The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

VIII

I drove my Chrysler slowly up La Verne Terrace towards Steiner’s house.

In the daylight, I could see the steep drop of the hill and the flight of wooden steps down which the killer had made his escape. The street below was almost as narrow as an alley. Two small houses fronted on it, not very near Steiner’s place. With the noise the rain had been making, it was doubtful if anyone in them had paid much attention to the shots.

Steiner’s looked peaceful under the afternoon sun. The unpainted shingles of the roof were still damp from the rain. The trees on the other side of the street had new leaves on them. There were no cars on the street.

Something moved behind the square growth of box hedge that screened Steiner’s front door.

Carmen Dravec, in a green and white checkered coat and no hat, came out through the opening, stopped suddenly, looked at me wild-eyed, as if she hadn’t heard the car. She went back quickly behind the hedge. I drove on and parked in front of the empty house.

I got out and walked back. In the sunlight it felt like an exposed and dangerous thing to do.

I went in through the hedge and the girl stood there very straight and silent against the half-open house door. One hand went slowly to her mouth, and her teeth bit at a funny-looking thumb that was like an extra finger. There were deep purple-black smudges under her frightened eyes.

I pushed her back into the house without saying anything, shut the door. We stood looking at each other inside. She dropped her hand slowly and tried to smile. Then all expression went out of her white face and it looked as intelligent as the bottom of a shoe box.

I got gentleness into my voice and said:

“Take it easy. I’m pals. Sit down in that chair by the desk. I’m a friend of your father’s. Don’t get panicky.”

She went and sat down on the yellow cushion in the black chair at Steiner’s desk.

The place looked decadent and off-color by daylight. It still stank of the ether.

Carmen licked the corners of her mouth with the tip of a whitish tongue. Her dark eyes were stupid and stunned rather than scared now. I rolled a cigarette around in my fingers and pushed some books out of the way to sit on the edge of the desk. I lit my cigarette, puffed it slowly for a moment, then asked:

“What are you doing here?”

She picked at the material of her coat, didn’t answer. I tried again.

“How much do you remember about last night?”

She answered that. “Remember what? I was sick last night — at home.” Her voice was a cautious, throaty sound that only just reached my ears.

“Before that,” I said. “Before I brought you home. Here.”

A slow flush crept up her throat and her eyes widened. “You... you were the one?” she breathed, and began to chew on her funny thumb again.

“Yeah, I was the one. How much of it all stays with you?”

She said: “Are you the police?”

“No. I told you I was a friend of your father’s.”

“You’re not the police?”

“No.”

It finally registered. She let out a long sigh. “What... what do you want?”

“Who killed him?”

Her shoulders jerked in the checkered coat, but nothing changed much in her face. Her eyes slowly got furtive.

“Who... who else knows?”

“About Steiner? I don’t know. Not the police, or someone would be here. Maybe Marty.”

It was just a stab in the dark, but it got a sudden, sharp cry out of her.

“Marty!”

We were both silent for a minute. I puffed on my cigarette and she chewed on her thumb.

“Don’t get clever,” I said. “Did Marty kill him?”