Vanish in an Instant (4 page)

“Don't you?”

There was a pause. Miss Jennings was wide-eyed with curiosity, but she hummed valiantly on, keeping time with her left foot.

“You weren't drunk all Saturday night. What happened earlier, before Margolis was killed?”

“We danced and had something to eat.”

“You also had a fight around eleven o'clock.”

“Claude and I were the best of friends,” she said stiffly.

“It's on the record, Mrs. Barkeley. A waitress at the Top Hat remembers you both and has already identified your pictures. In the middle of the argument you got up and walked out and a few minutes later Margolis followed you. Where did you go? Or don't you want me to tell you?”

“You like talking so much, tell me.” The words were arrogant, but they weren't spoken arrogantly. Her voice trembled, and Meecham wondered if she was frightened at the thought of meeting her mother. She had shown no pre­vious signs of fear.

He said, “You went to a beer-and-pretzel place a couple of doors down the street. It was jammed with the Satur­day-night college crowd. Margolis caught up with you there. You were at the bar talking to a man when Margolis arrived. You got up and left with Margolis, and the other man got up and left too, according to one of the bartend­ers. But he doesn't know whether the man left with you, or whether he was just going home because it was nearly closing time. Which was it?”

“Stop.” Virginia pounded the edge of the cot with her fist. “Do we have to go into it like this?”

“Somebody has to. We can't all sit around nursing our amnesia.”

“You're pretty insolent, for hired help.”

“And you're pretty uncooperative for a girl who might spend her next twenty years sorting out dirty clothes in a prison laundry.”

“That was an ugly remark.” The girl's face was paper-white, and her skin seemed to be stretched tight and trans­parent across her cheekbones. “I won't forget it.”

“I hope not,” Meecham said. “There's one very inter­esting point about the finding of Margolis' body. His wal­let was missing.”

“What difference does that make?”

“His friends claim he always carried a fair amount of cash.”

“He did.”

“It makes me wonder about your anonymous stranger at the bar. I gather you didn't take Margolis' wallet?”

“Why should I?”

“Because you're broke.”

“So you've been checking up. Afraid you're not going to get paid?”

“I've been checking. Your car isn't paid for, your house is mortgaged, your husband is . . .”

“Leave Paul out of this,” she said sharply. “And get one thing straight—if I want money, I don't have to go around lifting wallets.”

“You can ask your mother.”

“That's right, I can.”

“Well, here's your chance.” Meecham glanced at his watch. “She should be arriving right now.”

The overhead lights went off suddenly and the feeble rays of the morning sun filtered in through the barred win­dows like dim hopes.

Virginia got up and looked out the window at her little square of sky. “I can't see her in here. There must be some other place.”

“I'll see what I can do.” He opened the cell door and stepped out. “Miss Jennings?”

Miss Jennings came up, swinging her keys. “All through for now?”

“Mrs. Barkeley's mother is coming to visit her. They haven't seen each other for a year. I thought we might be able to borrow some other room for a while, Miss Jen­nings.”

“Well, I guess so. I'll see. After all, one's own
mother.
” She glanced rather uncertainly at Virginia. “I'll have to stay with you all the time. Mr. Meecham can talk to you in private because he's your lawyer. But anyone else . . . There are rules, even about mothers.”

“What do you think she's going to do,” Virginia said, “slip me a loaf of bread with a chisel inside?”

Miss Jennings laughed hollowly. “She's a great one for joking, isn't she, Mr. Meecham?”

“Just great.” He gave Virginia a warning glance and she went and sat down on the cot again with her back to them both.

Miss Jennings locked the cell door. “I'll go and ask the Sheriff if you can use his private office. But I don't guaran­tee a thing. He's not at his best this morning.”

“Thanks for trying, anyway.” When Miss Jennings had gone, he spoke through the bars to Virginia: “It's time you started to win friends and influence people.”

“Really?”

“Put on an act. You're an innocent flower, dirt has been done by you, and now your dear old mother has come to visit you from the faraway hills.”

“What ham. It's too thick to slice.”

“Ham or not, try some,” Meecham said. “By the way, do you know Margolis' wife?”

“I've met her. She has a bad complexion.”

“How did you meet her?”

“That's none of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business until you get out of here for good. How did you meet Margolis?”

“He built the house for me. For me and Paul, that is.”

Miss Jennings returned and opened the cell door again. “Your mother's waiting in the Sheriff's office, Mrs. Barke­ley. My, she doesn't resemble you a bit, except maybe just around the eyes. Family resemblances fascinate me. Here, you can borrow my compact mirror to see how you look.”

“I know how I look,” Virginia said.

“Now, is that nice?” Smiling cheerfully, Miss Jennings replaced the compact in her pocket. “You look sulky, if you want the truth.”

Virginia opened her mouth to reply, caught another warning glance from Meecham and changed her mind. She followed Miss Jennings silently down the hall. Her face was calm, almost stony, but she walked as if she had trouble keeping her balance.

“Do you want me to stay?” Meecham asked.

Virginia half-turned and said, over her shoulder, “What for?”

“Well, there's my answer.

“Right.”

He dropped behind the two women. When they reached the Sheriff's office Virginia went in ahead, taking little run­ning steps. “Momma!
Momma
!”

Meecham wondered grimly whether this was the real thing or whether it was ham too thick to slice.

He walked slowly past the open door. Mrs. Hamilton was holding Virginia in her arms, rocking back and forth in grief and gladness. She was crying, and Virginia was crying, and Miss Jennings' face was all squeezed up as if she too was going to cry. All three of them looked so funny that for an instant Meecham almost laughed.

The instant passed.

“Ginny darling. Darling girl.”

Christ
, Meecham thought, and walked away as fast as possible to get out of earshot.

At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the main floor a man was sitting on a bench, his back resting against the wall.

Meecham stared at him curiously as he passed, and the man returned the stare, unselfconsciously, like someone ac­customed to attracting attention. In spite of the winter weather he wore no coat or hat, and his skin was mushroom-pale as if he had lived underground for a long time, out of reach of the sun. He was still young. His face looked younger than Meecham's, but the shape of his body was like that of a dissolute old man—scrawny shoulders and pipestem wrists and a huge pendulous belly which he tried to hide by keeping his arms folded in front of him.

He looked at Meecham, his eyes enormous in the thin sensitive face, and then he rose heavily and awkwardly like a woman far gone with child and moved on down the cor­ridor.

Meecham went up the stairs. Outside, the Christmas tree lights were in place and turned on, but they didn't show up very well because the sun was shining.

4

When Meecham
arrived
at the house it was al­most dark and snow was falling again, a fine light snow, iri­descent, like crushed diamonds.

Alice met him at the door. Though he'd only seen her once before, on the previous night, she looked very familiar to him, like a kid sister. He glanced down at her with a critical brotherly eye. She was wearing a cherry-colored dress that didn't suit her; the lines were too straight, the color too vivid.

“Do I come in?” Meecham said.

“Well, I guess so.”

“What's the matter? Anything wrong?”

“No. Except that there's no one here but me. Dr. Barke­ley and Mrs. Hamilton are out.”

“That's all right. Maybe I'm early.”

“Early?”

“I was invited for tea.” He consulted his watch. “At five. It's now five.”

“No one told me anything about it. Mrs. Hamilton's been gone all day.”

He took off his coat and laid it across a chair while Alice watched him, still looking puzzled and rather unfriendly.

She said, “Why did she invite you for tea?”

“Maybe she wants to read my tea leaves. That should be interesting,” he added with a dry smile. “I might be about to get some money or meet a short suspicious blonde.”

“That's not very funny.”

“Then stop acting suspicious.”

“I'm not.”

“Have it your way.”

He crossed the room and stood with his back to the man­tel, his left arm supporting some of his weight. His body was never quite erect. When he walked he slouched, and when he stood he always leaned against something like a man who had spent too much time in a car and at a desk.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“At the movies. She phoned at noon and told me she intended to stay downtown for lunch and do some shopping and take in a double feature. She sounded quite gay and girlish, as if she was going on a spree.”

“Maybe she was.”

“Oh, no. She doesn't drink.”

“I wasn't thinking of that kind of a spree.”

“Then why don't you say what you think?”

“Maybe I will, sometime.”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Now what are you miffed about?”

“You're so condescending.”

“I don't feel that way,” he said gravely. “In fact, right now I'm confused. I can go down to lower Fifth Street and look in the window of a house, any house, and tell you quite a lot about the people who live there. But I'm not used to houses like this or girls like Virginia or women like Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Or like me?” The question slipped out unintention­ally, like a line from a fishing reel left unguarded for a moment.

“I think I know quite a bit about you, Alice.”

“Oh? You've met dozens like me, I suppose.”

“A few.”

She turned away so that he couldn't see the angry flush that stained her face.

He didn't see it, though he guessed it was there. “Why does that make you mad?”

“I'm not mad.”

“You wouldn't want to be absolutely unique, would you, like a three-headed calf or something?”

“Of course not.” I would, she thought violently. I want to be absolutely unique.

“I'm sorry if I offended you,” he said with a trace of a smile. “It's just that I knew a three-headed calf once, and all it ever wanted to be was ordinary.”

“This is a ridiculous conversation,” Alice said. “I think you'd better stick to looking in windows on lower Fifth Street, Mr. Meecham.”

“I
don't
look in. . .”

“You said you did.”

“I said I
could.
”

“Anybody can. You hardly need any special equipment for window peeping.”

“I am
not
a window peeper.”

“Well, you said you were.”

“I did not say I . . .”

“I heard you distinctly.”

Meecham shook his head in exasperation. “All right. All right, I'm a window peeper.”

“I can believe it.”

“I think I've changed my mind about you, Alice. You
are
unique. Absolutely unique and impossible.”

Alice gazed at him blandly. “I'd rather be impossible than ordinary. Mrs. Hamilton says I can be anything if I try.”

“Mrs. Hamilton's an authority?”

“On most things.”

“I wouldn't be too sure,” he said. “Don't get stuck on the old girl. She might let you down.”

From outside there came the sound of footsteps hurry­ing across the patio. A moment later the front door burst open and Mrs. Hamilton came rushing into the room. Her coat was flying open and her hat had slid to the back of her head. She looked blowsy and old and scared.

As she turned to close the door behind her the parcels she was carrying slid out of her arms and dropped to the floor. There was a muffled shatter of glass, and almost in­stantly the smell of lilacs crept poignantly into the room like a remembered spring.

“Turn off the lights, Alice,” she said. “Don't ask ques­tions. Turn them off.”

Alice did as she was told. Without lights the smell of li­lacs seemed stronger, and Mrs. Hamilton's harsh breathing rose and fell in the darkness.

“Someone is out there. A man. He's been following me.”

Meecham coughed, faintly. She took it as a sign of dis­belief.

“No, I'm not imagining things, Mr. Meecham,” she said sharply. “He followed me from the bus stop. I couldn't get a cab downtown so I took the bus. This man got off at the same corner as I did. He followed me. I think he meant to rob me.”

“He may live in one of the houses around here,” Meecham said.

“No. He came after me quite deliberately and openly. When I walked fast he walked fast, and when I paused he paused. There was something almost sadistic about it.”

“He's probably a neighborhood nut who gets his kicks out of scaring women,” Meecham said. Or a policeman, he thought, maybe one of Cordwink's men. “Where is he now?”

“The last I saw of him he had gone behind the cedar hedge.” She crossed to the window and pointed. “Right there, at the entrance to the driveway. He might be there yet.”

“I'll go out and take a look.”

“What if he's dangerous? Maybe we should call the po­lice immediately.”

“First, let's see if he's still there,” Meecham said.

Outside, the snow was still falling. It felt good, after the heat of the house. Through the patio and down the drive­way Meecham walked, a little self-consciously, aware that the two women were watching him from the window and not sure how far they could see, since it wasn't totally dark yet.

By the time he reached the end of the curving driveway the snow didn't feel quite so pleasant. With quiet persist­ence it had seeped in over the tops of his shoes, and up his coat sleeves and down under his collar. He felt cold and wet and foolish.

He said, in a voice that wasn't as loud or as firm as he in­tended: “Hey. You behind the hedge. What are you do­ing?”

There was no answer. He had expected none. The old girl had probably dreamed up the whole thing. Darkness, weariness, a deserted street, footsteps behind—together they were rich food for the imagination.

Pulling up his coat collar against the snow, he was on the point of turning to go back to the house when a man shuf­fled out from the shadow of the hedge. He moved like an old man, and his hair and eyebrows were white, but the whiteness was snow. He stood with his back to the street lamp so that his face was just a blur in the deepening twi­light. The light-colored baggy coat he wore hung on him like a tent.

“What am I doing here?” he said. “I'm waiting for the doctor.”

“Behind a hedge?”

“No, sir.” He had a rather high, earnest voice, like a schoolboy's. “I intend to go to his office, but I thought I'd stand here a bit and enjoy the night. I like a winter night.”

“Kind of cold, isn't it?”

“Not for me. I like the smell of cedar too. It reminds me of Christmas. I won't be having a Christmas this year.” He brushed the snow from his eyebrows with the back of his bare hand. “Of course I'm not really waiting for the doctor.”

Meecham's eyes were alert, suspicious. “No?”

“Oh, I'll see him, of course. But what I'm really waiting for—and so are you, if you only knew it—is a destination, a finality, an end of something. My own case is rather spe­cial; I'm waiting for an end of fear.”

I was right
, Meecham thought.
He's a neighborhood nut
. Aloud he said, “You'd better pick a more comfortable place to wait. Move on, now. We don't want any trouble.”

The man didn't even hear him. “I've died a thousand times from fear. A thousand deaths, and one would have been enough. A great irony.”

“You'd better move on, go home and get some sleep. Have you got a family?”

“A family?” The young man laughed. “I have a great family.”

“They may be waiting for you.”

“I won't be going home tonight.”

“You can't stay here.” Meecham glanced briefly at the man's shoes. Like the overcoat, they looked new. He said anyway, “I can let you have a couple of bucks.”

“What do you think, that I'm a bum wanting a hand­out? I'm not a bum.”

A car came around the corner, its headlights searched the man's face for a moment like big blind eyes. Meecham recognized him instantly. He had seen him that morning in the county jail, the old-young man with the sensitive face and the swollen dissolute body. The body was hidden now under the tent of his overcoat. His face was bland and unlined, and the falling snow had feathered his eyelashes and made his eyes look dewy and innocent. He was, Meecham thought, about twenty-eight.

He said aloud, “We've met before.”

“Yes, I know. I know who you are.”

“Oh?”

“You're Mr. Meecham, the girl's lawyer.”

Meecham had an abrupt and inexplicable feeling of un­easiness. It was, he thought, like turning around suddenly on a dark night and finding at your heels a silent and vicious dog; nothing is said, nothing is done; the walk con­tinues, the dog behind you, and behind the dog, fear, following you both.

“What's your name?” Meecham said.

“Loftus. Earl Duane Loftus.” The young man blinked, and the snow tumbled from his eyelashes down his cheeks in a miniature avalanche. “You'd better go and call the police. You wouldn't mind if I waited inside the house un­til they arrive? I'm not cold—I never mind the cold—but I'd like to sit down. I tire easily.”

“Why should I call the police?”

“I'd like to give them a statement.”

“What about?”

“I committed a murder.”

“Oh.”

“You don't believe me,” Loftus said.

“Oh sure, sure I do.”

“No. I can tell. First you thought I was a bum, now you think I'm a psycho.”

“No, I don't,” Meecham lied, without conviction.

“Well, I can't blame you, actually. I guess every murder case attracts a lot of tips and confessions from psychos, peo­ple who want punishment or publicity or expiation. I don't fit into any of those classes, Mr. Meecham.”

“Of course not,” Meecham lied again, wishing that a pa­trol car would come along, or that the young man would go away quietly, and without a fuss.

“I can see you're still skeptical. You haven't even asked whom I killed.”

Meecham felt cold and weary, and a little impatient. “What gave you the idea you killed anyone?”

“The body. The dead body.” Loftus' long skinny fingers worked nervously at the lapels of his coat. “I didn't come here following the old lady home. We had a common desti­nation, that's all. I wanted to see the doctor and tell him first. His wife didn't kill Margolis. I did.”

Meecham's impatience had grown with his discomfort. “How'd you kill him, with a shotgun as he was going into the post-office to mail a letter?”

Loftus shook his head, very seriously. “No, sir, I didn't. I stabbed him in the neck. Four or five times, I believe.”

“Why?”

“I had a good many reasons.” He leaned toward Meecham in an almost confidential manner. “I look funny to you, don't I? You think like a lot of people that a man who looks so funny must also be funny in the head. Looks are very important. Very deceiving too. I'm quite sane, quite intelligent even. There's only one thing the matter with me; I am going to die.”