I looked into the other room and I looked at the casting couch and I felt the breath whistle through my locked teeth, and sweat start out on my face the way a boxer sweats when he has been hit far south of the line.
There was no Colt automatic lying on the carpet and no blonde woman on the casting couch. I here was no yellow cushion soaked in blood. No nothing — nothing at all.
II
I was back on the bed again. I didn’t remember how I got there, but I was there and Miss Bolus was standing over me, a glass of whisky in her hand. As I half-struggled up, she bent over me, holding the whisky to my lips, and as I drank I found myself looking down the front of her dress. I must have been pretty bad, because she hadn’t a brassiere on, and as soon as I saw she hadn’t a brassiere on, I closed my eyes. That’s how bad I was.
I drank the whisky. There seemed a lot of it, but there was no bite to it, so it was easy to keep drinking until there was nothing more to drink. It must have been all right because as soon as Miss Bolus moved away I felt its effect. I felt it rushing around in my system like a sheep dog chasing up sheep, only it wasn’t sheep the whisky was chasing, it was my nerves, and I could feel it pulling them this way and that, tightening them, disciplining them, bringing them back to their tough everyday standard. And after a minute or so although my head hurt still, I was suddenly and miraculously well again.
Cool fingers took the glass from my hand. Miss Bolus smiled at me.
‘I’ve seen the shakes a good many times in my young life,’ she said, ‘but nothing to compare to yours.’
‘Yeah,’ I said, and sat up slowly. ‘Let it be a lesson to you. It’s cured me. From now on—’ I broke off to stare at Brandon who sat on the straight-backed chair at die foot of the bed; his snake’s eyes missing nothing. ‘Hey!’ I exclaimed. ‘But I am seeing things. I’m seeing coppers. Look!’ I pointed. ‘Can you see coppers?’
‘I can see one,’ Miss Bolus said. ‘And the Police Captain. I wouldn’t call him a copper. He mightn’t like it.’
‘Cut out the funny stuff, Malloy,’ Brandon said bleakly. ‘We want to talk to you.’
‘Give me another drink,’ I said to Miss Bolus, and as she went across the room for the bottle, I said, ‘Who asked you in here, Brandon?’
‘All right, you can cut that out too,’ he said, glaring. ‘What’s going on here? Who’s this woman? What’s she doing here?’
I discovered suddenly that the front of my dress shirt was soaked with whisky and that explained where the awful stink came from. I got unsteadily to my feet, ripped off my collar and dropped it on the floor with a grimace of disgust.
‘And get me some coffee,’ I said as Miss Bolus came over with the whisky. ‘Strong enough to lie on and plenty of it.’
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Brandon snarled, starting out of his chair.
‘Sure, but that doesn’t mean you’ll get an answer,’ I said, sending Miss Bolus away with a wave of my hand. ‘You have no right here. What’s it to you who she is? What’s it to you what’s going on?’ While I was talking I stripped off my tuxedo and shirt. ‘I’m getting myself a shower. Stick around if you have to. I shan’t be long.’
It was only when I was opening the bathroom door that I wondered if the body was in there. I kept right on, shut the door and shot the bolt. No body. I reached out and pulled the shower curtain aside. Still no body. There was nowhere else to look, so I stripped off the rest of my clothes and got under the shower. Two minutes of hissing cold water cleared my head the way nothing else could have cleared it. I was beginning to get things under control. The electric clock on the wall told me it was twenty minutes past eleven. Anita Cerf had been shot at three forty-five a.m. I had been unconscious for nine hours. My fingers explored the back of my head. It was tender and felt a little soft, but so far as I could judge it was still all in one piece, and that was something to be thankful for.
The body was gone. That seemed pretty obvious. If it had been hidden anywhere in the cabin Brandon would have found it. Who had taken it, and why? I flicked the electric razor into life and began to shave. Why take the body away? Why? Was the killer crazy? If he had left the body and the gun he could have been practically certain that Brandon would have nailed me for the murder. But maybe the gun could be traced. Was that it? Or maybe the killer hadn’t taken the body. Maybe someone else had. Miss Bolus? I couldn’t see Miss Bolus carrying away a body across her square young shoulders. She might have done. She had enough nerve, but I couldn’t quite sec her doing it. Who then? And who was the guy in the slouch hat who had sapped me? The killer?
That was as far as I got: not very far, but then I wasn’t in the condition for brilliant deductions. Brandon hammered on the door.
‘Come out of there, Malloy!’ he shouted.
I put down the razor, felt my chin and decided it was smooth enough, slipped on a bath robe and opened the door.
Brandon was standing just outside. He looked as amiable as a tiger and a lot more ferocious.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he said violently. ‘You either talk here or you’ll come down to the station.’
‘I’ll talk here,’ I said, moving over to the table where Miss Bolus had put the coffee. ‘What is it?’
I could hear her humming in the kitchen. She wouldn’t hum like that, I thought, pouring coffee, if she had seen Anita Cerf, let alone handled her. It couldn’t have been her. Who then?
Brandon said, ‘Where’s Benny?’
I wasn’t expecting that one. I wasn’t aware that he even knew Benny. I picked up the cup of coffee, held it a few inches below my nose and stared at him through the steam. It was good strong coffee. The smell of it made my mouth water.
‘You mean Ed Benny?’
‘Yes. Where is he?’
‘He’s in San Francisco.’
‘What’s he doing there?’
‘What’s it to you?’ I asked, sitting on the bed.
‘The San Francisco Police Department are asking.’
‘They are? Well, why don’t they ask him? What’s the idea?’
For no reason at all I felt a cold chill run up my spine. I put the cup of coffee down on the bedside table.
‘It’s no use asking him,’ Brandon said harshly. ‘He’s dead.’
The cold chill spread right across my back.
‘Benny? Dead?’ The voice didn’t sound like mine.
‘Yeah. The harbour police fished him out of Indian Basin,’
Brandon said, his eyes glued to my face. ‘His hands and feet were tied with piano wire. They reckoned he died around nine o’clock last night.’
III
I stood at the window and watched them go.
Brandon stamped down the path to the gate, the dead and chewed cigar pinched between clenched teeth and tight lips, an angry, frustrated look on his smooth, fat face. The uniformed cop who opened the car door for him, saluted, but even that didn’t seem to please him. He bundled himself into the car and glared back at the cabin as if he would like to set fire to it and kick the ashes into the sea.
Mifflin followed him into the car. Mifflin didn’t look angry, but he looked very thoughtful, and he was still apparently thinking when the car drove away.
I remained at the window, looking at the ocean without seeing it. Dana, Leadbetter, Anita and now Benny. The thing had suddenly gone mad: it wasn’t a murder case anymore. It was a massacre case.
I felt rather than heard Miss Bolus as she came to the door, and I could feel her watching me.