Take my face

TAKE MY FACE

by Peter Held

(aka Jack Vance)

CHAPTER I

Robert Struve, age thirteen, differed only in detail from his friends. He read comic books; wore jeans and sports shirts.

His father, Bradley, was dead; he lived with his mother, Elsbeth, in the top half of a stucco duplex. Elsbeth Bradley was of good Philadelphia stock, willowy, blonde, rather pale. In 1928, Bradley, representing himself as a soldier of fortune, had swept her off her feet. He talked big money and madcap adventure; Elsbeth had taken him at his word, but after their marriage there was none of the romance and gaiety she had expected. For several years Bradley sold real estate in Los Angeles, then, in 1934, he brought Elsbeth and four-year-old Robert to San Giorgio, sixty miles north of San Francisco. He sold vacuum cleaners for two years, worked briefly for a polling organization, then went back into real estate. He had an easy tongue, a debonair laugh, a Los Angeles-style mustache; he knew a hundred smutty stories; still, he failed to make much headway.

Elsbeth's illusions vanished, but she clung to her hopes.

When Robert was eight, Bradley went to work for Hovard Orchards as night manager of the San Giorgio warehouse. He held the job three months, until Darrell Hovard found him drunk on the job for the second time in two weeks. Hovard paid him off on the spot. Bradley drove down the highway in a reckless fury, and at Dead Man's Bend sideswiped a lumber truck.

Elsbeth quickly adjusted to widowhood. She had married not Bradley, but the idea of Bradley—strong, gay, gallant, resourceful. The discord vanished with Bradley's death.

"Darling," she told Robert the morning after the terrible event, "you've got to be very brave. God has taken your father from us."

"Is he really dead, Mother? I bet he was drunk."

"Why do you say an awful thing like that, Robert?"

Robert was silent.

"Why, Robert?"

"It was the kids," Robert blurted out. "They told me Daddy was gonna drink himself to death."

"What a terrible thing to say!" Elsbeth gasped.

"Your daddy was one of the finest men that ever walked this earth!"

Robert said nothing. Elsbeth continued in her soft voice: "You must always remember that, Robert dear. And now that Daddy's gone—you'll have to be the man in the house. You'll have to be brave and strong and help Mummy."

Robert's throat was swollen and his eyes were stinging. "I will, Mummy. I'll do anything you want."

So Robert became man of the family. He found the position no sinecure. Elsbeth went to work at Hegenbels, San Giorgio's largest department store, at a barely sufficient salary. Robert learned that he must earn a lot of money as soon as possible. He learned, "Grit, Robert, stick-to-itiveness, that's the way to get ahead!"

Robert was a handsome boy, with black hair, innocent hazel eyes, a fresh young skin. He enjoyed no particular prestige among his contemporaries; he was neither ugly like Grant Hovard, fat like Ducky Scheib, truculent like Jim Smith. He lacked Ziggy Gordon's loud voice and high spirits, Carr Pendry's impetuous recklessness.

He bought a bicycle with earnings from his paper route, and thereafter gave everything to Elsbeth, who started what she called his "college fund."

Carr Pendry also delivered a paper route. His

father published the San Giorgio Herald-Republican, and had some notion of starting Carr at the bottom.

Carr, a year older than Robert, owned a new motor-scooter, which, from time to time, he allowed Robert to ride. On such days Robert delivered Carr's papers as well as his own.

Carr's route included exclusive Jamaica Terrace, where the Hovards, the Pendrys, the McDermotts, the Cloverbolts and the Hegen-bels lived in large old-fashioned houses. Whenever Robert delivered Carr's route he told himself that he and his mother would someday own a house on Jamaica Terrace.

And then Darrell Hovard's Cadillac, with little Julie Hovard sitting between her father's legs steering, rumbled like a monstrous beetle through Jamaica Arch, and ran into Robert on the motor-scooter.

The motor-scooter tumbled into a culvert. Robert's head struck the concrete; gasoline gushed over him, into his face, and caught on fire.

Darrell Hovard held Julie's head down when the body of Robert Struve, charred and moaning, was lifted into the ambulance.

"Hush now," muttered Hovard. "Be quiet. We're going home ..." And he said to himself, "Thank God for insurance ..."

The adjuster found Elsbeth Struve at the hospital; he was Edward D. Cooley, a thin young man with a crew cut. He approached Elsbeth in the hall outside Robert's hospital room. The doctor had promised a report on Robert's condition in a few minutes, and she hardly noticed when Edward Cooley took a seat beside her.

"A terrible business," said Cooley.

Elsbeth looked at him, seeing little more than a blur. "Yes, yes."

"Naturally, you'll have nothing to worry about in regard to the doctor bills. We'll take care of this emergency treatment."

Elsbeth took a sidelong look at the sharp-faced young man. He seemed grave and concerned. "Who are you?"

"I represent the insurance company. I've come to help you straighten things out."

"Oh," said Elsbeth. "I still don't know anything about it. Except that Robert had an accident on a motor-scooter and Mr. Hovard brought him in."

Cooley nodded. "That's right. Mr. Hovard's insurance covers the contingency, and we've agreed to take care of Robert's hospital care. But we'll need your permission to pay the bill, a release."

"Oh, certainly." Elsbeth laughed weakly.

"Then—let's see—I have a release somewhere."

Edward Cooley felt in his breast pocket. "You'd better sign this . . . right here." Elsbeth took his pen.

The doctor came out of Robert's room with a nurse; the two held a whispered conversation. Elsbeth thrust pen and paper back to Cooley, jumped to her feet. But before Elsbeth could reach him, the doctor hurried away. The nurse said, "Mrs. Struve?" "Yes . . . Robert—can I see him?" The nurse shook her head. "He's under sedatives. He wouldn't recognize you, and frankly, Mrs. Struve, I don't think it would be wise right now."

"Is he— Is he—"

"No—he'll pull through—but he's had some very bad burns . . . Perhaps you'd better wait a day or so."

Elsbeth looked at the white door, so firmly closed. "He won't be marked, will he?" she asked hesitantly.

"We'll do our best, Mrs. Struve—" Elsbeth turned away. Edward Cooley stepped up. "All I need is your signature on this settlement, then we can take care of all the bills." "Please," said Elsbeth, "not right now." Cooley followed her. "But, Mrs. Struve . . ." "I don't want to sign anything until I can read it . . ."

Edward Cooley drove out Conroy Avenue toward Jamaica Terrace. At the arch he found Carr Pendry inspecting the wreck of his motor-scooter. Cooley stopped the car, jumped out on the sidewalk. "Quite an accident."

"Yeah," said Carr. "That's what's left of my scooter. Almost new."

"I suppose you're insured?" Cooley inquired jocularly.

Carr shook his head, glanced sourly up Jamaica Terrace. "But old Hovard's got insurance. If it's any good."

"All insurance is good," said Cooley.

Carr looked at him skeptically. "Even when his little girl is driving?"

Cooley ducked his head like a heron after a minnow. "What's that?"

"I said, even when his little girl's driving."

"Well, well," said Cooley. "The little girl was driving?"

Carr nodded. "Old Hovard lets her drive all the time. Let's her do anything."

"Well, well ..." Cooley climbed back into his car.

He pressed the bell button at the Hovard home, and a colored maid opened the door. "Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Darrell Hovard, please."

"You got an appointment? Mr. Hovard's not feeling so good."

"I'm Edward Cooley of the Magna Insurance Company. Mr. Hovard reported an accident."

"I'll see if he's home."

Mr. Hovard was home. The maid led Cooley down a cool red-tiled hall, past glass doors leading into living room, dining room, library; past fine spiral stairs sweeping up to the second floor. On the third step Julie sat hugging her knees.

"Hello, nipper," said Cooley.

Julie turned her head to watch him pass. She was a topaz angel of a child, mercurial, piquant, thoroughly spoiled. Her skin shone from expensive foods, pure milk, the finest soaps; her clothes were as crisp and fresh and clean as new popcorn.

The maid slid back a glass door opening on the back terrace. "Here's the insurance man, Mr. Hovard."

Hovard sat in a white wrought-iron chair under a grape arbor. The leaves over his head glowed green; pale half dollars from the swimming pool danced on his face. He was a large man with brown hair, wide-set eyes and arched eyebrows.

"Mr. Cooley, is it?"

"That's right." Cooley drew up a chair. "Mr. Hovard, I've looked into this matter, and I'm afraid it's not quite an open-and-shut situation. Especially since it involves your little girl."

"What's Julie got to do with it?"

"Well—after all, she was driving."

"Driving!" Hovard frowned uncertainly.

"She was driving the car when it struck Robert Struve."

"That's utter nonsense!" snapped Hovard.

Cooley nodded judiciously. "Then she was not guiding the car when it struck Robert Struve?"

"I said she wasn't driving! She might have been steering. Playing at steering, that is."

Cooley nodded. "I see . . . Well, we're not unreasonable, Mr. Hovard—but you must know the terms of your policy."

"Certainly. I'm protected in every way!"

Cooley rapped a booklet on the table. "I don't want to be difficult, Mr. Hovard, but the policy provides coverage only while a legally licensed operator is in control of the car."

"Would you care to look at my license?"

Cooley grinned. "I'd like to see your little girl's."

"She has no part in this. I was sitting in the driver's seat—in full control of the car."

"I'm very sorry about this, Mr. Hovard," said Cooley. "The question of responsibility seems to hinge on who was in control of the car, you or

your daughter. I've spoken to witnesses who agree that your little daughter was steering."

"That's a damned lie!" Hovard was pale and grim.

"That may well be so," Cooley agreed politely, "but appearances seem to indicate otherwise. You'll understand, Mr. Hovard, we can't shoulder responsibility for what might well be criminal negligence."

Hovard slowly began to hunch forward. "Are you suggesting that I am criminally negligent?"

Cooley pulled out his cigarettes with airy unconcern. "If Robert dies—it's possible you'll find yourself prosecuted for manslaughter."

Hovard sank back in his chair. "He's not going to die."

"Who's not going to die, Daddy?" asked Julie from behind him.

"Nobody, dear . . . Run along now."

Julie disappeared inside the house.

"Cute kid," said Cooley. "Too bad she's mixed up in this business."

Hovard glared. "She doesn't know. I'm not going to let her know."

Cooley nodded, ready to rise. "Well, that's it, Mr. Hovard. Sorry I can't give you more cheerful news."

"Just a minute!" said Hovard. "Do you mean to tell me that you're disavowing this policy?"

Cooley shrugged, and rose to his feet. "No hard feelings, Mr. Hovard, but that's the situation."

Hovard said, "111 tell you one thing—if you think you're going to victimize me, you've got another think coming. I'll take you to court!"

"That's up to you, Mr. Hovard." Cooley nodded politely, found his way out.

Darrell Hovard took the telephone with a grimace of distaste. "Darrell Hovard speaking."

"This is Mrs. Struve," said Elsbeth. She was calling from the booth in the hospital waiting room. "I'm Robert's mother."

"Oh yes, Mrs. Struve."

"I was talking to the insurance man, and he tells me that they're not responsible ..."

"Of course they're responsible! Don't let them tell you otherwise!"

Elsbeth asked hesitantly, "Don't you think it's a matter you'd better straighten out with them? Somebody's got to pay the doctor bills; and I've priced plastic surgery. It's just awful what everything's going to cost."

"Well, Mrs. Struve," said Hovard in a harassed voice, "I don't really see what I can do. I've paid my insurance premiums faithfully. As I see it, the matter's up to the insurance company."

Elsbeth's eyes, already sore from tears, began to throb.

"Just how much do the hospital bills come to, Mrs. Struve?"

"With all the plastic surgery and the care, they say it'll be two or three thousand dollars—and we can't afford it."

"Of course not," said Hovard hastily. "If I weren't insured, Mrs. Struve, there'd be no question—but now they're trying to pass the buck, and I won't stand for it."

"They say your little girl was driving. They say you're the man I should collect from."

"That's utter nonsense, Mrs. Struve, and you know it as well as I do."

"I think I'd better see an attorney," said Els-beth.

"You do as you think best, Mrs. Struve."

CHAPTER II

Elsbeth hired Attorney Albert A. Mar-schott on a fifty-fifty contingency basis. Mar-schott visited the hospital, shook Robert's hand, looked under the bandages, and assured Elsbeth that fifty thousand dollars was not an unreasonable sum to ask. He added a safety factor, and came up with a final figure of $75,221; and so filed suit against Darrell Hovard.

Hovard, in turn, filed against the Magna Insurance Company for $86,000. The extra ten thousand was intended to cover such damages as he himself might sustain by fighting the suit. He theorized that it gave him a good bargaining position.

He was right. Harvey Dittle, regional manager for Magna Insurance, reviewed Cooley's report, then called Cooley into his office.

"About this Struve business. The kid was riding a motor-scooter when he was hit?"

"Right."

"He's thirteen, it says here. He couldn't have had an operator's license."

"No. But the cops usually wink at kids on motor-bikes."