Stranger At Home (20 page)

“What did you think of that?”

“It sounded good. How did it look?”

“Even better. She's telling the truth – as far as she's telling anything.”

Doyle said, “Uh huh. Of course you know one thing.”

“What?”

“You can't hold the Vickers dame. You can stall for a while, maybe, on the grounds that you're still questioning her, but it won't work very long. Sam Leiber went hightailing it up to the Vickers' place last night, and he's the best lawyer in town. He'll have her out of here before noon. And you haven't got a goddamn thing to go to the D.A. with. You ask for an indictment, and he'll throw you right out on your can.”

Trehearne sighed. “How right you are.” He got up and went over to the window, to look out at the drifting mist. He yawned. His eyes were bloodshot and he had not shaved.

“I've put that gorgeous black-haired babe over the jumps,” he said. “I've questioned her up, down, and sideways. And I've found out two things. She didn't kill Harry Bryce, and she loves her husband. I'll bet my next week's pay on it.”

Doyle examined Trehearne with a certain quizzical amusement. “You mean because she talks so straight, or because she looks so curved?”

“If I weren't so sleepy,” Trehearne said, “I'd come over there and beat your ears down. I'm not through with her yet. Lawyers or no lawyers, I'm not through. Likewise that Merrill character. She's got potentialities.”

“You can have 'em,” said Doyle. “I'll take the pigeon.”

“You ought to take something for that,” said Trehearne sourly. “All you think of is sex.”

Doyle grinned. “Naturally. Can't you remember before you were old and married?” He listened while Trehearne made a few observations. He sighed and shook his head. “And you have such a sweet face,” he said.

“Forget my face. Forget women, as such. Just concentrate quietly on murder, its causes and effects. It's quite possible that Merrill lowered the boom on Harry himself.”

“Motive?”

“She's in love with the girl herself.”

“Oh-oh!” said Doyle. “Not one of those!”

“Call it that. Call it mother-love, or just plain old unselfish devotion – if devotion is ever unselfish, which you'll have to prove to me. Call it any damn thing you like. Fact remains, she doesn't want anybody messing about with her little Angie. Not even Angie's husband.”

He leaned his back against the wall and lighted a cigarette. He winced.

“Christ, my lips are sore! Smoking too much. You remember Bryce's widow said he'd been hanging around Angie too much, and Angie admitted that herself. Said she wished he'd go away. All right. But he was there, and maybe somebody thought he was moving in too solid with the gal. Maybe that somebody was Joan. She had a husband who was just too much man for her to handle, and she doesn't approve of sex, in the usual sense. Also, she's jealous as hell. If Joan Merrill had happened to bump into Harry, and Harry was pretty drunk and bent on rape, little Joanie would have brained him and never turned a hair.”

Doyle thought that over, and grinned. “You think she'd think she had to protect Angie? Mrs. V. looks to me like a gal who could handle herself in the clinches.”

“There are times when no woman can handle herself, if the guy really means business.” Trehearne yawned until his jaws cracked. “Besides, horrible thought, maybe Angie wasn't going to fight too hard for her virtue. Four years is a long time.”

He sat down. “The trouble is,” he said plaintively, “the same motive is just as good for a couple of guys named Vickers and Saul. Crandall's out, of course. He's tried hard enough, but he can't seem to rack up anything worse against himself than assault with intent to kill.” He considered a moment, returning to an earlier train of thought. “The blackmail angle is only good, of course, if Angie had something to do with Vickers getting conked in Mexico and Bryce was the guy who did it. For my money she didn't, and she says he didn't either. However, we will hold the thought.” He put his feet up on the desk. He said disconsolately, “So, here we are, right back where we started from. Suspects fall in every time you open the door, but they slip like water through your fingers. It's all very sad.”

“You're getting paid for it,” said Doyle. “What happens now?”

“I do a little more questioning, and I let them go.”

“Then what?”

“You really want to know?” said Joe Trehearne. “All right, I'll tell you. Somebody will get killed.” His voice held a great bitterness. “This thing isn't finished yet. No matter who killed Harry Bryce, his death didn't solve anything. I'll lay you six, two, and even it was Vickers who conked him, but it was still just a curtain raiser. So I will let go all these nice people who are telling the truth, or maybe only part of the truth, or maybe none of it at all. I will sit back, regretting the polite, sweet laws that prevent me from getting the truth out of people, and the social set-up that makes it possible for rich important bastards like Vickers to prevent me from getting around the laws that prevent me. And I will watch while somebody else gets killed, and the public will call me a corrupt and blundering incompetent because I didn't prevent the crime, and the Department will take my pants down and cane me soundly, and after that, by Jesus, I will make an arrest and somebody will go to the gas chamber.”

He smiled vaguely at Doyle. He did not really see him.

“Yes,” he said softly. “A guy can't be lucky like that again. There was a reason for Vickers driving everybody but his wife away – more reason than that crap about having to be alone to talk. The reason, whatever it is, is still here. Nothing's changed. Something was scheduled to happen up there last night, when Brownie was slugged. That's why he was slugged, so he wouldn't interfere. Maybe it was Vickers used the brass knucks. Maybe it was Saul. But stealing Brownie's wallet was just to make it look good.”

Doyle said quietly, “From what I hear, you were kind of rough on Brownie.”

“He shouldn't have let himself be caught. Besides, I wanted the guy to think he'd got away with it, so maybe he'd try again.” Trehearne took his feet off the desk. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands as 

loose and relaxed as his face. He seemed tired, and bored, and deeply, very deeply, annoyed.

“That house,” he said, “is going to be watched. All those people are going to be watched. I'm going to make it as tough for them as I can. They're not dumb. They'll know it. I'm going to make 'em work. By Jesus, I'm going to make 'em sweat, figuring out what they've got to do. But they'll go ahead and do it. They can't wait. This isn't murder for profit, or convenience. It isn't cold­blooded. It's hot, and it's violent, and that kind of murder won't wait.”

The cab pulled to a stop in front of the house on the hill. Michael Vickers got out. The cabby handed him a parcel, accepted a bill, said good night, and drove away. There were no bullet holes in the rear windows. It was dark, the soft incomplete darkness of early evening, and it was quiet on the hill, and very peaceful. Vickers mounted the steps.

The door opened. Angie came out and took his arm closely in hers. She said,

“How are you, darling?”

“Fine. Trehearne behaved himself admirably. I think it pained him, but he did. When did they let you go?”

“Around two o'clock.” They were in the hall now. Angie closed the door. Coolin and Molly came from the direction of the kitchen and descended upon Vickers with passionate delight. The tangled mass of hounds and people made its way toward the living room. In the archway, Vickers stopped.

After a moment he said, “Hello, Bill.” There was neither welcome nor distaste in his voice. Joan Merrill sat in a corner, knitting. She looked up, but she did not speak.

Bill Saul, who was comfortably settled with a tall drink, studied Vickers and grinned.

“They're getting better and better with the rubber hose,” he said. “It doesn't show on you at all.”

Vickers laughed shortly. “It shows on Trehearne. He's getting as tired of me as I am of him.” He came into the room and dumped the parcel on a chair. “He now knows everything about me except what he wants to know.”

“Which is?”

“Whether or not I killed Harry. Or rather, how to prove I killed him. I know he's convinced I did.” Vickers swung around suddenly and took both of Angie's hands in his. He held her off and looked at her, then drew her in to him. “How are you, Angie?”

“Tired.” She smiled. “And relieved.” Her face was without color, pinched and drawn with weariness. But she was beautiful. Vickers thought he had never seen anything so beautiful as she was then. He kissed her.

“How did they treat you? Were they all right?”

She shrugged. “They were just trying to find out about Harry. It's their job. Yes, they were all right.” She seemed not to want to think about it. She touched the parcel. “What on earth is this?”

“Oh.” He pulled the wrapping open. “There's an inventory somewhere. One man's suit, gray. One shirt, white. One pair men's shoes, Oxfords, black. And so on. These things have been put through every test known to human science and have been found pure. No blood. I know Trehearne was horribly disappointed.”

Over in her corner, Joan Merrill's knitting needles broke rhythm, slowed, and came to a stop. She did not look up. After a while she began to knit again.

Angie said to Vickers, “I know I shan't want to wear my things ever again.” She shuddered and turned away. “Will you have a drink?”

“Definitely. You ready for another, Bill?”

“Thanks.” Saul handed his glass to Angie, then looked at Vickers. His eyes smiled, but the smile was barbed with malice. Vickers thought,
He's always got a private joke. One with a sting in it. Is he laughing at me, or at himself, or just at a little thing called creation? I suppose he'll look like that when he dies
.

Saul said, “Your little wife has your welfare at heart, and no fooling. I've had to hold both her hands to keep her quiet.”

Vickers nodded pleasantly. “Thank you, Bill. It's always nice to know that some strong capable man has one's wife's welfare at heart. Have they been questioning you any further, Bill?”

“Oh, sure. A character named Doyle has been hanging around my place. I think he's on the make for Peggy. Thanks, Gorgeous.” He accepted his refilled glass from Angie, and then watched her and Vickers sit down together on the couch. “Ah, me. A touching sight. Joan, I ask you. Don't they look like an ad for the benefits of marriage?”

Joan glanced up, briefly. Very briefly. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, they do.” She gathered up her knitting. ‘I'm very tired. Unless you want something –” she was looking at Angie and no one else – “I'll go on upstairs.”

Angie said, “Of course, dear. I don't know what we're going to do about eating, everything's so upset. I can bring you a tray...”

‘I'm not the least bit hungry.” Joan crossed the room and picked up the bundle of Vickers' clothes. “I'll lay these in your room, Michael.”

“Don't bother with them. I'll take 'em up later.”

“It's no trouble,” she said, a trifle stiffly. She mounted the low steps to the hall.

“Joan.”

She stopped and turned around. “Yes, Michael?”

He had risen and was standing uncertainly on the verge of doing or saying something. Joan remained quite still, hugging the bundle of clothing in her arms. Finally Vickers said, half curtly,

“Thanks for getting Angie out of that.”

She said quietly, “There's nothing to thank me for.”

Vickers waited until she had reached the foot of the stairs before he spoiled her exit by saying frankly, “I know it. I was merely trying to be civil.” She shot him one furious glance over her shoulder, and he bowed. “Good night, Joan.” He sat down again and shook his head. “That isn't a sweater she's knitting. That's a noose. She and Trehearne are going to fasten it on me together and tie it with a true lover's knot.” He put his hand on Angie's knee. “Really, sweet, I know she's your bosom friend and all that. But she has been down there since early morning trying to talk me right into Death Row. I mean, there is a limit!”

Bill Saul said, “You don't have to tell us. We've been hearing it ever since the gals got out of clink. Sam Leiber and I formed a welcoming committee, since you were in conference, so to speak, and Sam finally told Joan she could get herself into trouble talking that way. Libel, or something.”

Angie sighed. “Poor Joan. And she's only trying to help me.” She looked pleadingly up at Vickers. “Darling, you've every right to throw her out, but for my sake, will you be patient just a little while? I'll talk to her, try to straighten her out...”

He studied her, half sardonically amused at himself for listening to her. “And if she won't straighten?”

“Then I suppose she'll have to go.”

Joan Merrill, bent in an attitude of listening over the newel post at the top of the stairs, heard Angie say that clearly enough. Her voice was unhappy, extremely so, but it was also decided. Joan's already pale face became dead white, and a stab of pain went through her. It started in the pit of her stomach and went up into her heart, so that she heard the rest of the conversation in the living room as a disconnected blur of words. She heard Vickers say that he would leave it to Angie to work out. She heard Bill Saul laugh, and tell Vickers he was certainly a changed man, because four years ago Joan would have been thrown to the dogs, literally, without a by-your-leave. She heard Vickers say quietly that Joan had been a good friend to Angie. By that time she had her breath again. She went slowly down the hall to Vickers' room. The voices downstairs became detached, far away from her. She was quite alone.