Stranger At Home (17 page)

“Besides,” he added, ‘I'm not sure beating would do any good, with you.”

Saul shrugged. “It's been tried,” he said. “By experts. Why do you think I tried to kill you?”

“I know it wasn't Harry, because somebody tried again, with a gun, after Harry was dead. I know now it wasn't Job. He was up here a little while ago, and he's in the clear, absolutely. That seems to put it right in your lap, Bill.”

“That's the way you figure it.”

Vickers said slowly, “I always thought it was you. You're the only one I could ever see having guts enough to hit a man with homicidal intent – even from the back.”

There was not the briefest flicker of expression across Saul's face. He said, with a certain cold edge to his tone, “I may hit you, Vick, and it may be with homicidal intent, but it won't be from the back.” He paused. “There's just one thing wrong with your logic. One factor you're leaving out.”

“What's that?”

“You.”

Vickers looked at Saul from between his hands. There was a bar of pain being pressed down between his temples. It weighed on his eyeballs and the bar was bright, and the shimmer spread out from it so that he could not see very clearly. He said, “Explain that, will you?”

“You got knocked on the head. That much you know. The rest of it you've built up in your own mind. It wouldn't be hard to do. I've been hurt once or twice myself, and I know how your brain acts when it's full of fever. You had it rough for four years. That's stamped all over you. All right. It's natural to want revenge. And it's natural to hook onto something – or somebody – definite, so you can be sure of getting that revenge. We were the last people you remembered seeing. You knew us. You didn't know José Doakes, who saw a rich gringo wandering around with a king-size bun on and just couldn't resist the temptation. So we were it.”

He got up, heading for the cellarette again. “Will you have another drink, Vick, while that's soaking in?”

Vickers was staring straight ahead of him, at the place where Bill Saul had been sitting. He did not seem to be aware that Saul had moved. There was a long pause before he said,

“Yes. I'll have another drink.”

Saul took the glass out of his hand and went to refill it. Vickers did not stir. He sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands holding his cracking skull together, and presently his eyes closed and a deep groove came between his brows. Bill Saul came back with Vickers' drink and put it down beside him.

Vickers opened his eyes. There was a queer expression in them. He got up and took the lapels of Saul's coat in his hands and held them in close, so that Saul's face was near his own. He examined it. Saul's mouth, for the first time, twitched nervously.

“I heard a voice,” Vickers said. “I can still hear it. It said, ‘Turn around, Vickers. I've waited a long time for this.' It said, ‘I want to see your face as you go down.'”

“Imagination, Vick. Dreams.”

“It spoke in English. It called me by name. It was no Mexican thief talking to me.”

Small beads of sweat stood out along Saul's hairline. “Vick!” he said.

“It was your voice, Bill. It must have been.”

His hands were large, with strong bones and a lacing of thick muscle. They were the hands of a stevedore, a laborer, a common seaman. They let go of the lapels of Bill Saul's coat and fastened around Bill Saul's neck. They tightened.

Saul's upper lip curled back. He seemed to be grinning, but there was no humor in it. He slid his right hand into his pocket.

The dining room doors opened. Angie's voice cried out. Vickers shivered. Saul's eyes moved until they could see Angie, coming toward Vickers. Saul's face relaxed. He took his hand out of his pocket. The veins in his forehead were swollen and his breath rasped painfully. Angie said, “Vick. Vick, what are you doing?”

She touched his wrist. She was quite calm, not in the least noisy or hysterical. Her face was dead white. Vickers turned his head and looked at her. His grip loosened on Saul's throat. He frowned at Angie, and then he seemed to remember who she was. He let go of Bill Saul altogether. He stood for a moment looking from one to the other and then he turned away and leaned one hand on the back of the couch and stayed there. He was shaking. Saul straightened his collar. He coughed a couple of times and finally got his voice working.

“Angie,” he said. “Where in the hell did you spring from?”

“In there.” She nodded toward the dining room. “I'll explain about it later. Maybe you'd better go, Bill.”

“Yeah. I think I get the set-up, though. Not so dumb, at that.” He caught her by the shoulder, almost roughly. “What do you think about it? Did I...?” He jerked his head toward Vickers.

She said softly, “Bill, I don't know what to think!” For a moment it seemed she was going to cry.

Saul said, “Do you want to get out of here?”

“No.” She looked at Vickers. “No, Bill. Thanks. I'll call you in the morning.” She laughed. It was not a gay sound. “Quite a situation, isn't it?”

“Yeah. Isn't it.” Saul went over to Vickers. “Vick.”

Vickers raised his head slowly.

Saul said, “Will you do something? For your sake, for Angie's sake – for all of us. Will you go see a psychiatrist?”

Vickers did not answer. He turned away and sat down on the couch. Bill Saul went out. The front door closed behind him. The hounds paced and growled uneasily. There was still no sign of the police. Angie sat down beside Vickers.

“Baby...”

His eyes were strange and unseeing. He caught her wrist. “Am I crazy? Have I just dreamed all this?”

“Darling. I...”

“If I dreamed it, then who shot at me? Who tried to kill me in the taxi? Or... did I dream that, too?”

He got up and went away from her. Presently he turned and said, “Do you think I'm crazy?”

“Of course not, Vick. It could be like Bill says, and it wouldn't mean you were crazy. You've been through an awful lot. You could have made a mistake. Anybody could.”

“I suppose so.” He was still shaking. He put his hands in his pockets. They were cold.

Angie said, “In a way, wouldn't you be happier to know it was a mistake? That none of your friends was guilty of such an awful thing?”

He shook his head. “I have no friends, Angie. They're all yours.” He drew a long unsteady breath. “I don't know.” He came back to the couch and flung himself down beside her and put his head on her shoulder, his face pressed against her neck. She could feel his lips move. “I don't know...”

Joan Merrill came in from the dining room. She looked at Vickers with distaste, and spoke to Angie.

“I just thought I'd tell you. I didn't call the police.”

Angie stared at her. “But, Joan! I sent you.”

“I know. But I didn't call them.”

“Why not?”

She gestured impatiently. “Why cause any more trouble? We've had enough publicity as it is. I knew the whole thing was a lot of melodramatic tommyrot.” Vickers had sat up. Joan looked him straight in the eye. “Just like you, Michael. An ordinary accident couldn't happen to you. To anybody else in the world, but not to Michael Vickers. With you it would have to be attempted murder, with a lot of fancy trimmings.” She paused. “You don't need a psychiatrist, Michael. You just need a little sense.”

She walked out. They sat watching her until she was out of sight, and they could hear her climbing the stairs. Vickers got up. He didn't go anywhere, or say anything. He just got up, and stayed there. Angie watched him. Her mouth moved uncertainly, but she did not speak. Her eyes were worried. They were a lot like Coolin's eyes, watching Vickers.

A little thread of sound crept in under the silence. At first nobody noticed it. Then Molly pricked up her ears and howled, tentatively, and Vickers said, “Quiet.”

He bent his head, listening. “A siren,” he said. “It's coming up the hill.”

The siren continued to come up the hill. It came into the drive and stopped. Vickers went into the hallway. He glanced up the stairs. Joan Merrill had come part way down again. Angie came after Vickers and put her hand on his arm. Nobody said anything. The hounds pushed their muzzles against the crack of the door and snuffled and growled.

Vickers pushed them away and opened the door.

There were three men outside. One was in uniform. He was from the Hollywood Sheriff's office. Two were in plain clothes. They were all policemen. One of the plainclothes men said politely,

“We'll all wait inside. Trehearne will be along in a minute.”

There was another man in uniform standing alongside the car in the drive. Joan Merrill came the rest of the way down the stairs. She took hold of Angie. Vickers. said, “What do you want?”

The three men came inside. They were not belligerent. The man who had first spoken said again, “Trehearne is coming.” He nodded toward the living room. 

Vickers looked from one to the other. He shrugged and put his arm around Angie. Joan shot him a quick, furious look and let go. She followed behind them as they went toward the living room. The three men followed her.

From somewhere outside, a faint hail reached them. It had a note of urgency in it. Everybody stopped. A look passed between the three men, and the uniformed policeman went quickly back to the door. Outside, the man by the car began to run along the drive.

The plainclothes man again indicated the living room.

They went in. Vickers sat down, with Angie close beside him. Joan stood in the middle of the floor and looked at the strange men.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “What do you want?”

The man said monotonously, “Trehearne is coming. He'll tell you.”

Vickers said, “Joan. Sit down.”

Joan looked at Angie. Angie smiled. It was meant to be a reassuring smile. It was not. Joan sat down. Coolin and Molly prowled about, sniffing at the strangers. They did not approve of the smell of them, and said so.

The second plainclothes man spoke for the first time. “Mister,” he said, “will you for Chrissake call off those elephants. They make me nervous.”

Vickers said, ‘I'm so sorry.” He called the hounds. They came reluctantly and crouched down. The room became quiet. There was no further sound from outside. Nobody said anything. Vickers put his hand up to his forehead to stop the throbbing. Angie's hand was on his thigh. Her fingers bit into the flesh.

There came a distant murmur of voices from the drive.

Everybody leaned forward slightly, listening. The voices came closer. One of them was very loud, full of a large anger, and not articulated. There were footsteps. People scuffled heavily up to the door and through it into the hall. They came into the archway and stood looking down into the room.

One of the people was Joe Trehearne. His eyes were hot and angry. He was half supporting a man with a split chin and a raw pair of wrists and lips that were puffed out like slabs of liver. A man who was covered with dirt and dry leaves and a fair quantity of blood, which was not yet as dry as the leaves.

Trehearne said, “Vickers, did you do this?”

Vickers said, “Certainly not!” He got up. “Well, don't stand there like a fool, Trehearne. Bring the man in. Joan, will you get him a drink?”

Joan rose and went to the cellarette. Trehearne helped the man down the steps and into a chair. He was still glaring at Vickers.

“Brownie,” he said, “is this the guy?”

Brownie shook his head. “Dunno.” He took the glass Joan offered him, gulped down the whisky in it, yelped and went rigid as the stuff burned the cuts inside his mouth. Finally he shook his head again. He said to Trehearne plaintively, “Told you didn't see him.” His words were barely formed.

Angie said, “Is there anything I can do?”

Trehearne glanced at her. “No. We're leaving right away.” Brownie was fishing in his pockets for a handkerchief. Trehearne said to Vickers,

“Who's been up here tonight?”

“Job Crandall...”

Brownie nodded. He could not seem to find his handkerchief.

“And Bill Saul.”

Brownie said, “Saw
him
go. Musta come while I was out.”

Vickers turned to Trehearne. “Who is he?”

“Don't you know?”

Vickers said patiently, “No. I don't know.” He listened while Trehearne explained Brownie. “I hadn't noticed him. Maybe Bill slugged him, I wouldn't know. I certainly didn't. Now would you mind telling us what you're here for?”

Brownie shot suddenly to his feet. His eyes were amazed and wild, like one who has just had a firecracker exploded under him.

“Jesus Christ!“ he howled. “I been robbed!”

There was a startled silence. Then one of the uniformed men burst into laughter, which was instantly hushed. Brownie turned red, then purple. He turned around, glaring from one to the other. Nobody laughed again, but they were obviously strangling on it. Trehearne pushed Brownie back into the chair again. He sighed wearily.

“Okay, Brownie,” he said. “I know it isn't safe to be out after dark on these lonely roads. You weren't by any chance raped, were you?” He turned from Brownie, who was now between fury and tears, and spoke to Angie.

“You're under arrest, Mrs. Vickers,” he said, “for the murder of Harold Bryce.”

Angie stared at him. She did not, somehow, seem surprised, or even startled. Only her face seemed to have aged and grown thinner in the last few minutes. Vickers moved forward. There was an instant reaction on the part of the law. Vickers stopped. He glanced around the room, then said to Trehearne,

“You came well protected this time.”

Trehearne shrugged. “These boys live too close to the studios. They like to do things in style. Besides, men sometimes object to having their wives arrested.”