13 French Street (9 page)

“Sure,” I said. “Can’t you phone?”

“No phone.” He went inside the house. “Petra’s got the car keys.” He called her. She’d been in the living room. As she entered the hall, she didn’t look at me, only at him. He told her what he wanted. He seemed very haggard, worn out.

“Why, I’ll go,” Petra said. “There’s no need sending—I mean, why should Alex have to go?”

“Because I asked him. Give me the keys.”

Petra’s eyes turned my way. She was a beautiful black bitch. “Well,” she said. “I’ll just run in along with Alex, then.”

“I’ll need you here,” Verne said. “The keys!”

She got them and handed them to me. Verne started up the stairs. I headed for the front door. She ran ahead of me, got in front of me. I tried to pass her.

“Kiss me good-by,” she said. “And hurry, hurry.” Her eyes were a little wild and then I had her in my arms. God, oh, God, I said to myself. Her lips were hot and good, her body something I wanted to crush up against the wall. I held her so tightly she moaned. Then I flung her away.

“Lord, Alex!”

I went on out to the car and drove to Allayne. I wondered whether we were praying or cursing. Both of us. Every minute that passed snarled me up in this thing a little more. I was wading in deadly quicksand. Already it was too late to back out. Death. Murder. Sure as God.

Me. Alex Bland. Colorless and common and with a conscience that would keep five people treading the straight and narrow. Nose-to-the-grindstone Bland.

She was a sickness. I was filled with the insidious sickness of her and the only doctor was time and I wasn’t sure Doc Time would do so hot with this case. Pulled one way, yanked the other. She’d waited, all right—she’d held me off, and now this….

I passed a couple of cars on the road to Allayne and wondered if one of them might be carrying the doctor Verne had phoned.

The black-top road dipped and Allayne spread out before me; gray-roofed buildings beneath a roof of gray sky, church spires, the courthouse dome, and all the rust-red-green autumnal trees.

C
HURCH
bells tolled a solemn recollection of timeless Sundays spent in an apathy of occasional prayer tokening an afterward of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, stuffed stomachs and shirts, groaning couches and the geometric disarray of thick newspapers among the wailing havoc of snores, wet diapers, clanking kitchen sinks, or the shade-drawn sedate parlors where through rich cigar smoke they mumbled ritualistic weekly histories of business and how Oscar got drunk last night at the
hotel
bar. As I drove up Main Street people were congregating in front of the churches and it was a nice autumn Sunday for death.

The elms were disrobing now and seemed slightly ashamed of it, clutching to the last minute browning remnants of their wardrobe. I found Chapman Lane, where Jenny Carson lived, and turned down.

It was a tiny house with two tiny front windows and a very small door. There was a second story, but it looked as if you’d have to bend over to walk around up there. The house was tightly enclosed by an artificial cement-stone fence, which only made the house seem smaller still. There was a gate. The house dated ‘way back, the broad, white-painted boards running vertical. There was a brass bellpull. I pulled. It tinkled.

I half expected a little old lady dressed in blue with a teacup rattling in her hand. Instead, I got Jenny. She was a different Jenny from the Jenny I’d thought I’d met out at Verne’s.

“I kind of expected you’d come, Mr. Bland,” she said. “Don’t stand there, come in.”

I followed her inside and she closed the door. A radio played quiet melodies from somewhere.

“In here,” she said, leading me into a small living room. It was decked out like a studio, very clean and neat. A broad studio couch up against the far wall, with a tired but colorful blanket sleeping on it, a couple of easy chairs, a large bookcase, filled, and in one corner an easel with a painting of a nude woman partly completed on it. There was a table by the easel cluttered with paints, brushes, rags, and bottles. There was a faint odor of turpentine. Jenny went immediately to the painting and tossed a piece of cloth over it.

She turned, smiling that hesitant smile. “Simply because it’s not finished,” she said. “Please sit down. Why did you come?”

I stared at her, groping for a chair, and sat. Her carrot-colored hair was sort of all flung over to one side and her eyes were filled with patient questioning laughter. She wore a fawn-colored skirt and a white blouse, short-sleeved, that buttoned close around her throat. Turning, she moved over to the studio couch and sat down, crossed her legs, put her elbow on her knee, and cupped her chin in her hand. She had very broad hips and a very thin waist. One of her soft red slippers had a hole in the toe.

“Well, for goodness’ sake, Mr. Bland. Don’t sit there like that. What’s the matter?”

“I came because of Verne, Jenny.”

“Oh?”

“He wants you back.” I told her about Verne’s mother. I told her how she had died, only I didn’t mention that Petra had pushed her. And I didn’t tell her what Petra and I were trying to do at the time.

“I see,” Jenny said. “Is Mr. Lawrence broken up?”

“Seems to be.”

“I’m sorry, of course. That was a horrible way for the old lady to die, but—”

“But what, Jenny?”

She glanced down at the floor, then up at me again. “I rather expected it would be something like that.”

“How do you mean?”

“Did Petra push her?”

“What!”

“Did Petra push her out of the window?”

“Listen,” I said. “Will you come with me?”

Jenny shook her head slowly. “No,” she said. “No, I wouldn’t go out there again. I’ve had enough of that place. It was bad enough, just knowing—”

“Knowing what?”

“Mr. Bland, you know what I mean.”

“Please call me Alex, and I don’t know what you mean.”

“All right, Alex. Yes, you do. She’s got you, hasn’t she?” She rose quickly, moved across the room to the corner by the windows. The radio—a small set—was on the floor. She turned it off, then stood there with her back to me, staring out the window. “You’re—you’re stuck like a fly in the glue,” she said.

“Verne’s waiting,” I said. “Will you please come?”

The thought of Petra was like a cold knife getting red hot. I suddenly wanted to burst these walls and be with her. Jenny turned and looked at me.

“I’m not going with you, no. He’ll have to wait.”

“He needs help.”

She tipped her head and smiled at me. “Yes,” she said simply, “he surely needs help. A pail of arsenic would do the trick.”

“Jenny!”

“I’m sorry.”

I rose and something went loose inside me as I found myself staring at a telephone on the studio couch. It was a dull ache.

“Verne said you had no phone.”

“Just had it installed. I have a new job now. I can afford one.”

“Could I use it?”

“Sure.” She didn’t move. The couch was broad, as I said, so I had to crawl over after the phone and unsnarl the wires. I placed a call with long-distance for Madge Collins, at her home in Chicago. Then I hung up and sat there, waiting.

“You’re sweating,” Jenny said. “Running around in your shirt sleeves, sweating. I’ll go get you a drink of water.” She turned in front of me. “Don’t peek at that painting.” She turned and left the room. I watched the sway of her hips and thought of Petra. Water. I needed something stronger than water.

Murder didn’t lie. I looked at my hands and they were trembling. I was in it right up to here; and “here” was a long way up. Jenny wouldn’t return with me to 13 French Street. What would Verne say about that? The phone rang. I grabbed it up. And all the time I was thinking how I wanted to be back there with Petra.

Madge’s slightly puzzled voice finally reached me.

“But why haven’t you written? Only one letter, Al.”

“That’s why I’m phoning.”

“But Al, I’ve worried.”

“I know, I know. Something’s come up.” The couch sank beside me as Jenny sat down. She handed me a cool glass of water and I drank it down, all of it. Jenny took the glass, watching me openly, and smiling a little.

Here I was, thinking of Petra, sitting beside a very pretty girl called Jenny, talking to the girl I intended to marry, Madge. And through it all I kept seeing a gray something smashed against stone, like a broken rag doll.

“Al—Al, say something!”

“I’m sorry.” I tried to think of nothing but Madge. It wouldn’t work. I could taste Petra’s lips….

“Al—”

“Madge, darling,” I said, and I didn’t want to talk with her. She was too far away, too far removed from me and the things that were happening. I told her about the death of Verne’s mother. “Madge. That’ll mean I’ll have to stay here a bit longer.”

“Oh, Al! It’s been long enough already. My gosh, maybe they don’t want you around there—with that going on, and all.”

“No, Madge. He asked me to stay.” Jenny’s fingers touched my arm. I glanced at her. She shook her head and clucked her tongue. She looked somehow very clean and fresh.

In my mind’s eye I could see Madge standing by the phone in her hallway, looking crisp and efficient and blonde. She was Madge and right now her eyes were gray, sure as anything. She’d never act like Jenny, of the country, of hay and summer and sunshine, or like Petra, of … She was Madge. Jenny quietly inspected the hole in her red slipper.

“I think you should come home,” Madge said.

“I can’t, darling.”

“You can, Al. There’s no sense in your staying on. Besides, what about me? What should
I
do all this time? Just sit around and stare at walls?”

“Madge, I can’t help it. I don’t know how soon I’ll be able to make it.”

Jenny rose, went over to the paint table, and began fussing with her brushes.

“Well, all right.” Madge’s voice was a bit crisp. “Stay, if you must. When you can make it, let me know.” She hung up. I slapped the phone in its cradle.

Jenny and I looked at each other.

“She’s a fine girl,” I said. “You’d like her.”

“I’m sure. But she hung up on you, didn’t she?”

I rose and said, “I’ll leave five dollars for the phone call. If there’s anything left, buy a new paintbrush.”

“It’s not necessary,” she said.

I found a five-dollar bill and put it on the table by her easel.

“You coming with me?” I said.

“I’m afraid not, Alex. I’m sorry, but, as I said, I’ve got a new job, beginning in a week or so. Meanwhile I’m just going to loaf. And I don’t want any more of
them
.” She kept trying to smile at me. “Why don’t you stay and have lunch with me? This is supposed to be your vacation, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But I can’t stay.”

She watched me a moment, soberly. Then she smiled again. “All right. Maybe some other time?”

“Maybe.”

We walked to the door. I opened it. She leaned against the wall, watching me. There were pockets in her skirt and she had her hands jammed in them.

“Good-by, Jenny.”

She smiled. She didn’t move. I went out and closed the door with her still standing that way, watching me.

Then all of the terrible parts of my world fell on me with a silent bang.

As I drove out of Allayne the streets were very still. Everybody was at church. Everybody except Jenny. She’d been a very easy person to get along with, to know, to feel free with. She had accepted my coming as a fact. Why? I’d forgotten to ask.

The downtown section was completely deserted except for three parked cars, looking strangely alone. The sidewalks and street looked dusty and autumnal. Then, pretty soon, I was between the hills again, on French Street, and Allayne was out of sight and mind. I was thinking of Petra, when suddenly I remembered Madge. The phone call, talking with her, seemed to mean absolutely nothing. Yet I knew I should feel good, having spoken to her.

Then I knew something else. I was driving back toward trouble. But every bit of distance covered carried me closer and closer to the hell I wanted more than anything on earth.

I
NEARLY
missed seeing the man in the middle of the road. The house was just a short way around another bend. The man stood nonchalantly in the middle of the road and flagged me down. I started to drive past slowly on his right, but he leaped in front of the car.

“What do you want?” I shouted out the window, stopping the car.

He grinned, lounged quietly up to the side of the car, and stood there. He was chewing tobacco, a man of perhaps thirty or so, raw-boned almost to the extent of cadaverousness. He turned, spat a long string of brown juice, then fastened slitted, bloodshot eyes on me. “Mr. Bland,” he said.

“Yes.”

He grinned again. His lips were loose, his mouth broad, his teeth very square and outlined in black. His mouth trembled when he grinned. He wore ragged blue jeans, a pale-washed blue denim shirt, and a battered, sweat-stained felt hat of no color.

“Mister,” he said, “drive the car in them bushes.” He pointed to some bushes off the side of the road.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” I said. “Get out of the way.”

One big dirt-grimed hand, knuckle bones nearly showing through the skin, grasped the window ledge. He shook his head. “Nope. I seen it. I seen it all. Now, ram your damn car in them bushes like I say.” He ceased chewing and stared at me with his mouth open, then he grinned again. “Come on,” he said, slapping my shoulder. He hitched his own shoulders. His arms hung loose at his sides. He chewed and spat on the left front fender of the car.

We watched each other for a while.

“What was it you say you saw?”

He grinned. “Hell, mister. The old lady. I seen that dame push the old lady out that there window. I seen plenty.” He winked grotesquely and hitched his shoulders. “Hurry up, ‘fore I get a wind up, damn it.”

I drove the car into the bushes. He came in after me. I got out of the car and faced him. He was about my height, with a slouch. He carried himself with a slouch. He smelled strongly of the barnyard, and of wet tobacco.