It was the kindest thing he’d heard anyone say about Douglas since his death.
She asked, “How did it happen?”
Blackshear explained the circumstances of Douglas’ death, while she sat with her head half-averted, looking contemplative, almost serene, like a child listening to a story she’d heard a dozen times before.
When he had finished, she said with a sigh, “Poor Douglas. In some ways he was the best of the bunch, of the Clarvoes, I mean. He at least had some warmth in him. Directed toward the wrong people, perhaps, but at least it was there.”
“Helen has it, too.”
“Helen is cold to the very marrow of her bones.”
A premonition of disaster struck Blackshear like a spasm of pain. He had a feeling that her remark was intended to be quite literal, that the woman was trying to tell him Helen was already dead.
“Miss Merrick, I will ask you again.”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen Helen Clarvoe today?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“No.”
“Do you know if she’s alive?”
“No.”
“Do you remember telephoning her at her hotel last Monday night around 10 o’clock?”
“I can’t remember something that never happened,” she said gently. “I wish I could help you, Mr. Blackshear, but I’m afraid I don’t know any of the answers.”
It’s useless he thought, and turned toward the door. “Thank you for trying, anyway.”
“You’re welcome. When you find Helen, let me know.”
“Why?”
“Auld lang syne or curiosity, you name it. I’ll make a little bet with you, Mr. Blackshear.”
“Such as?”
“When you do find her, I’ll bet she has a man with her.”
Anger rose in him like an overflow of bile, leaving a green and bitter taste on his tongue and a rawness in his throat. He couldn’t trust himself to speak.
He opened the door and stepped outside. In spite of the lighted houses and the street lamps, the darkness seemed as impenetrable as a jungle.
Chapter 15
SHE OPENED her eyes and closed them again quickly because the light was so blinding, but in that instant she saw that she was in a small white room like a cubicle in a hospital and the enormous woman bending over her was dressed all in white like a nurse.
The woman said in a harsh tired voice, “She’s coming to. Give her some more of that whiskey.”
“If she’s drunk already, what you want to give her more of the same for, Bella?”
“Shut up and do as I say. Nothing brings a drunk around faster than the smell of another drink. Hand me the bottle, Mollie.”
“O.K.”
“Now hold her head up while I pour. Ha ha ha, sounds like a society tea, eh? Madame Bella poured.”
Miss Clarvoe tried to protest. She did not want the whiskey; it burned like acid. She jerked her head to one side and began to scream, but a hand closed over her mouth.
“You don’t want to do that, dear,” the woman called Bella said quite softly. “Maybe you’re seeing things, eh? Maybe little animals running around, eh? Just take a nip or two of this and they’ll go away.”
“No, no! I don’t want . . .”
“What’s the matter, dear? You tell Bella. Everybody tells Bella their troubles. Maybe you got a monkey on your back, eh, dear?”
Miss Clarvoe shook her head. She didn’t know what the woman was talking about. There was no monkey on her back, no little animals running around.
“Tell Bella, dear.”
“I can’t tell, I don’t know,” Miss Clarvoe said, her voice muffled against the fleshy palm of the woman’s hand. “Let me go.”
“Certainly, dear, just so long as you don’t scream. I can’t have you disturbing my other customers. A man comes in after a hard day at the office, he wants a nice quiet massage, he don’t want to hear a lady screaming, it upsets him.”
Customers. Massage. It wasn’t a hospital, then, and the woman in white wasn’t a nurse.
“No more carryings-on, eh, dear? Promise Bella.”
“Yes. I promise.”
Miss Clarvoe opened her eyes. She was lying on a couch, and at the foot of the couch a very pretty blonde girl with acne was standing with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. The other woman, Bella, was enormously fat; her flesh quivered at the slightest movement and her chins hung in folds against her swarthy neck. Only her eyes looked human. They were dark despairing eyes that had experienced too much and interpreted too little.
The mere exertion of talking made her pant, and when she removed her hand from Miss Clarvoe’s mouth she pressed it against her own heart as if to reassure herself that it was still beating.
“That’s good material in her coat,” the blonde girl said. “Imported from Scotland, it says, see right there on the label?”
“You can get back on the job now, Mollie.”
“I don’t have any more appointments for tonight.”
“Then go home.”
“What if she starts kicking up a fuss again?”
“I can handle her,” the fat woman said. “Bella can handle her. Bella knows what the trouble is. Bella understands.”
“Yeah, sure,” the blonde girl said with a contemptuous little smile. “I’ll bet you do. Well, you can have it. I like the normal ones.”
“Shut up, dear.”
“I wonder what’s so special about material imported from Scotland.”
“Blow, dear, and close the door after you.”
The blonde girl left and closed the door behind her.
Miss Clarvoe pressed her fingertips against her eyes. She couldn’t understand what the two women had been talking about, none of it made sense to her. She felt nauseated and dizzy and her head ached just behind her left ear as if someone had struck her there.
“My head,” she said. “My head hurts.”
“Her head hurts yet, listen to that. Naturally your head hurts, dear. You’ve been hitting the bottle.”
“No. I never drink, never.”
“You were reeking of the stuff when I found you out cold on my doorstep. I was saying good-bye to one of our regular customers who came in for his treatment, and when I opened the door there you were, lying against it. Stiff, dear. But stiff.”
“That’s impossible. I don’t drink.”
“Just rinse your mouth out now and then, eh?” The fat woman was laughing, every inch of her was laughing, mouth, chins, belly, breasts. When she had finished she wiped the moisture from her face and neck with a handkerchief. “That’s my trouble, I’m too jolly. I laugh too much. It makes me sweat. Oh, how I sweat, dear, it’s just not human the way poor Bella sweats. How about another nip of whiskey, dear?”
“No. No!” Miss Clarvoe tried to get up, lost her balance and rolled over on to the floor. “I must—I must get home—they’re waiting for me.”
The fat woman put her hands under Miss Clarvoe’s armpits and helped her to her feet. “Who’s waiting for you, dear?”
“I—don’t know.”
“Well, if you don’t know, there’s no hurry, is there? Lie down for a bit. Bella will make you feel better.”
“No, no.” The fat woman’s breath was hot against the back of her neck and smelled overpoweringly of aniseed. “I must . . . They’re waiting.” Someone was waiting for her, she knew that, but she couldn’t remember who it was. The faces in her memory were blurred and indistinct, people were shadows, places were all alike. She leaned against the wall and said faintly, “May I—have some water?”
“Certainly, dear.”
The woman brought her some water in a paper cup and watched her while she drank.
“Feeling better now, dear?”
“Yes.”
“Your coat’s dirty. Give it to me and I’ll brush it off for you.”
“No. No.” She clutched the coat tightly around her body.
“A
h, you’re one of the shy ones. Bella knows. Bella’s been in this business for a long, long time. You don’t have to be shy with Bella. By the way, who recommended me, dear?”
“I don’t understand.”
“How did you get my name?”
“I didn’t. I don’t know your name.”
The fat woman stood very still. Her eyes, tucked away under folds of flesh, were dead and purple like grapes. “How come you picked my place?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t pick any . . .”
“We mustn’t tell fibs, dear. Bella hates fibs, they stir her to anger. Who gave you my name?”
“No one.”
“You just came here by a lucky accident, eh? Is that right, dear?”
“I don’t remember,” Miss Clarvoe whispered. “I can’t remember—Evelyn . . .”
“Is that who you are, dear? Evelyn?”
“No. No! I was—I was with Evelyn. She brought me here. She said . . .” Miss Clarvoe paused, holding her hands against her trembling mouth.
“What did she say, dear?”
“She said I belonged here.”
The fat woman nodded and smiled and rubbed her chins. “She’s a discerning girl, that Evelyn, oh my, yes.”
“I don’t understand what she meant.”
“Don’t you, dear. Well, lie down and rest a bit and Bella will tell you later. Let me take your coat, dear. What sweet ankles you have. I used to have a well-turned ankle myself in the old days. Now I eat. I eat and eat because nobody loves me. Nobody loves Bella, she is fat as an elephant, yes, but she’s smart. Give me your pretty little coat, dear.”
Miss Clarvoe stood stiff with terror.
“I revolt you, eh, dear? Is that it? Bella revolts you?”
“Stay away from me.”
“Or is it that you’re just shy, dear?”
“You monstrous old slut,” Miss Clarvoe said and lunged toward the door.
But the fat woman was there ahead of her. She stood with her back pressed against the door, her arms crossed on her enormous breasts.
“Bella hates to be called names, dear. It stirs her to anger.”
“If you don’t let me out of here, I’ll scream. I’ll scream until the police come.”
Bella was quiet a moment, then she said bitterly, “I believe you would, you’re a nasty piece if I ever saw one. Well, that’s gratitude for you. . . . I take you in, I look after you, you lap up my good whiskey, I say pretty things to you, none of them true, of course. Your ankles are lousy, they’re like pipestems. . . .”
“Open that door.”
Bella did not open the door but she moved away from it, still talking, half to herself: “All the things I do for people, and what do I get in return? Dirty names and looks. Bella is human. Maybe she is as fat as an elephant, but she is human, she likes a little gratitude now and then. It’s a wicked world, there’s no gratitude in it. Get out of here, you nasty girl, get out. Bella is stirred to anger. Get out, get out.”
But the nasty girl had already left, and she was talking to an empty room. She sat down heavily on the couch, one hand pressed against her heart. It was still beating, fluttering like a captive bird under smothering folds of flesh.
“People are no damned good,” Bella said.
Helen Clarvoe couldn’t run. Her legs felt weak, as if the muscles had atrophied from long disuse, and the pain in her head had become worse. When she tried to think, her thoughts melted and fused and only one stood out clearly and distinctly from the others: I must get away. I must escape. I must run.
It was not important where she ran to. She had no plan. She didn’t even know where she was until she reached the corner and saw the street signs: South Flower Street and Ashworth Avenue. She repeated the names to herself, hoping they would form a pattern in her mind, but neither of the names meant anything to her, and the neighborhood was strange. She knew she had never seen it before just as she knew that she didn’t drink. Yet she’d come here, had walked or ridden or been carried, and when she arrived she was drunk. Stiff, Bella had said, but stiff. Naturally your head hurts, dear, you’ve been hitting the bottle.
“I never drink,” Miss Clarvoe said. “I never touch liquor. Someone must have poured it down my throat. Someone. Evelyn.”
An old man waiting at the corner for the traffic light to change looked at her over the top of his bifocals with interest and pleasure. He often talked to himself. It was nice to know other people did it, too.
Miss Clarvoe saw him looking and she turned away and color flooded her cheeks, as if he had caught a glimpse of her, naked.
“Heh, heh, heh,” the old man said and shuffled across the street, his shoulders shaking with mirth. Even the young ones talked to themselves these days. It was the age of the atom. Madmen have taken over. “Heh, heh, heh.”
Miss Clarvoe touched her face. It was burning with humiliation. The old man had seen her talking to herself, perhaps he’d seen more than that. Perhaps he’d been walking by when she came out of Bella’s place and he knew all about what kind of place it was. She must get away from the old man.
Miss Clarvoe turned and began running in the opposite direction, her coat billowing behind her, her thin legs moving stiffly.
At the next corner she stopped, gasping for breath, and held on to a lamppost for support. The sign on the post read Figueroa Street. I am not lost, she thought. I know Figueroa Street, I will wait here on the corner until an empty taxicab comes along. But something in her mind, some sixth sense, warned her not to stand still, and she started out again. Not running. The running had attracted too much attention. She must be casual, ordinary. No one must find out that somewhere, along these streets, or other streets, she had lost the day. It was night. The day had gone, passed her by, passed without touching her.
She walked on, her head bent, as if she were searching the sidewalk and the gutters for her lost day. People passed, cars roared by, the night was filled with noise and light and movement, but Miss Clarvoe did not raise her head. I must pretend, she thought. I must pretend not to know I’m being followed.
If she was clever enough, if she could control her panic, she might be able to find out who it was. Bella? The old man who’d caught her talking to herself? One of Bella’s friends? None of them had anything to gain by following her, not even money. She had lost her purse, along with the day.
A bus was unloading at the next intersection and she quickened her pace and mingled with the crowd that was getting off the bus. Secure for a moment, she looked back, peering through the moving jungle of faces. Only one face stood out among the others, pale, composed, half-smiling. Evelyn Merrick. She was standing in the shadowed doorway of a small TV repair shop, leaning idly against the plate-glass window as if she had just paused for a rest during an evening stroll. But Miss Clarvoe knew it was not an evening stroll, it was a chase, and she was the beast in view. She moved in sudden terror. The woman at the window also moved. For an instant, before fear blacked out all thought, Helen realized that the woman was her own image.
She turned and began to run across the street, blind and deaf and numb with panic. She did not even feel the impact of the car that struck her.
When she returned to consciousness she was lying against the curb and people were standing over her, all talking at once.
“Saw her with my own eyes, out she dashed . . .”
“Red light . . .”
“Drunk, for sure. You can smell it a mile away.”
“Honest to God, I didn’t see her!”
“Let’s get out of here. I don’t want to be called as a witness.”
“Come on, Joe, come on. I just can’t stand the sight of blood.”
Blood, Miss Clarvoe thought. I’m bleeding, then. It’s all come true, what she said to me the first night. She saw it in her crystal ball, I was to be in an accident, bleeding, mutilated.
“What’s a little blood, you watch prize fights all the time, don’t you?”
“Must of been drunk . . .”
“With my own eyes . . .”
“Somebody call an ambulance.”
“The lady in the green hat went to phone her husband, he’s a doctor.”
A young man wearing a cabdriver’s uniform took off his coat and tried to put it under Miss Clarvoe’s head. She thrust it away and sat up painfully. “I’m all right. Leave me alone.”
The words were muffled and indistinct but the young man heard them. “You’re supposed to lie there until the doctor comes.”
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“I took a course in first aid and it says that in the book. Keep the patient warm and . . .”
“I’m not hurt.” She dragged herself to her feet and began wiping the moisture off her face with a handkerchief, not knowing which was blood and which was sweat from all the running she’d done.
The crowd began to disperse—the show was over, no one was killed, too bad, better luck next time.
Only the young man in the cabbie’s uniform lingered on, looking fretful. “It wasn’t my fault. Everyone could see it wasn’t my fault. You dashed right out in front of my cab, didn’t give me a chance to stop, craziest thing I ever saw in my life.”
Miss Clarvoe looked back at the doorway of the shop where she’d seen Evelyn Merrick just before the accident. The girl had left. Or else she had stepped farther back into the shadows to wait. That was the game she played best, waiting in shadows, walking in the night, watching for the unwary.
The cabbie was still talking, aggrieved and belligerent. “Everyone could see I did the best I could. I stopped, didn’t I? I tried to minister first aid, didn’t I?”
“Oh stop it, stop it! There’s no time for argument. No time, I tell you.”
He stepped back looking surprised. “I don’t get . . .”
“Listen to me. What’s your name?”
“Harry. Harry Reis.”
“Listen, Harry, I must get away from here. I’m being followed. She was—I saw her in that doorway over there a few minutes ago. She intends to kill me.”
“You don’t say.” A faint derisive smile stretched his mouth. He didn’t even glance back at the doorway she was pointing at. “Maybe you escaped from somewheres, huh?”
Women Crime Writers Page 54