The Vengeful Virgin (Hard Case Crime)

by Gil Brewer

  I paid for it and got out of there. Three blocks away, I threw the knife down a storm drain.

  In the center of town, I stopped at a sporting goods store, and bought a box of 9mm shells. No questions.

  I drove home. On the way, I stopped the car on a country road, loaded the P-38, hoping it was a safe job. Some of these automatics would blow apart in your face, because of sabotage in the Nazi factories during the war. But U.S. factory loads were milder than European, and the gun was built for European, so I took the chance.

  I fired several rounds out the car window at a bank of dirt. The action was okay.

  I drove back to the apartment. I had the gun, but I didn’t know exactly why. I put it in the glove compartment of the car, and somehow felt better. It had been a lot of trouble to go through, just to find an old automatic. On the other hand, if I needed it, I had it.

  All this time, the business Miraglia had told me about not being able to get the money rode in the back of my mind, blossoming like cancer.

  As I reached the door to the apartment, I realized the telephone was ringing. By the time I made it inside to the phone, it had ceased.

  I sat there. I didn’t move from the phone for over an hour. It didn’t ring again. It could have been a lot of people. It might have been Grace. But all I could think was that it had been Shirley, and she’d had to call.

  And I hadn’t been here to catch the call.

  I got out the telephone directory and checked.

  Anthony Miraglia. 1414 Emerald Lane. He had offices in the Medical Building, downtown.

  I stared at his name until the letters blurred.

  Finally, I just sat there and smoked. I didn’t go near the store all day. I called in once and told Mrs. Noxton I felt ill, and thought I’d hang around the house. There was nothing of importance, she said, so it was okay.

  By the time night folded down, I was a caged tiger.

  I took the car and drove over to 1414 Emerald Lane, and checked where he lived. It was a twenty-thousand dollar lay-out, small ranch-type. Completely unpretentious. Some lights were lit, and there was a young kid out front, playing with a red wagon under the porch light. A dog cut out of the shadows by the house and chased the car, yapping his head off.

  I snarled at him out the window. He snarled back.

  He chased me like a maniac for six blocks, yapping every minute of the way, and every yap was like a spike driven into my gut.

  I drove home to sit and smoke some more.

  It was a little after nine when the phone rang.

  “Jack?”

  “Shirley—where are you? I’ve been nuts.”

  “Yes. It’s all right. I can talk. There’s nobody here.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking from the house.”

  “It’s all right. How are you?”

  “Terrible. What’s with you?”

  “Lots.”

  “Miragliawas here.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know? Did you see him?”

  “Yes. He’s been around again.”

  “What did he say?”

  “I’ll get to it. Have you missed me?”

  I started to snap out something. I said, “You know I have.”

  “I’ve missed you, awfully. I want to see you so bad, I don’t know what to do. In this house. All alone. Can’t we...?”

  “No. Listen, Shirley. He told me something. He said you can’t get the money, that you have to wait a year. I never knew this. It’s the law—the waiting. We can’t touch the money, Shirley.”

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “Doctor Miraglia.”

  “He’s wrong,” she said. “He knows that isn’t so. Why, for goodness’ sake, the money’s already in my name. I went to the bank this morning. I wanted to let you know, but there simply was no way. I didn’t dare call before now, so much has happened.”

  I couldn’t speak for a minute. Finally I said, “The money’s in your name?”

  “Certainly, Jack. Not a bit of trouble. None at all. They expected me in. There was nothing to it. Victor had signed a trust agreement with the bank. I didn’t know that. I thought there was a will, or something.”

  “A trust agreement?”

  “Yes. All they did was make out another bankbook, in my name.”

  I sat there.

  “Jack?”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

  “Are you there, Jack?”

  “Yeah. Shirley, Miraglia told me it was the law—that if...”

  “He must have been talking about a simple will. That’s how that works. Then there’s a whole lot of red tape.”

  “What did you say before, about Miraglia knowing you wouldn’t have any trouble?”

  “He knew. He knew there was a trust agreement. He told me he’d known, when I saw him after I came home from the bank. He was waiting in the house.”

  “In the house? When was this?”

  “This morning. Maybe ten-thirty. What’s the matter?”

  Miraglia had come directly from her place to my apartment. He had known she already had the money in her name when he was feeding me the guff about not being able to get the money. I knew—this was it.

  “Shirley, we’ve got to make a move. I don’t know how much time we have.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miraglia’s wise, he’s wise to something. I don’t know what.” I explained why I’d said that. “He was here spilling a whole bunch of crap, lying his head off. He was feeling me out. And I goofed plenty. I’m positive of that.”

  She was silent.

  “There’s no doubt about it,” I said. “If we stick, we don’t have a chance. It’s only a matter of time. He’s looking for something, and when he finds it, he’ll light the fuse that will blow us straight to hell.”

  “I can’t believe it,” she said. Her voice was flat. “What did we do wrong?”

  “You mean what did we do right?”

  She spoke loudly. “Stop scaring me, Jack!”

  “He’s got a bug up,” I said. “Believe me.”

  “Henry’s home,” she said. “He’s with Doctor Miraglia, right now. They went out together. I saw them.”

  “Henry who?”

  “Lamphier. Mayda’s husband. He flew in from Alaska. He’s all broken up. I talked with him.”

  “That does it,” I said. “We’ve got to leave town. We can’t possibly take a chance and stay.” I remembered the money and what time it was. The banks were closed. They opened at nine-thirty the next morning. With my luck, tomorrow would be a bank holiday. I dropped the phone and dove for the newspaper, checking the date. Shirley kept calling to me, her voice crackling over the wire. Tomorrow would have to be all right, we would have to get through the night somehow. I came back to the phone. I felt hollow and scared. I knew if I let go I would just run. “We’ve got to make it through the night,” I said. “You’ll pick up the money in the morning and we’ll take off.”

  “Jack, will you please slow down. You’re supposed to be the sane one.”

  “I’m not sane. Not anymore. That was somebody else you knew.”

  Her voice got tight and frightened. “How do you think it will look, me traipsing into the bank and asking to draw out all that money? Stop being foolish. You can’t be right about these things. Doctor Miraglia wouldn’t hurt a flea. He feels bad about Victor, that’s all. I’m sure...”

  “Don’t kid yourself. I’m so right about this, I’m bleeding. Just thank your lucky stars we can get hold of that money. Because if it had been another way, we’d be running broke.” I stood there holding the phone, with this wild feeling inside me. She didn’t say anything. “What have you been doing,” I said. “Why didn’t you get in touch with me?”

  “You said not to. But I would have, if I’d been able. The funeral was yesterday. I’ve had a million things to do. It hasn’t been easy.”

  The funeral, I’d completely forgotten that there had to be a fune
ral. It hadn’t entered my mind. Victor Spondell had died and vanished and that was that. Shirley must have gone through plenty. She’d been the one who’d had to face everyone.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Running away will only make them all the more suspicious. Don’t you see?”

  “All the more? Look,” I said. “Please believe this. If we stick around, they’ll nail us down, and we’ll never wriggle out.”

  “But how? Why should they? How can they prove anything?”

  “All they have to do is add things up. This goddamned Miraglia is the one who can add, and he’ll add for everybody. They don’t need proof. All they have to do is start looking around, asking questions, and putting pieces together. We might have made it if it hadn’t been for Mayda. There’s no use counting the ‘ifs’ now. An autopsy will show she wasn’t drunk. So, that’s count one. Why was she swerving all over the road? The gas station attendant will say he saw the car. They’ll find the truck driver I cut in front of. They’ll find she wasn’t alive when she hit the water. The wound in her back will be checked. They’ll know damned well it wasn’t made by a broken support from the convertible top of her car....”

  “But you said all of that was perfect.”

  “It was perfect. But not when somebody’s snooping, suspicious and anxious to turn up something.”

  “Oh, Jack!’

  “Yeah. Cripes. Then there’ll be the unknown person who saw my truck in front of your place that night. If they ask me about that, I’ll have to say I was there on a service call. Maybe somebody saw the truck over by the lake, how do I know?”

  I thought of Grace. I wanted to tell her about Grace, but somehow I couldn’t bring it out. I should have told her long before this.

  I said, “You beginning to catch on, now?”

  She didn’t speak.

  “We’re in it,” I said. “We’ve got to run. Running’s the only way out.”

  “It makes us guilty.”

  “We are guilty. Will you get that through your head?”

  “We should never have done it.”

  “But we did do it.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. I knew she must feel the same as myself. Lost and sick and trapped.

  I said, “I don’t have a cent, Shirley. We could run, now—but I’d rather take the chance for the money. We may never make it. It all depends on what they turn up tonight—how soon they act; whether or not Miraglia goes to the police with what he has. If we left now, we’d never have anything.”

  “We’d have us, Jack.”

  “What the hell are we without the money?”

  She didn’t answer. She sure as hell knew the answer.

  Finally, her voice came across the wire. It was soft, and there was something almost sad in it. “All right.”

  “It just hasn’t worked out the way we wanted it to. We could stay and watch them close in, and try to beat them. But we’d never beat them. You know that.”

  “Yes, Jack,” she said. “What do you want me to do?”

  “It’s still got to look as good as we can make it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s bad, talking all this while on the phone?”

  “Sure, it’s bad. But we can’t see each other. You know that!”

  “All right.”

  “Here’s what I want you to do. Play it straight. You pack some things tonight. Anything, it doesn’t matter what—just to make it look good. Then write a short note to Miraglia. He’s the only possible person you’d really have any reason for telling anything. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Make it short. You can’t stand living where you are any longer. You want to get away. You’re going on a vacation, for a month. You’ll be back. Never mind where you’re going, anything like that. Mail that to him. Write it tonight, and mail it tomorrow—after we get the money.”

  “Suppose he comes around?”

  “Stall him. Don’t tell him you’re leaving, for God’s sake. Just be nice to him. That’s all.”

  “What about Henry Lamphier?”

  “Nothing about him. You don’t owe him anything.”

  “Just a wife, that’s all.”

  I ignored that. I was thinking fast, and everything seemed to be working out fine in my mind. “You get to the bank the first thing in the morning. Let’s say, quarter to ten. It opens at nine-thirty. Ask for two hundred thousand, cash.”

  “But, Jack!”

  “Not a bank draft. It’s got to be cash. You’ll have to take a small overnight case, or a small suitcase—something, because it’ll be quite a wad. Now, I know it’s a hell of a thing. But you’ve got to get bills of small enough denominations so we won’t be stuck with any of them.”

  “But, Jack—”

  “We can’t take a chance on a bank draft. This is the one chance we’ve got to take. They’ll frown on releasing that much dough. But they’ll have to give it to you. If they pry—and they might—make some remark about having a good investment, if you feel you can bring it off right. They’ll say something, as sure as hell. But they’ve got to give you that money as long as it’s in your name. You figure you can’t say anything that’ll sound right, don’t say anything. Just give them the fish eye.”

  “Why not take all the money?”

  “How much is there?” I heard the catch in my voice.

  “In cash, there’s three hundred, forty-six thousand dollars, and seventeen cents. Exactly. There’s more in...”

  “Never mind. We can’t.” I swallowed hard. “It’s too much of a risk. They’d still have to give it to you, but they might pull something screwy.” I paused a minute. “Christ,” I said. “Three hundred thousand.”

  “It’s just money,” she said.

  “Yeah. Well, I don’t like the idea of taking it all. It makes me wary. It’s bad enough the way it is.”

  “I can’t see why,” she said.

  I ignored her again. “Then we’ll take off,” I said. “I’ll work the rest of it out. We’ll have to get rid of my car and get another. You take a taxi downtown.”

  “Then what?”

  “Wait a minute.” I tried to think, I was confused. All I could think of was that money. I could see it in my mind’s eye, as clear as anything. I could actually see the bills themselves, in neat, crisp bundles. Stacked together. I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. It was crazy.

  “Jack? What should I do then?”

  “All right,” I said. “You do this. You leave the bank, and take the alley beside the bank. Walk through to First Avenue North. Turn East, and walk to the corner of Seventh Street. Got that?”

  “Yes, sure. Alley—down First to Seventh. All right.”

  “I’ll be there. Don’t look for my car. I’ll have a different car, by then. I’ll be parked in front of the drugstore on the corner. If I’m not there, you wait in front of the drugstore.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “We aren’t going anywhere, Shirley. Not for a long time. I’ll tell you about that tomorrow. I’m working something out.”

  “But, Jack.”

  “It’s all right, I tell you. All we’ve got to do is have enough luck to get through to maybe ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Jack, I’ve been watching out the window. I’ve got the house lights off. A car keeps going up and down the street. I know it’s the same car, because it’s yellow—a yellow hardtop. It keeps going up and down.”

  Grace. As sure as hell. I would have to tell Shirley about Grace, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it now.

  “It’s nothing,” I said.

  “I want to see you,” she said.

  “In the morning.”

  “I want to see you so bad, I can’t think. I’m in love with you, remember?”

  “Yeah, honey—buck up, now.”

  “I’d better hang up, you mean. Harry Lamphier just turned in his drive. He’s parking. Doctor Miraglia isn’t with him, now.”

  “Then
, with luck, we’ve got tonight.”

  “What?”

  “They aren’t going to do anything yet tonight. They haven’t found what they’re after. It’s going to take them a little time. Maybe they haven’t gone to the cops yet. Everything’s circumstantial. It can burn us, but they don’t have any real proof yet. So they won’t move in. I’ve been trying to figure anything solid they could base suspicions on. It’s close, because if it’s turned over to the law, they can make an arrest on suspicion alone. But we’re still all right, I think.”

  “I’d better hang up. Let’s not take chances.”

  “You got everything straight?”

  “Yes. Jack—he’s coming over here.”

  “Okay. I’m with you. Chin up.”

  “Here comes that yellow car again.”

  Thirteen

  Doom. You recognize Doom easily. It’s a feeling and a taste, and it’s black, and it’s very heavy. It comes down over your head, and wraps tentacles around you, and sinks long dirty fingernails into your heart. It has a stink like burning garbage. Doom.

  I sat up all night with the lights on. Waiting.

  At seven-thirty in the morning, I was in Tampa again, making a trade for another car. I had to write a check, and I had to use my name. But it would slow them down a fraction, if they moved today, and that fraction was all I needed. It was an oxidized gray Ford sedan, hundreds of which were on the highways.

  I was blocks away before I remembered the gun I’d left in the glove compartment of the other car. I had to have the gun; the same old obsession. I drove back, told the guy on the used car lot I’d forgotten some things in the car.

  “Okay,” he said.

  The glove compartment was empty. I went over to him. He was a beer-eyed, seedy-looking bird, wearing a suit that had been pressed with the dirt in it.

  “Bet I know what you’re after,” he said.

  “Then hand it over.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “How come?”

  “I bought your car. It was a deal, right?”

  “But for cripes’ sake. I left some personal stuff in the car. That certainly doesn’t go with the deal.”

  “Make me see it your way.”

  “It’s a shame this is a busy street.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “How much?”