He told himself it wasn’t going the way he wanted it to go. The thing to do was to hit her with something that would throw her off balance, and while he groped for an idea he heard her saying, “Won’t you sit down?”
“No thanks,” he said automatically. He folded his arms, looked at her directly and spoke a trifle louder. “You’re doing very nicely, Miss Burnett. But it isn’t good, it just can’t work.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do.” And he put the hard smile of law-enforcement on his lips. “You know exactly what I mean. You know he’s wanted for robbery and murder and you’re trying to cover for him.”
That’ll do it, he thought. That’ll sure enough break the ice. But it didn’t work that way, it didn’t come anywhere near that. For a few moments she just stood there looking at him. Then she turned slowly and walked across the room. She settled herself in a chair near the window, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for his next remark. Her calm silence seemed to say, You’re getting nowhere fast.
He said to himself, Easy now, don’t push it too hard. Yet his voice was somehow gruff and impatient, more demand than query. “Where can I find him? Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not much you don’t.” He took a step toward her, his mouth tightening. “Come on, now. Let’s quit playing checkers. Where’s he hiding out?”
“Hiding?” Her eyebrows went up just a little. “I didn’t know he was hiding.”
“You’re a liar.”
She gazed past him. She said, “Tell me something. Is this the only way you can gather information? I mean, does your job require that you go around insulting people?”
He winced. He knew she had him there, and if this was really checkers, she’d scored a triple-jump. But then he thought, It’s only the beginning of the game, we can get her to talk if we take our time and play it careful—.
Again he smiled at her. This time it was an easy pleasant smile, and his voice was soft. “I’m sorry, Miss Burnett. I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize.”
“That’s quite all right, Mister—” she hesitated.
“Childers,” he said. “Lieutenant Childers—Homicide.” He pulled a chair toward hers, sat down and went on smiling at her. “It’ll help both of us if you tell me the truth. I’m looking for a crook and a killer, and you’re looking to stay out of prison.”
“Prison?” Her eyebrows went up again. “But I haven’t done anything—”
“I want to be sure about that. I’m hoping you can prove you’re not an accessory.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning if you’re helping him to hide, you’re an accessory after the fact. That’s a very serious charge and I’ve known cases when they’ve been sent up for anywhere from three to five years.”
She didn’t say anything.
He leaned forward slightly and said, “Of course you understand that anything you say can be held against you.”
“I’m not worried about that, Lieutenant. I haven’t broken any laws.”
“Well, let’s check on it, just to be sure.” His smile remained pleasant, his voice soft and almost friendly. “Tell me about yourself.”
She told him she was a free-lance commercial artist. She said her age was twenty-seven and for the past several years she’d been a widow. Her husband and two children had died in an auto accident. There was no emotion in her voice as she talked about it, but he saw something in her eyes that told him this was genuine and she’d been through plenty of hell. He thought, She’s really been hit hard.
* * *
Then all at once it occurred to him that she was something out of the ordinary. It wasn’t connected with her looks, although her looks summed up as extremely attractive. It was more on the order of a feeling she radiated, a feeling that came from deep inside and hit him going in deep, causing him to frown because he had no idea what it was and it made him uncomfortable.
He heard himself saying, “I owe you another apology. That crack I made about Nolan paying the rent. I guess that wasn’t a nice thing to say.”
“No, it wasn’t.” She said it forgivingly. “But I know you didn’t mean to be personal. You were only trying to find out—”
“I’m still trying,” he reminded her. His manner became official again. “I want to know all about you and Nolan.”
For a long moment she was quiet. Then, her voice level and calm, “I can’t tell you where he is, Lieutenant. I really don’t know.”
“When’d you last see him?”
“A few nights ago.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Here,” she said. “He came here and we had dinner.”
He leaned back in the chair. “You cooked dinner for him?”
“It wasn’t the first time,” she said matter-of-factly.
He pondered on the next question. He wasn’t looking at her as he asked, “What is it with you and Nolan? How long have you known him?”
“About a month.” And then, before he could toss another question, she volunteered, “We met in a cocktail lounge. I was alone, and I think I ought to explain about that. I don’t usually go out alone. But that night I felt the need for company, and although I drink very little I really needed a lift. I’d been going with someone who disappointed me, one of those awfully nice gentlemen who leads you on until you happen to find out he’s married—”
“Rough deal.” He looked at her sympathetically.
She shrugged. “Well anyway, I must have looked very lonesome and unhappy. I don’t know how we got to talking, but one word led to another and I didn’t know where it was leading. But to be quite truthful about it, I really didn’t care. He told me he’d just been released from prison and it had no effect on me, except that somehow I appreciated the blunt way he put it. Then he asked me for my phone number and I gave it to him. Since then we’ve been seeing each other steadily. And if you’re curious as to whether I sleep with him—”
“I didn’t ask you about that.”
“I’ll tell you anyway, Lieutenant.” There was a certain quiet defiance in her voice, and it showed in her eyes along with all the pain and suffering that had been too much to take, that had led to the breaking-point where a woman grabs at almost anything that comes along.
She said, “Yes, I sleep with him. I sleep with the ex-convict you’re looking for. I know what he is and I don’t care. And if that makes me a criminal, you might as well put the handcuffs on me and take me in.”
Childers stood up. He turned away from her and said, “You shouldn’t have said all those things. It wasn’t necessary.”
She didn’t reply. He waited for her to say something, but there was no sound in the room, and after some moments he moved toward the door. As he opened it, he glanced at her. She sat there bent far forward with her head in her hands. He murmured, “Goodbye, Miss Burnett,” and walked out.
His wife and four children were looking at him and he could feel the pressure of their eyes. Their plates were empty and on his plate the pot roast and vegetables hadn’t been touched. He gazed down at the food and wondered why he couldn’t eat it. There was an empty feeling inside him but it wasn’t the emptiness of needing a meal. It was something else, something unaccountable. The more he tried to understand it, the more it puzzled him.
“What’s wrong with you?” his wife asked. It was the fifth or sixth time she’d asked it since he’d come home that evening. He couldn’t remember what answers he’d given her.
Now he looked at her and said wearily, “I’m just not hungry, that’s all.”
The children began chattering, and the youngest, five-year-old Dotty, said, “Maybe Daddy ate some candy bars. Whenever I eat too much candy bars, I can’t eat my supper.”
“Grown-ups don’t eat candy bars.” It was Billy, aged nine.
And Ralph, who was seven, said, “Grown-ups can do anything they want to.”
No they can’t, Childers said without sound. They sure as
hell can’t.
Then he asked himself what he meant by that. The answer came in close, danced away, went off very far away and he knew there was no use trying to reach for it.
He heard six-year-old Agnes saying, “Mommie, what’s the matter with Daddy?”
“You ask him, honey,” his wife said. “He won’t tell me.”
“What’s there to tell?” Childers said loudly, the irritation grinding through his voice.
“Don’t shout, Roy. You don’t have to shout.”
“Then lay off me. You’ve said enough.”
“Is that the way to talk in front of the children?”
His voice lowered. “I’m sorry, Louise.” He tried to smile at her. But his mouth felt stiff and he couldn’t manage the smile. He said lamely, “I’ve had a bad day. It’s taken a lot out of me—”
“That’s why you need a good meal,” she said. And then, getting up and coming towards him, “Tell you what. I’ll warm up your plate and—”
“No.” He shook his head emphatically. “I don’t feel like eating and that’s all there is to it.”
“I wonder,” she murmured.
He looked at her. “You wonder what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Let’s skip it—”
“No we won’t.” He heard the suspicion in his voice, couldn’t understand why it was there, then felt it more strongly as he said, “You started to say something and you’re gonna finish it.”
She didn’t say anything. Her head was inclined and she was regarding him with puzzlement.
“Come on, spill it,” he demanded. He rose from the table, facing her. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Well, all I wanted to say was—”
“Come on, come on, don’t stall.”
“Say, who’re you yelling at?” Louise shot back at him. She put her hands on her somewhat wide hips. “You’re not talking to some tramp they’ve dragged in for questioning. I’m your wife and this is your home. The least you can do is show some respect.”
“Mommie and Daddy are fighting,” little Agnes said.
“And maybe it’s about time,” Louise said. She kept her hands on her hips. “I knew we had a show-down coming. Well, all right then. You told me to say what’s on my mind and I’ll say it. I want you to drop this Nolan case.”
He stared at her. “What’s that you said?”
“You heard me. I don’t have to repeat it. I know your work is important, but your health comes first.”
She pointed to the untouched food on his plate. “I had a feeling it would come to that. I’ve seen you walking in at night looking as if you were ready to drop. I knew it would reach the point where you wouldn’t be able to eat. First thing you know, you’ll have an ulcer.”
He felt a thickness in his throat, a wave of tenderness and affection came over him, and he reminded himself he was a very fortunate man. This woman he had was the genuine article, an absolute treasure. His health and happiness and welfare were her primary concern. In her eyes he was the only man in the world, and after more than a decade of marriage, the knowledge of her feeling for him was something priceless.
He looked at her plump figure that was now over-plump with pregnancy, looked at her disordered hair that seldom enjoyed the luxury of a beauty parlor because she was too busy taking care of four children. Then he looked at her hands, reddened and coarse from washing dishes and doing the laundry and scrubbing the floors. He said to himself, She’s the best, she’s the finest. And he wanted very much to put his arms around her.
But somehow he couldn’t. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t. He stood there paralyzed with the realization that she was waiting for his embrace and he could not respond.
All at once he felt a frantic need to get out of the house. He groped for an excuse, and without looking at her, he said, “I told the Captain I’d see him tonight. I’m going down to the Hall.”
He turned quickly and walked toward the front door.
But his meeting was not with the Captain, his destination was not City Hall. He walked a couple of blocks, climbed into a taxi, and said to the driver, “Lakeside Apartments.”
“Right you are,” the driver said.
Am I? he asked without sound. Am I right? And there was no use trying to answer the question, his brain couldn’t handle it. Yet somehow he knew that from a purely technical standpoint this move was the logical move, and he was making it according to the book. It amounted to a stakeout, going there to watch and wait for Dice Nolan. The thing to do, of course, was plant himself across the street from the apartment-house and keep an eye on the front-entrance.
Twenty minutes later he stood in the darkness under a thickly leafed tree diagonally opposite the Lakeside Apartments. A car was parking across the street and instinctively he reached inside his jacket to check his shoulder-holster. But there was nothing there to check. He’d forgotten to put on his holster and the .38 it carried.
You’ve never done that before, he thought. And then, with a slight quiver that went down from his chest to his stomach and up to his chest again, What’s the matter here? What the hell is happening to you?
Across the street someone was getting out of the car. But it wasn’t Nolan, it was just a tiny middle-aged woman with a tiny dog in her arms. She walked inside the apartment-house and the car moved away.
Childers leaned against the tree. For a moment he wished the tree-trunk were a pillow and he could sink into it and fall asleep. It had nothing to do with weariness. It was simply and acutely the need to get away from everything, especially himself. The thought brought a blast of anger, aimed at his own eyes, his own mind, and in that moment he fought to think only in terms of his badge and the job he had to do.
He glanced at his wristwatch. The hands pointed to seven forty-five. Assuming that Nolan would be coming to see her tonight, assuming further she’d be cooking dinner for Nolan, the chances were that Nolan hadn’t yet arrived. In Nolan’s line of business, dinnertime was anywhere from eight-thirty to midnight. So it figured he had time to hurry back home and get his gun and come back here and—
His brain couldn’t take it past that. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he’d crossed the street and entered the apartment-house.
In the elevator, going up to the ninth floor, he wasn’t thinking of Nolan at all. Somewhat absently, he straightened his tie and smoothed the hair along his temples. There was a small mirror in the elevator but he didn’t look into it. He knew that if he looked at himself in the mirror, he’d see something that he didn’t want to see.
The elevator was going up very fast, going up and up, and there was something paradoxical and creepy about that. Because it wasn’t the way going up should seem or feel at all. It was more like falling.
He pressed the doorbell-button. A few moments passed and then the door of 907 opened and she stood there smiling at him. He wasn’t surprised to see the smile. He had a feeling she’d been expecting him. It wasn’t based on anything in particular. It was just a feeling that this was happening the way it had to happen, there was no getting away from it.
“Hello, Wilma,” he said.
She went on smiling at him. She didn’t say anything. But her hand came up in a beckoning gesture that told him to enter the apartment. In the instant before he stepped through the doorway, he noticed she was wearing a small apron. And then, as she closed the door behind him, he caught the smell of cooking.
“Excuse me a moment,” she said, walking past him and into the kitchen. “I have something on the stove—”
He sat down on the sofa. He looked down at the carpet. It was a solid-color broadloom, a subdued shade of grey-green. But as he listened to her moving around in the kitchen, as he visualized her hands preparing a meal for Dice Nolan, the color he saw was an intense green, a furious green that seemed to blaze before his eyes.
Before he could hold himself back, he’d lifted himself from the sofa and walked into the kitchen. His voice was tight as he said, “
When is he due here?”
She was pouring seasoning into a pot on the stove. “I’m not expecting him tonight.”
He moved toward the stove. He looked into the pot and saw it was lamb stew and there was only enough for one person.
Again she was smiling at him. “You don’t put much trust in me, do you, Lieutenant?”
“It isn’t that,” he said. “It’s just—” He didn’t know how to finish it. Then, without thinking, without trying to think, “I wish you’d call me Roy.”
Her smile faded. She gave him a level look that almost seemed to have substance, hitting him in the face and going into him, drilling in deep. For a very long moment the only sound in the kitchen was the stew simmering in the pot.
And then, her voice down low near a whisper, she said, “Is that the way it is?”
He nodded slowly. His eyes were solemn.
“Are you sure?” she murmured. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” he interrupted. “You mean it can’t be happening this fast. You want to tell me it’s impossible, we hardly know each other—”
“Not only that,” she said, her eyes aiming down to the thin band of gold on his finger. “You’re a married man.”
“Yes,” he said bluntly. “I’m married and I have four children and my wife will soon have another.”
She looked past him. She seemed to be speaking aloud to herself as she murmured, “I think we’d better talk about something else—”
“No.” He came near shouting it. “We’ll talk about this. Can’t you see the way it is? We’ve got to talk about this.”
She shook her head. “We can’t. We just can’t, that’s all. We’d better not start—”
“We’ve started already. It was started as soon as we met each other.”
His voice became thick as he went on, “Listen to me, Wilma. I tried to fight it the same as you’re fighting it now. But it’s no use. It’s a thing you can’t fight. It’s like a sickness and there’s no cure. You know that as well as I do. If I thought for a minute it hasn’t hit you the same as me, I wouldn’t be saying this. But I know it’s hit you. I can see it in your eyes.”
A Century of Noir Page 26