by Robert Bloch
“Cromer promised to take us into town. Before we drove off he gave Rodell the gun and told him to use it if anyone made a move. Then he took the freeway to Sherman Oaks. He left the car, saying he’d be back in a few minutes, and Rodell stayed behind with the gun. That’s when I made my move. I got it away from him, but while we were struggling, the others ran off. After Tony was knocked out, I found the gun was empty, but I had no way of knowing where Cromer had gone, or if he’d really come back. And perhaps, if he did, he’d have another weapon. What I wanted to do, of course, was drive off—but Cromer had taken the car keys.” Bruce’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So I ran.”
“I understand.” Karen put her hand on his arm. “But you don’t have to run anymore.”
Bruce’s smile was bleak. “Meaning you believe me?”
“Of course I do—”
“You’re not the police.”
“Bruce, you’ve got to talk to them. If you’d tell them what you told me—”
“What good would it do? I’m their number one suspect. They aren’t going to take my word for anything unless I can come up with some proof.”
“Then cooperate with them, help the police find this man Cromer. You know what he looks like, you can give them a description.”
“Sure I can.” Bruce shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean they’ll believe me.” He stared at Karen, and the bleak smile turned grim. “Maybe there is no Edmund Cromer. Maybe I made the whole thing up.”
“But you didn’t! I know—and I can prove it.”
“How?”
Quickly, Karen described her experience in the apartment and how she’d discovered the attempt to force open the bathroom window.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t know about this?”
“I didn’t want them to know. But I can tell them now. And I can show them the marks, where he tried to pry his way in.”
“They could say it was coincidence. Or that you made those marks yourself.”
“You and I know better than that.” Karen’s fingers tightened involuntarily on her husband’s arm. “Don’t you see? Somebody was trying to get at me. And he’s still on the loose. What if he decides to try again? I’ll never be safe unless you help—”
Bruce hesitated, but only for a moment. “All right. What do you want me to do?”
“This detective who’s guarding me—Tom Doyle. You’ve got to talk to him.”
“What about his partner, the one you said is in the hall outside the office?”
“He doesn’t know anything about this, neither of them do. They don’t even know I left.”
“So what do you suppose will happen if he sees you show up from nowhere with some stranger?” Bruce shook his head. “The way things are now, they’re all trigger-happy. I’m not taking that kind of chance.”
“I don’t know the man outside, but Doyle isn’t like that. You can trust him.”
“Then let, him trust me.” Bruce’s voice was strained. “If you want me to talk to Doyle, tell him to come here. And tell him to come alone.”
CHAPTER 20
“Trust him?” Doyle said. “After the trick you just pulled on me? I don’t trust either one of you.”
Karen faced the detective in the corridor outside the washroom. “I’m sorry. It’s the only way.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m putting in a call right now. In five minutes we’ll have this building surrounded. If anybody goes up to that roof, there’ll be a full squad backstopping him. No more risks.”
“What about the risk to Bruce?” Karen fought to keep her voice steady. “Can’t you understand what he’s been through these past two days? He’s been sick, you know that. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he thinks he’s been betrayed. I gave him my word.”
“I know,” Doyle murmured. “But you said it yourself. There’s no telling what he might do under pressure.”
“There won’t be any pressure, not if you go alone. I did and he didn’t harm me. He hasn’t any weapons.” Karen’s words came quickly. “Look, he’s the only one who can tell you what really happened. He was there, he saw it. He wants to help. But you’ve got to give him a chance.”
Doyle took her arm. “Come with me.”
He led her along the hall, around the corner to the elevator bank. The man with the ginger mustache was still leaning against the wall, his newspaper tucked underneath his arm. Doyle moved towards him.
“Okay, Harry,” he said.
The man looked up.
“Harry, this is Mrs. Raymond. Mrs. Raymond, Harry Forbes.” Doyle didn’t wait for either of them to acknowledge the introduction. “Now listen to me. Something’s come up—”
Forbes listened, nodding several times.
“Right,” he said. “You’re going to the roof. I take Mrs. Raymond back to her office and keep an eye on her there.” He hesitated. “What do we do about holding the fort out in front here?”
“On your way in tell the girl at the reception desk she’s to admit nobody—and I mean just that, nobody at all, under any circumstances—until I give her the word. Anybody shows up, they’ll have to wait. Oh, and one thing more.”
Doyle left Karen’s side and approached Forbes, his voice sinking to a murmur. Again Forbes nodded. “Got it.” He walked over to Karen. “Come with me, please.”
Karen turned to glance at Doyle, but he was already punching the UP button beside the elevators. “Please,” she called. “Remember what I told you. He’s very upset—”
“Don’t worry.”
Karen caught the profile of his smile as the elevator door opened. He stepped into the car.
“Let’s go.” Forbes was holding the office door for her. As soon as she entered, he moved past her to Peggy at the reception desk. Showing his badge, he repeated Doyle’s instructions. Peggy nodded, then glanced up over his shoulder towards Karen. She looked as if she were going to say something, but Forbes didn’t give her a chance; taking Karen’s arm, he led her to the door of the corridor.
Once inside, he hastened with her down the hall.
“What’s your hurry?” Karen said.
“Got to place a call.”
And when they reached her cubicle around the corner, he did.
Listening, Karen felt numb realization. He lied. He double-crossed me.
But Doyle hadn’t lied, because he hadn’t made her any promises. And it wasn’t a double-cross, just a compromise. He’d gone to the roof alone, the way she’d told him. But he’d also given Forbes instructions to phone for a squad. No more risks. But if so, why hadn’t he waited until the squad arrived? The answer was self-apparent; he wanted to make sure Bruce didn’t have time to get away.
Forbes turned to her now, phone in hand. “Mrs. Raymond?”
“Yes—”
“I want you to give me a description of your husband. Physical appearance, what he’s wearing.”
Of course. Just in case he did try to get away. Karen’s first angry impulse was to tell him to go to hell, but what good would it do? Doyle would be bringing Bruce down, anyway. Besides, she had already given a description to Sergeant Cole at the sanatorium.
So she told Forbes what he wanted to know, and he repeated it, phrase for phrase, into the mouthpiece of the phone.
“Height, six-two. Weight, one-eighty. Eyes, gray. Complexion, fair. Blue jacket, gray trousers. Blue and white striped shirt, no necktie—”
This is the way it ends, Karen thought. No bang, not even a whimper. They pick him up, they question him and then—
And then what?
She’d told Bruce they’d believe him, that his statement would help them track down the murderer. But suppose they were already convinced he was guilty?
There was no answer. If Bruce was innocent, and the police thought otherwise, then she’d betrayed him. And if he really was guilty, her advice was still a betrayal. Either way, she told herself, nothing could be worse.
But she was wrong.
What happened next came
very quickly.
Forbes finished his conversation on the phone. He started to turn to Karen, then glanced up past her. Karen followed his gaze to the open doorway.
There was a sudden echo of sound along the hall in the distance; an excited murmuring, the quick clatter of hurrying footsteps.
And now Ed Haskane appeared, eyes wide, mouth moving.
Forbes stared at him. “What is it?”
“You’d better come—”
“Where?”
But Haskane had already turned and started to stumble off.
Forbes rose, beckoning to Karen. Together, they moved into the hall. Haskane had already rounded the corner of the corridor when they caught up with him.
“Tell me what happened,” the detective said.
“I’ll show you.” Haskane’s reply was almost lost in the confusion of sound from beyond the far end of the hall.
“Where?”
“The window—”
The window was in the outer office, on the far wall behind Peggy’s reception desk. It was open, and Peggy stood before it in an excited group of agency employees. All of them were staring down, and when Forbes forced his way through, he and Karen stared down, too.
There was a body lying in the street below.
CHAPTER 21
For a moment Karen’s vision blurred. She started to sway; then felt Forbes’s grip on her arm.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Down there? No—I can’t—”
“You’re coming with me.”
She felt the pressure of his fingers as they turned and moved away from the window, and that was real. But leaving the office wasn’t real, and the descent in the elevator was a floating with everything disoriented the way it must be in free fall.
Free fall. The body pitching from the rooftop, sprawling in the street. Bruce—
Traffic was halted, backed up with horns blaring. Crowds circled on the sidewalk, held against the curb by a hastily formed cordon of uniformed officers. Karen was dimly conscious of the sirens screaming in the distance, dully aware that police cars were squealing and screeching through an opening at the intersection beyond, followed by an ambulance. But none of this was real, either. The only reality was what lay spattered against the pavement, lay facedown like a broken doll, its limbs twisted at grotesque angles.
She didn’t want to look at it, but she had to. Because it wasn’t a doll. It was real, and she could see the familiar clothing, the hair, she recognized everything. Not a doll. And not Bruce.
“Doyle!” Forbes said. “Oh, Christ—!”
For a moment the surge of relief was so intense she wanted to cry out. Instead, she gasped.
The sound of her voice was lost in the clamor. People were jostling from the walk behind; someone buffeted her in the back, but Karen was only vaguely aware of the blow. A group of men crossed from a police car pulled up against the curb, and she saw that the man in the lead was Lieutenant Barringer.
Forbes saw him, too. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
There was no need for him to command her, because she had nowhere to go. Running away wouldn’t help, after what had happened; nothing would help. All she could do was wait.
Karen watched while Forbes approached Lieutenant Barringer. She saw Barringer glance up as Forbes pointed in her direction; then, for a moment, her view was obscured by the ambulance attendants as they moved in with their stretcher.
She turned away, not wanting to see what happened when they bent over the crumpled corpse of Tom Doyle. But the people around her did not turn away, and she could hear their shocked murmurs.
Then Forbes was at her side again, taking her arm.
Karen frowned up at him. “Where are we going?”
“Lieutenant Barringer wants you to wait in the office. He’s sending someone up to get your statement there. Sergeant Gordon, he said. He’ll be looking out for you.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Barringer didn’t say. Gordon will have instructions when he sees you.” Forbes shrugged. “Right now we’ve got to clear the streets. One hell of a mess for a peak traffic hour.”
One hell of a mess, but the main problem is to clear the street so all the Daddies won’t be late for dinner. Karen shook her head. But Forbes was right, of course. The living are the ones to be considered; the dead have no problems.
“All right, break it up—there’s nothing to see—let’s move along now—” A cordon of officers moved along the curb, chanting their familiar formulas.
Forbes led Karen to the building entrance, and there were more police there, stationed on either side of the doorway, and halting people for identification and questioning as they attempted to exit. She noticed some of her own co-workers in the line beyond the door, waiting their turn for interrogation.
“We’ve got the garage downstairs covered, too,” Forbes told her. “Nobody gets in or out without identification.”
He displayed his own I.D. to one of the officers as they entered. “I’m taking Mrs. Raymond inside,” he said. “Lieutenant Barringer’s orders. Could you see to it that she gets up to her office? Sutherland Agency, tenth floor.”
The officer nodded and turned to summon a uniformed man from the group examining employees from the building inside.
Karen glanced at Forbes. “You’re not coming?”
“Barringer wants me to stay here.” He released her arm. “Don’t worry, you’ll be in safe hands.”
Karen nodded, then turned and followed her new escort to the elevators.
They ascended in silence. No one was entering the building and most of the offices would be emptying at this hour.
The Sutherland Agency was no exception. Peggy’s desk was vacant, and the rooms lining the hall beyond were echoing and empty. Even the few who normally might have lingered to make last-minute calls or finish last-minute assignments had been lured downstairs by the earlier excitement.
Excitement? There was nothing exciting about death. It was the violence that drew them. She remembered what Bruce had just told her. Maybe we all have a night-world—
“Will you be all right, Mrs. Raymond?” the officer said.
There it was again, the same phrase. She summoned the automatic reply. “Of course.”
He closed the door and left her alone in the office. And she didn’t want to be alone anymore, not even for a moment. Why couldn’t Forbes have come back to wait with her?
She knew the answer, of course. The reason Barringer wanted him downstairs was to get his statement. Get it first, before she was questioned. So if there were any discrepancies, any lies, he’d be able to check back.
Not that lying would do any good now. It never had. If only she’d told the truth from the beginning—the whole truth—
Karen started down the hall towards her office, then hesitated. The hollow sound of her own footsteps halted her, and she stood there, conscious that she was trembling.
You’re afraid.
All right, admit it. Everyone’s afraid nowadays. Afraid of driving and getting smashed on the freeway, afraid of walking and being mugged in the street. Afraid of losing a job and starving, afraid of keeping a job and ending up on an insufficient pension which meant starving in old age. Afraid of the bomb and germ warfare and nerve gas and other man-made devices of destruction, afraid of the natural disasters of earthquake and fire and flood.
No wonder the younger generation turned on with grass and smack while their elders turned to barbiturates and alcohol and cigarettes. I’ll say one thing for cancer—it certainly takes your mind off your troubles.
She remembered Bruce saying that, long ago. Before he went into the sanatorium, when he had this thing about death. He’d said a lot of things. When a corpse goes to the morgue, they identify it by fastening a tag to the big toe. But where do they put the tag if the toes are missing? And what does it matter? A corpse has no identity. I’ve seen hundreds of them overseas, and they’re all alike. What do
the maggots care about name, rank and serial number?
Bruce had this fear of death, and it was only to be expected, after what he’d been through.
But was it natural to be afraid of life?
Karen paced the floor behind the reception desk. She had no intention of going down the hall to her office now. There she’d be isolated. Here she could at least keep her eye on the door.
She moved to the window, noting that it was getting dark outside. Was she frightened of that, too?
No, the dark was harmless. What she dreaded were the people who prowled it. The citizens of the night-world. Karen shook her head. No point in losing perspective. The world, day or night, wasn’t really all that bad.
She stared out across the city. Long ago, before she was born, Los Angeles had been looked upon as some sort of earthly paradise where there was sunshine every day and the stars glittered every night. Now that image had faded, tarnished by technology, and perhaps this was the reason so many mocked it. But was it actually any worse than New York or London, Moscow or Peking?
In spite of her earlier reflections on the rooftop, it was necessary to remember that millions of people lived out there, and most of them were very much like herself. Reasonably honest, decent, and trustworthy; trying to live up to their responsibilities to family, friends, the strictures of society.
So it was only the few she feared. And even then, she wasn’t really alarmed as long as she could recognize them. Most of the creeps and weirdos—and she wasn’t using terms of prejudice, she reminded herself; didn’t they proudly proclaim themselves as freaks?—were easily spotted and could be easily avoided. They were no great menace as long as one steered clear of them and their haunts.
The danger came from the others. The ones you loved. The ones you surrendered yourself to because you wanted them, needed them.
There was no mystery about what she was afraid of. Deep down inside she knew there was only one real fear. And its name was Bruce—
“Mrs. Raymond?”
Karen turned quickly. A man was entering the office doorway from the hall. He nodded at her, moving up to the glass window of the reception desk. Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a wallet and slid it across the counter as she approached.