Davidian Report

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “It took you long enough to come,” the mutter insinuated.

  “I have a car.”

  “Where is it?”

  “East of Main on Second. End of the block.” He was ready to lift out of his seat.

  But Davidian murmured, “I must see the end of the picture. The end is very exciting. He rides the villain over the edge of the parapet.”

  “You’ve seen it once?”

  “I have seen it since nine o’clock.” The titter was soundless.

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  “It is very exciting.”

  The house lights didn’t come up at the finish. This was a bedchamber for men who hadn’t the price of a bed.

  “You go first. I follow.”

  Steve obeyed. Not certain Davidian would show up. Even now he didn’t trust Davidian. Especially now, because being with the man was to be reminded of the silverfish elusiveness. He couldn’t be certain Davidian wouldn’t stay for the third or fourth showing. Very exciting.

  Steve didn’t look at Janni as he left the theater. It was better not to see her. He was unlocking the car door when Davidian materialized beneath his shoulder. Steve hadn’t heard him approach.

  “Not much of a car,” Davidian commented.

  “It beats walking.”

  “You are too easy satisfied. Give me a cigarette. I have just run out.”

  “Did you ever buy a pack?”

  Davidian chuckled agreeably. “Thank you.” He took four, deliberately, tucked them into his shirt pocket. A fifth he put between his lips. “A match, if you please.”

  Steve handed him a used folder.

  “It is like old times, Stefan,” Davidian mused.

  “You’ve missed me?” He asked it, “You have the report finished?”

  “Did I not promise you?”

  It was going to be all right, he could relax. “Where do we go?”

  “We do not go together, Stefan. Have you forgotten so soon what you have learned? Or do you believe there is no danger in Hollywood?”

  “I’m not quite the fool you’ve been.”

  Davidian offered his amused cough. “You have been hearing of me?”

  “Why do you take such chances?”

  “Stefan, Stefan,” Davidian choked. “There was no risk. Davidian knew what he was doing.” Always he’d had the colossal conceit of the great of the earth, this half-starved puny man in the broken shoes, the shabby coat, the bare head with its thin covering of hair. “The chance I do not take is to drive to my house with Stefan Winterich. This risk is too great.”

  “You mean I’m poison?”

  Davidian puffed on the cigarette. “You do not know?”

  “Maybe I do,” Steve said savagely. “Well, how do we do it?”

  Davidian considered. Quite as if he hadn’t thought it out carefully in advance. “You will let me out.” He considered it more thoughtfully. “It is Saturday night, yes. At the Palladium, a palace of the dance on Sunset Boulevard near Gower, I will leave the car. I will mingle with the departing dancers and those leaving the broadcast studios.”

  “We meet where?”

  Davidian whispered the street. “The brown house. Once it was a brown house. A modest house. To suit a modest man.”

  “Who gets there first?”

  “It matters not.” He’d smoked the cigarette to its burning ash. He flipped it regretfully out of the window. “You will have the key.” He palmed it from his pocket, a ten-cent key, the kind that opened a dozen doors. “If I am not there yet, you will visit with Stella. I leave it to you what you tell her. One thing only, no one must see you come.” He wasn’t mocking now.

  “You think I’m still walking around because I take chances?”

  “No, Stefan. You do not take chances. You are a careful man.” There was only the faintest flavor of contempt.

  “Who’s Stella?”

  “A very fine woman. She tries to fatten me. For her sake, I venture to believe.” He sighed noisily. “Poor Stella. I am unworthy of her.”

  “Is she safe?”

  “But Stefan, how can you ask? She knows nothing! When I leave she knows no more.”

  Steve understood. “That’s how you’ve hidden. Kept moving.”

  “An Arab in the night.”

  “Yes. Without folding your tent.” Before neighbors could grow too neighborly. Before they became curious.

  Davidian wheezed, “How can one, when there is no tent to fold?”

  The sky lights of Hollywood were moving closer to the windshield. Davidian said, “You will drive a little more carefully and the red light will stop you at Gower.”

  Davidian had the car door open before the wheels were motionless. Steve didn’t turn his head. There might have been no one beside him in the car. Fleetingly he wondered if he would catch up with Davidian again.

  2

  When the light changed, Steve drove on to Vine, followed it to Hollywood Boulevard and headed west. He was uneasy passing Davidian’s street. It was an empty street, only two houses on it, an unused street, the business offices shuttered, not even the inevitable Hollywood parking lot to give it light and movement. There was no reason for anyone to walk into the mouth of that street at night except to visit one of the two houses. And he had to go there unseen. Again he cursed Davidian, it must have been deliberate; only someone seeking to make danger would have insinuated himself into one of those houses.

  He drove on up the boulevard to Highland, followed it to an all-night filling station. He left the car for gas while he went into the office and rang Oriole. The anxious voice said, “Where have you been? I have tried to reach you.”

  Steve snapped, “Where do you think I’ve been? Working. I’m coming around. In about thirty minutes. It’s important.”

  “You have found—?” There was hope.

  “I’ve got plenty to report. Thirty minutes.” He hung up. With Steve expected in thirty minutes, none of them would be currycombing the streets for him.

  He paid the attendant and drove on. Mr. Oriole would be getting Mr. Schmidt out of bed. Unless they were all there now, the careful Schmidt, an hysterical Feather, and a rich irate uncle. They’d forgive if he brought them the Davidian report. He wondered if Elsabeth was in it too. But certainly, her diamonds would have an extra glitter because of the secrets she shared of a great day coming, secrets her lunch and tea and cocktail ladies didn’t dream. Aunt Elsabeth would think her diamonds were to be safe.

  He circled in and around before parking the car on Franklin, north of the boulevard. Not too far from his destination, but far enough so that if anyone should spot the heap, they’d have a hard time knowing which way he had headed.

  He walked unhurriedly to Davidian’s. At the mouth of the street he cut the corner boldly. Davidian might not be so foolish after all. You could be sure if you were alone here. He faded into the alley before approaching the houses, noting the courtyard behind them, the back door of the once-brown house, the flat roof obtruding from the second story, an easy drop into the yard. He waited, listening, but no footsteps crept after him. He was swift moving to the house; he opened the door with Davidian’s key and closed it fast.

  He was in a narrow unlighted hallway. He stood there not moving, his hand on the doorknob behind him, unsure as he must be always with the slippery Davidian. Wondering if the enemy had offered better terms, if this were the ultimate trap. And then there was a scratch on sand and a firefly glimmer of light. He looked up to it, saw the shape of Davidian at the head of the stairway. The glimmer disappeared and Steve climbed the stairs in its memory, followed the darker shadow in the dark another flight. The stairs ended at a door, a door which opened on well-oiled hinges. When, it was closed, Davidian struck another match.

  “The attic room,” he said sardonically. With the match spurt he found a low lamp, turned it on. No light could show to the street below. The windows were curtained in black.

  The ceiling was low, the walls bare, the floor unpainted. Th
ere was a broken cot; an upholstered chair, its cotton molting from the arms and side; a crippled dining table and discarded chairs. Davidian was a collector. There were orange crates, corrugated boxes, the quite good lamp. Steve sat on one of the chairs.

  “You like it, Stefan?” Davidian showed his discolored teeth. “I knew you would feel at home here.” He rooted into a box and brought forth a bottle of red wine. “This too for your homesickness.” From an orange crate he took two unmatched glasses. “I am sorry there is no woman, but a man is not permitted everything.” He overfilled the tumblers, bent and sipped from the best one. “Not bad, this California vintage. I am becoming a good American even to my palate.”

  “Besides it’s easier to find a bottle on an unguarded shelf.”

  There had been no other way to keep alive in the world of Davidian. It was not dishonesty, it was survival. When all else had been stripped from man, one law alone remained, to survive.

  Davidian said cheerfully, “You are insulting.” He settled in the musty armchair, as if it were a throne. “Ah, it is like old times, Stefan.” He reached for his glass. “A cigarette, if you please.”

  “There are four in your pocket,” Steve reminded him.

  Davidian refrained from smoking. Biding his time until absent-mindedly he could reach for one when Steve brought out his pack. As he knew Steve would. And as Steve knew, it was an old gamble between them. Like old times but no rustle of Janni behind the door, cutting the bread and cheese, her happy heart singing an accompaniment to the men’s words. Tonight the pain of her had eased, for separation was temporary; there must be a means whereby they could run away together tomorrow night, if only for brief respite. He had the car, a few hours and they could be over the border into Mexico. They could be married in Mexico. He was turning soft, thinking marriage that came from a trip home, away from the ugly realities of Berlin.

  Yet, sipping the sweet wine—Davidian’s taste was appalling—he did not outthrust the idea with violence as he had in the past, knowing it to be treachery to Janni to take her as wife. He was growing too old for the life he had chosen at the finish of the second war for power. He could be valuable at a desk; the sands of his luck had run out so often, it was time to stop while there was yet time. The end for an agent was always the same unless he could stop, refuse the one more job. With a wife and children, they’d have to let him quit.

  Davidian’s room was not the place for solemn decision, not with those sly, lizard eyes probing the shadows of your face. He was here on a job. But he was loath to get to it, because with the job done there would be no reason to delay longer with wine and a cigarette and an old, if not trusted, friend. He took out his cigarettes, almost a fresh pack, put one between his lips and absently set the pack in the center of the table. Perhaps favoring himself the slightest bit. Let Davidian reach.

  He could enjoy a little more time. He had protected himself for at least an hour. “How long did it take you to find this place? How long did you watch it, day after day, for a vacancy, becoming more and more avid for its danger?”

  Davidian smiled. “You make it tedious. It was not this way. First there was Stella. I became acquainted with Stella.”

  “Yes, that way.” Steve sighed into the wine. One way or the other with Davidian. A trick or a woman. And he enjoyed success with women somehow, this verminous, feline rodent. Steve asked, “Why did you insist on Hollywood? Was it because Janni had come here?”

  Davidian choked. “Stefan, Stefan. Must it always be Janni for you? Are there no other women?”

  “Was it?” Steve demanded.

  “Yes.” He stopped coughing. It was the first honest word he’d spoken. “What man would not choose Hollywood when he had been forced to listen to you and Janni describe it in the rich colors of a Gauguin? You remember? When you were endeavoring to convince Janni she must leave you? Before the danger should become the fact of her being shot by one side or the other because she is generous and sells to both?” Davidian cleared his throat delicately. “She was a stubborn girl. It was difficult for me to convince her that it was you who planned to inform on her.” He drank wine. “As you paid me to do. Because you are soft about Janni, because you wish her to be safe.” He argued; “Where else would I choose to come when you endeavor to convince me—”

  Steve interrupted, “It was because of Janni.”

  The true Davidian emerged briefly again. The cold dangerous man who dwelt beneath the cap and bells. “Yes, because of Janni. Because you would no longer be around—” He shrank from Steve’s face. Then he said simply, “Because only Janni I can trust.”

  And this could be true. Steve said, “You were not to communicate.”

  Davidian observed his dirty nails. “But I communicated with Janni.”

  “Who are the old ones?”

  “I found them for Janni. For her protection.” The teeth flashed. “She is so desirable, is Janni—” He helped himself openly to a cigarette.

  “You didn’t trust her too far. She couldn’t reach you. You moved too often and without advance notice.” She’d told him the truth. “You trusted her only for your own convenience. An address.”

  “For her cut she is happy to play postmaster.”

  Steve glowered.

  “But certainly. For money she is always happy. Ten per cent.” He flung his hands petulantly. “You send me so little.”

  “It was the best I could do.”

  “And of this I must pay ten per cent to Janni. After your fine promises, behold me! The attic! The shoes!” He extended them.

  “You’ll get it all now.”

  Davidian was eager. “The house? The little car? Money?”

  “All of it.”

  “And my papers. A citizen.”

  “That takes more time. But you’ll get it. In exchange for the report.”

  Davidian’s eyes lidded. “There is something I do not comprehend, Stefan.”

  “Yes?” Now came trouble.

  “The report. Why is it I must run in two directions? Neither the F.B.I. nor the C.P. must know of the report. Why must it be given privately to Stefan Winterich?”

  Steve said coldly, “I like a cut myself.”

  Davidian flicked up greedy eyes.

  Steve laughed in his face. “If you think you can make a better deal alone, go on, make it. Would you like to know, my friend, what will happen if you try? The F.B.I. will take your report and dump you back in Berlin. Or the C.P. will take your report and exterminate you, to make sure you do not write another one. In either case—” He cut his forefinger across his throat.

  “I am satisfied,” Davidian said quickly. “You will give me all you promised?”

  “Have I ever lied to you?”

  “No. Oh no,” Davidian assured him. He drained his glass. Moisture stood on his lip. He eyed the empty bottle. “We need a little more, I think. If you could spare a dollar, Stella may be awake—”

  Steve rooted in his pocket, counted a dollar in change. Davidian’s fingers closed over the silver. He started to the door, shook his head thoughtfully and returned to the orange crate. “Ah yes! A bottle escaped my eye.” The silver jangled in his pocket.

  While Davidian’s fingers twined around the cork, Steve said, “You knew I was in town. Janni told you. And you saw me at the parade.”

  The lips tittered. “Yes.”

  “Why did you keep me waiting?”

  Davidian drew the cork with dignity. “You insisted you would come to me when it was safe. I wished it to be safe.” He poured for himself alone.

  Steve took the bottle from him. “You’re a Goddamned liar.” But he knew why. The man’s malice wasn’t a trifling thing. Only by making fools of those on top of him had Davidian managed to cling to a shred of dignity. “You do have the report?”

  Davidian squirmed into his easy chair. “Must I repeat myself?” His ink-stained fingers warmed themselves on the tumbler. “Not so much a liar, my dear Stefan. It will surprise me if you complete this job i
n good health.” He toasted Steve silently. “I am your friend. I tell you this because I am your friend. I planned to welcome you when you arrived but the plane was too late.”

  “Albion?”

  “Is dead,” Davidian said complacently. “You believed he was your friend. You did not know he had become suspicious. Too suspicious. Poor Albion.”

  Steve shook his clanging head.

  “Did you believe he visited the F.B.I. as an informer? Did you not know he was looking for information about you?” He repeated, “Poor Albion, he wished so badly to lay his hands on the report. How surprised he was the night I permitted him to catch up with me! And how happy. Because now he could get the report for his good friend Stefan. For no other reason, to be sure, but to surprise you at the airport by having it in his hands. He was even willing that I too should meet you at the airport, when I was reluctant to permit him to carry the papers.” The lips drew back over the pointed teeth. “So trusting, our good friend Albion. He believed I too was trusting.”

  “If I’d been on time—”

  “How simple it would have been. None of this hocus-pocus. Albion and you and I. Old friends meeting. He did not know he would become sleepy. You were too late. I could not remain after Albion—”

  Steve said huskily, “Skip it.”

  “We are friends?”

  “Yes.” He’d have done it himself, have been forced to do it to eliminate the threat. There were no friends; there was only the imperative: Survive! The wine was making Steve sick. “Where’s the report?”

  “You have a purchaser?”

  “I’ve told you often enough, yes. Hand it over.”

  “I am a careful man.” Davidian sighed. “But who knows when I am not careful enough? It would not be safe here where I live with my wine and my books.”

  Steve spat the words. “Where is it?”

  “It is safe.” He mouthed slyly, “Tomorrow—”

  Steve was out of the chair. “Why waste my time tonight?”

  “It is a waste of time to drink wine and talk of the old days with a friend?”

  Steve spoke one cold warning. “I can’t sell it until I get my hands on it.”