Gary Cooper said, “It’s about Mrs. Bridey Kelly’s fall down the steps, Mr. Gray.”
Mervyn sat down. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes.”
“I’m not going to beat around the bush,” the lieutenant said sternly. “Mrs. Kelly says that she was pushed. And she charges you, Mr. Gray, with having pushed her. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“She must be out of her head,” Mervyn said.
“Then you deny the charge?”
“Of course I deny it. Is this an official charge, lieutenant?”
“Well, not exactly. She’s made a complaint. Hasn’t signed anything yet. Of course, she is an old lady, and old ladies got funny notions sometimes. But old ladies do get pushed down stairs sometimes, too.”
“Why would I do a thing like that? I hardly know the old woman. I’m not a psycho.”
“Mrs. Kelly says you jumped out at her.”
“How could I?” asked Mervyn. “I wasn’t even here.”
“Oh? Where were you?”
“When she fell down those steps?”
“Yes.”
Mervyn considered hastily. “I don’t know. Probably in the university library.”
“Any way of proving this?”
“You mean fix the exact time? I’m afraid not.”
Lieutenant Hart rose and went to the door. Suddenly he turned, his tanned cheeks showing a slight burgundy stain. “Mr. Gray, I’ve got to ask you one more question. A pretty screwy one.”
“Ask away. It couldn’t be screwier than Mrs. Kelly’s accusation. What’s the question?”
“Do you make it a habit to walk around outside in your bare feet?”
“What?” said Mervyn.
“Mrs. Kelly says that when you attacked her you were barefooted.”
“Lieutenant Hart,” said Mervyn. “How long do you think I’d last at the university if the word got around that Mr. Gray of the English faculty traversed the streets of Berkeley sans shoes and socks?”
“That’s what I thought,” sighed the lieutenant. “I guess the old lady’s in her dotage, at that. You understand, Mr. Gray, when somebody lodges a complaint we have to follow it up. But I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Unless, of course,” the lieutenant said, looking at Mervyn, “you did push her?”
“Well, I didn’t!”
Lieutenant Hart departed. Mervyn stood in his doorway watching the tall figure lithely cross the court. When the incarnation of Gary Cooper was gone, Mervyn turned to stare at the bullet hole against which he had been leaning. Maybe he should have pointed it out? He gave a barking laugh. Let them find it themselves! They weren’t so much.
The phone rang in the apartment. Mervyn went back in and said dully, “Mervyn Gray here.”
“This is John Viviano. Why did you take my Chinatown photograph? Eh? Where is it, you — you pickpocket?”
Mervyn was sick of the whole business. “Keep your panties on, Viviano. I’ll send it back.”
“If it’s not here by tomorrow, I’ll go to the police!” Viviano spluttered. “What right have you to steal my property?”
“None. I’m sorry. Good-bye.” Mervyn hung up.
He felt oppressed, smothered; he had to get away. He ran out of the apartment.
He reached the street just as Harriet Brill drove up in her two-door.
“Mervyn, how sweet,” she cried. “Waiting just to see me.”
“I wasn’t, but I won’t look a gift horse under the tail,” Mervyn growled. “Harriet, why the hell did you tell me you and John Boce went to see Alexander Nevsky a week ago Friday night?”
Harriet’s eyes widened girlishly. “But, Mervyn, we did,”
“Oh, yeah? I have news for you, doll. The Eisenstein picture didn’t come to that theater till the following Monday.”
“It didn’t?” She went into the brownest of studies. Then she gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Of course. You’re perfectly right, Mervyn. It was Monday night that we went. Friday night was when John broke a date with me. His uncle took sick and he had to go to the city.”
“He used your car?”
“He wanted to, but I wouldn’t let him have it. I don’t like lending my car.”
Mervyn jumped into his Volkswagen and roared off down Perdue Street, leaving Harriet staring after him.
He drove without conscious destination. Up over the top of the campus, down Hearst Avenue, back around again. He turned into Milton Street and found himself approaching John Pilgrim’s cottage. Mervyn pulled over to the side and parked. When he had fought down his tension, he got out and walked up the cracked path.
Pilgrim, in ragged blue jeans, was tinkering with his Lambretta. At Mervyn’s step he looked up coolly. “Now what?”
“I want the truth,” Mervyn snarled. “Where were you a week ago Friday night?”
Pilgrim slowly rose. He had big muscles. “What the hell is it to you?”
“It’s a lot to me,” Mervyn said defensively.
“You’ve got a long nose, you know that? Better quit checking out all my moves. I might have been working Friday night, I might not have. Anyway, it’s none of your business. Any more questions?”
Mervyn threw up his hands and walked blindly back to his car.
Somehow, he must find a way to come to grips with his tormentor.
He drove up to Telegraph Avenue and parked and went into the Parnassus Coffee Shop. Here he consumed a pizza. After a while he paid his check and went back to his car. But now he hesitated. He had nowhere to go. The Parnassus was as good a place as any. He reached into the Volkswagen for a loose-leaf notebook and went back into the coffee shop.
He settled himself in a booth at the rear, ordered coffee and proceeded to organize the facts as he knew them.
Two hours later he was still writing. Staring at the sheer mass of his labors, he shook his head and started all over again. The thing he needed was an outline. Terse. Every relevant fact, or every fact that seemed relevant.
The afternoon passed.
He ordered a steak sandwich, more coffee, bent over his notes again.
Names, dates, events. They were beginning to blur and blend into a meaningless, colorless hodgepodge.
John Boce. John Thompson. John Viviano. John Pilgrim.
He was back where he had started. To the four Johns. Any one of whom could be the John.
Telegraph Avenue darkened. The street lights came on. Diners came and went. New waitresses appeared.
By 11:30 P.M. Mervyn had constructed his chart. Evaluating the four Johns against a set of arbitrary attributes: boldness, drive, vindictiveness, imagination, the rest. Pilgrim’s score 48, Boce’s 45, Viviano’s 44, Thompson’s 42. About as meaningful as the results of a Ouija-board session.
Then Susie Hazelwood came in, and they had their curiously tense conversation, and the waitress reminded them that it was midnight, the closing hour; and they got into Mervyn’s dark-blue Volkswagen, and on the way Mervyn showed his chart to Susie, and she mocked it.
“I see I’ll have to explain,” Mervyn said.
“I wish you would,” Susie answered. “I’ve been wondering whether my sister is alive or dead.”
That was when Mervyn heard, out of his own throat, in his own voice, the words: “She’s dead.”
Chapter 13
Susie Hazelwood looked out the window of the Volkswagen. The suburbs were behind them; they were driving through a sweet, still valley in the light of the half moon. The road was bordered blackly by oaks and poplars, pewter hills rising beyond.
Susie fumbled in her purse and took out a handkerchief and touched her nose. In a tight voice she asked, “How do you know Mary is dead?”
“Let’s talk about my chart,” Mervyn said. “A while back I was thinking it was meaningless — an arbitrary set of values arbitrarily rated. For instance, I don’t really know that John Pilgrim is twice as vindictive as John Boce or that John Viviano is bolder than John Thompson. This is just my personal assessment of their characters. Still, maybe I’ve got something.”