The guy turned to me. His face was red with rage. He was a little guy, a head shorter than his wife, but it was clear he was the boss. “Any other restaurant, the soup comes with the meal.”
“It’s the war,” I explained. “We all have to do our part.”
“Maybe you’re right,” the man said a bit sheepishly. What he should have said was, What the hell has that got to do with anything, but patriotism was running high and with the Japanese bragging that they could invade California whenever they wanted, all it took was a hint that someone was less than patriotic and he’d be surrounded by uglies and acidic old ladies.
“I’ll pay for my soup and pay gladly,” I said. The guy paid his bill and yanked his wife out of the restaurant.
“Well,” said Carmen, looking at me for an explanation of what I wanted and where I had been. Widowhood stood well on Carmen. She could give Camile Shatzkin a few lessons.
“I’ve been working,” I said. “Two cases. Long hours, usual pay. How about that movie and dinner tomorrow?”
“No nightclub?” she said in mock disappointment.
“That was a combination of business and pleasure.”
“The Chocolate Soldier with Nelson Eddy’s at the Chinese Loew’s State,” she said, leaning toward me with a smile.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “My corner of the world will be back in one piece by tomorrow.” I could have added that it would either be in one piece, or I wouldn’t be part of it.
“Tomorrow,” she agreed. “I’m off all afternoon and night.”
I took her hand, gave it a loud kiss that caused heads to turn, and ordered a corned beef on rye with ketchup to go. It’s hard to be romantic in a kosher restaurant. While I waited, I called Lugosi’s house. He was home. I told him I expected his problem to be over by morning and that I was going to see Billings.
I got the sandwich, chucked it under my arm, bid adieu to Carmen, and went out to meet my fate or my maker.
A second call to my murderer resulted in no answer, which concerned me. I had called a few hours earlier and said I was coming over to talk about something related to the Shatzkin murder. The murderer had promised to be home from ten o’clock on. I still had time to wrap up one of my cases before then, so I headed into Los Angeles to do it. By now I knew the way.
When I got where I was going, the sun was down, and the sky was rumbling with the threat of rain. What made it worse was the general blackout. There wasn’t much to see.
I parked next to the theater and walked up to the box office. It was closed and the theater was dark. I tried the doors. None were open.
Moving around the side of the building just as the first few drops fell, I found a house behind the theater on top of a little hill. It was an old three-story frame house that had once been white, but time and inattention had turned it gray. There was no light, but I walked up the hill on my still aching leg and climbed the steps. They creaked mightily and the sound mixed with the whirl of the rainy wind.
The porch held an old swing that rocked gently back and forth in the wind as if someone were sitting in it. I knocked. No one answered. I knocked again. Still no answer. My next step was to pull the flashlight out of my pocket and hit the windows with its beam. The place looked empty. I backed off the porch into the rain and shined the light on the second floor. I thought I caught one of the curtains fluttering, but I couldn’t be sure. Whistling an invented tune, I went back on the porch and tried the door. It opened with a perfect creak of hinges that would have sent the Three Stooges scrambling out into the downpour.
My flashlight beam hit a stairway and several rooms. From what I could see in the fading beam, it was decorated in early Lizzie Borden.
“Billings,” I called. No answer. I thought I heard something above me.
“Come on, Sam,” I called, pointing my beam up the stair. “Just take out your fangs and let’s talk. I’ve got a lot to do tonight.” Again something creaked above. My yellow light went dim, and I turned what was left of it to the walls, in search of a light switch. I found it and flicked it, but nothing happened.
My flashlight decided it had done enough for one Eveready lifetime and closed its eye. Outside, the rain was coming down hard, heavy, and tired. A little lightning joined it, and I reached for my gun. My eyes began to adjust to the liquid gloom in a few seconds, during which I held my gun ready. When I could see a little, I put the gun back in the holster.
“Sam,” I sighed falsely, “you are being difficult.”
The dank smell of the house caught me with a touch of nausea as I put my foot on the first step. Above, in the flashes of lightning, I could make out the top of the stairway. I went up slowly, my back sliding against the wall, my knee counting each step in pain.
It only took me four or five days to get to the landing where I was sure Billings would leap out at me with artificial fangs and either go for my neck or offer me a Hires Root Beer. He didn’t, and I resigned myself to hide and seek. I remembered a “Suspense” episode with Ralph Edwards in which he played a scoffing radio reporter who spends a night in a haunted house and goes crazy. It was not a good thing to remember, but one has little control over such things. I tried to think that MacArthur had it worse on Bataan, but that didn’t help. I couldn’t believe in Bataan. It didn’t really exist. What did exist was this matchstick house and my fear.
“Billings,” I shouted. “I’m getting angry.”
The hall light switch didn’t work either. The storm had knocked off the power, or maybe the place just didn’t have any power. Or maybe someone had pulled some fuses.
Bedrooms lined the hall wall, and each one seemed to be empty when I opened the door. None of them looked lived in. At the end of the hall was a balcony looking down on the living room. I stepped on the balcony and waited till the lightning cut cold light and showed me nothing. I heard another movement, higher above. I turned and found the stairway in front of me going up to what I assumed was the last floor of Billings’s manor.
“Sam,” I said, “this is aggravating a sore knee, and you have nowhere to go. Sooner or later, this game will be over.”
I moved up. These stairs were even narrower than the ones below. When I got to the landing, I thought I could hear someone breathing. The three doors on the floor looked as if they were closed. I moved to the first one, kicking it open. Nothing.
Below I thought I heard something, a slight creak, and then I was sure. Someone was opening the front door and being announced by the musical hinges.
“Who’s down there?” I yelled, stepping back into the hall. No one answered. I stopped, trying not to breathe, but that proved to be too much to ask of a sorely tried soul.
I thought I heard the creak of stairs. I moved to the stairwell and leaned over. I couldn’t see anything. The lightning chose that moment to penetrate the house with a crack of light, and my eyes caught a shadow on the stairs.
“Far enough,” I said. “I’ve got a gun.”
The answer to my threat was a pinging near my head. The shot had missed me by what seemed not at all. I pulled out my.38 and aimed down the stairs.
It was a good time to break my record of never having shot anyone. I leaned forward, took aim, and fired. Something moved out of the room behind me, and I turned to meet it. Whatever it was jostled me, and I tried to keep from tumbling head first over the railing and down the stairs. I could hear the figure who bumped into me scrambling for a dark hole, and I could feel the gun fly out of my hand while I desperately grabbed for something to hold onto. The stairway had been narrow enough so my hand caught the far side, and I pushed myself back. My.38 hit the wooden stairs and thumped six or seven steps.