Nothing More Than Murder

by Jim Thompson

“I don’t get you,” I said. “I had to come in to buy some photoelectric cells.”

  “Perfect,” he beamed. “But let’s not be coy with one another. You know my attitude toward insurance companies. Feel it’s more or less a civic duty to rook ’em.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” I said. “I—I—”

  “I thought, here’s old Joe, virtually on the point of losing his shirt, and here’s this unwholesome insurance policy, just lying around and collecting dust and doing no one the slightest good. And I put myself in your place, laddie. I thought, now what would a keen chap like old Joseph do?”

  “B-But—”

  “You do have insurance on the show?”

  “Certainly, I have. But, goddamnit—”

  “Don’t be vehement, laddie. I’m on your side.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, but—but—” My voice rose, and he frowned and started to call me down. And then his eyes narrowed, and he just sat there watching me. It wasn’t necessary to tell me to shut up. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t move.

  You see? He had the whole thing wrong, and yet he was in the right. He was right enough to pin my ears back and keep them pinned, if he wanted to. And he would want to. He’d play it for all it was worth.

  But, bad as that was, it wasn’t what really got me. What got me, what made me feel like I was going crazy, was the realization that the woman was going to die for nothing. Her death wasn’t going to mean a thing. It was just murder, nothing more than murder, with none of us better off than if she had lived.

  And now there wasn’t any way I could stop it. I knew those bus schedules backward and forward; and I knew it was too late.

  There’s nothing quite so silent as film row on Saturday night. The Playgrand exchange was half a dozen doors up the street, but when their phones began ringing they sounded like they were in the next room.

  They stopped ringing in Playgrand and began in Utopian. And then they rang in Colfax and Wolfe. And finally—

  Hap was watching me like a hawk. He spit on the carpet without ever taking his eyes off me, and picked up his phone.

  “Yes,” he said. “Righto, operator. Put ’em on…Mr. Wilmot? Why, yes. I believe I can reach him. Was there some message you—”

  “Give me that phone,” I said, and grabbed for it.

  He planted his foot in my stomach, and I doubled up with the wind knocked out of me.

  “What?” he said. “Why, that’s terrible! I can’t tell you how sorry I— Certainly, I will! Certainly. As a matter of fact, he’s just stepped into the office. I’ll break the news to him gently.”

  He hung up the receiver, poured a glassful of whisky, and handed it to me.

  “Brace yourself, old man. There’s been a terrible accident. Your wife—”

  There was a grin on his face a foot wide.

  14

  All Stoneville is grieving over the death of Elizabeth Barclay Wilmot, wife of Joseph J. Wilmot, local theater magnate, who passed away in a fire at the Wilmot estate Saturday night. Cause of the fire has not been determined, but it is suspected that rats gnawing at the wiring may have been responsible. The fire broke out about nine o’clock, shortly after Mrs. Wilmot had returned from Wheat City where she had gone to pick up Miss Carol Farmer, a household employee. Miss Farmer, who was on her way back to Stoneville from a vacation, had missed her bus while dining in Wheat City, and had called Mrs. Wilmot to come after her. Upon reaching the Wilmot residence here, Miss Farmer went into the house and Mrs. Wilmot repaired to the upstairs of the garage, which was equipped as a film-inspecting room. When the fire burst into being a few minutes later, Miss Farmer notified the Stoneville fire department which promptly and efficiently answered the call. But little if anything could be done to defeat the holocaust. While the inspection room itself was fireproof, the heat was so intense that the supports and exterior walls of the building ignited and crumbled. Mrs. Wilmot was pinned beneath a work bench. Mr. Wilmot, who was out of town on business, was notified of the tragedy by telephone. Suffering from shock and grief, he was accompanied home by Mr. Harbert A. Chance, film company executive. Mr. Chance, an old friend of Mr. Wilmot’s will remain in Stoneville temporarily to assist in the conduct of the latter’s affairs. Mr. Wilmot has been convalescing in the Stoneville Sanitarium, suffering from shock and grief, but is expected to…

  I read a story one time about a fellow that was accidentally slipped into a big job; president of a company or something like that. He looked like the guy that actually was president, see, and when this guy ran off or fell in a mudhole or something and wasn’t ever seen again, why this one hooked his place. He didn’t know beans about the business, and all he planned on doing was to stick around long enough to snap a few rubber checks and maybe get the other guy’s gal alone in the parlor for a while. But once he got inside, the graft looked so good that he decided to stay for a real milking. He was scared out of his pants, naturally, because he didn’t know any more about the setup than a hog does about ice skates. But he ran a bluff, and damned if he didn’t make good on it.

  His work was just cut out for him, see what I mean? The stenographers would bring him letters to sign, and he’d just sign ’em. And when he got any letters, his vice-presidents or some of his secretaries would take charge of them. And when people showed up for conferences all he had to do was keep his eyes and ears open, and he could see what he had to do. He didn’t have to move. He got moved. As I remember the yarn, he wound up by getting made president of a lot of other companies and marrying the other guy’s gal, and no one ever knew the difference.

  Well, when I read that I thought it was strictly off the cob. And I knew it’d be just my luck to have the thing made into a movie and I’d have to see it. But if you asked me now I’d say it wasn’t corn. If I hadn’t been worried about Hap Chance, and being broke, I wouldn’t have done much worrying. Up to a certain point.

  I didn’t have to explain the accident—if you want to call it that. There were several stories going around that were better than any I could dream up. I didn’t have to pretend I was suffering from shock and grief. They told me I was.

  A delegation brought me some mourning clothes Tuesday afternoon, and Sheriff Rufe Waters and County Attorney Web Clay and a couple of fellows from the chamber of commerce drove me over to the mortuary in a limousine. Rufe and Webb took me into the chapel to look at the casket—but not inside it—and then they took me right out again.

  I didn’t hear much of the services because someone thought I was looking peaked, and they took me into the rest room. They gave me a couple of drinks to brace me up, and made me lie down on the lounge. And after the services were over they got me up again.

  I rode out to the cemetery with Rufe and Web and one of the Legion boys and a fellow from the Farmers’ Union. Rufe is the wheel horse for the Democratic party and Web is the same for the Republicans. If I’d been picking a foursome to ride with from the standpoint of keeping all sides happy, I couldn’t have done better. And I hadn’t had to do it. It was done for me.

  It started to rain a little on the edge of town, just a few drops, but by the time we passed our—my—place it was misting pretty hard. I looked up the lane toward the garage, and of course there wasn’t any. Just part of the framework and a pile of timber and metal and ashes. But there was a guy chasing around, trying to cover things up with pieces of canvas.

  I asked who he was.

  “That’s the investigator from the insurance company,” said Rufe. “Looks like he’d have enough decency to lay off during the ceremony.”

  “I’ve got my eye on him,” said Web. “I’m just hoping he gets out of line a little. He can’t come into my county and tell me how to run things.”

  I wanted to ask him what the trouble was, but I decided it wouldn’t be appropriate. Or smart. The longer I could stay in the background and let my friends do my arguing the better off I was.

  I guess almost the whole county was at the cemetery. There wasn’t room for
half the people inside, and they were parked along the grade for almost a mile on either side of the gates.

  They all stood up when we passed, stood along the side of the road or on their running boards or wagon beds, with their heads bowed. It gave you an awfully funny feeling. It made you feel almost like it was Judgment Day; like they’d all been pulled up out of everywhere for the trumpet’s blast before they could move. It was kind of scary.

  I remember one woman in particular. She was standing up in a wagon box with a big fat squawling baby in each arm. They looked damned near as big as she was; and she’d started to feed them, I guess, because she had her blouse open and what babies go for was hanging out on each side. It wasn’t hanging right, though, and the kids were as mad as all hell, twisting and screaming and grabbing at it, and trying to raise their heads up. But she just stood there with her head bowed like everyone else.

  We drove through the cemetery gates, and got out. Web and Rufe stood by me at the grave.

  The minister began his oratory; a lot of mumbo jumbo about being washed in the blood of the lamb and people being better off dead than they were alive; and all the time, by God, acting like it was deep stuff. And the different bands began to play “Nearer My God to Thee,” and they couldn’t play with themselves, let alone with each other. And the church choirs kept racing ahead and falling behind. And—but it wasn’t funny. I’ve never felt more like bawling in my life.

  There are some things so bad and so careless that you wish to God they didn’t pretend to be good-intentioned so you could put in a holler without making a heel of yourself. I’ve felt pretty much the same way looking at newsreels of ceremonies at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The bands playing and the people singing, all in their own way, the right way; and the generals, the statesmen, and the club ladies all speaking a little piece for themselves. And they all mean so goddamn well—I guess—and no one is responsible any more than I was responsible for her.

  I bawled; there beside the grave with the rain coming down harder and harder. I felt just as bad as if I’d known the woman.

  I could hardly see a thing I was crying so hard. I saw Carol for a second on the other side of the grave, and then everything got blurry again.

  Web and Rufe led me away. We went back to the car and they put me inside while they waited outside, one at each door.

  It came over me all of a sudden that I was a prisoner; that the reason they were with me was to watch me. I leaned forward to get out of the car, and Web Clay eased me back.

  I tried it again. I knocked his hand out of the way.

  “You let me out of here!” I yelled. “I can’t stand any more! Take me away from here!”

  “Maybe we’d better, Web,” said Rufe. “Joe’s been under an awful strain.”

  Web said, yes, I had, and went and got the other two fellows. We drove away.

  Web rode with his arm around me, almost with my head pulled down against his chest; and Rufe made me take a new silk handkerchief to blow my nose on. They took me into the house.

  “What you need, Joe, is a good stiff drink,” said Web. “Rufe, you got anything in the car?”

  “I’ve got something,” I said, straightening up a little. “I guess we all need a little something.”

  We went up to my room and had a few good stiff drinks, and swapped a little talk. Rufe and Web got friendlier than I’d ever seen them. While we were up there, Carol and some of the town ladies were busy downstairs fixing coffee and laying out sandwiches and cake. When the crowd began to come in from the funeral, the boys took me downstairs again.

  I was sat down and stood up and made to eat cake and sandwiches and coffee, and when the people began to file past me in a line on the way out, they—the ones that were taking care of me—even did my talking.

  “Yes, yes. That’s very kind of you, neighbor—”

  “Joe appreciates that very much—”

  “Joe thanks you very much—”

  I guess they would have even shook—shaken—hands for me if they could have.

  By this time it was dark; practically everyone was gone except the ladies who were staying to help Carol. I went upstairs and had a few more drinks and tried not to think. It was raining to beat hell now, and the wind was coming up. I heard Rufe and Web pulling out for town, and pretty soon another car left behind theirs. The insurance man’s.

  There seemed to be a draft coming from somewhere. I thought maybe someone had left a window open. I took another stiff drink and looked through the upstairs room by room. There wasn’t any window open. I went downstairs again.

  All the ladies had left except Mrs. Reverend Whitcomb. She was staying that night to keep the proprieties. She fussed around me for almost an hour, trying to do things for me that I didn’t want done. When she’d worn us both out she hobbled into the downstairs bedroom and closed the door. I’d think she weighed around two-eighty. And she wasn’t much taller than a quart of beer. She’d been going through doors sideways for so long that she kind of waltzed when she walked.

  When she got into bed one of the slats popped like a gun going off. Then, there was a rasping, grating sound, like a bale of wire being dragged across a tin roof, and the whole house shook.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Whitcomb?” I called.

  She was silent, or not exactly silent, either; I could hear her panting for breath.

  “Quite all right, Brother Wilmot,” she said finally.

  I hesitated. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

  I knew damned well the bed had broken down.

  “Oh, no, Brother Wilmot. I’m just dandy. Now you run along.”

  Carol was still busy in the kitchen. I went upstairs, took another drink and went to bed.

  I didn’t hear her when she came up the stairs. She opened the door and came in without turning the light on; and in one of the dim flashes of lightning from the storm I saw her pulling her dress off over her head.

  “You shouldn’t do that, Carol,” I whispered.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered back. “I peeked in at Mrs. Reverend Whitcomb. She’s sleeping down inside the bedstead. The mattress and springs fell through with her.”

  I grinned. I even laughed a little, quietly. It’s funny how you still laugh.

  “You’d better go on, anyway, Carol,” I said. “I’ve got a chill, a pretty bad cold. You’re liable to catch it.”

  “I won’t face you,” she said.

  I was lying with my knees drawn up, my hands under the pillow; taking up most of the bed.

  She got in with her back to me; pushed back gently until my knees came down. She pulled one of my arms under her and the other over her, and folded them over her breasts; and she held them there with her own arms.

  “Now, you’ll be warm,” she said. And pretty soon: “You were just afraid, that’s what made you cold. You don’t need to be afraid, Joe.”

  I didn’t say anything, thinking, and she spoke again.

  “Do you love me?”

  “Sure I love you.”

  “You’ve got to, Joe. You just got to. Maybe you don’t want to now, but it’s too late to change. You got to love me.”

  “Hell,” I said, “what are you talking about? I love you or I wouldn’t have done it, would I?”

  She didn’t answer right away, but I could feel her getting ready. I knew, almost to a word, what she was going to say. Because we weren’t the same people anymore. If you won’t stop at murder you won’t stop at lying or cheating or anything else.

  “I don’t know, Joe. Maybe—maybe you were afraid of me, of what I might do. You and Elizabeth. Maybe your business wasn’t so good, and you thought—well—”

  “Carol! For God’s sake—”

  “I’m not saying it was that way. I’m—don’t be mad at me, Joe! I’ve had to—most everything I’ve had to do and I’ve got to talk! I want to talk so you can tell me I’m wrong!”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I said.

  A
nd I thought, Jesus, what a break, what if I’d told her about Hap and Panzer and the show being washed up? And I thought, I’ll have to get things straightened out. She’s just dumb enough to—

  “You mustn’t try to see Elizabeth, Joe. You won’t, will you?”

  “Of course I won’t. Why should I?”

  “You mustn’t. You’re mine now. You’re all I’ve got.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “You won’t try to see her or write to her or anything? Promise me, Joe. Please, Joe.”

  “For Pete’s sake! All right, I promise!”

  “You’ll let me send the insurance money to her to the General Delivery address like we agreed?”

  “Yes. When I get it.”

  We went on talking, whispering in the darkness, with the lightning staggering dully through the windows and the rain scratching against the shingles and splashing into the gutter. Everything had gone all right, she said. The woman didn’t have any friends or relatives. They’d had separate seats on the bus. She was practically the same size and coloring as Elizabeth.

  Carol had told her that they were going on from Wheat City by car—that they’d have to wait until a friend from out in the country brought it in to them. And the woman may have thought it was funny, but she didn’t say anything.

  They met Elizabeth on a side street, and Elizabeth got out and kept right on going. And Carol and the woman drove home, and Carol took her up to the garage to show her her quarters—

  “Don’t tell me any more,” I said. “I don’t want to hear about it.”

  “All right,” said Carol.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant, I don’t want you to talk about it. I know how hard it was on you.”

  There wasn’t much said after that.

  After a while Carol got up and locked the door and set the alarm clock.

  15

  Appleton, the man from the insurance company, was already outside the next morning when I went downstairs. I walked over by the place where the garage had been and introduced myself.