Sinners (30 page)

‘He’s not mine. I wish he was. I’m just looking after him for a friend.’

‘Sure,’ Jack said disbelievingly. ‘It’s a shame about you and Steve, you would have been great together. I was congratulating myself on playing Cupid.’

She smiled again and wondered what he wanted. She was sure this was not a social call. The phone rang and automatically she picked it up.

‘I want to fuck you,’ a voice whispered. ‘I want to—’

She quickly slammed down the receiver. ‘Oh God!’ The day had become too much for her and she burst into tears.

‘Hey, honey, what’s the matter?’ Jack was embarrassed.

‘Jack, please go. I’m just tired, everything’s getting on top of me. Please understand.’

The child was watching her with unconcealed interest.

Jack got up reluctantly. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’

‘Nothing. I’m really sorry. Forgive me.’

‘If you promise to have dinner with us next week. Ellie will call you.’

‘That would be nice.’

He left and she called the Beverly Hills Hotel, but Mr Hussan was unobtainable, so she left her name and number and went to bed.

Outside an old grey Buick cruised slowly past her house.

Getting the job with Clay Allen was easy. Herbert answered the advertisement in the paper, went along wearing his one and only suit, showed the glowing references he had written himself, and he was in.

It was an easy job. He spent most of the day lolling around the Allen’s kitchen, for neither of them seemed to go out much. As often as not, Clay spent most of the day writing in the poolhouse, and Natalie made only an occasional trip to Saks or Magnum’s. She sent the maid to the market, and sometimes he had to take the nanny and their child over to someone’s house. He kept himself to himself, communicating with neither the maid nor the nanny.

Clay paid him an advance and he purchased an old grey Buick.

If it were not for Marge, he would have been reasonably happy. She had become unbearable, bossy and demanding, nagging and shrill. Worst of all, she required his services sexually. This amazed him, after what he continually observed going on next door.

Now that he had a car he made careful plans about how to do away with her. The first thing was to move away from those stinking neighbours, to somewhere where they were unknown. It would be no easy move, and Marge would be furious, but he had a plan, and now with a job and a car things were looking up.

He found time to track down Sunday Simmons. He had read about her arriving back from Rio, and it was a simple matter to wait outside Carey St Martin’s office and follow her until she led him to Sunday and the house at the beach. After that, he followed her whenever he was free. He knew what time she usually left the studio, and if possible he was there. Sometimes he spent the night sleeping in his car near her house and he would follow her again at seven in the morning when she drove to the studio.

She even looked beautiful at that hour with her hair pulled back, and big tinted sunglasses.

One day he watched Sunday leave, and then waited for the Mexican girl to take the child shopping. It was easy for him to break into the house through the patio. He wandered around, sniffing anxiously through her belongings. He wrote down her phone number and took some pictures from a large stack lying on a table. In her bedroom he pocketed a lacy bra and panties; then he left as stealthily as he had arrived.

In his mind he knew that with Marge out of the way he and Sunday would be together. It never occurred to him that she would refuse him once he revealed himself to her.

He wrote her many letters, each one better than the last. On two occasions he even risked telephoning her, but she had cut off instantly both times, so he decided it was better to wait until he was in a position to present himself personally.

*    *    *

Marge waited two weeks before she told Louella of her discovery. She was having a good time. Herbert was doing what she wanted and she didn’t need it spoiled in any way.

Why
should
she tell Louella anyway? It was none of her business. Sometimes Louella was almost as mean as Herbert, especially last Saturday night when she had made her accept one of the ‘circle of friends’ in a most unspeakable manner.

‘I don’t like to do it like that,’ Marge had protested. ‘It hurts!’

‘Do you want to leave the circle?’ Louella demanded coldly. ‘There are plenty of other women who would be happy to be in your position.’

Marge agreed, hated it, and was reduced to tears.

Louella had laughed in front of everyone. ‘You’re behaving like a sixteen-year-old virgin,’ she had jeered.

Later she had been sorry and made Marge hot milk and chatted sweetly to her.

It was only pride of accomplishment that made her finally reveal to Louella what Herbert had done.
Her
accomplishment at being clever enough to find out. As she was telling Louella, the enormity of it struck her for the first time. Herbert had
killed
a girl,
murdered
her. It was unthinkable.

She started to blubber and cry and panic. Perhaps by even knowing about it she was an accomplice.

Louella confirmed her worst fears. ‘Of course you’re part of it,’ she remarked. ‘Just by not going to the police makes you as guilty as him.’

Marge jumped with fright. ‘You know too,’ she blurted out.

‘Yes, but I might go to the police.’

Marge’s face crumpled in horror. ‘But – but you wouldn’t do that.’

‘Perhaps I should. I didn’t realize how serious this would turn out to be.’

Marge started to cry loudly. Why had she ever interfered? Why had she ever become friendly with Louella Crisp? She had been happy watching her television and eating.

‘However,’ Louella continued, ‘maybe as your friend I can help you. Of course it will take money. How much do you have?’

‘A thousand dollars,’ Marge stammered. ‘It’s
all
I’ve got, though, kind of my savings for my old age.’ She gave a sickly grin. ‘What do you need money for?’

Louella clucked her tongue. ‘If you’re going to ask stupid questions I don’t think I can help you. We need professional advice and of course there’s my friend at police headquarters. A thousand dollars won’t be enough if we’re to get this matter dropped, the investigation quashed.’

‘What investigation?’ Marge squealed in alarm.

‘I didn’t want to worry you before, but I suspected what Herbert had done, so I made some discreet enquiries and I found that they are pursuing this case very strongly.’

‘Oh!’ Marge went white and her mouth hung open in a strange disjointed way.

‘Of course, with, say, three thousand dollars I think we can settle everything.’

Marge started to cry again. ‘I don’t have three thousand dollars.’

‘What about Herbert?’ Louella’s mind was racing. Was three thousand dollars too much to ask for? Marge, the silly bitch, believed her story, but would Herbert see it for the blackmail it was? He was probably smarter than Marge, but how much smarter could he be, having married her in the first place?

‘Herbie doesn’t have any money,’ Marge whined. ‘We’re always behind, catchin’ up on payin’ for somethin’ or other.’

‘You had better talk to him.’ Louella said coldly.

‘I can’t do that! He’d kill me.’

‘Then there is nothing I can do to help you. I shall have to go straight to the police, otherwise I’ll find myself in the same position as you, and I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in jail.’

Marge shuddered. ‘I’ll get you my thousand dollars,’ she said quickly, ‘and I’ll talk to Herbie, he’ll think of something. Is that OK? Will that help us?’

Louella nodded. ‘I should think so. Only I don’t expect my friend can wait too long for the rest of the money.’

*    *    *

Herbert didn’t go home that night. He had found a way to I get onto the patio on the beach side of Sunday’s house. By crawling along on his hands and knees, then resting on his stomach, he could peer through a chink in the curtains into her bedroom.

He waited two hours after the lights went off, to be sure everyone was asleep. He was especially nervous that the little dog would wake up, start yapping, and give him away.

He inched himself slowly and silently towards her window, then raised himself to look inside.

His luck was in. She hadn’t bothered to pull the drapes at all, and he had a clear view of her sprawled across the bed, covered only by a thin sheet. One long brown leg was thrown over the sheet, and a bare arm.

It occurred to him that she was naked beneath the sheet, and that if he waited patiently she would throw it off altogether. His mouth went dry at the thought, and his breathing became laboured and heavy.

It would be so easy, he thought, to force the safety-catch on her window and let himself in. He was confident that once he identified himself as the writer of the letters, she would welcome him with open arms. But it was too soon. He wasn’t ready. He had to be free.

Chewing on his lower lip, he crouched uncomfortably, watching her until dawn. Then he made his way back to his car and dozed until she emerged at seven o’clock and set off for the studios.

He followed her. Only when she was safely inside the studio gates did he go home to Marge.

Charlie was in a depression. His birthday came and went and he celebrated it alone at his hotel.

He had not telephoned Phillipa since the night she had walked out on him. He had given up the struggle as far as she was concerned.

He took out Thames Mason, who bored him with talk about the number of magazine covers she had appeared on that year. He took out a mousey studio secretary, who bored him, period. He took out a pseudo-intellectual magazine writer, who wanted to be tied up and raped. He took out a blonde pretty ding-a-ling, who unfortunately reminded him of Dindi. He took out a different woman every night.

One evening, sitting in the back of the Mercedes with a Swedish starlet, he complained to George. ‘You drive this car like a bus, can’t you get a move on?’

George glanced in the rear-view mirror. It was very unlike Charlie to be picky with him, when in any case he was already exceeding the speed limit.

Charlie leaned back in the car, trying to avoid the onslaught of words from the Swede. She hadn’t stopped all night. After five minutes of her company he had been ready to slit her throat, and now they had been together for two long hours.

‘So the producer said to me, “You are a beautiful girl, Lena, and the star refuses to have you in the same scene with her. Can you blame her?” he said. So they cut me out. Of course I can understand it, Clara is ten years older than me and—’

Charlie tuned out. Enough was enough. He would phone Phillipa the next day.

‘Come on, George, I’ve got a seven o’clock call tomorrow,’ he said irritably.

George put his foot down and the big car surged forward. They were approaching a changing light and, sensing his boss’s impatience, George pressed his foot down even harder. They could just make it across the light.

That was the last George remembered before the accident. He never even saw the Cadillac coming the other way.

In the split second before the cars hit, Charlie knew what was happening, and he grabbed the girl, covering her with his body.

He woke up two days later in the Cedars of Lebanon Hospital.

It was the strangest feeling to open your eyes and not know where you were or what was happening. There was a tube attached to his arm, but apart from that he couldn’t feel or see any sign of injury.

He was in a plain white room. A nurse sat next to the bed, knitting, her head bent in concentration.

‘Nurse,’ he tried to say. His voice came out as a dried-up croak, just enough to attract her attention.

She dropped the knitting and jumped up. ‘Mr Brick,’ she fluttered, ‘you’re awake, that’s wonderful. Please don’t move, I’ll call for the doctor.’

‘Must have some water,’ he gasped. His throat felt swollen and intolerably dry.

She lifted his head and allowed him a few sips, although he could have drunk the whole pitcher twice over. Then she departed, returning with a doctor and two more nurses.

*    *    *

Slowly, he pieced together the story. The two cars, travelling in opposite directions, had both been trying to jump the light. The passenger in the front seat of the Cadillac died. The driver and George were both suffering from multiple injuries. Charlie, by protecting the girl in the back, had smashed his head on the side and been unconscious for two days. The girl – Lena – had escaped with a few bruises.

Charlie had a bump on his head the size of an egg, and a nasty cut across his forehead. He felt relieved to be alive. It had been a close call, and the doctors had been unable to predict how long he would stay unconscious. It could have been weeks or even months.

‘I never realized so many people cared,’ Charlie told Clay a few days later. ‘You should see some of the letters I’ve had, it’s bloody marvellous.’ He was thinking in particular of a letter from Lorna, a letter full of all the love and affection she had never given him in their marriage. God, she had changed. But then so had he.

‘There were a lot of people thought you might not pull through,’ Clay remarked. ‘Those head injuries are very dodgy things.’

‘I’ve seen the papers. Christ, the English ones are almost obituaries. But I feel good. In fact I never really felt anything except a diabolical headache when I woke up. It’s poor old George I’m worried about. He’s broken about everything there is to break. They say he’ll be OK although it will take some time. I don’t know what I’ll do without him.’

‘I wanted to talk to you about that. We’ve got this great chauffeur who we never seem to use. Natalie is too tired to go shopping now, and I prefer to drive myself anyway, so he’s all yours.’

‘Wait a minute, I don’t want to—’

‘No argument, Charlie. You don’t need all the drag of interviewing and finding someone, this guy will do you fine. His name is Herbert. I’ll have him meet you tomorrow. In fact I’ll come with him.’