Solomon's Vineyard Page 4

  Penelope Grayson was thin and blonde and almost beautiful. She was dressed in white. She should have been beautiful, but she wasn't. There was something strange about her face. It was like the face of a person who is blind. What I mean is she looked at me out of grey eyes that really didn't see me. The woman and the man both watched her.

  “I'm Karl Craven,” I said. “Your uncle asked me to talk with you.”

  “It's no use,” she said slowly.

  The woman went away. The man stayed. I turned to him. “We don't need you.”

  “I will remain.”

  “Do you want him to stay, Miss Grayson?”

  “Yes, please.”

  She spoke as though she was in a trance, or doped, or dreaming. She stared back at me steadily enough, but she didn't see me. She wouldn't know me again. Her face was queer, as though it was out of focus. The man looked at me smugly.

  “Your uncle wants you to come home,” I said.

  “I belong here,” she said.

  “He is very worried about you.”

  She stood with her dull eyes on me. Her skin was very pale “You must tell him I am happy here.” She looked anything but happy. I didn't understand it.

  “He is lonely,” I said. “You're his only relative.

  “No longer,” she said. “I am a Daughter of Solomon. I have abandoned my worldly connections.”

  I began to feel spooked. It was like talking to a medium. Her voice came out of her mouth, low and soft, but it didn't really seem to have anything to do with her. It was as if she didn't know what she was saying. I wondered if she could be hypnotized.

  “Have you anything for me to tell your uncle? I asked.

  “I have no message.”

  “Will you see him if he comes here?”

  “Please tell him I am happy here.”

  “Wouldn't you be happy somewhere else?” I asked. “Where your uncle would not worry?”

  The man tapped my arm. “Daughter Penelope has talked enough.”

  “Please,” she said; “I must go.”

  “You are keeping her from her duties,” the man said.

  She started to leave. I got in front of her. “Wait,” I said. “Don't you know you're in danger here?”

  “I am happy here.”

  “She is going now,” the man said.

  His face was hard. He took her elbow and started to guide her around me. His eyes were as black as ripe olives. I hit his jaw with a right uppercut. He fell on the brown carpet, got up on one elbow. He was dazed, but he wasn't out. I got my revolver and split his head open with the barrel. That put him flat on the floor. I tucked the revolver in the holster. Penelope Grayson stared at me with her wide drugged-looking eyes.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “I want to talk with you alone,” I said. “You're in a lot of trouble.”

  She was hearing and seeing me now. I had broken through whatever was wrapped around her mind. She was still dreamy and unnatural, but a part of her was listening to me.

  “I am in no danger,” she said.

  “I have to talk fast, so listen. I am a private detective. I have a partner, Oke Johnson.”

  I looked at her eyes, but the name meant nothing to her. I kept it simple, as though I was talking to a child.

  “He came to Paulton three weeks ago. At your uncle's request.”

  “A short, fat man?”

  “Yes. He was to persuade you to go away.”

  “He tried, but I am happy here.”

  I heard voices outside. Some women were coming towards the house. I grabbed the man by his shoulders and dragged him behind one of the couches. His feet stuck out so I doubled up his legs. There was some blood on the rug, but I put a chair over it. The girl watched me dreamily.

  “Yesterday Oke Johnson was murdered,” I said. “Somebody shot him. You understand, murdered him. It's in the papers, if you don't believe me. Somebody was afraid of what he was doing in connection with you.”

  Feet made a noise on the stairs. The girl's eyes were on me. I stared right back at her. I wanted her to believe. “Do you understand what I've told you?” I asked.

  Someone came into the room behind me. The girl said: “Yes, I understand.” I looked around.

  It was the woman I'd seen at the station. The woman with the curves. She stopped by the door and stared at me. She had on a Russian-looking costume, too, only hers was scarlet, both the blouse and the skirt. And beside the others I'd seen, it looked like a number out of Hattie Carnegie's window. She was beautiful. She was surprised to see me, but she smiled, as though it was a pleasant surprise.

  “I will go now,” Penelope Grayson said.

  She glided out of the room. I said “Hello” to the Princess.

  She smiled again and said “Hello.”

  I went by her to the door, smelling her perfume. It made me think of black lace underwear. I wanted to stay and talk, but I had to get out before my pal behind the sofa began to moan. The Princess had blue eyes and her breasts pressed against the red silk. I smiled at her and walked down the front steps.

  It was still and hot outside, and the sun was high in a clear sky. Sprinklers worked over beds of yellow flowers. I walked not too fast to the Chevy, passing several men in white blouses. The men paid no attention to me. I wondered what would happen to me if they got me before I left the grounds. A bunch of religious nuts like those might do anything. I climbed in the sedan and eased her along the gravel road. By the time I reached the street-car tracks outside the big gate, brother, I had sweated plenty, just thinking about being caught.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I WENT up to my room at the Arkady and took off my clothes. I lay on the bed in a pair of shorts and poured myself a glass of bourbon. I drank the bourbon slowly, letting it coat my throat. I wondered if I'd been wrong in telling the girl about Oke's death. I didn't think so. I had to shock her; start her thinking. It was a thing the people at the Vineyard didn't want her to do. They were trying their best to stop her from it. I didn't know if they were doing it with drugs, or by hypnotism, or in some other way, but they were doing it. It was the way some of those places worked. Her uncle had said she was emotionally unbalanced. Those were the kind they liked to get hold of, especially when there was a pile of money too.

  I decided I'd done the right thing, even though it meant I was going to have to play it the hard way. Now I was out in the open. No sulking around like Oke Johnson. I took another drink and telephoned down for the Negro. I was kind of glad to be playing it the way I was.

  It all came back to something I'd figured out once about the detective business. There were two ways to go along: underground or on top. I never found out which was best. Underground you had the element of surprise on your side, but it was harder to move around. On top you went everywhere, taking cracks at everybody, and everybody taking cracks at you. You had to be tough to play it that way. Well, I was tough.

  When the Negro came, I told him I wanted him to deliver a message for me.

  “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “To that doll, Ginger.”

  The Negro looked scared.

  “Ask her if she'll cat with me tonight. I'll be in the bar at seven.”

  The Negro got pop-eyed: “Mister,” he began.

  I gave him five dollars. He shut up and left. I looked in the phone book. There was a Thomas McGee, lawyer, at 980 Main Street. The number was White 2368. The pixie clerk answered the phone and I gave him the number.

  “I know that number,” he giggled. “McGee, the lawyer.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “I thought it was the morgue.”

  A woman answered the phone. I told her my name was Karl Craven. I said I'd like to see McGee after lunch.

  “I'll see if Mr. McGee will be free,” she said. Then, after a pause: “Mr. McGee will see you at one-thirty, Mr. Craven.”

  That was an hour away. I took a drink of bourbon and put on my green gabardine and went down to the coffee shop. I had the lunch with p
ork chops and mashed potatoes. I was about through when a young punk with a thin, pale face sat on the stool next to me. He ordered a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. He glanced at me, but when I looked at him he turned away. I wondered if he was tailing me. I'd see when I went out.

  I finished lunch and gave the girl a tip. The punk leaned towards me.

  “A lady wants to see you,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  He looked frightened. “This afternoon. She s at 569 Green. Carmel Todd.”

  “I don't know any Carmel Todd,” I said. He slid off the stool and put a fifty-cent piece on the counter and went out. He didn't look at me. I saw he hadn't eaten his sandwich. What the hell! I thought. I went out to the street, but he was gone. I went back and paid my bill and got a cab and went to McGee's office. It was on the fifth floor of a brick building. A girl sat at a desk in the reception-room. She had moist lips and watery brown eyes. I gave her my name. She simpered at me and went in an inner office.

  From the looks of the reception-room I decided McGee wasn't so prosperous. The furniture consisted of three wicker chairs and a wicker table with tattered copies of the Rotarian on it. Near the entrance was the girl's table with a telephone and a typewriter. There was one picture on the brown wall: a sailing ship on a very blue ocean. On the floor was a grass rug. I sat in one of the chairs and looked at a Rotarian for January. After a while the girl came back and said Mr. McGee would see me.

  The inner office was dark. Heavy curtains kept out the light. I could just see McGee standing behind his desk. He was a tall man with stooped shoulders, and his eyes were set deep in small triangles of flesh. A shabby black suit made him look like a minister. He shook my hand for a long time.

  “Please sit down, Mr. Cah-” he said.

  “Craven,” I said. “Karl Craven.”

  “Yes. Of course. Craven.” He sank down behind the desk and began to make washing motions with his hands. “What can I do for you, Mr. Craven?”

  “Mr. Grayson sent me.”

  “Ah, Mr. Grayson!” His eyes gleamed. “What does he want?”

  He knew damn well what Mr. Grayson wanted, but he wasn't giving anything away. I liked his being smart. I might need help from him.

  “I'm supposed to persuade”-I let my month hand over the word-"Miss Grayson to leave the Vineyard.”

  He got a package of cigarettes and some matches out of a desk drawer. He gave me a cigarette. “I don't smoke myself,” he said. The cigarette was of the ten-cent-a-package variety. I lit it and threw the match in his waste-basket. I took a deep drag of smoke and blew it out my nose.

  “I'm afraid,” he said, “Miss Grayson will be difficult to persuade.”

  “I found that out,” I said. “You've seen her?”

  “This morning.”

  His eyes were narrow. “She told you,” he said, “that she was very happy.”

  I nodded. He laughed. It was a queer laugh, a sort of high-pitched giggle. It wasn't what you'd expect to see come out of a guy who looked like a minister.

  “You can sec, Mr. Craven,” he said; “that I've been talking with Miss Grayson, too.”

  He wasn't giggling any more. If you ever look at a rattlesnake's eyes, you'll see the same triangles. He was thinking. The small eyes were bright with thinking. He watched me for a moment.

  “What are you?” he asked suddenly. “A private investigator.”

  “What firm?”

  “My own.” I grinned at him. “You think a respectable firm would handle a job like this?”

  He leaned over the table. “You arc going to kidnap her, then?”

  “I don't like the climate in Leavenworth.”

  “Quite so.” He sank back in the chair and made the washing motions with his hands again. “Quite so. What do you propose to do?”

  “If I knew,” I said, “I wouldn't be here.”

  “True, Mr. Craven,” he said, giggling. It was weird hearing him.

  “You know how badly Mr. Grayson wants her out, I said. “You worked for him.”

  He nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the local court refused to grant an injunction against the Vineyard.”

  “That's why he sent for me,” I said.

  “Mr. Grayson is a very determined man.”

  “And a very rich man.”

  He rubbed his hands together. I felt we understood each other, but to clinch it I said: “Naturally, you'll get paid for the work you do.”

  “I've already received a small fee.”

  “Five thousand,” I said. “Not so small.”

  “Just a manner of speaking.”

  “But,” I went on, “not so big compared with what he might pay.”

  “If we can get her out, Mr. Craven.”

  We discussed it. He let his hair down a little and told me he hated the Vineyard. I didn't know as I blamed him: from the way he talked it sounded like a hell of a place. He said he'd been trying to shut it up for twenty years, but every time he'd had Solomon and the Brothers in court they'd gotten the decision. When he was the district attorney, back in 1929, the charge was bootlegging. He knew the Vineyard was supplying the whole county with spiked wine, but the defence proved it had been spiked after it left the Vineyard. Later he got some of the Brothers indicted on a narcotic violation, but the dope he'd confiscated disappeared from the chief of police's office.

  “The closest I ever came,” he said, his eyes peeping out angrily from the triangles of flesh, “was on a Mann Act violation.”

  He'd proven two girls had their railroad fares paid from California by the Vineyard. Privately he had forced the girls to admit they'd been used sexually by the Brothers in their ceremonies. But when the case came to trial, both girls denied all immorality. That was two years ago. Since then the only thing he'd tried was to get the injunction for Grayson.

  “The Vineyard sounds like a fine place to live,” I said. “Liquor and dope and immorality.”

  McGee ignored this. He said: “When Solomon died I thought I might get 'em. I thought he was the brains. But they're still smart.”

  “How long has Solomon been dead?”

  “Five years.” McGee's eyes darted from me to the window. “Five years Sunday.” The eyes came back to me and then went to the waste-basket. “On Sunday his body will be on view.”

  “Five years and they still look at him?”

  “It's quite a sight, if you don't mind the odour.” I asked some more questions about the Vineyard. The colony had been founded in 1868 by the first Solomon, a carpenter from Ithaca, New York, who had a revelation one Sunday afternoon. He convinced his family and some of the neighbours that God wanted them to go into a new land. They'd finally settled in Paulton, then a village in the range country, and planted grapes they'd brought from New York. From the first the settlement had been called Solomon's Vineyard.

  The men lived in one building, McGee said, and the women in another. All the property belonged to the colony. The children were kept in a third building. The Brothers became prosperous, selling vegetables, dairy products and wine. People came from all over the country to join them, giving up their personal wealth to the Vineyard when they took the vows.

  “Not a bad racket,” I said.

  The original Solomon died in 1889 after he had picked a five-year-old boy to succeed him, McGee said. When the boy was sixteen, he became head of the colony. He was called Solomon, too, because he was supposed to have been inhabited by the spirit of old Solomon. Under this Solomon the colony became rich and large. He was the one who'd died five years ago.

  “Why haven't they picked a third Solomon?” I asked. McGee wasn't sure. He thought possibly it was because Solomon had announced he was going to return. “The Day of Judgment?”

  “I think so,” McGee said, “but I'm not sure, Mr. Craven. It's something they don't talk about.”

  “Where does the Princess fit in?” I asked. McGee's eyes leaped from the floor to me. “What do you know about her?”

  “She was
on my train.”

  McGee said: “Solomon used to take trips incognito. One time he came back with her. He put her in charge of the women and called her Princess. I don't know where he found her.”

  “Well, she ain't hay,” I said.

  We talked for a long time about getting the Grayson girl out, but neither of us had any good ideas. I figured it wasn't much good trying again by the way of the courts, and kidnapping was out. I asked McGee if we couldn't show her the colony was phony. That would make her want to get out, and then everything would be Jake.