by Jim Thompson
With the manuscript, however, his job would be simplicity itself. He’d have more than fifty poems to work on. He’d turn up one typewriter I’d used after another. He’d follow me back and back, tracing me through the years, checking the typewriters in every place I’d lived or worked. No one else, of course, would have duplicated my trail. They wouldn’t have been in all or even a great many of the places I had been in. By sheer weight, if nothing else, the evidence would prove me the author of the Sneering Slayer poems.
It was unfortunate that the author of the poems was so definitely associated with the author of the murders. Unfortunate, that is, for Constance. I’d convinced Lovelace that the two were the same man, and he’d forced Stukey to adopt that theory—at least, Stukey voiced no other in his public pronouncements. And he and we were the chief information sources of the out-of-town newspapers.
The poet was the killer. The point was indisputable—thanks to me. And it was too bad for Constance, but Constance had put herself on the spot. Constance should have stood in Los Angeles.
I called her the following afternoon. I told her I’d been turned down by the bank but that a friend had promised to help, and I’d probably have the money in a day or two.
I let the next day, Wednesday, slide without calling. Around four, on Thursday, I gave her another ring.
The friend would let me have only half the money, and only on condition that I was able to raise the other half. But, I went on, there was absolutely no reason to worry. I knew exactly where I could get the remaining seven hundred and fifty—from an old army pal who would be in town on Friday. Late Friday morning or possibly in the afternoon. He’d been away on vacation and—
She was just a little perturbed. She wheezed and coughed, and said she did hope I didn’t fail her.
I said I wouldn’t.
Friday came. I called her shortly before noon and again at four o’clock. The second call, I told her, was being made from the home of my vacationing friend. He was due to drive up at any moment. As soon as he did, we’d go to the other friend’s house and assemble the money. All this would take a little time, of course; they’d probably have to scurry around and get some checks cashed. Perhaps, if she didn’t hear from me within the next couple hours, she’d better go on to the station. I’d meet her there with the money—in plenty of time to catch the nine-o’clock train.
Well. She really wheezed and sneezed on that one. This was extremely aggravating, Mr. Brown. All this uncertainty and delay—and sitting around a drafty depot in the night air! Unless I was absolutely sure…
I was sure.
At two minutes of nine, just as she was heading with angry determination toward the Los Angeles train, I had a redcap page her. She hesitated (I was watching her from a bar across the street). Then she trudged after the redcap to the telephone, and I returned to the booth in the bar.
She was boiling angry—wheezing like a teakettle. I cooled her off fast.
I told her I was tired and disgusted myself. I’d been on the move all day, not waiting around for someone else to do something. I’d finally got my two friends together, and they expected to turn up the money within the next couple hours. If that was unsatisfactory to her, all she had to do was say so and—
No, I wasn’t going to traipse way down there with part of the money. There was no reason why I should. I’d bring it all when I came—a couple of hours at the outside—but if she didn’t care to wait it was perfectly all right with me.
She decided to wait.
I called her at eleven-fifteen.
I simply couldn’t make it tonight, I said. There wasn’t the slightest doubt about being able to get the money; it wasn’t a question of money but time. So, inasmuch as she’d checked out of her hotel and already bought her ticket, I suggested that she go on back to Los Angeles. I’d drive up with the money tomorrow afternoon.
She wheezed and sighed. “Very well, Mr. Brown. I understand that this is a perfectly hideous train, and—But, very well. Tomorrow afternoon, then, without fail.”
“Or sooner,” I said.
I left the bar and hurried up to the corner of the block. I crossed the intersection and went on across the tracks, pausing at the end of a string of freight cars.
The “milk train”—two freight cars and a mail car, with an antiquated coach hooked on at the rear—was drawn up in front of the station. The engineer and the conductor-brakeman were leaning against a baggage truck, gossiping while they waited for the time to pull out.
Miss Wakefield came out of the station. Weaving with the weight of her suitcase, she had almost reached the coach when the conductor-brakeman saw her. He called, “Hey, lady”—and motioned. She came toward him and he sauntered toward her, letting her do most of the walking. He relieved her of her ticket, shrugged indifferently at some comment or question, and walked back to the engineer.
Miss Wakefield struggled up the steps of the coach and disappeared into the dimly lit interior.
I waited, studying the hands of my watch. Eleven twenty-five, eleven twenty-six, eleven twenty-eight, eleven.…The engineer climbed into his cab. The conductor boosted himself into the mail car and began waving his lantern. It was as I’d been sure it would be. She was the only passenger. The railroad loses—or claims it loses—money on its milk-train passengers and does everything possible to discourage them.
There was a cry of “Bo-o-ard,” followed by a crisp choo-toot! The train jerked and began to move.
I ran down the line of freight cars, swung crouching into the open vestibule of the coach. I hung there for a few hundred yards, until we were well past the last of the station sheds and platforms. Then I stood up and went inside the car.
Only the lights at each end were burning. She was about midway of the car, sitting with her back toward me and her legs up on another seat. She’d taken her glasses off and laid them on the window sill. As I bent over her, the oysterish eyes blinked in the darkness, staring up at me blankly.
She didn’t recognize me. I doubt that she even recognized me as another person. I was only a shadow among shadows—a Something which suddenly shoved her down in the seat and flipped the back rest over on her, pinning her helpless against the worn plush.
She coughed and wheezed. Her mouth dropped open.
I poured a handful of coins into it, and she choked and strangled, rattling them dully.
She’d wanted money. Ellen had wanted to be burned up and Deborah had wanted—wanted something else—and Constance Wakefield had wanted money. So I’d given it to her, and in such a way as to give her the utmost pleasure from it.
Most people never get a chance to enjoy their money, you know. They strive for it, they get it, and then they are dead. Constance, now—well, Constance would get some satisfaction from hers. It would probably take her an hour or more to strangle. She’d have the money all to herself, with no worries about losing it or someone’s taking it away from her.
Possibly she could even take it with her when she died. Part of it, at least. No undertaker would look at her any more than he had to. Any money within her would stand a good chance of remaining there.
Yes, I had done all right by Constance. I had given her money and the opportunity to enjoy it. All that remained now was to relieve her of the manuscript.
It was in her suitcase. I took it out, re-shut the suitcase, and selected a poem at random with handkerchief-covered fingers.
I stuffed the poem into her purse. I gave her a pat on the head and ran back to the vestibule.
The train was still loafing along at approximately twenty miles an hour. I climbed down to the bottom step of the car and dropped off, within a hundred yards of my shack.
Constance Wakefield.…I scrambled up the embankment to my yard, thinking about her.
How could I have done this so calmly, as though it were a relatively unimportant act in a crowded day? Had I actually reached a point where murder meant nothing to me?
The problem disturbed me but only in a remote well-I-should-
be-ashamed way. Actually, I could feel no guilt. Ellen, yes. I was honestly sorry about Ellen. And certainly I was something more than sorry about Deborah. But I had entertained no remorse over Constance. She had not been alive, as they had. She would not have gone on living as they would have, except for my intervention. There had been no life in her, only phlegm and avarice, and how can one take life where none is present?
No, I couldn’t feel sorry for Constance. I had done the decent thing, put an end to her poor counterfeit of life in the most suitable way possible.
I reached the top of the embankment. I dropped the manuscript into the incinerator and continued on across the yard.
I was very tired. Tired and just a little sick at my stomach. I wanted to get into the house and undress and slug down a few stiff ones.
I’d done the only thing I could do. I’d had to kill her, so, since it had to be done, I’d tried to make the best of it. But still…
“Where have you been?” said Kay Randall. “You answer me, Clinton Brown! Where have you been?”
20
I was taken completely by surprise. I didn’t know why or how she had come here, and for the moment I was too startled to ask. I could only think of one thing: that I was in a spot and that I’d have to kill her to get out of it.
“Where have you been?” she repeated. “Where is he? What are you up to?”
“Why—why, Kay!” I said. “What do you mean, where is—?”
“You’re up to something! You’ve got him mixed up in it! That’s where he’s been all these nights when he was supposed to—”
“Kay,” I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just stepped out in the back yard a few minutes for a breath of air, and—”
“You did not! I’ve been parked out in the road for almost a half hour, j-just waiting and wondering what to do and—you didn’t come out of the house! You’ve been somewhere! You’ve—”
“Now, that’s nonsense,” I said. “Where would I go without my car? It’s a dark night, and you just didn’t see me when I—”
“You’re lying!” She shrieked it out. “You haven’t been in the back yard. Y-You—I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll find out! You’ll see! You’re not going to get away with—”
I’d been edging toward her, and she’d been backing away, and now we were at the side of the house. I reached for her, and she struck at me. Wildly, hysterically. She screamed again that I was lying and that she intended to find out why.
“You’ll see! You can’t mix Dave up in your dirty—”
The door of the house opened abruptly. Tom Judge peered out.
“Hey, Brownie,” he said. “Haven’t you had enough air yet? Your drink’s getting all warm.”
I didn’t know what he was doing here either, but obviously he hadn’t come with Kay. It appeared, rather, that he had heard her accusations—as anyone within a hundred yards would have—and was lending me his support.
“I’ll be right with you,” I said, more or less automatically. “Fix me another drink, huh?”
“Sure,” he said, giving Kay a superbly insolent stare. “Be careful you don’t catch cold—or something.”
He slammed the door on that, so hard that her head rocked back. She turned slowly back to me, lifted and dropped her hands helplessly.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve j-just been so worried, and—and frightened. I kn-know there must be a good reason why he’s lied to me, b-but—”
“Why haven’t you asked him?” I said. “You indicated that he’s been misrepresenting his whereabouts at night for some time.”
“I—well, I—”
“That would be a little too direct, wouldn’t it? A little too straightforward and honest? You’d rather sneak around and raise hell with—”
“Well!” She flared up. “You are trying to get him into trouble, aren’t you? You’re mean and rotten and hateful, and you’re trying to make him the same way!”
“Well,” I said, “at least I haven’t tried to poison him.”
She gave me a puzzled look, then turned and took a step toward the road. “Clint”—she hesitated—“I’m sorry. Don’t pay any attention to me, hmmm?”
“You can depend on it,” I said. “Now and upon all other occasions.”
“And—a-and please don’t tell Dave I was here.”
“Why not?” I said. “The wife of my best friend visits me late at night. Why shouldn’t I, as an honorable and upright man, inform him of the fact?”
“Please, Clint. I’m—I’m a-afraid. He isn’t himself any more.…Like tonight, now. I’d checked with the Civic League and I knew there wasn’t any meeting, so—”
So she’d told him he was going to stay at home. Oh, she didn’t call him a liar or anything like that. She’d been very sweet and tactful about the matter. Father had simply been killing himself with work, and she was going to put a stop to it. Meeting or no meeting, Father was going to go to bed and get a good night’s rest. And, then, playfully but firmly, she’d taken his car keys.
“He wouldn’t talk to me, Clint. He just sat and stared, looking at me something—something awful! I went back to the bedroom for a minute, and when I came out he was gone. I guess he must have slipped out and hailed a taxicab.”
“Well—” I said.
“Of course, I’m not sure he didn’t have to go to some of those other meetings. But if he lied about this one—”
“I see,” I said. “Very interesting.”
I could have named her two nights when Dave had attended nonexistent meetings, but I could see nothing to be gained by it. I had a hunch that the affair was one to proceed on with great caution.
“Clint. What do you s-suppose—?”
“I don’t,” I said. “There’s probably some very simple explanation for the whole thing, Kay. One that will doubtless surprise you with its simplicity when it finally dawns on you.”
“Well”—she shrugged tiredly—“I hope so. I’ll—I suppose I better go on back home. Good night, Clint.”
“Are you going to ask Dave where he’s been? When he shows up, that is?”
“N-No,” she said, and it seemed to me that she shivered. “I—I don’t think I’d better. I’d rather not know if—if—Good night, Clint.”
“Good night,” I said.
I walked with her to the road and watched as she got into the car and drove off. Then I went into the house.
Tom had a drink waiting for me. Judging by his appearance, I suspected that he had several in his stomach in addition to the one in his hand.
“Hope you don’t mind my busting in on you this way,” he said, his chin jutting with a trace of belligerence. “Your car was here, and I figured you must be around. Thought you’d just gone for a little walk or something.”
“Quite all right,” I said. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long?”
“Huh-uh.” He dumped more whisky into his glass. “Don’t think it was—couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Seems like I’d just got here when I heard Miss Beauty Bitch yelling at you.”
I nodded. Time does indeed fly by when one is stowing away free drinks.
“Boy,” he went on, “would I like to give that bitch a good sock in the mush! She was at the Christmas party last year, y’know, the one all the wives came to. Playing up to Lovelace and his old lady, and giving everyone else the snoot. Midge—well, Midge was wearing a dress she’d made over and I thought it looked pretty nice, but Miss Bitch poked fun at it all evening. You know, pretending like she admired it and asking how much it had cost new, and so on, and all the time laughing about it. Boy, I could have murdered her!”
I said that Kay was like the weather: everyone talked about her but no one did anything. He scowled surlily, rocking the ice in his glass.
“She screws around with me, there’ll be something done,” he promised. “And that goes for Dave, too. Y’know, I always kind of liked the guy, Brownie. You know I did. An’ then he tur
ns around and sics that goddamned Stukey on me. Gets me arrested for murder.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said. And I hadn’t known—only suspected—that Randall had phoned in the tip to Stukey. “I supposed that the cab driver had—”
“Huh-uh. They didn’t have any driver in to identify me like they would have, so I figured it had to be someone else. And the way I figured, it couldn’t have been anyone but Dave. We were the only ones in the office at the time she called, see? Maybe he didn’t know it was her, but he knew about what time she got into town and he saw me taking a straight-line call over your phone. And that was enough for him. Oh, he did it, all right. I was going to let it slide, but after I heard about this job in L.A. I decided to tell him off before I left town. The bastard admitted he’d done it. Said he hadn’t meant to be underhanded; just hadn’t felt free to give his name to the cops because the paper was involved.”
I shook my head sympathetically. “I’m sure he didn’t think you were really guilty,” I said. “Dave’s just overly conscientious. He saw you take the call and—”
“So what? I saw him take some, too, but I didn’t go running to the cops about it. We were alone in the office. He could have talked to her through the desk phone. I’m not saying he did, understand. Just that he could have. If I’d wanted to be a bastard, I could’ve got him in a jam like he did me.”
“Yes,” I said. “Very forbearing of you.…But what’s this about Los Angeles?”
“I’m pulling out, me and the family. We’ve sold our furniture, and we’re heading for L.A. in the morning. I—Oh, yeah. Let me give you this before I forget.”
He pulled a roll of bills from his pocket and flipped me a twenty. I hesitated, wanting to give it back to him, then nodded and thanked him. He was very much on edge, more resentfully watchful than usual. He might consider the gift of the twenty an insult.
“You said you had a job in Los Angeles? What paper?”
“Well—uh—it’s not definite. They want a top rewrite man, see, and I said I was entirely willing to come in and show ’em what I could do, so—well, I can handle it, all right. They tell me it’s actually a hell of a lot easier to work on those big-city dailies. They’ve got plenty of help, you know. They don’t expect you to knock yourself out like you have to on the Courier.”
