Take my face (13 page)

"I didn't. But I'd have a hell of a time proving it.

Julie picked up the paper. "One last look."

"I think Lucia's more than a little nuts," said Joe.

"Maybe. But she was so darn triumphant! . . . Look, maybe this is it."

"What?"

Julie pointed. "This man." She pointed to a shape on the dance floor.

"What about him?"

"He's got his mask on. He danced with Cathy

several times. No one knew who he was. No one does yet."

"A man danced with Cathy. So what?"

"He might be Robert Struve."

Joe laughed. "You're letting Robert Struve hypnotize you."

"Somebody killed her. Nobody else had any reason to."

"But what reason could Struve have? That's something I've never got straight."

Julie sighed. "It's a long story. I only know what Cathy told me ... It all goes back to that awful Tri-Gamma initiation."

Joe waited.

"Cathy and Lucia and Dean went into the room. To kiss Robert. They thought he was passed out—drunk—and made some silly cracks. Nothing serious—but I suppose they were rather mean. Enough to make Robert hate them all."

"That was years ago. It sounds farfetched."

"Cathy and Dean both had their faces cut up. Just where Robert's face was so awful. And Carr heard him—heard what he said to Cathy."

Joe tossed the paper to the coffee table. "I've got an idea."

"What?"

"Lucia says she knows what's going on."

Julie regarded him quizzically. "And your idea is to take Lucia out for a ride, and park."

"It was just an idea," said Joe.

"You're full of ideas." Julie kicked at the newspaper. "She'd be lording it over me for years. Worse than she does now."

"She's just jealous."

"I'd rather have her jealous of me than me jealous of her."

"You've never been jealous of anyone in your life."

"Oh, yes I have . . . But I'd never tell you of whom."

Joe rose to his feet. "I think I'll be going."

"Okay," said Julie. "But before you do another thing, you go and get your job back."

"All right," said Joe. "If you say so."

"I say so. Now give me a kiss."

CHAPTER XII

Out at the Turrets, twilight had come. The sun was twenty minutes gone; the sky was a smear of orange into which the old gables cut notches of absorbent black. The trees around the house had collected a brood of shadows.

The house was quiet. Judge Small sat in the library with Chapman's Doctrines of Freehold on his lap. His head lolled back; he was dozing. The maid had set out a pre-bedtime collation and gone home.

Lucia was up in her room. She lay on the bed, leafing slowly through the pages of a large book in front of her. It was the San Giorgio High School yearbook, the year of her graduation. She turned the pages and the familiar faces appeared, passed, and were gone.

On one page she lingered, looking into Cathy McDermott's face. It smiled out, innocently confident. Lucia made a bitter sardonic sound in her throat, a comment on the unpredictability of

life, tinged faintly with satisfaction. On the opposite page was Dean Pendry, with head flung back to display the profile, the tempestuous hair.

She flicked the pages over—one after the other —to the S's. Lucia Small. And Lucia stared at the picture. Her hair—she had worn it drawn tightly back from her face. Her mouth was pressed into a prim little smile meaning nothing.

"I'm not like that!" said Lucia between her teeth. "I'm not like that!"

She turned pages quickly. The junior group pictures: Julie Hovard. Egotistical little smart-aleck, so gay and assured. Lucia thought of the Tri-Gamma initiation, nodded with a bitter smile. Lucia had never been under any illusions about that. And Julie passing it off so nonchalantly!

Lucia jumped to her feet, went to the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door. She stood looking at herself.

I'm pretty! she thought defiantly. She put her hands to her waist, turned this way and that. I'm fine-boned, she thought. I have a patrician body, small breasts, lithe hips.

She slipped out of her clothes.

The doorway behind her opened. Slowly, an inch, two inches, three ... A man stood watching. Lucia picked up her skirt—and a quiver of

the air, a mental tremor disturbed her. She looked at the door.

The man stepped into the room. She opened her mouth, but managed no more than a hoarse croak.

"Take it easy, take it easy . . . You're lovely this way."

"What do you want!" Lucia gasped. "Get out of here!"

"But I just came." He looked her over. "You shouldn't have sent so many letters, Lucia."

"Maybe I shouldn't have." Lucia's voice was strangely free from panic. "I've written other letters, too. They'll be mailed if anything happens to me."

He came toward her. Lucia slid into his arms, pressed against his chest.

Downstairs, old Judge Small stirred, yawned. He lay quiet, his head back on the soft old black leather, his throat corrugated and rough. He reached out for his book, put on his glasses, resumed his reading. He turned a page, nodding now and then.

A sound from somewhere? Judge Small blinked, looked around the library. Nothing seemed amiss.

Upstairs, the man went softly to the door, looked out; no one in sight. He slipped along the

hall to the bathroom, locked himself in, washed with care.

Downstairs in the library, Judge Small levered himself to his feet, ambled into the dining room, inspected the buffet through the bifocal section of his spectacles. He served himself grated cabbage and carrot, a cold boiled egg, a handful of crackers. He seated himself, ate.

When he had finished, he yawned, rose heavily, stood a moment looking through the arch into the hall. It was the gleam of the library light on the waxed hardwood floor which apparently had caught his attention. He stared vacantly for ten seconds, twenty seconds, sucking a shred of cabbage from his teeth.

Still sucking, he went forward to his private elevator, settled himself, punched the button. The car rose up the shaft.

In Lucia's room, the man felt the whir of the motor. He paused. The whir stopped, and a moment later the window of the north turret glowed yellow. The judge was secure in his study, until midnight or later.

The man, now wearing gloves, went to Lucia's escritoire. He turned the key, lowered the panel, explored the various nooks and pigeonholes. He found nothing to interest him.

He locked the desk, began a search of the

room. His leisure was almost insolent, as was his unconcern whether he found anything or not. Lucia might have sought to protect herself— perhaps a letter to be mailed to the authorities —but what of it? What could she prove? What could anyone prove?

In the drawer of the bedside table he found a clipping from the Herald-Republican society page. A photograph. He examined it, shrugged, folded and tucked it in his pocket.

He paused by the bed for a last look at Lucia.

He compressed his lips, shook his head. He backed away, paused at the door, glanced around the room like a gardener inspecting a plot. Then he switched off the light, left the room and departed the house.

The long dark night passed. The room was quiet. Dawn came, silver light entered the room; then yellow strands of sunlight penetrated the curtains.

At ten there were brisk footsteps in the hall. The door opened wide. When she was able, the maid called Sheriff Hartmann, bypassing deaf old Judge Small.

By nightfall, San Giorgio seethed with sensation. Two mutilation murders in the week, a maniac at large! Sheriff Hartmann felt blind, baffled, helpless. He had no suspects to question, no leads, no idea of where or how to be-

gin. A single course of inquiry presented itself, stemming from Carr Pendry's half-dazed identification of Robert Struve. It was a poor piece of evidence. But it was a lead, and he had no others.

About eleven o'clock, Carr Pendry appeared at the Hovards' with a stranger—a small thin man with a bank-clerk face, wearing incongruously sporty clothes: a chocolate-brown gabardine suit, a narrow dark-brown knit tie, yellow-brown shoes.

The maid answered the bell; Margaret Hovard came curiously to see who was calling. "Oh, it's you, Carr."

"Hello, Mrs. Hovard. This is Mr. Brevis. Mr. Brevis is a private detective."

"You're the man Mr. McDermott engaged?"

Brevis nodded. "I'd appreciate it, Mrs. Hovard, if you mentioned my connection with this case to no one."

"Naturally not."

"I'd like to talk to your daughter, if you'll permit me."

"As you wish," said Mrs. Hovard. "Though I don't see how she can help you." Margaret went to the foot of the stairs. "Julie!"

Julie came down from her room.

"This is Mr. Brevis, dear," said Margaret. "He's a detective, and he wants to talk to you."

Julie nodded. She stood looking at him.

"I think it would be better to talk privately," said Brevis.

Before Margaret could protest, Julie said, "Let's go out here on the terrace." She led the way, Brevis followed.

Julie and Brevis talked almost an hour, then joined Margaret and Carr.

"Well, Brevis," Carr said bluffly, "did you learn anything?"

"I think I have a general idea of the situation," said Brevis.

Carr cleared his throat. "Was Julie able to help you in any way?"

Brevis shrugged. "We discussed the case ..."

Brevis stood in the front office of the Las Lomas Detention Home.

"Well, well," he said. "That's very interesting, but—"

"It's all I can tell you, and it's exactly what I told your office over the telephone. I spoke to the sheriff myself. Sheriff Hartmann." She eyed him quizzically, a stout, intelligent woman in a brown tweed suit. "Peculiar they'd send you down and then call, too."

Brevis made a noncommittal gesture. "Perhaps there's someone here who knew Robert Struve particularly well? A matron, perhaps?"

The woman nipped pages in a ledger, ran her finger down a list of names. "That would be Mrs. Fador." She picked up a phone, dialed.

"Mrs. Fador, please . . . Mrs. Fador, this is Anna. There's a man here from San Giorgio, making inquiries about Robert Struve. He wants to speak to someone who knew Robert well . . . Dr. O'Brien. Thank you." She pressed down the bar, released it, dialed again.

She held a brief conversation with Dr. O'Brien, then made a sign to Brevis. "Down the corridor, turn to the right, cross the courtyard. Ask for Dr. O'Brien. He knew Robert Struve as well as anyone here."

Dr. O'Brien's office was a large room cluttered with miscellaneous furniture: odd bookcases, a big table, chairs. O'Brien sat in a swivel chair, with books on one side of him, a basket of papers on the other. His face was sunburned a fire-red, and glistened with oil.

"Excuse me for not getting up," he said to Brevis. "I fell asleep in the sun this morning. Stupid thing to do . . . Won't you sit down?"

Brevis slipped into a chair beside the desk.

"My name is Brevis. I'm a detective."

"Oh, yes," said O'Brien. "With the San Giorgio police."

"I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding," said Brevis. "I am a private detective." He

showed O'Brien his credentials. O'Brien became quizzical. "Oh. Just what's the trouble?"

Brevis straightened. "Well, sir, frankly, I'm rather at sea. I'm confused by the whole situation; I thought perhaps you'd be able to straighten me out." O'Brien relaxed in his chair and frowned thoughtfully.

"Robert Struve, eh? Exactly what kind of trouble has he got himself in?"

"Perhaps you've read about the San Giorgio mutilation murders."

"Oh, yes," said O'Brien. "Do you think—I mean, you have some idea that Struve is responsible?"

Brevis shook his head. "That's what I'm here to find out—if there's any chance that Struve could be the murderer."

O'Brien shrugged, and winced at the pain. "It's hard to say. Robert—well, there's a great deal to him—an extraordinary persistence, direction. But I've never been quite sure just where this direction led."

"What sort of boy was he?"

O'Brien rose gingerly to his feet, moved across the room to a filing cabinet, rummaged through the contents, returned with a manila folder. "Here's the folder on Robert Struve," he said. "Here's his picture—before plastic surgery, of course."

Brevis took the photograph. "Mmmph . . . Not a pretty sight."

"No," said O'Brien. "As nasty a wad of tissue as I've ever seen. Luckily, it lifted clear. They did a splendid job of repair."

"Do you have a picture of Struve after the operation?"

Dr. O'Brien looked uncomfortable. He laughed. "Struve was photographed upon his entrance, as per regulations. After the operation, no one had the responsibility to photograph him ... I guess it just never got done."

Brevis studied the photograph. "The change in his face presumably changed his character?"

O'Brien shrugged. "It certainly affected his behavior."

"Well, let me put it this way. Can you see Robert Struve nursing a grudge for five years, then performing horrible crimes to satisfy this grudge?"

"I can't give you an honest answer. I've always thought of him as a lad with a terrible burden. I don't think he ever had a childhood. His mother was a rather weak woman who apparently made him the man of the family at the age of nine. When he left us—well, I confess I didn't know how he'd make out. I recommended his discharge because I felt that the Army would be much better therapy than the Home."

"He enlisted?"

"No. His draft number came up. We had the option of releasing him to the Army or holding him here till he was twenty-one. We chose the Army. There seemed to be no question of moral turpitude; we felt the boy was the victim of circumstances, and he was inducted on this basis."

"Do you know where he reported for induction?"

"Sacramento, I believe."

"I see . . . May I trouble you for Robert's fingerprint classification?"

O'Brien tossed across Robert Struve's file card.

Brevis made a quick note. "You've been very helpful, Doctor."

"Perhaps," said Dr. O'Brien, "you'll tell me just how Robert Struve is involved in this affair."