The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “Sí?” she said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Sí.”

  He opened the door and looked in. She was fully dressed, to shoes and ankle socks. She was wearing a heavy, shapeless overcoat, such as might have been found in a relief package, and she had drawn a scarf over her head and tied it under her chin. At her feet was a bundle, made from one of her skirts, bulging, shapeless as the coat. Her face was a taut, pale oval as she returned his look. He moved his hands.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I go now,” she said. “No more trabajo—poleecy come—mus’ go. Mexico.”

  “But—you have no money. How will you get there?”

  “Is okay,” she said. “I walk.”

  She stooped, hoisted the bundle and slung it over her shoulder. It was like something he was seeing in another existence, as if there were two separate worlds, alien to each other but concurrent, and he was living in both at once.

  The bundle on her shoulder had disarranged her scarf and she pushed it back, spilling her hair thickly around her face. She was slightly out of breath and he could see the quick rise and fall of her breasts, even under the heavy coat. She looked at him with her black eyes, her lips parted, and he was face to face with what he had known without really admitting it. He loved her. Not as he had loved Kathy. Not as he might have loved the brunette bar companion, Mig, for an hour, overnight, a week. Not with the odd, refracted affection he had finally come to feel for Irene, but as a man, seeing it, loves a hill, a tree, the shape of a country, as a place to live.

  “Margarita—”

  He took the bundle from her and dropped it, used his hands gently, urging her back.

  “Sit down, please—por favor.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and he pulled the chair close and sat facing her. His fingers loosened the knot of the scarf under her chin.

  “Listen,” he said, “I don’t want you to go.”

  “Mus’ go now, Joe—”

  “I want you to stay with me. I will take care of you.”

  “You—? W’y, Joe?”

  It was such a simple, direct question.

  “Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll go to Yuma, find a nice place to live; small, easy place. No more trabajo.”

  She looked at him as at a child, trying to make him understand.

  “Cannot stay here, Joe. Poleecy come, put me in big truck—back to Mexico—”

  “Listen, please,” he said, putting his hand over her mouth. “I have some work to do—at the inn. It won’t take long. We’ll live in Yuma for a while. When I finish the work, we’ll go to Mexico. We’ll get married. Then we can go anywhere we want to.”

  He saw the confusion in her face. He was a little confused himself. He hadn’t planned this. He had got started and it had come spilling out.

  “Joe, w’at you say? Work—the inn—Mexico—esposa? Mi esposa?”

  “Sí, whatever that means,” he said. “Come on now, take off your things and go to bed. We can talk about it in the morning. Mañana. That’s a great word—mañana.”

  He unbuttoned the coat and slid it off her shoulders. She was wearing one of the plain white blouses and a tight wool skirt. She sat submissive, her hands quiet on her lap.

  “You’ll stay, won’t you?” he said. “I’ll take good care of you.”

  She gazed at him a long time, then bent her head slightly.

  “Sí,” she said. “Okay, Joe. W’en we go?”

  “Tomorrow,” he said.

  He took her face in his hands and made her look at him. Her mouth moved and he kissed her, lightly at first, then harder, deeper. She was stiff and unresponsive at first, then her lips moved and she put her arms around his neck. There was a spicy fragrance about her mouth, and the kiss, as she gave herself to it, went deep. He could feel it in her and the thrust in himself. He got to his feet, still holding her face and the shift of his weight forced her back on the bed. Her knees rose as she fell. He was strongly aroused now. He pushed the skirt back on her thighs and she was naked under it.

  “Joe—” she said, “no—por favor—”

  “Margarita—”

  She seized his arms, pushing at them.

  “No, Joe, not here! Not this place. Mañana—”

  “Because of Wister?”

  She looked away.

  “Sí,” she said. “Was bad here. Always bad.”

  His rage passed as quickly as it had come. He smoothed her skirt down, covering her, sat on the bed and lifted her into his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not here, not tonight.”

  She clung to him, her face hot against his.

  “Mañana,” she whispered. “Okay, Joe—mañana?”

  “Sí,” he said. “Mañana.”

  She held onto him tightly for a long time and then her arms relaxed and fell away and she crouched, Indian fashion, her eyes brooding at him in the half-dark. Suddenly she roused, crawled past him and off the bed and went to a built-in wardrobe on the far side of the room. Below it, a shallow drawer extended from wall to wall. He watched as she tugged it open and reached into it, digging under a pile of stored blankets. Belatedly he moved to help her, then stopped as she brought out a metal strongbox, black, the size of a large cigar box. She set it on the floor, returned to the wardrobe and searched among a row of men’s suits hanging at one end. When she came back, to kneel over the box, she had a thin key in her hand. The pulse in his temples throbbed dully.

  She had some trouble with the lock.

  “Señor Wister—very bad hombre” she said, her breath short.

  She made the key work, raised the lid of the box and rummaged among a few papers. Finally she found what she wanted, lifted it up to him with both hands, a macabre offering. With a glance that twisted his stomach into a tight knot, he saw the thing he had been looking for. It was a snapshot-size photograph of the torso only. The face didn’t show, nor the legs below mid-thigh.

  He took it from her carefully, fighting to keep his hand from shaking.

  “Señor Wister show me this—” she said, gazing up at him. “W’y, Joe? W’y?”

  He made himself look at it, as if he had never seen it before, and then he slid it into his jacket pocket and reached to help her up. She swayed against him.

  “I don’t know why,” he said, leading her to the bed. “But you won’t have to look at it again.”

  He made her sit down on the bed. He kissed her gently, then went to the box, closed and locked it and put it back in the drawer under the blankets. He put the key in his pocket. Going out, he paused at the bed and put his hand on Margarita’s face. She touched it with her own, then began, casual and heedless, to unbutton her blouse.

  “Sleep now,” he said. “I’ll stay.”

  “Okay, Joe. I sleep.”

  * * * *

  He sat down in the big chair and after a while began to examine his priceless evidence. After the first shock, he found he could look at it with some objectivity. He couldn’t see how it would be useful to anybody except as a morbid memento. The body was not identifiable. If he hadn’t seen the horror with his own eyes, he doubted that he himself would know it to be Kathy. How could it serve any purpose as evidence of a mission accomplished? Surely the victim would be known to whoever had hired Wister to do it.

  Or maybe he only knew a name. But why Kathy? Or, for that matter, why Mickey Phillips?

  Two other items were clipped to the snapshot. A negative, for one. It had been developed carelessly in an amateurish way, as if Wister had done it himself in a borrowed darkroom, or maybe his own kitchen sink.

  The other item was a fragment of a newspaper clipping, already going yellow with age. A long banner headline had been folded down to fit into the box. It was from his hometown paper and the date was the date of Kathy’s murder. The headline read: “FIENDISH KILLERS VANISH.” A subhead read: “Terror Strikes Young Wife; Police Baffled.” There was a dateline, followed by the first words of the lead: “The
home of Mickey Phillips…” The rest of the story had been torn away and he guessed it would have gone on to say, “a detective on the police force.”

  He brooded over it a long time without constructive result. He slept off and on. The last time he woke, he was startled to see it was full daylight outside. The photograph and clipping had slipped out of his hand to the floor. He picked it up, studied it briefly, then put it away in his money belt. It was after seven o’clock and he knew that Teller and his man Harry would show up at almost any time. He thought about that for a while, got up and went quietly into the bedroom. He took the key to the strongbox from his pocket and laid it on the floor of the wardrobe, in plain sight. Margarita had been asleep when he entered, but as he started out, she murmured. He looked around and she was watching him from the bed, drowsy and quiescent, one naked arm dangling over the edge. He leaned over and kissed her quickly.

  “Good morning, Margarita.”

  Her eyes swung slowly to look up at him.

  “Is mañana now, Joe?”

  The Venetian blinds were closed beside the bed and he opened one of them to let in a little light.

  “We’ll go now,” he said. “I’ll take your things to my car—mi chiquito automóvil. When you’re dressed, we’ll go.”

  He saw uncertainty in her face.

  “We don’t tell them?” she said. “Who take care—clean up the place?”

  “That’s Señor Teller’s problem,” he said. “No more trabajo for Margarita.”

  He cupped her chin with his hand and kissed her mouth softly.

  “Okay, Margarita?”

  Her dark eyes shifted, returned, came to rest.

  “Okay, Joe,” she said.

  He carried her bundle outside and down to his garage and put it in the car. He went into his own room and packed his suitcase hurriedly. He started out with it, paused, changed his mind and laid the bag on the luggage rack. He was backing out of the garage when Margarita came along the veranda, wearing the bulky coat and the scarf over her head. He helped her into the car and she checked carefully to make sure he had put the bundle in it. Seeing it in the tonneau seemed to reassure her. She sat quietly beside him, looking straight ahead as he drove onto the highway and turned east toward Yuma. He put his hand on hers where it lay on her thigh.

  “You will be all right, Margarita,” he said.

  “Okay, Joe,” she said.

  He remembered a cluster of motels near the state line and he drove to the nearest one as fast as he dared. It was called The Swallows, and not till he turned into the drive did he make any explanation to Margarita.

  “We will stop here for a while,” he said. “Then we will go to Yuma and find a nice place—a casa.”

  “Sí,” she said.

  He registered as Mr. and Mrs. Marine and got a key to a double room toward the back. The place was not as well kept as the Yucca Tree, but the room was spacious and airy, with twin beds, a large dressing room and full bath. At the Yucca Tree there had been only showers and he saw Margarita gazing at the bathtub.

  “El baño,” she said softly. “Grande.”

  “Sí,” he said. “Bueno?”

  “Bueno.”

  He unbuttoned her heavy coat and tossed it aside.

  “We’ll get you a new coat,” he said. “Are you hungry now?”

  “No, Joe. Not ’ungry.”

  “I have to go back to the motel for a short time,” he said. “When I come back, we’ll have lunch.” He took some money out of his pocket and put it in her hand. “Here is some money, if you need it. If you get hungry before I come back, there’s a restaurant up on the highway—”

  “Sí. Not ’ungry, Joe.”

  “All right. You mustn’t be afraid now. I’ll lock the door when I go out and hang this sign on it. Nobody will come in. Okay?”

  She nodded.

  “I’ll come back. You rest now.”

  “Okay, Joe.”

  He kissed her nose and mouth and held her for a moment. Then he showed her how the lock worked on the door and went out, hanging the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the outside knob. When he glanced back from the car, she was peering out at him through the blind slats.

  * * * *

  A large, expensive car was drawn up near the Yucca Tree office. Mickey decided it must be Teller’s car. He went to his room. From inside, through the window, he watched a guest approach the office, enter and come out again, gesticulating mildly. Teller’s big frame filled the doorway. The guest turned away and the door closed. Mickey picked up his suitcase and walked down there.

  When he went in, Teller loomed over the small desk, opening and closing drawers. A beading of sweat laced the curve of his upper lip. His eyes behind the glasses were not readable, but his face wore the usual genial-host creases.

  “Mr. Marine!” he said. “Nice to see you. Afraid we’re a little off balance here at the moment. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m checking out,” Mickey said. “I just stopped in to let the young lady know.”

  “Sorry to see you go. The, uh, young lady seems to have vanished.”

  “Anything wrong?” Mickey said.

  “No, no. Typical, undependable Mexican help.” His hand brushed air over the desk. “Was there any settlement to be made? The motel was Frenchy Wister’s enterprise. Afraid I’m not up on the details. My bookkeeper was here, but he left.”

  “No settlement,” Mickey said. “You’ll find I’m paid up.”

  “Don’t even mention it, Mr. Marine. No indeed. Hope you enjoyed your stay. Have a good, safe trip.”

  “I may be around the inn for a few days,” Mickey said. “I’m moving into Yuma.”

  “Good. We’ll be glad to see you any time.”

  Mickey nodded, starting out.

  “Goodbye, Mr. Marine,” Teller said. “Sorry we couldn’t get together at the poker table.”

  “Yeah,” Mickey said.

  He put the suitcase in the car and made a quick last-minute survey of the room. He hadn’t left anything. He drove out to the highway, swinging east toward Yuma. He drove about half a mile, stopped short of the village limits at Vista del Sol and backed into a byroad. He waited two or three minutes and a moderately long stream of traffic approached, moving west. He worked his way into it and drove back to the motel and beyond it about a quarter mile. He turned onto the gravel drive of an abandoned service station and left the car, partially screened by the gutted service shed. He walked back along the highway.

  A high board fence marked the west boundary of the motel property and the building was set back three or four feet from the line, leaving an ample passage. He had looked out at the fence when he had opened the blinds in Margarita’s room that morning.

  His feet made little sound on the hard-packed ground. Momentarily, as he moved in from the highway toward the passage, he would be in sight from both the kitchen and the living room of Wister’s apartment, but it was a chance he had to take and he didn’t hesitate. He paused briefly after passing the corner of the building, then moved on between the wall and the fence to the bedroom window.

  He stood for some time near the window, listening. At first there was silence. Then he heard the woody grind of sliding doors. From his experience in the room, he knew the sound came from the far side, opposite the window. He moved his face carefully to a point from which he could look through the blind slats. There was no light in the room and it was bright where he stood, but after a moment his eyes adjusted to the contrast and he could see.

  It was Teller, on his knees, crouched over the strongbox, using the key on it. The lid went up and a big hand filled the box. Mickey watch as it emerged, clutching a sheaf of documents. He leafed through them hastily. He was turned away, presenting a quarter profile and his face contorted as he searched. It occurred to Mickey that it hadn’t taken long for him to find the box.

  Or maybe he had known where it was and had been constrained from searching by the knowledge that a living Wister would surely know who
had been at it. The loss of a snapshot and a negative would diminish the threat to the accessory only slightly.

  Accessory. The dry, legalistic word shocked him. After all that had happened—now, as he felt himself near the end of the long hunt—how could he look calmly through a window at the man who very likely had ordered the murder of his wife, and think no more than “accessory”? Had he grown soft, too flabby to go on with it? Had he changed in some important way, deep inside, where a man’s motives are forged?

  He shook off the plaguing doubts and watched Teller with the box. The big man had tossed the papers aside and was searching again with his fingers. He lifted out a sheet of cardboard, looked at both sides of it and flung it away. He lifted the empty box slowly, holding it in his two meaty hands, and gazed into it, unbelievingly. His mouth twisted, forming soundless words. He turned the box upside down and shook it, gently at first, then savagely. Crouched on the floor hugely, dwarfing every other object in the room, his hands clutching the box, he was a gigantic grotesque, almost ludicrous, like a monstrous child in a fury over an errant toy. He held it upside down for a long moment, his body quivering with frustration. Then with a vicious downward sweep of his arms, he slammed it to the floor at his knees. Distraught now, he began beating the floor, lifting the box and slamming it down, with a furious, measured rhythm, over and over, as if the box had a life that could be destroyed, as a man’s life—or a woman’s.

  Mickey turned from the window and walked back to his car. The sun was shining brightly, but a cold wind blew off the desert and he hunched his shoulders against it. So it was Teller, he thought. Certainly, beyond a reasonable doubt, it was Teller. All that remained was to confront him with it, force him to admit it—and learn the why of it.