The Expendable Man

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “I sent him to the barber shop to get prettied up for the wedding tomorrow.” She gave him a wicked smile. “And to keep him from underfoot while I did my baking. I’m making the wedding cake, did you know that? Clytie didn’t want a boughten cake, she wanted old Gram to make it.”

  “Clytie’s a smart kid,” he said. “Come on, Mother. Let’s get with it.”

  They left the cool house for the blaze of the street. As they went down the steps, automatically he scanned the neighborhood. There was no one of the size and shape of Iris in sight. He helped his mother into the car and took the wheel. “Where first?”

  “The florist’s. To order the corsages for tonight.” She gave him directions. She couldn’t have been more casual when she asked, “How did you like Ellen?”

  “So-so.”

  “Hugh!”

  Her outraged exclamation made him shout with laughter, the first decent laughter he’d had since yesterday afternoon. “You’re too transparent, Mother. She’s gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous, as you darn well know.”

  “She’s been dying to meet you.”

  “Sure. And now her dreams are shattered.”

  “They are not. She likes you.”

  “Me and the Air Force.”

  She didn’t have an opportunity for rebuttal. They were at the florist’s. He let her out and found a place to park further up the block. Ellen Hamilton didn’t have to come to Arizona man-hunting. She would have the pick of the lot in Washington and Philadelphia and New York. His family was good, but it wasn’t one of the old eastern families whose status went back to Revolutionary days. Except for his grandmother and one branch of the Densmores, none of the lines was more than three generations out of the South. No, he wasn’t going to start dreaming any dreams of Ellen. He’d settle for one of Celeste’s sorority sisters. By the time he could afford to marry, it would more likely be one of Allegra’s.

  His mother returned. “Now the stationer’s. With John’s grandparents coming, we need more place cards for tonight. I hope I can find the same pattern.” She touched her temples with her handkerchief. “When I’m in Phoenix, I wish we had air conditioning in the car like the Phoenicians.”

  “John seems a good guy.”

  “He is. A real darling. Clytie’s a lucky girl.”

  “What about his luck?”

  His mother pretended to sigh. “You’re always too quick for me, Hugh. But you might start doing a little shopping around yourself. When your niece gets married, it’s high time you started to settle down.”

  “Don’t you think I should wait until I’m earning a living?”

  “Hugh, you know your father and I—”

  “Okay, okay, lady.” He touched her hand. “But you know how I feel about leaning. I’ve done enough of that. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you back in rubies some day.” The words brought again the uneasiness of what Iris might be saying right now.

  “We know you will. But you needn’t. Right here, Hugh.”

  They were in the heart of downtown Phoenix, with no possible place to park. He said, “I’ll drive around the block.”

  “It won’t take me long. If they still have the pattern.”

  He circled several blocks, hoping there would be an opportunity to stop near one of the large newsstands, but there were no spaces anywhere. His mother was waiting on the walk when he returned.

  It was the same in the half dozen or so stops. If he could park, there was no newsstand. If he couldn’t, the racks were so near yet so far. After a time, he stopped bothering about it. He could buy the paper when he returned to the motel.

  At noon his mother said, “I’ll have to let the other things go for now if I’m to make the luncheon. Maybe I can get them later this afternoon, I don’t have to attend the rehearsal. Do you want to drive me back to Stacy’s or shall I drop you?”

  “I’m your chauffeur. I shall even wait for you and deliver you to the luncheon party.” And with luck, Ellen as well.

  “I hate to take your time.”

  “It’s your car and I haven’t a blessed thing to do. As a matter of fact, it’s fun—like old times.”

  “You’re a charmer, Hugh. Now give me a cigarette and turn right at the next corner.”

  Stacy and Edward had built in the new section south of town. It was a neighborhood of attractive homes, some large, some not so large, comparable to any city’s good suburban development. It took about twenty minutes from town to Stacy’s door.

  “You’re going to have to hump it to make a one-o’clock luncheon, Mother. Where’s the event taking place?” He matched her stride up the flagstone walk.

  “All the way back to town. The Adams, private dining room. Stacy and the girls have probably gone on. You make yourself comfortable while I rush.”

  The girls had gone, worse luck. But the Phoenix paper was on the table. And the air of the house was revivifying. He leafed rapidly but thoroughly. There was nothing in the news about Iris. His mother had returned by the time he started to read the front page.

  There was never a parking place near the Adams Hotel. He doubled to let her out near the entrance. “I’ll be back for you at three and we’ll finish off your errands fast. If you don’t get some rest before tonight, you’ll be on sedatives.”

  He drove away. He turned on the radio now. He hadn’t earlier, preferring conversation with his mother. Since being in residence at the hospital, he hadn’t had much time for visiting with her. There was no news coming from any station, nothing but music, not the kind of music he wanted to hear. He turned it off again. He didn’t want to go back to the motel but he did want the Los Angeles newspaper. If he were in Los Angeles, there’d be a drugstore on every second corner where he could stop for it and a cold Coke. This was Phoenix. He passed only one drugstore on his drive to The Palms and it didn’t look promising.

  It was ridiculous to be chary of returning to his comfortable quarters. Iris wouldn’t come again. She’d be afraid to. She’d known all right, by his voice and his face, that he meant what he said when he warned her last night. With no more debate, he turned in at the motel, circled to his unit and parked. He walked through the grounds to the lobby. Today’s Times was on the newsstand. He bought it and the Phoenix paper, then went his room. The maid had already made it up. He turned the air conditioner to a higher notch, pulled aside the draperies and opened the lanai doors for the view across the green. The swimming pool was decked with sun-tanned lovelies, lobster-red hopefuls, and grub-white newcomers.

  He covered both papers with the same thoroughness he had yesterday’s and found nothing. Iris had perhaps had a rare moment of truth when she said her mother was gone and her father didn’t care what she did. He presumed there could be such parents; he just hadn’t ever happened to know any.

  He put away the papers. He’d severed his connection with Iris; he didn’t have to dwell on it any longer. But he couldn’t help wondering what had happened after she’d left last night. The man who’d got her in this trouble would have had to come up with other plans. More likely than not, he’d put her on a bus and shipped her back to Indio. With whatever lies he could invent to fool an expert and make her willing to go. The promise of money. Of sending for her later. If he had a wife and two children, he couldn’t have scuttled around trying to find an abortionist for her. Phoenix wasn’t a large enough city for a man to be anonymous; he’d hardly risk word of such a search getting back to his wife.

  Hugh wished he could have helped her last night. Not in the way which had occurred to her in her desperation, but helped her to get in touch with someone or some organization who would protect her. He had not dared take the risk. In his home town, yes, but not a stranger in a strange city.

  At three he was again at the downtown hotel, hopeful for a glimpse of Ellen. She might have been one of the girls just driving off in John’s car. His mother came out alone.

  “It was a beautiful affair, I wish you could have seen the table, Hugh. Now if we can tick off these errands�
��”

  It took close to another hour. In heat that was pushing the hundred mark. It was four o’clock when he returned her to Stacy’s. “As your doctor I insist you lie down for an hour before you start any more activity. Say you will.”

  “I’ll try.” She didn’t ask him to come in. “Dinner’s at eight. Dad and I are picking up the folks tonight. You’re escorting Ellen, did I tell you?” She didn’t allow him to answer. She went on up the walk.

  As he drove away, again he tried the radio, hoping for a news broadcast. Again it was the wrong hour; the same wailing music seemed to be coming over every station. He left it on, turning it down to a subdued murmur, just in case the news cut in.

  There was no reason to go back to the lonely motel, to the vulnerable motel. He might as well drop by the grandparents’. Perhaps he could have a preview of the cake. He failed on that; no one, not even Hughie, was to view it until the wedding reception. But he spent a pleasant interlude with the elder Bents, not half as hoity-toity as Gram herself, and John’s young mother, who was cooling herself with iced lemonade and his grandmother’s palm-leaf fan. Dad and John’s father were on the golf course; the heat couldn’t deter avid golfers. While Hugh was there, John and his brother Paul, a younger but more serious edition, came in. They’d been swimming at the pool of one of Stacy’s neighbors.

  “Why didn’t someone tell me about that?” Hugh moaned, covering the spurt of anger against Iris which erupted in him. If she hadn’t intruded, he’d be having the carefree holiday he’d counted on, not contemplating dark corners of his soul. In his anger, he lost his fear of her. He rose to leave; it was past five. “Have to give myself plenty of time to dude up for the glamour girl.”

  Without prompting, Paul asked, “Ellen?”

  “The line forms on the right,” John announced.

  “Do you know how many bids for the prom she had the year John graduated?” Paul queried. “Ten! Ten, no kidding.”

  “Who was the lucky man?”

  “I was, who else?” John said. “But then I met Clytie and the other nine had a chance.”

  His mother said reprovingly, “Ellen’s a lovely girl, John. Don’t give Hugh the wrong impression of her.”

  “He’s just showing off, Mum,” his brother said. “His last blithe bachelor brag. Good luck, Hugh.”

  “I’ll need it with John’s winged cronies hovering. Later.”

  He didn’t turn up the power on the radio when he drove away, he didn’t think of it. He was almost to The Palms when the murmur came through to him: “. . . girl . . . this morning has not yet been identified . . .” That much, and the announcer launched into a coffee ad.

  Hugh drove past the motel, on up Van Buren, flipping the stations but finding no other news. There was a cluster of shops near 36th Street; he remembered a combination variety and drugstore which carried the newspapers. He made a left turn across the road and into the sandy lot. The papers were stacked just inside the door. The black headline thundered at him: GIRL’S BODY FOUND IN CANAL.

  The masthead was of the Phoenix afternoon paper. None of the others seemed to have the news. Somehow he managed to fumble a dime from his pocket and carry it to the woman at the cash register in the rear of the store. Somehow he managed to fold the paper under his arm and walk out of the place steadily, unhurried, untouched. Even before reading, he was certain the girl was Iris.

  He didn’t dare remain here. It was too public a place, he would attract attention. He drove further out on Van Buren toward Tempe, and turned off at a side street, deserted as a country lane. There he stopped the car and fearfully unfolded the paper. The fact that she was unidentified didn’t mean that there might not be some mention of her appearance at The Palms, or of her arrival at the bus station in a white Cadillac with California plates. There was always the innocent bystander who noticed.

  She was Iris. Wearing the same green slacks, the same soiled shirt, the same socks and sandals, even the gaudy scarf floating from her hair. There was no mention of the handbag or the traveling case. There was no mention of the high school jacket. The Zanjaros, who patrolled the canal, had discovered the body this morning, floating in the waters on Indian School Road in Scottsdale. The girl was believed to be about fifteen years old. An autopsy would be performed to determine the cause of death. Anyone knowing her identity was asked to come forward.

  That was all.

  It wasn’t suicide. She was too resourceful to commit suicide. Hugh knew the cause of her death. That would be the next story. An illegal operation. A dirty, bungled operation. A murder. A murder committed by two unknowns, the man who had first betrayed her and then taken her to the abattoir, and the man or woman who’d killed her and her unborn child.

  Hugh could come forward and identify her. But he dared not. Because he was a doctor, because he had brought her to Phoenix, and because he was so certain that death was the result of abortion, he could not risk telling the police he knew her. They would have to find out some other way. He could only hope they would also find out quickly why she was here and who her boy friend was. If they didn’t and if the “kids” in Blythe and in Indio talked, Hugh would become the suspect. And, bitterly, he knew his truth would not be believed.

  For long moments he sat there on the road, trying to arrange his thoughts. He couldn’t leave town, not without telling the family why, not without spoiling Clytie’s wedding. The wedding wasn’t important only to Clytie, it encompassed the entire family, four generations of family.

  Anyway, to flee in panic was not the answer. It was construed always as the act of a man bloodied with guilt, although in fact the innocent man involved beyond his depth might have more reason to run. Was there any possibility she had been seen at his door last night? He couldn’t recall any cars driving up while he talked with her, nor had anyone in that period gone in or out of any of the units in his wing. No one could have been looking out of windows at her, the only windows at the rear were in the bathrooms and were of frosted glass. But he couldn’t know how many persons might have seen her cross to his door. Nor could he know whether even now the Blythe inspectors might be hearing the story over the radio, and informing Phoenix of Hugh’s license number and their version of yesterday morning’s incident. He couldn’t deny giving her a ride. Her fingerprints were all over the car.

  If only there were someone he could tell his story to, someone who could advise him. There was no one, not here in Phoenix. At Med Center, yes; there were half a dozen colleagues. And there was the Dean, in whom he would have no hesitancy in confiding. But here, no one. Not his father or mother; he would not put this burden on them. At one time his grandfather would have been the perfect one, but he was too old to bear it now. His grandmother was too emotional and she was too old. Not his sister or her husband, not until after the wedding. After the wedding, if there were need, Edward would be the one. He was a respected doctor in town. Enough so to engender respect for his young brother-in-law? Hugh could hope. Perhaps enough so that Hugh’s story would be understood and its truth accepted.

  Nothing must happen until after the wedding. He would accept whatever ordeal there might be if only nothing were permitted to destroy the pride of the family, gathered together for this joyful moment of its continuance.

  The sun was lowering in the sky. He looked at his watch. Six-thirty already, and he started the car. He turned up the radio; there was news coming in. He drove slowly, listening.

  There was no new material. Results of the autopsy were not mentioned. Again there was a plea for identification of the girl. He had that much reprieve. His link with her had not been discovered. But fear leaped again. Undiscovered, or suppressed by the police for their own purposes? The police did not give out all their information to the press.

  He had to return to the motel; he could postpone it no longer. As it was, he’d be late arriving for his first date with Ellen. He did not know how he could endure the long evening ahead. If only the bridal dinner were being held any place but in Th
e Palms, somewhere private which the police could not know about. If only the police would not arrive until after the last toast had been lifted. If only they would not learn of him until after the benediction tomorrow. If only . . . If only he had never stopped to pick up Iris Croom.

  No one was waiting for him at the motel. No one stopped him at the door of his unit; he inserted his key and entered, locking the door behind him. For several seconds he stood there waiting, but no sharp knock sounded. And then he slapped some sense into his head. He was acting like an ass, acting as if he had some guilt in Iris’ death. He stripped, started the shower. He had to snap out of it, not become the specter at the wedding feast.

  He felt better after showering. He shaved and dressed, for Ellen Hamilton he didn’t mind shaving twice in a day. It was seven-thirty when he surveyed himself in the mirror. He didn’t look like a man wanted by the police.

  What if the police did come to him? His story was straight and true, why should he think it wouldn’t come across that way? He transferred wallet and keys, cigarettes and lighter to his pockets, remembered to fold a clean linen handkerchief for his white dinner jacket. He was ready to take off for Stacy’s. But just before he opened the door he stopped and bent his head. He prayed silently, prayed as he often had when he was a little boy. Please, God, don’t let anything bad happen to me.

  No one approached him as he got in his car. No one stopped him from driving out of the grounds. His tension diminished and he drove with easy speed to his sister’s home. There was no new radio news.

  The afternoon heat had softened into balmy evening. The house was lively with light and the sounds of young laughter. He loped up to the door and walked in without knocking. Dr. Edward was adjusting Hale’s tie. The youngest cousin was fifteen, this was his first dinner jacket. Ned Jr. at eighteen was an old hand.

  Ned asked, “Shall I tell Ellen you’re here? She’s not half ready.”