The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “Okay, Joe,” she said gravely.

  * * * *

  He had breakfast in the village and stopped at a service station, where he picked up a road map. His destination was the county seat. It turned out to be a two-hour drive and he got there shortly before noon. He found the courthouse and made his way to the Recorder’s office, where at length he was handed a volume of recorded deeds to property in the vicinity of the Montezuma Inn. He spent nearly an hour with the records and came up with the following notes:

  The Yucca Tree Motel was owned in joint tenancy by Fred Teller and Arnold Wister. Previously it had been owned solely by Fred Teller and, previous to that, in joint tenancy by Fred Teller and Mrs. Michelline P. Teller. The transfer from the joint tenancy of Mr. and Mrs. Teller to Fred Teller, sole owner, had taken place something less than a year earlier. The joint tenancy of Fred Teller and Arnold Wister had begun six months later. More specifically, it had begun ten days after Kathy Phillips’ murder.

  The Montezuma Inn was held in joint tenancy by Fred Teller and Mrs. Michelline P. Teller. There had been no change in the recorded ownership for more than three years. It had passed to the Tellers from the Imperial Investment Company, Inc.

  He scanned the records on other properties in Vista del Sol, but found nothing of interest, except that much of the village was owned solely by Fred Teller, having passed from joint tenancy of Fred Teller and Mrs. Michelline P. Teller at the same time the motel ownership had changed. He didn’t find the name Arnold Wister on any property except the Yucca Tree.

  He returned the volume to the cleric at the desk, left the courthouse and found a place to have lunch. After he left the restaurant he stopped at a newsstand and, on an impulse, bought a paperback book called Conversational Spanish.

  * * * *

  He was approaching the motel from the west when he caught sight of Margarita trudging along the highway toward the village. She had changed from her skirt to a pair of blue jeans and a sweater and had tied a scarf over her head. She carried an empty paper shopping bag that tossed in the afternoon breeze.

  When he pulled up beside her and stopped, she looked at the car furtively, poised as if to run. Not till he opened the door on her side did she appear to recognize him. After a moment she got into the car and sat stiffly against the door on her side while he drove toward the village.

  “It’s a long walk to the market,” he said.

  She didn’t understand the word.

  “A—store—tienda?” he said.

  “Sí, tienda. Carnicería.”

  A truck bore down from behind, swerved out and passed with a grinding roar. He ducked his head, pretending alarm. She smiled a little.

  “Chiquito,” she said.

  “Chiquito?”

  She laid her hand on the dashboard.

  “Chiquito automóvil—little—”

  “Oh, Sí. Little car. But bueno. Muchos miles, chiquito gas.”

  “Sí,” she said.

  The sunset had turned the distant hills to rose-gold. The harsh contours of the desert were softened by the fading light. He glanced out past her.

  “Beautiful,” he said. “Que es—el desert?”

  She looked out and waved her hand vaguely.

  “El postre. Desert. In Mexico mucho postre.”

  “Sí,” he said.

  He drove to the market in the center of the town and let her out in the parking lot. He stayed in the car, waiting. He didn’t want to risk making her shy by over-attentiveness. It grew dark and when she came out, after pausing a moment in the lighted doorway, she started straight across the lot toward the street. He called to her and she turned toward the car. He realized she hadn’t expected him to wait for her.

  “You wait for me?” she said as she got in with the half-filled shopping bag.

  “Sí,” he said. “I wait.”

  “Gracias,” she said.

  “Nada.”

  When he let her out at the motel she lingered a moment as if she would say something to him, but finally she only said “Gracias” and turned away.

  * * * *

  He had no appetite for dinner and stayed in his room until after eight o’clock. Off and on he studied the Spanish book, but it was hard to concentrate. He kept going over the notes he had made at the courthouse. Carefully he refrained from jumping to conclusions. He would have to know more and with some luck, he could get Charley to open up again. But there was no point in going to the inn early and spending a lot of money for nothing. The quiet time in the bar usually started after ten o’clock. It might be different tonight, if the tourists he had seen in the village were an indication of more business for the inn.

  Several times he had tossed the book aside and stepped onto the veranda, on the point of going to the office. But there had been some new arrivals and he knew she was busy. By nine-thirty, the place had quieted and he went down there. He told her he had to go out for a while and she nodded.

  “I’ll come back,” he said.

  “Sí,” she said after a moment. “Okay, Joe.”

  He couldn’t tell by her face how much stock she put in his promise.

  * * * *

  He got to the inn a little before ten and went into the bar. There was more business than usual and Charley had little time for him at first. He saw no sign of Mig and Sandra. Homer Bridges, the frantic manager, was in and out periodically and Fred Teller came in twice to look around. Mickey caught himself studying the man and had to force himself to look elsewhere.

  By eleven o’clock, most of the trade had left the bar and Charley was cleaning up at a leisurely pace, carrying on a grumbling monotone as he worked.

  “Run this nowhere joint like it was the Springs or somewhere. Big deal. Must cost Teller a thousand bucks a day just to keep it open. A sure thing none of it gets to me.”

  “Maybe business will pick up after the holidays,” Mickey said.

  Charley shrugged.

  “I guess it’s all the same to Teller,” he said. “He’ll be out from under any day now.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was once a Mrs. Teller,” Charley said after a glance around. “Divorce, a year ago. She gets the whole place as soon as it’s final. She gave him a break—a year to wind up his affairs.”

  “How did she manage the settlement?”

  “I guess she had some of her own dough in it. And, they tell me, she helped put it together. Come to think of it, she ran it. What they say, it ran great then. She had a talent for it. I never met her.”

  Charley looked around carefully and moved closer, dropping his voice to a confidential level.

  “Besides, I guess Teller asked for it. He’s a mean bastard. He’s got that big jolly-boy front—your genial host and all that jazz—but he is a tough son of a bitch. I heard about some of his deals. And I been in a couple of beefs with him myself. I lost. Let’s face it, I’m scared of him. I guess his wife was too. I hear he belted her sometimes, like to killed her.”

  He put away some glasses, nodded toward the empty dining room.

  “Maybe you noticed how jumpy everybody is—especially Bridges, the manager. This chick is due to come back and take over and they figure Teller won’t give up without a fight. If you want to know, I figure the same thing.”

  “If she’s got a legal claim,” Mickey said, “how can he fight?”

  “With Teller,” Charley said, “he’ll find a way. And I tell you true, I hope it’s on my day off.”

  Some people came in to one of the booths and Charley left the bar to wait on them. While he was away, Teller came in. He stood at the end of the bar and nodded to Mickey, smiling with his big round face. Mickey said “Hello.” Charley came back and after he had served the order and returned again, he stood for a while in murmured conversation with Teller. Mickey realized that at least part of the time, they were talking about him. Finally Teller went away. Charley came back along the bar, looking harassed, put his foot up on the sink and leaned on his knee.


  “You been up to Vegas lately?” he asked out of nowhere.

  “Las Vegas? Never have been there,” Mickey said.

  “Oh. Don’t like to gamble?”

  “Sometimes maybe, a little.”

  “Poker player?”

  “I don’t know if you could say that.”

  “Well, I mean you know the rules.”

  “Look,” Mickey said, “what are you trying to tell me?” Charley threw up his hands.

  “The things I’m supposed to do for that son—Like this—Mr. Teller was wondering if you’d like a friendly little game. There are three, four guys get together every so often in Teller’s office—”

  “Oh,” Mickey said, “and you’re supposed to see if I’m safe.”

  “Yeah. A couple of these guys are deputies with the Sheriff’s office and they got to watch out for their own undercover men.”

  Mickey nodded.

  “It’s no clip deal,” Charley hastened to add. “Just a friendly game. Teller don’t want your money.”

  Mickey kept quiet.

  “Anyway,” Charley said, “Teller would like you to drop by the office if you got nothing else to do.”

  “Okay, Charley.”

  He finished his drink slowly and got down, leaving a good tip. Charley told him how to find the office.

  On the way, Mickey pondered the invitation—or summons. It could be that Teller simply wanted another poker hand. Or he might want to get a line on an unattached guy with nothing to do but sit around and spend money.

  Teller’s office was plain and comfortable, softly lighted except for a bright, white fluorescent lamp on the desk. The only unusual feature was the man himself, who made the ordinary man-sized desk at which he sat look like a toy. His round face was cherubic with good will. He held out a hand in greeting.

  “Nice of you to drop in, Mr.—Marine, is it? Sit down, have a cigar.”

  Mickey sat down but declined the cigar.

  “Charley tell you what this is about?”

  “He said something about a card game.”

  “Right. We have a friendly game every so often, three or four of the local boys. Thought you might like to join us.”

  “Well, Mr. Teller—”

  Teller raised his hand, chuckling.

  “Be natural for you to suspect us,” he said. “Have no fear. Furnish your own cards, if you like. We could use another hand tonight. Simple as that.”

  “I take your word for it,” Mickey said. “What I was going to say was, it would depend on the stakes.”

  Teller brushed the thought aside.

  “We’re all working people around here. It’s a friendly game—five-and-ten limit.”

  Mickey looked at him through the bright light. “Five-and-ten cents, Mr. Teller?”

  The happy round face contorted as Teller fought to control it. It would have been funny if Mickey had been in a laughing mood.

  “Well—” Teller cleared his throat—“possibly some other time.”

  Mickey got up. The telephone rang and Teller lifted a hand to detain him while he picked up the instrument.

  “No hard feelings, Mr. Marine—one moment, please don’t go.”

  Mickey waited.

  “Hello, Teller speaking,” the big man said. “Yes, this is Fred Teller. Speak up, please.” His huge face leaning into the lamplight was ridged in concentration. “Where?” he said. “Yes, I’ve got it… Yes, I’ll send instructions. Quite a shock, of course. Thank you for calling.”

  He hung up.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess there’ll be no game tonight, Mr. Marine. One moment, if you’ll bear with me—”

  He lifted the phone and asked for “Harry’s room.” The operator said something and Teller barked impatiently, “Wake him up! I want to talk to him.”

  After a moment, someone came on.

  “Harry,” Teller said, “we’ll go down to the motel first thing in the morning. Don’t be late.”

  He hung up, took out a handkerchief and dabbed briefly at his forehead.

  “Sorry about the interruption, Mr. Marine,” he said. “Very disturbing news. A close friend, business associate, killed in a highway accident—Nevada.” He peered up from behind the horn-rimmed glasses. “Frenchy Wister,” he said. “Guess you haven’t met him yet—been away—Las Vegas—”

  There was an almost total silence while Teller waited for him to say something and Mickey fought for words.

  “No,” he managed to say finally, “I never met Mr. Wister. I’m sorry. Good night and thanks for the invitation.”

  He started out, his legs wooden.

  “Not at all, Mr. Marine,” Teller said. “Hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

  CHAPTER 15

  By the time he reached the motel, his mind had settled into a working groove.

  There was a speculative case against Teller, but he had no real evidence. All he had was the knowledge that Teller and Wister had been thick and that Wister had come into a share of the motel shortly after Kathy’s murder. The rest was shreds of hotel gossip about Teller’s divorce, his ex-wife, her plan to return. If the hard part of the gossip—Teller’s meanness and tough dealing—was true, he could guess that Teller might try to prevent his wife’s returning by any means at hand; especially if it meant sole possession of the inn. But this was nothing that could be wrung from Teller, as he had wrung information out of Roberts.

  The motel was dark, except for a dim light between the blind slats on the door of the office. He put the car away, went into his room and washed his hands and face. He sat on the bed for a while, but he was restless and ridden by anxiety. If he wanted to salvage any possibility of completing the hunt, he would have to make a search of Wister’s effects before Teller and Harry came around in the morning.

  He went down to the office. When he tried the knob, he found the door unlocked. He went in and Margarita was sitting behind the desk, staring at him with eyes like cinders.

  “I thought you’d be in bed by now,” he said.

  “You say you come,” she said.

  “You were waiting for me?”

  Her eyes fell.

  “Sí,” she said. “I wait.”

  When he moved to her and put his hand on her arm, she rose quickly and stood quietly near him.

  “Margarita—”

  “Sí—Joe?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “You better get to bed now.”

  “Okay, Joe.”

  He locked the door with every device available, while she watched. He followed her into the living room, where she hesitated, looking back from the bedroom door. He nodded, smiling.

  “Hasta la vista,” he said.

  She returned the smile experimentally.

  “Mañana,” she said.

  She closed the door and he paced the floor of the small room. As she had said nothing about it, he assumed she didn’t know about Wister’s accident. He recalled that Teller hadn’t bothered to explain to Harry the reason for his midnight call. Margarita would have to be told and he couldn’t decide how to go about it. He had cast himself in a certain role for her and he didn’t want anything to change it.

  Role was the wrong word, he realized then. At the start, yes, he had set out to win her confidence by using confidence techniques. But the pretense had gone out of it in a hurry. He was unable to explain why she had taken such complete possession of him so quickly, but he accepted the fact.

  The bedroom door opened slowly. It was dark in the room and after a moment of silence he heard her get into bed. He moved to the doorway.

  “Feel good?” he said. “Bueno?”

  “Sí,” she said, “muy bueno.”

  He went in and drew the chair up beside the bed. He sat with his arms on his thighs and looked at her face in the great black nest of her hair. She had the bedclothes drawn up, but with one arm out, her hand on her breast. He reached for it and she let him take it in both of his.

  Pretty soon she said, “Joe, w’y you do thi
s? W’y you come—stay here with me?”

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know.”

  She withdrew her hand slowly and replaced it on her breast. There was a long silence and he thought she had fallen asleep, but she spoke unexpectedly, her voice so low he could barely hear.

  “Joe—Señor Wister—not my ’usband.”

  “Oh,” he said quietly.

  “He tell me to say so, porque—poleecy. He give me paper to show, but is not so. For poleecy only.”

  “I see,” he said, “comprendo.”

  “In Mexico, people very poor. I try to find—work? Trabajo. No trabajo. Señor Wister say come with him, he pay me to work, nice place to live—I come.”

  He waited. Pretty soon she said, “Señor Wister very bad hombre, I think.”

  “Was he bad to you, Margarita?”

  “Sí. Sometime I would run away, but—no money—poleecy—”

  He took her hand again.

  “You don’t have to run away now,” he said. “Señor Wister is not coming back.”

  She lay very still, watching him.

  “No come back?” she said.

  “He had an accident, in a car. He was killed.”

  “He is dead?”

  “Sí.”

  When she said nothing more, he was nonplused. Finally he opened his mouth to say the first thing that might come to mind, but she spoke ahead of him, lifting her hand and raising herself in the bed.

  “Joe—you go now? Por favor?”

  “Go—?”

  It shocked him. He had done nothing that called for her throwing him out. Then he realized she was only asking him to leave the room.

  “All right,” he said. “You sleep now, okay?”

  “Okay, Joe,” she said. “I sleep.”

  He went out and sat uneasily on the edge of the big armchair, waiting. He heard her get up and move about in the bedroom. He listened carefully a long time and did not hear her get back in bed. He began tensely to speculate. It could be, he thought, that Wister had instructed her to destroy certain things if anything should happen to him. She might carry out the order simply because she was used to following orders; or he might have frightened her with stories of what the “poleecy” would do to her if she failed to destroy them. He pictured the evidence he needed going up in smoke or being flushed down the toilet. Half a dozen times he got up and went to the bedroom door, then returned to the chair. He stuck it out for half an hour. There was an interval of a few minutes in which he could hear no sound. He hoped she had gone back to bed, then saw that now light showed under the door. He went over there and knocked sharply.