The Zebra-Striped Hearse (33 page)

“You knew about her pregnancy?”

“It was one of the attractions, in a way.”

“Most men would feel the opposite way.”

“I’m not most men. I liked the idea of having a child but I didn’t want to be anybody’s father. I didn’t care who the father was, so long as it wasn’t me. Does that sound foolish? It may have something to do with the fact that my old man did the disappearing-father act when I was four years old.” There was a growl of resentment in his voice.

“Did your father have trouble with the law?”

He said with a sour mocking grin: “My father was the law. He was a lousy Chicago cop, with both front feet in the trough. A bad act I remember the last time I saw him. I was eighteen at the time, hacking my way through art school. He was helping a blonde into a Cadillac in front of an apartment hotel on the Gold Coast.” He cleared his throat. “Next question.”

“Getting back to Dolly—I’m not quite clear how you felt about her.”

“Neither am I. I started out feeling sorry for her. I thought it might develop into something real—that’s an old boyish dream of mine.” His mouth curled in self-irony. “It didn’t. You know the pity that chills the heart? Oddly enough I never went to bed with her. I loved to paint her, though. That’s my way of loving people. I’m not much good at the other ways.”

“I thought you were a devil with the ladies.”

He flushed. “I’ve done my share of rutting. A lot of them think it’s artistic to bed with an artist. But there was only one in my life I cared about—and that one didn’t last. I was too fouled up.”

“What was her name?”

“Does it matter? Her first name was Anne.”

“Anne Castle.”

He gave me a bright astonished look. “Who told you about her?”

“She did. I was in Ajijic two or three nights ago. She spoke of you with great affection.”

“Well,” he said. “That’s a fresh note for a change. Is Anne all right?”

“She probably would be if she didn’t have you to worry about. It broke her heart when you decamped with Harriet. The least you can do is write her a letter.”

He sat quiet for a time. I think he was composing the letter in his head. To judge by his frowning concentration, he was having a hard time with it.

“If Anne was important to you,” I said, “why did you take up with Harriet?”

“I’d already made a commitment.” His eyes were still turned inward on himself.

“I don’t follow you, Campion.”

“I didn’t meet Harriet in Mexico, as you seem to think. I met her in my own house in Luna Bay several weeks before I went to Mexico. She came to see Dolly and the baby. She and Dolly were old friends. But Dolly wasn’t there that afternoon—she’d taken the baby in for his monthly checkup. Harriet stood around watching me paint. She was an amateur painter herself, and she got very excited over what I was doing. She was quite an excitable girl.”

“So?”

Campion looked at me uneasily. “I couldn’t help thinking what she could do for me, with a little encouragement. I was broke, as usual, and she obviously wasn’t. I thought it would be pleasant to have a patroness. I could stop worrying about the light bill and simply do my work. I made a date with her before Dolly got back with the baby. I saw her that night, and before long we were spending nights together.

“I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for. Harriet acted as though she’d never been with a man. She fell so hard it scared me. She drove over from Tahoe a couple of times a week, and we were in and out of the motels. I should have had the sense to pull out of the situation. I had a feeling that it would lead to trouble.” He drew in a deep breath.

“What kind of trouble?”

“I didn’t know. But she was a serious girl, too serious, and terribly passionate. I shouldn’t have led her on.”

“Did you suspect that Blackwell was the baby’s father?”

He hesitated. “I may have, more or less subconsciously. Harriet said something once, when she was holding the baby in her arms. She called him little brother. It stuck in my mind, though I didn’t realize she was speaking literally.”

“And Dolly never told you?”

“No. I didn’t press the point, while she was alive. I didn’t really want to know who the father was. I thought I could love the baby better if he was anonymous. But it turned out I couldn’t love him too well. Him or anybody. Then I messed the whole thing up when I tried to go into orbit with Harriet. I should have stayed home and looked after Dolly and the baby.”

His voice was low, and I thought I heard the growl of manhood in it. He rose and struck his open left palm with his closed right fist. Shaking hands with himself in an embarrassed way, he went to the window.

“I was with Harriet the night Dolly was killed,” he said with his back turned.

“Harriet was the woman you slept with in the Travelers Motel?”

“That’s right. Slept isn’t quite accurate. We had an argument, and she started back to Tahoe in the middle of the night. I stayed in the room and got drunk. She’d brought me a bottle of her father’s Scotch.” He seemed to take a painful pride in spelling out the details of his humiliation.

“What was the argument about?”

“Marriage. She wanted to buy me a Reno divorce. I won’t deny I was tempted, but when it came to a showdown I found I couldn’t do it. I didn’t love Harriet I didn’t love Dolly, either, but I had made a bargain with her to give the boy my name. I kept hoping if I stuck with it I’d learn to love the boy. But it was already too late. When I sobered up enough to drive myself home, Dolly was dead and the boy was gone and the cops were there.”

“Why didn’t you tell them where you’d spent the night? You had an alibi of sorts.”

“It didn’t look as if I’d have to use it They questioned me and let me go. As soon as I was free, I got in touch with Harriet at Tahoe. She said I mustn’t on any account drag her or her family into it. She was protecting her father, obviously, though she didn’t say so. She sold me the idea of hiding out after they indicted me, and I spent a bad couple of weeks shut up in their beach house. I wanted to go on to Mexico—Ralph lent me his birth certificate with that in mind—but I had no money.

“Harriet finally gave me the money for the flight. She said that she would join me in Mexico later, and we could pretend to be strangers, and pick up where we’d left off. We could stay in Mexico or go further down into South America.” He turned from the window—his face had been opened by the light. “I suppose she saw her chance to sew me up for life. And I was tempted, again. I’m a very ambivalent guy.”

“I’m wondering about Harriet’s motive. You suggested she was protecting her father. Did she know, at that time, that he had murdered Dolly?”

“I don’t see how she could have.” He fingered the scratches on his face. “Look how she reacted when I told her about my suspicions the other night.”

“Just when did you develop those suspicions?”

“It happened over a period of time. Ralph Simpson brought
up the name before I left Luna Bay. He’d seen Dolly with Blackwell last summer. Ralph fancied himself as a detective, and he was very interested in a leather button that was found at the scene of the crime. The police mentioned it, too. Do you know anything about that button?”

“Too much.” I summarized the history of the wandering topcoat.

“So Blackwell killed Ralph.”

“He confessed the murder this morning, along with the others.”

“Poor old Ralph.” Campion lowered himself into a chair and sat for a while in blank-eyed silence. “Ralph should never have got mixed up with me. I’m a moral typhoid carrier.”

“It’s a thought,” I said. “But you were telling me about your suspicions of Blackwell and how they grew.”

After another silence he went on: “Ralph started me thinking about Blackwell. Bits and pieces, associations, began to gather, and eventually I had a sort of Gestalt. Some of the things that went into it were Harriet’s interest in the baby, and the slip she made, if it was a slip, about her little brother. Then Dolly started getting money from somewhere, about the time that Harriet turned up at our house. I didn’t understand the relationship between Dolly and Harriet. It was pleasant enough on the surface, but there was a good deal of hostility under it.”

“That would be natural enough, if Dolly knew you were making love to Harriet.”

“She didn’t. Anyway, the relationship didn’t change from the first afternoon Harriet came to the house. They greeted each other like two sisters who hated each other but refused to admit it. I can see now why that would be: Harriet knew about Dolly’s fling with her father, and Dolly knew she knew.”

“You still haven’t told me when you found out.”

“I got my Gestalt one night in Mexico, after Harriet came. We were talking in my studio, and the subject of her father’s
lodge at Tahoe came up, I don’t know how.” He turned his head to one side, as though he had overheard a distant voice. “Yes, I do know. She was hot on the marriage trail again, in spite of the fact that I was wanted for murder. She was fantasying about going back to the States where we could settle down in the lodge and live happily ever after. She got quite lyrical in her descriptions of the place. Oddly enough, I’d heard it all before.”

“From Harriet?”

“From Dolly. Dolly used to tell me stories about the sweet old lady who befriended her when she was on her uppers in State Line last summer. She gave me detailed descriptions of the sweet old lady’s house—the beamed ceilings, the lake view, the layout of the rooms. It suddenly hit me that it was Black-well’s house and that Blackwell was the sweet old lady and probably the father of my”—he swallowed the word—“the father of Dolly’s child. I didn’t say a word to Harriet at the time, but I decided to go back to the States with her. I wanted to find out more about the sweet old lady. Well, I have.”

A complex grief controlled the lines of his face like a magnetic field.

G
ETTING OUT OF
my cab at the San Francisco airport, I saw a woman I vaguely recognized standing with a suitcase in front of the main terminal building. She was wearing a tailored suit whose skirt was a little too long for the current fashion. It was Anne Castle, minus her earrings and with the addition of a rakish hat.

I took the suitcase out of her hand. “May I carry this, Miss Castle?”

She looked up at my face. Her own was so deeply shadowed
by trouble that her vision seemed clouded. Slowly her brow cleared.

“Mr. Archer! I intended to look you up, and here you are. Surely you didn’t follow me from Los Angeles?”

“You seem to have followed me. I imagine we both came here for the same reason. Bruce Campion, alias Burke Damis.”

She nodded gravely. “I heard a report yesterday on the Guadalajara radio. I decided to drop everything and come here. I want to help him even if he did kill his wife. There must be mitigating circumstances.”

Her upward look was steady and pure. I caught myself on the point of envying Campion, wondering how the careless ones got women like her to care for them so deeply. I said: “Your friend is innocent. His wife was murdered by another man.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

Tears started in her eyes. She stood blind and smiling.

“We need to talk, Anne. Let’s go some place we can sit down.”

“But I’m on my way to see him.”

“It can wait. Hell be busy with the police for some time. They have a lot of questions to ask him, and this is the first day he’s been willing to answer.”

“Why do they have to question him if he’s innocent?”

“He’s a material witness. He also has a good deal of explaining to do.”

“Because he used a false name to cross the border?”

“That doesn’t concern the local police. It’s the business of the Justice Department. I’m hoping they won’t press charges. A man who’s been wrongly indicted for murder has certain arguments on his side—what you called mitigating circumstances.”

“Yes,” she said. “We’ll fight it. Has he done anything else?”

“I can’t think of anything that’s actionable. But there are
some things you should know before you see him. Let me buy you a drink.”

“I don’t think I’d better. I haven’t been sleeping too well, and I have to keep my wits about me. Could we have coffee?”

We went upstairs to the restaurant, and over several cups of coffee I told her the whole story of the case. It made more sense in the telling than it had in the acting out. Reflected in her deep eyes, her subtle face, it seemed to be transformed from a raffish melodrama into a tragedy of errors in which Campion and the others had been caught. But I didn’t whitewash him. I thought she deserved to know the worst about him, including his sporadic designs on Harriet’s money and his partial responsibility for her death.

She reached across the table and stopped me with her hand on my sleeve. “I saw Harriet last night.”

I looked at her closely. Her eyes were definite, alive with candor.

“Harriet isn’t dead. Her father must have been lying, or hallucinating. I know I wasn’t.”

“Where did you see her?”

“In the Guadalajara airport, when I went in to make my reservation. It was about nine-thirty last night. She was waiting for her bag at the end of the ticket counter. I heard her call out that it was
azul
—blue—and I knew her voice. She’d evidently just come in on the Los Angeles plane.”

“Did you speak to her?”

“I tried to. She didn’t recognize me, or pretended not to. She turned away very brusquely and ran out to the taxi stands. I didn’t follow her.”

“Why not?”

She answered carefully: “I felt I had no right to interfere with her. I was a little frightened of her, too. She had that terribly bright-faced look. I don’t know if I’m making myself clear, but I’ve seen that look on other people who were far out.”

I
FOUND HER
late Monday afternoon in a village in Michoacán. The village had an Aztec name which I forget, and a church with Aztec figures carved in some of its ancient stones. A roughly cobbled road like the bed of a dry creek ran past the church.

A beggar woman in widow’s black met me at the door and followed me into the nave reciting griefs I couldn’t understand, though I could see the scars they had left on her. Her face broke up in wrinkled smiles and blessings when I gave her money. She went out and left me alone in the church with Harriet.