by Dell Shannon
Safe and easy. Sure. Before a while ago, when the scraggly bald old fellow had peered out the drugstore door at him.
Morgan knew this window by heart now. Everything in it a little dusty, a little second-hand-looking: out-of-date ad placards, the platinm blonde with a toothy smile, INSTANT PROTECTION, the giant tube of shaving cream, the giant bottle of antiseptic, the cigarette ad, GET SATISFACTION, the face-cream ad, YOU CAN LOOK YOUNGER. In a vague way he'd known the drugstore was open, but the door was shut on this coolish evening, he hadn't glanced inside. When people came by, he'd strolled away the opposite direction: nobody had seemed to take much notice of him-why should they? And then that old fellow came to the door, peered out: Morgan met his glance through the dirty glass panel, by chance, and that was when time began to race.
God, don't let Smith come now, not until I've had time to think.
The druggist, alone there, pottering around his store in the hopeful expectation of a few customers before nine o'clock, or maybe just because he hadn't anything to go home to. Time on his hands. Looking out the window, the door, every so often, for customers at first-and then to see, only out of idle curiosity, if that fellow was still there on the corner, waiting… All that clutter in the window, Morgan hadn't noticed him; not much light, no, but enough-and without thought, when he was standing still he'd hugged the building for shelter from the chill wind. Most of the time he'd have been in the perimeter of light from the window, from the door. God alone knew how often the old man had looked out, spotted him.
The expression in the rheumy eyes meeting his briefly through the dirty pane-focused, curious, a little defensive-told Morgan the man had marked him individually.
And hell, hell, it didn't matter whether the druggist thought he'd been stood up by a date, or was planning to hold up the drugstore, or was just lonely or worried or crazy, hanging around this corner an hour and twelve minutes. The druggist would remember him… That was a basic principle, and only common sense, in planning anything underhand and secret-from robbing Junior's piggy bank to murder: Keep it simple. Don't have too many lies to remember, don't dream up the complicated routine, the fancy alibi. The way he'd designed it was like that-short, straight, and sweet. Now, if he went on with it that way, there'd be the plausible lie to figure out and remember and stick to: just why the hell had Morgan been hanging around here, obviously a man waiting for someone?
Half-formed ideas, wild, ridiculous, skittered along the top of his mind. You know how it is, officer, I met this blonde, didn't mean any harm but a fellow likes a night out once in a while; sure I felt guilty, sure I love my wife, but, well, the blonde said she'd meet meI tell you how it was, I'd lent this guy a five-spot, felt sorry for him you know, guess I was a sucker, anyway he said he'd meet me and pay-Well, I met this fellow who said he'd give me an inside tip on a horse, only he wouldn't know for sure until tonight, if I'd meet him All right, he thought furiously, all right; of all the damn-fool ideas… So, produce the blonde, the debtor, the tipster! It couldn't be done that way.
He stood now right at the building corner, close, out of the druggist's view. Think: if, when Smith comes, what are you going to do now? What can you do?
The little panic passed and he saw the only possible answer: it wasn't a very good one, it put more complication into this than was really safe, but that couldn't be helped. Obviously, get Smith away from this place. The farther away the better. In the car. Stall him and get him into the car, and Christ, the possibilities, the dangers that opened wouldn't drive far, maybe not at all, without getting him suspicious. Sure, knock him out with a wrench or something as soon as they got in, fine, and have it show up at the autopsy later on. Great, shoot him in the car under cover of the revving motor, and get blood all over the seat covers. All right: think.
Yes. It could be managed, it had to be: the only way. In the car, then, right away, and in the body, so the clothes would get the blood. Have to take a chance. Then quick around to Humboldt or Foster, only a few blocks, both dark streets too, thank God; park the car, get him out to the sidewalk, get his prints on the gun, make a little disturbance, fire another shot, and yell for the cops. I was on my way to visit this case I'm on, when- And the druggist no danger then, no reason to connect a holdup there with his corner.
Not as safe, but it could work: maybe, with luck, it would work fine. Now let Smith come. Morgan was ready for him, as ready as he'd ever be. He looked at his watch. It was seventeen minutes past eight.
And suddenly be began to get in a sweat about something else. Smith had made him wait on Saturday night, deliberately, to soften him up: but why the hell should Smith delay coming to collect the ransom he thought was waiting?
Cops, thought Morgan-cold, resentful, sullen, helpless-cops! Maybe so obvious there outside, inside, that Smith spotted them-and thought, of course, Morgan had roped them in? God, the whole thing blown open
ELEVEN
Cops, Marty thought. Cops, he'd said. Funny, the words meant the same, but seemed like people who didn't like them, maybe were afraid of them, said "cops," and other people said "policemen."
He sat up in bed in the dark; it was the bad time again, the time alone with the secret. And a lot of what made it bad was, usually, not having outside things to keep him from thinking about it, remembering; but right now he had, and that somehow made it worse.
He sat up straight against the headboard; he tried to sit still as still, but couldn't help shivering even in his flannel pajamas, with the top of him outside the blanket. If he laid right down like usual he was afraid he'd go to sleep after a while, even the long while it'd got to taking him lately; and he mustn't, if he was going to do what he planned safe. He had to stay awake until everybody else was asleep, maybe two, three o'clock in the morning, and then be awful quiet and careful… Like a lesson he was memorizing, he said it all over again to himself in his mind, all he'd got to remember about: don't make any noise, get up when it's time and put on his pants and jacket over his pajamas and get-it-and remember about the key to the door, take it with him so's he could get back in. He knew where the place was, where he was going; it was only three blocks over there, on Main Street. Wouldn't take long, if nobody saw-or if This was the only way to do it if he was going to, and the worst of that was it didn't seem like such a good idea now, a kind of silly idea really but he couldn't think of anything else at all, without breaking the promise, doing the one unforgivable thing. He'd tried this morning, he'd waited until she was busy in the kitchen, thought he could pick-it-up and call out good-by and go off quick, before- But it'd gone wrong, he wasn't quick enough; and she'd come in, looked awful queer at him-funny, a bit frightened-and said sharp, "What you up to, still fooling round here?-you'll be late for school, you go 'long now," and he'd had to go, with her watching. So now he was waiting until there'd be nobody awake to see.
And maybe it was silly, it wouldn't make anything happen. Cops, he thought confusedly: but he did remember Dad saying, all new scientific things and like that, they were a lot smarter and some real high educated now, from college. It might Cops. He didn't like loud voices and people getting so mad they hit each other. It made him feel hollow and bad inside-in the movies you knew it was just put on, and when you were interested in the story you didn't mind so much, but even there sometimes it made you feel kind of upset. That was the first time, tonight, he'd seen Danny's dad-since he'd come with them. Danny didn't seem to be ashamed at all, tell his dad had been in jail back east, said it like it was something to brag about, but that was how Danny was. Marty sure didn't think he could be much of a dad to brag on, jail or no jail.
He shut his eyes and just like a movie saw it over again-himself going up the stairs to Danny's apartment, as if he wanted go to the movies with him, Ma'd given him thirty cents, said he could go-and the loud voice swearing inside, " Cops! You think I can't smell a cop?-yeah, yeah, you say that to me before, so you walk right past a couple the bastards outside an' never see 'em more'n if they was-listen, what
the hell you been up to, bringin' cops down on the place-"
And Danny, shrill, "I never done nothing, I-"
"Don't talk back t' me, you little bastard-I ain't fool enough to think, him-I got him too damn scared! If I hadn't spotted them damned-might've walked right into- What the hell else could they be after, watching the house? Couldn't've traced me here-you been up to some o' your piddling kid stuff, heisting hubcaps or somethin', an' they-"
"I never- Listen, I-"
And the noise of fists hitting, Danny yelling, and something falling hard against the door-Danny, he guessed, because then it opened and Danny sort of fell out and banged it after him and kicked it. It was dark in the hall, Marty had backed off a ways, and Danny didn't see him. Danny leaned on the wall a minute there, one hand up to the side of his face, maybe where his dad had hit him-it looked like his nose was bleeding too-and Marty thought he was crying, only Danny never did, he wasn't that kind. And then the door opened again and Mr. Smith came out.
A tough-looking man he was like crooks in the movies, and there in the room behind that was just like the living room in the place Marty lived a floor down, was Danny's ma, he'd seen her before, of course, a little soft-looking lady with a lot of black hair, and she looked scared and kept saying, "Oh, please, Ray, it's not his fault, please don't, Ray."
"Oh, for God's sake, I ain't going' do nothing! So all right, kid, maybe I got my wires crossed an' it's somethin' else-hope to God it is-but listen, come here, you gotta go and do that phone call for me, see, I can't-"
Danny yelled at him, "Be damned if I will, bastard yourself!" and kicked at his shins and bolted for the stairs as the man snarled at him.
Marty had crept back even farther toward the dark end of the hall; Mr. Smith didn't see him either. He made as if to go after Danny, stopped, said, "Oh, hell!" and went back into the apartment.
And Marty slid past the shut door and downstairs, but he didn't see Danny anywhere on the block. He wondered if Danny was hurt bad, his dad looked pretty strong. And if he'd ever hit Danny like that before-probably so, if he got mad that way a lot. For a minute, thinking about it, Marty felt some better himself, because maybe his own dad had gone away and left them, but he'd sure never, ever, hit him or said bad things to him-or anybody. Marty's dad, he always said it beat all how some fellows were all the time getting mad, you always sure as fate did something dumb or wrong when you was mad because you couldn't think straight. There was only a couple of times Marty could remember his whole life when Dad had got real mad, and then he didn't swear or yell, why, he'd never heard Dad say a damn, he was right strict about swearing. He didn't talk an awful lot any time, but when he was mad he didn't say anything at all.
He'd been awful mad, that last time-that night before he went away. Just didn't come home.
And on that thought, everything it made him remember, Marty stopped feeling better, and stopped wondering why Mr. Smith was so mad at Danny, what he'd been talking about.
He hadn't gone to the movies after all. It was a kind of crook picture and he didn't much want to see it really, though if he'd been with some other fellows he'd've had to pretend he did because it was the kind of thing everybody was supposed to like.
And now he was sitting here in the dark, alone with the secret, waiting for it to be time. And remembering, now, what Mr. Smith had said about cops. Cops outside, watching the house. Something funny happened inside Marty's stomach, like he'd gone hollow, and his heart gave an extra thud. Were they?-was it, was it because You had to do what was right, no matter what. Even if it meant you'd die, like in the gas thing they had in California. He knew, and he didn't see how his Ma could think a different way, it wasn't right people should get killed-like that-even if he hadn't ever meant, ever known even- Somebody ought to know, and stop it happening again. That was why he was sitting here cold and scared, waiting. Somebody. He hadn't exactly thought, the cops-but of course that was what he'd meant. And all of a sudden now, thinking about them maybe outside, cops meant something different, terrible, to be more scared of than anything-anything he knew more about…
Sometimes in the movies yelling at guys and hitting them and a thing called the third degree-the gas chamber in California-but once Dad had said, about one of those movies Marty'd told about, that was bad to show, it was wrong because policemen weren't like that at all any more, that was other times. A bright light they had shining right in your eyes and they- But Dad said Marty shut his eyes tight and tried to get back to that place, couldn't remember how long ago or if it was Tappan Street or Macy Avenue, where there'd been Dad just like always, sitting at the kitchen table, digging out his pipe with his knife and looking over the top of his glasses and saying-and saying-something about policemen being your friends, to help you.
He couldn't get there, to Dad that time. There he got to instead was that night before Dad-didn't come home. He was right there again, he saw Dad plain, awful mad he'd been for sure, his face an stiff and white and a look in his eyes said how hard he was holding himself in. Dad saying slow and terrible quiet, "I can't stand no more, Marion-I just can't stand no more."
And Marty knew right this minute just how Dad had felt when he said that. Because he felt the same way, not all of a sudden but like as if he'd only this minute come to know how he felt, plain.
I just can't stand no more.
He relaxed, limp, against the headboard, and a queer vague peace filled him. Like coming to the end of a long, long walk, like getting there-some place-at last, and he could stop trying any more.
It didn't matter what place, or what happened there. It was finished. I just can't stand no more.
The gas, and the cops whatever kind and whatever they did or didn't do, and even-more immediate and terrible-his Ma, and what would happen afterward, when she found out. Anything, everything, nothing, it wasn't anyways important any more.
Something had to happen, and what did it matter what or how? Maybe there were those cops doivn there, even two or three o'clock in the morning, and they'd see him, when he came out with-it-and take him to the police station. Maybe not; some other way, the way he'd thought or-maybe they already knew, he couldn't see how but they might. And in the end maybe they'd make him break the promise. It didn't matter how it came: he knew it would come, and it was time, he didn't care.
Time for the secret to be shown open, the terrible secret.
***
When Morgan finally moved, he was stiff with cold and the sense of failure, a resignation too apathetic now to rouse anger in him. He bad known hall an hour ago that Smith wasn't coming. Why he'd gone on standing here he didn't know.
He turned and went into the drugstore; hot stuffiness struck him in the face after the cold outside. The druggist was rearranging bottles on a sheer along the wall; he turned quickly, to watch Morgan-didn't come up to ask what he wanted. Maybe he thought he was going to get held up. Morgan scraped up all the change in his pocket, picked out a quarter, went up to the man.
"May I have change for the phone, please?"
"Oh, sure thing." The cash register gave brisk tongue; a kind of apologetic relief was in the druggists eyes as he handed over two dimes and a nickel.
As soon as he was inside the phone booth, Morgan began to sweat, in his heavy coat in that airless, fetid box. He sat on the inadequate little stool and dialed carefully. After two rings the receiver was lifted at the other end.
"Sue-"
"Dick!-their voices cutting in on each other, hers on a little gasp.
"I thought you'd call-been waiting-"
"Has he called?" asked Morgan tautly. "He didn't show, he won't now, and I'm afraid-darling, I'm afraid he's spotted those damn cops and thinks-"
"I don't think so." Her voice steadied. "She called, Dick. About ten minutes to eight. She said to tell you he'd got 'hung up' and couldn't make it, it'd have to be tomorrow night-and you'd get a phone call some time tomorrow, to tell you where and when."
Morgan leaned his forehead on the phone box
for a second; a wave of tingling heat passed over him and be felt weak. "He got-delayed? He didn't-that's damn funny, I don't- Sue, you sure it was the woman, the same-?"
"I'm sure, darling. You remember what a soft, ladylike little voice she had, and she spoke quite well too, not glaringly bad grammar-she's had some education-but awfully timid and meek, as if she was cowed. I recognized it right away-and she sounded like a chdd reciting a lesson, as if she was reading the message off-"
"The woman," he said, "the woman. So she's still with him. Yes, we didn't think she was lying then, about being married. Yes, a cut above him all right, probably one of those natural doormats-husband's just being the superior male when he knocks her around. He -God, I was afraid-so it's just another breathing space, until tomorrow night. I wonder why."
"I don't like it-can't stall with him forever, Dick-and in the end we can't pay, he'll- What can you say to him any more, to make him-"
"Listen," said Morgan, trying to sound authoritative, confident (don't let her suspect how you're planning to deal with it, convince her), "it's the money he wants, he's not in any rush to get this thing open in court, that's the last thing he wants. It's his only hold on us, he's not so anxious to let go of it."
"I suppose not. But-Dick, I-I've got to where I just want it over and decided, whichever way. This hanging on-"
"I know, darling, I know. Maybe tomorrow. I'll be right home-half an hour."
