Madball (17 page)

Then why was he feeling lousy today?

Conscience? Hell, he didn't have any conscience. That was a lot of crap. It hadn't bothered him in the slightest to kill Mack Irby
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except of course when he walked out onto the midway with the stake in his hand and Dolly had seen it. Dolly? Just because she was a dame? Nuts. Anyway, he hadn't killed her; Quintana had. And for big money you couldn't be squeamish.

He'd killed twice before in his life and neither time had it bothered him for five minutes. Of course both of those times
h
ad been back when, during the depression, he'd been on the bum or on the grift. The time on the freight train when he'd red-lighted the loud-mouthed shade. The time when he'd mugged the lush in the alley back of Clark Street in Chicago. Yes, he had to admit neither of those had been premeditated murders. He'd pushed the brakeman off the moving train in sudden anger, the same blind anger that had made him strike Sammy last night. And he hadn't really meant to kill the lush he rolled, just to make him unconscious would have been enough. But they were murders just the same. They'd have fried him for either one.

What he needed, he thought, was a good drunk. A two-weeks knockdown-dragout drunk. But that would have to wait until after the end of the season.

There was a knock on the trailer door. He said, "Come in," and then, "Hi, Wiggins. Sit down. Too early for a drink? I was just thinking about one."

"Too early for me. Can't stay anyway. I'm just passing word around the lot about the funerals. Dolly's and Linder's. Both tomorrow morning at an undertaker's downtown, Gresham's. We didn't figure under the circumstances it could be a double funeral but we're having them one right after the other. Dolly's at ten, Linder's at eleven. Think you can make 'em?"

"I'll try."

"Good. We'd like a good turnout. Make it if you can."

Wiggins turned to leave. The Murderer said, "Hey, wait a minute. You going to be downtown today, Wiggy?"

"Sure. Be leaving here within half an hour."

"Wonder if you'll do something for me. I won't be leaving the lot today at all and tomorrow morning would be kind of late. Will you have a florist send some flowers for both funerals?"

"Be glad to. And I've got to go to a florist's anyway."

The Murderer took a twenty out of his wallet, then hesitated and took out another.

"Make it twenty for each."

Wiggins took the money. "Any special kind of flowers?"

"I wouldn't know one kind from another anyway. Flowers are flowers. Say, I hear Quintana killed himself. Not going to be a funeral for him, is there?"

"That son of a bitch? Let the state bury him
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or stuff him in a garbage can. You want anything special on either card to go with the flowers?"

"Just my name." He hesitated and then said, "Yeah, just my name."

"Okay. Be seeing you."

After Wiggins left, he lifted a dinette seat and took out the whisky bottle. He'd allow himself one drink, one only. Then no more till after closing time late this evening; he'd allow himself two or three then.

Just one drink now to drive away the jitters. He'd damned near done a foolish thing just now; he'd damned near told Wiggins to put the word, "Sorry," on the card with Dolly's flowers. That would have been foolish, all right. Not because it would have made anyone suspect anything; he was safely past any danger of that. But it would have been foolish because he'd have been admitting to himself that he was sorry. Getting sentimental and silly. That could be dangerous if he let it get him. And anyway Dolly couldn't read the card so it wouldn't mean anything.

He put back the whisky bottle and noticed alongside it the pile of pornography books he'd moved there last night from the compartment where Sammy had found them. He picked up the top one and started to kill a bit of time looking through it.

And, realizing something, he started to grin.

That's what was wrong with him! He hadn't had a woman for over six weeks now, since he'd found the money! Hadn't even thought about it!

He'd been so busy making plans so he could keep that money, so busy looking forward to the hedonistic future it would give him, that he'd forgotten the present.

What reason was there why he couldn't have a woman tonight?

Not that he wanted a permanent tie-up with any of these cheap carney broads. He had better plans than that, but those plans couldn't start for a couple of weeks.

No, even after he could start spending money freely he didn't want any tie-ups. Cheaper and in the long run better to pay for it.
L
ike many hedonistic and highly sexed men, he basically disliked women. He liked to use their bodies but had only contempt for them otherwise. Sleep with one, yes. Live with one, never. So much simpler when one could afford it, as he'd been able to do although not as often as he liked for several years now, just to pay a woman for the use of her body than to go through the boring motions of being nice to one so you could talk her into bed for free. And, if he wanted a rematch, having to try to please her as well as himself; that took two-thirds of the pleasure away. Above all, he hated sentiment, hated to pretend to feel it when he didn't, hated too the very thought that a woman might ever feel sentimental toward him. Sentiment was a lot of crap and the only way to avoid even the pretense of it was to pay for what you got, right down the line.

Naturally, he thought of Trixie Connor.

There were several girls on the lot who'd put out for cash, most of them strictly among the other carneys. For most of the season he'd had one or another of them in his trailer two or three times a week. Always Trixie when he'd been feeling flush; she was the most expensive thing on the lot but worth the difference if you could afford it. There were pigs like the waitress in the grab joint who'd spend the night with you for a fin; Trixie wanted that for a quick flop and twenty to spend the night, so he hadn't had Trixie too often
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mostly because he wanted all night or nothing and twenty bucks several times a week ran into heavy money.

But hell, now he could afford to have Trixie all night and every night for the rest of the season if he wanted to. Well, he couldn't go that far; he didn't want to start acting suddenly prosperous, even now. But it wouldn't be out of character for him to have Trixie come to the trailer tonight and a few more nights before the season was over. In fact he'd been acting out of character not to have had her or any other woman there for six weeks or so.

Naturally he was jittery and nervous.

He put the book back and looked at his watch. A good time to make the date; she'd be getting ready for the model show to open. Time for him to leave the trailer anyway and get with his own show.

He strolled over to the model show top. He went back inside and called out Trixie's name; she came under the canvas partition that shut off the dressing space. "Hi," she said. "Haven't seen you for a long time."

"Hi yourself, Trixie. Just decided it's been too damn long a time." He dropped his voice. "Busy tonight?"

"Well, I promised someone I'd see him right after we close, but it's not an all-night date."

"Good. Want to drop around to my trailer after that?"

"Sure," she said. "Be there by one at the latest."

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE HOSPITAL WAITING-ROOM was paneled in knotty pine and the sofa and two chairs were covered with cool green leather. The pictures on the walls were reproductions of a Rembrandt and an Utrillo.

Behind a massive mahogany desk, only the receptionist struck a discordant note; she was a faded blonde placidly chewing gum and shuffling cards from an index file.

Dr. Magus waited patiently until she looked up. He said, "I beg your pardon. I would like, if possible, to talk to the doctor who treated my son here about two months ago. I am Dr. Ranee Irby. My son's name was John MacGregor Irby, but I understand that he gave his name here as Mack Irby."

"Whatsa doctor's name?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to ask you that, my dear. It should show on your records. The name is Irby, I-r-b-y."

She reached for the index file and then hesitated. "Irby
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wasn't he one of the two carneys brought here after a accident, talker for a unborn show?"

She'd been a carney herself, Dr. Magus knew now. That made her a human being, but he couldn't risk showing it. He said carefully, "He worked for a carnival. In what capacity, I do not know. I had not seen him for many years."

"I remember him. He had a broken leg. The other fella was killed."

"That's right."

"Dr. Kramer took care of him, then. He was resident here and he'd of been the only doctor around at night. It was at night they brought him here."

"You say Dr. Kramer was the resident physician? You mean that he is no longer with you?"

"Yeah. He's in Cincinnati now. On the staff at Miseracordia Hospital there."

Dr. Magus sighed. "Unfortunate. But perhaps I might talk to whichever nurse would remember him best?"

"Well
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I guess so. Only I wouldn't know which one. You better talk to Miss Plackett, the head nurse."

"Is Miss Plackett here now?"

"She ain't on duty but she's probally in her room. Sid-down and wait. I'll ring for her."

Dr. Magus sat down and waited, musing on the sad fate of a carney forced to work as receptionist in a hospital and on the sad fate of a hospital so short of help that it was forced to hire a receptionist who used such atrocious grammar. He didn't know which was the worse.

A tall woman with graying hair came into the reception room. Years of experience enabled Dr. Magus to size her up at a quick glance. Sharp eyes, sharp nose. Sharp manner too, no doubt, and tough to work for, but soft as butter down inside. Easy to handle. She wasn't in uniform; she wore a severely cut navy blue suit.

The blonde said, "This gemmun wants to talk to you, Miss Plackett."

Dr. Magus rose, bowed slightly and smiled. His number one smile. "Miss Plackett, I am Dr. Ranee Irby. My son, I understand, spent almost seven weeks here, up to last Monday afternoon, with a broken leg and other but minor injuries. Which of your nurses would be most familiar with the case?"

"I believe I myself would, Dr. Irby. I helped Dr. Kramer the night Mr. Irby was brought in, and I am familiar with the progress of the case up to the time he was released. Just what is it you wish to know?"

Dr. Magus sighed. "Many little things, Miss Plackett. Not the medical details nor anything that could be considered confidential. Perhaps
- Do you know my son is dead?"

"I know the police came here a few days ago and asked questions about him. They didn't tell us why."

"Because he was killed only hours after he left here. I am told that he returned immediately to the carnival he worked for and met his death there that same night."

"I am sorry to hear that, doctor." She wasn't, really. But she would be after he got into the song and dance Dr. Magus hadn't started yet. But it was about time he did.

He said, "Thank you. I
- Miss Plackett, I'm sure you'll be able to help me better if I explain fully to you just what my interest is
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an
d it's really a bit complex, almost impossible to tell you briefly. Nor would I blame you for not wanting to answer my questions until I have explained. I wonder
- Will you forgive me if I ask you to have dinner with me? It will give us time to talk."

"Why, I-"

"I'll appreciate it greatly, Miss Plackett. And there is so much to tell you before I even know what questions I want to ask."

"Well, I believe I can, doctor. Thank you."

He waited while she got hat and handbag, then asked her to choose where they should go, since he was a stranger in town. There was a nice restaurant, she said, only a block from the hospital. They walked there.

He was pleasantly surprised to be able to talk her into a cocktail before dinner.

"I should perhaps explain, Miss Plackett, that I am not a doctor of medicine. My doctorate is in philosophy. I am a professor of psychology at U. S. C.
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University of Southern California." He smiled. "Psychology is a field which, in all modesty, I can say I know thoroughly
- with one reservation. For whatever reason, I failed with John."

"John?"

"My son. I understand he is on your records as Mack Irby; his full name is, or was, John MacGregor Irby. He ran away from home at the age of eighteen, eleven years ago. Just two months after he completed high school. I have not seen him since, nor heard of or from him until yesterday when I was told of his death, and what is known of the circumstances surrounding it, by the Los Angeles Police Department."

"But how did they know? I mean, if he'd changed his name and-"

"Through his fingerprints, taken as a matter of police routine after his death. They were sent to Washington and found to be those of my son which were on record because he'd been arrested several times during the last year he was still living at home.

"So the Los Angeles police were notified and notified me. They didn't have many details but I telephoned the carnival they said he'd been with and talked with a Mr
.
Wiggins there
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he seemed to be one of the partners who own the carnival
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and learned all I could learn from him, which included the fact that John had just returned to the carnival after having spent seven weeks here. I made immediate arrangements to fly East to learn more about the matter. Since Glenrock is west of Bloomfield, I decided to stop here first to see what I could learn at the hospital before I continue on to the carnival."