The Doomsters (22 page)

“What happened, did he get a whiff of money?”

“More than that happened to him. Looking back, I can see that the big change in him started about three years ago. He seemed to lose interest in his medical practice. I’ve seen the same thing with a few other doctors, something runs down in them and something else starts up, and they go all out for the money. All of a sudden they’re nothing more than pill-pushers, some of them living on their own pills.”

“What happened to Dr. Grantland three years ago?”

“I don’t know for sure. I can tell you it happened to more people than him, though. Something happened to me, if you want the truth.”

“I do want the truth. I think you’ve been lying to me.”

Her head jerked up as if I’d tightened a rope. She narrowed her eyes. They watched me with a faded kind of guile. I said:

“If you know something important about Alicia Hallman’s death, it’s your duty to bring it out.”

“I’ve got a duty to myself, too. This thing I’ve kept locked up in my breast—it don’t make me look good.”

“You could look worse, if you let an innocent man take the blame for murder. Those men that went by in the street are after him. If you hold back until they find him and shoot him down, it’s going to be too late. Too late for Carl Hallman and too late for you.”

Her glance followed mine out to the street. Except for my car and Zinnie’s, it was still empty. Like the street’s reflection, her eyes grew dark with distant lights in them. Her mouth opened, and shut in a grim line.

“You can’t sit and hold back the truth while a whole family dies off, or is killed off. You call yourself a good woman—”

“Not any more, I don’t.”

Mrs. Hutchinson lowered her head and looked down at her hands in her lap. On their backs the branched blue veins showed through the skin. They swelled as her fingers retracted into two clenched fists. Her voice came out half-choked, as though the moral noose had tightened on her:

“I’m a wicked woman. I did lie about that gun. Dr. Grantland brought it up on the way into town today. He brought it up again tonight when she was with the child.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He said if anybody asked me about that gun, that I was to stick to my original story. Otherwise I’d be in a peck of trouble. Which I am.”

“You’re in less trouble than you were a minute ago. What was your original story?”

“The one he told me to tell. That she didn’t have the gun the night she died. That I hadn’t seen it for at least a week, or the box of shells, either.”

“What happened to the shells?”

“He took them. I was to say that he took the gun and the shells away from her for her own protection.”

“When did he feed you this story?”

“That very same night when he came out to the ranch.”

“It was his story. Why did you buy it from him?”

“I was afraid,” she said. “That night when she didn’t come home and didn’t come home, I was afraid she’d done herself a harm, and I’d be blamed.”

“Who would blame you?”

“Everybody would. They’d say I was too old to go on nursing.” The blue-veined hands opened and shut on her thighs. “I blamed myself. It was my fault. I should have stayed with her every minute, I shouldn’t have let her go out. She’d had a phone call from Berkeley the evening before, something about her son, and she was upset all day. Talking about killing herself because her family deserted her and nobody loved her. She blamed it all on the Doomsters.”

“The what?”

“The Doomsters. She was always talking about those Doomsters of hers. She believed her life was ruled by evil fates like, and they had killed all the love in the world the day that she was born. It was true, in a way, I guess. Nobody did love her. I was getting pretty sick of her myself. I thought if she did die it would be a relief to her and a good riddance. I took it upon myself to make that judgment which no human being has a right to do.”

Her eyes seemed to focus inward, on an image in her memory. She blinked, as though the image lay under brilliant light:

“I remember the very minute I made that judgment and washed my hands of her. I walked into her room with her dinner tray, and there she was in her mink coat in front of the full-length mirror. She was loading the gun
and talking to herself, about how her father abandoned her—he didn’t, he just died, but she took it personally—and how her children were running out on her. She pointed the gun at herself in the mirror, and I remember thinking she ought to turn it around and put an end to herself instead of just talking about it. I didn’t blame her son for running away. She was a burden on him, and on the whole family.

“I know that’s no excuse for me,” she added stonily. “A wicked thought is a wicked act, and it leads to wicked acts. I heard her sneak out a few minutes later, when I was making her coffee in the kitchen. I heard the car drive up and I heard it drive away. I didn’t lift a finger to stop her. I just let her go, and sat there drinking coffee with the evil wish in my heart.”

“Who was driving the car?”

“Sam Yogan. I didn’t see him go but he was back in less than an hour. He said he dropped her off at the wharf, which was where she wanted to go. Even then, I didn’t phone the police.”

“Did Yogan often drive her into town?”

“She didn’t go very often, but Sam did a lot of her driving for her. He’s a good driver, and she liked him. He was about the only man she ever liked. Anyway, he was the only one available that night.”

“Where were the rest of the family?”

“Away. The Senator and Jerry had gone to Berkeley, to try and find out where Carl was. Zinnie was staying with some friends in town here. Martha was only a few months old at the time.”

“Where was Carl?”

“Nobody knew. He kind of disappeared for a while. It turned out afterwards he was in the desert all the time, over in Death Valley. At least that was his story.”

“He could have been here in town?”

“He could have been, for all I know. He didn’t report in to me, or anybody else for that matter. Carl didn’t show up until after they found his mother in the sea.”

“When did they find her?”

“Next day.”

“Did Grantland come to see you before they found her?”

“Long before. He got to the ranch around midnight. I was still awake, I couldn’t sleep.”

“And Mrs. Hallman had left the house around dinner time?”

“Yes, around seven o’clock. She always ate at seven. That night she didn’t eat, though.”

“Had Grantland seen her between dinner time and midnight?”

“Not that I know of. I took it for granted he was looking for her. I never thought to ask him. I was so full of myself, and the guilt I felt. I just spilled out everything about her and the gun and me letting her go without a by-your-leave, and my wicked thoughts. Dr. Grantland said I was overexhausted, and blaming myself too much. She’d probably turn up all right. But if she didn’t I was to say that I didn’t know anything about any gun. That she just slipped out on me, and I took it for granted she went to town for something, maybe to see her grandchild, I didn’t know what. I wasn’t to mention him coming out here either. That way, they’d be more likely to believe me. Anyway, I did what Dr. Grantland said. He was a doctor. I’m only a special nurse. I don’t pretend to be smart.”

She let her face fall into slack and stupid folds, as if to relieve herself of responsibility. I couldn’t blame her too much. She was an old woman, worn out by her ordeal of conscience, and it was getting late.

      R
OSE
P
ARISH
came quietly into the room. She looked radiant and slightly disorganized.

“I finally got her to sleep. Goodness, it’s past eleven. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting so long.”

“It’s all right. You didn’t keep me waiting.”

I spent most of my working time waiting, talking and waiting. Talking to ordinary people in ordinary neighborhoods about ordinary things, waiting for truth to come up to the surface. I’d caught a glimpse of it just now, and it must have showed in my eyes.

Rose glanced from me to Mrs. Hutchinson. “Has something happened?”

“I talked his arm off, that’s what happened.” The old woman’s face had resumed its peculiar closed look. “Thank you for helping out with the child. You ought to have some of your own to look after.”

Rose flushed with pleasure, then shook her head quite sharply, as if to punish herself for the happy thought. “I’d settle for Martha any day. She’s a little angel.”

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Hutchinson said.

A rattle in the street drew my attention back to the window. An old gray pickup had come off the highway. It slowed down as it passed the house, and stopped abreast of the station wagon. A slight, wiry figure got out of the truck on the righthand side and walked around the back of it to the wagon. I recognized Sam Yogan by his quick unhurried movements.

The truck was rattling away on Elmwood by the time I reached the wagon. Yogan was behind the wheel, trying to start it. It wouldn’t start for him.

“Where are you going, Sam?”

He looked up and smiled when he saw me. “Back to the ranch. Hello.”

He turned the motor over again, but it refused to catch. It sounded as though it was out of gas.

“Leave it, Sam. Get out and leave it.”

His smile widened and became resistant. “No, sir. Mrs. Hallman says take it back to the ranch.”

“Did she tell you herself?”

“No, sir. Garageman phoned Juan, Juan told me.”

“Garageman?”

“Yessir. He said Mrs. Hallman said to pick up the car on Chestnut Street.”

“How long ago did he call?”

“Not so long. Garageman says hurry up. Juan brought me in right away.”

He tried the motor again, without success. I reached across him and removed the ignition key.

“You might as well get out, Sam. The fuel line’s probably cut.”

He got out and started for the front of the hood. “I fix it, eh?”

“No. Come here.”

I opened the back door and showed him Zinnie Hallman. I watched his face. There was nothing there but an imperturbable sorrow. If he had guilty knowledge, it was hidden beyond my reach. I didn’t believe he had.

“Do you know who killed her?”

His black eyes looked up from under his corrugated forehead. “No, sir.”

“It looks like whoever did it tried to blame it on you. Doesn’t that make you mad?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t you have any idea who it was?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you remember the night old Mrs. Hallman died?”

He nodded.

“You let her off on the wharf, I believe.”

“The street in front of the wharf.”

“What was she doing there?”

“Said she had to meet somebody.”

“Did she say who?”

“No, sir. She told me go away, don’t wait. She didn’t want me to see, maybe.”

“Did she have her gun?”

“I dunno.”

“Did she mention Dr. Grantland?”

“I don’t think.”

“Did Dr. Grantland ever ask you about that night?”

“No, sir.”

“Or give you a story to tell?”

“No, sir.” He gestured awkwardly toward the body. “We ought to tell the police.”

“You’re right. You go and tell them, Sam.”

He nodded solemnly. I handed him the key to the wagon and showed him where to find the sergeant’s party. As I was starting my own car, Rose came out of the house and got in beside me. I turned onto Elmwood, bumped over the bridge, and accelerated. The arching trees passed over us with a whoosh, like giant dark birds.

“You’re in an awful hurry,” she said. “Or do you always drive like this?”

“Only when I’m frustrated.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you with that. Did I do something to make you angry?”

“No.”

“Something
has
happened, hasn’t it?”

“Something is going to. Where do you want to be dropped off?”

“I don’t want to be.”

“There may be trouble. I think I can promise it.”

“I didn’t come to Purissima with the idea of avoiding trouble. I didn’t come to get killed in an auto accident, either.”

The lights at the main-street intersection were flashing red. I braked to a hard stop. Rose Parish didn’t go with the mood I was in. “Get out.”

“I will not.”

“Stop asking questions then.” I turned east toward the hills.

“I will not. Is it something about Carl?”

“Yes. Now hold the thought.”

It was an early-to-bed town. There was practically no traffic. A few drunks drifted and argued on the pavement in front of the bars. Two night-blooming tarts or their mothers minced purposefully toward nothing in particular. A youth on a stepladder was removing the lettering from the shabby marquee of the Mexican movie house. AMOR was the only word that was left. He started to take that down.

In the upper reaches of the main street there was no one on foot at all. The only human being in sight was the attendant of an all-night gas station. I pulled in to the curb just below Grantland’s office. A light shone dimly inside, behind the glass bricks. I started to get out. Some kind of animal emerged from the shrubbery and crawled toward me onto the sidewalk.

It was a human kind of animal, a man on his hands and knees. His hands left a track of blood, black as oil drippings under my headlights. His arms gave away and he fell on his side. His face was the dirty gray of the pavement. Rica again.

Rose went to her knees beside him. She gathered his head and shoulders into her lap.

“Get him an ambulance. I think he’s cut his wrists.”

Rica struggled feebly in her arms. “Cut my wrists hell. You think I’m one of your psychos?”

His red hands struck at her. Blood daubed her face and smeared the front of her coat. She held him, talking softly in the voice she used for Martha:

“Poor man, you hurt yourself. How did you hurt yourself?”

“There was wire in the window-glass. I shouldn’t have tried to bust it with my hands.”

“Why did you want to bust it?”

“I didn’t want to. He made me. He gave me a shot in the back office and said he’d be back in a minute. He never did come back. He turned the key on me.”