The Noir Novel

by Thomas B. Dewey

  “Look, honey,” I said. “I’ll meet you there right away. I haven’t had breakfast yet and—”

  “I’ll see you there,” she interrupted me before blowing me a kiss over the phone and hung up.

  I crossed to the gun and picked it up, stared at it and tried to remember how it might have got there. Just then there was a hiss from the kitchen and I hurried out to turn down the flame under the coffee.

  I placed the gun down on the table, went to the stove and poured myself a cup of coffee, returned to the table and sat down. My eyes remained fixed on the gun because there was something I had to remember about it.

  I’m not a gun fancier; I’ve had too much experience with them. Handling as much money as you do at the clubs you never know when you might be in season. The .38 was strictly for my health.

  I downed the coffee, picked up the rod, and left the room. I had to get cleaned up because Gwynn liked me best with clean shoes and a smooth chin.

  I crossed the living room and swung into the bedroom. I started toward the bureau and was just even with the bed when I felt the hair prickle at the back of my neck. And as I turned and looked at the bed the world turned over.

  Laughter choked me into silence, shrill and screaming with hysteria. Now there was a faint memory of harsh noises, a brief flash of light and quick footsteps. Wide awake, I was neck deep in a nightmare. This time I was in it up to my ears. I was stuck with it. Mike French, his knees drawn up convulsively toward his stomach was lying on my bed, his huge hands clutched stiffly at the hole in his gut, as dead and ugly to look at as a guy ever gets.

  The blood drained from my head as the room started to go black. I dropped the gun, doubled forward, and stayed that way until the dizziness was gone. Then I straightened up and looked at him again.

  Whoever had done the job had done a good one—if you admire that sort of thing. Twice in the gut, once in the face, and the bed had soaked up his blood like a sponge. An ugly splatter on the headboard once had been a man’s face.

  My stomach heaved and I whirled around and headed into the bathroom.

  Chapter Two

  Back again in the bedroom I picked up the .38 and checked the chamber but didn’t really have to: three slugs were missing. But the murderer was no thief; he had left them where they could be found readily. I had supplied the apartment, the victim, and the murder weapon complete with fingerprints. That was real hospitality. I cursed and snapped the chamber into place. Even half loaded the gun was heavier than I had ever known it to be.

  Standing there, feeling rocky, I jumped and spun around in time to hear my apartment door open and close and to see Nadine the colored housemaid coming toward my bedroom. My reactions were slow, too slow to stop her in time and she was at the door before I even started forward.

  “Hello, Mr. Walters.” Nadine had a smile like a May morning. She was a pretty girl, coffee-brown and graceful as a doe. “I didn’t think you were in,” she continued, “You’re usually out by now.”

  I stopped short, hoping I was blocking her view of the bed and what was on it, tried to grin, but my face felt stiff. “Look, Nadine,” I said, “how about coming back a little later?”

  “Sure, Mr. Walters,” she smiled again, “that’s okay.” She started away, but because Nadine was a professional at her job she had to check the bed to see how much work there was ahead of her. So before I could stop her she edged around, looked over my shoulder, and froze in front of me, her smile twisted into a grimace of horror.

  “Nadine!” I said. I wondered what to say to her, how to stop her reaction before it went too far. “I don’t know—”

  Her eyes moved to me, then down to the gun in my hand, and she started back away from me, her eyes wide with blind terror. I made a stupid move: I started toward her, holding the gun out to her, like a kid who’s broken a window and wants you to believe it was the slingshot that did it, not him.

  “Nadine,” I said, “I—”

  She didn’t wait for any more. She screamed wildly at the top of her lungs, then turned and ran. I started after her, but there was lead in my feet and the outer door slammed before I even reached the hallway. I stopped where I was, hanging to the doorsill, and heard her running down the steps, sobbing with fright. Going after her would only make things worse.

  The world began to swim around me. It was all coming too fast. I couldn’t think, I stood there, helpless, groping for some hook of logic, a beginning, a toehold into reality. There wasn’t any. Trying to figure it was a mockery, a blank wall, a dream of black velvet into oblivion. I plodded into the living room and stood there, numbed into a state of inertia.

  Then, at last, it hit me: blind fear and the basic instinct for survival, probably the same thing an animal feels when he catches the scent of the hunter. The danger signals flashed through my still-aching and fogged head and I started to move.

  An L.A. character—a gambler, and who knew what else—had been shot to death on my bed and there was a hysterical girl screaming to the world that I had pulled a gun on her and tried to kill her. This was no spot for a guy in my line of business. All right, I didn’t have a record, but I had a reputation, which could be even worse. I stopped trying to think. I could do that later, somewhere else.

  Once my feet started moving they worked fine. Shoving the gun into my pocket I headed for the kitchen and the back door. Outside, I paused for just a second to glance into the parking lot and see if the black convertible was there. Thank God, it was.

  I took the wooden steps, three at a time, down the back of the building and hit the sidewalk at the bottom on the run, fumbled in my coat pocket for my ignition key, and breathed a sigh of relief when I found it. Whoever had done the driving last night had returned it—maybe at the same time he or she or they had relieved me of the .38.

  I got into the car, unlocked the ignition and started the engine. The instant it caught I threw the gear and gunned it for the street.

  Even then I knew the nightmare was only beginning.

  * * * *

  I wheeled the convertible down to the end of the parking lot, pulled in behind another like it where it wouldn’t be too noticeable, jumped out, and circled around to the side entrance.

  The Desert Club was low, cool and modern with lots of redwood and natural rock put together for the best artistic effect, and against the flat desert setting it appeared to be in perpetual flight. The main entrance was an affair of glass and lucite that looked like a jeweler’s showcase. In odd corners, here and there, there was plenty of tropical planting.

  Gwynn, looking not more than eighteen, sat on a low lounge just inside the front entrance. She wore a bright sweater and skirt, and looked windblown. The sunlight through the clear glass highlighted her hair so that it looked more than ever like burnished gold. And she was the only girl in the world whose ankles looked good when she wore sandals.

  The sight of her made my head really begin to work for the first time: she had no part in the thing that was happening to me; I had no business being there, no right to drag her into my nightmare. I started to move away, but just then she turned, saw me, and waved as her lips formed my name. It was too late.

  I crossed quickly to her and dropped down beside her, trying to think of some excuse to get me away from her.

  “What’s wrong, Steve?” Her smile faded.

  I’d never be able to hide it from her. Still, I had to get away. “Where’s your car?” I asked.

  Her eyes searched mine. “What’s happened?”

  “I can’t tell you—not now. I’ve gotta get out of here and my car’s going to be hot.”

  “Steve.” Her hand closed over mine.

  “Where are you parked? We shouldn’t be seen together.”

  “Out in the lot,” she said. “Out front.”

  “I shouldn’t have come here.” I didn’t want her to let go of my hand.

  Her hand tightened on mine. “What is it, Steve? Please tell me.”

  I looked into her eyes
and saw fear. She denied it the one time I’d asked her, but I knew she wished I was another kind of guy, even a clerk behind a grocery counter.

  “Look,” I said, “forget it. I just came around to say goodbye.”

  “Flashy heroics bore me,” she said. I started to get up, but she held tight. Now her voice was practical. Gwynn could get tough the way a real lady gets tough when she feels she’s right. “What’ve you done?”

  I shook my head. “Something’s happened. I can’t remember—” I glanced toward the entrance. A well-dressed middle-aged couple came into the lobby, turned in the opposite direction, and entered the dining room.

  “I’ll get the car,” Gwynn said, “and meet you at the side entrance so you won’t have to cross the lot. At my place you can tell me about it.”

  “No,” I said. My mind went back to the mess on the bed. “It’s nothing you should know about.”

  On her feet she turned to me and smiled, but her eyes stayed serious. “You can’t kid me,” she said, “you’re just trying to get out of buying me lunch.” With that she crossed to the entrance and went outside.

  I watched her cross the lot and get into the grey coupe. I walked to the side entrance and tried to look like a part of the greenery.

  As her coupe pulled up I started out, stopped, and ducked back. King Barnes was on his way in, just outside the door, and it was too late to run. I swung around and concentrated on the potted plants.

  King had hated me for a long time, ever since I’d gotten the spot at the Hacienda he’d been counting on. He had taken it personally and ever since had been waiting for a chance to do me a bad turn, been waiting with unrelenting patience for a long time. King was a tall, skinny character with the small, quick eyes of a weasel and the rest of his face would have fitted a mortician. Right now he was the last ape in the world I wanted to see. I held my breath as he entered the lobby and even before he spoke I knew he’d spotted me.

  “Wetting the plants, Walters?” he drawled from behind me. “That isn’t good manners.”

  “Hi, King,” I said, keeping my voice flat as I turned to him. “How’s it go?”

  “Smooth,” he said. “It always goes smooth. I hear it gets rough for some guys, though.”

  I tried not to stiffen. “How do you mean?”

  “Heard you had a fight with Mike French last night at the Prospector. A run-in over a dame.”

  “Don’t believe it,” I said. “Dames I don’t tangle over.”

  He observed me with a steady dead-pan look that made me want to smash in his face. “That’s good,” he said. “I hear you’re getting boosted into the Egret. It wouldn’t look good to Talmadge for you to be fighting with the customers. He might think you’re not sincere.”

  “Shame on me,” I said. “Will you excuse me if I tear myself away? I’ve got business.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Don’t skin your knuckles.”

  I waited for him to turn away but he didn’t. It was up to me. I walked out the door, jumped into the coupe beside Gwynn, and didn’t look back. I could only pray that he wasn’t watching me and didn’t see Gwynn. The odds were fifty-fifty, which isn’t good enough when you’re out of control because someone has fixed your gears to crack you up.

  Gwynn’s apartment wasn’t as expensive as my layout, but she had done the right things with slipcovers and curtains to make it cheerful, attractive and a lot more comfortable than mine. You could spend an evening there without wishing vaguely you were somewhere else. In the alcove, just off the living room was the little desk and typewriter where she did extra work at home for her lawyer boss, Les Carter, a good man, made more attractive by a good reputation. And he was still single. I had the feeling things might have worked out between Gwynn and Carter if I hadn’t come along. For all our sakes I should have stayed out of the picture. Then I shrugged.

  Maybe fate was doing them a good turn by taking me out of the picture.

  “I can’t hang around here,” I said as I followed Gwynn out to the kitchen. “The cops.”

  She gave me a quick glance. “You haven’t had anything to eat. And you’re too tensed up to know what you’re doing.” As always she was right, so I sat down at the blue-and-white table, ran my hand over my eyes, and began to talk. Once I started all of it poured out, and I told her everything I could remember about the last twelve hours. While I talked she kept herself busy at the stove where she was fixing bacon and eggs and coffee, but she listened with a half-frown and didn’t interrupt to ask questions. When the food was ready she put it on plates and brought it to the table. Then she sat down opposite me and sighed.

  “Can’t you go to the police, Steve?” she gestured for me to begin eating.

  I shook my head. “As far as they’re concerned, I’m already on the run. Beside, there’s the question of how big a killing this really is—in the rackets. I could get stuck with it whether I did it or not—just to cover somebody else.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But I’ve gotta get outa here.”

  “Steve!”

  “I just hope my luck is with me.”

  “I don’t believe in luck,” Gwynn cried out. “I wouldn’t trust my future to it.” Her hands trembled.

  “You’re a solid citizen. You don’t need luck.”

  Gwynn was quiet for a long moment. “The girl’s at the bottom of this. It’s crazy.” She shook her pretty head. “Like a French murder mystery. Find the woman. Find her and you can clear up the whole mess. You’re sure Mike didn’t mention her name?”

  “Positive. I’ve trained myself to listen for names and I didn’t hear hers.”

  Gwynn took a final sip of coffee and put the cup back in the saucer. “You stay here,” she said.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Out,” she said, “to get you some shaving things. And I always think better when I’m on the move.”

  “Are you crazy?” I said. “There isn’t time for—”

  “I might also look around for the girl,” she interrupted my argument. “A blonde in a red dress. So you just sit still,” she said as I started to get up to stop her. “If I can keep you from running, I’m certainly going to do it. At least I can try.” She grinned at me to give both of us confidence. “Besides, you need a shave.”

  She got up from the table and came around and kissed me lightly on the forehead. “I’ll be right back,” she assured me. “Put on the latch when I go out and don’t answer the door. There’s more coffee on the stove.”

  “Gwynn,” I said helplessly.

  “You’re not going to stop me,” she said.

  I watched her cross through the living room and out the door. After a moment I went in, turned the lock, and stood there, staring at a bright flower print above a side table.

  I sat down and tried again to think of my way out of a murder jam. My trouble was I didn’t have any of the pieces of the puzzle. I didn’t know anything about Mike. I didn’t know who the girl was or what their relationship had been. Maybe the girl killed Mike. Right now that seemed most reasonable. The only thing I was certain of was that I had to get out of town and try to set up some protection for myself with the bosses. Talmadge, the man with the influence, had already headed back to Los Angeles. Also, L.A. was the city to find out about Mike. It looked like I was going to Horace Greeley myself and head as far west as anyone could go without swimming.

  A long long hour passed before Gwynn returned, an hour spent in pacing the floor and calling myself every name in the book for being there and not on the road. Gwynn was flushed and a little breathless as she shoved the door closed after her and flicked the latch.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  “It’s a story.” The package from the drugstore was in her hand. “I’ll tell you while you shave.” She handed me the package and nodded toward the bathroom. “Hurry because we’ve places to go.”

  She sat on the edge of the tub and watched me l
ather up. “I ran into a friend of yours,” she said.

  I turned to her but she waved me back to my shaving.

  “It was the girl,” she went on. In the mirror I saw her lean forward excitedly. “I talked to her.”

  The razor trembled in my hand. “Where did you find her?” Gwynn ignored me because she had to tell it her way. “From the drugstore I started calling the hotels, trying to locate her by description, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. Then”—Gwynn’s eyes lit up—“as I left the store and was crossing the street to the car I saw her walking toward the corner. Red dress and black belt and shoes.” She ticked off the description. “And there was something about her—I don’t know—anyway I knew she was the one. She went around the corner and I ran after her, but by the time I got there she was gone. I couldn’t see her anywhere.”

  Gwynn signaled for me to continue shaving and in the mirror I watched her tell me how she walked along the street, unable to find her, and just as she was about to give up she looked into this dump hotel—the Taylor—on Third—and she was standing at the desk. Gwynn didn’t stop to think about it; she just walked inside, approached her and said she wanted to talk.

  I stopped shaving. “How did she act?” I asked.

  “She looked startled,” Gwynn said. “She asked me what I wanted and when I told her it was about last night she reacted—turned absolutely white. For a second there I thought she was going to faint.”

  I started on my left cheek as Gwynn continued that the girl in the red dress protested that she had been too drunk to remember anything. But Gwynn asked her if she didn’t remember Mike getting rough with her. To this she didn’t answer, only kept staring at the room key in her trembling hand. She refused to look at Gwynn as she heard about me; then Gwynn got a rise out of her because she looked up and mumbled something about my drink being fixed—and I nicked my chin.