Man on a Rope

by George Harmon Coxe

  Again she hesitated, a film of moisture shining on her chalky features and desperation warping her voice. “Please, darling. You want to help me, don’t you? I only wanted the diamonds. I just couldn’t stand being poor again. When I knew he was going to make me poor if it was the last thing he did, I took the gun out. I was half crazy, I guess, and I made him open the safe. That’s all I was going to do—take the diamonds. I didn’t think he would dare go to the police because what he’d done was illegal and he might have to go to jail too. I didn’t think he’d dare report me. And then—”

  Her voice faltered and she tried again: “There was this gun in the desk and he reached for it. I knew he’d shoot. I—I couldn’t give him the chance.”

  Barry felt the tension now. It was working on his muscles and already filled his mind so that he had to concentrate. He did not know how much of this was true, but he did know that Muriel was an actress—not because of stage training but because over the years experience had taught her that to get what she wanted from men she had to act. Such skills had served her well before and she made her plea convincing.

  But even now, certain that she had shot Lambert, he found it a hard thing to accept. Whether she had done this as she said, or in a fit of passion before she opened the safe with the combination she had once said she knew, was not important. She had killed not once but twice, luring George Thaxter into her car on the promise of some payment for his silence only to shoot him down beside the deserted road. He had to remind himself that beauty and a seductive figure were no yardsticks for good conduct and the proper moral virtues. He knew that women could be as vicious as men and could kill as callously once they put their minds to the task. His trouble was that he had no experience with such a woman, had never known one like her.

  “You took Lambert’s gun,” he said. “Why?”

  She looked at him as if the question had never once occurred to her. “I don’t know,” she said. “He dropped it when I shot. It—it was there on the floor…. I don’t know,” she said.

  And in this, Barry believed her. Some impulse born of fear and panic had prompted her to take the gun and she had done so. It was not a matter of reason, nor could such an impulse ever be explained. Later, when she knew she had to kill Thaxter, cunning had influenced her choice of weapon, but by then she’d had much time to think.

  He glanced at McBride and the indecision was still written on his face. He could not keep his eyes from the package with its fifty-dollar bills for long and he knew that to change his mind now would mean losing the money for good. Barry addressed him in a final effort to persuade him.

  “You got away with that envelope theft,” he said. “Nobody has anything on you now; you even own the amphibian free and clear, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve got those two meat flights each week for the cattlemen. You’ve got all the charters you can handle in the amphib. You have a nice little business and it should get better. That’s what you’ve been working for, isn’t it?”

  McBride frowned again, as though he resented somehow this demand that he use his brain. “What about it?”

  “You’ve got a good thing, why not hang on to it? Even if you could spend that hundred thousand bucks, how long do you think you could trust Muriel?”

  The woman cursed him as he spoke, but he kept driving his words at McBride.

  “You heard her admit she killed for the diamonds. Suppose she didn’t like the way you were treating her. Suppose she got the idea that you were cheating, one way or another. Could you ever be sure there wouldn’t be a slug of poison in your coffee? Or maybe a motor running all night in a garage some time when you were too drunk, or too sick, to get out of the car—”

  Muriel interrupted him. “Shut up!” she screamed. “Make him stop.”

  If McBride heard her he gave no sign. Instead his mind had fastened on something else that Barry had said. He glanced at the package again and shifted his gun and now his pale eyes were puzzled.

  “What do you mean, even if I could spend the money?” he said.

  “The money’s hot, Boyd.”

  “Hot? You mean stolen?”

  “Why do you think Hudson was so damned anxious to make that diamond deal?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  “You’d better care. Did you know that there’s an international police force that operates all over the free world? I think it’s called Interpol. It acts as a sort of United Nations against crime. Once the word goes out they’ll pick you up in Rome or Rio or Singapore just as quick as they will in New York. I’ve got a couple of clippings I want you to look at. When you’ve read them, tell me what you think your chances are of spending those fifties.”

  He reached carefully into his pocket as he spoke and now he stood up and put the two clippings on the table. He unfolded them, spread them out, placed the cable he had received from Walt Lanning beside them. Then, while McBride put the gun down and read the accounts of the Hartford bank robbery, he spoke of his own theory and explained where he had found the clippings.

  “Four hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” he said, “but only a hundred that can be traced. Fifties. New ones with the numbers listed. Not one has shown up, and you know why, don’t you? Because Hudson got stuck with them—his name is probably Haney, like the cable says—and he hasn’t dared spend them in any legitimate transaction.”

  McBride was watching him now and he hammered at his opening. “There won’t be a big-city bank in the world that isn’t on the lookout for those bills right now,” he said. “Deposit them right here in Georgetown and see. You might be able to get rid of a bill here and there, but I’ll bet you couldn’t spend a thousand dollars anywhere before someone nailed you…. Or were you figuring on hiding out in the bush with Muriel the rest of your life?”

  McBride had to take one idea at a time, but he seemed to accept the suggestion that the cash had been stolen.

  “Hudson was taking off Monday with Lambert’s diamonds,” he said, as though talking to himself.

  “For Trinidad and Central America,” Barry said, “according to the flight tickets I saw.”

  “I was supposed to fly Lambert to Caracas on Monday.” The voice was still quiet as the truth began to dawn. “He was going to take the cash with him. When the bank checked those fifties they’d find out they were hot and he’d wind up without a dime of it. Brother!”

  He let his breath out and suddenly, the thought complete as he understood the perfidious cleverness of Hudson’s scheme, his brows bent and his mouth was mean.

  “The dirty bastard,” he said, leaving no doubt as to whom he meant. “He’s not going to get away with it I’ll go over there with a gun—”

  “You’ll go nowhere,” Barry cut in, his voice rasping. “Forget Hudson. The police will take care of him soon enough. You’re not in any great trouble, so why don’t you play it smart for once?”

  He was a hard man with an idea, McBride. When he got one he hated to let go and it was not easy to dismiss the thought of the hundred thousand dollars he hoped to have. But when at last he was convinced, he gave in completely.

  “Okay,” he growled, his mind made up. “You’re right.”

  He pushed the clippings aside and picked up the gun. He looked over at Muriel and then he stiffened where he was. When Barry noticed this and glanced round to find out why, the woman was already pointing the little automatic at McBride.

  “Leave it there!” she said, her voice cold. “Don’t touch it!” You’re not going to quit on me now, lover; you or anybody else.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  IN THOSE NEXT FEW SECONDS while the silence expanded and the tension spread through the room Barry was not sure what was going to happen. A covert glance told him Lynn was well out of the way, but his jacket was still buttoned and he knew he could not get at his gun, even if he had the chance. McBride, too, was undecided.

  His bronzed hand covered the heavier automatic, but the
fingers were relaxed. He studied the woman with smoldering eyes and watched her come to her feet, the little weapon steady in her right hand, the left tucking the handbag from which it must have come under her left arm.

  “Back up a step, lover!” she said. “That’s it. Now be a good boy and I’ll tell you what we’ll do.”

  McBride shook his head and a grin that was fixed and humorless began to work on the corners of his mouth. “Count me out, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve had it.”

  “Not until we do a bit of flying.”

  “Who’s we?”

  “All of us. Just like we planned it.”

  Barry moved a step to one side and she watched him warily. When she looked back at McBride a casual movement unbuttoned his jacket. He could not tell just what she had in mind, but he understood that the time for pretense was past, that as matters stood she was a woman with very little to lose. He spoke up now, hoping to gain time, to keep her from making any immediate move.

  “Is that the gun you got in Havana?” He waited and when her glance merely flicked at him and returned to McBride he said: “Did you use the one you took from Lambert on Thaxter?… And then toss it in one of the canals?”

  She did not answer this either, but he had an idea this was what had happened and he knew that if this was true, the chances of her being convicted for Thaxter’s death would be remote. It was this little gun that was so dangerous to her, and he could tell by the way she looked at McBride that she would not hesitate to use it.

  “You think you can make me fly you out of here?” McBride said to her.

  “I can try.”

  “You heard what Barry said about the money. Don’t you believe him?”

  “I believe him, but maybe this international police isn’t as good as he thinks. I think I could get rid of a few bills, enough to give me another start. I’m not going to stay here and hang, lover. Once I get out of here I’ve got a chance because these Latin Americans give a woman a break. They look at things differently than the English and Americans.”

  “You’ve got a point,” McBride said. “Your idea is that if I won’t fly you, you’ll plug me, is that it? And if you do that, how do I fly?”

  “I’ll tell you why you’ll fly,” she said. “Because from now until the time we get aboard I’m going to hold this at the back of her head.” She tipped the automatic toward Lynn. “And once we get in the air the gun’ll be at the back of your head, lover…. Game here,honey,” she said and again jerked the gun at Lynn before she swung it back.

  The girl had been sitting on the edge of her chair, knees touching and her hands folded in her lap. Her young face was pale but composed, but now her glance went to Barry, as though asking for his advice.

  One look at those eyes did many things to him. They reminded him again how much he loved her. That she had disobeyed him by coming to the veranda was of no importance; his own guilt lay in the fact that he had allowed her to come at all. Nothing was going to happen to her. That much he promised himself, but the mere thought of Muriel holding a gun on Lynn sickened him because he understood the desperation that now motivated the woman. Any compassion that had once been part of her makeup had long since atrophied. She had killed twice and she would kill again without compunction if her safety was threatened.

  He was breathing shallowly now, the perspiration drying coldly on his spine. His hands hung loosely, the thumbs brushing the front of his jacket as he watched McBride and tried to predict his thoughts. Steeling himself against his rising fears, he considered anew the automatic in his waistband. He recalled other guns he had used—the 45 automatic in Korea, the .38 revolver he’d worn in the Surinam jungles. He was handy with such weapons but no expert….

  His thoughts hung there as he heard Muriel call again and saw Lynn stand up. Surprisingly, it was McBride who spoke first in protest.

  “Leave her out of it!” he said. “Stay where you are, Lynn!”

  Lynn stopped uncertainly and Barry took a breath of relief. Muriel lifted the muzzle of the gun slightly until it was pointed right at McBride‘’s broad chest and less than six feet away.

  “She’d better do as I say,” she said. “I’m not fooling.”

  “No,” McBride said. “You’ll never make it.” He glanced at the table with the package of money and the automatic he had left there. He could reach it with one quick stride, but he was careful not to lean that way. “I’ll make a small deal with you,” he said. “I’ll give you an hour.”

  “For what?”

  “You can have my word on it for what it’s worth and I’ll take my chances with the cops. I may get a couple of years out of it for helping you, but I can do that much standing on my head…. Take your bags and get in your car and head for the waterfront. The tide is right and there’ll be a schooner or two pulling out for somewhere. Take some of the cash,” he said. “That’ll buy you passage and plenty of silence from most of those captains, maybe more. Leave me this gun”—he indicated the automatic on the table—“and I’ll guarantee to hold Barry and the girl here for that hour. That’s the best I can do.”

  “No.”

  Muriel shook her head. She wet her lips and her hand was white-knuckled on the little gun. Her upward-slanting eyes were darkly flared and it seemed now that she was no longer responsible for her actions.

  “It’s not enough,” she said. “Do you think I’d trust you now?”

  “It’s all there is, sweetheart. If you think I’m kidding, start pulling the trigger.”

  “No.” Again she shook her head. “And it’s too late to argue.”

  Barry knew then that she would shoot if McBride made one wrong move. He also knew that it was time for him to reach for the automatic Lynn had given him. He knew that when he reached for it there would be no backing out. The room was charged with impending violence and no one could tell when it would explode.

  McBride was a stubborn man and he had the sort of courage that was born of pride rather than conscious thought. In the next moment or two while the emotional struggle hung in balance, Barry knew that McBride was going to make a move and take his chances on the bullet. There was a look of savagery and contempt in his pale eyes and at the moment he hated this woman as she hated him.

  That they had been lovers meant nothing now, since no real love had passed between them. Each threatened the safety of the other. They seemed to understand this completely, and suddenly, seeing a muscle tighten in McBride’s neck and the slight shifting of the shoulders, Barry knew that time had run out.

  Then, even as he started to reach for the gun, something happened to McBride. His mouth cracked open in a grin. He lifted one hand an inch or so and let it drop. He chuckled and sighed audibly.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” he said. “You win. We’ll try it your way.”

  Everything about the reaction seemed genuine except the bright glints in the pale eyes. The trouble was, McBride was a lousy actor. The sudden turnabout, the obvious effort to throw the woman off guard until he could get closer fooled no one, least of all her.

  “Boyd!” she cried.

  As she spoke, her body seemed to stiffen, and now, a split instant before McBride moved, Barry slid his right hand three inches inside his coat and the automatic was in his fingers. Yet even as he heard her scream: “I mean it, Boyd!” there was time for his mind to function and consider the probabilities.

  The woman stood in profile and no more than twenty feet away, a simple target. One shot would stop her and save McBride, but even as he swung the gun up he knew he could not do it. Something stronger than his intelligence prevented him from shooting a woman that way, even a murderess, and so in that last fraction of time that was his he aimed at her hand, not hoping to hit it but hoping that the shot would startle her sufficiently to give McBride the chance he deserved.

  It seemed then that everything happened at once, McBride’s lunge, a twisting, sideways contortion, the hammering of the guns. Not quite together, for Barry shot first, missing the hand he
aimed at but startling the woman sothat she made the mistake of trying to do two things at once.

  In her effort to locate the source of Barry’s shot, her hot, bright gaze wavered. Fear may have been an element in her hesitation, for instead of shooting instantly she tried to back away from McBride’s charge, and as she moved she fired, the little gun bucking visibly in her hand.

  Barry, watching it happen and not knowing whether to shoot again or not, could not tell whether McBride had been hit. All he knew was that one shot was all Muriel had time for. McBride was on her like a big cat, an extended hand slapping the gun from her grasp in a forward thrust and then swinging backhanded as his momentum carried him on.

  He caught her full on the side of the face with that backhanded slap, and the blow carried authority. She fell sideways and off balance as it struck her, bouncing off a chair and then sprawling backward, skirts flying. Her head and shoulders struck the floor with a thud. Her lips moved once, as though from some involuntary muscular reaction; then she moaned and lay still.

  McBride stood over her, chest heaving and his body bent. When there was no other movement from the woman, he straightened and looked for the gun she had dropped. Before he could start toward it Barry stopped him.

  “Leave it, Mac!” he said curtly. “Just leave it there!”

  McBride stopped short. He turned slowly, his pale eyes inspecting Barry as though he had never seen him before. He considered the gun which now covered him. He glanced at Lynn. Finally he shrugged.

  “You had it all the time, hunh?” He grunted softly. “Lucky me,” he said. “You could have caused a lot of trouble with that if things had got real tough for you.”

  “Back up a little.”

  “Sure.” McBride retreated past the table. “And thanks for the assist. Were you really aiming at her?”

  “At her hand. I missed.”