The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “Around a quarter of two,” Dave said and tried to shut his mind against the memory.

  “Doc seems to think it happened between three and five this afternoon. I guess it’s just as well you have an alibi for part of that time.”

  He stopped as one of his men with a flashlight in his hand climbed the bank from the beach. Vaughn went to meet him and they talked for a minute in low tones. Another man joined them and then the two began to sweep the sides of the road with their lights. Vaughn came back.

  “Just for the record,” he said, “we’ll have a look at your bungalow…. Steve!”

  The young officer who had brought Dave here emerged from the shadows.

  “Take Mr. Barnum back to his bungalow,” Vaughn said. “Go through everything. Anything that’s locked, he’ll unlock it for you. Keep him with you. Let him see what you’re doing.” He took the officer by the arm and turned him toward the highway.

  “You’re looking for a gun, or shells. Anything else that looks interesting you can tell me about when I get there.” To Dave he said: “I’ll be along. Wait there for me.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was hard for Dave Barnum to realize that he had been at the murder scene less than fifteen minutes. Yet it was only twenty minutes after nine when he walked into the bungalow, and for a little while he stopped worrying about his telephone call.

  It took Vaughn’s man, Steve, no more than ten minutes to go over the interior. He insisted that Dave accompany him when he went into the other apartment, but when it was all over he had found nothing that seemed important. Then, apparently having other orders that had been given him before, he told Dave to wait and left the place. About five minutes later Carl Workman came in.

  He was clad in slacks and one of his short-sleeved shirts, but he had a necktie on and looked more dressy than usual. He had a cord jacket over one arm and he tossed this on the settee and dropped down beside it, not saying anything until he’d stretched his legs out wearily.

  “They’re searching my place,” he said finally. “Told ’em I’d wait over here.” He stared straight ahead, his hard-jawed face somber, his amber gaze bleak. “I guess you know what happened.”

  Dave nodded.

  “Stinson,” Workman said. “I always thought he might have pulled the first job but I never figured he’d be dumb enough to get himself killed. I understand it happened down that dead-end road.”

  Dave said he had been there and seen the car. He told what he knew and Workman just sat there staring straight ahead while a narrowness grew in his eyes.

  “Would you have a drink in the joint?” he asked abruptly.

  Dave said yes and went into the kitchen to make highballs. He put out two glasses and got some ice and then, as he started to pour the whisky, the sight of it revolted him and he made only one drink.

  Workman gulped thirstily and said: “Ahh.” He took another swallow. “You talked to the captain…. What’s he think?”

  “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask him. He said to wait here.”

  “Stinson,” Workman said again. “Makes you kind of sick to your stomach.”

  Dave sat down and said nothing. He wished Vaughn would hurry up and come in, and presently the wish was granted. Vaughn came in with Steve. He looked at Dave and then at Workman but said nothing. He took off his hat and put it on top of the radio and then the telephone rang.

  Dave sat up, nerve ends tingling as he silently prayed the call would not be for him. Not here, not now. It wasn’t. Vaughn answered, identified himself, listened, spoke cryptically and hung up.

  For the next fifteen minutes the routine was repeated and the bungalow became a base of operations. Plainclothes men and uniformed officers came and went, entering through Dave’s door and remaining on that side so that Vaughn talked to them there. What was said was never disclosed either to Dave or to Workman, who sat mute, inspecting his empty glass from time to time with an expression that suggested he wished he had a refill. Twice Vaughn went out for a few minutes and came back, but Steve was always there and during those intervals the bungalow was silent. Finally Vaughn pulled up a chair and sat down. Once again he looked from Workman to Dave and it seemed pretty obvious that his patience had worn thin.

  Heretofore he had been investigating a murder, running down his leads as best he could and hoping for a break. Now he had a second death to cope with and the thought of failure was riding him hard and he could not help but think of the consequences. He was acting chief-of-police. There would be a day not too far distant when the title would be made permanent. That was how it had appeared up until two days ago. Now trouble was piling up on him and he had nothing to show for it, no progress to report.

  For all of that his resentment was not directed at Workman or Dave. It showed in his face but he took his time and seemed to be selecting his words before he spoke. He still needed help and what he had to say concerned George Stinson, but it occurred to Dave that the captain was using them as a sounding board, wanting to express aloud the thoughts that had been building up in his mind so he could clarify them.

  “How do you figure a guy like Stinson?” he said, expecting no answer. “Mrs. Craft was right. She saw him and he was coming here that first night. Either then or later he saw something. Maybe he heard the shot, maybe not. Maybe what he saw meant nothing to him until later.”

  He hesitated, his dark gaze exasperated and a bitterness in his voice that was still directed at the dead man.

  “Would you ever figure a prissy little guy like him as a blackmailer? As a killer, yes, with the proper provocation. But a blackmailer.”

  He stopped to curse, a frustrated sound. “What the hell did he want, money? He’d just inherited a quarter interest in this place. He had money in the bank.” Workman cleared his throat. “He forgot he was dealing with a killer.”

  “I threw a scare into him this morning,” Vaughn said, as though he had not heard.

  So did I, Dave thought, and said nothing about it.

  “I knew then that he was mixed up in the thing some way. I wasn’t sure he was my boy, but I could tell he was holding something back. I thought I’d give him a little more rope, give him a chance to think and then hit him hard this afternoon, haul him down, and book him if he wouldn’t talk. I came for him a little after three. He was out.”

  “By that time,” Workman said, “he must have already made his date.”

  “Sure,” Vaughn said. “His last pitch. He was scared and the killer knew he could no longer be trusted. Drove down that road. A hell of a swell spot for the job. Hardly hear a shot inside the car like that. Somebody came up from the beach—”

  “From the beach?” Workman sat up slowly and put his glass aside.

  Vaughn nodded. When he spoke again some of the exasperation was gone so that his words became matter-of-fact rather than personal.

  “We got a little break,” he said. “We get ’em once in a while…. There’s a little fruit stand nearly opposite that road,” he said. “Family stand. They take turns at the counter.”

  Dave remembered. He had passed the stand daily. It offered oranges and tangerines in large and small baskets, and now and then grapefruit. QUALITY FRUITS, the sign said, SEND A BASKET HOME.

  “This afternoon,” Vaughn said, “business was slow. It’s Grandpa’s turn on the two-to-six shift so he sits there in the shade and watches the cars go by. A little after three he sees Stinson’s sedan turn into the road. He can’t see down the road because of the angle but he sees the car make the turn. The car never backs out.”

  He paused and Dave waited for the other essential point to be made. Presently Vaughn made it.

  “Nobody walks down that road either. If he had, the old boy would have noticed because he’s got nothing else to do but notice things like that. No other car goes in, none comes out, nobody shows at all.”

  “That makes it the beach,” Workman said. He leaned forward, the moisture along his widow’s peak glistening in the light. “
The trouble is anybody could have walked up from that public beach and—”

  “Not anybody,” Vaughn cut in. “Not without being noticed by somebody, not with a gun. Because,” he said, “at this time of year there’re not many transients using that beach. Some regulars use it every day, old people mostly. We’ll find out who they are and check ’em. It won’t be any regulars because none of ’em are involved, but the regulars notice the transients.”

  He put his palms on his kneecaps. “You take the kind of trunks men wear nowadays and there’s no place to hide a gun, not even a little gun like this Mauser. A robe or a towel would do it. Anybody walks toward that rocky part of the beach with a robe would be noticed. Same way with a towel because nobody would go in swimming from that spot, so why a towel? … And who,” he asked, “says the guy had to come from the public beach?”

  He eyed Dave aslant, then focused on Workman, who considered the question and then shrugged.

  “This beach is just as close to that bluff as the public one.” Vaughn looked back at Dave. “You were here from three to four or so. Who else that you know of?”

  “Me,” Workman said.

  “When and how long?”

  Workman eyed him resentfully and his mouth dipped at one corner. His tanned face was set and the clipped, hard inflection of his voice reminded Dave again that Workman had once been a policeman himself.

  “I got to hand it to you,” he said. “You get a big mark for trying.”

  “You think you’re clean on this?”

  “I know you think I’m not.”

  Vaughn smiled, a cold and humorless expression that made Dave glad the captain was not working on him. He spoke quietly and made as if to stand.

  “You want to answer the question here or take a ride down to the station?”

  “Who says I’m going to answer it at all?”

  “You want to bet?”

  Workman bunched his lips. He inhaled through his nose, the nostrils flaring as he studied Vaughn. Then he conceded the argument.

  “I got to the beach before Dave and Betty. Frank Tyler was there when I got there. Part of the time I slept. They”—he glanced at Dave—“left before I did.”

  “Mrs. Craft was there too,” Dave said.

  “Ahh,” said Vaughn. “Mrs. Craft.”

  He stood up and reached for his hat. It was a Leghorn type but an imitation and he gave a hard tug at the brim as he settled it on his head.

  “You might hang around a bit longer,” he said to Dave. “If you want to go to bed, okay. I’ve got to talk to Sam Resnik. I don’t know if I’ll be back or not. Probably not tonight.”

  To Workman he said nothing at all; he simply turned and walked out.

  Workman rose after the door closed. He looked a little sheepish but his eyes were still resentful.

  “I guess I played that one like a chump.” He picked up his cord coat. “He made me sore,” he said. “But he’s a good man. I should’ve played it smarter.”

  When Dave made no move he went over to the door and then glanced at his strap watch. “Ten thirty,” he said. “I guess that screws up the evening. Vaughn didn’t say so but if I don’t stick around too he’ll probably look me up and send the wagon.”

  * * * *

  Betty Nelson cried a little after Captain Vaughn had gone. She had controlled herself pretty well at first because the shock of what he had told her had left her stunned and incapable of any deep feeling. In her mind there was only disbelief and she had answered the questions in a monotone, hardly knowing what she said. The captain had been gentle and considerate and he did not stay long. He said he would not have to bother her again that night and he would see that his men did not disturb her.

  Even now with the tears gone she could not make herself accept the fact of Stinson’s death, and it was not just because he had given her her first real job or that he had been so patient and helpful in all his dealings with her. She did not ask herself why he had been killed nor did she speculate on who had done it; she simply sat there, her mind a little sick and unable yet to associate the man with the violence which had taken his life.

  She was never sure how long she sat there. Once she had started to go to the bungalow, wanting to know about Dave, wanting to be with him for a little while. But when she went to the door she could see the police car out back and knew that he would have no time for her. When she looked again his lights were out and she did not know whether he had gone away with the police or whether he was in bed. Wanting desperately to talk to him for a little while, yet lacking somehow the courage to bring herself to walk over there and knock at the door, she sat there with the heat of the room closing in on her, feeling the dampness working on her scalp and the stickiness of the skin beneath her clothes.

  Finally, unable to bear it any longer, she stood up, knowing what would help, what she really wanted to do. For a fleeting instant, as she worked the zipper on her cotton dress, a slight thrust of doubt passed through her but she dismissed it and stepped out of the dress.

  She had been swimming nightly for ten days or more and why, she asked herself, should this night be any different? No one would bother her, or even know she was gone, and besides the police were still here; at least one man who was still poking around in Stinson’s apartment. She could see the lights and the moving shadow beyond the blinds.

  She unsnapped her brassiere and shrugged out of it. She peeled off her panties and her skin felt stickier than ever and there was no air to cool it even now. She pulled on her blue one-piece suit, took her robe from the closet, and found a towel. She did not bother with a bag but carried her cigarettes and matches in her hand. Then she was outside and walking swiftly toward the beach, wondering again about Dave as she passed between the bungalows.

  Once past the bordering fringe and out on the sand, she turned toward the dune she usually chose, leaning back against it after she had spread her robe and feeling the welcome coolness of the night air against her hot, moist skin.

  She lit a cigarette and stared seaward at the white line of breakers that came in with almost monotonous regularity. She could hear the crunch and boom as they broke, and the faint swish that followed as they swept across the firmly packed sand. She made another attempt to force her thoughts from George Stinson and this time they slid off on a tangent and she found a new cause for concern, this time a practical matter that involved her.

  Who, she asked herself, was going to run the motel now that George was gone? Mrs. Leland could fill in when needed, just as she always did. The work and duties had been well organized and the rest of the help would do what they had to do. But George Stinson was the Seabeach Motel. What would Dave do? Who could he get, or would he have to close down temporarily?

  Thus occupied she lost track of time. She lit another cigarette. Once she thought she heard someone moving on the sand and sat up quickly to scan the beach. The sky was partly overcast but some light filtered through to make odd-shaped shadowy objects of the other dunes. But nothing moved and there was no sound but that of the surf. When she turned to look back at the motel there was only the sand and shadows, with here and there a point of light showing beneath the silhouetted palms.

  The effort of looking, the fleeting thought that she might not be alone, served to set in motion a strange sense of uneasiness. After that she was unable to relax and presently, realizing that she was getting chilled and that it was time to take her dip, she reached for her towel. She started to rise, half turning as she did so.

  That was how she noticed the blur of movement behind her. After that it happened so quickly that she had no time to think. For there was no other warning beyond the lingering uneasiness, intuitive or otherwise, no sound beyond the surf and the crunch of sand she made when she stood up.

  One moment she was quite alone; the next she sensed rather than felt the movement close beside her and heard the paralyzing sound of breathing not her own.

  Then the arms were reaching for her, finding her.

/>   Hard bare arms, one clamping her shoulders and yanking her backward while the other hand fell across her face and pressed tightly against her mouth and nose.

  The jerk of her head as she tried to avoid that hand was instinctive. She felt the scream rising in her throat even as she tried to struggle and wondered if only she could hear it. Then it was choked off and her face was in a muscular vise and she could no longer breathe.

  She felt herself being lifted clear of the ground. She clawed desperately at that hand and felt her fingernail break. She kicked both feet and then, suddenly, something struck the back of her neck and her senses foundered into utter darkness….

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Dave Barnum waited for five minutes after Workman left the bungalow before he turned out the lights. He was beginning to worry about the long-distance call, already more than a half hour late, and he thought if he waited in darkness it would be assumed that he had gone to bed, lessening his chances of being bothered unless it was something important.

  From that moment on the minutes dragged and the impatience grew in him. He kept looking at his watch and trying not to. He began to curse the telephone, the company, and his friend in California. This went on until he realized how futile and childish he was being and then, gradually, he began to explore the unlit, silent places of his mind and his impatience fell away. In its place there came a stirring of fear.

  For by now he had an idea who had killed Stinson. The trouble was he could think of no concrete proof to support his theory and there was too much else he could not account for: facts which seemed to have no relation to the crime.

  And so he sat there in the dark by the front window and tried to think as he had been taught to think in college, taking one point at a time, starting from something he knew to be true and following a line of supposition along its crooked, convoluted path until he had to abandon that possibility and start afresh. The pattern was there if he could find it and he was not discouraged when it failed to materialize. Again and again the blank wall came up in his thoughts to frustrate him, and in the end it was the telephone call which gave him what he needed and dropped the key pieces into their proper places.