Davidian Report (15 page)

He maintained the silence on the ride back to Hollywood. He had nothing to say to Wilton nor Wilton to him. Each was no more than a cog in his particular pattern. If they changed sides, they would be unchanged as men; if they were on the same side they would enjoy comradeship, not enmity, but neither man would be changed.

At Sunset and La Brea, Steve said, “Let me off anywhere along the line.”

“Wherever you say.”

“I don’t want the F.B.I, delivering me to my hotel this time of night. There might be talk.”

Wilton said no more, he stopped at the next corner. Walking was better. Streets were peaceful in the early morning hours. Steve passed Oriole’s. He was too tired to report, much too tired to wait while Oriole routed Schmidt out of bed to listen to the night’s developments.

The sift of street light through the window of his room showed the shape of Reuben in his twin bed. Rube said, “I’m not asleep. Put on the light.”

“I don’t need it.”

Reuben said, “You must have made out. Coming in at this hour.”

“I told you it was business.” He didn’t want to ask but the kid was waiting for it. “How did you make out?”

Rube stretched for a cigarette, the match made a small cone of light. “Pretty much of an all right.” He wasn’t fooling anyone. “That Janni’s a swell kid, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” It stuck in Steve’s throat.

“Swell dancer.”

She ought to be. She’d danced her way out of the rubble, she who could dance even in rubble. A kid in a scramble of kids begging from the conquering heroes. A beggar kid, with matted hair, dirty rags on the stink of her body. But she’d danced. Fire and joy blazing out of her black eyes. That and hate; he hadn’t recognized the hate at that time. He’d been a dumb, good-natured American like Reuben. Fifteen years old and she didn’t look more than twelve. He’d thought she was twelve when he tossed her a chocolate bar and a couple of cigarettes. Until she came to him, put her mark on him. Because she’d picked him to get her out of the muck.

“I want to explain something,” Rube said solemnly. His skinny shoulders hunched against the headboard of the bed. “I wasn’t trying to make out with your girl. But she said she wouldn’t come unless it was with me. She said you wouldn’t care.” In the half-light he searched Steve’s face for a clue. “I feel like a heel, Steve. You’ve been regular with me. But the way she said it—I can’t explain exactly—but it didn’t seem as if it was important. She made it kind of a part of the fun of the evening.”

“I didn’t care,” Steve said. “Skip it.”

“I’m not saying it right.”

Steve laid his clothes neatly over the chair before he came to bed. “I understand, Rube. I know Janni. I know she can make things sound however she wants them to sound.” Trivial, gay, terribly important, terribly sad. While her devil within mockingly observed the effect. “But she was telling you the truth. I didn’t care if she was with you. It’s not that beating me. It’s the conference I’ve been in.”

He’d made it right. Reuben’s guilt faded out of his young voice. “I said I’d call her tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

“I told her I’d take her to some broadcasts.”

“Sure.” If Reuben kept her busy enough, Haig Armour couldn’t be hounding her.

“She’s been here almost a year and she’s never been to a broadcast.”

Reuben wanted to talk about her, it was that way when you were excited about someone. That way when you loved. A long time ago Steve had had to give up that small but sometimes essential luxury. It didn’t matter to him any longer. But he wished to Christ that Rube would shut up about her.

H
E DROVE TO ORIOLE’S
in the morning. Not that it wouldn’t have been simpler to walk the few blocks but he wanted to reassure the poor old guy that his shabby car was okay. He hadn’t announced his intention to drop in. He hoped he could catch Mr. Oriole alone.

Mr. Oriole was chewing on a cinnamon bun when he answered Steve’s ring. Crumbs were caught in the rough of his chin. A coffee-stained napkin dangled from his belt. He wasn’t surprised to see Steve, but he apologized, “I am sorry.” He was trying to hide the bun in his large soft hand. “I did not get to bed early. So a late breakfast.”

Steve said, “Take your time.”

“You would perhaps join me for a cup of coffee? And cake? My wife bakes excellent coffee cake.”

Steve started to refuse. And then he didn’t. Mr. Oriole was sensitive and Mr. Oriole was helpful. A man’s feelings were worth more than a few minutes’ privacy. Furthermore, the coffee Steve had gulped at a corner white-front hadn’t been the last word in breakfast. He said, “I haven’t had any good coffee cake since I left Berlin.”

The woman was embarrassed but the two small boys, and they were replicas of Mr. Oriole, were only curious. Mr. Oriole said, “My wife, Ingeborg. She does not speak English much. And two of my sons, these are named Jim and Jack. The other children work on Saturday mornings. Very fine sons. Five of them.”

No wonder the woman looked old with six men to do for. She rubbed her hand on her apron before extending it to take Steve’s. It was a light hand with baking. Steve resented the intrusive doorbell, not only because he was afraid it spelled Schmidt. The smile left Oriole’s fat cheeks as he plodded to answer. It might have been that Schmidt too had called for a private confab.

Steve didn’t follow him. He beamed at Mrs. Oriole and stuffed away another wedge of cake. “You’re okay,” he murmured. “You’ve put me back on my feet.”

She spoke gently, in her halting accent. “A man needs a woman to cook for him. You have no wife?”

“Not yet.”

“Do not wait too long.” Her eyes crinkled. “The best ones go first.”

“I’ve found that out.”

Mr. Oriole returned, undraping the napkin from his pants. “It is Mr. Schmidt,” he said hopelessly. “He is waiting for us.”

“Dandy.” Steve finished his coffee. “Thanks, Mrs. Oriole.”

She took his hand again. “You remember what I tell you.”

“I’ll remember.” They exchanged a blessing.

Schmidt was stiff in the best chair, crease in his pants, starch in his collar, briefcase at his polished heels. He was in good humor. “Good morning, Mr. Wintress. You have news?”

“I have.” Steve lit a cigarette. “The cops picked me up last night.”

He’d smashed whatever dream Schmidt was harboring. Behind the lenses the eyes lost their luster. “For what reason?”

“They didn’t give a reason. They asked questions.”

“Concerning?”

“Concerning Albion’s death.”

“Why are they intervening in this? For what purpose do they meddle?” The thin nose was pinched with white anger.

“They don’t go for executions. This is a free country.”

“Yes.” The word was a snake. But Schmidt didn’t proceed into dialectics. He would know Steve could recite the speech as well as he.

Mr. Oriole ventured, “This is not a nice development.”

“They want to mix me up in it.”

Schmidt considered. He would be pleased to offer them Steve but he didn’t dare. There were higher authorities protecting Stefan Winterich. “You were not here.”

“That’s what I keep telling them.”

Schmidt said slowly, “I do not understand this.”

“They made it clear. Albion and me—and Davidian.” Schmidt lifted his panes of glass. “They can’t find Davidian.”

“Can you?” It was in the open now, Schmidt’s resentment of an outsider being injected into his kempt affairs.

Steve faced Schmidt coldly. “That’s why I’m here.” He didn’t elaborate. “I was warned that if anything happens to Davidian while I’m in town, I’ll be pulled in for his murder.” An idea stirred in Schmidt but Steve quashed it. “I’m telling you to warn all of your eager beavers that if anyone lays a hand on Davidian while I’m in town, it will be not only the end of your job, Schmidt, but all the way down the line. Got that?” He waited for an answer.

It came under pressure. “I understand, Mr. Wintress.”

Schmidt would be a threat from now until the end of one or the other of them. If for nothing but this humiliation before the subordinate Mr. Oriole.

“You do not expect them to reach Davidian before you do, Mr. Wintress?”

He’d been waiting for Schmidt to slash. “No, Mr. Schmidt, I don’t. If they were on their toes, they would have had him before now. He’s been leaving his calling card all over Hollywood.” Oriole quivered but Steve wasn’t giving him away. “Albion knew.”

“He did not tell me!”

“He also knew the value of silence in some matters.” Steve went on factually, “I’ll get the Davidian report for you. I simply want to make sure in advance that none of your staff makes any more mistakes.”

“You may be sure.” There was open hostility behind the glinting eyeglasses. He quoted himself, “We wish only to co-operate, Mr. Wintress. We realize you are working against time with Haig Armour and his Gestapo after the same material.” As far as Schmidt was concerned, Wintress would have to prove himself the miracle man. “May I suggest again that the girl could be made to talk? I understand there is a lover in the Soviet zone.”

Schmidt was behind the times. “You refer to Janni Zerbec?”

“I do.”

“I told you once I’d take care of her. That stands.”

The lips were dangerously thin. “Very well, Mr. Wintress. I understand.”

Steve accepted the insinuation. He didn’t move until Schmidt dropped his eyes. “Good.” He quit the parlor then, knowing Oriole would follow to the front door, to be certain he was out. He’d have that long. He let Oriole open the door for him but on the porch he turned back. Schmidt couldn’t overhear even if he had his ears against the parlor drapes.

“I couldn’t find the popcorn man.”

“He went home early.” Mr. Oriole was nervous. He had a session ahead with Schmidt. He didn’t want Steve on his neck too. “Because of the parade, you understand. He sold out his popcorn early. But tonight he will be around. Perhaps on Ivar in time for the intermission?”

“I’ll look for him.” He swung away but was halted by Oriole’s soft voice.

“The services are this afternoon for Mr. Albion. You will be there?”

“No one told me.”

“Mr. Schmidt intended to mention it. He had so many things on his mind.”

“Where?”

“In Santa Monica. At four o’clock.” Mr. Oriole read off the name and address of a funeral parlor.

“Why Santa Monica?”

Mr. Oriole said, “His family lives there. It was his home.” He was mildly surprised that Steve didn’t know.

“You’ll see me.” Steve clattered down the wooden steps. Schmidt had deliberately withheld the information. It would have been hard for Steve to explain to either side why he had not been present. He would be present.

He drove the heap back to the hotel, left it in the back lot. Reuben was making like a crooner while he polished his shoes. He cocked an eye. “When did you join the early birds?”

“It wasn’t for fun. What about Janni?”

“I’m taking it easy waiting for noon. There’s a public phone at her place. She’s going to be downstairs at noon for the call.”

Steve lounged on the foot of Rube’s bed. “I’ve got a suggestion. You don’t have to like it or take it but here it is. Call her at noon but meantime I’ll start on downtown. You tell her I’m on my way and to be ready. I’ll bring her back to you and you two can do the studios while I go about my business. Then we can all meet for dinner.”

“Okay,” Rube said. What else could he say?

“I’ve got some things to talk over with Janni. Might as well do it while I’m taxiing her to you. Save time.”

Rube was quiet. “She’s not mixed up in this thing of yours, is she?”

Steve went at it carefully, “She’s not mixed up in anything with me, Rube. And she doesn’t intend to be. You don’t have to worry about Janni.” He continued, taking it slow, “But the man I’m here to see roomed at Janni’s when he first came to L. A.”

“The counterfeiter?”

“He’s not in that business any more. Except as a gag. He never did it for profit, Rube, only for a favored position. You don’t understand. You couldn’t. Not the way you’ve lived. You don’t know the provocations of Europe.”

“Maybe not.” Maybe yes, he’d been in Berlin. “He’s a friend of Janni’s?”

“Not particularly. She knew him.” Through Davidian’s friend, Stefan Winterich. “She’d help any refugee to get started in an alien land.” Unconsciously his voice toughened. “She knows where Davidian is. She won’t tell me.”

“Why not?” The quiet, unanswerable question.

“I wish I knew.” He repeated, “I wish to Christ I knew.” He waited but there were no more questions. “See you soon.”

The sky and the air were balmy, the way California should be. A picnic day. If the world and you were young. Neither would ever be again. Because the grime of Europe was embedded in your very bones, you couldn’t forget reality in these endless streets of white houses, green handkerchief lawns, flowering vines in brilliant winter bloom. The decay of Janni’s neighborhood was more closely attuned to this era of destruction. He drew up before the woeful house. Maybe the world would have been a better one if it had lived in eternal summer. Even this dump was gay with red blossoms climbing its scaling walls, redder flowers billowing about its tired porch.

He was early. He sat in the car until twenty past the noon hour, giving her time to get back to her room after the phone call. He didn’t want to surprise her. He took it easy on the stairs. As he headed down the corridor on second, he had to step aside for a painted, angular blonde in a garish green dress. She was in a hurry but she slowed her teetering heels for his attention. Incongruously she twitched his mind to Feather.

He took the last flight and strode to Janni’s door. There, was the usual nothing on his first knock and he knocked again. He expected the old woman’s evil eye at the door’s opening but it was Janni herself standing there, barefoot, her purple and pink bathrobe about her, her face softened with sleep. When she recognized him, she said automatically, “Get out.”

He pushed the swift-closing door and was inside the room. She was alone. “Why don’t you call the police?” She wouldn’t, not to protect him but out of fear of involving Davidian. He lifted her hand off the knob and banged the door shut. The impact trembled the walls.