1944 - Just the Way It Is (9 page)

Peter sank wearily into an armchair. ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing,’ he said. ‘I’m hanged if I do, but if one of us knows, I suppose it’s all right.’

Duke took the other armchair. He stretched out and yawned. ‘I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow morning,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I have a little sleep? I’ve had a rather strenuous day.’

‘What a crust you’ve got,’ Peter said, in disgust. ‘You come in here with a strange girl, give her my bed and make no attempt to explain. What am I? A sucker or something?’

‘You’re a pal,’ Duke said, sinking lower in his chair. ‘A greathearted pal and I love you.’

‘That won’t get me very far,’ Peter snorted. ‘Is that all you’re going to tell me?’

Duke opened one eye and frowned at him. ‘What else do you want to know that I can tell you? Who she is? I’ve no idea. What’s she going to do? I’ve no idea. I tell you I just picked her up; she wants a home and money and I want some peace. It’s easy once you know how,’ and he closed his eyes again.

‘What did you think of Clare?’ Peter asked, watching him closely.

Duke grunted. ‘She’s a nice girl,’ he said. ‘Too good for a dumb heel like you. If you ain’t careful. I’ll steal her from you.’

Peter’s lips tightened. ‘I’ll be awfully careful,’ he said, with such a rasp in his voice that Duke sat up and gaped at him.

‘That sounded as if I’d annoyed you. Don’t you know when I’m kidding?’

‘I know,’ Peter said. ‘All the same I’m going to be careful.’

Duke waved his hands feebly. ‘The guy’s crazy,’ he said. ‘As crazy as a bug,’ and went to sleep immediately.

That was the end of the first day.

The second day went like this.

NINE

C
lare Russell came into the Clarion office on the following morning, feeling tired and depressed. She went straight to her room, took off her hat, touched her face with a powder puff and sat down at her desk.

Her mail was spread out neatly, her blotter was snowy and her inkwell was filled. But she didn’t feel like work. She pushed the mail away and stared out of the window. The sun was already hot and the streets looked dusty. Fairview wanted rain badly. There was a burnt up, frowsy look about the small, straggly town.

Sitting there, she thought about Harry Duke. Most of the night, she had thought about him. Harry Duke and Peter. Peter and Harry Duke. She had tossed about in the narrow bed, staring into the darkness, remembering all the small details of what had happened. She could see Harry Duke very clearly. She could see his big powerful shoulders, his narrow, dark head and his close-clipped moustache. She could almost feel the power in him.

He would only have to stretch out his hand and she would put hers in his willingly. And she knew that he knew it. That frightened her. She knew that the moment of meeting had done something to both of them. A second before they had been polite strangers but when he had taken her hand, the power in him had gone into her and it was as if they’d known each other for a long time.

It had never happened to her before. She had been in love several times. She had been unhappily in love. She had thought that she was in love with Peter until Harry Duke had taken her hand. She knew she was not in love with Harry Duke, but at the same time, she knew that no other man mattered or would do for her.

So it was all confusing and wretched. Peter was such a nice person; so easily hurt, so willing and generous with his love, offering it to her, like a small boy will offer his last sweet to his favourite friend. She couldn’t bear to hurt him, but she knew that if Harry Duke wanted her, there was not much she could do about it, unless she went away. She might do that. It might save a lot of trouble and sadness. But when she seriously thought of leaving Fairview, making new friends, finding new work, the vastness of the undertaking appalled her. She couldn’t do that kind of thing anymore. You had to be young and strong and carefree to throw over your props and start something entirely new.

She remembered what Peter had said about Harry Duke. ‘Oh, he’s not like that. He’d be swell to you as he’s been swell to me. Oh, I know he’s tough and hard and wild, but not when he’s fond of someone. He’s not like that then.’

She believed he would be loyal and that helped her fears. Men were like that if they had a friend who meant something to them. They would leave their women alone. Perhaps that was how it would work out. Harry Duke wouldn’t call her. He’d be swell to Peter instead.

The little buzzer on her desk pinged sharply. That meant Sam Trench wanted her. She got up hastily, looked at herself in the mirror, frowned at the blue smudges under her eyes and went into his office.

Sam was lying back in his swivelled chair, his hands resting on a blotter covered with scribbling and telephone numbers. He was smoking his inevitable battered pipe.

‘Good morning, Sam,’ she said, sitting on the windowsill so that her back was to the light.

Sam looked at her sharply. The move was not lost on him, ‘Been on the tiles?’ he said, abruptly. ‘You’re looking done up, my girl. Got to take care of yourself, you know. Time you took a vacation.’

‘Oh, I’m all right,’ Clare said, shrugging. ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘You were right.’ Sam pulled out his handkerchief and began polishing his glasses. ‘Timson did buy Pinder’s End. I talked to Hill last night and he came clean after persuasion.’

‘Timson?’ Clare repeated. ‘But he was acting for someone, surely?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Some syndicate . . . the Bentonville Land Corporation or some such name. Bellman’s behind it. I’ve checked up. They gave a good price. Quick work, isn’t it? Timson had only been in town two or three days.’

‘What are they going to do with it now they’ve got it?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’ Sam opened a drawer in his desk and rummaged, then he produced a blueprint and spread it on the table. ‘Here you are. Pinder’s End. It lies on the west side of Fairview, a couple of miles from the centre of the town. Four miles from the factory district. The land is barren, the ten small bungalows are likely to fall down the next time it blows hard, the tenants are broke, there ain’t any drainage and the electricity

doesn’t go out there. A first class buy, I should say. Mind you, they’ve bought it cheap, but I could find a lot of better things to lay the money out on if I had been Timson.’

She walked over to the window and stared down at the busy street below. ‘But, why, Sam? Why do they want Pinder’s End?’

The old man knocked out his pipe and ran his fingers through his thick hair. ‘That imagination of yours is getting to work again,’ he said, grinning at her. ‘You smell a story, don’t you?’

‘I do.’ Clare swung round.

Sam cocked his head on one side. ‘What are you up to?’ he demanded. ‘You’ve got something going on in that head of yours and don’t you deny it.’

Clare smiled. ‘Well, I won’t, but it’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Now don’t start anything that’ll cause trouble, will you?’ he pleaded. ‘There’s too much trouble these days without looking for it.’

‘I’ll try very hard,’ she said, and slipped out of the room.

She ran into Barnes who was putting on his hat, preparing to go out. ‘Heard about Pinder’s End?’ he asked, pausing. ‘To think that double crosser had bought the site and never said a word. I’ll cut his heart out when I see him.’

‘Where are you going, Al?’

‘I’m taking a look at the place. Do you want to come?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve got a phone call to make. While you’re out there, take a good look, Al. Have a look at the soil. See if anyone’s been digging there recently.’

‘What’s the idea?’ Barnes said, looking puzzled.

‘I think I know who has bought the place. They wouldn’t sink good money into wasteland. There might be a silver mine or oil or something like that.’

Listen, Angel Skin, you’re dreaming. The land around here’s been dug over until it’s dizzy. There’s never been the slightest thing of value found in the soil or anywhere else in the town, come to that.’

She stamped her foot. ‘Then why are they buying the place?’ she demanded.

Barnes scratched his head. ‘Search me, maybe they want someplace to be buried in.’

She gave him a little push. ‘Well, go out there and look the place over. Find out casually if the tenants have got their notices to quit.’

Barnes went off in a hurry.

Clare shut herself in her office. She opened her bag, hunted through various bills and letters and found the scrap of paper on which Harry Duke had written his telephone number.

As she reached for the telephone she felt her heart beating violently. It was odd that this should be happening, she thought. She was pleased to be able to call him so soon after they had met and she was glad that he had given her his telephone number.

She sat with the telephone receiver against her ear, listening to the burr-burr of the bell, ringing somewhere in a room he used. She tried to visualize the room, but she could only think of steel and leather furniture and glass. She couldn’t see him against any other furniture.

After a delay, she heard the receiver being lifted with a jerk. ‘Yes?’ someone said, abruptly.

‘Is that Mr. Duke?’ she asked.

‘He ain’t in,’ the voice said and rung off.

She sat looking at the telephone, feeling quite sick. She realized then how badly she had wanted to hear Harry Duke’s voice.

TEN

P
eter Cullen opened his eyes and blinked round his sitting room. He became aware of stiff muscles and a throbbing headache and he groaned dismally as he sat up.

Harry Duke stirred and blinked at him. ‘Hell, ain’t it?’ he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. ‘What a guy will do for a woman. With all that upholstery on her, we ought to have taken the bed and made her sleep on the floor.’

Peter began taking off his coat and vest. ‘Well, she did offer, if you remember,’ he said, stretching carefully.

Duke nodded. ‘So she did. Now what made me dissuade her? Pete, old son, I’m slipping. I’m getting woman conscious.’

‘Toss you for the first bath,’ Peter said producing a nickel.

Duke lost. ‘Well, get on with it,’ he said. ‘I’ll get some breakfast. I wonder if the chicken’s awake yet.’ He put his head round the door and stared into the darkness. ‘Wake up,’ he called. ‘I’m getting breakfast and you’re last in the bathroom’

There was no answer.

‘A heavy sleeper,’ Duke said, over his shoulder to Peter. ‘That’s a thing I never like in a woman. I like ‘em to sleep light.’

‘What on earth for?’ Peter demanded, stripping down to his underwear.

‘Who’s going to scare burglars away? I sleep heavy myself.’

‘Well, go and shake her. Maybe she can cook.’

‘Now you
have
said something. I thought that was just gristle between your ears.’ Duke fumbled for the switch and turned on the light. ‘Wake up, sleepy head,’ he called. ‘We want some breakfast.’ Then he stopped and took a hasty step forward.

Timson was sprawled across the bed, his head thrown back and his hands clenched. He had a big throat wound which glistened in the hard light The sheets were red and there was blood on the wall, at the head of the bed and on the carpet.

Duke took a deep breath, feeling his skin prickling and his stomach flutter. He walked very cautiously to the bed and touched Timson’s hand. It was cold and clammy like damp clay. Duke guessed he’d been dead for some time.

Treading with care, he went round the room, but could find nothing to catch his attention. There was no sign of Lorelli. Somehow, that didn’t surprise him. With Timson dominating the room, it seemed as if Duke had come suddenly into another house, into another world for that matter.

He looked rather hopefully for a weapon but didn’t find one. This upset him more than finding Timson. It meant murder. It meant all sorts of complications and, worse, it meant the police.

He stepped to the door again, examined his clothes and shoes carefully for bloodstains, didn’t find any, turned out the light and backed into the sitting room. He closed the bedroom door carefully as if it were made of egg shells.

‘Why don’t you chuck her out of bed?’ Peter yelled from the bathroom. ‘You ain’t scared of her, are you?’

Duke poured himself out a large whisky and drank it slowly. He felt he needed it. Then he wandered into the bathroom.

Peter was under the shower. ‘This is terrific,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

‘I’m coming,’ Duke said, feeling the whisky mounting to his head. He began to undress slowly.

Peter climbed out of the bath and dried himself vigorously with a towel. ‘I smell whisky,’ he said, sniffing. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve been drinking already?’

‘I was wondering who it was,’ Duke said, pulling his shirt over his head. ‘I smelt it too.’

Peter stared at him. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?’

Duke stepped under the shower. ‘I’ll tell you in a minute,’ he said, turning on the cold tap. He let the icy water run over him, pricking his skin and clearing his head. He stayed there for several minutes and then turned off the shower. He began to towel himself as Peter began to shave.

‘We’ve got a corpse on our hands, Pete,’ he said, gloomily. ‘A corpse with a nice throat wound.’

Peter nearly cut his own throat. He put his razor down hurriedly. ‘I didn’t get that,’ he said, staring at Duke with startled eyes. ‘You know it sounded just like you said we’d got a corpse on our hands.’

‘That’s funny,’ Duke returned, beginning to lather his face. ‘That’s exactly what I did say.’

Peter laughed uneasily. ‘Oh, well, what’s a corpse between friends?’ He picked up his razor, then looked at Duke suspiciously. ‘But I wish you wouldn’t fool so early in the morning.’

‘Wouldn’t I like to be fooling,’ Duke said, running his razor over his face carefully. ‘I must be pretty tough. My hand’s as steady as a rock.’

Peter stood still. ‘What are you talking about?’

Duke looked over at him. ‘Sorry, Pete,’ he said. ‘But, it gave me a bit of a shock. You remember Timson? He’s in there with his throat cut.’