The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “Mark, this is Louise—”

  He’d told me about her, and I’d seen her photo—which is much different than viewing the real thing. This girl had it a-plenty. Wide-set brown eyes, pale smooth skin, chestnut hair. An awkward and coltish manner that some men like, and I was one of them.

  “I really—shouldn’t bother you, Mr. Jason,” she said faintly. The smile was tacked on, and it faded. She sat down in my best chair, throwing her coat back from her shoulders. I tore my eyes away.

  Henry stood, as usual, smoking nervously.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said.

  Another smile, not so forced. Her eyes became aware of me. I felt it and I think Henry did, too. He looked the other way.

  “Henry—told me you—helped him out of a situation one time. He said I could—trust you…”

  “Call me Mark,” I said. “When did you get this call?”

  “This afternoon—just after I got home. We get through early at the bank sometimes, you know. About four-twenty, I guess.” She nibbled her ripe lower lip.

  “You were scared—you called me, then Henry?”

  She nodded, glancing at him the way they do. He smiled back jerkily. The poor guy was really shook up. And so was the gal. But scared or not, she was a bundle. Maybe a little young for my thirty-three years, but not too.

  “I—was so upset, and worried…I hated to bother Henry—then he told me he got a call, too!”

  “What’d this person say, exactly? Can you remember?”

  She shivered, her eyes swinging to the floor. Her fingers intertwined restlessly. “It started with a sort of high-pitched giggle…”

  Henry darted me a look, and I nodded.

  “—then it said I’d better watch out or I’d get molested…”

  She flushed.

  I waited.

  “—then it said I’d better get out of town if I didn’t want to get hurt!”

  That was a new twist, but a psycho might say anything. Probably the same character who had been after me. But what could I tell her? That he was harmless, which he wasn’t—that it might mean nothing?

  “I’ve had some calls, too, Louise. I haven’t reported them to the police—but I think it’s about time we did.”

  Henry scowled.

  “Would there be—any publicity?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “We can sit around here jawing all night—but that’s the only answer I can think of.”

  She looked appealingly up at Dee. He stopped pacing long enough to stand spraddle-legged in front of her.

  “Maybe Mark’s right. After all, he’s laid up here, and—”

  She didn’t like the idea. Her hope that I could wave some kind of magic wand and get this fear out of her mind had been dispelled—and rudely. I had no brainy solutions, no formulas. I knew fear myself—but then I wasn’t a woman threatened with ravishment. I’d just been threatened with death.

  “The police department here isn’t so bad,” I said optimistically.

  She sighed. The action under her blouse was amazing.

  “Mark wouldn’t steer us wrong,” Henry said lamely.

  I was uneasy. I turned in my chair to stare out of the north window. It was very dark now, the street lights and blazing neons along Main street had turned the thick fog a lambent crimson. The thermometer outside my window said it was below freezing.

  They were getting ready to leave. I watched her snuggle into her coat, as gals do. I didn’t miss the sweet curve of her legs, either.

  There was a certain reluctance in her manner—under different circumstances I think she would have stuck around a while—but Henry was restless, distracted. And she’d come up here with him…

  “I’m sorry, kids,” I said.

  Henry nodded, she smiled again, and off they went.

  I heaved a sigh and reached for another smoke. I pulled the blinds and moved around gratefully, stretching my legs. Reading Huxley was out of the question. I was edgy, uncomfortable. I had lain around here much too long. Louise had brought into my lowly diggings a fresh breath of outside, a remembrance of things missed.

  Besides, my insurance pay-off money was running low. I’d put a nest-egg in savings for a year of peace and quiet up the river—but the remainder was nearly gone. My plan to lure the maniac up close enough for a body-blow had failed. I had to get out.

  Sure, I could run off to my home, into the wilds, and admit defeat. No telephones up there. But I wanted this spook, this blabber of evil words—I wanted the feel of his throat under my thumbs, his tongue that wagged so much sticking out, black and bloated. I wanted to silence that fiendish giggle and rid my mind of it, once and for all.

  Maybe Henry and Louise had asked for trouble, getting tangled up with me. I knew what some of the city people called me, the Snake River Savage, the half-wild man. Because I had chosen to live alone in the primitive area along the river, and came to the city only when I had to, some smart aleck newspaper reporter had dubbed me the moniker, and the name had stuck.

  I had worked long and hard over the years to clear the title to my chunk of river land, clerking, picking fruit, pitching hay and tending bar—and I didn’t give much of a damn what they said about me.

  But I didn’t want others to suffer for something I’d done, some vicious wheel I’d started spinning and couldn’t stop.

  Subconsciously I’d been listening for footfalls on the ramp (perhaps Louise coming back?), and here they came. But they didn’t fulfill my secret wish. I sat down quickly. And why was I still keeping up my pretense of being crippled?

  The back door rattled, and I said come in.

  Lewis Cable, shambling instead of walking, grinning his loose-mouthed grin.

  “Hey, Mark—did I hear a girl go by just now?”

  “Shut the door,” I said. The redhead obliged.

  “Good lookin’?”

  “Could be. I just laid her.”

  He blinked, then the silly grin came back. He had a gold-covered incisor that drew the eye. He ran dirty fingers through his dirty thatch, wiped them on his baggy trousers. I’d made the mistake of asking him to fix my little radio, and he’d been coming around ever since.

  “Good, good!” he cackled. “Wasn’t Henry with her?”

  This guy didn’t miss much. His apartment was the last one you passed before getting on the ramp.

  “He was,” I said, pulling out another smoke. Cable didn’t use them. He wandered around, peering at books and magazines. His long, dirty neck irritated me. Everything about him did, including his curiosity. But my radio worked like a charm. The guy was a natural with wires and tubes. To me they’re gobbledygook.

  “I’m tired,” I said. It took a strong hint to move him.

  “Ah—sorry, Mark. Thought if there was a gab-fest, I’d get a word in edgewise. Ha, ha!”

  “Nope.”

  He opened the door. “Was she good?”

  “Frantic,” I said. “She did a strip for us.”

  He grinned his sickly grin and went out. A character, and I had to have him for a neighbor. But not for long, I swore. Not for long…

  When his footfalls had died away, I locked the back and front doors and began my exercises. A little stiffness in my left knee began going away. I felt better physically than I had for many long months. I worked until I got up a good healthy sweat and ducked into the bathroom, showered, and put on my pajamas and robe.

  I got settled finally with my Huxley, still remembering Louise Schmidt’s firm young body. I hadn’t read over a page when I heard someone approaching my front door. This was unusual—although it shouldn’t have been. The bungalow faces south, First Avenue is well-paved, and anyone on the Hill will tell you First is a real good address. But my callers weren’t First Avenue people, so they came in the door that faced the ramp and the Hillview.

  I sat quite still, a dribble of fear trickling along my spine. Was my tormenter going to quit talking and start doing? I had the beginning of an idea.

  The
tapping came again, lightly insistent.

  “Just a minute,” I said. I pulled the wheelchair out of its corner and pushed it ahead of me into the parlor. If this character came bolting in, I’d ram the chair into his legs and give him an upriver welcome.

  “Who is it?”

  “Fay—let me in, Mark.”

  I grinned stupidly to myself, the tension going out of me. Fay Simmons, a lovely exception to the Hillview tradition, a waitress with whom I’d carried on a purely platonic relationship—not by choice, I can assure you. I’d gotten acquainted with her at Si’s Steak House, where she worked, before my confinement. Since then we’d done some light flirting over the phone, and had exchanged Christmas cards.

  Before I opened the door, I sat down in the wheelchair, so she’d see me the way she’d seen me before.

  “Just a minute, my favorite chick…”

  I unlocked the door.

  She slipped in, smelling of provocative perfume, wearing black toreadors, sweater and shorty jacket. Her long, dark hair glistened. In one hand she held a brown paper sack.

  “Look at you,” she said. “Ready for bed?”

  “Ready, but not willing.”

  She laughed, smiling the smile that drew so much business into the Steak House—with a little added something for me alone. My pulse took on speed.

  I rolled along behind her as she strolled into the living room. The view was good.

  She sniffed the air, raising one eyebrow. “Do I smell perfume? Is some gal beating my time—?”

  “Oh—Henry and his girl were up a while ago. You know Louise Schmidt?”

  “Sure. I’ve seen her at Jolly meetings.” She didn’t sound enthused.

  I’d almost forgotten that Fay was a Jolly, too. It was one thing I couldn’t quite reconcile with her temperament—but who was I to judge?

  “Take off your coat, Fay. Share my abode. You know you’re my only passion.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Now, what could I do in this blasted chair?”

  She looked mischievous. “A clever girl…”

  I shook my head, grinning.

  “Look,” she said, suddenly, slipping out of her jacket. “I almost forgot. I brought a bottle of wine!”

  “Ho-ho! I was wondering…”

  “You don’t have to drool.”

  “It’s you, chick—not the wine.”

  “You know, you’re acting awful strange tonight…”

  She found two glasses in my kitchenette, and returned to the living room. She cleared away some books, set the glasses down and opened the bottle of wine. It was good California sherry.

  “This is in return for some of your favors,” she said, handing me a glass.

  “Not necessary at all, but I like it.”

  She sat down in my good chair. Those tights showed every line of her trim legs and softly rounded hips. The sweater was devilish. She had mannerisms that reminded me of the screen version of Elizabeth Taylor.

  “My night off,” she said, sipping, glancing about my room.

  “Good. I’m flattered.”

  She smiled. We weren’t talking as easily as usual. Her movements were more calculated, as if she were trying hard to act natural and couldn’t quite. I offered her a smoke. When she leaned forward to take it, I watched her sweater again. She was aware of it.

  “You’re looking chipper,” she said.

  “Fay—don’t kid. You’ve got something on your mind—”

  She looked up intently, her brown eyes wide. “How did you know?”

  I felt a little stab of disappointment. But, she thought I was still crippled—so what could I expect? I said, “I’m your friend.”

  She hesitated. She worried the cigarette. “I’ve got a problem, all right. Not exactly what you might think.”

  “Let me guess, Fay. A phone call?”

  She dropped the cigarette. She picked it up quickly, biting her lip. She mashed it out in a tray.

  That cold crawling in my guts began again. The tormenter, doing what he’d promised, threatening my friends.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Last night, after I got home. It was—awful!”

  “Take it easy, Fay…”

  “But—how did you—know?”

  “I’ve been getting them, too.”

  She shivered. “It was real—dirty.”

  I explained as best I could what a telephone tormenter was, trying to ease the shock of it.

  “But—why me?”

  That was the kicker, and I didn’t want to tell her. That as far as I knew, being a friend of mine had caused it. But I did, and it hurt.

  “That’s crazy, Mark!”

  “Sure it is. The guy’s a psycho. They like to pick on young girls, especially single good-looking ones. There are different grades, but most of them are sex deviates.”

  She finished her wine in a gulp and poured more. “Well, Mark, I’ll tell you one thing. I wouldn’t want to lose you as a friend, regardless.”

  “Those are kind words, chick. But don’t take any risks—for me.”

  “Look, Mark. A telephone call won’t—kill me. Here, have another sip of this stuff…”

  I did. Her color was coming back, and I felt better, too.

  “Should I tell the police?”

  “I think I would, Fay. That’s what I told Henry and Louise—”

  “Now I don’t feel so bad! I knew you could snap me out of it.” She giggled, suddenly. “I’m glad I had a real good excuse for coming up here, anyway.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  She smiled slyly. “I’m careful, too. Notice I used your front door?”

  I grinned.

  She laughed, rising lithely. She looked down at me. “Mark, I wish you weren’t—laid up.”

  The way she said it, the invitation in her dark brown eyes, made the decision for me.

  “I’ve got a little surprise, Fay.”

  I threw the blanket away from my legs. I stood up. She gasped, backing away. Not in fright—just amazement.

  “But—I thought—”

  “So do a lot of people, Fay. But I’m getting out of here soon—going back up the river where I belong. And you might as well be the first to know.”

  She giggled, her hand over her luscious mouth. She looked up at me. “Wow—I didn’t know you were so tall! Or I forgot—it’s been so long…”

  “Six feet one.”

  “Look—can you walk around, too?”

  I showed her, moving toward her. She smiled impishly, retreating.

  “Mark—stop! Let me catch my breath—I can’t get used to it!”

  I took the glass out of her hand. I pushed the disgusting wheelchair back in a corner and led her over to my daveno. She shook her head, wonderingly.

  “Why, Mark—why?”

  “Might as well tell you, Fay. I’ve been getting spook calls for a long time. I was hoping that by pretending to be up here helpless, I could get this character to make a move—then I’d bust his head in.”

  “I—see. Anyway, I’m so glad—I could jump up and down!”

  “Let’s drink a toast—to my liberation.”

  “Wow!” She slithered over and got the bottle. She poured. We drank again, our eyes meeting over the rims of the glasses. She reached over and flicked on my little table-model radio. When she had some jazz going she turned to me again.

  “You said something a while ago about a clever girl—”

  “Did I?”

  Her lips were winey soft, clinging.

  “Did you lock the door, Mark?” she whispered.

  “No. I thought maybe another girl might wander in.”

  “Hog!”

  I nuzzled around. “I’ll teach you to bring wine up here to a savage…”

  A small silence. Except for the music.

  “God—you’re strong,” she murmured.

  “Chick, you’re a lot of woman.”

  Her lips opened for me and the music seemed a long
way off. So did my worries and fears. Her sweater opened for me, too. Inside it were two hard-tipped mounds of passion. She lifted her body until those warm peaks brushed my face.

  “Be—good to me, Mark…” Her two breasts were moving fiercely back and forth against my lips.

  My throat was so thick I couldn’t answer. She didn’t talk any more, either. Then I couldn’t.

  I was good to her.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The nightmare of Angela Stein s pale, horrified face hurtling at me out of the mist was more vivid than usual. Although I was half awake, the terror of it wouldn’t leave. I heard again the tortured scream as she died—slowly…

  I cursed and fought my way out of bed. The phantoms of the night finally dissolved, leaving me weak and shaken.

  Would I ever stop thinking about the girl I had killed? I was remembering now the small headstone I had insisted on buying, the flowers Goofy Joe had placed on her grave at my request not two months before.

  “There was unuther boo-kay on ’er grave, Mark. Wonder who put that there?”

  I could have guessed, but I didn’t tell Joe. Her parents had moved away long ago—so it meant someone in or near Layton hadn’t waited for Memorial Day any more than I had.

  I shook myself like a sleepy dog and moved into the living room. The daveno where Fay and I had lain was still unhinged. The empty wine bottle stood on the table. The room had a close, musky odor.

  I lifted one window a couple of inches, shivering as the cold, stinking air moved the still-drawn blind. I cursed the wheelchair where I had been trapped so long. I cursed the tormenter. Then I thought about Fay, and some of the wild hatred leaked out of me.

  When I heard the paper boy on the ramp I knew it was time to get around. I closed the window. The old steam radiators began popping, but it would take time for any real heat to get up here.

  I pulled the paper from under the door, sat down, and glanced at the back page where the local news is featured. I passed over a bold headline, then swung back to it.

  A name hit me. Schmidt. Louise Schmidt. Killed by a hit-and-run driver. Henry Dee, her companion, injured and in the Layton General Hospital. A picture with the story showed a crowd around an ambulance, two white-coated attendants shoving something sheeted and stained into the rear of their Caddy.

  Damn, damn! The tormenter wasn’t fooling—