Square in the Middle

by William Campbell Gault

  I nodded and pointed toward the outer office.

  Max said into the phone, “I’ll switch you back to Miss Padbury, George. She has the new home phone number.”

  Max waited until Miss Padbury was back on the wire and then cradled the phone. “God, he sounded like he was about to cry.”

  “He’s gone through bankruptcy twice; he’s probably learned to cry.”

  Max’s eyebrows lifted. “Hard-hearted Gulliver. Get out of here; you’ve worked enough for one day.”

  I went out into the sun and down to the drugstore for a cup of coffee. Blake, from Hillview, was in there and I sat next to him.

  He said, “All kinds of rumors are floating around town, Jim.”

  Resentment flared for a second in me, and I asked, “What kind of rumors?”

  “About some big deal cooking at Gulliver-Schuman.”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved. “Just rumors, Art. Where did you hear them?”

  “From a friend. I even heard Colonel Dean was in on it.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Art.”

  “Jim, don’t tell me these things. It was only last week you were talking about seventy thousand dollars of our money. And got a quick ten. What am I, an outsider, a tourist?”

  I looked at him squarely. “No. You’ve been good to us. But some pies we bake to eat at home. That’s not illegal, is it?”

  “I suppose not. It’s kind of inhospitable, though.” He sighed. “Oh, well, we can’t all get rich.”

  Six years ago, Art Blake had been driving a 1937 Plymouth. He was now driving a brand-new Cadillac. I couldn’t bleed for him. And he was only one of many over at Hillview.

  Art left and I finished my coffee. Back at the motel, my phone would be ringing now; I didn’t want to go there. I drove down to the Coast Highway, and headed toward Malibu. The water was a blue it seldom is, and out on the horizon Catalina was clear and plain. The sun and surf bathers were in full force today, from the tots to the tottering.

  At Malibu, the hills were green and the view sensational. This was the place to buy acreage now; where else could people go? All of western Los Angeles was getting jammed and if one didn’t like the Valley, only Malibu was left.

  I turned right, off the Highway, into the hills. The Olds climbed and turned, the panorama of sea and hills extending with each turn, with every new level.

  To my left, a sign read: 107 ACRES OF GENTLE SLOPE — THE BUY OF THE DECADE. There was a realtor’s name and phone number.

  I turned off where tire tracks had beaten a path through the grass. I parked and walked through a grove of eucalyptus to the southwestern edge of the property. Below was the Malibu Colony, beyond was the blue Pacific, behind were the green and shadowed hills.

  It was a spectacular hunk of acreage and I wondered at the price. And I wondered if we were too high to get water in and what the fire insurance rates would be and what the taxes were.

  And then I laughed at myself. A broker looks at nature. Loan shark figures angles on panorama. Shylock cuts up God’s good earth. Where the hell was Iowa? Where was that man of the soil, that punk kid who’d been in the fields in those Iowa dawns, who’d looked wet-eyed at Iowa sunsets and sweated under a thousand Iowa suns?

  Iowa had nothing like this but all I’d seen was fire insurance rates in the dry California summers. This was a place to build a home, not a fortune. A home with a swimming pool and a badminton court, with a patio on the ocean side, a place to bring your friends.

  I made a note of the realtor’s name and telephone number and drove down the hill again, into the snarling traffic of the Coast Highway.

  A motel evening stared at me; I stopped at a newsstand and bought half a dozen paperback books. When was the last time I’d read a book? Or anything beyond a headline and a credit report? The best minds of our time were available at two bits a copy; I’d had no time for anything but percentages.

  From the newsstand, I drove to Bess Eiler’s. It was only a little after five and there were plenty of vacant booths. I ordered a martini and thought of Lynn.

  What drove her, impelled her; what was she seeking? Some idealized life the adolescents visioned? Some constant romantic adventure out of the fairy-tale days? One must eat, drink and be protected from the weather. Was it mundane to think of these things first? To experience, one must survive; there is no awareness without life and no living without awareness.

  I had scallops, with the Eiler tartar sauce, and shoestring potatoes and two cups of the best coffee in town. Then I took my six books and went to the motel for an evening among the literate.

  twelve

  The door to the manager’s apartment opened as I was stepping from my car and he came over to hand me a slip of paper. “He’s phoned six times in the last hour. He wants you to phone him back as soon as you get here.”

  George Wallace — Braham 6-1211, I read. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ve been trying to avoid him.”

  He nodded and then paused a moment. Finally, “Mr. Gulliver, I don’t want you to get the idea you’re not welcome here. I phoned the police that day before I realized how — I mean, I didn’t think …” He shook his head. “I just want to apologize for it.”

  “There’s no need to,” I said mildly. “A respectable businessman has a duty to protect the reputation of his place.”

  He looked at me blankly, started to say something, and then turned and went back to his apartment.

  I went into my place and took off my shoes and jacket and tie. I started to choose one of the books and then the unread reports of Michael Chopko came into my line of vision.

  Duty before pleasure; I went to them first.

  They were complete and more than factual. There was rumor in them and I could guess the rumor came from Rita Edlinger. I read four of them and learned nothing that was startling though some of it was new to me.

  The fifth one stopped me cold. Rita must have given Mike this; none of the gang would be that disloyal. And though it was incorporated into the report as often stated fact, how could a person prove it true?

  My phone rang and I picked it up and George Wallace said, “Didn’t you get my message, Jim boy?”

  “Only this second, George. What’s on your mind?”

  “You know what’s on my mind. Jesus, don’t toy with me, buddy. I’m prepared to go to fifty percent for sixty days. You can’t turn down something like that, can you?”

  “It would make it difficult.”

  “Impossible, you mean. That’s three hundred percent a year, Jim.”

  “Right. That’s almost as good as the used-car boys get.” I looked at the report in my hand. “Come on over, George, and we’ll talk about it. Do you know where the place is?”

  “I ought to. I was there three times yesterday. I’m on the way.” He hung up.

  I put the reports into a dresser drawer and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I didn’t know if it was the scallops or George Wallace, but I had a bad taste in my mouth.

  I opened the door to his pathetic smile about five minutes later. He was trying to look confident and breezy, but it was a role beyond his present capabilities.

  He came in and sat down and I asked, “What’s going to happen in sixty days, George, that will change your picture?”

  “I’ve got some buyers, some Corn Belt journalists who think the Dairy Journal is well worth twenty-five thousand dollars. They’re back in Wisconsin now, talking it over with their wives.”

  “Twenty-five thousand? And how much have you got invested in it?”

  “Six hundred dollars and a lot of sweat.” He smiled. “Even by Gulliver-Schuman standards, that’s a lot of return, isn’t it?”

  “Very worthwhile. Have the gentlemen seen your books?”

  “They’ve seen some books. If they buy, it will be within the next two weeks. And I’m sure they’re going to buy.”

  “And you can’t keep the ship afloat for two weeks?”

  “Practically all the money is going to pay
off debts, Jim. Those are the books they didn’t see, and I don’t want them to in their present shape. Jim, damn it, I was offered twenty-two thousand for that house three months ago. The lot’s worth twelve thousand.”

  “That could be. And with a five-thousand-dollar second trust, you’d be mortgaged up to twenty thousand. A banker would shudder at that kind of situation, George.”

  “You’re not a banker, Jim.”

  “No, I’m not.” I looked at my nails and back at him. “Do you remember the crack you made when I gave you that packet of matches at Lynn’s party, George?”

  He stared at me. “Sure, I do. I kidded you about whether you were going to charge me interest. My God, Jim, you’re not holding that against me.”

  “Of course not, George,” I said gently. “I just wondered who borrowed those matches from you?”

  He frowned. “Why …” And then he stopped and his frown deepened and he looked at me warily. “Does it mean something, Jim? Has it something to do with the murder?”

  I nodded.

  His eyes were accusing. “What do you think I am, some kind of stool pigeon? Those people are my friends, Jim. There isn’t one of them who couldn’t have my right arm any time he asked for it.”

  “Even if the person was a murderer?”

  “You know nobody in that gang is a murderer. But that bastard Dyke would like to railroad one of them. Look what he did to you, Jim.”

  “Was it Jackie Teller you gave the matches to, George?”

  “I’m not answering, Jim. You’d get it by a process of elimination if I answered.”

  I sighed. “All right, George. Well, I don’t want to seem inhospitable, but I’ve a lot of reading to do tonight.”

  His face went slack. “Are you telling me ‘no,’ Jim?”

  “I’m telling you ‘no.’ Like you did me. Five people in that gang told Dyke I was sleeping on the couch when they left. I’m not included in their loyalty.”

  George seemed to be breathing heavily. “Damn you, Jim Gulliver.”

  “Just call me Shylock. Good night, George.”

  “All right,” he said, “I’m desperate. I guess they’re not worth twenty-five thousand dollars to me. I guess there’s no reason I should think they are, is there, Jim?”

  I wasn’t going to help him rationalize it. I didn’t answer.

  Later, while he was still there, I phoned Miss Padbury at home and she was there. I asked her, “Is that seven thousand of yours immediately available?”

  “In a checking account, Mr. Gulliver.”

  “I’m sending a man named George Wallace over,” I told her. “Write him a check for five thousand dollars and date it a day ahead. By that time we’ll have a second trust deed drawn up and you’ll get fifty percent in sixty days. Is that good enough?”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Gulliver. Is it — fairly safe?”

  “I’ll underwrite it,” I told her. “Is that safe enough?”

  “That’s perfect, Mr. Gulliver. I’ll be waiting for the man.”

  George went out, and I phoned Mike Chopko, but got no answer. I phoned Rita Edlinger, and the housekeeper told me she had gone out to dinner and a show.

  “With Mr. Chopko?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, sir. I think it was Mr. Chopko.”

  “Would you have Mrs. Edlinger phone me when she comes in? Or if it is Mr. Chopko with her, have him phone me.” I gave her my name and phone number.

  I read the rest of the reports then, and tried to get into one of the books, an F. Scott Fitzgerald item I had overlooked in college. But master though he was, he couldn’t hold me tonight.

  I lay on the bed with a dim light on, waiting for the call. Outside, the sounds of traffic diminished as the evening wore on. I dozed and wakened and dozed again. The room began to chill and I got up to discover the maid must have turned the thermostat down.

  It was now two o’clock; I undressed and climbed into bed. I slept through until dawn this time. I decided not to phone Chopko again until I got to the office.

  Miss Padbury was there when I arrived. I worked out the details of the deed with her; it would be ten percent interest and forty percent commission and she would receive all of it.

  I was halfway through my mail when Chopko phoned. He said, “We got in too late to phone you, last night. Mrs. Edlinger was very pleased with the flowers you sent, Jim.”

  “That’s good.” I told him why I’d phoned.

  He was silent for seconds. And then, “Are you sure about your story?”

  “I’m sure. How about yours? Did you get it from Rita?”

  “That’s right. And she got it from the horse’s mouth. But it could be just one of those things that type of person loves to spread. They’re all on the phony side, you know.”

  “I know. Wouldn’t the family doctor have the information?”

  “But not to reveal. I’ll ask Rita who the doctor is, and if she knows, there might be a way I could make sure. But are you sure, Jim?”

  “To use your words, I got it right from the horse’s mouth.”

  Another pause, and then, “If the police wanted to know, I’m sure the doctor would be co-operative. But without that official approach, I … Well, all we can do is try.”

  “How about the office girl? A couple hundred dollars could look big to her.”

  “You’d spend a couple hundred for that?”

  “I would.”

  “All right. I’ll go to work on it. And thanks again from Rita for the roses.”

  George Wallace came in a little after that, and we got all the papers signed all around. Max came in as we were finishing up and he looked troubled when he saw George there.

  The door had hardly closed behind George’s departing back before Max asked, “Now — what?”

  “Miss Padbury lent George Wallace five thousand dollars at fifty percent for sixty days. Sorry you weren’t here, Max?”

  He winced. “How can you do that to people, Jim?”

  “He insisted on it. And he did me a favor, so I thought it only fair to return it.”

  He looked at me sharply. “What kind of favor, Jim?”

  “I wouldn’t want to say until I’m sure. I wouldn’t want to ruin a reputation. I’m not being secretive; it’s just that I think I ought to keep it to myself until I’m positive.”

  “Something about the murder, Jim?”

  I nodded. “Have you or Adele talked to Carol in the last couple of days?”

  He nodded. “She’s going ahead with the divorce. That’s what she told Adele Sunday.” He put a hand on my arm. “Why don’t you go home and talk to her? You’ve got to make a personal pitch, Jim.”

  “The kids will see me. And they think I’m out of town. And if the pitch doesn’t sell Carol, I’ll have to leave again, and then the kids will know. I don’t want them to know until it’s definite.”

  “Aren’t they in school?”

  “Split days. Jim goes in the morning and Sue in the afternoon.”

  Max shook his head. “Oh man, isn’t it a wonderful world?” He shook his head again and went down to his office.

  I finished with the mail and dictated some letters and went back to the books. A few clients came in, but Max handled them. I thought back to the day this began and how Max and I had fought that day. And now you’d think we were brothers. Well, I was in trouble, and Max was my partner and that’s a word that means something to Max, partner. As did wife and children and home.

  He went to lunch first and I had two loan applicants while he was gone. Business was better, today. He came back and I went to lunch at the Boston Beanery.

  I went through all of it with only the automatic half of me; the other half was waiting for the call from Michael Chopko.

  He hadn’t called when I got back from lunch, Miss Padbury informed me. I went back to the books.

  At four o’clock I had another applicant, and when I walked with him to the outer office, I saw Chopko waiting for me there. He looked faint
ly triumphant.

  The man went out and Chopko came with me to my office, closing the door carefully behind him. “It cost you fifty dollars,” he said, “and I may have to take the girl to the Palladium.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “Well, that bragging was true enough. The first doctor admitted that. I didn’t have to pay there; I flashed an old badge of mine.”

  “Ouch! You could get in real trouble, couldn’t you, Mike, working a gag like that?”

  “I could. But I’m not, yet. But then, I had to go to the second doctor, the surgeon, the man who did an operation for this thing about three months ago.”

  “So? And the operation was a success. There goes my hunch.”

  Mike shook his head. “The operation wasn’t a success. There was only a remote chance that it would be and it didn’t come off. As a matter of fact, the operation isn’t paid for, either. And there’s a chance it might not be. The patient is bullheaded and very deeply disappointed.”

  “You can believe the office girl?”

  “She showed me some records, and some letters. They were authentic enough.”

  Silence, and then I asked, “Is it a case, Mike?”

  “Not good enough for the police. It wouldn’t be nearly enough to take into court.”

  “Even with what Wallace told me?”

  “Even with what Wallace told you.”

  “Where the hell are we, then?”

  He was leaning forward in his chair and he looked down at the floor. “Nowhere, really. We could take it to Dyke; he might be able to use it. Sometimes police persuasion can break a man down.”

  “If I took it to the police, it wouldn’t be to Dyke.”

  Mike’s smile was dim. “No, I suppose not.”

  “Well,” I decided, “let’s hold it for a while. I’ll think of something. At least we have a target now.”

  He nodded. “And if the police wanted to go along with it, we could hide some microphones in that house, I suppose.”

  “That wouldn’t help unless it was a matter of family knowledge. I don’t think it is.”

  He stood up. “You’re going to sit on this?”

  “For a while. Why, Mike?”