Read Stranger At Home Online

Authors: George Sanders

Stranger At Home (6 page)

Trehearne nodded toward the drive outside. “But his car is here.”

Vickers said, “I drove it down. It was the only one available.”

“I see. Let me think, Mr. Vickers.” Trehearne's face was relaxed and pleasant. He might have been a friend, dropped in for a chat. “You've been – missing for four years, haven't you?”

“Yes.”

“As I recall it, you vanished during a cruise in Mexican waters. Harry Bryce and these two gentlemen were with you.”

“Right.”

“What happened?”

Vickers said ruefully, “I can see that that question is going to get monotonous.” He touched the scar. “This happened. I was ashore one night, quite drunk, and evidently wandering where I'd no business to be, and I got knocked on the head. Result, amnesia, and four rather unpleasant years.”

“Assault and robbery.”

“Obviously.”

Trehearne turned to Angie. He said admiringly, “You've certainly kept the news quiet, Mrs. Vickers.”

She stared at him for a second, her eyes blank and startled. Then she dropped her head. She had opened her mouth to say yes, when Vickers answered for her.

“She had nothing to keep quiet. I sent no word that I was coming.”

Trehearne seemed mildly surprised.

Harriet Crandall said, “He wouldn't. It was more spectacular this way.”

Trehearne smiled. “Do you think your sudden return might have had any bearing on what happened?”

Vickers' eyes got a hard, bright look in them. “What bearing,” he asked softly, “could it possibly have had?” Trehearne said mildly, “I have no idea. That's why I asked you.” He got up. “Well, thanks very much. You're all free to go home, of course, but please don't leave the city. You understand – we'll want more information, unless we're convinced the death was accidental. I don't hold much hope for that. And one other thing. I want everything in this house left just as it is. That means wearing apparel, personal effects, the works. They'll be returned to you as soon as we're through with them. I assume that none of you are wearing the clothes you had on last night.”

“No,” said Vickers, “except myself. Afraid I can't let you have my things just now. I should feel so conspicuous.”

“All right,” said Trehearne. “But don't have them cleaned, pressed, or brushed. There'll be a man around to pick them up later on. That goes for the shoes and socks and the rest of it.” He bowed to Angie with unexpected grace. “Mrs. Vickers, could you make out a guest list? Everyone who was here last night?”

“I'll try.” She smiled at Trehearne.

Vickers rose and went to the door with Trehearne. “Let us know, will you? We'll be at home, in town.”

The butler had come up with his hat. Trehearne took it. “I'll let you know,” he said. He went out.

Vickers walked back toward the fireplace.

Joan Merrill said in a high, quivering voice, “Michael, did you kill Harry?”

He turned around and stared at her. She was twisted forward on the edge of her chair, her handsome head erect and rigid. He had never seen her like this before. There was no servility about her, no apology, not even fear. He waited for her to break and she did not. She rose slowly. Her eyes did not turn aside from his.

“Did you, Michael?”

Vickers' left eyebrow made a cold, questioning arch. “Should I have done?”

Angie went over and put her hand on Joan's arm. “Please, darling,” she said gently. “Come and help me pack.” Joan stood still a moment, then allowed Angie to steer her toward the hall. Neither one glanced back.

Harriet Crandall said “H'm!” audibly. She tapped her husband on the shoulder. “Come on, Job. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Job set his glass down slowly and stood up. Harriet was waiting for him, but he paid no attention to her. He went instead to Vickers and stood facing him.

“Don't start thinking things about Angie,” he said. “No matter what anybody says, they're not true.”

Vickers said nothing. His eyes were cool and impenetrable, faintly amused. Job flushed darkly.

Harriet said, “You might try standing up for your own wife sometime.” She went off to get her belongings. Job Crandall turned on his heel and followed her.

Bill Saul kissed his blonde lightly and patted her up onto her feet. He motioned, and she trotted off obediently like a well-trained dog. Saul yawned, but his eyes, meeting Vickers', were anything but sleepy. He nodded toward the door, apparently referring to Trehearne.

“I don't like him,” he said. “Never trust a man with a mouth that should belong to a good woman. They're poison.”

Chapter Six

It was not a merry trip back to town. They went in Sessions' car. Sessions drove, Vickers sat beside him, Angie and Joan were in the back, and nobody spoke. Jennie Bryce was driving Harry's car. The bay, when they left it, was still blue and calm and quite unperturbed by the recent dumping of a corpse into it.

Sessions was oppressed by the silence. He was also embarrassed. It was embarrassing to hate a man with all the strength of one's soul – a rather flabby and undersized soul, admittedly, but still one's only possession of that kind – to hate, and for four years to cherish the completely logical hope that this man is painfully dead and in hell, and then have him turn up sound in wind and limb and securely in his old place, which is neatly astride one's neck. It is even more embarrassing when the hated one knows all about it and is not even angry. Merely amused.

When he could stand it no longer, Sessions said heartily, “Well, Vick, when are you coming down to the store? Everybody will be delighted to have you...”

He was going to say, “– have you back.” But Vickers turned his head slightly and Sessions glimpsed the raised eyebrow and the smile. He did not finish. His eyes were on the road after that, and he did not see the expression that came gradually in Vickers' face. somber look, and one that Sessions would have found completely unfamiliar.

“Business has improved, you say.”

Sessions nodded. There was a very tiny, almost invisible imp of malice in his reply. “As I told you – nearly a third.”

“How odd,” said Vickers. He slid down in the seat, made an effort to get his long legs arranged comfortably, and closed his eyes. “I would have thought the business would simply crumble away without me.”

He appeared to sleep.

Sessions smiled. Quite brazenly.
But it didn't, you son of a bitch
, he said to himself.
You conceited, overbearing bastard. Michael Jehovah Horse's-ass Vickers. The business got on just fine without you – and so did everybody else!

He drove carefully, never exceeding thirty miles an hour. He made all signals punctiliously and yielded right of way without question. His only citation had been for overtime parking in Beverly Hills. He brought this up frequently in conversation, half bragging, half wistfully hoping that the violation might admit him into the bright company of daredevils who ignored boulevard stops and did ninety on the highway. Michael Vickers had once owned a custom-built job that would do one hundred and ten.

Sessions brought the car finally to a gentle stop in front of Vickers' house.

Angie and Joan got out. Vickers stayed where he was. He reached out and patted Angie's shoulder.

“Try and get some rest,” he said. ‘I'll be home for dinner.” He turned to Sessions. “You can drop me off at Wilshire.”

Angie went off with Joan. Her face had a set look. Sessions shrugged, and started the car.

At the foot of the hill he said, “I can take you wherever you want to go.”

‘I'm not sure where that is. Just let me out...” Vickers saw a red sign ahead. “Here, Sunset will do.” He got out as Sessions made the stop, waved, and went off. Sessions shook his head, and let himself cautiously into the stream of traffic along the Strip.

Michael Vickers walked slowly west, toward Beverly Hills. The sun was bright. There were cars and people and busses. There were open-front markets with bright pyramids of oranges and grapefruit and carefully artistic arrangements of vegetables. There were drugstores and liquor stores and art galleries and beauty shoppes and professional photographers and antique dealers and exclusive gown shops. There were service stations and veterinaries. There were agencies, dozens of them, the plush-upholstered auction blocks whence bodies, and perhaps even an occasional soul, are consigned to wear the Yellow Kimono in the ice palaces of Hollywood. There was a large, convenient mortuary.

The remembered places. The Players. Ciro's, The Mocambo, The Troc. Bit of Sweden and the Tail of the Cock. The city spread out below the Strip. The stink of exhaust vapors, the noise of horns and motors, the drive­in restaurants with girls in tight pants serving cheeseburgers and malts.

Vickers thought,
This hasn't changed
. He looked at his reflection in a store window. The clothes were the same. He had worn them into these swank bars and peeled bills off of a thick wad held in a silver clip with his initials on it and been treated like the Shah of Persia. The clothes were the same. The street was the same.
Maybe I'll forget these last four years. I forgot all the other ones quickly enough
.

He walked on, and there was still a distance between himself and the street.

He boarded a red bus and stood in the crowded aisle and studied the faces around him. There was a tired young colored woman with a child asleep in her lap. There were housewives with bundles and a man with a lunch pail and a very old woman with sandals made of newspaper folded thick and tied on with rags. People who had never been near the Mocambo. When the bus stopped at Beverly Hills Station Vickers got out with the rest of them, and walked over to Bedford Drive. He pleased himself by not having to hunt for' the house. It was colonial and pretentious, and the way Vickers thrust his finger against the bell managed to impart a quality of insolence even to the chimes.

The door opened.

Vickers said, “Hullo, Stokes. Remember me?”

The plump, healthy-looking butler obviously did remember him, and the remembrance seemed to be something of a shock.

“Oh, come now, Stokes,” said Vickers, walking in. “It's not as though I were Mr. Bryce coming back.”

Stokes shuddered. “Please, sir!” He closed the door. “Poor Mr. Bryce. I only heard the news when Mrs. Bryce returned home.” He shuddered again. “Murder!”

“Frightfully ill bred,” said Vickers. “And most inconvenient.”

Stokes gave him a look. “You've changed, sir, if I may say so. But not much.” No one could possibly have taken offense at his tone. He added formally, “May I offer my congratulations on your safe return.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll inquire whether Mrs. Bryce is able to see you now.”

Vickers said, “What do you want to bet?” He smiled at the butler's stiffly retreating back and then went directly into Harry Bryce's study and closed the door.

Harry had been an untidy character. Vickers flicked through masses of irrelevant paper in the desk drawers, including used Christmas cards and old gin rummy scores. Vickers noticed on these latter that Harry had got blitzed with monotonous regularity. He was still pawing when Jennie Bryce came in.

She wore a black dress now. It had rather a low V-neck and a seductive drape around the hips. Her pumps were black suede and had a very high heel. One blood-red toenail peeped through the opening of each shoe. She wore a pearl choker and matching earrings and her hair was piled smoothly on her head. She had a beautiful neck. Widowhood became her.

She shut the door and said, “You've sure got your nerve with you.”

“Yes, haven't I?” Vickers smiled at her pleasantly, went back to what he was doing, did a studied take, and straightened, staring at Jennie.

She gave him plenty of time to look before she said indignantly, “What do you think you're doing in my husband's effects?”

“Looking for something.” Vickers seemed surprised that she would not know that. “Shan't be a moment. Suppose you sit down right over there, where I can see you, and then we can have a little chat when I'm finished.”

“Well,” she said, “if you got something important to say.” She walked slowly to the indicated chair, giving him the full-length profile. “A widow has things to do, you know.”

“Yes,” said Vickers. “I can imagine.”

She sat down, watching him sulkily. He could feel her watching. The jumbled papers slipped through his hands rapidly, and then he found what he wanted. The things were in a leather zipper case at the bottom of the last drawer. He swept papers onto the floor and spread the contents out. Jennie got up and stood beside him.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Harry's memory books.” There were two of them, one a small leather-bound notebook with liquor stains on the cover, the other a big scrap book. Vickers opened the big book to cover the little one.

“Why,” said Jennie, “that's you, isn't it?”

She was pointing to a picture clipped from a Los Angeles paper. It was the Vickers of four years ago. It carried a heading to the effect that Prominent Local Business Man had Disappeared. There was an article pasted beside it. It told Vickers nothing new. Only a repetition of what Angie had said. He turned the heavy pages slowly. There were pictures of Harry Bryce and Bill Saul and Job Crandall. There were pictures of Angie. There were interviews. There was one last item, very small, from a back page and unaccompanied by pictures, which said that the search for Michael Vickers, missing six months, had proved fruitless and been abandoned. Wherever the name of Harry Bryce appeared in print it was underlined in blue pencil.

“Harry never showed me that,” said Jennie. “But then, we were only married three months ago.” She turned back to a picture of Angie, and studied it. “She don't take a very good picture, does she?”

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