All the way

by Charles Williams

  “Yes, sir. Both your deposits have been collected. The second one came through this morning.”

  “Thank you very much,” I said.

  All I had to do was write a check Monday morning for a hundred and seventy thousand dollars. We were ready for the last act.

  * * *

  It was after dark when I got back to Miami Beach. I put the pick-up truck in the garage at the apartment, changed back into Chapman’s suit and the glasses and hat, and went over and picked up the Cadillac. I drove to Hollywood and checked in at the Antilles Motel. It was one of those I’d spotted before, an older type built when land was cheaper, with carport spaces between the units. It sat back off the street on US 1 not too far from the center of town.

  The woman in the office was a spry and chatty type of about fifty. I signed the registry card, and told her I’d be there three or four days at least. I was working on a real-estate deal, with Fitzpatrick. Oh, yes, she knew the firm. They were quite nice. I paid her for three days, and said I’d like to have a unit as far back as possible, away from the highway noise. She took me back to the next to the last unit in the right-hand row. It would do nicely, I said. In addition to the front door, there was a side door opening into the car park. The bath was a combination tub-and-shower arrangement, with a curtain rod and plastic curtain. There was a telephone. I asked her what time she closed the switchboard in the office. “Eleven p.m.,” she said.

  The next morning I stopped at the office on the way out. She was talking to the colored maid. When the maid left, I asked quietly, after a glance behind me at the door, “Is there a woman registered here who has real blue-black hair, worn in a chignon ? A slender woman, in her thirties?”

  “Why, no,” she said, puzzled. “Why?”

  “I just wanted to be sure,” I said. “If she checks in, don’t tell her I asked, but let me know right away.”

  “Yes, of course,” she said uncertainly. “Could you give me her name?”

  “Oh, she won’t be using her right name,” I said. “She’s too clever for that.”

  I had some breakfast in town, and drove up to Palm Beach, mostly killing time. In a hardware store, I bought a two-foot steel wrecking bar. I put it in the trunk, and came back to Fort Lauderdale. I cashed several of the checks in a bank, and one in a bar. I sat in the bar for four hours, nursing three drinks, staring straight ahead at nothing and speaking to no one.

  At last the bartender became concerned. “are you all right, mister?” he asked.

  I turned my head slightly and stared at him. “What do you mean, am I all right?”

  “I—I mean, I thought maybe you didn’t feel well, you’re so quiet.”

  ”Well, I’m all right,” I said. “And don’t you forget it.”

  “I’m sorry I bothered you—”

  “Maybe I have to have a basal metabolism and a blood count before I can drink in your goddamned bar, is that it? Or you want me to take a Rorschach?”

  “Okay, okay, forget it.”

  I went on muttering after he retreated, and got up and walked out.

  Around eight p.m. I registered in a motel on the outskirts of town, lay on the bed with my clothes on until nearly ten, and then grabbed up the phone and called the office. “Will you, for Christ’s sake, stop that stupid phonograph?”

  The manager was puzzled. “What phonograph? Where is it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said angrily. “Somewhere back here. If only they’d stop playing that same goddamned record over and over and over— Never mind! I’ll go somewhere else.”

  He was standing in the driveway shaking his head as I shot past him in the Cadillac.

  I drove down to Miami and called Coral Blaine from a phone booth at two a.m. She was somewhat piqued—she’d been worried, and I’d got her out of bed.

  “You haven’t called since Thursday night, and when I tried to reach you at the Clive Hotel they said you’d left.”

  “I’ve been moving around,” I said.

  “There’ve been several things at the office. The bank wants to know if you’d like to extend the loan on that Washburn property. And the tax people have questioned the depreciation figures on that new gin machinery.”

  “Okay. Call Wellman and tell him we’ll renew the loan for another year at the same rate of interest. If he tries to raise us, we’ll pay it off now. I’ll take up the tax thing when I get back. But never mind all that. Do you still see Marian Forsyth around there?”

  “Somewhere, practically every day. But, dear, do we have to start on her again?”

  “Tell me something. Do you ever speak to her?”

  “No. She never speaks to me. Why should I?”

  “Clever,” I said, as if talking to myself. “Damned clever.”

  “What did you say, darling?”

  “Oh,” I said. “Nothing. But, look, angel, I’ll be able to wind up this real-estate deal Monday morning, and probably be home sometime Tuesday.”

  I drove back to the motel in Hollywood and went to bed.

  * * *

  The next morning I drove down to Miami Beach, parked the Cadillac in the business area not too far from Dover Way, left the hat and glasses in it, and walked to the apartment. I changed to khaki fishing clothes and a cap, backed the pick-up out of the garage, and drove down to the Keys. It was one-thirty p.m. when I reached the turn-off on to the back road on Sugarloaf. Since it was Sunday, fishermen were rather numerous, pulling boats behind their cars or casting from the bridges. Three miles from the highway there was a dim trace of a road leading off to the left through heavy scrub where the water’s edge was a tangle of mangroves. The mangroves thinned out after about a mile, giving way to open areas where boats could be launched. Several cars with empty boat trailers were parked in the vicinity, but there were no people around at the moment. The nearest boat I could see was about a half-mile offshore. I parked the truck off to one side, locked it, and started walking back. There was only a remote chance anybody would bother it, and it would attract no attention, since everyone would merely assume it belonged to another fisherman.

  I came back out on to the secondary road, and had gone less than a half-mile toward the highway when a man and his wife stopped and picked me up. They were from Marathon, and had spinning rods in the back seat. I told them the battery had gone dead in my car and I was going out to the highway to pick up a new one. They dropped me at the filling station and general store. I drank a can of beer and read the Sunday papers until the Key West-Miami bus came through. When I got off at the Greyhound terminal in Miami I ducked into a phone booth and called Justine Laray, a little anxiously because it was already after eight p.m. Call girls didn’t stay home all the time. But luck was with me. She was in.

  “Where on earth have you been?” she asked. “I thought you were going to call me Friday.”

  “I’ve been out of town,” I said. “But, look, do you want to take a little trip? I’ve got to go up to Palm Beach for a couple of days, and we just might get a chance to look into the gown situation around there.”

  “I’d love to go, honey.”

  “Pack an overnight bag, and I’ll pick you up as soon as I can get loose here. Where you live?”

  She gave me her address.

  “I’ll see you,” I said.

  I took a cab over to Miami Beach to the apartment, and changed back into Chapman’s clothes. Next I removed all identification and the cards from his wallet, dropped them in the pocket of my jacket, and counted the money in it. Nearly all the checks were cashed now, and even with the way I’d been throwing it around it came to a little over three thousand, four hundred dollars, mostly in twenties and fifties with four or five hundreds scattered through it. It made an impressive-looking roll, and the wallet would scarcely bend any more. I shoved it in my pocket, and then made a bundle of the fishing clothes and the cap, making sure my own wallet was still in the trousers.

  I called Justine again.

  “Look, sex-pot, I’m still tied up in t
his deal, over in Miami Beach. But I’d tell you what. I thought we’d stay in Hollywood tonight at that motel where I’ve been, and go on up to Palm Beach tomorrow. So why don’t you run on up to Hollywood? I’d just go on out the beach and cut across.”

  “But how am I going to get there? And where do I meet you?”

  “Hell, take a cab. I’d pay for it. There’s a bar—the Cameo Lounge. Meet me there at, say, ten-fifteen.”

  I locked the apartment and walked over to where I’d left the Cadillac that morning. I put the fishing clothes in the trunk, along with my canvas shoes and a flashlight. Going up to a drugstore in the next block, I got a handful of change, went to the phone booth, and put in a call to Robin Wingard’s home address in Thomaston. He was in.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Chapman,” he replied. “How are you? And did Miss Blaine tell you—”

  “You mean the FCC citation?” I interrupted. “Yeah. I told her to authorize you to get anything you needed to take care of it. But I’m calling about something else.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  I lowered my voice a little. “Listen. This is strictly between the two of us; don’t even mention it to Miss Blaine. I don’t want to worry her. Is Mrs. Forsyth there in town?”

  “Why, yes. I saw her on the street just this afternoon.”

  ”Has she been around the station, or the studio?”

  “Why, no-o. She hasn’t been to either one.”

  “But you are positive she’s in town?”

  “Oh, yes. Unless she left tonight. But why?”

  “I can’t go into it now,” I said. “But here’s what I want you to do. Under no circumstances, is she to get into the station, or the studio. If she tries to force her way in, or sneak in, call the police. If necessary, hire Pinkertons.”

  “But—I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t explain now. But I’ll be there by Tuesday afternoon, and in the meantime don’t let her get past you. G’bye.”

  I drove to Hollywood, found a place to park near the Cameo shortly before ten-fifteen, and waited. Justine arrived in a taxi about ten minutes later, and went inside. I lit a cigarette and remained where I was for another forty minutes, watching the doorway to be sure she didn’t leave. She’d have had two or three drinks by now, and she’d be smoldering.

  I went in. It was very dimly lighted, a small place with a precious aspect about it and a Hammond organ that fortunately wasn’t being played at the moment. There were six or eight customers. She was at a small table about halfway back, grimly watching the door. She had a new permanent, and was wearing a dark blue dress and white mesh gloves, and the overnight case was on the floor beside her.

  “Well! You finally got here,” she said, as I sat down. “I was just about to go back.”

  “Sorry I was late, cutie,” I said. “Couldn’t get away.”

  The casual manner and the “cutie” didn’t improve her feelings any, but she was trying to get them under control. It would be poor policy to blast the goose just as it was about to produce the golden egg.

  ”It’s all right,” she said with an effort.

  “Well, I wound up the deal.” I stuck a cigarette in the holder and lit it. “I guess our trip’s off, baby.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I can start home in the morning—”

  “Well! Of all the stupid—!” The black eyes were venomous. “After I spend a fortune in cab fare, and sit here like a mope for an hour and a half waitin’ for you to decide to show up—”

  The bartender and several customers turned and stared.

  “Hey,” I said soothingly, “take it easy, Marian.”

  She slammed her drink down. “And will you, for Chrissakes, stop calling me Marian! I’m sick of it!”

  “All right, all right, I’m sorry, honey—” I looked around uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean it. Let’s have a drink.”

  I motioned for the bartender, who hadn’t missed a word of it, and ordered two Martinis. It took several minutes to cool her off. “We had another pair of drinks, and decided to go somewhere else. I could see her eye the car appraisingly, though she said nothing. We drove over to the beach to another bar. I was acting a little drunk now, and tried to paw her in the parking lot. She shoved me away.

  “Le’s ginna back,” I said.

  “Oh, shut up!”

  We went inside and had two more drinks. I noticed she was leaving most of hers now.

  “Why don’t we go on to the motel?” she asked. “We can have some drinks there.”

  I bought a bottle of Scotch from the bartender. He didn’t want to sell it to me but I persuaded him with an extra five dollars. We drove to the motel. It was after midnight now, and most of the units were dark. I turned the car and backed it into the carport between the units. I was staggering a little, and as I was fumbling the door open I dropped her bag. It clattered on the step.

  “Be careful!” she said angrily.

  Inside, I switched on a light, put the Scotch and the bag on the dresser, and started to paw her again. “Wait a minute, can’t you?” she snapped. She slipped off the dress and put it on a hanger in the closet, and took off her shoes. They were blue, with very high heels. I broke the seal on the bottle, and poured two water tumblers half-full.

  “Live it up, kid,” I said, handing her one.

  “I’m goin’ to put a little water in mine,” she said, and went into the bathroom. She closed the door. I quietly unsnapped the overnight case and opened it. She had other shoes, all right. I grabbed out a pair of her nylons, and a pair of pants, shoved them under the mattress on the bed, and closed the bag. When she came out I could tell by the color of her drink she’d poured most of it out before she added the water.

  “S down the ol’ hatch,” I said, weaving a little, and gulped part of mine. The shoes were lying on the carpet near the corner of the bed. “Howz bout a kiss?” I said, and stepped toward her. I landed on them, and heard one of the heels snap. So did she.

  “Now look what you’ve done, you stupid idiot!” she lashed out. “Of all the clumsy, big-mouthed apes!”

  I weaved, fixed her with a glassy stare, and contemptuously kicked the shoes under the bed. Hauling out the wallet, I fumbled a fifty out of it and threw it on the bed. “Go buy self ‘nother pair. But don’ heave your weight ‘round. I could buy you for cat food.”

  I tried to stuff the wallet back into my pocket. It fell to the floor. I reached down for it, and fell over. She stared at me with contempt. I got up, tossed the wallet on the dresser, and went into the bathroom. Turning on the water in the basin, I made a retching sound, and washed my face. When I came out, she was smiling.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “It was my fault, for leavin’ ’em there. Here, let me pour you another little drink.”

  “Sgood idea,” I replied. “Pologize. Din mean word of it.” I drank part of the whisky, dropped the glass on the rug, and collapsed on the bed. “Lie down few mince. Feel better.”

  She stretched out beside me, and stroked my face with her hand. “There, there, honey. Ju-u-st relax. You just had a little too much.”

  I closed my eyes. We lay perfectly still for about ten minutes, and then she said, “Honey?”

  “Ummmff?” I muttered, and stirred a little.

  She waited another twenty minutes before she tried again. I went on breathing heavily, and made no reply. After a few more minutes she moved cautiously away from me, and got up. I heard the rustle of the dress as she put it back on, and the careful unsnapping of the bag to get the other pair of shoes. I had to listen carefully to hear the door open, but there was a faint click as it closed.

  I slid off the bed, parted the curtains at the front window just a fraction of an inch, and peered out. There was no one in sight except her. All the units across the way were dark, and the woman who ran the place had long since gone to bed. She reached the entrance, turned left, toward the center of town, and disappeared.

  She should know enough not to take a
cab all the way to Miami and at this time in the morning, so she’d probably head for the bus station. She knew I had her address, and the chances were she wouldn’t stop this side of California. With a married man she could tough it out and play the percentages, but she should be pretty sure by now that I was single. I’d cried enough about what the tax people did to me because of it.

  I went over to the dresser. She’d left the wallet. Removing the identification had been superfluous, but it was a precaution I had to take. Chapman was going to be all over the front pages in a few hours, and having his identification turn up somewhere in a garbage can would have been disastrous.

  Twelve

  I replaced all the identification and the cards in the wallet, and looked at my watch. It was one forty-five. Taking two water tumblers out in the bathroom, I rinsed them and rubbed them with a towel to remove prints. It didn’t really matter—the maid would replace them with two fresh ones, wrapped in waxed paper as these had been. I set to work on the three bags, one of which was open on the luggage stand. They were fiberglass, and would probably show prints. I wiped them all over very carefully with the towel to remove any already there, and then replaced them with numbers of deliberately smeared prints—touching them, particularly around the hardware and handles, with my fingers and hands, but always sliding just a little. I did the same thing with all the doorknobs, bathroom fixtures, and the glass top of the dresser. The bottle of whisky I’d take with me, and the one that had been in his luggage originally I’d already thrown away.

  I pulled out the nylons and the pair of pants I’d shoved under the mattress, held them under the tap in the wash basin until they were thoroughly wet, squeezed out the excess water, and draped them on a coat hanger from the closet. I hung them from the shower head that projected from the wall above the tub, and then slid the shower curtain about halfway out on its rod so they were hidden from view.

  I retrieved the shoes from under the bed. The broken heel was still attached, but dangling. Turning out the lights, I lay down on the bed with a cigarette. It was difficult to stay awake. I’d really had more to drink than I was accustomed to. After about an hour, I got up without turning on the lights, slipped out the side door into the carport, and unlocked the trunk of the Cadillac. Going back inside, I returned with the whisky bottle and the shoes. Stumbling, I fell heavily against the side of the car, bumped once against the wall of the carport, and dropped to the floor. I remained utterly silent for at least five minutes, and then got up with a great scraping of shoes against concrete, bumped against the car once more, put the shoes and bottle in the trunk, lowered the lid very gently, and pressed until the latch clicked. I tiptoed back inside, closed the door, and lay down again.