She assumed the exaggerated pose of a model, then laughed at herself with her voice of throaty silver and tripped prettily up the stairs. She took the heavy suitcase from the back of the closet, lugged it out into the room.
With a needle, she picked the stitches out of a place where the lining had been ripped and mended. Reaching through the rent, she pulled out the heavy packet, took it over to the bed and opened it with excited fingers. The packet contained three envelopes. That was the secret. To be systematic.
The first envelope contained small pictures of varied sizes. Five of them. Five pictures of five men. On the back of each picture, in neat, dainty printing, were a few facts. The name of the man. The city or town where they had lived. The name she had used each time. A guarded phrase to indicate the manner of death. A tiny figure to indicate the net gain, in thousands, by his death.
Humming once more, she went to her bureau drawer, took out the small picture of Howard Goodkin, took it back to the bed along with her silver fountain pen. Resting the picture face down, she printed certain facts neatly on the back of it.
She put it in the envelope with the other pictures. In the second envelope was a listing of several Chicago banks. Following the name of each bank was the name she had used to open the safety-deposit box, and a statement of the amount of cash in each box.
The third envelope contained the keys to the boxes, each one carefully tagged. On the back of each tag was the date when the box rent would be due. In the beginning she had paid ten years’ rent in advance, and each box had been renewed through the payment of a second ten years’ rental.
She sat on the bed and thought of the wonderful massive vaults, the tightly locked boxes, the neat bundles of cash in each box. A great deal of cash. An enormous amount, she thought, considering the ease with which it had been obtained.
She replaced the packet in the suitcase under the lining, repaired the rent with clean, tiny stitches.
Already there was great delight in thinking ahead to the wreath on the door, the neighbors bringing baked things, the quiet words of comfort. It was so easy to cry when they spoke to her—so easy to play the part of the stricken widow.
Then, after several months of wearing black had gone by and she had begun to tire of her practiced role of widow, she would go to a few selected friends, the ones who would talk, and she would explain how she could no longer remain there where her memories of Howard were so clear and so sharp. She would sell everything and go away. Some letters, a few postcards—and then silence.
They would forget. They always did. Then she would be ready for a new little city, a new man, a new background, carefully memorized so that there would be no slip-up. The eternal delightful gambit of courtship, marriage, setting up a home and making friends. Then, in a year or two—death. It always ended in death.
To be such a friend of death gave her a feeling of power that she bore with her wherever she went. She looked on the dull, tidy little lives of the women in the small cities in which she lived, and she felt like a goddess. She could write all manner of things on the black slate of life, and then, with one gesture, wipe the slate clean and begin all over again. New words, new love, new tenderness and a new manner of death.
She had read of stupid women who poisoned one husband after another. That was the most spectacular stupidity. Through such methods the police were enabled to establish pattern. No, murder, to be successful, must be done with infinite variety—and in ways that could not be connected with the heartbroken little woman who sobbed out her grief to the coroner and to the police.
Whenever she read articles which proclaimed that there was no such thing as a perfect murder, she laughed inside. She sat and laughed without any change of facial expression. And inside of her she felt a glow of triumph.
It was good to kill men. Only one thing sometimes bothered her. To get such joy out of killing men must indicate some psychotic condition. She was a well-read woman, but it was not until after the fourth death that she managed to connect her joy with that half-forgotten incident in the woods near her home when she had been fourteen.
The man had caught her by the wrist, reaching out from beyond a patch of brush as she walked slowly by. He was ragged and he stank of liquor and his filthy hand had muffled her screams.
Sometimes she would wake up in the night and once again feel the hand pressing on her lips.
They had sent him to jail. Shortly after that both of her parents died. As she had looked on their faces she had thought that they were dead and yet that horrible man still lived.
It bothered her that her hatred of men had to be based on a particular incident. She would rather it had been hatred without apparent cause, because it would have seemed cleaner that way.
She married at seventeen. A boy named Albert Gordon. After the first week with him, she knew that one day she would kill him. In killing him she would somehow be exacting her just vengeance.
She married him under her own name—Alicia Bowie. For two years she planned. For two years she endured him, and got delight out of being able to successfully play the part of the happy bride.
Two days after her nineteenth birthday, the papers announced that tragic death of Albert Gordon while on a swimming picnic with his young wife at Lake Hobart. According to the newspaper accounts, Albert Gordon had dived from the high limb of a tree and had misjudged the depth of the water.
She could still remember exactly how it was. The late-afternoon sun slanting across the water. Albert was near her, waist deep in water, looking out across the lake. The tree was above them. She had fumbled on the rocky bottom, found a loose boulder of about ten pounds’ weight. She had held it poised. The shore dropped steeply, and the water, while up to his waist, lapped gently around her legs. She had brought it down on the top of his head. Some of Albert’s blond hair adhered to the rock. She had carefully placed the rock in three feet of water under the limb of the tree, bloody side up. That’s where they had found it.
With Albert’s insurance, she had moved eight hundred miles away. She had changed her name. She had established the pattern.
Now she got up from the bed, showered, put on a crisp cotton dress and raised the shades, filling the house with sunshine. As she listened with part of her mind to a morning radio program, another part, a cold mechanical part, was weighing, discarding, considering alternate methods of accomplishing the sudden death of Howard Goodkin, successful manager of a chain of grocery stores in and around Wanderloo, Ohio.
By lunchtime she had cut the feasible methods down to two. Neither of them duplicated any of the previous murder methods. Both of them were carefully selected to fit the habits of Howard Goodkin.
Howard came in for lunch, smiling. He kissed her, patted her affectionately and said, “Anything exciting happen this morning?”
I decided to kill you, Howard. “Not a thing, darling. That dog across the street chased the Robinsons’ cat up into our maple tree and Betty was standing around wringing her hands. When she was about to call the firemen, the dog went away and the cat came down. When she picked it up, it scratched her wrist.”
Howard grinned, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “Big morning, huh?”
It won’t be hard to weep for you, Howard. In many ways you’re quite nice. “A nice, quiet morning, darling. Is the salad all right?”
“Wonderful, honey! I love it with onion.”
Cristofer, Florida, was a small, inland town, sleepy in the hot sun. Because it was not near the sea, the prices at the tourist courts, shabby hotels and cabins were low. Many old people came to Cristofer to live out what remained of their lives. The men, their work-gnarled hands resting on their thin thighs, dozed in the sun. The buxom and indestructible old ladies lifted shrill voices throughout the endless days and the monotony of the sun.
Ben Lawton, wearing ragged khaki shorts, his bronzed back knotted with muscle, trudged with the wheelbarrow down to where the truck had dumped the load of small, gleaming white shells, filled the whee
lbarrow and pushed it back up the slope to the Komfort Court—Cabins by the Season—Reasonable Rates.
There had been a time, just before the war, when Ben Lawton had sat behind a blond streamlined desk in a New York office. His novel sales promotion ideas had caught on, and he was looking forward to a great deal of money.
In the middle of 1947 Benjamin G. Lawton had been released from the Veterans Hospital. The parting words from the resident psychiatrist had been: “Emotionally, Lawton, you’re not able to resume your prewar activities. We recommend some quiet and isolated spot—manual labor—no worries. Any sort of tension will tie you in knots that we may not be able to untie. Maybe, someday …”
And so Ben Lawton had ended up doing manual labor for Jonas Bright, proprietor of the Komfort Court. After more than a year, Ben thought of the outside world with a fear that chilled him through.
The Komfort Court consisted of sixteen two-room cabins. Jonas Bright, a semi-paralytic, was a blunt, gruff but fair employer. Ben took care of maintenance and the odd jobs that came up. Serena Bright cleaned the cabins, replaced the sheets, towels, pillowcases. She was the nineteen-year-old motherless daughter of Jonas.
Ben jammed the shovel into the barrowload of white shells, spread them along the path to Cabin 8. He straightened up for a moment, watched Serena carrying fresh sheets over to Cabin 11. It was only while watching Serena that Ben felt as though he were coming alive once more. Whenever he thought of Serena, whenever he watched her tall, slim, young figure, her proud walk, her warm strength, he thought of how wonderful it would be to take her to the New York shops he knew so well, to have the clever clerks transform her back-country charm into a city splendor that would halt the casual male in his tracks.
In spite of Serena’s lack of advantages, lack of breeding and education, there was a fine sensitivity about her, an alert awareness of her surroundings.
He watched her, saw how the thin cotton dress clung to the lines of her body. When the screen door of the cabin slammed behind her, he sighed, returned to his work.
He knew that he had no chance with Serena. She had looked too long and too often on the gilded faces on the Bijou screen, and on the sleek automobiles, the shining clubs and bars. A subdued, solemn psycho case, a man fresh out of a PN hospital, held no charms for her. Sure, she would laugh and joke with him, but always he saw that faint withdrawal in her eyes, and sensed that she was saving herself for someone who could give her the things she read about and saw in the movies.
Jonas Bright was pathetically proud of his daughter.
By the time Ben had worked his way down to the walk that led up to Cabin 11, Serena came out, perspiration beaded on her upper lip.
“Don’t hit me, Ben,” she said, “if I ask you if it’s hot enough for you.”
“If you were standing closer, I’d hit you, honey,” he said, grinning.
“Phoo!” she said, sticking her underlip out, blowing a wisp of silver-blond hair away from her forehead. Every visible area of her was honey brown.
“Tonight,” he said, “would seem to be a good night for you to walk a half mile with me and drink beer which I can barely afford. Okay?”
There had been many evenings like that. Gay and happy evenings, with lots of laughter and no hint of emotional entanglements.
There was a hint of amusement in her soft brown eyes. “Laddie,” she said, “you are talking to a girl who has better plans. Mr. Kelso is taking this kid to the Palm Club.”
Ben was surprised at the amount of annoyance he felt. “Works fast, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a perfect gentleman!” she snapped.
“He’s a perfect phony!” Ben said angrily.
She lifted her chin, gave him a cool stare and said, “And how would you know, Lawton? You’ve never traveled in his league.”
She pushed by him, carrying the laundry down to the main building to be picked up by the truck. He watched her go, saw the indignation that she managed to express with each step.
For a moment he was tempted to call her, to tell her that Jay Kelso could never have made the league that he once traveled in. But he had never talked of his past to the Brights, and this was no time to start. Probably she wouldn’t believe him anyway.
He wheeled the barrow down toward the pile of shells. He frowned as he thought of Jay Kelso. The man had arrived in a flashy convertible some three days before, had rented Cabin 3 for an indefinite period.
It was impossible to guess what his business was. To Ben Lawton, Kelso looked like a racetrack tout who had cut himself a piece of a killing. He wore loose-weave sports shirts in pearl gray, lemon yellow and powder blue. His neckties were knotted into great bulky triangular knots. His luggage was of shining aluminum. His faun and pearl slacks were knife-edged, and his sports shoes were obviously elevators.
His face was thin, with a deep tan over the sallowness, dark hair pompadoured with a greasy fixative, his facial expression a carefully trained imitation of a movie tough guy.
He carried his wad of bills in a gold money clip, and he went out of his way to adopt an air of patronizing friendliness with Jonas, Serena and Ben. He ignored the other tenants, and his every action said, “I’m one hell of a smart and pleasant guy. I know all the angles and I’m giving you people a break just by being around. See?”
Ben had seen Jay Kelso practically lick his lips the first afternoon when Serena had walked by. The program was clear. With Kelso’s motives and Serena’s ambition to be a city girl, the end result seemed more than obvious.
Ben wondered how much longer Jonas Bright would be able to be proud of his daughter.…
The sun was low by the time Ben Lawton had finished his work. He took the barrow and shovel to the toolhouse, walked slowly down to his room in the west wing of the main building. Business was slow. He saw that Tommy, the boy, was pumping gas into a big car covered with road dust. The tourists from the car were in at the counter, and Beth Bronson, the fat high school girl, was serving them Cokes.
He took a long shower to clean off the dust and sweat. When he turned his shower off he heard the roar of the shower on the other side of the thin partition, in the portion where Jonas and Serena lived. He guessed that Serena was getting ready for her date. He changed to white slacks and a T-shirt and went to his front door, sat on the concrete step and lighted a cigarette.
Within ten minutes Jay Kelso came wheeling down in his canary convertible, parked near the pumps and bleated the horn. Serena came hurrying out in a matter of seconds. Her linen suit was a bit too short and a shade tight across the shoulders. She climbed into the car and Kelso reached across her, pulled the door shut. He roared it out onto the highway in a cloud of dust. Ben saw the setting sun brighten her fair head, Kelso’s dark one—and the two heads were close together.
He sighed and stood up.
Jonas was beside him. Jonas spat, the brown tobacco juice slapping into the dusk. He said softly, “She’s too old to give orders to, Ben.”
Not believing his own words, Ben said, “She’s smart enough to find out for herself.”
Jonas sighed. “I hope so. I surely hope so.” He turned and limped dejectedly away.
The investigator looked so much like a depressed bloodhound that she wanted to laugh at him. But of course that would be a silly thing to do. The room was darkened and he sat across from her, obviously ill at ease. The tiny wadded handkerchief was damp in her palm. She inhaled, a long, shuddering sound, and mopped at her eyes with the handkerchief.
“I know how tough this is for you, Mrs. Goodkin, but we just have to ask these questions so that our reports’ll be complete. You understand, don’t you?”
“I understand,” she said in a small, weak voice.
“It was Howard’s practice to do minor repairs on the car?”
“Yes, it was. He was always doing something or other to it. He loved to—to get all greasy, and he said that he was saving money by doing things himself. He always said he—he should have been a mechanic.”
“Yes. I remember he said something about repacking the rear wheels and adjusting the rear shocks, whatever that means, Mr. Brown.”
Mr. Brown sighed. “Well, it’s a pretty clear case. He jacked the car up and took off both rear wheels and blocked the axle with bricks. It was a damn fool thing to do. Probably when he was tightening a nut or something, he moved it enough off balance so that it—”
She suddenly covered her face with her hands and sobbed hoarsely. In a matter of seconds, she felt his heavy hand on her shoulder, patting her gently.
“There, there, Mrs. Goodkin,” he said. “Sorry I had to upset you this way. Howard wasn’t in any pain. He never felt a thing. That differential came right down and killed him instantly.”
As she sobbed, as she felt his comforting arms around her, she relived those few moments in the garage. She had bent over, looked under the car, said, “How are you doing, honey?”
His face was smeared with grease. “Just about another twenty minutes ought to do it.”
He was in the right position, his face under the bulge of the differential. She had straightened up, walked to the side of the car, picked up a dust rag, used it to shield her hands as she pushed the car with all her strength.
It had swayed and the bricks had cracked in warning. Howard had given one startled gasp as the car had come down heavily.
Screaming wildly, she had run out into the street. As soon as she was certain that neighbors were running toward her, she had slowly and gracefully collapsed in a mock faint.
Yes, this one had been smoother than most of them. Less questioning. She could leave sooner, cover her tracks, go to some quiet resort place and start over again.
More Good Old Stuff Page 2
