Look at the Birdie (7 page)

Luby’s bodyguard now had the knocker down. He and Luby went inside, slammed the big red door.

“Sure he does!” said Harve. “Certainly he’s got a right! But the stinking little rat doesn’t have a right to insult people the way he insulted us.”

“He’s sick,” said Claire.

“All right!” said Harve, and he hammered on the dashboard with his folded hands. “All right—he’s sick. Let’s kill all the people who are sick the way Luby is.”

“Look,” said Claire.

“At what?” said Harve. “What could I see that would make me feel any better or any worse?”

“Just look at the wonderful kind of people who get to be members,” said Claire.

Two very drunk people, a man and a woman, were getting out of a taxicab.

The man, in trying to pay the cabdriver, dropped a lot of change and his gold key to the Key Club. He got down on his hands and knees to look for it.

The sluttish woman with him leaned against the cab, apparently couldn’t stand unsupported.

The man stood up with the key. He was very proud of himself for having found it. “Key to the most exclusive club in Ilium,” he told the cabdriver.

Then he took out his billfold, meaning to pay his fare. And he discovered that the smallest bill he had was a twenty, which the driver couldn’t change.

“You wait right here,” said the drunk. “We’ll go in and get some change.”

He and the woman reeled up the walk to the door. He tried again and again to slip the key into the lock, but all he could hit was wood. “Open Sesame!” he’d say, and he’d laugh, and he’d miss again.

“Nice people they’ve got in this club,” Claire said to Harve. “Aren’t you sorry we’re not members, too?”

The drunk finally hit the keyhole, turned the lock. He and his girl literally fell into the Key Club.

Seconds later they came stumbling out again, bouncing off the bellies of Ed Luby and his thug.

“Out! Out!” Luby squawked in the night. “Where’d you get that key?” When the drunk didn’t answer, Luby gathered the drunk’s lapels and backed him up to the building. “Where’d you get that key?”

“Harry Varnum lent it to me,” said the drunk.

“You tell Harry he ain’t a member here anymore,” said
Luby. “Anybody lends his key to a punk lush like you—he ain’t a member anymore.”

He turned his attention to the drunk’s companion. “Don’t you ever come out here again,” he said to her. “I wouldn’t let you in if you was accompanied by the President of the United States. That’s one reason I turned this place into a club—so I could keep pigs like you out, so I wouldn’t have to serve good food to a———” And he called her what she obviously was.

“There’s worse things than that,” she said.

“Name one,” said Luby.

“I never killed anybody,” she said. “That’s more than you can say.”

The accusation didn’t bother Luby at all. “You want to talk to the chief of police about that?” he said. “You want to talk to the mayor? You want to talk to Judge Wampler about that? Murder’s a very serious crime in this town.” He moved very close to her, looked her up and down. “So’s being a loudmouth, and so’s being a———” He called her what she was again.

“You make me sick,” he said.

And then he slapped her with all his might. He hit her so hard that she spun and crumpled without making a sound.

The drunk backed away from her, from Luby, from Luby’s thug. He did nothing to help her, only wanted to get away.

But Harve Elliot was out of his car and running at Luby before his wife could stop him.

Harve hit Luby once in the belly, a belly that was as hard as a cast-iron boiler.

That satisfaction was the last thing Harve remembered—
until he came to in his car. The car was going fast. Claire was driving.

Harve’s clinging, aching head was lolling on the shoulder of his wife of fourteen years.

Claire’s cheeks were wet with recent tears. But she wasn’t crying now. She was grim. She was purposeful.

She was driving fast through the stunted, mean, and filthy business district of Ilium. Streetlights were faint and far apart.

Tracks of a long-abandoned streetcar system caught at the wheels of the old station wagon again and again.

A clock in front of a jeweler’s store had stopped. Neon signs, all small, all red, said
BAR
and
BEER
and
EAT
and
TAXI
.

“Where we going?” said Harve.

“Darling! How do you feel?” she said.

“Don’t know,” said Harve.

“You should see yourself,” she said.

“What would I see?” he said.

“Blood all over your shirt. Your good suit ruined,” she said. “I’m looking for the hospital.”

Harve sat up, worked his shoulders and his neck gingerly. He explored the back of his head with his hand. “I’m that bad?” he said. “Hospital?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“I—I don’t feel too bad,” he said.

“Maybe you don’t need to go to the hospital,” said Claire, “but she does.”

“Who?” said Harve.

“The girl—the woman,” said Claire. “In the back.” Paying a considerable price in pain, Harve turned to look into the back of the station wagon.

The backseat had been folded down, forming a truck bed. On that hard, jouncing bed, on a sandy blanket, lay the woman Ed Luby had hit. Her head was pillowed on a child’s snowsuit. She was covered by a man’s overcoat.

The drunk who had brought her to the Key Club was in back, too. He was sitting tailor-fashion. The overcoat was his. He was a big clown turned gray and morbid. His slack gaze told Harve that he did not want to be spoken to.

“How did we get these two?” said Harve.

“Ed Luby and his friends made us a present of them,” said Claire.

Her bravery was starting to fail her. It was almost time to cry again. “They threw you and the woman into the car,” she said. “They said they’d beat me up, too, if I didn’t drive away.”

Claire was too upset to drive now. She pulled over to the curb and wept.

Harve, trying to comfort Claire, heard the back door of the station wagon open and shut. The big clown had gotten out.

He had taken his overcoat from the woman, was standing on the sidewalk, putting the coat on.

“Where you think you’re going?” Harve said to him. “Stay back there and take care of that woman!”

“She doesn’t need me, buddy,” said the man. “She needs an undertaker. She’s dead.”

In the distance, its siren wailing, its roof lights flashing, a patrol car was coming.

“Here come your friends, the policemen,” said the man. He turned up an alley, was gone.

• • •

The patrol car nosed in front of the old station wagon. Its revolving flasher made a hellish blue merry-go-round of the buildings and street.

Two policemen got out. Each had a pistol in one hand, a bright flashlight in the other.

“Hands up,” said one. “Don’t try anything.”

Harve and Claire raised their hands.

“You the people who made all the trouble out at Luby’s Key Club?” The man who asked was a sergeant. “Trouble?” said Harve.

“You must be the guy who hit the girl,” said the sergeant. “Me?” said Harve.

“They got her in the back,” said the other policeman. He opened the back door of the station wagon, looked at the woman, lifted her white hand, let it fall. “Dead,” he said.

“We were taking her to the hospital,” said Harve.

“That makes everything all right?” said the sergeant. “Slug her, then take her to the hospital, and that makes everything all right?”

“I didn’t hit her,” said Harve. “Why would I hit her?”

“She said something to your wife you didn’t like,” said the sergeant.

“Luby hit her,” said Harve. “It was Luby.”

“That’s a good story, except for a couple of little details,” said the sergeant.

“What details?” said Harve.

“Witnesses,” said the sergeant. “Talk about witnesses, brother,” he said, “the mayor, the chief of police, Judge Wampler and his wife—they
all
saw you do it.”

• • •

Harve and Claire Elliot were taken to the squalid Ilium Police Headquarters.

They were fingerprinted, were given nothing with which to wipe the ink off their hands. This particular humiliation happened so fast, and was conducted with such firmness, that Harve and Claire reacted with amazement rather than indignation.

Everything was happening so fast, and in such unbelievable surroundings, that Harve and Claire had only one thing to cling to—a childlike faith that innocent persons never had anything to fear.

Claire was taken into an office for questioning. “What should I say?” she said to Harve as she was being led away.

“Tell them the truth!” said Harve. He turned to the sergeant who had brought him in, who was guarding him now. “Could I use the phone, please?” he said.

“To call a lawyer?” said the sergeant.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” said Harve. “I want to call the babysitter. I want to tell her we’ll be home a little late.”

The sergeant laughed. “A
little
late?” he said. He had a long scar that ran down one cheek, over his fat lips, and down his blocky chin. “A little late?” he said again. “Brother, you’re gonna be about twenty years late getting home—twenty years if you’re lucky.”

“I didn’t have a thing to do with the death of that woman,” said Harve.

“Let’s hear what the witnesses say, huh?” said the sergeant. “They’ll be along in a little bit.”

“If they saw what happened,” said Harve, “I’ll be out of here five minutes after they get here. If they’ve made a mistake,
if they really think they saw me do it, you can still let my wife go.”

“Let me give you a little lesson in law, buddy,” said the sergeant. “Your wife’s an accessory to the murder. She drove the getaway car. She’s in this as deep as you are.”

Harve was told that he could do all the telephoning he wanted—could do it after he had been questioned by the captain.

His turn to see the captain came an hour later. He asked the captain where Claire was. He was told that Claire had been locked up.

“That was necessary?” said Harve.

“Funny custom we got around here,” said the captain. “We lock up anybody we think had something to do with a murder.” He was a short, thickset, balding man. Harve found something vaguely familiar in his features.

“Your name’s Harvey K. Elliot?” said the captain.

“That’s right,” said Harve.

“You claim no previous criminal record?” said the captain.

“Not even a parking ticket,” said Harve.

“We can check on that,” said the captain.

“Wish you would,” said Harve.

“As I told your wife,” said the captain, “you really pulled a bonehead mistake, trying to pin this thing on Ed Luby. You happened to pick about the most respected man in town.”

“All due respect to Mr. Luby—” Harve began.

The captain interrupted him angrily, banged on his desk. “I heard enough of that from your wife!” he said. “I don’t have to listen to any more of it from you!”

“What if I’m telling the truth?” said Harve. “You think we haven’t checked your story?” said the captain.

“What about the man who was with her out there?” said Harve. “He’ll tell you what really happened. Have you tried to find him?”

The captain looked at Harve with malicious pity. “There wasn’t any man,” he said. “She went out there alone, went out in a taxicab.”

“That’s wrong!” said Harve. “Ask the cabdriver. There was a man with her!”

The captain banged on his desk again. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” he said. “We talked to the cabdriver. He swears she was alone. Not that we need any more witnesses,” he said. “The driver swears he saw you hit her, too.”

The telephone on the captain’s desk rang. The captain answered, his eyes still on Harve. “Captain Luby speaking,” he said.

And then he said to the sergeant standing behind Harve, “Get this jerk out of here. He’s making me sick. Lock him up downstairs.”

The sergeant hustled Harve out of the office and down an iron staircase to the basement. There were cells down there.

Two naked lightbulbs in the corridor gave all the light there was. There were duckboards in the corridor, because the floor was wet.

“The captain’s Ed Luby’s brother?” Harve asked the sergeant.

“Any law against a policeman having a brother?” said the sergeant.

“Claire!” Harve yelled, wanting to know what cell in Hell his wife was in.

“They got her upstairs, buddy,” said the sergeant.

“I want to see her!” said Harve. “I want to talk to her! I want to make sure she’s all right!”

“Want a lot of things, don’t you?” said the sergeant. He shoved Harve into a narrow cell, shut the door with a
clang
.

“I want my rights!” said Harve.

The sergeant laughed. “You got ’em, friend. You can do anything you want in there,” he said, “just as long as you don’t damage any government property.”

The sergeant went back upstairs.

There didn’t seem to be another soul in the basement. The only sounds that Harve could hear were footfalls overhead.

Harve gripped his barred door, tried to find some meaning in the footfalls.

There were the sounds of many big men walking together—one shift coming on, another going off, Harve supposed.

There was the clacking of a woman’s sharp heels. The clacking was so quick and free and businesslike that the heels could hardly belong to Claire.

Somebody moved a heavy piece of furniture. Something fell. Somebody laughed. Several people suddenly arose and moved their chairs back at the same time.

And Harve knew what it was to be buried alive.

He yelled. “Hey, up there! Help!” he yelled.

A reply came from close by. Someone groaned drowsily in another cell.

“Who’s that?” said Harve.

“Go to sleep,” said the voice. It was rusty, sleepy, irritable. “What kind of a town is this?” said Harve. “What kind of a town is any town?” said the voice. “You got any big-shot friends?”

“No,” said Harve.

“Then it’s a bad town,” said the voice. “Get some sleep.”

“They’ve got my wife upstairs,” said Harve. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve got to do something.”