The Expendable Man (28 page)

He found his mother lingering with Stacy and Edward over breakfast. There was no possible way for either the doctor or himself to create a moment alone. Edward left on his calls with the unanswered questions in his eyes.

By ten, Hugh could no longer endure the strain of leisurely conversation and he left for Ellen's. On the way, he decided to stop at the corner station for gas; he was running low. There were two attendants; neither had any special knowledge of him. They were casually efficient.

He went on to the motel, parked outside Ellen's door, but he didn't knock there. Instead he went around to the lanai entrance. If the curtains were opened, he'd know she was up. They were wide, the sliding doors as well. He called from outside the screen, “Anybody home?”

Her voice came from the dressing room. “Come in. It isn't locked.”

She reached the living room as he entered. She was buttoning a beach coat over her swim suit. As always she gave him the quick searching glance, to read in his face if things were good or ill. Reassured, she said, “Skye called. He wants you to come down to his office.”

“When?”

“As soon as you can. I'm not invited.”

“You don't know what he wants?”

“He didn't say.” She made it clear. “He deliberately didn't say, so I didn't ask. Come back afterwards?”

“If there is an afterwards.”

“Oh, Hugh, don't be silly,” she said. Her spirits were high today. Did a morning talk with Houston so elate her? “If this were serious, don't you think he'd have warned me?”

He couldn't deny that. He smiled. “Very well. I'll be back.”

The morning's cool was burning away with the mounting sun. The downtown streets were always more intense than where there was grass and sprinkling water. The First Avenue parking lot was full but he eventually found one on First Street. By the time he'd walked from there to the old bank building, his optimism had been depleted by the temperature. He took the narrow stairs slowly; their darkness was relief from the outdoor glare.

Meg was at her desk in the outer office. She said, “It'll be a few minutes. A client just came in.”

He should have telephoned before coming. “Where's Lora?” he asked.

“My mother's taken her shopping. I'm meeting them for lunch. Mr. Houston can't make it. Then she'll fly home.”

“The police must be wondering where she is.”

“They can wait,” she said cheerfully, returning to her work.

The morning paper was strewn on the oak bench. Hugh gathered it together. The canal murder was retold to make it seem new. The marshal had given an interview about the search in Indio for clues to the murderer. The autopsy results were repeated in detail. There was no mention of Lora or a man named Fred or of a Negro doctor.

The brown-haired secretary came from the private office with her stenographic notebook. She greeted Hugh, “All clear.” Meg spoke through the door to Houston and held it for Hugh to enter.

Skye was involved with papers at his desk. He said, “Find a chair, Hugh. I'll be with you in just a minute,” and returned to his work. The owl horn-rims were on his nose; he was as impeccably dressed in a tailored suit as if he practiced in a temperate clime. He looked as if nothing important was on his mind. He completed his notes, clipped them together, and set them in a wire basket. “We've located Fred O.,” he stated.

Hugh waited, half in excitement, half in dread.

“The O. is for Othy.” He drew a paper in front of him and read from it. “Age twenty-five. Blond, blue-eyed, five ten, weight 164. Drives a 1950 blue Ford sedan.” Skye glanced up. “This is from his employment record at the bus company office. He worked for this company from last September until the first of March. He asked then for another run. When he didn't get it, he quit. The manager was pleased rather than otherwise at the solution. Othy was hired as temporary help originally; older men are preferred by the company.” Houston set the paper aside. “He is not married.”

Hugh pulled up sharply.

“He lives with his mother. She owns a beauty parlor. Out in the 24th Street district.”

“No!”

“Her name isn't Mayble. It's Dorcas. That information is from the City Directory.”

“Do the police know?”

“We came up with the information about the same time. In reverse order. I did the bus company first. They did municipal records.”

Hugh was only half hearing. He was driving into Phoenix, seeing again the excitement mounting in the little girl as she neared the city, neared her meeting with the man she loved, the man she'd come to marry. He could not bear to remember the next night, her despair. He broke in grimly, “He lied to her. To get out of marrying her.”

“Yes,” Houston said. “He lied to her. He'll lie to us.”

“To us?”

“We're going out to talk to him. He works in a garage not far from his mother's shop.”

“You want me to go with you?” Now that the moment of facing the man was at hand, he didn't know if he could.

“Definitely. If anyone can start him talking, you can. Because if you're right in thinking he drove the girl to your motel and waited for her, he can't be absolutely sure that you didn't catch a look at him. You know it was impossible. But if he was in sight of your door, he can't know. At least that's how I see it.”

Hugh made himself speak calmly. “Have the police talked to him yet?”

“Venner has.”

“Venner.” His intonation said it all.

“I made the same comment to Hack. Ringle's on the Indio end today. According to Venner's report, Othy never heard of the girl except in the newspaper.”

“But his Indio run—”

“There are dozens of men who make that run,” Houston said flatly. “It'll take more than that to make him a murderer.” He pushed papers into his briefcase and lifted it. “Shall we go?”

Of course Venner would believe Othy. Houston's car was in a private lot nearby, assigned to the building. Its air-conditioned interior made the trip northward a brief one. But the density of the heat was deeper when they left the car and crossed to the open shed with its corrugated iron roof. A porcine man was pounding on an old car in its shade. There were other old cars, all dark sedans, standing in haphazard pattern on the surrounding sandy yard.

The man lifted his red face as Houston queried, “Fred Othy?”

“Round back.” He wasn't curious, but then the police had been here earlier. He didn't seem to see Hugh.

They skirted the shed to the rear. Here were dismantled cars, engines and chassis and fenders like crazy players arranged for some monstrous game. At the far end of the premises, a man was dumping debris into one of the empty oil drums standing there.

Skye called out, “Mr. Othy?”

He pushed in his load of rags and metal before turning. “Yeah?” he took his time sauntering toward them.

When he saw the face, Hugh's pulses quickened. He knew this was the right man. It wasn't a good face, it was bony, the complexion bad, pasty despite Arizona sun. The mouth was mean with small unclean teeth. Othy was blond, as Bonnie Lee had told Lora; his hair was lank and yellow; it looked dyed, whether or not it was. It could be that his mother touched it up to keep it from turning dark. He wore it too long into his neck and below his temples.

He was young but not boyish, he could never have been boyish. He wore no shirt, only old, grease-covered khakis. His shoulders were round and freckled but his arms bulged with the muscles of heavy work. He came almost to them, then leaned against an old chassis and lit a cigarette. “What can I do for you?” His feet were long and narrow; he was wearing limp maroon socks and broken brown and white latticed summer oxfords.

“You're Fred Othy?” Skye asked.

“I'm Fred Othy.” He paid more attention to the cigarette than to Skye. He might have known Skye Houston by sight. Phoenix hadn't yet grown to the size city where a prominent figure would be lost in the populace. But he was neither suspicious nor frightened at Skye's interest. There was an underlying cocksureness in him; he could afford it, he'd passed the police test this morning.

He was conscious of Hugh's presence and he knew who Hugh was. But after one quick flip of his pale blue eyes to Hugh's color, he ignored him, as if Hugh were chauffeur or handyman to the lawyer.

After his affirmation, both he and Skye waited, testing each other. It was Skye who continued the identification. “I'm Skye Houston.”

“Yeah?” Othy's eyes flicked Hugh again but Skye made no introduction. He was so sure of himself, he could ask, “What you want to see me about?”

“You don't know?”

“How'm I supposed to know unless you tell me? I'm no mind reader.”

Skye spoke as diffidently as he. “I understand you were a friend of Bonnie Lee Crumb.”

Othy was unperturbed. “You're wrong.”

“You know who Bonnie Lee Crumb was?”

“Sure. I read the papers. She's the girl got drowned in the canal.”

“You didn't know her?”

“I never heard of her until she got drowned.” He pitched his cigarette stub at Hugh. It didn't connect.

Skye let his eyes rest on the young man's face for the moment, not too long, just enough for Othy to be forced to wonder what would come next. And it came. “You drove a bus between Phoenix and Indio this past year.”

He didn't like the reference but it couldn't shake him; he'd been through this before. “So what. It was a living.”

“You didn't meet Bonnie Lee Crumb in Indio?”

“I didn't meet no girls there. I drove the bus over, I drove the bus back. I didn't have no time to screw around with girls.”

“You didn't lay over there?”

He was ready to deny it but changed his mind. Instead he shrugged it off. “Once or twice maybe.” He was as sure of himself as if he were telling the truth. “I don't remember. You'd have to ask the checker.”

Skye paused, then asked, “Why did you quit your job with the bus company, Mr. Othy?”

Maybe Venner hadn't bothered with that. Othy snarled, “I got sick of it. I wouldn't of quit if they'd give me a shorter run but they wouldn't. So I quit.”

Without change of expression or inflection, Skye continued, “It wasn't because Bonnie Lee had told you she was pregnant?”

Just briefly, the real Fred Othy was visible, vicious in hatred. Then his face closed as if he'd pulled down a curtain. Although he tried to recover his previous assurance, he achieved no more than an imitation. “What's the matter, don't you believe me? I told you I didn't know no Bonnie Lee.” He hoisted himself off the chassis. “Look, if this is all you got to say to me, you might as well cut out. You're wasting my time.”

“Suppose I were to tell you I have a witness who saw you in Indio with Bonnie Lee?”

“I'd say she was a liar.” He shot back the words but he was shaken.

“She?”

“She or he.” He beetled, “Look, what business is this of yours, anyhow? What right you got to be asking me these questions?”

Ignoring the question, Skye indicated Hugh's presence. “Mr. Othy, have you ever seen this man before?”

Fred O. looked long at Hugh. Framing his answer. If there was, initially, contempt, it changed to actual hate. His lip curled. “No, I never.”

“You're quite sure of that?”

He gave Hugh a quick, contemptuous stare. “I'm sure.”

Skye then addressed Hugh. “Is that the voice you heard on the telephone, Dr. Densmore?”

“Yes, it's the same voice.” Of this, Hugh was certain.

Othy took a step toward Skye. “What is this? A frame? I never talked to no spook on the phone.”

“And you didn't inform the police by telephone that Bonnie Lee Crumb had come to Phoenix in Dr. Densmore's car?”

Othy shouted, “I don't know what you're talking about.”

Evenly, Skye stated, “I wonder if the sergeant who took that call will also be able to identify your voice.”

Othy's grease-stained fists balled. “I don't like this. I don't like it at all.”

“You'll like it less when the police go over your car and find Bonnie Lee's fingerprints in it,” Skye said sharply. “You may think you've got rid of them all but you can't, not the latent ones.”

The boy's fury was diminished by the beginning of fear.

“It's only a question of time,” Skye continued. “The police have the same leads I have and better ways of obtaining information. They'll catch up with you.” He shot the final question, “Why did you kill Bonnie Lee?”

Othy yelled back at him, “I don't have to listen to no more of this crap. I didn't know no kid named Bonnie Lee and anybody says I did is a liar.” He swerved away, smashing through the rear entrance to the shed.

“Come on,” Skye said quietly to Hugh. “We won't get any more from him now.”

They moved on toward the street, Skye nodding to the boss as they passed. The pudgy man was hammering like thunder on an angular part of a truck. He would not have heard anything that was said.

As Skye steered the car away from the curb, Hugh slanted a look toward the shed. Within the shadowy interior, the figure of Fred Othy could be discerned. He was watching the car drive away.

Skye drove west to North Central. “They'll get him. But you might be a bit careful of dark alleys tonight.” He turned south for the downtown district.

Hugh wondered, “Why did you warn him about evidence in his car? He'll get rid of it.”

“Oh no, he won't.” Skye's lips curved. “He can't. The police took his car this morning for a going-over.”

Then Othy had already scrubbed up. His fear was that he'd missed something.

“I told him the truth, there'll be some evidence. He'd better start thinking up a new story.”