Never Say No To A Killer

by Clifton Adams

  “What the hell is this!”

  “Nothing yet,” I said, getting into the back seat. “Just stay where you are. Don't move or make a sound.”

  “By God, if you think...!”

  I jammed the muzzle into his throat and he almost fainted. “Listen to me, punk, and listen good! I want you to sit there like a goddamn statue. You move one muscle and I'll blow the roof of your mouth through your skull!”

  He could be a very smart boy when it suited him. He didn't move a muscle. He sat just like a statue. I leaned over the back of the seat, moving the muzzle of the .38 until it was pressing against the base of his skull, then I patted him down. He wore a .38 automatic in a shoulder holster, just like in the movies. His only trouble was that automatic might as well have been a chocolate bar, for all the good it had done him. He hadn't even made a move in its direction.

  I never cared for automatics. There are too many things to go wrong with them. I shoved it in my coat pocket, then reached back with one hand and pulled down the folding jump seat by the door.

  “If it's money,” he said tightly, “I ain't got any.”

  “It isn't money,” I said.

  “What is it, then? For God's sake, what is it?”

  “All right, Humphrey,” I said, “I'll tell you what it is. I'm going to kill your boss. When he come out of that apartment building, you're going to just sit there behind the wheel and say nothing and do nothing. Is that clear?”

  “Kill Mr. Burton? Why?”

  “I've got my reasons, Humphrey.”

  “For Christ's sake, Mr. Burton's the finest guy in the world! Why in the world would you want to kill him?”

  “He's so goddamn nice, why does he dress his chauffeur in a .38?”

  “Jeez, for protection!”

  I laughed. “A fine lot of protection he's going to get out of you, Humphrey. I wouldn't be at all surprised if you didn't lose your job over this.”

  He was sweating plenty. I kept grinding the muzzle of my revolver into the back of his neck and I could see the nervous sweat oozing out on his face.

  “Jeez, won't you take that thing out of my neck!”

  “Sorry, Humphrey, it's necessary. It's a reminder of what will happen to you if you should feel any hero impulse coming on.”

  He sat very still and quiet for several minutes, and so did I. After a while I heard a soft hiss, a bare whisper of a hiss, and then I recognized it as the vacuum stop on the apartment building's front door. Then a figure grew out of the darkness, heading toward the limousine.

  “Remember, Humphrey.”

  He whimpered a little. A very small whimper.

  Then suddenly the night was alive with noise. The twin air horns on that limousine exploded a steady stream of sound into the darkness. I jerked my pistol out of Humphrey's neck and clubbed him with the barrel. I hit him again and again, and finally the noise of the horns stopped as abruptly as it had begun. I jumped out of the car and almost ran over Burton.

  “Listen,” I said, jamming the revolver hard into his gut, “you make one sound and you're dead! You understand that?”

  “What... What's going on here! Where's Robert!”

  “If Robert's your chauffeur he's nursing a fractured skull. Now get in under the wheel and do it quick!”

  “No!” His eyes were wild. He was completely panic stricken. He tried to shove himself away from me, and I knew immediately that it would have to be done here and now.

  To muffle the sound I jammed the muzzle hard into his soft stomach—still the noise sounded like a TNT plant going up when I pulled the trigger. Burton's mouth flew open. He started clawing at his middle, but that action was pure reflex. Alex Burton had died almost instantly.

  His body was a hell of a thing to handle. He had weighed almost two hundred pounds and there didn't seem to be any place to grab hold. However, I did manage to get him in the back seat and close the door. Then I got under the wheel of the limousine, after shoving Humphrey down to the floorboards, and got away from there. It seemed incredible to me that the street wasn't filled with people—horns blasting, guns exploding!

  The noise, I guess, hadn't been nearly as loud as it had seemed to me, but it had been plenty loud enough.

  For a moment all I could think of was getting away from that neighborhood as fast as possible, but soon I began to settle down. The excitement and wildness, the exhilaration born of sudden violence, began to cool in my brain and I thought: Hold it, Surratt! This is no time to risk a reckless driving charge, not with a dead man in the car, an ex-governor at that! Maybe a dead ex-governor and a dead chauffeur as well.

  Traffic was pretty thin on the side streets at that time of night, and I kept going south and east, not knowing where I was going, but knowing that I had to get that limousine and the bodies as far away from the apartment as possible. Pretty soon we were, in the factory district again, not far from Burton's own plant, and I decided that this would be as good a place as any. This part of town was drab, dead and lifeless at this time of night; the buildings standing gaunt and empty-eyed. I turned into a narrow brick paved street, a private one-way street that would be jammed in the daytime with trucks loading and unloading at one of the factories, but now it was empty.

  I stopped the limousine and listened. There was no sound at all in the immediate neighborhood. Only then did I examine the chauffeur. He was dead.

  With my handkerchief I wiped the steering wheel, the dash, the doors, the windows, everything I might have touched. Then I wiped Humphrey's automatic and left it on the front seat—I had no use for automatics, and it wouldn't have been smart to keep it if I had.

  I had one good look at Burton before I left. He didn't look like much. His mouth was open, as though he were trying to yell, and his eyes were open, very wide. He looked like the most surprised bastard in the world.

  I felt pretty good.

  It had come off very nicely. The one man in Lake City who had had the power and brains to buck John Venci was dead. It was clear sailing now; the single danger had been eliminated. I said aloud, “Sweet dreams, boys,” and walked away.

  I turned west and saw a bar at the end of the block. Up ahead, in the middle of the next block there was an all night eating place—I went in and ordered a glass of milk and a piece of pie. Later I called a taxi, and when he arrived I gave the driver an address down town. Downtown I took another cab and went to an address south-east, and from there I took still another cab to within a couple of blocks of my apartment. It took some time, but it would be worth it when the cops went to work.

  It was about one o'clock when I finally walked into my apartment. I had company. It was Dorris Venci.

  I said, “Well, for a woman who never wanted to see me again, you pop up in some pretty strange places.”

  “I had to know!” she said quickly. “Did you...?”

  “I did.”

  “... Oh.”

  I closed the door, walked into the room and dropped into a chair. She sat on the sofa with her hands clasped in her lap, every muscle in her body as rigid as steel. “Are... Are you sure?” she said nervously.

  “I give you my personal guarantee; you can stop worrying about Burton's hoodlums coming in your windows and you can stop worrying about being killed.

  “Relax, now. You're going to fly all to pieces one of these days if you don't learn how to relax.” I was tired. It had been a very successful day, but it had also been a wearing one. “Why don't you go home,” I said, “and try to get some sleep?”

  She stared at her hands. “Yes... I suppose I should.”

  But she didn't move.

  “Well,” I said, “you might as well come out with it.”

  “What?”

  “You didn't come here just to find out about Burton. All you had to do was lift the phone; I would have told you. No, you came here because you've got something on your mind, so what is it?”

  She looked at me. “Don't you know?”

  Suddenly I wasn't as tired as I
thought I was. Still, there was caution in the back of my brain and it kept nudging me.

  “Yes,” she said flatly, “You know. And John. The only two people in the world who knew, or guessed, or could... satisfy... this awful sickness in my soul.”

  “It's not as monstrous as you think,” I said. “Matter of fact, it is fairly common.”

  More than anything in the world she wanted to run. She wanted to run from the apartment, from me, from herself most of all, but she couldn't move.

  I knew what the end of this was going to be. I didn't know if it was smart, and at that moment I didn't care, but the longer I looked at Dorris Venci the more desirable she became. She was really a hell of a woman, especially at a time like this.

  I stared at her and could think of nothing else. The vision of Pat Kelso was swept from my brain completely and a bright blue flame took its place. I grabbed her arm, just below the wrist joint, and began to squeeze. I dug my fingers in the most sensitive area, between the two flexon tendons, and applied sharp pressure to the median nerve.

  Her reaction was instant and violent. The shock went through her, shook her. She came off the couch and threw herself at me. “Now! Now!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE NEWSPAPERS made a hell of a racket about the Burton killing. I had expected headlines, and maybe even a front page editorial, but I hadn't expected anything like what really happened. For a whole week there was nothing but Alex Burton.

  According to newspaper editorialists and radio commentators, St. Francis of Assisi had been an outright scoundrel, compared to Alex Burton. A feature story on Burton's life ran to twelve installments. Preachers made him a martyr, used him as a subject for a number of sermons. A song writer composed something called Alex Burton, Friend Of The Common Man. A citizens' committee was formed and issued an ultimatum to the police department: get Alex Burton's murderer, or else!

  The craziest thing about the whole affair, though, was that every man, woman and child in Lake City believed every word they read or heard concerning the late Alex Burton. They thought of him as a kindly man who loved children, headed charity organizations, gave Thanksgiving and Christmas baskets to the needy; they thought of him as a tower of righteousness and strength. They thought of him as being on just one small step below God Himself!

  Not only after his death, which might be explained as emotional hysteria, but they had believed it while he was alive! They had begged him to run for a second term as Governor—this thieving, knavish, pompous bastard who had robbed them blind during his political lifetime, had bled the State white, had committed every crime in the book, including murder, and I had the evidence to prove it! It was incredible that a man could have duped so many people so thoroughly, but Alex Burton had managed it.

  All in all, it rather amused me. This hullabaloo was the most damaging comment imaginable on the intellect of the common herd. John Venci, too, would have appreciated a joke like this.

  From John Venci's strongbox I selected the name of Parker King, a wealthy state senator, to go to work on. Politicians are easier to convince than most men; they have more to be afraid of. So Senator King seemed an excellent prospect. At the same time, as I looked into King's background, there was Dorris Venci who had to reckoned with. The task was not unpleasant, not in the least, so long as we kept it purely biological. And, too, there was Pat Kelso.

  For me, Pat completed the circle. King promised the prospect of violence that I had to have to feel alive. Dorris offered biological satisfaction which I needed to keep my brain honed to the necessary sharpness. Pat Kelso... she was everything else.

  I went after her.

  “Why, hello there!”

  I had tried several things since Burton's funeral: A few words at the mailbox, brief, senseless conversations in the hallway of our apartment building. Those tactics hadn't got me anywhere, so I had come right out to the Burton factory where she still worked.

  It was quitting time and she had come out with all the other office workers this time. No chauffeur to pick her up in a limousine and whisk her off to the University Club. Burton's death had brought Pat Kelso down in the world somewhat, but it hadn't brought her off her queenly bearing.

  I said, “Remember me? I'm your neighbor. William O'Connor from across the hall.”

  “... Oh, yes,” smiling faintly. “I didn't know you worked here, Mr. O'Connor.”

  I laughed. “I don't work here, I just came out to see a friend who does. Charlie Burkett, in Advertising. Maybe you know him.”

  “No, I'm afraid I don't.” We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, the white-collar parade going past on either side.

  “Miss Kelso,” I said, and she paused for a moment, half turning. “I was just thinking, Miss Kelso, I'm going back to the apartment myself.”

  No smile this time. “I'm sorry, Mr. O'Connor, I'd rather....”

  She left it hanging, nodded, then walked on by herself. Well, by God, I thought, this kind of thing has got to stop! I'm getting pretty goddamn tired of women looking at me like I was something pickled in formaldehyde. I followed her.

  I said, “All right, I didn't come out here to see a friend, and I never knew a Charlie Burkett.”

  Anyway, it stopped her, it surprised her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Miss Kelso,” I said, “don't you think it's about time you joined the Living?”

  She frowned, “Really, Mr. O'Connor, I don't know...”

  “Yes, you do,” I said. “I've tried just about everything in the book to get to know you better, and finally I tried this; you know it.”

  People were staring at us, and that bothered her. I took her arm and helped her into a waiting taxi, then got in beside her. I said to the driver, “The Lake Hotel,” then settled back and looked at her.

  She was not afraid, merely curious. “You are very persuasive person, Mr. O'Connor,” she said dryly.

  “Yes, I can be persuasive if the occasion calls for it.”

  Unsmiling, she looked at me, strangely, as though she was seeing me for the first time. She said, “What did you mean when you said it was time I joined the Living?”

  “It's pretty obvious to an interested observer. You haven't been anywhere, seen anybody, you haven't even smiled since Alex Burton was killed.”

  She looked as though I had slapped her. “Relax,” I said. It seemed that I was always telling women to relax. “It's not exactly a secret, is it, that Alex Burton and his secretary were...”

  “I'll thank you,” she hissed, “to keep out of my life, Mr. O'Connor!”

  I shrugged.

  “And I'm not going to the Lake Hotel with you, or anywhere else! I'm going home!”

  “I had hoped I wouldn't have to bring this up,” I said, “but you leave me no alternative. It's a little awkward for me; for a while I thought about telling it to the police, but then I thought what the hell, there's no use spoiling a nice girl's life.” I grinned. “You are a nice girl, aren't you, Miss Kelso?”

  She didn't know what I was getting at, but she was doing some pretty fast guessing, and she didn't like it. I said, “It was pure accident, understand, that I happened to see Burton entering your apartment just about the time he was killed, according to the police coroner. After all, we are neighbors, and a person does get curious about his neighbors sometimes. Of course, at the time, I thought you would tell the police yourself—but I understand now that it would have placed you in an—unfavorable light, so I really don't blame you. Still, it is information that the police might...”

  “What do you want!” she said hoarsely.

  “Want?” Lord, she was beautiful! Her eyes blazed with anger and every inch of her was alive.

  “My wants are very simple,” I said. “I'm a lonely guy in a strange town. I want a bottle of good wine, a good meal, and a beautiful girl to keep me company—the most natural desires in the world.”

  She said one word, under her breath, and not a very nice word at that.

  I
laughed. “You won't believe this, but I almost never make a good impression on people. That has always seemed unfair, because I'm a lovable guy when you get to know me.”

  “I'll bet!”

  I liked this. I had a feeling that under that mask of hers was something very exciting. Then the cab stopped and I was surprised to see that we were already in the heart of town, at the Lake Hotel.

  “Fine!” I paid the driver, assisted her from the cab.

  Pat seemed to know her way around so I said, “The choice is up to you. There must be a good saloon somewhere in this place.” The decor in the African Room was extremely modern and angular and not much to my taste, but it was better than anything I had seen for five years so I didn't complain.

  I looked at Pat when the waiter arrived and she said, “Martini, five-to-one.”

  I looked at the waiter and he nodded that he had the order. I said, “Bourbon on the rocks,” and he went away.

  We said nothing until the drinks arrived and the waiter went away again. Then she looked at me, angrily. “Now I want to know the reason for all this!”

  “I told you, I was lonely.”

  “I don't feel like jokes. What is it you want?”

  “I told you what I wanted. Maybe it's strange, but it's the truth.”

  “Understand one thing,” she said tightly. “I don't have to stand for this... this caveman performance of yours. I have friends...”

  “Have you?” I said. “Alex Burton had people in debt to him and might have called them friends, but they don't count now.”

  Color crept high in her face. “I must have been insane,” she said, “when I allowed you to drag me into that taxi. I thought... I don't know what I thought. But I know one thing, I've had enough.” She stood up.

  I said, “Sit down!”

  She didn't move.

  I came half out of my chair. “Listen to me!” I said. “You try to leave this room and I'll cause the goddamnedest scene you ever saw! I'll tie you up with the Burton murder and get your name in headlines if I have to print the papers myself! Now sit down!”