No wonder, thought Childe. There was something irritating aboutsmog; it dideat the skin off the nerves, but people did not like to get out init, andpeople did not collect in large numbers. To every man, others lookedlike ghostscoming toward him out of the gray-greenness or like strange fishappearingsuddenly from the shadows. Strange fish could be sharks.
He passed a car with three goggled, shouted monstrosities in it. Their heads swiveled, the cyclopean eyes stared blindly, the noses seemed tosniff. He spedaway from them until their headlights were muffled and then sloweddown. Once, acar suddenly appeared behind him, and a red light flashed. He lookedthrough therear view mirror before he stopped; there were fake prowl carsstoppingmotorists and robbing, beating, or even killing them on the streetsduringdaylight, within twenty feet of passers-by. He decided to pull over, eased the car gently toward the dimly visible curb, and stopped. He kept themotor runningand peered at the car and the cop getting out of it on the rightside. If he did not like the looks of them he could still get out of the right sideof his car and take off into the dimness. But he recognized the cop, although he did not know his name, and stayed behind the wheel. He flipped open his coatand slowlyreached within it so that the cop would not get the impression he wasreachingfor a gun. He had a license for a gun but it was at home.
The cops had stopped too many to make him get out of the car andassume the stance of the friskee. Besides, there were many legitimate drivers, and within a short time, there would be so many cars on the streets that theymight as wellgive up, except for obvious cases.
Childe established his identity quickly enough. They knew of himby hearsayand had also read the papers. One, Chominshi, wanted to discuss thecase, butthe other was coughing, and Childe started to cough, so they let himgo. Hecontinued up Third toward West Los Angeles. His apartment and hisoffice were a few blocks away from Beverly Hills. He planned to go straight homeand do some thinking.
If he could think. He was in a mild state of shock. His reflexes seemed to be slow as if he had been drugged or was recovering from beingknocked out. He felt a slight sense of detachment, as if he had been disengagedsomewhat from reality, no doubt to soften the effects of the film. The smog did nothelp himkeep an anchor on things; it induced a feeling of slippage of self.
He was not burning with lust for revenge on those who had killedColben. He had not liked Colben, and he knew that Colben had done some thingswhich were criminal but he had escaped without (as far as Childe knew) even thepunishmentof conscience. He had knocked up a teenager and kicked her out, andthe girl hadtaken sleeping pills and died. There were others, although none hadended in death for the girls. But some would have been better off dead. Andthere was the wife of a client who had been found beaten and would always be anidiot. Childe had had no basis for suspicion of Colben, but he had felt that Colbenmight havedone the beating for the client, especially after he had discoveredthat Colben was going to bed with the woman. He could prove nothing; he could noteven make an accusation which would not sound stupid, because he lacked anyevidence. That Colben was neglecting the business, however, was reason enough to getrid of him. Childe did not have enough money to buy Colben out; he had meantto make it so unpleasant for Colben that he would be glad to dissolve thepartnership.
Nevertheless, no man deserved to die as Colben had. Or did he? The horror was more in the viewers minds than in Colben's. He had been hurt very much, but only briefly, and had died quickly.
That did not matter. Childe intended to find out all he could, although hesuspected that he would find out very little. And soon enough theneed to paybills would take him off the case; he would only be able to work onit duringhis leisure moments. Which meant that, in effect, he would be able toaccomplishalmost nothing.
But he had nothing else to do, and he certainly did not intend tosit still in his apartment and breathe in poison gas. He had to do something tokeepgoing. He could not even read comfortably because of the burning andthe tears. He was like a shark that has to keep moving to allow water to flowthrough thegills. Once he stopped, he would suffocate.
But a shark can breathe and also stand still if the water is moving. Sybilcould be his flowingness. Sybil was a name that sounded like runningbrooks and sunshine in quiet green glades and wisdom like milk from full flowingbreasts. Certainly not green milk. White creamy milk of tenderness and goodsense.
Childe smiled. The Great Romanticist. He not only looked likeLord Byron, hethought like him. Reincarnation come. George Gordon, Lord Byron, reborn as a private eye and without a club foot. One thing about a club mind, itdidn't show. Not at first. But the limp became evident to others who had towalk with him day, after day.
The Private Eyes of the novels. They were simple straightforwardmen with their minds made up--all black and white--vengeance is mine, saithLord Hammer--true heroes with whom the majority of readers had no troubleidentifying.
This was strange, because the antiheroes of the existentialnovels were supposed to be representative of the modern mind, and they certainlywere uncertain. The antihero got far more publicity, far more criticaltrumpeting, than the simple, stable, undoubting private eye, the hero of themasses.
Childe told himself to cut, as if his thoughts were a strip offilm. He was exaggerating and also simplifying. Inwardly, he might be anexistential antihero, but outwardly he was a man of action, a Shadow, a DocSavage, a SamSpade. He smiled again. Truth to tell, he was Herald Sigurd Childe, red-eyed, watery-eyed, drippy-nosed, sickened, wanting to run home to Mother. Or to that image named Sybil.
Mother, unfortunately, became angry if he did not phone her toask if he could come over. Mother wanted privacy and independence, and if shedid not getit, she expressed herself unpleasantly and exiled him for anindeterminate time.
He parked the car outside his apartment, ran up the steps, hearing someonecough behind a door as he passed, and unlocked his door. Theapartment was aliving room, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. Normally, it was brightwith white walls and ceilings and creamy woodwork and lightly colored, lightlybuilt furniture. Today, it was gloomy; even the unshadowed places had agreenishtinge.
Sybil answered the phone before the second ring had started. "You must have been expecting me," he said gaily. "I was expecting," she said. Her voice was not, however,
unfriendly. He did not make the obvious reply. "I'd like to come over," he
finally said. "Why? Because you're hard up?" "For your company." "You haven't got anything to do. You have to find some way to
spend thetime."
"I have a case I'm working on;" he said. He hesitated and then, knowing thathe was baiting the hook and hating himself for it, said, "It's aboutColben. You read the papers?"
"I thought that was what you'd be working on. Isn't it horrible?"
He did not ask her why she was home today. She was the secretaryof an advertising agency executive. Neither she nor her boss would have adrivingpriority.
"I'll be right over," he said. He paused and then said, "Will Ibe able to stay a while or will I have to get out after a while? Don't get mad! I just wantto know; I'd like to be able to relax."
"You can stay for a couple of hours or more, if you like. I'm notgoinganyplace, and nobody is coming--that I know of."