Take my face (11 page)

"Here comes Carr," said Joe.

Carr wandered in from the Pendry garden, came slowly toward them.

"Golly," said Julie, "does he look a wreck!"

Carr's scalp was swathed in a turban of white bandage, and his face showed hardly more color.

He sank into a chair. "I've been down to the sheriff's office," he said in a flat voice.

"Do they have any ideas? Any clues?"

"They found a cloak with blood all over it, in the bushes."

"Carr," said Julie, "don't use that word. Blood. I'll get sick."

Carr nodded grimly, as if he hadn't heard. "I've remembered more of what happened. Do you know what day this is?"

"The twenty-eighth."

"In nine days George Bavonette goes to the gas chamber."

"What's that got to do with Cathy?"

"He's being executed for a crime he didn't commit. Struve killed and hacked up Dean; Struve killed and hacked Cathy."

"But how, Carr?" cried Julie. "How can you be certain?"

"He hit me. I went out . . . You know how it is when you hear voices in your sleep? When you're not quite able to focus on them?"

"Yes."

"I was dazed. The next thing to being out. I heard this man talking. He said, 'Do you know who I am?' Cathy said something like, 'Let go.' Or 'Go away.' He said, 'You don't know who I am, do you? I'm Struve. I'm Robert Struve.'

"She started to cry and scream. I tried to Strug-

gle up. He hit me again. I knew he hit me twice."

"You told this to the sheriff?" asked Joe.

"I just got back from telling him." Carr gingerly felt the bandage. "I'm lucky my skull wasn't fractured."

"What did he hit you with?" asked Joe.

"I don't know," said Carr. And he added sarcastically, "He wasn't polite enough to show me.

"Did the sheriff say anything about the cloak? Whose it was?"

"He said he'd trace it. It must be one somebody brought to the Masque."

Julie's hands moved nervously in her lap. "He must have been at the Masque."

Carr shrugged. "Anyone could have come. There wasn't any way to check up. Until two o'clock, of course. All he needed would have been the costume."

"It's weird," said Julie. "It gives me the creeps ..."

"You should see the newspapers," said Carr. He rose to his feet. "I'm going to telephone the district attorney in San Francisco. I think he ought to hold up Bavonette's execution." He walked slowly back across the terrace, disappeared through the trees.

Julie sat up straight in the chair, pushed out her chin. "I'm going to stop brooding. I'm just

going to get used to it." Tears trickled down her cheek. "Carr's always hated Robert Struve."

"Why?"

"Oh, just one of those high-school situations. Robert had a terrible scar on his face. The bottom of his face was an awful mess ..." She hesitated. "I suppose I might as well tell you the whole thing. When I was very little, my father let me steer the car. Somehow or other—I don't know whose fault it was—the car ran into him. He was on a motor-scooter. It caught on fire, and burned him terribly. I guess he thought I was responsible." She thought back over the years. "And then when he was a senior—I was a freshman—some of the girls played a mean trick on Robert, at a sorority initiation. They sent me and Dean Pendry and Cathy and Lucia in to kiss Robert. It was part of the initiation. He must have caught on to what was going on. I suppose it hurt him . . . Well," she said blushing, "when I went in, he grabbed me. The other kids didn't hear me yelling ... In fact, Sheriff Hartmann was raiding the place." She arranged her skirt over her knees. "Well, anyway they caught him and charged him with attack and assault and battery, and sent him to reform school . . . And that's the last we heard of him." She said as an afterthought, "His mother died while he was in reform school."

They sat quietly. Julie suddenly beat her knees with her fists. "I wish I were a million miles away . . ."

Carr came back around the swimming pool, his face flushed and angry. He sat down. "They think I'm a crank."

The maid came out of the house. "Miss Julie, Sheriff Hartmann wants to talk to you."

"Oh . . . Will you bring him out here, please?"

Hartmann came sauntering out, looking more like a prosperous bond salesman than a sheriff. "Hello, Julie . . . Carr . . ."

"Sheriff Hartmann—Joe Treddick," said Julie.

Carr burst out, "I just called Maynard in San Francisco. The District Attorney. He politely told me to mind my own business."

Hartmann nodded. "He couldn't stay an execution merely because a similar crime is committed elsewhere. Bavonette was found guilty in a jury trial, sentenced to death. There's no new evidence bearing on that trial."

Carr suddenly subsided. "I've done all I can. If they kill him, it's on their own heads."

The sheriff shrugged. "Well, I'm afraid it's outside of my province." He looked at Julie. "I'd like to ask a few questions."

"Of course."

"Did Cathy have any new boy friends?"

"Nothing serious . . . She was always meeting new men, naturally, but none of them meant anything to her."

"Anyone pay her special attention? Abnormal attentions?"

"No," said Julie. "I'm sure not."

"How about at the party? Did she dance with any strangers, make any dates?"

"Of course not!" snapped Carr.

The sheriff rose to his feet. "Can you think of anything that might throw light on the matter? Any of you?"

Julie shook her head. "Sorry," said Joe Tred-dick.

"Well," said Hartmann, "if you do, let me know."

He made a graceful departure. Carr muttered passionately, "That's what comes of electing a playboy for sheriff . . . For two cents, I'd— I'd . . ."

"Run for sheriff?" asked Joe.

Carr glared. "This isn't any time to be flippant."

Lucia came through the house. "I thought I'd find you all here."

She was wearing a simple dark green cotton dress, her dark hair hung loosely; her face looked clean and fresh, as if she'd just washed it in cold water.

Julie said, "Lucia, it's a sin looking so pretty at a time like this."

Lucia sat down in one of the white iron chairs. There was a glow in her eyes, a flush to her skin.

"Thanks for taking me home," she said to Joe. "I don't know what on earth got into me."

"Some call it alcohol," said Carr sourly.

Lucia tittered. Julie looked at her curiously.

"I don't usually drink so much. It must have been awfully early."

"About one," said Joe.

Lucia looked from face to face. "Any news?"

Julie shrugged. "Carr says it was Robert Struve that hit him."

"Robert Struve!" Lucia was astonished. She twisted in her chair, looked Carr up and down. "Carr's got Robert Struve on the brain."

Carr looked away, controlling his retort.

Lucia said, "Why should Robert Struve go to all that trouble? Why should he single out Cathy?"

"He's a maniac," said Carr. "But they'll catch him . . ."

"The only time Cathy had anything to do with him," Julie mused, "was that awful Tri-Gamma initiation."

Lucia's eyes widened, then narrowed. She licked her lips. "I was there—and you, too, Julie. And Dean."

"Dean's dead," said Carr curtly. "Also Cathy . . . Neither one of you better go anywhere alone."

Julie said nervously, "Oh, Carr, it's ridiculous." "Yeah," said Carr sardonically. "It is, isn't it?" Joe rose to his feet. "I think I'll be on my way." Julie went with him out to his car. "I don't know what she sees in that guy," said Carr. "He doesn't have brains or money or family or looks."

Lucia glanced at him appraisingly. "Girls are funny."

"You can say that again," muttered Carr.

CHAPTER XI

On Tuesday morning, the day of Cathy's funeral, Julie received an anonymous letter in a square white envelope. She opened it, pulled out a piece of white cardboard, apparently cut by hand to fit the envelope.

She sat at her desk and studied the envelope. The address had been stamped in purple ink, with rubber type obtainable in any stationery store.

Slowly, she read the words neatly stamped in thin purple ink:

IF ONLY YOU KNEW WHAT I KNOW. WHAT A JOKE.

Julie was perplexed, and more than a little frightened.

Who had written the letter?

Which of the faces she knew concealed this strange soul?

What did the letter mean? "If only you knew what I know." Something was going on that she ought to know about. The person who wrote the letter knew but wouldn't tell her. The person must hate her!

Julie shuddered. Never in her pampered young life had the idea occurred to her that someone seriously disliked her.

Here was the evidence. Someone detested her.

What to do! Show the letter to her father? No. He would take the letter, reassure her with bluff generalities. That wasn't what Julie wanted. The letter was alarming, but it was exciting, too. She wanted to know who had written it; to watch the person; to detect the roiling in the superficial skin of friendship. Julie shivered with a strange new delight.

She lay on the bed, looking at the letter. Never again would she be the same feckless Julie Hovard. A phrase came out of the past: "rattlebrained little twerp." Cathy had said that.

Cathy ... If only Cathy could come back, if only she could tell what had happened.

Julie jumped up, went downstairs and called Lucia.

"This is Julie, Lucia."

"You sound pretty low."

"I am . . . How would you like to go for a ride?"

"I've got other things on my mind," said Lucia. "Such as the anonymous letter that came this morning."

"You got one? So did I! What did yours say?"

Lucia hesitated. "Are you going to be home?"

"Yes."

"I'll drop by."

Julie hung up; as she turned away, the phone rang.

"Julie? Carr."

"Hello, Carr."

"Er—how are you?"

"Okay. How are you?"

"Oh—just as usual. Five foot ten of solid muscle."

"Including the skull."

"That's not a nice thing to say." Carr sounded arch; Julie wondered what he thought he was up to. Flirtation? Today was Cathy's funeral. She decided she was doing him an injustice.

"Carr—something's worrying me."

"What?"

"I got an anonymous letter."

Carr sounded surprised—and oddly relieved. "You did? So did I!"

"And so did Lucia . . . What does yours say?"

"Oh, well." Carr sounded vague and distant, as if he had moved back from the phone. "It's a kind of threatening letter."

"Well, what does it say?"

There was a pause, a crackling of paper—" 'I hold two lives in my careless hands.''

"Golly."

"What's yours?"

' 'If only you knew what I know. What a joke.' "

Carr was silent; there was only the hum of the telephone.

"Carr?" said Julie. "Who would write something like that, Carr?"

"I don't know ..." A moment later, he said briskly, "I'll drop by and take you to the funeral."

"Joe is coming."

"Oh. Well, I'll see you there."

When Lucia arrived, Julie led the way up to her room. "I haven't said anything to my folks about this thing . . . They'd get all excited."

"I haven't, either."

"Carr got one, too."

"He did? Did he tell you what was in it?"

" 'I hold two lives in my hands.''

Lucia sat down. "And what did yours say?"

Julie tossed it to her. Lucia read it. Her face twitched. She gave it back.

"Let's see yours," said Julie.

Lucia slowly bent over her handbag. "It's not nice—it's not like yours. It's obscene."

"Oh, come, Lucia. Let's see the silly thing."

Lucia passed it over.

Julie compressed her lips. "It is nasty . . ."

Lucia looked out the window. "There's a maniac loose."

Julie snorted. "That's no news." She appraised Lucia's clothes: a black afternoon dress, a black hat. "Is that what you're wearing to the funeral?"

Lucia nodded.

"I don't have anything black—except my faille suit. It's a rag, but a funeral isn't supposed to be a social event." She looked up at her wall clock. "Golly—I'd better get started. Do you want to wait, Lucia? We can go together. Joe's coming by."

"All right."

An hour later Joe rang the bell. Julie opened the door.

"Come on in, Joe. Mother thinks we'd better all go together."

Joe hesitated. "Maybe I'd better go ahead."

Julie took his arm. "Oh, nonsense. Come in." She led him into the living room where Lucia was waiting.

"Look what I got this morning," said Julie. She handed him her letter.

Joe read it without comment.

"Aren't you surprised?" asked Julie.

"No. I got one, too."

"You did! What did it say? Do you have it with you?"

"No. I threw it away."

"Well, what did it say? Don't keep us in suspense."

Joe grinned painfully. "It said that you'd never marry me. Never, never, never."

Julie was indignant. "Isn't that awful!"

Margaret Hovard came downstairs; Darrell Hovard met them in front with the Cadillac and they drove to the funeral.

Joe stayed to dinner; afterward, he and Julie went out on the terrace. They were sitting in a lawn swing, rocking idly back and forth.

"Joe," said Julie, "what do you think about this business?"

"You mean—Cathy? And the letters?"

"Yes."

Joe took his time answering. "I'm not sure just what I do think."

Julie knit her brows. "What's so puzzling is the Robert Struve angle. I can understand his killing Cathy—but why should he send out anonymous letters?"

Joe smiled grimly. "The person who wrote the letters didn't do the killing."

"Why do you say that?"

"I've got a very strong hunch who wrote the letters."

"Who?"

"Lucia."

Julie looked at him in astonishment. "Lucia? But Joe—why should Lucia write letters like that? And the awful one she got herself!"

"What did it say?"

Julie blushed. "It was—well, it wasn't nice. It said that—well, that she'd make a good prostitute."

Joe nodded. "Lucia's a frustrated old maid."

"But Joe—she's only twenty!"

"Some girls are old maids at six."

"Do you think she knows anything—about Cathy? What time did you take her home?"

"About twelve-thirty. I got back just in time to see Carr stagger into the pavilion. And I was with her an hour before I took her home."

"Then she couldn't have known anything about Cathy. You're all wrong, Joe. Someone else wrote those letters. Why not Robert Strove?"