The Expendable Man (23 page)

“I wish I could believe that.” Deliberately he returned to unimportant conversation. “Do you know many people in L.A.?”

“Very few. Will you show me the town?”

He exaggerated a groan. “I'll introduce you to some great guys who'll show the town while I'm on duty. The only thing I'll have a chance to show you is the UCLA campus—an hour here, an hour there.”

“I think I'll like the UCLA campus.”

Without warning their eyes met and held, and in that moment, the game they were playing became real. He immediately turned back to his Russian salad, as if food were more important than furthering their relationship. He would not take advantage of whatever emotions propinquity and absorption in his troubles might have engendered in her. He said lightly, “I hear we have some fine courses in foreign diplomacy. Maybe you'll decide to transfer.”

“I might at that.” The dangerous moment was gone.

“What made you take up that field? It isn't a woman's.”

“No, it isn't. But it could be. There's always need for office help and one needn't stay in that category.”

“Okay, Madam Ambassador.”

She smiled at him. “I didn't choose the field because I'm a feminist.” Thoughtfully, she continued, “We've traveled abroad quite a bit. Because of my father's various assignments. I believe there's a definite need for what I call dark diplomats. A great part of the world is colored, you know.”

“You'd rather live outside the United States?”

“Oh no!” She was quite honestly surprised at the suggestion.

“Isn't it easier?”

“To me, no,” she said. “In our country, more often than not, we are what Ellison so well describes as invisible. It's just the opposite in Europe. Even in the Orient and northern Africa. As Americans, we are so conspicuous it makes me feel like a cockatoo in a cage. I've never been deep into Africa, I don't know what it would be like for me there, but I don't think I'd be at home. I've been an American for too many generations. Somehow I don't mind invisibility. I'd rather no one saw me as I walk down the street, or pretended they couldn't see me, than to have people nudging and pointing as if I were a freak. Even within its limitations, I like to live my life without comment.”

“Then why are you training for foreign service?”

She laughed. “At heart I suppose I'm a crusader, like my father. I don't intend to spend my life in the foreign service, Hugh. I can spare a few years. After that I shall get married, raise a family, and point out proudly to them how much better their lot is than mine when I was a girl. Now tell me your story.”

“I'd like to stay in research.” He might have been talking about someone else. He couldn't speak of his own future when there was to be none. “However, as I have to earn a living, and want to make a damn good one, I'll doubtless end up in practice.”

“You'll specialize?”

“You have to nowadays. Or so the doctors tell me. I'd be content to be a really good old-style family doctor like Edward. Not that I'd ever be the surgeon he is.”

“Have you ever thought of a turn at Medico?”

The telephone rang. Neither one of them had actually been free of fear, despite their efforts. Both started at the sound. But she pretended as she went to answer. “We might find ourselves in the same neighborhood overseas,” she said. After speaking, she turned, “It's for you,” and before he could react, “I think it's your grandfather.” She didn't know that increased the decibels of his fear.

The deep, soft voice said, “I'm sorry to bother you there, Hugh, but you've just received a telegram. I thought it might be too important to wait.”

The Dean? Hugh said, “Thank you, Gramps. I'll be over in a little.”

“We're going out but you know where the key is.” Everyone knew where the key was kept. Under the rambler roses on the trellis. He wondered how he could suggest a change of hiding place for the present.

They said good-bye and he replaced the phone.

“Bad news?”

“I don't think it will be. A wire. It must be from the university. I mailed a special to the Dean last night.” He sat down at the table. “Bad or good, I'm going to finish my lunch.”

She poured more tea into his glass and her own. She'd led him to talk of this and that while they lunched as if there were no doom overshadowing him. Now that he would be leaving, she went directly to what must have been weighting her thoughts throughout the hour. “You were with the police this morning.”

“How could you know that?” There was only one way. Skye must have told her.

She said, “You only have that particular face when you've been up against Ringle and Venner.”

He admitted, “Yes, they were there. And the marshal. And Iris' father.”

“And . . .?”

“It wasn't good. When he didn't identify me, they told him I'd brought her to Phoenix. Then he called me the murderer.”

“Are you afraid?”

“I'm almost past fear. Unless Houston's Meg gets the identity of that man, there's no hope. I'll be charged. Or unless I can find him.”

“Did you tell the police about the call?”

“Yes. They're putting a prowl car in the neighborhood.”

“That's good.”

“It's not good,” he denied. “It all but ruins my chance of finding him. He's not going to be active while they're in the neighborhood.”

“It may keep you from being hurt.” Her words went beyond the simple statement.

He hadn't thought before in terms of actual physical violence, only of facing up to the man, demanding the truth. He wasn't a fighter; he'd never had to be and never wanted to be. As a student doctor he had seen the results of the cruelty of man when reduced to animal viciousness. In particular the cruelty unleashed in today's juveniles, in the gang warfares of the city.

Although he and the police had used “man” as terminology for the killer, Hugh realized at this moment that his mental picture had always been of someone of Iris' generation, of the raucous, acned boys of the Indio experience. Teen marriages weren't unusual. Somehow he had believed that out of the experience of his maturity, he could handle this boy. He had not remembered that boys tended to run in packs. He might not be facing a single adversary.

And there was ever present the fact of color. If the man/boy attacked Hugh physically, after initial impact, he would be attacking the fact. The hatred of the fact, for him, would justify violence.

Hugh shook the thoughts out of his head. He would not be afraid. If he could find a way to confront the man, he would not hesitate, whatever might come. He didn't want the police there; he wanted it where he could force the truth. Alone, fact to fact. It was the only way he could hope to escape the net being woven by both the police and the killer.

He put out his cigarette. He said, “That wouldn't be very important if it saved my facing trial for abortion and murder.” He moved to the door, not wanting to leave this oasis, not wanting to leave Ellen. But there were other things which must be done while he was yet free to do them.

He said, “I'll call you later.”

Hugh drove to the Jefferson Street house and climbed the porch steps. Venner was in the swing. Hugh turned to stone. “What do you want?”

The detective's lips were mocking. “I been waiting to see you,
Doctor
Densmore.”

He couldn't have arrived while the grandparents were at home, he'd have been inside the house.

“Yes?” When you were arrested you were allowed to make one telephone call. To your lawyer? Houston couldn't be reached; he was in court. To a friend? Edward couldn't be reached. Again the burden would be Ellen's.

Venner gave the old wooden swing a backward push as he got out of it. “You going to ask me inside? I've always been curious as to how you folks live.”

It was meant to be insulting but Hugh ignored it. He repeated, “What do you want?”

Venner ceased baiting. “I want your medicine bag.” Before Hugh's outrage could become vocal, Venner fumbled a fold of paper from his back pocket. “I got the order here. Signed by the marshal. All perfectly legal.”

Hugh accepted the paper. Perfectly legal. He returned it to the detective. The sharp little eyes watched as he took the key from under the roses. The place must be changed. Hugh opened the door. He must be rid of the man before his grandparents returned to face the malice.

Venner gawked around the living room. “Looks right nice.” It looked exactly like the living room of anyone's grandparents.

Hugh said curtly, “I'll get the bag.”

“Mind if I follow along? I wouldn't want you deciding to remove maybe a knife or a forceps.”

Hugh said, “If I'd had any reason to remove anything from my kit, I'd scarcely have waited two days to do it.” He started up the stairs, resenting the footfalls behind him.

The yellow envelope of Western Union was propped on the bureau in his room. He didn't touch it; it didn't matter if Venner did see it there. Venner was in the room as Hugh opened the closet door and reached down the black bag. He could not bring himself to pass it over to the detective. A doctor's bag was sacred to medicine, it didn't belong in lay hands.

He said, “My instruments are sterilized after every use. If I had used them, there'd be nothing to prove it.”

“I don't know about that,” Venner said. “We got a laboratory that can find a lot of things that aren't there.” He held out his hand. “Might be you wouldn't have much of a chance to sterilize stuff, just being a visitor in Phoenix.”

He sensed Hugh's resistance, he was enjoying it. He reached further and took hold of the handle. Hugh didn't relinquish it. For a moment they stood there, both clutching the small black kit. Hugh could have jerked it away from him, he was taller and younger and perhaps stronger than the detective. But he didn't dare worsen his position by force. Even if the idea of commandeering the bag had been initiated by Venner, the order was plain. It might be an extra-legal move, but it was legal.

Hugh released his hold, hating the smirk of triumph on Venner's mouth. “Now you got to sign the receipt.” He pushed the bag under his arm, deliberately careless, while he pulled the paper from his pocket again. “Sign on the dotted line.” He thrust it at Hugh. As Hugh took his pen from the desk, Venner continued, “We wouldn't want that high-toned lawyer of yours to say we done anything illegal.”

Silently Hugh returned the signed paper. He started to lead out of his room but Venner didn't follow.

“You're forgetting your telegram,” he said. He stood between Hugh and the bureau. He was greedy for the overt act, for one movement from Hugh which he could repulse out of pious legal violence. It had been a near thing when both clutched the black bag. If there had been more space, if they had not been penned in the small aperture between the bed table and the closet door, Venner might have created the excuse.

This was his last chance. When he saw Hugh would not advance, he dangled the kit carelessly from his fingers and with his other hand lifted the envelope. If he dared to open it, Hugh knew he would lose control. He waited, hoping his trembling rage was hidden.

“You haven't even opened it. Don't you want to know who's it from?” His eyes peered as if he could read through the protective cover. “You must be a mighty important boy to be getting telegrams you don't even open.”

Hugh refused to speak.

“Catch,” Venner said suddenly. He tossed it short toward Hugh. It fell on the rug between them.

Cautiously Hugh bent to pick it up. At once Venner thumped across the room, his heel coming dangerously close to Hugh's hand. But Hugh was quicker. He straightened with the envelope in his hand as Venner passed. He waited for the detective to precede him down the staircase.

Venner wasn't afraid of his rage. He moved lightly, not looking back. It could be he himself recognized how near he had come to his aim, and how damaging it could be to him as well as to Hugh. He had a last word as he went out the front door. “Fresh air sure smells good.”

Hugh stood at the door until the car was driven away. Then he moved quickly. He didn't even stop to read the wire. If his grandparents should see him now, they would know something was terribly wrong. He locked the house, replaced the key, and drove away. He didn't know where he was going, he only needed to get out of the neighborhood, to find a place where Venner could not reappear.

He was on North Central when he saw the big drive-in and remembered its objectiveness from previous visits. At this hour it was not crowded. He pulled in, and as soon as his order was taken, he opened the envelope.

It was from the Dean. A day letter in clipped telegram shorthand, but the expanded meaning was plain. There was disbelief that Hugh could be subjected to this misunderstanding, an offer to help in any way possible, and the Dean's assurance that he would arrange things at the hospital for Hugh to be absent as long as was necessary.

Hugh was moved. It was good to know that there was a friend who trusted him. When his Coke came, he drank it slowly and afterwards finished the ice. He was cooled in mind and body when he paid the tab and drove the few blocks to Edward's office. It was about three-thirty. The doctor would be in, and it might be possible to see him for a moment. With every new police move, Hugh knew how necessary it was for him to get on with the search. When he was arrested, there was no one he could ask to continue it. The abortionist would then be safe, not caring that an innocent man was in his stead.

Edward's office was off McDowell, a one-story yellow stucco building housing two doctors, a dentist, an architect, and a pharmacy. All Negro. The white tenants had moved out when the pioneer, the architect, moved in. He hadn't been a crusader; it wasn't easy then or now for a Negro to find good office space.