I was shaking my head. “But I can’t—I mean—”
“You can’t what?”
“Well, if Sabella is the one, I—I—”
“Listen, Drake. About the only chance you’ve got to keep yourself in one piece is to prove that it is Sabella. If he’s the guy, I’ll take care of it. You won’t have to worry about what he’ll do to you when he finds out you been talking to me. If it isn’t him …” He shook his head. “If it isn’t, there isn’t much I can do for you. I’ll sooner or later take care of Sabella, one way or the other—to get myself off the hook. But I’m sure not going to put myself in the soup for you—especially after you were so goddam stupid.”
“But—”
“But nothing.” He reached across and opened the door on my side. His expression was calmly, brutally decisive. His voice was dead level. “You’d better get yourself some sleep, Drake. And you’d better get yourself some results. Because when Sabella finds out you been talking to me, he’s going to start wondering—and he’s probably going to want to talk with you. See what I mean?”
“But—”
“If I was you, I’d talk to that Hanson kid. Like we say in the movies, he knows more than he’s telling.”
He pushed the door wider, at the same time signaling for Montez.
Hastily I got out of the car, and with my first step almost stumbled and fell. Recovering myself, I watched the big Buick pull out of the parking lot.
I was completely drained—even of fear. As I fitted my key into the door, a hackneyed refrain from countless scenarios tumbled through my thoughts: I’ll never get out alive, I’ll never get out alive.
Like they say in the movies, I was thinking.
Just like they say in the movies.
10
I AWOKE THE NEXT morning about seven and for several moments lay motionless in bed, blinking at the ceiling. I was aware that the muscles of my arms and legs ached and that my throat was dry and raw. I knew that feeling. It was the ravages of a sustained fear and depression. Some men got ulcers, others got the shakes or drank. I ached.
And my head was throbbing violently. I’d finally fallen asleep about 3 A.M., after drinking three half-full glasses of bourbon. Now I had a hangover. Next time, I’d get a prescription for sleeping pills.
Next time …
I couldn’t even smile at the preposterous thought.
I got out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom and took three aspirin tablets. Then, leaning on the washbasin, I looked at myself in the mirror.
My beard was dark against pale skin, sickly looking. Beneath my eyes the flesh was stained with the faint purple of fatigue, and I needed a haircut. For the last two days, following Faith Hanson, I’d badly needed a haircut.
Who was the gangster they’d killed in New York, in the barber’s chair? Clearly I could recall the pictures. They’d laid out the corpse on the floor of the barbershop, with the bloodstained barber’s sheet covering him.
I looked at my watch. Already, it was seven twenty. Somehow I’d spent twenty minutes, lying in bed, then taking aspirin and now staring at myself in the mirror. I’d wasted twenty minutes.
Hastily I laid out my razor and shaving soap, aware that now I felt more frightened, more alone, than I had following the attack on Monday night. Perhaps it was because the attack had been anonymous: a dark, disembodied gun barrel, moving in the night, silently. But there was nothing vague about Sabella’s threats. If I told Russo about the conversation in Charlene’s apartment, I’d get both legs broken. Both legs.
Had Carrigan really gone?
On Sunday, he’d told me to call a special number, ask for him and identify myself as a “friend from Portland.” This was Thursday. Carrigan had checked out Monday night. Had he gone back to Sacramento?
I rinsed my face, dried myself and quickly combed my hair. He’d given me the telephone number on a small slip of perforated paper. I’d put it in my wallet—in the stamp compartment. Negligently.
Fumbling, I took up my wallet from the bedside table, opening it. The paper was still inside. I glanced at my watch. Seven thirty. Without doubt, no one would answer the CIIB phone until eight thirty, possibly nine. At least an hour to wait. And at that moment Sabella could be on his way—Sabella and another man. He’d bring another man with him.
I pulled on my trousers. I must get out of the room. In the hotel lobby, I could simply refuse to go with them. A newspaperman I’d known had once stood his ground in the waiting room of a bus terminal while four hoods tried to get him out into their car. For almost an hour he’d simply sat, staring at them until a policeman had come on his routine rounds.
I’d often thought of getting a gun. Except that Larsen had always said a gun gets you shot, while …
Larsen.
I could phone Larsen, from a pay station, and …
And what?
What could I tell him? That I’d got myself caught in the middle, as he’d predicted? That he should call the Los Angeles police, on my behalf? Beyond all doubt, if I called the police, Russo would know within the hour.
I jammed my tie into a jacket pocket, checked my pants pocket for keys, wallet and money, then cautiously left my room. It was twenty to eight. The corridor was deserted. I walked into the lobby and went to a nearby phone booth. The CIIB number didn’t answer. I dialed again. Still no answer.
I walked into the coffee shop and ordered a large breakfast, asking for coffee first. My headache was less painful now, and the coffee was hot and strong. After breakfast, I could think more clearly.
As I sipped the coffee, waiting to be served, I forced myself to inventory my situation, dispassionately. Two gangsters had threatened me. But of the two, Russo’s actual threat was merely a refusal to protect me from Sabella. And Sabella’s threat could have been more bluff than substance. He’s said it himself: newspapermen and police have special immunity. Killing a gangster, or a whore or even a grafting politician was one thing—a family matter. Killing someone like me or breaking my legs was something else. The Outfit craved anonymity; thus the press’s special immunity. The attempt on my life could even have been a bluff—a warning.
I pushed my empty cup forward, signaling for the waitress. She was a small, trim brunette with a narrow waist and a high bosom. As she poured my coffee I thanked her, smiling. She merely nodded in reply, slightly raising one fine-plucked eyebrow. Watching her walk away, I decided that she probably dyed her hair.
As I sugared my coffee I stared out the window. I realized that, somehow, my fearfulness had diminished. Perhaps it was an exhaustion of the spirit, leaving me incapable of sensation. Or perhaps it was simple, rational objectivity. If I were a professional ski instructor, for instance, I would probably have already broken a leg in the line of duty. And broken legs could be splinted; broken noses could be set. Cuts healed; bruises eventually vanished.
And, besides, the Sentinel carried a full accident and health policy on me, with income provisions.
I was staring out at the smog-blushed sun, still low in the sky. Immediately outside the window I could see the gracefully landscaped entrance to the motel, with its long, curving drive. A bright red Mustang was turning in, traveling slowly.
Isn’t he a blond kid? Russo had asked, that drives a Mustang?
I’d affirmed it.
Well then, he’s lying.
But why? Why would he lie? And why, for that matter, would Johnny Hanson have made his strange accusation, without identifying his mother’s lover? And why go only so far, then no further? Obviously, he was playing some strange, senseless game of fantasy with me. He’d denied ever seeing his father, yet he’d certainly seen him. He’d claimed to know that Russo—or at least the secret lover—was actually the murderer. Yet he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, document the charge—at least, not to me. And, assuming Russo was telling the truth, then Johnny Hanson had lied about never having visited the beachhouse.
But why?
Why volunteer a lie? To lie under pressure was
understandable. But to lie gratuitously was strange.
My eggs were coming. The waitress now seemed less attractive—busty, perhaps, but bogus, with her thin-plucked eyebrows and pouty mouth, painted too large and too bright.
“Do you know how far the Ojai Valley is from here?” I asked her.
“About forty miles, I think. You can ask at the desk. They got a big map of the whole area.”
“Thanks. Could I have more coffee, please?”
“Sure.” Tentatively she smiled, probably thinking of her tip.
I drove the first twenty miles to the Midfield School with my attention constantly on the rear view mirror. Finally, though, climbing into the wooded foothills, I decided that I’d left Sabella’s natural habitat behind. That night, back in town, would be my time for terror.
I arrived at Midfield about ten thirty, and was asked to wait in Johnny Hanson’s room while the boy was notified that he had a visitor. Remembering dormitory etiquette from my college days, I left the door to Johnny Hanson’s room partially ajar.
The room was small and cramped. Books, papers and clothing littered the desk, the bed and the single easy chair. Gingerly I removed a sweater and jacket from the chair and sat down to wait—deciding not to smoke, since I saw no ashtray. Instead, looking around the room, I tried to form some impression of the occupant, I looked first for photographs, and on the desk saw a portfolio-type double picture frame. On one side was a single studio photograph of Mrs. Hanson. She was unsmiling and wore a simple black dress and single strand of pearls. She looked lovely, intelligent and unapproachable. On the other side of the frame was a carefully cropped montage of informal snapshots, each depicting John Hanson and his son. There were fishing scenes, zoo pictures, graduation snaps and Boy Scout shots—clowning pictures and squinting-in-the-sun pictures. The father and the son made a warm, handsome pair, and their family resemblance was plain. I reached over for the picture frame, intending to study the father’s face for traces of weakness or despair. But just as I stretched out my arm I heard a sound behind me. Turning, I saw Johnny Hanson standing in the doorway. His left hand still rested on the doorknob; in his right hand he held a student’s looseleaf binder and two textbooks. His face showed no surprise; his posture betrayed neither uneasiness nor uncertainty.
For a long, silent moment we simply stared. Then, slowly, I rose to my feet. Yet I was hardly conscious of having made the movement. Because, in that single instant, the figure before me stood in a different setting, beyond the present place and time. He had come covertly from some obscure periphery; he stood silhouetted against a black velvet darkness of the night, listening—watching silently. Waiting. He was …
“… Mr. Drake, isn’t it?” he was saying.
“Yes, I—How are you, Johnny? I hope you don’t mind my coming. I …” Somehow, I couldn’t say any more.
He came a few paces into the room, swinging the door shut behind him. Then, with a single practiced teen-age gesture he tossed his books on the bed and cleared a place to sit down.
“After I talked to you last Sunday, thinking about it, I decided that you’d probably want to talk to me again.” His voice was low but distinct.
With an effort I looked at Johnny Hanson directly, trying to assess him.
“Why did you think I’d want to talk to you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. His eyes were filmed with the fixed, glassy sheen of a quiet, almost imperceptible insanity. The eyes now seemed part of a rigid, immobile mask, one that would surely be shattered by a single smile or dissolved by a single tear.
“Why did you think I’d want to talk to you?” I asked again.
“Because, Mr. Drake, some of the things I told you were wrong. So I felt that, if you found out, you might be back to see me.” He gestured with a listless hand. He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation.
“Mother says you’re a clairvoyant,” he said finally. “She says you’re actually quite famous.” His manner seemed merely polite—as if he were making desultory conversation to put me at ease.
I nodded, saying nothing—holding his gaze.
“I don’t believe in ESP.” His tone lacked both inflection and animation. It was almost as if he were speaking by rote or from a shallow trance.
“I’m not sure whether I believe in it either,” I answered. “It’s hard to believe in something you don’t understand, even if it happens to you. However—” I paused, for emphasis. “However, it works.”
“Oh? Does it?” The question was delivered with an arch, artificial inflection.
“Yes, it works, Johnny.”
“Then I suppose you know who it was that killed Dominic Vennezio.” It was said without even the smallest trace of hesitation. If anything, it was I who felt uncertain as I said:
“Yes, I think I do know who killed him.”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“You think I—know something about it.”
“Yes, I think you do. Or, rather, I think I know something about the murder, now. I think I know why you told me you’d never been to the beachhouse, when actually you had. I think I know why you denied seeing your father during the past year, when actually you had. And I also think I know why you told me that it was your mother’s lover who murdered Vennezio.”
In a total, motionless silence we stared at each other. He sat on the littered bed with his long legs crossed and his elbow resting on one knee, his cupped hand beneath his chin.
“I suppose,” he said, “that I could get a lawyer to sue you for defamation of character, or harassment or something. Questioning someone about murder might be a shock that could damage him. For life.”
“I know. But if I’m right, then it’s something I have to do, whether I like it or not.”
“Why?” He seemed merely curious, not really involved.
“Because we can’t live in a society where murderers are allowed to go free.”
He smiled. “That sounds pretty pompous, Mr. Drake. And it doesn’t make much sense, either. There’re probably a hundred murderers free right this minute, in the city of Los Angeles alone. Look at Dominic Vennezio.” As he pronounced the name, I saw the first flaw appear in the mask: a spasmodic twitching of the lips, instantly controlled.
“That doesn’t change anything, though,” I replied. “We still can’t allow murderers to go free if we can help it. And I think I can help it.”
He nodded, almost indifferently. It was as though he were conceding some small point in a trivial, meaningless argument.
“After you leave here,” he said, “what will you do?”
“That depends on you, Johnny.”
“Mother said you’re working for Russo.”
“Well, that—that’s right in one way and wrong in another.”
“Either way,” he said, “you don’t look like you’re feeling very virtuous about it.” He rose to his feet, to stand briefly looking down at me. He seemed sunk in a deep reverie. Then, sighing with a petty, pouty exasperation, he turned away, walking with his long, graceful stride to the desk. He bent down, opened the bottom drawer and reached inside, then straightened, holding two large books in his hands. He closed the drawer with his knee, and placed the two books on the desk top. For a moment he stood pensively gazing down at the books. Then, once more sighing, he moved the top book aside, unopened. The second book was larger than the first, and by turning my head I could read the title: Principles of Life Drawing.
With a deliberate, almost ceremonious gesture he raised the cover. The book had been hollowed out; inside lay a small automatic pistol. He picked up the pistol and turned to face me fully, at the same time closing the book. The pistol was pointed at my chest. Now he moved across the room to lock the door, still holding the pistol on me. Then he returned to the bed, sitting as before.
Five feet separated us, possibly six.
Only once before had I ever faced a gun. I could still remember th
at sick sensation: staring fascinated at the round black muzzle—helplessly, incredibly afraid.
He was speaking quietly:
“I could kill you during the lunch hour, when everyone’s at the dining hall. Do you have a car?”
“Wha—what?”
“I said,” he repeated patiently, “do you have a car?”
Y—yes.
He nodded. “I could kill you during the lunch hour,” he repeated, musing dreamily, “and then I could get your keys. Later tonight I could drive your car up just outside the window—” he pointed to the large casement window opening directly on a graveled driveway, “—and I could load your body inside.” He seemed to think about it, calculating. “I’d probably have a fairly good chance. I could make it look like an accident.”
I’d been staring at the window, draped in a gauzy linen. I realized that no one passing outside could see into the room, unless a lamp were lit. I realized, too, that Johnny Hanson had already considered this possibility.
Could I suddenly kick out, for the gun? I’d heard occasional voices in the hallway outside. He might not dare to shoot.
Should I leap for him?
No. He could pull the trigger before I cleared the chair. It was the one caution the police were constantly preaching: don’t startle a man with a gun. Stay quiet, stay calm. If possible, get your man talking. You can’t outrun a bullet—or outfight a man with a gun.
If only I could smoke a cigarette. If only …
“… did you happen to come here, anyhow?” he was saying.
“Wha—what?”
“I said,” he repeated, now with a faintly impatient exasperation, “how did you happen to come here, anyhow? Was it really ESP, or what?”
As I answered, I moved to a more erect posture in the soft chair, then inched toward the cushion’s edge.
“You could call it ESP,” I said.
“Sit back, Mr. Drake.”
The Third Figure Page 14