Джеймс Чейз - You’re Lonely When You’re Dead

‘And what’s the big idea?’ Kerman asked.

‘I don’t know yet,’ I said. ‘It was her idea, not mine. She used to go round with Caesar Mills. Kruger introduced us. I wanted to find out how Mills got the money to buy himself a house at Fairview. She didn’t know, but thought she could find out. You know how it is: one thing led to another. She has a way with her. She could get information out of a deaf mute. The point is she wants to get even with Mills. That makes two of us. I have a feeling she’ll be useful.’

Benny and Kerman exchanged glances.

‘The one outstanding point you have made in that little speech,’ Benny said, ‘is the gag line that one thing leads to another, and boy going around with a Popsie like that you can bet your sweet life one thing will lead to another!’

As I walked over to the parking lot to collect my car it occurred to me that I was thinking far too much about Caesar Mills and far too little about Dana’s killer. I reminded myself that my outraged feelings towards Mills were personal and private, and I had no business even to think of him until I had found Dana’s killer. But I couldn’t help thinking how nice it would be if in some way I could involve Mills in the murder so I could concentrate on him with an easy conscience.

Although I was aware that my immediate job was to go out to Wiltshire Avenue and take a look at George Barclay, there was another little job concerning Caesar Mills that also needed my care and attention, and after wrestling with my conscience I decided it mightn’t be such a waste of time if I looked into the Mills affair first.

I got into my car, drove over to the nearest drug store, parked, went inside, and consulted a telephone book. A little wave of satisfaction flowed over me when my finger, running down a column, stopped at a line that read:

Mills, Caesar, 235 Beechwood Avenue. Fairview 34257.

I put the telephone book back on the rack, lit a cigarette and gently massaged the back of my neck. I stood like that for a moment or so, then hurried out, climbed into the car and drove over to the County Buildings at the corner of Feldman and Centre Avenue.

The Land Record Office was on the second floor, and in charge of a sad-looking old clerk in a black alpaca coat and a querulous frame of mind. After a little persuasion he got me the record I wanted. 235 Beechwood Avenue had been bought by Natalie Cerf a year ago. There was no mention of Comrade Mills having any part in the transaction.

I pushed the record book across the counter, passed a remark about the weather to show the clerk what nice manners I had, and went slowly down the stone steps into the afternoon sunshine.

I sat in my car for a while exercising my brain. The more I thought about my discovery the happier I became. It looked as if the drag-hook I had thrown out into the unknown depths had caught something big. The cream-and-blue Rolls belonged to the Cerfs. 235 Beechwood Avenue belonged to Natalie Cerf, and both were being used by a guard, employed by Cerf to lounge at the main entrance and kick callers in the neck. And in his spare time this guard went around looking like a million dollars, and kept his cigarettes in a gold combined case and lighter that must have set him back at least a couple of months’ salary.

Maybe all this hadn’t anything to do with Dana’s killing, but the setup interested me. Kruger had told me that Mills had been broke when he first came to Orchid City. Well, since those days he had certainly got on. Blackmail is one of the short cuts to wealth and seemed to offer the most satisfactory explanation of his sudden opulence. Maybe he was blackmailing the whole Cerf Family. He had every opportunity of finding out if Anita was a kleptomaniac. Why was he using Natalie’s house unless he had something on her?

Keep at it, Malloy, I said to myself, you’re doing fine. Take it one step farther. You’ve made up your mind to drag Mills into this mess, so go ahead and drag him in.

So I began to reason like this: if Mills is a blackmailer, couldn’t he be the guy who shot Dana? It was guesswork, but the kind of guesswork that suited my present mood. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure than to watch that bright boy take a walk to the gas chamber.

I then decided I had spent enough time on Comrade Mills, anyway for the immediate present, and conscious that my visit to George Barclay’s place would now be something of an anti-climax, I drove over to Wiltshire Avenue, a nice, quiet, snobby road, screened on either side by high box hedges that concealed the houses lurking behind them. Barclay’s house stood at the far end of the circular cul-de-sac, facing me as I drove down the long, shady avenue.

I pulled up outside the iron-studded oak tree gate, got out of the car and looked to right and left to see if anyone was watching me. No one was. The road was as quiet and as lonely as a pauper’s grave, but a lot more decorative.

The latch of the oak gate yielded to pressure and the gate swung open. I peered around into a large, well-kept garden. About fifty yards ahead of me, facing a lawn that looked like a billiard table to end all billiard tables, was the house. It was a two-storey, chalet-style, brick-and-wood building, nice if you like phoney imitations of Swiss architecture. A flight of wooden steps ran up the side of the house to a verandah, and on the roof four fat, white doves balanced on the overhang and regarded me with their heads on one side as if they were hoping to hear me yodel.

The afternoon sun was hot, and no breeze penetrated the thicket of Tung blossom trees that surrounded the garden. I sweated a little. Nothing moved: even the doves looked as if they were holding their breath.

Mounting the steps to the front door, I dug my thumb into the bellpush and waited. Nothing happened, and I rang again. But, this afternoon, no one was at home.

The house wasn’t particularly difficult to break into, and I wondered how much time I had before Barclay returned. I decided a quick look around might pay dividends, but not with my car at the gate to advertise that Prowler Malloy was inside and up to no good.

Reluctantly I went down the steps, along the garden path and out through the gateway to my car. I drove rapidly to the end of the Avenue, parked under a beech tree, removed the registration card from the steering post, and walked back to Barclay’s house.

The doves were still there to watch me mount the steps to the front door. I rang the bell again, but there was still no one at home, and I found a window that wasn’t bolted. It took me half a minute to lever it open with the blade of my knife, take one more look around, wink at the doves who didn’t wink back, and slide over the sill into a nice quiet atmosphere of green sunblinds and shadows.

There appeared to be only the one room downstairs. At the far end of this room was a broad stairway leading to a balcony and the upper rooms.

I moved around, using my eyes, making no noise and listening intently. No one screamed, no bodies fell out of the cupboards, no one shot me in the back. After a moment or so I became a lot less tense and much more interested in my surroundings.

The room was overpoweringly masculine. Old swords, battleaxes and other ancient weapons cluttered up the walls. A pair of fencing foils and mask decorated the overmantel. There were at least half a dozen pipe racks full of well-used pipes, a barrel for tobacco stood on an occasional table alongside a bottle of Black and White whisky, White Rock soda and glasses.

To judge by the weapons, the golf clubs, the pipes, the stuffed birds, the sporting prints and the other undergraduate atmospheric novelties that littered the place, I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to deduce that Barclay belonged to the rugged, hairy-chested, outdoor school of manly men.