No Flowers for the General Read online

  I looked at her sharply but her face told me nothing. I wouldn’t have said she was the sentimental type. Dame Dora blew acrid smoke out of her nostrils and disappeared from view again. When she came into focus once more, she went on, ‘Something’s badly wrong. She left L.A. to spend the week-end with her people as usual. That was on the Friday night. She never showed up on the Monday and we haven’t seen her since.’

  I took the liberty of lighting a cigarette. I was searching around with the spent match in my hand when she passed over an ashtray as big as a trash-can lid.

  ‘You checked with her parents and the hotel, I take it?’ I said.

  ‘Of course,’ she snapped. ‘She arrived home as usual on Friday. The last they saw of her was on Saturday evening when she went out to meet a boy friend.’

  ‘The local police checked?’ I said.

  Dame Dora sighed, like she was talking to a child.

  ‘That’s why I’m hiring you,’ she said. ‘I want to know what happened and where she went …’

  She hesitated a moment and a dark shadow crossed her face.

  ‘And if she’s still alive,’ I finished for her.

  To my surprise she screwed up her mouth like she was going to cry, but maybe it was only indigestion. Then she clamped on the shaft of the cheroot and went on pouring out smoke.

  ‘Precisely,’ she said. ‘Here’s the address.’

  She passed me over another sheet of paper with some typing on it.

  ‘Where the hell’s Mudville?’ I said.

  ‘About a hundred miles north of here,’ she said. ‘Just a small town. You’ll want a large-scale map.’

  ‘I got one in my car,’ I said. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll check later.’

  She nodded, studying me from under half-closed eyelids. ‘I suppose you are the man to handle it,’ she said more to herself than to me. ‘You look usefully built.’

  She stood up. I felt a little nervous but tried not to show it.

  ‘Turn around,’ she said. ‘Let’s see what you’re made of.’ She frowned again. ‘You look all right,’ she said slowly and shook her head.

  She moved with unexpected swiftness and then the sky fell on me. I cartwheeled over the desk and a knee that felt like an elephant’s shinbone was rammed at my throat, pinning me helplessly. I rolled my eyes and tried to look like I was enjoying it. Just then the door opened and the blonde number came in. She had a job to control her face. Dame Dora took the hambone away eventually and I breathed again.

  I fell into my armchair. ‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ I said when I got back my breath. ‘I was afraid of breaking your leg; otherwise I should have put a reverse lock on.’

  The blonde number turned red in the face, looked like she was going to choke and had to go out. Dame Dora considered me seriously. She stood up again suddenly.

  ‘Best out of three throws?’ she said brightly. I cracked then and it was her turn to burst into laughter.

  ‘You’ll do,’ she hooted. ‘You’re as brass-faced as they come.’

  When I got outside there was a strange quiet. All the girls were looking at me. The rustling of paper sounded like an explosion in the silence. Patti Morgan dabbed at her face with a screwed-up handkerchief. Someone had a fit of coughing at the back of the office. I went towards the door like I was walking on raw egg yolks. I felt twelve eyes burning into the back of my neck.

  ‘In case you want anything, Mr. Faraday,’ said a voice at my elbow. Patti Morgan stood at the railing, holding the gate open. She was still fighting for control of her face. She put a piece of pasteboard in my hand. Later I found it gave a Laurel Canyon address and her telephone number. Right now all I wanted was out. I made the mistake of trying the casual exit.

  ‘I was only humoring the old lady,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her.’

  I took one look at their faces and went out the door. Even through the panels I could hear the roar of laughter from six throats. It almost lifted the roof. I mopped my brow and rode down in the elevator. I got in my car and drove away as quickly and quietly as possible.

  Chapter Two – Careless Driver

  When I got to the office building I parked the car in the usual garage around the corner and studied the card Patti Morgan had given me. It had written across the top; I’m free any evening.

  I grinned and tucked it in my pocket. The wind came off the street like it had needles of ice in it. I rode up in the creaking elevator. It wasn’t much warmer indoors. The waiting room was empty as usual. I went on into the main office. Stella sat at my desk powdering her nose. I’d never yet caught her working but the pile of typed letters in the tray belied her casual appearance. She went briskly over to the alcove with a clatter of high heels. I heard the click as she switched the small electric stove on.

  I sat down at the desk, signed a few pieces of paper and reached for a cigarette. There was a thin rasp of a match and Stella lit it over my shoulder. She came and stood close behind me, put white arms around my neck and fooled with my hair. I stood it for perhaps half a minute and then I reached around in back for her but she was too quick for me. She skipped away laughing.

  ‘What you want is coffee, to calm your nerves,’ she said. I knew what I had in mind right then and it certainly wasn’t coffee. Stella’s figure and her honey-blonde hair had been featuring in my dreams for quite some while now, but she had her mind set on marriage and marriage and me don’t mix. She stood fussing with cups and saucers and I admired the perfection of legs encased in light sheers, until she shifted round to face me.

  I gave up then, signed the last of the letters and cleared my desk. She put down the coffee in front of me, slewed round the metal swivel chair from her own desk and sat facing me. Her eyes studied my face. I smoked on for a bit. Then I stubbed out the cigarette and drank the coffee. It tasted good, like always when Stella made it.

  ‘We got ourselves a case,’ I told her.

  She took notes as I filled her in on the details. She frowned as I finished, tapped her teeth with the pencil. She picked up her coffee cup again.

  ‘This Dame Dora sounds like a character,’ she said. ‘You sure I got the whole story, Mike?’

  I hadn’t told it like it happened, of course; that was giving a girl like Stella far too much scope.

  ‘We swapped punches,’ I said. ‘I’ll do better in the return match.’

  ‘Sounds like she could handle the case all by herself,’ said Stella mildly. ‘What did she hire you for?’

  ‘I get to hold the prize-money,’ I said.

  Stella’s face looked great when she smiled.

  ‘I’d better get you packed,’ she said. ‘We could drop out at your place after I finish off here.’

  ‘I got that all fixed,’ I said hastily. ‘I’m leaving right away. I’ll throw a few things in a bag on my way across town.’

  She got up quickly and went over to the alcove. She fussed about with the cups rather too emphatically. I sat and felt a bit of a heel. It wasn’t that I minded Stella packing for me. It was just that she was too damned attractive and my place too convenient. I should never have made it out of there this afternoon and I had to get moving. Stella came back and put down the second cup in front of me. Her hand rested on mine for just an extra fraction of a second. It felt dry and warm.

  ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t much time.’

  She kissed me very quickly, on the forehead and then went and sat down. The kiss spread out and the warmth with it all over my body. Her eyes looked real bright as I drank the second cup.

  ‘I’ll go look up Mudville for you,’ she said. ‘Do you want me to book a hotel?’

  I shook my head. I finished off the coffee in the second cup but still I sat on. Stella was busy with papers and large-scale maps.

  ‘You leave town by the freeway,’ she said. ‘That way you avoid the mountains in the dark.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Sounds like a real one-horse town,’ she said.
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  ‘I got news for you,’ I said. ‘They got two horses now.’

  ‘Look after yourself, Mike,’ she said. She was smiling.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Ring in tomorrow.’

  We kissed again before I left. Properly this time. I felt it all the way to Mudville. I gassed up the Buick at the garage round the corner and then drove on to my place. I lived over on Park West in a small, rented house, one of an identical row of cottage-style places, each with manicured lawns front and back, separated by low, identical hedges. I threw a few things into a grip, broke out the Smith & Wesson from the small armory-cupboard in my bedroom, locked up the place and left town.

  I drove out the way Stella said. She’s always right and I knew if she said it was the best way that would be it. I had the large-scale map pinned to the dash where I could see it; the going wouldn’t get tricky until after Johnstown, the nearest sizeable place. After the turnpike beyond the town, it was about another thirty-mile drive over twisting, second class roads, until you came to Mudville, one of a string of scattered communities in that neck of the woods.

  I turned on to the freeway and started to put miles behind me. The sky was already darkening when I last saw the lights of L.A.

  It was almost completely dark outside Dino’s and I could no longer see the outlines of the parked cars until someone threw a switch and the heavy duty lamps dotted about the parking lot burned a hole in the gloom. The rain made solid swathes between the windows and the hurrying cars on the turnpike beyond, whose headlamp beams pushed aside the darkness and the rain with fretful fingers. The music from the TV set had stopped and the dancing girls had disappeared. In their place was some sort of panel game. The effect was, if anything, slightly worse. I drank the last of my coffee and lit a cigarette. Otto Kruger settled his check, got up and went out. He nodded faintly in my direction like he knew me. A short while afterwards there was a throaty snarl and the long, low-slung bulk of the Bugatti went down the parking lot, eased on to the turnpike and made off in great style.

  As an entertainment it didn’t rate very high so I paid my check and left. I had to sprint to the car and the rain had already penetrated the collar of my coat when I got the door open. The hood was getting worn and rain had begun to drift into the driving seat. I sponged it off and got behind the wheel. Dino’s was a pink blur behind the curtain of rain as I eased up on to the road shoulder. I started making distance towards Johnstown.

  It was fairly quiet on the turnpike now. I turned on the radio again and the saccharine melodies of the dance music helped to deaden the slurring of the tires in the wet and the drumming of the rain against the windscreen and the hood. It was a solid wall of water out here, and the wind, which was rising, buffeted the car so that I could feel the tires fighting the thick film of water on the road. I turned up the dashboard lights and cast a quick glance at the vibrating surface of the map. I had quite a way to go yet. I turned down the light again until the dials were dim circlets in the darkness and concentrated on the road. I huddled deeper into my raincoat and slashed on through the dark. It was around seven and there was no moon so I knew when the lights of Johnstown started coming up. It was raining like fun but there was nothing else on the road; I guess most other drivers were being cautious like me. Except for Otto Kruger. He would be halfway across the country by now, judging by the speed he was making when he left the roadside diner. Two cars drifted towards me as I neared the outskirts of Johnstown; they were going dangerously fast and one of them had a yellow fog light on which made an opaque glare of my windscreen until he had gone past. Both cars were planing on the surface of the water-logged road, sheets of muddy spray sluicing off their tires.

  I turned on into the centre of town at a big T-junction where the lights of a roadhouse gave a momentary impression of cheerfulness. The shapes of parked cars looked like subterranean creatures in the aquarium-shape of my side windows. A big sign came up on my nearside; DANGER — DRIVE SLOWLY THROUGH JOHNSTOWN. I obliged by ghosting down to twenty. The wind was still buffeting the sides of the car, though it was sheltered here; a few lighted windows went by in the dusk.

  A TV rental service, the brilliant explosion of a drugstore with the silhouettes of youngsters at a soda counter; the town’s one or two big stores, a few hardy, middle-aged couples agape in the blank vacuity of their arcades; a patch of darkness; the shimmer of street-lamps. Then the well-barbered lawns of the residential section; more stores and shops, two or three biggish hotels with neon signs; a blue neon which spelt out SPINETTI’S; a side street of shuttered shops; the lights of a railroad depot; something that looked like a school with lighted windows.

  The town frayed out into a few quieter streets, the Buick rumbled over a light railway line which crossed the road and then I was out on the last of the turnpike. At least the last so far as I was concerned. I glanced in the mirror, saw the lane was clear and eased over to the right, where a side road split off the main artery. There was a signpost but it was so faded I couldn’t make out what it said as my headlamps chopped across it. But Stella had marked the map and this was the first turning after Johnstown, so it had to be right. The surface was pretty good and the road wide so I kept on going.

  I lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke gratefully. I shouldn’t be sorry to hit the sack tonight. All I wanted was a decent flop and a grill room where I could get outside a good steak. The rest could take care of itself. Presently I passed the lights of a small place off among the trees and soon after I came to a crossroads. The rain was slackening a bit now and I got out and had a look at the signpost.

  The finger pointed off to the west. It said; MUDVILLE 15. I got back in the driving seat and tooled the Buick over on to the secondary road. This had only a dirt and grit surface and the rain had softened it so that the going was pretty tough. I stayed in a low gear and resigned myself to grinding on. The road wound upwards into the darkness; the headlights picked out drenched bushes fringing the track and the darker outlines of trees.

  I kept on climbing in low gear; I was on a shelf among shallow hills. The gradient was nothing to speak of but the conditions made the going difficult. If I had a blowout here it would be a bleak prospect. There were small stones and rocky outcrops underneath and now and again streams of water from farther up the hill poured across in front of me. I looked at my watch in the dim light from the dash panel. It was half an hour since I hit the side road.

  I figured I was about five miles away from Mudville if I was on the right road still. Now there was a name. A rumble sounded as the Buick’s front wheels ran over some projection. I slackened speed and soon a clearing came up. Lights were festooned from cables strung among the trees and a big concrete apron ran from the road.

  Cedar wood cabins with lights in the windows were scattered about and half a dozen cars stood in front of a long, low building with steamed-over windows. At the back of a lawn strewn with the sodden leaves of winter was an illuminated board with the legend; PINETOP MOTEL. RESTAURANT-BAR. ABEL GRUNWOHL PROP. I stopped the car and looked at the sign thoughtfully. The thin rain drumming on the car-hood and the part of the sign which said Restaurant-Bar clinched it. I put in the gear and rolled gently into the lot.

  There was a wooden arrow on a tree with a lamp hanging over the top of it. It pointed away down past the restaurant area. It said; RECEPTION. I drove on along the narrow concrete ribbon of road and stopped in a parking lot in front of a small timber building surrounded by more sodden lawn. This had a white board hanging on chains over the door. This was lit too, with neon tubing. It said; OFFICE. Their electricity bill must have been something.

  I switched off, got out of the car and drifted up the path and through the office door. There was a bare wood counter inside, a fly-blown calendar or two pinned on the thin composition walls. A plump man of about fifty sat behind the counter with his buttocks squeezed into a padded chair and sunned himself under a parchment shaded lamp. His interest in the racing page of his paper wasn’t diminished by my pres
ence.

  ‘Mr. Grunwohl?’ I said.

  He changed gear on the gum in his mouth and said without looking up, ‘That’s what they christened me, son.’

  ‘I’d like a room,’ I said.

  ‘Day or week?’ he said. He shifted on the chair, lowered the paper fractionally and explored the gum with his tongue. He kept his gaze fixed on a corner of the counter. He had a form book there.

  ‘Depends,’ I said.

  He grunted. He rummaged in a drawer, came up with a printed card. He shoved it over at me.

  ‘There’s the rates. By the day. In advance.’

  He jingled some keys while I looked at the card. The rates were pretty steep for this time of year. I booked in for three days. I paid him. He grunted again. He shoved a register at me.

  ‘Sign here. Cabin Seventeen.’ He pushed over a big key with a brass number tag fixed to it with heavy wire. ‘Bar shuts at one a.m. if you want a shot before turning in.’

  I finished signing. He turned the register round and studied my name with an incurious eye. He glanced out of the front window, saw which way my car was facing. He jerked a plump thumb.

  ‘Keep on driving, son. Third cabin on the left.’ It was the first time he had looked at me.

  ‘Thanks, Gabby,’ I said. I went on out. I glanced back at the door. He was already deep in his paper. I drove on down the concrete road like he said. The third cabin was set back in its own strip of green. I turned the Buick off; the headlights picked up the number seventeen in white letters on a black ground, set on a metal tag stuck in the lawn. I drove up a concrete ramp in front of the garage doors. There was a metal handle hanging from a chain right by my driving door.

  I pulled it and the garage door swung upwards on a counterpoise, with a hardly perceptible rumble. The garage light came on at the same time. I drove on in and killed the motor. The rain beat steadily on the roof. I left the garage door up. I hefted my grip from the passenger seat and got out of the car.