Women Crime Writers

by Sarah Weinman

  “Sure. Get your sleep.” Big Tom stood up and nodded to Uncle Willy and they went out and down the steps to the yard. Skip gave them a couple of minutes. Then he rose and, walking silently in his socks, he went into the bathroom and inspected his face in the mirror. An area of bruised flesh was swelling and darkening in front of his ear. He turned sidewise, inspecting it, and curses growled in his throat. He ran cold water into a towel, squeezed it lightly, patted the swollen place. It was going to look like hell tonight; and in class, under the bright lights, he’d feel like a fool. He decided then not to attend class but to wait for Karen outside on the break.

  He went back to the bed and lay down on top of the covers and stared at the ceiling. The picture was clear, but his own part in it was not.

  Uncle Willy and Big Tom went out to the alley, where Tom’s Ford sedan was parked. An old lime tree was blooming against the fence and the air was sweet with the smell of its blossoms. Willy said, “He’ll be okay. He got a little excited there at first, but that was natural. He’s settled down now.”

  Big Tom said slowly, “When you get a chance, talk to him. He has a chance here he’ll never get again.”

  Willy nodded excitedly. “Sure. Nothing to do. A wad of dough just for sitting still. What more could he ask?”

  “Keep an eye on him,” Big Tom said. “I’ll be back tonight around eleven.”

  “We’ll be waiting for you.” Uncle Willy turned and hurried through the yard to the rear door of the big house at the front of the lot. In the kitchen was Mr. Chilworth in pajamas and robe; he’d already had breakfast and Uncle Willy was surprised to find him here. Mr. Chilworth was staring nearsightedly into one of the kitchen drawers.

  “What is it, Mr. Chilworth?”

  “Oh, there you are!” Mr. Chilworth opened a second drawer. “I need a screw driver. One of the pulls on my dresser drawer is loose.”

  “I’ll fix it, Mr. Chilworth.”

  “Would you? That’s fine.” He was near the back windows now; through the screened porch the stairs of the room above the garage were plainly visible. For a moment Uncle Willy worried whether Mr. Chilworth might have seen him with Big Tom, an item Big Tom wouldn’t have liked; but then he reminded himself of Mr. Chilworth’s extremely bad sight. There was nothing to be worried about.

  Mrs. Havermann walked along the upstairs hall to the stair railing. From above she could see the lower hall, wide and shadowy, and through an open archway a part of the parlor. She leaned on the railing and stood still for a moment as if listening, then called, “Karen! Karen, are you down there?”

  In Stolz’s room Karen was on her knees before the open door of the old-fashioned wardrobe. She had a hand stretched to touch the heap of money inside. Her expression was one of fascinated fright. When she heard Mrs. Havermann’s voice she jerked her hand back as if from something hot. Quickly she got to her feet, shut the walnut panel, and walked across the room. She brushed at her face, then glanced at the sweat on her fingers in surprise. She opened the door just a crack.

  “Karen!”

  She was safe. From upstairs Mrs. Havermann couldn’t see the door of Stolz’s room. Karen came out, stumbled a dozen feet, looked up.

  “Oh. There you are. Come up here, Karen, I’ve something to show you.” Mrs. Havermann indicated some linens over her arm. As Karen mounted the stairs she moved away from the railing to meet her. “I’ve been looking into the hall closets. Here are some sheets nearly worn through. We’ll cut them up for pillowcases and dish towels. The nice thing about a sheet . . . when it wears, there’s so much left to do things with.”

  Karen came up the last of the stairs. Her heart still thumped and she couldn’t keep her breathing steady. As she took the linens from Mrs. Havermann she expected some comment, some notice—surely Mrs. Havermann would see her excitement. But as Karen ventured to lift her eyes, she found Mrs. Havermann’s gaze focused just beyond her. The look in Mrs. Havermann’s eyes was as always vaguely pleasant and cheerful.

  In that instant it occurred to Karen that through the years Mrs. Havermann had always regarded her like this. As if she were a shadow through which Mrs. Havermann must peer. As if she were not quite a living being. As if there lay between them a vast distance, an ocean of indifference.

  Karen saw this now because in her fright she expected the attention of the other woman.

  Mrs. Havermann transferred the sheets to Karen’s arm and then said unexpectedly, “Were you in the kitchen just now?”

  Karen, caught off guard, could only stammer, “No, I wasn’t.”

  Through the rimless glasses Mrs. Havermann’s gaze seemed mildly puzzled. “I have the strangest impression lately that you drop out of sight now and then. Just disappear. You aren’t hiding kittens in the cellar again, are you?” The tone was not exactly chiding, nor was there much curiosity in Mrs. Havermann’s attitude.

  Struck with guilt, her tongue thick, Karen got out, “No, I’m not.”

  There was no argument, no real interest on Mrs. Havermann’s part. She was picking at the sheets. “Measure the towels by those in the kitchen. Be sure to get them square. Don’t forget to change the bobbin on the machine. Black’s on it now.” She smiled vaguely and turned away. She was short and stout and heavily corseted. The artificial tightness of the corset lengthened her torso, flattened the softness around her middle. She walked as though encased in a barrel whose contents must be kept in delicate balance. Her gray hair she piled high on her head in an effort to gain height.

  Mrs. Havermann had stood near, had looked at her and had turned away, and to Karen it was at once a miracle and a revelation. She had never quite realized before how indefinite and withdrawn Mrs. Havermann’s manner was toward her. Along with gratitude over her escape from discovery Karen felt almost a sense of shock that Mrs. Havermann had paid so little real attention.

  Karen went back downstairs. Past Stolz’s room—she gave it a quick guilty glance—and then on to where the hall made a right-angle turn in the direction of the pantry, the huge kitchen, and the rear entry. In the sewing room, once a maid’s room, stood a long cutting table made of boards laid on a pair of sawhorses. Karen put the sheets here, got scissors from the sewing machine, and set to work. She had no objection to the task at hand. She was not lazy, and the solitude of working alone gave her time to think.

  The thing on which her thoughts fastened most desperately was the great store of money in Stolz’s room. It at once fascinated and repelled her. Most of all, from it she absorbed a stunning sense of danger.

  She had worked for a short time when she heard Mrs. Havermann’s quick step in the hall. The door opened and the older woman stared in at her. There was no vagueness now; behind the rimless glasses Mrs. Havermann’s eyes were sharp. “Karen, have you been in Mr. Stolz’s room today?”

  On the heels of fright, the denial was automatic. “I never go in there.”

  Mrs. Havermann hesitated in the doorway, her excitement subsiding. “Well, it’s rather odd. There’s something out of place in there. I can’t remember seeing it earlier.” She tapped the door lintel with a nail, obviously puzzled.

  Karen’s heart filled with fear. She knew exactly what must be out of place in that room; Stolz’s overcoat was lying on the bed. Stolz kept it folded on top of the money so that in first opening the wardrobe you didn’t see the heap of bills. When she had gone in to stare in fascination at the treasure she’d put the coat on the bed, and when Mrs. Havermann had called her she’d forgotten to replace it.

  “Perhaps Mr. Stolz changed things around,” she managed to get out.

  “It’s not the furniture.” Mrs. Havermann turned back into the hall. “I wonder . . . could he have laid it out for the cleaners and I not noticed?”

  Karen waited. Concerning Stolz, Mrs. Havermann was closemouthed, inclined to sentimental secrecy; Karen decided that she would not be told all about the coat. “Didn’t he send suits out when he was here?”

  “No, that was time before last.” Mrs.
Havermann nodded, as if deciding for herself what to do with the coat. “That’s it—he wants it sent off to be cleaned.”

  Karen was at a loss, though she saw the pitfall she had constructed for herself. When Stolz returned there would be conversation about the coat, where it had been found and what had been done with it; and whether she was able to argue Skip out of what he wanted to do, or not, she was in trouble up to her neck.

  She looked mutely after Mrs. Havermann. She needed help, needed to confide; but Mrs. Havermann was already too far away.

  Chapter Seven

  KAREN WALKED out to the terrace when class was dismissed for the mid-evening break, and she was startled to find Skip there waiting, smoking a cigarette, grinning at her. He pulled her close and kissed her, and something in Karen, constricted and repressed, born of her life at Mrs. Havermann’s, seemed to burst and flood her with warmth. She returned the kiss hungrily, clutching the shoulders of his jacket. Then she lay against him, grateful; here was someone to whom she could confide the disaster with the coat. She told Skip about it all in a rush.

  Skip listened, at first with indifference. He’d heard already from Eddie of Karen’s reaction to the money, her frightened excitement about it. It took a moment to realize that this wasn’t more of the same, the reaction of an inexperienced girl, but that a bad break had really occurred. Then it struck him with irony that this would be exactly what was needed if he meant to string along with Big Tom and Uncle Willy. Now was the time to pretend everything was off, that he was afraid Stolz would be warned and have the money guarded. But even as he opened his mouth to speak Skip changed his mind. He noticed that Karen was looking at him closely in the dim light.

  “What happened to your face?”

  His hand jumped automatically to touch the sore spot. “I . . . auh . . . I fell, getting off the bus in Vegas.”

  “It looks terrible! You should have a bandage on it.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  She lifted a hand gently but he brushed it aside.

  “How much money does Stolz keep there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You haven’t counted it? What’s the matter? Scared or something?”

  “It scares me,” Karen admitted, wide-eyed. “There’s so much of it. Too much to count.” She touched his arm timidly. “Leave it alone, Skip.”

  He flipped the cigarette into the dark. “Big bills?”

  “All I saw were hundreds.”

  Skip rubbed his hair, stretched lazily. “Sounds as if Eddie and I ought to do it tonight.”

  Her eyes were stark. “Why . . . how could you?”

  “The way we planned. You let us in around midnight, keep an eye out for the old woman, keep the dog quiet. How long will it take? Not over a couple of minutes. It’ll be a breeze.”

  “It won’t turn out the way you think. I know it.” She stood in the direct light from the door, trying to make Skip look at her; but now his gaze had a vagueness that reminded her of Mrs. Havermann’s. He peered beyond her at the hall, and she blurted: “What will happen when Stolz gets back?”

  “To you? Nothing. You could lie your way out of it. Or come to me.” He reached for her, pulled her close again; he could feel her heart thumping like a rabbit’s, and the knowledge of her fright and torment filled him with amusement. “What about the old lady? You ever tell her my name, mention seeing me in school?”

  “I guess she knows I talk to you. I’ve told her things you’ve said.”

  “Chrissakes, that was a dumb thing to do. Now she’ll have a line on me.”

  “No. Rather than have anyone suspect you, I’ll stay and make up a story; someone’s been prowling around when I got home at night, and I saw them. I’ll describe somebody. A stranger.”

  Skip stood musing, wondering if Karen were capable of carrying it off. Then he wanted to laugh at himself. Of course Karen wouldn’t be able to stand up to the characters Stolz would bring in. They’d have her babbling the whole thing in a couple of minutes. He let his mind dwell on some possible methods they might use, grinned, shook his head, while she watched. “You wouldn’t back down? Even to Stolz?”

  He was just having fun though she didn’t know it. “I’d never give you away. Never.” She put her arms around him, tucked her head against his shoulder. The warning bell rang in the hall, signaling the end of the break.

  “You know old lady Havermann could come to class, check up on whoever you’ve been seen with.”

  Karen gave a troubled sigh.

  Again, Skip thought, the opportunity presented itself. Say now to her that you’re calling it off, go out and build a rock-solid alibi, take the ten per cent from Big Tom and keep your lip buttoned. But again perversity, or perhaps the memory of the gun in Big Tom’s fist, kept him from speaking. He was even beginning to enjoy himself, the opportunities offered and shrugged off because, as Uncle Willy would say, he was just a punk and didn’t know better.

  “I’m just a damned punk,” he said aloud, amused with it.

  “No, you’re not. I love you.”

  Abruptly he shook her arms free. “Now what the hell kind of talk is that?”

  “Well, it slipped out. But I do.”

  “Listen, Karen. You cut it out. There’s not going to be any crap like that here, not between us.”

  “Sure, Skip.”

  “Come out this way when class is over. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  She turned away. The wind brushed at her short dark hair, tumbling it; she held it off her face, glancing back at Skip. At the door she blew him a small, light kiss from her fingers.

  What a sap she was, Skip thought.

  At eleven o’clock Big Tom went into the bath of Uncle Willy’s room above the garage, drew a glass of water, stepped to the open door to drink it. “He’s always here by eleven?”

  “Has been, up to now. Even earlier sometimes.” Uncle Willy sat on his small bed with a garden-seed catalogue in his hands. Mr. Chilworth had expressed a fantastic but determined whim for snapdragons and phlox. He wanted them along the side of the house and along the front walks. It was crazy, an abominable amount of work for Uncle Willy. “Class runs to ten, seven o’clock to ten. He ought to of been here by now.”

  “Why in hell doesn’t he go to school daytimes?”

  “Well . . . Skip’s an adult. Adult classes are almost all at night. You know, most people work.”

  Big Tom frowned. “He’s staying out later for some reason. I smell something funny.”

  Uncle Willy said soothingly, “Oh, Skip wouldn’t try anything.”

  “He’d better not. I don’t want any preliminary fooling around, a job I handle. There’s been too much already.” Big Tom put the glass back into its holder above the small basin, came back, sat down on Skip’s bed.

  As if to get Big Tom’s attention off Skip, Uncle Willy asked, “You got somebody in Las Vegas already?”

  “Benny Busick. He flew over, going to look around and see if Stolz has had a tax beef in the last few years.”

  “If Stolz has—it’ll be tax dough?”

  “Probably not. It’s the ones the tax bulls haven’t looked at who still feel like hanging onto their little nest eggs.”

  “I’ll bet Stolz is robbing the tax bulls blind,” Uncle Willy decided with a grudging touch of admiration.

  Big Tom leaned his arms on his knees, rubbed his chin, frowned at the open light in the middle of the ceiling. “I don’t know. There’s something screwy about the setup, a chunk like that left unlocked and unguarded in a house with an old woman and a girl. It’s careless-like, and a boy such as Stolz isn’t careless, ever. It’s almost like he’s got some kind of guarantee. Something to keep everybody away.”

  “There’s a dog,” Uncle Willy offered.

  “Oh, hell, I’m not talking about a dog.”

  “Maybe he’s keeping it for a friend.”

  Big Tom smiled slightly, as if Uncle Willy had cracked a joke.

  They wasted forty-five
minutes in the hamburger joint and afterward let Karen out at the corner where the bus stopped. “Now we’ll go on to the vacant place and circle around through those trees,” Skip told her. She was standing under the glow of a street light and staring across the wide lawn at the house. The house was dark except for a small bulb burning in the enormous cavern of the porch.

  “Did you hear me, for Chrissakes?”

  “Sure. Sure I heard you.”

  “The back door. We’ll be at the back door.”

  “What about afterwards?”

  “Stay and size it up for a day or two. If she gets wise the money’s gone and starts to get hold of Stolz, or makes a squawk for the cops, run. Don’t bother to pack a bag or any of that kind of crap. Just walk off.”

  “Where? Where should I walk, Skip?”

  “I’ll figure a place. Get going.”

  Eddie was alone in the car with Skip now. As the car labored up the grade to the rising ground and the trees, Eddie said, “I felt sorry for her there.”

  “For what? We’ll be doing her a favor, getting her out of the dump. The old woman works her tail off, and look at the clothes the chick wears. Not a goddamn thing you wouldn’t put on your old maid aunt. She wears cotton underpants, for Chrissakes!”

  “She told you?”

  Then Eddie knew that Skip was laughing at him, and he shut up. The car labored up the rise and drew to a stop beside the dark curb. Eddie got out. He heard Skip shut the door on the opposite side, not slamming it, ticking the lock quietly. “I wonder why we’ve never seen a patrol car through here,” Eddie said. “Big homes and all. You’d think they’d keep an eye on things.”

  “They’ve got an eye on you right now, friend,” Skip jeered. “They’re reading your mind with a goofus machine. Wait’ll we get to the back door. They’ll jump out of the bushes.”

  “Ah, shut up,” Eddie said mildly.

  It seemed easier this time; they were familiar with the ground and the extent of the grove of trees. They came to a point where they could see the dark bulk of the house, a dim light in one of its upper windows, a little window like a bathroom’s; and all at once Eddie was struck by the panic, the aversion and fright he had felt before. His feet grew leaden, his palms sweated. A cloying tightness shut off his breath.