“I’m not taking anybody’s word.”
“Then why do you let Crawford go?”
“He’s not going anywhere … alone. I’m sort of anxious to find the Bowers boy, too.”
“And you think Monty’ll take you to him?”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re thinking I’ll lead you to Jeff?”
“I think it would be the best thing for you to do, if you don’t want trouble yourself.”
“You can go to hell,” said Keeley, hardly opening his lips to form the words. “Your kind of trouble doesn’t bother me. You’re minor league trouble, Captain. I don’t know where Jeff is. And if I do find out, you’ll never get it out of me.”
“We’ll find him, all right. He’ll never get out of Washington.”
Keeley knew it was true. From that moment on, a soldier’s uniform would be suspect. True, there were thousands of soldiers in D.C., but there weren’t many places they could go. They congregated like ants, and there weren’t too many anthills to probe.
“Come now, Sergeant,” urged Finlay, “don’t you think Mitchell did it?”
“No!”
“He’d be better off in our hands, you know.”
“Why? What makes your hands so tender?”
“First of all, he’ll get much better treatment if he gives himself up. If the police have to hunt around for him—and they will—they might become impatient when they do find him. The M.P.’s will also be searching for him. And you know your M.P.’s. But there might be somebody else looking for him, too.”
“Somebody else?” Keeley felt an icicle play the scales on his spine.
“Uh-huh,” said Finlay sweetly. “It looks like he did it. But if he didn’t, then whoever did kill Edwards … will be hoping to do the same to Mitchell.”
CHAPTER XVI
Jeff was waking up by degrees. He lay there trying to go back to sleep, but even before he opened his eyes, he was awake. It was a sound that had seeped past his unconsciousness, the sound of a whining voice. The voice was that of a male vocalist moaning about “a letter from home, dear.…” The voice was accompanied by a weeping violin and the wheezing belch of an accordion. The music was coming from across the narrow courtyard where a phonograph was playing. Jeff lay there and listened to the voice. Then somebody lifted the needle and the voice stopped. He turned over on his back. Then he turned onto his left side, away from the window. Finally he opened his eyes. A huge glittering eye was almost in his face. He recoiled sharply. The eye remained fixed. Then he saw it was the face of an alarm clock whose numerals had been painted in phosphorus. It was one-thirty.
Jeff sat up in bed.
What the hell, he thought. What is this? Not the barracks. I’m home. Is it possible I’m home?
He leaped out of bed.
Was it possible everything was a dream?
He started for the wall where the switch should be. His outstretched hands came into contact with an open closet, and he stumbled into hanging coats and dresses. He fell. His hands felt the material of the clothes.
Women’s clothes. Mary’s! But this isn’t our house. Where the hell are we? We’re on our way up to San Francisco. This is a Hotel. No. That can’t be. That was a long time ago. Two years.
He got up and groped his way back to the bed. Walking toward the window it was easier to see. A little light from across the courtyard spilled into the room and threw objects into relief. He could see the bed. It was a large double bed. Over a chair were his trousers and shirt. He roamed through the pockets.
Got a match here someplace. Oh-h-h, my head. Mustn’t walk on my heels like that. Hurts in the head when I walk on the heels.
It sang a little tune in his mind. “Hurts in the head when I walk on the heels.”
He found a book of matches and struck one with fumbling fingers. The first match went out quickly and he saw nothing. He struck another and noticed a lamp at the head of the bed. He shook out the flame and reached for the lamp. His fingers found the switch and he turned it. A rose-colored glow came from a small bulb. It passed through a cheap, waxed, flower-designed shade and threw its feeble light into the room.
It was a fairly large room. A woman’s room, he thought. It had the usual trappings of a cheaply furnished apartment. Dresser, straight-backed chairs, glaring fish-eyed wallpaper, two closets, and a door leading, no doubt, to a bathroom. Another door led someplace else. Probably the living room, he thought. But whose room was it? Who lived here? And how did he get here? He scratched his memory without result. Then he saw he was in his skivvies. But he had on his shoes, and one of them was unlaced. He sat down and moaned because he had sat down too hard and his head throbbed. He laced the shoe slowly and tried to remember what had happened before he went to sleep. He failed. Then he drew on his trousers. He followed habit and thrust his hands into his pocket. He came into contact with money. He counted the bills. Seven dollars. He had had twelve earlier.
Funny, I remember that. Had twelve bucks. Five missing. Now if I could only remember what I did with that fiver. Wonder where I got the drinks? Must’ve had a lot. Somebody paid for it. Maybe that’s where the fiver went.
He walked gingerly to the bathroom and felt around for the switch, found it, and snapped it. The glare of the porcelain blinded him. With half-closed eyes he went to the sink and turned on the water. He bathed his face and the back of his neck. He let the water run over his wrists. It cooled him. Then he looked into the mirror. He needed a shave. He rubbed his hand over his beard. Yes. He needed a shave. Instinctively he opened the mirror door to the cabinet, looking for his shaving stuff.
He gaped at the inside of the cabinet. Hand lotion, face powder, eyebrow pencil, and eyelash brush. Mascara. Tooth powder. A safety razor, but not his. Blades, but not his brand. A bottle of some antiseptic solution. He closed the cabinet door. He looked around the bathroom. Towel on the wall and another behind the door. Bathtub used also for shower, with a sleazy shower curtain, torn in two places. Two rings missing on top. A douche bag hanging from the shower curtain rod.
Jeff went out of the bathroom and started for the other room beyond the bedroom. That turned out to be the living room and kitchenette. Cheap furniture and a mantelpiece without a fireplace. He reached into his pocket and brought forth a piece of paper on which was written an address. There was also a key. He tried the key in the front door of the apartment. It opened the lock. He went back into the bedroom, got his shirt, wandered back into the living room, and started to put it on. Then he saw a picture that stood on the mantelpiece. He went over and looked at it. A young girl. About eleven. Maybe fifteen. He didn’t recognize her. She was holding a struggling puppy in her arms. He shook his head. He looked around the room.
Must be something around here to show who lives here, he mused. Piece of paper. Letter. Something. Maybe a bill.
He found nothing. He opened a window and heard street noises.
I’ll get dressed and go out. Got to find out where I am. What the hell am I doing here at one-thirty in the morning? Doing where? Where am I? Somebody ought to know. Ought to be a telephone in a place like this.
But there was no telephone. He was about to go back into the bedroom when someone knocked on the door. Jeff started toward the door and stopped. The knocking came again.
What if I’m not supposed to be here? Maybe I broke in or something. Maybe.…
Another knock. This time uncertain, as though whoever it was had decided no one was in.
He snatched open the door.
A man stood there. A young man. No, he decided, it was a man about thirty-five. Maybe forty. It was hard to tell. The man was looking at him. There was something familiar about the man. He could see the man was wondering what he was doing there. Jeff stepped aside as an invitation for the man to enter. He came in. He took off his felt hat. It was a battered hat. Many rains had made the color in the band run and had stained the hat. The man came halfway into the living room and looked around at Jeff. Jeff closed t
he door. The man went into the bedroom and looked around. Then into the bathroom. Then he came back. Jeff was still standing there.
“Not here yet?” asked the man.
“Who?”
The man looked at him. Then he sat down and fished out a wrinkled pack of cigarettes, took one and lit it.
“How long you been waiting?” asked the man.
“I don’t know,” said Jeff.
The man looked at Jeff and his face twitched near the mouth.
“Look, mister,” said Jeff, “you belong here?”
No answer. Just a twitch of the face. Uncomical. Short. Nervous.
“I just woke up,” Jeff tried to explain. “I looked around and I don’t know where I am. Don’t know whose place this is. Don’t know how I got here. Sounds funny but … well … you see.…” His voice trailed off as he realized how impossible it was to explain. He stopped and returned the man’s stare. “I know it’s a woman’s apartment because I just looked in the closet and.…” Again his voice faded away. Suppose this man was something to the woman who owned the apartment? Suppose it was her husband? Her father? “Look,” said Jeff. “I got a key.” He brought it out of his pocket. “And an address. See?” He held out the key to the man. The man took it and put it in his pocket but he didn’t take the paper.
“Where’d you meet her?” asked the man.
“Who?” said Jeff anxiously. “Where’d I meet who? What’s her name?”
“Don’t give me any of that stuff,” the man said. “You met her at Bell’s.”
Bell’s! That name meant something. Now where did I hear that name? Bell’s! Mama Bell’s. Sure. A whorehouse! Sure. Ginny.
“Ginny,” he burst out.
The man’s face twitched.
“Is this her apartment?” Jeff asked. Yes. Sure it is. She gave me the key and the address. “Who’re you?” he asked the man. The man didn’t answer. Jeff turned on more lights and looked at the man. He seemed smaller then and even less impressive than at first. He was older, too. Yellowish face. But nice. Nice nose, too.
“I thought I’d find her here,” said the man at last. “When did she say she would be here?”
Jeff recalled and said: “Four or five, I think.”
“I’m waiting,” said the man belligerently.
“Sure,” said Jeff. “Why not?” He went into the bedroom, found his shirt and necktie, and put them on. When he came back into the living room, the man had started a pot of coffee on the small stove.
“Coffee?” asked the man.
“Yes,” said Jeff. “Sure. Thanks.” He sat down and watched the man go to the small cupboard and bring forth two cups and saucers. Apparently he knew his way around. Been here before.
Nothing else was said for some time. The phonograph was going again across the court. Then the man poured the coffee and they sat there drinking it. Then the man lit another cigarette and his face twitched again.
“I’m her husband,” said the man. “Ginny’s my wife.”
“Oh,” said Jeff.
Wonder what he’s thinking? Knows for sure what I’m doing here. Knows where I met her. What kind of husband is he? Some fine husband. Maybe he isn’t her husband? Maybe he’s just saying that. How’d he ever marry her anyway? How’d she ever marry him?
“I was a soldier,” said the man.
“Yes?”
“A year ago. Maybe a little longer. Got surveyed out. Over thirty-eight.”
“I see.”
“You’re wondering about the setup, aren’t you?”
“Well … yes. I am.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell you. Want to know anything, ask her.”
Jeff said nothing. A few other things were unfolding for him. He remembered now where he had left his furlough bag and what had happened. And he remembered, too, that he had to telephone Keeley.
“She was a whore when I married her.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” said the man without bitterness. “I didn’t know it at first. But I knew it before we got married.”
“I see.”
“That’s one of the reasons I enlisted. Thought I’d get rid of her that way. But it was worse without her. Then I couldn’t wait to get out. Then I got out and came back. She didn’t want me. Funny, eh? I wasn’t good enough. But I still love her. She’s wonderful and I love her.”
“And you don’t care about … about?…”
“Sure I care. I look at you and say you just had her. But I don’t mind too much. Just so’s I can be near her.”
“I see.”
The man was silent. Then his face twitched. “You know what I just told you? It’s a lie. All lies. I’m not her husband.”
“Oh?”
“I met her same as you did. At Bell’s.”
“I see.”
“She gave me the key and address same as she did you. Then she told me not to come here any more. But I love her and wanna marry her. She won’t have me.”
“I see.”
“No. That’s a lie, too. Did you believe it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it was a lie, I don’t love her and I don’t wanna. marry her. I’m her pimp. I just came up to get money. Got any money on you?”
“No.”
“That Bell gets all her money.” The man sat there with creased brow. “Hey, you think I could be a soldier?” he asked Jeff.
“Why not,” said Jeff.
“Because I don’t wanna be,” said the man. “I’m too old. You believe that? If you do you’re crazy. I’m yella. Afraid to fight.” He glanced at Jeff to see if he believed it. “You don’t believe it?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Well, it’s not true. I just don’t see any sense to it. What good’s a pimp? What would I fight for? A better world for pimps? That’s a lie, too. I’m no pimp. I wish I could get in the Army. Know what? There’s too much excitement everywhere and I can’t get into it. Don’t know why. Just can’t. Restless, but don’t wanna do anything. Ah well. Go ahead and wait for her. I’m gonna take a nap.”
He got up and went into the bedroom.
Jeff sat quietly for a moment, his head whirling. Then he rose and left the apartment.
He decided the first thing to do would be to go to Edwards’ place and get his bag. He would need it. Had to shave. Then he would phone Keeley. He passed a jewelry shop and saw that it was two o’clock. There were fewer autos on the street and more drunks. The bars would be closed down at that hour. A man would have to have his own supply of whisky.
At the corner a fifty-year-old newsboy was yelling something about a murder. Jeff paid no attention. A few soldiers stopped and gathered around the aged news hawk. They discussed the murder. They bought one paper among them. The coffee had revived his appetite. He saw a neon sign ahead. It turned out to be a cafeteria. Jeff entered. The place was crowded. People were standing up waiting for stools: the girls with their young-old faces, the service men with that anxious look about them. There were four more hours until daylight. Those were the tough hours. In the morning there would be places to go, things to see, hotel lobbies in which to sit, museums that would be open. But the next four hours. They were the difficult ones.
Jeff didn’t wait for a stool in the cafeteria. He left and wandered down the street. Two blocks farther on he found a hamburger joint. It had a white tower and it looked clean. The counterman was small and neat. He was efficient. He handled all the trade quickly and didn’t make mistakes on orders. An officer was buying a hamburger which he later took out to a girl sitting in a car. Two sailors sat and drank coffee and didn’t say anything. They read and reread the menu on the wall, which was set up in white letters on a blackboard. After he sat down, Jeff noticed that Max Brock was at the other end of the counter. Max was staring at him.
“Western sandwich and coffee,” Jeff told the counterman. “Make the coffee black.”
Max got up and came down to sit beside Jeff. Max had a Sunday paper under h
is arm.
“Hello, Max,” said Jeff. “Seen Keeley?”
“Yeah,” said Max. “Have you?”
“No. Not yet. He at the Stewart?”
“Yeah.” Max watched Jeff closely.
“What do you know?” Jeff asked.
“Keeley’s been looking all over D.C. for you,” said Max.
The counterman put the coffee down before Jeff. He slid a spoon over beside the cup. Jeff drank the black coffee without sugar. The counterman went back to the stove and turned over the western. The sailors got up and paid their check. Then they left. They still had not said anything.
“What does he want?” asked Jeff.
“You,” said Max. “He wants you. You’re crazy to walk around like this.”
“Oh, I got a place to stay,” said Jeff. “Beautiful girl, too.”
“A place to stay?”
“Yes. Wonderful apartment. Right near here.”
Max decided that the murder incident had been straightened out. “Then everything’s okay?” he said with relief.
“Fine, fine,” said Jeff. “There’s a kind of crazy guy up there now. But … say, listen … you want to hear a really crazy story? I never heard of anything like this. You ever heard of a place called Mama Bell’s?”
“No.” A peculiar fear seized Max which told him Jeff was unaware he was wanted for the murder. “Listen, Jeff … uh … where you been tonight?”
“That’s what I was going to tell you. This Mama Bell’s, it’s a kind of whorehouse and.…”
The counterman brought the western sandwich and set it down. Then he went back to the other end of the counter and sliced potatoes.
“… And I met a girl there who gave me a key to her apartment.”
“Do you know a man called Edwards?” Max asked.
“Edwards? Yes. Sure. I was with him this afternoon. Hell of a swell guy. Kind of queer, but he.…” Jeff paused and lowered the sandwich to the plate. “Why?”
Max opened his paper and folded back the comic section. The front page stared up at Jeff, a three-column headline screaming:
PROMINENT DECORATOR FOUND MURDERED IN SORDID SEX ORGY
The Brick Foxhole Page 19