The Expendable Man (17 page)

Houston was a lean, broad-shouldered man, topping Hugh by inches. He wore a dark summer suit, cut like a flannel, a white shirt, and a neat dark tie. His close-cropped hair was sunbleached to pale lemon; he was tanned far darker than Ellen, almost as dark as Hugh. Against this brown skin his eyes were a startling bright blue. He wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses; when he removed them to gesture, a deliberately induced habit, he looked older. He was probably in his late thirties. There was no indication of what the inner man was like, if indeed there was an inner man. He was as dispassionate as a photograph of himself.

He motioned to chairs. His voice was courteous but devoid of any personal intonation. “Will you sit down? I'm sorry but I must eat while we talk. I have to be in court at one o'clock.” He circled behind his desk, which was covered not only with papers but with a white luncheon cloth. He was not a sandwich-and-cup man. There was a steak, a decent green salad, a pot of coffee. He resumed eating. “Your father spoke to me from Washington this morning, Miss Hamilton. He seemed to think that Dr. Densmore might need help and that I might be interested. That is all I know. Do you care to tell me about it?”

He had addressed himself directly to Ellen, as if she were an interpreter between him and Hugh. He was civilized; he accepted Ellen as of his own stature; he had no reason yet to accept Hugh. Hugh didn't resent it, he himself was no different in meeting strangers. Yet it left him unprepared when Ellen said, “It's Hugh's story. I'm merely
amicus curiae.”

Her gesture indicated to Hugh that he should take over. He wondered where to start. And because without the beginning it couldn't be fully explained, he began on the Indio Road. Because of time, he omitted unessential detail as he had for Edward, his own reactions, his thoughts. By now he could sum up the facts economically.

Skye Houston listened without evident reaction. He didn't miss a word, an inflection, although he completed his lunch during the recitation. He'd lighted a cigarette before Hugh was done. At the end he had one comment, “Interesting.” As if it had been a piece of fiction. But he lifted his telephone, dialed a number. “Skye Houston here, put me through to the chief, if you please.” While waiting he lit one cigarette from the glowing stub of another. “Bruce? Skye Houston. What are the results of the autopsy in that canal case?” He listened, his pencil touching a pad with repetitive marks. When the chief—of police?—had finished, he said casually, “I'm representing him. You may pass the word.”

Ellen flashed silent triumph at Hugh. It helped the sick feeling which came over him at the certainty of his further involvement. His name must have been mentioned by the chief.

Skye was dialing another number. “Skye Houston. Have someone give me a buzz when His Honor gets there, will you? Thanks. See you.” He rang off and dialed another number before he said to Hugh, “You're right. It's murder.” He broke off when his party responded. He identified himself and asked, “Hack in?” While waiting, he broke a long ash carefully into a silver bowl. “Hack? I just talked to Bruce about the canal murder. Are you planning to question Dr. Densmore again?” He gesticulated with his cigarette impatiently. “Why do I want to know? I'm representing him.” After a short moment, he asked, “Can you make it tomorrow at three? I'm in court this afternoon.” Briefly he listened again, cutting in sharply, “Certainly you can talk to him whenever you like, with or without me. Just remember, I'm representing him.” He was more agreeable when he cut in again, “I'll ring you in the morning, Hack. Thanks a lot.”

He hung up and set the phone aside. “All right. This is it. There was an abortion. She didn't die of it, although it might have caused death later. It was badly bungled. But she died of a knock on the head. With a wrench or some such tool.” He took off his horn-rims and made of them a pendulum. “I'm taking your case. I haven't any business taking it, I've twice as much as I can handle now. But it interests me. I don't get a chance at interesting cases too often, not in Phoenix.”

To be uneasy because to the lawyer it was no more than a technical problem, wasn't justified. Why should he have a personal interest in a stranger?

There was a tap on his door, the office had no intercom system. Houston lifted his voice slightly. “Come in.”

A head came in, a young, pretty, blond, curly head. A glance touched Ellen and Hugh but with no curiosity.

“What is it, Meg?” Impatience was on the surface.

“You told me to let you know when it was time to go to court, Mr. Houston.”

“Let me know when we get a buzz from the clerk. That billy-goat judge has kept me waiting often enough.”

The head disappeared quickly.

“Where was I? Oh yes. I'll slough off some of my routine stuff on the needy.” He recapitulated, “Yes, I'll take your case. I'm expensive. You may as well know that right now.”

Before Hugh could speak, Ellen said something like, “It doesn't matter.” He agreed.

“I intend to be governor of this state. My target is four years from now.” He spoke coolly, agreeably, but there was an underlying hint of power in him that hadn't surfaced before. It was somehow exciting and strangely reassuring. “I'm going there on your shoulders. This I tell to all my clients. They have a right to know they're building my war chest. Moreover, they have a right to know that without the cases they bring me to win, I wouldn't be tall enough to reach the chair.” He began to gather his papers. “I don't say this to worry you. Your credit is good, Dr. Densmore. When I've cleared you, we'll figure out what's fair. Expensive, but fair.”

Again the girl tapped and poked in her head. “He's coming.”

“Thank you, I'll time it.”

She had disappeared before he finished the sentence. Still talking, Houston fastened his briefcase and pushed back his chair. Hugh and Ellen came to their feet. “We must discuss this more thoroughly and make a plan of action. We can't afford delay. What about dinner? Do you mind coming out to my place? It's in the book, Mockingbird Lane. You know, Scottsdale.” He came around the desk and shook hands with Ellen. “You, too.” It was a directive, not courtesy. “About six-thirty?” He gripped Hugh's hand. “Bring your suits if you want a swim. I find it relaxing after the heat of the day.” Briefly he seemed human as he realized, “You must be feeling the heat. You aren't used to it. You won't mind letting yourselves out?” His private door closed behind him; they could hear his tread striking down the corridor.

Hugh looked, bewildered, at Ellen. “You approve?”

“We couldn't have done better. Not even in Washington.”

He was surprised at her enthusiasm, he'd never seen her excited before. He was ashamed of his fleeting thought that it was because there had been chemistry between her and Houston; it had been there, he'd sensed it. She was too knowledgeable to let that count. But he didn't express his own doubts as to this lawyer being the right one for him. Perhaps a cold, emotionless legalist who took a case as a hieroglyphic rather than out of conviction was what he needed.

They returned to the outer office. The curly Meg was at the first desk, the cluttered one; a slant-eyed brunette was speed-typing at the other. Meg looked up and said, “Good-bye. Let me know if I can be of any help. Call in any time.” She wasn't curious, nor was the brunette who smiled at them as she changed carbons.

Hugh thanked them and opened the door for Ellen. They walked in silence the length of corridor and began their descent of the narrow staircase. What could Hack, who must be Marshal Hackaberry, have said that so annoyed Houston? Why hadn't Houston told them?

Over her shoulder, Ellen said, “He gives you confidence.”

“Yes, he has it,” Hugh responded. He didn't tell her that he was more afraid than ever.

He had to get away from her; he was unable to contain his impatience to go to Three Oaks and look for Mahm Gitty. He'd forgotten he had had nothing to eat until Ellen said, “Where will we go for your breakfast and my lunch?”

There was no excuse he could give for postponing food; it was past one o'clock and she knew he'd had nothing this morning. He remembered, “There's a bakery cafeteria a couple of blocks from here. Not elegant but friendly and the food used to be good. Will that do?”

“It sounds just right.” She was a different girl since Houston, as light of heart as Allegra or Celeste. “Air-conditioned, I hope?” The sun burned down, the sidewalks pushed the descending heat up again into your face.

“Everything's air-conditioned in Phoenix.” Deliberately he matched her mood. “Except Skye Houston's office.”

They had come upon a newspaper stand; he bought both the Phoenix papers. And realized he couldn't take her to lunch, he couldn't even buy his own breakfast. Somehow he wasn't embarrassed; he could tell the new Ellen with amusement, “I hope you have enough money to feed us. There went my last dime. I haven't had a chance to get to the bank.”

She said, “It will be a pleasure.”

“A loan,” he warned. “Positively a loan.”

She laughed at him. “I wouldn't spoil a friendship for a dollar or two.”

The cold of the cafeteria enveloped them like a snowfall. They loaded their trays and managed to find a separate table. Without apology, each took up a newspaper, reading as they ate, occasionally reciting a sentence or two aloud. They exchanged papers as they finished the only story.

The morning paper had a rehash of the original news but the early edition of the afternoon paper had headlines of the identification of Bonnie Lou Crumb by her father, Albert Crumb, a mechanic of Indio. There was a front-page news photo of Mr. Crumb's arrival at the airport. The picture showed an unimpressive average man, perhaps in his forties, wearing an open sports shirt and wrinkled slacks. There was no sob story. Mr. Crumb, “tight-lipped and obviously restraining his emotion,” had identified his daughter and expressed the hope that “they'd get the punk who did this.” If he could get his hands on the killer, “he'll never hurt any girl again.” The only mention of the mother was the brief statement that she and Mr. Crumb were divorced when Bonnie Lou was a child. She had not come forward. Iris doubtless had spoken the truth when she had said they did not know where her mother was.

There was also front-paged a blown-up snapshot of Bonnie Lou, taken perhaps a year before, and a cabinet photograph at least two years old, all flaws removed, making her look quite pretty and very young. The paper had been printed before the autopsy results; there was announcement only that it was being conducted. There was no mention of Hugh.

He commented on it, and Ellen admitted, “I don't understand, either. I wonder—it could be they don't want to risk the loss of any sympathy for her. If they're building their case on a sweet, innocent little girl, that false-name business would wreck the impression.”

“Or hitchhiking to Phoenix.”

She repeated, “I don't understand. Where I come from the newspapers wouldn't defer that much to the police.”

Nor would they in Los Angeles. The reporters must know more than they had written. It couldn't be possible that the case wasn't being tongued over in minute detail in both the Phoenix and the Scottsdale stations.

They had finished lunch. On leaving the cafeteria, the blast of the street temperature was unbearable. By the time they had walked back to the parking lot, Hugh felt as if he'd been in a steam bath. He wondered how Ellen managed to appear fresh; perhaps Washington weather was a conditioner. In Los Angeles the thermometer rarely reached these heights.

Not until they were at the car did he ask, “Do you mind driving yourself back to The Palms?”

She was instantly apprehensive. “No. But why?”

He put the keys in her gloved hand. “There's someone I want to talk to.”

“Oh no!”

Did she think it was Mr. Crumb or that he'd found out where to find Iris' friend? He couldn't and wouldn't say more. She would try to dissuade him, at least to wait until after tonight's conference. He knew it couldn't wait. Even now Ringle and Venner might be looking for him. That half-heard conversation between Houston and Hackaberry could only mean that the marshal wanted to have another interview with Hugh.

“Nothing to worry about. But I don't want the car.” The most foolish thing he could do would be to drive into the Three Oaks district in the white Cadillac.

“In this heat?”

“There's the bus if I need it.”

She had to accept his decision, she didn't know enough to countermand it. She opened her purse. “You can't ride the bus for free.” She extended a handful of dollar bills. “Don't argue. I'll keep books if you insist.”

He took the money. He'd forgotten that a few pennies were his only monetary supply. “Thanks, Ellen. And don't worry. I may ring you up for a lift later.”

Her eyes studied him, curiously, thoughtfully. Then she gave her head a slight shake and got into the car. He watched her drive away. He hoped her faith in his innocence wouldn't falter under his refusal to explain. If it did, he could not blame her. She didn't know him well enough for blind faith.

When the car was out of sight, he left the lot. He removed his tie as he walked, folding it into his pocket. He slipped out of his jacket, folding it under his arm. With the collar open, the short-sleeved white sports shirt, wrinkled with dampness, lent an appearance of the kind of young man who might go seeking Mahm Gitty. He didn't remove his dark glasses; everyone wore dark glasses these days. They were no status symbol.

He walked to the nearest service station with Negro attendants. The younger was manning the pump, the older was in the small air-cooled office. Hugh went into the office. A radio was broadcasting a baseball game.

He lent his voice the cheerful informality of Phoenicians. “How's the best way to get to the Three Oaks district from here?”