"I'd like to keep in touch with the police, Commissioner. But Idon't have anything to contribute. Not just yet, anyway."
He had told the police, more than once, everything he knew aboutMatthew Colben, which was much, and everything he knew about hisdisappearance, whichwas nothing.
The Commissioner was a tall lean man with a half-bald head and a long thinface and melancholy black moustache. He was always tugging at theright end of his moustache--never the left. Yet he was left-handed. Childe had observed this habit and wondered about its origin. What would the Commissioner sayif he were made aware of it?
What could he say? Only he and a psychotherapist would ever beable to find out.
"You realize, Childe, that this comes at a very bad time forus," theCommissioner said. "If it weren't for the...uh, extraordinary aspectsof the case...I wouldn't be able to spend more than a few minutes on it. Asit is..."
Childe nodded and said, "Yes. I know. The Department will have toget on itlater. I'm grateful that you've taken this time."
"Oh, it's not that bad!" the Commissioner said. "Sergeant Bruinwill be handling the case. That is, when he has time. You have to realize..."
"I realize," Childe said. "I know Bruin. I'll keep in touch withhim. But not so often he'll be bugged."
"Fine, fine!"
The Commissioner stuck out a skinny and cold but sweating hand, said, "Seeyou!" and turned and walked off down the hall.
Childe went into the nearest men's room, where severalplainclothesmen andtwo uniformed men were washing the taste of vomit out. Sergeant Bruinwas also there, but he had not been sick. He came from the stall zipping uphis fly. Bruin was rightly named. He looked like a grizzly, but he was farless easilyupset.
As he washed his hands, he said, "I gotta hurry, Childe. TheCommissioner wants a quick conference about your partner, and then we all gottaget back onthis smog thing."
"You have my phone number, and I got yours," Childe said. Hedrank another cup of water and crumpled the paper and threw it into the wastepaperbasket. "Well, at least I'll be able to move around. I got a permit to use mycar."
"That's more'n several million citizens got right now," Bruinsaid cheerfully. "Be sure you burn the gas in a good cause."
"So far, I haven't got much reason to burn anything," Childesaid. "But I'm going to try."
Bruin looked down at him. His big black eyes were as impenetrableas a bear's; they did not look human. He said, "You going to put in timefor free on this job?"
"Who's going to pay me?" Childe said. "Colben's divorced. Thiscase is tied up with Budler's, but Budler's wife discharged me yesterday. She saysshe doesn't give a shit any more."
"He may be dead, just like Colben," Bruin said. "I wouldn't be surprised if
we got another package through the mails." "Me neither," Childe said. "See you," Bruin said. He put a heavy paw on Childe's shoulder
for a second. "Doing it for nothing, eh? He was your partner, right? But you was going to split up, right? Yet you're going to find out who killed him, right?"
"I'll try," Childe said.
"I like that," Bruin said. "There ain't much sense of loyaltykicking aroundnowadays." He lumbered off; the others trailed out after him. Childewas alone. He looked into the mirror over the washbowl. The pale face resembledLord Byron's enough to have given him trouble with women--and a number ofjealous ordesirous men--ever since he was fourteen. Now, it was a little lumpy, and a scar ran down his left cheek. Memento of Korea, when a drunken soldier hadobjectedto being arrested by Childe and had slashed his face with the brokenend of a beer bottle. The eyes were dark gray and just now much bloodshot. Theneck below the slightly lumpy Byronic head was thick and the shoulders werewide. The face of a poet, he thought as he had thought many times, and the body of acop, aprivate investigator. Why did you ever get into this sordid soul- leachingdepressing corrupting racket? Why didn't you become a quiet professorof Englishor psychology in a quiet college town?
Only he and a psychotherapist would ever know, and he evidentlydid not want to know, since he had never gone to a psychotherapist. He was surethat he enjoyed the sordidness and tears and grief and hatred and the blood, somewhere in him. Something fed on contemptible food. Something enjoyed it, butthat something sure as hell wasn't Herald Childe. Not at this moment, anyway.
He left the washroom and went down the hall to an elevator and dropped whilehe turned his thoughts so inwardly that he did not know whether ornot he was alone in the cage. On the way to the exit, he shook his head a littleas if to wake himself up. It was dangerous to be so infolded.
Matthew Colben, his partner, had been on his way to being his ex- partner. Colben was a big-mouthed braggart, a Don Juan who let his desire tomake a passinterfere with his business. He had not allowed his prick to get inthe way ofbusiness when he and Childe had become partners six years ago. ButColben was fifty now and perhaps trying to keep the thoughts of a slowing-downbody andthickening flesh and a longer time to recover from hangovers awayfrom him. Childe didn't accept this reason; Colben could do whatever he wanted after business hours, but he was cheating his partner when he cheatedhimself with the booze and the women. After the Budler case, they would be through. SoChilde had promised himself.
Now Colben was dead and Budler could be in the hands of the same people whohad taken Colben--although there was no evidence to indicate so. ButBudler and Colben had disappeared the same night, and Colben had been tailingBudler.
The film had been mailed from a Torrance post office three daysago. Colbenand Budler had been missing for fourteen days.
Childe stopped at the tobacco stand and bought a morning Times. At any othertime, the Colben case would have been headline material. Not today. It was, however, a feature on the front page. Childe, hating to go outside, leaned against the wall and read the story. It had been considerablybowdlerized by thereporters who had seen the film. They had not been present at eitherof the showings he had witnessed, but Bruin had told him they were at aspecialrunning. Bruin had laughed like a bear with a sore throat, anddescribed how at least half of them had thrown up or been close to throwing up.
"Some of them been in battles and seen men with their guts blowedinside out!" Bruin had said. "You was in the Korean action and you was anofficer, right? Yet you got sick! How come?"
"Didn't you feel your cock drawing up in your belly?" Childe had
said. "Naw." "Maybe you don't have one," Childe had said. Bruin thought that
was funny, too.
The whole story was in two columns, and it covered most of whatChilde knew except for the details of the film. Colben's car had been found in aparking lotbehind a trust and security building on Wilshire Boulevard in BeverlyHills. Colben had been trailing Benjamin Budler, a wealthy Beverly Hillslawyer. Budlerhad been stepping out on his wife, not to mention his regularmistress. The wife had hired Childe & Colben, Private Investigators, to get enoughevidence for her to file for divorce.
Colben, using the tape recorder in his car, had describedBudler's moves. Budler had picked up a lovely brunette (described in detail butunidentified) onthe corner of Olympic and Veteran. The traffic light had been green, but Budler had held up a long line of cars, horns blaring, while he opened thedoor and let the woman in. She was well-dressed. Colben had surmised that her car was parked somewhere close; she did not look as if she would live in thisneighborhood.