In the immense quiet and solitude of the deserted building I intoned one phrase, as I lowered him to the bottom.
“So much for trust.”
Then I had him stretched out on the tiles of the lobby. And began to roll the rugs, and to gather the wadded streamers and placards thrown from above. And after an interval that could not have been more than ten. minutes, I straightened up from the task, and stepped to the outside door.
The gray coupe was where we had parked it, directly before the entrance to the building. A hundred feet behind it, I saw Stanley’s sedan, Griscom motionless on the pavement beside it. There was no one apparent in the street, and no alerting sound of a horn from the car. I went back into the building, and shouldered my bundle.
I came out, and looked again, and there had been no change. I crossed the sidewalk to the coupe, staggering a little, with my burden over one shoulder, and there was a difficult moment in which I had to unlock the gray coupe. Then I lowered, and poked, and pushed the unwieldy rolled bundle into the right seat of the coupe. When I had it there I slammed the door, and walked around the car to the other side. I slid under the wheel, realizing again this car was wanted, bore marks of an accident, and that the thing propped there in the seat beside me jutted up starkly, grotesque in shape, too big, too noticeable.
But I had it. And in this gamble, the stakes were always big, the odds always incredibly bad.
Twenty minutes later I had driven across a bridge into Brooklyn, and knew that Stanley’s car was following mine on schedule. And in another twenty-five minutes, I reached the deserted road that led, at a sharp slope, into the bay.
I stopped at the brink of the drop and got out, long enough to see Stanley’s car stop, too, about a hundred yards away, but nosing into the road and toward me. Its bright roadlights were not on, but the headlights in the car were strong enough to pick me up, and for the occupants to make out the gray car, the looming silhouette of the bulky rug against the death car’s rear window. I made no sign, but they knew I saw them. And I knew they saw me.
I stepped again to the gray coupe, reached inside, in one simultaneous motion shot up the gas and stepped back and slammed the door. The car, with its bulky cargo, surged forward, downward, there was a splash, and then nothing. I dusted my hands, and walked back.
When I reached the sedan, Talcott, alone in the driver’s seat, swung open the passenger door. He was grinning, Partly at me, partly at Stanley and Griscom in the back.
“We had a bet,” he said. “They didn’t think you’d make the grade. I said you would.”
“What grade?” I brusquely demanded. “You people must be going soft. This was no trouble, it was just plain business. And by the way, what is the volume of business, and just how do we split the take?”
Talcott bayed in laughter. He had backed out into the highway now, and we were returning to the city, a foggy halo against the distant sky. For a mile or two, there was no further remark from anyone. Finally, then, we heard Griscom speak from the back of the sedan.
“We’ll see about business when we get some business. And when we see how you made out with what happened tonight. You committed a murder, Ravoc. We saw you kill the guy, we saw you dump him. What makes you think you’ve got a piece of our business?”
I said nothing to this. I simply shrugged. He was following in the steps of my own reasoning, and doing it too closely, with exactitude, in fact, and if he went on to a logical ending, to a disastrous end for me. That shooting would be, could be, and in Griscom’s hands certainly must be, forever a weapon over my head.
“There is a birthmark on your left shoulder. Or a freckle.”
“I know. You told me before.”
“Well, which is it? A birthmark or a freckle?”
“Why? Is that important?”
“Of course. It’s mine, isn’t it?”
“It’s all yours.”
“And here’s a small bruise just above the right knee. A stranger I never saw before. Where did that come from?”
“You ought to know. You put it there.”
“Not me. You fit everywhere and anywhere, without a single bump. It must have been a couple of other—”
Shana was not long on humor.
“Come back here, and shut up,” she said. “Come back, and stay. I think I’ll lock you up.”
“And I forgot to say that your eyes are black fire.”
“Blue is better.”
“You think. And your hair has still another kind of perfume.”
“The inventory. I love it, but aren’t you bored, taking it?”
“No. Because there’s always more.”
“Because you’re perfect.”
“You almost make me so.”
“Already perfect, and always getting more perfect.”
“Not me. You.”
“No, you. Admit it.”
“No. You.”
“You. You’re better. You have to be better.”
“I’m not. You.”
So the many blades of the great hunger turned and flashed and parried in the marvelous duel for which, each time, it seems we have schemed and bargained through a tiresome routine otherwise without point.
Then, imperceptibly, we once more became two people. I lit a cigarette and passed it to her, lit one for myself, deeply and lazily inhaled, exhaled. Presently, she said:
“You seem awfully happy about everything.”
“I am, Shana.”
“I don’t mean about us. I mean about everything. That fight with your partners about the contract for the Generous Heart. Did it come out all right?”
I glanced at her once, looked quickly away, and told her:
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t sign?”
The nerves that had been relaxed and sleeping woke up, alert to the memory of the other duel, the one that had been real, for life or death.
“I signed,” I told her, impassively.
She said nothing, and seemed to withdraw from me in a long and deepening silence. I stared at the foot of the bed, at the bright but austere array on the dressing table here in Shana’s room, then I stared at the ceiling. Then she said, quietly:
“But I don’t understand, Jay. I thought you said it was all fixed. Your company would not handle a campaign for the Generous Heart, and in fact, there wouldn’t be any drive for it, at all.”
“That’s right. There won’t be any. You can forget about the Generous Heart. It’s finished.” I gave her another glance, studying me from the other side of the bed, in one of those black, cobwebby nightgowns, which she did not need. “And there will be no more efforts to erase your face, or you. Just forget it all, Shana.”
The silence that now built up reached to the very top of the room, and then overflowed.
“You signed, but there won’t be any campaign,” she said at last, almost absently. “Don’t you think you ought to tell me about it? I’m a pretty big girl, I run my own business, it was my face they were after, and you belong to me. Look at me, Jay.”
I looked.
“It was rough, Shana. Something I don’t think you ought to know about. Let it rest, right where it is.”
Then I looked away, and again there was that mounting charge of quiet.
“We’re going to be together for a long time, Jay. If I can believe you, and I do believe you. You’d better tell me now, don’t you think? Whatever it is, I have a right to know, and it’s better for both of us, that I do know.”
I had to look at her again. And I stared into those wonderful dark eyes with a feeling close to anger. And fear. And wonder. How could we have been so close, a moment ago, so far apart from each other now? But we were, or very soon would be, unless I told her what she had to be told. And after that, we might be different and distant people, still.
I swung my feet out of the bed, found slippers, put them on and stood up.
“I have it on a tape-recording,” I said. “You’ve got a machine. I’ve got the tape. B
ut are you sure you want to hear it?” She stared at me in fascinated silence, and I went to the coat of my street suit for the roll. I looked at the reel, and then again at Shana. “You won’t like it, and after you’ve heard it, you may not like me. But you’ll hear about it, eventually, anyway. And I guess it’s better you hear it from me, first.”
Chapter XIV
Jay Ravoc
She had a good player-recorder. I opened it, changed the reels, turned it on. Then I went back to the bed, hearing the sound of my own voice, as I reached it, “This is Jay Ravoc, of the firm of Campaign Consultants, New York City, and I wish to make a confession. This confession is made of my own free will. I make it because my conscience troubles me, and to continue further on my present course can lead but to still blacker crimes. These crimes, which occurred over a period of many months, and in fact years, culminated two nights ago when I shot and killed Vincent Beechwood, placed his dead body in the coupe of an automobile already used in an earlier murder, drove it to the Gravesend Bay area, and sank them both into the waters of the inlet at the end of Linden Road. There the car now rests. It can easily be recovered, and all of the facts contained in this confession can thus be verified. After driving the car into the water I walked back the road, and was picked up by my accomplices in a car belonging to Stanley Thornhill, and also occupied by Charles Talcott, treasurer and investigator for the Generous Heart Society to aid the mentally disturbed and violent, and by Fenner Griscom, an investigator for the same agency. They were my co-conspirators in the murder of Vincent Beechwood, which took place in the offices of Campaign Consultants at approximately 1:16 or 1:17 on the morning of June 6th. Bullet marks, bloodstains, and other evidence will be found in the office, verifying that it was the scene of the killing. This crime, however, was only one of many executed by this inner circle composed of those three I have named, Stanley Thornhill, Charles Talcott, and Fenner Griscom, with frequent help from the latter’s wife, Belle Griscom, and I freely confess that I was myself a ringleader in the looting operations of this band. The killing of Vincent Beechwood was decided upon at a secret meeting in the offices of the Generous Heart, when we realized Beechwood had grown too suspicious of our actions, and we could no longer conceal them from him. He was especially suspicious about the murder of Stephen Barna in Central Park on the night of May loth. This murder was committed by Stanley Thornhill and Charles Talcott, though it was carefully arranged to seem a simple hit-and-run homicide, and was so listed by the police, erroneously. Stephen Barna had been at one time a patient on the rolls of the Generous Heart, and when his suspicions were aroused by policies of this agency in the hands of Talcott, Griscom, and Belle Griscom, it was thought advisable to seal his lips forever. He was lured to the scene of his destruction by one Michael Anders, an employee of the Generous Heart Society. In this murder Anders used his dog to decoy the victim. The name of this dog is KO. Unless my former confederates have already disposed of them, both can be found. Still other murders of which Griscom and Talcott told me, but which I did not actually witness, were the brutal assassinations of Johan Ides and Joseph Pullen, of Restitution, a moral rehabilitation agency they were in the process of forming. At my suggestion, the Generous Heart clique sought access to their confidential files, for blackmail purposes, and when they resisted us, they were killed. The police erroneously listed this killing as murder and suicide. Actually, Charles Talcott shot and killed Joseph Pullen, while Fenner Griscom shot and killed Johan Ides. These skilled investigators are experts at such fabrications, though occasionally they had to seek my advice. This I freely gave. But a turning point was reached in the slaying of my friend Vincent Beechwood. I had to ask myself certain searching moral questions, And I reached the conclusion that the hideous game was not worth the candle, I turned to my former accomplices, Fenner Griscom, Charles Talcott, and Stanley Thornhill, and I implored them to break with our life of crime. So far, they have refused, and remained adamant. But my own course is clear. I shall confess everything. This present confession, made on tape recording, serves two purposes. I have played it to all of my former accomplices, over the telephone, and notified them that it will be turned over to the officials of this city within one week, unless by that time they, too, have come forward, and sought to purge their souls of these dreadful crimes.
This I do out of pity for these men who once were my friends. I hope they will. I urge them to do so, in the name of humanity. And a second reason this confession has been recorded on tape is insurance. There are six of these reels of tape, all identical, but held by widely separated people. Should my former confederates seek to seal my lips before this dreadful story is made public, they will know that my voice lives after me. Fenner, Charles, Stanley, Belle, I beg you, I implore you, come humbly forward as I now do, and freely confess. We engaged in other crimes, but these have been the principal ones, and if there is public interest, these may be the subject of further investigations, and in that case I will make still further confessions. These other crimes have been almost literally countless, and involve a list of accomplices too lengthy to enumerate here. The foregoing has been recorded by me, Jay Ravoc, hoping by this act to wipe out a tiny part of my infamy, and with no thought of seeking personal gain or favor.”
The voice, my voice, came to an end. I had not risked a glance at Shana during the playback, but I now did. She was gasping like a freshly landed fish. Now, she jumped from the bed and stood on the other side of it, holding her arms, her hands, grasping her hands and twisting them, trying to weep and not able to do so, trying to speak, but not able to speak.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.”
“Take it easy, Shana,” I said.
She was white, and struggling for air.
“Oh God, no, Jay, no, that can’t be you.”
I gave her a hard, somber stare filled with a lot of unpleasant thoughts.
“It isn’t me. Haven’t you got sense enough to know that?”
She shook her head in wordless anguish, then finally got off a series of disconnected phrases.
“Your voice. Those people. Vincent. You killed Vincent. That car accident, and it was a murder. And you knew it. You aren’t human, Jay. Or was that your voice? It was. I know it was. Those things. And you killed your friend Vincent. I can’t stand this. I can’t stand having even known you. I can’t stand it. I can’t. I won’t. And you sent the acid. Why didn’t you confess that, too? Was that too trivial? Oh God, no, none of it, no.” I had to let her run on. She could not be stopped, and it might help her. “If this is true, Jay, if this is true. I don’t think I can go on.”
I stared at her, knowing I would finally catch and hold her distracted gaze, at the same time marveling at many things. At this emotional area in which Griscom and Talcott had operated, because this was just that area, and seeing why they had found it so easy. And at the same time, marveling that so much trust had ever been reposed in me.
“Come here, Shana.”
“I can’t.”
“Come here. I want to talk to you.”
“If you want to kill me, all right. The way you killed Vincent, and your friends killed those other people. I don’t think I care. All right. I liked Vincent.” She sighed, from an immeasurable distance of fatigue and disenchantment, and finally her cloudy gaze returned, held mine. “You’re strong, and I hate you. Vincent was foolish and weak and drunk, and I guess that is why you murdered him. People like you have to murder people like him.”
I gestured toward the telephone that stood on the end table at her side of the bed.
“Nobody murdered Vincent,” I said. “Call him up. Talk to him.” I gave her the number of his exchange. “And when you’re through, put me on.”
She didn’t really hear this, only the reassuring tone, but she finally subsided, trembling spasmodically, on the edge of the bed. There, she still regarded me as something that had crawled out from under a very deep and damp rock.
“But that confession,” she said. “You shot hi
m, and sank him in the bay, in the car. They’ll find it. You told the police where to find it. I don’t know why they aren’t here, right now.”
“Because I haven’t told them yet,” I said, then added, savagely restrained, “I am giving my erstwhile confederates a period of grace in which to reform. Remember? And if the cops ever do dredge up that coupe, they won’t find anything except a stolen car, already wanted in a simple hit-and-run manslaughter. And a couple of rolled-up rugs. No Vincent. That killing to which I confessed was staged by both of us. Call him up. You don’t seem to have much confidence in me. You’d better call him up and check for yourself.”
“Where is he, and what’s he doing?”
I again gave her the number of his exchange. And I added:
“He’s at home, lying low for a couple of weeks, and he’s probably full of brandy.”
Shana dialed the number, at last, and as she waited, she looked at me, a glance that certified I might yet, at some future date, be permitted to rejoin the human race.
“What about the rest of the confession?” she asked, tentatively accepting my story. “What about those other things you said they did? And what about them? Where are they now?”
I didn’t know, myself. I probably never would know. I stared again at the ceiling, more interested in getting back my girl than in them.
“About my confession. Everything trivial and irrelevant in it is absolutely true. That dog’s name was KO. They did pick me up after I dumped the car. There are some bullet holes in my office, and some rugs are really missing. But all the big points, they are strictly the bunk, of course. And about those people. Well, I wouldn’t worry about Talcott or Griscom and his wife. Most likely, they’ve all gone back to Washington. They’re professional investigators, but good. They’ll always eat.”
The Generous Heart Page 20
