Джон Пристли - The Doomsday Men

“But Godalmighty!-Flo-” he protested at last, “aren’t they going to do anything? Here’s poor old Phil-who never did anybody any harm-a good newspaper man-and they send him round the town, on their business, mind you-and then when this-this-happens to him-they don’t do a damn thing-why-hell’s bells-”

He pulled himself out of the big chair and walked over to the window, and there scowled accusingly at the mellow and faintly unreal sunlight that was illuminating the Boulevard. He did this to relieve his feelings, but also because Flo, perhaps moved by his vehemence as well as her own recital, was now crying hard. He waited until her sobbing had turned to sniffling, before turning round again.

“You don’t understand, Jimmy,” she wailed, finally. “They had a long enquiry, and the police asked a lot of questions-they talked to me for hours and it was awful-and what could I tell them, anyhow?-and then said it must have been somebody in that Murro gang-oh!-what does it matter now? He’s gone, hasn’t he?”

“I know. But why? If he’d been one of these tough lads, who go round asking for it-I could understand it. But Phil! He wasn’t that kind of a fellow at all-”

“He couldn’t have hurt anybody,” she cried, tearful again.

“That’s what I’m saying. What’s this Murro gang?”

She dabbed at her eyes, and swallowed hard. “They said they’d come here from New York-you know, a lot of them did after they started cleaning up the rackets there-and Phil’s paper, the Herald - Telegram , had had a lot of stuff about them-Phil had written some of it-and so they think one of them must have done it-and now they say this Murro gang all left town-I don’t know”-she ended weakly.

He moved about restlessly for a moment, brought out his pipe then put it back again, and gave his sister-in-law several glances, half sympathetic, half impatient. Here was no resolute ally. They could murder all the Edlins in the world, and she would just give in. But when she looked at him, he contrived a sort of sympathetic grin, and she replied with a wan little smile.

“I’m sorry, Jimmy,” she said, “but I just want to forget about it. You can’t blame me, can you? And I never want to see this place again. I’m going back East. My mother wants me to stay with her, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

He admitted it was a good idea. “But what about money, Flo?” he enquired gruffly. And then, remembering what he had first thought of her, he could not help wondering what this might let him in for. If there had been any kids, that would have been different; he would have seen that poor Phil’s kids were all right, would have enjoyed it too, for he liked kids and had none of his own that he knew anything about, not having acquired a genuine legitimate wife on his travels, in spite of many strange adventures with the sex; but he was not too keen on handing out Flo another pension. Once more, however, she surprised him.

“Thanks, Jimmy, but I don’t need any. There was some insurance and the Herald - Telegram gave me something, though it wouldn’t have killed them to have given me a bit more-seeing that Phil-” But she left this alone, and went on: “It isn’t as if we’d any children, you see.”

“No, that makes it better.”

“It doesn’t,” she cried, almost fiercely. “God!-I’ll say it doesn’t. And we could have had. It was my fault. Phil wanted them. And I always said: ‘Oh, let’s leave it.’ Why don’t we know? Oh!-my God-” And now she suddenly dissolved into a really passionate storm of weeping, leaving Jimmy to stare at her awkwardly and sadly, and then to make a few comforting noises and to pat her thin heaving shoulders. It was some time before she was calm again.

“Yes, I’m going back East, perhaps to-morrow,” she said, at last. “There’s nothing to stay for now. I’ve done all I can do. I’m sorry you’ve had to come all this way, Jimmy. What are you going to do?”

“Well, I’m a gentleman o’ leisure just now,” he told her, grinning a little. “I got out of China in time, made my little bit, and now I’m just looking round and enjoying myself-at least, I’d just started looking round and enjoying myself, when I got this packet of trouble. Now that I’m here, I might as well stay here for some time. And I’ve got my old top floor at the Clay-Adams.”

“Are you still trying to paint pictures, Jimmy?” she asked, coming for the first time clean out of her misery.

“Yes,” with a grin, “when I can get at it.” He was glad to see her looking more normal now. “You needn’t tell me you don’t admire my pictures-I know you don’t-you told me last time, though mebbe I’m improving. When I meet a nice little woman who does like my pictures- really likes ’em-if she can cook a bit too, I’ll marry her-I will, by jiminy! And don’t tell me that’s why I’m single, because I’ve heard that crack too many times. My pictures are all right-once you get round to understanding ’em-and I’ve painted ’em in places where some people wouldn’t like to stop long enough to blow their noses.” Having coaxed a smile out of her, he waited a moment, then went on earnestly: “Now listen, Flo. You’re clearing out, and I’m not blaming you. But I’m staying, because this isn’t good enough, and I want to know more about it. If it’s a gunman who’s left town, then I’d like to know more about him and where he’s blown to. Now somebody knows more than’s come out. This wouldn’t be Los Angeles if they didn’t. Now then, Flo, where do I start? That’s all I want from you.”

He had time to fill and light his pipe before she replied. “Phil had a pal on the paper,” she began, hesitantly. “I didn’t like him much so Phil didn’t bring him here, but they used to go round together-sometimes on stories-sometimes on their own. His name’s Drew-Rushy Drew they all call him-and I gave him Phil’s notebook, because he asked for it.”

“And what does he think about this business?”

“Rushy Drew? I’ve only talked to him once-it was just after they’d finished the inquest-but-well, he was like you, Jimmy-he wasn’t satisfied. He said Phil was on another kind of story altogether round that time. That’s why he asked me if he could have the notebook.”

“Where do I find this Rushy Drew, Flo? Down at the Herald - Telegram office?”

“Well, you know what those reporters are, and Drew’s an old-timer-always half-drunk if you ask me. No, the best place to find him is in the far room at Dan's Place . It’s just across the square from the Herald - Telegram . I fancy Rushy’s there half the day and most of the night.”

“All right, Flo, and thanks. Now is there anything I can do?”

There was not-and, indeed, he could not help feeling that she would be glad to see the last of him, not because of any dislike but because his constant references to the murder made her unhappy all over again. Having no particular liking for her himself, he was glad to escape from her tearful presence and the half-shuttered miserable apartment into the bustle and colour of the city. But he took with him a steadily smouldering resentment. This was not to him the old Los Angeles, where he had had many a spree, sometimes with Phil, possibly with this Rushy Drew if he could only recall him; this was the city in which his brother had been murdered, without so much as an arrest following it. And you couldn’t coolly bump off an Edlin like that-no, sir! The whole damned place, which had always been pretty tough, now began to look sinister.

It was not until late that evening that he found Rushy Drew in the far room at Dan's Place , a rambling darkish room filled with stained tables, giant spittoons, cigar smoke, signed photographs of second-rate heavy-weights, and a thick reek of rye whisky. He remembered Rushy Drew vaguely when the barman pointed him out: one of those oldish reporters who never get any older, with a decayed hat at the back of his grizzled head, a long fruity nose, ash all over his coat, and the wreck of a five-cent cigar stinking and dying at the corner of his wrinkled dried lips, which no amount of rye could keep moist.