The Instant Enemy (14 page)

“Do you have the wedding announcement?” I asked Blevins.

“I had, but I gave it to the other fellow. I threw it in along with the birth certificate.”

“Whose birth certificate?”

“Jasper’s. Jasper is the one he’s interested in.”

“Did he say why?”

“No. This Fleischer fellow plays his cards very close to his vest. Is he really a policeman?”

“An ex-policeman.”

“What’s in it for him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know what’s in it for
you,”
Blevins said. “You didn’t come here to listen to the story of my life.”

“I sort of have, though, haven’t I?”

“I guess you have.” He smiled, so widely I could count his six upper teeth. “This business of Jasper churned up a lot of memories. Why is everybody so interested in Jasper? Why are you fellows willing to pay me money? Or are you?”

Instead of answering his questions, I took three twenties from my wallet and spread them out on a bare part of the table. Blevins opened the front of his shirt and pulled out an oilskin pouch which hung around his neck on a piece of soiled rawhide. He folded the twenties small and put them in the pouch, replacing it against the sparse gray fur of his chest.

“That’s twenty-five for the marriage certificate,” I said, “twenty-five for the letter, and ten for the autobiography.”

“Come again?”

“The life story,” I said.

“Oh. Thank you very much. I been needing some warm clothes. Sixty dollars goes a long way at the rummage stores.”

I felt a little cheap when he handed me the letter and marriage certificate. I put them in my inside breast pocket. My hand came in contact with the picture Mrs. Fleischer had given me. I showed it to Albert Blevins, remembering with a pang that Laurel was newly dead.

“Do you recognize her, Mr. Blevins?”

“No.”

“It’s the girl Jasper married.”

“I never met her.”

Our hands touched as he gave the picture back to me. I felt a kind of short-circuit, a buzzing and burning, as if I had grounded the present in the actual flesh of the past.

Time blurred like tears for an instant. Davy’s father had died a violent death. His mother had died in violence. Davy
the child of violence was roaring down the trail which led back to Albert Blevins. In the buzzing and the burning and the blur I got my first real feeling of what it was like to be Davy, and it jolted me.

“No,” Blevins said, “I never saw Jasper’s wife. She’s a handsome filly.”

“She was.”

I took the picture and left before either of us could ask the other more questions.

I
TOOK A CAB
back to Willie Mackey’s office, buying a paper on the way. Stephen Hackett’s disappearance had made the headlines. The story underneath was weak in detail. I did learn from it, though, that Hackett was alleged to be one of the richest men in California.

From Willie Mackey I learned that Jack Fleischer had checked out of the Sandman Motor Hotel and headed south. Willie’s operative had lost Fleischer on the highway above San José.

I talked to the operative when he came in. He was an earnest crew-cut young man named Bob Levine, and he was deeply frustrated. Not only had Fleischer eluded him; Fleischer’s car was faster than his. He looked ready to kick Willie’s ornate red-upholstered office furniture.

“Don’t take it so hard,” I told Levine. “I know where Fleischer lives, I can pick him up down south. It would have been a wasted trip for you.”

“Really?”

“Really. During the time you tailed him, did Fleischer visit anyone besides Albert Blevins?”

“Not unless you count the Acme copying shop. I haven’t had a chance to check back on them.”

“I have. You might try the man again. He may have been holding back on me. He may have copies of the newspaper page and the birth certificate that Fleischer took in to him.”

“If he had I’ll get them,” Levine said. “Now is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Drive me to the airport.” I looked at my watch. “We’ve got time to stop at the Sandman Motor Hotel on the way.”

It was worth making the detour to Camino Real. The maid was cleaning out Fleischer’s room at the Sandman. The only thing he had left behind in the wastebasket was a copy of the same paper I had bought. The Hackett story had been torn out of it.

Whatever Fleischer’s interests were, they were steadily converging with mine. At the moment he was a step ahead of me, and I calculated how much time I would have in Los Angeles before Fleischer could possibly get there by car. Three hours, anyway.

I used up nearly all of the first hour driving in slow traffic from Los Angeles International Airport to the Sebastian house in Woodland Hills. I hadn’t phoned ahead because I didn’t want to be told by Sebastian that I couldn’t talk to his daughter. It was daylight when I left the airport, and full night when my overheated engine toiled up Sebastian’s hill.

A Los Angeles County sheriff’s car was parked in front of Sebastian’s house. Its radio was talking brokenly, as if the car itself had developed a voice and begun to complain about the state of the world. When I rang Sebastian’s doorbell, it was a grim-looking sheriff’s deputy who answered the door.

“Yes sir?”

“I’d like to talk to Mr. Sebastian.”

“Mr. Sebastian is busy right now. You the lawyer?”

“No.” I told him who I was. “Mr. Sebastian will want to see me.”

“I’ll ask him.”

The deputy closed the door until it clicked. I waited for a couple of minutes, listening to the mutterings of the patrol car. Sebastian opened the door. He kept changing, like a fighter undergoing a fifteen-round beating. The clump of hair on his forehead needed combing. His face was pale. His eyes were hopeless. The deputy stood behind him formally, like a keeper.

“They’re taking her away,” Sebastian said. “They’re going to put her in prison.”

“It isn’t a prison,” the deputy said. “It’s a home.”

I asked Sebastian: “Can’t you get bail?”

“Yes, but I can’t raise twenty thousand dollars.”

“That’s high.”

“Assault with intent is a very serious charge,” the deputy said. “And then there’s the kidnapping charge—”

“It’s still high.”

“The judge didn’t think so,” the deputy said.

I said: “Would you go away, please? I want to talk to Mr. Sebastian in private.”

“You said you weren’t a lawyer. You got no right to give him legal advice.”

“Neither have you. Give us a little leeway, officer.”

He retreated out of sight if not out of hearing. I asked Sebastian: “Who is your lawyer?”

“I called a man in Van Nuys. Arnold Bendix. He said he’d come out tonight.”

“This is tonight. What have you been doing all day?”

“I hardly know.” He looked back into the house as if the day was still there waiting for him like a maze or a puzzle. “The D.A. sent two men out. Then we did a lot of talking to Sandy, of course, trying to make sense of this whole terrible mess.”

“You won’t do that by sitting around talking. Get your lawyer out here. And a doctor. You should be able to persuade the law to let you keep your daughter overnight. That will give your lawyer time to get back to the court and see if he can get the bail reduced. You can swing ten thousand bail. A bondsman will let you have it for one thousand.”

He was appalled by the amount. “How can I possibly raise a thousand dollars? I’m sure to be fired from my job.”

“Go to a loan shark. This is what they’re for.”

“And how much will that cost me?” he said wretchedly.

“A hundred or two more, perhaps. But we’re not talking
about money. We’re talking about keeping your daughter out of jail.”

He got the message, dimly at first, as if it had reached him by way of a communications satellite: he was at the crux of his life. The realization entered his eyes and took the place of hopelessness. There were still things he could do.

He went to the telephone and called his family doctor, a Dr. Jeffrey in Canoga Park. Dr. Jeffrey didn’t want to come out to the house. Sebastian told him he had to. Then he called the lawyer and told him the same thing.

We went into the living room, accompanied by the deputy sheriff, who seemed to suspect that all of us might be planning a mass getaway. Bernice Sebastian was there, looking strained and gaunt and exceedingly well-groomed in a black sheath. With her was a pert blonde about my age who wore a blue suit that resembled a uniform.

She introduced herself as Mrs. Sherrill from the probation office. I told her I knew Jake Belsize.

“I was talking to him this afternoon,” she said. “He’s very upset about this whole affair. He blames himself for not keeping closer tabs on Spanner.”

“He
should
blame himself,” Mrs. Sebastian said.

“That’s water under the bridge,” I said to both of them; and to Mrs. Sherrill: “Does Belsize have any suggestions?”

“My being here was his suggestion. The girl won’t talk to me, unfortunately. I tried to explain to her parents that if Sandy would give some sign of cooperation, it would be a lot easier for her.”

Sebastian spoke up: “Sandy’s in no condition to be questioned. She’s in bed under sedation. Dr. Jeffrey’s on his way over. So is my lawyer, Arnold Bendix.”

“We can’t wait around all night,” the deputy said. “We’ve got a warrant, and it’s our duty to take her in.”

“No, we better wait, Tom,” Mrs. Sherrill said. “See what the doctor has to say.”

The deputy sat down in a corner by himself. A heavy silence settled over the room. It was like a funeral, or a deathbed
scene. By getting into trouble Sandy had converted herself into an unforgettable presence, a kind of presiding deity of the household. I wondered if that had been her real intention.

Dr. Jeffrey arrived, a young man in a hurry. He went into Sandy’s bedroom with her mother. The lawyer came close on the doctor’s heels. Between the two of them, they persuaded the deputy and Mrs. Sherrill to let the whole thing lie over until morning.

The doctor was the first to leave: his time was the most expensive. I followed him out to his Rover, and he gave me a reluctant couple of minutes.

“What’s Sandy’s mental condition?”

“She’s frightened and confused, naturally. A bit hysterical, and very tired.”

“Is it all right for me to question her, doctor?”

“Is it necessary?”

“A man’s life may depend on it. You may not know what’s going on—”

“It’s in tonight’s paper. But it sounds pretty farfetched to me. How could a girl like that be involved in a kidnapping?”

“There’s no doubt she is. Can I talk to her?”

“For five minutes, no longer. She needs rest.”

“What about psychiatric care?”

“We’ll see about that tomorrow. These adolescents have great recuperative powers.”

Jeffrey turned to get into his car. But I had more questions for him.

“How long have you been treating her, doctor?”

“Three or four years, since she left her pediatrician.”

“Last summer she was treated by a doctor named Converse in Beverly Hills. Did you know that?”

“No.” I had succeeded in interesting Jeffrey. “I never heard of any Dr. Converse. What was he treating her for?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. But he’d probably tell you. It could have a bearing on this mess.”

“Really? Perhaps I’ll give him a call.”

The deputy and Mrs. Sherrill came out to the patrol car, and Jeffrey’s Rover led them down the hill. Bernice Sebastian stood in the open doorway and watched them go.

“Thank God we’ve got them out of here for tonight. Thank you, too, Mr. Archer, for taking charge.”

The expression of feeling came hard to her. Her eyes had a dull overexposed look.

“Your husband took charge. I gave him some advice. I’ve sat in on quite a few of these family evenings.”

“Do you have children of your own?”

“No. I used to feel deprived.”

She let me in and closed the door and leaned on it, as if she was countering the pressure of the night outside. “Will they let us keep her?”

“It depends on several things. You have trouble in the family, and Sandy isn’t the only source of it. The trouble is between her and you.”

“It’s Keith she’s angry with, mainly.”

“That makes it three-way trouble. You’ve got to resolve it some way.”

“Who says so?”

“Probation will say so, if she’s lucky enough to be taken on as a risk. What’s Sandy got against her father?”

“I don’t know.” But she veiled her eyes and looked down.

“I don’t believe you, Mrs. Sebastian. Do you want to show me Sandy’s diary?”

“I destroyed it, as I told you this morning—yesterday morning.” She closed her eyes and covered them with her fine narrow hand. She had lost a day, for a moment, and it worried her.

“Tell me what was in it that made you destroy it.”

“I can’t. I won’t. I won’t put up with this humiliation.”

She tried to rush blindly past me. I stepped sideways, and she ran into me. We stood in close contact, her body taut and elegant against mine. A spreading heat climbed from my groin to my heart and into my head.

We stepped back away from each other by sudden mutual
consent. But there was a difference in our relation now, the difference of a possibility.

“I’m sorry,” she said without explaining what she was sorry for.

“It was my fault. We haven’t finished.” Possibility put a curve on the meanings of the words.

“Haven’t we?”

“No. The most important thing in determining what happens to Sandy is what happens to Stephen Hackett. If we can get him back alive—” I let the sentence finish itself in her mind. “Sandy may be able to tell me something. I have the doctor’s permission to question her.”

“What about?”

“She said last night that Davy Spanner was looking for a place where he used to live. I’m hoping she can pin it down a bit.”

“Is that all?”

“It’s all for now.”

“Very well. You can talk to her.”

We passed the door of the living room, where Sebastian and the lawyer were talking about bail. The door of Sandy’s room was locked and the key was in the door. Her mother turned the key and gently pushed the door open.