Take my face (15 page)

"Yes. I do."

The sheriff raised a finger to Sid. "Change that, Sid. Make what he said, 'No, of course not.' "

"Got it," said Sid.

The sheriff walked to the door. "Howard, bring in the gear."

Joe made no resistance. His fingers were inked and rolled, one after the other.

"Now, Joe, if you'll just sit tight here a minute or two . . . Keep an eye on him, Sid."

The sheriff left the room. Joe stubbed out his cigarette, sipped his coffee. Three minutes passed. The sheriff returned.

"Well, Joe, your prints are very interesting." Joe said nothing. Hartmann lowered himself into his swivel chair. "Yep. Kinda queer coincidence, isn't it? Your prints being so much like Struve's."

Joe grinned.

"You rather be called Joe Treddick than Struve?'

"Much rather. It happens to be my name."

The sheriff leaned back in his chair. "Look, Joe—or Robert—why don't you save us both lots of trouble and tell us what happened."

"You're asking the questions."

"Why did you kill Cathy McDermott? Why did you kill Lucia Small?"

The questioning went on, until the sheriff was red-eyed and blustering; Joe Treddick, a hollow-cheeked, glassy-eyed shape.

At an early hour in the morning the sheriff made a weary gesture. "Okay, Howard, take him away. Put him on ice."

"Just a moment," said Joe in a husky voice. "Am I under arrest?"

"You sure as hell are."

"What for?"

"Now you're talking foolish."

Howard took Joe's arm. "Come along, fella."

CHAPTER XV

Julie woke up at seven o'clock with sand in her eyelids, a dull weight at her forehead, a taste of metal in her mouth.

She raised up on her elbow and looked around the room. She thought, What am I supposed to do today? What's happening . . . Everything came to her at once, a whole panorama of knowledge.

After a few minutes, she climbed out of bed, showered, brushed her teeth, dressed in a pale blue-green cotton skirt, a white blouse, white socks, white moccasins.

She went down to breakfast. Her mother was still in bed, her father had left. The maid brought Julie orange juice, coffee, a warm raisin bun and butter.

Julie ate, then went to the phone.

"Carr, this is Julie."

"Hello, Julie. What are you doing?"

"Just finishing breakfast." 190

"Suppose I come over."

"All right." Julie hung up. Carr, for all his conceit, was solid and predictable. Carr was— well, he was Carr. He could never have lived a secret, bitter existence. Pretending, scheming, counterfeiting. Julie's stomach gave a lurch of sheer nausea . . .

Carr joined her at the breakfast table. Julie brought Carr a cup and the maid poured coffee.

Carr was wearing a new suit this morning, a hard olive-tan twill, a white shirt, a black knit tie. His sandy-brown hair was smartly brushed, his round face glowed from a close shave.

"Well, Julie, this is a terrible business."

From his manner, Julie knew there was something to come. "Have you heard anything new?"

Carr nodded. "I called Hartmann, and it's astounding. They took Treddick's prints. They're the same as Struve's."

Julie drank her coffee. Carr looked faintly hurt. He had expected more of a response. "Well," said Carr, "you don't seem surprised."

Julie looked away. "It's one of those things you don't really know or even suspect—but when you find out, you realize you've known all the time."

Carr twisted to inspect her. "How long has this state of inner certainty been with you?"

"I didn't even know I knew until you told me."

"It's an amazing situation," said Carr. "Absolutely amazing. Do you know what day it is?"

Julie looked at him blankly.

"Tuesday, July seventh. George Bavonette goes to the gas chamber tonight."

"Oh."

"I'm going down to the city," said Carr. "I'm going to get this execution put off. It's a travesty of justice."

Julie toyed with her cup. "Maybe Joe might confess ... Or Robert, I guess I should call him."

"He hasn't, so far. I don't think he will."

"He's terribly stubborn, Remember how he was in school?"

"Yes," said Carr with a bitter laugh. "He still owes me for my motor-scooter."

Julie shook her head in wonder. "I don't know which of you has more of a one-track mind."

"I'm stubborn and tenacious," said Carr, "when I know I'm right. Mark my words, Julie, I'll be governor of the state before I'm done!" He looked at his watch. "I have a big day ahead of me . . . Why don't you come along? We could have dinner out . . ."

Julie shook her head wistfully. "No thanks, Carr."

"Be good for you," said Carr. "Buzz down in the ol' Jag, a little business, and then we've got the rest of the day to ourselves."

Julie looked at him sidewise. "I thought today you planned to move heaven and earth."

Carr said expansively, "With you along, I can move heaven and earth with one finger . . . Hello, Mrs. Hovard." Margaret drifted into the room like a sleepwalker.

"Hello, Carr . . . I'm glad you're here."

"I'm on my way to the city, Mrs. Hovard; I've been trying to persuade Julie to come. It would do her good."

Margaret looked toward Julie. "Why don't you go, dear?"

"Because I don't want to go," Julie said.

"Just as you like." Carr nodded to Margaret. " 'Bye for now."

Carr left the room.

Margaret sank into a chair beside Julie. "I must be getting old; this business has left me just a wreck . . . To think that this boy who's eaten at our table—that you've gone out with —" Her voice failed her.

"Yes, Mother," said Julie. "I've thought of all that myself. And a lot more ..."

The sheriff was cool, polite, direct. "Well, Struve—"

"My name is Treddick," said Joe.

"Struve—Treddick—call yourself anything you like."

"What am I being held for?"

"Don't worry about that," said Hartmann. "There's a dozen technical charges I could book you on. How about desertion from the Army?"

"You couldn't make it stick," said Joe. "My time terminated five days after I was captured."

"As Corporal Robert Struve, or as Private Joe Treddick?"

"Either one. We signed up on the same day."

"That's the right attitude, Struve."

"Treddick."

The sheriff raised his eyebrows. "How can you be Treddick when your fingerprints say you're Struve?"

"Get your stenographer in here, because I'll just tell you once."

"Okay," said Sheriff Hartmann amiably.

Sid slipped in through the door, slid into his chair.

"At one time I was Corporal Robert Struve, of the 121st Army Engineeers. Five days before the end of my enlistment a mortar shell got us. Hit us right on the nose. I was down in the creek bed and the explosion went over my head. Otherwise, it busted the platoon. Arms, legs everywhere. I was due to get out; remember this. I

did nothing wrong. But I was sick of Robert Struve. I wanted to be somebody else. Robert Struve is the face in that picture you showed me.

"Yeah," said Hartmann. "Go on. This is interesting."

"Maybe I'd been waiting for a chance; maybe I was battle-happy. I don't know. What happened was I picked up Treddick's dog tag, gave mine to what was left of Joe. I didn't really figure out what I was going to do. The way it turned out, I didn't have to. The Commies came over the hill; they took me away. From then on, I was Joe Treddick."

"Kinda tough on Treddick's folks, wasn't it?"

"He didn't have folks. Third cousins in Boston; that's all. Also, Joe was getting his discharge the same time I was getting mine.

"To make a long story short, I got away from the Commies. I hid out two days and three nights and finally made it back to our own lines. I had a broken arm and an infection where the shrapnel nicked me in the neck. I went to the hospital and never did get back to my own outfit."

"That was kinda lucky for you," said Hartmann. ,

"It wouldn't have made any real difference. I wasn't trying to pull anything. It was just a gesture—"

"So that's why you came back to San Giorgio?"

"Sheriff, you wouldn't understand why I came back to San Giorgio if I told you."

"Try me."

"I lived in San Giorgio fourteen years. I got to know certain people. They knew me as Robert Struve. I wanted to come back and know them as Joe Treddick, somebody other than the town monster."

The sheriff thought about it, and nodded. "Go on with your story. You were in the hospital."

"I took my discharge in Japan, signed on a Panamanian freighter, and came back to the States the long way. In New York I legally changed my name to Joe Treddick. That's my name today."

"What about the Army?"

"That score is even. Struve for Treddick."

"What if they found out?"

"If they find out, I tell them about the mix-up in dog tags."

"You're willing to let another man go to the gas chamber for a crime you committed?"

Joe looked surprised. "What crime is this?"

"You killed Dean Bavonette. George Bavo-nette takes the rap."

Joe laughed shortly. "Seems to me he confessed."

"Okay. Why did you cut up Cathy McDermott and Lucia Small?"

"Are you accusing me?"

"I'm just asking. Why did you do it?"

Joe lit a cigarette. "I didn't."

"Can you prove that you didn't?"

"I don't need to."

The sheriff became angry. "What do you say about this?" He opened a manila folder. Scotch-taped to the inside was a card. Letters printed in purple ink read:

HELLO ROBERT. YOU WON'T PULL IT OFF.

"What've you got to say?"

"Nothing very much. Lucia Small sent it."

The sheriff nodded. "What's it mean?"

"She thought I was planning to marry into the Hovard family."

"Were you?"

Joe looked at him stonily. "What do you think?"

The sheriff opened another manila envelope, displayed it to Joe.

ROBERT STRUVE IS A SAVAGE LOVER.

HE CUTS THROATS AND FACES.

HE'S THE MAN TO FIND.

Joe frowned. "Where did you get this?"

"Lucia mailed it the day she was killed. To

_ j>

me.

"Let's see the envelope."

The sheriff tossed Joe the envelope.

Joe looked at it. "The postmark is for the day after she got it."

"She probably mailed it in a box, after last pickup."

"I don't believe it. She knew I was Robert Struve."

"That's what's puzzling me," said Sheriff Hart-mann. "How did she know?"

"I took her home from that Mountainview Masque. The Turrets is pretty hard to find unless you know just where to go. I drove straight out there. She said, 'How come you know this road? You're a stranger around here!'

"I couldn't give her any answer. Then she said, 'You always have looked familiar to me, in an odd kind of way.' And about two minutes later, she said, 'I know who you are! You're Robert Struve!'

"I told her she was crazy, but she just laughed. It was while I was taking her home that Cathy McDermott got it. Lucia knew I was clean out of it. If she wrote that letter, it was out of spite."

"Spite? Why?"

"She wanted to park. I didn't."

The sheriff grunted. "We got the goods on you, Treddick."

Joe laughed.

"You had motive—opportunity—"

"No more motive than anybody else. And as for opportunity, I was taking Lucia home when Cathy was killed."

"That would make a good alibi—if Lucia were alive to bear you out."

"So it would."

The sheriff looked at Joe for a long minute. "Joe—you're a pretty smart boy. But I'm gonna get you for these killings."

"Okay," said Joe. "I can stand it if you can."

Julie wandered around the house. She changed into a bathing suit, walked out across the lawn to the swimming pool, where she settled into a deck chair.

Joe Treddick—Robert Struve. The two images melted, merged into each other, separated. Robert's terrible scar just wouldn't seem to fit on Joe's strong jaw and flat cheeks. Once or twice she had noticed a long mark under his chin; it must have been the edge of the skin graft. His nose—how could Joe's short straight nose cover the black gape of Robert's nostrils? Somehow it

did . . . Anyone could be horrible with their face cut and torn . . . Think of Cathy and Dean and Lucia . . .

Joe. Robert.

All the rest of her life those names would give her an inward stir . . . What would have happened if Robert had never been hurt? If she hadn't been driving the car one evening when she was eight? Five lives. Dean Pendry. Cathy McDermott. Lucia Small. George Bavonette. Robert Struve.

Joe Treddick?

Julie's thoughts faltered to a stop. Could there be good in Joe Treddick? She sighed. What a terrible force must drive him! Sharp as lightning, grinding and harsh as a bulldozer in gravel! Certainly he must feel nothing but agony at his own acts . . .

Margaret called her to lunch. At two, Julie walked listlessly downtown. She bought an early edition of the Herald-Republican and looked through the headlines for the words "Sex Slayer." Nothing leapt at her eyes. She looked more carefully and found a cautious half-column which quoted Sheriff Hartmann as expecting an arrest within the next twenty-four hours.

She wandered home, lay down on her bed and presently fell asleep. She woke up about four-thirty.

When she went downstairs, she found her mother drinking tea with Carr Pendry.

"You got back early," said Julie, the faintest of sardonic overtones in her voice.

Carr looked tired; Julie felt immediately sorry. "Did you accomplish anything at all?"

Carr shook his head. "A stone wall—everywhere. Nobody seems to care a tinker's damn. They just look blank." He banged his fist on the table. "And you'd never guess what."

"What?"

"He's let Struve go."

"Let him go! Why?"

Carr shrugged. "Lack of evidence. It doesn't mean anything. They're just giving him rope. They'll get him."

"What a horrible creature," murmured Margaret. "I can't get over it. Here—at this very table. Eating our food."