Take my face

by Held, Peter

  "Isn't that strange!" said Margaret.

  "There's something weird involved there. He's crazy as a bedbug, of course. But he's expiating something ..."

  "Just what did he say?" asked Julie.

  "He told me to mind my own business. He

  said—let's see. His exact words were something like this. He almost sang them. Like bop music. 'Brother, this life has been one long round of hell. I've fought it on the weed. I've fought it on the piano. They say there's another life where they play harps; brother, I'm ready. You can take this one—' " Carr broke off with a sad smile for Margaret. "He told me what I could do with it."

  "The poor man is obviously crazy," Margaret said indignantly. "He should be in an institution."

  Carr nodded. "Instead, they're killing him"— he looked at his watch—"in two hours and twenty-five minutes."

  Julie rose to her feet. Margaret looked at her curiously. "Where are you going, dear?"

  "Upstairs."

  Carr jumped up. "I was going to suggest—if you'd like to go for a ride tonight, Julie—"

  "No, thanks," said Julie.

  "Why, Julie, I think it would do you good," said Margaret.

  "Okay," said Julie. She turned, facing Carr. "On one condition."

  "Sure. Anything you like."

  "We go just where I want to go. Do what I want to do. Without argument. Is it a deal?"

  "If you insist."

  "Okay." Julie started from the room.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Carr took Julie's arm as they descended the steps, led her toward the Jaguar. Julie pulled back. "Let's take my car."

  Carr acquiesced. "This is your evening."

  Julie went to the driver's side. Carr climbed in on the right, sitting very straight, looking stiffly ahead. Julie said, "You might as well know where I'm going now, so there won't be any argument. I'm going to talk to Joe Treddick."

  Carr turned his head in shock. "Julie—I don't think that's very smart."

  "Okay. Do you want to come? Or do I go alone?"

  "But why, Julie? Why in the name of merciful heaven?"

  "I want to see him," said Julie. She shook her head. "Maybe he's a murderer—but he's honest. Anyway, Carr, I want to talk to him! I've got to get straightened out!" she cried passionately. "I don't know whether I'm coming or going. If he's

  not a murderer, I want to know that I was right about him."

  "Say he's innocent. He's still an impostor—"

  She looked at him levelly. "What would you have done, Carr, if you'd had a face like Robert Struve's?"

  "That's neither here nor there. I thought tonight we were going out, maybe have a drink—"

  "Okay, Carr. Please get out."

  Carr said tersely, "I'll come."

  "No more argument?"

  "Anything you like."

  Julie started the car, drove down Conroy Avenue, out Third Street to the Fair Oaks Guest House.

  She parked, jumped out. Carr started to follow. "No," said Julie. "I want to talk to Joe, alone. I'll call you if I need you."

  "Your folks would skin me alive," Carr protested in real distress. "After all, they trust me to look after you!"

  "Once and for all, Carr, you're along tonight for the ride. If you don't like it, you can go home."

  She climbed the steps, rang the bell; Mrs. Tut-tle came to the door.

  "May I speak to Joe Treddick, please?"

  Mrs. Tuttle looked at her in careful speculation. "You know who Joe Treddick is?"

  "Certainly I know who he is."

  "His real name is Robert Struve, and unless I miss my guess—"

  "May I speak to him?"

  Mrs. Tuttle snorted. "Do you think he'd be in my house a single minute after I found out who he was? Run along, young lady. He's not here."

  "Where did he go?"

  "I've not the slightest idea."

  "Thank you." Julie went back to the car.

  "Well?" said Carr.

  "He's not there." Julie pressed the starter button.

  Sheriff Hartmann was not in his office; the deputy suggested they try his home.

  The sheriff lived in a new three-bedroom house in one of the developments springing up around San Giorgio. Carr agreed to ask the whereabouts of Joe Treddick. Julie went with him to the door.

  In answer to the bell, Sheriff Hartmann appeared in his shirt sleeves. When Carr made his inquiry, the sheriff put on a thoughtful frown.

  "Seems to me he said something about one of the motels. Just what do you want with him?"

  Carr looked at Julie. "We just want to chat a bit—old times, you know."

  "Oh," said the sheriff, nodding wisely.

  "For the life of me," said Carr, "I can't see why you let him go!"

  "For a very good reason. There's no evidence against him."

  "What about all this false-name stuff, the letters—"

  "That's background, Carr. A lot different from evidence. It's good for filling in the chinks and crannies of a case, but first you've got to get a case. We just don't have one. Not even the beginnings of one."

  "Come on, Carr," said Julie.

  He followed her sulkily back to the car. "Now where?"

  "I thought we'd just run down the road, look for his car."

  "Now, Julie, there's a dozen motels in town— we can't explore all of them."

  "I guess you're right," said Julie.

  "Now, where are you going?" asked Carr.

  "Home."

  "Home? The night's young!"

  Julie said nothing. She turned up Conroy Avenue, into Jamaica Terrace and up into her driveway.

  "Julie," said Carr, "this hasn't been my kind of party at all."

  "What did you want to do? Neck?"

  Carr stiffly opened the door. "Good night, Julie ... I don't think I'll come in."

  "Good night, Carr. I didn't ask you to."

  Carr jumped into the Jaguar, started the motor, swung around, roared out the driveway and back toward town.

  "Big overgrown baby," Julie muttered to herself. She started her car, quietly backed around, drove out, down to the highway.

  Julie turned south. The highway led past dingy service stations, used-car lots, taverns, two veterinary hospitals.

  Nothing in the Bon Haven, the San Giorgio Courts, the Kozy Kourts, or Bender's Motel. The Green Gables was past the farthest street light, out where the country began. A dozen duplex cabins, with green asphalt-tile roofing, surrounded a central area which once had been graveled. Two oak trees with whitewashed trunks grew in the center. The cabin marked OFFICE displayed a light; all the others seemed dark and untenanted. Julie parked off the road, walked quietly into the court.

  Down at the far end, she saw Joe's car. She stood looking at the cabin, wishing she had someone with her.

  She went back out to the car, got in. She put the key in the lock, then hesitated. She'd come this far . . . Slowly she got out of the car, went back into the court, looked at the cabin.

  Inside was Joe. Robert Struve. Joe. She stood

  looking at the blank door for two minutes. All the cabins seemed vacant except Joe's.

  She went slowly up to the door, her heart pounding. She paused, her hand raised to knock. A foolish thing to do, really. But it had to be done. It was the breaking crest to a wave of events that had started ten years ago, when a little girl steered a car into a motor-scooter.

  Her fist came down. She knocked.

  Inside, a bed creaked, feet hit the floor. The door opened.

  "Hello," said Julie. "Can I come in?"

  The door closed behind her with a soft sound. Four candles burned on the bedside table. There was no light in the room other than the glow from the four flames.

  Julie looked around in quizzical curiosity. "Why the candles?"

  "Just a whim." Joe sat down on the bed. "Have a seat."

  Julie moved a cane-bottomed rocker around, settled herself. They looked at each other. The candles cast a rich paleness on one sid
e of their faces, left the other side in velvet-black shadow.

  "Well, Robert?" said Julie in a soft voice.

  "My name is Joe Treddick."

  Joe stared at her. Julie saw that he had lost weight. His face looked thin.

  "You're a strange creature, Robert."

  Once more, he said, "My name is Joe Tred-dick."

  Julie made a sound of scornful amusement. "Just how dumb do you think I am?"

  "Oh—medium."

  "How about yourself? What do you think of yourself?"

  "I try to avoid it." He swung his legs up, lay back on the bed, lit a cigarette. "I suppose you're entitled to an explanation."

  Julie waited. Her courage was beginning to thin out. She became conscious of her youth, her inexperience, her lack of toughness. Then she hardened. She had nothing to be ashamed of. Let him lie there, with as much flinty self-assurance as he cared to assume . . . Joe was speaking.

  "As far as I'm concerned, Robert Struve died in Korea. I never cared much for Robert. Mother-ridden little mollycoddle."

  The dispassionate contempt startled Julie. She felt an impulse to defend Robert Struve. She remembered the Robert Struve she had known in high school—the boy who had played football like a maniac, who studied like a monk, who made no friends and walked by himself. Mother-ridden mollycoddle? Hardly!

  "Joe Treddick was a different kind of man," said Joe. "He did things because he liked them.

  I changed my name. I'm Joe Treddick. Now I do things because I like to do them."

  "Such as—murder?"

  Joe puffed thoughtfully on his cigarette; the smoke spiraled toward the ceiling. The candles flickered.

  Joe said, "You've got me arrested, tried, sentenced, hanged, and buried out of sight—even before you ask whether or not I'm guilty."

  "Is there any question? All this sneaking around, this—maneuvering, coming up here under false pretenses."

  "My name is Joe Treddick. If you'd asked me about Struve, I would have told you. But Struve is dead. Joe Treddick is alive. I took no unfair advantage of you or anyone else."

  Julie leaned forward, her voice passionate. "How about Dean Pendry? George Bavonette died two hours ago. You murdered him just like you murdered his wife." Joe started to speak, but Julie rushed on. "I know why you did it. Four girls at the Tri-Gamma initiation. Dean, Cathy, Lucia, me. Four silly little girls. They hurt your feelings. And you got your revenge."

  Joe was grinning painfully. "Do you honestly believe that?"

  "I know what you did to me."

  "Yeah," said Joe. "I paid for it . . . I'm sorry about that."

  "Your apology comes five years late."

  "Better late than never."

  "How about Dean? I suppose you didn't wreck her home."

  Joe laughed shortly.

  "Well?"

  Joe shrugged. "I saw Dean in a bar on Market Street in San Francisco. I knew her; she didn't know me. I made a pickup. Maybe the idea of revenge entered into it. I suppose it did. She never mentioned she was married—with her husband banging the piano not twenty feet away. When I found she was married, I laid off. I saw her twice after that. The last time was the night she was killed. That's when she recognized me."

  Julie looked at him. "It's a wonder I never did."

  "She saw me with the bottom of my face behind a magazine. I was reading. She stopped in the middle of the room, and told me I was stubborn and had no soul—that I reminded her of a boy she used to know in high school—a horrible boy named Robert Struve. She looked again." Joe laughed shortly. "Her eyes were the size of pie plates. She ran into her bedroom. I left."

  Julie held up her hand, blocking the bottom of Joe's face from her vision. He was suddenly Robert Struve. She took away her hand. He was Joe again.

  "The next-to-last time I saw Dean was up on Telegraph Hill. You and Cathy were there. In Cholo's apartment."

  Julie was startled. "I didn't notice you."

  "I noticed you. I knew who you were right away." He sat up on the bed. "And I knew right away what I wanted out of life—more than anything else. You. I made sure of a seat next to you in English 1B. I wanted a fair chance at you, on even terms with everyone else—without the past hung around my neck like an albatross."

  Julie said in a subdued voice, "That's all very well—but Dean? Why did she have to die?"

  "Do you mean, why did I kill her?"

  "Yes."

  He laughed bitterly. "Could it be possible that the man who got executed for Dean's murder was the man that did it?"

  "I've thought about it . . . But there's Cathy and Lucia."

  "Why pick on me?"

  "You had the motive."

  Joe laughed. "And five years later I cut their throats?"

  Julie was silent.

  "Sure," said Joe. "At the time my feelings were hurt. I was going to make lots of money, get a handsome face. They'd fall in love with me, come on their hands and knees crying for a kind

  look. Then I'd jilt 'em." Joe put on a tired smile. "Those were daydreams. I got over them about the same time I joined the Army."

  "You tell a good story, Joe."

  He turned his head quickly. "You called me Joe."

  "Yes, what of it?"

  "That means you believe me."

  Julie looked away, watched the candles. "I never did—completely—have you hanged, drawn and quartered."

  He looked at her curiously. "Did you come alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Does anyone know you're here?"

  "No."

  "You're a trusting little soul." He put out his cigarette. "Suppose I'm the San Giorgio murderer after all?"

  She moved in the chair, looked down at her hands. She was blushing.

  He rose to his feet, went to look at the candles. She came slowly across the room, stood beside him. Her flesh was tingling, her mouth dry. "Inside," she said, "I suppose we're all a little strange ..."

  He looked down at her, his eyebrows arched, his mouth tight. He put his arm around her. The

  touch was like a spring; the tenseness went out of Julie; she leaned against Joe, and the strange inner feelings gave way to warmth and quiet. She put her arm around him and together they stood looking into the flames.

  "Will you marry me, Julie?"

  "As soon as I'm eighteen."

  Presently Julie asked, "Why the candles, Joe?"

  "It's a demonstration."

  He reached to the dresser, picked up a glossy 8" x 10" photograph. "Look at this."

  Julie took the photograph. "Well?"

  It was one of the pictures which had appeared on the Herald-Republican society page: the bar at Mountainview Masque, with Joe and Lucia near the door.

  "What do you see?"

  She studied it in the light of the four candles. "Only what we saw the other day. With more detail, of course . . . Oh. The candles!"

  "Right," said Joe. "I can measure how long they are in this photograph."

  "How? How can you be sure—"

  "The label on this bottle of Scotch is exactly four inches high. I measured it this evening in a liquor store. That gives me a scale to measure the candles with. These new ones here"—he pointed —"are twelve inches long. These in the holder

  are all a little less than six and a half inches long. Say six and three-eighths. In other words, they've burned five and five-eighths inches."

  "I see," said Julie. "And now—you're checking how long it takes for these to burn five and five-eighths inches."

  "That's right." He laid a steel tape along the side of the candle, measured, looked at his watch. "It works out just about an inch and a half to the hour. Five and five-eighths divided by one and a half." He calculated further. "Three and three-quarters hours."

  "Mrs. Hutson lit those candles," said Julie. "We got there about eight-thirty. And she'd just finished."

  "Eight-thirty. Add three and three-quarters hours. Twelve-fifteen. That cinches it," said Joe. "This photograph was taken at quarter after
twelve. I couldn't possibly have taken Lucia home and gotten back before one. It lets me out."

  "Shall we call the sheriff?"

  Joe looked toward the dresser, for a reason Julie could not fathom at the time. "He'll find out soon enough."

  Julie laughed. "What's the joke?" asked Joe.

  "Mother thinks you're the devil incarnate."

  Joe grinned. "She'll never forgive me."

  She put her arms around him. "Joe, do you

  think you can go on loving me? I'm such a spoiled brat."

  "I think it'll work out."

  "Remember the night I telephoned you—the first night we went out?"

  "Yes."

  "I told Cathy that I was going to marry you." Julie's face fell. "Poor Cathy . . . Joe—who did kill her?"

  Joe looked at her in surprise. "Do you mean you don't know?"

  "Of course not!"

  "But it's obvious."

  "Well—tell me. Don't be mysterious."

  "Dean Bavonette told Carr she had seen Robert Struve. Dean was killed; Carr was sure that Struve had hacked up his sister. He was very much upset when the police arrested George. That meant that Struve was getting away with something. The idea just about drove him nuts. He's always hated me.

  "On the night of the Masque he got a little tight. He parked with Cathy, probably began pawing her."

  Julie nodded. "And Cathy told him to stop— that was the mood she was in."

  "Then Carr got mad. Maybe she threatened to tell, maybe he killed her out of jealousy. But she was dead. Carr had a problem: how to get out

  from under? And he thought of Dean. If Robert Struve had hacked up Dean—why couldn't Robert Struve be blamed for hacking up Cathy? So he takes his pocket knife and goes to work. When he's all done, he bangs his head somewhere —maybe on the bumper—smears himself with dust and gore, comes staggering back claiming someone hit him on the head. Next day he says this man is Robert Struve. The joke is that I'm standing there all the time. I know Carr is lying. It's an absolute cinch that he's done it himself."

  "Lucia knew who you were—so she knew Carr was lying, too."

  Joe nodded. "She figured she'd have some fun writing letters. She figured wrong. Carr fixed her, too. Then to set the sheriff after Struve, he prints a letter with Lucia's equipment, and mails it."