Stranger at Home by George Sanders

Book Details

Stranger at Home – Vickers had been lost in Mexico, abducted and forced into slave labor. When he finally makes it home he is a changed man. Was he changed enough to kill the men who had abandoned him in Mexico? Probably.

Vickers and three of his “friends” had sailed down to Mexico on a fishing trip. These wealthy Southern Californians were living the good life after the war. Their businesses were thriving, their marriages were convenient, and their parties were lavish and booze filled. But Vickers had something the other three men didn’t and all three of them wanted badly: his wife, Angie.

Somehow, on this trip to Mexico, Vickers got mugged and then abducted, and became a slave laborer for four long years. When he finally made it home, he set about to find out who had betrayed him, which one or ones of his “friends” abandoned him in that hellhole. And whether or not Angie had anything to do with it.

Stranger at Home (1946) was ghostwritten by Leigh Brackett.

George Henry Sanders (1906–1972) was born in Saint Petersburg, Russia. His mother, Dagmar, was a lady-in-waiting to the Dowager Empress, and it was said to be through this connection that Henry as he was called then, came to be adopted by the Sanders family. In 1917, at the outbreak of the Russian Revolution, Sanders and his family moved to Great Britain.

Aspiring actress Greer Garson suggested that he take up a career in acting. In 1934 Sanders moved to New York City to appear on Broadway in a production of Noël Coward’s Conversation Piece, directed by Coward. He starred as Simon Templar, in five of the eight films in The Saint series (1939–1941). After The Saint series was ended, he starred as a suave Saint-like crimefighter in the first four of the sixteen The Falcon films (1941–1942).

Leigh Brackett was an immensely talented writer of science fiction, and is known as the “Queen of Space Opera.” She was also a very talented screenwriter and worked on such films as The Big Sleep (1945), Rio Bravo (1959), The Long Goodbye (1973) and The Empire Strikes Back (1980). The Empire Strikes Back is dedicated to her memory in the closing credits.

Brackett first came to the attention of Howard Hawks when he was looking for someone to screenwrite the adaptation of Raymond Chandler’s The Big Sleep. He had picked up a copy of her book No Good From a Corpse and had his staff find her. Through her Hollywood connections Brackett was asked to ghostwrite Stranger at Home for George Sanders.

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Excerpt: Stranger at Home

Chapter One

THE STREET hadn’t changed any. It lay curving in the shadows, the single street lamp lost in the soft heavy branches of a Chinese elm, and there was nothing different about it. Not a thing.

The same gates, spaced widely apart. The same distant gleam of windows screened from the world by the rich green of banknotes. If he walked forward, just up there where the pavement swerved out of sight, he would see his own house.

He would not do that. Not yet. Not quite yet. His hands were shaking. He thrust them into his jacket pockets, and then laughed, because his fingers had come through the rotten fabric. He turned his back on the street, facing out the way he had come, and went on foot up the steep hill.

From here there was no hill, only what seemed to be a sheer edge, and beyond it was the city, very small and far away. He could look west to the dark sea, and south to the low slim line of the hogback where the oil wells were, and east to the rough knees of the mountains. In the hollow circle of these things lay Los Angeles, with Hollywood and Beverly Hills and all the swarming little suburbs tugging at her flanks like cubs around a wolf bitch. The lights were beautiful.

It hadn’t changed, either. Even the soft veil of fog was there, the smell of the sea. He shivered as the sweat chilled on his body after the long climb.

He turned and began to walk up along the street. He did not hurry. He could hear his footsteps, one after the other, like the ticking of a clock.

He rounded the bend, and saw ahead where the pavement ended.

The jacaranda trees were still in front of the gate. Four times, he thought, they’ve blossomed since I saw them last. He could remember how the curling petals used to fall and drift the grass like blue snow. Four times. Four years.

He walked to the gate and reached out and touched it, and the spring catch was just the same as he remembered it. He swung open one side and went through and closed it again behind him. Then he stood still.

He could feel the smooth concrete under the broken soles of his shoes, and the ground under the concrete. It had a different feel from any other ground in the world. It was his ground.

He walked on up the drive, and the wolfhounds came roaring at him suddenly down the broad sweep of the lawn.

He stood quite still, his hands at his sides, and said, “Coolin.” And then, “Dee.” The larger of the two hounds broke stride, and his voice died away uncertainly. The smaller one, puzzled, stopped also, but she kept up a vicious snarling. They were Irish, two huge gray shadows, lighter than blown smoke.

The man said to the smaller one, “You’re not Dee. She had a white rift on her chest.”

The one called Coolin shivered and moaned and then leaped. The man’s arms went around him and they stood swaying, the hound erect and slightly taller than the man, crying like a woman in his throat, and the man saying idiotically over and over again, “It’s me. Pappy. Remember me, boy? It’s Pappy.”

Suddenly, into the privacy of the rough gray neck, he said rapidly, almost savagely, “Pappy. God-damned silly name. Where is she, boy? Four years I haven’t seen her. Where is she?”

He thrust the hound away and began to walk, swiftly, across the grass. Coolin stayed beside him, his muzzle thrust under the man’s hand, and his mate followed, grumbling. The man didn’t see them, or hear them. All he saw now was the house, low and gracious along the crest of the rising ground, with the lamps burning in the long windows. He crossed the drive and went up the steps and across the terrace, and the door was open, as it had always been. It swung wide under his hand, and he was home.

To his right, in the sunken living room, a woman put down her book and rose. She was pale-blonde, well-built and handsome, with a rather smug air of authority. She wore a flowing hostess gown of oyster-colored silk and reading glasses with straight bows that didn’t bother her coiffure. She removed these as she turned toward the door, and then, abruptly, in the act of turning, she stopped, the glasses held frozen in mid-air. Her dark eyes stared and did not blink, and around them her face broke apart like something sculptured in dry sand.

The man in the hallway said quietly, “Hello, Joan. Where’s Angie?”

The woman began to move toward him. Her mouth opened but no sound came out. Within ten feet of him she stopped and said, “Michael Vickers.” She put out her left hand and caught the edge of a polished inlaid table and stood leaning against it.

‘I’m alive,” said Vickers. “Don’t faint. Where’s Angie?”

Again she did not answer. She looked at him, up and down, and he stood waiting, framed in the hallway arch, with the hounds beside him. A tall man, three inches over six feet, his big gaunt frame covered with dirty odds and ends of clothing that, simply because they were on him, acquired a certain raffish dignity. His face was neither handsome nor ugly, but it was a face you looked at. The pertinent adjective now seemed to be “hungry.” A white scar ran from under his hairline across his right temple.

Joan whispered, “I don’t believe it’s you.” Beads of sweat came through the face powder, made a glittering rim above the perfect line of her liprouge. She went on staring, senselessly.

Vickers said impatiently, “For God’s sake, Joan! Come out of it.”

She drew a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly, and moved away from the table, balancing herself carefully on her feet, her head drawn erect. “Where have you been, Michael? What’s happened to you?”

There was a picture of himself as he had been four years ago. It stood on the table beside Joan. Himself, groomed and conditioned like a prize horse, his well-fed face half smiling and contemptuous. Vickers studied it briefly.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Where’s Angie?”

This time she answered. She had folded her hands tightly at her waist and her face had a closed look, but there was nothing in her voice. “She’s not here, Michael. She went down to the beach.”

“Alone?”

“No. There’s a party.”

“Still the same bunch?”

“Just about.”

“Good,” said Vickers. His eyelids drooped, giving his face the look of a death mask. “Yes. That’s good. Are my things still upstairs?”

“Yes. We — didn’t know…”

“No. All right, Joan. I’m going up and see what I can do about myself. And don’t call her, Joan. You understand? I’m going down there myself, and I don’t want you to call her.”

Her eyes widened. “But why? I should think…”

“Should you?”

He saw the curtain of subservience drawn back into place. She said, “Very well, Michael.”

“He laughed. “That sounded like the old Vickers, by God!” He turned away. Over his shoulder he said, “Get yourself a drink, Joan. You look horrible.”

As he went upstairs he heard her say sulkily, “You might have let us know.”

At the top of the stairs he paused, then turned right to Angie’s bedroom instead of left to his own. The house was silent. The servants, of course, would be at the beach. The hounds were still at his heels, and the bitch had finally stopped growling.

Angie was there as soon as he opened her door. The faint exciting spice of her perfume, her self in the bright draperies and the pictures and the yellow satin bedspread. He walked across to the huge double bed and touched the satin, and then he opened the closet door a vast closet, full of lovely colors and textures, empty now of shape, waiting. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, and the picture of her came before him clearly.

He turned away and glanced down at the floor, and frowned. There had been a great soft rug before the fireplace. It was gone now, replaced by an unwelcoming broadloom.

The cigarette box he had given her was on the bedside table. A silver trinket picked up in Mexico. He took one of her cigarettes and lighted it with her silver lighter that matched the box. The extension phone was also on the table. Deliberately, being careful not to make an audible click on the line, he picked it up.

Joan’s voice, hushed and half hysterical, was saying, “I want Mrs. Vickers, you fool. Angie.” Evidently she had said it before.

A man’s voice answered. He was very drunk, and suddenly very happy. “Angie! Oh, you mean Angie.”

“Yes.”

“Well, Angie darling – hello! Where’d you go? I was looking all over…”

Joan cried out, “Listen! I’m not Angie, I’m Joan. Joan Merrill. I want to talk to Angie. Call her. It’s urgent.”

“Urgent, huh? Call Angie. Urgent Angie. Whoo-oo, lady! You shouldn’t talk like that even if it is true. And if you’re not Angie, why did I call you up?”

“Please, for heaven’s sake…!”

Vickers spoke quietly. “Joan. I don’t think the gentleman wants to be disturbed.”

Excerpt From: Leigh Brackett writing as George Sanders “Stranger at Home.”