“You didn’t have to tell him that,” he said, “about the handkerchief. I’d never have known, and Joan would never have given you away.”
“It was the truth. I won’t have you accused unfairly.”
Vickers’ mouth twitched, with a certain wry humor. “In other words, if I killed Harry I’ve got to be caught fair and square, with no deviation from the rules.”
Her eyes met his, held them, and did not turn away.
That goes for both of us, doesn’t it? There’s a legal phrase, I think. Something about proving guilt beyond the shadow of a doubt.”
Vickers said slowly, “It’s innocence I want to prove, for both of us.”
Her fingers closed tightly on his wrist. “How can we do that, Vick? How can we ever do that?”
“We can’t. We’ve got to make others do it for us.” He got up and began to walk about the room. Suddenly he turned. “Are you still afraid of me, Angie?”
She put her arm up to shield her eyes from the light, and said dully, “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“You were afraid this morning. Why did you stay with me, Angie? Why didn’t you make Trehearne take you away?”
She rolled her head on the cushion and looked up at him. He was very tall. She said quietly, “Because I love you. Because I can’t go on this way any longer. Because I’ve either got to have you, or be free of you.”
He came close to her, his shoulders bent as he studied her. “You thought I might kill you. You still don’t know. You don’t know, do you?”
She said, “No.”
“But you were willing to chance it. Why?”
‘I’m not playing at this, Vick. I’ve been married to you for nine years. I’ve loved you longer than that. Even when you’ve been cruel to me – even when you’ve broken my heart, and worst of all, my pride – for some crazy reason, I’ve loved you. These four years you’ve been gone, and I didn’t know where you were, or what had happened to you, or whether I’d ever see you again – you’ve never really been away from me for one minute. The sound of your voice, the way you smile...”
She stopped talking. Vickers stood looking down at her for a long still moment. Then he turned away and sat down. She could not see his face, and he did not speak. Angie sighed and said, “I knew you’d wake up someday. I wish it hadn’t had to come like this.”
He leaned back in the chair. She could see only his profile, with the white scar on his forehead. His eyes were closed. He seemed very tired.
“I haven’t talked much today,” he said.
“No.”
“I haven’t known what to say. The things that we have to talk about between us, there don’t seem to be any words for. I don’t know why that is. I always used to find words.”
“You’ll find them,” said Angie, “if you want to.”
“I hope so. Whatever happens to us afterward, I want us – the personal us that has nothing to do with law or ethics or even murder – to understand each other.” He gestured impatiently. “That’s very clumsily put, but do you understand? “
“Of course.”
He sat without speaking for some time. Angie lay still and watched the muscles tighten around his mouth. He put his hand up suddenly and pressed his temples, and said in a flat off-hand voice, “Christ, my head aches,” and that seemed to clear the way. He began to talk.
“I lost myself. Up here I was Michael Vickers and I had a house and a bank account and did certain things with certain people. Down there I wasn’t anyone. I didn’t even have a name. I was just a body, male, in pretty bad condition, possessing three articles of clothing and a pair of shoes. The clothes I lost immediately. They were good, and worth having. The body didn’t matter much. It was a strange feeling, not having a memory. A feeling I can’t describe.”
Once started, he did not stop, did not even pause. The words came out of him rapidly, ill at ease, half ashamed.
“I have starved. I have stolen. I’ve been sick, revoltingly, humiliatingly sick, and not in the privacy of a nice white room with special nurses. I’ve been beaten and kicked. I’ve sat whimpering with pain like a small child, absolutely gutless, and I’ve been afraid. So Goddamned abysmally afraid I didn’t want to see the sun come up again. In short, I’ve lost my pride.”
He was finished. He did not move, nor look at her. He seemed to be waiting. After a while Angie said slowly,
“I wouldn’t say that, Vick. I’d say you’d learned the difference between having pride in something, and just being proud.” Again she studied his face. “You’ve grown up. I suppose that sounds silly, but it’s the only way I can put it. You were still a child emotionally. A spoiled child, cruel and selfish without even thinking about it. You’re different now.” She paused, and added, “I was never afraid of you before.”
He smiled. “That’s an odd recommendation. Have I changed much? Superficially, I mean.”
“You can still insult people,” she said. “Only now you know you’re doing it.” For the first time, she, too, smiled.
They were silent again.
Presently Vickers said, “I had a woman down there. I’ll tell you about her one day. And I had a friend. His name was Pépon. He had bad teeth and he was lousy, but he’d give me half of his last tortilla. He sold his only chicken once, so he could buy a holy medal to cure my headache. Didn’t work worth a damn, but I couldn’t tell him that. He was killed on the docks.”
He laughed. It was a small, quiet sound, and oddly enough there was no tinge of bitterness in it.
“After I could remember things again, I used to picture Job Crandall or Bill Saul or Harry Bryce having only one chicken, and selling it for me.”
He got up and crossed to the window and stood looking out at the broad smooth fawn, burning green under the low sun.
“What did we do to fill up the time, Angie? What did we think about? What did we live for?”
The shadows were growing heavy in the corners of the room. Angie sat up. Her head felt very heavy and very full, but the thoughts that weighed it down were all hidden behind thick dark curtains. She held it in her hands, and her black soft hair swung down and covered her wrists.
“Do you want anything to eat, Vick? I don’t think we had any lunch.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Neither am I.” Presently he turned and came back to her. He reached down and tilted her head back so that he could see her face. Her throat was brown and smooth where his fingers touched it. He could feel the pulse beating in the side of it. “You stayed,” he said. “You had a chance to go. I couldn’t have stopped you. But you stayed.”
She met his gaze without effort. There was no fear in her eyes, no question, nothing but a weary calm. “Yes,” she said.
“So I know you were telling the truth.”
“Do you?”
“If you’d hated me enough four years ago to... well, you wouldn’t be with me now. If you had anything to hide, you wouldn’t be here.”
She studied him, searching deeply into his eyes. “Do you want to believe that, Vick?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
Suddenly he was on his knees in front of her. Not in supplication, but because in that way he was closer to her. His hands slipped down along her shoulders, found the firm tanned flesh left bare at her waist, and stayed there. He could feel the small sensuous shiver that was born under his touch.
“I never forgot you, Angie. I never stopped wanting you.”
She said quietly, “Do you love me, Vick?”
“I love you. For the first time in my life I can say that, and know what I mean by it.”
“Then I’ll tell you something.” Her voice was very calm, unhurried. “If I were a very brave and very clever woman, and if I were afraid of you and wanted you dead, I would do exactly as I have done. I’d play along with you. I’d make you believe me. I’d get you into bed, and then after you we’re asleep I’d knife you, quite quietly, and call Mr. T
rehearne and tell him it was self-defense, and that before you attacked me you had boasted of killing Harry Bryce, and of being about to kill Job Crandall and Bill Saul. I would say that you had gone quite mad – and Trehearne would never doubt me.”
Vickers nodded. “I know that.”
“And are you willing to take the chance?”
He stood up, and brought her with him to her feet. He cupped her face in his hands and looked down into it, deep into her eyes, into what lay behind them. Then he bent and kissed her. He felt her arms go tight around him. Her lips parted under his. Her breath was warm and sweet, her tongue eager in the little mating. His hands slipped down and locked, hard, in the small of her back.
They stayed that way for a long time. Then Vickers caught her up in his arms and carried her out and down the hall, and then upstairs.
#It was very late the next morning when Angie went alone into the den. The telephone was ringing. She stood beside it until it stopped, tapping an unlighted cigarette in quick nervous rhythm on the desk top. She wore a yellow house coat and a yellow ribbon in her hair, and fresh color on her mouth.
When the phone was silent again she picked it up and dialed the Wilshire Regent.
“Mrs. Merrill,” she said. She waited a moment. “Joan, this is Angie. Look, darling – come up to the house right away, will you? No, I’ll tell you all about it when you get here. And Joan – don’t tell anyone you’re coming. That’s most important. Yes – you’ll understand.”
She put the phone down. Outside, the lawns were drenched with sunshine, and it was very still.
Chapter Thirteen
Harriet Crandall looked across the dinner table at Job. “What’s the matter with you?” she demanded. “You’ve done nothing but drink ever since you came home, and you look like the wrath of God. It’s a wonder you couldn’t be a little pleasant in the evenings. After all, you’re not bothered with me during the day.”
‘I’m tired,” Crandall said sullenly. “I’ve had a hard day.”
Harriet took a large forkful of chicken. It was garnished with mushrooms and little onions, and had a wine sauce. Harriet enjoyed it audibly.
“You’re a liar,” she said. “It’s because of Angie.” She watched Job’s face, and smiled. “You’ve had it soft with her for four years, haven’t you? Phone calls every day, dropping in for lunch, dropping in for cocktails, dragging me up there in the evening so you could play gin rummy with her. It’s a little rough now, having her husband back.”
Crandall picked up his fork. His hand trembled violently, and he put it down again. “Let’s change the subject,” he said.
“I like the subject. You haven’t even been able to get the house, have you? I know, because I’ve been curious too, and I’ve tried. The phone just isn’t answered. I wonder what they’re doing up there, all alone?”
Her voice held a wicked malice. The muscles in Crandall’s cheek began to twitch. He avoided looking at his wife.
She said, “Two whole days, isn’t it, Job? And she hasn’t even called you up.”
Crandall got up from the table. “Goddamn it, Harriet, I’m worried! Can’t you understand that? It isn’t natural, what they’ve done. Christ, he may have killed her!”
“There are women in this town,” Harriet said, “who wouldn’t weep over it.”
Crandall turned and looked at her. Then he said quietly, “They should. They should weep for themselves.” He walked out of the dining room onto the terrace.
Harriet stared after him. Then she slammed down her knife and fork and followed. Her thin face was drawn hard, her eyes glinting.
“Just what did you mean by that crack?”
“Does it matter?” Crandall was looking off toward the dark hills, with the lights hung on them like diamonds. He was not thinking about Harriet.
“Pay attention to me!” she snapped. “What did you mean?”
Crandall said patiently, “I don’t feel like fighting,” and walked away from her. The study windows were French, and they stood open onto the terrace. Crandall went inside. He picked up the telephone and dialed. He waited a long time, but there was no answer. Harriet came in and stood watching him.
“Why don’t you call the police?” she said.
“I have. I talked to Trehearne. He said there was nothing he could do. It’s their house, and they have a right to be alone in it.”
“Isn’t that too bad!” Harriet lighted a cigarette. She blew an insolent plume of smoke and smiled.
Crandall started toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
She moved quickly and caught his arm. “Oh, no, you’re not. I know where ‘out’ is. You’re going to stay here and mind your business.”
“I just want to know that everything’s all right.”
“Don’t be a fool, Job. Don’t you suppose Vick will know what you’re up to?”
Crandall said slowly, “There’s nothing for him to know.”
Harriet’s eyes fairly burned. “Oh, no? Well, I can tell him then.”
“I think,” Crandall told her, “that you and everybody else have already said enough.” He shook her hand off. “I’ve got to go, Harriet. I’ve got to know that she’s all right.”
“You leave her alone, Job. You hear me? It’s Vick’s business what he thinks, and what he does. And I hope he gives her what she’s got coming!”
A strange look came into Crandall’s eyes. It was not a nice look. “I think,” he said, “that I could forgive you everything but your stupidity.”
Her lips drew back slightly from her teeth, which were white and sharp and made her look curiously like a viper. “You can’t talk to me like that.”
“Why not?”
”Because I’m your wife. You seem to forget that, Job, but it does give me some rights.”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I don’t forget it, not for one minute. But did you ever think that being a wife means more than just being married?”
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself! I didn’t get so much...”
He cut her short, going on as though he had not heard her. “You’ve never been a wife to me. The priest, if I remember, said something about loving and cherishing.” He laughed. “For sixteen years I’ve been married to a woman, and I’ve lived in a house. But I’ve had neither a wife nor a home.”
He started away again, and again she caught his arm.
“I suppose you think you’d have been happier with Angie.”
“Shut up, Harriet.”
“All right. You go to her. You get right out and go to her. But I’m going to call the police. I was pretty drunk that night, and I don’t remember much about it, but I know you got away from me for a while. I know you were hunting for Angie. All right. I’ll tell Trehearne I saw you, the two of you. I’ll tell him I saw you both from the terrace, and that you had Harry Bryce between you and were pushing him in the water. I’ll tell it in court. I’ll...”
Job Crandall struck her. He struck her very hard on the side of the head with his fist, and she slipped down against him, clawing at him. Blood began to run from the corner of her mouth. She bared her teeth at him, snarling like a cat, and the blood ran in tiny red threads between her teeth. He struck her again, and again. His face was perfectly blank, his eyes glassy and blind. Harriet made a queer whimpering sound. She was at his feet now, trying to crawl away. He kneeled down and caught her by the hair and his hand rose and fell until the sweat stood out on his face like drops of oil and he was breathing harshly, and his arm was tired.
He stood up.
“Harriet.”
She did not move.
“I’m sorry, Harriet.”
She did not move.
Crandall bent over and touched her. “I didn’t mean to hit you. I guess it’s because it’s been so long. Sixteen years. I guess I’m tired.”
She did not move.
Someone knocked on the door, and a man’s voice said, “Excuse me, sir. Shall I
serve the dessert?”
Crandall stood staring down at Harriet. He had begun to tremble now with real violence. His jaw lifted and began to draw around toward his shoulder. He took hold of the table edge, hard.
Outside, the man knocked again. “Mr. Crandall, sir!”
Crandall said, “No. No, we won’t be wanting dessert. Thanks.”
The man went away. Tears gathered in Crandall’s eyes. A little red trickle crept out from under the veil of Harriet’s hair. Crandall watched it. The tears ran down his cheeks. Presently he got up and went out on the terrace, and from there to the garage. He moved like someone who is very ill. When he drove away he went slowly, and the car moved in uncertain lunges, with a harsh grating of the gears.
After a time he came to the top of the hill, and the house where no one answered the telephone. The lamps were on in the living room, soft and peaceful behind drawn blinds. Crandall got out of his car. He went up the steps, rather slowly, as though he were not quite sure of his footing, and rang the bell.
The small barred opening in the door let a soft beam of light into Crandall’s eyes. The tears had dried in them, leaving them dull and curiously unreal, like things poorly manufactured out of glass. He said, “Let me in.”
The door swung inward. Vickers stood there, with the wolfhounds behind him like huge familiar demons. He did not seem surprised. He smiled.
“Come in, Job,” he said. “I’ve been expecting you.”
Crandall went past him without speaking. He made straight toward the living room. Vickers closed the door, without turning his back on Crandall. He crossed the hall and stood in the archway watching him, one shoulder propped comfortably against the wall.
The living room was empty.
Crandall turned and looked up at Vickers. “Where’s Angie?”
Vickers shrugged. “Somewhere about. Will you have a drink?”
“Is she all right, Vick?”
Vickers’ eyes widened. “Why wouldn’t she be?”
“I’ve got to see her.” Crandall moved closer to Vickers. “I’ve got to see Angie.”
Stranger At Home Page 11