Tall eroded cutbanks rose on the inland side. I drove slowly in the left-hand lane, watching the other side. A miscellaneous line of buildings, multicolored and many-shaped, clung to the rim of the road above the beach. Most of them were beach houses on twelve- or fifteen-foot lots, or one-story rental apartments. There were a few shops selling redwood souvenirs, genuine oil-paintings, handwoven textiles, ceramics: Bohemia on its last legs, driven back to the ultimate seacoast. The heavy gray ocean yawned below.
I saw what I was looking for, a storefront wearing a “Photographer” sign, and slowed to a crawl. A truck horn blasted the rear of my car. I made a hasty left-turn signal and skidded through a break in the southbound traffic. There was no place to park except the shoulder of the highway, close up against the narrow display window.
The window and the shop behind it were dark. In the light from passing cars, I could see the sample pictures through the smeared plate-glass. They were signed, in a large and flowing hand: “Kerry.” The names, the lives, the deaths were drawing together towards an intersection.
At the rear of the shop, which wasn’t ten feet deep, a hollow rectangle of light outlined a door. I knocked on the glass front-door. The hollow rectangle filled with sudden light. A young woman entered it, pausing with one hand on the knob. She called across the width of the shop, in a voice that sounded tinny through the glass:
“Art? Is that you, Art?”
I shouted back: “I have a message from him.”
She stepped forward through the doorway, her giant shadow plunging ahead of her, her tiny heel-taps following. Her face came close up to the glass, a white blur with black holes for eyes and a black mouth, framed in an aureole of lighted yellow hair. I was aware of the skull behind the flesh.
The black mouth trembled: “If he wants to come back, tell him it’s no use.”
“I came to tell you that.”
“I wouldn’t touch Art Lemp with a ten-foot pole, not after what he did.” She caught her breath: “You came to tell me what?”
“Let me in, Molly. We have things to talk about.”
“I don’t know you. Who are you, anyway?”
“I saw Art today. He wasn’t feeling so well.”
“I couldn’t care less.” She was repeating what Bourke had said about her. “If you’re a friend of Art’s you can go away. And tell him I said so.”
“I can’t. He isn’t hearing so well.”
“Buy him a hearing-aid. Good night. Go away.” But her face was pressed against the glass, which flattened and widened her nose. She said in a smaller, frightened voice: “What do you want?”
“Information.”
“Go and ask Art, why don’t you? He always claims he knows it all, he’s got the inside dope on everything, and everybody. Ask him.”
“He isn’t talking.”
The dark eyes widened like expanding doubts. “Did they pick him up?” Her mouth was on the glass. When she drew back a little, it left a mouth-shaped lipstick mark.
“This could go on all night, Molly. Let me in and I’ll tell you what you want to know. After you tell me.”
“How do I know Art isn’t with you?”
“Come out and look.”
“Oh, no. You’re not going to lure me out of here. Who are you? Are you a cop?”
I settled for that. “A kind of one. I’m a probation officer.”
“I’m not on probation. I never been convicted of any crime.”
But she unlocked the door and opened it a crack, reluctantly. I planted a foot in the opening.
“I’m as clean as a whistle,” she said.
“When did you last see Art?”
“Not for a couple of weeks. We had a big blow-up a couple of weeks ago. I made him get out.”
“Is he your husband?”
“I wouldn’t say that. We were … business partners. I took him into the business when Kerry ran out on me. Not any more, though, I can promise you that. Not since Art laid his filthy paws on me. I’m glad he’s sick.”
She shivered suddenly and violently. “That’s a cold wind. I hate the cold sea-wind. If you want to talk, come in. I’m not doing nothing. I haven’t done a thing all winter. I haven’t had anybody to talk to since Kerry went away.”
The chill racked her again. All she had on was a light sleeveless dress.
“Wait a minute, Molly.” I fetched my briefcase from the car.
“What have you got in there?”
“I’ll show you, inside.”
She opened the door and locked it carefully behind me. The back room was a fair-sized studio with two large windows and a door at the rear. Beyond the closed curtains I could hear the wind and the sea gasping and thumping like weary visitors. On one side of the room the tools of the photographer’s trade, tripods and light-stands, were stacked in a shadowy jumble against the wall.
The light came from the other side of the studio, where Molly apparently lived. The floor lamp was draped with stockings and underwear. The open davenport bed was violently rumpled, as if its occupant had been wrestling nightmares. There was a gas burner in one corner beside a deep, stained sink lined with coffee grounds. Trampled newspapers littered the floor. The life these things represented had been coming to pieces.
Yet Molly herself was clean and well-groomed. Her pull-taffy hair was lacquer-smooth, her dress freshly laundered. She had lovely white arms.
She covered them with a brown cloth coat and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the coat tight around her. “I hate the sound of that damned sea. Why I ever came out here in the first place …” Her voice drifted lower: “Back where I came from, the nights were warm in summer. It was really nice there, except when there was a storm.”
“Where do you come from, Molly?”
The sadness in her eyes changed to sullenness. “None of your damned business. I’m twenty-one. I never did nothing illegal. You can’t touch me.”
“I’m interested in your friends. Kerry Snow, Art Lemp, Fred Miner.”
“Fred who?”
“Fred Miner.” I described him.
“I don’t know the Miner character. The other two, yes. What have they been up to?”
“It’s funny you should ask that, Molly.”
“Why? You’re a cop, aren’t you? You didn’t come around for the pleasure of my conversation.” She swallowed, and slanted a blue glance up at me. “Have you seen Kerry?” Her voice was soft and shy.
“Not lately. When did he leave you?”
“I don’t know, it must of been about three months ago. We were only in this place a month. It didn’t surprise me. I knew he’d be going after her sooner or later, he was always talking about her that last month.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Never mind.”
“When did you last see him, Molly?”
“I told you, about three months ago. It was February, early February. I know it was before Valentine’s Day, because I kept thinking maybe he’d send me one. He didn’t.” Her glance came up to my face again like a dark blue light. “Are you his parole officer, by any chance?”
“He doesn’t need a parole officer. Kerry is dead.”
Her teeth clenched. She spoke between them, gutturally. “You’re a liar. Kerry couldn’t be dead. He’s too young to die.”
“He died violently, before Valentine’s Day.”
“Murdered, you mean?”
“I’m trying to find that out.”
“Why come to me?”
“Because you knew him.”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe he’s dead. You’re lying to me, trying to break me down.”
I showed her Sam Dressen’s photographs. Her listless hands turned them over and let them slide to the floor. Twisting her body sideways, she lay down with her legs dragging over the edge of the couch. Her rigid jaws relaxed and her mouth opened wide. Her eyes were wide. She pressed her face into the rumpled sheet and screamed hoarsely for a long time. Then she pulled the coat over her head.