It was not a merry trip back to town. They went in Sessions’ car. Sessions drove, Vickers sat beside him, Angie and Joan were in the back, and nobody spoke. Jennie Bryce was driving Harry’s car. The bay, when they left it, was still blue and calm and quite unperturbed by the recent dumping of a corpse into it.
Sessions was oppressed by the silence. He was also embarrassed. It was embarrassing to hate a man with all the strength of one’s soul – a rather flabby and undersized soul, admittedly, but still one’s only possession of that kind – to hate, and for four years to cherish the completely logical hope that this man is painfully dead and in hell, and then have him turn up sound in wind and limb and securely in his old place, which is neatly astride one’s neck. It is even more embarrassing when the hated one knows all about it and is not even angry. Merely amused.
When he could stand it no longer, Sessions said heartily, “Well, Vick, when are you coming down to the store? Everybody will be delighted to have you...”
He was going to say, “– have you back.” But Vickers turned his head slightly and Sessions glimpsed the raised eyebrow and the smile. He did not finish. His eyes were on the road after that, and he did not see the expression that came gradually in Vickers’ face. somber look, and one that Sessions would have found completely unfamiliar.
“Business has improved, you say.”
Sessions nodded. There was a very tiny, almost invisible imp of malice in his reply. “As I told you – nearly a third.”
“How odd,” said Vickers. He slid down in the seat, made an effort to get his long legs arranged comfortably, and closed his eyes. “I would have thought the business would simply crumble away without me.”
He appeared to sleep.
Sessions smiled. Quite brazenly. But it didn’t, you son of a bitch, he said to himself. You conceited, overbearing bastard. Michael Jehovah Horse’s-ass Vickers. The business got on just fine without you – and so did everybody else!
He drove carefully, never exceeding thirty miles an hour. He made all signals punctiliously and yielded right of way without question. His only citation had been for overtime parking in Beverly Hills. He brought this up frequently in conversation, half bragging, half wistfully hoping that the violation might admit him into the bright company of daredevils who ignored boulevard stops and did ninety on the highway. Michael Vickers had once owned a custom-built job that would do one hundred and ten.
Sessions brought the car finally to a gentle stop in front of Vickers’ house.
Angie and Joan got out. Vickers stayed where he was. He reached out and patted Angie’s shoulder.
“Try and get some rest,” he said. ‘I’ll be home for dinner.” He turned to Sessions. “You can drop me off at Wilshire.”
Angie went off with Joan. Her face had a set look. Sessions shrugged, and started the car.
At the foot of the hill he said, “I can take you wherever you want to go.”
‘I’m not sure where that is. Just let me out...” Vickers saw a red sign ahead. “Here, Sunset will do.” He got out as Sessions made the stop, waved, and went off. Sessions shook his head, and let himself cautiously into the stream of traffic along the Strip.
Michael Vickers walked slowly west, toward Beverly Hills. The sun was bright. There were cars and people and busses. There were open-front markets with bright pyramids of oranges and grapefruit and carefully artistic arrangements of vegetables. There were drugstores and liquor stores and art galleries and beauty shoppes and professional photographers and antique dealers and exclusive gown shops. There were service stations and veterinaries. There were agencies, dozens of them, the plush-upholstered auction blocks whence bodies, and perhaps even an occasional soul, are consigned to wear the Yellow Kimono in the ice palaces of Hollywood. There was a large, convenient mortuary.
The remembered places. The Players. Ciro’s, The Mocambo, The Troc. Bit of Sweden and the Tail of the Cock. The city spread out below the Strip. The stink of exhaust vapors, the noise of horns and motors, the drivein restaurants with girls in tight pants serving cheeseburgers and malts.
Vickers thought, This hasn’t changed. He looked at his reflection in a store window. The clothes were the same. He had worn them into these swank bars and peeled bills off of a thick wad held in a silver clip with his initials on it and been treated like the Shah of Persia. The clothes were the same. The street was the same. Maybe I’ll forget these last four years. I forgot all the other ones quickly enough.
He walked on, and there was still a distance between himself and the street.
He boarded a red bus and stood in the crowded aisle and studied the faces around him. There was a tired young colored woman with a child asleep in her lap. There were housewives with bundles and a man with a lunch pail and a very old woman with sandals made of newspaper folded thick and tied on with rags. People who had never been near the Mocambo. When the bus stopped at Beverly Hills Station Vickers got out with the rest of them, and walked over to Bedford Drive. He pleased himself by not having to hunt for’ the house. It was colonial and pretentious, and the way Vickers thrust his finger against the bell managed to impart a quality of insolence even to the chimes.
The door opened.
Vickers said, “Hullo, Stokes. Remember me?”
The plump, healthy-looking butler obviously did remember him, and the remembrance seemed to be something of a shock.
“Oh, come now, Stokes,” said Vickers, walking in. “It’s not as though I were Mr. Bryce coming back.”
Stokes shuddered. “Please, sir!” He closed the door. “Poor Mr. Bryce. I only heard the news when Mrs. Bryce returned home.” He shuddered again. “Murder!”
“Frightfully ill bred,” said Vickers. “And most inconvenient.”
Stokes gave him a look. “You’ve changed, sir, if I may say so. But not much.” No one could possibly have taken offense at his tone. He added formally, “May I offer my congratulations on your safe return.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll inquire whether Mrs. Bryce is able to see you now.”
Vickers said, “What do you want to bet?” He smiled at the butler’s stiffly retreating back and then went directly into Harry Bryce’s study and closed the door.
Harry had been an untidy character. Vickers flicked through masses of irrelevant paper in the desk drawers, including used Christmas cards and old gin rummy scores. Vickers noticed on these latter that Harry had got blitzed with monotonous regularity. He was still pawing when Jennie Bryce came in.
She wore a black dress now. It had rather a low V-neck and a seductive drape around the hips. Her pumps were black suede and had a very high heel. One blood-red toenail peeped through the opening of each shoe. She wore a pearl choker and matching earrings and her hair was piled smoothly on her head. She had a beautiful neck. Widowhood became her.
She shut the door and said, “You’ve sure got your nerve with you.”
“Yes, haven’t I?” Vickers smiled at her pleasantly, went back to what he was doing, did a studied take, and straightened, staring at Jennie.
She gave him plenty of time to look before she said indignantly, “What do you think you’re doing in my husband’s effects?”
“Looking for something.” Vickers seemed surprised that she would not know that. “Shan’t be a moment. Suppose you sit down right over there, where I can see you, and then we can have a little chat when I’m finished.”
“Well,” she said, “if you got something important to say.” She walked slowly to the indicated chair, giving him the full-length profile. “A widow has things to do, you know.”
“Yes,” said Vickers. “I can imagine.”
She sat down, watching him sulkily. He could feel her watching. The jumbled papers slipped through his hands rapidly, and then he found what he wanted. The things were in a leather zipper case at the bottom of the last drawer. He swept papers onto the floor and spread the contents out. Jennie got up and stood beside him.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Harry’s memory books.” There were two of them, one a small leather-bound notebook with liquor stains on the cover, the other a big scrap book. Vickers opened the big book to cover the little one.
“Why,” said Jennie, “that’s you, isn’t it?”
She was pointing to a picture clipped from a Los Angeles paper. It was the Vickers of four years ago. It carried a heading to the effect that Prominent Local Business Man had Disappeared. There was an article pasted beside it. It told Vickers nothing new. Only a repetition of what Angie had said. He turned the heavy pages slowly. There were pictures of Harry Bryce and Bill Saul and Job Crandall. There were pictures of Angie. There were interviews. There was one last item, very small, from a back page and unaccompanied by pictures, which said that the search for Michael Vickers, missing six months, had proved fruitless and been abandoned. Wherever the name of Harry Bryce appeared in print it was underlined in blue pencil.
“Harry never showed me that,” said Jennie. “But then, we were only married three months ago.” She turned back to a picture of Angie, and studied it. “She don’t take a very good picture, does she?”
Vickers glanced sideways and said, “I imagine you do.”
Jennie shrugged deprecatingly and moved away, ostensibly toward a small table with cigarettes on it. Vickers got a magnificent view of her back, undulant and graceful. “I oughta. I been in show business since I was a kid. You learn the tricks.”
“Yes. I suppose you do.” Vickers slipped the small leather book into his pocket, and then made a last quick search of the zipper case while Jennie was giving her artistic all to the lighting of a cigarette. There was an envelope. He had no time to look at it. It followed the notebook.
Jennie said, “Cigarette?”
“Thanks.” He went over and let her hold the lighter for him. Her eyes studied the shape of his mouth.
“Well,” she said, “now Angie’s got a man of her own, maybe the rest of us can relax. Not that I cared about Harry. Like I said. But Harriet’s sure got the axe out for her, and I know one of Bill’s babes split with him on her account.” She walked away with a lazy swing of the hips. “Me, as soon as the funeral’s over, I’m going to take a trip. A long one, with all the trimmings.”
“You’re forgetting the police.”
“Oh, yeah.” She reflected, then smiled. “Oh well, it won’t be for long, and it’s kind of exciting anyway. That Trehearne guy – he’s cute.”
“Practically devastating.”
She came back and stood in front of Vickers. “Were you and Harry real good friends?”
“What did Harry say about it?”
“Oh, he never said much. Nobody ever told me much about you. I guess they’d all sort of forgotten about you by this time. Only thing I remember him saying was once when he was crying on Bill’s shoulder over some deal that was going sour on him and Bill said if you were here you could tell him how to swing it, and Harry said yes, you could, and that was the trouble with you. You were so goddamned sure of yourself, and so goddamn right.” She laughed. “Are you?”
“I don’t know, Jennie.” He was looking at her, but not seeing her. He said slowly, “I’ve been a very unlucky man. I could always do everything too easily, and too well.”
“Even love?”
He ran the tip of his finger from her ear down under her chin and tilted it up. “Even that.” She stood waiting for his kiss, and he stood looking down at her. “In South America I had a woman,” he said softly. “She nursed me through the fever. It’s not a nice kind of nursing. She stole food for me. Sometimes she sold herself for a few centavos – the men were all poor down there – to buy quinine, or some goat’s milk for me. Would you do that, Jennie?”
She said angrily, “Why should I do it? You got Angie, haven’t you? Besides, that’s silly.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He took his hand away from her chin and stepped back. “But then we’re all silly at times, aren’t we? Even you, Jennie.” He bowed with courtly grace. “Good day, Mrs. Bryce. Don’t let widowhood sit too heavily upon you. Remember you’re still young, and life goes on.” At the door he paused and glanced back at her. “I’ll give your love to Angie.” He went out. She was still trying to think of something to say.
On the steps Vickers met Joe Trehearne. They stopped and eyed each other with friendly smiles that went no farther than the lips. Trehearne said,
“I didn’t expect to see you so soon again.”
“Just offering further condolences to the widow, poor little thing. Be easy on her, old boy. She’s the fragile sort.”
“Yes,” Trehearne said dryly. “I had her pegged that way.”
“Any further news?”
“Not yet.”
“Let us know.”
“I’ll do that.”
Trehearne went in. Vickers walked down Bedford Drive to Wilshire and one block east to Roxbury and stood looking at his store.
It was a beautiful thing. It was functional and clean and proud. The windows glistened, the displays were the last and final word in swank. There wasn’t a thing inside you could afford to buy if you made less than a hundred thousand a year. Vickers crossed the street and went inside.
It was just as it had been the last time he saw it. A new coat of paint, perhaps, but it was the same discreet and quiet gray. Thick carpeting, indirect lighting, the floor space divided into salons presided over by handsome females with the faintly condescending air of grand duchesses come gracefully down in the world. Vickers wandered about, keeping in the background. Women in fantastic hats bought perfumes and cobwebby stockings and underthings no more substantial than a breath of fog. The whole place had the subtle smell of wealth.
One of the grand duchesses showed him her perfect teeth and said, “May I direct you, sir?”
Vickers started. “Thank you, no. I’m – looking for someone.”
After that he went away.
At the Beverly-Wilshire he found a cab and had himself driven to the public library. He was fairly sure that he would not meet anyone he knew in that particular place. He found a seat in a far corner, pulled several books at random from the shelves, arranged them on the table, sat down, and pulled the leather-covered book from his pocket.
The fly leaf was hand-decorated – Harry Bryce had had a talent for hilarious, if rather rude, cartooning. There was a motif of amorous mermaids with certain startling physical characteristics, and framed by their flirting tails was the legend: LOG OF THE LADY B. Below that was Harry’s name, and an allusion to his rank and chief duties in the crew.
The next four pages had sketches of Vickers, Bill Saul, Job Crandall, and Bryce himself, all good-naturedly libelous caricatures. Then the log itself started.
He could remember reading each entry after Harry had written it. He could remember the four of them laughing themselves sick over the description of Job Crandall’s efforts to land a sailfish while mildly drunk, and embroidering with mounting improbabilities the tale of Bill Saul’s encounter with the red light district of a particularly small and uninhibited port. Vickers skipped through these pages hurriedly, but the picture of himself came back vividly into his mind. The well-fed Vickers relaxing on his yacht, enjoying his own personal sunshine and his private ocean, seeing large-handedly to his guests. Including, he thought, the guest I didn’t know was there – the little man called Murder.
He came to the last two entries. It was quite easy to tell from Harry’s writing when he was drunk and when he was sober. On the first of these two entries he had been cold stone sober.
Vickers has gone. He didn’t return aboard last night, and this morning we can find no trace of him. We’ve searched the town, but nobody has seen him. I’m afraid this is the end of the cruise.
The next, and last, entry was longer and written in Harry’s sub-alcoholic scrawl.
One last bust, dear little log book. We’re all tight, the three of us – tighter than we were last night, when we lost Vick. Nobody can remember what happened. We went ashore, and after that I dunno. Neither does Job.
Neither does Bill. Anyhow, Vickers never came back. Job says he’s dead. Bill says Nuts, the son of a bitch is too ornery to die that easy, and besides we didn’t find a body, did we? No corpus, no delicti. Me, I’ll string with Job. There are sharks in these waters. You don’t have to find a body. And who wants to find Vick’s anyway? Just think, dear diary – this here leaves Angie a widow!
Vickers noticed, quite casually, that his hands were shaking. He was dimly aware that someone had sat down quietly beside him. He should have been startled when Joe Trehearne’s voice said, “Are you finding some good books?” He was not startled. He was somehow not even surprised. He did not bother to close the log book.
He looked at Trehearne and smiled. “Are you following me?”
Trehearne seemed mildly hurt. “Of course not. I can read, you know. I often go into libraries.”
“Aren’t you a little off your beat?”
‘I’m also off duty, and there’s no law yet against a citizen of Los Angeles entering the township of Beverly Hills.”
“What a pity.” Vickers got up. He closed the log book and held it out to Trehearne. “Would you care to take this along and read it?”
Trehearne said, “You’re just loaning it to me because you love me.”
“Quite.”
“Would you mind stepping over here?” Trehearne indicated the librarian’s desk. They had already attracted her unfavorable attention by raising their voices above a whisper. Vickers shrugged and walked toward her with Trehearne. She watched their approach with marked dislike.
Trehearne stopped and leaned his elbow on the desk. “You’re sure you want to loan me the book, Mr. Vickers?”
“Why not?”
He held it out. Trehearne took it. He said, “Thanks very much, Mr. Vickers. I’ll take good care of it.”
‘I’m sure you will, Mr. Trehearne.”
Trehearne started off. The librarian said sharply, “Here! Just a minute.”
Trehearne stopped. He gazed at the librarian as one does at a rude child. Then the light broke. “Oh!” he said, holding up the book. “You thought the...” He laughed. “No, no. It’s Mr. Vickers’ personal book. Here, I’ll show you.” He opened the cover to show her the flyleaf.
She took one good look. Things happened to her face. Trehearne received a premonition that all was not well. He turned the book around and had a look himself. The mermaids frisked merrily around the page, their marvelous anatomies betraying a distressing lack of inhibition. Trehearne looked back at the librarian. He turned scarlet. The librarian leaned forward.
“Get that filthy thing out of here,” she said, “before I call a policeman.”
Trehearne fled.
Vickers raised his head in the cathedral hush and roared with laughter.
Later, in the cab that was taking him home, Vickers took out the envelope he had found with the log book.
There was nothing in it but a lock of soft black hair.
He held it in his fingers, and sat looking at it. He was dimly aware that the cab had turned and begun to climb the hill. He was dimly aware that it slowed and shifted into second at the place where the road twisted and became even more steep. He heard nothing but the complaining snarl of the motor until something snapped past his head, close. Very close. Little stinging flies attacked his cheek. He saw a neat round hole in the window beside him, and as he went down quickly onto the floor he saw that there was another hole, less neat, in the rear window. He put up his hand to his face and pulled out a tiny sliver of glass. There was a little blood and he got out his handkerchief. The cabby drove on. He was thinking about hamburgers and cold beer, and the cute redhead who served them, and wishing he didn’t have a wife and two kids.
He ground the cab to a stop in front of the house on top of the hill and said, “That’ll be a dollar and thirty cents.”