Beware the Young Stranger (9 page)

Conway took her arm. The glaze hit her eyes. She pulled away from him.

“Don't touch me, Howard!”

He straightened, standing heavy and miserable, not looking at either Vallancourt or Hibbs. “Ivy, John has more than his share of trouble without you …”

“The devil with John! What do I care about John?” She clutched the arms of the chair. When her eyes refocussed, it was on Hibbs.

“Poor old Ralph. Good old Ralph. Here, boy.” She puckered her lips in a whistle, producing a dry, gusty sound. “And what are you, Ralphie? With your heart lying in a funeral home? Big man of the auto business! Big front to everybody—”

“Ivy,” Howard said distinctly. “We are going home.”

Blearily she swiveled her head, looked at him. Then she crumpled and began to cry as he helped her to her feet.

“John …” Conway began.

“It's all right, Howard,” Vallencourt said.

“Thanks. If you need me, call.”

“Of course.”

“Well. Good night.”

Watching them leave, Vallancourt remained the self-possessed image in silver and tan. But Ivy's words stuck in his mind like knives.
She turns out to be just another female with the usual streak of bitch
.

Ivy's drunkenly candid assessment of Nancy, my daughter. How close to the truth?

His belief of a short time ago, that he understood his daughter better than most fathers, now seemed fatuous. He had also guessed wrong in at least one other respect. She had not postponed the seriousness of the relationship.

He pushed aside the temptation to dwell on the error. The truth went deeper. She was a healthy young female, designed by nature to desire and arouse desire. But physical need alone would not have caused her to take the plunge with Keith Rollins. Vallancourt knew beyond any shadow of doubt that she was not that variety of bitch.

She had gone to the lake cottage before the murder of Dorcas Ferguson, since she had not reported for any classes. Keith had homed in on the same spot. The meeting was therefore prearranged.

The nature of their dialogue was obvious, Vallancourt thought. Thinking of what he had said, Nancy had wanted to stall him, to wait. He had reacted in the only way possible for a father, taking it as a rebuff. And so she was in the dilemma of either pleasing her father or doing what her love for Keith Rollins demanded. Not an easy decision. And not the kind of marriage she would have wanted. A load on her conscience because of dear old dad. But, up to that point, a spunky rightness in her actions.

Then, he thought, comes the crucial moment when they meet at the cottage. Keith would have to tell her that he is in trouble. It had to have been that way. Otherwise there was no sensible explanation for their actions, running, hiding, switching cars, not heading for the nearest justice of the peace.

It was Nancy's last opportunity to turn back, and she had let it pass. Either Keith had made it physically impossible for her to return, or she had been convinced of his innocence and the decision had been hers.

And Keith. Guilty and doomed, he was dangerous. Innocent and doomed, he might well turn deadly.

The sound of a running car invaded the room. That was Conway, taking Ivy away.

Vallancourt lit a cigarette and turned to Ralph Hibbs. “Will you stay to dinner?”

Later, Hibbs rode with Vallancourt toward the apartment building where Keith had been staying with his father. When they were near the place, Hibbs stirred. “Terrifying, isn't it, the way the world can turn upside down? Like a ship breaking up under your feet. I'm trying to recall the steadiness of the deck, John. Am I being a coward?”

“I think not.”

“Just a matter of hours … I spend the morning showing a car, a big expensive one. I go back to my office with a big fat sale in my pocket. And all the time … Ivy wasn't the only one who leaned heavily on Dorcas, John. Maybe Ivy was right. I'm not sure how I'll get along without Dorcas's business brain.”

Vallancourt glanced at him. “Are you sure you're not underrating yourself, Ralph? You built up the agency.”

“Not alone.”

“True, but maybe Dorcas didn't make as many of the decisions as you thought.”

Hibbs subsided into silence.

Vallancourt pulled up at the curb.

“Will you need me?” Hibbs asked.

“I think not.”

“Then I'll wait. I have no particular yen just now to look at a man whose son has a murder rap hanging over his head.”

“It's you.” Sam Rollins's sharp face caught light on its ridges. He was carrying a beer can. “What do you want?”

“May I come in?” said Vallancourt.

“Sure the place is good enough for you?” Rollins kicked the door closed. The living room of the flat was a mess. “Make yourself comfortable. You ought to feel right at home here. We're in the same boat, aren't we? My son. Your daughter.”

“Have you heard from Keith?”

“You out of your mind? That young punk call on me? Not that it'd do him a damn bit of good.”

“I was hoping …”

Rollins flopped into a chair. He grinned evilly. “Hoping. You would. You live in such a nice, hoping sort of world. Where everything is set up for you.”

“Shouldn't we stick to the subject of Keith and Nancy?”

Rollins gulped the rest of the beer and sat with his arm dangling, the empty can touching the floor. “The fine home, the comforts, the whole bit. And she runs off with the first crummy thing in pants!”

“You think so little of him? Or of anyone who would have anything to do with him?”

“Let's face it, Vallancourt. He's scum.”

“He's your son.”

“I wouldn't claim the bastard if he had the key to Fort Knox.”

“You know,” Vallancourt said, “twice I've heard that epithet tacked on him. By Ivy Conway, the first time we discussed Keith, now by you. Maybe it isn't an epithet at all, but the literal truth.”

Rollins turned wary. “You're nuts.”

“It would explain a few things. Ivy's aversion to him. Your attitude. Afraid of losing your link to his inheritance if he were proved guilty of that rape-murder in Florida.”

“You've conducted too much business in foreign capitals, Mr. Ambassador,” Rollins said, heaving out of the chair. “You should have brought along your cloak and dagger.”

“I'm giving you a chance to level with me.”

“Level? What the hell have I got to hide?” Rollins pitched the beer can toward a wastebasket and went into a small kitchen. Vallancourt followed him as far as the doorway. He stood watching as the man opened the refrigerator and took out a quart bottle of beer. “You wouldn't know how it's been with me, Vallancourt. All my life … nothing ever going right. And that damn kid hating me through it all.”

“And Maggie?” Vallancourt said. “The lost middle sister of the Ferguson girls? She finally lay down and died to get out of it?”

“Listen, you can't accuse me …”

“I'm not accusing you of anything, Rollins. I'm merely saying that you'd never let go of Maggie and her bastard son.”

“If what you think is true,” Rollins said, fumbling with a bottle-opener, “I'd have given her the boot years before she died.”

“Maggie had a wealthy sister who loved her, and who loved her illegitimate child as well. After all, there was Ferguson blood in the boy's veins. Your wife and Keith—they were your ticket to an easy life.”

Rollins returned to the living room, Vallancourt following. “He won't see no light from the bottom of this hole he's in. This is one time he'll get the stubborn streak kicked out of him.”

“What have you told the police?”

“The truth. I think he's guilty. He's got an extra switch in that brain. I ought to know, I've seen it. The switch clicks, he turns into Mr. Hyde. Just one thing the cops have to do when they corner him, and that's take no chances. Cornered, he'll kill, quick, like an animal.” Rollins sucked at the beer, looked at Vallancourt, laughed. “Doesn't it give you the creeps, knowing your daughter's with a rat like that?”

“I can't share your pleasure in the situation,” Vallancourt said coldly.

Rollins shrugged, dropped into his chair. “I did what I could for the kid. Tried to beat that streak out of him. Now it's up to the cops. And it ain't a teenager he's killed this time. It's an important woman, a business and social leader. The meat grinder is hungry, and the cops ain't looking for nobody but him.”

“Who was his father, Rollins?”

“Me.”

“I think you're lying. You've known the truth and hated him from the day he was born.”

“Pal, you're boring me.” Rollins tilted the bottle and took a long swallow.

“I suppose it was the one act of rebellion against you Maggie ever allowed herself. And you made her pay and pay and keep on paying, didn't you?”

“Look, Vallancourt, you got no proof of anything. So why don't you quit wasting my time?”

Vallancourt took hold of the man's soiled shirt front and yanked him to his feet so abruptly that his head snapped back. The beer bottle flew from his hand, spewing foam on the floor.

“One word of advice, Rollins. If Keith should get in touch with you, think twice before you set him up in a way that will cause shooting. Stray bullets and my daughter are incompatible quantities. Are we clear on that?”

Vallancourt let him go and went to the door. He looked back at the sprawled man. “I hope I don't have to come back, Rollins. Think about it.”

Vallancourt's breathing was not quite normal when he reached the car. He got under the wheel. Ralph Hibbs stirred, clicking off the car radio.

“Anything on the newscasts, Ralph?”

“No, except that he's still at large.”

“Then he's beaten the odds and slipped through. Or he's still in town, which is more likely. He knows he can't trust either the MG or Nancy's car. He'd pick a place with care. Not a dive where he and Nancy would stand out. Not a fancy place, where questions might be asked. And certainly not a downtown hotel, with the city hemming him in. He'll want space around him for maneuverability.”

“You've described a type of motel, John.”

“Yes,” Vallancourt said.

“There aren't so many we can't check them out.”

“I know.” Vallancourt started the car.

12.

Keith herded Newt from the office into the drab little apartment at the rear.

Now what? Keith asked himself. No more kookie stunts. You've already fouled it, tipping this guy to your identity.

The motel man was recovering from the shock. He backhanded a drop of spittle from the corner of his mouth, leered as if he sensed Keith's indecision.

“The girl with you,” Newt said. “She's the big shot's daughter, ain't she?”

Keith made no useless denial.

“Ought to be worth plenty to him, a kid like that,” Newt mused.

His movements were casual, but his eyes betrayed him.

The old man had worked his way to a cheap kneehole desk that occupied a corner of the room. As his hand shot to the top drawer, Keith threw himself across the distance between them.

The impact slammed Newt against the desk, closing the drawer on the old man's hand. He screamed, eyes watering.

Keith took him by the shoulder and yanked him clear of the desk. The proprietor reeled against the wall, cradling his injured wrist and whimpering.

Keith pulled the desk drawer open. A tingle went through him. He reached slowly, and his fingers touched the cold metal of a .38 revolver.

The gun was cheap and old, but the heft and balance of the weapon seemed good to him. He had the oddest feeling that the gun had been designed to fit his hand.

As he turned, holding the gun, the old man looked at the young face and forgot the pain in his wrist. He began sliding down the wall. His knees touched the floor.

“Listen, kid, you can't …”

“What's to stop me? When you get right down to it, there's not a damn thing to stop me. And if the gun was all right for you, why not for me?”

“My God, boy—”

“Come on, you creep. Explain it to me. Who makes the rules? Punks like you? Politicians on the take? Cops who look the other way when some Mr. Big gets behind a steering wheel stoned to the eyeballs and takes the chance of killing somebody? Then why not me?”

“Kid, I figured you for real smart the minute I saw you. Too smart to get himself in a worse jam.”

Keith laughed. “Worse? They say I raped and killed a girl in Florida. They claim I knocked off the most respected woman in the state. Now if I step on a worm, it's going to make it worse?”

“You got to give me a break, kid! I won't talk! I swear! It ain't even my gun, kid. Heather … she got it while she was here alone, when they had me in prison. It's her fault, not mine.”

“You make me sick, Newt, you know that?”

“I know a little what you been through, boy. You're keyed up tight. Only don't do nothing while you're nervous. It's the first thing you got to learn.”

“As a teacher, Newt, you miss like a junkyard jalopy.”

Newt's head slumped. Keith's interest in him became less immediate. He stood thinking. Then he said, “You'll take us out.”

The old man raised his head, began inching up the wall.

“When your wife gets back with the car,” Keith said, “we'll borrow it. You, me, and Nancy.”

“It won't work, kid.”

“Why not?”

“The car … It's junk. Just use it for errands. Get it on the open road and it heats up. It won't run for beans.”

“We'll make it run.”

“You're wrong, kid. It ain't the car you need. You'd be better off stealing one.”

“I'd still be behind the wheel. No, you'll drive us out, Newt. They're not looking for your face. Certainly not for a car like that.”