“I was ashamed all right. Not for myself. What could I do about it? There was no way I could stop her.”
“There was nothing to stop,” she said to me. “It was all a lot of gossip. Anne wouldn’t have anything to do with a married man.”
“That’s not the way I heard it,” the old man said.
“Hold your dirty tongue.” She turned on him like a hissing cat. “Anne is a good girl, in spite of everything that you could do. I know you tried to corrupt her—”
He took a step toward her, the back of his neck creased and reddening. “You hold your tongue, hear.”
An electric arc of hatred flared between them. He hunched his shoulders threateningly. Hilda raised one arm to defend her face, which was radiant with fear. She was holding a rectangle of shiny paper in her upflung hand.
Meyer snatched it from her. “Where did you get this?”
“It was stuck in your bureau mirror.”
“You stay out of my room.”
“With pleasure. It smells like a bear-cage.”
He shrugged her off and looked down at the snapshot, shielding it like a match-flame with his hands. I asked him to let me see it. He passed it to me unwillingly, handling it like money.
The girl in the snapshot was sitting against a white boulder on a sun-drenched beach, holding her legs as if she loved their shape. Her curly dark hair was windblown, and she was laughing. She bore some resemblance to her sister, though she was prettier. She bore no resemblance at all to the girl I had seen with Kerrigan.
“What color is her hair, Mrs. Church?”
“Brown, reddish brown, a little lighter than mine.”
“And how old is she?”
“Let me see. Anne’s seven years younger than I am. Twenty-five.”
“Is this a recent picture?”
“Fairly recent. Brandon took it last summer at Pismo Beach.” She looked at her father with cold curiosity. “I didn’t know you had a print of it.”
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know.”
“I wonder.”
Her ice-green eyes stared him down. He crossed the room to the desk in the corner and started to fill a pipe from a half-pound tin. Somewhere outside, a car engine purred.
Hilda lifted her head and went to the window. “That must be Brandon now.” Headlights slid along the street and vanished. “No, it wasn’t Brandon. Didn’t you say he was going to call for me?” she asked her father.
“If he could make it. He’s pretty busy tonight.”
“I think I’ll take a taxi. It’s getting late.”
“It’s a two-dollar fare,” he said dubiously. “I’d drive you myself, only I can’t leave the telephone. Why don’t you take the old Chevvy? I’m not using it.”
I said: “I’ll be glad to drop you off.”
“Oh no, you’re very kind, but I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could, Hilda. Mr. Archer don’t mind. He was just leaving anyway.”
She shrugged her shoulders helplessly. Meyer regarded me with satisfaction. At least he was getting something for his money.
“Good night, Father.”
“Good night, Hildie. Thanks for coming to see me.”
He stayed in his corner like a tired old bull in his querenzia.
CHAPTER 7: I backed out past the stalled, rusting cavalcade in the vacant lot and turned east toward the center of the city. Hilda let out a sigh that sounded as if she had been holding it in for some time.
“It’s really too bad. I come to visit him with the best intentions, but we always manage to quarrel. Tonight it was Anne. There always seems to be something.”
“He’s fairly difficult, isn’t he?”
“Yes, especially with us. Anne can’t get along with him at all. I don’t blame her, either. She has good reason—” She caught herself up short and changed the subject: “We live on the far side of town, Mr. Archer, in the foothills. I’m afraid it’s a long drive.”
“I don’t mind. I wanted to talk to you anyway, in private.”
“About my sister?”
“Yes. Has she gone away like this before, for a week at a time?”
“Once or twice she has. But not without telling me.”
“You two are pretty close, aren’t you?”
“We always have been. We’re not like some sisters I know, fighting all the time. Even if she is better-looking than I am—”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to be gallant. I know. Anne’s a beauty, and I’m not. But it never seemed to matter much. She’s so much younger, really, I never needed to compete with her. I was more like an aunt than a sister when she was growing up. Mother died when she was born, you see. She was my responsibility.”
“Was she hard to handle?”
“Of course not. Don’t listen to Father. He’s always been prejudiced, willing to believe anything against her. That stinking gossip he told you about Anne and Mr. Kerrigan— there’s nothing in it at all.”
“You’re sure?”
“Perfectly sure. I’d know if it was true. It isn’t true,” she said vehemently. “Anne worked for Mr. Kerrigan, and that’s all.”
I pulled up behind a line of cars that was waiting for the light to change at the main street intersection. Single men and couples, boys in threes and fours, roved on the lighted pavements, their faces bored and hungry for excitement. No unescorted women were to be seen.
“Keep going on this street,” she said. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
The light winked green, and we rolled forward across the pitted asphalt.
“Where does your sister live when she’s at home?”
“She has her own apartment, in Bougainvillea Court, number three. It’s not far from here, on Los Bagnos Street.”
“I may go over there later. I don’t suppose you have a key?”
“No, I don’t. Why do you want a key?”
“I’d like to have a look at her possessions. They might give some indication of where she’s gone, and why.”
“I see. No doubt the superintendent can let you in.”
“Do I have your permission?”
“Certainly.” She was silent for a while, as we passed through sparsely lighted streets toward the edge of the city. “Where do you think Anne has gone, Mr. Archer?”
“I was going to ask you. I have no idea, unless you’re mistaken about her and Kerrigan.”
“I couldn’t be mistaken,” she said bluntly. “Why keep harping on that?”
“When a woman disappears, you look for the men in her life. What about the men in her life?”
“Anne goes out with dozens of men. I don’t keep track of them.” Her voice was sharp, and I wondered if there was some jealousy after all.
“Could she have eloped with one of them?”
“I doubt it. Anne’s quite—distrustful of men. That’s natural enough, if you know Father. She’s a confirmed bachelor girl, and very independent.”
“Your father said she left home at fifteen. That means she’s been on her own for ten years or so.”
“Not exactly. She left him when she was fifteen, after—they had some trouble. Brand and I gave her a home until she finished high school. Then she found a job and went on her own. We tried to keep her with us, but she’s very independent-minded, as I said.”
“What kind of trouble did she have with your father? You said something about his corrupting her.”
“Did I? I didn’t mean to. He did a terrible thing to her. Don’t ask me what it was.” Emotion rose in her throat, thickening her voice and almost choking her, like blood from an internal hemorrhage. “Most of the men in this city are barbarians where women are concerned. It’s a wretched place for a girl to try and grow up. It’s like living among savages.”
“As bad as that?”
“Yes. As bad as that.” She cried out suddenly: “I hate this city. I know it’s a dreadful thing to say, but I sometimes wish the earthquake had wiped it out
entirely.”
“Because your sister had trouble with your father?”
“I’m not thinking of her,” she said, “or him.”
I glanced at her. She was sitting rigid in the seat, her eyes almost black in the white glimmer of her face. She roused herself and leaned to touch my arm:
“You turn off here to the left. I’m sorry. I’m afraid Father upset me more than I realized.”
The road spiraled off among low hills whose flanks were dotted with houses. It was a good residential suburb, where people turned their backs on small beginnings and looked to larger futures. Most of the houses were new, so new that they hadn’t been assimilated to the landscape, and very modern. They had flat jutting roofs, and walls of concrete and glass skeletonized by light.
I turned up a blacktop drive at her direction and stopped the car. The house was similar to the other houses, except that there were no lights behind the expansive windows. She sat motionless, looking out at the dark low building as if it was a dangerous maze that she had to find her way through.
“This is where you live?”
“Yes. This is where I live.” Her voice surrounded the words with tragic overtones. “I’m sorry. I keep saying that, don’t I? But I’m afraid to go in.”
“Afraid of what?”
“What are people afraid of? Death. Other people. The dark. I’m terrified of the dark. A doctor would call it nyctophobia, but knowing the name of it doesn’t seem to help.”
“I’ll go in with you if you like.”
“I would like. Very much.”
I gave her my arm as we mounted the flagstone path. She held it awkwardly, pulling away, as if it embarrassed her to lean on a man. But her hip and bosom bumped me in the doorway. She took my hands in both of hers and drew me into the dark hall.
“Don’t leave me now.”
“I have to.”
“Please don’t leave me alone. I’m terribly afraid. Feel my heartbeat.”
She pressed my hand to her side, so hard that my fingertips sank through the soft flesh and felt the rib cage, hammered from within by fear or something wilder. Her voice was a whisper close to my ear, so close I could feel her breath:
“You see? I am afraid. I’ve had to spend so many nights alone.”
I kissed her lightly and disengaged myself. “You could always turn on the light.”
I fumbled along the wall for the switch.
“No.” She pushed my arm down. “I don’t want you to see my face. I’m crying, and I’m not pretty.”
“You’re pretty enough for all practical purposes.”
“No. Anne is the pretty one.”
“I wouldn’t know about Anne. I’ve never met her. Good night, Mrs. Church.”
She answered after a pause: “Good night. I won’t say I’m sorry again, but I lost my head for a minute. Brandon has to work late so often. I’ll be all right when he comes home. Thank you for driving me.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“If you do see Anne, you’ll let me know right away?”
I promised her that I would, and drove back into the city.
CHAPTER 8: Bougainvillea Court was guarded by a pair of date palms which stood like unkempt sentries on either side of its entrance. When I left my car, a heavy-bodied rat crossed the sidewalk in front of me and scampered up one of the palm trunks. A pockmarked concrete cherub presided over a dry fountain in the center of the court. Each of the eight cottages surrounding it had a small front porch overgrown with purple-flowering bougainvillea. There were lights and music in most of them, but not in number three.
The door opened when I touched it. I switched on my pocket flashlight. The edge of the door was grooved and splintered around the lock. I stepped inside and closed it with my elbow. Six days missing, I thought, and sniffed instinctively for the smell of death. But all I could sense were the stale odors of life: old cigarette smoke, mixed drinks, heavy perfume, the musky indescribable odor of sex.
My light picked walls and furniture out of the darkness. There were brown Gauguin nudes on the walls and big-hatted Lautrec tarts in light wood frames; a false fireplace containing a cold gas heater, a small bookcase, spilling paperbacks, a bird’s-eye maple secretary, a rattan portable bar, and a sectional davenport covered in zebra stripes, which looked both new and expensive.
The secretary was hanging open, the bolt of its flimsy lock bent out of shape. Its drawers were stuffed with papers and envelopes. The topmost envelope was addressed to Miss Anne Meyer in a masculine hand. It was empty.
A curtained archway led through a short hall to the bedroom and bathroom. The bedroom was small and feminine. The vanity and the Hollywood bed had yellow organdie skirts that matched the curtains. The closet was full of clothes—sports clothes, business suits, a couple of evening dresses, lightly scented with sachet.
It was impossible to tell if anything was missing, but there were gaps in the shoe-stand. The bed was carelessly made, and there was a rumpled depression on one side where someone had sat. A white-gold wristwatch studded with small diamonds lay on the bedside table.
There was nothing under the bed; nothing of special interest in the chest of drawers, except to underwear fetishists. Anne Meyer had spend a lot of money on underwear.
I entered the bathroom, closed the Venetian blind over the little high window, and switched on the light. Nylons were strung on the towel racks over the tub. I opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. It contained the usual clutter of bottles and boxes. One cardboard box half full of blue-banded capsules was prescribed: “To be taken when needed for rest and sleep.”
Shutting the mirrored door, I saw my face through the tiny snowstorm of toothpaste specks on the glass. My face was pale, my eyes narrow and hard with curiosity. I thought of the palm rat running in his shadow on the sidewalk. He lived by his wits in darkness, gnawed human leavings, listened behind walls for the sounds of danger. I liked the palm rat better when I thought of him, and myself less.
Radio music from the next cottage came loud and insistent through the closed and blinded window. Baby, won’t you please come home? There was no toothbrush in the holder beside the sink. I went back to the vanity in the bedroom. Certain things were missing that probably should have been there: lipstick, powder, face cream, eyebrow pencil. But there were tweezers and a razor.
I returned to the front room and went through the drawers of the secretary. There was nothing personal left in them, though bills and business letters were undisturbed. A half-used checkbook showed a balance of over nineteen hundred dollars. The last stub recorded a payment of one hundred and forty-three dollars and thirty cents to Mademoiselle Finery, on October 7, eight days ago.
The pigeonholes were stuffed with receipted bills, most of them for clothes and furniture. Again nothing personal. I was ready to give up when I found a folded envelope jammed into the back of one of the pigeonholes. It had been postmarked in San Diego nearly a year before. It contained a letter written in indelible pencil on both sides of a sheet of cheap hotel stationery. The letter was signed “Tony.”
I shut myself into the lighted bathroom to read it:
Dear Anne:
Maybe you are supprized to hear from me. I am supprized myself. After what you said the last time I didn’t think I would want to see you again, let alone write a letter. But here I am stuck in Dago with nothing better to do this is a dreary berg since the War. I’m telling you. The ship I am supposed to meet got held up by a storm off of Baja Cal. It won’t dock until tomorrow at the earliest so here I am stuck in a room in Dago for the night. I can see you’re face right here in the room with me Anne. Why don’t you smile at me.
I guess you think I am mentally nuts but I haven’t even had a drink tonight or anything else. I was out walking before and there was plenty women I could of had. I had no interest. I had no interest in any other women since that time with you. I would marry you if you let me. I know I’m short on cash I can’t complete with certain parties in the boo
ze business but I am a loyal friend. Certain parties are the kind of fellow you should watch out for Anne. He is the kind of fellow you can’t trust I also heard he is going into the hole financeanly his wifes money won’t last.
I know you think I am a “Mexican” not good enough for you. It isn’t true Anne. My parents were pure Spanish blood no Mexican blood in my vains. I am just as good as you are and a whiter man than “him.” I would do anything for you Anne.
This is not a threat. I never did threaten you. You didn’t understand when I got mad it wasn’t jealousy like you said. I was sad and worried about you. I stood all night outside your place when “he” was there. I did that many times. I wanted to portect you. I did that many times. I never told you that secret did I. Don’t worry I won’t tell anybody else.
I love you Anne. When I turn out the light I see you in the dark shinning like a star.
Your loyal friend,
Tony
P.S.—Theres plenty women in this town like I said. If I have to stay here another night I don’t know what will happen. I guess it don’t matter to you one way or the other Anne. T.A.
I read the letter twice, straining my eyes on its small illiterate scrawl. It was like looking through a dead man’s eyes, deciphering the smudged records of his memory.
When I opened the bathroom door, there had been a change in the cottage. A subtler sense than hearing felt something in the living-room, a breathing bulk solider than the darkness. I was vulnerable with the light at my back. The little hall and the doorless arch were like a shooting-gallery, with me the fixed target at the end of it.
I switched off the light and moved sideways toward the bedroom door, feeling for the doorframe with one spread hand. My other hand held the flash, ready to use as a light or as a club. I heard the rustling of the curtain in the arch six feet from me. Then the ceiling light in the hall went on with a click.
A gun was thrust past the gathered curtain at the side of the arch. It was a .45, but it was small in the hand that was holding it.
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