Stranger At Home (16 page)

He said softly, ‘I'm not the police, nor a court of law. I'm your husband. I'm more than that, because I love you. I don't give a damn whether you killed Harry Bryce or not. I only want to know that you're not lying to me.”

He held her, and she did not move nor try to break away.

“I did not kill Harry Bryce,” she said. “I was not the woman Job saw.”

“All right,” said Vickers.

He bent and kissed her throat. It was beautiful, the cords shaped in smooth strength against the backward pull of his hand. He released it, and as she straightened he met her mouth with his.

After a while he whispered, “I trust you, darling. If I ever find I've been wrong, God help you.”

He felt her move against him as she laughed. “At least
I
know now that
you
didn't kill Harry.”

“Bitch,” he said, and kissed her again. “Poor old Job. I wonder who he did see.”

“I don't know. I was in the cabana then, I guess. I wanted to give Harry plenty of time to clear out of the way. He wasn't behaving nicely at all. I didn't see any other woman on the beach at all that night. But then, I wasn't watching.”

“You didn't hear anything.”

She shook her head. “I had the radio on. Sort of reflex action, I guess. I wasn't listening to it.”

Vickers guided her over to the couch. They sat down. “A woman with black hair and a light dress,” he said. “It was night, of course, and Job was drunk, but those are details you couldn't get confused on. Might have been Jennie Bryce. Her hair is dark enough to look black.”

“She was wearing a black dress. I particularly remember. It was cut clear down to her navel in front, and the skirt was so tight she could hardly walk.”

Vickers laughed softly. “Do I detect a slight ring of jealousy behind that righteous virtue?”

She took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back, and grinned at him. “What do you think?”

Vickers got up. “Stop that,” he said. “I've got to keep my mind on what we're doing.” He went over and got cigarettes from the table. Angie, sobering very quickly, curled up in the corner and said quietly,

“We ought to be ashamed of ourselves. We make cracks, and Job's on his way to...” She broke off, shaking her head. “Vick, I can't believe it. It just won't sink in.”

“I know.” He gave her a cigarette and held the light for her. “Poor devil. Can't say I blame him much.”

“No,” she said slowly, “but... Vick, you don't think they'll kill him, do you? After all, it wasn't premeditated...” He sat down beside her and she leaned wearily into the angle of his shoulder. “Oh God, what a mess everything is in. How can so many things happen so quickly – and all of them bad.”

“Perhaps,” said Vickers, “I should have stayed away. I don't seem to have brought anybody luck.”

“Except me.”

He looked down at her. “Do you really mean that?”

She reached up and kissed him, the light sweet kiss of lovers who are also friends. Then she sighed and slipped back again, her head rolling in against him. She was like an exhausted child.

“Will this ever be over, Vick? Can we ever just go back to being people again? I don't want to see another policeman as long as I live. I don't want to read another newspaper. And if anyone ever gives me a mystery story, I'll...” She shut her teeth on what she would do. Presently she made a small, rather peculiar sound. “I want to laugh, Vick,” she said, “but it isn't really funny. It isn't funny at all. Don't let me laugh.”

He turned to her quickly. “Here, here, now,” he said gently. “None of that. Darling, you can't fold up in the stretch.”

“I won't,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“Look, darling. We're going to get one thing cleared up very soon.” He touched the scar on his forehead. “It wasn't Harry Bryce who did this. And we know now it wasn't Job. He's willing to take on an extra murder – no reason to fight shy of one that didn't come off. So that leaves Bill Saul.”

“I know,” said Angie. “I've been afraid to think.” She looked at Vickers with wide, shadowed eyes. “There isn't going to be much left, is there?”

He shook his head somberly. “Harry, Job, and Bill. I can understand what's happened to Job, but I'm damned if I can see why anyone should want to kill Harry. Even his discarded loves never seemed to bear him any malice.”

“It still looks,” said Angie, “as though I'm the only logical choice.” He didn't answer. After a minute she asked, “Do you think Bill will come?”

“He's in love with you,” said Vickers. “He hasn't spoken to you, or had word of you for two or three days. He'd come for that alone. But he's got me, too, to think about. And if I won't come out where he can get at me, he'll have to come in.”

“Let me call the police, Vick.” She faced him earnestly. “Now that we know who it is, let me call the police.”

“Not till he's actually in the house, Angie. I don't want him scared off. I want a confession from him, before witnesses – which is the precise and only reason why I had you get Joan Merrill up here. Because your word alone might not be enough. I want this over with.” He laughed, not very humorously, with a definite overtone of nerves. “Christ, I'm no man of iron! I don't like being shot at. I'm like you. I could use a little peace and quiet.”

She said quietly, “He may kill you, Vick.”

“I've learned a lot in four years,” he said. His mouth was hard. He turned suddenly to Angie. “You don't have to stay, you know. If you're frightened, if you just don't want to stay...”

She looked at him.

“All right,” he said. “Only for God's sake keep out of sight. Don't fire that little popgun unless you have to, and Angie – darling – be careful where you shoot!”

She smiled shakily. “You don't sound very trustful.”

“I'm not.” He watched her for a moment. His eyes changed. He whispered, “We'll get this over with. All of it. Then we'll lock the doors on the whole world.” He bent his head until his cheek touched her hair. His hands found her breasts. “Darling,” he whispered. “Darling.”

“You're hurting me...”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No... Oh Vick, I've missed you so!”

“What about me?”

Coolin sprang to his feet with the beginning of a growl in his throat, and the doorbell chimed sweetly through the empty house.

Vickers got to his feet. Angie sat frozen for one brief moment. Then she rose and looked at Vickers, and he put his hand on her shoulder. He seemed, now, to be almost unaware of her presence.

“Go on,” he said. “If that's Bill, wait until he's in here with me. Then go round the back way and call the police. Quick.”

She nodded and went into the dining room and closed the doors tightly behind her. Joan Merrill was sitting in the dark. She put out her hand and Angie took it.

“Listen,” she whispered. “Remember everything they say.”

There was a little automatic lying on a side table, beside a bowl of flowers. Angie picked it up. Through the louvers she could watch Vickers crossing the living room. She could see him disappear into the hallway. She could hear, after a moment, the opening of the outer door, and Bill Saul's voice saying easily,

“Hello, Vick. May I come in?”

Vickers said, “I suppose so. Though I can't recall having invited you.”

He closed the door. Saul walked ahead of him to the archway. He said, “That's all right. I know you didn't intend to be rude.” He glanced into the living room. “Where's Angie?”

“She's not here.”

Saul's pale eyes flickered. “Not here?”

“No.”

“Where is she, then?”

Vickers shrugged. He went past Saul into the living room, without, however, quite turning his back. “We were getting ourselves pretty involved, emotionally. Angie wanted to go away for a day or two, and think. So Joan took her somewhere – over in the valley, I believe.”

“When will she be back?”

“When she gets ready.”

“And Trehearne didn't mind her vanishing?”

“He didn't seem to.”

Saul smiled. He came into the living room. “So you've been all by yourself up here, sulking, and refusing to answer telephones. And you haven't even called your old pals up for some gin rummy to lighten the solitude.”

Vickers said, “No,” with unmistakable rudeness.

Saul's voice held an equally unmistakable amusement. “You know something, Vick? I think you're lying.”

Vickers gave him a lifted eyebrow. “It's of no particular interest to me what you think.”

Saul said, “It's of interest to me what's happened to Angie.”

Vickers sat down on the arm of the couch. He seemed bored rather than angry.

“Really, Bill! I don't mind your being in love with my wife. Half the men in town seem to be in love with her, and I can understand that. But I do resent everybody accusing me of having murdered her, or of being about to murder her, because of it. Do I seem to be that primitive?”

“That's just it, Vick. We're not quite sure.”

Vickers got up. He went and stood in front of Bill Saul, quite close to him. Saul's hands hung relaxed at his sides. Vickers towered over him. He smiled.

“What are you going to do about it?”

‘I'm going to look around, if I may.”

“You may not.”

“Why?”

“Because this is my house and I will be goddamned if people can make free of it.”

After a moment Saul shrugged. “All right, Vick. You're a big boy. You can take me anytime.” He turned away. “Mind if I have a drink?”

“Help yourself.”

Saul took a long time over pouring the drink. The cellarette was not too far from the dining room doors. Vickers sat down on the arm of the couch again. He watched Saul, not with any particular intentness. Saul's triangular, faun-like face was as blank as a dead-end wall. A gambler's face, unreadable. Presently he looked up at Vickers, and a faint cold light of anger began to gleam in his eyes. He held the glass in his hand, full and untouched.

“Still playing Jehovah, aren't you?” he said. “You've got a hell of a nerve.” He walked toward Vickers. His shoulders were dropped forward slightly, his weight light on the balls of his feet. “You resent being accused of murder. But the other way round is all right. Since you came back, out of God knows where and cares less, you've accused me of it. You've accused Job. It was no good accusing Harry to his face, but you made that plain enough, too.” He paused. He studied Vickers as though he were something not quite human. “But
you're
resentful.”

“Good old Bill,” said Vickers. “You always were the only one with guts. Go on.”

Saul nodded. “I'll go on. If you've done anything to Angie, I'll go on till I see you in hell.”

Vickers hit him.

Saul went down hard onto his back. The glass shot out of his hand and rolled across the carpet, leaving a long stain of liquor. The hounds, who had become increasingly nervous, came to their feet roaring. Vickers spoke to them sharply. They subsided, growling. Bill Saul sat up. He shook his head and blinked, and ran the back of his hand across his mouth. He was not bleeding. He looked up at Vickers and said conversationally,

‘I'm beginning to resent
you
, Vick.”

Vickers said, “I can believe that.” He was standing beside Saul now. He didn't do anything, but something about his attitude, the way he was balanced, suggested that Saul had better remain seated. It was very quiet in 

the house, very quiet outside. There was no sound of sirens, even in the distance, nor any sound of cars on the hill. Vickers went on,

“Apparently you all resented me.”

“We had a right to. Let me ask you, Vick. Why did you keep us around?”

“Because you amused me.”

“There's your answer.”

“You didn't have to stay and take it. Only there was Angie, wasn't there? And Angie had all the virtues I lacked, in addition to just being Angie. By the way, how did you do with her while I was gone?”

Saul said wryly, “I didn't.” His eyes were narrow, malicious, very bright. “Given a little more time, or a certainty that you were dead...” He shrugged.

“Yes,” said Vickers slowly. “That was stupid of you, Bill. You should have made sure.”

“Oh. Now you've made a definite choice. It's me.”

Vickers looked down at him. Bill Saul seemed to be comfortable on the floor. There was nothing even faintly indicative of worry about him. Vickers began suddenly to grow angry. He was more angry than he had ever been in his life. He wanted to beat Bill Saul to death and then tramp upon his face – not because of what Saul had done to him, but because Saul was making him look silly. He felt like a small boy in a tantrum.
My God
, he thought,
I shall be throwing things and screaming, all because Bill isn't behaving like a killer
.

He went away from Bill and sat down. “Get up,” he said. “For heaven's sake, get up, get yourself a drink, and get me one, too.” His head, abruptly, began to split. He took it in his hands and laughed. The laughter was rueful, but genuine.

“These things,” he said, “should go smoothly. There's a certain pattern, a certain form. They start with the accusation, delivered in a concise and dramatic manner, and end with the confession, which is then followed by threats, or abject surrender, depending on the individual. This little scene has got awfully bitched up.”

Saul handed him a healthy double shot. He got rid of it quickly and felt better. “Sit down.” He leaned forward and looked steadily at Saul. “The hell of it is, Bill, I know you tried to kill me in Mexico. I have the impulse to beat it out of you, but... the atmosphere is wrong, somehow.”
In Pépon's alley I could have done it, and laid your body with the rats. But not here. Not with Angie watching
...