Nightfall (11 page)

      She came back with a tray. A pitcher of lemonade, a bowl of ice. And glasses. Lemonade filled a glass, and she offered it to him.
      “Drink this,” she said.
      “You make it sound as if I'm sick and you're taking care of me.”
      “Drink it.”
      For a while all they did was sip lemonade. Then Vanning put down an empty glass and he looked at her and said, “Do you believe what I've told you?”
      “Yes, Jim. Do you believe me when I say yes?”
      He nodded.
      She put her hand against the back of his head, patted him as if he were her little son. “Go home now. Go to your drawing board and finish that work you were telling me about. Get it all finished. Then go to sleep. And please treat me to dinner tomorrow night?”
      “Seven.”
      “Where?”
      “I'll meet you here. Good night, Martha.”
      He walked out without looking back at her. Going back to his room, he walked rapidly. He was in a hurry to get at the drawing board, in a very great hurry.

10

      Fraser told himself it was a matter of selection. He stood outside the white dwelling and watched Vanning going away. He had placed a little more than twenty yards between himself and Vanning during the walk from the bar to here, and he had remained across the street as Vanning entered the place, and he'd been hoping a light would show in one of the front windows. When it failed to show, he wondered on the feasibility of going up and visiting the back rooms. Somehow it hadn't seemed like a good idea. He'd had the feeling it wouldn't give him anything solid.
      And now he stood here and watched Vanning going away. He had the choice of following Vanning now or going up and trying the back rooms. He had his own system of questioning people so that they gave answers they didn't think were usable but which Fraser was able to use. He would probably get something from one of those back rooms and yet he still had the feeling it wouldn't be enough, wouldn't be what he wanted.
      He decided to stay with Vanning. He lit a cigarette and followed his man to the place where his man lived. He saw his man entering the place, and then he crossed the street, went up to the room he had rented, seated himself behind the dark window, and waited.
      And he saw the light arriving in Vanning's room. He saw Vanning moving around in a preparatory sort of way. The binoculars picked up the bright spots and the shadows, and Vanning's eyes were distinct, they were the eyes of a man in confusion, a confusion that had some strange happiness mixed in. Tonight there was something different in Vanning. The binoculars took it all in and clarified it, but it was clear only on the visual side, and not in the analysis. For some reason Vanning was hopeful and perhaps just a bit cheery, and Fraser began to use his imagination and kept it up until he disciplined himself, told himself imagination was no part of science. It was all right in art, but this wasn't an art. This was on the order of mathematics.
      The binoculars saw Vanning seating himself at the drawing board. There were manipulations with a soft pencil. Vanning would never be a Matisse. He was much too precise. He went at it more like an engineer. He used a T-square and a slide rule. He leaned close to the work and studied it carefully after each movement of the pencil.
      It was interesting to watch him at his work. He had a cigarette going and the smoke of it shot a straight rigid column of blue past his head, the column quite permanent because once the cigarette was lit he left it in the ash tray and paid no attention to it. When it was burned out he lit another and treated it the same way.
      The pencil work completed, Vanning commenced mixing gouache pigments. This took a long time. Fraser sat there with eyes burning into the binoculars, telling himself three hundred thousand dollars was a fortune. A man with three hundred thousand dollars didn't have to sit up all night with 1-squares and gouache and shoulders bent over a board. It was something he had told himself many times, and this time it was in the nature of a conclusion.
      And yet there was another consideration, and it was evolved from the way Vanning addressed himself to his work. The thorough, accurate method, the painstaking manner in which he mixed the paint, the slow, careful application of paint to rough paper. Again Fraser said it to himself. An engineer, he said, a patient calculator. Perhaps a fanatic for doing things in a precise way. Doing this sort of thing, anyway. And the possibility of his doing other things in the same way could not be completely disregarded.
      Fraser sat there and watched. And the longer he sat there, the longer he watched, the more subjective he became. The more subjective he became, the more he began to doubt himself. There was so much he didn't know. About zoology, even though he had read many books. About crystallography, even though at one time he had taken a course at the museum. About judo, despite having been taught by one of the true experts. About Vanning, even though he'd been telling himself he knew Vanning.
      And about psychology, and neurology and man's way of thinking, doing things, reacting. The books were all good books and represented a great deal of study and experimentation and summaries based on years of formularizing. But the field was still in its infancy. There was so much as yet unlearned, even by the top people. And the top people were Fraser's tutors, and Fraser told himself he was a novice. If he'd been someone else examining Fraser, he would have called Fraser a naturally humble man. But he was Fraser. And he was calling Fraser a fool for having considered Fraser a walking textbook on Vanning.
      There was so much he didn't know about Vanning. There was so much a man didn't know about other men. Conversation was an overestimated thing. Such a large part of conversation was merely a curtain for what went on in the mind. So many madmen were walking around and fooling people. It wouldn't be ridiculous to ponder the possibility that Vanning was a victim of dementia praecox, extremely shrewd about hiding it, underneath the disease a good man, but dominated by the disease, a murderer and a terror. Ponder that, Fraser told himself.
      And ponder the other roads. Because there were many roads. The road he had selected could be the wrong road. And it was as though he was in a car and he was going up that road, and the farther he traveled, the more he worried about its being the wrong road. But like any man behind a steering wheel, he tried to tell himself he was steering straight. Rationalizing, he knew he was rationalizing. But he couldn't do anything about that. All he could do was sit there and worry about it.
      In the binoculars, Vanning labored with a paintbrush. The interior of the binoculars gradually became a magnetic little world. Fraser became a magnetized object being drawn into the little world. And as he arrived there, he talked to Vanning.
      He said, “Tell me about yourself.”
      Vanning's lips did not move. He was concentrating on the drawing board. But somehow he said, “I'm a man in a lot of trouble.”
      “I know that,” Fraser said. “Tell me about it.”
      “Why should I? Would you help me?”
      “If I believed you deserved help.”
      “How can I make you believe?”
      “Just tell me the truth,” Fraser said.
      “Sometimes truth is a very odd thing. Sometimes it's amazing and you refuse to believe it.”
      “The front of this thing is amazing. I'll understand if the background's the same way.”
      “I don't think you would,” Vanning said. “I don't think any man would.”
      “Try me out.”
      “No,” Vanning said. “I'm sorry but I can't take the chance.”
      “Don't you want to get out of this mess?”
      “Getting out of it is very important to me. Staying alive is more important.”
      “Don't you trust me?”
      “I'm in a position where I can't trust anyone.”
      “Is that all?” Fraser said.
      “I'm afraid so. I'm sorry.”
      Fraser was about to ask another question, but just then the little world was blanketed with darkness. It became a black, meaningless thing until he took the binoculars away from his eyes and realized he'd been watching Vanning in the process of leaving the drawing board, getting into bed, switching off the light.
      The room across the street was dark, a room of sleep, and Fraser liked the idea of getting some sleep himself. He liked the idea very much. He smiled wistfully at the idea, brought his chair closer to the window, leaned an elbow on the sill and sat there with his eyes half opened, waiting.

11

      There was a feeling that sleep would come easily tonight. When it finally reached Vanning it was like a vapor closing in on him. He rolled around in it, he floated down through it, down and down, going through the endless tides of thick slumber. And somewhere down there the tide twisted, started up in an arc, brought him toward the surface. He attempted to fight the tide, but it kept pulling him up in that circle. When it had him on the surface, when his eyes were wide open and he was staring at the black ceiling, he tried to continue the circle, go down again. But he couldn't close his eyes.
      Worry was doing this. It couldn't be anything except worry. He was in her apartment again and he could hear himself talking to her he could hear the replies she was making. And dancing around somewhere in there was an unsatisfactory element, and he wondered what it was.
      All at once he jumped out of bed and switched on the light. On a Governor Winthrop desk the alarm clock announced three-fifteen. He remembered leaving her apartment at nine-thirty or thereabouts. He measured it with his fingers. An intervening time of approximately six hours.
      That was a long time. It was too long. It was time wasted, and he had to stop making these errors. Especially the kind of errors that concerned a woman. He had started out tonight on a mechanical basis and that was good, and he had allowed himself to fade from the mechanical to the emotional and that was very bad. She had given him nothing, anyway nothing that he could use. And he had given her plenty. He had given her everything. If she felt like using it, there was no limit to what she could do with it. And she could do a great deal in six hours.
      He didn't bother to tie his shoelaces. He tripped once going down the stairway, saved himself from a complete fall by grabbing the rail. On the street he started out with a fast walk, ended up with what amounted to almost a sprint. And then he was panting as he stood outside the white brick house on Barrow Street.
      The button was beside her name on the panel, and it was a shiny button and it was tempting. But he found himself thinking in terms of an alley. He walked around the side street at right angles to Barrow, and there was a narrow alley and the first thing he saw against the blackness of the alley was a light showing from a rear window on the third floor of a house facing Barrow.
      Without counting the houses he knew it was that house.
      Moving down the alley, he was figuring at first on a rear entrance, and wondering how he would get past the lock. And then he noticed a garden court, one of several garden courts at the other side of the alley, and the trees came into focus, and a few of them were quite high. One in particular was getting considerable play from the light that flowed out through the window. The light dipped and hopped through the upper branches of the tree, made puddles of silver on black leaves.
      He walked up to the gate that separated the alley from the garden court. For a few moments he stood there, looking up at the shining leaves, rubbing his hands together, and then lightly, quickly, he climbed over the gate, he approached the tree. Again he looked up. Again he rubbed his hands together. Then he took off his coat.
      It wasn't an easy climb. This was a very big tree, big in every way, particularly in the thickness of the trunk. In several places the trunk was much too smooth, and he felt himself slipping, felt the strain on his legs, told himself to stop being in such a hurry. He rested awhile, then went on climbing, took hold of a branch, pulled himself up, and now he was going up through the branches, the leaves swishing against his face.
      A few thin branches gave him trouble, and he had to come in toward the center of the tree, where there was more thickness. Then up a couple more feet, and a couple more, and just a couple more. He turned slowly, to face the lighted window.
      He saw her in there. She no longer wore the blue quilted satin bathrobe. Now she was wearing a yellow dress trimmed with green. There was a cigarette in her mouth and she had a highball glass in her hand. She moved toward the window and turned so that her back was to the window. Then she moved again to the side, and he couldn't see her. There was only the lighted window and the motionless room beyond the window. And Vanning waited.
      A shadow fell across the light. Vanning leaned forward. He saw her again. She was back at the window, and he saw her in profile. She was smiling. Her lips were moving. She took a drink from the highball glass. She took a puff at the cigarette. Vanning's fingers twisted, pressed into the branch that supported him. He saw her gesturing with the cigarette. Then once again she walked away from the window, out of sight.
      There was another wait. It lasted a few years. Then the shadow again, falling across the light. And Martha again, leaning against the window sill. And then another shadow, falling across Martha, remaining there.
      And then a hand, holding a highball glass. A man's hand, a man's coat sleeve. Cigarette smoke between Martha and that hand. And no motion now, nothing, only another wait. But suddenly a quick movement on the part of Martha. She was going away from the window. The other things remained there, the man's hand, the highball glass, the coat sleeve. And gradually the coat sleeve moved out across the lighted space, and there was a coat, and a shoulder, and a man's head, turning slowly and getting into profile. And there he was.
      John.

12

      It was enough. It was hollow and yet there was a shattering in it. Vanning began his descent. He sighed a few times, he shook his head a few times, and as he came onto the ground he hit his fists together lightly, shook his head again, and then he grinned. He wasn't angry at John. He wasn't angry at anybody, not even himself.
      He had to pass out a little credit. Some of it to John for engineering the thing from the beginning, but more of it to her, because her performance had been sheer perfection. Every move, every word, the smallest gesture, she had carried it out in major-league style. If this was the work she had cut out for herself, she was certainly doing it on a blue-ribbon basis.
      As he walked down the alley, getting his arms through the sleeves of his coat, he knew he was rationalizing, but it didn't bother him. He was too tired to be bothered by anything right now. He was at the point where the open-field runner had already run past him and he had tried for the tackle and missed, and now all he could do was rest back on his elbows and listen to the crowd cheering the other team's touchdown.
      He was going up the side street, turning, coming onto Barrow, and he was making his way along Barrow, listening to his own footsteps breaking through the quiet black. There seemed to be an echo to his footsteps. There seemed to be noise beyond the echo. Then the echo and the noise came together and moved up toward him, and he stopped dead and waited, and the sound now was purely that of footsteps behind him, and coming closer. And he waited there.
      “That's right,” a voice said. “Just wait there.”
      Vanning turned. He saw the man. It was quite dark around here, and yet he began to get the feeling he had seen this man before. And then he saw the gun.
      “Will I need this?” the man said, and he pointed to the gun in his hand.
      “You'd better keep it ready.”
      “I'll put it in my pocket,” the man said. “Lift your arms a little. I want to see what's on you.”
      The man had the gun in his pocket as he came toward Vanning, and he hit Vanning lightly, swiftly, in the frisking process. Then he stepped back and waited for Vanning to do something.
      “What do you want?” Vanning said.
      “I'm not sure yet.”
      “Make up your mind. It's past my bedtime.”
      “Let's walk,” the man said.
      They walked down Barrow, crossed Sheridan Square. The man seemed to be walking at Vanning's side, but actually he was just a little to the rear.
      “Let's walk to the park,” the man said. “I want to have a talk with you.”
      “Why the gun?”
      “Guess.”
      “Police?”
      “You guessed it.” And the man displayed a badge.
      “I'm glad,” Vanning said. “You don't know how glad I am. Now it's off my hands. Now it's your worry.
      “My name is Fraser.”
      “Who cares what your name is? Who wants to know your story? You're the police and you're taking me in. Why don't we leave it at that?”
      “Because there's more to it than that.”
      “All right, take me in and we'll find out.”
      “We're going over to the park and have a talk.”
      “You're the doctor.”
      “Now that's funny, your saying that. I always wanted to be a doctor. Maybe I am, in a way. I like to think it's possible for me to help people, rather than make their lives miserable. Lately I've been studying psychology.”
      “Good for you.”
      “I'd appreciate it if you helped me out.”
      “With your homework?”
      “Call it that.”
      “Take me in, will you? Just take me in.”
      “We're going to the park.”
      “I'm tired,” Vanning said. “You don't have any idea how tired I am. I'm glad you finally grabbed me and I wish you'd take me in.”
      “Why did you do it?”
      “Oh, come on,” Vanning said. “Don't start that now. I'll get enough of that later.”
      “You must have had a reason. We never do things like that without a reason.”
      “Read tomorrow's late edition and you'll find out all about it.”
      After that the detective was quiet. They crossed another street, went down another block. They were entering Washington Square Park. They went across grass, came onto pavement, and the detective gestured toward a bench.
      They sat down. The detective took out a pack of cigarettes. “Have one?”
      “Anything to make you happy,” Vanning said. Then he smiled wearily. “No, I don't mean that. You're only doing your job. I'll have a cigarette, thanks.”
      The detective lit a match. Smoke sifted between the detective and Vanning.
      They took in more smoke and blew it out and watched it rise. Then the detective said, “I've had my eye on you for quite a time.”
      “You don't need to tell me.”
      “You felt it?”
      “No. You fooled me. But I'm not surprised. I should have known.”
      “Of course,” the detective said. “The way you were running down that street. I could even see your shoelaces were untied.”
      Vanning frowned at the smoke. It made a weird pattern in front of his eyes. Some of it boomeranged and got into his eyes and he blinked. But he kept on frowning.
      “All right,” the detective said. “What's your name?”
      “Van—”
      “What?”
      “Van.”
      “Van what?”
      “Van Johnson.”
      “Be reasonable.”
      “Van Rayburn.”
      “That's an unusual first name. Van.”
      “Johnson does all right with it.”
      The detective made himself as comfortable as the park bench would allow. He took a long pull at the cigarette. “Now let's see,” he said. “I'm walking down the street at three-thirty in the morning and I gander a man going someplace in a big hurry. Really flying. So I figure I'll stay behind and see what happens. So I follow this man as he tears down Barrow Street. I watch him go up the side street and the alley. I watch him climbing the tree. At first I figure too many Tarzan pictures, but then I notice he's got himself across from a lighted window. So then I figure a Tom. I've still got to figure a Tom. That is, unless you can talk your way out of it.”
      Vanning looked at the detective.
      “And that's all?”
      “Why? Is there something else?”
      “No,” Vanning said.
      “Tell me, Van. What's troubling you? Don't you have a girl friend?”
      “I did,” Vanning said. “At least I thought I did. Until a little while ago.”
      “That's the idea,” the detective said. “Now tell me all about it.”
      “I was with her earlier tonight,” Vanning said. “I accused her of playing around with another party. She said it wasn't true. So I took her word for it and went home. I couldn't sleep. I had to find out for myself. Without her knowing. That's why I climbed the tree and looked in the window.”
      “He was in there with her, wasn't he?”
      “What do you think?”
      “I don't think. I know. All I had to do was get a good look at your face. Tell me, Van, what do you do for a living?”
      “Commercial artist.”
      “Okay,” the detective said. He stood up. “That's all, Van. Go on home. Forget about her. If she lied to you once, she'll lie again. If you allow yourself to see her any more, you deserve every kick in the pants you get.”
      Vanning came up from the bench and faced the detective. “You're letting me go?”
      “Why not? All you did was climb a tree.”
      Vanning turned and walked away. After a while he felt choked up and the pain in his lungs was a suffocating pain. He wondered why that was happening, then gradually realized it was because he was holding his breath. The stale air came out in a violent rush. He breathed in pure air. He breathed it in with desperation, as if he were in a tube where there was very little air remaining.
      The streets paraded toward him like collections of black shapes, living but not moving. They instilled a definite discomfort, and he was in a hurry to arrive at his room. When he got there, he opened the door with a rapid, jerky motion, closed it the same way. Then he leaned back against the door and looked at the room.
      “Well,” he said, “we're still here.”
      He went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face. Doing it with his hands didn't give him as much cold wetness as he felt he needed. He put a stopper in the drain opening, filled the bowl with cold water, ducked his head in it, kept that up for several moments. When he lifted his head he saw himself in the mirror. He grinned at himself.
      “All you did was climb a tree,” he said.
      The face in the mirror grinned back at him for a few seconds. Then, when it stopped grinning, it became expressionless.
      “Buck up,” Vanning said without sound. “It's not that bad. Give me the grin again.”
      The face stared back at him.
      “What's the kick?” Vanning said. “Tonight you got a real break. You ought to be happy. You're a lucky boy tonight.”
      And without sound the face said, “Tonight was tonight. But then comes tomorrow.”
      “Get off the gloom wagon, will you? They say tomorrow never comes.”
      “They're all wet.”
      “You're all wet,” Vanning said. “Dripping wet. You give me the blues, brother. Sometimes you make me sick. Why don't you go to sleep?”
      “I'll try.”
      “Don't worry. You'll sleep.”
      “I hope so.”
      “Sure, you'll sleep. All you've got to do is close your eyes and think about nothing.”
      “It sounds easy, but sometimes the thoughts keep coming in like sticky air through an open window. You can't keep it out. The more you try, the faster it comes in. You have a date with her tomorrow night at seven o'clock. See how it is? There's your tomorrow. You'll think about that. You'll think about John. You'll think about Denver. What's that name again? Harrison, wasn't it? You killed Harrison. See if you can get away from that. You killed him, that's all there is to it, and they know you killed him, and now you're started, so you might just as well think about Seattle, and there's where the three hundred thousand comes in, so that brings you to the satchel. You're really moving now. You're wondering again, wondering as you've wondered a thousand times already, wondering why John left you in that room in the hotel, left you alone in there with the gun and the satchel, and somewhere in that there's an ounce of maybe, a fraction of an ounce. Maybe if you could figure that one out you'd have a door that you could open, you'd have something to give a lawyer, you'd have some actual ammunition on your side. Try to figure it out. Try to figure out the whole business. There must be an answer somewhere. You see the way it is? How can you keep these things out of your mind? Where did you drop that satchel? How can you fall asleep?”
      “If I only had someone to talk to.”
      “Me.”
      “You? Don't make me laugh. You help me out like iodine helps sunburn.”
      Later, when his head came against the pillow, the pillow felt like granite. He tried to tolerate it, but after a while it was unbearable, and he sat up, switched on the bed lamp. He lit a cigarette.
      In an ash tray near the bed, the stubs became a family that grew through the night.