Bill Pronzini - Labyrinth

I had to park three blocks away, which was par for the course; garages are at a premium in Pacific Heights because most of the buildings are older apartment complexes or converted private homes like the one I live in. A ripe smell greeted me when I let myself into the flat: I had forgotten to take out the garbage again. But then, I had never been much of a housekeeper and I was used to ripe smells, dirty dishes, dustballs under the furniture, and soiled laundry and other items scattered around the floors. About the only thing I made an effort to keep neat was my collection of pulps-over six thousand of them now, on standing bookshelves along the living room walls.

In the kitchen I got a beer from the refrigerator. Drank some of it on my way into the bedroom, where I keep the telephone. The bed, as we used to say when I was a kid, looked like it belonged in a whorehouse after a raid; I pushed aside a wad of blankets, sat down on the bare mattress. And lifted the phone receiver and dialed the Nichols’ number.

Mrs. Nichols answered. I told her who was calling, and she said immediately, “Is everything all right with Martin? Why aren’t you at his house?”

“I’ve got a man there,” I said. “And no, I’m afraid everything isn’t all right.”

“What? Do you mean Victor Carding-?”

“No, there’s been no sign of Carding. It’s your brother’s mental state I’m worried about, Mrs. Nichols.”

“His mental state?”

“I think he might be suicidal,” I said.

She made a sound that might have indicated surprise, incredulity, or a combination of both. “That’s ridiculous,” she said. “Martin? Good God, I told you he was fanatically moral; he’d be the last person in this world to commit suicide. Whatever gave you such an idea?”

“I had a close look at him today. He strikes me as a pretty sick man.”

“Nonsense. He’ll snap out of it sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.”

“I’m not so sure of that, ma’am.”

“Well I am.”

“Have you tried to get him to see a doctor?”

“I suggested it, yes. For something to help him sleep.”

“But he refused?”

“Yes. He has an aversion to drugs.”

“Couldn’t you talk him into it. Or bring a doctor around to examine him?”

Pause. “My brother is not mentally ill,” she said in a cold, flat voice. “And I won’t have someone like you telling me he is.”

Someone like me, I thought. Just another common laborer, and what the hell did common laborers know about anything? I took a swallow of beer to drown the sharp words that were on my tongue; there was nothing to be gained in telling her off.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. I’m still here.”

“You were hired to do a specific job,” she said. “I assume you wish to continue doing it. Is that correct?”

I had already asked myself the same question. If I backed off the case she would only hire someone else-assuming she could find someone else to take it on, as unorthodox as it was. Maybe there wasn’t much Bert and Milo and I could do to protect Martin Talbot from himself or from somebody else, but at least we could try; at least three people who understood the situation would be keeping a steady watch on him.

And I needed the money. I needed that money, damn it.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then I’ll thank you not to bother me again with your opinions. You’re to call only if you have something to report about Victor Carding. And you’re to send me a detailed written report at the beginning of next week. Is that understood?”

“Understood.”

“Fine. Good-night, then.”

“Good night, Mrs. Nichols.”

I made the kind of gesture Italians always use to convey disgust and banged down the receiver. Some lady, Laura Nichols. Some nice sister. No mental illness in her family, by God. No brother of hers could have come unhinged enough to take his own life. Poor Martin was just a little eccentric, that was all. He’d snap out of it eventually; it was only a matter of time.

Poor Martin, all right.

Poor bastard.

On Thursday morning I spent a couple of hours in my office, going through the mail and catching up on some paperwork. There were no messages on my answering machine and I had no calls while I was there. No one had rung me up at home either, so I assumed that nothing much had happened at Talbot’s during the night. Nothing, at least, that Bert or Milo knew about.

I called the Hall of Justice at ten o’clock to check in again with Eberhardt. But he was out on a field investigation, the cop I talked to said, and was not expected back until early afternoon. The cop was not at liberty to say if there were any new developments on the Christine Webster homicide. At eleven-thirty I tried again, just in case; Eb still had not returned. I would just have to wait until tonight, when my shift on Talbot was finished, and then call him at home for an update.

I locked the office, picked up my car, and headed over Twin Peaks to Stern Grove. The weather was better today: still cold and windy, but the overcast had lifted and patches of blue sky were visible between shifting cloud masses. It would make surveillance a little easier because I could spend more time moving around in the park and less time sitting like a lump in the car.

Milo Petrie was waiting for me, standing just inside the park gate, when I came down Wawona off Nineteenth. I made a U-turn alongside the Talbot house, parked where I had yesterday, facing east, and went over to join him.

“How’d it go, Milo?”

“Quiet,” he said. He was a lean, hawk-nosed guy in his sixties, bundled up in a heavy car coat, a longshoreman’s cap, and a pair of gloves. Like Bert Thomas, he was a retired patrolman out of the Ingleside station. “And goddamn cold, too. I haven’t been on an early-morning stakeout in twenty years; almost froze my balls off.”

“Anything happen on Bert’s shift?”

“He said no. Subject stayed inside and didn’t have any visitors. Lights were on all night, like maybe he didn’t go to bed.”

“Talbot come out this mourning?

“Yep. A little after eight. He walked all the way down Nineteenth to the Stonestown shopping center. Gave me a chance for some exercise, anyway.”

“What did he do in Stonestown?”

“Nothing much,” Milo said. “Wandered around, sat in the mall for awhile. No contact with anybody. He led me straight back here about thirty minutes ago.”

I nodded. “Okay. No need for you to hang around; you look like you could use some coffee and hot food.”

“And a stiff shot of brandy.” He hesitated, glancing over at the house. “This Talbot’s in a pretty bad way, you know? Funny look in his eyes-like he’s half-dead inside.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ve seen that look before,” Milo said. “Jumper on the Golden Gate Bridge had it back in ’68; I tried to talk him out of going over but he jumped anyway. You ask me, Talbot’s a potential Dutch.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. But his sister doesn’t believe it, and she’s the only one who could have him committed for observation.”

“If I was her, I’d be a hell of a lot more worried about him knocking himself off than anyone else trying to do it for him.”

“Me too,” I said. “But the way things are, I don’t see anything we can do except play it her way. And hope for the best.”

Milo shook his head. “People,” he said.

When he was gone I went through the gate into the park. There were a few more people around today: a couple of kids throwing a football back and forth, a man walking an Irish setter on a leash, an elderly couple carrying a small silver-flocked Christmas tree that they had probably bought at the lot over on Nineteenth and Sloat. I stood on the park road and watched the kids. The one nearest me missed a catch and the ball rolled to a stop about twenty feet away; when he picked it up I called out for him to peg it to me-just being friendly, trying to pass the time. He threw it back to the other kid instead, grinned at me, and gave me the finger.