Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories

by Bill Pronzini

  Forget it, Carmody decided. Let Halpern play his foolish games. If he made any direct threats, he would find himself in a hell of a lot of trouble, grieving brother or not.

  Carmody went into the kitchen to see if the coffee was ready.

  The second call came at ten-forty.

  Carmody was in the den, going through his and Angela's papers and drinking his second cup of coffee. The hair prickled on his neck when he heard the bell; then he shrugged and moved over to the phone on the desk.

  "Yes?"

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  The sound of the clock was louder than it had been before. The muscles in Carmody's neck tightened; his lips pulled into a thin line. He listened to the ticking, trying to make out the sound of breathing behind it, but there was nothing else to hear. At length he said, "All right, Halpern, I know it's you. What do you think this nonsense is going to get you?"

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  Carmody hung up.

  The third call came at eleven-fifteen.

  He had gone into the garage, gotten several cardboard boxes, and begun to pack away some of Angela's things—clothes, cosmetics, other personal items. He was taking down the hatboxes from the shelf in her closet when the telephone began its jangling summons.

  Startled, he lost his grip on one of the boxes and the others came tumbling down all around him. The phone kept on ringing; the bell seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness of the big house. Carmody kicked one of the hatboxes out of his way, stalked to the nightstand and caught up the receiver on the bedroom extension. Put it to his ear without speaking into the mouthpiece.

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  "All right, Halpern, that's it," he said angrily, "that's all I'm going to take. If you call again I'll report you to the police. This is a trying enough time for me without having to put up with you and your psychotic tricks. Have a little respect for your sister's memory!"

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  Carmody slammed the receiver down.

  When he looked at his hand he saw that it was trembling slightly. He shouldn't let this upset him, but there was something unnerving about the calls and that damned ticking. Well, Halpern had better heed his last warning. Carmody would report him to the police if he kept it up.

  He went to where the hatboxes lay strewn across the carpet and began to gather them up.

  The fourth call came just before noon.

  The shrillness of the bell brought Carmody out of the recliner in a convulsive jump. He had been too nervous to continue with the packing, had made himself a drink and sat down here in the den to try to relax. He listened to the phone ringing, ringing. Why the hell hadn't he taken it off the hook? But then if he had, Halpern would only have called back later. And if he didn't answer it now, Halpern would just keep the line open so the bell went on ringing . . .

  He half-ran to the desk, jerked up the receiver.

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  Louder, now, it seemed; even louder than the last time. Sweat sheened Carmody's face and neck. Wait him out, he thought, don't say anything. Make him commit himself, wait him out . . .

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  . . . wait . . . wait . . . wait . . .

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  It got to Carmody finally; he just couldn't stand it anymore. He shouted, "Goddamn you, Halpern, I've had enough! When I hang up I'm going to call the police and my lawyer. You hear me?"

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  "I mean it! I'm not making idle threats here!"

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . tick . . .

  Get control of yourself, Carmody thought shakily. This is what he wants you to do, blow your cool. He wiped away sweat with his free hand. As he did so, his gaze fell on the antique Seth Thomas clock on one wall. One minute to noon. Was that all? It seemed like half a day since Halpern's first call, but it had only been two hours . . .

  Two hours. Ten o'clock to noon.

  Carmody's hand spasmed into a clawlike tightness around the receiver. His heart began to race, his brain to whirl furiously.

  Two hours, ten until noon—Angela had taken off from SFO at ten on Thursday morning and he had set the tiny alarm-clock timer on the bomb for exactly noon—Halpern had returned to San Francisco yesterday and this house had been deserted and there were a hundred nooks and crannies, a hundred potential hiding places in an old house like this one—and Halpern was a heavy construction worker, and that meant he had access to—

  "No!" Carmody screamed. He dropped the receiver and turned wildly to run, just as the clock on the wall was about to strike noon.

  . . . tick . . . tick . . . ti—

  DEAR POISONER

  Dear Poisoner,

  That's right, Fentress, I know you're the one who poisoned my goldfish pond. There's nobody else in this neighborhood as mean, nasty, and black-hearted. I know why you did it, too—just because I plowed under your damned ugly rhododendron bushes that were growing on my property. I had every right to do them in with my rototiller and you know it.

  We've had our disputes in the past, you and I, most of them on account of you being so pig-headed about the boundary line and Rex's barking and Blanche sunbathing in the nude. (Don't think I've forgotten you telling people she resembles the Great White Whale, because I haven't.) But this time you've gone too far. You're not going to get away with what you did to my poor little innocent goldfish.

  I can't prove you did it, can't turn you in to the police or the SPCA, so you think you're untouchable. Right? Well, you're not. There are other ways to make you answer for murdering my fish.

  You're not going to get away with it.

  Frank Coombs

  Dear Poisoner,

  Too bad about the fire that destroyed part of your garage last night. I wondered about those fire engines I heard in the wee hours, and now I know. Jones, the accountant over on your block, told me a little while ago.

  Spontaneous combustion, eh, Fentress? Well, maybe now you'll clean out what's left of that rat's nest inside your garage so nothing like last night ever happens again. Next time, you know, it could be even worse.

  Frank Coombs

  Dear Poisoner,

  So now it's dogs, is it? It wasn't enough to poison my poor defenseless fish, now you had to go and murder my dog.

  You're a lunatic, that's what you are. A lunatic and a menace and something has to be done about you before you go berserk and start poisoning everybody's pets in the whole damn neighborhood.

  You mark my words: Rex will not go unavenged.

  Coombs

  Dear Poisoner,

  You don't scare me, Fentress. It's not my fault somebody in your house was stupid enough to accidentally shut off the pilot light on the water heater. Maybe you did it yourself. I wouldn't be surprised. If you almost died of asphyxiation, if the whole house had blown up because a spark touched off the gas, you'd have nobody to blame but yourself.

  So if you know what's good for you, you'll keep your veiled threats to yourself and stay on your side of the fence from now on. I don't have any more pets for you to poison anyway. There's nobody left over here, thanks to you, except me and my wife.

  Coombs

  Dear Poisoner,

  I've just come from Blanche's funeral.

  After the service I talked to one of the cops investigating her sudden death, and he said the coroner couldn't find any trace of poison in her body. He said she must have died of a heart attack. But you and I know better, don't we? You and I know a pharmacist like you has access to all sorts of undetectable poisons that can kill a poor woman just as easily as goldfish and dogs.

  Blanche and I weren't what you'd call close these past few years but I was used to having her around. Besides, she was my wife. When a man's wife is killed he's supposed to do something about it.

  I intend to do something, all right. And soon, real soon.
I'm working on the problem right now.

  Coombs

  Dear Dead Poisoner,

  Hah! They say revenge is sweet, and are they ever right! I never had a sweeter taste in my mouth than I do at this moment.

  I wish you could read this, Fentress. I wish there was a way to get it to you. But then, down where you are the flames would burn up the paper before you had a chance to read it. Hah!

  I saw the whole thing happen, you know. I was hiding in the bushes in my front yard, at a safe distance, when you came out and got into your car to drive to that drugstore of yours. I watched you buckle your seat belt, I watched you insert the key in the ignition, I watched you turn the key . . . boom! It really was a terrific explosion. In more ways than one.

  You didn't know I worked one summer using dynamite to blast tree stumps, did you?

  Oh, the police suspect me, of course. But they can't prove a thing. Any more than I could prove you were responsible for what happened to my fish and my dog and my wife.

  Perfect irony, eh, Fentress?

  Yes indeed, revenge is so sweet. He who laughs last really does laugh best.

  I believe I'll drink a toast to that. And to you, my never-dear departed neighbor. Some of my twenty-year-old Scotch, I think. I've been saving it for just such a special occasion as this.

  Ahh! Smooth as silk going down.

  That's funny. It's burning in my throat, my chest . . . No! No, you couldn't have, it isn't possible—

  Poison? In my best Scotch?

  Fentress, you damned lunatic—

  THIRST

  March said, "We're going to die out here, Flake."

  "Don't talk like that."

  "I don't want to die this way."

  "You're not going to die."

  "I don't want to die of thirst, Flake!"

  "There are worse ways."

  "No, no, there's no worse way."

  "Quit thinking about it."

  "How much water is left?"

  "A couple of swallows apiece, that's all."

  "Let me have my share. My throat's on fire!"

  Flake stopped slogging forward and squinted at March for a few seconds. He took the last of the canteens from his shoulder, unscrewed the cap, and drank two mouthfuls to make sure he got them. Then he handed the canteen to March.

  March took it with nerveless fingers. He sank to his knees in the reddish desert sand, his throat working spasmodically as he drank. When he had licked away the last drop he cradled the canteen to his chest and knelt there rocking with it.

  Flake watched him dispassionately. "Come on, get up."

  "What's the use? There's no more water. We're going to die of thirst."

  "I told you to shut up about that."

  March looked up at him with eyes like a wounded animal's. "You think he made it, Flake?"

  "Who, Brennan?"

  "Yes, Brennan."

  "What do you want to think about him for?"

  "He didn't take all the gasoline for the jeep."

  "He had enough."

  March whimpered, "Why, Flake? Why'd he do it?"

  "Why the hell you think he did it?"

  "Those deposits we found are rich, the ore samples proved that—sure. But there's more than enough for all of us."

  "Brennan's got the fever. He wants it all."

  "But he was our friend, our partner!"

  "Forget about him," Flake said. "We'll worry about Brennan when we get out of this desert."

  March began to laugh. "That's a good one, by God. That's rich."

  "What's the matter with you?"

  "When we get out of this desert, you said. When. Oh, that's a funny one—"

  Flake slapped him. March grew silent, his dusty fingers moving like reddish spiders on the surfaces of the canteen.

  "You're around my neck like a goddamn albatross," Flake said.

  "You haven't let up for three days now. I don't know why I don't leave you and go on alone."

  "No, Flake, please . . ."

  "Get up, then."

  "I can't. I can't move."

  Flake caught March by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. March stood there swaying. Flake began shuffling forward again, pulling March along by one arm. The reddish sand burned beneath their booted feet. Stillness, heat, nothing moving, hidden eyes watching them, waiting. Time passed, but they were in a state of timelessness.

  "Flake."

  "What is it now?"

  "Can't we rest?"

  Flake shaded his eyes to look skyward. The sun was falling now, shot through with blood-colored streaks; it had the look of a maniac's eye.

  "It'll be dark in a few hours," he said. "We'll rest then."

  To ease the pressure of its weight against his spine, Flake adjusted the canvas knapsack of dry foodstuff. March seemed to want to cry, watching him, but there was no moisture left in him for tears. He stumbled after Flake.

  They had covered another quarter of a mile when Flake came to a sudden standstill. "There's something out there," he said.

  "I don't see anything."

  "There," Flake said, pointing.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't know. We're too far away.

  They moved closer, eyes straining against swollen, peeling lids. "Flake!" March cried. "Oh Jesus, Flake, it's the jeep!"

  Flake began to run, stumbling, falling once in his haste. The jeep lay on its side near a shallow dry wash choked with mesquite and smoke trees. Three of its tires had blown out, the windshield was shattered, and its body was dented and scored in a dozen places.

  Flake staggered up to it and looked inside, looked around it and down into the dry wash. There was no sign of Brennan, no sign of the four canteens Brennan had taken from their camp in the Red Hills.

  March came lurching up. "Brennan?"

  "Gone."

  "On foot, like us?"

  "Yeah."

  "What happened? How'd he wreck the jeep?"

  "Blowout, probably. He lost control and rolled it over."

  "Can we fix it? Make it run?"

  "No."

  "Why not? Christ, Flake!"

  "Radiator's busted, three tires blown, engine and steering probably screwed up too. How far you think we'd get even if we could get it started?"

  "Radiator," March said. "Flake, the radiator . . ."

  "I already checked. If there was any water left after the smash-up, Brennan got it."

  March made another whimpering sound. He sank to his knees, hugging himself, and began the rocking motion again. "Get up," Flake said.

  "It's no good, we're going to die of thirst—"

  "You son of a bitch, get up! Brennan's out there somewhere with the canteens. Maybe we can find him."

  "How? He could be anywhere . . ."

  "Maybe he was banged up in the crash, too. If he's hurt he couldn't have gotten far. We might still catch him."

  "He's had three days on us, Flake. This must have happened the first day out."

  Flake said nothing. He turned away from the jeep and followed the rim of the dry wash to the west. March remained kneeling on the ground, watching him, until Flake was almost out of sight; then he got to his feet and began to lurch spindle-legged after him.

  It was almost dusk when Flake found the first canteen.

  He had been following a trail that had become visible not far from the wrecked jeep. At that point there had been broken clumps of mesquite, other signs to indicate Brennan was hurt and crawling more than he was walking. The trail led through the arroyo where it hooked sharply to the south, then continued into the sun-baked wastes due west—toward the town of Sandoval, the starting point of their mining expedition two months ago.

  The canteen lay in the shadow of a clump of rabbit brush. Flake picked it up, shook it. Empty. He glanced over his shoulder, saw March a hundred yards away shambling like a drunk, and then struck out again at a quickened pace.

  Five minutes later he found the second canteen, empty, and his urgency grew and soare
d. He summoned reserves of strength and plunged onward in a loose trot.

  He had gone less than a hundred and fifty yards when he saw the third canteen—and then, some distance beyond it, the vulture. The bird had glided down through the graying sky, was about to settle near something in the shade of a natural stone bridge. Flake ran faster, waving his arms, shouting hoarsely. The vulture slapped the air with its heavy wings and lifted off again. But it stayed nearby, circling slowly, as Flake reached the motionless figure beneath the bridge and dropped down beside it.

  Brennan was still alive, but by the look of him and by the faint irregularity of his pulse he wouldn't be alive for long. His right leg was twisted at a grotesque angle. As badly hurt as he was, he had managed to crawl the better part of a mile in three days.

  The fourth canteen was gripped in Brennan's fingers. Flake pried it loose, upended it over his mouth. Empty. He cast it away and shook Brennan savagely by the shoulders, but the bastard had already gone into a coma. Flake released him, worked the straps on the knapsack on Brennan's back. Inside were the ore samples and nothing else.

  Flake struggled to his feet when he heard March approaching, but he didn't turn. He kept staring down at Brennan from between the blistered slits of his eyes.

  "Flake! You found Brennan!"

  "Yeah, I found him."

  "Is he dead?"

  "Almost."

  "What about water? Is there—?"

  "No. Not a drop."

  "Oh God, Flake!"

  "Shut up and let me think."

  "That's it, we're finished, there's no hope now . . ."

  "Goddamn you, quit your whining."

  "We're going to end up like him," March said. "We're going to die, Flake, die of thirst—"

  Flake backhanded him viciously, knocked him to his knees. "No, we're not," he said. "Do you hear me? We're not."