Ludwig wiped his hand across his face. “You’ll never prove any of this!”
“Don’t depend on it! You’ve turned out to be just another amateur at the murder game. We’ve got little Ikey Saran. We’ll pick up Harrison, his sidekick; they’ll talk. Doctor Thoms is still alive, to tell us who brought the dog to him. And that’ll only be the beginning.”
Old Ludwig looked desperately about the room. Then he slowly crumpled in a chair. “I want a lawyer,” he croaked; “and call Josiah and tell him to bring my heart medicine.”
He was still sitting there, worrying about his heart, when the chief and I left. As we neared the bottom of the stone steps that led down to the dark, deserted sidewalk, we heard someone coming behind us. We paused, looked back. It was Aunt Minna.
“I wanted to thank you, Mr. Archer.”
“All in a day’s work. I guess you’ll find Priscilla somewhere around Doctor Thoms’ place. Incidentally, I’ll remind Buddy about that promise of a position for you — in a few days. He’s got a shock to get over...”
“Yes, I understand,” Aunt Minna said softly, “for so have I. Why must there be killing in the world? One killing affects so many people...”
Her words were still ringing in my mind when David Archer and I drove off in the deep, silent night.
The Beautiful Miss Borgia
Originally published in Dime Detective Magazine, August 1952.
At just after ten that night, Bob Myrick entered the apartment house where his sister Pam lived. As apartment houses go, it wasn’t too fine a place. A thirty-five dollar a month walk-up, with worn carpets, the odor of everybody’s cooking in the downstairs hall, and the sounds of everybody’s living all through the building. On the second floor, Bob knocked on Pam’s door. Light, eager wings beat their way up in his chest, brought a smile to his face. It had been three years — but tonight he was a free man.
He heard the crisp sounds of Pam’s footsteps. She opened the door. She drew in a breath, said, “Bob! Bob you’re home!”
“Hi, sis.” He took her chin in his hand and kissed her on the cheek. A lump came to his throat. She was small and neatly built, and the light behind her made burnished copper of her hair. But there were tired lines about her eyes, almost hidden, almost unnoticeable.
As far back as Bob could remember, Pam had meant home to him. Since their folks had died, he and Pam had been alone. Pictures of her flashed through his mind. Pam bundling him in a sweater and sending him off to school, when she was still as young as a lot of high school seniors herself. Pam standing on her feet behind a bargain basement counter to earn money for their food and clothes, to pay their rent.
And later, Pam trying to keep him out of trouble, telling the police that he was only a wild kid, getting him another chance.
Until that last time. Not another chance then. He’d drawn three years. And at that he’d been lucky. Burglary was a serious charge.
Pam closed the living room door, touched his pale, gaunt face as if assuring herself he was really there. “It’s so good to see you, Bob. But I didn’t expect...”
“Time off for good behavior. I didn’t write. I wanted to make it a surprise.”
He was aware of a sound behind him, turned. In the doorway across the room stood Steve Ivey.
For a moment there was silence. The room chilled as Bob stood and looked at Steve and Steve looked at him. Bob shifted his gaze to Pam, saw the sudden strain in her face.
“Bob,” she said, her voice sounding quick, brittle in the silent room. “Steve and I — we were just throwing a snack together in the kitchen. Come on out and join us.”
He saw that her face was white. She was pleading with her eyes. Steve Ivey dropping by. It must be a pretty regular thing, Bob thought, if it had reached the stage of whipping up snacks together in her kitchen.
Bob could see Pam’s thoughts mirrored in her eyes: Please. Bob. Steve’s a regular guy. He hated to do what he did to you. But he was a cop. He had to.
Steve advanced across the room. “Glad to see you, Bob.”
Bob turned. Steve was holding out his hand. Touching his lips with his tongue. Bob took the proffered hand, shook it. Behind him, he sensed Pam’s faint gasp of relief.
Okay, Bob thought, if this was the way it had to be. He remembered the day Pam had met Steve Ivey. She’d come to headquarters to tell them again that Bob was a good kid, only wild. Steve had been in charge of the case, and had listened to her. But the sister plea hadn’t done any good that time. Steve had Peewee Darran’s statement; Peewee had ratted to save his own rotten skin. And Steve was a cop...
A crazy start for love’s beginnings, Bob thought bleakly.
They went out to the six-by-eight kitchen. The awkward moment endured, lengthened. Bob had the feeling that he’d like to shove the walls back, that the tiny kitchen was too small to hold the three of them.
He ate scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee that Steve prepared. Bob thought: I’ve always wanted this for Pam — a good guy to love her, care for her. But Steve Ivey? He watched Steve and wondered...
The same rawhide tallness, the same rugged, almost handsome face. That was Steve. But there it was — in his gray eyes. The coldness, the implacable light of the hunter. No human feeling; a hunk of stone where his heart should be. Human beings were mere pawns on his chessboard.
A guy like that for Pam?
They talked in spurts. Steve said he’d been promoted. He was on Homicide now, and had to catch his graveyard trick at midnight tonight.
Then at last Bob was rising, saying he had to run along. Pam followed him to the living room. He spoke softly, “You’re pretty sweet on that guy back in the kitchen, sis?”
She looked at him; he watched her swallow, saw her nod.
“Sure,” he said, managing a smile. “Luck, sis, and all the happiness.”
“But, Bob, you’re staying here! I thought...”
“No, sis. Got to look for a job. A guy or two I want to see.”
“Not Peewee Darran, Bob!”
The thought of the way Darran had sold him up the river knotted Bob’s stomach muscles, but he shook his head.
“And, Bob—” Her voice caught. “Not the Gilded Lily? You’re not going back there, to her? Please, Bob, stay away from the Gilded Lily.”
“Sure, sis.” He told her good night, gave her arm a gentle squeeze, and went out.
Down on the street, Bob stood with his back against the wall of the building. Night had dissipated little of the heat of the day. Traffic crawled; a few people sat like shadows here and there on front steps. Young couples passed, arm in arm. It was life and people and free air. But Bob’s senses failed to soak it up; the droplets of sweat on his forehead were not entirely from the heat.
His lips were flat, compressed. He kept thinking, She’s still there, at the Gilded Lily. Marcillene...
He spun on his heel so fast he almost bumped in an old lady. She said, “Mercy!” righted her hat and stared after the retreating back of the hurrying, pale young man.
Bob was opening and closing his hands. He’d had three years in which to think, and a man can do a lot of thinking in three years. He knew which road he wanted to take now. But he was going back to the Gilded Lily. Tonight. Something strong was driving him. He had to go back. He had to make sure he was cured.
The Gilded Lily was composed of equal parts of smoke, lights, darkness, shadowy people, the tinkle of glasses, and the low undulating buzz and hum of conversation. Bob’s eyes swept over it all; the long, crowded bar, glasses stacked before the back-bar mirror, chrome-framed tables and chairs, leather-upholstered booths. He lifted his gaze further, to the piano dais in back. But she wasn’t there. The bench was empty, the grand piano waiting in almost total darkness for her, waiting for the touch of Marcillene’s nimble fingers.