by A. A. Fair
“What?”
She motioned toward the couch. “I want to talk confidentially to you,” she said.
I followed her over to the couch and sat down. It was warm from Juanita Grafton’s body. Shirley Bruce sat close enough to me so I could feel the warmth of her right leg through the sharkskin slacks. She reached over, took my hand, and started playing with the fingers as she talked. “They say you are very capable.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.”
“You inspire me with confidence.”
“I’m glad.”
“Are you?” she asked archly.
I met her eyes—dark, romantic eyes. Her red, full lips were slightly parted and her face was close to mine, her chin slightly tilted.
“Of course I am.”
Her low-pitched laugh was throaty and seductive. She lowered her eyelids, let the long lashes sweep against the smooth olive cheek, then with a tremulous sigh started playing with my fingers again.
She said, “My Uncle Harry is very dear to me.”
“So I noticed.”
She paused for a moment, then turned back toward me and laughed. “Because I kissed him?”
“That had something to do with it.”
“But I always kiss him. He is like an uncle to me.”
“Then you have an incestuous disposition.”
She laughed. “When I kiss, I kiss. I don’t do things halfway.”
“Nothing?”
“Not anything. I am not a halfway girl.”
“No, you don’t give that impression.”
Her voice instantly was angry. “What do you mean by that?”
“What did you mean by it?”
“Simply that I am not—not—When I do things, I try to do them well.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“You might have meant something else.”
“It’s sometimes hard to say just what you mean.”
Her fingers were busy again—soft, warm fingers long and sensitive, with well-padded ends, caressing fingers that made my hand tingle as she stroked it gently.
“I am impulsive,” she said.
“I gather you have an emotional nature and are quick to form likes and dislikes.”
“That’s it. I make my friendships quickly or not at all. I look at a person and immediately I like him or I do not like him. And then there are some that I like very much.”
“When you first look at them?”
“When I first look at them.”
“How about me? Did you like me?”
Her hand squeezed mine until the long nails bit into my skin.
We sat there a minute, saying nothing. Then she asked abruptly, “Donald, how did you know I had given money to Robert Hockley?”
“I didn’t know.”
“But you asked.”
“I wanted to find out.”
She reached to her blouse pocket, pulled out a folded oblong of paper, unfolded it, and handed it to me. It was a check signed by her, dated a week earlier and payable to the order of Robert Hockley. It was for $2,000 and had been endorsed and stamped Paid by the bank.
She extended her hand and I gave the check back to her.
“Donald, why don’t you say something?”
“What is there to say?”
“Don’t you want to know how I happened to give it to him?”
“Does the reason make any difference?”
“He was hard up and he was bitter—oh, very bitter. I became sorry for him. At first I turned him down. You see, he wanted me to ask for a thousand dollars a month more for myself, knowing the trustees would do it for me and would then pay him a like amount.”
“You refused?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to upset Uncle Harry. Then I got to feeling sorry for poor Robert, so I wrote this check and took it out to him.”
“As a loan?”
“As a gift.”
From the kitchen Juanita Grafton called out, “Where is the Chinese teapot?”
Shirley said impatiently, “I don’t know. Don’t bother me. If you can’t find it, find something else.”
She turned back to me and her voice was once more soft and seductive. “I will have to hurry, because Juanita is a curious old gossip. Donald, I want you to help me.”
“Doing what and why?”
“I am fond of Harry. I am afraid for him.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it is a presentiment. I feel it in my bones. He is in danger.”
“So what do you want?”
“I want you to be with him, to protect him. You will, won’t you?”
“I’m not much good in protecting people.”
“Oh, but you are. You are smart. You can see danger where—I mean you can see right through people. You judge character quickly.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“You know why Harry is in danger?”
“Why?”
She said, “Must I mention names?”
“Why not?”
“It is that trust,” she said slowly. “There are those who would profit if Harry should-should be out of the way.”
“You mean Cameron was killed because—”
“No, no, not that.”
“What then?”
“But he is now dead.”
“That would seem to be quite indisputable.”
“And now suppose something should happen to Uncle Harry?”
“You mean you’d come into a bunch of money?”
“I?” she asked and laughed heartily.
“But you would, wouldn’t you?”
The dark eyes looked into mine. “Yes, of course I would. Need I tell you anymore?”
“You mean Robert Hockley?”
“I mean nothing except that I want you to protect Uncle Harry.”
“It’s out of my line.”
“I’ll pay you well. I have money of my own.”
“And how would I explain to him that you had hired me to—”
“You would not explain. You would simply be with him and he would pay you. Then I would pay you too. Uncle Harry thinks you are bright and clever. He would like to have you with him. All the time, day and night.”
“Then suppose I found out something Uncle Harry didn’t want me to know. Then what?”
She laughed and said, “Do you need to tell all you know, Donald?”
I said, “If I find out something a man doesn’t want me to know, I don’t like to be with him day and night all the time. Sometimes it’s unlucky.”
Her fingers had been stroking the back of my hand. Now they suddenly stopped. I saw her thinking that over. Then her voice was cautious again, having that same evenly spaced, toneless quality as though she were dictating something. “Please say that again, Donald.”
At that moment Juanita Grafton came in from the kitchen pushing a tea wagon.
Shirley glanced at her. There was exasperation in her manner for a moment. Then she became the perfect hostess, pouring tea for both of us.
Juanita Grafton, showing no trace of weakness or illness, was tenderly solicitious of Shirley’s comfort and seemed willing now to accept me as a friend. Shirley sat close to me. From time to time she would raise her long lashes and her eyes smiled at me. No one could deny that she was beautiful. More than that, a sultry warmth about her seemed to make sex a part of her very existence. One could no more think of a platonic friendship with Shirley Bruce than one could consider driving a racing-car at thirty-five miles an hour. She just wasn’t made that way.
Juanita Grafton waited for an appropriate moment and said to me, “You must feel that I am rather an unnatural mother.”
“Why?”
“Thinking that my daughter had poisoned me.”
I said, “It was none of my business.”
“No, no,” she said earnestly. “You are saying that because you are polite. I want you to know my side of the story. I want you to understand how I feel.”
Shir
ley said, “Oh, forget it, Juanita. Donald isn’t interested in how you feel about Dona.”
“But he has seen me lose my temper, accuse her of trying to poison me. That was foolish. I was sick. I was nervous. I was hysterical. I wanted to see Dona and talk with her and perhaps bring about a better relationship. Then that happened and I thought-well, I didn’t think. We are emotional—we people from the south.”
I merely nodded.
Shirley said, “It isn’t important, Juanita, really.” Juanita Grafton never took her eyes from my face. They were dark, beady, piercing eyes pleading for understanding. “With us Spanish-speaking people of the south, she said, family is much. We do not pursue wealth in the way that the more commercial races do. We attach great value to our homes, to our friendships, to our families. We get more out of them than you here in the north. I know because I have lived in both countries.”
I said, “It was the first time I’d met your daughter. It was a business call.”
“Then you are not her friend?”
“I had never seen her before.”
“She has, perhaps, told you something about me?”
“Nothing.”
“I cannot understand her. There is a great gulf between us. She is more of the north. She is ambitious. Absolutely nothing stands in the way of that ambition. Tell me, Señor Lam, what good is it to achieve great talent as an artist if, in the process, one must destroy love? That is all that makes life worth living—love of friends, love of family, ties which bind hearts close together.
“In our country we feel that we are wealthy if we are rich in friends. To be rich in pesos without being rich in friends is a great misfortune. Do I make myself clear?”
I said, “I’ve never been in your country. I’ve heard about it.”
“It is so. It is the creed of my people. And now my daughter Dona, she has turned against me. I am something to be brushed lightly aside. I, her mother. Does she confide in me? No. She confides in her paintbrushes, in her pictures. Look at her pictures and you see her ambition. Ambition for what? Ambition for success. And what is success? Poof! It is nothing. What success can be worth the surrender of friendships? What can success give that will take the place of love?”
“You mean she has no friends?” I asked.
“No friends. She throws them to one side. Only she has her ambition. She studies. She works. She says it is her duty to develop her talents. But what are talents without the development of the heart and of the affections? To be successful without friends is like being on a desert where one owns all the land he can see, yet there is no other living person. What good is ownership then? Who wishes to own a desert?”
“The boys at Palm Springs have done very nicely,” I said.
Her face showed hurt. “You joke.”
Shirley said, “Of course he jokes, Juanita. It is the way of us northerners. We joke to hide our feelings. Donald understands. Some more tea, Donald? A little cream and the sugar—Oh!”
The cream pitcher slipped from her fingers, caught on the edge of the table, and crashed to the floor. “Quick, Juanita. A rag. Mop that up.”
Juanita Grafton jumped to her feet and dashed to the kitchen.
“And another pitcher of cream,” Shirley called.
She turned to me. “I’m so sorry, Donald.”
“You don’t need to be. You did it on purpose.”
Her eyes smiled, an intimate something-we-have-in-common smile. “I can’t keep anything from you, can I, Donald?”
I didn’t say anything.
She said, “You know, there’s something else I would like very much to have done. I think you could do it.” She lowered her voice and went on hastily: “Robert Cameron may have had safe-deposit boxes. They might not have been under his name. Do you suppose you could have men cover the different banks and—”
Juanita Grafton came in with a dish towel. She sopped up the cream and picked up the broken bits of crockery from the pitcher.
“And more cream for Mr. Lam,” Shirley said.
Shirley waited until Juanita had retired to the kitchen. She said, “I think Robert Cameron had quite a few safe-deposit boxes.”
“Which held trust funds?”
“I don’t know. I—I’d like to find out. You can see that I’m interested.”
I said, “You don’t need to hire a detective agency to get that information for you. The state of California collects an inheritance tax when people die. Safe-deposit boxes might be used to cheat the state out of some tax money. The state doesn’t like that. Therefore the state is pretty strict. It has made a lot of laws and regulations about what happens when people put thing into a safe-deposit box and then shuffle off these mortal coils.”
“Are you laughing at me—making fun of me?”
“No, just telling you that you don’t need to worry about Cameron’s safe-deposit boxes.”
She leaned toward me. “Will you protect Uncle Harry?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
“Because I have other things to do.”
“What?”
“Business.”
“But I’m willing to pay you. And he’ll pay you.”
“I know. But I may not have the time.”
“You mean you don’t want to?”
Juanita called out from the kitchen that there was only a little cream left.
“Well, put it in the pitcher and bring it,” Shirley said impatiently.
“She works for you?”
“Heavens, no! She’s a friend. At times she’s a bore.” I said, “Oh,” and Shirley hastened to add, “Of course, you know how it is. I understand that when she’s in South America she works as a servant and I suppose I do somehow take advantage of that. She’s an older woman and—I guess she likes to do things for people. She gets lonesome for people to talk to who understand her. She and her daughter don’t get along well. I think it’s Juanita’s fault, but the daughter isn’t blameless. Dona is so wrapped up in her career she hasn’t time even for her own mother—and you have to know the Latin Americans to understand what that means. With Juanita, family and friendships of life come first. After that the money. But I do get a little bored with her and her troubles. And yet I’m so fond of her I’d do anything, absolutely anything, for her.”
Juanita re-entered the room, bringing the new pitcher of cream, and sat down. We talked for two or three minutes about nothing in particular, and then I told Shirley I had to go. She kept me for a while, stalling around with this and that. She hoped Juanita would go before I left and leave us there alone. For a minute I thought she’d tell Juanita to run along. But she didn’t—probably because she felt I’d leave with Juanita.
Shirley came to the door with me. She looked back to make sure Juanita Grafton was still seated, then stepped swiftly into the corridor and looked up and down the passageway.
I knew what was coming and stood still.
She came close to me, swayed into my arms as though she had been a piece of steel drawn to a magnet. The hot crush of her lips was wet against mine. Her left arm circled my neck. Her fingers dug into the hair on the back of my head, pulling so hard they hurt.
“You darling!” she said when I came up for air. Then, without a word, she turned and entered her apartment.
I heard the door slam.
Chapter Fourteen:—DOUBLE RUN-AROUND
THERE WERE CARS PARKED in front of Shirley Bruce’s apartment. It was getting along toward the time when people were due back from work and I took the congestion for granted, as a part of the normal apartment life of a big city.
I backed the agency car until I hit the bumper of the car behind and then pulled out into the street.
A car moved out just ahead of me. It was driven by a man about thirty-five, who seemed to be in no particular hurry. A man seated beside him was of the same general type. They didn’t seem to be talking about anything. Their gaze was straight ahead. I gave them the horn and went o
n past. In my rear-view mirror I noticed that a second car had pulled out from a parking-place behind mine. The driver of that car seemed to be in more of a hurry. He used his horn, crowded up alongside of my car, tried to pass, apparently misjudged the traffic, and rode along just behind my rear wheel.
That car also was driven by a man who had a silent companion seated next to him.
I slowed down and did a little thinking.
I didn’t think they were police. If they were private, someone was spending a lot of money on me.
I signaled for a left turn.
It seemed the car over on the left rear was also going left and I noticed the slow-moving car behind take an interest and perk up as it jockeyed into a position in the outer lane.
Right at the last minute I elevated my arm, so that my left signal turned into a right signal, and cut across sharply to the right. A couple of drivers leaned frenziedly on their horn buttons and muttered imprecations as they went by, but I slid across the lane of traffic and into a side street.
One of the cars didn’t make it. The other one had managed to catch a break in traffic and was on my trail.
I pulled in to the curb in front of the fireplug, slammed on the brakes, opened the door, got out, and said, “Okay, boys, what’s it all about?”
They didn’t even turn their heads. Apparently they didn’t know I existed. They’d slowed their car almost to a stop but when I got out, the driver went on by, apparently completely preoccupied with the search of a house number over on the left side of the street.
I went back and got in the agency car, took a chance on violating the signals by making a turn in the middle of the block, and didn’t see any more of my shadows.
When I was satisfied no one was riding my tail, I drove to the office of Peter Jarratt.
Jarratt didn’t want to see me. He was, he informed me, just about to close up the office and go home. It was late and he had a dinner appointment. He’d told me all he knew about the whole business when he’d given me that tip over the telephone. Could I let this interview wait until tomorrow?
I told him I thought not.
He impatiently glanced at his watch and told me to go ahead.
I sat down across the desk from him and took time to size him up a lot more carefully than I had at Nuttall’s.
He was tall, loose-jointed, around fifty-two or fifty-three, with a head two-thirds bald. Shortage of hair on the top of his head seemed to have been compensated for by his eyebrows. They looked bushy, shaggy, and coarse. Part of his stock in trade was lowering his head slightly, raising his eyes and peering out intently from under those bushy eyebrows. Apparently it was supposed to impress people and get them on the defensive.