a man has paid his debt to society and proved that he can rehabilitate himself--'
It was Begley she was quoting, Begley's anger she was expressing, but she couldn't sustain the anger or remember the end of the quotation. She looked around the wreckage of the room in dim alarm, as if she had begun to suspect that his rehabilitation was not complete.
'Did he tell you what he was in for, Mrs. Gerhardi?'
'Not in so many words. He read me a piece from his book the other night. This character in the book was in the pen and he was thinking about the past and how they framed him for a murder he didn't commit. I asked him if the character stood for him. He wouldn't say. He went into one of his deep dark silences.'
She went into one of her own. I could feel the floor trembling under my feet. The sea was surging among the pilings like the blithe mindless forces of dissolution. The woman said:
'Was Chuck in the pen for murder?'
'I was told tonight that he murdered his wife ten years ago. I haven't confirmed it. Can you?'
She shook her head. Her face had lengthened as if by its own weight, like unbaked dough. 'It must be a mistake.'
'I hope so. I was also told that his real name is Thomas McGee. Did he ever use that name?'
'No.'
'It does tie in with another fact,' I said, thinking aloud. 'The girl he went to visit at the Surf House had the same name before she was married. He said the girl resembled his daughter. I think she is his daughter. Did he ever talk about her?'
'Never.'
'Or bring her here?'
'No. If she's his daughter, he wouldn't bring her here.' She reached for the empty bottle she had kicked over, set it on its base, and slumped back onto the settee, as if morally exhausted by the effort.
'How long did Begley, or McGee, live here with you?'
'A couple of weeks is all. We were going to be married. It's lonely living here without a man.'
'I can imagine.'
She drew a little life from the sympathy in my voice: 'They just don't stay with me. I try to make things nice for them, but they don't stay. I should have stuck with my first husband.' Her eyes were far away and long ago. 'He treated me like a queen but I was young and foolish. I didn't know any better than to leave him.'
We listened to the water under the house.
'Do you think Chuck went away with this girl you call his daughter?'
'I doubt it,' I said. 'How did he leave here, Mrs. Gerhardi? By car?'
'He wouldn't let me drive him. He said he was going up to the corner and catch the L.A. bus. It stops at the corner if you signal it. He walked up the road with his suitcase and out of sight.' She sounded both regretful and relieved.
'About what time?'
'Around three o'clock.'
'Did he have any money?'
'He must have had some for the bus fare. He couldn't have had much. I've been giving him a little money, but he would only take what he needed from me, and then it always had to be a loan. Which he said he would pay back when he got his book of experiences on the market. But I don't care if he never pays me back. He was nice to have around.'
'Really?'
'Really he was. Chuck is a smart man. I don't care what he's done in the course of his life. A man can change for the better. He never gave me a bad time once.' She made a further breakthrough into candor: 'I was the one who gave him the bad times. I have a drinking problem. He only drank with me to be sociable. He didn't want me to drink alone.' She blinked her gin-colored eyes. 'Would you like a drink?'
'No thanks. I have to be on my way.' I got up and stood over her. 'You're sure he didn't tell you where he was going?'
'Los Angeles is all I know. He promised I'd hear from him but I don't expect it. It's over.'
'If he should write or phone will you let me know?'
She nodded. I gave her my card, and told her where I was staying. When I went out, the fog had moved inland as far as the highway.
chapter 8
I stopped at the motel again on my way to the Bradshaw house. The keyboy told me that Alex was still out. I wasn't surprised when I found his red Porsche parked under the Bradshaws' hedge beside the road.
The moon was rising behind the trees. I let my thoughts rise with it, imagining that Alex had got together with his bride and they were snug in the gatehouse, talking out their troubles. The sound of the girl's crying wiped out the hopeful image. Her voice was loud and terrible, almost inhuman. Its compulsive rhythms rose and fell like the ululations of a hurt cat.
The door of the gatehouse was slightly ajar. Light spilled around its edges, as if extruded by the pressure of the noise inside. I pushed it open.
'Get out of here,' Alex said.
They were on a studio bed in the tiny sitting room. He had his arms around her, but the scene was not domestic. She seemed to be fighting him, trying to struggle out of his embrace. It was more like a scene in a closed ward where psychiatric nurses will hold their violent patients, sometimes for hours on end, rather than strap them in canvas jackets.
Her blouse was torn, so that one of her breasts was almost naked. She twisted her unkempt head around and let me see her face. It was gray and stunned, and it hardly changed expression when she screamed at me:
'Get out!'
'I think I better stick around,' I said to both of them.
I closed the door and crossed the room. The rhythm of her crying was running down. It wasn't really crying. Her eyes were dry and fixed in her gray flesh. She hid them against her husband's body.
His face was shining white.
'What happened, Alex?'
'I don't really know. I was waiting for her when she got home a few minutes ago. I couldn't get much sense out of her. She's awfully upset about something.'
'She's in shock,' I said, thinking that he was close to it himself. 'Was she in an accident?'
'Something like that.'
His voice trailed off in a mumble. His look was inward, as if he was groping for the strength to handle this new problem.
'Is she hurt, Alex?'
'I don't think so. She came running down the road, and then she tried to run away again. She put up quite a battle when I tried to stop her.'
As if to demonstrate her prowess as a battler, she freed her hands and beat at his chest. There was blood on her hands. It left red dabs on his shirt-front.
'Let me go,' she pleaded. 'I want to die. I deserve to.'
'She's bleeding, Alex.'
He shook his head. 'It's somebody else's blood. A friend of hers was killed.'
'And it's all my fault,' she said in a flat voice.
He caught her wrists and held her. I could see manhood biting into his face. 'Be quiet, Dolly. You're talking nonsense.'
'Am I? She's lying in her blood, and I'm the one who put her there.'
'Who is she talking about?' I said to Alex.
'Somebody called Helen. I've never heard of her.'