The Zebra-Striped Hearse (14 page)

“It was going the rounds, as you say. I think it started when Bill Wilkinson told somebody at The Place that he was going to report Damis as an undesirable alien.” Stacy sounded like a connoisseur of rumors, who collected them as other men collected notable sayings or pictures or women. “The government has been bearing down on undesirables, rounding them up and sending them back across the border. Like wetbacks in reverse.”

“And Wilkinson turned Damis in?”

“I don’t believe he actually did, but he threatened to. Which is probably why Damis got out in a hurry. So he really is one jump ahead of the law?”

“A long jump,” I said. “This rumor interests me. What exactly was said?”

“Simply that Damis—which wasn’t his real name—was wanted for the murder of his wife.”

“How do you know it isn’t his real name?”

“
I
don’t know
any
thing. It was all part of the rumor. I pestered Bill and Helen for more details, but they refused to talk—”

“They know more details, do they?”

“I would say so.”

“Where did they get them?”

“I’ve asked myself that question many times. I know they made their border trip last May and spent a week or so in California. That’s when the murder occurred, isn’t it? Maybe they read about it in the newspapers. But if they knew all about it, I can’t understand why they would get chummy with the man. The three of them were very buddy-buddy for a while, before Bill turned against him. Helen got too interested in Damis.”

“But Damis had a girl of his own.” Or two. Or three.

He smiled indulgently. “That wouldn’t stop Helen.”

“Do you know the girl he left here with—Harriet Blackwell?”

“I met her once, at a party.”

“Where did Damis meet her?”

“Same party, at Helen Wilkinson’s. Helen told me he asked her to invite her.”

“Damis asked Helen to invite Harriet to the party?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So that he could meet Harriet?”

“Apparently. I only know what I hear.”

The interview was beginning to depress me. Stacy’s eyes had a feeding look, as if he lived on these morsels and scraps of other people’s lives. Perhaps I feared a similar fate for myself.

He poured himself more Bacardi and offered me some. I turned it down, politely. If I wanted to get back to California tomorrow—and now I was determined to—I had some further legwork to do tonight.

“Tell me, Mr. Stacy, is there a taxi in the village?”

“There’s a man who drives people. You’d have a frightful time routing him out at three in the morning. Why?”

“I have to get out to the Wilkinsons, and I don’t feel like walking it again.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“You’re very hospitable.”

“Think nothing of it. This is
exciting
for me. I’ll take you on one condition, that you don’t tell Bill or Helen I had any part in this. The connection is important to me, you know.”

“Sure.”

He brought his battered Ford around to the entrance and drove me out the lake road. Roosters were crowing in the dark countryside. Stacy parked at the head of the Wilkinsons’ lane and let me go in by myself.

The Wilkinsons were having an argument which was loud enough to penetrate the walls. I stood outside the front door and listened to it.

She called him an alcoholic. He said she couldn’t talk to a
Charro like that. She said it took more than a Charro hat to make a Charro, that he was a Charro like she was a member of the DAR.

He called her a sexoholic. She told him if he didn’t watch his lip she’d divorce him and turn him loose to beg in the streets. He announced that she’d be doing him a favor, since marriage to her was uphill work at best.

The argument simmered down after a while, so that I could hear the roosters in the distance, yelling with insane glee in the dead dark middle of the night I balled up the rest of my energy in my fist and knocked on the door.

Wilkinson answered it this time. He was a big man in his thirties who looked older. His Mexican clothes and haircut made him seem to be metamorphosing under my eyes, changing into something that was strange even to himself. He had alcohol in him, red in the eye, sour on the breath, thick on the tongue.

“I don’t know you. Go ’way.”

“Just give me a minute. I’m a private detective, and I flew down from L.A. to do some checking on Burke Damis. I heard you were a friend of his.”

“You heard wrong. He came sucking around for free drinks, Once I caught onto him, I cut him dead. But dead.”

Wilkinson had a nasty whining drawl. His red eyes glared with something stronger than drink, perhaps a touch of madness.

“What did you catch on to about Damis?”

“He wormed himself into my good graces so he could get next to my wife. I don’t stand for that.”

He made a sideways slicing gesture. The edge of his hand struck the doorframe. He put the edge of his hand in his mouth.

“I heard a rumor that he killed his own wife.”

“That was no rumor. We were in San Francisco in the spring, and I saw it in the paper with these eyes—the dead woman’s picture and all. It said that he shtrangled her. But we didn’t
know who he was when he came here worming his way. We didn’t know till we saw the picture he painted.”

“Was it a portrait of his wife?”

“Thass right. Helen reckonized her face, poor little woman. That snake-in-the-grass shtrangled her with his own hands.”

Wilkinson made clutching motions, as though he was having a waking dream of strangling or being strangled. His wife called from somewhere out of sight: “Who is it, Bill? Who are you talking to?”

“Man from L.A. He says that he’s a detective.”

She ran the length of the living room to his side. “Don’t talk to him.”

“I’ll talk to him if I like,” he said with the look of a spoiled and sullen child. “I’ll put the kibosh on Damis once and for all.”

“You stay out of it.”

“You were the one that got me into it. If you hadn’t tried to blackmail him into—”

“Be quiet. You’re a fool.”

They faced each other in a rage that created a vacuum around them. He was twice as big as she was, and almost twice as young, but she held her anger better. Her taut and shining face was expressionless.

“Listen to me, Bill. This man was here an hour or so ago. I had to ask him to leave.”

“Whaffor?”

“He made a pass at me.” Her hooked fingers swept across her bosom.

His attention slopped heavily in my direction. “Izzat true?”

“Don’t believe her.”

“Now he’s calling me a liar.” Her white triangular face was at his shoulder. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”

He threw a wild fist at my head. I let it go by and hit him in the body. He sat down holding his belly with both hands. I shouldn’t have hit him. He retched.

“Why you dirty lousy son,” the woman said.

She picked her revolver off the table and fired it at me. The bullet tugged at a loose fold of Stacy’s sweater, close to my side. I turned and ran.

I
N THE MORNING
, the sudden morning, Stacy drove me to the airport. He wouldn’t let me pay him for the service, or for the double hole in his sweater. He said it would make a conversation piece.

But he did ask me when I had the time to call a friend of his who managed a small hotel in Laguna Beach. I was to tell the man that Claude was doing all right, and there were no hard feelings.

I tottered on board the plane and slept most of the way to Los Angeles. We landed shortly after one o’clock. It was hot, hotter than it had been in Mexico. Smog lay over the city like the lid of a pressure cooker.

I immured myself in an outside phone booth and made several calls. Colonel Blackwell had had no word from Harriet since she drove off with Damis the day before yesterday. It was possible, he agreed, that they had gone to Tahoe. His lodge there was situated on the lake, on the Nevada side of State Line.

I cut his anxious questions short with a promise to come and see him at his house. Then I called Arnie Walters in Reno. He ran a detective agency which covered that end of Nevada.

Arnie’s wife and partner answered the phone. Phyllis Walters had the official-sounding voice of an ex-policewoman, but it didn’t quite hide her exuberant femininity.

“How are you, Lew? Where have you been keeping yourself?”

“All over the map. Last night, for instance, I spent a week in Mexico.”

“You do get around. Arnie’s out. Is it business or just social?”

“Urgent business. You’d better record this.”

“All right. Go ahead.”

I gave her a description of Harriet and Damis and asked to have them looked for in the Tahoe and Reno area, with special attention to the Blackwell lodge and the wedding chapels. “If Arnie or one of his men runs into Damis, with or without the girl, I want Damis held.”

“We can’t detain him, you know that.”

“You can make a citizen’s arrest and turn him over to the nearest cop. He’s a fugitive from a murder rap.”

“Who did he murder?”

“His wife, apparently. I expect to get the details this afternoon. In the meantime Arnie should be warned that the man is dangerous.”

“Will do.”

“Good girl. I’ll get back to you later, Phyllis.”

I called the photographer with whom I’d left my film of Damis’s painting. The slides were ready. Finally, I called the art critic Manny Meyer. He said he’d be home for the next hour, and he was willing to look at my exhibits. I picked up the slides in Santa Monica and drove up Wilshire to Westwood.

Manny lived in one of the big new apartment buildings on the hill. The windows of his front room overlooked the UCLA campus. It was the room of a man who loved art and not much besides. Dozens of books had overflowed from the bookshelves onto the furniture, including the closed top of the baby grand piano. The walls were literally paneled with nineteenth-century reproductions and contemporary originals. Entering the room was like stepping into the interior of Manny’s head.

He was a small man in a rumpled seersucker suit. His eyes looked deceptively sleepy behind his glasses. They regarded
me with quiet waiting patience, as if I was the raw material of art.

“Sit down, Lew.”

He waved his hand at the encumbered chairs. I remained standing.

“You would like me to identify a style, is that the problem? It isn’t always so easy. You know how many painters there are? I bet you I could find five hundred within a radius of a mile. A thousand, maybe.” He smiled slightly. “All of them geniuses of the first water.”

“This particular genius did a self-portrait, which ought to make it easier for you.”

“If I have ever seen him.”

I got the bamboo-framed sketch out of my straw bag and showed it to Manny. He held it in his hands, studying it with concentration, like a man peering into a mirror for traces of illness.

“I believe I
have
seen him. Let me look at the transparencies.”

I slid them out of their envelope. He held them up to the window one at a time.

“Yes. I know him. He has his own style, though there has been some change in it, perhaps some deterioration. That wouldn’t be surprising.” When he turned from the window his eyes were sorrowful.

“His name is Bruce Campion. I saw some of his work at a showing of young artists in San Francisco last year. I also met him briefly. I hear since then that he has come to grief, that he is wanted by the police, for murdering his wife. It was in the San Francisco papers. I’m surprised you didn’t see it.”

“I don’t take the San Francisco papers.”

“Perhaps you should. You could have saved yourself time and trouble.” He gathered together the sketch and the slides and handed them back to me. “I suppose you’re hot on his heels?”

“On the contrary, the trail is cold.”

“I’m glad. Campion is a good painter.”

“How good?”

“So good that I don’t greatly care what he did to his wife,” he said softly. “You live in a world of stark whites and blacks. My world is one of shadings, and the mechanism of punishment is anathema to me. ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’ is the law of a primitive tribe. If we practiced it to the letter we would all be eyeless and toothless. I hope he eludes you, and goes on painting.”

“The danger is that hell go on killing.”

“I doubt it. According to my reading, murderers are the criminals least likely to repeat their offense. Now if you’ll excuse me I have a show to cover.”

Meyer’s parting smile was gentle. He didn’t believe in evil. His father had died in Buchenwald, and he didn’t believe in evil.

I
DROVE ACROSS
to Sunset, and up the winding road to Blackwell’s house in Bel Air. He opened the front door himself, brushing aside a little maid in uniform. His eyes moved on my face like a blind man’s eyes trying to glean a ray of light.

“You’ve found out something?”

“The news is not good.”

His hands came out and clutched both of my arms above the elbows. With the mindless automatism of St. Vitus’s dance, he started to shake me. I pushed him away.

“Calm down and I’ll tell you about it.”

“How can you expect me to be calm? My daughter has been gone for forty-eight hours. I should have used force to
stop them. I should have shot him dead at my feet—”

“That’s nonsense,” I said. “We need to talk. Can we go in and sit down?”

He blinked like a man waking up from troubled sleep. “Yes. Of course.”

The drawing room he took me into was furnished with Empire pieces which gave it a museumlike atmosphere. Family portraits looked down their Blackwell noses from the walls. One of them, of an officer in the uniform of the War of 1812, had the weight and finish of a Gilbert Stuart.

Blackwell sat in an armchair under it, as if to call attention to the family resemblance. I parked myself uninvited on a red divan with a curved back, and gave him a brief rundown on my Mexican trip.

“I’ve put together certain facts I uncovered there with others that cropped up here and come to a definite conclusion about Damis. He’s a wanted man traveling under more than one alias. His real name is Bruce Campion, and he’s wanted for murder.”