Never Say No To A Killer

by Clifton Adams

  “It's all right there in that book,” I said, “the one you were reading. Nietzche proved with crushing finality that the only civilization capable of enduring is one in which the strong are not penalized for taking from the weak. This particular civilization in which we are living calls it robbery, extortion, piracy, and a lot of other things.”

  She leaned her head to one side, smiling quizzically. “And do you approve of these particular methods of obtaining money?”

  “Let us just say that as a philosophy, Nietzsche's can be a very tough one to logically argue down. However, I wasn't going to bring up this subject, was I?”

  “You didn't bring it up, I did, and I find it very interesting.” he wasn't smiling now, she looked extremely sober. Like a little girl who had just been told that some day she must die. Once again she touched my hair, and I felt the soothing effect of her hand. There was a satisfaction and pleasure in having her reach out, of her own accord, and touch me. This is the way it would be when the time came... only more so. “Tell me,” she said, “what else do you believe?”

  “What else do I believe? Well, I believe in strength. And I believe that man should believe in himself.”

  “You must be terribly bright,” she said, in a lighter vein now, smiling. “You must have read a horrible lot of books in order to have developed so many positive opinions.”

  “As a matter of fact,” I said, “you are right. I have read a great many books, during recent years especially. And I have an intelligence quotient of one hundred and forty-nine, which isn't bad when you consider that one hundred and forty-five is usually considered a genius rating.”

  She laughed suddenly, with surprising merriment. “Coming from anyone else,” she said, “such a statement would tag the guy as an insufferable braggart.”

  “I wasn't bragging, I was merely stating a fact.”

  “I know,” she said, “and that is one of the things about you that amazes me.”

  “However,” I said, “I don't believe that a man of ability should underrate himself.”

  Once again she laughed. “I can believe that! I certainly can!”

  We sat there for quite a long time. And at last she said, “I'm going to have to put you out before long; I'm still a working girl, you know.”

  I said, “You don't have to be. All you have to do is say the word and you can have anything you want. Anything.”

  “This is rather unlike you, isn't it? I didn't think you asked for things. I thought you took what you wanted.”

  “This is my new technique, remember?”

  This time she didn't smile. “... Yes. I remember.” Then she said, “You frighten me at times... did you know that?”

  “No. I don't mean to. Why do I frighten you?”

  “You're so sure of yourself. You have such absolute confidence in your own power to get the things you want.”

  “That's the way I am; when I say something, I mean it. Remember what I said that night about turning this town upside down and shaking it, and you said you would like to be around when the money started falling?”

  “... I was only joking.”

  I wasn't joking. Before long I'll hold this town in my own two hands. I'll make it sit up and talk just the way I want it to talk, like a ventriloquist operating a wooden dummy. Don't ask me how I'm going to do it, just believe me when I say it's going to happen.”

  She looked at me for one long moment. “Yes... I can believe you.”

  “You haven't asked any questions,” I said, “and I appreciate that.”

  “It isn't because I haven't wondered. I wouldn't have been human, not to have wondered.”

  “But you didn't ask, that's the important thing. That's the way well keep it.” I took her hand, just her hand and held it. “That coat I gave you,” I said. “That was nothing. You can have a closet full of coats exactly like it, if you want them. That Lincoln that surprised you so... you can have a fleet of them, one for every day in the week, if you feel like it. That is the way I am going to shake this town. That's the way the money is going to fall when I really start moving.”

  She said nothing, but there was a brightness in her eyes, a strangeness, when I glanced at her and she didn't know that I was looking.

  “Think about it,” I said.

  “... Yes. I'll think about it.”

  I had her hooked. I could feel it. This was her chance to stop being a working girl and really become somebody. Yes sir, beyond a doubt she was hooked.

  Still, it wasn't the time to start grabbing. Instead I let go of her hand and stood up. “See you tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” she said, “tomorrow.”

  Let her think it over. Let her dwell on that fleet of Lincolns and that closet full of Balmain coats. I smiled and walked out of the apartment.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THAT NIGHT I slept like the dead.

  I awoke slowly the next morning. I lay in bed and let consciousness creep gently, quietly into my brain, and at last I opened my eyes and saw that the sun was high, I had forgotten to draw the blinds and my drab, cramped bedroom was obscenely bright.

  The first thing I thought of was Pat. Maybe I had been dreaming about her, I don't remember, but the first thing I thought of was the brightness of her eyes and the way she had looked at me the night before, and I thought pleasantly: Sure as hell, I've got her hooked.

  Then I remembered Calvart.

  Ah, yes, Mr. Stephen S. Calvart, and a very tough boy he had been, too. But a dead one now. So I forgot about Calvart.

  I padded into the bathroom, brushed my teeth, ran some hot water and began to shave. What I needed was some coffee, but there wasn't any coffee in the apartment, and if there had been it wouldn't have done me much good because I made lousy coffee. But all that would be changed before long. Pat would soon be making my coffee in the mornings.

  That thought cheered me. I began to whistle as I lathered my face. I had a feeling that this was going to be a fine day, that this was going to be the day the cards started falling on my side of the table. First Burton, and then Calvart, both of them tough boys, but now they were dead and I could forget them. Surely, I told myself, that list of Venci's doesn't contain any more names that would prove as tough as Burton and Calvart. Surely my luck is due to change!

  Not until that moment did I remember the letter.

  Christ, what time was it anyway? I didn't have a watch, and there wasn't a clock in the place, but I remembered Pat saying that the postman usually showed up around ten o'clock.

  I finished shaving and got out to that mail box as fast as possible. The house porter came around and said it was only after nine and the postman hadn't been around yet. I breathed easier.

  It was almost an hour later that the postman finally showed up. From down the hall I heard the familiar rattle of keys the minute he stepped into the building, and I was there at the mail box almost before he was.

  “Good morning,” I said pleasantly.

  “Mornin',” he said, not looking up. He unlocked the boxes, began sorting out a small bundle of letters, dropping the envelopes into the individual slots.

  “Name?” he said.

  “What?”... not understanding at first what he meant.

  “Your name,” he said, still not looking at me, still busy at sorting the envelopes. “You got any mail, you might as well take it now. Before I lock up the boxes.”

  “Oh, My name's O'Connor, but I'm not expecting any mail. Fact is I'm here to pick up Miss Kelso's mail for her. She asked me to. That's all right, isn't it?”

  He shrugged. “Sure, it's all right, I guess, if Miss Kelso had any mail to pick up. But she don't.”

  I felt my insides shrink. “You must be mistaken,” I said, forcing a laugh, forcing myself to remain outwardly calm. “You see Miss Kelso was expecting this letter; she was quite certain that it would be in this morning's mail, and she wanted me to pick it up for her. Maybe you overlooked it.”

  “Didn't overlook it,” he said
, completely uninterested. “Everything for this address was in that bundle. Nothin' for Miss Kelso.”

  My scalp began to prickle. You sonofabitch, I thought savagely, if you're holding out on me I'll leave you dead right here in the hallway! So help me I'll strangle you if you don't come across with that letter!

  He dropped some magazines on the table and began locking the boxes.

  I made myself calm down. In spite of his self-assurance he must have overlooked that letter! He must have! Then he shouldered his leather mailbag, nodded and started to go.

  “Please!” I said quickly, licking my lips. “I know this might sound crazy to you, but that letter is very important—to Miss Kelso. You see, well, I promised I'd get it for her, and naturally I don't want to disappoint her. I'd be very grateful if you'd look again, just to be sure. Would you do that, please?”

  He said nothing. He went on thumbing through the bundles of envelopes, and I felt a sick emptiness in the pit of my stomach as bundle after bundle was dropped back into the bottom of the bag.

  “Isn't it there?” I asked. “It's there somewhere, isn't it? It got misplaced?”

  He finished with another bundle, the last one, and once again shouldered the bag. “Nope. Just like I told you the first time, there's nothin' here for Miss Kelso.”

  That letter simply had to be there! I said: “How about another delivery? Is it possible that the letter would be delivered later in the day?”

  “Not unless it's special delivery.”

  By God, I thought, that would really cook me, if that letter turned out to be special delivery. But surely Ellen Foster would have noticed a thing like that—sure she would —so I immediately ruled out the possibility of special delivery.

  The postman gave me one look, a sort of fishy look, then turned and went out of the building. It was all I could do to keep from yelling at him and making him go through his bag all over again. That letter just had to be there somewhere!

  But it wasn't. If that letter had fallen into the wrong hands, I was good as dead, and I didn't want to admit it.

  What I had to do was think. This was no time for breastbeating and wailing. I stood there staring at the mail box, that empty mail box, and made myself calm down. There was one thing I had to do; I had to systematically figure out what had happened to that letter.

  Now that letter was mailed around four o'clock yesterday afternoon... that's the starting point. There was just a chance that the letter wasn't picked up at all yesterday. If that was the case, it wouldn't be delivered until tomorrow, since there was only one-a-day delivery service at this address. Maybe that's what happened, I thought. And I began to feel better.

  But only for an instant. Oh, no, I thought, that letter was picked up all right. If it hadn't been, the police would have intercepted it right on the spot.

  That left two possibilities, two possible explanations as to why the letter hadn't arrived here this morning: either it had been lost, or it had been intercepted at the main mail distribution point.

  Then I thought: what are the odds on getting a letter lost in the mails? A million to one? Two million to one? The post office is a damned efficient organization; they just don't lose letters, especially on local delivery, often enough to make it a possibility.

  That left only one answer, the answer that I had been trying to dodge, the answer that I was afraid of. The letter had been intercepted by the police. I didn't know how, but it had happened!

  I had promised myself that I would never be afraid again... but I was afraid now.

  It was a miracle that I was still alive! The miracle was that this apartment building hadn't been swarming with cops long before now! By God, I thought, I've got to get out of here! I've got to move faster than I ever moved in my life!

  That was when I started running.

  I suppose I was running for my apartment, but I can't be sure about anything that happened for the next few minutes. Panic had seized me and for that instant had complete control of me, but instinct alone had probably turned me toward my apartment. That's where my money was. That's where my gun was—the equipment of survival.

  Once I recognized the fact that the letter had been intercepted, I knew instantly just the way it must have happened. It had started with that maid, Ellen Foster, who had suddenly become so proud of her memory. After thinking it over, she must have realized that the name on the letter hadn't been Keaslo at all, but Kelso, and she had probably called the cops about it.

  But it couldn't have happened last night. It could only have happened this morning, and not early this morning, either, and that was the only thing that saved me this long. That and a legal complication that naturally arises when you fool with the U. S. Mail. The cops, after they had intercepted the letter, probably had gone after Pat's permission to open it and act on the information in it. That small time lapse had saved me. It had given the postman time to make his regular delivery and arouse my suspicions.

  If the cops had just held up that postman I would have been cooked hours ago. Blue suits and badges would have filled my apartment before I'd even got out of bed.

  All this went through my mind as I ran down the hallway of that apartment building. In a matter of seconds the whole story was there, full grown, in front of me.

  But the situation was bad enough as it was. Sooner or later the cops would be here. In a matter of minutes, probably, or even seconds. Surely, they would know the contents of Dorris Venci's letter by this time, the news that Roy Surratt, Alex Burton's murderer, was at large in Lake City. I didn't dare think of the number of police cars that must be converging on this point at this minute, this second.

  Where I was going from the apartment I didn't know. I just knew instinctively that I had to get there first, I had to get the gun, the money, the keys to the Lincoln. I didn't have enough of a future to plan on... the future, after I had picked up the essentials, would have to take care of itself.

  I was about six or eight quick running steps from the mailbox, right at the rear entrance of the apartment building, when I heard the first siren.

  The sound froze me.

  I forgot about the apartment. I forgot, gun, money, keys, everything. All I could think about was getting away from there as fast as possible. I hit the rear entrance of the apartment building, with a force that almost took the door off the hinges. I ran past the garage stall where the Lincoln was parked... that sleek, beautiful, powerful Lincoln that I'd never be able to use again, not even if I had remembered the keys. They would be looking for that Lincoln, they would be looking for any kind of car, so I didn't even give it a second glance.

  I ran around the row of brick garage stalls, clawed my way through a hedge fence and broke into the open alley behind the apartment building. I had no time to wonder where I was going from here. The first siren was getting louder now, much louder, and others were beginning to join the screeching chorus. I only knew that I had to keep running until I could no longer hear the sirens, and then maybe I could stop for a moment and think.

  I darted across the alley and plowed through another hedge fence, and there on the other side of the fence was another string of second rate apartment buildings, much like the one I had lived in. I ran blindly, headed nowhere in particular, just running in panic. It was like a nightmare, the harder I ran the closer the sirens got. I circled the apartment buildings and crossed the street which placed me a block away from where I had started. A woman coming out of a drugstore stopped to watch, but I ducked behind another building at the end of the block and didn't see her again.

  I began to thing about Dorris Venci as I ran. Goddamn that warped brain of hers!

  But it was too late for regrets. Too late for anything but running, so I ran.

  I stopped in a doorway and tried to get my breath, but the sound of those sirens wouldn't let me rest. Every goddamned car on the force must be answering this call! I thought. Well, who could blame them? It's not every day that you get a chance to pick up Roy Surratt, defenseless
and alone, the way he is now!

  But I kept telling myself: You've got to stop this running! It's idiotic, all this running when you don't even know where you're going! It only attracts attention.

  When the prowl car went past, sirens screaming, four or five people came out of a supermarket to see what was going on. I joined them.

  “Land sakes!” a woman was saying. “Where are the fire trucks?”

  “It's not a fire,” a young guy in a white apron said. “It's a police car, I just saw it go by.”

  “Well, I never heard the likes! What do you suppose...”

  I was afraid they would notice how out of breath I was. I eased to the edge of the group and into another doorway. Now what are you going to do, Surratt? You're the genius. The perfectionist. The criminal philosopher. You're the one who talks so much about the use of brains and audacity. Well, let's see you get out of this one, if you're so goddamn smart!

  That little pep talk did me more good than anything that could possibly have happened; it stilled the panic; it gave me time to think.

  All right, I thought savagely, I'll get out of this yet! How about that little business with Calvart? I'd never be in a spot tighter than that one if I lived to be a thousand!

  I felt a little better. I didn't feel so much like a pile of quivering mush. What I needed right now was a friend. A good, strong friend like John Venci... but Venci was dead. I didn't have a friend, I didn't even have an acquaintance that I could go to for help.

  It was Roy Surratt against the world.

  By now the people who had come out of the supermarket had gone back in, or had drifted away. I stood there in the doorway wondering what the hell I was going to do. I had to get out of this neighborhood somehow, and fast, but I had no idea how I was going to manage it until I saw the young punk, the kid in the white apron, come out of the supermarket loaded down with two paper bags full of groceries. There was a Ford sedan at the curb in front of the supermarket, and that's where he was heading.

  “Just a minute, Joe, I'll get that door for you.”

  I looked around to see where the voice was coming from, and saw the woman coming out of the market carrying another, smaller, bag. She was about forty years old and looked like a typical middleclass housewife. She opened the luggage compartment and the kid dumped the groceries inside.