Surprise Party

by Katz, William

  "For the party?"

  "No. The phone company called yesterday and said they'd traced a problem to our phone line. The woman told me they might be here early."

  Marty shrugged and continued walking toward the door. "Who is it?" he asked.

  "Phone company," the voice answered, confirming Samantha's story.

  Marty opened. A tall, muscular "repairman" stood before him, holding a telephone company ID card. "Repair," he said. "We called."

  "Sure," Marty replied.

  The man entered and went to work in the dining room. Samantha felt temporarily safe.

  Marty walked back to the bedroom, determined to resume the spirit of the morning, just as it was before the doorbell rang.

  "You know," he said to Samantha, "I don't feel forty. I feel fifteen, tops." A devilish grin came over his face. "I even have my electric trains."

  "Marty," Samantha kidded, "please, not at the party."

  Marty looked hurt. It, too, was a fake, of course. "Why not? I thought I'd give everyone a chance."

  "Marty…no."

  "Okay, no. Birthday boy doesn't get what he wants. Birthday boy might cry."

  "Before you cry," Samantha said, "what do you want for breakfast?"

  "Steak," Marty replied.

  "You want steak for breakfast?"

  "Why not? Hey, I'll take you out. I know where you can get steak at this hour."

  "Forget it. I've got it here."

  "No kidding!"

  "You once told me you thought a birthday would be perfect with steak for breakfast. I remembered, love."

  Now it was Marty's turn to go through the motions of rushing over to kiss Samantha. "I don't know what I'd do if I hadn't found you," he said.

  "You'd starve."

  They were both such magnificent fakes, Samantha for a good cause, Marty for an evil one. And both had worries. Something could go wrong, Samantha knew, and her life could end in a violent second. Samantha could know more than he thought, Marty realized, and his plan to kill her might backfire.

  Unconsciously, Samantha kept glancing at an air vent high on one wall, where Cross-Wade's men had planted one of their microphones. Strange, but she worried about saying something embarrassing, something that might make the cops in the empty apartment down the hall laugh. Even those in mortal danger worry about their pride.

  "I'll start cooking," she told Marty as he began to unbutton his pajamas.

  "Wait a second," he said.

  "Something wrong?"

  Marty stopped unbuttoning and walked briskly to his desk. He opened a drawer and took out the gift box that he'd gotten at the jeweler's.

  "What's that?" Samantha asked.

  "Well, my dear," Marty replied, "I was thinking recently… and you know how dangerous that is."

  "I sure do."

  "So…here," Marty handed the box to Samantha.

  "Marty…thank you," she said, genuinely surprised. "You didn't have to do this."

  "I wanted to. You deserve it."

  "I'm just so, so shocked."

  "Hey, forget the shock. Go ahead and open it."

  For a flash, Samantha almost forgot the horror she faced. This was so old-fashioned, so romantic, so typical of the Marty she'd known. A present on his birthday…for her. But why? Why was he going to all this trouble if he planned to murder her? What motivated his bizarre mind?

  She opened the box, as she'd opened so many other presents from Marty during the time she'd known him, carefully removing the ribbon and setting it aside, as if there were some real reason to save it. Then she took off the top and folded the wrapping tissue aside. She gazed down at the pendant at the end of its slim gold chain.

  "Marty, this is beautiful."

  "I thought you'd like it."

  "Like it! I love it!"

  "You sure? If it isn't just right, I can always get you something else."

  What were the cops thinking as they listened to this soap opera, Samantha wondered. The man was actually talking about exchanging a gift for a wife about to be a corpse.

  "Don't you dare take this back!" she said.

  "Put it on," Marty requested.

  "Sure." Samantha walked to a mirror and slipped the pendant around her neck, letting it hang gently over her nightgown. Neither she nor Marty said anything for a few moments, the slapping of the rain the only sound.

  "It's perfect," Samantha finally said.

  Marty still said nothing. He just stood behind Samantha and smiled. It was a vague smile, very distant. Samantha caught it in the mirror. She never recalled Marty's smiling like that. Usually his smile was forceful, direct, up front, almost bursting out. This one seemed more inside than out, a smile that reflected a private thought. Samantha kept staring at that smile as if it were some clue she couldn't comprehend.

  Marty, through the smile, stared at the image of Samantha in the mirror. Yeah, that was Mom. Sure it was. The long auburn hair. That pendant hanging from her neck. Too bad about Mom. Too bad about the kind of person she was. Too bad Mom had to be punished, and punished for good.

  "I'll wear it tonight," Samantha promised.

  "I'd like that," Marty replied. "It looks great on you."

  Samantha turned around to Marty. "How about that steak?"

  "Sure," Marty replied. But he still wore that strange grin.

  Samantha gently removed the pendant and returned it to its box, where it would remain until evening. Then she went into the kitchen to prepare Marty's special breakfast, something she'd planned since she conceived of the party.

  In the empty apartment down the hall, four of Cross-Wade's men listened on surveillance equipment. All wore shoulder holsters. All had keys to Samantha's apartment, made during the night at a Police Department machine shop. They could be at Samantha's side within twenty-five seconds if they heard anything suspicious, although, with the "repairman" in the apartment, it was improbable that they would be needed during the morning. Two of them carried plumber's wrenches and the other two carpenter's tools. They were, as far as the people in the building knew, doing some repair work.

  Marty began to dress and inevitably went over the day's details in his mind. Hammer, chain, Doug Edwards tape, ticket to Rome for the next morning. Everything was in order. The demon had taken over. The "5" in his calendar watch was enough to trigger the passionate lust for revenge that he felt every year on this date. This was the only anniversary that counted, the only important date in his wretched, tortured life. He felt close to Dad, closer than he'd ever felt since Dad went away in 1952. Yes, there was always a side of Marty/Frankie that wanted him to stop, to resume the normal life of a successful New York businessman. But that side couldn't overpower the demon, the superheated part of his psyche that made him take revenge on December fifth.

  Inevitably, he thought back to his first victim, that smiling, auburn-haired librarian in a Philadelphia suburb who'd left the library one evening and was later found dead in a wooded area two blocks away. How exhilarated he'd felt at this first tribute to Dad, how powerful he'd imagined himself when he realized he could get away with it, not just once, but many times.

  He'd recently reasoned that, with precise planning, he might get away with Samantha's murder as well. But he would inevitably come under police scrutiny, and the instinct for survival that had kept him free for six years told him to make the trip to Rome, change his physical appearance and begin again under a new name. Within hours he would no longer be Martin Everett Shaw.

  "Now that's the way to begin a day," he said, walking into the kitchen and smelling the steak being grilled. "I should be forty more often."

  It was all so normal, so typical, not different, really, from any domestic scene in a television show or a nineteen-fifties movie.

  Marty and Samantha had breakfast, marred only by one incident—Samantha suddenly knocked over a full cup of coffee, sending it splattering to the floor. "Nerves," she explained. "The party."

  It was a half lie. It was nerves, but it wasn'
t the party that made Samantha knock over the cup. It was the vision of Marty wielding a hammer and chain.

  After breakfast, Marty put on a brown wool coat and left for the office. Outside, in unmarked parked cars, and across the street on the rim of Central Park, were plainclothesmen from Cross-Wade's office. A few of them, in an old blue Chevrolet Impala, trailed Marty's cab downtown, where other plainclothesmen, posted outside his office building, watched him enter. It was Marty's normal routine, reported in detail to Spencer Cross-Wade, who coordinated the operation from his office.

  Marty took the elevator upstairs to his firm's headquarters and made his usual walk down the hall, opening the main door with a flourish. Then the normalcy of the morning evaporated.

  "Surprise!"

  It was a cliché, but it was heartfelt.

  The office staff had wanted to throw Marty a party before-the-party, just for the people in the firm. The offices were alive with streamers, crepe paper, balloons, food tables, and a large ice sculpture of the head of Martin Everett Shaw. Before Marty could even get inside he was smothered by the kisses of secretaries and the backslaps of more restrained employees.

  "My God!" he exclaimed, caught off-guard, "what have you people done?"

  "A warm-up for tonight," someone said, and that set the tone for the rest of the day. Not much work would get done, but everyone was sure Marty wouldn't mind.

  And Marty didn't mind. Once December fifth was over, he'd never see these people again.

  A police surveillance team in a building across the street, armed with carefully concealed telescopic lenses, was able to see into the windows of Marty's firm and report the surprise party to Cross-Wade.

  Leonard Ross, Marty's vice-president for media relations, a whiz kid of thirty with a well-trimmed beard and an abnormally deep voice, called for silence as Marty stepped in and beamed at the assembly. "Folks, can I have your attention?" Ross called out, raising his right arm and stretching his new Pierre Cardin blue blazer. "I'm just as anxious to get the party going as you are, but I need about a minute of your time." He gestured for Marty to stay close to him.

  The staff of ten women and eight men stopped talking and turned their attention to Ross, whose bright eyes, well-rehearsed charm, and style of command made him ideal for these moments.

  But then someone started singing "Happy Birthday," and almost instantly everyone joined in. It wasn't what Ross had wanted, but it would have been poor taste to stop it. He started leading the song.

  "Okay," he said when it ended, "that was great. Just great. Now, is everybody here?"

  Faces turned toward each other and a few staffers counted heads.

  "Looks like it," Marty said.

  "Nobody in the little boys' room or little girls' room?" Ross asked.

  "If they are, they've got more important things to do," Marty quipped. There was much laughter.

  The staff gathered round in a semi-circle, waiting for Ross to resume speaking.

  "Marty," Ross finally began, "I know this is a great surprise to you. And maybe the morning isn't the best time for a party, but our guys and gals were eager."

  "I appreciate that," Marty replied.

  "Besides," Ross continued, "we have to get this food down before the big feast tonight."

  "Right on!" someone shouted. More laughter.

  "Marty," Ross continued, "our people wanted to show you their respect, their loyalty and their love. You may be the boss, but to us you've always been a good friend."

  Marty smiled modestly as the room burst out in strong applause.

  "So we're having this little party to help you celebrate your fortieth birthday, with the wish that you have at least eighty more…"

  Further applause.

  "…and that we get raises during that whole time."

  Everyone laughed, Marty more than any of them. Ross slapped him on the back and someone took a picture with a Polaroid camera. Then Marty stepped forward to speak. "I'm shocked," he said. "I didn't think anyone liked me." He knew how to get that obligatory laugh. "But I really want to thank you. Having your loyalty means so much to me. It's been a long struggle from journalism school, through the Army and a lot of jobs I'd like to forget. But I'm proud of this firm, proud of what we do, and proud to be associated with all of you. Let's not just celebrate my fortieth birthday. Let's celebrate our success now and into the future."

  It was a good little speech and the applause was sustained. There were even some loud cheers, a certain sign that the right things had been said. People began breaking up to start the serious eating, but once again Ross raised his right hand.

  "Wait a minute. Please. All. Just one minute. We have a little something for Marty."

  The buzzing stopped. Everyone turned back to Ross. Marty looked surprised again.

  "Marty," Ross said, "we weren't going to let you get away without showing you a permanent token of our affection and esteem. Carol…"

  Carol, a tall, blond secretary who worked for Ross, walked quickly into Ross's office and emerged a few moments later with a large, flat package, gift-wrapped with a blue ribbon, and the number "40" drawn on the side in bright red.

  "Now this you didn't have to do," Marty said.

  "Marty," Ross replied, "we thought that if you could have anything hanging in office to remind you of this occasion, it would be this. We hope you like it." He handed Marty the gift.

  "Well, thank you," Marty said, knowing he'd never hang anything in that office again.

  "Open it!" someone shouted.

  "I will!" With a broad smile, Marty began unwrapping the gift. Ross helped. The wrappings came off slowly, accompanied by the crackling sound of the paper. Finally, the edge of a picture frame showed. Then more of the frame. Then the back of a picture. The last wrappings fell away. Marty was looking at the rear of the picture, so he turned it around.

  "Magnificent!" he exclaimed, shaking his head from side to side as if filled with emotion. "This is wonderful. This is something to treasure. It will be with me for the rest of my life."

  He gazed down at the portrait of Samantha, her auburn hair flowing gently over her graceful, innocent neck. Her face glowed with the soft smile of one looking forward to a lifetime of happiness and love.

  "We had a painter do it," Ross explained. "When you were on a trip we took that little picture of Sam from your office and gave it to him. He made a copy."

  "Beautiful," Marty said.

  "It's oil color," Ross told him.

  "Beautiful," Marty said again. "I want to hang it today. Then I want to bring Sam in to see it. Tomorrow. After the party. It'll be a perfect climax to a wonderful time. She'll love it."

  "We hope so," Ross said.

  It was almost hilarious, Marty thought. What a great news story it would make after Samantha's body was discovered—HUSBAND KILLER GOT PORTRAIT OF WIFE BEFORE BLUDGEONING HER. He was sure the portrait would be reproduced in the papers.

  "I'm taking it to my office right now," he announced. "And thank you all again, from the bottom of my heart. Now, enjoy!"

  Marty raised the picture so all could see, then marched into his office as the staff raced to the food tables to fill up. Once inside, he closed the door behind him. To carry out his promise to hang the picture immediately he removed a small mosaic from his northern wall and replaced it with the portrait. Then he stepped back and surveyed it. "Dad," he whispered, "this is a great omen. It's as if some force made those fools out there realize Samantha wouldn't be long for this world. What a scene, Dad. What a great scene."

  Marty rejoined the party, but couldn't keep the irony of the portrait out of his mind. And that recurring thought made him change his plans. "You know," he told Ross at one point, as they both sipped Bloody Marys, "I think I'll take the portrait home tonight. It's so gorgeous I want everyone at the party to see it."

  "That's a very nice gesture," Ross said. "Everyone on the team will get a charge out of that."

  "Right," Marty said. "A charge."

&n
bsp; As festivities were winding down, Marty returned to his office, alone again. Now he began preparing the items he would need to carry out the ultimate ritual planned for that evening. He opened his safe and took out the hammer and chain, placing them in his attaché case, under some business papers. He also took out the videotape of the old Doug Edwards news show, placing it on the hammer and chain. Finally he took out the ticket to Rome for December sixth, and placed it in a side pocket of the case, which had a lock. He snapped the lock shut.

  He'd take the picture down, he decided, just before leaving for home. Bringing it home would be the last thing he'd ever do to make Samantha happy.

  The clock was counting down. Nothing could stop him now. It was 10:45 AM when he placed his attaché case in a corner of his office and walked to the reception area, where a few staff members lingered. "Great day," he told them.

  "Right," one of them said, "and a great night ahead."

  "Oh yes," Marty replied. "It'll be all I've ever dreamed of."

  "That sounds like it comes from the heart," a young secretary said.

  "Oh, it does," Marty answered. "Tonight comes straight from the heart."

  Samantha's time had almost run out.

  The apartment was humming. The caterer was there, the delivery men, the florist, the advance man for the musicians …and then Auerbach came over, setting up his videotape shots with all the pomp of a self-proclaimed cinema artist. Samantha was moved out of her own kitchen by cooks who began preparing for the feast. The building superintendent came up several times to ask what he could do, knowing there was nothing he could do, but that making an appearance guaranteed a tip.

  Spencer Cross-Wade appeared just after 1:00 PM. He surveyed the apartment—tables covered with elegant cloths and centerpieces, a small bandstand in what had been the dining room, colored lights replacing standard bulbs—and for a moment it reminded him of an elegant British dinner party. It seemed incredible that this affair would be a prelude to murder. Dressed in plainclothes, Cross-Wade was indistinguishable from a number of others who came in and out, and only Samantha knew he was a detective. They went into the bedroom to talk privately.

  "Beautiful arrangements," Cross-Wade said, knowing that anything he said to begin the conversation would be awkward and strained.