Джон Макдональд - The End of the Night

And finally it all turned into love. He had to admit that what had seemed to be paragon was in truth paragon. She was precious and valuable beyond belief. Her basic sweetness and decency were genuine. She was aware of and quietly pleased by her own beauty, and glad it was something she could bring to him, like a gift wrapped with love.

They had sidled obliquely, rancorously, into love, and were astounded by this great and sudden gift. It was a strong love that made of marriage a fussy but necessary technicality. They were intensely proud of each other and delighted with the magic of themselves.

He knew her flaws. Stubbornness, too much casual generosity with her time and efforts, too much empathy for dreary people. This Arnold Crown thing was a perfect example of that.

Dallas Kemp knew exactly how to kill his own anger and indignation. He went directly to the drawing board. The hard, white fluorescence was a bright island in the blue-gray light of dusk. He worked on a scale drawing of the fireplace wall for the Judlund house, breaking the lines off neatly, focusing his concentration until, unwatched, the anger drained away.

At eight o’clock he stood up and stretched, working the stiffness out of his shoulders. He thought about Helen and about Arnold Crown, and began to realize, with a certain uneasiness, that he hadn’t been very bright about the whole thing. His objection had been that Arnold Crown was irrational about Helen, and possibly dangerous. It would have made more sense to follow them.

He phoned the Wister home. The line was busy. He tried again at ten after eight. Helen’s mother answered. “Jane, this is Dal. Is Helen there?”

“No, she isn’t, Dal. I just got home a little while ago. Her car’s gone. Did she... ah... tell you her program for this evening?”

“She told me she was going to see Arnold Crown. We had a hell of a blowup about it. I think it’s a stupid idea.”

“So do I, dear. But you know our Helen. When she was little I had a terrible time with her at zoos. She wanted to climb in and pat the lions. But I do think she’ll handle it all right.”

“I... I hope so. Where was she going to meet him?”

“I haven’t any idea.”

“At the station?”

“I really don’t know, Dal.”

“I shouldn’t have gotten so sore. I should have stuck with her.”

“I’d feel a little better if you had, actually. This Crown person isn’t exactly a young boy with a crush on her.”

After he hung up he got into his station wagon and drove to Arnold Crown’s service station. As he pulled in to park beyond the pumps, he saw Helen’s little black MG parked beside the station in the shadows, lights out. The man who had started to come out of the station stopped in the doorway as Dal got out and walked toward him. He was a small man in his forties with a pallid, knotty face, a smear of grease at the corner of his mouth. The name Smitty was embroidered over the breast pocket of his twill uniform.

“Is Crown here?”

“You missed him by five, ten minutes. Anything I can do for you?”

“No... I guess not. That’s Miss Wister’s car, isn’t it?”

“The little car? Yeah. That’s hers.”

A car pulled up to the pumps. Smitty went out to service it. Dal moved restlessly into the station. He was staring blankly at a display of windshield wipers when Smitty came in.

Dal turned and said, “Miss Wister was with him when he left here?”

“That’s right, mister.”

“Well, if her car’s here, I guess it means they’re coming back here.”

The small man looked at Dal with a rather strange grin and said, “I wouldn’t count too much on that, mister. I mean they’re probably coming back here, but it won’t be right soon. I mean I got my orders about that car. The keys are in it, and I’m to roll it in when I close up, and tomorrow I’m to get it washed and serviced and have one of the boys run it over to Arn’s place and put it in his garage.”

Dal stared at him. “Why? I don’t understand.”

“She’s got no need for it for a while, that’s all.”

“Why not?”

“The last thing you’d take on a honeymoon is two cars, mister. They took off in Arn’s Olds.”

“Honeymoon!” Dal said blankly.

Another customer arrived. Smitty hurried out. It took an exasperating length of time before he came back.

“What’s this about a honeymoon?” Dal demanded.

Smitty sat on the corner of the desk and grinned amiably. “I tell you, mister, it hasn’t been easy around here lately, working for a guy in love. That Helen like to give him fits. They were going together regular and then she broke off and started going with some other guy. Arn was like out of his mind for a couple months and more. He’d chew you out for nothing at all, like a crazy man. I was about to quit forty times, honest. But all of a sudden, thank God, they got it all ironed out. You never see a guy so happy as him today. I bet a dozen times he bust out laughing, over nothing at all. I guess if you get to run off with a girl like that, it’s worth feeling good about. Their suitcases were all ready in the back of the Olds since yesterday. And he showed me a wad of bills big as a ham sandwich he’s got for the trip. So she showed up like he said she would... oh, about a half hour ago, pretty as a picture, and shy like. You know. Like a bride. I’m in charge until he gets back He told me she’d marry him. You know, I never really believed it until I saw them take off together. She’s from a big-shot family. If you know her car, I guess you know Helen. She looked shy and happy when they took off. Arn, he’ll make a good husband. He’s a worker, and there isn’t anything he won’t do for that girl.” Smitty stopped smiling and stared at Dallas Kemp. “You sick or anything?”

“No. Thank you... thank you very much.”

He drove down to police headquarters. He announced to a desk sergeant in a firm, loud voice that he wanted to report a kidnaping. He expected bells to ring and people to gather around, asking a hundred questions. The sergeant told him to take a seat. He could hear the monotonous hammering of a teletype in some room nearby. A drunk was brought in and booked and led away. The sergeant carried on several low-voiced phone calls.

Ten minutes later a man about thirty came into the room. He was slope-shouldered, long-headed, with a bitter, turned-down mouth, sleepy eyes. He was in his shirtsleeves. He smelled strongly of perspiration. He wore dark-red suspenders over his white shirt, a green tie with small yellow polka dots.

Dal jumped up as he came toward him.

“I’m Lieutenant Razoner. You want to report a kidnaping?”

“What’s your name and occupation?”

“Dallas Kemp, registered architect.”

“Who’s kidnaped?”

“Helen Wister.”

“Who’s she?”

“We’re to be married... in less than three weeks.”

The lieutenant looked at him and sighed and turned, saying, “Come on with me.”

He took Dal upstairs to a large bullpen office, where three out of a dozen desks were in use. He sat at one of the empty desks and had Dal sit beside the desk. He asked questions in a bored voice. He made notes. Dal told him the whole story.

When he had all the information he threw the pencil onto the desk and leaned back, clasping his fingers at the nape of his neck.

“What do you expect us to do, buddy? Loan you a crying towel?”

“I... I think you should find them!”

“The lady changed her mind. They do that, you know.”

“It isn’t like that, Lieutenant. This is serious! That man is dangerous.”

“I’ve known Arn Crown for ten years, buddy. Solid guy, I’d say.”

“He’s acted irrational about Miss Wister.”