both dead when we married. If they had money at one time, which I believe was so, it had been dissipated. The estate, I understand, did little more than pay the claims against it.”

“Then your wife had no personal financial matters to settle before she left?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Was Regis Lawler a wealthy man?”

“I have no idea. His brother apparently is.”

“Well, you can see what I’m getting at. It would not be a simple matter for a man of wealth to disappear. It would certainly entail the liquidation of assets—securities, property, things like that. He’d have to convert his wealth to negotiable paper that he could carry with him. If he wanted to assure his not being traced through it, he’d have to convert to cash. Do you know if Regis Lawler did any such thing?”

“No. But the police surely made such an obvious investigation. Since it was not an issue, it follows that Lawler did do something of the sort, or that he had no holdings to convert.”

“Right. If Lawler had left much behind, the police wouldn’t have quit investigating. They’d have smelled more than a love affair. As you say, he either converted or had nothing to convert. At any rate, he must have had considerable cash in hand. Running away with a woman, I mean, wouldn’t be any two-dollar tour. Unless he had a job arranged somewhere, an assured income, he must have been, putting it mildly, damn well heeled.”

“Oh, I think it’s safe to assume that he had at least enough cash to last a while. I can’t imagine that Regis Lawler was a pauper.”

His tone implied that no one but a simpleton, specifically me, would waste time speculating about it. I was beginning to think he was right. That was okay, though. I had been convinced from the beginning that I was wasting my time on the whole case. That was okay, too, since I was doing it for a fee.

“How long ago was it that Mrs. Markley left?” I said.

“Two years ago next month.”

“Did she take anything with her? Any clothes, for example? I know from talking with her maid that she took nothing when she left home that night, but I’m thinking that she might have taken or sent luggage ahead to be picked up later. She’d have done something like that, I imagine, if she was being secretive.”

“No doubt. On the other hand, if you accept the theory that she intended to make a complete break, she might not have wanted to keep any of her old possessions, not even her clothes. I don’t find this incredible in her case. Anyhow, I honestly don’t know if she took anything. She had closets full of clothes, of course. If anything was missing, I wouldn’t know.”

“How about the maid?”

“She thought that nothing was missing, but she wasn’t positive.”

He looked at his wrist watch and stood up abruptly, his knees still together as they had been all the time he was sitting, and he had, looking down at me, a kind of stiff, military bearing and collateral arrogance. “I’m sorry to end this interview, Mr. Hand, but I have another appointment. You’ll have to excuse me.”

“Certainly,” I said. “I was running out of questions, anyhow. Thanks very much for coming in.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t been very helpful.”

“You never know. It doesn’t sound like much now, but it may mean something later.”

I walked around the desk and with him to the door. I didn’t offer to shake hands, and neither did he.

“Please inform Miss Salem or me of any progress,” he said.

“I’m not optimistic,” I said.

The door closed between us, and I went back and sat down. As far as I was concerned, I was still wasting time.

From street level I went up two shallow steps into a spacious hall. The floor was carpeted. The walls were paneled with dark and lustrous walnut. At the far end of the hall, a broad sweep of stairs ascended. To my right as I entered was the dining room. The floor was carpeted in there also, and the walls were also walnut-paneled. Tables were covered with snowy cloths and set with shining silver. A few early diners were dining. The string quartet was playing something softly that I remembered by sound and remembered after a moment by name. “Stars in My Eyes,” by Fritz Kreisler. A very pretty tune.

I looked right. A cocktail lounge was over that way, beyond a wide entrance and down a step. A number of people were drinking cocktails. There was no music. I recognized a martini, which was all right, a manhattan, which was better, and an alexander, which you can have. Everything was very elegant, very sedate. Maybe someone saw me, maybe not. No one spoke to me or tried to stop me. I walked down the hall and up the stairs.

The carpet went up with me, but the walnut stayed below. The hall upstairs ran a gauntlet of closed doors recessed in plaster. It was nice plaster, though, rough-textured and painted a nice shade of brown. Cinnamon or nutmeg or one of the names that brown acquires when it becomes a decorator color. It was too early for the games, and the rooms behind the doors were quiet. All, that is, except the last room behind the last door, which was the private room of Silas Lawler. Someone in there was playing a piano. A Chopin waltz was being played. I thought at first it was a recording, but then I decided it wasn’t. It was good, but not good enough.

I opened the door softly and stepped inside and closed the door behind me. It was Silas Lawler himself at the piano. He turned his face toward me, but his eyes had the kind of blind glaze that the eyes of a man may have when he is listening to good music or looking at his mistress or thinking of something a long way off. A pretty girl was sitting in a deep chair on the back of her neck. She had short black hair and smoky eyes and a small red petulant mouth. She was facing the door and me directly, and her eyes moved over me lazily without interest. Otherwise, she did not move in the slightest, and she did not speak.

Lawler finished the Chopin waltz, and the girl said, “That was nice, Lover.” She moved nothing but her lips, in shaping the words, and her eyes, which she rolled toward him in her head. She didn’t sound as if she meant what she said, and Lawler didn’t look as if he believed her. He didn’t even look as if he heard her. He was still staring at me, and the glaze was dissolving in his eyes.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Percy Hand,” I said. “We’ve met.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I remember you. Don’t you believe in knocking?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt the music. I like Chopin.”

“Do you? It’s better when it’s played right.”

“You play it fine. I thought at first it was Brailowsky.”

“If you thought it was Brailowsky, you’ve never heard him.”

“I’ve heard him, all right. I went to a concert once. I’ve got a couple records.”

“In that case, you’ve got no ear for music. Brailowsky and I don’t sound alike.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it was just the shock of hearing you play at all. I never figured Silas Lawler for a pianist.”

“I was a deprived kid. I had secret hungers. I made some money and took lessons.”

“So was I. So had I. I didn’t.”

“Make money or take lessons?”

“Both.”

“You can see he’s poor,” the girl said. “He wears ready-made suits.”

“Botany 500,” I said. “Sixty-five bucks.”

Lawler looked at her levelly across the grand. I could have sworn that there was an expression of distaste on his face. The deprived kid business was on the level, I thought. He remembered the time. He didn’t like people who made cracks about the poor.

“This is Robin Robbins,” he said carefully. “She’s pretty, but she’s got no manners. That isn’t her real name, by the way. She didn’t think the one she had was good enough. The man you’re trying to insult, honey, is Percy Hand, a fairly good private detective.”

“He looks like Jack Palance,” she said.

“Jack Palance is ugly,” I said. “God, he’s ugly.”

“So are you,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said.

“In a nice way,” she said. “Jack Palance is ugly in a nice way, and so are you. I don’t really care if you’re poor.”

“Just as long as you’re good in bed,” Lawler said. “Come over here.”

I walked over and stood beside the piano. Now I could see the girl only by looking over my shoulder. Instead, I looked down at Lawler. His face was clean shaven and square. He was neither tall nor fat, but he must have weighed two hundred. His hands rested quietly on the piano keys. They looked like chunks of stone.

“Here I am,” I said. “Why?”

“I want to be able to reach you in case you haven’t got a good reason for busting in here.”

“I’ve got a reason. You tell me if it’s good.”

“I’ll let you know. One way or another.”

“I want to talk about a couple of people you know. Or knew. Your brother and Constance Markley.”

He didn’t budge. His face stayed still, his body stayed still, the hands on the keys stayed still as stone.

“It’s lousy. I’d be bored to death.”

“Is that so? I’m beginning to get real interested in them.”

“That’s your mistake. While we’re on mistakes, I’ll point out another. He isn’t my brother. Not even step-brother. Foster brother.”

“That makes it less intimate, I admit. Not quite impersonal, though. Wouldn’t you like to know where he is? How he is? Or maybe you already know.”

“I don’t. I don’t want to.”

“Well, I never heard the like. A man’s wife disappears. He doesn’t care. A man’s foster brother disappears. He doesn’t care. The indifference fascinates me.”

“Let me figure this.” His left hand suddenly struck a bass chord and dropped off the keys into his lap. The sound waves lingered, faded, died. “I’ve got a sluggish mind, and I think slow. Regis and Constance ran away. You’re a private detective. Could it be you’re trying to make yourself a case?”

“I’m not making any case. The case is made. I’m just working on it.”

“Take my advice. Don’t. Drop it. Forget it. It isn’t worth your time.”

“My time’s worth twenty-five dollars a day and expenses. That’s what I’m getting paid.”

“Who’s paying?”

“Sorry. I’m not at liberty to say.”

“It’s not enough.”

“I get by on it.”

“Not enough to pay a hospital bill, I mean. Or the price of a funeral, even.”

The girl stood up suddenly and stretched. She made a soft mewing sound, like a cat. I turned my head and watched her over my shoulder. Her breasts thrust out against her dress, her spread thighs strained against her tight skirt.

“I think I’ll go away somewhere,” she said. “I abhor violence.”

“You do that, honey,” Silas Lawler said.

She walked across to the door, and she walked pretty well. She had nice legs that moved nicely. You could follow the lines of her behind in the tight skirt. I’d have been more impressed if I hadn’t seen Faith Salem lying in the sun. At the door, before going out, she paused and looked back at me and grinned.

“You couldn’t hurt his face much,” she said. “You could change it, but you couldn’t hurt it.”

She was gone, and I said, “Lovely thing. Is it yours?”

“Now and then.” He shrugged. “If you’re interested, I won’t be offended.”

“I’m not. Besides, I’m too ugly. Were you threatening me a moment ago?”

“About the hospital, yes. About the funeral, no. It wouldn’t be necessary.”

“You never can tell. I get tired of living sometimes.”

“You’d get tireder of being dead.”

“That could be. The way I hear it explained, it sounds pretty dull.”

“You’re a pretty sharp guy, Hand. You’ve got a nose for what’s phony. I’m surprised a guy like you wouldn’t smell a phony case.”

“I won’t say I haven’t. I’m open to conviction.”

“All right. Regis and Constance had a real fire going. It didn’t grow, it was just there in both of them at first sight. First sight was right here. Downstairs in the lounge. Don’t ask me to explain it, because I can’t. Regis was there, and Constance was there, and to hell with everyone else. Everyone and everything. They got in bed, and whatever they had survived. They ran away together, that’s all. Why don’t you leave it alone?”

“You make it sound so simple. I can’t help thinking, though, that running away’s one thing, disappearing’s another. You see the difference?”

“I see. It wouldn’t seem so strange if you’d know the woman. Constance, I mean. She’d had a bad time. She was sad, lost, looking for a way to somewhere. You get me? She was a real lady, but she had queer ideas. When she left, she wanted to leave it all, including herself. It’s pathetic when you stop to think about it.”

“I get the same picture everywhere. The same idea. I’m beginning to believe it. I’m skeptical about Regis, though. He doesn’t seem the type.”

“He wasn’t. Not before he met Constance. Before he met her, he was a charming, no-good bastard. But then he met her, and he changed. Queer. You wouldn’t have thought she’d have appealed to him, but she did. He’d have done anything she wanted. Very queer.”

“Yeah. Queer and corny.”

“I don’t blame you for thinking so. You’d have to see it to believe it.”

“Did Regis have an interest in this restaurant?”

“Regis didn’t have a pot. Just what I gave him. Spending money.”

“What did they use for cash when they left? What are they using now? And don’t feed me any more corn. You don’t live on love. Some people get a job and live in a cottage, but not Regis and Constance. Everything they were and did is against it.”

The fingers of his right hand moved up the keys. It was remarkable how lightly that chunk of rock moved. The thin sound of the short scale lasted no longer than a few seconds. The right had joined the left in his lap.

“I’ll tell you something,” he said. “I don’t know why. What I ought to do is throw you out of here. Anyhow, Regis had cash. Enough for a lifetime in the right place. See that picture over there? It’s a copy of a Rembrandt. Behind it there’s a safe. Regis knew the combination. The night he went away, I had seventy-five grand in it. Regis took it.”

“That’s a lot of cash to have in a safe behind a picture.”

“I had it for a purpose. Never mind what.”

“You let him get away with it? You didn’t try to recover it?”

“No. To tell the truth, I was relieved. I always felt an obligation toward him because of the woman whose lousy kid he was. Now the obligation is wiped out. We’re quits.” He lifted both hands and replaced them gently on the keys of the piano. There was not the slightest sound from the wires inside. “Besides, I figured it was partly for her. For Constance. I liked her. I hope she’s happier than she ever was.”

I started to refer again to corn, but I thought better of it. Then I thought that it would probably be a good time to leave, and I turned and went as far as the door.

“Hand,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Forget it. Drop it. You hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said.

I opened the door and went out. After three steps in the hall, I heard the piano. What I heard from it was something else by Chopin.