by Ed Lacy
She began to cry, spoiling her make-up, as she said, “You crummy bastard, what is this, a new kind of brush-off? A pat on the shoulder and sweet advice in my ear while you boot my can? I don't want your...”
“Slip MacCarthy will be out of the pen soon.”
She did a double-take that would have looked good on the screen, whispered, “What did you say?”
“Slip never died. And Harry knew it. Slip pulled an old gag to quiet the sucker—and jobbed you out of your cut—played dead with a sack of chicken blood in his mouth.”
“Harry, that louse!” Flo yelled. “You sure of this?”
“Ask Max. Slip is doing a stretch in a Federal pen. See, that's the kind of a rat Harry was, but it isn't for you. Get out while you can.”
“Stow the do-gooder act. There's a lot of easy dough floating around. I'm going to pick it up.”
“Have fun,” I said, heading for the door. “Send you the hundred I owe you soon as I can.”
She told me to tear it up into little pieces and shove it —up my sleeve. As I opened the door she said, “Matt, I won't ask you again. I'm offering you a swell set-up, for the taking.”
“Here's another piece of free advice—don't put any more dough into this—you'll fold soon.”
I left her cursing me.
Downstairs I wondered if Saxton worked Saturdays. I called his factory and when a girl asked who was calling, I hesitated, finally gave her my name. There wasn't any harm.
“Mr. Saxton is in his usual Saturday labor-management conference. Can you call later, or can he call you?”
“Can I reach him about three?”
“Oh yes, he'll be here all afternoon.”
“It's not important, a personal call. I'll phone later, or maybe Monday.”
I was out at Saxton's apartment by one. He lived in a modest four-story house, one apartment to a floor. Looked expensive. You had to buzz an apartment to open the hall door and I rang his first, several times, in case he had a maid. Then as I was wondering which apartment was the top floor, to buzz that to get into the house, a voice behind me said, “Mr. Ranzino!”
I jumped and spun around. But it wasn't Saxton. It was Doc Kent. He asked, “Looking for me?”
“Why... eh... no. You live here?”
“Have a room with some friends—on the third floor. How are you feeling?”
“Fine—I guess. Haven't given my health much thought recently. Fact is, should be taking a nap now,” I said, a little astonished to realize it was the truth.
“Glad to hear that,” he said, unlocking the door. I said, “People I was looking for are out. I'll leave a note in their mail box.”
I walked in with him as he said again he was pleased I felt all right. He went into the tiny self-service elevator and I stood by the mailboxes. Doc Kent living there could be a break—good or bad. I walked up the two nights to Saxton's apartment, tried my skeleton keys. His lock wasn't much. I was inside within five minutes.
He had four large rooms all furnished in strict magazine style, showing no imagination but lots of dough. His maid had been there, the place was clean, the bed made. I walked around and suddenly fell flat on my face, bruising my shin. I sat up and rubbed my leg, stuck my hand in my pocket to find my bottle of vitamin pills unbroken. Swallowing a pill, I saw what made Saxton so strong—he was a barbell man. I'd tripped over a big ugly barbell lying near the couch. There were a couple of smaller dumbbells around and as I stood up I almost felt sorry for Saxton: there was something pathetic about this middle-aged skull exercising like mad in the privacy of his lonely apartment. And what did he need the muscles for? Confidence?
I spent two hours going over the apartment, checking as thoroughly as I could. I didn't find the letter. I went over the place again to be sure everything looked as though it hadn't been touched, then left.
I took a bus to the center of town, then another out to the beach. It was muggy and hot now, the sun battling to come out. There were even a few sunbathers on the beach. Mady was sitting on the front steps like a kid. She said, “Waiting for you, so we can take a walk. Want to go fishing? Tide will be changing soon.”
“Let's walk.”
She locked the door and we started walking along the edge of the beach. Mady said, “Saxton sent me—us —another two bottles. How long do you think he'll keep this up?”
“I want you to call him—he's still at the factory. Tell him you must see him tonight... about nine. Say the cops have been questioning you about whether you might have been doped last Sunday night when he was with you. That should bring him running.”
“What do I do when he gets to the cottage—beside scream:
“I'll be outside, like last night. I'll stiffen him, search him before he comes to. I didn't find the letter in his apartment, so let's hope he's carrying it around.”
“And what happens after he comes to?”
“Depends on what I find. If the letter is... eh... I'll take him to Max, charge Saxton with the murders.” We passed a dress shop and I walked Mady across the boardwalk, stopped in front of the window. “Soon as I get my license, start working again, going to buy you some clothes. You're tall, should be able to wear any...”
“Isn't that sweet of my great big mans! Listen, I dress to please myself, not for you.”
“You dress like you were something tossed into the corner of the room. I'll buy you some dresses and you only wear them when I'm around.”
“Would you like me to buy you some shirts?”
“Sure.” I grinned at her, the dizzy kid.
She squeezed my hand. “I'll get myself some clothes —out of my own money, when I start working Monday. You want to buy me something to wear—make it a mink.”
“Maybe I will... one of these days.”
“And I'll throw it right in your face. Imagine walking around with two or three grand on your back. I'd be afraid to move or brush up against anything. What you can buy me right now is a soda.”
“My little child bride,” I said, walking her into a luncheonette. “You have the hips for it, but don't ever get fat on me—I hate sloppy women.”
“And I can't stand stout men.”
We had our sodas and then she called Saxton. He wanted her to tell him exactly what had happened— over the phone—but she told him to come to the cottage. Said I was going to town and she'd be alone.
Then she bought an ice-cream cone and we walked on. Any minute I expected her to start skipping or play jacks.
After supper I washed the dishes and she poured a drink out of one of the fifths Saxton had sent on Friday. Mady sat at the kitchen table, watching me, nibbling at the drink. I didn't say a word.
We sat around for a while, listened to the radio, and she had a second drink—a small one spiked with a lot of ginger-ale—and waited for me to say something. But I didn't pay her any mind.
At eight I put on my coat, told her, “I'm going outside. Look, if by any chance things go wrong, I mean if I should miss Saxton and he comes to the house... well... stall him. I'll look in on you every few minutes.”
“That's wonderful! Don't miss him, big-shoulders. Maybe I ought to have the bottle handy... so I can sock him?”
“Stop baiting me. And leave the bottle alone. Listen to the radio, or read the headlines and frighten yourself.”
“Make a better scene if he found me darning your socks.”
I kissed her, whispered, “Be good,” and left. I sat in the drugstore phone booth for a few minutes and the druggist looked at me as if asking, “What is this, a habit?”
At eight-twenty I walked back to the house. She still had the bottle out and a full glass. I didn't know if it was the same drink or not. I was a little annoyed and after circling the house, I stood by the side window, watching her. I stood there for several minutes... when I heard a soft step... behind me.
I didn't turn around or move... there was a gun in my back.
Saxton said, “Her phone call.... That was stupid on your part. E
asy to figure.”
“Guess it was.”
“But we should have a talk—in my apartment. My car is around the corner. Start walking and don't try anything brave.”
He jabbed the gun in my back again and it felt like an automatic. There wasn't a chance of tapping on the window, and what good would that have done? Mady would have come to the window and then we'd both be in the soup. As it was, she didn't expect Saxton for another half hour and, with the bottle beside her, she'd probably be crocked by then.
I walked. Saxton was at my side, but a little behind me. He said, “You searched my apartment today.”
“I'm sure rusty.”
“I read a good deal, have my books in a certain order... you put them back wrong.”
When we reached his car he opened the door and I got in. He said, “Keep your hands up, on top of your head,” and he ran around the back and got in beside me. The street was empty and anyway it was too dark for people to notice us.
He held the gun on his lap, in his left hand, pointing at my side, started the car. He was cute—hadn't made any mistakes—yet.
He drove toward town, watching me in the windshield. I asked if I could put my hands down and he said, “Certainly. Place them flat on top of your thighs.”
“What do you read—detective stories?”
“And keep still.”
When we reached his place, he told me to open the door and step out, and pushed over in the seat and got out after me. I walked ahead of him and he held the gun in my back with his left hand and reached around me and unlocked the door. We walked up to his apartment. I suppose he was afraid we'd meet somebody in the elevator.
We didn't see a soul in the hallway.
He went through the same routine unlocking his door, then switched on the light, grunted for me to step inside.
He made his first mistake closing the door—he should have kicked it shut with his foot. Instead, he made a half turn to close it, leaving me at his side instead of in front of him. I pivoted on my left foot and slammed his chin with my right. It was a tough punch, I felt it right up to my shoulder.
Saxton pitched to the floor.
I picked up the gun, locked the door. His feet were trembling a little—a sign he was still out. I went through his pockets. The letter was in his wallet. I put the wallet back.
The letter was written in neat, dignified, thin strokes —like an old model used in a penmanship lesson. Old Doc Snell probably never saw a typewriter in his life. The Doc came right to the point... told Henry Wilson he'd recognized his picture as a baby he'd brought into the world, that he hadn't been paid for his services and needed the money, to “please send me via airmail, five hundred dollars ($500) in cash, at once, or I shall be forced to go to the courts and the papers.”
The Doc was a real amateur... five hundred bucks!
Saxton was starting to groan, but it would be a lot of seconds before he knew what was happening. I tore the letter into little pieces, ran to the bathroom and flushed them down the John.
When I came back, Saxton was sitting up, his eyes still glassy, rubbing the side of his jaw. There was some bloody spit at the ends of his mouth.
I told him to get up.
He got to his feet slowly, shook his head several times, then glared at me. I waved the gun. “Sweet little .38. Ever use it?”
“I have a permit.”
“Good for you. Now, as you said, we'll have a bit of talk. Sit down on the couch. And be careful, I'm lousy with marksman's medals.”
He sat down and I backed away toward a chair and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards—I'd tripped over one of his damn barbells again.
He was still too dizzy to be fast, but he came charging at me. I landed flat on my back and I pointed the gun at him through my legs and he stopped short. “Sit down and be smart,” I yelled, getting up. “You shouldn't be tossing weights around at your age—strain on the heart.”
“Ranzino, what's your game?” he asked. I sat down facing him, brushed off my trousers.
“My game is... I don't like you.”
“I don't give a fat damn what you like!”
“Saxton, your big mistake was in not minding your own business. Fact is, the world is in a mess because everybody is sticking their snoot in other people's business. I...”
“Then why don't you mind your own business?”
“I did. But you... well... you kept spoiling things for me. Like the way you treated Mady—that kept annoying me. Other little things. Of course I knew all along you killed your sister and Henry, and I didn't do a thing about it because it wasn't my...”
“That's a lie! The police know Henry killed poor Beatrice, then took his own miserable life,” Saxton boomed.
“Stop it. I'm the guy you hired to find the planted deed, the body, remember? It was so...”
“The police...”
“You'll get a chance to talk to the police soon—in a few minutes. The police haven't really dug into the Wilson case. There's that water you turned on while we were in the cabin, and if they really work at it, they can trace the rope to you, lot of other things. The odds are always against a perfect crime, because the more you plan, the more chances you have to make a mistake. Then too, you're only one man, while the cops can put twenty or thirty trained men on a case... they always find everything you've overlooked.”
He sneered. “You're angry because of Mady. Everybody in town knows I was fond of Henry, loved my sister.”
“Sure. They also knew Henry and Beatrice Wilson were a happy couple, swell people. Were you jealous of their happiness?”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“And Mady, were you jealous of her spirit? Is there some kind of crazy urge in you that makes you crush everything that's free and happy?”
“Really, Mr. Ranzino, you're talking like an ass.”
I laughed at him. “We're under control now, got the slick veneer and polish back on again, hey? I've done a lot of thinking about you, Willie, as to what makes you tick. Way I figure you with Mady is this: you were having what you call an illicit relationship with her. That's a sin, and therefore you had to see her unhappy, crushed, as a sort of punishment. Just as you probably felt uneasy about the affair, never really enjoyed it. The great god Willie Saxton the Third!”
“I think you'd better leave.”
“And be impolite? You brought me here—at the point of a gun. That will sound interesting on the witness stand.”
“Only your word against mine—the word of a busted cop.”
“I can also testify Mady sleeps soundly, when potted, so your alibi isn't worth repeating. And a little routine checking will probably show she was doped last Sunday night, too.”
“I thought you were so fond of her, yet you're willing to smear her name in the papers.”
“Can that slop—she's already been smeared by you as your alibi. And that good-name junk went out with your ideas. But let's get back to the Wilsons—you'll get the gas chamber for that. Although you might plead insanity and spend the rest of your life in a padded cell, which is where you belong. If I were...”
Saxton sat up. “Mr. Ranzino, I don't know what the hell you are talking about. If you're trying to scare me, I'm merely amused. And if this is a shakedown, you're wasting time. I shall protest to the police, have both you and Madeline arrested for blackmail.”
“Listen to you. How do you sound?” I asked softly, motioning toward the phone with the gun. “Call the cops.”
He sat there, staring at me for a moment. Then he relaxed, took out a handkerchief and wiped the blood from his mouth. He said, “You hit hard—for a tubercular. You see I've done a little checking too.”
I didn't say anything, but the very sound of the word made my heart pound. After a long moment he asked, “Let's get this over. What do you want?”
“To convict you—get you out of my hair for good. Too many of your kind in the world these days. Everywhere I turn I see the smug, s
elf-righteous, self-appointed...” I stopped. There wasn't any point in making a speech. “About the Wilsons...”
“Good Lord, Ranzino, what possible motive could I have for killing them!” he said angrily. It nearly sounded real.
“A motive good enough for a jury is that you got full control of the factory by knocking off Henry. You killed Beatrice to make Henry's suicide stand up, look good, and also being her brother and only relation, you get her share of the factory and her money. Want to buy that?”
