Huckleberry Fiend

by Julie Smith

  “But did she tell you how she got it? She strong-armed me.”

  Once again she shrugged. She was quite something when she did that. “Well, darling, you’re terribly attractive, but after all I hardly knew you. And it was such a devoted thing she did. How could a mother be mad?”

  “I guess I’m just being silly. And it was silly of me to swallow that story about some unnamed vandal letting the air out of my tires too. She did it so she could take me home, thereby finding out where I live.”

  “Oh, my dear— and you a mystery writer. Rethink that one.”

  “It wasn’t Rosamund?”

  “Certainly not. Most people would have called AAA, not have to be driven home to get a contraption. Anyway, she could just have followed you. She must be very good at it, since you never noticed her before she wanted you to.”

  “I saw her at least fifteen minutes before she wanted me to.”

  “Alicia let the air out of your tires. Rosamund’s friend. You see, when Rosamund dropped her for Sukie, she was very hurt. She mistook your car for Sukie’s. Rosamund was rather touched by it, actually. When Sukie left, she took Alicia back and Alicia was only too glad to play Robin Hood with her.” I almost gagged at the comparison.

  “She’s rather large— I expect you saw her that night. Rosamund seems to like a woman with a certain amount of heft.” She gave me a coy look. “What about you, Paul?”

  “Me.” I felt my neck go hot. “Actually, Pamela, Sardis and I— I mean Sarah and I— are kind of engaged.”

  “Oh? Rosamund says you’re just neighbors.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’d prefer it if we talked about the manuscript and the reason you invited me over.”

  “Sweetheart, we are talking about why I invited you here. I want to make love to you.”

  She walked over to my chair and sank to the floor at my feet. Firmness was clearly called for. “Pamela, it’s a lovely idea, but I’m afraid I have other commitments—”

  “Tonight?”

  “In life. To Sarah.”

  “Whose real name is Sardis Kincannon.”

  “Exactly. There’s no reason to keep it secret, anyway. I’m really the one who’s working on the manuscript problem. She was kind enough to pose as the seller— Sarah Williams— the day we came to see you. We were trying to find out if you had it.”

  She put a hand on my knee and looked up at my face. “And what’s your interest in all this? Rosamund told me how you got it. If I’d been the one who had it, would you have burglarized me?”

  “Look, it was stolen from me in the first place.”

  “By Rosamund. I’m quite well aware of that.”

  “I mean before Rosamund stole it. I was merely retrieving my property.”

  “Your property? Darling, aren’t you forgetting I’m a Chronicle reader? It belonged to some poor man killed by that crazy person a decade ago.”

  “Pamela, listen, it’s too complicated to go into. Why exactly did you want to see me about it?”

  “I thought that, since my daughter took it from you, I might give it back to you.”

  “However, there was something about the newspaper story that made you come to that decision.”

  “Well, of course. It’s evidence in a murder case. I can’t very well stand in the way of justice, can I? Besides, the police might come looking for it, and it would be rather embarrassing to be found with it. Anyway, if I were, I’d just have to tell them where Rosamund got it— which would get you in trouble in the end. I thought perhaps I could trust you to do the right thing.”

  “You mean turn it in to the cops?”

  She shrugged again; I wished she wouldn’t do that. She reminded me of Simone Signoret in her heyday. “Whatever,” she said. “I just want to be rid of it.”

  I stood up. “I’ll gladly take it off your hands.”

  She was still on the floor, and now she raised herself to a kneeling position, her face almost directly in front of my crotch. She reached up to unzip my pants. I tried to step back, but only ended up flopping down in the chair I’d just vacated. I felt oddly panicked. “Pamela, listen, we can’t, really—”

  She sat down in my lap and whispered, “Yes we can, darling.” She explored my ear with her tongue.

  I tried to stand up, but she was too heavy— I couldn’t do it without dumping her on the floor. If brute strength wouldn’t work, I’d have to try intimidation. I shouted, “I’ve got to go, Pamela.”

  Her face was two inches from mine and her eyes were amused. “You don’t want to go without the manuscript, do you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “All you have to do is fuck me.”

  CHAPTER 21

  All my life I’ve stayed out of fights by writing angry letters— to companies that cut my credit off, women who treat me badly, bosses of rude clerks, and airlines that overbook. A stupid, childish thing to do, but harmless if you don’t mail them. Until a couple of years ago, I mailed them. I’d pull the paper out of the typewriter, frantically address an envelope, ransack my desk for a stamp, and dash down to the mailbox before I changed my mind. I knew it was a dumb thing to do, but some inner demon that intermittently got the upper hand over my better judgment made sure I did it before I lost momentum.

  That was how I ended up on the library floor with Pamela Temby. I did not make love to her— I did exactly as she asked. Fucked her. Fucked the bejesus out of her. I did it partly to get the manuscript and partly because she was licking my ear and I was going out of my mind with lust and partly because I realized I couldn’t stand her. And partly because I was furious about the vampirish way she kept her daughter under her thumb, and partly because I was jealous of her. And absolutely because I went out of my mind for a while. Under the circumstances one could hardly call it rape, but there was an aggressive element in it that was scary and sickening. Afterward, I felt disoriented, as if I’d waked up in a strange place and couldn’t remember how I got there.

  Pamela was aglow with delight, to all appearances— or possibly it was just the pride of possession and the effects of half a bottle of brandy. But why shouldn’t she be delighted? She’d most thoroughly had her way with me. Who’d done what to whom in a physical sense was hardly the point; I felt as much assaulted as assaulter.

  It was a little after one when I got home, and Sardis’s lights were still on. I thought about going up— I wanted to see her, to tell her what had happened, but I didn’t; I knew that was the last place I was going to get any comfort.

  Spot was curled up on the dining room table, in the middle of the dirty dishes. The candles I’d lit for dinner were still burning. The matches I’d lit them with were on the floor, along with a napkin, knife, and fork, knocked off by Spot— it was plain dumb luck he hadn’t knocked one of the candles over as well. Kicking myself for being so careless— among other things— I started clearing the table, mechanically walking back and forth between the dining room and the kitchen. It suited my mood of disorientation. I was still wandering aimlessly, almost contentedly, when Sardis arrived, unable to sleep and wanting apple pie. She came in chattering guiltily: “Look, I know you want to be alone, but I heard you leave and come back and then I heard you walking around, so I knew you weren’t asleep and I thought I could just take the pie back upstairs— I won’t stay, really.”

  “It’s okay. I’m glad you came down. Help yourself, I’m just clearing the table.”

  “What’s that?”

  It was the box in which Pamela Temby had put the manuscript— an old one of hers, apparently. She’d typed the title on a neat square of white paper and pasted it on: “Platinum., by Pamela Temby.” Sardis first examined it, then opened it without waiting for an answer. Seeing the contents, she gave me a quizzical look: “I have a feeling hereon hangs a tale.”

  “How about wine instead of pie? I could use some.”

  “Okay.”

  I wiped the now-cleared table, opened a bottle of wine, and got glasses. “That was Temby wh
o called when you left,” I said, “telling me she had it. She’d seen the first edition with my story in it, and said she wanted it out of her house.”

  “So you just went over and she gave it to you? That was it?” There was a slight edge to her voice that made me think she had a pretty good inkling what had happened.

  I said, “Not exactly.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this.”

  “I’m not sure I want to talk about it.” The truth was, I did. And Sardis was the very person I wanted to tell it to; I wanted her to say, ‘There, there, dear, it’s all right, anyone might have done it.’ But she wouldn’t. I knew it, but I couldn’t stop myself; I threw out some bait: “It was pretty awful.”

  Sardis fidgeted. “I don’t know. Maybe you ought to tell me.”

  It was now or never. “She made me fuck her for it.”

  “Oh, Paul! Don’t tell me you actually did it.”

  “Wait a minute. You knew I was going to say that.”

  “I figured she made a pass at you and something happened. I didn’t imagine you’d be stupid enough to believe you really did it for the manuscript. That is the most absurd self-deception I’ve ever heard in my life. You know very well you did it because she’s beautiful and she was there and you felt like it. I mean, that’s bad enough, considering— considering how I’d feel about it, for instance— but to claim she made you fuck her. Give me a break!”

  Oh, God. Now it was happening for the second time that night. I was in a fight I didn’t understand. Sure, Sardis was bound to be mad, but who knew how she was going to come at it? “Well, she presented it that baldly, to tell you the truth. And she was sitting on my lap and kissing my ear at the time.”

  “Sitting on your lap! She had to be invited there, didn’t she? Don’t tell me she just dropped down out of the heavens onto your knees.”

  “It was kind of like that, to tell you the truth. First she tried to unzip my pants, and then when I tried to get away I fell down and she pounced.”

  “Unzip your pants! What kind of woman is she?”

  “A perfectly terrible woman. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Do you think I enjoyed it?”

  “Oh, my God, I can’t stand this!”

  She got out of there faster than Booker had. Hearing her feet flying up the stairs, as if she couldn’t get far enough, fast enough, I could have cut my tongue out. What the hell did I think I’d been doing, to tell her a thing like that? And yet I was angry at her as well as myself. If we didn’t talk about the thing, it was going to remain between us, ugly and festering. Now that she knew about it, that is; which thought brought the guilt back on my head.

  I got the manuscript and brought it into the dining room. Tomorrow I’d have to give it up once and for all. I wanted to hold it while I thought about what to do, which had suddenly become the one thing it was tolerable to think about at all.

  Rick didn’t have it, so the cops weren’t going to find it at his place. But I was sure Rick was guilty. Maybe the cops would figure it out and maybe they wouldn’t. Oh, hell. I’d come this far; I owed it to Booker to give it one last shot. Slowly, as I fingered the pages of Huck Finn, a plan formed in my head. It was a crazy idea, but it might work. Or maybe I’d think it was stupid in the morning and call the cops. But there was a problem with that, and his name was Booker. On the other hand, was friendship really worth facing down a murderer?

  Feeling confused, depressed, and more than a little drunk, I went to bed. At seven I woke up confused, depressed, and hung over. I had coffee and felt no better. I stared at the manuscript and scratched my head. Finally, I went out for a long walk.

  After about an hour, my hangover was gone, but I still hadn’t come to any decision. However, as I turned onto my street, I saw a sight that made up my mind for me— Howard Blick parked in front of my house. He must have read the paper and come to harass me. Well, goddammit, I wasn’t going to sit still for it. If I went to the police, it would be on my own damn terms. I walked back to College Avenue, found a pay phone, called the San Francisco cops, and asked for Blick. On being invited to leave a message, I said: “This is Paul Mcdonald. I have important information for him, and I thought, since I’m in the neighborhood, I’d drop by. I’m going out of town, but I’ll try to call him from the airport.”

  “Could you hang on a minute, please?”

  “Sure.”

  A minute later: “Inspector Blick went down to get a cup of coffee. He’s in the building for sure.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right over.”

  I waited five minutes, to give Blick time to get out of the neighborhood, then returned for a page from the manuscript, my pocket tape recorder, and my car.

  My plan was simple. Using the page as proof I actually had it, I’d offer to sell Debay the manuscript, for resale to Kittrell or sale to one of the others, the deal being a sixty-forty split in my favor. Naturally, he’d want to know why I should get the lion’s share, and I’d say the extra 10 percent was my fee for failing to tell the police he’d killed Beverly Alexander and Rebecca Thaxton. I figured he’d make the deal and try to kill me later— he wouldn’t want to do it in his shop, and wouldn’t dare do it till he had the entire manuscript. Meanwhile, I’d have our conversation on tape, a tape I’d be perfectly charmed to present to my good friend Inspector Blick.

  It was nearly nine now, and the worst of rush hour was over. I was at Debay’s shop in less than an hour. I parked at the Union Square Garage and strolled casually toward a morning confrontation with a murderer. The casualness was a front.

  In the distance, I saw an ambulance parked in the street, very near Debay’s store. As I got closer, it seemed as if it were right in front, but it pulled away before I could be sure.

  Jenny Swensen was crying at the cash register. Though she was the sort who probably cried watching sitcoms, I doubted she did it at work that often. “Jenny, what is it?”

  She looked horrified. “Omigod! It’s you.”

  “Did I make that bad an impression?”

  “You lied about what you were doing.”

  “Jenny, did something happen to Rick? Is that what’s wrong?”

  She pointed at a ladder across the room. “He fell.”

  “Hurt bad?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t know.” She seemed about to drown in despair. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Could I get you anything? A cup of coffee?”

  “Just leave, please.”

  “I wanted to talk to Rick.” I went over to the ladder she’d pointed to. “How did he happen to fall?”

  “He just fell, that’s all. Can’t you leave me alone?”

  “He must have climbed these ladders a hundred times a week.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Jenny, did you see my story this morning?”

  “What story?”

  The Chronicle was lying on the counter. She knew perfectly well what story, and I’d begun to think it was damned coincidental Debay had had a serious accident the day it ran. “The one about Rebecca Thaxton.”

  She came out from behind the cash register, moving deliberately. “Yes. I saw it.”

  “Rebecca came in and asked Rick about the manuscript, didn’t she? And you overheard them.”

  She moved fast, unshelving a book and heaving it at me almost before I had time to duck. It missed me, but the second one didn’t. It caught me at the corner of the right eye, and I clutched at the ladder to steady myself. But it was too far away, and I reached too eagerly. I went down, dropping the manila envelope in which I’d stashed the manuscript page. Jenny dashed for the back room.

  “Paul!” It was Sardis’s voice, but I was too groggy to realize she wasn’t supposed to be there. She bent down next to me.

  Jenny said, “Don’t move. Either one of you.” She was walking towards us, pointing a gun— the same gun, I figured, that she’d used to kill Rebecca Thaxton. “Who’s this?”

  Sardis stood up
and faced her. “Sardis Kincannon.”

  “Are you with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re with me now. Paul, don’t try to follow us. This is what I believe is called a hostage situation.”

  “You won’t get far without money.”

  “That’s my problem.” Her white skin was stretched taut across her face.

  “I have something you need.” I reached for the envelope.

  “Keep your hands still.”

  “Jenny, listen. I’ve got the Huck Finn manuscript. I’m willing to trade it for Sardis. The only problem is, it’s at home.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “I was just going to show you a page. It’s in the envelope. Let me show you, okay?”

  She didn’t speak, just stared, mesmerized. I thought I saw a flicker of hope pass over the tragedy mask she called a face, but it might have been a trick of the light. I pulled out the page and held it up. When she didn’t react, I started to get up. “Stop. Where do you live?”

  “Oakland.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “In the garage.”

  “Okay, let’s go. I’m going to keep the gun in my coat pocket. Miss Kincannon and I will link arms. Get up. Walk in front.”

  The walk was an agony. Surely she wouldn’t shoot Sardis on the street. Surely all I had to do was knock her down, and that would be that. I’d have caught a murderer before breakfast, and everybody’d be happy. But she was about as desperate as it was possible to get, and I didn’t think she was all that well wrapped to begin with. Maybe she’d shoot Sardis and then herself before I could stop her. It wasn’t the sort of thing you took chances about.

  I drove and she sat in the back with Sardis. No one said a word until we were on the bridge, but the silence was getting to me, so I tried a little light conversation. “What I can’t understand is why you needed Beverly Alexander.”

  “Why I needed her?” Jenny sounded surprised. “I’m a public figure. I could hardly call Pamela Temby and offer her a stolen manuscript. Beverly was my front.” She seemed glad of a chance to talk. I suppose she was nearly as tense as we were.