It was Saturday morning and there was no delivery until Monday, so he went back to his work, pretending to be unconcerned as always. Yet when he finished his day and was once more in his room, he could scarcely restrain his exuberance.
Fifteen thousand, and all his Standing before the mirror, he brushed his sleek blond hair and stared triumphantly at the vistas of wealth that opened before him. He would go about his work quietly for another month, and then make an excuse, and quit. After that, Rio, Havana, Buenos Aires! He was seeing himself immaculately clad on the terrace of a hotel in Rio when the phone rang.
Cruzon? The voice was low, unfamiliar. That was pretty slick! Nobody saw it but me, and I'm not talking... as long as I can do business with you.
Shock held him speechless. His lips were numb and his stomach had gone hollow. He managed the words, I don't know what you're talking about. Who is this?
You'll know soon enough. The only reason you're not in jail is because I've kept my mouth shut.
Eddie Cruzon had stared past the curtain at the drizzle of falling rain, his mind blank, his whole consciousness clambering at the walls of fear. No reason why we should have trouble, the voice continued. In ten minutes, I'll be sitting in the back booth of the coffee shop on your corner. All I want is my cut.
Cruzon's lips fumbled for words.
Into the silence the voice said, They will pay five hundred for information. Think that over.
The man hung up suddenly, and Cruzon stared at the phone as if hypnotized. Then, slowly, he replaced the handset on its cradle.
For a long time he remained perfectly still, his mind a blank. One fact stood isolated in his mind. He must share the fifteen thousand dollars.
Yet almost at once his mind refused that solution.
He had planned it, he had taken the risk, he would share it with no one.
The answer to that was stark and clear. The unknown, whoever he was, would inform on him if he didn't pay up.
He could share his loot, go to prison, or ...
That was when he first thought of murder.
What right had the stranger to force his way into the affair? Theft was a rough game. If anything happened to him, it was just his bad luck.
Then he thought of the gravel pit. Only a few weeks ago he had visited the place, driving out the old road, now badly washed out and obviously unused. Curiosity impelled him to stop his car and walk up the grass-grown path along the fence.
The pit lay in the rough triangle formed by a wide field of pumping wells, the unused road, and the fence surrounding a golf course, but far from any of the fairways.
It was screened by low trees and a tangle of thick brush. There was no evidence that anyone had been near it in a long time.
His car could be pulled into the brush, and it should take him no more than ten minutes to walk up to the pit and come back alone. There was small chance of being seen. It might be months before the body was found.
Even when the plan was detailed in his mind, something within him refused to accept it. He, Eddie Cruzon, was going to kill a man!
Later, looking across at the wide face of the man in the restaurant, he pretended to accept his entry into the affair with ease. Why not? he said. I don't mind a split. He leaned over the table, anxious to convince the man of his sincerity. Maybe we can work out something , else. This job was a cinch.
II It was slick, all right! The little man with the round face was frankly admiring. Slick as anything I ever saw! It took me a minute or two to realize what had I happened, and 1 saw it!
Eddie had leaned forward. The money's cached.
We'll have to hire a car. ... He had decided not to use his own.
I've got a car. Want to go now? The little man was eager, his eyes bright and avid.
Not now. I've got a date, and this girl might start asking questions. Neither of us should do anything out of the normal. We just act like we always have.
That's right. I can see that, the fellow agreed, blinking. He was stupid, Cruzon thought, absolutely stupid! When do we go after it?
Tomorrow night. You drive by and pick me up.
We'll go out where I hid the money, split it two ways, have a good dinner to celebrate, and go our ways. Meanwhile, you be thinking. You're in a position to know about payrolls and can tip me to something else, later.
With this parcel service job, I can go anywhere and never be noticed.
Nothing but talk, of course. Cruzon hated the milky blue eyes and the pasty face. He wanted only to be rid of him.
When he saw the car roll up before his apartment house, he felt in his waistband for the short iron bar he had picked off a junk pile. Then, pulling his hat brim lower, he walked out the door.
Weber opened the door for him, and Cruzon got in, striving for a nonchalance he did not feel. He gave directions and then sank back in the seat. His mouth was dry and he kept touching his lips with his tongue.
Out of the corners of his eyes, he studied the man beside him. Weber was shorter than he, and stocky. Once at the pit, he must kill and kill quickly, for the man would be suspicious.
They had seen no other car for miles when he motioned Weber to pull off the road. Weber stared about suspiciously, uneasily. It was dark here, and gloomy, a place of slanting rain, wet pavement, and dripping brush.
You hid it clear out here? What for?
You think I want it on me? What if they came to search my place? And where could I hide it where I'd not be seen? He opened the door and got out into the rain.
Right up this path, he invited, it isn't far.
Weber was out of the car, but he looked up the path and shook his head. Not me. I'll stay with the car.
Cruzon hesitated. He had not considered this, being sure the man would want to be with him. Weber stared at him, then up the path. Cruzon could almost see suspicion forming in the man's mind.
Will you wait, then? he asked irritably. I don't want to be left out here.
Don't worry! Weber's voice was grim. And don't try any tricks. I've got a gun.
Who wants to try anything? Cruzon demanded impatiently. Actually, he was in a panic. What could he do now?
Weber himself made it easy. Go ahead, he said shortly, and hurry. I'll wait in the car. He turned to get back into car, and Cruzon hit him.
He struck hard with his fist, staggering Weber. The stocky man was fumbling for the gun with one hand when Cruzon jerked out the iron bar. He struck viciously.
Once . . . twice ... a third time.
And then there was only the softly falling rain, the dark body at his feet, and the night.
He was panting hoarsely. He must work fast now. .. fast. Careful to avoid any blood, he lifted the man in a fireman's carry and started up the path.
Once, when almost halfway, he slipped on the wet grass and grabbed wildly at a bush, hanging on grimly until he got his feet under him. When at last he reached the brink of the pit, he heaved Weber's body over and stood there, gasping for breath, listening to the slide of gravel.
Done!
It was all his now! Rain glistened on the stones, and the pit gaped beneath him, wide and dark. He turned from it, almost running. Luckily, there was nobody in sight. He climbed in and released the brake, starting the car by coasting. An hour later he deserted the car on a dark and lonely street, then straightened his clothes and hurried to the corner.
Walking four fast blocks, he boarded a bus and sank into a seat near the rear door. When he'd gone a dozen blocks, he got off and walked another block before catching a cab.
He was getting into the cab when the driver noticed his hand. What's the matter? Cut yourself?
In a panic, he looked down and saw that his hand was bloody. Weber's blood? It couldn't be. He'd worn gloves. He must have scratched his hand afterward, on the bushes.
It's nothing, he said carelessly, just a scratch.
The driver looked at him oddly. Where to, mister?
Down Wilshire, then left.
Cruzon
got out his handkerchief and wiped his hand. His trousers were wet and he felt dirty. It was a while before he got home. He stripped off his clothes and almost fell into bed.
Cruzon awakened with a start. It was broad daylight and time to dress for work. His mind was startlingly clear, yet he was appalled at what he'd done.
He had mur- He flinched at the word. He had killed a man.
He must be careful now. Any move might betray him. Reviewing his actions of the previous night, he tried to think of where he might have erred.
He had thrown the iron bar away. He had worn gloves in the car, and it had been left on a street in a bad neighborhood. He had taken precautions returning home. Above all, nobody knew he was acquainted with Weber.
There was nothing to worry about. He wanted to drive by the pit and see if any marks had been left, but knew it might be fatal. He must never go near the place again.
There was nothing to connect him with the payroll.
When Weber turned up missing, there was a chance they would believe he had made the switch himself, then skipped out.
After dressing for work, he took time to carefully brush the suit he'd worn the previous night. He hurried out, drove to work, stopping only once, to buy a paper.
There was nothing about the missing payroll. That puzzled and worried him, until he remembered it was Monday. That must have been in the Sunday paper, which he'd missed.
At his usual hour, he dropped around to Barnaby's.
He took three papers with him, but waited until he had his coffee before opening them. A careful search netted him exactly nothing. There was no comment on the payroll robbery. Then, the two men whom he'd overheard came in and sat down near him. Another man came in a moment later, and Cruzon gasped audibly, turning cold and stiff.
The newcomer was short, stocky, and had a pale face. Cruzon almost gasped with relief when he saw the man was all of ten years older than Weber. The man carried a newspaper, and sat down one stool away from him.
Cruzon took off his uniform and cap and smoothed his blond hair with a shaky hand. No use getting jumpy whenever he saw a man even built like Weber; there were lots of them.
He had finished his lunch and was on his second cup of coffee, and trying so hard to hear what his neighbors were saying that he'd been prodded twice on the arm before he realized the stocky man on his other side was speaking to him. How about the sugar? he asked. Then the fellow grinned knowingly. You must have had a bad night. I had to speak three times before you heard me.
Impatiently, Cruzon grabbed the sugar and shoved it at the man. The fellow took it, his eyes questioning and curious.
Cruzon got his attention back to the other men just in time to hear one say, ... good joke, I'd say. I wonder who got it?
Could have been anybody. You've got to hand it to the boss. He's smart. He puts so many twists in that payroll delivery, nobody could ever figure it out! I'll bet he lays awake nights working out angles!
Did Weber come in late? I haven't seen him.
Not yet. Say, wouldn't it be funny if he took it?
He's just dopey enough to try something like that!
They paid their checks and walked out. Cruzon stared blindly at his coffee. Something was wrong! What did they mean by saying it was a good joke? He remembered all they had previously said, about not giving out the name of the driver or the route until the last minute, but had there been other precautions? Had . . . could he have been duped?
His spoon rattled on his cup and the man beside him grinned. You'd better take on a lot of that, friend.
You're in no shape to be driving.
Mind your own business, will you? His irritation, fear, and doubt broke out, his tone made ugly by it.
The fat man's eyes hardened. It is my business, chum. The man got to his feet and flipped open a leather case, displaying a detective's badge. The name, Cruzon noted, was Gallagher. We've enough trouble without you morning-after drivers.
Oh . . . I'm sorry, officer. Get hold of yourself, get a grip, his subconscious was saying. I'll be careful.
Thanks for the warning.
Hastily, he paid his check and left. When he got into the truck, he saw the fat man standing by the building, watching him.
Watching him} But why should he? How could they be suspicious of him?
For the remainder of the day he drove so carefully he was almost an hour late in finishing deliveries. He checked in his truck, then hurried to his car and got in.
Even more carefully, he drove home.
He saw it as soon as he entered the hallway. Restraining an impulse to seize the envelope and run, he picked it up and walked to his room. The key rattled in the lock, and he was trembling when he put the envelope down on the table and ripped open the flap. He thrust in his hand, fumbling feverishly for the first packet. He jerked it out.
Newspapers . . . just newspapers cut in the size and shape of bills!
Desperately, his heart pounding, he dumped the envelope out on the table and pawed over the packets.
More newspapers.
That was what they meant, then, and the joke was on him.
On him? Or on Weber?
Only Weber was out of it; Weber was beyond shame or punishment. Weber was dead, and he had been killed for a packet of trimmed paper.
But they did not know, they could not know. Weber could not talk, and that crime, at least, was covered.
Covered completely.
Cruzon dropped into a chair, fighting for sanity and reason. He must get rid of the envelope and the paper.
That was the first thing. It might be months before they found Weber's body, and he could be far away by then.
Frightened as he was, he gathered up the papers and, returning them to the envelope, slipped out to the incinerator and dumped them in.
Back in his room, he left the light off, then hastily stripped off his clothes and got into bed. He lay sleepless for a long, long time, staring out into the shadowed dark.
He was dressing the following morning when he first noticed his hands. They were red.
Red? Blood on his hands! The blood of . . . ! He came to his feet, gasping as if ducked in cold water. But no! That was impossible! There had been no blood on his hands but his own, that scratch.
The scratch? He opened his hand and stared at it feverishly; he pawed at it. There was no scratch.
The blood had been Weber's.
And this? But this was not the red of blood, it was brighter, a flatter red.
Leaving the house, he pulled on his gloves. A good deal of it had washed away, and there were parts of his hands it hadn't touched. Most of it was on the palms and fingers.
All morning he worked hard, moving swiftly, crisply, efficiently. Anything to keep his mind off Weber, off the newspapers, off the strange red tinge that stained his hands. Then, at last, it was lunchtime, and he escaped his work and went to Barnaby's almost with relief. Even removing his gloves did not disturb him, and nobody seemed aware of the red in between his fingers. A thought crept into his mind. Was it visible only to him?
Cruzon was over his coffee when the two men came in again. Eddie sipped his coffee and listened feverishly to the men beside him.
This time they discussed a movie they had seen, and he fought back his anxiety to leave, and waited, listening.
The red on his hands, he thought suddenly, might have come from a package he handled. Something must have broken inside, and in his preoccupied state, he had not noticed.
Then Gallagher walked in and dropped onto a stool beside him. He smiled at Cruzon. Not so bad this morning, he said. You must have slept well?
Sure, he agreed, trying to be affable. Why not?
You're lucky. In my business, a man misses plenty of sleep. Like yesterday evening. We found a body.
A body? There was no way they could connect him with it, even if it was Weber.
Yeah. Man found a gun alongside the road. Gallagher pulled a cheap, nickel-plated revolver from his pocket
. Not much account, these guns, but they could kill a man. Lots of 'em have. The fellow who found this gun, he brought it to us. We made a routine check, an' what d'you think? Belongs to a fellow named John Weber. He bought it a couple of days ago.
John Weber? So his name had been John? He had not known. Has it been in the papers?
No, not yet. Well, anyway, that made us curious. A man buys a gun, then loses it right away, so we called this Weber, an' you know what? He'd disappeared! That's right! Landlady said his room hadn't been slept in, and he hadn't been to work. So we drove out to where this gun was lost and we scouted around.
There was an old, washed-out dirt track up a hill away from the surfaced road. Nobody seemed to have been up there in a long time, but right up there on the track, we found the body.
Where? Even as the incredulous word escaped him, he realized his mistake. He took a slow, deep breath before speaking again. But you said nobody had been there? How could he-?
That's what we wondered. His head was battered, but he managed to crawl that far before he died. The killer had slugged him and dropped him over the rim of the pit.
Cruzon was frightened. Inside, he was deathly cold, and when he moved his tongue, it felt stiff and clumsy.
He wanted to get away; he wanted to be anywhere but here, listening to that casual, easy voice and feeling those mild, friendly blue eyes. He glanced hastily at his watch.
Gosh! I've got to go! I'll be late with my deliveries!
The detective dismissed his worry with a wave of the hand. No need to rush. I feel like talking, so I'll fix it with your boss. I'll tell him you were helping me.
Eddie had a feeling he was being smothered, stifled.
Something . . . everything was wrong.
The gun, for instance. He had never given it a thought, having been anxious to get away without being seen. And Weber not dead, but crawling halfway to the road!
I won't take much longer, Gallagher said, it wasn't much of a case.
But I should think it would be hard to solve a case like that. How could you find out who killed him? Or how he got there?
That isn't hard. Folks figure the cops are dumb, but nobody is smart all the time. I ball things up, occasionally, and sometimes other cops do, but we've got something that beats them all. We've got an organization, a system.
Beyond the Great Snow Mountains (Ss) (1999) Page 16
