by Jim Thompson
“Mmm,” he took a sip of the whiskey. “Go on.”
“But she didn’t keep that appointment. She told someone else about it and whoever that was came and killed Eggleston. In other words, her escort wasn’t just important to her. In fact”—I hesitated, “it wasn’t as important to her as it was to others, the murderer, for example.”
“How,” he said, “do you figure that?”
“Because she didn’t handle it herself. It wouldn’t have meant enough to her to commit murder, and murder had to be done. Therefore she wasn’t allowed to keep the appointment.”
“I see. Good reasoning,” he nodded.
“Not very,” I said. “Or you wouldn’t say so. It all rests on the assumption that it was Mrs. Luther who telephoned there to the office tonight. I’m sure now that it wasn’t.”
He laughed and made a pass at slapping me on the knee. I drew my leg back.
“This isn’t getting you anywhere, Pat,” he said, sobering. “I told you I’d straighten everything out for you when the proper time came. Now, why don’t you just forget it all for the present and we’ll have a good talk some day soon when you’re not so upset?”
“I’d like to know now,” I said. “What do you want with me? You and Doc and whoever’s working with you?”
“I’m sorry, Pat. I—”
“Dammit,” I said. “You’re going to have to tell me sometime. You want me on your side of the fence, and I can’t be there unless I know your plans. Now what is it?”
“You’re a very smart young man, Pat. Far too shrewd for my liking.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And I won’t be ready for you to act for several weeks yet. Probably a month or so. If I explained things now, well—you see why I can’t. Why take chances, particularly when I don’t have to?”
“I see,” I said. “You want to spring it on me suddenly. Without giving me a chance to think. I’ll have to jump one of two ways and yours will look the best.”
“Well, Pat?”
“You want me to kill Doc,” I said. “Why?”
“Now, Pat”—he laughed nervously—“where do you get that idea?”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll kill him. I’ve had about all I can take. I’m going to do it tonight and then I’m skipping out.”
“Pat!” He gripped my arm. “You mustn’t. Not now. I mean—I—”
I shook off his arm, grinning at him. “Not now,” I said. “But later. That’s it, isn’t it? You do want me to kill him. Let’s have the rest of it.”
“I’ve got nothing more to say, Pat. You’d better leave.”
I nodded and got up. And then my hand went out in a stiff-arm, and he shot backwards off of the ottoman. I dived over the coffee table and on top of him, straddling his chest.
I grabbed up a whiskey glass and struck the rim against the coffee table. Part of it fell away, and I gripped it by the base, holding the long jagged splinters above his face.
His eyes rolled, and he stopped squirming.
“All right,” I said. “I’m waiting.”
“This”—he gasped—“this won’t get you anywhere, Pat.”
“Talk.”
“Don’t talk,” said a voice behind me, and something hard and round and cold pressed against the back of my neck. “Betcha I’ll shoot if you don’t get up from there, honey. Betcha.”
23
I dropped the glass and stood up, my hands raised. I turned around. She was grinning that cute crinkled grin, and her brown eyes were dancing with gay good humor.
“Whatsa matter, baby? Aren’t ums glad to see mama?”
“God!” I said “God Almighty!”
“Poor, poor baby. So sweet and trusting and obliging with Madeline…and all for a little petting. He didn’t even get to sleep with her.”
“No,” I said. “I didn’t. I’ve got that to be thankful for at least.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she said, grinning again. “Sour grapes, don’t you think so, Bill?”
“Very sour,” said Hardesty.
He had risen from the floor and kicked the glass into the fireplace, and now he moved over to her side and put his arm around her.
She leaned against him, her crisp brown hair brushing against his neck. She took his hand into one of hers and raised it up and pressed it tightly against her breast.
“There,” she said, comfortably. “Hold the gun, will you, Bill? It makes my li’l fingers tired.”
Hardesty took the gun and dropped it into his pocket. “We won’t need that,” he said. “Pat’s ready to listen to reason, aren’t you, Pat?”
“Reason,” I said. “Reason.”
“I’m sorry, boy,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Some things you can only do the hard way and this is one of them. You’ve never had a chance. You’ve been licked from the start.”
“So I see,” I said, dully.
“Doc knows you’ve been seeing Madeline. You were supposed to see her. You were bound to see that something was wrong, to be disturbed about it. It was Madeline’s job to keep you from taking any action. Let you take it out in talk, more or less.”
“Never mind,” I said. “I understand. I guess I’ve understood from the beginning. I just wouldn’t let myself believe it was true.”
Madeline’s grin faded. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Pat. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I told you to see me before you did anything, and you promised you would. If you’d kept that promise, this wouldn’t have happened.”
“I don’t think you’d better say any more,” I said. “I’m afraid if you keep on talking to me I’ll try to kill you, and nothing will stop me but being killed. You don’t want that. Yet. It would spoil your plans.”
Hardesty shook his head, sympathetically. “We are sorry, Pat, believe me. I hope there’s no hard feelings?”
“Over her?” I laughed shortly. “All right, I’m going now.”
“Like another drink first?”
“No,” I said and I started for the door.
Madeline’s voice stopped me.
“Wait, Pat! No, wait, this is business!…Bill, maybe we should tell him, now. That car, I’m worried about that. Doc shouldn’t have bought it so soon.”
“You mean the one for—for Pat’s birthday?” Hardesty made a gesture of disgust. “Of course, he shouldn’t have, but you know Doc. He’s always got to be a jump ahead of everyone else, even if he jumps in the ditch.”
“But this is different. He wouldn’t go in for gestures at a time like this. I’ve got a feeling that—”
“Nonsense. This Arnholt deal breaks tomorrow night. It’ll take him at least a month to wind it up, follow it through the legislature and collect. How could he—he—”
Their eyes met, and he jerked his head at me. She nodded slowly.
“I suppose you’re right. We’ll be in a terrible spot if you aren’t.”
“Of course, I’m right,” said Hardesty. “Pat, I don’t want to seem discourteous, but perhaps…”
I heard a suppressed laugh as I went out the door.
…I drank a great deal of whiskey that night, and the more I drank the more sober I became.
Around midnight, when the stuff was virtually running out my ears, I went into the bathroom and vomited for what seemed like hours. When it was all out of me, I started drinking again and I kept on until I fell asleep.
In this fine house I went to bed drunk, with my clothes on, for the first time in my life.
24
A long hot and cold shower and a close shave did wonders toward pulling me together. Afterwards, I had one short drink and got the morning paper from beneath the door.
Eggleston’s picture and a half-column story about him were on the front page. Since the dead man had not been robbed, it was believed that:
…the private detective, long a familiar figure in divorce court proceedings, may have unearthed secrets which someone—probably a client—felt it unsafe for him to know.
; “I’m almost certain that our tall red-haired stranger and the murderer are the same man,” Det. Lt. Rube Hastings declared. “Probably he only intended to throw a scare into Eggleston. Judging by his actions, I’d say that was what he had in mind. He walked up to the office, fearing perhaps that the elevator operator might want to accompany an after-hours caller. But he didn’t mind being seen by the operator, as he would have if he’d contemplated murder.
“Something made him decide that he’d have to kill Eggleston, or perhaps he lost his temper. Then he realized that he’d have to get the body out of the building. The time of death could be approximated, and his presence in the building could be established. The only solution was to remove the body and hide it.
“The facts that the murderer apparently was well acquainted with Eggleston and feared identification prove that he is a local man who intends to remain here,” according to Hastings. He was unable to explain why a permanent resident of the city was driving a car with an out-of-state license, but…
He wouldn’t be unable to explain very long. Not if he was only half as bright as this story made him out to be. This was Capital City. There were hundreds of cars here with official license plates, the white plates with the square S at each end. That cop last night had only got a glimpse of my plates, and he’d put them down as belonging to some other state. But he wouldn’t be long in changing his mind, having it changed by Det. Lt. Hastings.
I got the wallet out of my trousers and counted the money it contained. Only nine dollars, but there was a hundred and fifty more in the drawer of my writing desk. Doc had said it would be right there until he could get time to go to the bank with me.
A hundred and fifty-nine dollars. I could travel quite a ways on that if I had to.
I took a look at the clock, scooped up the clothes I had worn the night before and put them in the closet. The elevator operator had said I was wearing a dark suit—it was blue—black shoes—they were tan—and a gray hat—correct. I laid out a brown hat, a light gray suit, and brown-and-white oxfords.
I finished dressing and picked up the paper again. Another front-page picture and story caught my eye:
PHALANX LEADER SPEAKS TONIGHT
Fanning Arnholt, president of the National Phalanx and authority on subversive activities, will open his state-wide lecture series tonight with an address at 8:30 in Orpheum Hall.
Speaking on “Our Schools—Battleground of the Underground,” Arnholt is expected to launch an all-out attack on a large group of textbooks which he claims are subversive. His appearance here is sponsored by local chapters of the Phalanx.
“The scarlet poison of Un-Americanism is flowing unchecked through the educational arteries of this great state,” the noted patriotic leader declared upon his arrival here last night. “The antidote is an aroused citizenry which will force its legislative representatives into the proper and drastic action…”
So that Doc’s crowd could make one last raid on the treasury.
I tossed the paper aside, and got up to help Henry with the breakfast tray. I told him to take everything back but the toast, orange juice and coffee. He fidgeted around the table, uncomfortably, doing everything twice.
“Something on your mind, Henry?” I asked.
“Well—” he hesitated, “you know that money you had, Mr. Cosgrove? There in your desk?”
I nodded. “What about it?”
“Well…I don’t know whether you noticed yet or not, but it’s gone. Dr. Luther took it. I thought I’d better tell you in case it slips his mind, since Willie and I are in your room so much.”
“I understand,” I said. “Did the doctor say why he was taking it?”
“No, sir. He just came in while I was cleaning up yesterday and got it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Thanks for telling me, Henry. I won’t mention that you said anything.”
He gave me a grateful smile and left. I sat down at the table and munched at a piece of toast.
Nine dollars. Nine instead of a hundred and fifty-nine.
Sipping my suddenly tasteless orange juice, I knew what his explanation would be. Without looking around, I knew something else: that he was there in the room with me.
I don’t know whether Henry had left the door ajar, or whether he had opened it very quietly. But he was standing there, leaning against the wall, staring at me reflectively through the thick-rimmed glasses.
I poured coffee, took a swallow of it, and half-turned my head. “Good morning, Doc. Coffee?”
“Good morning, Pat,” he said, tiredly. “No, thanks.”
He crossed to the bed and sat down. I turned my back again and went on with my breakfast, listening to the rattle of the newspaper.
“Pat.”
“Yes, Doc?”
“I took the money you had in your desk. I thought we’d get that bank account opened for you.”
“Fine,” I said.
“I won’t be able to get down today, though. Maybe we can make it tomorrow.”
“Fine,” I repeated. For I had expected that, and what else was there for me to say?
The paper rattled again, and there was another long silence. I drank my coffee and waited. Waited for him to read the story about Eggleston. To re-read it, perhaps, and then stare at me, looking at my hair and my clothes and remembering that I had been out late last night.
His voice was overly casual when he spoke.
“That’s a nice-looking outfit you have on, Pat. I don’t believe I’ve seen you in it before.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I thought I’d put on something light with the weather getting so warm.”
I heard him light a cigarette. I even heard his slow meditative puffing.
“Why don’t you drive your own car today, Pat? The battery’s apt to run down if you don’t drive it once in a while.”
“I think I will,” I said.
“You can put the state car here in the garage.”
“Thank you. I’ll do that.”
He didn’t speak again until I was drinking the last of my coffee, coffee that I didn’t want. “By the way, Pat—that group I’m having in tonight. I’d like to use your room for them, if you don’t mind.”
“Anything you say, Doc,” I said.
“We’ll have to shift the furniture around a bit. Bring in some other chairs, and so on. If you can get your dinner outside it’ll give us a chance to get everything ready before our guests get here.”
“I’ll be glad to help,” I said.
“No, no. Henry and Willie can take care of everything. Just drop in at eight-thirty, or a few minutes before, rather. We’ll be listening to a radio program, and I don’t want anyone coming in after it’s started.”
I nodded and turned around.
He got up from the bed and sauntered toward the door, his eyes shifting so that they avoided mine.
“It’s a tough world isn’t it, Pat?” he said, in a tired flat voice.
“I used to think so,” I said, “until you came along.”
“What do you mean by that?” He flicked me a sharp glance.
“I was referring to all you’d done for me,” I said. “The clothes, the job, the car, the home, the—well, the friendship you’ve given me. Unselfishly. Simply because I needed help. How can I feel it’s a bad world as long as there’s a man like you in it?”
A slow flush spread over his face. His lower lip drew back from beneath the protruding teeth.
“See you tonight, Pat,” he said abruptly, and the door slammed behind him.
25
I called Rita Kennedy’s office.
I heard the sharp intake of her breath as I identified myself.
“I’ve got some more of the forms ready,” I said. “I wonder if you’d like me to bring them in today?”
“I—don’t bother,” she said. “Just forget about them. And leave your car at home. We’ll send someone to pick it up in a day or two.”
“Oh,” I said. “You mean I’m fired?”
“I’m sorry, Pat. Your check will be drawn up as of the close of business last night. We’re unable to keep a man like you on the payroll. That…that isn’t any reflection on your work, you understand.”
I understood. There’d been inquiries already and Rita had answered them truthfully. “A tall red-haired man? No, we have no one like that.”
“When will I receive the check?” I asked.
“It’ll be several days, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t wait on it.”
“I’m broke, Miss Kennedy,” I said.
“Broke!” she said. “Oh, good lord!” And then the concern went out of her voice and it was as clipped and curt as it had been at our first meeting. “That’s too bad, Pat. I’ve done all I can. Much more than I should have.”
“I know,” I said. “I appreciate it.”
“Don’t bother to thank me for it. Ever. I haven’t really done anything. I can’t be expected to remember everyone who ever worked for us.”
“Of course not,” I said. “Good-bye, Miss Kennedy.”
“Pat.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Why did you do it?”
“I didn’t. But I’ll never be able to convince anyone of the fact.”
“Did it have something to do with Doc?”
“Something,” I said. “But I don’t know what.”
There was a short disbelieving laugh, and then the click of the receiver. That ended me with Rita Kennedy. As far as she was concerned, I no longer existed.
It was too late, now, to turn to Myrtle Briscoe. I couldn’t go to her now, with a rap for murder hanging over me.
I drove downtown, cruising slowly past the building where Eggleston had had his offices. There wasn’t anything to see there, of course. It was just something to do, some way of killing part of the long day ahead of me. Perhaps the last day of freedom I’d have. If I’d had my way I’d have stayed at the house. But Doc had made it very clear that he didn’t want me there before tonight, and going back would mean bringing on a showdown. I was going to have to face one very soon, but there was no sense in jumping toward it. If Doc was certain that I was going to be washed up, he’d be the first man to throw a bucket of water. He’d feel that he had to, regardless of what his plans had been for me.
