Stranger At Home (10 page)

“Then why doesn't Angie call me? I waited...”

“Perhaps she got up late. Perhaps no one was near a phone when you called her...”

“That's impossible. There are phones all over the house, and there's always someone there. Besides, I called repeatedly. I even tried the beach place.” Joan got up and stood in front of Trehearne and looked into his eyes. ‘I'm afraid for her. I know he's turned the servants out. I know he's got her there alone, and I'm afraid.”

Trehearne studied her silently for a time. Then he said softly, “I think you'd better sit down, and tell me why.”

She did. He gave her a cigarette and lighted one for himself and then let her alone while she pushed things around in her mind and got them ready to be spoken. She glanced at him once or twice. Trehearne knew the look.

“Don't be afraid to say anything you want,” he said. ‘I'm here to listen.”

Her eyes rested a moment, sharply, on his face. It was a strange blend of elements. His odd mouth was as compassionate as that of a church image, yet he was somehow completely impersonal. He seemed less like an individual than a symbol of justice, impartial, without malice or human frailty. It was one of his most valuable accomplishments. He smoked quietly and let her look. Presently she relaxed and dropped her head reflectively.

“There was always a cruel streak in Michael. I don't mean that he abused animals, that sort of thing – it was far more subtle than that. A mental thing, a coldness. He was sufficient unto himself, and he was proud, and he was dominant. Always, dominant. He could do everything better than anybody else, and more easily, and more quickly. Make money, play games take the most attractive woman for his wife. I've watched the marriage from the first day they moved in on the hill, right after the honeymoon.”

She paused and turned to stare out the window at the distant glitter of the sea.

“I think,” she said, “that I hated Michael from the start.”

Trehearne said nothing. His very silence was comforting, an invitation. Inside, his brain was coldly dissecting Joan and examining each part separately, weighing, estimating, judging the exact substance of Joan's love for Angie.

Joan went on talking.

“There was no kindness in him. He could be charming when he wanted to, very gracious, even tender and sweet where Angie was concerned. But it was all on the surface. He was nice when it pleased him to be nice. He, had no heart. He never gave a thought to how other people felt. He's said things to me that were so coldly rude...”

She caught herself. “You'll think I'm just resentful of his position. And I am, because he's made me resentful. There are some people who can, just by a look, destroy your inner pride – your dignity as a human being. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly. Go on.”

Joan spread her tanned, slim fingers on the arm of the chair and studied the polished nails as though they were deeply important. Trehearne had not noticed before how strong her hands were. They had a sure, competent way of moving.
Tennis
, thought Trehearne,
from her legs, and certainly swimming. She's got a swimmer's neck
.

“Angie used to come to me, late at night. At first she'd just sit and talk, about nothing in particular – never about Michael. I knew that she was desperately unhappy, and often she was furious, in the way that only a man can make a woman angry, if he's that sort of man. I was married once, to a man who was not kind to me.” Her face hardened. “I understood.”

Ah
, thought Trehearne,
there it is. Psychic trauma involving sex. Doesn't like men. Doesn't like what some idiotic females term “subjection.” Six, two, and even, she's Les and won't admit it even to herself.

“One night,” Joan said, “Angie broke down and cried. After that she'd talk a little, and as we became better friends, I got the whole story. I'd been sure of it all along, of course. Angie was Michael's wife, and to him a wife was merely a possession, to be displayed or used or set aside, according to his whim. His bedroom was his own. Private. But not Angie's. Oh, no. Michael came and went as he pleased. Michael was God. He had a huge rug in front of Angie's fireplace...”

Joan's voice choked off. Two red spots burned over her cheekbones.

“He used her shamefully. Angie had her pride. There were frightful scenes. He never struck her, I'll give him that. But I remember one time when he came and found that Angie had locked her door. When she refused to open it, he merely shrugged and said, ‘Very well, I shall get myself a whore,' and went away, and did.

“I told Angie to leave him. Once or twice she nearly agreed, but then Michael would put on his best face, and she'd weaken. The worst of it was that Angie really loved him – or thought she did. She said he wasn't really selfish and cruel. She said he'd only been spoiled by being born too clever and never having had to sweat or worry or lose out. She said some day he'd change.” Joan's mouth twisted bitterly. “She waited nearly five years, and then he disappeared. I prayed he wouldn't come back.”

Trehearne said, “But he did.” He rose and walked over to the window. There was a patch of well-kept green lawn below, and a bed of mixed cannas. He glanced at the sea and thought about Catalina and tarpon and cold beer. “Is he changed now?”

“Yes.

“In what way?”

“I can't tell you that. Superficially he's the same, what I've seen of him. But underneath, he's...” She stopped. The sound of her voice died away and left a silence in the room. It was growing hot. Trehearne said,

“Do you think he killed Harry Bryce?”

She didn't hesitate. She lifted her handsome chin and set it, hard, and said clearly, “I do.”

“Why?”

“Because Harry was in love with Michael's wife. And Harry was drunk that night, and Harry always talked too much.”

Trehearne thought that over and nodded. “And was Michael's wife in love with Harry?”

“No. I almost wish she had been, even with him. With almost anybody, just to get Michael off her mind. No. Angie has waited for him. They've tried hard, all three of them. Job Crandall, Bill Saul, and poor Harry. None of them got beyond the conventions.”

“But,” said Trehearne slowly, “you're not sure Vickers believes that.”

‘I'm only sure of one thing. He's got her alone in that house. Really alone, without even a servant. And God only knows what may have happened to him mentally in these four years. A blow on the head that took his memory... it could have done more.”

“Yes.” Trehearne walked back to the desk and shoved the phone over toward Joan. “Would you like to try again, from here?”

She flashed him a grateful look and dialed the operator. Trehearne went into the outer office and picked up the extension. The call was put through, but the number rang and rang, and was not answered. Trehearne hung up and went back inside.

“Call your hotel. She may have left a message.”

Joan got the desk clerk. “Oh, yes,” he said. “A Mrs. Vickers called shortly after you had left. She said – shall I read you the message?”

“Of course!”

“She said, ‘Tell Mrs. Merrill that I am all right and she is not to worry. I will call again.' That's all.”

“Thank you,” said Joan, and hung up. She told Trehearne. “Now I don't know what to think. Oh, God, I wish I hadn't missed her.”

She'll call again. Look, I'm going up there myself this afternoon. Official business. I'll call you when I get back, let you know how things are.”

Joan got up. “Thank you,” she said. ‘I'm really dreadfully worried.”

He said sympathetically, “I know.” Then, casually, he asked, “By the way, did Mrs. Vickers ever mention that perhaps Mr. Vickers' disappearance was not accidental?”

Joan started, stared at him, then frowned. “Come to think of it, she said once that she wondered whether it could have been murder.”

And what did you say?”

“I said if it was, I hoped they'd done a good job of it.”

Trehearne laughed. “What did you think of the idea?”

“Well, it had never occurred to me. So many things can and do happen in those horrible little ports. But when I did think about it, I simply couldn't imagine any one of those three actually killing someone. I mean...” She spread her hands in a vague gesture. “Well, they're just not the kind of people who commit murders!”

Trehearne sighed. “I wish I had a week's vacation with pay for every time I've heard
that
. I wouldn't have to work again until 1994.” He shook his head at Joan. “People are never the kind who commit murders – until they commit them.” He held the door for her. “Now don't sit around and brood, Mrs. Merrill. I'll take care of everything.”

She said again, “Thank you,” and went away. Trehearne began to hum the old ballad that starts, “Stay your hand, hangman, Oh, stay it for a while.” The case was beginning to look better and better. His phone rang, and he answered it.

“Trehearne here.”

“This is Tuschinsky. We found the murder weapon. I think.”

“Yeah? Where and what is it?”

“Well, we've had guys dragging the bay, and then some kids came along and started diving in shallow water. One of 'em came up with a two-foot length of three-quarter steel bar. Been snapped off of something and still has a busted coupling welded on one end. Water's washed it clean, of course, but the laboratory boys may find something. The surface is no good for prints. Too corroded. The bar's pretty old.”

Trehearne said a bad word. “This sure looks like a spur-of-the-moment job. Everything's too damn perfect for the killer. It's the premeditated deals that go sour, because they try too hard. Give me a careful, painstaking murderer every time. Could a woman have used this particular blunt instrument?”

Tuschinsky considered. “Pretty heavy for a dame, but I guess she could of.”

“Okay. I guess that's all you can do down there, now.” He hung up, then put through a call for Job Crandall. He had left home, but could be reached at his agency office. Trehearne promptly called Job Crandall, Inc., Agency, and was told by a supercilious feminine voice that Mr. Crandall was in a meeting and could not be disturbed, and would he care to leave a message?

Trehearne said, “Yes, as follows: Lieutenant Trehearne, of the Homicide Bureau, would have speech with him concerning the murder of one Harry Bryce, and Lieutenant Trehearne doesn't give a damn whether Mr. Crandall is in a meeting, or in the little boy's room reading Superman. Tell him I'll be there in fifteen minutes.”

He hung up, put his hat on, and went off whistling.
Oh mother, have you brought me gold, or have you paid my fee, or have you come to see me die upon the gallows tree?

Fifteen minutes later Trehearne parked his car on the Sunset Strip, stepped out, and paused to examine the white two-story office building. Traffic whizzed and tooted behind him, punctuated by the scream of brakes applied in the very teeth of the red light at the corner.

The building resembled a small Grecian mortuary. Across the chaste facade was the legend LOUIS FISHER BUILDING in bright red letters a foot high. On either side of the pillared doorway were polished brass plates bearing the names of the tenants. One of these said
Job Crandall, Inc. Agency
.

Trehearne entered Mr. Fisher's property and trotted up the narrow stairway to the second floor. The carpeting, he could have told Mr. Fisher, was somewhat worn, so that the vermilion-and-black lozenges appeared to have a touch of leprosy.

Crandall's offices were on the front, cozy but swank. The receptionist matched her voice. She was an ill-tempered and rather well-worn glamour-puss, tightly draped and with a fantastic superstructure. Trehearne was tempted to try hanging his hat on one of the points. He introduced himself. She regarded him without love and shoved in a plug on the switchboard.

Mr. Crandall, Mr. Trehearne is here... All right.” She disconnected and gestured toward a door. “Will you go right in, please?”

Crandall had the door open before Trehearne was across the reception room. He looked terrible. His face was drawn and grayish under the healthy burn and his eyes were those of a sick animal. As he greeted the detective, some of his normal easy charm returned. Trehearne could almost see him hauling it back by main force.

He shook hands with Crandall, noticing the tremor in the agent's hand. The office was beautifully paneled and hung with framed photographs of Crandall's more prominent clients. On his desk was a double frame holding portraits of a girl about fifteen and a boy perhaps two years younger. They were handsome kids, Trehearne thought. He indicated them.

“Yours?”

Crandall nodded. His eyes changed. “Away at school,” he said. “I miss them.”

Trehearne noticed that there was no picture of Harriet visible in the office. He sat down on a comfortable leather couch and accepted a cigarette and a light. Crandall's face was twitching slightly. He sat down behind the big shining desk and said,

“So it was murder. Poor old Harry.”

Trehearne nodded. “Everyone has been notified, and the guest list is being checked. You'll probably be called for the coroner's inquest, but it's only a formality.” He grinned apologetically. “Meanwhile, I'm afraid I start asking questions.”

“Anything at all.”

Trehearne tapped ashes into a crystal tray as big as a soup bowl. “Please tell me everything you can remember about the night of Bryce's death.”

Crandall answered without hesitation. He seemed to have thought the whole thing out carefully.

“My wife and I arrived at the beach house around nine. We'd both had two or three drinks at home. The party was getting under way. Bill Saul was already there, and so was Harry. He'd come down with Angie, and he was pretty stiff. He seemed to be sulky and put out about something, but maybe he just wasn't feeling well. I went over and spoke to Angie, and then – my wife...”