chapter 35
The Somerville house was blazing with lights as if there were a party going on inside. But there were no sounds of any kind except for the remote whir of traffic on the boulevards.
I pressed the doorbell and heard it ring inside. Quick footsteps approached the door. It was opened on its chain.
“Is that you, Ben?” Elizabeth Somerville said.
“Archer.”
She hesitated. Then she unhooked the chain and opened the door. “Come in. I’m all alone. Smith drove down to Pacific Point to pick up my husband and sister-in-law.”
“How is your sister-in-law?”
“Marian is taking this very hard. I didn’t think she should spend the night by herself. So we’re keeping her here for the duration.” Her blue eyes gave me a swift appraisal in the lighted hall. “You don’t look as if you’re bringing us good news.”
“I haven’t found Laurel. But I have been making some progress. This is turning out to be a complex case. It isn’t a simple kidnapping for ransom.”
“Is that good, or bad?”
“Both. I have more to work with. But it’s taking too much time. Harold Sherry may get impatient. He collected his hundred thousand, but unfortunately he and your brother exchanged shots. Sherry’s wounded, and I don’t know how that will affect the bargain.”
“You think he might kill Laurel?”
Her face became grave. “What do you want me to do?”
“Take a look at this picture and tell me if it means anything to you.”
I got out Allie Russo’s picture and showed it to Elizabeth. Her eyes became very intent.
“Do you recognize the woman?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” She handed me the picture without looking up, and remained standing with her head bowed as if a heavy weight had fallen on her shoulders. “Ought I to?”
“It was just an off chance.”
“Who is she, anyway?”
“Tom Russo’s mother. Her name was Alison. They called her Allie.”
“I didn’t even know Tom had a mother.”
“Most people do,” I said. “Tom’s mother was murdered here in Los Angeles in the spring of 1945. And I’ve got a feeling in my bones that her death was the beginning of all this present trouble.”
She took the picture from between my fingers and studied it under the light. This time, when she handed it back, she stared directly into my face and denied very firmly that she knew the woman. But the look of her eyes was inward, as if a whole hidden world had opened behind them.
“You told me last night,” I reminded her, “about a young woman with a little boy who came here to the house shortly after you were married. I believe your husband was overseas at the time.”
“Yes.” It was a question as well as an answer.
“I thought this might possibly be the woman.”
I offered her the picture once again. She made no move to take it. “It isn’t. It wasn’t.” But then she said, “Even if it was—supposing that it had been—what could it possibly have to do with Laurel?”
“We may know that when we find out who killed Allie Russo.”
“Surely you don’t suspect my husband of killing her.”
“Do you suspect him?”
“Of course not. I didn’t even know she was dead.”
But the woman’s death was very much with her now. Her eyes were heavy with it. She took me into her husband’s study and slopped some whisky into a couple of glasses. She drank hers down, while I saved mine.
Her spirits rose superficially. Her color improved. But the hidden world behind her eyes seemed to be changing and darkening. She couldn’t keep herself from talking about it.
“What has Allie Russo’s death got to do with us?”
“Her son married your niece Laurel, for one thing.”
“Is that a crime?” she said in a brittle voice.
“No. I don’t think it was a coincidence, either.”
“Please explain that.”
“I wish I could. So far, it’s only a suspicion.”
“And my husband’s connection with all this is just another suspicion?”
“It’s a little more than that.”
She was silent for a minute, studying both my face and the situation. “I had no idea that Ben might conceivably be involved in all this. I still don’t. But what did you mean when you said that it’s more than a suspicion?”
“If I told you that, you’d have me shunted off the case.”
“How could I do that?”
“I think you could do it. At any rate, you could make things very hard for me.”
“I wouldn’t, though, I swear I wouldn’t.”
I didn’t quite believe her. She was having a reaction from the night before, when she had expressed her anger with her husband in every way she knew. Tonight she had pulled back into the shell of marriage, beyond my reach. She said:
“Do you know that Ben was involved with Allie Russo?”
“No, I don’t. But I think he was one of several men in her life. Another was Nelson Bagley.”
“He was a messenger on your husband’s ship. He went overboard when the ship burned at Okinawa. And by what appears to be a weird coincidence, he floated onto your mother’s beach this morning.”
“The little man with the tar on him?”
“That was Nelson Bagley.”
“And what was his connection with Allie Russo?”
“He may have killed her. He may have seen her killed.”
“But now he’s dead himself.”
“Yes. That’s the point.”
“Was he really a crew member of the Canaan Sound?”
“I’m sure he was.”
Her eyes looked through me into the complex inner world that was growing like a city in her mind. “If Bagley was accused of killing the woman, does it mean that the Canaan Sound was here on the West Coast when she was killed?”
“Yes. The ship was at Long Beach. According to my information, Allie Russo was murdered the night of May 2nd, 1945. The Canaan Sound went to sea the following morning.”
I could read the thought that followed in her mind, because it had followed in mine. Since the Canaan Sound was in port that night, its Captain was another possible suspect.
“How was she killed?”
I told Elizabeth. I told her further that the child Tom had been alone in the house with his mother’s body for several days. I wanted her to understand what murder and its consequences could be like.
She shook her head as if to lose the knowledge. “My husband may be no great paragon. But he couldn’t have done a thing like that. In fact, I know he didn’t. He spent that whole last day and evening with me.”
“Are you sure that’s what you remember?”
“It certainly is. What’s more, I believe I can prove it. I kept a diary that first year of my marriage. I think I still have it.”
She excused herself and left the study. I sipped my drink, feeling some compunction about drinking the Captain’s liquor under the circumstances. Elizabeth came back with a small locked book bound in padded white leather, with “1945 Diary” printed in gold on the cover. She unlocked it with a key, and opened it on her husband’s desk to the entry for May 2nd.
I read it over her shoulder:
It’s midnight and I’m very tired, diary, and very happy. Ben’s station wagon just took him back to the ship. We had a lovely, lazy day in El Rancho and for the first time in months I felt really married. We let Jack and Marian and Laurel have the Bel-Air house to themselves—it was Jack’s last day, too—and Ben and I spent the day with Father. Ben and Father really hit it off, which bodes well for the future. I showed Ben over River Valley School—someday we’ll send our own children there!—and Ben told me something about his Navy experiences. I felt like Desdemona listening to Othello. And I forgave him (silently, dear diary—we didn’t discuss the matter)—I forgave him for that woman who came to the house in March with her little boy. I feel as if I’ve finally become a woman myself. But now that he’s gone, and I’m alone again, I’m just a little scared, diary. There’s a terrible battle going on at Okinawa, and I think the Canaan Sound is headed for there. Come home safely, husband.
She raised her head. “I was only twenty-two, and still quite romantic. However, I had to show you this. It proves that Ben wasn’t involved in that woman’s death. He couldn’t have been. He was involved with me, all day and all evening, and he went directly from Father’s house in El Rancho back to his ship.”
“How did he travel?”
“He had a Navy station wagon.”
“Who drove it?”
She answered after a pause: “Some Navy man—I don’t remember who.”
“Smith?”
“It might have been Smith. I think it was. But please don’t question him about it, will you?”
“Why not, if your husband is innocent?”
“He is innocent.”
“Then you shouldn’t object to my questioning Smith or anyone else.”
Her eyes went dark with anger, sudden and stormy. “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. This is my house you’re in, and my life you’re meddling with—”
“The point is that you have a life. Allie Russo lost hers.”
I picked up Elizabeth’s diary from the desk and riffled through the pages. She made a move to stop me, but drew back. Her look of anger had changed to something more definite and personal. I got the impression that she was willing now to see the whole truth come out.
“Did you say the woman with the little boy came to your house in March?”
“Yes. It was early in March of 1945.”
The entry was easy to find, under March 5th: “A strange thing happened today. A young woman and a small boy, aged about four or five, came to the house. She told me something so terrible that I’m not going to write it down, diary. But I’ll never forget this day. It’s made me a doubting Thomas. (The little boy’s name was Thomas, the woman said.)”
I read it out loud to Elizabeth. She bowed her head:
“I didn’t remember what his name was. Or that I’d written it down.”
But I wondered if she hadn’t remembered the entry unconsciously, perhaps brought the diary out so that I would find it. I said:
“Do you want to take another look at Allie Russo’s picture?”
Her eyes met mine. “It isn’t necessary. I recognized her the first time you showed me the picture. She was the woman who came here with the boy.”
“How often did she come here?”
“Just the one time. I went and lived with Father after that, and eventually Jack and Marian took over this house until Ben came home.” She held out her hand. “May I have my diary back, please?”
I handed it to her. Holding it tight against her body, she left the room.
I bade a silent farewell to her narrow-waisted back. The night before had been a one-time thing, not without passion but without consequences. Except that I would never forget Elizabeth.