The Dream Walker Page 8

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Charley Ives, rather grimly. So he got her admitted. Charley Ives put her in that hospital. He had reasons, some of which I didn’t divine. I thought it was wondrous kind.

  So did Cora. I wonder how far Cora could see ahead.

  Darlene Hite read all about it. It didn’t occur to her to go to the police and tell all she knew and guessed. In the first place, to go to the police wasn’t a thing she’d been trained to think of as either a duty or a pleasure. In the second place, once the police succeeded in tracing the recent whereabouts of Ed Jones and found out about a female companion who had been acting so modestly furtive that she used false names, it couldn’t take them long to wonder whether she had some motive for getting rid of Mr. Jones. If the whole great hoax came out, no matter who told them, Darlene was in for it, because Ed’s knowledge of the plot was a nice fat motive for her. Finally, Ed Jones had died between 8:00 and 10:00 P.M. and while Darlene had left L.A. at 8:00 P.M., she had done it inconspicuously. She’d come a long way round about. She couldn’t possibly prove an alibi. And saddest of all, she had no faith that anyone in the world would help her.

  What she had was a cool head. Then and there, she looked thoughtfully far ahead. She knew Darlene had to take care of Darlene.

  Chapter Nine

  Brilliant! And what an improvement! (If you can stand where Kent Shaw stood.) Now there was publicity, all right. Now, as Mildred Garrick put it, it wasn’t funny. Now there was talk. How could a woman surrounded by witnesses in her own apartment in New York City discover a body in Southern California?

  But she had!

  So how do you explain it?

  If you insist it’s a trick, she’s mixed up in a murder and surely that’s pretty drastic. Who would go this far to get her name in the papers?

  And if it isn’t a trick, what then? She dreams, and dreaming, walks? She travels in a trance with another body at her disposal? She can be two places at once? Why, then, she is at the least a witness in a murder case. Legally? The Law is going to allow that she was in Southern California and New York, both places, on the night of March 28? Has she an alibi for this murder, or hasn’t she? What’s to prevent a woman of her talents from murdering or stealing or committing any other crime? If she’s not subject to the laws of time and space, what can a judge do to her?

  Cora was in the hospital, incommunicado.

  Who was this dead man, the papers cried, and answered. He was a man named Edward Jones. Born and raised in San Diego. Navy. Then a drifter. Seattle, Chicago. After Chicago, had dropped out of sight. Then he might have been the man in the tavern in Chicago. Was he the man in the snow in Colorado? The hint of violence there was remembered and quoted. AH HA, people cried. Then Cora Steffani, in her trance state at least, had reason for violence against this Jones. And she had killed him! But she was in New York, the tavern was in Chicago, the snow was in Colorado, and the body was in California.

  How it bred talk! I don’t suppose there was a hamlet in the land where the inhabitants did not ask each other’s theory about the Dream Walker. And the answers!

  Cora was in league with the Devil. Cora was a witch. Modern science is always rediscovering truth in old wives’ tales. There were witches, after all. And this settled it.

  Nonsense! Cora was insane. She had an insane capacity for telepathy. Science could swallow and digest that, somehow.

  Nonsense! Cora was a criminal. The whole series had been only to cover up this crime. Alibi before the fact, of course. Ever read thrillers?

  Nonsense! Cora Steffani had never, as far as could be discovered, even met this Edward Jones. Never been in San Diego. Or Seattle. Only briefly in Chicago. She was just an unfortunately gifted mystic, possibly a natural yogi. She was to be pitied. She hadn’t done it.

  Nonsense! She had a twin sister, unknown to herself, and there was this famous correspondence between twins. And the twin had done it.

  Nonsense! Cora did it. Because she was really a Martian, and Ed Jones had known that, and we are all being watched by Beings from Outer Space.

  Nonsense! The whole thing is just a publicity stunt.

  Murder? Oh, nonsense!

  Miss Reynolds called me into her office. “Miss Hudson, you’ve been close to this Cora Steffani? I believe you’ve even been staying with her, have you not?”

  “I’ve known her for seventeen years, Miss Reynolds.”

  “She’s in a hospital, now, I understand.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you go to see her?”

  “Of course.”

  Miss Reynolds pursed up her mouth until little vertical wrinkles made a mustache. “My dear, is it wise?”

  “If wisdom comes into it,” I began slowly.

  “Oh, but surely it does. Olivia”—she didn’t often call me Olivia and this was ominous—“I’m sure you must know that your influence with these girls is considerable.”

  “I know there is responsibility.”

  “You have a certain gift,” she said. “They are drawn to you. Now I have thought of you as a fine influence. I’ve congratulated the school for having on its staff a real lady. An old-fashioned term, but I can’t think of another that comes so close to expressing the quality of graciousness and kindness and devotion to ideals.”

  “Thank you,” I said, knowing perfectly well where all this buttering-up was going, “but if I abandon an old friend because she is in some rather sensational trouble, I’m afraid I wouldn’t begin to deserve all that you are saying.”

  Miss Reynolds frowned. Then she broke down. “What’s behind all this nonsense?” she wanted to know.

  “I wish I could tell you. I can guess that she’s gotten herself into a mess she didn’t foresee. I know she is very much frightened. And I know that hardly anyone looks at her without seeing a freak, one kind or another. I don’t know what to believe, Miss Reynolds, beyond that. The fact that she really is frightened. Of course, I could drop her. Let her be afraid by herself. It sounds as if it would be easy. Like drawing your skirts in close and walking away from someone who had fallen down in the mud. Maybe you wouldn’t get physically dirty. I’m talking to myself, don’t you see? I know I am in a strange position and I’m not entirely sure what’s right to do. I’m quite aware that a teacher is an example. Perhaps you can help me, Miss Reynolds?”

  She was looking more and more uneasy.

  “Suppose,” I said, “an old friend had done something very silly and it goes too far and something wicked enters in, and she is frightened and asks for you? Do you say, ‘No. You got yourself into this mess and I wash my hands’?”

  Miss Reynolds said, “I may have to fire you.” But she used the slang term and her smile was warm, although somewhat rueful.

  “I realize that you may,” I said.

  “What do you tell the girls?”

  “I try to be … steady,” I said. “I tell them that you needn’t be blindly loyal, but you mustn’t be blindly contemptuous either. And when you don’t really know enough to understand thoroughly, perhaps you should take the risk on the side of kindness.” I could feel my occupation slipping out from under me. “I don’t think that much will contaminate you, really,” I said.

  Miss Reynolds leaned back in her chair. “We are committed to sobriety and security, here,” she said rather grimly, “but if you can hold it steady, as you put it, let’s not be committed to cowardice.” And she sniffed. “For a gentlewoman,” she said, “you are a creature of some force. I was going to preach to you.”

  “Miss Reynolds,” I said, “I love this work beyond almost anything else in my life. The trouble is, all teachers preach. If I don’t practice, then I should resign. I’m groping along. I confess I do think Cora Steffani is something of a fraud. I think she has been lying and I’m sorry that it’s so. But I don’t think she is a criminal.”

  “And if one day you do?”

  “Why,” I said ignorantly, “I suppose I will still be sorry that it’s so.”
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br />   (What an ivory tower I was in! It makes me squirm to remember. The world can’t do without kindness. Or anger, either. And live and learn and, if I live, I will have learned.)

  But I wasn’t fired, that day, and I kept on seeing Cora.

  Knowledge of the plot was now confined to the original four. Darlene was busy looking out for Darlene. Raymond Pankerman may have been shocked, but he was helpless. If he exposed Kent Shaw he, himself, was probably an accessory, for after all he had financed his murder. And his revenge, so close now, would be out the window. He kept silent. The thing was out of any control of his. Kent Shaw was running the show. And he lay low. By some definitions, at least, he was pushing madness. Perhaps he gloated. The publicity was a deluge.

  All the past was dragged out, tapes, interviews, witnesses. Hysterically by the papers. Soberly by the police. Maybe it was significant that comedians didn’t touch it, based no gags upon it. People were somewhat afraid.

  Cora was examined and cross-examined. But all the police got from her was the same impossible story. Dr. Harper had admitted her to the small hospital on the West Side where she was to be “observed.” They kept people out. She would see no one but the police, when she had to, and me when I could come. And Charley Ives, of course. (When I went to pay her hospital bills I found that Charley was taking care of them.)

  I know something about her thoughts and guess more. Cora was horrified because a dead body was a plain and simple horror that even she could see. (Whereas, a dead, a murdered reputation was only part of the game she thought life was.) While she shivered in the dread that Ed Jones’ death was just what it seemed to be—murder, and cold-blooded, too—still she tried to imagine that it could have been an accident. She had cut herself off from the communication point, that tearoom. Kent Shaw was still in Los Angeles, anyhow. So she waited.

  What was she to do? Destroy herself? She had already hesitated too long. It seemed to her that the secret must be kept. But was that possible? There were three others who must never tell. Darlene, Cora did not know, had never seen in her life. But Darlene was being silent and Cora could guess her reasons and find them at least as powerful as her own. Raymond Pankerman was being silent. But she knew he wanted results, and she must have wondered if, failing his revenge, he would forever keep silent. Kent Shaw also wanted results, or he didn’t get paid. Now she knew Kent Shaw. She knew that if she did not go on with the next step of the plot, Kent Shaw, in rage and frustration, might very possibly, in one grand gesture of self-destruction, broach the secret and destroy her, too. It looked to her as if “results” were indicated. Yet it would take tremendous nerve to go on.

  I think she wavered. She began to feel fairly safe, protected as she was, with no assaults upon her nerves but those that came in print. And I was standing by, and Charley Ives.… Why not leave off, neither tell nor continue? Simply stop, now, and let there be no more of it? For the buildup was over. The next step was the big one, against Marcus. And Marcus was dearly beloved of Charley and me. She must have weighed the benefits of our partisanship against her fear of what Kent Shaw might do. I know when she decided which way to take the risk.

  This Bud Gray, this big quiet man I’d met once before, became very much interested in the whole affair. One day I was in the tiny shop one could enter from the ground floor of the hospital, a convenient little corner where a visitor to the sick could find a gift, a magazine, or a snack. Charley came in with Mr. Gray.

  Charley and I had been avoiding most gingerly any discussion of Cora and her behavior. I’d said I wouldn’t talk behind her back and Charley scrupulously respected my decree. But Bud Gray had no such inhibition. They climbed up on stools on either side of me. “She let you in, too, eh?” Gray said to me. I nodded. “Have you tried to get her to talk?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “Don’t you think you should?”

  “Cousin Ollie thinks Cora needs a friend who won’t ask questions,” Charley said.

  “Who doesn’t?” Bud Gray remarked. “But we’d like to know who killed a man.” They both looked down at me.

  “If she wants to tell me anything,” I murmured, “she knows she can.”

  “Would you respect her confidence?”

  “Why, not if it was murder,” I muttered.

  “Then she won’t tell you it was murder.”

  “She won’t because she certainly didn’t murder anyone,” I said. “I was there.”

  “What do you think is going on, Miss Hudson?”

  I shook my head. I’d been feeling trapped and miserable for days.

  Gray said, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think she’s got an accomplice and the accomplice put the body in the ferns. I think that’s obvious. Cora could tell us where to find her. Not telling us constitutes accessory after the fact.”

  “That’s right,” said Charley.

  “Not telling you,” I exploded. “Are you policemen?”

  Gray smiled. I was looking at his face. But I could tell that Charley’s eyes were flicking messages over my head and I nearly fell off the stool. Suddenly I was sure that Bud Gray was a policeman in some fashion and I thought it must be some very secret fashion, too.

  “Let’s say this crazy affair has got me fascinated,” Gray said. “And murder, to coin a phrase, is everybody’s business, isn’t it?”

  I’d been having a soda. I gnashed my straw.

  “Now, look here, Miss Hudson. Somebody has got to break that woman down. You wouldn’t condone a murder, or so you said.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” I said. “But I don’t know that Cora had anything to do.…”

  The two of them were silent for a moment.

  “She has to know,” said Charley.

  “Did you know your friend Cora was pretty pink some years ago?” Gray asked rather tartly. “How do you stand on that sort of thing?”

  “Where I think I should,” I said haughtily. “What did she do? What is she doing now? I’d have to know quite a lot about it and see some evidence before I’d take a stand.”

  “You see, my cousin Ollie never, never judges people without full knowledge,” Charley said gently. His voice had an undertone that made me turn and his look made tears of humiliation start in my eyes.

  “Are you a policeman, Charley, my boy?” I said in my most teacherish voice, to cover what I was feeling. Charley said nothing, but I felt light bursting and searing me, too.

  “Charley gets around,” said Bud Gray very lightly. But it seemed to me that they had told me, these two big men who worked at something while I, and so many others, slept. I was crying to myself, Why haven’t I known! Charley in Europe after the war, Charley in Japan wasn’t in the front lines all that time. Of course, he was a policeman, in some secret way, and couldn’t tell. (He must have promised!) I was ready to weep that I’d been so stupid.

  “How p-pink is she?” I stammered. “What is it? Tell me.”

  Charley leaned his head on one hand. “Bud thinks he can needle you. He doesn’t know you. About Cora, I can give you an opinion. She was fashionably pink, in the old days when that was fashionable. So much you probably remember, too. But in my opinion, Cora never really held a political thought in her head and never will. She belongs to a profession that doesn’t always have much connection with reality. She thought it was the smart thing. Then when the style changed, she changed her ideas just as she would have changed her hem line. I will say that at one time she was acquainted with some who weren’t so superficial. But she doesn’t see them anymore.”

  I felt furious with Charley Ives, just as you would feel if you’d scolded a person for lying abed on a sunny day, and then found out he hadn’t mentioned his broken leg. And I resented his crack about the profession. I believed that theater prople, like any artists, had to be more alert and more informed about reality than anybody else. At which, of course, I’d failed, not to know that Charley Ives was up to something! Everything was humiliating.

  “Put it plain, then,”
said Gray. “Do you think Cora Steffani would talk to you?”

  I suppose, to keep the silly tears from spilling over, I made my face proud. With some effort I considered what he was saying. I shook my head. “We are not confidantes, as you can see. Besides, I’m not cut out to be a spy.”

  Charley said, “It’s not high-minded, is it, Teacher?” His big shoulders heaved. (We were fighting.) “Acting, on the stage, you see, Bud, that’s art. But in real life, it’s something sneaky and low.”

  “Everybody acts, in real life,” I said. “And sometimes it’s sneaky and sometimes it’s self-control. And nobody’s talking about art.”

  “Let’s not be sneaky,” he said as if he hadn’t heard me. “Let murder go.”

  Gray said, “We were talking about murder, weren’t we? Well, Charley, I guess I was wrong. I thought she might help us. Never mind,” he said to me. “It isn’t any job for a lady schoolteacher.”

  I was so mad I could hardly see. “You were married to Cora once, Charley, my boy,” I said coldly, “and might as well be now. Aren’t you in her confidence? Why can’t you break her down? You should know how.”

  Charley’s face wasn’t saying anything. “Maybe you’re right, Teacher. Maybe I better go up,” Charley said, “and in my own crude way do what I can.”

  He left us, not so much as looking backward, and Mr. Gray and I sat side by side.

  “I suppose he’s very good at it,” I sniffed forlornly.

  “Who’s good at what?”

  “Charley Ives. At this secret kind of police job.”

  “What job? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Bud Gray wasn’t going to tell me anything. He moved his soft-drink glass in slow circles. “Charley’s a good citizen, shall we say?”

  “Oh, certainly. That’s what we’ll say,” I said from the depths and blew my nose.

  “It’s the bizarre, the time-and-space angle, that fascinates me about this business,” Gray said ruminatively.

  “Practically makes a Federal Case out of it.” He grinned. “But the other woman must be plenty smart.”