“You had trouble in your marriage?”
“More trouble than marriage,” she said bitterly. “I went into it with high hopes. I thought he was a young man with a future. I wanted a decent home where I could bring up children. And I was willing to work for it, willing and able. But Horace had different ideas.”
“What did he want?”
“I never could figure that out. Maybe if I could of figured him out – only he was so much smarter. Horace was so smart that it made him stupid.” She paused, and touched her mouth, as if she distrusted what it was going to say. “Horace wanted to be a white man. He thought that that would solve his problems for him. I told him it would only make more problems, and what about me?”
Unconsciously, her manicured fingertips moved from the corner of her mouth to her high bronze cheekbone. Her whole palm flattened out against her cheek:
“I didn’t mean to say that. It was on my mind and it came out.”
“I take it he’s light enough to pass.”
“Yes. I know he is.”
“Do you think he’s passing now, and that’s why you haven’t heard from him?”
“I think he tried it, and got himself into trouble.”
“You must have a reason for thinking so.”
“I got – I have plenty of reasons. He could never say no to trouble. He was always sticking his neck out for the chopper. And he stuck it out once too often, that’s my opinion. He tried to stand too tall, and they cut him down.”
“This isn’t Mississippi.”
“No. It’s California. Maybe you think nothing happens in California. There are sections in this very town where a colored person can’t take a walk without they pick him up.”
“Did Horace often get picked up?”
“Not for anything bad. He used to talk to people, and get involved, like in bars. In some of his moods, nobody could look at him, he’d snap right back. Then there would be a fight, and even when he didn’t start it, it was too bad for him.”
“You mean he got beaten?”
“No. That was the trouble. He did some fighting in the Navy, and after that he had some professional fights. That was before I married him, I made him give it up. But he had no right to go picking fights with civilians. It kept him in and out of jail, and once a man starts the habit of going to jail, I–” Her voice broke, into a lower register: “I couldn’t keep him steady. He turned himself into a hater. A hater and a dreamer, with his dancing act and his crazy names. Lorenzo Granada. Big man.”
“He had an alias?”
The anger withdrew from her eyes, leaving them cautious. “Not like you think, I don’t mean that. He got this job out Ventura Boulevard at this dancing academy. Spanish type. He could pass for a Spanish type. He got this job under this Spanish name, I guess it’s Spanish. And he was ashamed to tell me about it, I guess. He knew what I thought about a man who wouldn’t stick with his own–”
“You were telling me about his job, Miss Smith.”
“Yes. He had this job, but he didn’t let on to me. He acted like he was planning to ditch me. I got scared, and jealous. He’d come home late at night with the smell of women on him. So one night I took it on myself to follow him out to the place on Ventura. He walked in bold as you please. I watched him through the window, dancing with them.”
“What did you do?”
“What could I do? Walk in and tell the people who he was, and that I was his wife? I drove on home and went to bed. When Horace got in, I told him what I thought. That he was a crazy fool crossing over, taking the risk of his life. He said that he was glad I found out. He didn’t want to hurt me, but this was it. He was starting his big new career, and I didn’t fit in with his plans. So goodbye Ruby. He packed up his suitcase, and walked out, and I never saw him again.”
“What sort of career was he planning?”
“He didn’t say, but it was easy to guess. He had this dancing-instructor job, and dancing was what was on his mind for years. He couldn’t sing, he couldn’t act, he couldn’t play an instrument. But he had to be somebody. So he was going to be a great tap dancer.” She added with a wry small smile: “He couldn’t dance, either, not by professional standards.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t planning to try something else?”
“Go back to grinding valves? He was too big to work with his hands. He wanted more than there was.”
“How far was he willing to go for it?”
“I’m not sure I understand you, Mr. Archer.”
“Don’t be offended if I spell it out. He was working under an alias. You said yourself that he was a hater and a dreamer. He’d been in and out of jail.”
“For assault. He wasn’t a criminal. I wouldn’t marry no – any criminal.”
“How long were you married to him?”
“Ten years, off and on.”
“People can change in ten years. Are you sure he wasn’t planning some criminal activity when he left you?”
“I’m sure he wasn’t.” But her eyes were guarded.
“You suggested yourself that Horace was in trouble.”
“Yes.” She nodded soberly. “I think–” She touched her mouth again, in distrust. The sound of the vacuum cleaner had stopped, and she seemed afraid to speak out into naked silence.
“You think he’s dead, Miss Smith? Your sister said something along that line.”
“Yes. I think he’s dead and buried, long ago. I’ve thought it ever since that picture came out in the newspaper.”
“A picture of Horace?”
“I’m certain it was him, yes. And it said underneath: ‘Have you seen this man?’ ”
“When did the picture come out?”
“Three years ago, almost. A few weeks after he left me. It said if anybody saw him, they should contact the police.”
“Did you?”
“No. Why should I? I didn’t see him.”
“That’s right,” her sister said from the doorway. “You didn’t see him. And you don’t know that it was Horace in the picture. It was just a picture, not a snap. You shouldn’t waste Mr. Archer’s time with it.”
“It said the man’s name was Larry Granada. That was the name Horace used.”
“It don’t prove nothing,” Mrs. Jackson said lightly. “Must be lots of Larry Granadas or whatever their name is.”
“You know it was Horace,” Ruby Smith said. “And that he’s dead and missing. You thought so at the time.”
“Maybe you thought so. I thought so. I don’t say all I know.” Mrs. Jackson’s voice went into a sibylline muttering, about the desirability of letting sleeping dogs lie.
I stood up, looking from one woman to the other. “Let them lie. It suits me.”
Mrs. Jackson looked relieved. She’d come this far, and lost her courage. But Ruby Smith shook her head determinedly, angrily. She wanted a home, and children, and a husband who was willing to give them to her.
“Don’t listen to her.”
She opened her purse. I thought she was going to press money on me, but it was a small bundle of newspaper clippings. Collecting them, I gathered this information:
Stolen Woman
Published in The Archer Files (Crippen & Landru, 2007).
The sound of breathing woke me. I opened my eyes and saw the first pale light filtering through the matchstick blinds. I closed my eyes and deliberately rolled over with my face to the wall, telling myself that it was just the sea. I’d been in the beach house for less than a week, and I wasn’t used to the constant sound of it.