Something resembling a sigh left her lips. Her little game with me was over and she seemed happy that it had ended.
“You really knew Mike,” she said.
“Of course I did. You didn’t tell the police about his real name, is that it?”
She stared at me, not knowing what to do with the handkerchief in her hand. Her face had the quality of stunned confusion a child might show a few seconds before tears. She would always project this strange, almost moronic amazement at reality.
“They didn’t ask me,” she sobbed. “I suppose I should have told them.”
“They’ll get around to asking you more questions when they can’t resurrect Mike. Why’d you hold back?”
“I don’t know. I guess I was used to it.”
“Mike did a pretty good job of burying himself.”
“It was something he wanted.” For a long moment she studied me. Her eyes were probing, but behind them only a child’s brain stirred. Her classic face was a mask of beautiful nothingness. Her calm seemed permanent. For a fleeting minute I speculated on Mike’s life with her. He had been a garrulous type, quick to find words for his ideas. She must have said plenty to him with her body. Because, even now, her mouth was only saying, “I couldn’t really understand why he did it, you know.”
“He never mentioned Luke Yorke?”
“Lots of times. He hated the old man.”
“Luke wanted him back. He wanted to rehire Mike.”
She bit her lip and said nothing for a long time. Her empty eyes seemed off on an aimless course around the room, touching the familiar sights as though she might be a stranger here.
“Mike thought the old man was a louse.”
“Yorke was ready to forgive him.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered, Mike didn’t steal anything from the old fool. He was framed.”
“By whom?”
“Arthur. Arthur Denton.”
“How could Mike be sure?”
She tried to heavy her pale eyes with anger. But she could do nothing to alter the serenity of her face.
“I thought you said you were a friend of Mike’s,” she said quietly. “Mike couldn’t steal. He ran away because he was afraid to follow through and face Arthur. Mike was too soft for his business. They cut each other’s throats to get to the top. Mike preferred to run away rather than stay and fight. That was all. That was the reason.”
“But Yorke says he was caught with the goods.”
“Yorke is just believing his nephew.”
“He seems like a pretty fair old bird to me.”
“You’re wrong,” Vicki said. “They found some of the missing jewelry in Mike’s room. Then they found some marked bills in his wallet. But that doesn’t mean Mike took them, does it?”
“You think Arthur put them there?”
“Mike was sure of it. His whole world collapsed when it happened. He had dreams of staying on and doing Caleb Straight after the old man died. Instead, we left town for good. We got married and came out here and he became Mr. Mailer. It broke his heart.”
“Mike was depressed lately?”
“No more than usual.”
“Sick?”
“He was as healthy as an ox.”
“Do you think he killed himself?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She was on her feet now, moving away from me. Her restlessness took her to the far end of the room, to the picture window, where she looked mournfully out at the driving snow. She might have been a typical young housewife worrying about her husband’s late train. She might have been an unmarried wren, waiting for a date to walk up the driveway. She might have been anything but a bereaved widow. The way she stood there sent strange, unexpected shivers down my shanks. For some reason impossible to understand, I couldn’t see her as Mike’s woman. How would he ever break through that iced façade? He might please her on the mattress, but could he ever really reach her?
She turned from the window, went to the fireplace; arranged the fire tools casually. When she faced me again, the same dead calm bathed her pretty face.
“You might as well know,” she said. “Mike and I weren’t getting along too well. Not lately.”
“Want to tell me why, Vicki?”
“Does it matter?”
“Sometimes it helps to talk,” I said. “I’m a pretty good listener.”
Her eyes softened momentarily. Something was working to change her for me.
“Maybe you’re right,” she almost whispered. “I’ve got to talk to somebody. It might just as well be you.”
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About the Author
Lawrence Lariar (1908–1981) was an American novelist, cartoonist and cartoon editor, known for his Best Cartoons of the Year series of cartoon collections. He wrote crime novels, sometimes using the pseudonyms Michael Stark, Adam Knight and Marston la France.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1953, 1981 by Lawrence Lariar
Cover design by Ian Koviak
ISBN: 978-1-5040-5747-9
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Lawrence Lariar, Kiss and Kill
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