I didn't find out much from the wearing apparel. Whatever had a label in it had a New York label. His shirts and shorts were Lord and Taylor, his ties and pyjamas Finchley or Sulka, and the shoes he had packed were Florsheim. The bathrobe, a big woolly thing, had a J. Abercrombie label. I went through the pockets of everything and drew a blank. But the papers were a revelation. After reading through them, I began to see Mr. Haskell as I had never seen him before. It was evident from the stuff he was carting around in his own bag that he was not the open-handed, easy-going big-shot who threw away a dollar now and then and went around buying steak dinners for strange bums. Before I got done I saw him more as a chiseler and four-flusher. I could just picture the guy standing by his book at Empire, glad-handing the money and brushing off the down-and-outers. You've seen that kind by the hundreds, hanging around your club or your place of business.
One letter in particular told me all I needed to know. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Charles J. Haskell, Sr., Bellagio Road, Bel-Air Estates, Westwood, California. I guessed that this must be his father and Haskell had forgotten to mail it. But before I tore it open, I turned my attention to the wallet.
There were seven hundred and sixty-eight dollars in that billfold, in fifties, twenties, and tens! Imagine, almost eight Cs! It took me all of twenty minutes to catch my breath and get used to the idea I was rich. I sat there on the bed and counted the dough over and over to make sure I hadn't counted the same bills twice.
In a compartment of the wallet I also found a cancelled bank book. The account was in the name of Charles Hanson and showed entries of six, seven and eight hundred dollars in July, swelling the total to a neat sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred dollars and a few cents interest. Then, on the seventh of August, there was a withdrawal of thirteen thousand five hundred dollars, and on the twelfth the balance was withdrawn and the account closed. Jesus, I thought, what high finance. It looked like the war debt to me. Well, anyway I had seven hundred and sixty-eight bucks of it. It was chicken-feed alongside of those figures; nevertheless, to Alexander Roth it was a fortune. Besides; those others were only figures and they won't pay your fare on a tram-car.
In the opposite compartment of the wallet was another little book, like an address book. I leafed through it. He had four or five addresses and phone numbers written down in there, most of them women, but I caught on at once that this was his pound-of-flesh list. He had Louie—$39, O'Hanlan—$158, Mr. Pepperman—$40, A. H. Burnside—$90; stuff like that marked dawn. It ran into about thirty pages, with here and there a line drawn through a name, signifying that whoever had owed the money had paid off. Just for the hell of it, I added up all the sums. The total was a little over ninety-six hundred smackers. There was one page in there labeled: P.D. WITH N.G. CHECKS. Nineteen names and addresses were listed under that and not one of them, curiously, was anybody I knew. In the back of the book he had some other junk written down which I couldn't make out—mostly figures. I guess maybe he'd been trying to figure odds or something. But at the bottom of the list, marked off from the rest of the page, was what looked to me like a diet; no alcohol, fruit juices, plenty of water, salvarsan.... I got it.
There wasn't much else in that wallet except a receipted bill from the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York, the car registration and his driver's licence. From the last mentioned I learned that I was now Charles J. Haskell, Jr., born September 7, 1905, having brown hair, brown eyes, being of the white race, six feet tall and weighing 170. What I was searching for were his trunk checks, but he didn't have any. I figured if he expressed his trunks and never picked them up there might be an investigation. I wouldn't care for any of that.
On the bed, among the rest of the papers, was a thick stack of I O U's—a good fifty of them, bound together with a rubber band. I tore those up and flushed them down the toilet. They were no good to me, no good to Haskell, and certainly no good to the people who'd written them.
That was one time a sucker got a break.
I found one letter there, addressed to Haskell at the Pennsylvania, that got my goat and created the impression that the guy who had bought me a steak wasn't such a prince among men at that. It was a short note from some fellow named Luther Walsh, begging Haskell (or Hansen, as he called him) to quit mailing post cards to the office, reminding him he owed money for bets. Walsh went on to say that at the moment his wife was sick and he couldn't spare the dough to pay off., but that he would mail Haskell the money just as soon as he could. He said that if those post cards continued to come to the office, the boss might see one of them; if he did, it was good-bye job. The fella worked for a trust company of same kind and the employees were not encouraged to play the ponies. I looked Walsh up in Haskell's book. He owed $25.
But it was the other letter, the one addressed to his father, that interested me. It almost made me sick to read it. Doesn't it get you sometimes in the solar plexus to think how low a guy can sink? Once I had thought Haskell was tops, but that letter reversed things. Before I was half-way through that masterpiece of insincerity, I think if the skunk had been standing in the room I'd have let him have it! I told myself that old Charles, Sr., was pretty damned lucky his son disappeared, even if he didn't know it. What was so bad about the letter? Oh, not much. But wait, I'll give it to you in full. In case you feel like I felt, the bathroom's to the left.
Dear Father,
I know you will be surprised to hear from me after all this lapse of time, but I feel I can't stay away any longer. I would like to come home for a while, if you'll have me, and see you and Dolores again. No doubt you will think it very strange that at this late date, I have grown homesick, but the truth of the matter is / always have been.
My reason in not having written before is that I was conscious I was unworthy to be called your son and that I'd done a shameful thing, the chances were you could never forgive. Then too, I've been very busy traveling around. You see, I am in business for myself, selling prayer—and hymn-books to churches and Sunday-schools. As an ardent churchman that should be of interest to you. I remember how we used to attend services there on Sunset Boulevard every Sunday morning. I was only a boy then, of course, and I suppose I didn't fully appreciate the value of worship.
I do hope you will realize how changed I am; also that you have by this time managed to excuse the awful things I did fifteen years ago which caused me to run away. I must have been a very wild and willful brat.
Naturally, putting out Edward's eye was an accident—we were only playing with the swords—but when it happened it frightened me and I did the first thing that popped into my head.
Not only that, there was another reason for my disappearing which you doubtless know about. I was pretty sure you'd found out I stole Mother's engagement and wedding rings and pawned them. I never would have done it had I realized they were all you had left to remember her by. It was not for several years that the full significance of what I'd done began to dawn on me. Then, you can understand, I felt I could never come back.
Please, Father, let bygones be bygones.
When all this happened I was only sixteen or seventeen. Well, that must be all for now. I leave it in your hands. If the door will be open to me, you can expect me within a very few weeks. I will wire you a day or two before I arrive. Please convey my love to Dolores, who must be quite the lady these days.
I'm sorry I can't be more definite about the date of my arrival, for I have several churches I must visit on my trip across the country—and you know how ministers are. Until I see you then,
CHUCK.
A killer, eh? He hadn't caused his old man enough worry and trouble as a kid; he intended to go back and finish the job. And with a plan as plain as the nose on our face. He'd get the old gent to stake him to thirty or forty grand for his hymn-book business, then chase off to Miami and sink it into a different kind of book. The old boy might raise particular hell when he caught wise, but what of it? He certainly wouldn't stick his own son in jail. Haskell knew that and
was playing it for all it was worth. Why, it was duck soup in any language. Papa would be so tickled to see his little Chuck again that he'd part with the coin easily, especially since it was going to be invested in such a respectable enterprise, prayer-books and hymnals. I told you it would make you sick. Well, I guess God or Fate, or whatever that Something is, stepped in just at the nick of time and saved Charles J. Haskell, Sr., from taking a flyer in sacred literature preferred.
Now don't try to tell me that man is master of his own destiny. What happened to Haskell proves that you never can tell what's in the cards for you, and the road you aim to take nine times out of ten turns out to be a blind alley; either that, or it leads someplace quite different. If you think I'm all wet in this theory, you'll have to show me where.
Nevertheless, the letter made me feel somewhat easier in my mind. If it had been mailed, his family would be expecting him. When he never showed up they might grow worried and demand a police investigation. Working through the deserted car, the cops might trace me, and deliver Alexander Roth to the anxious family with the compliments of the Bureau of Missing Persons. No, thanks. It was lucky for me Haskell had neglected to mail the letter.
But wait a minute. Maybe he had mailed another letter. That was always possible. Maybe he had written one in which he was now a full-fledged Baptist minister, for all I knew. However, there was no use wondering if he had or not; I'd never find out, so to hell with it.
The rest of the papers were just a lot of junk and I was about to destroy them all—the letters, too—when something slipped out of the pile and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and saw that it was a newspaper clipping of some kind, all about a hospital in Cleveland that had discovered a new way to sterilize instruments before an operation. For a second or two I couldn't understand why Haskell had cut it out; but then I had an idea and I turned it over.
That was the first and only time I actually felt guilty about what had happened. Up until that moment, Haskell was just a stranger, some guy I didn't know; but when I turned that clipping over I was introduced to his family.
It was nothing but a picture, pretty clear and sharp for a newspaper reproduction, but still a flat piece of paper with a lot of lines and shadows. Yet, it did something to me. I looked at it and something went snap inside of me, like an E string that's been tightened too much. It was a close-up of an old man and a rather pretty girl—very ordinary-looking people, really—dressed in light summer clothes. It was their eyes though that got me. They seemed to stare out of the picture into mine—and beyond, into whatever's back there. CHARLES J. HASKELL, WELL KNOWN WILMINGTON EXPORTER AND SPORTS FAN WITH HIS DAUGHTER AT THE BEVERLY HILLS TENNIS TOURNAMENT, the caption read. Not to me it didn't. What I saw there was a silent indictment and a chill ran up me. I crumbled the picture into a little ball and flushed it down the johnny. The rest of the papers, race programs and letters, followed suit.
When that was done, I re-packed the suitcase and straightened up the cabin. I cleaned off the sink, aired the bed, spread out the shower-curtain so it could dry, hung up the dirty towels where they belonged and then decided it was time to blow. I carried the bag out to the car, locked it in the rumble-seat and went on foot to find a place to eat. By this time it was five o'clock and there was only one place open in town, even though it was broad daylight. I headed for it and went in. It was one of those all-night dining car joints, greasy by tradition, yet with a nice smell to it. I grabbed a stool.
“Bacon and eggs, some cereal first, fried potatoes, toast with marmalade and a cup of coffee. Let me have the coffee now.”
“Coming up.”
While I sipped the steaming brown water they called coffee, I tried to forget Haskell and his family by concentrating on something pleasant: Sue. I had her address, of course. She was living on Cheremoya Avenue, near Beachwood Drive, wherever that might be. I could scarcely wait to see her shocked but pleased expression when she opened the door and recognized me. The chances were she'd all but faint; me being there in Hollywood and she thinking me three thousand miles away. I started to rehearse what I was going to say. “Good morning, madam. I represent the Marital Insurance Company. Please don't slam the door. I know you'll be interested in the policy I have to offer today. It safeguards the wife against the returning husband. What? You have no husband? Dear, dear. That's something I hadn't considered. In that case, madam, will you marry me?” No, not so hot. Maybe: “Good morning, madam. Is this Donnerwetter's Sanitarium? I'm Herr Professor-Doctor Heinrich von Lousenhitler. I have a patient, a Mrs. Noman de Lez, who has heard about this new Hollywood treatment.” Worse yet. That stank on ice. “Quick, moll! Let me in and get the tommy from where I hid it in the baby's crib. I'm hot and the bulls got the place surrounded! Oh, oh. Too late. They got me!” That was lousy too—even if it was appropriate.
I'd made up my mind not to tell Sue about what happened. It wasn't that I mistrusted her, but why worry her after it was all over? And it would be over before I showed my face around her, I told myself. The last thing in the world I wanted was to jeopardize her. I'd make damned sure my hands were clean before I went hunting Cheremoya.
Probably I'd still be sitting there day-dreaming about Sue if the guy behind the counter hadn't shoved a bowl of oatmeal at me. “Did you want bacon and eggs or ham and eggs, buddy? I forgot.”
I looked up at him and then I lost my appetite. I jerked suddenly and Haskell's sun-glasses fell from the counter and smashed. Two stools away sat a California State Trooper, drinking a glass of tomato juice.
“I've changed my mind.”
“You changed your mind?” The fellow was dumb, all right. He couldn't understand the King's English.
“Yeah,” I said, getting to my feet. “I'm not hungry any more. Cancel the order.”
“What's the beef? Something wrong with the oatmeal?”
“No. Just not hungry.”
“A fly somewhere, maybe?”
In answer, I threw a quarter on the counter and left in a walk. But once outside, I flew. I crossed the road, doubled back farther on down the street and then headed for the Morning Glory. Five minutes later I was miles away pushing the Buick along the road toward Mecca with the accelerator down to the floor-boards.
I don't know just when it struck me that I never was going to abandon that car, but it gradually dawned in my thick skull that, whether I liked or not, I would have to hold on to it. If I wanted to dispose of it, it was necessary that I do so through a legitimate sales transaction. A deserted automobile always leads to police inquiries regarding the whereabouts of its owner, and, naturally, any fool can see that to check up on Haskell was to check up on me. It was a pretty big risk, but what else was there for me to do but to keep on being Haskell until the ownership of the Buick was in someone else's name? Then, and no sooner, could I do what I liked.
There you'll go again, I suppose. You'll be telling me that I'm a cock-eyed liar and the only reason I wanted to hang on to the car was because it was worth an easy eight hundred. Well, you're all wet on that score. My life is worth more to me than any eight hundred bucks; and if you think peddling that car wouldn't be dangerous, you're the one who's a dummy. Why, that car was so hot, whoever drove it would have to wear asbestos drawers.
I was beginning to suspect by that time it wasn't as simple as I'd imagined it was going to be when I left the dead man lying in the gully. I thought all there was to do was to get out of the vicinity, forget where I parked the car and continue on my merry way. Now I saw how carelessly I'd figured. Dressed in my clothes and with my valise, the police were sure to identify the corpse as one Alexander Roth, a vagrant on the Dallas blotter. Judge Lascoff's letter of reference in the valise would establish that much at once. I remembered gratefully that the judge had very poor eyesight. That would come in handy if he should be called upon by the coroner to inspect the remains. However, if a deserted car was found registered in the name of Charles Haskell and discovered to have passed through the Arizona and California st
ate lines during the time it was possible the crime was committed, it is only logical to suppose that the cops might get the idea the body they found in the ditch was not the bum's body, Roth, but the body of the guy who owned the car. Linking the two wouldn't take much brilliance. If they should ever check into this theory and find it true, they'd know who they had to look for, all right. I could just see those Post Office placards: WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN REGARD TO THE MURDER OF CHARLES HASKELL IN ARIZONA, ALEXANDER ROTH. AGE: 29, HEIGHT: 6 FT., WEIGHT: 170, BROWN HAIR AND EYES, SLIGHT BUMP AT BRIDGE OF NOSE, IS BELIEVED TO BE MUSICIAN BY PROFESSION, NO KNOWN ALIASES, LAST SEEN AT EHRENBERG, ARIZONA....
You see, I had to watch my step.
I reasoned I was comparatively safe so long as I continued to play the part of Haskell and didn't bump into any members of his family. I would sell the car as soon as I could find a buyer, change my name and try to forget the whole mess. Obviously I couldn't take my own name again; I was dead. It was a dirty shame, but when I married Sue it would have to be as Pierre LeBourget or Israel Masseltof. I could explain to her that I was switching names for professional purposes.
As I drove along I began to think of what to christen myself. Paul Durant? Nuts, that sounded to phony, even for Hollywood. Richard Taylor? Alexander Gates? Fred Lawson? Bill Todd, maybe? Or Jack P. Garrison? Or how about Archie Robertson? That sounded real enough, because who in the name of Hannah would pick the name Archibald for an alias? But, I don't know. None of them had the kosher ring. They were names you'd find in a book, not a newspaper. For a minute I considered using my real name again—Aaron Rothenberg—which I'd changed almost ten years before at the advice of Professor Puglesi; but I vetoed that as soon as it entered my mind. I was afraid it could be traced. The best bet was to start from scratch. Howard Beldam? Max Allinson....
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