Too Late for Tears

by Roy Huggins

  “Have the police been notified?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you expect to find,” he asked quietly, “with your passkey?” Slowly and helplessly, Kathy reddened again; she could feel the pressure of it behind her eyes.

  “I—I suppose I had to expect that.”

  “Sorry. I guess that was on the officious side. I have ten days coming to me, and I’d looked forward to a stretch of sand where I could go into a happy coma. But I wouldn’t like to feel that I walked out on Al. So if there’s anything I can do, I hope you’ll tell me about it.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I suppose not.”

  Blake frowned for a brief moment, then took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered her one. She shook her head, and he put one in his mouth and lit it. He held the match, turning it in his fingers until it burned out, Kathy stood up and brought him a tray, and he dropped the match into it and said, “Where’s Mrs. Palmer?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “When I meet her, do I mention how I happened to run into you?”

  “If you want to be my candidate for the most hateful man living.”

  “But you were there. It suggests you think the police need some help. Or is it that Jane has them eating out of her hand?”

  Kathy looked steadily across at Blake, feeling uncomfortably that she had missed something, that there had been a subtle shift of position and it was Blake who faced a problem. “A few things have happened,” she said, “but they’re confused, and I don’t know what they mean. I’m afraid there’s nothing either of us can do.”

  “But the things that happened concern your sister-in-law. Isn’t she the one we were playing hide-and-seek with, in the hall?”

  The sense of having lost touch with the moment was strong now. The friendliness of the tone, the implicit sympathy, were still there, but now there was a pointed insistence. He was pressing her, questioning her with a curiously accurate insight.

  “Yes, it’s Jane. But it’s nothing, it’s only that she may not be telling——” She stopped abruptly, and the silence lengthened and grew heavy, and she began to feel it as a tangibly thing. Blake sat smoking easily, glancing at her now and then as if the long silence and what she had said were, quite normal things. “I shouldn’t have said that,” she whispered.

  Blake said nothing for a while, then grinned slowly and said, “All right, let’s forget it. Where shall I say met you, in case it ever comes up?”

  Kathy leaned forward and raised her hand in an uncertain gesture. The finality of his last words had brought her sharply alert, and she felt suddenly the need for help, the need to tell someone the things she had seen and heard and puzzled over in the last hours.

  “Wait,” she said. “I’m afraid I’m being stuffy. I keep thinking how guilty I’ll feel when Alan comes home for dinner tonight—for being so . . . suspicious, I mean. But I’m afraid I’ll feel much worse if he doesn’t come home and I haven’t done anything about it.”

  Blake waited quietly, and Kathy made a false start or two and finally, got her story told simply and dispassionately. For a reason she did not stop to analyze, she made no mention of the claim check hidden in Alan’s drawer. Blake stubbed out his cigarette and stood up, his manner almost diffident now.

  “Strange doings,” he said, and the tone was light again. “But . . . it’s just possible your brother would prefer we stay out of it, Miss Palmer. Or may I call you ‘Angel’ ?”

  Kathy rose and said, “Couldn’t you compromise?”

  “You mean ‘Miss Angel’ ?”

  She frowned, and then smiled through it and said, “My friends call me Kathy. And I agree with you. I want to be a little more certain than I am now before I make any statements to the police.”

  Blake took a step toward the door and said, “I’d offer my unworthy aid, but I haven’t found a place to stay yet. I’ll probably have to build.”

  “Do you mean that about helping?”

  “Yes, but——”

  “I’ll go downstairs with you, Mr. Blake. I think we have a bargain to strike.”

  JANE was lying on Danny Fuller’s day bed watching a fly crawl across the ceiling. Danny was saying, “You all right now? You okay?”

  Jane didn’t answer. She couldn’t rise over the draining sickness within her. She lay and pushed the thought slowly round and round. The way things worked. By their own logic. She knew what had happened. Alan had been afraid to keep the ticket, but he, had also been afraid to tell her that he hadn’t kept it. It was simple. Let her think I still have it until the time comes to send it back. It was so terribly logical, all of a piece. She had had to kill because he had been a coward. And because he was a coward she was defeated, and his death a futile horror without issue. She turned her face to the wall.

  Danny said cheerfully, “I’ll go turn on the oven. It’s cold in here.” From the kitchen he said,” May be I shouldn’t bother to light it, uh, gorgeous?”

  Jane turned her head to look at him. It hadn’t touched him. Maybe he didn’t realize what it meant. He came back and sat beside her and studied her face with a kind of withdrawn compassion.

  “So hubby did a cross-up,” he whispered. “Is that it?”

  Jane sat up slowly and put her feet on the floor. The room spun for a moment and then was still and quiet. She nodded faintly and said nothing.

  “The dough is checked somewhere, I gather.”

  “It was.”

  “Where?”

  “What difference does it make? He sent the ticket to the police or to the district attorney. I forget who he said he would send it to.”

  “He didn’t send it to the police or the D. A. . . . or any other harness shop.”

  Jane stared at Danny, waiting, afraid to break the spell.

  “If he had done that, there’d have been something in the papers. There’s no record of that dough, see? And the guy who threw it into your car will never claim it. So there’s no reason to play coy about it. If that money had been turned up, the public boys would have been dipping in for some fat rations of publicity. It would make a great story. First-page stuff.”

  “Maybe they kept it for themselves.”

  “Unh-uh. They don’t know he’s dead, gorgeous. Never forget that.” Jane thought about that slowly while warmth began to steal back into her, and courage and hope. She remembered that Alan had said something to the man at the counter. He had hidden the ticket. What had he been planning to do? She shuddered. “I know what the bag looked like and when it was checked. Is it possible to get it without the ticket?”

  “Sure it is, tiger. All you got to do is describe the contents. They check it and find sure enough it’s just like we say—full of dough. So they give it to us. Then the cops come and take us away.”

  Jane got to her feet abruptly. “I’ve got to get back. The ticket’s there someplace. I’m going to find it.”

  Danny leaned back across the bed. “I’ll be watching you, gorgeous. You won’t make a move that I don’t know about.” Jane picked up her bag and ran a comb through her hair and straightened out her face and smoothed her skirt.

  She turned to Danny and said, “I have to have the gun. It’s got to be put back.”

  “Sure, tiger,” he drawled. “I’ll hand your barker back to you. All you gotta do is ask ole Danny and he comes right through.” He stood, up slowly and faced her. His eyes were round and sad, his head cocked a little to the side. “I’m remembering the ride we took up into the hills last night. Remember, tiger? The money was buried up there. You were taking me up there to give me my half.”

  He took the gun from his pocket and played with it. Jane’s throat was tight, her lips dry. She wet them and tried to find words, but there were none to answer Danny.

  “Remember, tiger?” he repeated.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I remember.”

  “You were taking me up to where the money was.”

  Jane wet her lips again, but she was
breathing too fast and through her mouth, and her lips were dry again an instant later.

  Danny said, sadly now, “You were taking me up there to kill me, tiger.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  Danny’s mouth stiffened slightly and his lips didn’t move when he said, “And now I hand you the gun?”

  “Yes. They may look for it. It should be there.”

  “Yeah.” He took a handkerchief from his rear pocket. He put it around the gun and handed it to her, wiping it off as she took it from him. She had the gun now, her finger on the trigger. Danny grinned.

  “Don’t get me wrong, tiger. I’m not a brave man. But I know you won’t kill me. Not right now, that is.”

  Jane put the gun in her handbag and turned and walked out of there.

  THE phone was ringing when she came in. A polite voice said, “This is Mr. Breach, Mrs. Palmer. We have some information for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “We located the car. It was abandoned just outside San Diego. It probably means he went on across the border into Mexico. That makes it tough for us.”

  Jane couldn’t answer. A song was welling up in her, or laughter. Something that made her want to drop the phone and do a pirouette, San Diego! She had left the keys in the car, but she hadn’t thought of that. It was obvious, of course. Someone on the highway had found the car there and taken the rest of his trip in comfort.

  She said, “Thank you, Mr. Breach. There’s nothing else?”

  “No. You’ve heard nothing at all from him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I see.” There was a short silence. Then Mr. Breach said, with a slight tremor in his voice, “You’re taking this thing like a real trouper, Mrs. Palmer. We’re going to do our best by you.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Breach. I . . . well, thanks. Good-by.”

  She hung up and ran into the bedroom and put the gun away carefully and undressed and bathed and dressed again. She made a sandwich and drank some milk. Then she began the search. She started in the kitchen, missing no inch of possible concealment anywhere. It would take a long time to do it this way, but this was the way she would do it. And she would find the ticket.

  It was six-forty and Jane was washing her hands at the sink. Someone knocked lightly anti the door opened and a voice called, “Jane.” Jane went into the living room and told Kathy to come on in and sit down.

  Kathy said, “Your face is dirty. What in the world have you been doing?”

  “Cleaning up. I have to do something.”

  “Of course. Has there been any news?”

  Jane collapsed on the chesterfield. “Yes,” she breathed. “They found the car in San Diego.”

  Kathy sat down slowly. “San Diego. Then there can’t be much doubt that he just went away.”

  Jane said sharply, “What did you think had happened to him?”

  “Why . . . I just didn’t think. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t make sense. Does anything?”

  “Yes. Most things. Jane, did you look to see if his gun was gone?”

  Jane didn’t move. It was all right. She could gain time. She was tired. After a moment, she said, “No, why?” And she knew that her voice sounded quite normal.

  “Well, I was just thinking that he’d have taken the gun if he knew he was going away. Don’t you think he would have?”

  Jane turned her head and studied Kathy’s tiny face, the color warm beneath the olive skin, the eyes young and large and dark. A face, Jane thought, that would always look vapid and a little puzzled. But was the mind behind it like the face? Why was she talking about the gun? Jane sat up slowly and then stood.

  She smiled slightly to cover the coldness in her face and said, “Maybe we should look and see if it’s there.” She turned toward the bedroom, Kathy following behind.

  At the chest of drawers, Jane knelt and pulled open the drawer and turned down a corner of the flannel and revealed the gleam of gray metal. She heard a tiny catch of sound, and looked up to see the brief surprise in Kathy’s face.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Jane was standing now, her face close to Kathy’s.

  Kathy met Jane’s stare and held it. “Nothing,” she said. “I just didn’t expect it to be there. I was sure he’d have taken his gun.”

  Through the slow rage that swelled behind her eyes, Jane realized that Kathy had been in the apartment. Kathy, with her winsome child’s face. Like coral, pink and lovely, and full of sharp death. It was Kathy all along. The liquor, hiring her come in this morning, and now the gun. Kathy. Jane felt a tight thrill, a coldness like steel, a vague, unformed resolve. “Someone’s at the door, Jane.

  Jane——”

  “What?” Then Jane heard it and smiled an ammonic smile and said, “Let’s go see who it is.”

  “I think I know,” Kathy said as they walked from the bedroom toward the door. “It’s a man who used to fly with Alan. He came by today, looking for him.”

  They were at the door now, and the knock came again, still patient and not too loud. Jane gave her blond hair a toss, let her full red mouth turn up a little at the corners, and opened the door.

  KATHY had left them alone, and Blake was sitting on the chesterfield across from Jane, telling her that he was sorry to hear about Alan. Jane was listening vaguely and telling herself that coincidences did occur. It was a coincidence and nothing more that a “friend” of Alan’s happened by today. She suddenly realized he had asked her a question.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “I was wondering if there was anything I could do.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Blake. The police—I think they’re doing the best they can.”

  “It would be pretty hard to believe that Al just took after some wild geese. He was a great advocate of the home and hearth.”

  Jane smiled a melancholy smile and said, “Yes, I know. And he bad no enemies, certainly. But the car was found today down by the Mexican border.” Jane thought Blake’s face suddenly became a bit more still, the wide gray eyes even more withdrawn when she mentioned the car.

  “Would you like to take a run down there,” he said, “in the morning?” Jane looked puzzled.

  “We might learn something. You know, poke around and ask a few questions. I’ve got all the time in the world—I’m a tourist.”

  “But the police. Can’t they do that better than we can?”

  “I suppose so—if you stand over them with a bull whip.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I hear police departments are pretty badly undermanned these days. They don’t do any more than they have to. But maybe you’re right.”

  “No. I never thought of it like that. I—I think we should go down.”

  “Let’s wait a day or two and see what the police turn up.”

  Jane nodded, an uneasy tension growing slowly under her skin. It faded in the next instant and left only a vague apprehension. “Are you from out of town, Mr. Blake?”

  “Yes. Michigan.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Right here. Your sister-in-law used her influence.”

  “Oh.”

  Jane realized that the word had come out weakly. The tension was turning into a chill. Don Blake. She had never heard Alan mention anyone named Don Blake. She was sure of it, and Alan had talked of his flying friends a good deal. Too much. Don Blake.

  She said, “What did Alan usually call you?”

  “Don—when there were ladies present.”

  She smiled and tried to make the next question sound like an effort at conversation. “How did you happen to run into Kathy?”

  “I don’t know. I think possibly it was arranged in heaven.”

  Jane laughed, a bit too unctuously, and rose to go into the kitchen. She smiled over her shoulder and said, “I’m sure you won’t refuse a drink.”

  In the kitchen, she tried to think about the people Alan had talked of most. What were their name
s? She couldn’t remember. But if she heard one, wouldn’t it sound familiar? One of Alan’s crewmen was here in Los Angeles. He had a service station out on Adams. What was his name? He would know if there had been a Don Blake. She was taking too long with the drinks. What was his name? She finished and put them on a tray and walked back in, smiling, but not too gaily-

  She gave him a glass and put a coaster on the arm of the chesterfield. “What squadron were you flying with?”

  “Same as Al’s, Mrs. Palmer.”

  Jane tipped her head slightly and said, “Please call me ‘Jane.’ That is, if you’ll allow me to call you ‘Don’ ?”

  “All right.”

  “Where were you stationed in England?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Of course. I keep forgetting. Stonehurst, or something like that.” The smile was sharp now, but Jane didn’t know that. She wasn’t thinking about the smile.

  “Ipswich.”

  The man with the service station bad been at Ipswich. What was his name? “Ipswich. Of course. I guess Alan was at Stonehurst when he first went over.”

  “I didn’t know we had any operations at Stonehurst.”

  “Oh, I don’t really know. All those English places sound alike, and you never know whether they’re cities or little villages or whole counties.”

  Jane moved her glass in a little circle, so that the ice touched the edges with a relaxed and quiet clinking; and she peered over it at Blake and tried to look as if she felt as relaxed and casual as the soft sound of the ice against the glass. But the man was looking at her, and the look was a challenge. It seemed to say, “I think you’re a phony, Mrs. Palmer, and if I look at you long enough, maybe I’ll know.”

  She shrugged it off. Why add to the things she had to worry about? It wasn’t that kind of look; it was just boorish and a little hungry, almost a leer, really. She laughed inwardly. After all, he was just another flier; worse yet, an ex-flier. He probably had it all figured out that Alan had left her. That made her a tenpin. It was all so obvious that she began to feel the way she had been trying to appear to feel. She started to smile.