In a Lonely Place by Dorothy B. Hughes Read Free Book Online Page B

have an excuse, Brub could have infected him too with the fear. She’d be glad to see him. He could coax her into driving up to Malibu. For a drink. For fresh air. She wouldn’t be afraid—at first.
    He slid the car to the gates. Left lay the canyon. Left lay Malibu. Right was the California Incline. Right was Wilshire, the road back to town. She was Brub’s wife. Brub was his friend. Brub, the hunter.
    He was very tired. He hadn’t had much sleep last night. He turned to the right.

2
    The morning paper had columns on the case. Having been scooped by the afternoon papers on the original story, this sheet at least was making up its loss by intensive research. It had pictures of the girl, Mildred, of her family, of the apartment house where she’d played bridge, of the lonely spot in Beverly Glen Canyon where her body was found.
    Her name was Mildred Atkinson and she had led a very stupid life. Grade school, high school—Hollywood High but she was no beauty queen—business college and a job in an insurance office. She was twenty-six years old and she was a good girl, her parents sobbed. She played bridge with girl friends and she once taught a Sunday-school class. She didn’t have any particular gentlemen friend, she went out with several. Not often, you could bet. The only exciting thing that had ever happened to her was to be raped and murdered. Even then she’d only been subbing for someone else.
    The sleuths had found that she and the man had had a cup of coffee about midnight in a near drive-in. The couple had been served inside, not in a car. She’d been standing there alone, waiting for a bus. Her girl friends had waved goodbye to her. The man had seen her standing there alone, a little nervous. He’d said, “Busses don’t run often at night,” as if he too were waiting. She hadn’t wanted to talk; she’d been brought up not to talk to strange men. “Mildred was a good girl,” the parents sobbed. She’d never let a man pick her up, her girl friends chorused, but they wondered how much they hadn’t known about Mildred. “Not unless she knew him.” The cops were scouring the town now, talking to every man Mildred had known. They’d be thorough; they’d check men who’d passed through that insurance office. Believing they had a lead at last on a man apparently as normal as you or I, who tracked women at night. The lead editorial called him Jack the Ripper and demanded more and better police protection. The editorial—it was a non-administration paper— sneered politics and got in some snide cracks about the mayor.
    She didn’t want to talk but he was a decent-looking young fellow waiting for a bus. And the mist grew cold on the lonely corner. When he knew she was ripe for the suggestion, he mentioned coffee at the drive-in up at the corner of Linden Drive. The pert car-hop remembered Mildred when she saw the picture in the paper. She’d been carrying out a tray when they entered. Remembered possibly because by then Mildred was pleased at having coffee with a good-looking young fellow. She’d preened a little.
    The car-hop told the other girls, “That’s her”; the boss heard the gabble and he called the Beverly Hills police. The car-hop couldn’t describe the man, sort of tall, nice looking in a tan suit. She was sure he couldn’t be the strangler; he wasn’t that kind of a man at all. She would always be sure that what happened to Mildred happened after she left her drive-in escort.
    He read every line of every story in the morning paper. He felt good today after last night’s sleep. It was a wonderful summer day. He stretched out in bed lazily and he thought about the redhead. She would be poison but it wouldn’t hurt to think about her. He couldn’t get mixed up with a woman, with a damn snooping dame. But God, she’d be worth knowing. It had been so long a time since he’d had a woman to hold to. He hadn’t wanted one.
    He didn’t want one now; it was hangover from seeing