At that moment all three of them were convinced that their suspicions of Hugh were well grounded. Would the full story uproot them? He didn’t know, he could only tell them the truth. The truth must be self-evident. He had nothing else to offer, no corroborating witnesses.
He answered the marshal, “Yes. I first saw her the previous afternoon, on the road out of Indio.” He kept his attention on the marshal while he told of that initial meeting, his reason for giving her a lift, his growing distrust of her story as they traveled toward Blythe, his decision to put her on a bus there.
When he stopped at the end of that day’s story, taking time to light a cigarette, Ringle accused at once, “You didn’t tell us none of this.”
Hugh took a draught of the cigarette before answering, “I thought that what you wanted from me was simply an identification.” He hoped he sounded as innocent as he tried to sound.
Ringle glowered but he said no more.
Hugh took another pull of the cigarette before beginning the events of the next morning. He had left her at the Phoenix bus station, where, allegedly, she would telephone her aunt.
Hackaberry had put down his cold pipe. He was doodling on a pad of paper. “You have that envelope where she wrote down the name and address of her aunt?”
“I have it somewhere at the motel. But there’s no such address and no such person here. I called every beauty shop in town. Iris told me later that she did have an aunt of that name who lived in Denver.”
“You saw her later.” Venner’s drawl was pornographic.
Hugh clipped the monosyllables. “Yes. Once.”
This was the hard part, this was the part they must believe or his position was hopeless. If they rejected its truth, they would look no further for the abortionist. The marshal, for all his seeming open mind, would have Hugh, as Ringle and Venner already had, fit the role.
Hugh’s cigarette had burned to a tip as he talked. He took his time pressing it out in the ash tray, arranging words and scene in his mind. The forthcoming passage must be given in exactly the right way. And he mustn’t let a hint of fear or despair or reaction to their cynical disbelief filter through.
The brief pause was too long. The forelegs of Venner’s chair came down on the floorboards with a jarring clatter. “While he’s figuring out what to say, I’m going to get me a drink of water.” He didn’t ask, he told Hackaberry. “This is dry work.” He hitched up his rumpled plaid trousers as he headed to the door.
“Tell one of the boys to bring in some water,” the marshal called after him. “I’m sure Densmore could use some.”
Hugh responded to the marshal’s seemingly friendly smile. “I could.”
Hackaberry pushed up from his chair. “Take a stretch if you want.” He himself took a real one, arms upthrust, back arched.
Hugh stood, relaxing while moving away from the desk to the small windows, then returning to his chair.
Ringle didn’t get up. “I’d like a can of beer.”
“Make it two,” Hackaberry said, and smiling again at Hugh, “Three.”
A deputy came through the door, not with the water but with several sheets of paper which he carried to the marshal. As he started away, Hackaberry said, “What about that water?”
“We’re looking for something to put it in, Hack,” the deputy explained on his way out.
“Use a milk bottle,” Hackaberry shouted after him. To Hugh, he laughed, “We’re not as fancy here as you are in Los Angeles, are we?”
Bemused, Hugh said, “I wouldn’t know. This is the first time I’ve been in a police station.” He’d never thought of it before; stations were so familiar from movies and television.
Ringle snorted, “You never got a traffic ticket?”
He mustn’t antagonize the buffalo further. He tried a smile at him. “Oh yes. I’ve had my share of those. But I always pay through the Auto Club.” And realized at once that he’d done it again. Not for using the service but by taking for granted the use. Ringle’s reaction was visible on his face. Such conveniences were for white people; Negroes shuffled in line before a judge.
Venner returned before the moment developed. He carried the milk bottle of water, handed it, snickering, to the marshall, as if remembering a dirty joke. His eyes touched Hugh with malice, but he spoke to Ringle. “Did I miss anything?”
Ringle didn’t bother to answer. Hugh accepted the glass of water from the marshal and drank it gratefully. All three were waiting for him to continue the story. Again he addressed himself to Hackaberry, as if the detectives were not in the room. Hackaberry alone might recognize the truth when it was spoken. He told the story of that night, told also his reaction to Iris’ suggestion; it was part of the whole truth. He concluded, “I never saw her again, not until these detectives—as a result of an anonymous tip—took me to the County Mortuary last night to identify her body.” He stressed the anonymous tip. Perhaps the marshal would realize that the important thing was not to question Hugh but to find that man.
Venner slurred, “All strictly legal, Marshal. He came voluntary.”
Ringle slashed in, “And when you identified her, you didn’t think none of this stuff was pertinent?” He quoted the word savagely.
“I didn’t know the cause of her death,” Hugh said. “I only knew I wasn’t involved in it.”
The marshal was deceptively mild. “Didn’t it occur to you when you read the story in the paper Saturday, that the girl in the canal might be the girl you knew?”
Hugh had known this question must come. He also knew that he could not lie, he could only dissemble. He didn’t answer too quickly, nor did he hesitate over it. “I don’t believe it did. It may have come into my mind fleetingly but there was nothing to support it. I was convinced the girl who drowned herself was a local girl.”
“Why?”
“Because of the canal. A visitor wouldn’t know about your canal system.”
“How’d you know about it?” Ringle asked quickly.
“As a boy I visited my grandfather here every summer.”
The marshal’s voice expressed doubt. “You mean when you read the story you thought the girl was a suicide?”
“In the story I read, there was no reason to think anything else.”
Ringle pounded, “But you didn’t come forward to see if you could identify her.”
Hugh made himself speak evenly. “That never occurred to me. I thought the girl’s family would have identified her as soon as the story was published.”
The marshal nodded, as if Hugh’s story was credible whether he believed it or not.
And Venner insinuated, “You didn’t want it to be your girl, did you?”
Anger rushed into Hugh. At the implication in the question which he could not deny without feeding it. “Did I want it to be the girl I gave a ride to? Certainly not!” He managed to control himself and again direct his words to the marshal. “I hoped she had taken my advice and asked help from an organization which could help her.”
“She sure didn’t come to the police,” Ringle said.
Venner snapped his gum, happy at Hugh’s outburst.
The marshal sucked his cold pipe, then suddenly pointed it at Hugh. “We don’t know this is murder. The medical examiner won’t be back until tomorrow. She could have been bunged up in the water. But one thing we do know—unofficially. She was aborted before her death.” He stood up. “We may want to talk to you again after the autopsy. I’ll have to ask you not to leave town without checking with me.”
The interview was over. Hugh rose. He said, “I’ll be moving from The Palms tomorrow to my grandparents’ home.” Unasked, he gave the address. He wanted to plead: Don’t disturb them, they’re old, but he was afraid it would stimulate the detectives to do just that. Rather, he added the telephone number, suggesting, “You can call me there, if you want to see me again.” And hoped he could explain the call if his grandmother or grandfather should receive it. Ringle was stubbing the information into his note
book.
“You’ll find your car where you left it,” the marshal said. “Thanks for coming in.” As Hugh started to leave, he added, “We’ve borrowed the tools temporarily.”
Hugh spun about. Could they believe, could it be possible, that car tools were used on Iris? He was sickened at the thought. The three of them were watching him; to them his shock would be more indication of his guilt.
“You don’t mind?” the marshal asked.
He managed to say, “Not at all,” and turning again, walked away, aware of the silent eyes following him. He walked on through the main office; the two deputies merely glanced at him, uncuriously, not interrupting their conversation. He opened the door and stepped into the cool night air. Now that it was over, he was trembling.
The Indian woman and her children were no longer on the porch. He looked at his watch. It was close to midnight. And where had Ellen spent the hours? Anxiety for her safety quieted his personal tremors; he hurried away.
The moon was cold and white and high, giving a desert-night brightness to the deserted streets. His car was in the exact place where he had left it. You would not know it had been moved. Ellen was nowhere in sight. The street slept, the village slept. There was no sound, not even the murmur of a car passing on Scottsdale Road. And then as he stood there, the door of the elegant restaurant beyond was opened and a gash of sound cleaved the night. Almost at once it was shut again, closing away the intrusive piano and drunken singing and clamorous laughter. The men who had come out moved raggedly in the opposite direction; nevertheless Hugh quickly got into his car.
He saw then the twist of paper protruding from the ash tray. He turned on the dash light and read the note: “Am at Victor’s.” Although unsigned, it could only have been written by Ellen. The distinctive script did not belong to the world of Iris. He hoped it had not been in the car when the police were in possession.
He backed away from the curb and drove the block and a half to the large, bright ranch café at the intersection, whose neon beacon spelled Victor’s. It wasn’t one of the fancy restaurants of the area, it was a hamburger place. Not a dump, it was new, built like a great ranch house of redwood and stone. Despite the late hour, there was a goodly crowd inside. He found Ellen in a booth not far from the door. She gave him a quick, questing glance as he slid into the seat across from her.
He said, “I’m sorry it was so long.”
“I haven’t been here for long.” There was hot coffee and the remnants of a sandwich plate in front of her.
A young waitress came to the table with a menu.
“It’s not too late to order?” All at once he was hungry.
“We’re open till one.” She was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
He ordered; the waitress took Ellen’s empty plate and went away.
Ellen said, “Your car was missing.”
“They took it. To go over. Your note—”
“After they’d returned it.” She studied his face. “Was it bad?”
“No. Not actually. Of course, they don’t believe my story. Or rather, they believe it only up to the point where I say I never saw her again.”
“What do they say?”
“They don’t say anything. They look. Ringle and Venner—”
“They were there?”
“They’re assigned to the case. From Phoenix. The marshal—” He broke off, said, “To be honest, the marshal seems to be trying to be as objective as he wants to be.” He paraphrased, “He doesn’t intend to have the case messed up with ‘bleeding hearts.’ So he looks objective. But he doesn’t believe me any more than the others do.” Might as well admit it, to himself as well as to Ellen.
The waitress brought his order. She didn’t say anything. She put down the giant hamburger and the coffee without a word. She didn’t care whether he was black, white, or mottled; she only wanted to be through with work.
Ellen took up her coffee cup. “Tell me the whole thing. All of it.”
Hugh had started eating. “I will,” he said, his mouth full. “I will in a minute. I didn’t know I was this hungry.” But he did know that an ordeal of mind and spirit could lower resistance as much as a physical workout. He finished the hamburger and lit a cigarette before he began to talk. He had enough energy now.
It didn’t take as long to tell as it had to endure. Ellen already knew the story. She listened with her eyes on his face, more objective than Marshal Hackaberry. “Tonight wasn’t bad,” he repeated at the finish, “because they couldn’t accuse me of killing her. Because they don’t know officially how she died.”
“It might not be abortion?” She was too hopeful.
“There was an abortion,” he said flatly. “And they know it. They just can’t say so until they get a medical report. Not for the record.” He shook his head sadly. “It must have been a botched job for them to know.” They had probably seen many botched jobs in their duty. The years of Ringle, the ugly years. No wonder he was devoid of sympathy. He continued, “They know there was an abortion but they won’t know if that was the cause of her death until after the autopsy. She might have drowned herself, or have been drowned.” And what possible reason could the killer have given her, in her pain, to climb with him the high bank of the canal to be put to death? “When they find out, they’ll come for me.”
“But, Hugh.” She was still reaching out for the bent twig of hope. “If it wasn’t an aborticide—”
Hugh said distinctly, “They’ll come for me because there was an abortion whether it killed her or not.” Savagely he asked, “Why should they look for the real abortionist? They’ve got me. A doctor—”
“A Negro doctor,” she emended. “Go on, say it.”
“No,” he refused with violence. “I won’t say it.” But after a moment’s thought, he admitted, “Perhaps I was beginning to sag into self-pity. I won’t even think that way.” He crossed his fingers, smiled a small smile. “I hope.” Immediately he was grave. “I haven’t time for that.”
The clock on the wall pointed to one. There were yet a few booths occupied and no one seemed in a hurry, but Hugh picked up the bill. “We’d better get out of here.” He hoped he had enough money with him to pay the tab; it would be the final ignominy if he had to borrow from Ellen on their first date. He made it; the cashier’s weary mouth managed a “Thank you” as she returned the change.
The night was sharp with cold at this hour, the stars were broken glass patched against the dark sky. He helped Ellen into the car, unobtrusively noting that there was no police car about, nor a strange sedan. Instead of turning south through the sleeping village, out of some compulsion he followed Indian School Road. The shape of the canal rose on the right. Here, but one night ago—could it have been only then?—a living creature of hopes and dreams, joys and troubles, had mercilessly been given over to death.
It must have been appallingly easy to put her to death. Her cries, if she had warning to cry out, would have been heard only by the sleeping. She would not have been afraid until it was too late to be. She trusted the man, by whose act, if not deed, she had been delivered to death. Hugh remembered her childlike anticipatory delight as they drove into the city. She had known no qualms then, she had been sure of welcome. The man—boy—must have panicked to have killed her here on the Indian School Road. Or had she died here because the abortionist had done delayed murder? Or was it that she died on the table and was dumped by the man or woman who had killed her and what would have been a living child? In Los Angeles the victims were dumped more often than not. In an alley with the refuse cans, among the weeds of vacant lots; one had even been flung too late for care from a moving car onto a hospital lawn.
Ellen said, “It was back there she was killed.”
“Or died.”
She recognized the sadness in him, because she said with emphasis, “You’re not to blame yourself. You had nothing to do with it.”
“But I did,” he told her. “I had too much to do with it.” Or not enough
. “And everything I did was wrong.” He drove on, turning south toward Edward’s home. As if it were a sinuous snake, the Indian School Road seemed to follow him.
When they reached the safe suburbs, he and Ellen sat silently for a moment in the darkness of the car. She asked finally, “You don’t think the police are through with you?”
She knew the answer, he’d already told her that. “I know they aren’t.” He broke out in savage frustration, “If I were a detective I wouldn’t believe my story. Circumstantially, I fit.” He put thoughts into words with crystal clarity. “I’ll have to find the abortionist. No one else believes in his existence. I’ll also have to find the man or boy she came to meet.” There must be the two, to accuse each other, to prove the fact. Was it a plum tree or a peach?
“A good lawyer could help.” She’d said it twice; the first time he hadn’t heard, only her voice speaking from afar.
“Yes,” he agreed. He could admit it now, it was essential to have a lawyer, to ward off arrest until he could find the two guilty ones. A lawyer meant confiding at least in Edward. Edward would know to whom he should go. He sighed his indecision; even after tonight the need didn’t overbalance the more important need to keep the family out of this. He didn’t know what he should do.
Ellen was waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she said, “While you were with the police, I telephoned my father in Washington.” She didn’t apologize. She didn’t seem to care whether he would or would not have consented to it. “He’ll ring me in the morning with what he can find out.” She smiled at his blank face. “You needn’t worry. He knows everyone in law worth knowing. He’ll find us the right man.”
He couldn’t help protesting, “Wouldn’t it be a lot simpler if I asked Edward about it? He knows everyone worth knowing in Phoenix.”
The Expendable Man Page 11