He did not stop the car, it was too close to the little houses he’d passed. He continued north to the end of the lane and blundered upon the canal road. For a moment he was blunted with shock. It was as if he had entered a maze from which there was no escape whichever way he chose to move. But reason returned. At least he had found a place where it would be safe to talk. Iris had not been murdered here but on the other side of Scottsdale. He drove on, turning to the right away from town, and following the narrow, dusty contours of the road, where the unperturbed water was banked high on the left and on the right were the empty saffron fields. There was scarcely width enough for two cars to pass but there were no other cars, and any approaching from the east could be seen from far off with the whirl of dust to give warning. He pulled up against the side of the road and cut the engine. If any cars came from behind, the rear-view mirror would warn.
He offered Ellen a cigarette, took one himself, and lighted them. He didn’t know how to begin, he didn’t want to begin.
She spoke before he could. “It’s that girl, isn’t it?”
He turned and looked into her face. There was no distaste in it, no pity. “I thought you might know.”
“What else would have brought the police last night? What else is there?”
He nodded slowly. What else? What else had happened here which could so affect him, a stranger in a strange town? It wasn’t like Los Angeles or New York, where there were so many evil happenings.
She said, as if she’d made certain, “You had nothing to do with it but somehow you’re involved.”
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m involved.”
Almost disinterestedly she asked, “How did it happen?”
He had intended to tell it only in part, but to his surprise he found himself starting on the road to Indio when the jalopy had cut in front of him.
She listened without interruptions. The only thing he didn’t tell was the old insults the kids in the jalopy had shrilled at him. Insulated as her life may have been, she still would have heard them too many times. Nor did he mention the car which might have been pacing him this afternoon. By now he was ashamed of having let his imagination trick him into shying at what must have had some everyday meaning, someone looking for a house number or someone early for a rendezvous with a friend. Everything else he told her.
Twilight came down and turned into early evening before he had finished. Together they’d smoked almost a pack of cigarettes. When his ran out, she’d brought hers from her handbag. He concluded unhappily, “And that’s it.”
For a long moment she didn’t speak and he wondered if he had quenched whatever spark of interest she might have had in him. By getting himself so stupidly involved in this affair.
And then she said, it wasn’t a question, “You believe the girl was murdered.”
“Yes.” He was sure of it, as sure as if he’d done the autopsy himself and had proof. “She wouldn’t have killed herself. She was too—tough.” He explained, “I’m not using the word in the slang sense.”
“I know.” She nodded. She looked across at him. “Murdered by an abortion.”
“Yes.” He was reluctant to admit it, as if the admission were further self-involvement.
“And because of the chain of circumstance, you have been picked as the sacrificial goat?” She smiled, but only to soften the implication.
Without hesitation he admitted this as well. “Yes.” He went on, “Of course I know I’m building it up. There’s no reason why—”
She interrupted him. “There are many reasons why. You know them. I know them. I think you’re in for real trouble, Hugh.”
He didn’t say anything, he couldn’t. His hand holding the cigarette was as if a chill wind moved it.
“You need a lawyer.”
“No.” He rejected it utterly, violently. “What could a lawyer do? I haven’t been accused of anything. I haven’t done anything.” He tried to make her see it. “Having a lawyer would make me look guilty. And I’m not.”
She smiled wryly. “Most lawyers prefer an innocent client.”
He tried to laugh. “The Judge’s daughter.”
“Perhaps. I’ve grown up under the law. And perhaps it’s that I’ve seen too many cases involving innocent people, our people.”
He said, “When I need one—if I need one—time enough then.”
Without agreeing with him, she accepted his refusal. She asked, “You haven’t told your father anything about this?”
“I couldn’t. Don’t you see? The wedding—”
“You should tell them.” She was troubled. “You mustn’t let them find out”—she hesitated, then concluded, but not what she’d been about to say—“another way.”
He said, “Nothing’s going to happen until after the autopsy.” He’d convinced himself of this. “If the police had wanted a quick arrest, they could have held me last night when I identified her.” He wanted her to see it as he did. “If the autopsy proves she committed suicide, why put my family through all the agony of expecting the worst?”
“You know it isn’t suicide, you’ve said that.”
“I know, but only the autopsy can prove it. By then they may have the right man—”
“Don’t dream,” she said shortly. “You’ve also said they weren’t interested in the unknown informant.”
He pleaded his case. “By now they must have talked to her father. He can tell them I never saw the girl until I gave her a ride.” Or could he, would he? Did the father know anything about Iris’ private life?
Ellen said, almost impatiently, “They won’t care who got her into trouble. All they’ll want is the man, or woman, who committed an aborticide.”
She was right, but he argued, “The boy friend will know who that was. He’ll know I had nothing to do with it.” And the fear was a knife in him. Because if the police looked for and found Iris’ betrayer, that anonymous voice on the phone who must be the same, why would he be expected to tell the truth? He had given them Hugh.
Ellen didn’t express her doubts. She only urged, “Tell your family, Hugh.”
But he knew he couldn’t. Not until it became essential. He couldn’t bear it that they too should be in a vise of fear. Suddenly he remembered the time. He switched on the dash lights and looked at his watch. “It’s almost eight. We’d better go if I’m to get Dad and the girls to the airport for Flight 305.”
She knew he had rejected the idea. She protested no more, only said, “If I can help, Hugh, let me know.”
“You’ve already helped.” Like a child he touched her hand in gratefulness.
She smiled back at him but only with her lips. Her eyes remained somber.
The only turnaround was down a dusty bank into a field with a vertical pull up to the road again. The wheels made it. He drove back through Scottsdale and south toward his sister’s home. They didn’t talk on the drive. Only when they were nearing the house did he have a sudden, disastrous thought. “When are you leaving?”
She said, “I don’t know. I think I’ll stay on a few days and rest.”
“Aren’t you in school?”
“I’m taking some courses, without credit. I can catch up. I wasn’t returning for another week, anyway. I’m going first to visit some friends in Los Angeles.”
He couldn’t have the arrogance to believe she was staying on here because of his troubles. But he said, trying to make it light, “I’m glad you’ll be around for a few days. As long as I have to stay.”
“Of course I’ll move from your sister’s tomorrow. The Palms looks pleasant.”
“It is. But Stacy won’t let you move out.”
She smiled. “I can be very determined. She certainly needs to be free from company.”
“My unit will be available. I’m checking in at my grandmother’s tomorrow. She is also a very determined woman.”
He didn’t want to make the move. But it would hurt his grandparents if he refused without explanation. An
d he’d have to invent more explanations for borrowing the money from his mother to stay on at the motel.
There was little time to spare at Stacy’s, he’d cut it fine. Somehow, while the girls’ suitcases were being closed, Ellen managed to change from her bridesmaid’s dress to a dark silk with jacket. It took Celeste longer than that to change the contents of her purse.
They made it to the airport close to eight-thirty, the check-in time. Hugh left the group and the luggage at the entrance and circled back to the parking lots. When he returned and entered the lobby, he saw Ringle. It was a large lobby and the big man was far across by the doors which led to the field. Yet he saw Hugh even as Hugh saw him. He didn’t move. He stood there, a monolith, as if he were a passenger waiting for a flight announcement. Not a yard away from where Hugh’s family was standing.
Ellen was waiting by the magazine racks. Perhaps she too had recognized the detective. Hugh joined her.
“Don’t look now but that’s Ringle over by the field exit. I’ll go to the news counter and buy some cigarettes. Do you think you can get the family outside?”
“I can try.”
“I don’t believe he’ll do anything if I explain. But in case—” He put the car keys in her hand.
She didn’t waste time discussing it. She started out. He diverged to the counter and asked for two packs of Ellen’s brand of cigarettes. The woman at the cash register passed them across to him and he put down the coins. He stayed there, taking time to open one of the packages while he watched Ellen move to the family. If anyone could manage, she could. The girls would be no problem but his parents might want to remain in the waiting room. She must have been persuasive, for in a moment they were all heading out the door.
He shoved the cigarette pack in his pocket and walked with quick steps across the room. He walked directly up to Ringle. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I’m seeing my father and sisters off for Los Angeles.”
Ringle grunted. But when Hugh went outside, he followed, obtrusive in his unobtrusiveness. He watched Hugh join the group by the gate.
Dad said, “We decided to wait out here. There’ll be a better chance for seats.”
The sisters were both talking at once, giving and getting directions for the week ahead when their mother would be away. Hugh handed Ellen the unopened pack of cigarettes.
She smiled “Thanks” while her eyes questioned.
He said, “Thank you for the loan,” and hoped his expression conveyed reassurance concerning the situation.
He circled to a position where he could keep an eye on the detective. He didn’t think that Ringle would move in now, not unless Hugh started through the gate. But he couldn’t be sure, and if it should happen, he was determined to be in a position where he could step up to meet it, not have it touch the family. It seemed an endless time before the plane was called and the passenger gate was opened. The family went on board, waving through the porthole windows to the three left behind. The motors roared, spitting flame, before the big ship taxied away for the take-off. And he had to stand there, still in Ringle’s shadow, until his mother saw the flight airborne. After that, he didn’t delay. He escorted her and Ellen into the lobby, across it to the outer door, and toward the parking area.
Ringle followed them. Not too close but not far enough for conversation to be unheard. He was by the parking meter when Hugh helped the women into the car. When Hugh drove away, he was still standing there. Perhaps by then it had percolated through his thick head that Hugh had meant what he said, that he wasn’t leaving town.
Yet Hugh could not be certain that the car wasn’t followed. There were lights at a reliable distance behind him on the road leaving the airport, lights behind him as he left-turned and continued over the country road south to his sister’s. It wasn’t unusual to be followed by headlights. Now that evening had come, there were plenty of cars on the road, returning from Sunday outings.
It was not until he reached Stacy’s house that he was taken with a fear of returning alone to the motel, of being alone through the long evening. He said to his mother, “We won’t come in with you. Ellen and I are going to get something to eat.”
His mother scarcely covered her pleasure in having Hugh show an interest in Ellen. She opened her purse. “You’d better take my key, Ellen,” she said. “I’m sure everyone here will be in bed before you get back.” Ellen gave no indication that she hadn’t been consulted on Hugh’s plans.
Not until they had driven away did Ellen speak. “I’m not really hungry.”
“I’m not either,” he said. “But it won’t hurt us to eat.” He admitted frankly, “I didn’t think you’d mind. And I didn’t feel I could stand an evening of thinking about it.”
“We won’t talk about it at all,” she decided. “At least not until after dinner.”
He had turned east when they reached Van Buren. “You won’t mind stopping at the motel while I change, will you? Maybe I won’t feel so vulnerable if I can get out of this white jacket.”
“Why do you think I changed?” But she seemed relaxed, as if she had put the problem out of mind.
He pulled up at the door of the unit. “Will you come in?” She must come in, not wait in the car, not with the memory of that old sedan driving around and around the block. Not with Ringle hovering.
Before he ushered her through the door, he flicked on the overhead lights. Again he had that overwhelming sense of relief on viewing the room’s pristine emptiness.
“Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I won’t be long. I’m used to making a quick change.”
He went into the dressing room. It wasn’t until he reached for his sports jacket that he realized someone had been in the room while he was out. It was an occupational necessity that his personal things were kept in filing-cabinet order. The jacket was neat on the hanger but not where he had hung it. He turned to the dressing table and unzipped his shaving kit. Imperceptibly there was change. He pulled open the two drawers he had been using. His belongings had been searched.
Quickly he pulled his doctor’s kit from the wardrobe shelf. This too had been opened and searched. His reaction was hot anger. If they’d wanted to search his things, couldn’t they have asked, not sneaked in here while he was away?
They hadn’t sneaked in. They didn’t have to do it that way. They’d gone to the manager and been furnished a pass key. When the realization came, his rage turned to sickness of heart. Not for himself, but for those who would come after him asking for lodging at The Palms. They’d be measured against Hugh’s status, against trouble with the police. He looked all right but . . . That’s what happens when you let them. . . He could hear the reasonable, deprecating decisions. Or their anger. I don’t care what the law says, from now on. . . And the tedious inching forward had become a long step back.
He returned slowly to the living room. Ellen was standing there by the coffee table, where he had left her. She said, “There’s a message,” and extended a slip of paper.
It was a memo from the motel office, a number, and the notation: Please call. He twisted the paper in his fingers. He said, “My room’s been searched.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “You’d better return the call,” was all she said. She sat down then in the big chair, the one Ringle had chosen last night.
He went to the telephone, and only after he had lifted it and heard the operator’s metallic voice, did he remember that a call from this phone had to go through the switchboard. He was quite certain the message had not been from family or friend. He should have waited for an outside line, not compounded the damage done. But he went ahead, reading the number from the memo slip. The operator’s voice repeated it to him, and he heard the sound of her dialing.
If the police had been private, the operator and The Palms’ staff would not necessarily know of their visit to Hugh’s rooms. Yet in any organization, there was a grapevine of communication which functioned without need of authoritative source or even a spoken word.
He could be sure the management would curry discretion, having the police around wasn’t good for a hotel’s reputation. People were funny about the police. They gave lip praise to law and order, but its myrmidons brought an uneasy feeling even to the most innocent. You could taste it in the atmosphere of the receiving room even when the cops were on errands of mercy. Working in Night Emergency at the hospital had taken most of the unease away from Hugh.
On the other end of the wire a male voice stated, “Scottsdale Police Department.”
The words somehow came as a shock. He swallowed and was able to respond. “This is Dr. Densmore.”
The voice at the other end also seemed to have been surprised. There was a perceptible silence before it said, “Oh—hold on a minute.”
Waiting, Hugh muffled the handset against his jacket sleeve. He said to Ellen, “It’s Scottsdale. The police.”
She put down the magazine she’d been holding and sat up tall, folding her hands into her lap like a schoolgirl. Her eyes were enormous.
Another voice came on. “Densmore? This is Marshal Hackaberry, Scottsdale. I’d like to talk to you.” There was nothing menacing in the voice, it was as normal and hearty as if the man were suggesting a lunch date.
“Certainly,” Hugh said. “When would it be convenient?”
“Can you come out here now?”
Hugh’s hand tightened on the phone. This wasn’t a friendly interview being set up. Did he dare say: Not now, later. I have a dinner date. He said, and the hesitancy was in his throat despite his efforts to eradicate it, “Well, yes, I can.”
“You know how to get here?”
“Yes, I do.” Surely a knowledge of Scottsdale didn’t equate with guilt. Every visitor to Phoenix toured Scottsdale.
“I’ll be expecting you.”
Slowly Hugh replaced the phone. He didn’t look at Ellen. “He wants to talk to me.” She said nothing. “Now,” and he looked into her eyes.
The Expendable Man Page 9