Stranger At Home (11 page)

He paused awkwardly. Trehearne's face now wore its father-confessor look. ‘I'm afraid,” Crandall said quietly, “that Harriet is jealous of Angie. She has no reason to be. No reason, I mean, in the accepted sense. You must believe that, in fairness to Mrs. Vickers.” He leaned forward, like a pleading and rather pathetic small boy. “Angie has always been a good friend to me. One doesn't have many good friends.”

Trehearne nodded. He said nothing.

“Well, after that I don't remember anything clearly. There was just one of those long unpleasant wrangles, and I got very drunk, and I know Harriet did too. I passed out finally, and next morning Vick was there, and...” He shrugged. “That's it. That's absolutely it.”

“What sort of man was Harry Bryce?”

Crandall frowned. “Like the rest of us, I guess. No better and no worse. Likable guy, a lot of fun, no viciousness in him. He was an ass, of course, where women were concerned, but he always paid them off well. He had taken to drinking heavily in the last year, but he never made any trouble.” He paused. He seemed to be far off, withdrawn. After a while he said somberly, “Harry was in love with Angie. Angie was kind to him because she's kind to everyone, but he couldn't get to first base with her. I think that's why he took to drinking. I think that when Vick disappeared, he thought maybe there was a chance for him.”

“That,” said Trehearne gently, “doesn't seem to have been an uncommon hope, does it?”

Crandall's face became angry. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean you're in love with her, too.”

No one could possibly have taken offense at his tone. His manner was that of a man discussing the weather. Crandall's cheek muscles began to twitch violently. He put his left hand up to stop them, then rose and stood with his back to Trehearne, watching the cars race along the Strip below.

‘I'm a married man,” he said. “I've been married for sixteen years.”

Trehearne let the silence lie there for some time. Crandall didn't move. Trehearne crushed out his cigarette and yawned.

“Did Bryce have any enemies?”

Without turning, Crandall said, “No. Everybody liked Harry. He was all right.”

“What happened to Vickers in Mexico?”

The question came so quietly that there was a perceptible lapse of time before Crandall reacted to it. He turned around and stared at the impersonal little man sitting comfortably on the leather cushions. Trehearne let him stare. Finally Crandall said,

“I don't know. I always supposed that he'd been killed for his money by some local thief, or had met with some accident. He was awfully drunk that night. But since he came back, Vick has all but accused us openly of trying to murder him.” He shrugged. “That doesn't mean it's so. Poor Vick got a terrible crack on the head, and he must have been through hell since then, to look at him. He may just be imagining things. It wouldn't be so strange.”

With a sudden burst of violence, Crandall banged his fist down on the desk. “That's what scares me! God damn it, Trehearne, he's got Angie up there all alone. Joan Merrill called me, and I've been trying to get the house ever since, with no luck.” He sat down again and reached for the phone. “Did you know that?”

“Yes, I knew.”

Crandall was dialing. He sat tensely, listening to the ringing on the other end. Abruptly he started and said, “Hello? Vick? Well, where the hell have you been? This is Job. Yes. I've been trying all morning... Oh, I see. Well, how's Angie? That's good. Look, may I run up for a while this evening? I... Oh. Yes. Sure, I see, Vick. All right. Good-by.”

He set the phone down and looked at Trehearne. He did not seem to see him.

“He says he and Angie took a notion to be all alone, for a second honeymoon. They've been out in the garden a lot – that's why they didn't hear the phone. You heard me ask if I could see them. Vick said Angie was awfully tired and upset over the murder, and that he had a vicious headache, and would I mind not coming.”

Trehearne said, “It sounds logical enough.”

“Yes. That's the worst of it. It sounds logical enough.” He got up again, for no particular reason.

Trehearne said, “Did you like Vickers, four years ago?”

“I...” Crandall hesitated. “I was his friend.”

“I asked whether you liked him.”

Crandall said irritably, “It's the same thing, isn't it?”

“Is it?”

“Well, God damn it – all right, then! Yes, I liked him.”

“Why?”

“Because...” Again Crandall hesitated. Trehearne's dark eyes glinted with a fleeting amusement. “Because,” Crandall said almost defiantly, “he was a good host, a good conversationalist, a – well, a stimulating personality...”

“And he had a wife named Angie. That's good enough. What sort of man was Vickers then?”

Crandall's voice was choked suddenly with some emotion that he wanted to keep hidden from Trehearne. “That's hardly a fair question.”

Trehearne said, very gently, “Mr. Crandall, this is a homicide investigation. I have to ask a lot of questions, fair and unfair. Many of them will be just so much time wasted, but they must be asked, because you never know beforehand which ones are important. What was Vickers like four years ago?”

After a long pause Crandall answered sullenly, “He had a Jehovah complex, but you get used to that around Hollywood. You'll hear this anyway, so I suppose I might as well tell you. He was insolent and overbearing and too goddamned successful, and he made Angie unhappy. But you couldn't help admiring him-he was the man you had always wanted to be, good at everything, and he could be perfectly swell when he felt like it.”

“Has he changed?”

“Yes,” said Crandall. “Yes, he has. Inside. He has a way of looking at you...” He turned abruptly and faced Trehearne. “What are you going to do about Angie? We can't leave her up there alone...”

“With her own husband?” Trehearne rose. “Just now, there's nothing I can do. But I'm seeing them later today. I'll let you know how things are.”

The buzzer sounded. Crandall picked up the phone. “Yes? For Trehearne? Sure. Put it through.” He flipped a switch and handed the instrument to the detective.

It was Tuschinsky again. “Finally caught up with you,” he said. “One of the kids came up with something else right after I called you. A man's handkerchief. It was caught on a rock not far from where we found the murder weapon. An expensive one, too, with the initial V in the corner. It's got streaks of what looks like rust in it, and more that looks like blood.”

A very slow, very sweet, very happy smile broke across Trehearne's face. “How nice,” he said. “How truly delightful. Rush it to the lab and tell 'em I want a report, right away quick. But quick!”

He hung up. Crandall said, “Something new?”

“Maybe,” Trehearne told him. “You never know. Well, thanks. I'll call if I need you again.”

“Sure,” said Crandall. “Any time.”

As Trehearne went out, Crandall reached into his desk drawer for a flask. He held it in his left hand to drink. Down the right side he shook like an old man with the palsy.

Bill Saul lived in a rambling, rustic old house perched on a wooded hill off of Laurel Canyon. Trehearne urged his unhappy car up the steep drive, parked it securely, and went up the steps. Saul was already at the door, propped lazily against the frame and watching Trehearne with some private amusement.

“Just like old times,” he said. “Hi, flatfoot!”

He stood aside for Trehearne. He was wearing slacks and a thin white T-shirt. His lean body showed a surprising muscular development. He reminded Trehearne of a big black tomcat padding across the floor.

“Don't tell me,” Trehearne grinned, “that you've had contact with the police before. In an official capacity, I mean.”

Bill Saul laughed. “Christ,” he said, “there was a time when I had to throw cops out of my bed before I could get in myself.”

“Liquor?”

“Yeah. That, and gambling.” Saul flexed his long slim sinewy hands, and sighed. “Those babies used to be awfully good to me.”

Trehearne said shrewdly, “Of course you're out of practice now.”

“Oh, sure.” Saul's voice was innocence itself. “I found I could keep myself in bread and cheese painting lampshades and doing a little fine sewing. It's dull, but it's honest.”

Trehearne nodded. ‘I'm glad to know that. A lot of people have wondered just what you did do for a living. I'd hate to think you were mixed up in any of these friendly little gin rummy tournaments around the studios, and such.”

Saul said virtuously, “I never play for more than ten bucks a point.”

Trehearne grunted sourly. “Jesus, I can lose all I want to at a quarter of a cent.” The living room was like a small and very comfortable barn, with big windows and haphazard furniture. He noticed an ashtray overflowing with crumpled butts. It stood on a coffee table in front of the big couch. There was a game of patience laid out. It was only half played, and it was never going to be finished, because somebody had shoved the telephone violently into the middle of it. The Queen of Hearts had fallen to the floor and had not been picked up.

Trehearne said quietly, “Having trouble getting hold of the Vickers'?”

Saul shot him a quick, hard look. “Yeah. Are you?”

‘I'm the police.”

Saul studied him with his odd, pale eyes. He said finally, “So you are. Mind coming out back for the third degree?” He jerked his head toward a closed door. “Peggy's still asleep, and I'd just as soon we didn't wake her. She's the sleepiest dame I ever saw, and also the dumbest – outside of Jennie Bryce. She'll be right here when you want her, but leave us get this done while we can make sense.” Trehearne nodded, and he led the way out. “I've got some beer in the icebox.”

“Fine.”

Saul got two frosted quart bottles and a pack of cigarettes. The garden at the rear of the house was small and green and well-kept. There was a little covered patio with big canvas chairs. Trehearne decided that detecting was not always such a bad business.

“How's the case going?”

“Too early to tell yet.”

“And you wouldn't say anything anyhow.” Saul poured beer carefully down the side of a tall glass, took a long drink, and settled back. “Okay. I suppose you want my story of what took place on the fatal evening.”

“If you have one.”

“It's short, and fairly snappy. I came. I got drunk and made my usual pass at my hostess and took my usual No for an answer. I got even drunker, made my usual pass at Peggy, and was about to get my usual Yes for an answer when Vick arrived and interrupted me forcibly. There was some horseplay in between, of course, but it's all pretty hazy. There was a howling mob there, and I know someone put nitroglycerine in the old fashioneds. I don't remember one single goddamned thing about Harry or what he or anyone else did, up to the time Vick came. After that I was reasonably sober, but nothing of interest happened, except Peggy got hysterical and I had to put her to bed, and she looked so doggone cute I didn't bother to go back to the party. That was about – oh, between one-thirty and two.”

Trehearne said, “The autopsy report sets the time of death at not later than midnight.”

“Before midnight I can't help you.”

“Vickers was sober when you saw him?”

“But stony. He never drank anyway. Not what you could call drinking.”

“But he was drunk that night in Mexico.”

Saul's eyebrows went up. “You do get around. Yes, he was. Good and drunk. What the hell, everybody slips sometime.”

“Harry Bryce have any enemies?”

“Harry? Christ, no! He was a good egg. Stupid, like Job Crandall, but you couldn't dislike him, any more than you can dislike Job.”

“How about Vickers?”

“Him,” said Bill Saul slowly, “you can dislike.”

“Why?”

“Because he thinks his middle name is God. I used to get a kick out of him. He and I got along pretty well, because we understood each other. I've got enough of that in me, and he could never get me down, and it was just one of those funny things. I think we were closer to being friends than either Harry or Job.” Saul laughed softly. “I was kind of glad the old son-of-a-bitch got back. I never thought he was dead anyway.”

“Why not?”

“We never found a body. Of course, he could have fallen in the bay, but...” Saul shrugged. “Call it a gambler's hunch, if you like.”

“Who hit him over the head?”

Saul turned and looked very intently into Trehearne's eyes. “I kind of thought somebody would get around to that. Vick hasn't been very subtle.” He leaned back and held up his glass and watched the sunbeams filter through the amber beer. “I don't know. If I did, I wouldn't tell you, of course. It might have been Harry. I wouldn't pick him for a killer type, but when a man is nuts enough about a woman, he may do anything, and I've seen guys a lot weaker and meeker than Harry cut other guys' guts out with long, sharp knives. On the other hand, maybe Vick just got clipped in the ordinary way by José Doakes, who wanted his watch. And maybe some funny ideas blew in through the hole in his head. I don't know.”

He set the glass down and sprang up, without warning, in the quick smooth way an animal moves.

“I do know I wish he didn't have her up there alone!”

“Worried?”

“God damn right I am. People talk too much. They run off at the mouth like fire hydrants. Christ knows what Vick may have heard about Angie. In this neck of the woods the Virgin Mary wouldn't have a reputation, and Vick may be just dumb enough...”

There was an extension phone beside his chair. He sat down and reached for it, and it rang, startlingly, under his hand. He grabbed it.