by John Farris
Feeling nothing, I could see her get to her feet, fall, face blank with pain, get up and fall again and try to crawl and drag herself a few feet and then stop with blood warm in her mouth. Lying on her back and fighting it hard but without strength to go on. Realizing then she had to find some way to tell me.
What had she done then, in the last desperate seconds? She hadn’t been able to find a way to tell me who.
I went back, to the night in Smithell’s basement. The memory of it was blurred. Too much shock crowded into minutes had burned deep into my mind, but the burn had scarred over. Images stuck erratically to the edges of consciousness, like cut-out pictures pasted in a child’s scrapbook. Stella, falling in the spray of light from my flashlight. The dead thing in the trunk. Stella’s fingernails digging at my cheek. I raised a hand to touch the faint scar that still remained. Why had she done that?
I stood up. The warmth was gone from my stomach, and I could feel the knots tightening again. There was a dry taste of remorse in my mouth.
I knew why Stella had gone there that night. Maybe it also explained why she was killed. But it didn’t explain who.
Or did it?
I started up the path. I went slowly, as Stella must have gone. Near where she had stopped, unable to go on, I stopped.
Her blouse had been ripped open. It was muddy. There was mud on her bare stomach and exposed breasts. One nipple scraped raw from contact with the ground. In her hands she held her brassiere, twisted tightly, as if in one last expression of agony.
As I said, maybe I was a little crazy, and it didn’t mean anything. Maybe she had taken it off so she could breathe easier. But it wouldn’t have been easy for her to remove it. She might not have tried unless it was meant as a final message.
I repeated it to myself. Over and over again.
“Bra—bra. Brassiere—”
If it was a message, then I had something.
I WPNT TO MY CAR AND DROVE BACK TO CHEYNEY. ON THE main street, which is cleverly known as Main Street, I parked in front of the store I wanted. I went inside. There was no one in the place but a salesman. The store smelled vaguely of silver polish. It also smelled of money. It was the best of five jewelry stores in town.
The clerk, whose name was Mr. Simms, was impressed by the badge, so that he got overly serious and exaggerated his every movement trying to be casual.
I explained what I wanted: a girl had come into the store recently, with a compact. She had wanted to trace the compact back to its original owner. I described the girl, and the compact, as best I could.
“Sure. I remember the girl. Blonde. She brought in one of our compacts. One of the specials. We have them made to order. She said she found the compact, wanted to return it to the owner. I looked up the description and sketch of the compact in our files and found who it belonged to.” He scratched his nose, looked at me earnestly.
“How about looking it up for me?”
“Don’t need to. I still remember. It was made especially for Mr. Nathan Fisher.” He seemed disappointed that I showed no reaction. “I can find the address for you if—”
“Thank you,” I said. “I know where he lives.”
I went outside. It was close to five-thirty, and there was a hint of dusk along the street. Above me soft tubed letters of green flared on one at a time, then all glowed proudly at once. BRASSIER’S, the sign said.
Epitaph in neon.
“GULLIVER,” I REPEATED, “LET ME TALK TO HIM.”
“He’s not here,” the desk officer said. “Hasn’t been in all afternoon.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“No. Fishing or something. I don’t know.”
I thought for a minute, tapping my fingernails against the receiver of the telephone. “Phil Naar around?”
“He was, a minute ago—Hey, Phil!—hold on just a second, Bill.”
He came to the phone quickly enough. “What?”
“Where can I get hold of Gulliver, Phil?”
I could imagine a thin smile on his face. “What for? You want more trouble than you already got?”
“No. There won’t be any more trouble. For me or for anybody.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just need Gulliver.”
“I don’t know where he is, Bill.”
“Look, Phil. Do something for me. Now’s the time for that help you promised. Find Gulliver for me. It’s important.”
He didn’t answer right away. Then he said, “All right. If it’s important. I’ll try to find him. What should I tell him?”
“You don’t need to tell him anything. Just take him to the Fisher place. I’ll be there.”
“I don’t—”
I sighed and hung up and left my apartment. I went downstairs to my car, and drove to the Fisher house, taking my time. It was a fine summer evening. Children and dogs played along the quiet streets, in late sunlight.
Nathan Fisher came to the door to let me in. He looked old, worn. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat and he wore slippers on his bare feet. He carried a full ashtray in one hand, a fresh cigarette in the other. His face was uncared for and his eyes were tired, not pleasantly tired, but as if he had been hanging by his thumbs for half an hour.
“Hello,” he said. “Why don’t you come in?”
I went in.
“I guess you came to find out more about me and Roxy,” he said. “Let’s go into the living room. I don’t suppose you know any more about it than you did this morning.”
Nathan apparently had been working. There was a briefcase beside the sofa and papers were scattered over the coffee table. Nathan put the ashtray on the coffee table and switched on a table lamp.
“I’d offer you a drink,” he said, with a faraway laugh, “but Karis—”
“Where is your sister?” I said.
“Karis? Oh, upstairs, I think. Washing out some things.”
He went to the hall and called up the stairs, “Karis!”
“What?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to know where you were.”
Her voice came nearer. “Who is it?”
“Bill,” I said.
“Oh.” I heard her walking down the steps. She and Nathan came into the living room. She was wearing Bermuda shorts and a casual buttonless overshirt. She smiled at me.
“Bill.”
I hadn’t seen her since the night we had brought Nathan back. I looked at her, thinking about the fine slim lines of her body, but completely without pleasure.
“Hello,” I said.
“Nathan told me about Roxy. Bill, do you have any idea—?”
“I’ve got some ideas,” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh,” she said. She sat on the arm of an easy chair. Nathan took a seat across the room. I didn’t sit down.
“Do you think you know who killed him?” Nathan asked me.
“Yes,” I know. “I know who killed Roxy and Stella Francis and nice Mr. Smithell down the street. I know who killed them all, and Jimmy Herne too, indirectly. I’m just not sure why.” I looked carefully at him. “I’m not sure why, but I think I can make some accurate guesses.”
He looked back at me, tired eyes interested, but lips tight at the corners.
“Think,” I said. “Did you ever give a compact to anyone? A small compact from Brassier’s?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Who did you give it to?”
“It was a Christmas gift to Karis.”
IN THE TAUT SILENCE, MY VOICE SOUNDED ANGRY AND THIN.
“I know why you had to shoot Stella,” I told Karis. “When she found your compact in Smithell’s bathroom and traced it back to you, you had to get rid of her. Maybe Stella didn’t know how important the compact was. But she was convinced Jimmy had been framed and she was ready to follow any lead. I think you got scared because that compact linked you too intimately with Smithell. It wasn’t hard for you to kill her. You already had some practice. Stella thou
ght she might get into some kind of trouble, but not that kind.”
“What are you saying?” Nathan demanded. “What are you—?”
I turned to him, still keeping an eye on Karis. But she wasn’t going anywhere. “I’m saying your sister is a killer. I’m sorry, Nathan. I have to take her in.”
“You—you’re crazy,” Nathan said emotionally, “You goddam—”
“Why don’t you ask her?” I said.
“Karis,” Nathan said. “We don’t have to listen to him. I’ll throw him out of here. This is the most—Karis!”
He was out of the chair before I could stop him.
“Karis, don’t just sit there! Tell him—do you want him to think—” He kneeled beside her. She didn’t look at him. Her hands were folded between her knees. Her eyes looked at a happier time.
Nathan’s face was falling apart. Then a crazy sort of hope that he could make some reason of disaster put it together again. “Karis, listen baby, please talk to me, I know this is a shock, but he’s crazy, he doesn’t know what he’s saying, I know you didn’t do that, Karis . . . Karis, Karis! Look at me, G-god damn you, oh no, no . . .”
He slid to the rug, put his face down between his outstretched arms on the seat of the armchair. He sobbed loudly. Karis closed her eyes, an expression of unspeakable pain on her face.
“What . . . did you . . . do to me?” he sobbed faintly.
She looked at him then. “No,” she said anxiously. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I don’t have to guess why you killed Smithell,” I said. I knew I was only talking for myself, but I wanted to put it all together and say it, just once.
“You knew about the money in the basement. You probably found out sleeping with him. Maybe he talked in his sleep or maybe he just felt like bragging once. Nathan had a long hard campaign coming up, and he needed money, lots of it. So one night you took your problem to Smithell, asked him for a sizeable contribution to Nathan’s campaign. Naturally he told you to go to hell. The next thing, you probably tried a little polite blackmail. I can imagine how he would have reacted to that. He was a pretty hard character, a killer himself.”
“So he got rough with you. Maybe there was a struggle in the living room. You picked up the candy dish and hit him with it. Only hard enough to stun him. He fell against that end table, upsetting the lamp, and it clipped you on the ankle. If he was still conscious he tried to grab you, so you hit him again. Maybe several times, because your ankle hurt and you were mad. But one of the times was too many and his skull caved in.
“The first thing you thought about was the money, so you took his key and cleaned out the suitcase in the basement, not knowing what was in the trunk. Once you returned upstairs you had a problem. You could always call the police, claim Smithell made advances, and maybe never serve a day for killing him. Nobody would find out about the money either. But it was risky. And the newspaper stories wouldn’t help Nathan any. On the other hand, all of Smithell’s friends knew about Jimmy Herne’s record. So it was easier to steal the watch and jewelry and pocket money and set Jimmy up for the frame. Even if the frame collapsed it would at least be diverting for a few days. But it worked better than you could have hoped.”
She was crying now. “I shouldn’t . . . I shouldn’t . . .”
“No,” I said. “You shouldn’t have brought Jimmy into it. As long as it was between Smithell and you it wasn’t too important. But when you framed Jimmy you started changing other people’s lives. Jimmy wasn’t much but he deserved more of a break than he got from this town.
“You gave the money to Roxy for safekeeping, and to spend on the campaign as needed. I suppose you knew Roxy fairly well through Nathan. You did it with him a couple of times, too. You just can’t resist anything in pants—including your brother. You might have told Roxy the money consisted of anonymous donations from wealthy friends—money they didn’t want to show up on any of your bank statements. Roxy was passionately interested in Nathan’s career and wouldn’t ask any questions.
“But Roxy got upset when I told him about Smithell’s past and the money stolen from his basement. He put two and two together gradually and tried to get in touch with me. Roxy wasn’t going to have anything to do with murder. When he couldn’t get me he called you. When you couldn’t explain adequately where that money came from, Roxy opened his safe, tried to get you to take the money. You wouldn’t touch it. Too hot now. So Roxy decided to call Gulliver. If you knew Roxy at all you knew about the gun in his drawer. He liked to point it at people. So you took it out and shot him in the back of the head. You must know how to use a gun because I’ve seen you carrying a target pistol.”
Nathan’s sobs still sounded spasmodically. Karis said nothing.
“One more thing to clear up,” I said, my mouth dry. “Kelly Anne. Nathan’s wife.” I saw Nathan lift his head. Karis saw it, too.
“From what I’ve heard Nathan was crazy about her and she didn’t give a damn for him,” I said. “You didn’t like her, probably hated her. When she got ready for a big divorce and wanted more money than Nathan could afford to pay her, you decided Kelly Anne had to go. A messy divorce would have played hell with Nathan’s career and smeared the family good name. You are pathologically fond of your brother. So you slipped a little cyanide into Kelly Anne’s highball and that would have been that except for Dr. Einhorn, who was suspicious enough to save some of the drink and analyze it. Since Roxy owned Dr. Einhorn he found out about Kelly Anne too. He was saving the information to use at a profitable time; say, when Nathan became governor.”
“But what can you prove, Bill? Not a single thing,” Karis said, almost idly. Her big brother was on his knees nearby, looking up at her blindly, his mouth slack.
“I only need to hang one killing on you to send you to the gashouse,” I said. “It’ll take some work but it can be done. You killed too many not to have made mistakes. We’ll find somebody who saw you with Stella just before she was shot. We’ll find traces of her in your car. We’ll find the guns that killed Stella and Roxy, if you haven’t had sense or time enough to ditch them in the river. Sooner or later we’ll nail you to the wall, Karis. It’s just a matter of time. And I’m going to be with you every step of the way until you die.”
I didn’t know she could move so fast. She came off the chair, her hand picking up the full ashtray from the coffee table, and I caught just a glimpse of it before she flung it at my face. The heavy glass just missed but ashes stung my eyes, clogged my nostrils and filtered into my mouth. I gasped and choked and rubbed my burning eyes, giving her the chance to follow the ashtray with a shoulder block, ramming her elbow into my stomach, and I fell backward over a chair. While I was on the floor she snatched my gun and eluded my blind grasp.
“Get up,” she said.
I blinked my eyes and saw her through a misty film. She stood about twenty feet away, holding the gun on me steadily. I saw Nathan crawl toward her, get to his feet.
“Karis!”
“Don’t come near me, Nathan. Please, darling, don’t come near me.”
He stood close to her. “Karis, God . . . why?”
Her lips pulled away from her teeth in a grimace. ‘That bitch,” she said softly. “That dirty blonde bitch. Why did you have to marry her, Nathan? I tried to tell you she was no good. I tried to explain, but oh Christ you were so in love, you couldn’t listen to me, and find out how cold and vicious she was. She never was any good for you.”
“Don’t,” he begged. “Don’t—please don’t talk about her.”
“You wasted yourself, Nathan, you wasted yourself on her. I had to kill her. I had to. We were happy. We didn’t need anybody else. I love you. Didn’t I always take care of you, Nathan? Didn’t I?”
She smiled vaguely at her brother, her eyes sad. Gentle blue eyes, so soft and deep a man could lose himself forever in them. Her voice was as muted and clear as a beautiful memory.
I stopped coughing. I watched them. I watched this thing hap
pen. I never thought to make a move toward her while she was occupied with him.
“Karis, put down that thing,” he said, with a horrified face. “You’re a killer. You’re insane! Go with Bill.” He grabbed at her.
She struck him in the face with the barrel of the gun.
He didn’t fall. Blood welled from a rip in one cheek. She had to hit him again and this time he went down to the rug. Blood was streaming from his tom face and trickling down his chin. Karis looked at him. He was shaking all over. He grasped his sister’s bare legs and pressed his face against her knees, smearing them with his blood. He made meaningless sounds. She raised my gun again. When the barrel bit into his skull near the hairline his hands jerked away from her and he turned a little before collapsing. She had hit him all three times with a pleasantly vacant expression as if she were stroking a cat.
I jumped for her then but it was foolish because she had the gun on me before I could take two steps and the barrel bucked up and I felt the slug slam, felt impaled on a lance. I stopped dead and swayed stupidly. The bullet had creased somewhere near my right collarbone.
Her lips twitched a little and she looked slightly surprised that I lived. She aimed the gun again and I twisted desperately toward her . . .
But the shot never came.
The front door had banged open. Gulliver stood in the hall looking at us.
We all looked at each other while every clock in the world stopped ticking.
Then Karis swiveled and the spell was broken. Gulliver went for the gun on his hip. He’s not slow with that small gun of his but Karis shot him two times before he could bring the .32 into play. He went down on the rug, face down, his arm outstretched and the revolver clenched tight in his fist. I saw his arm move and thought he might get her after all but one of the bullets had taken off the bridge of his nose and there was so much blood in his eyes he couldn’t see to shoot anybody.
I took three clumsy waddling steps in her direction. She hadn’t turned around yet and I thought maybe I had a chance to get to her. Anyway, I had some crazy idea about not just standing around waiting for the next bullet.
When she did turn she held the gun almost at arm’s length, which is the only reason I’m still living. I reached out and grabbed the barrel and twisted the gun so she couldn’t pull the trigger and fell against her and yanked the revolver from her, all this with my good arm. She went over backward and I pinned her down but let the gun go. I only had one good hand and I tried to get her by the throat but my fingers had turned to wood and my strength was going. She picked up the gun by the barrel and started hitting me in the face with the butt.
