The Expendable Man

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “I’m glad of that.” Hugh sank into a cushioned chair. “I thought I’d be late.”

  His father emerged from the kitchen with a tray of martinis. “One round only. We don’t want any accidents.”

  “One for me?” Hale quipped.

  “When you’re twenty-one,” Edward said. He gave Hale a push. “Don’t touch that tie again.”

  “But I get champagne at dinner, don’t I? You have to let me have champagne,” Hale insisted.

  The argument must have been going for weeks. Hugh remembered himself at that age, someone’s wedding. It couldn’t have been Stacy’s, he was ringbearer at that one in a velvet suit. It must have been Uncle Wood’s, he married late.

  “One glass, Edward,” he put in his oar.

  “One glass then. And sip it.”

  Hale winked at Hugh. Handsome and perfumed in her gray lace, Hugh’s mother came from the bedroom corridor. Stacy followed, slim as a girl in her gold chiffon. And as nervous as if it were her own wedding, not that of her grown-up little girl. “We’d better get on our way. There are always last-minute things to do even with caterers.”

  “Just wait until I call Exchange, let them know where they can reach me.” Edward finished his cocktail.

  “Oh, Edward,” she groaned. “Not at your daughter’s bridal dinner.”

  He spoke as he dialed. “I’m a little worried about that hospital case. Besides, I have two little mothers waiting, none too patiently, for labor to commence. After nine months with me I don’t think they’d settle for a substitute.” He spoke briefly into the phone, then cradled it. “Just keep all of your fingers crossed that those babies don’t decide to come out at four tomorrow afternoon.”

  The girls were approaching, the flutter of their voices preceding them. Hugh was surprised at himself; he awaited with the nervous excitement a boy was supposed to have only on his first date. Clytie came first, Celeste followed. Ellen was the last of the three, and Hugh’s breath caught. With three sisters, he was usually up on female styles, but the honey-colored sheath which she wore, of some dull clinging material the exact color of her flesh, left him floundering. It could only be a French original, something the girls were always swooning over in the pages of Vogue, something you didn’t find in L.A., only in Paris. Instead of the inevitable mink stole, Ellen carried a matching scarf, fully twelve feet long, lined in lynx. She told him it was lynx when he asked.

  He helped her into the car and took the wheel. But he couldn’t find words to entertain her. Once in the car his anxiety recurred. He’d been without news for too long. He wanted to turn up the muted radio but he was afraid of what might have developed in the past hour.

  His anxiety heightened as he reached The Palms and turned into the driveway. The private dining room was on the side of the quadrangle furthest from his room. He didn’t think the police would be waiting here, and they weren’t. But he wondered how long it would take them to trace him to the dinner party. Particularly with the Cadillac parked outside the building.

  He helped Ellen from the car. “You’re very quiet tonight,” she said.

  Only then did he realize how withdrawn he’d been during the entire drive. He smiled and quoted lightly, “Problems. Always problems.”

  “Have I caused them?”

  He touched her elbow. “You know, it must be awfully nice never to have to worry about that.”

  Her eyes slanted at him. “You don’t know me very well.”

  “I don’t know you at all.” Her arm was satin, her perfume violets in cool rain. Cars were arriving in tiers. He saw no strangers among the wedding guests.

  “Are you looking for someone?” Ellen questioned.

  He didn’t know he’d been that obvious. He must stop dwelling on it. There was no reason to think that the police would be searching for him tonight. Iris hadn’t been identified. The last he’d heard she hadn’t been identified. Until she was, it was a local story. Nothing to be reported in Blythe or Indio.

  He smiled down at Ellen. “The Air Force,” he told her. “I’m ready to take them all on tonight.”

  He doubted that she believed him, but she smiled in return. And they entered the safety of the private dining room. It was filled with guests and music and lifted voices. The long table was festooned with sweet white flowers. Spire white candles pointed their pale flames. Clusters of white camellias were at each setting. All of this for Clytie, secure, happy Clytie. And in a cold and dark place, a girl who’d never had anything lay unwanted, unknown; lay dead.

  Hugh found their chairs and seated Ellen. “If I ever have a daughter I’ll insist that she elope.”

  “My sister did. Mother was distraught but I must say Father bore up well.”

  Hugh didn’t sit down until he heard Ellen’s disturbed inflection.

  “Are you sure you aren’t expecting someone? You keep watching the door.”

  He laughed then and dropped into the chair beside her.

  “I could disappear, you know,” she said. “The Air Force is most accommodating.”

  He closed his fingers over her wrist. “Disappear with them at your own risk. I warned you what would happen if they moved in tonight.” He could feel the throb of her pulse. “I didn’t realize I was watching the door.” He must guard himself. “It must be force of habit, expecting someone to rush in with ‘Emergency, Dr. Densmore!’ ”

  “It isn’t a she?”

  He made it definite. “It is not.” Not a ghost.

  She was laughing. “Or too many shes?”

  “Don’t believe Celeste. She’s inclined to brag about big brother. Gets it from Gram—you know my Gram?”

  “I know your Gram. She’s in love with you.”

  “And I with her.” And I could be with you. But his eyes jumped from her face to the opening door. It was only a uniformed hotel attendant with a salver of messages for Clytie.

  Later he wondered how he ever got through the interminable dinner. He was there, laughing, listening, making the proper responses; eating without tasting, drinking too much champagne, falling in love with the charm of the girl beside him. But he wasn’t there, he was in a fearful secret cave, waiting for approaching footsteps to sound, for the shape to emerge, the terrible voice to speak.

  It was Ellen who had been speaking. Again he had to ask her what she had said. “I don’t even know.” She laughed. “Nothing important.”

  But he saw the puzzlement in her eyes and realized he’d been away once too often. He spoke softly. “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.” He hesitated but he had to say it, to make her understand. “I do have a problem, a very serious problem.”

  “Would it help to talk?”

  “It would. But not tonight.” He recalled his earlier figure of speech. “There must be no specter at a wedding feast.” He just touched her hand. “I won’t go away again.”

  There was reassuring strength in her fingers as they clasped his. “Hold tight,” she said.

  After the dinner there was dancing and it was better then. There was no need for talk with her in his arms. When the Air Force took her away, he danced with Gram, then sat with her, not having to respond to her unending commentary.

  At midnight the band played the plaintive bachelor song, “Good-bye, Girls, I’m Through,” and the assembled voices were a choir serenading Clytie and John. The evening was over. Nothing had happened. Hugh’s relief was so great that he felt lightheaded. He found Ellen in her usual encirclement. “Go home, little boys,” he said blithely. “The party’s over.” He caught Ellen’s hand, this time his had strength.

  Her eyes were bright as jewels. “No more problems?”

  “Not tonight. Shall we wait outside?”

  She was demurely provocative. “Shall we?”

  They skirted the crowd making farewells and slipped out the door into the night. The temperature had dropped to desert cold. They half ran to the parking area.

  Before they reached the car, Hugh saw the two men, one large, one slighter, em
erge from the shadow of the wall. They weren’t in uniform but he knew them at once for what they were. He stopped, stood unmoving, dreading what was to come. Ellen gave him a quick, questioning look. There was no time to explain. The plainclothesmen were on either side of him.

  The large one asked, “Hugh Densmore?”

  “Yes, I’m Hugh Densmore.”

  “We’ve got some questions to ask you.”

  Hugh spoke courteously, no audible quaver in his voice. “Could they wait until I drive my friends home?”

  The guests were spilling out through the doors. They didn’t seem to notice what was happening. Perhaps they thought these men were California friends. Again he prayed secretly. God, don’t let the family come out yet. Don’t let them know.

  The big man said brusquely, “We been waiting long enough.”

  If Ellen hadn’t been there, Hugh could have questioned them as to their purpose, as an innocent man would. But she was there and he couldn’t bear that she should hear their answers. Not until he could tell her the whole story.

  He turned to her and handed her the car keys. He said, for her ears alone, “Don’t let the family know. Whatever this is, I’m sure it’s a mistake and can be cleared up easily.”

  She didn’t say anything; her eyes were enormous with wonder but not with fear.

  The big one grunted, “Let’s go.”

  Hugh continued rapidly to her, “Make up something but don’t let them know. Please. I don’t want them to worry.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” She sounded competent. “Call me later.”

  “Come on,” the other detective ordered impatiently.

  He left her then, before the two laid hands on him. Their hands were restless. They walked, one on either side of him, rounding the building, moving toward the opposite area.

  He asked, “Are you arresting me?”

  “What for? You done something?”

  “No, I haven’t. I don’t understand this.”

  “We just want you to answer us a few questions.”

  It was worth trying. “I have a room here.”

  “One twenty-six,” the smaller man said. He had the weathered face of a cowboy.

  Hugh wondered if they’d searched his room, without benefit of warrant, while they waited for him. Even more he wondered why they’d waited this long. They must have staked out his car. But they wouldn’t have known which guest he was if they’d come into the dining room. It might have been the hotel manager who’d kept them from invading the party. Such things were bad for business.

  It was worth trying because the night was cold. If they weren’t arresting him, it would be more comfortable for them to ask their questions in a warm, lighted room rather than in a cold police car.

  He tried to phrase the idea so it would not be rejected. He wasn’t afraid of the men although the big one looked surly and the little one mean. He didn’t think they would start something without cause. In the past year there’d been too much national publicity about police brutality and the rights of all citizens.

  “We could go to my room,” he suggested. “It’s over there.” But of course they knew where it was, they’d been there.

  The big one glowered, as if he’d reject the idea out of hand simply because it was Hugh’s idea. But the cowboy said, “Come on, Ringle. We might as well go inside. It’s too damn cold out here.”

  Hugh had been counting on him, the way he hunched his shoulders with his hands dug in his jacket pockets. Their rank was evidently equal, because he led off.

  As if it had been his own idea, Ringle said to Hugh, “Come on. You got your key?”

  “I have it.” They had to walk the long open path, past the swimming pool, to reach his room. The way was out of sight of the cars departing from the dinner. They met no guests. There were the usual lighted draperies in many rooms but no one parted them to look out.

  Hugh didn’t have to direct the men through the arch to the rear, they knew the way. At the door, he took out his key, turned it, and touched the light switch just inside. He stepped back for them to precede him into the room. The small one scurried in but the big one growled, “Go on,” as if he feared that Hugh might cut and run. Or perhaps it was routine.

  If they’d been in the room before, they’d left no traces. It was unchanged. He walked ahead and turned on the table lamp. He pushed the switch on the wall heater. “The room heats up fast,” he commented. The small man’s face was peaked with cold. Hugh was thankful he had turned off the air conditioning before he went out tonight. They might have changed their minds about remaining here; they might have insisted on a warm squad room.

  He didn’t know the procedure for questioning. He didn’t know what were his rights. If you’d never been in trouble, you didn’t think of these things. Both detectives were still standing. Hugh indicated the comfortable chairs; he himself took the straight one by the desk, turning it to face the room. Ringle sat down in the big armchair, the other man remained standing close by the heater vent.

  Hugh said politely, “I’d like to know what this is all about. You’re from the police, I take it.”

  There was to be no violation of civil rights, at least not yet. Ringle took a folder from his pocket, leaned out of the chair, and held it open for Hugh to glimpse. He didn’t let go of it. “Detective Ringle,” he said. He pointed to his partner. “Detective Venner.”

  “And you want to ask me some questions.” He was calm. Now that it had happened, his nervousness had diminished. He was also thankful that he’d taken on the champagne early in the evening. Most of it had dissipated while dancing, the last vestiges in the cold walk to this room.

  “That’s right. You know a girl named Bonnie Lee Crumb?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “You sure of that?”

  “I’ve never heard that name before in my life,” he said with honesty. Crumb—Croom? And Iris? Something beautiful in her ugly Bonnie Lee life?

  “Why’d you come to Phoenix?”

  “My niece is being married tomorrow. Dr. Edward Willis’ daughter.” They’d know Edward. On many cases he was called in by the Phoenix police.

  Ringle was suspicious. “You’re Doc Willis’—”

  “Brother-in-law. He is married to my older sister.”

  “When’d you get here?”

  “Yesterday morning. Around eleven o’clock.”

  Ringle struck. “You come alone?”

  “Yes.” He saw the lurking triumph on both of the faces, waiting to spring the trap; the discouragement as Hugh continued, “I gave a lift to a girl outside Blythe. She was coming to Phoenix to visit her aunt. She wasn’t with me, simply a passenger.”

  “Her name wasn’t Bonnie Lee Crumb?”

  “Her name was Iris Croom.” It was too much to hope that the detectives wouldn’t detect the Crumb-Croom similarity. “Her aunt’s name was”—he pretended to search his memory—“was Carney, Mayble Carney. She owned a beauty parlor in Phoenix, the girl said.” Let them look for her too.

  “Did you take her to her aunt’s house?”

  “No, I let her off at the bus station downtown. She asked to be let off there.” He explained as if it had all been true. “Her aunt had expected her to come by bus and was meeting her there.”

  Ringle’s lips pursed. “This Iris Croom a white girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “But she let you pick her up?”

  He couldn’t get angry. And he wouldn’t tell the entire story to these two, it was too unbelievable.

  Venner piped up. “She was looking at that big white Cadillac, not the driver.”

  Hugh had long learned to control his voice no matter what burned within him. He said, “I was at the inspection station when she came over to my car and asked for a lift. She said she’d missed her ride.” Even as he spoke, he wondered if the inspection officers at Blythe had put the detectives on him. Would they have remembered the name she called out and her shrilled story, or only the white girl
asking him for a ride, and the license number of his car? He waited for Ringle to pounce.

  But Ringle was addressing his partner. “Ain’t you warmed up yet, Ven? Whyn’t you sit down?”

  “I don’t want to sit down.” Venner continued to lean against the grill, letting the hot air blow against his thin, shoddy jacket.

  Ringle turned back to Hugh. “You read the papers today?”

  “I looked them over.”

  “Read about that girl we found in the canal?”

  He couldn’t deny it. No one could have missed that headline. “Yes, I read about it.”

  “Read how we asked folks to come in and identify her?”

  He nodded. “Has she been identified?”

  Ringle’s permanent scowl deepened. “Some kids found her purse tonight. In a ditch about a half mile from where she was found. There was a school-activities card in her wallet with her name, Bonnie Lee Crumb. We put that on the ten-o’clock news.”

  Venner suggested, “I suppose you didn’t hear that news.”

  “No, I didn’t hear any radio reports tonight. I was at a bridal dinner for my niece.” As they well knew. He would not suggest an alibi by giving the time of his arrival there.

  “Bonnie Lee Crumb, Indio High School, Indio, California.” Ringle punched out the syllables as if this information would shake Hugh. Hugh waited for him to continue. “Where was this—uh—Iris Croom from?”

  “She said she was from Banning.”

  Venner insinuated, “How’d you like to look at the one we found in the canal? Maybe you could identify her.”

  Hugh feigned surprise. “You don’t think it’s the same girl?”

  Ringle said with meaning, “We got a tip.”

  Venner smirked. “Why do you think we’re asking you these questions?”

  Hugh was careful. With just the right amount of indifference, he said, “I have wondered.”

  “Like Ringle says, we got a tip. Right after that report went out on the radio. This guy says a nigger doc driving a big white Cadillac brought Bonnie Lee to Phoenix.”

  Hugh took a long breath. “Who was your informant?”

  Ringle answered diffidently, “The desk sergeant took the call didn’t get his name.” And Venner continued, “The guy said we’d find the doc at The Palms.”