Stranger At Home (12 page)

“Hello!” His face changed, in a queer mingling of relief and anger. “Vick, you bastard, what's going on up there? Christ, I've worn the dial off the bloody phone... Oh. Well, I hope you drown in it. How about this, anyhow? You've got half the town imagining... Yeah, I suppose so. How is the lucky little girl? Still able to lift her head, I hope. Could I speak to her?... Oh. Okay. Well, I may drop by later to compare notes. I've got the law leering at me now...What?... Oh. Yeah, sure, Vick, I understand. Maybe tomorrow, then. So long.”

He hung up. He sat for a moment, as Crandall had, staring at Trehearne and not seeing him.

Trehearne said, “Angie is tired and upset over the murder, and Vick has a splitting head, and will some other time do?”

Saul's pale eyes flickered. “He didn't feed you that?”

“Not me. I'm the police. I'm quoting Job Crandall.”

Saul shrugged and lay back in his chair. “Sounds logical enough. A guy would want to be alone with his wife after four years. He says they've been down by the pool most of the morning, and the hell with phones. He'd just come back to the house for some cold drinks. Angie was still down there, by the pool.” He picked up his beer. “Yeah,” he said. “It sounds logical enough.” He took a long drink. Then he said reflectively, “I never tried it in a pool. Wonder if it's fun.”

“I wouldn't know,” said Trehearne. “My wife doesn't swim. Has Vickers changed, do you think?”

“Yes and no.” Bill Saul's eyes were clear again, his mouth harboring a faintly derisive smile. “Physically, he's turned from a show-piece into a man. Mentally ­ well, I was watching him yesterday morning. God is still there, all right, but he's tougher than he used to be. I wouldn't be surprised if he packed a few thunderbolts in his jeans.”

He glanced sideways at Trehearne, who was getting up. “No rubber hose? No phone book? No bar soap in the sock?”

“We'll catch that on the next time round. I'll give you a ring later, if you like.”

“What about?”

“Angie. I'm going up there now.”

“That's right,” said Saul. “You're the police.” He rose to show Trehearne out. “Sure, give me a ring.”

The inner door was still closed. Apparently Peggy was still asleep. Saul made a “what-can-you-do?” gesture. “It doesn't really matter,” he said. “She sleeps on her back anyway.”

Trehearne said, “Doesn't that get monotonous for both of you?” and went away.

He stopped at Schwab's to telephone the lab. The profane and plaintive voice on the other end urged him to refrain from losing his trousers. Trehearne gave them the number of Vickers' phone and told them to call there as soon as they finished. It was very hot in the phone booth. Trehearne came out dripping wet and yawning. Bill Saul's beer was making him drowsy. He climbed back into his car and drove out along the Strip and then up the long steep hill to the house where Vickers and his golden-eyed Angeline were all alone with what Vickers said was love.

Just out of sight of the gates he stopped, and a small nondescript man detached himself from the shrubbery and came up to the car. He nodded at Trehearne, who said, “What's cooking?”

“Nothing. Some reporters came and went away mad. That fat little guy, Sessions, was up here. He had the Merrill dame in his car, and they went away mad. Nobody's been inside the house, or come out of it since the Merrill dame and the servants left this morning.”

“You'd be surprised,” Trehearne told him, “what a hornets' nest
that
has stirred up. Okay, Brownie. I'm on my way in. If I'm not back when you think I should be, call out the Marines and come looking. The sheriff's office has been alerted – they'll cooperate.” Trehearne's beautiful mouth was positively seraphic. “This case may crack any minute, and I may need help on the arrest.”

“Right,” said Brownie. “You'll get it.” He stepped back. It was remarkable how closely he blended with the trees. Trehearne drove on. He left his car in the drive, climbed the steps, and rang the doorbell. The house looked cheerful, calm, and perfectly normal. There were bright flower beds, and the lawns were green and smooth, and the sunshine was all it was expected to be.

He rang the bell again.

It was very quiet on top of the hill. There were a lot of birds, and they did a lot of singing, but it was a natural kind of noise that didn't disturb the quiet. There was a fine old pepper tree out on the lawn. The light-green lacy foliage was pricked out with the soft bright red of the berries. The whole tree swayed a little in the breeze, with the slow grace peculiar to pepper trees. Trehearne remembered the one in the school yard that he used to climb when he was a kid.

He rang the bell again.

Presently he forgot about the birds and the pepper tree and the restful quiet. He bent his head forward, and listened, and heard nothing, and his eyes got a hard, puckered look. He pushed the bell, and listened to the faint chiming echoes die away, and then he turned and went swiftly down the steps. He did not head toward his car, but around the house to the rear.

He was already on the lawn when he heard the door open behind him. He stopped and turned.

The door was wide open. The inner hall was dark after the outer brightness, full of shadows. Michael Vickers stood there with his hounds. In the dimness, all three looked abnormally huge and something more, or less, than human.

Vickers smiled. “Trehearne,” he said cordially. “Have you been waiting long? I was outside, and I only just heard the bell.”

Trehearne went back up the steps. “I'd begun to think you were avoiding me, too.”

Vickers laughed. “Everybody seems to be frightfully upset over an extremely simple thing. Apparently all my friends suspect me of homicidal mania – or something!” He closed the door. “Angie's down by the pool. Can I offer you a drink?”

Trehearne said, “No, thank you.” He was looking at Vickers' forearm, left bare by the short sleeve. There were three parallel scratches on it. The kind of scratches fingernails make. They were fresh. So fresh that the blood was still welling, and had not begun to flow.

The pool had turquoise tiling, and it was long enough so that a man could take more than two strokes without cracking his head on the opposite end. There were dressing rooms and a big sheltered terrace, and several gay umbrellas set in round tables.

Angie was stretched out in a long padded chair, completely relaxed, her eyes shut against the hot sun. Vickers called her, and she roused up, saw Trehearne, and smiled. It was a curiously lifeless smile. Her eyes had, dark circles under them, and they were clouded and tired. She covered them with dark glasses before she had finished saying hello.

“What's new?” she asked.

Trehearne shrugged. “Oh, a couple of possibilities.” He nodded toward Vickers. “You two have certainly got this town in a tizzy.”

Vickers said good-naturedly, “That worries me a lot.” He had pulled out his handkerchief and was unconcernedly wiping the blood from his forearm. Angie curled her feet under her and sat up, watching him.

“Vick...”

He cut in smoothly on whatever she was going to say.

It's nothing, darling.” He bent over and roughed Coolin's head. “You old son of a bitch,” he said affectionately. “You've got claws like a tiger.”

Angie said, “He was playing with the dogs.” Her voice sounded flat. She reached for a cigarette, and Trehearne gave her a light. He looked at her intently. Her lids were lowered behind the dark lenses. Her hand, guiding his lightly, was cold but perfectly steady.

“Thank you,” she said. “Are you happy here, or would you rather go into the house?”

Trehearne glanced at the bloodstained square of fine linen that Vickers held. He said slowly, “The house, if you don't mind. I'm expecting a call.”

Vickers laughed. “You're awfully polite, for a policeman.” He held out his hand for Angie. “I suspect that it's merely a sinister cloak, behind which you are busily knotting a size sixteen-and-a-half noose.” He pulled Angie into the bend of his arm and led the way to the house, the hounds trailing at his heels. Trehearne absorbed the contours of Angie's back, full length, and sighed.

It was cool in the den, and quiet. Angie curled up in a big chair. She removed the dark glasses, but her face was in heavy shadow. Trehearne sat on the edge of the desk. He seemed not to be going to stay long, as though his visit were of no special importance.

He said to Angie, “When was the last time you saw Harry Bryce?”

“I don't know. Around ten-thirty or eleven, I should think. I lost him in the mob. He was very drunk.”

“And then around midnight you took the boat out.”

“I suppose it was about that time. I didn't notice.”

Trehearne looked at Vickers. “Did you know when she left?”

“Yes. It was shortly after twelve. I saw the launch go out, from the terrace.”

“Did you know then that it was your wife aboard?”

“Yes. I had seen her boarding the launch from the dinghy.”

“At that distance,” said Trehearne, “and at night?” He was not derisive, not even doubting. He was merely asking a question.

Vickers was looking more bored by the second. He said patiently, “I saw a woman in a light frock. Even at that distance a woman's skirts look different from a man's trousers. It was my wife's boat, and my wife's custom to go aboard her.”

Trehearne thought that over, and shrugged. “All right. But didn't you think it was odd?”

“Not at all. I remembered that she used to take the boat out alone quite often.”

“You knew she was alone.”

The vein began to swell slightly on Vickers' forehead. “There was only one person in the dinghy. I don't think anybody had swum out.”

“It was a horrible party,” Angie said. “I wanted to get away from it. Of course, I had no idea Vick was coming...”

“Did you go directly from the house to the landing?”

“Yes. I got into the dinghy and sculled out. I didn't see anything, or anybody, on the way.”

“No signs of a struggle? No prints on the sand?”

“Not a thing. If they were there, I didn't notice them.”

“Who was down in the cabana?”

“I don't know. I didn't look. I didn't care. Matter of fact, I don't even know whether anyone was there.”

“The lights were on, weren't they?”

Her hands made a vague gesture. “I – don't really remember.”

Vickers said impatiently, “Yes, they were on. They were still burning when you came, Trehearne, if I remember. We've never worried much about light bills.”

“No,” said Trehearne, with a faint trace of envy, “I don't suppose you do. Mr. Vickers, why didn't you look for your wife in the cabana?”

“I was on my way down when I noticed the dinghy, and saw Angie go aboard the cruiser. After that there was no need.”

Trehearne nodded. He leaned far over and tapped ashes carefully into a tray of hand-wrought copper. “What did you do then?”

“Went back inside. After all, those unpleasant people were in my house, as guests of my wife – God knows why.” Vickers bent over her chair. “Angie dear, while we're on the subject, what in Christ's name was going on down there?”

“Oh,” said Angie wearily, “I was trying to do Harry a favor.” Her head was back in the angle of the wing, her face completely hidden from Trehearne. “Jennie had been complaining that he was with me too much – if she had only known how I would have loved to get rid of him! So I thought if I invited her crowd and made a special effort...” Her voice trailed slowly off to nothing. She sat perfectly still for a long moment, and then, in a curiously amazed flat tone, she said, “My God. What did I say?”

Vickers straightened, still looking down at her. “You said, darling, quote, if she had only known how I would have loved to get rid of him. Unquote. ‘Him,' of course, meaning Harry. Mr. Trehearne will now no doubt inquire just how much you would have liked to get rid of him.”

The telephone rang.

Trehearne answered it. He did not ask permission or make even a token apology. For some reason, there was a perceptible tightening of the atmosphere in the den. The sun shone brightly through the windows. Michael Vickers sat down in a deep soft chair and stretched his legs out, and somehow the very ease and quietness with which he did it was an underlining of the tension. Angie did not move.

Trehearne said, “Hello. Yes, speaking.” He listened. His face did not change, except that he began to smile. Not a broad smile, not one that would even be noticed ordinarily. Just a faint readjustment of the mouth, a sleepy seraph smiling at the sun rising over heaven. “It is,” he said. “It does. Good. Yes, I am. Right.” He broke the connection, dialed “O,” and gave the number of his office. While he was waiting he leaned over and crushed out his cigarette in the tray that was almost out of reach. He didn't say anything. Nobody said anything. Nobody, least of all Trehearne, seemed excited.

Once again he said, “Hello. Anything new?” Again he waited, listening. Then he said, “Okay. I think that does it. Yeah. ‘Bye.” He hung up.

“Don't tell me,” said Michael Vickers. “I can feel it coming. You are about to make an arrest.”

Trehearne looked at Angie. “Mrs. Vickers,” he said, “would you mind leaving us alone for a few moments?”

She got slowly to her feet. There was a grayish pallor on her skin, where the rosy color had run out of her cheeks. “What have you found out?” she asked. “What are you going to do?”

“Please stay within call,” Trehearne said. “I'll want you again.”

She looked at him out of the sides of her eyes, and walked past him toward Vickers.

“Vick...”

“It's all right, old girl.” Vickers gave her a nod. “Do as the man says.”