You Never Know With Women (19 page)

“Gorman!” I said half to myself as I drove up the road that wasn’t much better than a cart track. “He fits. What do you know about him, Veda? Was he short of money?”

“Sometimes. He gambled. Boyd often used to help him.”

“Let’s try and work this out. We know Boyd paid him well to keep quiet about the dagger. Look, it might have happened like this: when I told Gorman to get the dagger from Boyd, Boyd may have demanded his money back. He’s a dangerous customer, and Gorman may not have been able to return the money. He may have spent it. He asked me to split the twenty-five grand Brett was paying me, but I wouldn’t play. He may have been desperate, and seeing the chance to get the twenty-five grand and push Brett’s killing on to me, went out there, shot Brett, collected the money before I appeared on the scene.”

“He would have had to be quick.”

“It took me about three minutes to get down from the pedestal, run up the steps and along the terrace. He could have done it if the money was on the desk.”

“Yes, but what’s the use?” she said bitterly. “We can’t do anything. No one would believe us.”

“Once a dick, always a dick. This is right up my alley. If I can prove Gorman killed Brett I’m in the clear. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

“But how can you? You can’t go back there.”

“The heat will be off in a couple of weeks. Then I’ll go back.”

“But you can’t make plans, Floyd. We don’t know what’s going to happen in a couple of weeks.”

She was right, of course.

The sun was coming over the foothills when we saw the shack. If we hadn’t been keeping a sharp lookout we should have missed it. It was hidden behind a clump of trees and was a good quarter of a mile from the road.

“That’s it!” Veda said excitedly. “If there’s no one there, it’s perfect!”

I stopped the car and got out.

“You wait here. I’ll take a look around.”

“Have the gun, Floyd.”

“What do you think I am — a gangster?” I said, but I took it.

The shack was empty and looked as if no one had been there for years. There was nothing the matter with it. It was weather-proof and dry, and only needed a good clean out to be habit-able. Around the back was a large shed in which were the remains of a still: a heating chamber, a hundred-gallon tank and a row of rotting tubs.

I waved to Veda and she brought the car over.

We examined the shack together.

“It’s perfect,” she said excitedly. “They’ll never think of looking for us here. We’re safe, darling. I’m sure we’re safe now.”

It took us a couple of days to settle in. Scrubbing floors, sweeping, repairing the bunks, fixing the stove and cutting firewood took our minds off Brett. We didn’t even listen to the radio.

On the second night at the shack, while we were sitting in the twilight watching the sun go down behind the hills, Veda said abruptly: “Get the radio, Floyd. We’ve been living in a fool’s paradise.”

“It’s been like a vacation: But you’re right. It seems you’re always right.”

I went to the shed where we garaged the Buick, brought back the radio and set it up on a wooden box between us. I tuned in to K.G.P.L., and we spent a tense half hour listening to a lot of activity that had nothing to do with us. I tuned in to the San Luis Beach station, and we listened to hot dance music from the Casino for another half hour and still nothing about us.

“Well, keep it on,” Veda said and got up. “I’ll start supper.”

I sat and listened while she moved about the shack. Every time the dance music stopped, I’d stiffen and think: “This is it. This is where they’ll interrupt their programme.” But they didn’t. They continued to play hot dance music as if Floyd Jackson had never existed.

We had supper and still the radio ignored us.

“You see, they’ve forgotten us,” I said. “They’ve lost interest like I said they would. I bet if we bought a newspaper it wouldn’t even mention us.”

“I wonder,” she said, collected the plates and went into the shack again.

It got too dark to sit outside, so I brought the radio in and shut up for the night. Veda had made up the fire. It was cold at night up at this height, and the wind nipped off the sea. She knelt before the fire and I sat behind her. It was snug in there, and watching her, the flames reflecting on her face, it suddenly crossed my mind that for the first time in my life I was at peace with myself.

It was an odd feeling, and it startled me. I’d been around, done most things; lied, cheated, acted smart, made and lost money, played hell. It’d been the same ever since I could re-member. There were a lot of milestones over thirty years best forgotten. Milestones that marked the things I’d done, seen, loved and hated. More low spots than high spots. Faces in the past: forgotten faces that swam out of the darkness unexpectedly to remind me of a mean act, a shabby deal or a broken promise: like turning the pages of a forbidden book. Blackmail, easy money, too many drinks, punching my way out of trouble. The end justifying the means, no matter how shabby. Self first in a jungle of selfishness. Women; out of focus and only half remembered; a laugh, a trick with a cigarette, long, tapering legs, a torn dress, an elusive perfume, a crescent shaped birth-mark, nails that dug into my shoulders, white flesh above a stocking: blondes, brunettes, redheads, silver wigs. “You were always a sucker for women.” Nearer thirty than twenty, blonde, sickeningly eager. “There are things a man doesn’t do. He doesn’t take money from women.” Wondering if she’d believe me. The hidden smirk when she didn’t. Making it easier for me by putting the money in my pocket. Low spot.

“This is the last. You’re not getting any more out of me, you stinking cheat!” The Jew running grimy hands over the fur coat. “Thirty bucks . . . I’ll be robbing myself.” Sending her the pawn ticket. Poetic justice at the time; a despicable act in retrospect. Empty pockets. The uneasy ache for a smoke and a drink. Blackmail. “This letter . . . my expenses, of course I can’t work for nothing.” And now murder. The steps go down, but never up. “Shoot him like a mad dog.” Murder. “Attention all cars . . . wanted for questioning.” The surprised look in the dead and empty eyes; the little blue hole in the centre of his forehead. “If they catch you, they’ll kill you.” And Veda. “I don’t care. You’re everything to me.” A high spot.

It was an odd feeling all right.

Veda said suddenly, “We’re running short of food.”

Her voice startled me, like turning on the light in a haunted room.

“What did you say?”

“We’re running short of food.”

I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t thought much about anything while we’d been alone together. But as soon as she spoke, I got the uneasy, hunted feeling again. Fool’s paradise was what she had said. Fool’s paradise was right.

“I’ll go into Altadena tomorrow,” she went on, and raised her hands to the fire.

“No,” I said, “I’ll go.”

She looked over her shoulder to smile at me.

“Don’t be difficult. They’re not looking for me. I’m just the woman who’s with you. On my own, they’ll never give me a thought. You can drive me as far as the dirt road and I’ll walk the rest of the way. It can’t be more than three miles to the Altadena road. I’ll get a lift from there.”

“No,” I said.

We argued back and forth, then she got up and said she was going to bed.

“You’re not going to Altadena tomorrow,” I told her. “I’m going to bed.”

The next morning I asked her to make out a list of the things we needed.

“I’ll go as soon as I’ve cut some wood. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“When I came back with the logs she had gone. She had taken the Buick and had left a note on the table. It said she would be back as soon as she could, and not to worry, and that she loved me.

It was then I realized how much she meant to me and I started after her. But after walking three miles down the cart track, I gave up. I knew it would only make things worse for her if we were seen together. I knew she stood a chance of getting to Altadena and back if she was alone. I returned to the shack and waited. It was the longest day I’ve ever spent, and when the sun began to dip behind the hills and there was still no sign of her I was fit to climb a tree.

But she came back. As I was getting ready to go down and find her I saw the wing lights of the car in the distance. As she slid out of the car I grabbed and held her. I didn’t have to say anything: she understood all right.

“I’m so sorry, Floyd. I meant to get back sooner only I had to be sure no one was following me. I have everything.”

“Was it all right?”

“Yes. I’ve brought cigarettes and whisky and enough food to last us a week, and the newspapers.”

But there was something in the tone of her voice that made me nervous. She was casual — too casual — but I didn’t say anything until we had unloaded the car and I had taken it around to the shed at the back.

I returned to the shack and closed the door. In the harsh light of the acetylene lamp she looked white and tense.

“They think we’ve slipped through the cordon,” she said as she put the groceries away. “The papers are on the table. They think we’re in Mexico.”

I glanced at the newspapers without much interest. There had been a big airline disaster and that filled the front page. Brett’s killing had been shifted on to page three. As she said, the newspapers seemed to think we were in Mexico. One paper said Brett had drawn twenty-five thousand dollars from his bank and no trace of the money could be found. They gave that as my motive for killing him.

While I was reading I still felt there was something wrong. Veda chatted away as she prepared supper, but there was a tautness about her that scared me.

“Did you run into trouble down there?” I asked abruptly. “What is it, Veda?”

She smiled, but the smile did not reach her eyes.

“No trouble, darling. It went off perfectly. No one even looked at me.”

“Something’s on your mind. What is it?”

“I saw Max Otis.”

Silence hung in the room like smoke while we looked at each other.

“Gorman’s chauffeur? In Altadena?”

She nodded.

“I was in a store buying the groceries. I saw him through the window. He went into a beer saloon. He didn’t see me. I’m sure of that. But it gave me a fright. What’s he doing in Altadena?”

“If he didn’t see you, it doesn’t matter. I don’t think we need worry about Otis. If it had been Redfern . . .”

“He hates me.”

“What makes you say that? I got on all right with him. He hated Gorman and Boyd, but why should he hate you?”

She made a little grimace.

“He was always prying. I caught him going through my things. I reported him to Boyd. He hates me all right.”

“Well, if he didn’t see you it doesn’t “natter. You’re sure he didn’t see you?”

“Yes.”

We were a little jumpy for the next couple of days, and although we didn’t say anything to each other, we both kept a sharp look out, and any unexpected sound — a door creaking, the wind against the shutters, a rat gnawing in the shed — brought us to our feet. But we got over it. The man-hunt that had started with such violence and enthusiasm had evaporated like fog before the wind. It seemed certain now, the radio told us, that we were in Mexico, and our escape was just one more black spot in O’Readen’s incompetent administration.

My moustache was coming along, and in another week I decided it would be safe enough to return to San Luis Beach. I was determined to find Brett’s killer, and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that Gorman was at the bottom of it.

I didn’t say anything to Veda about what I had in mind. I knew she didn’t want me to go back. I didn’t know what I was going to do with her while I was in San Luis Beach. She couldn’t go with me. That would be asking for trouble. I didn’t want to leave her in this lonely shack. It was a problem, and it had to be solved before I could get after Brett’s killer.

It was on the sixth night of our stay at the shack that it happened. We were sitting in front of the fire, listening to Bob Hope on the radio. Veda was mending a shirt of mine and I was whittling some clothes pegs for her. It was a domestic scene: the kind of scene you’d expect to find in any home. I was laughing at a crack from Hope when I glanced up, and the laugh nipped off as if a hand had caught me around the throat.

Veda looked over her shoulder; a quick movement that froze to stillness.

He stood in the doorway, a sad look in his moist eyes, his nose a little more hooked, his mouth smirking.

“Pretty nice,” he said. “Like home. I thought you’d be up here. I saw her watching me through the store window. I reckoned to give you a surprise.”

“Hello, Max,” I said.

“Does she still walk in her sleep?” he asked, came in and shut the door.

It was then I saw the .45 in his hand.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE KETTLE began to boil and steam came from the spout in a thin and persistent jet. The kettle lid lifted and clicked back, lifted and clicked back again. Veda took the kettle off the stove, then sat back and picked up her sewing again. A muscle twitched in her cheek, pulling her mouth out of shape, but she gave no other sign that she was aware of Max. It was like someone seeing a ghost standing at the foot of the bed, and refusing to admit it is there.

“Better put that knife down,” Max said. “You might cut your-self.”

I hadn’t realized I still had the knife in my hand. I suppose I could have thrown it at him, but I’m not good at that sofa of thing. I dropped the knife on the floor.

“I don’t expect you’re pleased to see me,” Max went on. “Two’s company and three’s a crowd.”

“Yes,” I still found it difficult to breathe evenly.

“I thought there was no harm in looking you up. It’s not as if I was staying long.”

“Well, we are a little cramped for space.”

He eyed Veda and smirked.

“Don’t suppose you mind that. A girl doesn’t seem to get in the way like another man.”

“That’s right,” I said.

“I could do with something to eat. Maybe Miss Rux might put something together. Anything will do. I’m not fussy.”

Veda laid down her sewing, got up and opened the store cupboard. The .45 pointed at the centre of her spine. It was an odd feeling, sitting there, seeing the gun threatening her. If I’d held the knife in my hand now I would have thrown it.