Edge of Panic

by Henry, Kane,

  “Let’s have the story,” John Applegate said.

  “You’re here at the end and you were there at the beginning.”

  “Me?”

  “You probably don’t know it, but you once attended a party where Miss Felicia Dee was present.”

  “I never saw that dame—”

  “Probably not. It was about six months ago, at Carla Wilson’s on Long Island.”

  “Oh, yes—very possible. A tremendous house party. Sure, she could have been there, and ten more like her, and I could have missed all of them.”

  “Correct. And during one spell, you were boasting about the best damn insurance man in the world, Harry Martin. She heard it, and it registered, but at that time, it didn’t mean a thing.”

  “When did it?”

  “A few months later. Let me give the background. Felicia and Joyce were line girls together, shows, night clubs, same size, same general type, tall, baby-faced. Joyce was a blonde and Felicia a brunette. Felicia began to run around with the brother, Dale. Joyce hooked the millionaire. They all stayed friends, the old boy died, Joyce inherited, and then, back there, somewhere, the idea came into being. Each blames the other, of course—she blames him and he blames her—but it makes no difference. It came out into words, one night when they were drunk, and after that they both knew what they wanted. They knew it would have to be something extra special, because it was the brother alone who would inherit—the shine would have to be kept off him completely. They planned all sorts of things—all the old ones—the phony suicide, the auto accident, a fire in a cabin she had in the country, a fall off a horse—but none of them was good, and they knew it. Always, with that type of crime—it’s left open, there’s a ‘maybe’ that the police might keep kicking at. They wanted it closed, finished, the police satisfied, looking no further—there you have that business about the mind—two very ordinary people, not especially intelligent—but once they moved in on murder, all the innate cunning that was part of them rejected plan after plan—reason, self-protection.”

  “But, this,” Alice said. “How—”

  “Patience, Mrs. Martin. It stayed with them, they talked about it, it was growing. Then, about a month ago, Felicia got a peek at Joyce’s diary, about the new boy friend, Harry, no last name, and right there the other Harry, the Harry Martin she had heard about, clicked into place—and a real big beautiful thing was born. They talked about it, and they loved it, and she was the girl with the nerve to do it. Not only would there be no onus on Dale Allen, but the police would have a closed case, no loose ends, no shine on either of them.”

  “Yes,” John Applegate said. “It’s beginning to come clear.”

  “Way back there, about a month ago, she dyed her hair blond. Way back there, she made arrangements for a stay in South America. He pulled money out of the business, which they put aside, to support her for a long stay. She postponed it twice, kept it bubbling, in case it would have to be postponed if something went wrong along the line. They even cased Harry Martin, learned a little something about his habits. Dale Allen had him pointed out by a public stenographer on the same floor to whom Dale threw a little nonsense business just for that purpose. Insurance agent. Perfect. A guy anxious for business. Perfect. A guy who wouldn’t think twice about coming to a prospective client’s apartment. A guy who wouldn’t break an appointment. A sweet, sweet guy.”

  “Me,” Harry said. “All the trouble people take.”

  “They took the trouble, and it paid off. In spades. It was perfect. They waited for a good day, and they got it. Early this morning, when Felicia called Joyce, Joyce was to stay indoors, she had a cold. Immediately Felicia called the steamship office about passage. There was a spot on a boat for tomorrow night. Swell, swell, she would be down in the evening to confirm it. She spoke to Dale. He had a guy on constant tap bribed for immediate plane tickets for Washington. He took off. She called Harry Martin, as Joyce Anderson, left her name with the service a couple of times, went down to his office to make sure, tossed around a little sex appeal, and made it solid, for five o’clock.”

  John said, “You mean she did—”

  “She didn’t take the elevator at the Everett. She walked up. She stayed with Joyce, timing every minute. Joyce, indoors, had worked on her hair, given herself an upsweep as an experiment. Felicia wanted her hair up too; if the corpse was to have an upsweep, Harry had to see her with the same type of hair-do. Joyce herself put up Felicia’s hair. How do you like that?”

  “I hate it,” John said.

  “She killed her in the bedroom at a quarter to five. She left herself only fifteen minutes. She slugged her, then beat her with that hammer, beat her unrecognizable. Joyce was wearing lounging pajamas. She ripped those off, blood-soaked, wrapped them, and threw them into the incinerator. She did the same with the clothes she was wearing. The bedroom was a mess of blood. That was all right. She washed, cleaned the hammer in the toilet bowl. She put on Joyce’s housecoat, and she was ready. The sucker showed up drunk—which added perfection to perfection. She kept the hammer in view. They made small talk, danced, played around. She slipped him some chloral, prepared, of course, in advance, waited until she saw it begin to work, got into an argument with him, ripped his face, and then our sucker passes out of view. She takes off her torn housecoat, puts it on Joyce, pulls him in, smears the hammer, smears his clothes, smears his hand, and closes his fingers over the hammer. Then she gets dressed in an outfit of Joyce’s, puts on her blue coat, and out she goes. She takes the stairs down, and she’s done. She goes home, gets out of her borrowed clothes, gets rid of them, takes a bath, and later attends to her business down at the travel agency.”

  “Holy cow,” John Applegate said.

  “Tomorrow she would have been gone. Harry Martin would have gotten the chair, or, maybe he’d have been committed as insane. Dale Allen would have come into his inheritance. Furor dies down, forgotten. Dale Allen goes to South America and comes back with a bride, and they live happily ever afterward, that is, if they don’t fall out, which, too, would go to pattern. There’s your story. Mrs. Martin can tell you how we licked it. Punch lines to be supplied by Harry Martin.” Nobody said anything.

  Brophy clipped ash off his cigar. “What was the fight about, son? She’s vague on that.”

  “I don’t rightly know. It’s hazy—hard for me to remember.”

  “Come on, boy. Let’s get it all clear.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Brophy’s eyes, over the cigar, moved from Harry to Alice, back to Harry. He pushed up out of the swivel chair. “Next door’s the statement room. Come along with me, boy. And when we’re finished, the old man’s got sitting around to do. It’ll be a special favor if you’ll all get the hell out of here. Pardon me, ma’am. I keep forgetting myself.”

  When he brought Harry back, Foley was with them.

  “The Lieutenant’ll have your car restored to you. Good-by, ma’am, it was a great pleasure. Good-by, counselor.”

  They dropped John Applegate in front of his house.

  “Night, Alice,” John said. “There’s a good deal to talk about—but I think there’s been enough talk for one night. Be in touch, won’t you?”

  “Good night. Thanks. Thanks for everything.”

  “Harry, if you’ll come with me, I’ll get that money for you.”

  “Yes, John.”

  Harry waited in the vestibule. John brought it, gave it to him, said, “Get some rest, man, and, God, you’re off the stuff. Remember that.”

  “I hope. Believe me, I hope.”

  “Let’s get together one of these evenings, the bunch of us, under—somewhat better auspices.”

  “Right,” Harry said. “Thanks. Thanks a million.” He got behind the wheel, mutter of thunder under murk of clouds. Sky hung flat, dirt-rust low. He tried to feel her near him, but she was away, in a corner, staring out. Rain came, slamming, thin sheen under lights. “Over,” he said. “All over. God almighty. Remember this mo
rning? Remember twelve o’clock noon—?”

  She was crying.

  “All over, honey.” The car jumped, his clutch foot numb. He shifted gears, jarring. City streets splashed; then they were on the Highway, cool, swift, rolling, riding into rain.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes, hon.”

  “What happened there, Harry?”

  “You know what happened. The Captain outlined it—”

  “I don’t mean that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean, Harry?”

  “Now don’t be crazy, baby.”

  “Please, Harry—”

  “Nothing.”

  “The scratches on your face?”

  “The dame was batty.”

  “You told the Captain—”

  “What?”

  “That you don’t—remember.”

  Windshield slammed at driving drops. He spread his arm and took her to him. “That I’d remember,” he said. “Anything like that—” He chuckled, badly, glimpsing the boiling river on his left. She looked up at him, moving away. They rode into rain.

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