The Day I Died

by Lawrence Lariar

  “You’re the patsy,” said Masterson, “don’t you see?”

  “The patsy?” Coyle did not hear himself speak. He was caught up in the stale and frustrating anger that has no outlet. Bruck’s hand held another gun, a larger gun this time, aimed directly at Coyle, at a spot high on his head. And the sight of the two of them back there, enjoying his frozen fear, the feel of them in the room, these things ripped at Coyle’s soul, setting up a stifled, simmering hate. He struggled to bury it. “I thought we had a deal, Masterson. Is this part of it?”

  “This is all of it.” Masterson smiled. “You didn’t think I insured your life, did you? Only an idiot would have conceived that kind of idea, Coyle. Only a man with your obvious manias. No insurance company on earth would accept a policy for so much money on a person with so little background. Insurance companies are much too clever for such gimmicks. The whole routine was a fake, of course, all the way through, including the physical examination made by a cooperative doctor friend of mine.”

  “And the ten thousand dollars?”

  “Ample pay for what you’re doing.”

  “Doing? What am I doing?”

  “Taking the rap,” said Masterson. “Playing patsy for the murder of Barney Diaz, something I’ve been aiming to do for many years. When you came along, the way was easy for me. You practically laid it in my lap.”

  “You had all this figured?”

  “Everything. Including the finish.” Masterson was on his feet now, unsteadily. When he moved, Bruck moved alongside him smoothly, the gun still cocked and ready. “You’ve got to understand that I’ve been waiting for a long, long time for the chance to get rid of Barney Diaz. He always had something down here that I wanted. I tried to buy him off, several times. But Barney was a stubborn man. In many ways, you and Barney are alike, Coyle. Barney insisted that he rule Florida in his own quiet way, don’t you see? But I always had big and beautiful dreams about Florida. And now I’m going to make them all come true.”

  “You’ll never get away with this,” Coyle said.

  “A cliché, that line.” Masterson smiled emptily. “I’ve gotten away with other ideas of this type. You have a Horatio Alger mentality if you believe that an event like this will be noticed. Too much intelligent planning has gone into the death of Barney Diaz. And the same weight of intelligence has schemed your part in the drama, Coyle. You forget that you have a history of mental upset. It will be quite simple to convince the police down here that you killed Barney Diaz. In the first place, your fingerprints will be found on the gun.”

  “And the motive?”

  Masterson shrugged. “Robbery of course. You will be picked up with three thousand dollars in cash on your person.”

  “Picked up?”

  “Picked up,” Masterson said. “But dead.” He held back the drape for a moment and pointed out into the bay. “You will be found out there, Coyle. It’s amazing the way you helped us set this thing up. You’ve been known to be quite a boat man around the Carrillon. You’ve been seen out on your boat at all hours of the day and night. What could be simpler than to take you out now, in your own boat?”

  “Take me where?” Coyle asked.

  “A short cruise,” said Masterson, licking his lips at the idea. “The three of us will take a ride out there, not far, perhaps a mile offshore. Then we’ll get rid of you quite simply, don’t you see? They’ll find your body in the bay, complete with the three thousand you robbed from Barney Diaz. We’ll dump you off your boat and then wait for my boy Stack to pick us up. You see, we’ve made a rendezvous out there. Stack will pick us up in my boat, and we’ll proceed on our fishing trip, to return to Miami Beach on schedule—three days from now.”

  “Very clever,” Coyle said.

  “I thought you’d appreciate it, Coyle. The police will like it, too. It all fits together so neatly. You killed Barney Diaz for his money. Then, confused and shocked by your nasty deed, you departed in your boat, to drown yourself out in the bay. It all fits. They’ll check back on you and discover your record of mental upset. You always were a potential suicide, Coyle. They’ll wrap it up and forget about it, within a week’s time.” Masterson’s thin lips were edged with a drunken humor. He was enjoying the fruits of his labors, savoring the plight of Coyle, licking his mental chops. “You’ve got to admit that my fishing cruise was set up to perfection. I have as a witness, my good friend Officer Lefarge who saw me leave at eleven last night, off for a few days of relaxation. It was a simple thing to come ashore by dinghy a half hour later. We had plenty of time, and all sorts of convenient spots for the landing. We knew, of course, that you’ve been working on a timetable arrangement with your girl at Miramar. I was quite positive that you would rush to see her after our jolly interview. And your amorous habits allowed us the chance to reach your cottage in good time. After that it was easy to get Barney in for a visit …”

  Trapped!

  Coyle heard the mumbling resonance of Masterson’s voice, the words lost to him. What was the sound in Coyle’s mind now? Long ago, in a childhood moment, there was a picture Coyle remembered, a drawing in pen and ink, a masterpiece of fantasy. It was a picture of a great invention, an artist’s nightmare. The machine itself occupied all of the space on the page. The machine was immense, a giant contraption, a confusion of all the symbols of things mechanical; the wires, bolts, screws and nuts, the switches, tubes, circuits and webbings of metal and steel. And deep inside the filigree of wiring, almost hidden by the network of cables, was a man. A little man, he was, a strangely stiff and awkward man to whose chest was attached the final wire out of all the intricate skein around him. He was being operated, this man, he was being moved and motivated by the machine itself.

  And now the machinery of Masterson’s plot came alive to Coyle. He was the little man at the end of the wire. Masterson had created a whirring, humming monster, an intricate contrivance equipped with gears and switches that had functioned under his finger. He had schemed the instrument from the moment Coyle walked into his office above Florian’s. It was a system of meticulously perfect circuits, all the way down the line, measured against the beat of time, each day planned, each week advancing Coyle deeper into the maw of the system that would eventually ruin him. He too deeply involved in the network of wheels and cams to find his way out of the apparatus of doom. Beyond the web of wires and cables, inside the fretwork of coils and springs, enmeshed beneath a morass of intricate wiring, Coyle was trapped and buried. He must wait here for the finger to press the final button. He must squirm and sweat here, because when the last hard pressure came, all circuits were bound to him. He would explode into eternity at the impulse set off by Masterson’s great brain. He would die on schedule.

  And he would die a murderer!

  “How does it look out there, Nick?”

  Bruck stood in the doorway to the patio, shielded by the wall. Masterson had a gun now, and when Bruck nodded, Masterson stepped forward carefully and prodded Coyle with the automatic.

  “It’s time to go, Coyle.”

  Bruck held the door open and they went out at once …

  CHAPTER 27

  Beyond the rim of the beach, the night was a dome of darkness, the stars bright and shimmering, the feeble moon lightening beyond the floating clouds, nothing but a slender crescent, and strangely dim. The wet wind blew fitfully and there was the smell of rain in the air. On the right, the Carrillon still glowed with the rim of lights outside the Marine Bar. A party up there? Coyle prayed that there might be some group of revelers loose on the sands. But the night sang with the promise of a storm, too cool for outdoor festivities. Everything was made to order for Masterson. Coyle tightened with hate. It would be good to strike out against the dim shape ahead of him, to use his strength against Masterson now, to take the desperate chance, felling him in a flying tackle and hoping that the ensuing struggle would attract attention from somebody, somewhere up at
the hotel.

  But Bruck held the automatic in Coyle’s back. Bruck moved close to him, pressing the gun where Coyle could feel it, high between the shoulders and biting deep through his shirt. Masterson took the long way down to the dock, around past the cabañas and up along the shore to the beginning of the boardwalk. Coyle desperately scanned the beach, hoping for the sight of a person, anybody at all, the sound of a laugh, anything human. He had resolved to make a move against them if he could find somebody within shouting distance. He found nobody. The beach was a graying waste, a flat plain of sand and silence. From somewhere far inland, the sound of a motor hummed and roared along a distant avenue, a muffled horn moaned and bleated and was still. Coyle shivered as he walked.

  Then they were on the dock.

  Masterson was in the lead, his tall figure advancing in a slow and rolling gait. His drunkenness came through in the way he moved, not out of control, not wild, but with an alcoholic caution. Masterson would fight to hide his dizziness. But the aura of alcohol made itself known in the tilt of his cap, set a bit too jauntily on his head. And when he paused at the berth of the We Two, he held a piling for support, staring down at the boat to bring it into focus. He had a small flask in his hands, and gulped once and stuffed it away in his pocket. He grabbed the side of the pier and lowered himself carefully to the deck of the boat

  “Come down, Coyle,” Masterson said. “And come down quietly.”

  Bruck nudged him to the pier and Coyle let himself down into the darkness. He felt pocketed and isolated now, hidden from the hotel forever. The black pile of the dock rose up to screen the boat from anybody near the shore. From here on out, it would be impossible to attract attention.

  From here on out, the road led directly to hell.

  “Sit back there,” Masterson said, in a low and drunken whisper.

  Masterson moved in close and prodded Coyle into the stern seat and then watched Bruck up on the pier, working the ropes loose. Bruck went about his business with a boatman’s ease. How many times had he rehearsed this scene? He must have worked the details out carefully a long time ago. He must have developed the scheme with the help of Masterson. Only a professional murderer could have planned the thing, all the way down to this last moment. Bruck came down on deck and pushed the We Two away from the pier, letting her drift on the tide, rocking and rolling gently, the dinghy pulling tight on the stern line. Bruck did not hurry. He had obviously been on this boat before. He had a key to the ignition and knew the temper of the motor and revved it skillfully, not pushing it, not overfeeding it but coaxing the soft coughing breath of it into a smooth action, a gentle muttering and puffing. They were pulling back and away now, and the terror became a living thing for Coyle, his heart racing with the sound of the motor, his eyes on the great bulk of Masterson, alongside him.

  “Drink Coyle?” The voice was a higher-pitched whisper now, some small part of it lost on the fresh burst of wind coming across the bay.

  The flask was held out to Coyle, but he muttered a curt and angry refusal. Back there, the hotel was slipping into the deep pit of the night, the oblong yellow patches getting smaller and smaller, the noise of the rumba band already too far away to be heard. There would be waking eyes in the Carrillon, eyes aimed into the bay, eyes unable to see the white shape of the We Two going out. Bruck was under way without running lights. There could be no hope from an observer on the shore. There could be no observer. Coyle turned his eyes away from the misted lights of the hotel.

  And then his heart danced, suddenly!

  There was a boat out there, off the port side, a small craft, running to cross the bow of the We Two. Coyle measured the running lights, estimating the size of the boat. She would be a sportsman’s rig, a fisherman, maybe. She would be heading into the bay after a day out off the coast. She was far off yet, but at the rate of speed the We Two was making, they would cross within hailing distance. There would be hope in a little while, if he could attract the eye of Bruck, if he could lure Bruck away from the cockpit. He heard Bruck’s whistle as he stood motionless at the wheel. And Coyle blessed the boatmaker who had designed this craft with a starboard skipper’s seat. Masterson would be too drunk to turn his head and scan the darkness for another boat. The wind was quartering now, off the shore, so that there would be no noise from the approaching craft, not until Coyle had shouted and screamed for help.

  “Cigarette, Coyle?”

  Masterson was standing over him now, his looming figure blocking the view of the distant boat. Coyle felt a new surge of hope.

  “Thanks,” he said. “The dying man would appreciate a last smoke.”

  He took his time lighting up, allowing Masterson the satisfaction of closing in with the automatic, stabbing it deep into his side as he watched. In the quick flare of the lighter, Coyle saw that the big man was smiling. His eyes, however, still shone with a steady intelligence. Masterson was wide awake. He would be alert forever. Coyle struggled to kill the great shock of hate that sweated him now. More than anything else, he felt the need to use himself, to spend himself against Masterson. But he controlled the rage within him, finishing the operation of lighting the cigarette. Beyond the edge of Masterson’s figure, the tiny lights on the distant boat were getting larger, closer. In a little while, in five minutes or so, Coyle would be able to shout, to scream into the night …

  “Bruck!”

  Masterson’s hoarse and whispered command was a stab at the silence.

  “Kill the motor, Bruck!”

  The figure at the wheel turned and stepped astern at the same moment when the breath of the engine died. Now they were only rolling gently.

  “Where are your eyes, you idiot?” Masterson spat the words at Bruck. “Take a look out there. Didn’t you see that boat? Or did you figure we wanted company?”

  Bruck said nothing. Masterson was a shifting shadow on the far side of the deck now. He moved back and forth, scanning the sea, not content with what he saw.

  “Gag him,” Masterson said.

  Bruck quickly tied a handkerchief around Coyle’s mouth. The pain of his helplessness rose up to torture Coyle now. For a flickering instant he felt his mind grow bright with an impossible anger. But reason returned to hold his hard fists at his side. Bruck finished tying the handkerchief, working the knot tightly so that the cloth bit Coyle’s mouth. Bruck pushed him backward unceremoniously and then stood away, joining Masterson as he watched the distant boat run across their bow, a good half mile away, and then begin to fade on the starboard side, the lights only tiny colored dots now. And then they were gone, and Masterson barked a command and Bruck started the motor.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Masterson said. He no longer whispered his orders. His voice had a fresh, cutting quality, sharpened and strengthened by his steady swallows at the flask. “We don’t want any company from now on.”

  “We won’t have any,” Bruck said. “Not until we meet the boys.”

  “How much longer?”

  “We got another half hour, maybe.”

  A half hour! Coyle closed his eyes against the night. There was an element of humor in the scene, a tickling, cloying madness. A half hour away from death! The wonder of it rose up to tighten him against the impossible laughter inside himself. How many times had he planned to greet death? How often had he dreamed the horrible nightmare, the black moment? He had courted death often, out of the queasy sadness that had grown with him from boyhood. And now, in the final reality, what had happened to him? Death was a frightening shadow. Death was a shivering, impossible specter only a half hour off over the black waves. He struggled against the image of his doom. He fought to keep alive the recent past, the cheerful days with Ellen, the resurgent hope, the bright dreams and ambitions. He could not give them up! He must not! He must create another chance for himself.

  There was a way out, if he could return to shore. There was Ellen, and Dick Christman and Doug F
olger all of them ready to testify that he had spent certain hours with them, the important hours, the time when Masterson murdered Diaz! He was lost only if Masterson killed him. And more than anything, Coyle did not want to die a murderer. The heat of his rage was reviving him now, forcing him to think with a fresh clarity. He looked back into the wake of the We Two and listened to the gentle squealing of the dinghy rope, tightening against the cleat near his elbow. He considered the dinghy, and out of his concentration came a skittering thought, only a wild and hopeless idea at first, but ripening and fattening in Coyle’s mind, under the pressure of his desperation. He held tight to the inspiration, plotting it carefully, weighing it.

  And, remembering that he had nothing to lose, Coyle began to put his plan into operation.

  He struggled against the gag. He made a growling noise of protest, turning his head toward Masterson to show him his discomfort.

  “Untie him,” Masterson said at last, the acid laughter still alive in his voice. He had drained the flask now. He flipped it away, into the sea. Coyle could smell the stink of his breath, he was that close. He continued to hold his gun against Coyle’s ribs, the pressure as strong and firm as ever.

  “How about that cigarette?” Coyle asked.

  “Give him a cigarette, Nick.”

  Bruck lit his cigarette and returned at once to the wheel. Coyle sat on the stem seat, in the port corner now. He dragged slowly. He knew what he must do. Masterson still hovered over him, unbothered by the motion of the boat, staring back toward the dinghy, his big frame standing firm, despite the growing bumpiness of the water. They would be rolling more heavily soon, Coyle knew. They would be hitting out into deep seas, and the We Too would bounce and dive into the swells. How soon? Coyle prayed for the open water, knowing that Masterson must sit when the roughness came. Coyle dragged slowly, using his cigarette as the measure of his life. He would not, he could not waste the precious spark. Because Masterson was sitting now, in the opposite comer, against the starboard beam. The sea was wilder here, the waves setting up a pattern of disquiet, tossing and bucking the We Too into an erratic movement that made Bruck slip and slide at the wheel up there. The choppy waves set up a slapping, thudding hiss against the hull, and the wind rose to add to the noise, a whistling, sighing wail around the cockpit.