Double Take. Roy Huggins
Johnston said: “We got that on our honeymoon in Tijuana. Be careful with it.”
It was a good clear picture of a round-faced woman in tortoise-shell glasses. You couldn’t tell much about the color of the hair, but the eyes, hiding behind the tortoise-shell and glass were what stopped and held you. They were large and wide, with the remote subdued intelligence of a woman who has discovered the quality of sex and has come to terms with it. The pupils were without light, and the skin below the eyes was darker than the pale face, and it made them look deep-set and thoughtful.
I said: “Does she always wear glasses?”
“Not any more. She wore them when she was going to school. I don’t think it means anything.… There was another odd thing though: She lived like a Maharaja’s daughter at U.C.L.A. A swank apartment in Westwood, a cabin at Arrowhead, and all the accessories. But her personal fortune amounted to about six hundred dollars.”
I put the envelope away and stood up. Johnston came around the desk and walked with me to the door. He was a big man with lean shoulders, probably an inch taller than I. He didn’t slap me on the back.
“I know you’re going to find that things are just what Margaret says they are up there; so take it easy, and don’t show that picture around unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
I took hold of the mahogany-panelled door. “I’ll do my best. But you stir things up a little and get your information, or you let things lie and stay ignorant. It’s kind of hard to do both.”
“I’m paying you to get the information without stirring things up.”
“I’ll do my best,” I repeated. “But I’ll have to handle it my own way. If she hasn’t anything to hide, she’ll never know about me. But if there are any bodies buried she’ll know she’s being cased no matter how careful I am. She’ll probably find out I’m doing it. But she won’t know you’re behind it—at least not from me.”
Johnston nodded distantly and said, “All right, it’s in your hands. Good luck, and don’t stay any longer than you have to.” He shook my hand and turned back to his desk.
I said: “I suppose it’s occurred to you that the man on the telephone might have wanted you to do just what you’re doing.”
He wheeled around and shoved his hands into his pockets. He shook his head, grinned, and said, “Bailey, I can see why you don’t work for a salary. You wouldn’t last five minutes in the business world. No, it didn’t occur to me, and I don’t give a damn.”
I opened the door and grinned back at him. “By the way, you didn’t make that phone call yourself, did you?”
I thought I could still hear him laughing even after I closed the heavy door and walked away.
But I wasn’t trying to be funny. Not entirely anyway.
CHAPTER II
HANDLING it my own way meant one thing in particular: seeing Mrs. Ralph Johnston. Seeing her probably wasn’t the most cautious move in the world but the obvious one. I had checked with U.C.L.A. She was from Portland all right. Jefferson High School, 1937.
I drove out through the Holmby Hills where white mansions glare superciliously across raw terraced hill sides. At the end of Duarte Road I found the house, or at least the drive. The house was set back and was hidden by acacias and high-trimmed hedges. I made a U-turn and parked outside about thirty feet below the wide entrance. I walked up the shaded drive and along a curving flagstone path to the door. I had checked first and it was safe enough. Johnston was at his office. I pushed a protruding pink button and heard the chime sound far off like an echo in a deep well.
The door was opened by a gaunt, gray-haired woman. She had on a white uniform that looked almost as stiff as her face.
“Was there something?” She left the last word hanging in the air.
“I’m from the Treasury Department. I’d like to speak with Mrs. Johnston.”
Her face shifted a little, but it didn’t relax. “You have a card?”
“I’m just a working man. But I’m sure Mrs. Johnston will see a representative of her government. It’s Mr. Flood, War Bond Division.”
“I’ll see if Mrs. Johnston is in.” She walked away and left the door open. She wasn’t wearing the stiff dress. She was just walking around inside it.
Pretty soon she came back and asked me if I wouldn’t please come in. We walked down a short hall, turned and went down two steps into a large living room. She mumbled the name I’d given her and left, taking the stiff dress with her.
The room had been ordered by catalogue from a firm of interior decorators and then left as they delivered it. There was the current grouping of sofa, chairs, and coffee table about the fireplace. And there was a woman standing in the midst of it. She was wearing blue satin lounging pajamas that buttoned high at the neck, Chinese style
“Thanks for seeing me, Mrs. Johnston.”
“Not at all. Sit down.” She sat in a wing-chair upholstered in something designed by a truck gardener, and waved a cigarette at the sofa.
I sat down and looked at her. About five-feet-six and at least one hundred-forty-five pounds on the hoof. It wasn’t bone, she was just healthfully plump. In almost any other kind of clothes, you’d have called her voluptuous. Her hair was the kind of ash-brown that happens to people who were blondes when they were kids, and it was done up in no particular fashion. The eyes weren’t hiding behind glasses now, but they were the eyes of the picture, dark and steady, and as melancholy as an Irish fairy tale. Her nose was a little broad at the tip, and her mouth was wide and full. She was gazing at me with a thoughtful, remote expression that meant nothing at all. She might have been sizing me up with wary care, or thinking about the menu for dinner.
I said: “Mrs. Johnston, we’re contacting the wives of business leaders in the community to see if we can form a community bond sales group among the ladies. You know, we still want to sell bonds, and we feel that women with go-getter husbands probably have something of the go-getter in themselves.” I smiled at her idiotically.
She studied me with a quiet repose for what seemed a long time without saying anything. I was glad I wasn’t Mr. Flood from the Treasury Department. My day would be ruined. I would need a pep talk. Behind me, in the hall or in another room, I heard a a phone being dialled, faintly.
“Mr. Flood. I’m terribly sorry.” Her voice was low, throaty, but very quiet and very gentle, like her eyes. “But I’m afraid I’m not a ‘go-getter.’ I know I’d just be a burden on the group. I’m sorry.” She smiled. I could feel that smile down to my knee caps. It was wide. It was incongruous. It was lovely. But it didn’t change the eyes much.
“I can’t agree with you, Mrs. Johnston,” I said. “I think you are just what we’re looking for: intelligent, young, of good standing…”
* * * *
MRS. JOHNSTON’S smile froze and she leaned forward and knocked an ash from her cigarette into a crystal tray. She did it slowly, deliberately. When she looked up the thoughtful, neutral, expression was back again.
She shook her head and said: “Really, Mr. Flood, you will have to excuse me. The cause is fine…”
The tall gaunt woman interrupted her, standing vaguely on the stairs from the hall. “Can you answer the phone, Mrs. Johnston?”
She excused herself and they both disappeared down the hall to the left. I hadn’t heard a phone ring, and I had heard one being dialled. It didn’t have to mean anything. The bell might ring in another room, the kitchen maybe, or the den. Or maybe the maid had put in a call for her.
She was back in no time at all. She sat down again and pulled the smile up from nowhere, as bright and as lovely as ever.
“Tell me, Mr. Flood,