The Expendable Man (22 page)

The marshal's voice clamored, “She rode to Phoenix with this man.”

No one had told Crumb before. His face turned mottled with the shock. And then he lunged like a terrier toward Hugh. “You murdering bastard! You killed my little girl!”

The deputy caught his arm, held him.

“I didn't kill her,” Hugh said. His sympathy for this shell of a man, distraught, bewildered, out of his depth, was stronger than any rancor. “I only tried to help her. She needed help.”

Crumb wasn't heeding, he was struggling in the deputy's grasp, shouting obscenities.

The marshal passed Hugh, murmured, “You can sit down,” and went to take the man's other arm. Together he and the deputy eased Crumb from the room. Venner began to cock about, his eyes little pointed rocks. Ringle gnawed his thumbnail phlegmatically. Hugh sat down and lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking.

The marshal returned, his boots clattering as he crossed to his desk. He took a last cigarette from a pack, wadded the paper and shot it toward a corner basket. It landed on the floor. “That was Albert Crumb,” he said. “Her father.” He needn't have said it, possibly it was for the tape.

Venner sauntered back to his chair. “He sure didn't like the idea of a nigger transporting his daughter to Phoenix.” The word “transporting” had an ugly sound. If he were smarter than he seemed, he might have chosen it deliberately.

The marshal turned on him. “I don't want to tell you again, there's not going to be any color business in this case. I'm not going to have it messed up with Kluxers or with bleeding hearts.”

“I keep forgetting,” Venner drawled. But the ugly look he gave Hugh made it clear it hadn't been wise of the marshal to tongue-lash him in Hugh's presence.

Hackaberry went on as if he couldn't stop until he'd said it all. “You're going to handle this the way you'd handle it if Densmore weren't a Negro. That way we'll have a case which will stand up in court, not be sidetracked by a lot of loudmouths who don't care whether we got the guilty party or not, so long as they're in the headlines. You got that straight now?” He mashed out his limp cigarette. “Let's get back to that telephone call.”

Hugh gave a full account of it, even to the final words. He said, “I hung up on him then.”

Venner tilted his chair against the wall. “Didn't you want to hear what else he had to say?”

“I did not,” Hugh said. To the marshal he continued, “I thought possibly I could catch him at it. There aren't many places near the motel where he could watch for me to arrive and get immediately to a telephone.” He confessed, trying not to remember the moments with Ellen, “I was too late. Of course he'd be gone as soon as I hung up.”

“Why?” Hackaberry didn't get it. None of them seemed to understand.

“He can't take a chance on being seen. Don't you see, once he's seen, once there's a description, you can find him? And once you find him, there'll be those who can identify him as being with Iris that night.”

Ringle took out a notebook. Without interest, he asked, “Where could he be calling from?”

Hugh named the places.

Ringle wrote them down and put away the book. “Why didn't you report the call last night?”

“I didn't think of it until it was too late. He didn't wait around, I'm sure.”

“We got things called prowl cars,” Ringle said. “Just like you got in L.A. They get around pretty fast.”

“I didn't think of that,” Hugh said with honesty.

The marshal said, “Well, if you have any more trouble, let us know right away. Next day doesn't do much good.”

“I will.”

“We'll put a prowl car around the neighborhood tonight.”

Hugh wanted to protest. A prowl car would scare off the man. The only chance to find him was to let him go on believing he was safe. He didn't speak up; it would do no good, only cast doubt on there having been a call.

The marshal turned to his detectives. “Do you have any more questions?”

“I got one,” Venner said. His mouth was moist. “Did you beat that girl's head in because she wouldn't pay you for what you done?”

Hugh looked to the marshal. His voice was rigid. “I've said it and said it. I am absolutely innocent of any connection with her death.”

Venner's chair clicked to the floor. “If you're so all-fired innocent, seems funny you'd hire that big-shot lawyer, Skye Houston, to defense you.”

Hugh couldn't contain his anger. “I hired him to try to get a fair deal, not to be railroaded for a murder I know nothing about. Just because I'm convenient.”

Venner snapped, “Don't get huffy with me, black boy. It don't pay.” He said insolently to Hackaberry, “Black boy's got a temper, hasn't he?”

The marshal choked, “I warn you, Venner.”

“Excuse me,” Venner sneered. “I must of lost my temper too. I don't like black boys insulting my integrity.” He walked out of the room without asking leave.

Ringle said, “Don't worry about him, Hack. I'll keep him in line. I need him on the investigation.”

The marshal turned to Hugh. “Nobody's going to be railroaded. But nobody's going to go free who had anything to do with killing that girl.” His voice was hard, and his jaw. Like the others, the so many others, he'd have a hard time believing that a Negro doctor had the ideals and ethics of a white doctor. “You are to remain in Phoenix for the time being.”

“I've already written the hospital,” Hugh said without inflection.

“Very well. You'll be hearing from me.” It wasn't a warning, merely a temporary dismissal.

Hugh rose and left the room. He could feel the hostility follow him. Because of Venner, deliberately through Venner, the atmosphere had been changed.

In the outer office, Venner was leaning against the water fountain with the young deputy who had conducted Albert Crumb earlier. He looked at Hugh with spite and said something under his breath to the deputy. The young man laughed, and Venner, delighted with his success, began cackling with him. By then Hugh had reached the outer door, and he went out into the heavy noon. He was shaking with rage, for once the sun felt good. He got in his car and drove away, but only as far as the next block. He pulled in by the small white church. He was in no condition to drive a car until his nerves had calmed. He took off his jacket, laid it on the back seat to dry. He lit a cigarette; it was without taste.

If he were fighting only the routine means of inquiry, it would be hard enough to endure, but to be pitted against personal venom became in time intolerable. The possibility that it might be a deliberate plan, for every man must have a sensitive spot by which he could be broken, made it no less endurable.

The five minutes, ten minutes, he sat there in a square which the growing village had not yet eaten, gave him the tranquillity he needed to set out again. He must discover what Edward had found out, he should report the gravity of the morning's interview to Houston, he wanted to be with Ellen. On his way to Ellen's, he stopped at the Scottsdale branch of Edward's bank. He presented his credentials, gave local references, and had no difficulty in cashing a check. Because it was the closer way, he drove again over the Indian School Road. And for the first time it came to him that the abortionist must be in or near this area. It was highly improbable that the killer, whichever of the two he was, would have risked driving the suffering girl over a long route through town to reach that particular section where he struck. There would be too much danger of interference along the route. Phoenix was well patrolled by city and county police, there was scarcely a stretch of road where you didn't see one of the light blue or light tan official cars.

The murder hadn't been planned. It came out of the botched abortion. This seemed self-evident. There was no reason for the abortion if the man meant to kill. Why had he killed? And, remembering the girl, he knew. Because she had become a worse threat after the operation, because she threatened to tell. The abortionist hadn't killed her, he would have no need of the happenstance tool. It was the man she had come to meet, the man who had driven her to the motel, the man who had driven her to the abortionist's, the man who had driven her away after the operation and had listened to her threats. And that meant there was another car with more evidence in it than in Hugh's. It could mean that the abortionist could identify the man. Hugh was afraid to be hopeful. But it could mean the two would accuse each other.

He had reached the motel. There was no response to his knock at Ellen's door. He walked around to the front of the unit and saw her across the green, just lifting herself out of the pool. She raised an arm in greeting, she must have been watching for him. He remained there by her lanai door while she wrapped the bright beach towel about her and gathered her oddments into the flowered beach bag. Her swimming seemed to have caused no commotion. The sunbathers were somnolent under oiled brown skins, the pool was lively with young people. Under the umbrella tables, older men read newspapers and their women wrote postcards. For most of them Ellen was doubtless only a girl with an enviable tan. Those who may have wondered or known evidently accepted the changing face of society. He'd met with all the varying degrees of civility, of progression and regression as an intern. Unyielding bigots were a minority save in pockets of the Deep South. In today's climate, it was they who could do nothing but retreat behind their warped, sagging fences. No longer could they demand that the fences enclose the rest of the country.

Ellen pulled off her cap as she came across the lawn, shaking down her long, dark hair. When she reached his side, he said, “You needn't have come in. All I want is a private place to phone.”

“That you may while I dress.”

The sliding door opened at her touch. She hadn't left it locked. Common sense told him that she'd kept an eye on the room from the pool, that the maids were active all morning in every wing, that the anonymous man must hold a job by day, for his activities, save on Sunday, were all by night. Yet for the moment he was chilled at the thought of Ellen's entering the room to find evil waiting for her.

He said nothing now, unwilling to throw a shadow over the brightness of the morning. “And to invite you to lunch.” He displayed his wallet, extracting a bill.

She said, “You don't owe me that much,” and “I'd love to lunch but let's have it here. It's much more comfortable than a restaurant.” She disappeared into the dressing room and bath. Before he was connected with Edward's office, he could hear the shower running.

Edward was out to lunch. Hugh left his name but no number, saying he would call back. Edward had enough to do without returning calls. Before he could look up Houston's number, Ellen returned, daisy-bright in a full-skirted summer dress. He couldn't tell her she was so beautiful it hurt; he substituted a dry question, “Just how much excess weight did you carry out here?”

She said, “I'm pleased you notice, sir.”

“I have a mother and three sisters. I probably know more about femme finery than any male outside Don Loper.”

“Then you must know that summer dresses don't weigh much. I didn't have any excess but I may going back. I miscalculated the heat of Phoenix in May. Most of the summer ward-robe I've acquired here.” She suggested, “Why don't I call Room Service and order before you finish your phoning? There's a menu in the desk.”

“I'd like something cool. Whatever you recommend. My grandmother keeps plying me with hearty meals. She thinks I need fattening.” The morning paper was on the table. While she gave the order, he read more completely the front-page story. The turnover brought him to the editorial page. The editor didn't call the police system inefficient, he merely insinuated it as he rang the bells of alarm concerning the safety of young girls in Phoenix. Hugh set the paper away. How long before he'd be thrown from the sleigh to appease the wolves of discontent?

Ellen had finished her call and settled in the wing chair, opening a portfolio and continuing a half-written letter. Hugh called Houston's office. The secretary who wasn't Meg answered, identifying herself. Houston was out, but she said, “I've been trying to reach you, Dr. Densmore. Mr. Houston would like you and Miss Hamilton to come to his house at eight-thirty tonight. Will that be convenient?”

He queried Ellen, and reported, “Yes, we'll be there.”

At eight-thirty. That would be after Meg's return from Indio. Hugh's nerves began to quiver. The knock on the door made him start. He wondered if he would ever feel safe again, as safe as he had before Iris.

Ellen was admitting Room Service with the lunch trays. No delaying tactics here. The management was doubtless only too pleased that Ellen chose to eat in her room. The waiter, a gawky young fellow who looked as if he were outgrowing his uniform, arranged the silver and linen and iced food on the low coffee table. He said, “Give me a buzz if you want anything else, Miss Hamilton.” He favored Hugh with a nod as he whistled away.

It was pleasant to be lunching here with Ellen, as if they were in their own elegant mansion, looking out over their close-cropped lawn and blue pool. The reason they were together spoiled it. “I hate to have you hanging around here, missing your vacation.” He took a French roll from the basket.

“Am I that dull?”

“Ellen!”

“I'm not accustomed to such frankness from young men.”

“You know what I mean.” He wondered, “Will you still go on to Los Angeles?”

“Certainly. I'm considering driving there with you.”

“Delighted.” But the bleak prospects made him add, “I wonder if I'll remember how to drive when they let me go.”

Her light mood had been surface, an attempt to take his mind from his trouble. “You mustn't get depressed. We're on our way. Maybe you can't see daylight but it's just around the bend.”