The Third Figure (8 page)

“I don’t know. And I don’t think anyone else does, either. Did it ever occur to you, though, that you might’ve been killed yourself, if you’d arrived at the beachhouse maybe a half hour earlier?”

“Yes, I’ve thought about that. Often.”

“Does the thought frighten you?”

“No, Mr. Drake, it doesn’t. When I was a lot younger, and a lot happier, the thought of death used to terrify me. But now …” She smiled sadly and looked away.

I rose to my feet and thanked her. Politely she showed me out, primly and properly. I was surprised to see the shadows dark and lengthening across the bright green lawn. We’d talked longer than I’d thought.

I’d covered almost half the distance to the sidewalk before I noticed a dark green Mustang convertible parked just behind my own car. A blond teen-age boy sat motionless at the wheel, watching me as I approached.

Could it be the son, Johnny? The mother had mentioned a Mustang. And the driver was watching me with a kind of languid attentiveness, as if more than casually interested, yet unwilling to surrender to open curiosity.

But how could I begin a conversation? A newspaperman’s routine questioning might be the best pose, yet I’d given his mother another story.

I stopped at the side of my car, hand on the door handle and allowed my eyes to rest fully on him. He was returning my gaze; he hadn’t stirred. I frowned, as if suddenly struck by a puzzling thought. Then, pretending to act on an almost breezy impulse, I walked back to the Mustang, smiling as I went.

“Are you Johnny Hanson, by any chance?” I asked, still smiling.

“Yes,” he answered in a soft, low voice. He didn’t return my smile, but only looked at me with steady, inscrutable blue eyes. He was a pale, handsome boy with a serious, compressed mouth. Had Faith Hanson said sixteen? His manner seemed much older.

“Mind if I talk to you for a minute?” I waved my hand toward the house. “I’ve just been talking to your mother. You might be able to help me, too.”

“Help you with what?”

“Well, ah …” I cleared my throat. “The fact is that is that I’m investigating the, ah, murder of Dominic Vennezio, three weeks ago. Your mother knew him, I understand. And …” I hesitated. How much did the boy know of his mother’s affair with the gangster?

“Get in if you want to,” he said, moving his head toward the Mustang’s passenger seat.

“Thanks.” I circled the car, covertly glancing at the house. Almost without doubt, Faith Hanson was watching us.

“Are you a detective?” he asked, turning in the seat to face me.

“Private investigator,” I answered, swinging the door closed.

“Were you questioning Mother about Vennezio’s murder, did you say?” Now he was frowning, as if trying to comprehend.

I nodded. Then, in an effort to put him at ease, I took out my cigarettes, vainly offered him one and leisurely lit one for myself.

“Is Mother a …” He blinked. “A suspect?”

“No, it’s nothing like that. But, as I’m sure you know, she’s an important witness. She found the body. You …” I hesitated. “You knew that, didn’t you?”

His mouth twisted into a brief, wounded mockery of a smile. “Yes, Mr. …” He paused, looking at me with a kind of arch elegance.

“Drake,” I supplied. “Sorry.”

He nodded gracefully. More and more, his manner was assuming a Noel Coward quality—or at least he was acting out a fair imitation.

“Thank you.” He sighed, allowing his eyes to wander as he said, “Yes, Mr. Drake. I knew she’d found the body. I didn’t know until I read it in the papers next morning, at school. But at least I knew.”

“Well, I’m sure your mother was very upset. And, besides, she probably didn’t finish with the police until late at night.”

“Yes, that’s what she said.” He seemed to have lost interest in the conversation. For a time, I was content to sit merely smoking—studying his too-delicate profile, waiting for him to speak. I was trying to imagine what kind of a life Johnny Hanson must live, attending his boarding school in the exclusive Ojai Valley. At best, his mannerisms must often make him the butt of much teen-age humor.

At worst, I decided, he might be ensnared in the beginnings of homosexuality. Certainly his features lacked masculine solidity; certainly his loose little hand gestures and elaborate little sighs hinted at sexual ambivalence.

He was running a finger over the steering wheel, dreamily.

“He gave me this car,” he said finally. “Just a month before he died. It was for my sixteenth birthday.”

“Mr. Vennezio, you mean?”

He nodded.

“Did you know him very well?”

He seemed to consider his answer before saying, “Mr. Vennezio used to make it a point to see me whenever I was home. He spent a lot of time pounding me on the back and asking me if there was anything I needed. He always wanted me to call him Dominic. He kept asking me out to the beachhouse, so I could meet the surfing crowd. But I never went, of course.”

I couldn’t think of a reply. So, instead, I decided to ask, “Do you think your mother has any idea who killed him, Johnny?”

He shook his head, still tracing the rim of the steering wheel with a reflective forefinger.

“No, I don’t think Mother knows,” he answered. Then he turned his eyes to mine.

“But I do,” he said softly.

“You--” I swallowed. “You do?”

He nodded, still staring at me with his calm blue eyes.

“You mean you think you know who killed him?”

Again he nodded.

“Well, who—who is it?”

“The third man in her life,” he answered, coyly enigmatic.

“The third man? What d’you mean?”

“Well,” he said, “first there was my father. You’ve heard about my father, haven’t you?” He looked at me with quizzical mockery.

I nodded.

“Then, after my father,” he continued, “there were—several men. ‘Friends.’ ‘Business associates.’ They came and they went. Then, there was Mr. Vennezio. Just Mr. Vennezio—until finally my father left. And, for a long time, there was still just Mr. Vennezio. However, recently, there’s been the third man. He was beginning to overlap Mr. Vennezio.”

“And you think this third man killed him?”

Dreamily decisive, he said, “Yes, I do. I’m sure of it. When your mother has a long succession of—friends, you develop an instinct for these things. I’m quite sure there was a third man.”

“But did you ever actually see him?”

“Not really. Not his face.”

“Then you don’t know his identity?”

“No.”

“And your mother never admitted having another …” I hesitated. “Another lover?”

“How could she?” he asked. “She never even admitted that Mr. Vennezio was her lover. They were just—” his lip slightly curled. “—just good friends.”

I thought about it, disappointed. It all seemed a meaningless fantasy. Yet he was willing to give me information. My obvious tactic was to get everything I could from him, then sort out fact from fancy.

“Do you have any idea where your father is, Johnny?”

“At this moment, you mean? Now?”

“Well, not—not especially right now. But I just wondered whether you’d seen him, lately. Your mother hasn’t, but I thought that maybe you’d—”

“No,” he said quickly, his tone slipping up to a harsh treble. “I haven’t seen my father for two years. Almost exactly two years. Since he left, I haven’t seen him.”

“The reason I asked,” I said slowly, “I was wondering whether he might be the third man. I’m not suggesting that he was the murderer. I’m just wondering whether he might’ve been—in the background, watching.”

He promptly shook his head. “No, no. It wasn’t my father.”

“But how can you be so sure, if you’ve never seen this person? I mean, it all seems to be a—a feeling you have. Nothing more.”

“A feeling?” He arched an elaborate brow, burlesquing a sophisticated irony.

“Well, isn’t it?” I asked, suddenly irritated. “You said it yourself: you don’t know his identity. And if you don’t know that, then I don’t see how it’s possible for you to know that this—this fictitious man is the murderer. Not unless you—” I paused, struck by the thought. “Not unless you were in the habit of following your mother, at a distance, say.” I looked at him closely. “Have you followed her?”

Slightly smiling, he shook his head. Teasing.

“Have you ever been to the beachhouse, for instance,” I pressed, “when your mother and Vennezio were there?”

He continued to shake his head, still smiling. Then, with a sigh, he glanced at his watch.

“It’s five thirty,” he said. “I’m afraid I have to get back to school soon.”

I nodded, opening the door and stepping out of the Mustang.

“Thanks for your information, Johnny,” I said. “If I can be of any help to you—or you think of anything that might help me, I’d appreciate a call. I’m staying at the Prescott Motel.”

“The Prescott.” He nodded. “I know where it is.”

“Good. You won’t forget, will you?”

“No, Mr. Drake,” he answered, also getting out of the car and striding toward the house. “I won’t forget.”

I
DECIDED TO RETURN
to my motel, have dinner and phone Mrs. Vennezio, reporting my progress. Then I planned to watch TV for an hour or so and go to sleep. The day had left me drained, and as I ate my dinner I tried to analyze the causes. The answers, unhappily, were obvious. At ten o’clock that morning, standing in the phone booth and wrestling with my timid conscience, I’d been someone recognizable to myself: Stephen Drake, age thirty-two. Intelligence—better than average; physical courage—average or less. Lucky with some girls, unlucky with most. Physically tall and spare, with a receding hairline and dark, intense eyes, well suited to ESP publicity pictures. Vocationally I was a better-than-competent crime reporter. I had a by-line on the
San Francisco Sentinel
and a columnist’s contract. I was also the grateful possessor of a modicum of modest fame. That some of my reputation as a clairvoyant derived from hokum was not really disturbing. I could honestly claim proficiency both as a reporter and as a clairvoyant, however labored and sketchy might be my private processes of ESP.

At ten o’clock that morning, therefore, I was a reasonably happy man, secure in the knowledge of my own achievements.

By noon—two short hours later—I’d become a servant of the underworld. And, worse, I’d been warned. It had all happened exactly as Captain Larsen had predicted it would.

Walking down the long corridor to my room, I was aware that I was thudding my heels angrily into the thick hallway carpeting. I’d made a fool of myself. What could I do about it? The choice was obvious: either return the thousand dollars and leave town or stay and try to earn the other nine thousand, quickly.

Nine thousand dollars …

Larsen had anticipated that, too. ‘It always begins with money,’ he’d said.

With an impatient, almost vicious twist I opened the door of my room and flipped on the light.

Mrs. Vennezio’s dwarf was lounging in an easy chair, smiling.

“You should be more careful about locking up.” He pointed to the room’s outside door, leading to the patio and the parking lot beyond. “Someone could walk in and clean you out.” He gestured reprovingly at my open suitcase and at my other things scattered around the room.

“You should be more careful, too,” I retorted. “House detectives don’t like their guests disturbed.” As I said it, I realized that I was almost pettishly venting my frustrations—picking on someone smaller than myself, while the neighborhood bully swaggered off.

His smile faded. He sat up straighter: a small, ludicrous figure in the large chair. His feet didn’t quite reach the floor.

“Maybe we should both be more careful.” As he spoke, he slowly reached inside his jacket, withdrawing an ice pick. Following the gesture with a kind of numbed fascination, I watched him lightly heft the weapon. With his pale blue eyes he stared at me, unblinking. Then, in a smooth, effortless overhand motion he threw the ice pick. It flashed across the room, striking the wall perhaps two inches from a large mirror. The pick didn’t quiver. It entered the wall like a huge nail, driven deeply into the plaster.

Slowly the dwarf got down from his chair, walked with a lopsided gait to the opposite wall and twisted the ice pick free. For a moment he stood surveying the room. Then, with the same smooth movement, he threw the ice pick just above a large picture of a sunrise, elaborately framed. The pick struck the wall a bare inch from the picture frame. The picture hung less than two feet from where I stood.

The dwarf pointed to the ice pick.

“It’s too high for me to reach.” His voice was soft; his eyes never left mine. “Get it for me, will you?”

Conscious that my throat felt terribly dry, I turned toward the picture, grasped the ice pick and pulled. As I did, an inch-square piece of plaster fell to the floor.

I turned the ice pick in my hand. Handle first, I handed the weapon to the dwarf. He took it, smiled with a kind of polite, amiable wolfishness and slipped the pick inside his coat. Then he reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a sheaf of money in his small hand.

“Here.” He gestured for me to take the bills. “That’s another thousand dollars. From Mrs. Vennezio.”

As I took the money, I swallowed repeatedly, wishing for a large, cool glass of water. I watched the dwarf return to his easy chair. Then, as if helpless to do anything else, I counted the money. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills. With unsteady hands, I took out my wallet.

“Why don’t you sit down?” The dwarf smiled, this time with a wide, expansive warmth, almost infectious. He gestured to the bed. And, obediently, I sat.

“My name’s Reggie Fay,” he said pleasantly. “Mrs. Vennezio might not’ve told you. I’m her bodyguard. I been with them for years. Her and Mr. Vennezio, I mean.” He pointed to the picture frame. “Too bad about that plaster. Maybe you can get some spackle or something. Better yet, I’ll bring you some. We got some in the garage, I think.”

“Tha …” I swallowed. “Thank you.”

Airily he waved. “That’s all right.” He patted his jacket, where the ice pick was now concealed. “I throw that thing every day, for a half-hour, at least. Regularly. It’s hard to get them with metal handles, you know. And the ones with wooden handles, they’re too light to throw so they’ll do much good. I sent away for this one. I bought a dozen.” He smiled. “Ever since, they been sending me catalogues, and everything, about butcher supplies. They think I got a butcher shop or something.”