Never Say No To A Killer

by Clifton Adams

  WIFE OF JOHN VENCI FOUND DEAD. CORONER SAYS SUICIDE

  So Dorris had done it.

  The first thing I felt was a sense of relief. Well, by God, I thought, I'm glad she had the guts to go through with it. I'm glad to have her off my neck!

  She had shot herself, using a little .22 automatic, and it had been a neat, workmanlike job, according to the paper. One bullet in the temple. Well, I thought, that's the end of that. It's just as well that she had ended it this way, for she would have ended up in a nut ward sooner or later if she hadn't.

  Then I thought of something that shook me. I thought: Wait a minute, Surratt. Dorris was pretty sore at you this morning when you brushed her off. Could that have had anything to do with her suicide? Could she have been sore enough to have left some incriminating evidence behind?

  Jesus! I thought, that's something to think about, all right!

  It was possible, I decided, just possible that Dorris had taken this big step because of me. If that was the way it had happened, it meant trouble. It very well could mean the end of Roy Surratt! What if she had left a note behind? What if she had talked to somebody—the district attorney, for instance—before taking the bottomless plunge to oblivion?

  It shook me. I devoured every word concerning the suicide, and then I went through it again very carefully to see if I could read anything between the lines.

  I could find nothing, feel nothing, sense nothing that might implicate me in the affair. It had happened around four in the afternoon, according to the newspaper. The maid was out of the house at the time. Dorris had simply gone to her room, locked herself in and shot herself with that toy automatic. The reporter quoted the maid as saying that Mrs. Venci had not been herself since her husband was killed, and it was implied that grief had been the driving motive behind the act of self-destruction.

  It was perfectly simple. The same story about the grief-stricken widow is printed every day, someplace or other.... It is so simple, I thought, that the whole thing stinks. Dorris Venci had been incapable of doing a thing simple and cleanly—I knew that better than any person alive.

  Any person alive...

  My experience with Stephen Calvart had made me acutely aware of the importance of staying alive. A man had to use his brain; and that is exactly what I did. If this thing was going to turn out to be more than a simple suicide, I had to know about it, and fast.

  The first thing I did was pick up the phone and call Dorris's number. That maid, that sour faced maid of Dorris's, she was the one who might be able to straighten me out. Finding the maid at the Venci house tonight was a longshot chance, and this wasn't the night for longshots to come in. I let the phone ring at least a dozen times and finally hung up.

  What had been that maid's name, anyway. Ethel? Edith? Ellen? That was it, Ellen, but I had no idea what her last name was or where she might be.

  But the police would know. The idea of going to the police for information amused me. I grinned, feeling a bit of the old excitement and elation return as I dialed the operator and got the number.

  “Hello,” I said soberly, “may I speak to the officer in charge of the Venci case?”

  “Who's callin', please?”

  “My name is Robert Manley. You see, I just got the news not more than two hours, ago, in this evening's paper, the Lake City Journal-Times, and I came just as fast as I could, but you see there was some sort of mix-up at the bus station, I missed my connection at Midburg, and that's the reason...”

  “Hold on a minute, will you! Now what's this about the Venci case?”

  “That's what I was telling you, officer. You see my Aunt Ellen has been in Mrs. Venci's employ all these years and...”

  “Will you please try to calm down, sir. Your Aunt Ellen, you said. Do you mean Ellen Foster, the Venci maid?”

  “Yes, of course, Aunt Ellen Foster. You see I live in Midburg, and Aunt Ellen is my aunt. My, that is a ridiculous statement, isn't it, officer, but I'm so upset, really, and Aunt Ellen was so devoted to Mrs. Venci...”

  “Please, sir,” the voice said wearily, “just what is it you're trying to say?”

  “Why I want to know where my Aunt Ellen is, of course! I called the Venci residence, but of course she wasn't there, what with that awful...”

  “All right, all right!” he almost growled. “Just hold on a minute.”

  I held on, grinning.

  “Here it is,” he said after a moment. “The investigating officer lists Mrs. Foster's present address as 1214 Stanley Road, a boarding house there, I believe.”

  “And the phone number, officer. I feel that I simply must call my aunt right away or...”

  “Jackson 4-1952.”

  “Thank you, officer, thank you very much!”

  He groaned and hung up.

  Yes sir, if you want information on police matters, then go to the police! Very obliging people, the police. I don't know what I would do without them! Still grinning, I hung up and after a few seconds dialed Jackson 4-1952.

  “Hello...” A toneless voice, peevish and edged with bitterness.

  “Mrs. Foster?”

  She admitted grudgingly that she was Mrs. Foster and that she had been Mrs. Venci's maid, then I identified myself as Captain Barlow of the police and that didn't do anything to sweeten her mood.

  “Sir,” she snapped, “I have nothing more to say about that horrible... accident. I told the police all I know, everything.”

  “Everything, Mrs. Foster?”

  Now her tone was indignant, but she didn't seem to think it strange that a police officer would do his questioning over a telephone, and at this time of night. “Sir,” she snapped, biting into the word, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean!”

  “No offense at all, Mrs. Foster,” I said soothingly, “and we realize that you have been through a lot, the shock and all. Of course we have your statement in our files, but I would appreciate it very much if you would tell it to me again, in your own words.”

  “Is this absolutely necessary, Captain? Really, I was most thorough in my report to the police a mere few hours ago. Couldn't it wait until tomorrow, at least.”

  “I'm afraid not, Mrs. Foster,” I said patiently. “This is an imposition on you, we realize it, and that is exactly the reason we decided not to call in person at this hour. I do hope you understand, Mrs. Foster, that police business must necessarily seem rather unusual at times to the citizen, but I assure you...”

  “All right, Captain,” she relented. “I have been aroused and awakened, and now please let us be as brief as possible. Actually, I do not see that I can add to my original statement... however, it was around three this afternoon when Mrs. Venci called me upstairs and asked about the shopping. As it happens, I was just going out to do the day's shopping, but she asked me to wait. She was writing a letter, she said. She wanted to finish the letter and have me mail it on the way to the market.”

  My heart missed a beat. The news story had not mentioned a letter.

  “... Mrs. Foster,” I said, “did you mail this letter, as Mrs. Venci asked you to do?”

  “Of course. It's all in my original statement.”

  “Yes,” I said, feeling my muscles begin to tighten. “Yes, of course.”

  “It's rather interesting,” she admitted grudgingly, “that you should call at this particular time, Captain. This afternoon your policemen were extremely curious about that letter, although I couldn't imagine why—and still can't, for that matter. They seemed anxious to know to whom the letter was addressed. I tried and tried to remember, but the name simply wouldn't come to me. Then, just as you called, a few moments ago, the strangest thing happened. The name came to me, Captain.”

  I heard myself saying, It did, Mrs. Foster?”

  “Yes. I remember glancing at the envelope, just to be sure that it was properly addressed for mailing. Keaslo. I feel quite sure that was the name.”

  It rang no bell. The name of Keaslo meant absolutely nothing to me. I took a long, dee
p breath. Maybe I was getting myself worked up over nothing. I said, “How about the first name or the address? Do you remember them.”

  “No, I'm afraid not, Captain. After all, it was just a glance, a mere precaution.”

  “I understand, Mrs. Foster. But about the address, was it local or out of town delivery? Can you remember that?”

  There was a moment of silence. Then, “Why, I believe it was a local address, one here in Lake City. But of course I can't be certain.”

  “... Yes.” I heard a curious pounding, and then realized that it was my heart knocking against my ribs. “Yes, I understand. Well, probably it means nothing at all, Mrs. Foster. Thank you very much for your co-operation.”

  “I should have called the police in any event, Captain,” she said. “After my remembering the name, I mean.”

  “Oh, you needn't do that,” I said quickly. “After all, I do have the information now, I mean, and...” I didn't go on. I could feel her hanging there in a sort of thoughtful vacuum. Mrs. Foster, is something wrong?”

  “... No, nothing is wrong, I was just thinking. Captain, I have the feeling that the letter was addressed to a woman. I don't remember the first name at all, but it is my impression that it was a woman's name.”

  “A woman's name?”

  ... And then it hit me!

  Keaslo. Kelso. They were similar—too much so to bear the weight of mere coincidence. “Mrs. Foster,” I said quickly, “I want you to give this serious thought. I want you to test your faculties of recall to the utmost. This woman's name, this name on the letter that you don't remember, was it Patricia?”

  There was only an instant's hesitation. “Why, Captain, I do believe it was!”

  I covered the mouthpiece and whistled softly. “Thank you, Mrs. Foster, thank you very much!”

  “Is that all, Captain?” She sounded disappointed now, as though she wanted to keep talking. But that memory of hers was getting a little too good. I wanted it to stop right where it was.

  I said, “That is all, Mrs. Foster. Good night.” And I hung up.

  So Dorris Venci had written a letter to Pat; and then, being assured that the letter would be mailed, she had put a bullet in her temple. An interesting situation, to say the very least.

  I dropped to a chair and sat there thinking about it for minutes. A breath of the breeze drifted into the front room and across my face—the night air seemed to hold an exceptional chill for that time of year.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THINGS LIKE THIS, I thought, are the things that can kill you. But how could I have predicted the actions of an eccentric mind like Dorris's? How could anyone have predicted them? Anybody else, acting on the same impulse, would have mailed the incriminating letter to the district attorney, or the police department, or maybe even to a newspaper or a citizens committee. But not Dorris. Oh no, she had to send the evidence directly to Pat, overlooking the scores of simpler and more direct possibilities.

  I wondered about that for a long while. What had been her motive? Jealousy? Hatred? Shame? Probably an equal amount of all three. If her aim had been to destroy me completely she needed only to point a finger of accusation in my direction—the cops would have taken care of the rest. They would have identified me and that would have been the end of Roy Surratt.

  It was bad enough as it was. If Pat got hold of that letter I was as good as dead. The way she had felt about Alex Burton, maybe she would try to kill me herself...

  And then I relaxed. I could even smile. This, I thought, is where brains and audacity pay off, because Pat will never see the letter. She will never know that I stood behind the gun that fired the bullet that killed her Alex, because I am going to intercept that letter.

  I was going to be at the mail box the next morning when the postman arrived, and I was going to get that letter, even if I had to kill somebody else; and that would be the last of my troubles from Dorris Venci.

  I felt fine once again. After a moment I picked up the phone and called Pat. The receiver came off the hook almost immediately.

  “This is your neighbor,” I said.

  “Well! I was beginning to wonder if I'd hear from you.”

  “I've been busy. It's been quite a day—to tell the truth, I'll be just as happy if I never have another one like it.”

  “It couldn't have been too bad,” she said. “You sound pretty pleased with yourself.” Then she laughed. “I'll buy ou a drink—unless you're still pouting, that is.”

  “I never pout,” I said. “It's stupid. If you don't get what you want the first time around it simply means your technique is all wrong, so you change techniques.”

  She laughed again and hung up.

  When I stepped into her apartment a few minutes later, it hit me all over again. By God, I thought, she's beautiful, truly beautiful!

  I hope you like scotch,” she said. “It's all I have.”

  “Scotch will do.”

  She was all wrapped up in a pale blue quilted house coat, looking about fifteen years younger than she actually was. She sat on the tweedy couch with her legs folded back, and there was a closed book in her hand and she was smiling.

  “Make yourself at home,” she said, and then unfolded slowly, lazily, stood up and walked to the kitchen. There was no doubt about it, she was the most beautiful girl I had ever known or seen.

  She came out of the kitchen with two drinks in old fashioned glasses.

  She laughed and handed me my drink. The book was put back in its place on the bookshelf, and Pat sat beside me on the couch. We sipped our drinks. I didn't care for scotch, but I drank it, trying not to stare at her, reminding myself not to grab.

  And I didn't grab. I liked it this way, just the way we were. I liked to hear her talk; I liked just being with her and looking at her. Christ, I thought, I didn't realize how exhausted I really am! This day had drained me completely, emotionally and physically, and all I wanted to do was sit still and let my muscles sag and look at Pat and think of nothing. Nothing important, anyway—such as that letter, or Calvart lying out there in a ditch on the brickyard road.

  Then Pat stopped talking and looked at me. “Is there something wrong?” I said.

  “No, I was just wondering about you. When you came in you looked so... vigorous. Now you look a hundred years old.”

  “Thank you, ma'am, for those kind words.”

  “You know what I mean,” she said. “You look as though you had been fighting the entire world single-handed.”

  “Baby, I don't suppose you'll ever know just how good a guess you just made. But it's nothing, really. I'm just beat, that's all.”

  She let it drop. Not one woman in ten million would have let it drop there, but Pat did. She merely shrugged, and then began talking about the scotch that we were drinking and how long she had had it. I lay back on the couch and smiled at her, and I wanted her more than I had ever wanted any woman in my life, but I didn't touch her, I didn't as much as lift a finger. When she was ready she would let me know.

  I turned my thoughts inward as she talked, and I thought what a hell of a pair we could make, Pat and I. Soon I would move out of the lousy apartment building and take her with me, and I would rent the biggest damn suite in the best hotel in Lake City, and we'd start living the way people like us ought to live.

  But first she had to come to me. She had to say, “Please take me with you,” and then I would take her. All I needed was patience.

  She was a queer one, though. She didn't ask questions —not many, anyway. She seemed to have no ambition. She had loved Alex Burton, but she seemed to have forgotten him completely—but, then, it was hard to tell about a woman like her, what she was thinking, what she really wanted. That coat, for instance. She had been as giddy as a bobby-soxer when I had given it to her, but now she seemed to have forgotten that, too.

  I don't know just how long I sat there, thinking of nothing in particular, and of everything in general. I thought of all my yesterdays as they might have been; all my t
omorrows as I, with my own two hands, my brain and my guts, would make them. Several minutes must have passed before I realized that I was listening to nothing but silence.

  I looked at Pat and she suddenly smiled. “You are tired, aren't you? I don't believe you heard a word I've been saying.”

  “Was it important?”

  She laughed softly. “What kind of a question is that? A lady's words are always important. To herself, at least.” Then she reached out a hand and touched my hair. I liked that very much. “Perhaps,” she said, “you should go to bed and get some sleep.”

  “I like it here, just the two of us.”

  “All right. But you must promise to keep up your end of the conversation.”

  I grinned at her. “That sounds reasonable, shall we discuss religion, politics, or the weather?”

  “What's wrong with O'Connor as a subject of conversation. Do you realize that I know absolutely nothing about you, except that you once worked your way through some college or other?”

  It was my turn to laugh. “That's a sore spot with me. I just don't like work, I guess.”

  “... What do you like, Mr. O'Connor.”

  That name kept throwing me. I couldn't get used to it— and, too, it reminded me of Dorris Venci who had given the name to me, and thinking of Dorris reminded me of that letter that I had to intercept, and it all got to be a vicious circle, or a net that had fallen around me, and I wondered if I would ever truly get completely out of it.

  “What do I like?” I said. “Well, I like you, I think.”

  “Now there is a left-handed sort of compliment, if I ever heard one!”

  “I didn't mean it to be.”

  “Anyway,” she said, “you must like other things. Money, perhaps.”

  “Money... of course I like the things that can be done with money, but I don't have much respect for it as such. Money is the easiest thing in the world to come by, if you know the secret and practice it.”

  “Well, I am sure that a great many people would love to have the secret. Would you mind telling me what it is?”