Some Die Hard

by Stephen Mertz

  "But it'd be different if Susan inherited the estate. Susan's the diligent, level-headed type, and she would've smelled something wrong the minute she got near those books. And knowing Susan, she would have wanted to help with her dad's estate. So you had to take measures, didn't you, counselor? You had to see that the will wasn't changed. And you did see to it. You saw to it by killing your own client. By killing him in a way that was a whole big question mark in itself—a murder so damn clever that it didn't even look like a murder."

  The bastard was enjoying himself. He knew he was going to kill me, and he knew I knew it, and he was having the time of his life. The gun he held drew an unwavering bead on my stomach and he'd use it if he had to, but he wasn't ready just yet.

  There was more fun to come.

  One corner of his mouth twisted into what was probably meant to be a grin. "Okay, Mister Dugan. You've figured out so much. Figure out the rest. How did I kill Carlander Court?"

  I shrugged. "That's not hard," I said, "once all the pieces fit in. You hypnotized him. You hypnotized Carlander Court to kill himself, and that's as good as murder in any court in the land."

  The smile spread the rest of the way. He was having himself a real ball. "Hypnotized him?"

  "That's right. Your half-brother Jinx told me today that he'd worked in a carnival as a hypnotist, among other things. My guess is that you picked it up from him—although I'm willing to lay odds that you never told him why you wanted to learn the craft. Jinx liked his boss. I guess he was just the loyal type."

  He waved his gun, but only slightly. Not enough to lose aim on yours truly. "Forget Jinx. I want to hear more about this hypnotism. I thought you couldn't hypnotize a person to take his own life."

  "That's the generally accepted opinion," I agreed, "but there are variables. But my guess is that you didn't originally start out to kill Mr. Court. You didn't pick that route until things got really, desperate. Murder's a big gamble, even if you're sure it's foolproof. Probably you tried a number of other angles first. What did you do? Hypnotize him? Tell him it was therapeutic? A sick man would buy that. And maybe it even worked, to some degree. Dr. Hanley told me he'd seemed to have conquered his pain, and without drugs. The hypnosis angle would fit right in. Then while he was under, you did your best to exert your influence over him, to talk him out of changing his will back, keep Tommy the sole heir. But that didn't work, did it, counselor? You just couldn't seem to break through the old guy's stubborn sense of responsibility. He was too strong, and you weren't that good. And time was running out, so you did get desperate.

  "Carlander Court was a complicated man, and there was a deep, dark side to his nature. I saw it in action yesterday. He knew he was dying. He tended to blame himself for the crumb Tommy had turned into. He felt badly about having misjudged Susan. And he'd never fully recovered emotionally from his wife's death.

  "There was no wall of stubbornness there, and you decided to play that dark side to your own ends. You realized it was your only chance. You couldn't let him change that will—it would be like watching yourself getting signed into the penitentiary. You were in a corner, and murder was the only way out. And no, counselor, you didn't hypnotize him to kill himself, per se. You're right. You couldn't have done that. No one could. But there are ways of manipulating people into committing suicide, and that's the tack you took. You got him under, probably yesterday sometime, and you dragged up every dark horror his soul knew, and you threw it right back in his face. The things he feared, loathed; about himself, what he'd done, and about those around him. That's right, Bishop, you manipulated him. He was under your influence—putty in your hands. And while you had him hypnotized...you talked him into taking his own life!"

  The slight nod he gave me told me I'd guessed right. "Very good, Dugan."

  "Very rotten, you mean," I snarled. "But that wasn't all. Because once you'd convinced him that suicide was the only way out, you went a step further. You told him how to do it...and of course you had your own safety in mind. You knew the suicide theory wouldn't sit right with a lot of people, and that they might start nosing around, and that they might tumble onto you. Why would Court take his own life, only hours before changing his will, a matter he obviously felt strongly about? But if suicide were the only possible answer—if there was no possible way that it could have been anything else except self-inflicted death—well, what would you care what people thought?

  "So you set things up, and you snapped him out of it, and of course you used the common hypnotist's technique of having him forget everything you'd discussed. His cheery facade went back up, and only you knew that the time-bomb in his subconscious mind was planted, because you'd planted it. You'd set it for midway through that flight he was planning in his glider, the one you'd picked out for him. So he took off yesterday afternoon, and he even made a short dip over our heads for a wave—all in control, the mask right in place, covering those hidden fears you'd exploited. He curved around again, began heading back, and then, pinngg, that mental time bomb went off, just like it was supposed to, and the poor bastard was suddenly right back down there in the depths where you'd put him, and he knew what he had to do. He pulled out that knife...and he rammed it into his chest."

  And then it was my turn to smile, though there was no humor in it. "And that's when you discovered just how unpredictable the human mind can be, wasn't it, counselor? The instant he landed and you saw his body there in the cockpit, you knew. You knew that Carlander Court, in his own bitter, black humor way, had played one last joke on the world—and on you in particular."

  This was one subject he didn't much care for. Even in the shadows beyond the bright arc of light I could sense his body growing tense.

  "You're talking about the gloves now?"

  I smiled some more and started to answer, but Tommy cut me off. He was getting impatient.

  "Bishop, we can't stand out here all night, goddammit! Besides, I'm freezing half to death. Let's kill these two creeps and get the hell out of here."

  Bishop didn't take his eyes off me or his wife. "Shut up, Tommy," he ordered smoothly. "Mr. Dugan has caused me a lot of trouble. Because of him I'm going to have to leave as soon as we're done here. Another country, probably. Plastic surgery, a new life, the whole bit. The money I've got will pay for it, and more. But the other way would've been a lot easier. Getting the divorce, leaving town—and taking the money with me. No, Tommy, Mr. Dugan is a worthy opponent. Unfortunately, he's going to die for his efforts, but the least we can do is hear him out." He looked back at me. "You were saying, Mr. Dugan? About the gloves..."

  I nodded. 'The gloves. Who can figure the workings of the subconscious, eh, George? Certainly not you, or me. Suffice it to say that in this case, the old subconscious pitched a doozie, but good! Because while Mr. Court wanted to kill himself, wanted to because you'd manipulated him to want to, he also, deep down in that recess no one's been able to probe yet, knew that he wanted to because he was being manipulated. And something down there balked at that, and that designer's mind of his came up with a little monkey wrench in the whole system." I gave that a second thought and corrected myself. "Maybe monkey wrench isn't the right word. Maybe twist is better. A very subtle twist, eh, Georgie? And you and I were the only ones to spot it. And you had me beat by a good twenty-four hours. You were out here with Jinx last night, and I didn't tumble onto it until an hour ago over dinner.

  "It was the fact that there were no prints on the knife, and no gloves when we found the corpse, that kept me sticking my nose in. That was the clue, and that was just the way Mr. Court's subconscious must have wanted it. That was his legacy.

  "He stabbed himself just like he was supposed to, and he was wearing gloves when he did it, again just like he was supposed to. That's why there were no prints on that knife. But death didn't come instantly. He still had enough strength left to land the glider. He'd probably been dead only moments before we reached him. And he'd had enough strength to take off those gloves—and pitc
h them out over the field."

  I took a breath. My throat was getting dry. "Of course, the fact that they're out there," I nodded to the field, "isn't that important. It was just the absence of the prints on the knife handle that was supposed to matter. But those gloves were important to you, weren't they, George? It must have bugged your orderly legal mind to think of a screwy loose end like that, but there was even more to it than that. You didn't have to worry about the cops, not with Medwick and Zucco as tight as they were, but there was me. If I looked long enough and didn't find anything, maybe I'd just decide it was a fool's errand. That it was a suicide, despite the absence of prints; that maybe, like the Chief suggested, the prints had just been smudged.

  "But what if, even at one chance in a thousand, I did remember those gloves, and I did come here and find them? Then I'd know something was screwy! People don't usually kill themselves and throw their gloves out the window. Of course, in this case that's exactly what happened, but that would be...immaterial, as you lawyers say. What would matter is that I'd probably start nosing around all over again, and you didn't want that. So you tried your luck last night at finding the gloves yourself. And how did that go?"

  He gave a little laugh. "Not so good, I'm afraid."

  I looked across the flatlands and nodded.

  "It is a hopeless task, but maybe you read somewhere that it's the little things that trip a killer up? So you gave it a try. First with Jinx. Then this afternoon you used him again. What did you tell him, George? That I was a meddler? That I was trying to take advantage of Susan? That you had to hustle my ass out of town for the family's sake?"

  "Something like that. The poor slob."

  "And when you lost Jinx, you confronted Tommy here. You told him what was what. Like I said, he had skeletons too. Maybe you even used something you dug up on him to get him to...cooperate. But here he is."

  He nodded. "And here you are, Dugan." He lifted the gun slightly. "I thought there was a chance you might show up here tonight, so I arranged this little surprise welcome party for you. And you were good enough to accommodate."

  "So now what?"

  "So now I think we've talked just about long enough. Sorry, but I've got to be on my way. I'm catching a plane out of Denver at three-thirty."

  "Thank God," mumbled Tommy. "I've just about frozen my balls off." He looked across at me. "Remember, George. This bastard is mine. I owe him plenty."

  During the whole conversation, or maybe it was a speech, Helen Bishop had remained silent at my side, her mouth parted slightly, taking it all in. Not wanting to believe any of it, but not having much of a choice.

  Now she looked at her husband. "George...what's going to happen?"

  He gave her a grin that wasn't quite sane.

  "Why, I'm sure you heard me tell your...uh, lover, darling."

  She was scared, upset, but not so panicky that she didn't stand up to him. "George, he's not my lover! You know that—"

  He shrugged. "Well, your whatever. You and he are going to kill each other, sweetheart. Some sort of lover's...well, some sort of quarrel. With a little help from Tommy and myself, of course."

  She shook her head and raised a hand to the side of her face. She gave a laugh that sounded dangerously close to hysteria.

  "I...I don't believe this. Three hours ago I was in my home...doing the dishes...watching my children..."

  He made a sour, face. "Please, Helen. It's a little late for the hearts and flowers, don't you think? It's nothing personal, believe me. Except for the fact that I hate your guts. It's just that there are some other things I'd like to do. And not in Langdon Springs, and not with you along. Unfortunately, killing you is the easiest way out."

  Tommy made an aggressive movement with his body. "I thought we were through talking," he said. "I'll kill them both if you don't have the guts."

  And he would, too.

  Death was that close.

  I was scared. There was no getting around that. There were no more clever theories, coming too late, that I could throw at them. No more questions I could ask to fill in the missing pieces.

  Nothing now but the blast of gunfire. The smell of burned cordite. The sticky running of blood.

  Like Bishop had said, the talk was over.

  I knew that but I guess Helen Bishop didn't. She stepped forward.

  "George, I can't believe you'd kill me. We loved each other once..."

  Maybe she was right. It looked like George might not have what it took to pull the trigger. But she was sure pushing him close enough to the edge to find out.

  "Helen—"

  It fell into place then.

  He was a clever bastard, a damned clever bastard, and he'd set up one hell of a murder. And he'd planned on murdering us too. But there was a difference here. It takes a very special type, a very sick type, to be able to stand in front of someone who's unarmed and just blow them down.

  He was shivering now too, but it wasn't from the cold.

  "Helen, stop!"

  She took a few more steps and then she did stop, but it was obviously only temporary. She turned to face him a few feet further up the incline toward the road. Her arms were held tense at her side and her face was drawn tight as well.

  She had more guts than any woman I've ever known.

  "You're not going to shoot me down like some animal while I stand right before you waiting for it," she stated. "You're not going to shoot me at all, George. Something's wrong with you, but...I've known you a long time. I know the man inside who's capable of love..."

  "Come on," grunted Tommy. "What're we waiting for?"

  She ignored him.

  "You couldn't kill me," she said to her husband. "Not the mother of your children."

  I almost felt sorry for George Bishop, creep that he was. He was going through plenty.

  "Helen—"

  She turned again, toward the road. "I'm going to walk away from here, George," she said, and she began climbing. "And you're not going to stop me."

  But he did.

  She'd read him wrong. Or maybe she read him right, and just wanted to get it over with.

  George Bishop screamed something—not words; more of a drawn out cry of release from the pit of his deranged soul—something at the top of his lungs, as he staggered forward, stuck out his arm at waist level, and began pulling the trigger.

  "You bitch!" he screamed then. "You rotten bitch!" The gun bucked three times in his fist and I heard the woman's body crumple and roll down the hill behind me. But that was all I heard. All I paid attention to from that direction.

  Bishop had stepped between me and Tommy, so that put Tommy out of action for at least a few moments, and of course the counselor himself had other things on his mind.

  I hit the hard earth, reached out and clasped my fingers around the .44 where I'd dropped it. I rolled over again in one smooth motion, took quick aim with a resting elbow, and fired.

  The spotlight on the jeep shattered into a million bits and we were right back with nothing but the moonlight to see by.

  It wasn't as bad as it could have been. I'd been scared, sure, but I hadn't planned on going down without kicking either, and in preparation for that I'd been consciously avoiding staring in the immediate vicinity of the spotlight while I'd been talking. Now my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness faster than if I'd been paying attention to the light, and the quick recovery probably saved my life.

  "Get him!" screamed Tommy, and now it was his turn to be hysterical.

  They turned and fired together, but now they were the ones at a disadvantage. They were high and I was low; I blended in safely with the dark shadows of the ground. They stood before me, silhouetted clearly beneath the sky.

  But still one of them got lucky. Bishop probably. He was nearest.

  A slug hit the ground inches from my face, kicked soil against my cheek.

  I took my time, but not that much time, and aimed again. They were firing in unison now, and they couldn't go on missing fore
ver.

  I got George Bishop in my sights, squared away at his upper chest, and squeezed the trigger.

  Once, twice, three times...for Helen.

  He stopped firing instantly. He made a funny sound from his mouth, it sounded like half surprise and half pain, and he lurched back a foot or two. He groaned. Then his knees buckled and he fell forward onto his chest, landing with a horrible sound that was loud and final.

  I heard the sound clearly, because it was the only sound to hear. Tommy had stopped firing. Because he was out of ammunition or because of what had happened to his buddy, I didn't know or care.

  I got him in my sights next and snapped, "I'll kill you if I have to, Tommy. Drop it."

  "Wait—"

  "Drop it!!"

  "Okay...okay..don't shoot."

  He let the .38 fall and raised his hands as high as they would go. I stood up and kept an eye and a gun on him while I inched back to Helen. I touched her, but she seemed to be dead.

  I didn't have to check George. I heard the way he fell.

  I was breathing hard and my lungs hurt. There were little pinpoints of light before my eyes but I shook them off. I motioned with my gun toward the road where I'd parked the Toyota.

  "Come on, Tommy," I said. "We'd better find a phone."

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It was mid afternoon of the following day, Monday, and the miles were again racing by beneath the tires of Susan Court's car. Only this time the lady herself was driving and I was safely ensconced in the passenger seat, relaxing for the first time in longer than I cared to remember.

  "Well?" I asked. "How does it feel to have almost been a millionairess?"

  Carlander Court, of course, had died before he'd been able to officially change his will. The old one, the one still in effect, had left nearly everything to Tommy, with charities the next in line if the kid couldn't inherit. It had been a will drawn up in anger when Susan left home, and she hadn't even been mentioned.