It was now five days since he had talked Barlowe into taking out a $5,000 life insurance policy. Before the deal could be completed, Barlowe had to take the usual insurance medical examination. It would have been tough luck if he had failed it, but he hadn’t. Dr. Stevens, who acted for the National Fidelity, had said Barlowe was a first class life.
It was when Anson had explained to Barlowe how he could use a life policy to raise the capital he needed to set up as a horticultural architect - a phrase Anson kept using and which obviously pleased Barlowe — that Barlowe’s sales resistance had disappeared. He had become so eager to sign that Anson was worried he had oversold his prospect. He had to explain to Barlowe that before the National Fidelity would accept him as a client he would have to pass a medical examination.
“The great advantage of this policy so far as you are concerned,” Anson said hurrying over the sudden pause that followed when he had mentioned the medical examination, “is that you will be able to ask your bank manager, a year from signature, for three thousand dollars and get it without any fuss. You will only have to pay $150 to gain this advantage.’”
Barlowe frowned. He picked at the dirty adhesive bandage on his hand.
“Do you mean I have to wait a year before I can raise the capital I want?” he demanded. “Why, I thought…”
“Excuse me, Mr. Barlowe, but not so many minutes ago you told me you hadn’t a hope of ever raising any kind of capital,” Anson said quietly. “Now, in a year’s time, because of this policy, you will be able to buy your land and start up in business.”
Barlowe hesitated, then nodded.
“Yes… all right. So what happens now?”
“As soon as I have the doctor’s report, I’ll come out with the policy for your signature,” Anson said.
There was one final touch necessary to complete his plan.
“If you care to pay the first premium in cash, I’ll be able to give you a five per cent discount. You may as well have the discount and it saves book-keeping for me.”
And of course Barlowe had agreed.
Anson picked up one of the policy blanks. He inserted it into the typewriter and filled in the necessary details. This policy was for $5,000: the beneficiary in the event of the death of the insured was to be Mrs. Philip Barlowe.
He put in another blank, duplicating what he had already done. The third and fourth policy blanks were different. These, he made out for the sum of $50,000. If Barlowe happened to spot the difference, Anson could always say it was a typist’s error.
Tomorrow night would be Thursday. Anson knew Meg would be alone. Although he was tempted to go out to the lonely house and make love to her, he knew this now would be too dangerous. He would have to wait. In six months, perhaps less, he and she would be together for as long as he liked: he and she and fifty thousand dollars… worth waiting for.
He called the Barlowe house. Meg answered the telephone.
“It’s all fixed,” he said. “I’ll be coming out the night after tomorrow. I told you I’d fix it, didn’t I?”
“You are sure it is going to be all right?” The note of anxiety in her voice excited him. “When he has signed….what are you going to do?”
“Let’s wait until he signs,” Anson said. “I’m thinking of you. I wish I were with you,” and he put down the receiver.
A few minutes after six o’clock a.m. Philip Barlowe came awake with a sudden start. He had been dreaming. His grey-white pillow was damp with sweat.
He came awake the way an animal comes awake: instantly alert, suspicious, slightly frightened. He lay still, listening, then when he heard no sound to alarm him, he relaxed and moved further down in the single bed, making himself more comfortable.
Thursday!
The two days that meant more to him were Monday and Thursday when he got away from the house to spend the night alone after the dreary night classes when he attempted to instil into the minds of a group of pimply youths the basic theory of horticulture.
This night, he told himself, he would go out to Jason’s Glen. There, he would be sure to find a number of smoochers and petters: young people behaving disgracefully in their secondhand cars. The thought of what he had heard and seen in the past brought beads of sweat out on his high forehead.
One of these days, he told himself, his small, well shaped hands turning in to fists, he would teach these sluts a lesson.
Their feeble, immoral petting disgusted him. Sometime in the very near future, some girl would learn what it meant to go beyond a giggle, a struggle and vapid gasp of breath.
Impatiently, he tossed off the blanket and sheet and got out of bed. He crossed to the mirror above the dressing-table and stared at himself. The shock of black hair, the white drawn ill-tempered face made him grimace. He turned away and walked over to a cupboard on the wall. He hesitated, listened, then took a key from his pyjama pocket. He unlocked the cupboard and looked at the .38 automatic revolver that lay on the shelf.
By the gun was a white bathing cap. He picked up the cap; stretching it, he drew it down over his head. From the shelf he took two small rubber pads. These he fitted between his gums and the inside of his cheeks… they filled out his face, altering his appearance in a startling way. He moved over to the mirror and stared again at himself. The ill-tempered, thin-faced Barlowe had disappeared. Instead, there was a fat-faced nightmarish looking creature: the white bathing cap making him look completely bald. He picked up the gun. His fingers curled lovingly around the trigger, and he smiled.
Not so far in the future, he told himself, this gun would explode into sound. Not so far into the future… someone would die.
He put the gun back on to the shelf. He took off the bathing cap. He took,the rubber pads from his mouth and replaced them on the shelf. Then he carefully locked the cupboard door. He paused for a long moment staring into space, then whistling tunelessly, he went into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, he returned to his room. He dressed, again opened the cupboard and put the bathing cap and the rubber pads into his hip pocket. For a long moment he stared at the gun, hesitated then decided to leave it where it was.
He stepped into the corridor. He paused outside Meg’s bedroom door. He put his ear against the locked door panel and listened. He could hear nothing. He stood there for several moments, then with a frustrated grimace, he went down the stairs to prepare his routine breakfast of eggs and bacon.
Unaware of what had been going on, Meg continued to sleep restlessly.
Jason’s Glen was a favourite place for young couples who were lucky enough to have a car, but unfortunate enough to have no room, little money, and no facilities in which to make love. No matter what the weather offered, Jason’s Glen always had at least two or three cars in which couples made desperate and natural love.
This Thursday night, rain was falling. There were only two cars parked under the trees. One of them was a smal British sports car: the other a battered, aged Buick.
From under the heavy overgrown shrubs, Barlowe watched the two cars. They were separated by some fifty yards.
Suddenly a girl exclaimed: “Jeff! No! What do you think you’re doing? Jeff!… No!”
The voice came from the Buick.
Crouching like a black crab, the white bathing helmet pulled down over his thick black hair, Barlowe crept out into the rain towards the parked Buick.
The man in the sports car called out, “Don’t let her take no for an answer, pal,” and the girl with him gave a squeal of hysterical laughter.
Barlowe suddenly had a furious, frustrated desire to have his gun in his hand. With a gun… he could teach these young, filthy animals a lesson.
He moved up to the Buick, unaware of the rain that was beating down on his crouched body. When the girl in the car began to moan, Barlowe suddenly fell on his knees. His hands clawed into the wet, soft soil. He remained like that, his body arched, and when the girl suddenly cried out, he dug his fingers deeper into the soil.
&nbs
p; Anson was flicking through a pile of coupon inquiries when the telephone bell rang.
Anna picked up the receiver.
Looking across at her from his desk, Anson saw her usual placid expression change to alertness and he had a sudden feeling of danger.
“Yes… yes, he’s here. I’ll put you through.”
Anna looked at Anson and waved the telephone receiver warningly. Then she flicked down the key and hissed, “It’s Mr. Maddox.”
His face wooden, his heart suddenly thumping, Anson picked up his receiver and said, “Anson here.”
A hard, curt voice barked, “1 want you out here. How are you fixed for tomorrow?”
“I can manage that,” Anson said, “anything special?”
“You don’t imagine I’d pull you off your territory just to look at you, do you?” Maddox snapped. “Okay, then ten o’clock tomorrow,” and he hung up.
Anson replaced his receiver, pushed back his chair and walked to the window so Anna couldn’t see how white he had gone.
Barlowe’s policy for $50,000, signed and completed, had gone to Head Office three days ago. Why had Maddox got on to it so quickly? Anson dug his sweating hands into his trouser pockets as he wondered.
“What does he want?” Anna asked curiously.
Making an effort, Anson returned to his desk. He sat down.
“I don’t know,” he said, picking up another batch of coupons. “Why should I worry?”
Anna lifted her fat shoulders.
“Well, if you’re not worrying, why should I?” Anson went on sorting through the coupons. There was a chill around his heart. Maddox! Even before Barlowe was dead this jinx of a man was suspicious… or was he?
Anson lit a cigarette. Better now than after Barlowe was dead. If it looked too dangerous, he wouldn’t go ahead with his plan. It was better now to know the worst before he was so far out on a limb he couldn’t scramble back.
Maddox!
CHAPTER 5
Patty Shaw, Maddox’s secretary, was typing busily when Anson entered the small outer office.
She looked up, took her hands off the keys and smiled a welcome.
“Hello, John, nice to see you again. How’s it out in the back of the beyond?”
Anson returned her smile. All the National Fidelity salesmen were fond of Patty: apart from her blonde prettiness, she was smart and helpful. She understood a salesman’s difficulties and she knew how discouraging Maddox could be.
“Not so bad. What’s he want?” Anson jerked his head to the door that led into Maddox’s office.
“The Vodex car smash,” Patty said, rolling her blue eyes. “He’s trying to get out of paying the claim. He wants your angle on it.”
Anson drew in a long, slow breath of relief. And he had been thinking it was the Barlowe policy Maddox was going to gripe about.
“He can’t get out of paying it!” he exclaimed angrily. “What’s the matter with the man? Vodex was drunker than a skunk! We’ve got to pay!”
“You know how he is,” Patty said, lifting her shoulders. “He’ll try anything to get out of paying a claim.” She flicked down a key on her intercom. “Mr. Anson’s here, Mr. Maddox.”
A hard curt voice barked, “Shoot him right in.”
“Go ahead,” Patty said, waving to the door. “Remember Daniel in the lion’s den. Daniel didn’t give a damn for the lions, and the lions didn’t give a damn for Daniel.”
Anson forced a grin and then went into Maddox’s office.
Maddox was sitting behind a vast desk, smothered in papers. There were papers on the floor, papers on most of the chairs and papers everywhere.
Maddox was glaring at a policy he held in his thick freckled fingers. His thinning grey hair was rumpled and his red face was screwed into a scowl. Maddox wasn’t a big man although he looked big from behind the shelter of his desk. He had the shoulders of a boxer and the legs of a midget. His eyes were restless, alert and bleak. He wore his well-cut clothes anyhow. Cigarette ash rained on his sleeves, his tie and his lap. He had a habit of running his stubby fingers constantly through his hair which added to his dishevelled appearance.
He leaned back in the chair and glared at Anson.
“Well, come on in,” he said. “Sit down. This sonofa bitch, Vodex…” and as Anson sat down, Maddox launched into a steady invective against their client.
Twenty minutes later, Maddox made a gesture of disgust and reached for another cigarette.
“Okay, so well have to pay up! Forty thousand dollars! You salesmen kill me! Couldn’t you have seen this jerk was an alcoholic? All you think about is your commission! If you had a grain of insight, we’d be forty thousand dollars in pocket!”
“It’s my job to sell insurance,” Anson said sharply. “You don’t have to beef to me. If you have any complaint take it up with Doc Stevens. He okayed Vodex. If you don’t like the way I sell insurance you’d better talk to Mr. Burrows.”
Burrows was the President of the National Fidelity, the only man who could talk back to Maddox.
Maddox lit another cigarette.
“Okay, okay,” he said, waving his stubby hands. “Don’t get your shirt out. But this kills me! Forty thousand dollars!
What’s the matter with Stevens? Doesn’t he know a drunk when he sees one?”
“Vodex wasn’t a drunk!” Anson said patiently. “He happened to be drunk on the night of the crash. He hasn’t been drunk in years.”
Maddox shrugged and suddenly relaxed. His red, rubbery face contorted into a sour grin.
“Well, let’s forget it. How’s business Anson? How are you doing?”
Knowing his man, Anson wasn’t fooled. Cautiously he said, “It’s all right. This is a bad month. I have a number of prospects lined up once they have paid their rents and bills.”
“You’re not doing so bad,” Maddox said and dived into a mass of papers on his desk. He came up with a policy which he studied, then looked at Anson with a sudden cold penetrating stare.
“What’s this? This guy Barlowe? You hooked him for fifty thousand dollars?”
Anson’s face was expressionless as he said, “Oh Barlowe… yes, that was a lucky one. He sent in a coupon inquiry and I nailed him.”
“Fifty thousand, huh?” Maddox stared at the policy, then dropped it on his desk. “Who is Barlowe?”
“Probably one of the best gardeners I’ve ever come across,” Anson said. “He works in the horticultural department of Framleys’ stores. I don’t know if you are interested in gardening, but he has the finest small garden I’ve eVer seen.”
“I’m not interested in anything except the work that lies under my nose and the pen I hold in my hand,” Maddox misquoted sourly. “So this guy works at Framley’s stores, does he? How come he can afford a policy this size?”
“He wants to use it to raise capital to buy himself a business,” Anson said. “After a couple of years, he’ll ask us to pay the premiums out of the policy.”
“Nice for him,” Maddox said scowling. “In the meantime if he happens to drop dead, we’re in the hole for fifty thousand bucks.”
“Stevens rates him as a first class life.”
“That quack! He can’t even recognize a drunk when he sees one!”
Anson didn’t say anything. He watched Maddox light yet another cigarette.
“The beneficiary is Mrs. Barlowe… that his wife?”
“Yes.” Anson felt his heart give a little kick against his side.
“What’s she like?” Maddox asked, staring at Anson.
“You mean what does she look like?” Anson asked, his voice casual, his expression inquiring.
“Yeah… I like to have a picture of people in my mind,” Maddox said. “When I get a policy for this amount come out of the blue and I learn the insured is just a counter clerk, I get interested. What’s she like?”
“Attractive, around twenty-seven. I didn’t talk to her much. I talked to Barlowe. I got the impression they were happy together,” Anson said
carefully.
Maddox picked up the policy and stared at it.
“How come this guy pays the first premium in cash?” he asked.
“He wanted it that way. He keeps money in his house. Anything wrong about it?”
Maddox grimaced.
“I don’t know. Twelve hundred is a lot of dough to keep in your house. Hasn’t he a banking account?”
“I guess so. I didn’t ask him.”
Maddox blew a stream of tobacco smoke down his thick nostrils. His red rubbery face was screwed up in an expression of thought.
“So he wants to use this policy to raise capital… that it?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“To set up as a gardener?”
“Well, more than that… to buy land, greenhouses, machines and so on.”
“How much capital does he want?”
Anson shrugged.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. He said he wanted to insure his life and he told me why. I didn’t argue with him.”
“That’s right,” Maddox said and put the policy down on his desk, “So long as you make a sale, you don’t have to worry, do you?”
“It’s my job to make a sale,” Anson said quietly. “That’s what / get paid for.” He stood up. “Is there anything else?”
“No, I guess that’s about it,” Maddox said, without looking at Anson.
“Then I’ll get back. Will see you.”
Maddox nodded absently. He still didn’t look at Anson. He was staring at the Barlowe policy. He was still staring at it, lost in thought, several minutes after Anson had gone. Then, suddenly coming to life, he flicked down a key on the intercom and said, “Harmas around?”
“Yes, Mr. Maddox,” Patty said. “I’ll call him.”
Three minutes later, Steve Harmas, Maddox’s chief investigator, wandered in. He was a tall broad-shouldered man; dark around thirty-three with a deeply tanned ugly but humorous face. He had married Maddox’s favourite secretary, something that Maddox had never got over, but as Harmas was by far his best investigator, Maddox had been forced to accept the fact.
Tell It to the Birds Page 6
