As she moved to the door, the door opened. A woman and the hotel detective came in.
Hogan wasn’t at the trial. Meg went away for three months, and when she came out, Hogan had vanished. She had no money, no protection and the police pestered her.
Finally, in desperation, she left Los Angeles and headed for San Francisco. Her money ran out when she got as far as Pru Town on a Greyhound bus. She managed to rent a small room on the top floor of an office block. It was her bad luck to strike the worst winter for the past fifty years. The newspapers made headlines about the frost, snow and cold.
She had no pimp to protect her and she had no regular beat. It was when she was ill, frozen and defeated not caring what happened to her, using her last few dollars on cheap whisky, that she met Phil Barlowe.
She would always remember that moment when he came furtively out of the darkness. She was standing under a street lamp, wet snow falling on her, her feet frozen, aware that the cold had turned her face into a stiff white mask.
Barlowe, wearing a black, slouch hat and a dark topcoat, had paused and they looked at each other.
“Are you looking for a naughty girl?” Meg asked, her lips so stiff with the cold she had trouble in speaking.
“How naughty?”
The pale brown eyes scared her. The thin, ill-tempered face warned her this man could be a sadist, but she was beyond caring. She had to have money. If this mean looking creature had money, then she would take a chance with him.
They had gone together to her room. Barlowe had sat on one of the chairs making no attempt to take off his topcoat.
Meg had sat listlessly on the bed, shivering.
“Come on, honey,” she said impatiently, “don’t just sit there.”
“I only want to talk to you,” Barlowe said. “I’ve got no one I can talk to.”
She was so used to nuts, perverts and queers, that she wasn’t surprised.
“Look, honey,” she said. “It’ll cost you either way. Let’s have your present.”
He fumblingly produced his wallet and gave her three ten dollar bills. Meg, who had been working for practically nothing, couldn’t believe her eyes.
The room was heated by a small paraffin stove. It was enough only to keep out the frost. Cold, shivering, and feeling she was now running a temperature, Meg pulled the blankets over her and settled down in the bed, fully dressed.
She half listened to Barlowe talking. She vaguely gathered his mother had just died and he was lonely. He talked on and on and on. She had an idea he told her he had money, a cottage and a lovely garden. She gathered sleepily that he had a good job in some store. Warmth at last began to steal over her and she fell asleep.
She woke the next morning to find the stove out, the window covered with white frost and her head aching wildly.
Barlowe had gone. She sat up in panic and opened her handbag, but the thirty dollars was still there. She remained in bed, too ill to move, and at one time she thought she might be dying.
Sometime during the evening, as the shadows lengthened and the cold sordid little room began to dissolve into darkness, she heard a tapping on the door.
By then she was too ill to bother. She became aware vaguely that Barlowe was standing over her, his bitter distressed face close to hers. She tried to say something… to tell him to go away, but the effort was too much for her. She grimaced and closed her eyes, sinking into a feverish, frightening oblivion.
Later, she was vaguely aware of being carried down the narrow stairs in a kind of hammock… the stairs being so narrow and difficult a stretcher was impossible. She found herself in a hospital bed and she was in the quiet ward for ten days. Each day Barlowe came and sat by her side. He just stared at her and said nothing. She was so ill and weak she accepted him… a nut… but she was grateful for what he had done for her. During these ten days she constantly thought of Jerry Hogan, wondering where he was, who he was sleeping with, how he was making money enough to live.
Then suddenly, one morning, she woke up and she knew she was well again. Her one thought was to get out of the hospital, but she shrank from returning to that sordid room with its inadequate stove and the bitter wind that whistled under the door and through the cracks of the ill-fitting windows.
Barlowe came in the evening. They talked. “I’ve been pretty ill,” she said. “I don’t know anything about you… why have you been so kind?”
“It’s not kindness,” he said quietly, his pale brown eyes moving over her in a way that made her uneasy. “You and I are lonely people. I have a cottage: a garden: a good job. I’ve lost my mother. I’d like to marry you. Will you marry me?”
Right at that moment, thinking of the life that lay before her if she continued to try to battle along on her own, Meg didn’t hesitate. She regarded marriage as a convenience. If it didn’t work out, you could always get a divorce, so she accepted his offer.
They were married by a special licence a week after Meg had left hospital. She had been at first intrigued and pleased with the isolated house and the garden. She believed that she would be able to find some kind of happiness here, but she was quickly disillusioned.
She now never wanted to remember their first and only night together. It ended by Meg locking herself in the spare room while Barlowe scratched on the door as he knelt outside in the passage. She realized bitterly that she had married one of those sick minded men whom she had had to cope with so often during the time she had walked her beat in Hollywood.
But she knew herself to be hard and ruthless enough to control this poor, sick little man. They lived their individual lives. Then, some months later, as she was shopping in Brent, she came face to face with Sailor Hogan.
The sight of his reckless, handsome face sent a knife stab into her heart. Less than an hour later, they were lying on his bed in his small two-room apartment and she was telling him about Barlowe.
They met frequently, and during the weeks, while they talked, after Hogan had made brutal love with her, the idea that Barlowe could bring them the money they craved for began to evolve.
Hogan knew an insurance agent. Meg thought of the idea of insuring Barlowe’s life. Between the two of them they concocted the murder plan.
But now, as Meg, slightly drunk, sat on the settee staring into the fire, she realized that unless she came up with some bright idea, she would again lose Hogan. She sat there, her fists clenched between her knees, her mind active, her heart pounding with the sick thought of once again facing life without her brutal, vicious pimp.
CHAPTER 6
Barlowe stood by his bedroom door, listening. The time was just after nine thirty. It was Sunday night. Downstairs, Meg was watching a television programme. He had told her he was tired and was going to bed early. She had shrugged indifferently.
Satisfied she was occupied with some pop-singer who sounded to Barlowe like a banshee, he unlocked the cupboard on the wall, took from it the white bathing cap and the cheek pads, and with a fixed grin on his face, he picked up the .38 automatic, checked to see it was loaded, then dropped it into his overcoat pocket.
Moving stealthily, he left his bedroom, locking the door. He crept down the stairs, paused outside the sitting-room door to listen to the strident singing of the pop singer, then let himself out into the hot, still night.
He was afraid to use his car for he knew Meg would, hear him drive away, so he set out for the long walk across country to Glyn Hill, yet another quiet, favourite place where the young made love in their cars.
He arrived at the open space that overlooked Pru Town a little after ten-fifteen. Moving like a black, sinister crab, he edged his way through the shrubs.
There was one lone car parked under the trees. It was early yet. In another hour, there would be several cars. From the lone car, came the faint sound of dance music on the radio. Satisfied there was no one on this plateau except the two in the car, Barlowe took off his hat and pulled the white bathing cap down over his head. He then replaced his hat.
He put the cheek pads into place, then taking the gun from his pocket, he began to move silently and swiftly towards the car.
His heart hammered, his breath came in short, snorting gasps… this time, he was no longer going to be a mere onlooker; a mere peeping Tom.
On the following Monday morning as Anson was preparing to go to Pru Town, the telephone bell rang.
Anna answered the call, said, “Yes, he’s here: who is it please?” Then to Anson, “A Mrs. Thomson wants you,” and she flicked down the key.
Impatiently, Anson scooped up his receiver.
“Yes? This is John Anson.”
“John… it is me.”
With a feeling of shock, Anson recognized Meg’s voice. He looked furtively across at Anna who was threading paper into her typewriter. Alarmed that Meg had been reckless enough to call him at his office, but excited to hear her voice again, he said “Yes, Mrs. Thomson?”
“I must see you tonight. Something has happened.”
Guardedly, Anson said, “I’ll be able to manage that. Thank you for calling,” and he hung up.
As Anna showed no interest in the call, Anson didn’t bother to lie to her. He hurriedly completed his preparations.
Telling Anna he would be back the following morning, he went down to his car.
During the day he kept thinking of Meg and wondering what had happened to make her call him. On his way to lunch at the Marlborough he stopped off at a drug store for some after-shave lotion. As he was paying for his purchase a woman who had come in after him, said, “Hello Johnny… long time no see.”
Turning sharply, he found Fay Lawley, the girl he used to go around with before he had dropped her for Meg, standing by his side…
Fay’s coarse prettiness and her enthusiastic wantonness had once attracted Anson; but looking at her now, he marvelled that he had ever found her interesting.
“Hello, Fay,” he said in a cold, flat voice. “Excuse me… I’m pressed for time.”
“See you tonight, Johnny?” Fay asked, staring at him, her eyes hard and challenging.
He forced a smile.
“I’m afraid not… not tonight. I’ll call you the next time in town.”
Side stepping her, he made a move to the door, but she caught hold of his arm.
“Remember me?” Her eyes now granite hard, scared him. “You and me met once a week… remember?” He steeled himself and shook her off. “Take it easy, Fay… I just happen to be busy.” He pushed past her and walked to his car. He was aware sweat was on his face and there was a hollow feeling of alarm around his heart.
He drove to the Marlborough, and parking his car, he entered the restaurant where he was joined by Harry Davis, an oil and gas salesman whom he often met on the road.
Davis was a fat, middle-aged man who had the happy knack of getting along with anyone. But with this puzzle of what Meg had said on his mind, Anson would have preferred to have eaten alone.
After they had ordered the lunch, Davis asked Anson how business was. The two men discussed business conditions while they ate the excellent pea soup, then as the waiter brought them the fried chicken, Davis said, “I don’t know what this town is coming to! Two shootings in ten days! We want a smarter police chief! We’ve got to stamp out this kind of violence and at once!” Anson looked up sharply. “Two shootings!
What’s this?”
“Haven’t you seen this morning’s newspaper?”
“No. What’s all this?” Happily, Davis relaxed back in his chair. “A real juicy murder-cum-sex crime! A young couple were necking out at Glyn Hill last night when some maniac crept up on them with a gun. He shot the man and raped the girl. I knew the murdered man… he had been going steady with the girl for the past six months. It’s a hell of a thing! The girl was horribly used. Of course, the police haven’t a clue. At least they have a description of the killer. This, and the Caltex murder must be making Jenson spin like a top.”
“He’s got nowhere with the Caltex shooting, has he?”
Anson said, cutting into his chicken.
“Well, no. I guess we can’t blame him for that. Some passing thug, but this other thing is something else besides.”
David chewed thoughtfully for a long moment, then went on, “I have a teenage daughter… you never know; once a swine like that rapes a girl, he wants to rape another.”
“Yeah,” Anson said, but he wasn’t interested. His mind, went back to Meg. Something has happened. He only half listened to Davis as he talked on and on.
As Meg opened the front door, Anson said, “You’re worrying me. I told you never to telephone me at the office.”
“I had to see you,” Meg said, leading the way into the sitting-room.
He took off his top coat and joined her by the fire. “What is it?”
“Sit down.”
Impatiently, he sat on the settee and she sat on the floor at his feet.
“John… this now isn’t going to world. We’re leaving here.” Anson stiffened. A cold void began to form inside him.
“Leaving? What do you mean?”
“Just that. Phil told me last night. We are going to Florida at the end of the month.”
“Florida?” Anson stared at her. “Meg! What are you telling me?”
She gave a hopeless shrug.
“That’s what he told me. Some man… his name is Herman Schuman… has a big horticultural set-up in Florida. He happened to be in Framley’s stores a couple of days ago. He saw what Phil could do. He’s offered him a partnership.
Phil is wild with excitement. It’s exactly what’ he wants and no risks.”
Anson sagged back against the cushions of the settee.
“At the end of this month?”
“Yes. Phil’s giving in his notice at the end of the week. And there’s something else. He intends to cancel the insurance policy. He doesn’t need the capital now.”
“You’ll go with him?” Anson asked.
“What else can I do?” Meg suddenly gripped his hands. “Oh! John! I want you so much! What can we do?”
He pulled her to him. His mind tried to cope with what she had told him.
Florida! She would be miles away from him! The thought of losing all that money that he had counted on, had dreamed about, sent a stab of frustration through him.
Meg pulled away from him and got to her feet. She began to move restlessly around’the room.
“You see now? I had to telephone you! Can’t we get rid of him before he leaves? That’s our only hope, John. If we can get rid of him before the end of the month…”
“Yes… let me think,” Anson said, pressing his hands to his head. “How long have we… eighteen days before the end of the month?”
“Yes.”
Anson felt a sudden chill of apprehension.
“There’s Maddox!”
“Oh damn Maddox!” Meg exclaimed. “If we don’t do it before the end of the month, we’ll never do it! John! I’m willing to take a risk… are you?”
“But how?” Anson asked, wavering. “I imagined I had five months to get this fixed… now I have only eighteen days!”
Meg drew in a quick, sharp breath. She had him hooked! For the past days and nights she had thought and thought how she could persuade him to kill her husband before she lost Sailor Hogan. It had come to her suddenly to tell Anson that Phil would be leaving the district at the end of the month. She knew she would be safe telling him this. He would never think to check.
Anson was now facing her.
“This is something I must think about,” he said. “Meg, may I stay the night?”
With him on the hook, she could afford to be generous. After all, in the past she had slept with dozens of less savoury men than Anson.
“Of course…”
She came to him and putting her arms around him, she pressed herself against him, trying to control the shudder of revulsion that went through her at the touch of his hands.
For the past hour, Anson had been lying on
the bed, sleepless. The time was after three o’clock a.m. The white light of the moon fell across the bed, lighting the hollows and the curves of Meg’s naked body as she lay sleeping by his side.
Suddenly Anson’s mind became alert. For no reason at all, he thought of Harry Davis and the conversation they had had together over lunch. He remembered what Davis had said: I have a teenage daughter… you never know, once a swine like that rapes a girl, he wants to rape another.
He sat up abruptly.
“Meg!”
Meg’s quick, light breathing faltered. She stirred and became awake.
“Meg!” Anson gripped her arm, “Wake up! I want to talk to you!”
She moaned, then half sat up.
“What is it?”
“Have you yesterday’s newspaper?”
She stared at him as if she thought he had gone crazy.
“Newspaper? Yes… it’s downstairs.”
“Get it! Make some coffee! Come on, Meg, wake up! I have an idea… get moving!”
Still dazed with sleep, but urged on by his tone, Meg slid out of bed and put on her wrap. She walked unsteadily to the door.
“Hurry!” Anson exclaimed.
He turned on the light and pulling the sheet over him, waited impatiently for her return.
After some minutes, she came back into the room, the newspaper under her arm, carrying a tray with the coffee things.
Anson snatched the newspaper from her and read the headlines as she poured two cups of coffee.
“What is it?” she asked.
When he waved her to silence, she shrugged and sat on the foot of the bed, sipping her coffee and watching him.
After some minutes, Anson let the paper drop and took the cup of coffee she handed to him.
“I think I’ve got it!” he said. “See this?” He pushed the newspaper towards her, pointing to the headlines.
Still dazed, Meg stared at the paper, then at Anson.
“I don’t understand!”
Tell It to the Birds Page 8
