by Lionel White
No, he had to hang on to Arbuckle, even though the other man had become an albatross around his own neck. The trick would be getting him out of the car and into the house unobserved. Once in the house, things would be all right.
It was going to be too bad if Arbuckle needed a doctor. A doctor would be out of the question.
Tomlinson found himself considering the possibility that Arbuckle might die—if he were not already dead. He’d heard no sound for several miles now. Arbuckle, dead, was worth a lot more than Arbuckle alive. His death would mean that everything in the envelope would be his, Tomlinson’s. No split would be necessary. There would, of course, be the matter of disposing of the body. Given time, however, this shouldn't prove too difficult. Time, enough time, was of the essence.
Tomlinson turned off the parkway at the exit marked thirty-six. He headed south for a mile or two and then turned once more and entered Fairlawn Acres. The street lights were on, but there was almost no traffic.
A couple of minutes later he again turned and drove slowly up the driveway next to the house. The garage doors had been left open. He drove in, got out of the car, and closed and locked the overhead door from the inside. He then opened the back door of the car and looked in. Arbuckle lay still, a crumpled, formless mass. Carefully, Tomlinson closed the car door. He would do what he had to do after the child was safely asleep in bed. Almost unconsciously he caressed the revolver he was carrying in the outside pocket of his jacket.
Marian, his brother’s widow, was standing at the kitchen sink as he came through the back door. She stood there, her back to the sink and stared at him, her eyes wide and curious.
“Patsy?” Tomlinson said.
‘‘In the living room, looking at television.”
“Get her to bed.”
He went to the cupboard over the drainboard and opened the cabinet door. He took out the bottle of bourbon, reached for a water glass and filled it a third full. He drank it straight.
“Get dinner,” he said.
It was the proper hour for serving dinner among the six or seven hundred residents of Fairlawn Acres.
Chapter Two
Len Neilsen put the first call through at exactly five minutes after six, which normally would have been the time he would be stepping off the train out at Fairlawn. Actually, of course, the station wasn't at Fairlawn; it was at Hicksville, but Hicksville was the nearest station on the Long Island Rail Road and Len preferred to think of the station as Fairlawn rather than Hicksville. Fairlawn sounded better, somehow.
In any case, Len telephoned his wife at six-five on the spot. It was the first opportunity he’d had since George Randolph called him upstairs shortly after four o’clock that afternoon. Naturally enough, he’d wanted to call Allie right off, the very first minute he heard the news. But he could hardly make the call from Mr. Randolph's private office and so he had been forced to wait, barely able to contain himself, until he returned to his own small cubicle on the third floor of the building. He was impatient with the delay as the operator put the call through, knowing that any second Mr. Randolph would be down to pick him up. He neither wanted to have George Randolph overhear what he had to say, nor did he want to keep Mr. Randolph waiting.
The operator apparently had to wait a few seconds for a circuit and Len nervously tapped his long tapered fingers on his green desk blotter. A little twisted smile played around the comers of his wide, pleasant mouth and it was in strange contrast to the faint frown which marred his forehead, a frown brought on by his impatience.
It happened just as he had been afraid it would. Allie picked up the receiver out in the ranch house at Fairlawn, just as George Randolph walked into the office. He was buttoning up his gray tweed topcoat and adjusting his scarf.
Len looked up at him, a half apologetic smile on his face, as Allie said hello.
Embarrassed in the presence of the other man, Len quickly changed his mind about what he had planned to say.
Allie,” he said, "Allie, this is Len.”
He heard the slight, hesitant sort of sound of a breath being sharply withdrawn from the other end of the line. He didn’t give her a chance to ask any questions.
“I’m still at the office, honey,” he said. “Just leaving. But I’ll be a little late so don’t wait dinner. You and Bill go on without me. I’m having dinner with Mr. Randolph.”
He wondered why he should feel so self-conscious, almost guilty, as he said the words. He hardly heard Allie’s surprised voice as she started to ask questions. Looking up again at George Randolph’s solid figure as the older man stood looking out the window he desperately wanted to tell Allie the news; suspected that Mr. Randolph himself would expect him to. But somehow, he couldn't do it. It was something he wanted to share with her alone, something he didn't want to tell her in front of anyone, not even the man who was responsible for the news itself.
And so he cut in again and repeated himself, telling her once more that he’d be late and for her to go ahead and have dinner and not to worry. He hung up while she was still talking, not meaning to cut her off, but because he was nervous.
Five minutes later, Len Neilsen, traffic manager for Eastern Engineering Company—who next Monday morning would assume his new duties as general office manager—and George Randolph, senior vice-president of the firm, left the building on East Thirty-eighth street and turned uptown.
Len was sorry that he'd cut Allie off so short; he was also sorry that he hadn’t been able to tell her about it. Nevertheless he felt like ten million dollars.
A light snow was beginning to fall, the first of the season, although it was January. They didn’t bother with a cab.
"It’s only a few blocks,” Randolph said, pulling up his coat collar to keep the wet snow from falling on the back of his neck, “so let's walk it. It’s about the only chance I get for a breath of fresh air and exercise, walking from the hotel to the office and back each day.”
Len agreed with him, enthusiastically.
Len was a little surprised that they were going to the hotel. He'd sort of half expected Randolph would take him to any one of the dozen or so places in the immediate neighborhood.
When they reached the lobby of the Waldorf, Randolph went immediately to the bank of elevators reserved for the Tower Apartments.
‘ ‘We’ll go up to my diggings and freshen up, ” he said.''We can order a drink and while we’re waiting, I’ll have a menu sent up. ”
After they had taken off their overcoats and hats, and dropped them over a chair in the dressing room, Randolph turned to him and asked what he d like. Len was on the verge of saying Scotch and water, but before he had the chance, Randolph went on to say that he himself invariably had a Martini before dinner.
Len at once said that he, too, would like a Martini.
“I like them dry,” Randolph said, “about eight to one.”
He laughed and reached for the house phone. When he got room service, he gave his name and his room number first.
“Two Martinis,” he ordered. “Very dry, you know, the way I like them. Tell William they are for me.” He turned and looked at Len and smiled. “Better make them doubles,” he added, and hung up.
Len smiled back at him.
"After all,” Randolph said, “this calls for a little celebration.”
Later, they ordered dinner from the menu which the bellboy had brought up to the room and after Randolph found out they would have a half hour wait for a table downstairs, he ordered two more Martinis.
Len had a little trouble finishing his second double. The older man hadn’t been lying when he said he liked them dry. They tasted like straight gin. Len looked at his boss with new admiration. A couple of hours ago he would have sworn that George Randolph was a man who probably didn’t take one drink in a month. It just showed—you never really knew.
They ate in the main dining room and the food was exceptional. The only trouble was, Randolph ordered a bottle of sparkling Burgundy with the dinner, and Len,
not wishing to be impolite, drank drink for drink with his host. That, on top of the two double Martinis, was a lot more than Len Neilsen was used to. He plowed through the guinea hen and wild rice hardly appreciating the excellence of the cuisine.
He knew that the liquor was affecting him—his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses seemed to continually cloud up and he was having a little difficulty in focusing his eyes. Alcohol always seemed to affect his eyes the first thing.
He had expected the other man to talk about the work and possibly the new job, but for some reason Randolph avoided all shop talk and confined his conversation to a monologue about his earlier days with the firm, when he was an engineer out in the field.
While they were waiting for the brandy and coffee, Len looked at his wrist watch and was surprised to see that it was already a quarter to nine. He was amazed how swiftly the time had passed.
Taking advantage of a temporary lull in the conversation, he said, “I wonder if you would excuse me for a moment, Mr. Randolph. I’d like to call Alii®—that is, Mrs. Neilsen—back. I’m afraid I’m going to be a little later than I thought.”
Randolph looked at him, slightly amused.
You do that, son,” he said. “Never let the little lady start worrying. Idid.
That’s one reason I’m single today.”
When Len stood up, he felt a bit dizzy, but he quickly gathered his wits and started for the lobby. He was conscious, however, that his steps were unsteady. Well, he’d have the brandy and coffee and that would be it.
He was amazed at the many unexpected facets to George Randolph’s character-small, unimportant but interesting bits of information which had come out during the evening. Somehow or other he’d assumed that old Randolph had always been a pretty stolid, dull sort of character. Randolph, however, was turning out to be anything but dull.
Not only that, but apparently Randolph knew how to handle his liquor, and plenty of it. Len knew that he himself was definitely getting a little bit tight.
It wasn’t until he was shut in the telephone booth down in the men’s room, however, that he realized just how tight he really was.
Len couldn’t remember his own telephone number. He had already found a dime and put it in to get the operator and give her the number, when for some ridiculous reason, his mind went completely blank.
He put the receiver back after she had twice asked what number he was calling. It was the silliest thing. Of course they had only lived out there in Fairlawn for a little over three months, being one of the last families who had moved into the development, but still and all, it was pretty damned silly, not remembering his own telephone number.
He had quite a time explaining to the operator that the number was not yet listed in the directory, but she finally gave him information and she in turn, after a long delay, got it for him. The toll charge was thirty cents.
Allie answered almost at once.
“Honey,” Len said, “I’m sorry, but I’m still tied up. Looks Eke I’ll be a little later than I thought.”
“Is this you, Len?”
It was a bad connection, but he finally got through so that she understood him.
“Your voice sounds funny, Len,” Allie said. “Areyou...”
“I’mfine, honey,” hesaid. “Never felt better in my Efe.” And then, forsome reason and without even planning it, he blurted out the good news.
“Baby,” he said, “listen. This dinner is a sort of celebration. I have some great news. Got a new job!”
“Len,” Allie said. “Why Len, what do you mean? What happened to the old job. Where are you anyway and...”
“You don’t understand me,” Len told her quickly. “I mean I got a promotion. I’m the new office manager. And at twelve thousand. Twelve thousand a year, honey.”
He had to repeat it twice before he got her to understand and then she was as excited as he was and they were both talking at once for the next couple of minutes. At last he told her that he’d have to hang up, that his money was running out, and that the boss was waiting.
‘ ‘You take care of yourself and don’t worry, ’ ’ he said at last. “Bill in bed yet? ” he asked.
“Of course, silly,” Allie said. “And don’t worry about me. Don’t worry at all. Take your time. I’ll wait up.”
“If you’re nervous,” Len began.
“I’m not nervous a bit,” Allie said. “Not one little bit. Anyway, they have a big party going on across the street and I’m just sitting here listening to their radio blasting away.”
The operator told him that his time was up and so he yelled a quick good-by and told her once more not to worry.
Hanging up the receiver, he turned to open the door. “A darling,” he said, half under his breath. “A real darling!”
Going back to the dining room, he determined to get away as soon as he could. He knew that in spite of what Allie had said, she might well be nervous out there all alone with young Bill. After all, until they were married, and in fact up until he had made the down payment on the house in Fairlawn, Allie had never in her life lived away from New York City or farther than three blocks from the nearest subway entrance.
Len smiled, amused, as he thought about it. When Allie had first seen the little six-room house and the less-than-quarter-acre plot, her eyes had opened wide and she’d squealed with pleasure. The developers had called it a ranch house, and to all intents and purposes, it was truly a ranch house to Allie, who in all of her life had never even lived in a place which could boast a back yard.
Allie had been pretty skeptical at first about moving out of the city, but she’d been forced to agree with Len when he’d argued that young Bill was almost six and that he didn’t want any child of his being brought up in New York and going to the New York City schools. They’d managed to save several thousand dollars and had started looking around.
Len had been pretty discouraged at first. They’d started in Connecticut and Westchester County as they had to limit the area of their search to commuting distance.
Len had been amazed at the prices the brokers wanted for houses. He himself had been brought up out in Dayton, Ohio, but for the last dozen years, since he’d left home to go to college and then taken the job with Eastern Engineering, he'd been away from home. The places they’d looked at, smaller houses than the one he’d been brought up in himself, were going for around thirty and forty thousand dollars. Most of them were jerry-built at that.
They d had to give up ideas about going north and began looking around
Long Island. The minute they d seen the place out at Fairlawn Acres Allied fallen in love with it. The fact that it was just one of some five or six hundred other houses, all of which were almost identical, hadn’t seemed to phase her in the slightest. Of course, to Allie, who’d always lived in apartments, this didn’t strike her as in any way unusual.
And she’d been fascinated with the newly planted lawn, with the half dozen small evergreen trees, the shrubbery and the tiny flower garden. Everything about the place pleased her—the modem, up-to-date kitchen with the dishwasher and the tiny service bar, the fresh new paint of the bedrooms and the vaulted, cathedral ceiling of the living room. Of course she didn’t notice, or criticize, the phony, nonsupporting beams. The size of the room, which to Len seemed cramped, struck her as more than adequate. Compared to a New York apartment, it probably was.
The price of the place was $14,995 and they had more than enough money to make the down payment. Len drove around the neighborhood with Allie and they passed the newly constructed, modern schoolhouse, the playgrounds and the public swimming pool, designed exclusively for the use of the residents of Fairlawn. Allie was wild with enthusiasm and Len didn’t have the heart to try to disillusion her.
After all, he reflected, it was a damned sight better than a New York apartment and young Bill would have other kids—his own type of kids—to play with. They’d have plenty of fresh air and they weren’t too far from the beach.
S
o Len made his down payment and they moved in. They were among the last hundred families to take possession.
George Randolph was standing up, his napkin in his hand as he talked with a short, muscular man and a gray-haired woman, when Len returned to the table. He introduced them as Dr. and Mrs. Peatri, friends of his. He invited them to sit down to a drink.
“Len here,” he said, “is our new office manager. We were just holding a sort of little private celebration.
Mrs. Peatri smiled at Len and her husband insisted the occasion called for a bottle of champagne. Randolph agreed, but insisted the party was on him and he called the wine steward.
Len sipped the brandy and coffee while the waiter brought the bottle to the table in a silver ice bucket. He carefully covered the neck with a towel and drew the cork after twisting the bottle for several minutes in the cracked ice. Dr. Peatri was busy talking with Randolph and his wife turned to Len.
“Are you new in New York?” she asked.
Len told her that he'd been with the company for several years, in fact since he’d graduated back in 1947 from M.I.T.
Mrs. Peatri said, “How nice for you.”
The waiter poured and they lifted their glasses.
The conversation went on, but later, when Len tried to remember what they had talked about, he was unable to recall a single thing.
Somehow or other time passed and the next thing Len knew all of them were leaving the dining room. They ended up at a night club in the East Fifties, but Len never did have the slightest recollection of it.
There were, also, more drinks.
Somehow, he didn’t remember leaving the night club and getting into the taxi. And then the next thing he knew; someone was shaking him by the shoulder.
His glasses had fallen off and he had to squint to see at all. He was in the back seat of a cab and the door was open so that the overhead light was on. A man in a peaked cap was half in the back of the car and was trying to get him awake.
“We’re here,” the man said. “Wake up, fellow, we're here.”
