One Hour to Kill

by George Harmon Coxe

  It was during this time that the brief affair with Rand flourished. Sometimes he would pick her up at the bungalow when his schooner was in port and at least once Fay met him at the end of the lane. Wallace knew this because he had been waiting by the side of the highway to see if anyone picked her up. On that particular night he had followed them on their tour of the bars until he had become disgusted with the part he was playing. But there was no jealousy in him. If it had been possible, he would have encouraged the affair with the hope that it might result in Fay wanting her freedom. Unfortunately the affair languished for some reason and Rand’s interest was again diverted to Lorraine Carver. . . .

  The arrival of the steak stopped Fay’s complaints and Wallace’s thoughts. Apparently the whisky had dulled her appetite because she ate very little and asked for her coffee and brandy before Wallace finished. The Carvers left while the waiter was clearing the table and as Wallace waited for his coffee he brought up the subject that was uppermost in his mind.

  “All right,” he said. “Your stomach isn't empty any more, so let’s talk divorce.”

  “What’s there to talk about? Have you got any money?”

  “How the hell would I have any money,” he said, his temper flaring before he could stifle it. “You took all I had.”

  “Big deal,” she said with heavy irony. She held up her left hand and began to tick off the items a finger at a time. “Insurance, a few thousand from those bonds, some beat-up furniture, and a secondhand car.”

  “You signed the agreement.”

  “That was six months ago.”

  “What difference does that make? You said you didn’t want alimony. You wanted money. I gave you what I had.”

  “But you didn’t really level.” She shook her finger at him. “You said you made around ten or twelve thousand a year.”

  “I did make that the year before we broke up.”

  “I talked to your agent.” She peered at him, her smile twisted and sly. “He said the clients liked your work. He said you should make fifteen to eighteen if you came back and gave the job full time.”

  “Maybe I could,” Wallace said, new indignation stirring in him. “But that’s got nothing to do with the deal we made.”

  “Hasn’t it?” She laughed before she finished her brandy. “How much did you get from that art dealer in New York for the paintings you held out and dumped on him?”

  “Six thousand. Four after the gallery commission.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In a New York bank.”

  “Several times you’ve been to Barbados with paintings. You haven’t brought many back.”

  Wallace took time to keep his irritation in hand. He knew what she meant and was aware that he had done fairly well with the work he had completed here. None of it was art with a capital A. He considered himself a good draftsman and his use of color was better than some, which was a help here where color was indigenous to the island. He was trying to improve his brush work and the paintings he had done were purposely commercial.

  He had made an arrangement with the manager of the Sandy Hill Hotel in Barbados to display some of his more ambitious work. He had the same arrangement with the manager at the Marine Hotel, whose clients, while no less wealthy than the guests at the Sandy Hill, were in general older and more close-fisted with what they had. The smaller and less expensive paintings were on sale there and he not only had been quite successful in disposing of many of the pictures but there was an added advantage of the cost to him, the commission being the reasonable ten per cent instead of the outrageous cut that the established galleries got in New York.

  “So I sold some paintings? You know I only get from around a hundred and fifty to two fifty for that sort of thing.”

  “How much in the bank here?”

  “A little over two thousand.”

  “Four and two are six. Maybe if you offered five plus—” She stopped suddenly and her painted mouth stayed open, as though some new and startling thought had blocked off her mind. “What time is it?”

  “Ten of nine. Why?” Wallace said, and then watched in slow amazement as she turned in her chair and called the waiter.

  “Check,” she said. “And I mean right now.”

  Wallace, not understanding the reason for the sudden change in mood and annoyed at this unexpected change of subject, said: “What’s the rush?”

  “You said you didn’t want to make a night of it.”

  “I know, but I still want to settle—”

  “We can talk in the car.”

  She had opened the straw bag and removed a bulging, red-leather wallet and now, as the waiter put the check on the table, she widened the bill compartment and reached inside with thumb and forefinger. West Indian notes come in different colors and Wallace saw that there were some new bills among the others. The light was not too good but he got a glimpse of what seemed like a bluish tinge and he thought the new bills were twos. She pushed them back as he watched her and extracted three fives, which she placed on the check.

  “There should be enough left for you,” she said to the hovering waiter as she closed the wallet.

  He whisked the plate and bills away as he thanked her, but she was already busy folding her glasses and putting them in the brocaded case. She put this and the wallet into the straw bag and before Wallace could protest she pushed back her chair and stood up. She was five steps ahead of him as he started to follow and this time she did not start toward the dining-room entrance but headed instead toward the bar.

  Apparently she had noticed Nick Rand and now Wallace realized that there were two other men with him who had taken Fay out on occasion. The closest stool was occupied by Neil Benedict, a stocky deeply-tanned man with receding sandy hair. He turned slightly when Fay marched up and stopped beside him. As he did so, she put an arm on his shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. Wallace was too far away to hear what she said but Benedict grinned and then said something in reply. She gave him an affectionate pat as she straightened.

  Nick Rand, big and blond and equally sun-tanned, had been watching with amusement and now he said: “How about me?”

  “Yes,” Fay said, her face tightening and her voice unmistakably hostile. “How about you, lover?”

  “I mean, I thought we were friends.”

  “So did I. For about two weeks. Or was it three? And you know something, big boy, you just might wish you’d kept it that way.”

  Rand turned back to his drink, new color showing beneath the tan and his expression suggesting that he wished he had kept his mouth shut. Then Fay had turned to a third man whose name was Joe Anderson. He looked to be about forty, with close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, a full mustache, tinted glasses, and, usually, a cigar in his mouth. An American who was developing some acreage in the hills, he had come twice to the bungalow to pick Fay up but to Wallace he still remained something of an enigma.

  Anderson had been watching the scene openly, and while his expression remained unchanged there was a glint of humor in the corner of his bespectacled eyes and Fay, with that odd perspicacity sometimes given to those who have had too much to drink, seemed to sense his amusement.

  “You think it’s funny, Joe?” she said coldly as she fingered the silver necklace. “If you can afford it, you can laugh out loud. Like maybe from the other side of your mouth.” Anderson shrugged and took the cigar from his mouth, his voice flat and gently phrased. “Still showing your muscles, Fay?”

  By that time Wallace had her by the arm. Understanding very little of the byplay and caring even less, he had but one thought in mind: to get her out of here. For he learned early in his marriage that where men were concerned Fay was a congenital troublemaker when she had been drinking, particularly in a bar. Once she was annoyed at you, she would deliberately take up with the nearest stranger and, no matter what he did, would at some point turn back to you, complain that the man had insulted her, and demand that you take steps, preferably violent
ones, to erase that insult. Now, wanting to avoid such a situation, Wallace said:

  “You were in a hurry, weren’t you? So lets go.”

  Somewhat to his surprise she offered no reply or any resistance to the pressure on her arm. She started for the entrance as Wallace kept pace, and they went down the steps to the car. She said nothing at all on the way back to the bungalow, and when he resumed the discussion of the divorce she let him talk but made no comment so that by the time they came into the living room and turned on the lights his patience had been exhausted.

  It probably would have been smarter under the circumstances to have dropped the subject until another time, but at the moment his aggravation prevented him from thinking logically. He had tried his best to do so without losing his temper. He had no explanation for the sudden change in his wife’s attitude but he made one more attempt to open the subject in a reasonable manner.

  “Now look, Fay,” he said, “I’m tired of the run-around.”

  “So am I,” Fay said. “I mean I’m tired of your complaints. So why don’t you just shove off.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you want something more specific, I want you to get out of here. Get in your little car and get lost.”

  For a long moment he looked at her, not understanding the request even though he knew she meant what she said. He tried once more to keep his temper in check, but it had been simmering too long to be ignored. His angular face was still and pale at the cheekbones and his skin had become hot and shiny with perspiration. He took a breath and concentrated on keeping his voice even.

  “All right,” he said. “I’ve leaned over backward to do the right thing. I made it as easy as I could. If you don’t want it like that, it’s time to try the other way.”

  “What other way?”

  “If you’re not going to get the divorce, I will.”

  “How?” She made a small sniffing sound that was openly contemptuous. “Just tell me that, Davy boy.”

  “By getting evidence that will stand up in any court. You’ve been chasing around with other men ever since you got here. I can name three,” he said and went on in the same quick aggressive tone to tell her what he knew about Rand and Benedict and Anderson. He spoke of waiting in the car to see who she went with, of the time he had followed her and Rand.

  “Until now,” he said, “I’d hoped maybe you could trap one of them but I guess they’re too smart for you. Or maybe they don’t like what you have to offer. So instead of giving you more money I’m going to find out who you go with and where you go. I’m going to have them start digging back into other times—”

  He was standing close to her, watching the red mouth twist and the bright hot glints in her brown, mascaraed eyes, but he was not prepared for her reaction and could only stare at her as she tipped her head back and laughed loudly.

  “Yes, you will,” she said, when she got her breath.

  “Will what?”

  “Put private investigators on me. Because if you do I’ll scream about that tall dark cupcake you’ve been sneaking around the island with.”

  For a second or two he could only stare at her, his mouth slack and his eyes wide open. He had heard each word distinctly. He knew what they meant, but before he could absorb their implication his emotional response changed swiftly from shock and rage to an odd sort of horror that left him momentarily defenseless. As though sensing this, Fay laughed again.

  “I don’t know how it’s been going lately, but I know her name and where she lives. I also know you didn’t spend all your time painting on those trips to Mayaro Bay and Maracas Beach . . . What’s the matter, Davy boy? Does that surprise you?”

  In that instant he hated this woman and the cold and narrowed glints in the brown eyes told him that she had much the same feeling for him. Not knowing how much she knew and how much was no more than a wild guess, he made one more effort to preserve his self-control.

  “You’ll find no grounds for divorce in anything I’ve done here, Fay. If you can’t say the same, look out. I’m going to find out all there is to know. If your conduct these past weeks hasn’t been one hundred per cent lily-white—”

  She hit him before he could finish. She had put the straw basket on the table or she probably would have used that. As it was, her right hand rocked his head as her palm caught the side of his jaw, and his own hand moved instinctively, like the automatic counterpunch of an experienced boxer.

  But habit was strong and his hand checked in mid-air as memory flashed a warning. In that same instant when the urge to strike back flared in him, he was reminded again of that other time he had lost his head and the violence in him had exploded uncontrollably. They had been married about a year then and there was little left between them that had any value. Their arguments had become increasingly bitter and they had come in late from some party to resume the accusations and counter-accusations that had started at dinner. He could no longer remember the cause of that fight but the climax to the scene had never lost its vividness.

  He had been drinking earlier in the hope of obliterating Fay’s complaints. She had also taken more than usual and the alcohol had only magnified a mood that was ugly, resentful, and malicious. She had slapped him before but the normal streak of violence that most men gave vent to when sufficiently aroused had been manageable; this time she had used her fist and, not thinking, wanting only to retaliate as he would to a man, he slapped back. When she screamed and struck at him he slapped her again, and the screaming continued, and the next thing he knew he had her by the throat and there was no more screaming. He never knew what stopped him but somehow he found himself on the street, still trembling with shock and fear and thanking God that he had been able to regain part of his sanity and let go of her throat in time.

  The police were waiting when he came back, and having heard Fay’s complaint they took him to the precinct house. He spent the rest of the night in detention but by morning his lawyer had gone to work on Fay and, for reasons she had never explained, she had refused to press charges and the matter was dropped. It was not the last time she had tried to slap him. She seemed to know that he would not dare retaliate, but he had learned to sense the moment, to move his head or grab her wrist or keep his hands tucked in his pockets. . . .

  It was that way now as his hand changed course before it reached her. Instead of returning the slap, he caught her arm near the shoulder. He felt her try to twist away. He could hear her scream vulgar phrases at him, saw the distorted violence in her face. Before he could let go, she grabbed at his wrist and in trying to wrench it away her fingers clawed his hand, the nails raking the back of it.

  The brief sense of pain was enough to snap what had nearly been another moment of insanity. His rage was still constant but it was cold, calculating, and controlled now. He looked at the back of his hand and the three parallel grooves that were slowly changing from pink to red. As he started to breathe again, he realized he was shaking. He turned away, afraid to look at her, knowing that he had once again come too close to the edge of violence. The thought of what he might have done sickened and scared him and he knew he needed to get away before something else happened to rekindle the ugly impulse that had nearly possessed him.

  He went out quickly, hearing her call after him but not understanding anything she said. He had trouble fitting the key into the ignition but when it was done the car started at once and he backed from the lean-to and turned down the lane.

  4

  Dave Wallace pulled up at the side of the road and stopped the little sedan once he had reached the highway and headed toward town because he was still shaking and it took a conscious mental effort to steer properly. Evenings in Trinidad were usually pleasantly cool after the humid heat of the day, but this did not seem to help much. His face was hot and sweaty and so were the palms of his hands. He could feel his shirt clinging to the small of his back and he sat watching the lights of the passing cars until his breathing became more regular. When
, finally, he got a cigarette going, he put the car in gear and gave his attention to the traffic.

  For a while then he was not too aware of his progress or his surroundings. He remembered passing the square, white, pile-supported yacht club with its long boardwalks. Farther on, on the left, he noticed, as he so often did, the ancient gray-stone buildings of the House of Refuge, a polite name for the poor house. The sight of the Queens Park Cricket Club reminded him that he was back in town and, with still no definite destination in his conscious mind, it was with some surprise that he found himself opposite the gateway to the Tavern. There was no good reason why he should have returned to the place he had so recently left, but he knew now that he needed a drink and he turned into the courtyard without delay. As he parked, his headlights flashed briefly on another car that was just leaving and he thought he saw Neil Benedict behind the wheel. He did not wonder about it then because he was intent on the drink, and once inside the Tavern he was glad he had come because business was slack and there would be no need for polite conversation with some chance acquaintance.

  In the dining room only a few tables were occupied now, and the bar was empty except for two young couples at one end who were busy playing darts. He ordered a brandy and soda, and when it came he said:

  “Was that Mr. Benedict who just left?”

  “Oh, yes sir.” The East Indian barman flashed white teeth. “Just now, sir.”

  Pie glanced at the clock over the bar and saw it was 9:45. “What about Mr. Rand and Mr. Anderson?”

  “Oh, they leave too, sir. Maybe ten minutes ago. Not more.”

  “Pretty quiet tonight.”

  “Very quiet Tuesday evenings.”

  Wallace nodded and sipped his drink. He lit another cigarette and held his left hand out, the fingers spread and palm down. When he saw that there was no noticeable tremor he examined his thoughts and found there was no longer any violence in him. All that remained was a constant and unshakable feeling of resentment that seemed to expand as his mind went back.