Merchants of Menace Page 9

  “Yes,” I said, “she seems to be taking it very hard.”

  He laughed, short and sharp as a sea-lion barking. “That’s because she’s still got the fear in her. All you get out of her now is how she loved Jessie, and how sorry she is. Maybe she figures if she says it enough, people might get to believe it. But give her a little time, and she’ll be the same old Celia again.”

  I dropped my hat and stick on the bed and laid my overcoat beside them. Then I drew out a cigar and waited until he fumbled for a match and helped me to a light. His hand shook so violently that he had hard going for a moment and muttered angrily at himself. Then I slowly exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, and waited.

  Charlie was Celia’s junior by five years, but seeing him then it struck me that he looked a dozen years older. His hair was the same pale blond, almost colorless so that it was hard to tell if it was graying or not. But his cheeks wore a fine, silvery stubble, and there were huge blue-black pouches under his eyes. And where Celia was braced against a rigid and uncom­promising backbone, Charlie sagged, standing or sitting, as if he were on the verge of falling forward. He stared at me and tugged uncertainly at the limp mustache that dropped past the corners of his mouth.

  “You know what I wanted to see you about, don’t you?” he said.

  “I can imagine,” I said, “but I’d rather have you tell me.”

  “I’ll put it to you straight,” he said. “It’s Celia. I want to see her get what’s coming to her. Not jail. I want the law to take her and kill her, and I want to be there to watch it.”

  A large ash dropped to the floor, and I ground it carefully into the rug with my foot. I said, “You were at the inquest, Charlie; you saw what happened. Celia’s cleared, and unless additional evidence can be produced, she stays cleared.”

  “Evidence! My God, what more evidence does anyone need! They were arguing hammer and tongs at the top of the stairs. Celia just grabbed Jessie and threw her down to the bottom and killed her. That’s murder, isn’t it? Just the same as if she used a gun or poison or whatever she would have used if the stairs weren’t handy?”

  I sat down wearily in the old leather-bound armchair there and studied the new ash forming on my cigar. “Let me show it to you from the legal angle,” I said, and the monotone of my voice must have made it sound like a well-memorized formula. “First, there were no witnesses.”

  “I heard Jessie scream and I heard her fall,” he said doggedly, “and when I ran out and found her there, I heard Celia slam her door shut right then. She pushed Jessie and then scuttered like a rat to be out of the way.”

  “But you didn’t see anything. And since Celia claims that she wasn’t on the scene, there were no witnesses. In other words, Celia’s story cancels out your story, and since you weren’t an eyewitness, you can’t very well make a murder out of what might have been an accident.”

  He slowly shook his head.

  “You don’t believe that,” he said. “You don’t really believe that. Because if you do, you can get out now and never come near me again.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe; I’m showing you the legal aspects of the case. What about motivation? What did Celia have to gain from Jessie’s death? Certainly there’s no money or property involved; she’s as financially independent as you are.”

  Charlie sat down on the edge of his bed and leaned toward me with his hands resting on his knees. “No,” he whispered, “there’s no money or property in it.”

  I spread my arms helplessly. “You see?’’

  “But you know what it is,” he said. “It’s me. First, it was the old lady with her heart trouble any time I tried to call my soul my own. Then, when she died and I thought I was free, it was Celia. From the time I got up in the morning until I went to bed at night, it was Celia every step of the way. She never had a husband or a baby—but she had me!”

  I said quietly, “She’s your sister, Charlie. She loves you,” and he laughed that same unpleasant, short laugh.

  “She loves me like ivy loves a tree. When I think back now, I still can’t see how she did it, but she would just look at me a certain way and all the strength would go out of me. And it was like that until I met Jessie... I remember the day I brought Jessie home, and told Celia we were married. She swallowed it, but that look was in her eyes the same as it must have been when she pushed Jessie down those stairs.”

  I said, “But you admitted at the inquest that you never saw her threaten Jessie or do anything to hurt her.”

  “Of course I never saw! But when Jessie would go around sick to her heart every day and not say a word, or cry in bed every night and not tell me why, I knew damn well what was going on. You know what Jessie was like. She wasn’t so smart or pretty, but she was good-hearted as the day was long, and she was crazy about me. And when she started losing all that sparkle after only a month, I knew why. I talked to her and I talked to Celia, and both of them just shook their heads. All I could do was go around in circles, but when it happened, when I saw Jessie lying there, it didn’t surprise me. Maybe that sounds queer, but it didn’t surprise me at all.”

  “I don’t think it surprised anyone who knows Celia,” I said, “but you can’t make a case out of that.”

  He beat his fist against his knee and rocked from side to side. “What can I do?” he said. “That’s what I need you for—to tell me what to do. All my life I never got around to doing anything because of her. That’s what she’s banking on now—that I won’t do anything, and that she’ll get away with it. Then after a while, things’ll settle down, and we’ll be right back where we started from.”

  I said, “Charlie, you’re getting yourself all worked up to no end.”

  He stood up and stared at the door, and then at me. “But I can do something,” he whispered. “Do you know what?”

  He waited with the bright expectancy of one who has asked a clever riddle that he knows will stump the listener. I stood up facing him, and shook my head slowly. “No,” I said. “What­ever you’re thinking, put it out of your mind.”

  “Don’t mix me up,” he said. “You know you can get away with murder if you’re as smart as Celia. Don’t you think I’m as smart as Celia?”

  I caught his shoulders tightly. “For God’s sake, Charlie,” I said, “don’t start talking like that.”

  He pulled out of my hands and went staggering back against the wall. His eyes were bright, and his teeth showed behind his drawn lips. “What should I do?” he cried. “Forget everything now that Jessie is dead and buried? Sit here until Celia gets tired of being afraid of me and kills me, too?”

  My years and girth had betrayed me in that little tussle with him, and I found myself short of dignity and breath. “I’ll tell you one thing,” I said. “You haven’t been out of this house since the inquest. It’s about time you got out, if only to walk the streets and look around you.”

  “And have everybody laugh at me as I go!”

  “Try it,” I said, “and see. Al Sharp said that some of your friends would be at his bar and grill tonight, and he’d like to see you there. That’s my advice—for whatever it’s worth.”

  “It’s not worth anything,” said Celia. The door had been opened, and she stood there rigid, her eyes narrowed against the light in the room.

  Charlie turned toward her, the muscles of his jaw knotting and unknotting. “Celia,” he said, “I told you never to come into this room!”

  Her face remained impassive. “I’m not in it. I came to tell you that your dinner is ready.”

  He took a menacing step toward her. “Did you have your ear at that door long enough to hear everything I said? Or should I repeat it for you?”

  “I heard an ungodly and filthy thing,” she said quietly, “an invitation to drink and roister while this house is in mourning. I think I have every right to object to that.”

  He looked at her incredulously and had to struggle for words. “Celia,” he said, “tell me you don’t mean that!
Only the blackest hypocrite alive or someone insane could say what you’ve just said, and mean it.”

  That struck a spark in her. “Insane!” she cried. “You dare use that word? Locked in your room, talking to yourself, thinking heaven knows what!” She turned to me suddenly. “You’ve talked to him. You ought to know. Is it possible that—”

  “He is as sane as you, Celia,” I said heavily.

  “Then he should know that one doesn’t drink in saloons at a time like this. How could you ask him to do it?”

  She flung the question at me with such an air of malicious triumph that I completely forgot myself. “If you weren’t pre­paring to throw out Jessie’s belongings, Celia, I would take that question seriously!”

  It was a reckless thing to say, and I had instant cause to regret it. Before I could move, Charlie was past me and had Celia’s arms pinned in a paralyzing grip.

  “Did you dare go into her room?” he raged, shaking her savagely. “Tell me!” And then, getting an immediate answer from the panic in her face, he dropped her arms as if they were red hot, and stood there sagging with his head bowed.

  Celia reached out a placating hand toward him. “Charlie,” she whimpered, “don’t you see? Having her things around bothers you. I only wanted to help you.”

  “Where are her things?”

  “By the stairs, Charlie. Everything is there.”

  He started down the hallway, and with the sound of his uncertain footsteps moving away I could feel my heartbeat slowing down to its normal tempo. Celia turned to look at me, and there was such a raging hatred in her face that I knew only a desperate need to get out of that house at once. I took my things from the bed and started past her, but she barred the door.

  “Do you see what you’ve done?” she whispered hoarsely. “Now I will have to pack them all over again. It tires me, but I will have to pack them all over again—just because of you.”

  “That is entirely up to you, Celia,” I said coldly.

  “You,” she said. “You old fool. It should have been you along with her when I—”

  I dropped my stick sharply on her shoulder and could feel her wince under it. “As your lawyer, Celia,” I said, “I advise you to exercise your tongue only during your sleep, when you can’t be held accountable for what you say.”

  She said no more, but I made sure she stayed safely in front of me until I was out in the street again.

  From the Boerum house to Al Sharp’s Bar and Grill was only a few minutes’ walk, and I made it in good time, grateful for the sting of the clear winter air in my face.

  Al was alone behind the bar, busily polishing glasses, and when he saw me enter he greeted me cheerfully. “Merry Christmas, counsel­lor.”

  “Same to you,” I said, and watched him place a comfortable­-looking bottle and a pair of glasses on the bar.

  “You’re regular as the seasons, counsellor,” said Al, pouring out two stiff ones. “I was expecting you along right about now.”

  We drank to each other, and Al leaned confidingly on the bar. “Just come from there?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “See Charlie?”

  “And Celia,” I said.

  “Well,” said Al, “that’s nothing exceptional. I’ve seen her too when she comes by to do some shopping. Runs along with her head down and that black shawl over it like she was being chased by something. I guess she is at that.”

  “I guess she is,” I said.

  “But Charlie, he’s the one. Never see him around at all. Did you tell him I’d like to see him some time?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I told him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. Celia said it was wrong for him to come here while he was in mourning.”

  Al whistled softly and expressively, and twirled a forefinger at his forehead. “Tell me,” be said, “do you think it’s safe for them to be alone together like they are? I mean, the way things stand, and the way Charlie feels, there could be another case of trouble there.”

  “It looked like it for a while tonight,” I said. “But it blew over.”

  “Until next time,” said Al.

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  Al looked at me and shook his head. “Nothing changes in that house,” he said. “Nothing at all. That’s why you can figure out all the answers in advance. That’s how I knew you’d be standing here right about now talking to me about it.”

  I could still smell the dry rot of the house in my nostrils, and knew it would take days before I could get it out of my clothes.

  “This is one day I’d like to cut out of the calendar permanently,” I said.

  “And leave them alone to their troubles. It would serve them right.”

  “They’re not alone,” I said. “Jessie is with them. Jessie will always be with them until that house and everything in it is gone.”

  Al frowned. “It’s the queerest thing that ever happened in this town, all right. The house all black, her running through the streets like something hunted, him lying there in that room with only the walls to look at, for—when was it Jessie took that fall, counsellor?”

  By shifting my eyes a little I could see in the mirror behind Al the reflection of my own face: ruddy, deep jowled, a little incredulous.

  “Twenty years ago,” I heard myself saying. “Just twenty years ago tonight.”

  Gone Girl

  Ross Macdonald

  Carpers like to claim that Ross MacDonald copies Raymond Chandler. Don’t kid yourself. He sets his stories in the same hunk of real estate, but Ross Macdonald is Ross Macdonald. And that’s about as good as you can get.

  It was a Friday night. I was tooling home from the Mexican border in a light blue convertible and a dark blue mood. I had followed a man from Fresno to San Diego and lost him in the maze of streets in Old Town. When I picked up his trail again, it was cold. He had crossed the border, and my instructions went no further than the United States.

  Halfway home, just above Emerald Bay, I overtook the worst driver in the world. He was driving a black fishtail Cadillac as if he were tacking a sailboat. The heavy car wove back and forth across the freeway, using two of its four lanes, and sometimes three. It was late, and I was in a hurry to get some sleep. I started to pass it on the right, at a time when it was riding the double line. The Cadillac drifted towards me like an unguided missile, and forced me off the road in a screeching skid.

  I speeded up to pass on the left. Simultaneously, the driver of the Cadillac accelerated. My acceleration couldn’t match his. We raced neck and neck down the middle of the road. I wondered if he was drunk or crazy or afraid of me. Then the freeway ended. I was doing eighty on the wrong side of a two-lane highway, and a truck came over a rise ahead like a blazing double comet. I floorboarded the gas pedal and cut over sharply to the right, threatening the Cadillac’s fenders and its driver’s life. In the approaching headlights, his face was as blank and white as a piece of paper, with charred black holes for eyes. His shoulders were naked.

  At the last possible second, he slowed enough to let me get by. The truck went off onto the shoulder, honking angrily. I braked gradually, hoping to force the Cadillac to stop. It looped past me in an insane arc, tires skittering, and was sucked away into darkness.

  When I finally came to a full stop, I had to pry my fingers off the wheel. My knees were remote and watery. After smok­ing part of a cigarette, I U-turned and drove very cautiously back to Emerald Bay. I was long past the hot-rod age, and I needed rest.

  The first motel I came to, the Siesta, was decorated with a Vacancy sign and a neon Mexican sleeping luminously under a sombrero. Envying him, I parked on the gravel apron in front of the motel office. There was a light inside. The glass-paned door was standing open, and I went in. The little room was pleasantly furnished with rattan and chintz. I jangled the bell on the desk a few times. No one appeared, so I sat down to wait and lit a cigarette. An electric clock on the wall said a quarter to one.


  I must have dozed for a few minutes. A dream rushed by the threshold of my consciousness, making a gentle noise. Death was in the dream. He drove a black Cadillac loaded with flowers. When I woke up, the cigarette was starting to burn my fingers. A thin man in a gray flannel shirt was standing over me with a doubtful look on his face.

  He was big-nosed and small-chinned, and he wasn’t as young as he gave the impression of being. His teeth were bad, the sandy hair was thinning and receding. He was the typical old youth who scrounged and wheedled his living around motor courts and restaurants and hotels, and hung on desperately to the frayed edge of other people’s lives.

  “What do you want?” he said. “Who are you? What do you want?” His voice was reedy and changeable like an adolescent’s.

  “A room.”

  “ls that all you want?”

  From where I sat, it sounded like an accusation. I let it pass. “What else is there? Circassian dancing girls? Free pop­corn?”

  He tried to smile without showing his bad teeth. The smile was a dismal failure, like my joke. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “You woke me up. I never make much sense right after I just wake up.”

  “Have a nightmare?”

  His vague eyes expanded like blue bubblegum bubbles. “Why did you ask me that?”

  “Because I just had one. But skip it. Do you have a vacancy or don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He swallowed whatever bitter taste he had in his mouth, and assumed an impersonal obsequious manner. “You got any luggage, sir?”

  “No luggage.”

  Moving silently in tennis sneakers like a frail ghost of the boy he once had been, he went behind the counter, and took my name, address, license number, and five dollars. In return, he gave me a key numbered fourteen and told me where to use it. Apparently he despaired of a tip.

  Room fourteen was like any other middle-class motel room touched with the California-Spanish mania. Artificially rough­ened plaster painted adobe color, poinsettia-red curtains, imi­tation parchment lampshade on a twisted black iron stand. A Rivera reproduction of a sleeping Mexican hung on the wall over the bed. I succumbed to its suggestion right away, and dreamed about Circassian dancing girls.