Women Crime Writers

by Sarah Weinman

  “You think that’s what Evelyn Merrick wants from me? Only money?”

  He realized from her stressing of the word “only” that she, too, suspected other factors were involved.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “It sounds to me like an extortion racket. It may be that the woman means to frighten you, to harass you, until you are willing to pay her to be left alone. It may be, too, that you’ll never hear from her again.”

  Miss Clarvoe turned away with a little sighing sound that whispered of despair. “I’m afraid. I’m afraid sometimes even to answer the phone.”

  Blackshear looked grave. “Do you know more than you’re telling me, Helen?”

  “No. I wrote everything in my letter to you, every word that was spoken. She’s—she’s crazy, isn’t she, Mr. Blackshear?”

  “A little off-balance, certainly. I’m no specialist in these matters. My business is stocks and bonds, not psychoses.”

  “You have no advice for me, then?”

  “I think it would be a good idea if you took a vacation. Leave town for a while. Travel. Go some place where this woman can’t find you.”

  “I have no place to go.”

  “You have the whole world,” Blackshear said impatiently.

  “No—no.” The world was for couples, for lovers, for husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Everywhere in the world, all the way to the horizon, Miss Clarvoe saw couples, like her mother and father, and, now, Douglas and her mother, and the sight of them spread ice around her heart.

  “England,” Blackshear was saying. “Or Switzerland. I’m told St. Moritz is very lively in the wintertime.”

  “What would I do in such a place?”

  “What do other people do?”

  “I don’t really know,” she said seriously. “I’ve lost touch.”

  “You must find it again.”

  “How does one go about finding things that are lost? Have you ever lost anything, Mr. Blackshear?”

  “Yes.” He thought of his wife, and his endless silent prayers when she was dying, his bargains with God: take my eyes, my arms, my legs, take anything but leave me Dorothy.

  “I’m sorry,” Miss Clarvoe said. “I didn’t realize—I’d forgotten . . .”

  He lit a cigarette. His hands were shaking with anger and remembered grief and sudden loathing for this awkward woman who did everything wrong, who cared for no one and gave nothing of herself even to a dog.

  “You asked me for advice,” he said with no trace of emotion. “Very well. About the missing money, you’ll have to report that to the police. Whether you like it or not, it’s your duty as a citizen.”

  “Duty.” She repeated the word after him, slowly, as if it had a taste that must be analyzed, a flavor pungent with the past: castor oil and algebra and unshed tears and hangnails and ink from leaky pens. Miss Clarvoe was a connoisseur. She could pick out and identify each flavor, no matter how moldy with age.

  “As for the woman, Evelyn Merrick, I’ve already given you my advice. Take a vacation. There are certain disordered persons who get a kick out of making anonymous phone calls to strangers or people they know slightly.”

  “She gave me her name. It wasn’t an anonymous call.”

  “It was as far as you’re concerned. You don’t know her. You’ve never heard of her before. Is that right?”

  “I think so. I’m not sure.”

  “Do you ordinarily remember people well—names, faces, conversations?”

  “Oh yes.” Miss Clarvoe gave a nod of bitter satisfaction. “I remember them.”

  Blackshear got up and looked out of the window at the traffic below. After-five traffic, with everyone hurrying to get home, in all directions; to Westwood and Tarzana, to Redondo Beach and Glendale, to Escondido and Huntington Park, to Sherman Oaks and Lynwood. It was as if the order had gone out to evacuate Hollywood and the evacuation was taking place with no one in command but a single traffic cop with a tin whistle.

  Blackshear said, over his shoulder, “You’re not good at taking advice.”

  “What you suggest is impossible. I can’t leave Los Angeles right now, for personal reasons.” She added vaguely, “My family.”

  “I see. Well, I’d like to help you but I’m afraid there isn’t anything I can do.”

  “There is.”

  “What?”

  “Find her.”

  He turned, frowning. “Why?”

  “I want to—I must see her, talk to her. I must rid myself of this—uncertainty.”

  “Perhaps the uncertainty is in yourself, Helen. Finding a stranger may not help you.”

  She raised her hand in an autocratic little gesture as if she meant to silence him. But almost immediately her hand dropped to her side again and she said, “Perhaps not. But you could try.”

  “All I have to go on is a name.”

  “No. There’s more than that. Remember what she said, that one of these days she’d be famous, her—her body would be in every art museum in the country. That must mean that she poses for artists, she’s a model.”

  “Models are a dime a dozen in this town.”

  “But it at least gives you a place to start. Aren’t there such things as model booking agencies?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could try there. I’ll pay you, of course. I’ll pay . . .”

  “You’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not for hire.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Have I offended you by mentioning money? I’m sorry. When I offer to pay people, I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s simply all I have to offer.”

  “You have a low opinion of yourself, Helen.”

  “I wasn’t born with it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “The story,” she said, “is too long to tell, and too dull to listen to.”

  “I see.” But he didn’t see. He remembered Clarvoe as a tall, thin, quiet-mannered man, obviously fond of and amused by his frilly little wife, Verna. What errant chromosomes or domestic dissensions had produced two such incongruous children as Helen and Douglas, Blackshear could not even guess. He had never been intimate with the family although he’d known them all since Helen was in college and Douglas was attending a military prep school. Once in a while Blackshear was invited out to the house for dinner, and on these occasions the conversation was conducted by Verna Clarvoe who would chatter endlessly on the I—me—my level. Neither of the children had much to say, or, if they had, they had been instructed not to say it. They were like model prisoners at the warden’s table, Douglas, fair-skinned and fragile for his age, and Helen, a caricature of her father, with her cropped brown hair and bony arms and legs.

  Shortly after Clarvoe’s death, Blackshear had been surprised to read in the society page of the morning paper that Douglas had married. He had been less surprised when a notice of annulment followed, on the legal page, a few weeks later.

  “I know what you are thinking,” Miss Clarvoe said. “That I should hire an experienced investigator.”

  Nothing had been further from his thoughts but he didn’t argue. “It seems like a good idea.”

  “Do you know of anyone?”

  “Not offhand. Look in the yellow pages.”

  “I couldn’t trust a stranger. I don’t even tr—” Her mouth closed but her eyes finished the sentence: I don’t even trust you. Or mother, or Douglas. Or myself.

  “Mr. Blackshear,” she said. “I . . .”

  Suddenly, her whole body began to move, convulsively, like that of a woman in labor, and her face was tortured as if she already knew that the offspring she was going to bear would be deformed, a monster.

  “Mr. Blackshear—I— Oh, God . . .”

  And she turned and pressed her forehead against the wall and hid her face with her hands. Blackshear felt a great pity for her not because of her tears but because of all the struggle it had taken to produce them. The mountain labored and brought
forth a mouse.

  “There, there, don’t cry. Everything’s going to be all right. Just take it easy.” He said all the things that he’d learned to say to his wife, Dorothy, whenever she cried, words which didn’t mean anything in themselves, but which fulfilled Dorothy’s need for attention and sympathy. Miss Clarvoe’s needs were deeper and more obscure. She was beyond the reach of words.

  Blackshear lit another cigarette and turned to the window and pretended to be interested in the view, a darkening sky, a dribble of clouds. It might rain tonight—if it does, I won’t go to the office in the morning—maybe the doctor was right, I should retire altogether—but what will I do with the days and what will they do to me?

  He was struck by the sudden realization that he was in his way as badly off as Miss Clarvoe. They had both reached a plateau of living, surrounded by mountains on the one side and deep gorges on the other. Blackshear had at one time scaled the mountains and explored the gorges, Miss Clarvoe had not done either; but here they were, on the same plateau.

  “Helen . . .” He turned and saw that she had left the room.

  When she returned a few minutes later, her face was washed and her hair combed.

  “Please excuse me, Mr. Blackshear. I don’t often make a fool of myself in public.” She smiled wryly. “Not such a damned fool, anyway.”

  “I’m sorry I upset you.”

  “You didn’t. It was—the other things. I guess I’m an awful coward.”

  “What are you afraid of, the thief or the woman?”

  “I think they’re the same person.”

  “Perhaps you’re interpreting your dream too literally.”

  “No.” Unconsciously, she began to rub her forehead, and Blackshear noticed that it bore a slight scratch that was already healed over. “Do you believe that one person can influence another person to—to have an accident?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose, if the suggestion is strong enough on the part of the first person, and if it coincides with a desire for self-punishment on the part of the second person.”

  “There are some things you can’t explain by simple psychology.”

  “I suppose there are.”

  “Do you believe in extrasensory perception?”

  “No.”

  “It exists, all the same.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I feel—I feel very strongly—that this woman means to destroy me. I know it. If you like, call it intuition.”

  “Call it fear,” Blackshear said.

  She looked at him with a touch of sadness. “You’re like my father. Nothing exists for you unless you can touch or see or smell it. Father was tone-deaf; he never knew, in all his life, that there was such a thing as music. He always thought that when people listened to music they were pretending to hear something that wasn’t really there.”

  “It’s not a very good analogy.”

  “Better than you think, perhaps. Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Blackshear. I appreciate your taking time out to come and see me. I know how busy you are.”

  “I’m not busy at all. In fact, I’ve practically retired.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t heard. Well, I hope you enjoy your leisure.”

  “I’ll try.” What will you do with the days? he asked himself. Collect stamps, grow roses, sit through double features, doze in the sun on the back porch, and when you get too lonely, go to the park and talk to old men on benches. “I’ve never had much leisure to enjoy. It will take practice.”

  “Yes,” Miss Clarvoe said gently. “I’m afraid it will.”

  She crossed the room and unlocked the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Blackshear followed her.

  They shook hands again and Blackshear said, “You won’t forget to report the missing money to the police?”

  “I won’t forget to do it, Mr. Blackshear. I will simply not do it.”

  “But why?”

  “The money itself isn’t important. I sit here in my room and get richer without even raising my hand. Every time the clock ticks I’m richer. What does eight hundred dollars matter?”

  “All right, then, but Evelyn Merrick matters. The police might be able to find her for you.”

  “They might, if they bothered to look.”

  Blackshear knew she was right. The police would be interested in the theft but there wasn’t the slightest evidence that Evelyn Merrick was the thief. And as far as the phone call was concerned, the department received dozens of similar complaints every day. Miss Clarvoe’s story would be filed and forgotten, because Evelyn Merrick had done no physical harm, had not even voiced any definite threats. No search would be made for the woman unless he, Blackshear, made it himself.

  I could do it, he thought. It isn’t as if I’d be investigating a major crime where experience is necessary. All I have to do is find a woman. That shouldn’t require anything more than ordinary intelligence and perseverance and a bit of luck. Finding a woman is better than collecting stamps or talking to old men on benches in the park.

  He felt excitement mounting in him, followed by the sudden and irrational idea that perhaps Miss Clarvoe had contrived the whole thing, that she had somehow tricked or willed him into this reversal of his plans. “Do you believe in extrasensory perception, Mr. Blackshear?” “No.”

  No? He looked at her. She was smiling.

  “You’ve changed your mind,” she said, and there was no rising inflection of doubt in her voice.

  Chapter 3

  THE FOLLOWING afternoon, after spending the morning at the telephone, Blackshear arrived at the establishment advertised in the yellow pages of the Central Los Angeles phone book as the Lydia Hudson School of Charm and Modeling. It was one of two dozen similar schools listed, differing only in name, location and degree of disregard for the laws of probability: We will make you a new person. . . . Hundreds of glamorous jobs awaiting our graduates. . . . We guarantee to improve your personality, poise, posture, make-up, figure, and mental outlook. . . . Walk and talk in beauty, our staff will teach you. . . .

  Miss Hudson performed her miracles on the second floor of a professional building on Vine Street. The outer office was a stylized mixture of glass brick and wrought iron and self-conscious young women in various stages of charm. Two of them were apparently graduates; they carried their professional equipment in hatboxes, and they wore identical expressions, half-disillusioned, half-alert, like commuters who had been waiting too long for their train and were eyeing the tracks for a handcar.

  They spotted Blackshear, and immediately began an animated conversation.

  “You remember Judy Hall. Well, she’s finally engaged.”

  “No! How did that happen?”

  “I wouldn’t dare to guess. I mean, her methods are pretty stark, aren’t they?”

  “They have to be. She’s let herself go terribly in the past year. Did you notice her complexion? And her posture?”

  “It isn’t her posture that’s so bad. It’s her figure.”

  “I bet Miss Hudson could do wonders . . .”

  Walk and talk in beauty, our staff will teach you.

  Blackshear approached the reception desk and the commuters stopped talking. Another train had passed without stopping.

  “I have an appointment to see Miss Hudson. The name is Blackshear.”

  The receptionist’s eyelids drooped as if from the weight of her mascara. “Miss Hudson is in Conversation Class at the moment, Mr. Blackshear. Will you wait?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just have a seat over there.”

  She undulated across the room, walking in beauty, and disappeared behind a frosted glass door marked Private. A minute later a short woman with hair the color of persimmons and a mouth to match came out of the same door. She didn’t undulate. She walked briskly with her shoulders back and her head thrust forward at a slightly aggressive angle, as if she expected to be challenged by a high wind or a disgruntled client.

  “I’m Lydia Hudson.” Her voice was incongr
uously soft and pleasant, with a faint trace of a New England accent. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Blackshear.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I was rather surprised by your phone call. You sounded so mysterious.”

  “Let’s say mystified, not mysterious.”

  “Very well.” She smiled a professional smile, without disturbing her eyes. “You’re not a policeman, are you, Mr. Blackshear?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you’re a lawyer, and the Merrick girl is a long-lost heiress. That would be fun.”

  “It would.”

  “But that’s not it, eh?”

  “No.”

  “It never is.” Miss Hudson glanced at the two models who were making a noble pretense of not listening. “Your call hasn’t come through yet, girls. Sorry.”

  One of the models put down her hatbox and started across the room. “But, Miss Hudson, you said be here at two and here we . . .”

  “Patience, Stella. Patience and poise. One moment of distemper can be as damaging to your skin as two éclairs.”

  “But . . .”

  “Remember, you’re a graduate now, Stella. You can’t afford to behave like a freshman.” To Blackshear, she added softly, “Come into my office. We can’t talk here in front of these morons.”

  Miss Hudson’s office was artfully devised for the acquisition of new students. On each side of the desk where she sat was a lamp with a pink shade that flattered her complexion and made her hair look almost real. The other side of the room, reserved for prospective clients, was illuminated from the ceiling with fluorescent rods that gave a dead white light, and two of the walls were decorated with full length mirrors.

  “This is our consultation room,” Miss Hudson said. “I never give the girls any personal criticism. I simply let them study themselves in the mirrors and they tell me what’s wrong. That way, it makes for a more pleasant relationship and better business. Please sit down, Mr. Blackshear.”

  “Thanks. Why better business?”

  “I often find that the girls are much harder on themselves than I would be. They expect more, you see?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Well, sometimes a very pretty girl comes in and I can’t find anything the matter with her at all. But she can, because she’s probably comparing herself to Ava Gardner. So, she takes my course.” Miss Hudson smiled dryly. “Results guaranteed, naturally. Cigarette?”