Moment of Violence

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Go?” Gloria peered at him as though she could not follow the line of reasoning. “Go where?”

  “Wherever we want to go,” Crawford said. “That ketch is a damn fine sea boat and we’ll have enough start so they’ll never find us. We’ll take Oscar with us.”

  “Oscar?”

  “That black guy that helps me. For money he’ll do whatever I tell him to do.”

  “And what about them?” She nodded first at Dave and then at Joan.

  “We’ll put them in the pantry. It’s got thick walls and no windows and when I tie them up they’ll stay tied. When we leave here stop by your maid’s place and tell her not to come in until four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. By the time the cops get straightened around and find out what happened we’ll have about a twenty-four hour start.”

  “No.”

  “What do you mean, no?” Crawford scowled at her, his voice hard and impatient.

  “When they tell the police what happened I’ll be wanted for murder. I’ll never be safe.”

  “You will if you stick with me. I can take you to places where there is no extradition, especially for women. We’ll be together, won’t we? That’s what you said you wanted.”

  Gloria shook her head. Her mouth was still tight but the color was slowly fading from her cheeks and the gray eyes were bright and somehow frightening in their defiance.

  “We’re going to take them with us.”

  “Are you crazy?” Crawford said, half shouting. “What the hell for?”

  “We’ll take their cars and park them somewhere,” she said, as though she had not heard. “Then we’ll take them aboard the ketch after you send Oscar home. We’ll go for a two or three hour moonlight sail and when we come back we’ll be alone and there won’t be any witnesses.”

  Hearing her words and the tone of her voice, Dave felt a thrust of new alarm. Heretofore he had been both worried and concerned but there had been no real fear in him. He had listened to Crawford’s plan and it had made sense. He had assumed that it would be carried out. Now he knew that so long as Gloria held the gun no one in the room was really safe. Crawford, too, seemed unable to believe that she was really serious about her plan.

  “For God’s sake, why?” he demanded. “You’re talking about murder now.”

  “It’s the only sure way.”

  “Sure, hell,” he said explosively. “How do we know what the police might find out? How can we tell how much they already know? You thought you were getting away with murder with Mike and Eric Sankar but you didn’t.”

  “That was just plain bad luck.”

  “What makes you think you won’t have a little more of it?” He shook his head. “Nothing doing,” he said emphatically. “Count me out. I’m willing to help and take my chances with what’s happened up to now but I’ll have no part of murder. One tiny mistake when we get back and we’ve had it. They hang you quick down here, baby.”

  She gave him a cold, contemptuous glance. “You weren’t so fussy about who you worked for in the States; they killed people who got in their way, didn’t they? You said so yourself.”

  “Sure I said it. But I did my job with figures and an adding machine, not with a gun.”

  “I’m not going to argue with you,” she said. “My way is best and that’s how it’s going to be. Don’t forget I’ve used a gun before. If I’m forced to I can use it again.”

  “On me?”

  “If I have to,” she said, and she was looking right at him when she spoke. “Because I’ve gone too far to start worrying about who gets hurt. The only thing that concerns me is my own soft white neck and I intend to save it if I can.”

  22

  THIS TIME it was Joan who asked for Gloria’s attention and tried to make her listen. She was sitting up now, a whiteness showing around her mouth and tension shaping the lines of her neck and shoulders. There was a plea for understanding in her eyes as she spoke, but her voice was even and admirably controlled.

  “Gloria,” she said. “It won’t work, not your way.”

  “I’ll make it work.”

  “No. You don’t know what you’re saying. After what you’ve done you don’t deserve a chance but he”—she glanced at Crawford—”is offering you the best one you’ll ever have. Think, please. Listen to me!”

  “She’s right,” Crawford said. “I’ll do my part. We can make it. We can both get a new start.”

  If Gloria heard any of this she gave no sign and suddenly Dave diagnosed the bright gleam in the narrowed gray eyes for what it was. It was instinct now more than anything else that told him with shocking clarity that it was already too late for argument. It would do no good to point out that with a proper attorney and a well-prepared case she might well draw a prison term instead of the death penalty. The available evidence was not yet conclusive. He might have told her so if he had not been certain that, coming from him, such arguments would be worthless.

  In her present state of mental shock she was no longer rational or susceptible to such things as logic or reason. Fear, desperation, and some inner hopelessness had combined to tip the scales and undermine her mental and emotional stability. In a sense she was no longer quite sane and he felt the fear working on him now because he did not know how much time there was left.

  He looked again at Crawford and what he saw gave him a ray of hope. Crawford wanted no part of murder. There could be no doubt of that. The expression on his face suggested that his disillusionment by the woman who now threatened all of them was complete. If this was so, he must also realize that he, too, was in danger and, still studying the growing concern in the dark and worried face, Dave realized that in Crawford he might now have an ally.

  He also knew that it was time to act. Someone had to force the issue before the pressures that had again brought Gloria to the point of murder got completely out of hand. He could not sit there and let her pull the trigger of that deadly little gun. He could not let her pick her own time. If he could catch her unawares she might yank at the trigger; she might miss, at least with the first shot; with Crawford’s help they could take her. Someone would probably get hit but if one of them reached her in time Joan would be safe.

  He considered their positions and saw that he was farthest from the gun. Gloria stood on one of those fiber runners a good ten feet away. Crawford was on his right and much closer. If they both moved, Gloria would have a choice, but not for more than one shot and now, accepting this, another idea came to him.

  It had as its focus the fiber runner. He remembered a scene in a movie or a TV play, an old device whereby a quick jerk on a rug spilled an unsuspecting villain. It had worked in make-believe; it might work now.

  “Gloria,” he said, intent on Crawford’s reaction rather than hers. He waited until she looked at him. “Without Crawford you haven’t got a chance. If you don’t play it his way you’re through.… I think he’s had about enough, Gloria,” he continued. “Pull that trigger and you’ll surely hang because you’ll never stop both of us.”

  He held his breath, seeing the tendons move on the hand that held the gun. Crawford gave no sign that he had heard. In profile his brows jetted over the deep-set eyes and his jaw had a forward thrust. As Dave watched, he cleared his throat.

  “He’s right,” he said, his tone blunt and resentful. “Put that gun down and get smart.” He paused. When there was no reply he said: “You might as well because I’m not going with you.”

  “Then I’ll go alone. You said Oscar would help for money. He can sail that ketch and I’ve got the money. Fifty thousand right there in the bedroom.”

  “All right,” Crawford said. “Take off.”

  “Oh, no.” She laughed, a ragged hysterical sound. “And leave you here to phone the police before I can get half way to the beach?”

  For another instant Crawford sat where he was, leaning slightly, his weight forward on the balls of his feet, the glass still in his hand. Then, as he leaned still more, Dave knew that time had run out. He b
ent down to reach for the runner, slowly, as if he was putting his glass on the floor.

  As he did so Crawford came easily to his feet. He took an idle step and said: “Okay,” and then he tossed the glass, not taking time to draw back his arm but flipping it with a quick snap of his wrist.

  It was a good try. It almost worked. The dregs of the drink splashed against her face but she was very quick, and jerked her head, and tie glass missed. At the same instant the gun exploded, but the shot was wild and Crawford kept moving.

  Dave had hold of the runner now and as he started to yank it he heard the second shot. He was not looking at Crawford and did not know if he had been hit but he was aware that the man had stopped abruptly.

  Gloria went down hard as the rug pulled her feet out from under her. If she had been facing him at that moment and gone down on her back he might have had a better chance. As it was she could not check her fall but she did pivot as she tried to keep her balance. She landed on her knees but she still had the gun and again it went off as some involuntary action made her squeeze the trigger.

  Then he was moving, keeping low and half scrambling. He saw her get her balance and swing the gun toward him. He heard Joan’s scream of warning and after that there was one moment when time stood still. He was sure there would be another shot before he could reach her and he made up his mind it would not stop him. There would not be time for two shots and by then he would be on top of her. This was what he told himself as he tried to make his final lunge and then a new voice filled the room, crisp, hard, and threatening.

  “Hold it, lady! … Drop it quick!”

  Somehow, from the corner of his eye, Dave saw the man standing there and knew he had a gun. He saw Gloria’s attention snap beyond him, the split-instant look of confusion in the hot bright eyes.

  She made her choice then, aiming beyond him. The gun went off once more and he knew the man had been hit because he saw his arm jerk. He saw him duck sideways and Gloria fired again and then another sound, much louder than the others, hammered in his ears.

  He was on top of Gloria, knocking her backwards and smothering the little automatic as the silence came. It fell to one side and he gave it a quick swipe that knocked it out of reach. He got to his knees and pulled Gloria’s torso erect before he saw the small dark stain between her breasts.

  He saw it start to widen as he struggled to his feet and lifted her to the nearest chair. By then Joan was beside him. She started to unbutton the top of the dress and Gloria stopped her.

  “Don’t bother,” she said, her voice now hardly more than a whisper.

  “You’ll be all right,” Joan said hurriedly. “We’ll get a doctor—”

  “No.” Gloria moved her head from side to side. There was a looseness in her face now and the skin was gray. Her eyes were still open but there was a cloudiness in them now as they focused on Dave. “It’s too late for a doctor.… Don’t go,” she said as he started to rise.

  She put her hand on his arm to stop him. A small soft smile touched the corners of her mouth.

  “Hello, Dave,” she whispered. “I’m glad I didn’t hurt you because I guess you were the only nice thing that ever happened to me. Ever since I left you I’ve managed to foul things up one way or the other, so don’t feel sorry for me. After what happened, this is the easiest way for me and I can’t seem to care too much.”

  Her hand slackened as she finished and Dave watched it slip from his arm. He eased back on his heels, a thickness in his throat and a great emptiness inside him. He glanced at Joan and heard the dry, sobbing sound as she caught her breath. He heard her say: “Don’t talk, Gloria.… Gloria!”

  She reached quickly for a limp wrist and tried to find a pulse beat. When she released the wrist, she lowered her head gently to the arm of the chair.

  Dave stood up but it took a determined effort to control his muscles, and for another second or two his legs were unsteady. He realized that he was holding his breath and let it out noisily. Because he could not yet trust himself to speak he looked over at Crawford, who was back in the same chair, the heel of one hand pressed below the opposite shoulder. When he looked at Sam Brennan, he felt no surprise but it took him a while to understand why he was here.

  Not once since Crawford had walked into the room did he remember the simple instructions he had given Brennan. He had told Brennan to follow Crawford. Brennan had done so and now he found an awesome similarity in the pattern of violence that had so nearly repeated itself.

  Last night—it seemed more like a week ago—there had been the two vengeance-ridden Venezuelans who, oblivious to any and all arguments, were intent on giving him a burial at sea. Tonight it was the warped and twisted mind of a woman, whose own pattern of violence and fear had made her equally determined to use the same method, not as a measure of revenge but as a desperate attempt at survival.

  Each time it was Brennan who had been on hand when he was most needed. Last night luck had brought him to the proper spot and enabled him to control the violence; this time he had been doing a job and it was not his fault that tragedy was already in progress before he could intervene.

  All this went through Dave’s mind as he recalled his earlier thought that Brennan would be the kind you wanted in your corner when the chips were down, and now he saw that the gun had been thrust into the waistband of his trousers, that he stood waiting, his right hand clamped tightly above his left elbow, the gaunt weathered face showing neither resentment nor impatience.

  “When did you get here, Sam?”

  “Right after him.” Brennan glanced at Crawford. “I sat out in the car most of the time but you were in here so long I decided to sneak up on the porch. The door was open. It was easy enough to hear what was going on.”

  “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough to get the picture. I was afraid to walk in on her with her holding the gun like that. I was afraid she’d start blasting. I thought if she tried to march you out she’d be easy to take.” He shook his head and scowled. “She must have been crazy. I mean crazy.”

  “She was, Sam,” Dave said. “She was. Is the arm bad?”

  “Nah. Same arm that caught the other slug down in the Gulf of Paria so I’m used to it now. I may be in a little trouble with the law on account of bringing this gun in but that much I can take. Just remember to tell them that I fired in self-defense, will you? I gave her that first shot free.”

  “You sure did,” Dave said. “I’m not likely to forget it, either. Just hold on while I get some help up here.”

  He went over to the telephone and made his call with his back to the room. It took him a while to make the Bajan at the other end of the wire understand just what he wanted, and when he hung up and turned round he saw that Joan had been busy.

  She had found a counterpane in the bedroom and used it to cover the chair and its lifeless burden. She had located a face towel, soaked it in water, and wrung it out to make a compress which she was now wrapping around Sam Brennan’s arm. As soon as she finished, she disappeared into the bedroom again and Dave walked over to Crawford. He knelt down beside him and helped the man pull the polo shirt off over his head. There was only a tiny hole beneath the collar bone and very little blood.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure,” Crawford said. “I was lucky.”

  “You made a nice try.”

  “So did you. If you hadn’t yanked that rug I think she’d have put a few more holes in me.”

  “If I can be of any help later on, let me know.”

  “I may do just that,” Crawford said. “I don’t know just how bad they want me back in the States now but if things get jammed up I might give you a ring.”

  As he finished Joan appeared with another wet towel, this time folded into a square compress. She covered the bullet hole and took one of Crawford’s hands and placed it on top. She told him to hold it there and then stepped back and looked at Dave.

  He could tell she was all right now. By some concerted inn
er effort she had got a tight grip on her emotions and, outwardly at least, presented a magnificent display of self-control. He was glad that there had been things for her to do and was proud of the way she had taken matters into her own hands. True, weariness and fatigue had stained her young face but her eyes were softly shining as she inspected him. He thought he saw approval in them and the knowledge made him happy.

  There were a lot of things he wanted to say but he knew there was no time now and he was not even sure he could find the right words. For traces of shock still lingered in him. He felt tired and all used up inside and when he saw the bottle on the table he knew what he wanted to do. He said that maybe he ought to make some drinks before the police got there.

  “I think we could all use one,” he said. “Even you.”

  “Especially me. I’ll help you.”

  He said that would be wonderful. He said if she would get some clean glasses he’d be glad to pour.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  copyright © 1961 by George Harmon Coxe

  cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa

  This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Head of Zeus