Маргарет Миллар - Do Evil In Return

“No.” Her throat felt raw, as if she’d been chewing glass.

“What we’ve got to do now is to change the emphasis,” Easter said. “Where Voss and O’Gorman are found won’t seem so important if the man who killed them is found first. If he is found and confesses.” He looked at his watch again. “You haven’t much time to decide. Where’s Ballard?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know who his friends are?”

“Some of them.”

“Where would he be likely to hide out?”

“I don’t think he’d be hiding anywhere near here.”

“Use your head,” Easter rasped. “He’s got to be near here. He didn’t drive that car into your garage and intend to leave it there. He intended to come back, to get rid of it But I don’t know when, and time is running out.”

“What am I expected to do?”

“Find him. I’ll give you three hours.”

“What if I can’t?” Her legs and arms felt cold, brittle as twigs.

“Try. You know his habits, his friends, the places he likes to go.”

She hesitated. “If I find him, what will I do?”

“Tell him to stop running, the race is over.”

“Where... where will you be?”

“Me?” His mouth moved in a smile, but his eyes didn’t change. They looked flat and hard as coins. “I’ll be waiting here. If Ballard turns up I wouldn’t want him to get lonesome.”

She knew from his face that that was what he wanted — for Lewis to come for the car, and for him, Easter, to be waiting, like a lion waiting at a watering hole in the certainty that the antelope would turn up. He didn’t expect her to find Lewis; he was only trying to get rid of her so the two of them could meet alone. A trickle of fear ran down her spine. I must get to Lewis first, she thought. No matter what he’s guilty of, I must warn him against Easter.

She looked across the room at Easter. She felt a surge of hatred for him — for his arrogance, his power, his obsession against Lewis. When she passed him on her way to the door, her fists clenched, ready to strike.

He saw them. His smile vanished. With a swift, violent movement he reached out and grabbed her wrists and held them together against his chest with one hand. With his other hand gripping the back of her neck, he leaned down and pressed his mouth against hers.

He let go suddenly, and she fell back a step, holding the back of her hand over her bruised mouth.

“That’s for nothing,” he said. “That’s for no encouragement, no co-operation. That’s for no pretty smiles, no soft looks, nothing.”

“You’re a cheap, rotten...”

“Beat it,” he said quietly. “Find Lover-boy. My patience is wearing thin.”

At some time in the past hour a Santa Ana had begun to blow from the desert on the other side of the mountain — a hot, dry, choking wind that harried the trees, hurled the dust down the city streets, swept the people into their houses or into the shelter of doorways where they huddled coughing, shielding their eyes with their hands. Bits of refuse fluttered up and down the road like bold birds, clung convulsively to the windshields of cars for a moment and swooped off again.

The wind was tearing up the city, emptying the streets, stripping the trees, a crazy, confused wind that blew in all directions at once. Charlotte felt that she was a part of it, sharing its wild confusion. She didn’t know where Lewis was or how to find him. She didn’t even know if he was alive.

The moon leered through the leaves of the giant, oaks, veiled, provocative, like a half-told secret: Is he alive? Perhaps, maybe. Where? Somewhere, here or there.

She had no hopes, no plans, but she had to start somewhere. She drove to the building where Lewis had his office. There was a light on the second floor behind the partly closed Venetian blinds. Lewis often worked at night and she had often waited for him, sitting in her car or standing in the entrance hall downstairs pretending to read the directory beside the elevator. H. M. Morris, Electrolysis. Salinda Rental Association. C. Charles Tomlinson, Broker. Ballard and Johnson, Attorneys...

The elevator was locked for the night. An elderly Negro with a white woolly cap of hair was mopping the tiled floor, mopping the same place over and over again, as if his thoughts were far away, dwelling on softer things than tile.

“Hello, Tom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She knew he didn’t remember her. People walked in and walked out, traded names, traded faces, wore each other’s clothes — so many people they lost their identities in Tom’s mind, and he erased their footprint with his mop.

“Fine clear evening, ma’am,” Tom said. Though it rained, or the city was smothered with fog or mauled by a desert wind, the evenings were always fine and clear to Tom. He stayed inside, slept in the basement, and ate his meals sitting on an upright chair in the broom closet while he read the Bible, or at least held it open on his lap. (“He can’t read,” Lewis had told her once, in front of Tom. “But he’s very religious and he likes to pick out the words he knows, like God and heaven.” “God and heaven is fine words,” Tom said with dignity.)

“Tom...”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is — have you seen Mr. Ballard tonight?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t r’lect seeing him.”

“There’s a light in his office.”

“Might be. I didn’t r’lect to turn it off.”

“I’ll go up and see.”

“Elevator’s closed, ma’am. Have to walk up.”

“That’s all right, Tom.”

“Steps is wet, you walk easy.”

“I will.”

The corridor upstairs was dim, and smelled of soap and chlorine. The door to Lewis’ office was half open and she could see part of the reception room — the luxurious gold satin love seat and the tropical aquarium that had been built into the wall. The aquarium lights were on, and the miniature fish moved silently behind glass, striped angel fish and velvety black mollies and brilliant neons as tiny as tacks.

She knew, as soon as she saw that the aquarium lights were on, that it couldn’t be Lewis in the office. He paid no attention to the fish; they belonged to Vern Johnson who fed and fussed over them with the same care Miss Schiller gave her cat.

She rapped on the door and said, “Vern?”

“Who is it?”

“Charlotte.”

“Well, come in, come in, Charley.”

She went in and closed the door behind her. Vern Johnson was a big moon-faced man with thick horn-rimmed glasses that gave his face a false aspect of vagueness. She had known him for years, had gone to school with his sister, and turned down his somewhat boozy and brotherly proposals. It was at one of his parties that she had her first personal talk with Lewis, a week after Gwen had introduced him to her. “You know, I asked Vern to invite you, Miss Keating .” She didn’t like the approach. She said distantly, “Did you?” “Yes. I wanted to talk to you. I’ve been planning for two days what I’d say but now I’ve forgotten all of it. The general idea, though, was to impress you with my mind.” “Why should you want to do that? ” “ Damned if I know, except that you look so competent and superior I’d like to show you that I’m competent and superior, too.” He spoke with a kind of rueful candor. “And are you, Mr. Ballard? ” “ I’ve always thought so.” She changed the subject, then, with deliberate abruptness. “Mrs. Ballard’s not with you tonight? ” “ No.” “I hope she’s not ill.” “No, she’s not ill.” He turned and walked away, and a little later Vern came and told her that Lewis had left. “What did you say to him, anyway ?” “ Why, nothing, nothing at all.” “He’s a hell of a good guy, Charley. Which is a miracle, considering his wife.”