Stranger At Home (4 page)

He faced her. He took hold of the footboard and leaned over it.

“Are you sorry I came back?”

She did not try to evade. After a time she said quietly, “I don't know.”

He nodded and turned away again. He lighted a cigarette, moving as he did so to the wide corner windows. He leaned his shoulder against the frame and looked out at the sea, and began to talk in a noncommittal way, as though none of it were very important.

“We had chartered the
Lady B
, remember? Job and Harry and Bill and I. A stag cruise down the coast. It was a good cruise, as far as it went. We had a lot of fun, caught a lot of fish. We went ashore one night at a little port, way down the coast. I've forgotten the name of it now, if I ever knew it. And I was drunk.

“That's odd, if you'll remember, Angie. I never drank much, and I was never drunk. But that night I had one highball aboard the
Lady B
, and I got drunk. Very drunk. You know Bill and Job and Harry. We all went ashore very high and happy. I remember how funny everything looked. There was no shape nor size nor distance. The town was like something painted on water, and the streets were very dark. I don't know where we went, or what we did, or who was with me. I mean, whether it was all three or only one of them, at the end. A man's voice – it sounded like the voice of God – spoke to me out of a singing mist, my head was full of it, and it said, ‘Turn around, Vickers. I've waited a long time for this – I want to watch your face as you go down.'

“I suppose I remember the words, because even when you're drugged you remember a sentence of death. By that time I was blind, I could hardly stand. I don't know what hit me. I don't know how long it was before I came to. When I did I was aboard a Portuguese tramp, headed south, nothing in my pockets to tell me who I was, and nothing in my head, either. Only a damn big hole. They told me they'd found me in an alley off at the edge of town, and they thought I was drunk. They'd had pox aboard the ship, and they needed men. After they found I was really hurt, they were sorry they'd bothered, and by Jesus they made me work! After that – well, it doesn't matter. Only it was three years before I could remember my name.”

He turned to Angie, his eyes hooded and dark. “You see why I didn't write. A corpse doesn't write to the executioner and say, ‘Hullo, old boy – I'm coming back.'”

He waited for Angie to speak. She sat quite still, her face intent, somehow withdrawn, as though busy with her own thoughts.

“You don't seem very surprised,” he said.

‘I'm not. It's what I've been afraid of.”

He smiled, with a certain gentle irony. “My friends.”

Angie said, “You were never a man who could make friends, Vick.”

“Even of you.”

“No.”

“You hated me, really.”

“Sometimes. Sometimes – yes.”

“So you were afraid one of them had killed me. Afraid – or glad?”

Her eyes flashed yellow like an angry cat's. “That's rotten even from you, Vick!”

“They're here. You drink with them. From what I hear, you sleep with them. You can't have been too much afraid.”

She said levelly, “I've been trying to find out. For four years I've been trying to find out.” After a moment she said, “And I don't owe you any apologies.”

He stood watching her. His face took on a still, half sleeping look. He said softly, “You owe me something, after four years.” He waited, and saw the small movement of herself toward him, and then he went to the foot of the bed, and stopped. “Not unless you want it, Angie. I won't touch you, unless you want it.”

Again the wondering question in her voice. “You'd never have said that four years ago.”

“No.”

“Oh Vick, if you'd ever let me love you as I could!”

“Why didn't you leave me?”

“You wouldn't have let me, even if I'd wanted to. And...”

“And what?”

“I kept thinking, something will change him.”

“Have you wanted me back?”

“Oh, darling...” She had no more voice. Her eyes were huge and gentle and shining with the soft brilliance of tears. She lay back on the pillow and held out her arms.

The knocking on the door was very loud. Bill Saul was calling, “Vicki God damn it, Vick, get up! Harry Bryce...” He stopped, then went on in a different tone. “Well, he's come back, Vick. I think you'd better see him.”

Harry Bryce had come back, all right. He had come from the sea, and he had been in no hurry. He was never going to be in a hurry any more. He had all the time there was. He lay waiting, quite patient and relaxed, his feet still in the shadows, his body still a part of the lazy rhythm of the sea.

Job Crandall stood beside him. He was not doing anything. There was nothing in particular to do. Vickers knelt in the wet sand.

Crandall said jerkily, “We went out on the terrace, the five of us. We were talking about Harry, wondering where he was. I was leaning on the wall, looking at the water, thinking about going for a swim, and I saw something. It seemed to float out from under the landing. I thought it was driftwood at first, and then – I called Bill, and we watched it...”

Bill Saul said, “He must have been caught under the landing, Vick. Look at his face.”

Vickers nodded. “Barnacles.” Bryce was lying partly on his right side, his head tipped comfortably over.

Vickers pointed at the back of it. “The description of
that
has nothing to do with barnacles. The phrase, I believe, is ‘crushed like an eggshell.'”

Crandall said, “I wonder how it happened?”

Vickers glanced up, from Crandall to Bill Saul. He ran his fingers along the side of his face where the scar was and said pleasantly, “Yes. I wonder.”

For a long moment there was no sound, no motion on the beach, nothing but the whispered underscoring of the sea. Harry Bryce watched the tiny movement of a pebble on the very edge of macrocosmic force, and thought about it, whatever thoughts a dead man thinks. Michael Vickers looked up, half smiling, and Saul and Crandall looked down, and the sea wind went by and was not interested.

Bill Saul said dryly, “If I know Harry, he was making passes at a mermaid and she slapped him with her tail. We'd better go call the police.”

“Police,” said Vickers. He got up. “Oh, yes, the police. I'd forgotten there were such things.” He leaned over and caught Harry Bryce by the sodden collar of his white dinner coat and dragged him without effort above the water line. “Poor old Harry.”

“It must have been accidental,” Crandall said.

“Why?”

“Well, it... He was drunk the last I saw of him. Really drunk. He walked out there and fell and hit his head...”

“Possibly.”

“Well, Christ! He was our friend, Vick! Why...?”

Vickers said, “There were a million people here last night, more or less. They weren't all his friends. Besides, Job,” he went on, “we were all friends in Mexico, the four of us...”

“What's Mexico got to do with it?” Crandall's face flushed. He was abruptly shaken with anger. “God damn it, Vick, you're just spoiling for trouble, aren't you? Coming back like that, scaring the bloody hell out of the lot of us, and then going around acting like something out of Macbeth, practically accusing us of...”

“Go on, Job,” said Vickers softly. “Accusing you of what?”

“Christ knows! And now this has to happen. We'll be up to our necks in policemen and notebooks and newspaper reporters... Oh, Lord, what a mess!”

Vickers smiled. “You're right, Job. Fun and games for all.” He looked over at Bill Saul and laughed. “You said this was going to be fun.”

“Uh huh.” Bill Saul narrowed his eyes in speculative appraisal of Vickers' face. “But I'm beginning to wonder about that sense of humor I mentioned. I think I like yours even less than mine.”

“Wait and see.” Vickers started to turn away, then paused and looked down at Harry Bryce. “D'you realize that nobody has said a word about being sorry?”

Saul turned to Crandall. “Are you sorry?”

“Oh, for Chrissake!”

“I don't think he's sorry, Vick. I'm not sorry. Are you sorry?”

Vickers said slowly, “I don't know yet.” He scowled at Harry Bryce a moment, then looked up again at Bill Saul. “But when you come right down to it, Bill – isn't friendship a wonderful thing?”

“Perhaps. I suppose a lot depends on the friends.”

“Yes. And we were none of us men who made friends, were we?” Vickers' eyes were somber, far away. “There was really only one thing that held the four of us together. One person.”

Bill Saul said, “You've learned a lot in four years, Vick.”

Vickers shrugged and walked back toward the steps. Bill Saul followed. Job Crandall stopped on the way and was sick.

The women were clustered around the top of the steps. Angie was with them, keeping them under control. Harriet screamed, “What is it? Who is it?”

At the foot of the steps Bill Saul said quietly, “Vick.”

“Yes?”

“Did you see Harry last night?”

“D'you think I did?”

“I just wondered, after what you said at the boathouse.”

“What did I say?”

“I asked you where Harry'd got to, and you said. ‘I don't know, only that he's gone from here.' “

Vickers' eyes were cold, quite empty of anything but a certain amusement. Saul tried to probe them, and gave it up.

Vickers said, “That's a fascinating thought, Bill. I can see that people are going to be duly fascinated.” He went up the steps. The women closed in on him, shrilly vocal. Only Angie was pale and huge-eyed and quiet. He put his arm around her.

“It's Harry Bryce,” he said. “Somehow he's got himself killed.”

Angie looked up at him, quickly, and then away. He felt her tighten in the circle of his arm.

Harriet said loudly, “Oh my God. Oh, poor Harry!” She ran to the wall and stared down at the mortal driftwood that was Harry Bryce. Bill Saul's blonde echoed, “Poor Harry,” and yawned.

The fourth Mrs. Harry Bryce, now Jennie Bryce, widow, sat down. She said, “You mean Harry's dead?”

“Quite,” said Vickers.

“You mean now I don't have to get a divorce?”

“I shouldn't think that would be necessary.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Jennie reverently. ‘I'm worth nearly a million bucks.”

Bill Saul had come up. Crandall was with him, looking green and shaky. Harriet turned away from the wall and rushed back.

“Aren't you going to do something for him? I mean, you can't just leave him there, sort of – well, thrown away!”

Vickers said, “I believe the police prefer not to have their corpses messed with, and I don't imagine Harry minds at all. Suppose you all go and get a drink...”

“Police!” cried Harriet. “Police!”

“Harriet. Go get a drink. Bill, take over, will you?” Vickers leaned over briefly and patted Jennie's bare brown shoulder. “Bear up, old girl. I know it's a shock.”

“Yeah.” Her face was blank and rather dazed. “It sure is.” As Vickers went away, taking Angie with him, he heard her murmur, “A million bucks!”

In the living room Vickers paused long enough to telephone the police. Angie stood perfectly still beside him, waiting. When he was through she went with him to the bedroom and closed the door, shutting out the tense babble of voices from the terrace.

Vickers said, “You were with Harry last night, down at the boathouse.”

“Yes. Not for long. He was very drunk and unpleasant, and I told him to go away. He did.”

“Just before you took the boat out.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No. Some time before that.”

“How long before?”

“I don't know. I wasn't keeping any track of time.” She studied Vickers. Her face was bloodless under the tan, drawn tight. “Were you down there, Vick?”

“I saw you going aboard the cruiser. It was too late to call you back. There was no sign of Harry then, except his cigarette case on the lounge.” He paused. “Why did you take the boat out, Angie?”

“Because I wanted to. It's the only way I can sleep, sometimes. I anchored off the point and stayed there.”

“Strange,” said Vickers. “The hostess running out on her own party.”

She made a gesture of disgust. “That wasn't a party.”

“Quite. But it was in your house. You must have invited the people. And you evidently didn't want the servants around.”

“Do you blame me?” Angie went over to the table and picked up a cigarette. “That was some of Harry's crowd. He inherited them along with Jennie.”

Vickers said softly, “But they made such a lot of noise, didn't they? And they were all so beautifully blind drunk.”

Angie put the cigarette down without lighting it. Her eyes were narrow and bright, hard yellow. She took two steps toward Vickers.

He said affably, ‘I'm only thinking of the police. They're going to ask all these questions too, you know.” He paused. “If I were you, darling, I shouldn't tell the constabulary about having been with Harry. Bill and I are the only ones who know you were, and I shall speak with Bill.”

Angie had stopped, but she had not relaxed. “And if I were you,” she said, “I shouldn't tell them I was there, either.”

His mouth curved in a slow, one-sided smile. “Right.” He looked at her. “You're angry.” And then, softly, “You're marvelous.”

She did relax, under his kiss.

“D'you think I killed him, Angie?” His lips brushed her neck, the tip of her ear.

“I don't know...” She was barely whispering. “Perhaps you heard his voice, and it was the same one. I don't know you any more, Vick.”

“Nor do I know you.” She was slender and small in the circle of his arms, but wonderfully alive, wonderfully strong. Her black hair was fragrant, her skin was sweet as a flower in the sun.