He was careful to avoid the California Incline approach to the beach: he was taking no chances on getting mixed up with a police inquiry. He drove on down Ocean Front and followed the winding canyon way to the beach. He wasn’t the only one who had come for a day on the sands. There were a fair dozen cars parked in the enclosure by State Beach. He parked his own car and went down the concrete steps to the sand.
The beach wasn’t crowded. There were a couple of fellows and girls, sweaters over their bathing suits, backed against the concrete wall. They were playing cards, a portable radio giving out music. There was a heavy set man and his scrawny wife farther down the sands. A scattering of young men, singly and together, beach athletes. Dix chose a place against the wall on the other side of the lifeguard station. He took off his coat, folded it, laid it on the sand. He took off his trousers, folded them on top of the coat. He kept his shirt on, the off-shore wind was chill under the streaked sky. He took off his socks and shoes, set them aside, and stretched out, his head on his folded suit. The ocean was a hushed sound, the sun was beginning to break through, even faint strips of blue were appearing in the sky. He closed his eyes and he slept.
On waking he was amazed. He had evidently dropped into the pit of sleep as soon as he lay down for he had no memory past that moment. Luck was with him that he hadn’t slept too long, it was only a little past three. Discomfort had evidently aroused him for the afternoon had turned chill, the sky was completely grayed again. Dix shook out his clothes and put them on, their wrinkles, their sand were legitimate now. The same was true of his shoes and socks. He could take all these clothes to the cleaners not caring who might snoop. He could go home, have a warm shower, clean things, sleep in a comfortable bed.
First he must make certain that he was remembered. He had planned that last night. He drove the car into the gas station across, said to the dark-haired owner, “Fill her up, will you?” and as if in afterthought, said, “If you don’t mind I’ll phone while you’re filling her.” The gas-station operator might not remember him. but he could be reminded by the call. He called his own number; when there was no answer, his coins were returned.
The car was ready; Dix drove away. He would have liked to stop at the hamburger stand for food and coffee, particularly coffee. He was chilled from his sleep on the cold sand. But he didn’t want to chance running into Sylvia or even Brub; this was their corner. He drove on, winding up through the canyon to San Vicente. There were no eating places on this boulevard, nor were there any drive-ins until he reached Beverly. He had no intention of dropping into Simon’s at this odd hour, no intention of forcing his luck. Thinking about food had made him ravenous, yet he could not face going into a restaurant until he’d changed clothes. He wouldn’t pass unnoted at any place in Beverly in his doubly wrinkled suit. By now everyone would be babbling about the latest murder, anything out of line might be suspicious. Anything sandy would be suspicious to the yokels.
He drove on back to the apartment. He didn’t want to put the car away; he’d be going out again as soon as he was clean. It was double work putting up the car, yet it meant getting into the apartment without walking openly through the patio. He preferred entering without being observed.
Reviling the need of precautions, he went through the routine. Brake the car in front of the garage, get out of the car, open the garage doors, get in the car, unloose the brake, run the car into the garage, get out of the car, close the garage doors. Doggedly he walked through the alley to the rear door of his apartment. He slowed his walk as he approached. He wasn’t unobserved. A yahoo was trimming the hedge just beyond his doors. A little measly Mexican fellow in faded overalls, a battered hat bending his ears, a mustache drooping over his mouth. The shears were bigger than the man. Clip, clip, clip clip, the shears chopped with Dix’s approaching footsteps. The fellow looked up as Dix reached the back door. ‘”Allo,” he said brightly.
Dix didn’t say hello, he nodded only, and he went into his apartment. He wouldn’t have been surprised to find something wrong, he’d been thrown that much off beat by the unexpected gardener. But the apartment was unchanged. The slattern had been in and cleaned, that was all. The coffee pot and cup were clean, the newspaper in the living room was folded on the table. The ash trays in the bedroom had been emptied, the bed he hadn’t slept in was smoothed. Everything was okay.
He restrained himself from looking out to see if the evening paper had come; he knew it was too early. The paper didn’t arrive until past five o’clock. He peeled off his clothes, added them to the bundle on the closet floor and he took a long and hot shower. He shaved without hearing the electricity. He was beginning to feel great. While he dressed, dressed well in a dark tweed, a white sweater under his jacket, he wondered if she would return tonight. Surely she would. She’d been away two nights now. He hoped she would come tonight; he wasn’t angry with her. She had a good reason for her absence. He would accept her reason without recriminations. He’d accept anything if she’d just show up, join him for a big feed, come home with him after it.
He decided he might as well wait an hour to see if she’d come. Postponing food had taken the edge off his appetite. He poured a shot of rye, drank it straight. Not that he had need of it, he felt swell. It was a fillip to top his good spirits.
He switched on the radio, earlier in the day he hadn’t thought of that news source. He rolled the stations but there was nothing but music and kids’ adventure yarns: he was between news reports. He turned off the nervous sounds, he preferred the quietness of the apartment.
It was possible the paper had come early. He needed to know what had happened, not have it sprung on him. He opened the door, stepped out and looked on the porch and walk. No paper. But the Virginibus Arms had suddenly gone in for gardening in a big way. There was another peasant out here in front, doing something to the flower beds. This one was younger, a tall, skinny character, but his face was just as droopy as the little fellow in back. He didn’t say hello: he looked at Dix and returned his attention to his spadework.
Dix went back into the living room. If she hadn’t shown up by six, he’d go on to dinner. He wouldn’t wait around tonight. She definitely must have gone out of town on a job. Probably afraid he’d raise a fuss if she mentioned it in advance. He was pretty sure she’d show up tonight and he wasn’t surprised at all when the doorbell rang. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why she’d ring instead of walking in until he was opening the door. And in that split second he was amused by it; she was returning humbly, not on her high horse.
Thus he opened the door and faced Brub Nicolai across the threshold.
2
Brub said, “Hello, Dix.” He wasn’t smiling; he was standing there, a stocky, foreboding figure.
The cold breath of danger whistled into the inmost crannies of Dix’s spirit. He answered mechanically. “Hello.”
There was then a moment when neither man spoke, when they remained unmoving. looking each into the other’s face. A moment when each knew the other for what he was, the hunter and the hunted.
It was broken when they spoke together. Brub asking. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” and Dix crying. “For Pete’s sake, what are you standing out there for? Come on in.”
They could feign ignorance of each other’s identity after that. They could pretend they were two old pals getting together for a drink. Brub rolled in on his stocky legs, dropped down on the couch and sailed his hat towards a chair. “I could use a drink.”
“Good idea. What’ll it be?”
“Scotch. Soda if it’s handy.”
“There ought to be some around.” He stood the scotch and rye bottles on the small bar, found a soda and opened it. “I’ll get some ice.”
Brub’s voice followed him to the kitchen. “You aren’t the two-fisted grogger you used to be, are you? Imagine having two kinds of liquor at your place.”
Dix pulled out the ice tray, pressed up the cubes. “You’re not such a souse yourself since you grew
up, are you. chum?”
But it was hollow interchange. It died before he had the drinks mixed. He tried again, lifting his own highball. “To our youth,” he toasted. “Those careless rapture days seem kind of far away, don’t they?”
“Like they were of another world,” Brub said gravely.
Again silence moved in on them. In the void, he heard the faint plop of the evening paper flung at his door. He couldn’t go for it now. Not until he knew why Brub had come. He could even hear far away, or thought he could, the clip-clip of the gardener’s shears.
He couldn’t take the emptiness which should be filled with man talk. He asked, “What’s the trouble, Brub? You look beat.”
“You should ask. I am beat.”
“I’m asking.” He didn’t know a thing. He hadn’t seen the paper, hadn’t heard a radio. He threw a curve, “Is it Sylvia?”
Brub’s eyebrows slanted quickly. “What about Sylvia?”
Dix said apologetically, “I thought the last time I was at your place that maybe you were having a little trouble. There was sort of a strained feeling—”
Brub had started to laugh as Dix spoke. It was a real laugh, a laugh at something funny. When Dix broke off. Brub said. “You couldn’t be further off the beam. Sylvia is—she’s Sylvia.” He didn’t have to say any more. The whole was in Brub’s face and on his tongue and in his heart.
Dix murmured. “That’s good.” He took another drink from his glass. “What is it then? What’s the trouble?”
“You mean you don’t know what’s happened?”
Dix said with mock exasperation, “I mean I don’t know from nothing. I’ve been out at the beach all day—”
He had only to say “beach” and Brub tightened. He had said it deliberately. He went right on, “I just got in about an hour ago, cleaned up. had a quick one and settled down to wait for Laurel.” He glanced at his watch. “I hope she won’t be too long tonight. I’m starved.”
“You were at the beach all day.” Brub said it with wonder, almost with awe.
It was what Dix wanted. He relaxed in his chair, comfortable in his well-being, enjoying his drink. “Yes, I’d worked all night, finished my book.” he threw in with modest pride. “I was worn to a pulp but I was too high to sleep so I decided to go out to the beach. Looked as if it might clear—what’s happened to the California sunshine? I’m sick of this gray stuff—but it didn’t.” He took another drink, he wasn’t talking too fast or too emphatically. He was rambling like a man enjoying the cocktail hour. No alibi, just discussion of the day. “It did relax me though, enough that I took a nap out there. Wonderful what the briny will do for a man, even on a day like today. I feel like a million dollars tonight.” It was exciting to sit there behind the pleasant mask and watch the suspicion simmer out of the hunter.
Brub exclaimed, “Finished the book! That’s great. Going to let Sylvia and me have a look at it?” He was trying to re-orient his thinking while he made expected talk.
Dix shook a rueful head. “I’ve already shipped it East. This morning. I’ll send you an autographed copy when and if it’s published. I promised you one for your help, didn’t I?”
“Help?” Brub tried to remember.
“Sure. About tire tracks, and that day you let me go up the canyon with you. I appreciated that.”
Brub remembered. Remembered more. Depression settled heavily on him again.
“Now, what’s your trouble?” Dix demanded. “Here, let me fix you another.” He took Brub’s glass. His own wasn’t half empty. He was watching it. With no food and his already high spirits, he didn’t need alcohol. He talked while he poured a fairly stiff one. “Tell me what’s weighting your strong shoulders.” He carried the drink to Brub. “Try this.”
“Thanks.” Brub looked up at him. “You haven’t seen the papers?”
He went back over to the easy chair. “I had a quick look at the Times this morning—” He broke off, getting it out of Brub’s eyes. “Brub—you don’t mean—”
Brub nodded heavily. There wasn’t an atom of suspicion left in him. If there ever had been. “Yes. Another one.”
Dix let out his breath. He exclaimed softly, in shocked disbelief, “God!”
Brub kept on nodding his head.
“When—where— Was it . . . ?” Dix stammered.
“It was,” Brub said grimly. “The same thing.”
“The strangler,” Dix murmured. He waited for Brub to go on with the story. It wasn’t a time for questions, only for shocked silence. Brub would talk; he was too tightly crammed with it to keep from talking. He had to have the release of words.
“It was last night.” Brub began. He was having a hard time getting started. He wasn’t a cop at all, he was a man all choked up. swallowing the tears in his throat. “Last night or sometime early this morning.” His voice broke. “It was Betsy Banning . . .”
Dix let the horror mount in his face. “Bets . . . the little . . . the girl who looked . . . like Brucie . . .” He didn’t have to control his voice.
Anger, the hard iron of anger, clanged in Brub. “I’d kill him with my bare hands if I could lay them on him.”
Had Brub come to kill? On ungrounded, fathomless suspicion?
Dix waited for him to go on. Brub was steady now. steadied by the iron anger that was holding him rigid. “Wiletta Bohnen and Paul Chaney found her.”
Wiletta Bohnen and Paul Chaney were top picture stars. Bohnen was Mrs. Chaney. The publicity on this one would be a feast to the peasants who got their thrills through the newspapers.
“They walk their poodles on the beach every morning at eight o’clock. Walk from their house, it’s the old Fairbanks place, up to the pier and back.” Brub took a swallow from his glass. “They didn’t see her on the way up. They had their dogs on leash and they cut across slantwise several houses to the water. But the dogs were running free on the way back . . . the dogs found her. Almost in front of the Fairbanks house, just a little above the high-tide mark.”
It was hard for Brub to talk. He had to stop and swallow his throat more than once.
Dix made his own voice husky. “That’s—that’s all you know?”
“We know she went out a little after eleven,” Brub said angrily. “She had friends there earlier, college friends of hers . . . the boy she was going to marry. She always took her dog out for a run at night, no matter what time it was. Usually it was earlier. She wasn’t afraid—she was like Sylvia, the ocean was always something safe, something good. Her father—” Brub swallowed again. “Her father sometimes worried—especially these last few months—but she wasn’t afraid.” There were angry tears in Brub’s eyes. “And she had her dog.”
“The dog—”
Brub said jerkily, without intonation, “We found him. Buried in the sand. Dead . . . strangled.”
“Poor fellow.” Dix said from his heart.
“One thing.” Brub spurted with hard anger, “nothing had happened to her.” Then he laughed, a short, grating laugh. “Nothing but death.” He said with irony, using that weapon to combat tears. “It’s some comfort to her father and the boy—nothing happened to her.”
‘Was it the same man?” Dix asked dubiously.
‘Who else?” Brub demanded belligerently. “It’s been just about a month. Every month. Every damn stinking month—” He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes without shame. Then he picked up his glass and drank a third of its contents.
Dix looked at him with sorrow. “God!” he repeated. It was terrific, the most terrific show of all. With Brub here weeping and flailing impotent anger at an unknown, a killer who killed and went quietly away into the night. And Brub would never know.
Dix asked, “No clues?” as if he were certain this defeat too followed the pattern.
“On the sand?” Brub snorted. “No, no clues. No buttons, no fingerprints, no cigarette stubs, no match folders, not even a calling card.”
Dix rubbed his cheek. It was apology for a foolish questi
on.
“Mind if I use your phone?” Brub asked abruptly.
“Go right ahead. In the bedroom. Can I fix you another—”
“No, I’ve got to get on downtown to headquarters.” Brub left the couch and went into the bedroom. He didn’t close the door. He wasn’t going in to snoop; a lot of good it would do him to snoop.
Dix was quiet, deliberately listening to the call.
“Sylvia?”
Dix relaxed but he listened.
“I’m calling from Dix Steele’s . . . No, Sylvia! No. I can’t come home yet, I have to go down to headquarters . . . I dropped in on Dix for a drink and a few minutes rest from . . . Nothing . . . No . . . Absolutely nothing . . . You’ll stay there until I come for you? . . . Be sure to wait for me . . . Goodbye, darling. Goodbye.”
Dix didn’t pretend he hadn’t heard the call. Brub knew that every word was audible in a small apartment. Brub didn’t care; he’d left the door open. Dix asked, “Sylvia frightened’.’
“I am.” Brub said. He walked over and picked up his hat. “She’s not staying alone at night until we catch the murderer.”
“I don’t blame you,” Dix agreed. “Can’t I give you a quick one before you leave?”
“No. I’d better not.” He seemed reluctant to go, to face the blank wall again. There would be ants scurrying around the wall, with plaster casts and fingerprint powder and chemical test tubes, but it wouldn’t change the blankness of the wall.
“Come again. Brub.” Dix said it with true urgency. “Come any time. Anything I can do to help you out—”
“Thanks.” He put out his hand, clasped Dix’s. “Thanks. You’ve helped me over a rough spot, fellow. And I’m not kidding.”
In a Lonely Place Page 18