III. ALEXANDER ROTH

START your sermon. I'll listen to it. But I know what you're going to hand me even before you open your mouths. You're going to tell me that I'm nothing but a common tramp, a thief and a no-good grave-robber. You're going to say you don't believe my story of how Haskell met his death, and give me that don't-make-me laugh expression on your smug faces. You're going to say, “Roth, for God's sake, why not make a clean breast of it? You're not kidding anyone.” You're going to harp on that old gag about confession being good for the soul.

Or maybe you're going to break open the hymnal and tell me I should have waited for the police and had faith in the Lord? I'm not sacrilegious, but even if the Lord is my shield and my buckler, who the hell is going to be my attorney?

So if you can, just put yourself in my position before you let off steam and warn me for my own good that isn't the way to get to heaven. I wasn't trying to get to heaven. All I was trying to do was to get to Los Angeles, to see Sue, and, if possible, to ace myself into pictures. Now what I had aced myself into was a murder—or what looked like one—and I was the murderer in every respect, except that I didn't kill the guy. I had his car and his dough and his clothes, all right; but that was all. I didn't have his life. Maybe I'd never find out, but Haskell could have died of heart failure, of liver trouble, of cancer, of any of a million things. If that crack on the head was what killed him, I wasn't to blame. Nevertheless, as I drove away from the spot I kept telling myself over and over that I should have taken the northern route or stayed put in New York. I wish I had. Take it from me, it was a mighty queer feeling pulling into a service station and telling the fellow to fill her up. I'd only owned one car before in my life, and you can bet it wasn't a big beauty like the one I was driving. What I had in New York was a heap, if there ever was one. A still more uncomfortable feeling though, than driving around in a car that wasn't mine, was whipping out Haskell's roll and paying for the gas. I couldn't get accustomed to the idea that now the dough was mine, and I kept mental count of every penny I spent as if Haskell would show up any minute and ask for his change.

“Check your oil, sir?”

Check my oil. That was a hot one.

“No, that's all right. I changed it a while back. ”

I was afraid to stop too long. Maybe someone already had found the body and the cops were on my tail. I was hot and, boy, did I know it. I wouldn't feel safe until after I ditched the car.

“Here you are, sir. Thank you. Call again.”

“Sure, sure.”

I grabbed the change the attendant held out and stuffed it into my pocket. Without waiting to count it, I let in the clutch with a jerk that shot the Buick out into the middle of the road.

Distance, brother. That's what I wanted to put between me and the place on Route 70. I'll never be able to wipe off the slate. Even as I drove along I could see it before my eyes; ahead was a slight bend in the road to the left, with a white guard-railing and a SLOW sign; to the right, on the far side of the gully, was a tree, the only decent-sized tree around, only a few inches shorter than the telephone pole alongside it; behind was a dip in the highway where a shallow puddle had formed. Yes, every last detail of the road, the ruts in the shoulder and the formation of the brush was clear. If I had been an artist I could have painted that scene accurately with out going back. But more than just that, I could see what was hidden beneath the growth of brush down in the gully. I could see a twisted form in blue pants and a maroon polo-shirt with a ripped collar.

 

I gave the Buick everything. I rolled it up to eight-five, to ninety on the straight parts. On the curves the rear wheels skidded and screamed and this made me look in the mirror. I kept imagining I was being followed and that I could faintly hear sirens way back in the distance.

Of course I knew it was dangerous, speeding like that. I was more apt to tangle with the law that way than by simply riding along at a reasonable rate. But I couldn't help myself. In Arizona the cops don't care how fast you travel through the desert—you drive at your own risk. However, in the townships they really clamp the lid on. I did slow down going through them, but my foot was itching to stamp on the accelerator.

More dangerous than cops were my eyes. Fear kept them wide open, in spite of which I felt myself dropping off to sleep. I'd suddenly realize that things were getting a little out of focus and that the road was fading gradually away. I had to struggle to stay awake. All this at eighty and eighty-five miles an hour over wet pavement.

Just how long it took me to cover the sixty-odd miles to the California State Line, I don't know. It must have been under an hour, but I'd lost all track of time. The rain had stopped and the sun was feebly trying to come out from behind some clouds when I drew up to the inspection booth at Ehrenberg. The two motor-cycle cops who were chewing the fat with the inspectors didn't make me feel any too happy, you can imagine. I put the car in second, resolving if they made any suspicious moves I'd make a run for it.

One of the cops walked over to the car, slowly, which was a good sign. “May I see your registration certificate and driver's license, please?”

All my life, ever since as a kid a cop cuffed me for playing football on the grass in Central Park, I have been a little leery of brass buttons. I've learned it is healthier to give the police a wide berth, because once they've got you pegged and you're in the Bastille you're completely at their mercy. Cops, as a rule, are overbearing and brutal, swollen up with their own authority which they abuse. Instead of being public servants, they bully the public and treat ordinary citizens like criminals. In spite of the law to the contrary, in a station-house a man is guilty unless he can prove an alibi. Now, after my experiences with the law in Dallas, this gentlemanly treatment came as a surprise, until I remembered that I was sitting in an expensive automobile. Cops know dough and influence go hand in hand. For all this fellow knew, I was a friend of some big shot official who controlled the strings which transferred little shots on and off these gravy jobs.

I dug into the wallet and found the papers. The cop glanced at me and then at the description on the license, checked the registration with the plates, and handed them back with a nod. I took the car out of gear.

“Carrying any fruits or vegetables?”

“No.”

“Any livestock, poultry?”

I thought I'd play it funny and then maybe nobody would notice I was nervous and shaking to beat the band. “I don't think so, officer,” I said. “But if you should happen to find a couple of Maryland chickens back there, let me know.”

The copper smiled and went back to help one of the inspectors who was fooling around, trying to open the rumble. I pressed the button for him. He stuck his head in and pulled out a carton of canned goods, a blanket and a big alligator-skin traveling bag. He poked around for a minute in the carton and put it back where he had found it. The bag he took over to the booth to inspect.

Then I remembered and went cold. My heart began to pound like a trip-hammer. Suppose there was more of that marihuana in the bag? That would be poetic justice, wouldn't it? Me being nailed on a Federal narcotic ticket for what he had been carrying... But I guess Haskell wasn't that dumb. If there was any more stuff in the car, it wasn't in the bag. The inspector re-packed it, snapped it shut and tossed it back into the rumble. I knelt on the seat and banged it before he changed his mind and decided to take another look.

“Just visiting California, Mr. Haskell?”

“Yes, just visiting.”

God, it was funny being called Haskell.

“Well, remember, if you're employed and stay more than thirty days you have to get California plates.”

“All right, officer. But I'll only be in California a short time.”

“How are things back in New York, anyway? I haven't seen the place in over ten years.”

“Oh, the same as always. They've got a few more buildings up, that's all.”

“Well, I'd sure like to take a trip back, one of these days. I've got a brother there now. He's in the liquor business.”

“Is that so?” It seemed as though everybody had relatives in New York. New York was made up of brothers and sisters and cousins of people in Arizona and California.

“It's O.K. You can go ahead now.”

They slapped a sticker on the windshield and waved me on. I damned near stalled the car for the second time on account of my shaky knees which, for the life of me, I couldn't get under control. My heart didn't stop thumping until I'd covered the two and a half miles into Blythe.

I couldn't drive any farther without some sleep. I was completely pooped. Cops or no cops, I knew I had to hit the hay and hit it hard, even if they got me for it. I would have preferred driving on through as far as Mecca and sleeping there, because Blythe was too close to the Arizona border for comfort; but that would mean another ninety or a hundred miles, so I said to myself, nothing doing.

There was an auto-court on the left, half a block off the main stem, and I pulled into it. It was just a group of ten or twelve shacks with places to park cars alongside, but it spelled home sweet home in big letters. Actually, what it spelled was: The Morning Glory Tourist Rest—Day or Weekly Rates.

When I sounded the horn, a girl came running out of the shack marked OFFICE and hopped on the running-board. Even in my overwrought condition I couldn't help noticing that she wasn't bad at all; a little thin in the face, maybe, but her eyes were clear and she had nice shafts and a cute round keister. Of course, put her next to Sue and she'd look like thirty cents—but then most women would. “Hello,” she smiled. “Are you looking for a cabin?”

“That's right, baby.”

“Well, you've come to the right place Are you alone, sir?”

Tired as I was, I thought I'd kid with her a little. It's weakness of mine that when I see some pretty rural talent I play for the laughs.

“No, I'm not alone, sister,” I replied with a dead pan. “Can't you see my grandmother's ghost sitting right here beside me?”

She laughed, proving that her teeth were white and even, with no cavities. “Well, we won't charge you for your grandmother. If you'll drive straight back, I'll show you and the old lady a cabin.”

“Not too near the music.”

I crept down the line of bungalows until she signaled me to stop in front of one of them. I cut the switch, opened the rumble, pulled out Haskell's bag and followed her inside. It was the usual auto-camp shack, except that this one had a bathroom.

“See? Bath, shower, towels, soap. And a nice roomy double bed.”

“Not so roomy. Grandma tips the scales at two-fifty.”

“Oh, my!” She gave it one of those shocked, Zasu Pitts readings that evidently she thought was kind of clever. Then she dropped into a chair.

As soon as she did that, I had a hunch if I wanted her I could have her along with the cabin at no additional cost. People usually don't sit down when they're renting cabins, unless they're tired or want to get acquainted. This dame wasn't tired. But I didn't want her. Man, I was so worn out from worrying and driving that if the most beautiful woman in the world had climbed into my bed, I would have shoved her out and gone back to sleep. And this little number, not bad really, was certainly not the most beautiful woman in the world. Then, too, there was Sue to think about.

The two times I had been unfaithful to her were months ago. With luck I'd see her in a day or two and I didn't want this on my conscience.

“All right. No bed bugs, eh?”

She looked hurt.

“Then it'll do. How much?”

“Only three.”

“Come again?”

She was a little peeved that I wasn't following her lead on the chair angle. It showed all over her face. Her voice got flat.

“I said three dollars for the night.”

I shook my head. “You've got me wrong, sister. I don't want to buy the place.”

I turned to walk out. I know how those places are run. They charge you according to the car you're driving. If I had pulled in with an old wreck, probably she wouldn't have asked more than a deuce. Mileage isn't the only disadvantage in owning a big bus. However, I really had no intention of leaving The Morning Glory Tourist Rest. I decided if she didn't call me back before I reached the car, I'd pay her price, even if it was a fin. I was so tired, I doubt if I would have been able to turn the ignition switch.

“All right, then. Two and a half.”

“It's a deal.”

I put the suit-case back on the bed, peeled off two singles, fished out four-bits and she left without a word. I felt rather ashamed of myself then. She had only tried to be nice and I had treated her rotten. It might have been a different story if I hadn't been so dead....

But I was. And don't let any more of these novel-writers tell you that when a man is in trouble or has something on his mind he has nightmares or can't sleep and goes haywire and runs to the cops to confess. That's bunk. I slept like a top for almost eighteen hours and, as far as I know, I was too busy sleeping to dream about a thing.

When I awoke it was three the following morning. I had been too groggy the night before to unpack Haskell's grip, so I had piled into bed wearing my shorts. The first thing I did was rip them off and hop into the shower. The Morning Glory must have been run properly because even at that hour the water was hot and I enjoyed a good scrub. When I came out, massaging myself with a thick towel, I felt like a new man. I had been so dirty before, that cleaning up seemed to change the whole complexion of things—which, of course, it did. I was glad and even a little surprised to see that I was a white man.

Whistling, I went back into the other room and opened Haskell's suit-case. There were two compartments in it: one contained some shirts, socks, underwear, toilet articles and a mess of papers—letters and things; while the other side held two suits of clothes, a pair of shoes, some ties, handkerchiefs, a bathrobe and a pair of slippers. I made a dive for his razor and, ten minutes later, I had left six days' growth of beard all over the sink. Haskell had some kind of after-shave lotion there, too. I slapped some of it on me. It stung for a minute but then it felt great.

Next came the problem of what to put on—or was it a problem? I took a pair of his silk shorts, a clean pair of socks, one of his shirts with the initials “C.J.H.” embroidered on the pocket, the least annoying of his ties and dressed myself in a different suit. It was a single-breasted blue herring-bone tweed, a honey of a tailoring job with patch-pockets in the coat and high-waisted trousers. The stuff I had on the day before was still in good shape, of course, but well... you know how you feel about wearing things a man's been dead in. I rolled up what I had been wearing and took it out to the car. Coming back in again, I caught a glimpse of myself in the bureau mirror and did a perfect double-take. I was a stranger to myself.

I was hungry as an unemployed actor. Remember, the last thing I put in my stomach was the steak Haskell bought me in Lordsburg. And don't forget where I lost it. However, I didn't want to leave the cabin before I had a look through his stuff. If I was going to be Mr. Haskell for a little while—at least until I crossed the desert—I'd better try to find out something about myself. That minute at the state line really scared me, to say nothing about the conversation with Trooper Hammersford. So I turned the suit-case upside down and began to go through every article systematically. I didn't miss a trick.

I didn't find out much from the wearing apparel. Whatever had a label in it had a New York label. His shirts and shorts were Lord and Taylor, his ties and pyjamas Finchley or Sulka, and the shoes he had packed were Florsheim. The bathrobe, a big woolly thing, had a J. Abercrombie label. I went through the pockets of everything and drew a blank. But the papers were a revelation. After reading through them, I began to see Mr. Haskell as I had never seen him before. It was evident from the stuff he was carting around in his own bag that he was not the open-handed, easy-going big-shot who threw away a dollar now and then and went around buying steak dinners for strange bums. Before I got done I saw him more as a chiseler and four-flusher. I could just picture the guy standing by his book at Empire, glad-handing the money and brushing off the down-and-outers. You've seen that kind by the hundreds, hanging around your club or your place of business.

One letter in particular told me all I needed to know. It was a letter addressed to Mr. Charles J. Haskell, Sr., Bellagio Road, Bel-Air Estates, Westwood, California. I guessed that this must be his father and Haskell had forgotten to mail it. But before I tore it open, I turned my attention to the wallet.

There were seven hundred and sixty-eight dollars in that billfold, in fifties, twenties, and tens! Imagine, almost eight Cs! It took me all of twenty minutes to catch my breath and get used to the idea I was rich. I sat there on the bed and counted the dough over and over to make sure I hadn't counted the same bills twice.

In a compartment of the wallet I also found a cancelled bank book. The account was in the name of Charles Hanson and showed entries of six, seven and eight hundred dollars in July, swelling the total to a neat sum of fourteen thousand eight hundred dollars and a few cents interest. Then, on the seventh of August, there was a withdrawal of thirteen thousand five hundred dollars, and on the twelfth the balance was withdrawn and the account closed. Jesus, I thought, what high finance. It looked like the war debt to me. Well, anyway I had seven hundred and sixty-eight bucks of it. It was chicken-feed alongside of those figures; nevertheless, to Alexander Roth it was a fortune. Besides; those others were only figures and they won't pay your fare on a tram-car.

In the opposite compartment of the wallet was another little book, like an address book. I leafed through it. He had four or five addresses and phone numbers written down in there, most of them women, but I caught on at once that this was his pound-of-flesh list. He had Louie—$39, O'Hanlan—$158, Mr. Pepperman—$40, A. H. Burnside—$90; stuff like that marked dawn. It ran into about thirty pages, with here and there a line drawn through a name, signifying that whoever had owed the money had paid off. Just for the hell of it, I added up all the sums. The total was a little over ninety-six hundred smackers. There was one page in there labeled: P.D. WITH N.G. CHECKS. Nineteen names and addresses were listed under that and not one of them, curiously, was anybody I knew. In the back of the book he had some other junk written down which I couldn't make out—mostly figures. I guess maybe he'd been trying to figure odds or something. But at the bottom of the list, marked off from the rest of the page, was what looked to me like a diet; no alcohol, fruit juices, plenty of water, salvarsan.... I got it.

There wasn't much else in that wallet except a receipted bill from the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York, the car registration and his driver's licence. From the last mentioned I learned that I was now Charles J. Haskell, Jr., born September 7, 1905, having brown hair, brown eyes, being of the white race, six feet tall and weighing 170. What I was searching for were his trunk checks, but he didn't have any. I figured if he expressed his trunks and never picked them up there might be an investigation. I wouldn't care for any of that.

On the bed, among the rest of the papers, was a thick stack of I O U's—a good fifty of them, bound together with a rubber band. I tore those up and flushed them down the toilet. They were no good to me, no good to Haskell, and certainly no good to the people who'd written them.

That was one time a sucker got a break.

 

I found one letter there, addressed to Haskell at the Pennsylvania, that got my goat and created the impression that the guy who had bought me a steak wasn't such a prince among men at that. It was a short note from some fellow named Luther Walsh, begging Haskell (or Hansen, as he called him) to quit mailing post cards to the office, reminding him he owed money for bets. Walsh went on to say that at the moment his wife was sick and he couldn't spare the dough to pay off., but that he would mail Haskell the money just as soon as he could. He said that if those post cards continued to come to the office, the boss might see one of them; if he did, it was good-bye job. The fella worked for a trust company of same kind and the employees were not encouraged to play the ponies. I looked Walsh up in Haskell's book. He owed $25.

But it was the other letter, the one addressed to his father, that interested me. It almost made me sick to read it. Doesn't it get you sometimes in the solar plexus to think how low a guy can sink? Once I had thought Haskell was tops, but that letter reversed things. Before I was half-way through that masterpiece of insincerity, I think if the skunk had been standing in the room I'd have let him have it! I told myself that old Charles, Sr., was pretty damned lucky his son disappeared, even if he didn't know it. What was so bad about the letter? Oh, not much. But wait, I'll give it to you in full. In case you feel like I felt, the bathroom's to the left.

 

Dear Father,

I know you will be surprised to hear from me after all this lapse of time, but I feel I can't stay away any longer. I would like to come home for a while, if you'll have me, and see you and Dolores again. No doubt you will think it very strange that at this late date, I have grown homesick, but the truth of the matter is / always have been.

My reason in not having written before is that I was conscious I was unworthy to be called your son and that I'd done a shameful thing, the chances were you could never forgive. Then too, I've been very busy traveling around. You see, I am in business for myself, selling prayer—and hymn-books to churches and Sunday-schools. As an ardent churchman that should be of interest to you. I remember how we used to attend services there on Sunset Boulevard every Sunday morning. I was only a boy then, of course, and I suppose I didn't fully appreciate the value of worship.

I do hope you will realize how changed I am; also that you have by this time managed to excuse the awful things I did fifteen years ago which caused me to run away. I must have been a very wild and willful brat.

Naturally, putting out Edward's eye was an accident—we were only playing with the swords—but when it happened it frightened me and I did the first thing that popped into my head.

Not only that, there was another reason for my disappearing which you doubtless know about. I was pretty sure you'd found out I stole Mother's engagement and wedding rings and pawned them. I never would have done it had I realized they were all you had left to remember her by. It was not for several years that the full significance of what I'd done began to dawn on me. Then, you can understand, I felt I could never come back.

Please, Father, let bygones be bygones.

When all this happened I was only sixteen or seventeen. Well, that must be all for now. I leave it in your hands. If the door will be open to me, you can expect me within a very few weeks. I will wire you a day or two before I arrive. Please convey my love to Dolores, who must be quite the lady these days.

I'm sorry I can't be more definite about the date of my arrival, for I have several churches I must visit on my trip across the country—and you know how ministers are. Until I see you then,

CHUCK.

 

A killer, eh? He hadn't caused his old man enough worry and trouble as a kid; he intended to go back and finish the job. And with a plan as plain as the nose on our face. He'd get the old gent to stake him to thirty or forty grand for his hymn-book business, then chase off to Miami and sink it into a different kind of book. The old boy might raise particular hell when he caught wise, but what of it? He certainly wouldn't stick his own son in jail. Haskell knew that and was playing it for all it was worth. Why, it was duck soup in any language. Papa would be so tickled to see his little Chuck again that he'd part with the coin easily, especially since it was going to be invested in such a respectable enterprise, prayer-books and hymnals. I told you it would make you sick. Well, I guess God or Fate, or whatever that Something is, stepped in just at the nick of time and saved Charles J. Haskell, Sr., from taking a flyer in sacred literature preferred.

Now don't try to tell me that man is master of his own destiny. What happened to Haskell proves that you never can tell what's in the cards for you, and the road you aim to take nine times out of ten turns out to be a blind alley; either that, or it leads someplace quite different. If you think I'm all wet in this theory, you'll have to show me where.

Nevertheless, the letter made me feel somewhat easier in my mind. If it had been mailed, his family would be expecting him. When he never showed up they might grow worried and demand a police investigation. Working through the deserted car, the cops might trace me, and deliver Alexander Roth to the anxious family with the compliments of the Bureau of Missing Persons. No, thanks. It was lucky for me Haskell had neglected to mail the letter.

But wait a minute. Maybe he had mailed another letter. That was always possible. Maybe he had written one in which he was now a full-fledged Baptist minister, for all I knew. However, there was no use wondering if he had or not; I'd never find out, so to hell with it.

The rest of the papers were just a lot of junk and I was about to destroy them all—the letters, too—when something slipped out of the pile and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up and saw that it was a newspaper clipping of some kind, all about a hospital in Cleveland that had discovered a new way to sterilize instruments before an operation. For a second or two I couldn't understand why Haskell had cut it out; but then I had an idea and I turned it over.

That was the first and only time I actually felt guilty about what had happened. Up until that moment, Haskell was just a stranger, some guy I didn't know; but when I turned that clipping over I was introduced to his family.

It was nothing but a picture, pretty clear and sharp for a newspaper reproduction, but still a flat piece of paper with a lot of lines and shadows. Yet, it did something to me. I looked at it and something went snap inside of me, like an E string that's been tightened too much. It was a close-up of an old man and a rather pretty girl—very ordinary-looking people, really—dressed in light summer clothes. It was their eyes though that got me. They seemed to stare out of the picture into mine—and beyond, into whatever's back there. CHARLES J. HASKELL, WELL KNOWN WILMINGTON EXPORTER AND SPORTS FAN WITH HIS DAUGHTER AT THE BEVERLY HILLS TENNIS TOURNAMENT, the caption read. Not to me it didn't. What I saw there was a silent indictment and a chill ran up me. I crumbled the picture into a little ball and flushed it down the johnny. The rest of the papers, race programs and letters, followed suit.

When that was done, I re-packed the suitcase and straightened up the cabin. I cleaned off the sink, aired the bed, spread out the shower-curtain so it could dry, hung up the dirty towels where they belonged and then decided it was time to blow. I carried the bag out to the car, locked it in the rumble-seat and went on foot to find a place to eat. By this time it was five o'clock and there was only one place open in town, even though it was broad daylight. I headed for it and went in. It was one of those all-night dining car joints, greasy by tradition, yet with a nice smell to it. I grabbed a stool.

“Bacon and eggs, some cereal first, fried potatoes, toast with marmalade and a cup of coffee. Let me have the coffee now.”

“Coming up.”

While I sipped the steaming brown water they called coffee, I tried to forget Haskell and his family by concentrating on something pleasant: Sue. I had her address, of course. She was living on Cheremoya Avenue, near Beachwood Drive, wherever that might be. I could scarcely wait to see her shocked but pleased expression when she opened the door and recognized me. The chances were she'd all but faint; me being there in Hollywood and she thinking me three thousand miles away. I started to rehearse what I was going to say. “Good morning, madam. I represent the Marital Insurance Company. Please don't slam the door. I know you'll be interested in the policy I have to offer today. It safeguards the wife against the returning husband. What? You have no husband? Dear, dear. That's something I hadn't considered. In that case, madam, will you marry me?” No, not so hot. Maybe: “Good morning, madam. Is this Donnerwetter's Sanitarium? I'm Herr Professor-Doctor Heinrich von Lousenhitler. I have a patient, a Mrs. Noman de Lez, who has heard about this new Hollywood treatment.” Worse yet. That stank on ice. “Quick, moll! Let me in and get the tommy from where I hid it in the baby's crib. I'm hot and the bulls got the place surrounded! Oh, oh. Too late. They got me!” That was lousy too—even if it was appropriate.

I'd made up my mind not to tell Sue about what happened. It wasn't that I mistrusted her, but why worry her after it was all over? And it would be over before I showed my face around her, I told myself. The last thing in the world I wanted was to jeopardize her. I'd make damned sure my hands were clean before I went hunting Cheremoya.

Probably I'd still be sitting there day-dreaming about Sue if the guy behind the counter hadn't shoved a bowl of oatmeal at me. “Did you want bacon and eggs or ham and eggs, buddy? I forgot.”

I looked up at him and then I lost my appetite. I jerked suddenly and Haskell's sun-glasses fell from the counter and smashed. Two stools away sat a California State Trooper, drinking a glass of tomato juice.

“I've changed my mind.”

“You changed your mind?” The fellow was dumb, all right. He couldn't understand the King's English.

“Yeah,” I said, getting to my feet. “I'm not hungry any more. Cancel the order.”

“What's the beef? Something wrong with the oatmeal?”

“No. Just not hungry.”

“A fly somewhere, maybe?”

In answer, I threw a quarter on the counter and left in a walk. But once outside, I flew. I crossed the road, doubled back farther on down the street and then headed for the Morning Glory. Five minutes later I was miles away pushing the Buick along the road toward Mecca with the accelerator down to the floor-boards.

I don't know just when it struck me that I never was going to abandon that car, but it gradually dawned in my thick skull that, whether I liked or not, I would have to hold on to it. If I wanted to dispose of it, it was necessary that I do so through a legitimate sales transaction. A deserted automobile always leads to police inquiries regarding the whereabouts of its owner, and, naturally, any fool can see that to check up on Haskell was to check up on me. It was a pretty big risk, but what else was there for me to do but to keep on being Haskell until the ownership of the Buick was in someone else's name? Then, and no sooner, could I do what I liked.

There you'll go again, I suppose. You'll be telling me that I'm a cock-eyed liar and the only reason I wanted to hang on to the car was because it was worth an easy eight hundred. Well, you're all wet on that score. My life is worth more to me than any eight hundred bucks; and if you think peddling that car wouldn't be dangerous, you're the one who's a dummy. Why, that car was so hot, whoever drove it would have to wear asbestos drawers.

I was beginning to suspect by that time it wasn't as simple as I'd imagined it was going to be when I left the dead man lying in the gully. I thought all there was to do was to get out of the vicinity, forget where I parked the car and continue on my merry way. Now I saw how carelessly I'd figured. Dressed in my clothes and with my valise, the police were sure to identify the corpse as one Alexander Roth, a vagrant on the Dallas blotter. Judge Lascoff's letter of reference in the valise would establish that much at once. I remembered gratefully that the judge had very poor eyesight. That would come in handy if he should be called upon by the coroner to inspect the remains. However, if a deserted car was found registered in the name of Charles Haskell and discovered to have passed through the Arizona and California state lines during the time it was possible the crime was committed, it is only logical to suppose that the cops might get the idea the body they found in the ditch was not the bum's body, Roth, but the body of the guy who owned the car. Linking the two wouldn't take much brilliance. If they should ever check into this theory and find it true, they'd know who they had to look for, all right. I could just see those Post Office placards: WANTED FOR QUESTIONING IN REGARD TO THE MURDER OF CHARLES HASKELL IN ARIZONA, ALEXANDER ROTH. AGE: 29, HEIGHT: 6 FT., WEIGHT: 170, BROWN HAIR AND EYES, SLIGHT BUMP AT BRIDGE OF NOSE, IS BELIEVED TO BE MUSICIAN BY PROFESSION, NO KNOWN ALIASES, LAST SEEN AT EHRENBERG, ARIZONA....

You see, I had to watch my step.

I reasoned I was comparatively safe so long as I continued to play the part of Haskell and didn't bump into any members of his family. I would sell the car as soon as I could find a buyer, change my name and try to forget the whole mess. Obviously I couldn't take my own name again; I was dead. It was a dirty shame, but when I married Sue it would have to be as Pierre LeBourget or Israel Masseltof. I could explain to her that I was switching names for professional purposes.

As I drove along I began to think of what to christen myself. Paul Durant? Nuts, that sounded to phony, even for Hollywood. Richard Taylor? Alexander Gates? Fred Lawson? Bill Todd, maybe? Or Jack P. Garrison? Or how about Archie Robertson? That sounded real enough, because who in the name of Hannah would pick the name Archibald for an alias? But, I don't know. None of them had the kosher ring. They were names you'd find in a book, not a newspaper. For a minute I considered using my real name again—Aaron Rothenberg—which I'd changed almost ten years before at the advice of Professor Puglesi; but I vetoed that as soon as it entered my mind. I was afraid it could be traced. The best bet was to start from scratch. Howard Beldam? Max Allinson....

 

There were quite a number of fellows hitchhiking along the road but I passed them all by. It wasn't that I didn't want to give them a lift—hell, I was in sympathy—but I just didn't think it was fair having them in the same car with me. If I was picked up, the cops would grab them, too—as accomplices, accessories after the fact, or whatever they wanted to hold them on. Not only that, I was packing a mighty tempting roll. Some dirty crook might make a try for it and I didn't want to hurt anybody. I'd had quite enough excitement for one trip.

But near the airport at Desert Center I pulled up for water. There was a woman sitting outside the service station, exercising her thumb. Now most smart motorists pass up these female hitchhikers, because usually they're plenty tough and not exactly debutantes from The Four Hundred. They have a reputation for stickups, badgering and blackmail, using the Mann Act as a weapon. But what can a guy expect to find on a public highway? Anyway, this dame, looked O.K. to me—I put her down as just some local kid only going a few miles, maybe into Mecca to see an aunt or her boy friend—so I thought I'd give her a break. “Hop in, sister,” I called.

She came running over to the car, carrying a little overnight-case. I opened the door for her, took the bag and slid it on the floor under the dash. There was no sense fooling with the rumble for that tiny thing. She got in and I started up.

“How far are you going?” I asked her. How far are you going? ”

That took me by surprise and I turned my head to look her over. She was facing straight ahead so I couldn't see her eyes, but she was young, not more than twenty-four—and dirty. So help me God, I don't think I ever saw a woman as dirty as that in my life. She had on a torn dark dress which hung in wrinkles from her thin body, shoes that were rundown at the heel, and on her legs she wore what had once been a pair of silk hose. Man, she looked as if she'd just been thrown off the crumbiest freight train in the world. About the only clean part about her was her face, which was bare of make-up.

Yet, in spite of the condition she was in, I got the impression of beauty. Not the beauty of a movie actress, or the beauty you dream about when you're in bed with your wife, but a natural beauty, a beauty that's almost homely because it's so damned real. Probably after a bath, an appointment with the hairdresser and wearing a new outfit, she'd look like anyone else you'd meet on the street; but filthy like that and without a mask of cosmetics, she was, I felt, just the kind of woman Adam or Noah or some primitive geezer would have gone for.

Then, suddenly, she turned around to face me and I took it all back. Her mouth and eyes were enough to give a man the jitters. The mouth was stony and thin, almost a slit across her face; and the eyes—well, they might have been pretty if they hadn't had that glassy shine to them, that funny glint I wouldn't even attempt to describe. A peculiar feeling ran over me when I looked into them. It was goofy, but I got the impression there was something behind them, something pretty terrible...

“How far did you say you were going?” she repeated.

Keyed up as I was, almost to the breaking point, I wanted to get her out of the car. I don't know why, but I didn't like her. She made me uneasy and I was nervous enough, I can tell you, without adding to it. But before I knew it the cat was out of the bag and I admitted I was going through to Los Angeles. What I should have told her was I was only going as far as Mecca, and maybe I could have ducked her there. Too late.

“Los Angeles is good enough for me, mister.” I was afraid of that.

I kept the car rolling at about forty-five or fifty, no faster. This was California, and that meant speed cops, speed cops and more speed cops. They lay in wait for you in every side road and behind billboards to welcome you to The Land of Eternal Sunshine and to present you with a ticket as a souvenir, the bastards. A friend of mine had tipped me off to this and, since the last thing I wanted at that moment was to get myself pinched, I took it easy.

The girl must have been pretty tired because she fell asleep not twenty minutes after she stepped into the car. She lay sprawled out with her feet on her little overnight-case and her head resting against the far door—like Haskell. I didn't like that part of it much but I didn't wake her up. From the curt replies she had made to my questions, I could see she didn't care to carry on a conversation. Well, when it came to that, neither did I. It wasn't that she still worried me. I'd gotten over that peculiar feeling, which I put down as just my jangled nerves. Nevertheless, I reflected, the less I said to her the better. It has always been my suspicion that half the men in jail today would never have been caught if they had had sense enough to keep their mouths shut. Many a tongue has put a noose around a neck.

Now, with her eyes closed and the tenseness gone out of her lips, she looked harmless enough, almost helpless; and instead of disliking her I began to feel sorry for her. The poor kid probably had had a tough time of it. You could read work—hard work—on her little rough hands with the nails on some of the fingers chewed down to the quick, lack of food on her thin wrists. As far as the rest of her went, you couldn't tell much. Her nose was nice, turned up just a wee bit at the end; her lashes were long and black and genuine; and her breasts were small and high, the way I like breasts to be. But she was too thin and she had practically no hips. For this reason her dress didn't seem to fit.

I kept looking at her out of the corner of my eye for a long time, wondering who she was, why she was going to Los Angeles and where she had come from in the first place. I had asked her all of those questions when she first got in the car, but her answers had all been vague. Her name was Vera, though. I didn't quite catch the last part. Vera's manner puzzled me in a way. She didn't seem at all grateful for the lift I was giving her. She acted as if it was only natural, that it was coming to her. I had half-expected her to go into ecstasies when I told her I was going all the way to the coast. However, when I said I'd take her to Los Angeles, she wasn't at all surprised or pleased. She merely nodded her head and shot me a look I couldn't understand. It was a funny look, shrewd and calculating, and a couple of times I turned my head and caught it again. That gave me the notion that this dame was a little simple upstairs.

But I no longer had that uneasiness. With each mile that went by, my mind was clearing and I was losing that panicky fear of arrest. I knew that the closer I got to Los Angeles, the safer I was. Seeing that I'd missed my breakfast back in Blythe, I was very hungry. I stopped the car in front of an eating place in Mecca and tapped the girl on the shoulder. She opened her eyes, and for a second, while they blinked at the light, they were soft and pale blue. Then, when she saw me leaning over her, I could see them change, become dark and take on that steely glint. She sat up.

“Are you hungry, Vera?” I asked her. Before she could open her mouth to say she was, I knew she was. “O.K. Come on in here and I'll fill your tummy.”

Without a word, she opened the door and got out, taking her overnight-case along. That got me hot under the collar: I'm only human. When I do someone a favor I like to be thanked for it, the same as anyone. This Vera had no manners. “Don't you know how to say, 'Thank you'?”

But she didn't answer me. Maybe she didn't hear me.

It was cool in the place—not like Alaska, by any means, but cooler than outside. I took off my coat and hung it on a peg. Vera didn't stop at the table. She went straight back to the Ladies' Room. I was pretty dusty myself, but I let it slide. I didn't like the idea of spending even a minute in the washroom where I couldn't keep an eye on the car outside. I was all set to beat it out the back entrance if a cop went over to it. So I busied myself reading the menu until Vera came back. I was pleased to find she had changed her stockings, combed her hair and put make-up on her face. All cleaned up, she looked like a different person and as much as she got my goat I couldn't help standing up until she was seated.

A waiter shuffled over to the table to take our orders. I glanced at the menu again. Pot roast of beef, brown gravy. Hot veal sandwich with mashed potatoes. Liver and bacon—with onions 5c. extra.... Then my eye lighted on a certain item and a little devil started chuckling in me. I started to smile. I tried but I couldn't resist the temptation. I had to get it out if it killed me.

“Say, Vera. How about a steak?”

She didn't react the way I had hoped. She nodded and turned to the waiter cooly, not like the dame who had bummed a ride, like a god-damned aristocrat.

“Medium rare, please. And for the vegetable, I'll take the corn.”

“Coffee now or later?”

“With the dessert.”

I was disgusted. I swore up and down that before I did another thing for Vera I'd croak. That's how much I knew.

Vera, Vera. It was just my luck to have picked her up on the highway, just my luck that of all the hundreds of people waving thumbs she happened to be planted in front of the gas station where I pulled in for water. It couldn't have been Mary or Helen; it had to be Vera—the one person I should never have bumped into. But I didn't find that out until we were almost into Riverside. To make conversation, I had been asking her questions every now and then, getting a “no” or occasionally a “yes” in reply. Then, all at once, she turned to me.

“You've been asking me a lot of questions, mister. Now I want to ask you one.”

“Go right ahead, Vera,” I said, glad that for once she was going to contribute something.

“All right. What I want to know is this: Where did you leave him?”

Maybe you don't believe a man can turn to ice, that its only a figure of speech and nature doesn't function that way? Well, you're wrong, because I did. I got cold all over—my feet, my hands and the rest of me. The shiver shot up my spine so fast it shocked me, catching me with my mouth wide open and my throat so full of heart I almost gagged.

“Where did I what?”

“Where did you leave the owner of this car? You're not fooling me. This car belongs to a fellow named Haskell, That's not you, mister.”

I fumbled for words, crazy with fear. “You're off your nut. I'm Charles Haskell. Look. I can prove it. Here's my driver's license.” I dug into my pockets, feeling for the wallet. She watched me for a second with an amused smirk on her pinched little face.

“Save yourself the trouble, mister,” she said at last with a bite to her voice.

“I know you've got Haskell's wallet. I spotted it in the restaurant. But having it doesn't mean a thing—makes it worse, if anything. It just happens I rode with Charlie Haskell all the way from Louisiana. He picked me up outside of Shreveport.”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. “You rode with...?”

Then it all came back to me, all that talk about dueling and scars and scratches. In my mind's eyes I could see three mean red lines on Haskell's wrist. I could hear that loud laugh of his....Right on both counts Detroit. I was wrestling with the most dangerous animal in the world. A woman.... I shot a glance at Vera's chewed and ragged nails. Yes, they were capable of doing plenty of damage.... I want to buy some gum and put more iodine on these scratches. They, sting like hell. There ought to be a law against, women with sharp nails. I put her out on her ear.... No, there could be no doubt any more. Vera must be the woman Haskell had spoken, about. She must have passed me while I slept in Blythe.

“Well?”

What was there to say? I kept telling myself to snap into it and think, think! Jeeze, there must be some alibi...

“Well?”

Damn her, she had me dead to rights. There was no use trying to lie my way out of it. With time I probably could have figured out some excuse, but she was keeping after me. It was like hitting a man when he's down. Yes, my goose was cooked. That Haskell son of a bitch wasn't dead yet. He wasn't stretched out stiff and cold, in that Arizona gully; he was sitting right beside me in the car, laughing like hell while he haunted me. My head was whirling.

“Well? Are you tongue-tied? Where did you dump him?”

Slowly it came dribbling out, the whole story, just as it had happened. While I was talking I didn't look at her. I knew in advance she wouldn't believe me and I didn't want to see the scornful twist to her mouth. She interrupted me once or twice by asking a question, but when I got finished she sat in silence. I began to wonder what she intended to do—and what I could possibly do to persuade her to keep her mouth shut. I was aware that the girl sitting next to me, weak, undernourished and scarcely a hundred pounds, wielded a terrible weapon. She could finish me if she chose. I drove along slowly, waiting. It was her move.