Read Online Stranger At Home by George Sanders - Free Book Online Page A

over by handsome females with the faintly condescending air of grand duchesses come gracefully down in the world. Vickers wandered about, keeping in the background. Women in fantastic hats bought perfumes and cobwebby stockings and underthings no more substantial than a breath of fog. The whole place had the subtle smell of wealth.
    One of the grand duchesses showed him her perfect teeth and said, “May I direct you, sir?”
    Vickers started. “Thank you, no. I’m – looking for someone.”
    After that he went away.
    At the Beverly-Wilshire he found a cab and had himself driven to the public library. He was fairly sure that he would not meet anyone he knew in that particular place. He found a seat in a far corner, pulled several books at random from the shelves, arranged them on the table, sat down, and pulled the leather-covered book from his pocket.
    The fly leaf was hand-decorated – Harry Bryce had had a talent for hilarious, if rather rude, cartooning. There was a motif of amorous mermaids with certain startling physical characteristics, and framed by their flirting tails was the legend: LOG OF THE LADY B. Below that was Harry’s name, and an allusion to his rank and chief duties in the crew.
    The next four pages had sketches of Vickers, Bill Saul, Job Crandall, and Bryce himself, all good-naturedly libelous caricatures. Then the log itself started.
    He could remember reading each entry after Harry had written it. He could remember the four of them laughing themselves sick over the description of Job Crandall’s efforts to land a sailfish while mildly drunk, and embroidering with mounting improbabilities the tale of Bill Saul’s encounter with the red light district of a particularly small and uninhibited port. Vickers skipped through these pages hurriedly, but the picture of himself came back vividly into his mind. The well-fed Vickers relaxing on his yacht, enjoying his own personal sunshine and his private ocean, seeing large-handedly to his guests. Including, he thought, the guest I didn’t know was there – the little man called Murder.
    He came to the last two entries. It was quite easy to tell from Harry’s writing when he was drunk and when he was sober. On the first of these two entries he had been cold stone sober.
    Vickers has gone. He didn’t return aboard last night, and this morning we can find no trace of him. We’ve searched the town, but nobody has seen him. I’m afraid this is the end of the cruise.
    The next, and last, entry was longer and written in Harry’s sub-alcoholic scrawl.
    One last bust, dear little log book. We’re all tight, the three of us – tighter than we were last night, when we lost Vick. Nobody can remember what happened. We went ashore, and after that I dunno. Neither does Job. 
    Neither does Bill. Anyhow, Vickers never came back. Job says he’s dead. Bill says Nuts, the son of a bitch is too ornery to die that easy, and besides we didn’t find a body, did we? No corpus, no delicti. Me, I’ll string with Job. There are sharks in these waters. You don’t have to find a body. And who wants to find Vick’s anyway? Just think, dear diary – this here leaves Angie a widow!
    Vickers noticed, quite casually, that his hands were shaking. He was dimly aware that someone had sat down quietly beside him. He should have been startled when Joe Trehearne’s voice said, “Are you finding some good books?” He was not startled. He was somehow not even surprised. He did not bother to close the log book.
    He looked at Trehearne and smiled. “Are you following me?”
    Trehearne seemed mildly hurt. “Of course not. I can read, you know. I often go into libraries.”
    â€œAren’t you a little off your beat?”
    â€˜I’m also off duty, and there’s no law yet against a citizen of Los Angeles entering the township of Beverly Hills.”
    â€œWhat a pity.”