The Detweiler Boy
by Tom Reamy


The room had been cleaned with pine-oil disinfectant and smelled like a public
toilet. Harry Spinner was on the floor behind the bed, scrunched down between
it and the wall. The almost colorless chenille bedspread had been pulled askew
exposing part of the clean but dingy sheet. All I could see of Harry was one
leg poking over the edge of the bed. He wasn't wearing a shoe, only a faded
brown and tan argyle sock with a hole in it. The sock, long bereft of any
elasticity, was crumpled around his thin rusty ankle.

I closed the door quietly behind me and walked around the end of the bed so I
could see all of him. He was huddled on his back with his elbows propped up by
the wall and the bed. His throat had been cut. The blood hadn't spread very
far. Most of it had been soaked up by the threadbare carpet under the bed. I
looked around the grubby little room but didn't find anything. There were no
signs of a struggle, no signs of forced entry—but then, my BankAmericard
hadn't left any signs either. The window was open, letting in the muffled roar
of traffic on the Boulevard. I stuck my head out and looked, but it was three
stories straight down to the neon-lit marquee of the movie house.

It had been nearly two hours since Harry called me. "Bertram, my boy, I've run
across something very peculiar. I don't really know what to make of it."

I had put away the report I was writing on Lucas McGowan's hyperactive wife.
(She had a definite predilection for gas-pump jockeys, car-wash boys, and
parking-lot attendants. I guess it had something to do with the Age of the
Automobile.) I propped my feet on my desk and leaned back until the old swivel
chair groaned a protest.

"What did you find this time, Harry? A nest of international spies or an
invasion from Mars?" I guess Harry Spinner wasn't much use to anyone, not even
himself, but I liked him. He'd helped me in a couple of cases, nosing around
in places only the Harry Spinners of the world can nose around in unnoticed. I
was beginning to get the idea he was trying to play Doctor Watson to my
Sherlock Holmes.

"Don't tease me, Bertram. There's a boy here in the hotel. I saw something I
don't think he wanted me to see. It's extremely odd."

Harry was also the only person in the world, except my mother, who called me
Bertram. "What did you see?"

"I'd rather not talk about it over the phone. Can you come over?"

Harry saw too many old private-eye movies on the late show. "It'll be a while.
I've got a client coming in in a few minutes to pick up the poop on his
wandering wife."

"Bertram, you shouldn't waste your time and talent on divorce cases."

"It pays the bills, Harry. Besides, there aren't enough Maltese falcons to go
around."

By the time I filled Lucas McGowan in on all the details (I got the impression
he was less concerned with his wife's infidelity than with her taste; that it
wouldn't have been so bad if she'd been shacking up with movie stars or
international playboys), collected my fee, and grabbed a Thursday special at
Colonel Sanders', almost two hours had passed. Harry hadn't answered my knock,
and so I let myself in with a credit card.

Birdie Pawlowicz was a fat, slovenly old broad somewhere between forty and two
hundred. She was blind in her right eye and wore a black felt patch over it.
She claimed she had lost the eye in a fight with a Creole whore over a
riverboat gambler. I believed her. She ran the Brewster Hotel the way Florence
Nightingale must have run that stinking army hospital in the Crimea. Her
tenants were the losers habitating that rotting section of the Boulevard east
of the Hollywood Freeway. She bossed them, cursed them, loved them, and took
care of them. (Once, a couple of years ago, a young black buck thought an old
fat lady with one eye would make easy pickings. The cops found him three days
later, two blocks away, under some rubbish in an alley where he'd hidden. He
had a broken arm, two cracked ribs, a busted nose, a few missing teeth, and
was stone-dead from internal hemorrhaging.)

The Brewster ran heavily in the red, but Birdie didn't mind. She had quite a
bit of property in Westwood which ran very, very heavily in the black. She
gave me an obscene leer as I approached the desk, but her good eye twinkled.

"Hello, lover!" she brayed in a voice like a cracked boiler. "I've lowered my
price to a quarter. Are you interested?" She saw my face and her expression
shifted from lewd to wary. "What's wrong, Bert?"

"Harry Spinner. You'd better get the cops, Birdie. Somebody killed him."

She looked at me, not saying anything, her face slowly collapsing into an
infinitely weary resignation. Then she turned and telephoned the police.

Because it was just Harry Spinner at the Brewster Hotel on the wrong end of
Hollywood Boulevard, the cops took over half an hour to get there. While we
waited I told Birdie everything I knew, about the phone call and what I'd
found.

"He must have been talking about the Detweiler boy," she said, frowning.
"Harry's been kinda friendly with him, felt sorry for him, I guess."

"What's his room? I'd like to talk to him."

"He checked out."

"When?"

"Just before you came down."

"Damn!"

She bit her lip. "I don't think the Detweiler boy killed him."

"Why?"

"I just don't think he could. He's such a gentle boy."

"Oh, Birdie," I groaned, "you know there's no such thing as a killer type.
Almost anyone will kill with a good enough reason."

"I know," she sighed, "but I still can't believe it." She tapped her scarlet
fingernails on the dulled Formica desktop. "How long had Harry been dead?"

He had phoned me about ten after five. I had found the body at seven. "A
while," I said. "The blood was mostly dry."
"Before six-thirty?"

"Probably."

She sighed again, but this time with relief. "The Detweiler boy was down here
with me until six-thirty. He'd been here since about four-fifteen. We were
playing gin. He was having one of his spells and wanted company."

"What kind of spell? Tell me about him, Birdie."

"But he couldn't have killed Harry," she protested.

"Okay," I said, but I wasn't entirely convinced. Why would anyone deliberately
and brutally murder inoffensive, invisible Harry Spinner right after he told
me he had discovered something "peculiar" about the Detweiler boy? Except the
Detweiler boy?

"Tell me anything. If he and Harry were friendly, he might know something. Why
do you keep calling him a boy; how old is he?"

She nodded and leaned her bulk on the registration desk. "Early twenties,
twenty-two, twenty-three, maybe. Not very tall, about five-five or -six. Slim,
dark curly hair, a real good-looking boy. Looks like a movie star except for
his back."

"His back?"

"He has a hump. He's a hunchback."

That stopped me for a minute, but I'm not sure why. I must've had a mental
picture of Charles Laughton riding those bells or Igor stealing that brain
from the laboratory. "He's good-looking and he's a hunchback?"

"Sure." She raised her eyebrows. The one over the patch didn't go up as high
as the other. "If you see him from the front, you can't even tell."

"What's his first name?"

"Andrew."

"How long has he been living here?"

She consulted a file card. "He checked in last Friday night. The
twenty-second. Six days."

"What's this spell he was having?"

"I don't know for sure. It was the second one he'd had. He would get pale and
nervous. I think he was in a lot of pain. It would get worse and worse all
day; then he'd be fine, all rosy and healthy-looking."

"Sounds to me like he was hurtin' for a fix."

"I thought so at first, but I changed my mind. I've seen enough of that and it
wasn't the same. Take my word. He was real bad this evening. He came down
about four-fifteen, like I said. He didn't complain, but I could tell he was
wantin' company to take his mind off it. We played gin until six-thirty. Then
he went back upstairs. About twenty minutes later he came down with his old
suitcase and checked out. He looked fine, all over his spell."
"Did he have a doctor?"

"I'm pretty sure he didn't. I asked him about it. He said there was nothing to
worry about, it would pass. And it did."

"Did he say why he was leaving or where he was going?"

"No, just said he was restless and wanted to be movin' on. Sure hated to see
him leave. A real nice kid."

When the cops finally got there, I told them all I knew—except I didn't
mention the Detweiler boy. I hung around until I found out that Harry almost
certainly wasn't killed after six-thirty. They set the time somewhere between
five-ten, when he called me, and six. It looked like Andrew Detweiler was
innocent, but what "peculiar" thing had Harry noticed about him, and why he
had moved out right after Harry was killed? Birdie let me take a look at his
room, but I didn't find a thing, not even an abandoned paper clip.

Friday morning I sat at my desk trying to put the pieces together. Trouble
was, I only had two pieces and they didn't fit. The sun was coming in off the
Boulevard, shining through the window, projecting the chipping letters painted
on the glass against the wall in front of me. BERT MALLORY Confidential
Investigations. I got up and looked out. This section of the Boulevard wasn't
rotting yet, but it wouldn't be long.

There's one sure gauge for judging a part of town: the movie theaters. It
never fails. For instance, a new picture hadn't opened in downtown L.A. in a
long, long time. The action ten years ago was on the Boulevard. Now it's in
Westwood. The grand old Pantages, east of Vine and too near the freeway, used
to be the site of the most glittering premieres. They even had the Oscar
ceremonies there for a while. Now it shows exploitation and double-feature
horror films. Only Graumann's Chinese and the once Paramount, once Loew's, now
Downtown Cinema (or something) at the west end got good openings. The Nu-View,
across the street and down, was showing an X-rated double feature. It was too
depressing. So I closed the blind.

Miss Tremaine looked up from her typing at the rattle and frowned. Her desk
was out in the small reception area, but I had arranged both desks so we could
see each other and talk in normal voices when the door was open. It stayed
open most of the time except when I had a client who felt secretaries
shouldn't know his troubles. She had been transcribing the Lucas McGowan
report for half an hour, humphing and tsk-tsking at thirty-second intervals.
She was having a marvelous time. Miss Tremaine was about forty-five, looked
like a constipated librarian, and was the best secretary I'd ever had. She'd
been with me seven years. I'd tried a few young and sexy ones, but it hadn't
worked out. Either they wouldn't play at all, or they wanted to play all the
time. Both kinds were a pain in the ass to face first thing in the morning,
every morning.

"Miss Tremaine, will you get Gus Verdugo on the phone, please?"

"Yes, Mr. Mallory." She dialed the phone nimbly, sitting as if she were
wearing a back brace.

Gus Verdugo worked in R&I. I had done him a favor once, and he insisted on
returning it tenfold. I gave him everything I had on Andrew Detweiler and
asked him if he'd mind running it through the computer. He wouldn't mind. He
called back in fifteen minutes. The computer had never heard of Andrew
Detweiler and had only seven hunchbacks, none of them fitting Detweiler's
description.

I was sitting there, wondering how in hell I would find him, when the phone
rang again. Miss Tremaine stopped typing and lifted the receiver without
breaking rhythm. "Mr. Mallory's office," she said crisply, really letting the
caller know he'd hooked onto an efficient organization. She put her hand over
the mouthpiece and looked at me. "It's for you—an obscene phone call." She
didn't bat an eyelash or twitch a muscle.

"Thanks," I said and winked at her. She dropped the receiver back on the
cradle from a height of three inches and went back to typing. Grinning, I
picked up my phone. "Hello, Janice," I said

"Just a minute till my ear stops ringing," the husky voice tickled my ear.

"What are you doing up this early?" I asked. Janice Fenwick was an exotic
dancer at a club on the Strip nights and was working on her master's in
oceanography at UCLA in the afternoons. In the year I'd known her I'd seldom
seen her stick her nose into the sunlight before eleven.

"I had to catch you before you started following that tiresome woman with the
car."

"I've finished that. She's picked up her last parking-lot attendant—at least
with this husband." I chuckled.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"What's up?"

"I haven't had an indecent proposition from you in days. So I thought I'd make
own of my own."

"I'm all ears."

"We're doing some diving off Catalina tomorrow. Want to come along?"

"Not much we can do in a wetsuit."

"The wetsuit comes off about four; then we'll have Saturday night and all of
Sunday."

"Best indecent proposition I've had all week."

Miss Tremaine humphed. It might have been over something in the report, but I
don't think it was.

I picked up Janice at her apartment in Westwood early Saturday morning. She
was waiting for me and came striding out to the car all legs and healthy
golden flesh. She was wearing white shorts, sneakers, and that damned Dallas
Cowboys jersey. It was authentic. The name and number on it were quite
well-known—even to non–football fans. She wouldn't tell me how she got it,
just smirked and looked smug. She tossed her suitcase in the backseat and slid
up against me. She smelled like sunshine.

We flew over and spent most of the day glubbing around in the Pacific with a
bunch of kids fifteen years younger than I and five years younger than Janice.
I'd been on these jaunts with Janice before and enjoyed them so much I'd
bought my own wetsuit. But I didn't enjoy it nearly as much as I did Saturday
night and all of Sunday.
I got back to my apartment on Beachwood fairly late Sunday night and barely
had time to get something to eat at the Mexican restaurant around the corner
on Melrose. They have marvelous carne asada. I live right across the street
from Paramount, right across from the door people go in to see them tape The
Odd Couple. Every Friday night when I see them lining up out there, I think I
might go someday, but I never seem to get around to it. (You might think I'd
see a few movie stars living where I do, but I haven't. I did see Seymour
occasionally when he worked at Channel 9, before he went to work for Gene
Autry at Channel 5.)

I was so pleasantly pooped I completely forgot about Andrew Detweiler. Until
Monday morning when I was sitting at my desk reading the Times.

It was a small story on page three, not very exciting or newsworthy. Last
night a man named Maurice Milian, age 51, had fallen through the plate glass
doors leading onto the terrace of the high rise where he lived. He had been
discovered about midnight when the people living below him had noticed dried
blood on their terrace. The only thing to connect the deaths of Harry Spinner
and Maurice Milian was a lot of blood flowing around. If Milian had been
murdered, there might be a link, however tenuous. But Milian's death was
accidental—a dumb, stupid accident. It niggled around in my brain for an hour
before I gave in. There was only one way to get it out of my head.

"Miss Tremaine, I'll be back in an hour or so. If any slinky blondes come in
wanting me to find their kid sisters, tell 'em to wait."

She humphed again and ignored me.

The Almsbury was half a dozen blocks away on Yucca. So I walked. It was a
rectangular monolith about eight stories tall, not real new, not too old, but
expensive-looking. The small terraces protruded in neat, orderly rows. The
long, narrow grounds were immaculate with a lot of succulents that looked like
they might have been imported from Mars. There were also the inevitable palm
trees and clumps of birds of paradise. A small, discreet, polished placard
dangled in a wrought-iron frame proclaiming, ever so softly, NO VACANCY.

Two willowy young men gave me appraising glances in the carpeted lobby as they
exited into the sunlight like exotic jungle birds. It's one of those, I
thought. My suspicions were confirmed when I looked over the tenant directory.
All the names seemed to be male, but none of them was Andrew Detweiler.

Maurice Milian was still listed as 407. I took the elevator to four and rang
the bell of 409. The bell played a few notes of Bach, or maybe Vivaldi or
Telemann. All those old Baroques sound alike to me. The vision of loveliness
who opened the door was about forty, almost as slim as Twiggy but as tall as
I. He wore a flowered silk shirt open to the waist, exposing his bony hairless
chest, and tight white pants that might as well have been made of Saran Wrap.
He didn't say anything, just let his eyebrows rise inquiringly as his eyes
flicked down, then up.

"Good morning," I said and showed him my ID. He blanched. His eyes became
marbles brimming with terror. He was about to panic, tensing to slam the door.
I smiled my friendly, disarming smile and went on as if I hadn't noticed. "I'm
inquiring about a man named Andrew Detweiler." The terror trickled from his
eyes, and I could see his thin chest throbbing. He gave me a blank look that
meant he'd never heard the name.

"He's about twenty-two," I continued, "dark, curly hair, very good-looking."
He grinned wryly, calming down, trying to cover his panic. "Aren't they all?"
he said.

"Detweiler is a hunchback."

His smile contracted suddenly. His eyebrows shot up. "Oh," he said. "Him."

Bingo!

Mallory, you've led a clean, wholesome life and it's paying off.

"Does he live in the building?" I swallowed to get my heart back in place and
blinked a couple of times to clear away the skyrockets.

"No. He was … visiting."

"May I come in and talk to you about him?"

He was holding the door three-quarters shut, and so I couldn't see anything in
the room but an expensive-looking color TV. He glanced over his shoulder
nervously at something behind him. The inner ends of his eyebrows drooped in a
frown. He looked back at me and started to say something, then, with a small
defiance, shrugged his eyebrows. "Sure, but there's not much I can tell you."

He pushed the door all the way open and stepped back. It was a good-sized
living room come to life from the pages of a decorator magazine. A kitchen
behind a half wall was on my right. A hallway led somewhere on my left.
Directly in front of me were double sliding glass doors leading to the
terrace. On the terrace was a bronzed hunk of beef stretched out nude trying
to get bronzer. The hunk opened his eyes and looked at me. He apparently
decided I wasn't competition and closed them again. Tall and lanky indicated
one of two identical orange-and-brown-striped couches facing each other across
a football field–size marble and glass cocktail table. He sat on the other
one, took a cigarette from an alabaster box and lit it with an alabaster
lighter. As an afterthought, he offered me one.

"Who was Detweiler visiting?" I asked as I lit my cigarette. The lighter felt
cool and expensive in my hand.

"Maurice—next door," he inclined his head slightly toward 407.

"Isn't he the one who was killed in an accident last night?"

He blew a stream of smoke from pursed lips and tapped his cigarette on an
alabaster ashtray. "Yes," he said.

"How long had Maurice and Detweiler known each other?"

"Not long."

"How long?"

He snuffed his cigarette out on pure white alabaster and sat so prim and
pristine I would have bet his feces came out wrapped in cellophane. He
shrugged his eyebrows again. "Maurice picked him up somewhere the other
night."

"Which night?"
He thought a moment. "Thursday, I think. Yes, Thursday."

"Was Detweiler a hustler?"

He crossed his legs like a forties pinup and dangled his Roman sandal. His
lips twitched scornfully. "If he was, he would've starved. He was de-formed!"

"Maurice didn't seem to mind." He sniffed and lit another cigarette. "When did
Detweiler leave?"

He shrugged. "I saw him yesterday afternoon. I was out last night … until
quite late."

"How did they get along? Did they quarrel or fight?"

"I have no idea. I only saw them in the hall a couple of times. Maurice and I
were … not close." He stood, fidgety. "There's really not anything I can tell
you. Why don't you ask David and Murray. They and Maurice are … were thick as
thieves."

"David and Murray?"

"Across the hall. 408."

I stood up. "I'll do that. Thank you very much." I looked at the plate glass
doors. I guess it would be pretty easy to walk through one of them if you
thought it was open. "Are all the apartments alike? Those terrace doors?"

He nodded. "Ticky-tacky."

"Thanks again."

"Don't mention it." He opened the door for me and then closed it behind me. I
sighed and walked across to 408. I rang the bell. It didn't play anything,
just went bing-bong.

David (or Murray) was about twenty-five, red-headed, and freckled. He had a
slim, muscular body which was also freckled. I could tell because he was
wearing only a pair of jeans, cut off very short, and split up the sides to
the waistband. He was barefooted and had a smudge of green paint on his nose.
He had an open, friendly face and gave me a neutral smile-for-a-stranger.
"Yes?" he asked.

I showed him my ID. Instead of going pale he only looked interested. "I was
told by the man in 409 you might be able to tell me something about Andrew
Detweiler."

"Andy?" He frowned slightly. "Come on in. I'm David Fowler." He held out his
hand.

I shook it. "Bert Mallory." The apartment couldn't have been more different
from the one across the hall. It was comfortable and cluttered, and dominated
by a drafting table surrounded by jars of brushes and boxes of paint tubes.
Architecturally, however, it was almost identical. The terrace was covered
with potted plants rather than naked muscles. David Fowler sat on the stool at
the drafting table and began cleaning brushes. When he sat, the split in his
shorts opened and exposed half his butt, which was also freckled. But I got
the impression he wasn't exhibiting himself; he was just completely
indifferent.
"What do you want to know about Andy?"

"Everything."

He laughed. "That lets me out. Sit down. Move the stuff."

I cleared a space on the couch and sat. "How did Detweiler and Maurice get
along?"

He gave me a knowing look. "Fine. As far as I know. Maurice liked to pick up
stray puppies. Andy was a stray puppy."

"Was Detweiler a hustler?"

He laughed again. "No. I doubt if he knew what the word means."

"Was he gay?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

He grinned. "Haven't you heard? We can spot each other a mile away. Would you
like some coffee?"

"Yes, I would. Thank you."

He went to the half wall separating the kitchen and poured two cups from a pot
that looked like it was kept hot and full all the time. "It's hard to describe
Andy. There was something very little-boyish about him. A real innocent.
Delighted with everything new. It's sad about his back. Real sad." He handed
me a cup and returned to the stool. "There was something very secretive about
him. Not about his feelings; he was very open about things like that."

"Did he and Maurice have sex together?"

"No. I told you it was a stray puppy relationship. I wish Murray was here.
He's much better with words than I am. I'm visually oriented."

"Where is he?"

"At work. He's a lawyer."

"Do you think Detweiler could have killed Maurice?"

"No."

"Why?"

"He was here with us all evening. We had dinner and played Scrabble. I think
he was real sick, but he tried to pretend he wasn't. Even if he hadn't been
here I would not think so."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"He left about a half hour before they found Maurice. I imagine he went over
there, saw Maurice dead, and decided to disappear. Can't say I blame him. The
police might've gotten some funny ideas. We didn't mention him."

"Why not?"
"There was no point in getting him involved. It was just an accident."

"He couldn't have killed Maurice after he left here?"

"No. They said he's been dead over an hour. What did Desmond tell you?"

"Desmond?"

"Across the hall. The one who looks like he smells something bad."

"How did you know I talked to him and not the side of beef?"

He laughed and almost dropped his coffee cup. "I don't think Roy can talk."

"He didn't know nothin' about nothin'." I found myself laughing also. I got up
and walked to the glass doors. I slid them open and then shut again. "Did you
ever think one of these was open when it was really shut?"

"No. But I've heard of it happening."

I sighed. "So have I." I turned and looked at what he was working on at the
drafting table. It was a small painting of a boy and girl, she in a soft white
dress, and he in jeans and T-shirt. They looked about fifteen. They were
embracing, about to kiss. It was quite obviously the first time for both of
them. It was good. I told him so.

He grinned with pleasure. "Thanks. It's for a paperback cover."

"Whose idea was it that Detweiler have dinner and spend the evening with
you?"

He thought for a moment. "Maurice." He looked up at me and grinned. "Do you
know stamps?"

It took me a second to realize what he meant. "You mean stamp collecting? Not
much."

"Maurice was a philatelist. He specialized in postwar Germany—locals and
zones, things like that. He'd gotten a kilo of buildings and wanted to sort
them undisturbed."

I shook my head. "You've lost me. A kilo of buildings."

He laughed. "It's a set of twenty-eight stamps issued in the American Zone in
1948 showing famous German buildings. Conditions in Germany were still pretty
chaotic at the time, and the stamps were printed under fairly makeshift
circumstances. Consequently, there's an enormous variety of different
perforations, watermarks, and engravings. Hundreds as a matter of fact.
Maurice could spend hours and hours poring over them."

"Are they valuable?"

"No. Very common. Some of the varieties are hard to find, but they're not
valuable." He gave me a knowing look. "Nothing was missing from Maurice's
apartment."

I shrugged. "It had occurred to me to wonder where Detweiler got his money."

"I don't know. The subject never came up." He wasn't being defensive.
"You liked him, didn't you?"

There was a weary sadness in his eyes. "Yes," he said.

That afternoon I picked up Birdie Pawlowicz at the Brewster Hotel and took her
to Harry Spinner's funeral. I told her about Maurice Milian and Andrew
Detweiler. We talked it around and around. The Detweiler boy obviously
couldn't' have killed Harry or Milian, but it was stretching coincidence a
little bit far.

After the funeral I went to the Los Angeles Public Library and started
checking back issues of the Times. I'd only made it back three weeks when the
library closed. The LA Times is thick, and unless the death is sensational or
the dead prominent, the story might be tucked in anywhere except the
classifieds.

Last Tuesday, the 26th, a girl had cut her wrists with a razor blade in North
Hollywood.

The day before, Monday, the 25th, a girl had miscarried and hemorrhaged. She
had bled to death because she and her boyfriend were stoned out of their
heads. They lived a block off Western—very near the Brewster—and Detweiler was
at the Brewster Monday.

Sunday, the 24th, a wino had been knifed in MacArthur Park.

Saturday, the 23rd, I had three. A knifing in a bar on Pico, a shooting in a
rooming house on Irolo, and a rape and knifing in an alley off LaBrea. Only
the gunshot victim had bled to death, but there had been a lot of blood in all
three.

Friday, the 22nd, the same day Detweiler checked into the Brewster, a
two-year-old boy had fallen on an upturned rake in his backyard on
Larchemont—only eight or ten blocks from where I lived on Beachwood. And a
couple of Chicano kids had had a knife fight behind Hollywood High. One was
dead and the other was in jail. Ah, machismo!

The list went on and on, all the way back to Thursday, the 7th. On that day
was another slashed-wrist suicide near Western and Wilshire.

The next morning, Tuesday, the 3rd, I called Miss Tremaine and told her I'd be
late getting in but would check in every couple of hours to find out if the
slinky blonde looking for her kid sister had shown up. She humphed.

Larchemont is a middle-class neighborhood huddled in between the old wealth
around the country club and the blight spreading down Melrose from Western
Avenue. It tries to give the impression of suburbia—and does a pretty good job
of it—rather than just another nearly downtown shopping center. The area isn't
big on apartments or rooming houses, but there are a few. I found the
Detweiler boy at the third one I checked. It was a block and a half from where
the little kid fell on the rake.

According to the landlord, at the time of the kid's death Detweiler was
playing bridge with him and a couple of elderly old-maid sisters in number
twelve. He hadn't been feeling well and had moved out later that evening—to
catch a bus to San Diego, to visit his ailing mother. The landlord had felt
sorry for him, so sorry he'd broken a steadfast rule and refunded most of the
month's rent Detweiler had paid in advance. After all, he'd only been there
three days. So sad about his back. Such a nice gentle boy—a writer, you know.
No, I didn't know, but it explained how he could move around so much without
seeming to work.

I called David Fowler: "Yes, Andy had a portable typewriter, but he hadn't
mentioned being a writer."

And Birdie Pawlowicz: "Yeah, he typed a lot in his room."

I found the Detweiler boy again on the 16th and the 19th. He'd moved into a
rooming house near Silver Lake Park on the night of the 13th and moved out
again on the 19th. The landlady hadn't refunded his money, but she gave him an
alibi for the knifing of an old man in the park on the 16th and the suicide of
a girl in the same rooming house on the 19th. He'd been in the pink of health
when he moved in, sick on the 16th, healthy the 17th, and sick again on the
19th.

It was like a rerun. He lived a block away from where a man was mugged,
killed, and robbed in an alley on the 13th—though the details of the murder
didn't seem to fit the pattern. But he was sick, had an alibi, and moved to
Silver Lake.

Rerun it on the 10th: a woman slipped in the bathtub and fell through the
glass shower doors, cutting herself to ribbons. Sick, alibi, moved.

It may be because I was always rotten in math, but it wasn't until right then
that I figured out Detweiler's timetable. Milian died the 1st, Harry Spinner
the 28th, the miscarriage the 25th, the little kid on the 22nd, Silver Lake on
the 16th and 19th, etc., etc., etc.

A bloody death occurred in Detweiler's general vicinity every third day.

But I couldn't figure out a pattern for the victims: male, female, little
kids, old aunties, married, unmarried, rich, poor, young, old. No pattern of
any kind, and there's always a pattern. I even checked to see if the names
were in alphabetical order.

I got back to my office at six. Miss Tremaine sat primly at her desk, cleared
of everything but her purse and a notepad. She reminded me quite a lot of
Desmond. "What are you still doing here, Miss Tremaine? You should've left an
hour ago." I sat at my desk, leaned back until the swivel chair groaned twice,
and propped my feet up.

She picked up the pad. "I wanted to give you your calls."

"Can't they wait? I've been sleuthing all day and I'm bushed."

"No one is paying you to find this Detweiler person, are they?"

"No."

"Your bank statement came today."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. A good secretary keeps her employer informed. I was informing you."

"Okay. Who called?"

She consulted the pad, but I'd bet my last gumshoe she knew every word on it
by heart. "A Mrs. Carmichael called. Her French poodle has been kidnapped. She
wants you to find her."

"Ye Gods! Why doesn't she go to the police?"

"Because she's positive her ex-husband is the kidnapper. She doesn't want to
get him in any trouble; she just wants Gwendolyn back."

"Gwendolyn?"

"Gwendolyn. A Mrs. Bushyager came by. She wants you to find her little
sister."

I sat up so fast I almost fell out of the chair. I gave her a long, hard
stare, but her neutral expression didn't flicker. "You're kidding." Her
eyebrows rose a millimeter. "Was she a slinky blonde?"

"No. She was a dumpy brunette."

I settled back in the chair, trying not to laugh. "Why does Mrs. Bushyager
want me to find her little sister?" I sputtered.

"Because Mrs. Bushyager thinks she's shacked up somewhere with Mr. Bushyager.
She'd like you to call her tonight."

"Tomorrow. I've got a date with Janice tonight." She reached in her desk
drawer and pulled out my bank statement. She dropped it on the desk with a
papery plop. "Don't worry," I assured her, "I won't spend much money. Just a
little spaghetti and wine tonight and ham and eggs in the morning." She
humphed. My point. "Anything else?"

"A Mr. Bloomfeld called. He wants you to get the goods on Mrs. Bloomfeld so he
can sue for divorce."

I sighed. Miss Tremaine closed the pad. "Okay. No to Mrs. Carmichael and make
appointments for Bushyager and Bloomfeld." She lowered her eyelids at me. I
spread my hands. "Would Sam Spade go looking for a French poodle named
Gwendolyn?"

"He might if he had your bank statement. Mr. Bloomfeld will be in at two, Mrs.
Bushyager at three."

"Miss Tremaine, you'd make somebody a wonderful mother." She didn't even
humph; she just picked up her purse and stalked out. I swiveled the chair
around and looked at the calendar. Tomorrow was the 4th.

Somebody would die tomorrow and Andrew Detweiler would be close by.




·····


I scooted up in bed and leaned against the headboard. Janice snorted into the
pillow and opened one eye, pinning me with it. "I didn't mean to wake you," I
said.
"What's the matter," she muttered, "too much spaghetti?"

"No. Too much Andrew Detweiler."
She scooted up beside me, keeping the sheet over her breasts, and turned on
the light. She rummaged around on the nightstand for a cigarette. "Who wants
to divorce him?"

"That's mean, Janice," I groaned.

"You want a cigarette?"

"Yeah."

She put two cigarettes in her mouth and lit them both. She handed me one. "You
don't look a bit like Paul Henreid," I said.

She grinned. "That's funny. You look like Bette Davis. Who's Andrew
Detweiler?"

So I told her.

"It's elementary, my dear Sherlock," she said. "Andrew Detweiler is a
vampire." I frowned at her. "Of course, he's a clever vampire. Vampires are
usually stupid. They always give themselves away by leaving those two little
teeth marks on people's jugulars."

"Darling, even vampires have to be at the scene of the crime."

"He always has an alibi, huh?"

I got out of bed and headed for the bathroom. "That's suspicious in itself."

When I came out she said, "Why?"

"Innocent people usually don't have alibis, especially not one every three
days."

"Which is probably why innocent people get put in jail so often."

I chuckled and sat on the edge of the bed. "You may be right."

"Bert, do that again."

I looked at her over my shoulder. "Do what?"

"Go to the bathroom."

"I don't think I can. My bladder holds only so much."

"I don't mean that. Walk over to the bathroom door."

I gave her a suspicious frown, got up, and walked over to the bathroom door. I
turned around, crossed my arms, and leaned against the door frame. "Well?"

She grinned. "You've got a cute rear end. Almost as cute as Burt Reynolds'.
Maybe he's twins."

"What?" I practically screamed.

"Maybe Andrew Detweiler is twins. One of them commits the murders and the
other establishes the alibis."
"Twin vampires?"

She frowned. "That's a bit much, isn't it? Had they discovered blood groups in
Bram Stoker's day?"

I got back in bed and pulled the sheet up to my waist, leaning beside her
against her against the headboard. "I haven't the foggiest idea."

"That's another way vampires are stupid. They never check the victim's blood
group. The wrong blood group can kill you."

"Vampires don't exactly get transfusions."

"It all amounts to the same thing, doesn't it?" I shrugged. "Oh, well," she
sighed, "vampires are stupid." She reached over and plucked at the hair on my
chest. "I haven't had an indecent proposition in hours," she said, grinning.

So I made one.

Wednesday morning I made a dozen phone calls. Of the nine victims I knew
about, I was able to find the information on six.

All six had the same blood group.

I lit a cigarette and leaned back in the swivel chair. The whole thing was
spinning around in my head. I'd found a pattern for the victims, but I didn't
know if it was the pattern. It just didn't make sense. Maybe Detweiler was a
vampire.

"Mallory," I said out loud, "you're cracking up."

Miss Tremaine glanced up. "If I were you, I'd listen to you," she said
poker-faced.

The next morning I staggered out of bed at six A.M. I took a cold shower,
shaved, dressed, and put Murine in my eyes. They still felt like I'd washed
them in rubber cement. Mrs. Bloomfeld had kept me up until two the night
before, doing all the night spots in Santa Monica with some dude I hadn't
identified yet. When they checked into a motel, I went home and went to bed.

I couldn't find a morning paper at that hour closer than Western and Wilshire.
The story was on page seven. Fortunately they found the body in time for the
early edition. A woman named Sybil Herndon, age 38, had committed suicide in
an apartment on Las Palmas. (Detweiler hadn't gone very far. The address was
just around the corner from the Almsbury.) She had cut her wrists on a piece
of broken mirror. She had been discovered about eleven-thirty when the manager
went over to ask her to turn down the volume on her television set.

It was too early to drop around, and so I ate breakfast, hoping this was one
of the times Detweiler stuck around for more than three days. Not for a minute
did I doubt he would be living at the apartment court on Las Palmas, or not
far away.

The owner-manager of the court was one of those creatures peculiar to
Hollywood. She must have been a starlet in the twenties or thirties, but
success had eluded her. So she had tried to freeze herself in time. She still
expected, at any moment, a call from The Studio. But her flesh hadn't
cooperated. Her hair was the color of tarnished copper, and the
fire-engine-red lipstick was painted far past her thin lips. Her watery eyes
peered at me through a Lone Ranger mask of Maybelline on a plaster-white face.
Her dress had obviously been copied from the wardrobe of Norma Shearer.

"Yes?" She had a breathy voice. Her eyes quickly traveled the length of my
body. That happens often enough to keep me feeling good, but this time it gave
me a queasy sensation, like I was being measured for a mummy case. I showed
her my ID, and asked if I could speak to her about one of the tenants.

"Of course. Come on in. I'm Lorraine Nesbitt." Was there a flicker of
disappointment that I hadn't recognized the name? She stepped back holding the
door for me. I could tell that detectives, private or otherwise, asking about
her tenants wasn't a new thing. I walked into the doilied room, and she looked
at me from a hundred directions. The faded photographs covered every level
surface and clung to the walls like leeches. She had been quite a dish— forty
years ago. She saw me looking at the photos and smiled. The makeup around her
mouth cracked.

"Which one do you want to ask about?" The smile vanished and the cracks
closed.

"Andrew Detweiler." She looked blank. "Young, good-looking, with a
hunchback."

The cracks opened. "Oh, yes. He's only been here a few days. The name had
slipped my mind."

"He's still here?"

"Oh, yes." She sighed. "It's so unfair for such a beautiful young man to have
a physical impairment."

"What can you tell me about him?"

"Not much. He's only been here since Sunday night. He's very handsome, like an
angel, a dark angel. But it wasn't his handsomeness that attracted me." She
smiled. "I've seen many handsome men in my day, you know. It's difficult to
verbalize. He has such an incredible innocence. A lost, doomed look that Byron
must have had. A vulnerability that makes you want to shield him and protect
him. I don't know for sure what it is, but it struck a chord in my soul.
Soul," she mused. "Maybe that's it. He wears his soul on his face." She
nodded, as if to herself. "A dangerous thing to do." She looked back up at me.
"If that quality, whatever it is, would photograph, he would become a star
overnight, whether he could act or not. Except—of course—for his infirmity."

Lorraine Nesbitt, I decided, was as nutty as a fruitcake.

Someone entered the room. He stood leaning against the door frame, looking at
me with sleepy eyes. He was about twenty-five, wearing tight chinos without
underwear and a T-shirt. His hair was tousled and cut unfashionably short. He
had a good-looking Kansas face. The haircut made me think he was new in town,
but the eyes said he wasn't. I guess the old broad liked his hair that way.

She simpered. "Oh, Johnny! Come on in. This detective was asking about Andrew
Detweiler in number seven." She turned back to me. "This is my protégé, Johnny
Peacock—a very talented young man. I'm arranging for a screen test as soon as
Mr. Goldwyn returns my calls." She lowered her eyelids demurely. "I was a
Goldwyn girl, you know."

Funny, I thought Goldwyn was dead. Maybe he wasn't.

Johnny took the news of his impending stardom with total unconcern. He moved
to the couch and sat down, yawning. "Detweiler? Don't think I ever laid eyes
on the man. What'd he do?"

"Nothing. Just routine." Obviously he thought I was a police detective. No
point in changing his mind. "Where was he last night when the Herndon woman
died?"

"In his room, I think. I heard his typewriter. He wasn't feeling well,"
Lorraine Nesbitt said. Then she sucked air through her teeth and clamped her
fingers to her scarlet lips. "Do you think he had something to do with that?"

Detweiler had broken his pattern. He didn't have an alibi. I couldn't believe
it.

"Oh, Lorraine," Johnny grumbled.

I turned to him. "Do you know where Detweiler was?"

He shrugged. "No idea."

"They why are you so sure he had nothing to do with it?"

"She committed suicide."

"How do you know for sure?"

"The door was bolted from the inside. They had to break it down to get in."

"What about the window? Was it locked too?"

"No. The window was open. But it has bars on it. No way anybody could get
in."

"When I couldn't get her to answer my knock last night, I went around to the
window and looked in. She was lying there with blood all over." She began to
sniffle. Johnny got up and put his arms around her. He looked at me, grinned,
and shrugged.

"Do you have a vacancy?" I asked, getting a whiz-bang idea.

"Yes," she said, the sniffles disappearing instantly. "I have two. Actually
three but I can't rent Miss Herndon's room for a few days—until someone claims
her things."

"I'd like to rent the one closest to number seven," I said.

I wasn't lucky enough to get number six or eight, but I did get five. Lorraine
Nesbitt's nameless, dingy apartment court was a fleabag. Number five was one
room with a closet, a tiny kitchen, and a tiny bath—identical with the other
nine units she assured me. With a good deal of tugging and grunting the couch
turned into a lumpy bed. The refrigerator looked as if someone had spilled a
bottle of Br'er Rabbit back in 1938 and hadn't cleaned it up yet. The stove
looked like a lube rack. Well, I sighed, it was only for three days. I had to
pay a month's rent in advance anyway, but I put it down as a bribe to keep
Lorraine's and Johnny's mouths shut about my being a detective.

I moved in enough clothes for three days, some sheets and pillows, took
another look at the kitchen and decided to eat out. I took a jug of Lysol to
the bathroom and crossed my fingers. Miss Tremaine brought up the bank
statement and humphed a few times.
Number five had one door and four windows—identical to the other nine,
Lorraine assured me. The door had a heavy-duty bolt that couldn't be fastened
or unfastened from the outside. The window beside the door didn't open at all
and wasn't intended to. The bathroom and kitchen windows cranked out and were
tall and skinny, about twenty-four by six. The other living room window,
opposite the door, slid upward. The iron bars bolted to the frame were so
rusted I doubted if they could be removed without ripping out the whole
window. It appeared Andrew Detweiler had another perfect alibi after all—along
with the rest of the world.

I stood outside number seven suddenly feeling like a teenager about to pick up
his first date. I could hear Detweiler's typewriter tickety-ticking away
inside. Okay, Mallory, this is what you've been breaking your neck on for a
week.

I knocked on the door.

I heard the typewriter stop ticking and the scrape of a chair being scooted
back. I didn't hear anything else for fifteen or twenty seconds, and I
wondered what he was doing. Then the bolt was drawn and the door opened.

He was buttoning his shirt. That must have been the delay; he wouldn't want
anyone to see him with his shirt off. Everything I'd been told about him was
true. He wasn't very tall; the top of his head came to my nose. He was dark,
though not as dark as I'd expected. I couldn't place his ancestry. It
certainly wasn't Latin-American and I didn't think it was Slavic. His features
were soft, without the angularity usually found in Mediterranean races. His
hair wasn't quite black. It wasn't exactly long and it wasn't exactly short.
His clothes were nondescript. Everything about him was neutral—except his
face. It was just about as Lorraine Nesbitt had described it. If you called
central casting and asked for a male angel, you'd get Andrew Detweiler in a
blond wig. His body was slim and well-formed—from where I was standing I
couldn't see the hump and you'd never know there was one. I had a glimpse of
his bare chest as he buttoned his shirt. It wasn't muscular but it was very
well made. He was very healthy-looking—pink and flushed with health, though
slightly pale, as if he didn't get out in the sun much. His dark eyes were
astounding. If you blocked out the rest of the face, leaving nothing but the
eyes, you'd swear he was no more than four years old. You've seen little kids
with those big, guileless, unguarded, inquiring eyes, haven't you?

"Yes?" he asked.

I smiled. "Hello. I'm Bert Mallory. I just moved in to number five. Miss
Nesbitt tells me you like to play gin."

"Yes," he said, grinning. "Come on in."

He turned to move out of the way and I saw the hump. I don't know how to
describe what I felt. I suddenly had a hurting in my gut. I felt the same
unfairness and sadness the others had, the way you would feel about any
beautiful thing with one overwhelming flaw.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I? I heard the typewriter." The room was indeed
identical to mine, though it looked a hundred percent more livable. I couldn't
put my finger on what he had done to it to make it that way. Maybe it was just
the semidarkness. He had the curtains tightly closed and one lamp lit beside
the typewriter.

"Yeah, I was working on a story, but I'd rather play gin." He grinned, open
and artless. "If I could make money playing gin, I wouldn't write."

"Lots of people make money playing gin."

"Oh, I couldn't. I'm too unlucky."

He certainly had a right to say that, but there was no self-pity, just an
observation. Then he looked at me with slightly distressed eyes. "You … ah …
didn't want to play for money, did you?"

"Not at all," I said and his eyes cleared. "What kind of stories do you
write?"

"Oh, all kinds." He shrugged. "Fantasy mostly."

"Do you sell them?"

"Most of 'em."

"I don't recall seeing your name anywhere. Miss Nesbitt said it was Andrew
Detweiler?"

He nodded. "I use another name. You probably wouldn't know it either. It's not
exactly a household word." His eyes said he'd really rather not tell me what
it was. He had a slight accent, a sort of soft slowness, not exactly a drawl
and not exactly Deep South. He shoved the typewriter over and pulled out a
deck of cards.

"Where're you from?" I asked. "I don't place the accent."

He grinned and shuffled the cards. "North Carolina. Back in the Blue Ridge."

We cut and I dealt. "How long have you been in Hollywood?"

"About two months."

"How do you like it?"

He grinned his beguiling grin and picked up my discard. "It's very … unusual.
Have you lived here very long, Mr. Mallory?"

"Bert. All my life. I was born in Inglewood. My mother still lives there."

"It must be … unusual … to live in the same place all your life."

"You move around a lot?"

"Yeah. Gin."

I laughed. "I thought you were unlucky."

"If we were playing for money, I wouldn't be able to do anything right."

We played gin the rest of the afternoon and talked—talked a lot. Detweiler
seemed eager to talk or, at least, eager to have someone to talk with. He
never told me anything that would connect him to nine deaths, mostly about
where he'd been, things he'd read. He read a lot, just about anything he could
get his hands on. I got the impression he hadn't really lived life so much as
he'd read it, that all the things he knew about had never physically affected
him. He was like an insulated island. Life flowed around him but never touched
him. I wondered if the hump on his back made that much difference, if it made
him such a green monkey he'd had to retreat into his insular existence.
Practically everyone I talked to liked him, mixed with varying portions of
pity, to be sure, but liking nevertheless. Harry Spinner had liked him, but
had discovered something "peculiar" about him; Birdie Pawlowicz, Maurice
Milian, David Fowler, Lorraine Nesbitt, they all liked him.

And, God damn it, I liked him too.

At midnight I was still awake, sitting in number five in my jockey shorts with
the light out and the door open. I listened to the ticking of the Detweiler
boy's typewriter and the muffled roar of Los Angeles. And thought, and
thought, and thought. And got nowhere.

Someone walked by the door, quietly and carefully. I leaned my head out. It
was Johnny Peacock. He moved down the line of bungalows silent as a shadow. He
turned south when he reached the sidewalk. Going to Selma or the Boulevard to
turn a trick and make a few extra bucks. Lorraine must keep tight purse
strings. Better watch it, kid. If she finds out, you'll be back on the streets
again. And you haven't got too many years left where you can make good money
by just gettin' it up.

I dropped in at the office for a while Friday morning and checked the
first-of-the-month bills. Miss Tremaine had a list of new prospective clients.
"Tell everyone I can't get to anything till Monday."

She nodded in disapproval. "Mr. Bloomfeld called."

"Did you get my report?"

"Yes. He was very pleased, but he wants the man's name."

"Tell him I'll get back on it Monday."

"Mrs. Bushyager called. Her sister and Mr. Bushyager are still missing."

"Tell her I'll get on it Monday." She opened her mouth. "If you say anything
about my bank account, I'll put Spanish fly in your Ovaltine." She didn't
humph, she giggled. I wonder how many points that is?

That afternoon I played gin with the Detweiler boy. He was genuinely glad to
see me, like a friendly puppy. I was beginning to feel like a son of a bitch.

He hadn't mentioned North Carolina except that once the day before, and I was
extremely interested in all subjects he wanted to avoid. "What's it like in
the Blue Ridge? Coon huntin' and moonshine?"

He grinned and blitzed me. "Yeah, I guess. Most of the things you read about
it are pretty nearly true. It's really a different world back in there, with
almost no contact with the outside."

"How far in did you live?"

"About as far as you can get without comin' out the other side. Did you know
most of the people never heard of television or movies and some of 'em don't
even know the name of the President? Most of 'em never been more than thirty
miles from the place they were born, never saw an electric light? You wouldn't
believe it. But it's more than just things that're different. People are
different, think different—like a foreign country." He shrugged. "I guess
it'll all be gone before too long though. Things keep creepin' closer and
closer. Did you know I never went to school?" he said, grinning. "Not a day of
my life. I didn't wear shoes till I was ten. You wouldn't believe it." He
shook his head, remembering. "Always kinda wished I coulda gone to school," he
murmured softly.

"Why did you leave?"

"No reason to stay. When I was eight, my parents were killed in a fire. Our
house burned down. I was taken in by a balmy old woman who lived not far away.
I had some kin, but they didn't want me." He looked at me, trusting me.
"They're pretty superstitious back in there, you know. Thought I was … marked.
Anyway, the old woman took me in. She was a midwife, but she fancied herself a
witch or something. Always making me drink some mess she'd brewed up. She fed
me, clothed me, educated me, after a fashion, tried to teach me all her
conjures, but I never could take 'em seriously." He grinned sheepishly. "I did
chores for her and eventually became a sort of assistant, I guess. I helped
her birth babies … I mean, deliver babies a couple of times, but that didn't
last long. The parents were afraid me bein' around might mark the baby. She
taught me to read and I couldn't stop. She had a lot of books she'd dredged up
somewhere, more of 'em published before the First World War. I read a complete
set of encyclopedias—published in 1911."

I laughed.

His eyes clouded. "Then she … died. I was fifteen, so I left. I did odd jobs
and kept reading. Then I wrote a story and sent it to a magazine. They bought
it; paid me fifty dollars. Thought I was rich, so I wrote another one. Since
then I've been traveling around and writing. I've got an agent who takes care
of everything, and so all I do is just write."

Detweiler's flush of health was wearing off that afternoon. He wasn't ill,
just beginning to feel like the rest of us mortals. And I was feeling my
resolve begin to crumble. It was hard to believe this beguiling kid could
possibly be involved in a string of bloody deaths. Maybe it was just a series
of unbelievable coincidences. Yeah, "unbelievable" was the key word. He had to
be involved unless the laws of probability had broken down completely. Yet I
could swear Detweiler wasn't putting on an act. His guileless innocence was
real, damn it, real.

Saturday morning, the third day since Miss Herndon died, I had a talk with
Lorraine and Johnny. If Detweiler wanted to play cards or something that
night, I wanted them to agree and suggest I be a fourth. If he didn't bring it
up, I would, but I had a feeling he would want his usual alibi this time.

Detweiler left his room that afternoon for the first time since I'd been
there. He went north on Las Palmas, dropped a large manila envelope in the
mailbox (the story he'd been working on, I guess), and bought groceries at the
supermarket on Highland. Did that mean he wasn't planning to move? I had a
sudden pang in my belly. What if he was staying because of his friendship with
me? I felt more like a son of a bitch every minute.

Johnny Peacock came by an hour later acting very conspiratorial. Detweiler had
suggested a bridge game that night, but Johnny didn't play bridge, and so they
settled on Scrabble.

I dropped by number seven. The typewriter had been put away, but the cards and
score pad were still on the table. His suitcase was on the floor by the couch.
It was riveted cowhide of a vintage I hadn't seen since I was a kid. Though it
wore a mellow patina of age, it had been preserved with neat's-foot oil and
loving care. I may have been mistaken about his not moving.
Detweiler wasn't feeling well at all. He was pale and drawn and fidgety. His
eyelids were heavy and his speech was faintly blurred. I'm sure he was in
pain, but he tried to act as if nothing were wrong.

"Are you sure you feel like playing Scrabble tonight?" I asked.

He gave me a cheerful, if slightly strained, smile. "Oh, sure. I'm all right.
I'll be fine in the morning."

"Do you think you ought to play?"

"Yeah, it … takes my mind off my … ah … headache. Don't worry about it. I have
these spells all the time. They always go away."

"How long have you had them?"

"Since … I was a kid." He grinned. "You think it was one of those brews the
old witch-woman gave me caused it? Maybe I could sue for malpractice."

"Have you ever seen a doctor? A real doctor?"

"Once."

"What did he tell you?"

He shrugged. "Oh, nothing much. Take two aspirin, drink lots of liquids, get
plenty of rest, that sort of thing." He didn't want to talk about it. "It
always goes away."

"What if one time it doesn't?"

He looked at me with an expression I'd never seen before and I knew why
Lorraine said he had a lost, doomed look. "Well, we can't live forever, can
we? Are you ready to go?"

The game started out like a Marx Brothers routine. Lorraine and Johnny acted
like two canaries playing Scrabble with the cat, but Detweiler was so normal
and unconcerned they soon settled down. Conversation was tense and ragged at
first until Lorraine got off on her "career" and kept us entertained and
laughing. She had known a lot of famous people and was a fountain of
anecdotes, most of them funny and libelous. Detweiler proved quickly to be the
best player, but Johnny, to my surprise, was no slouch. Lorraine played
dismally but she didn't seem to mind.

I would have enjoyed the evening thoroughly if I hadn't known someone nearby
was dead or dying.

After about two hours, in which Detweiler grew progressively more ill, I
excused myself to go to the bathroom. While I was away from the table, I
palmed Lorraine's master key.

In another half hour I said I had to call it a night. I had to get up early
the next morning. I always spent Sunday with my mother in Inglewood. My mother
was touring Yucatán at the time, but that was neither here nor there. I looked
at Johnny. He nodded. He was to make sure Detweiler stayed at least another
twenty minutes and then follow him when he did leave. If he went anywhere but
his apartment, he was to come and let me know, quick.

I let myself into number seven with the master key. The drapes were closed,
and so I took a chance and turned on the bathroom light. Detweiler's
possessions were meager. Eight shirts, six pairs of pants, and a light jacket
hung in the closet. The shirts and jacket had been altered to allow for the
hump. Except for that, the closet was bare. The bathroom contained nothing out
of the ordinary—just about the same as mine. The kitchen had one plastic
plate, one plastic cup, one plastic glass, one plastic bowl, one small folding
skillet, one small folding sauce pan, one metal spoon, one metal fork, and a
medium-sized kitchen knife. All of it together would barely fill a shoebox.

The suitcase, still beside the couch, hadn't been unpacked—except for the
clothes hanging in the closet and the kitchen utensils. There was underwear,
socks, an extra pair of shoes, an unopened ream of paper, a bunch of other
stuff necessary for writing, and a dozen or so paperbacks. The books were
rubber-stamped with the name of a used-book store on Santa Monica Boulevard.
They were a mixture: science fiction, mysteries, biographies, philosophy,
several by Colin Wilson.

There was also a carbon copy of the story he'd just finished. The return
address on the first page was a box number at the Hollywood post office. The
title of the story was "Deathsong." I wish I'd had time to read it.

All in all, I didn't find anything. Except for the books and the deck of cards
there was nothing of Andrew Detweiler personally in the whole apartment. I
hadn't thought it possible for anyone to lead such a turnip existence.

I looked around to make sure I hadn't disturbed anything, turned off the
bathroom light, and got in the closet, leaving the door open a crack. It was
the only possible place to hide. I sincerely hoped Detweiler wouldn't need
anything out of it before I found out what was going on. If he did, the only
thing I could do was confront him with what I'd found out. And then what,
Mallory, a big guilty confession? With what you've found out he could laugh in
your face and have you arrested for illegal entry.

And what about this, Mallory. What if someone died nearby tonight while you
were with Detweiler; what if he comes straight to his apartment and goes to
bed; what if he wakes up in the morning feeling fine; what if nothing is going
on, you son of a bitch?

It was so dark in there with the curtains drawn that I couldn't see a thing. I
left the closet and opened them a little on the front window. It didn't let in
a lot of light, but it was enough. Maybe Detweiler wouldn't notice. I went
back to the closet and waited.

Half an hour later the curtains over the barred open window moved. I had
squatted down in the closet and wasn't looking in that direction, but the
movement caught my eye. Something hopped in the window and scooted across the
floor and went behind the couch. I only got a glimpse of it, but it might have
been a cat. It was probably a stray looking for food of hiding from a dog.
Okay, cat, you don't bother me and I won't bother you. I kept my eye on the
couch, but it didn't show itself again.

Detweiler didn't show for another hour. By that time I was sitting flat on the
floor trying to keep my legs from cramping. My position wasn't too graceful if
he happened to look in the closet, but it was too late to get up.

He came in quickly and bolted the door behind him. He didn't notice the open
curtain. He glanced around, clicking his tongue softly. His eyes caught on
something at the end of the couch. He smiled. At the cat? He began unfastening
his shirt, fumbling at the buttons in his haste. He slipped off the shirt and
tossed it on the back of the chair.
There were straps across his chest.

He turned toward the suitcase, his back to me. The hump was artificial, made
of something like foam rubber. He unhooked the straps, opened the suitcase,
and tossed the hump in. He said something, too soft for me to catch, and lay
face down on the couch with his feet toward me. The light from the opened
curtain fell on him. His back was scarred, little white lines like scratches
grouped around a hole.

He had a hole in his back, between his shoulder blades, an unhealed wound big
enough to stick your finger in.

Something came around the end of the couch. It wasn't a cat. I thought it was
a monkey, and then a frog, but it was neither. It was human. It waddled on all
fours like an enormous toad.

Then it stood erect. It was about the size of a cat. It was pink and moist and
hairless and naked. Its very human hands and feet and male genitals were too
large for its tiny body. Its belly was swollen, turgid and distended like an
obscene tick. Its head was flat. Its jaw protruded like an ape's. It too had a
scar, a big, white, puckered scar between its shoulder blades, at the top of
its jutting backbone.

It reached its too-large hand up and caught hold of Detweiler's belt. It
pulled its bloated body up with the nimbleness of a monkey and crawled onto
the boy's back. Detweiler was breathing heavily, clasping and unclasping his
fingers on the arm of the couch.

The thing crouched on Detweiler's back and placed its lips against the wound.

I felt my throat burning and my stomach turning over, but I watched in
petrified fascination.

Detweiler's breathing grew slower and quieter, more relaxed. He lay with his
eyes closed and an expression of almost sexual pleasure on his face. The
thing's body got smaller and smaller, the skin on its belly growing wrinkled
and flaccid. A trickle of blood crawled from the wound, making an erratic line
across the Detweiler boy's back. The thing reached out a hand and wiped the
drop back with a finger.

It took ten minutes. The thing raised its mouth and crawled over beside the
boy's face. It sat on the arm of the couch like a little gnome and smiled. It
ran its finger down the side of Detweiler's cheek and pushed his damp hair
back out of his eyes. Detweiler's expression was euphoric. He sighed softly
and opened his eyes sleepily. After a while he sat up.

He was flushed with health, rosy and clear and shining.

He stood up and went to the bathroom. The light came on and I heard water
running. The thing was in the same place, watching him. Detweiler came out of
the bathroom and sat back on the couch. The thing climbed onto his back,
huddling between his shoulder blades, its hand on his shoulder. Detweiler
stood up, the thing hanging onto him, retrieved the shirt, and put it on. He
wrapped the straps neatly around the artificial hump and stowed it in the
suitcase. He closed the lid and locked it.

I had seen enough, more than enough. I opened the door and stepped out of the
closet.
Detweiler whirled, his eyes bulging. A groan rattled in his throat. He raised
his hands as if fending me off. The groan rose in pitch, becoming an
hysterical keening. The expression on his face was too horrible to watch. He
stepped backward and tripped over the suitcase.

He lost his balance and toppled over. His arms flailed for equilibrium, but
never found it. He struck the edge of the table. It caught him square across
the hump on his back. He bounced and fell forward on his hands. He stood up
agonizingly, like a slow motion movie, arching his spine backward, his face
contorted in pain.

There were shrill, staccato shrieks of mindless torment, but they didn't come
from Detweiler.

He fell again, forward onto the couch, blacking out from pain. The back of his
shirt was churning. The scream continued, hurting my ears. Rips appeared in
the shirt and a small misshapen arm poked out briefly. I could only stare,
frozen. The shirt was ripped to shreds. Two arms, a head, a torso came
through. The whole thing ripped its way out and fell onto the couch beside the
boy. Its face was twisted, tortured, and its mouth kept opening and closing
with screams. Its eyes looked uncomprehendingly about. It pulled itself along
with its arms, dragging its useless legs, its spine obviously broken. It fell
off the couch and flailed about on the floor.

Detweiler moaned and came to. He rose from the couch, still groggy. He saw the
thing, and a look of absolute grief appeared on his face.

The thing's eyes focused for a moment on Detweiler. It looked at him,
beseeching, held out one hand, pleading. Its screams became a breathless
rasping. I couldn't stand it any longer. I picked up a chair and smashed it
down on the thing. I dropped the chair and leaned against the wall and
heaved.

I heard the door open. I turned and saw Detweiler run out.

I charged after him. My legs felt rubbery but I caught him at the street. He
didn't struggle. He just stood there, his eyes vacant, trembling. I saw people
sticking their heads out of doors and Johnny Peacock coming toward me. My car
was right there. I pushed Detweiler into it and drove away. He sat hunched in
the seat, his hands hanging limply, staring into space. He was trembling
uncontrollably and his teeth chattered.

I drove, not paying attention to where I was going, almost as deeply in shock
as he was. I finally started looking at the street signs. I was on Mulholland.
I kept going west for a long time, crossed the San Diego Freeway, into the
Santa Monica Mountains. The pavement ends a couple of miles past the freeway,
and there's ten or fifteen miles of dirt road before the pavement picks up
again nearly to Topanga. The road isn't traveled much, there are no houses on
it, and people don't like to get their cars dusty. I was about in the middle
of the unpaved section when Detweiler seemed to calm down. I pulled over to
the side of the road and cut the engine. The San Fernando Valley was spread
like a carpet of lights below us. The ocean was on the other side of the
mountains.

I sat and watched Detweiler. The trembling had stopped. He was asleep or
unconscious. I reached over and touched his arm. He stirred and clutched at my
hand. I looked at his sleeping face and didn't have the heart to pull my hand
away.

The sun was poking over the mountains when he woke up. He roused and was
momentarily unaware of where he was; then memory flooded back. He turned to
me. The pain and hysteria were gone from his eyes. They were oddly peaceful.

"Did you hear him?" he said softly. "Did you hear him die?"

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes. It's all over."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

His eyes dropped and he was silent for a moment. "I want to tell you. But I
don't know how without you thinking I'm a monster."

I didn't say anything.

"He … was my brother. We were twins. Siamese twins. All those people who died
so I could stay alive." There was no emotion in his voice. He was detached,
talking about someone else. "He kept me alive. I'll die without him." His eyes
met mine again. "He was insane, I think. I thought at first I'd go mad too,
but I didn't. I think I didn't. I never knew what he was going to do, who he
would kill. I didn't want to know. He was very clever. He always made it look
like an accident or suicide when he could. I didn't interfere. I didn't want
to die. We had to have blood. He always did it so there was lots of blood, so
no one would miss what he took." His eyes were going empty again.

"Why did you need the blood?"

"We were never suspected before."

"Why did you need the blood?" I repeated.

"When we were born," he said, and his eyes focused again, "we were joined at
the back. But I grew and he didn't. He stayed little bitty, like a baby riding
around on my back. People didn't like me … us, they were afraid. My father and
mother too. The old witch-woman I told you about, she birthed us. She seemed
always to be hanging around. When I was eight, my parents died in a fire. I
think the witch-woman did it. After that I lived with her. She was demented,
but she knew medicine and healing. When we were fifteen she decided to
separate us. I don't know why. I think she wanted him without me. I'm sure she
thought he was an imp from hell. I almost died. I'm not sure what was wrong.
Apart, we weren't whole. I wasn't whole. He had something I didn't have,
something we'd been sharing. She would've let me die, but he knew and got
blood for me. Hers." He sat staring at me blankly, his mind living the past.

"Why didn't you go to a hospital or something?" I asked, feeling enormous pity
for the wretched boy.

He smiled faintly. "I didn't know much about anything then. Too many people
were already dead. If I'd gone to a hospital they'd have wanted to know how
I'd stayed alive so far. Sometimes I'm glad it's over, and, then, the next
minute I'm terrified of dying."

"How long?"

"I'm not sure. I've never been more than three days. I can't stand it any
longer than that. He knew. He always knew when I had to have it. And he got it
for me. I never helped him."

"Can you stay alive if you get regular transfusions?"
He looked at me sharply, fear creeping back. "Please. No!"

"But you'll stay alive."

"In a cage! Like a freak! I don't want to be a freak anymore. It's over. I
want it to be over. Please."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know. I don't want you to get in trouble."

I looked at him, at his face, at his eyes, at his soul. "There's a gun in the
glove compartment," I said.

He sat for a moment, then solemnly held out his hand. I took it. He shook my
hand, then opened the glove compartment. He removed the gun and slipped out of
the car. He went down the hill into the brush. I waited and waited and never
did hear a shot.


The End