Square in the Middle

by William Campbell Gault

  I looked again at Lynn, and she shrugged. I looked at the uniformed man, and told him, “Here’s my story; get it straight.”

  Dyke started to object and then said, “All right, you first, if you insist.”

  I gave him the story from Heeney’s to the parking lot, omitting only the trip from Lynn’s living room to Lynn’s bedroom. That wasn’t anybody’s business but ours.

  When I’d finished, Dyke smiled wearily. He looked over at Lynn. “You were responsible for Tom Edlinger’s divorce, were you not?”

  Lynn shook her head. “No. Tom’s wife had threatened to divorce him since the first month of their marriage. They were married for seven years. I met Tom less than a year ago.”

  “Quite a tomcat, I understand?”

  Lynn said nothing.

  “Wasn’t he?” Dyke persisted.

  Lynn shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t see what difference it makes.”

  Dyke looked past us, toward the windows. “His wife seems to think he was.” He looked back at Lynn. “But she says that none of these — ah — extramarital adventures meant anything until …” Dyke paused. “… until Edlinger met you.”

  Lynn said, “If you’re looking into histories, Sergeant, I would suggest you look into Mrs. Edlinger’s. Perhaps you won’t be as quick, then, to accept everything she says.”

  “I understand she had a nervous breakdown. Is that what you mean, Miss Bedloe?”

  “No. That’s only part of it. She’s a pathologically jealous woman.”

  “She seems to have had reason to be.”

  Lynn said nothing. She looked down at her hands in her lap.

  Dyke’s voice was cold. “Do you consider it wrong for a woman to love her husband too much, Miss Bedloe?”

  Lynn looked at him steadily. “I consider it wrong for anybody to love anything too much, Sergeant.” Her smile was weak. “As long as you asked for my opinion.”

  Dyke looked at the uniformed man and then stood up to go over and look out the window at the dimly lighted alley. He was probably debating whether he should hold us overnight or not.

  His phone rang, and he came over to the desk to answer it. The uniformed officer lighted a cigarette.

  Dyke said, “Who? Oh, yes, I remember you, Mr. Spencer. Yes, he’s here right now.” A long pause, and then, “A murder investigation, Mr. Spencer. Would you like to talk to your client?”

  It was my attorney, Earl Spencer. Dyke handed the phone to me and I said, “Hello,” and Earl said, “What in the hell kind of mess are you in, Jim?”

  “Why didn’t you come down and find out, Earl?”

  “Because I have a temperature of a hundred and four and if my doctor knew I was out of bed, he’d scalp me. Should I send one of my assistants down?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “I think the Sergeant is about ready to release us, right now. Just a moment.” I looked at Sergeant Dyke.

  Dyke fiddled with a pencil and frowned. Then, “After this statement is signed, I suppose I can release both of you without bond. Under the assurance that you will keep yourselves available.”

  I nodded to Dyke and said to Earl, “You needn’t send anyone. I’m very sorry about getting you out of bed, Earl.”

  “Forget it. Look, Jim, are you in serious trouble? Who the hell is this woman?”

  “A friend. Don’t worry about me.”

  “Drop in before you go to work tomorrow, Jim. I’ll be up and around enough to talk to you. Promise now?”

  “I promise.”

  “And for Heaven’s sake, don’t tell that Dyke anything you shouldn’t. He’s an ink hound.”

  “I don’t follow you, Earl.”

  “He’s one of those Department sharpies. He works with the newspapers and for Sergeant Ernest Dyke all the way. Politically minded gent. Tricky as hell, Jim. If he threatens you, phone Max. Max will know who to get to.”

  “Thanks. Take care of yourself. Get back to bed.” I replaced the receiver and handed the phone to Sergeant Dyke.

  He said, “Big man, Mr. Spencer.”

  “I guess,” I said. “Do you want us to wait until those notes are typed up?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll let you know when you can come in to sign your statements.”

  The uniformed man smiled and Dyke colored when he caught it. He asked, “Something funny, Dick?”

  “Nothing, Sergeant.” The man’s face was bland and not in any way apologetic.

  Dyke glared at him for a few seconds and then looked at me. “You can probably expect some unfavorable publicity, Mr. Gulliver.”

  I nodded. “I’ve been told there was a possibility of that.”

  Dyke didn’t color this time, but his face stiffened. “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Spencer told me. I would hate to think Miss Bedloe would suffer because of unnecessary newspaper publicity.”

  “Unnecessary …? What are you suggesting, Mr. Gulliver?”

  “I’m suggesting that it wouldn’t help your case a damned bit by making a tabloid holiday out of my overindulgence in alcohol.”

  Dyke’s smile was grim. “I don’t know if you’re threatening me, or whining, Mr. Gulliver, or something — worse than that. But I don’t run the newspaper in this town.”

  The uniformed man kept his face carefully blank. Lynn looked helplessly at me and back at the sergeant. I stood up.

  “Good night, Mr. Gulliver,” Dyke said. “It’s unfortunate that you’re in the loan business. The public seems to harbor a prejudice against moneylenders. And the newspapers know it.”

  “The newspapers don’t have to know a damned thing,” I said. “And we all know they don’t. It’s your responsibility, Sergeant. Good night.”

  The smile was still on his face when we left. The same man who’d driven us over was waiting to drive us back.

  Lynn said, “I seem to sense a streak of malice in that Sergeant Dyke, don’t you?”

  I nodded. I thought of Carol and young Jim and Sue. I said, loud enough for the driver to hear, “My attorney tells me that Dyke plays the newspaper game, trading them bits of scandal for favorable publicity. I’m surprised the Department would countenance that kind of behavior.”

  The driver coughed. Lynn nudged me.

  A few seconds of silence, and Lynn said, “Maybe he’ll be a gentleman, for a change.”

  From the front seat came a sound that could have been a chuckle or could have been a cough. We had no further dialogue all the way to Heeney’s.

  There, as we got out of the car, Lynn said, “I don’t want to go in. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”

  I waited until the driver pulled away before saying, “Let’s have it at your place. And I’ll go over those bills.”

  “Oh, Jim — for Heaven’s sake …”

  “C’mon,” I said easily, “it’ll be something different to think about. We’ll work out a real firm base for the new Lynn Bedloe.”

  She looked up at me, her sensitive face almost immeasurably weary. Then she murmured, “All right, lamb. I guess I could use a new personality.”

  We took both cars and mine was still on the lot, so she was waiting for me when I pulled up in front of her house about twenty minutes later.

  As we walked to the door, she said, “Your coming here might be a bad decision if the police are watching us.”

  “Why should they be watching us?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t had any previous experience with them except in fiction. Don’t they always watch the suspects after they release them?”

  “I doubt it. And I don’t think we’re serious suspects. I think Sergeant Dyke was trying to blackmail us in order to get information that would help him.”

  “Information about what, about whom?”

  “About our — your friends.”

  She stopped walking and looked up at me. “Why did you change in mid-sentence? Aren’t they your friends, too?”

  “Not yet, Lynn. So far, only you are my friend.”
>
  She looked at me for a few seconds before continuing toward the door. She had some trouble with the key, and I took it from her. Her hands were cold and I thought they trembled.

  We went out to the kitchen and she gave me all the bills from the drawer before filling the coffeemaker with water. I took the bills into the living room.

  Saks and Robinson’s, the drugstore, the filling station, the liquor store, the delicatessen — they totaled a little over seven hundred dollars. I could guess that all of them were final bills because no merchant of any sanity would extend credit beyond the totals on these.

  When Lynn came in with the coffee, I said, “If I got you four thousand on this house at five percent, you could pay off these bills, put three hundred dollars into the bank and give me three thousand to invest for you.”

  “And what would three thousand bring me?”

  “Four hundred and fifty dollars a year. Your interest on the loan would be two hundred. Which gives you a clear profit of two hundred and fifty dollars a year, with your debts paid and three hundred dollars in the bank.”

  She smiled. “Two hundred and fifty dollars a year? That’s about twenty dollars a month. Do you think I can live on that?”

  “Of course not. You could work, couldn’t you?”

  She held her coffee cup in both hands, warming them. “Jim, let’s not talk about it. Not tonight.”

  I started to say more, but she lifted a hand. “Please, Jim. I’m cold. Hold me.”

  She was sitting on the studio couch; I came over to sit next to her.

  She said quietly, “You don’t approve of Lynn Bedloe and her friends, do you?”

  “What difference does it make? I’m not God.”

  “It makes a difference to me. You think we’re all bums.”

  I didn’t answer that. It was childish and I didn’t think it worthy of an answer.

  “You do,” she went on. “And you want to make me over into something you can admire more. Why should you? You’re married. What can we ever be to each other?”

  “Friends.”

  “Oh, Jim …” She shook her head. “You don’t even believe that, yourself.”

  “All right,” I said reasonably, “you tell me why I’d want to straighten out your finances. What — ulterior motive could I have for doing that?”

  “I’ve no idea. I haven’t thought of it.” She edged almost imperceptibly away from me.

  I said, “I had fun at the party and fun with your friends. If you paid your bills and got a job, would it keep you from having fun?”

  “It might. It might — make those things important. And they aren’t.”

  “What is, Lynn?”

  “I’m not sure anything is except having all the fun I can, getting all the sun and all the air and all the laughs I can crowd into a day.”

  I said nothing.

  “Maybe you’d better go home,” she said softly.

  Her door chimes sounded at that moment and she looked questioningly at me.

  “Shall I answer it?” I asked.

  She shook her head, stood up, and went to the door.

  I heard a man say, “Reeve of the Star. You’re Miss Bedloe, aren’t you? I’d like a statement about …”

  Lynn said, “I’m sorry. I’ve no statement.” She started to close the door and the man thrust his foot against it.

  “Just a second, sister … he said.

  I stood up and went to the door. I said, “Get out of here. Right now.”

  The man smiled and called out, “Okay, Sam — get it!” At the same time, he shoved the door open wide.

  A flash bulb went off and Lynn screamed and I went past her, through the open doorway.

  Both men were trotting toward a sedan parked at the curb; I didn’t follow. I turned back to the house and came into the living room to find Lynn lying on the couch, sobbing.

  I knelt beside the couch and put a hand on her shoulder. “Lynn, you’ve got to …”

  “Don’t touch me,” she said. “Please don’t touch me. Go, Jim, please. It’s very important to me that you go right now. Please.”

  I stood there for nearly a minute in indecision. She didn’t lift her head to look at me. I said, “Good night, Lynn. I’ll phone you in the morning.”

  I went out, taking all her bills along.

  six

  Driving home, I wondered why she’d sent me away. Was it because she thought I didn’t approve of her friends and in this crisis she needed them? Or was it fear of getting emotionally involved in a dead-end romance? I had no answers there.

  One thing seemed reasonably sure; Sergeant Dyke had given her name to the newspapers. And probably mine. And that’s why the reporter had shoved the door wide open; he wanted a picture that included both of us.

  The Star loved controversy and sensation and when there wasn’t enough, it created them. I could see the headline: BROKER’S LOVE NEST.I could visualize my friends reading it, though most of my friends don’t read the Star. I could visualize Carol reading it.

  For the first time, a sense of guilt came to me. If Carol never learned about Lynn, I could rationalize the infidelity. If no one is hurt, who suffers? But now Carol would know and Carol would be hurt. The kids would know.

  Perhaps, if I could get to someone of influence, the story could be killed. But the few people of influence I knew were Republicans and they would certainly have no influence with the Star. And it wasn’t a story I’d want to explain to these people.

  I went home and made some coffee. I’d had only one cup at Lynn’s and coffee helps me think. I’d never had more need for clear thinking.

  I remembered that broker at Ted’s saying, “A man would be a damned fool to risk a decent family life just for some floozie on the prowl.”

  I had risked a decent family life, but Lynn was no floozie on the prowl. I thought of her in this mess, too, and remembered the bills in my pocket.

  Seven hundred dollars … Was one night worth seven hundred dollars? And if I paid these bills, how much would it help? She’d only run up more of them.

  I took them into the study and wrote checks for all of them. I addressed all the envelopes and sealed them and put them on the kitchen table, where I wouldn’t forget them in the morning. If I could save my neck with Carol, I’d never be seeing Lynn again.

  I went out into the clear night and stood on the front lawn. All the houses around me were dark except for the Nolans’. The Nolans had a new baby and a dim night light was burning.

  Everybody asleep, snug and suburban. All the neighbors who would read about Jim Gulliver, adulterer, tomorrow. I wondered how many of them had come through the same thing without a word in the papers. I’d had the misfortune of getting a murder mixed up with my romance.

  And a detective sergeant with political ambition.

  There wasn’t any point in hating Sergeant Dyke; he hadn’t slept with Lynn Bedloe. Neither had the reporter nor the photographer. They were using me for their own purposes, but I had put myself into a position where I was usable. I had gone down Mesa Road. I had gone back to Heeney’s. I had had too much to drink. And the boys were ready for me.

  I shook myself mentally. What kind of thinking was this? Who in hell did I think I was? Wallowing in self-pity.

  In the house, I looked at the clock over the kitchen sink. It was nearly two o’clock. Getting Max out of bed at two o’clock for a doubtful chance of help …?

  His phone rang for almost two minutes, then came his sleepy voice. “Hello.”

  “Max, this is Jim. I’m in trouble. A photographer from the Star took a picture of me and — a girl. It could lose me my family.”

  “Migawd, Jim — when did this happen?”

  “About an hour ago. It’s not only the picture; they have a story to go with it.”

  No questions, no needless words from Max. “Okay, Jim. I’ll get to work. I know a few people down there and I’ve friends who know some other people down there. I think it’s a small chance, though,
Jim. I’ll keep in touch.” A sigh and, “Oi, oi, oi — Jim Gulliver and a dame. It just doesn’t add, baby.” He hung up.

  The coffee percolator showed the red completion signal; I poured a cup and turned out the kitchen light and sat next to the window.

  I could see the headlights of a car way up in the Castelmarre section, coming down the steep grade slowly and carefully. We’d almost bought a house in that area but had decided against it because of the kids. The grades were too dangerous for tricycles or bicycles or roller skates or wagons.

  I saw young Jim in my mind, and Sue. They wouldn’t know quite what it was all about. I hoped.

  I poured another cup of coffee in the dim kitchen. I’d been working hard and living in a rut but that didn’t excuse me. I could have gone in for golf or more poker or trips to Las Vegas with Carol. I could have — I could have — hell; who was I kidding? The lure of Lynn Bedloe was as strong this minute as it had ever been.

  And so was my love for Carol.

  What the hell was I? No freak, certainly, if one could accept the eternal triangle running through our fiction and our plays and our newspapers. I was no different from a million others to whom this thing had happened. And I loved them both more than physically.

  And if I had to make a choice? Carol would win, because Carol had the kids on her side of the scale.

  Far overhead, a plane droned. Overhead, overhead, Arrowhead, Arrowhead …

  I must have been dozing when the phone jangled noisily. I came to with a start and felt my way through the dark dining room.

  Max said, “I guess we’re dead, Jim. They’re hard-nosed bastards. I even threatened ‘em with a libel suit. They laughed at me.”

  “Okay,” I said wearily. “Thanks, Max.”

  “Who’s the girl, Jim? Want to tell me her name?”

  “Lynn Bedloe. I think you met her.”

  “Oh, yes. Lovely girl. Hey, just a minute — she was in the office once, for a loan.”

  “That’s right. So …?”

  “We can tie it up — it was all business, see, and you were suddenly taken sick over there and …”

  “Max, who cares? Do the papers care?”

  “Papers, hell … It’s Carol I’m talking about. Migawd, you’re not worrying about anybody but Carol, are you? This happens every day, Jim. Or night. Look, let me figure out the story. Carol won’t see a paper until noon, anyway, and by the time she drives down here, we could dream up a real sound alibi.”