Fires That Destroy

by Harry Whittington

  The drinks in Dugan’s weren’t strong enough any more. She’d learned to concoct her own whisky sours in the solitary loneliness of her Rockledge Motel cottage. She was preparing one in the kitchenette when the doorbell rang.

  It was her sixth drink of the evening and she moved unsteadily across the front room and opened the door.

  “Ah, Mr. Rockledge Motel,” she said to the owner of the court. “Come in. Come in. Fix you a drink. Know how to fix drinks in a whiffy. Mean jiffy. You’ll love it.”

  “No. No, Mrs. Brandon. Not this evening.” The manager looked uncomfortable. “As a matter of fact, you see, I’ve a kind of unpleasant duty. Don’t like to say anything. Like my people to be content as long as they stay here. You folks been here some weeks now...” His voice trailed off.

  “Loved it. Loved every god-derned minute of it, Mr. Rockledge Motel. May I call you Rocky? Come in and have a little drinky, Rocky. Got some lovely stuff. Untouched by human humans. You got unpleasant duty. You need a drink.”

  “No. Really. Some other evening. You see, Mrs. Rawlins—that’s my wife—”

  “You mean your little ol’ name is not Rockledge?”

  “Oh, no. I’m George Rawlins. From up in Cedar Rapids. Rawlins is my name. Just called this place Rockledge—”

  “Spare me the gory details, Rocky. Can’t see why you called this place Rockledge. Haven’t even stepped on a bitty stone since I been here. Hasn’t kept me from hatin’ every minute of it, though.”

  “Well, that’s it. You see, my wife thinks maybe you and your husband might be happier in some other court or hotel.”

  “What’s the matter? We too noisy? We pay you ninety dollars a week, and we too noisy? That’s the matter? The sound of my breaking heart too loud, huh? Can’t stand the sound?”

  “Oh, no. No. Like to have my folks happy. Just with Mr. Brandon coming in all hours, and then noise and lights in your place, why, it disturbs a lot of the other folks. So Mrs. Rawlins said if you could maybe find yourselves a new place by Saturday—”

  “The old heave-ho.”

  “Why, not at all.”

  “Mounts to same thing. You better come in and have a drink. Maybe she’ll be throwing you out next.”

  Rawlins laughed in a frightened way. “Well, I’m glad you understand. Didn’t want any trouble. Hate trouble.”

  She stepped back. “No trouble. I’ll pack my little husband by Saturday. You tell Mrs. Rawlins.”

  He nodded and hurried away.

  For a moment after he was gone, Bernice stood in the center of the room. The world wheeled and whirled about her head. She was sure she was going to start spinning through space. And she thought that would be a good idea. Only she needed one more drink first.

  She got a highball from the kitchen and returned to the small front room. She faced herself in the tinted wall mirror. It was no good. Not all the changes she’d made in herself could make Carlos love her.

  She finished off the drink, draining the glass. She set the glass down on the table and turning, walked steadily, like someone walking an impossibly straight line, into the bedroom.

  She fumbled in the top drawer of her dresser. A smile played about her painted mouth when she came up with her purse. She opened this and scratched inside until she found a small oblong envelope.

  She dropped the purse back in the drawer, closed it, and staggered over to the bed. She sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and tore the end off the envelope.

  She held it up and shook it. A small red vial plopped out onto the folds of the spread.

  She smiled at it. She wondered what was in it. It had cost her almost a thousand dollars. Dugan had looked scared as hell when he’d handed it to her. “Don’t come back in here any more,” he had said evenly, his face pale. He took her money and shoved it in his pocket without even counting it. “I’m telling you, Bernice, don’t come back.”

  Well, she wasn’t coming back. Not any more.

  She clutched the red vial in her moist right hand. She got up and marched stiffly back to the front room. She pulled a chair over to where she could watch her made-to-order beauty in that tinted mirror. The whispers were stirring again, a hundred times stronger than ever. But now they were pleasant, and Bernice smiled and kept smiling into that mirror.

  She looked about the cottage. The honeymoon cottage. Of course Carlos wasn’t here tonight. And of course they were going to be heaved out at the end of the week. But God knew she would be glad to go. She hated the place. And dear Carlos wasn’t ever home any more. It was a place of loneliness, a place of bitterness, where she sat and remembered what she had done to Lloyd Deerman, the way she’d shoved him, the way he’d fallen...

  And the worst of it was, she’d told herself that if things had been different she could have been happy. If Carlos had loved her, she could have kept Lloyd out of her mind. Now she knew better. You couldn’t take a life and live with yourself afterward. No matter what had happened to her, it would have been like this. She couldn’t have run fast enough. There was no place far enough. She carried her guilt with her wherever she went.

  She found a fresh fifth of whisky and a fragile cocktail glass. She kicked a straight chair out of her way as she returned to the mirror. She smiled at her reflection. She’d make her own whisky sour. With red bitters from the little vial.

  Whisky had always been an escape. Escape from Carlos’ greediness. Escape from the terror of her nightmares. Now death was going to be the final escape.

  She snapped the head off the vial. A shocking, pungent odor burned her nostrils. She felt her heart flutter crazily.

  She could feel her fingers weaken, trembling as she poured the red stuff into the empty cocktail glass. With a pleased smile at her own forlorn little joke, she tipped in two drops of lemon. She filled it slowly to the brim with amber shadowy liquor.

  She stared at the trembling ripples on the surface of the glass. Well, it had been a hell of a short life and a bitter one. Poor, plain little Bernice Harper. She’d killed the man who loved her. She’d taken a life, and now she was going to give one back.

  She felt weak in the backs of her knees. Her legs trembled.

  “I’m not going to be able to drink it standing up, after all,” she said aloud.

  She sat down, her knees drawn up, on the ottoman before Carlos’ easy chair. Easy chair. Easy. Her bitter eyes raked across his framed photograph. Grinning. Handsome as hell. Cruel as hell. Took everything. Gave nothing in return. Not much longer, my friend.

  The liquor winked at her from the cocktail glass.

  Suddenly she stood up.

  “No!” she said aloud. “He won’t have my money. What a damn fool thing I was about to do!”

  She crossed the room on shaky legs.

  In her bedroom she brought the money from its secret hiding place. Funny, she’d always been able to hide things so no one could find them. Not even Carlos had ever been able to find her money. Now he never would.

  She was glad she’d never dared put the money in a bank. She’d been afraid of questions. She feared questions. And the money was always safe enough with her as long as she lived. As long as she kept it hidden from Carlos. And he’d never found her secret hiding place.

  She walked stiffly back to her vanity chair.

  She met her eyes in the mirror. Her gaze moved to the stacks of money in her hands, and then back to her tear-streaked face, unbrushed hair, dress that was less than her best.

  She’d been drinking and that explained the glassiness of her eyes. But the disarray of her hair she couldn’t explain at all.

  She stacked the money on the vanity before her. She took a long time with creams and lotions and powders on her face, and worked until all the streaks and all the signs of crying were gone. She began to brush her hair, taking careful strokes. The wavelets and curls flipped into place and she had the Soonin halo effect. She grinned, pleased as hell.

  She stood up and pulled off the dress, ripping it and letting it fall on
the floor at her feet. From her closet she took the most fragile white net evening dress that Elhanner had shown her. She caught her breath, looking at it. The white material rustling in her fingers was almost gossamer. Her underthings weren’t nice enough for the dress and she stripped them off, her fingers trembling.

  The sheer stockings, the slippers, the white panties and white bra, the white slip were all donned with care and yet with a frantic speed. Bernice didn’t even know what compelled her to hurry. The new underthings felt so good against her flesh that Bernice stood still a moment, enjoying the sensual pleasure of their caress. Then she held the dress high over her head, stretching her arms, pulling firm breasts high as the tenuous white netting slid down over her.

  She pulled the dress into place, ran the brush once more quickly through her hair. She pirouetted before the mirror, admiring her reflection. They’d done a terrific job. Soonin’s. Elhanner. And Carlos. How she’d loved him when he’d been interested in changing her! It had made her love him more than ever. He’d cared and he’d wanted her to look lovely. That’s what she thought. He didn’t give a damn what she looked like. He didn’t give a damn for anything but the green of her money.

  She sat down and slowly counted the green flat bills. She was astonished to find that they were already more than half gone.

  She looked at them with loathing. Something more than eight thousand dollars. Murder money. What had it bought her? A fast ticket to hell on earth, and nothing else. And she’d been about to die and leave it for Carlos to throw away on his wenches. She was damned if she would!

  She giggled, feeling the urge for another drink. She looked at the cocktail, leering up at her. “Oh, no,” she said. “I’m not quite ready for you yet.”

  Weaving as she walked, she got the fifth. She held it up to her mouth and drank lustily. She could feel it burn all the way to her painted toenails. Stars and prisms pinwheeled behind her eyes, and she almost gagged.

  Listing slightly, she crossed the room, holding her arms out for invisible supports. From the writing desk she got several large white envelopes. She carried them back to the chair and began stuffing the flat green bills into them.

  When they were all sealed, she had a thick stack before her. She got her fountain pen. Scrawlingly, she addressed the envelopes to every charity she could think of. She wrote painfully, pinching the pen in her fingers, squinting through her glamour glasses.

  She kept writing until all the envelopes were addressed. Some of the charities were duplicated. She didn’t give a damn. Sweat was beaded across her forehead. She threw the pen on the desk. All she cared was that she was keeping Carlos from getting that money.

  Smiling her secretive satisfaction, Bernice moved about the room, stuffing the envelopes under books, behind the breadbox in the kitchenette, behind Carlos’ grinning photograph. She kept moving until all the letters were hidden.

  Sighing expansively, she returned to the ottoman. Sitting down upon it, she looked at the cocktail.

  The quick lethal drink. Then she’d call the police. She’d tell them to investigate so they’d find the money addressed to the charities. What a wonderful, bitter joke on Carlos!

  She regarded the cocktail. It looked so harmless. She was suddenly afraid she might not have time to call the police after she drank it.

  Maybe the pain would be intense. Not that she cared. Still, it might make talking over the telephone impossible.

  She got up, went to the telephone. She calmly dialed the police.

  “Hello. I want a detective.”

  “What kind of detective, lady?”

  “You got all kinds?”

  “Sure. What kind you want?”

  “One that can get over here in a hurry. Tell him he better get over to the Rockledge Motel in a hurry. Won’t help. Goin’ to be too late. But hurry.”

  “What’s your name, sister?”

  “Brandon. Bernice Brandon.”

  “Yeah? What kind of game is this?”

  “No time for games, friend. Sorry. You asked me too late. One dance too late. This one is on the house.” She repeated her address. The policeman was still sputtering into the telephone. She dropped the receiver back to its cradle.

  She walked back to the ottoman. Every step she took made ripples on the surface of her cocktail. She sat down before it.

  She reached out her hand. The door opened behind her, and slammed.

  Carlos said, “Bernice!”

  Nineteen

  She froze. She let her hand sink to her side. She turned on the ottoman, watching Carlos stride into the room.

  Tears stung her eyes. He was so handsome. So everything she wanted. She had killed, she had changed her life to have him. She shook her head. Damn him. She’d had nothing she wanted. Living in hell. Married to the devil.

  “I need fifty dollars, Bernice.”

  For a moment she frowned as though she hadn’t heard him. Then she began to laugh.

  He strode close to her. “Stop that laughing, damn you. You’re drunk. I never saw anybody so drunk. Is that the only way you can stand yourself, Bernice?” His laugh was harsh. “Maybe I could stand you if I got drunk enough. Poor, starved little Bernice. Poor, empty little Bernice. Sorry I can’t stay and hold your head. I’ve got a date. I need fifty dollars. Stop laughing and get it for me.”

  She stopped laughing and stared at him, her face stark. “Get it yourself. I haven’t got fifty dollars. It’s all gone. You’ve taken it all. There isn’t any more, Carlos. You’ve had the last penny you’re ever going to get from me!”

  His voice was a snarl. “I happen to know better. I know about you, Bernice. That blind guy you lived with settled plenty on you before he died. I gambled on that, and that’s one time I won. Why do you think I married you?”

  “Stop it!” she wailed at him. “Haven’t you done enough? You’ve taken everything from me! Leave me something!”

  He looked around the room. His face was white. His mouth pulled wide in a wolfish grin. He said, “Sure, I’ll leave you something.”

  He strode about the room. He jerked open drawers, leaving them open.

  Bernice laughed at him through her tears. “You’ll have to be quieter. Or did you know? They’re throwing us out at the end of the week.”

  He didn’t answer her. He was looking behind the pictures on the wall. They hung crookedly when he moved on. She watched him intently, but a dozen furry images of him moved before her. He ripped the place apart searching for her money. She didn’t move from the ottoman. She made no attempt to stop him.

  “It’s here somewhere!” Carlos rasped. “A checkbook. Something. You’ve got money, baby, and I’m going to have it.”

  As he heeled around, his swinging arm knocked over his grinning picture. The envelope toppled to the floor. She sucked in a quick breath and moved a little.

  Carlos stared at her. He leaned over and picked up the envelope. She listened to his whoop of laughter when he read the address aloud. He ripped open the envelope and pocketed the money without even counting it.

  The room was a shambles when he was through.

  As he found each new envelope, he read it gleefully, ripped it open, and stuffed the money in his pockets.

  He strode over to her. “So you didn’t have any more money, eh, Bernice? So I’ve taken the last thing from you, have I?” His mouth twisted. “I haven’t started to take!”

  He grasped up the cocktail she’d fixed for herself. He said mockingly, “Do you mind?”

  She opened her mouth to protest.

  She closed it. She got up and backed away from him as he drank. She sank against the wall, her hands at her sides, watching him.

  She watched him enter hell. His insides cooked, seared, and shriveled, and she could see that in his face. She knew it was happening. His eyes watered. His face was grooved with agony. He began to rail and curse at her. He started toward her, fists doubled. But he didn’t make it. Eyes bleak, she watched him twist and stagger and fall at her f
eet.

  Twenty

  Bernice was still staring at him when the police came.

  It was a long time before she was aware of them at all. The room filled, at first slowly, and then rapidly like a hopper when the grain spills in too swiftly. There were only the Clearwater police and Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins. Then the county police arrived, and the men from the sheriff’s office, the coroner, and the constable. They started talking to her but she continued staring at Carlos’ body.

  The constable was a heavy, broad-shouldered man with a harried, honest face. He talked with the coroner. He came over to Bernice. “The doctor reports that your husband was poisoned, Mrs. Brandon,” he said. “Could you tell us what happened?”

  Bernice lifted her head, but she only stared at him, thinking only that her eyes ached.

  She let her gaze move about the room. The cottage that had never belonged to her at all now belonged to these strangers, these busy and impersonal men.

  They were photographing everything. There was scarcely a moment when there wasn’t a bulb flash, the click of shutters. An industrious little man was working with tape measure, pencil, and pad. They were dusting the furniture and taking fingerprints. A detective was questioning Mr. and Mrs. Rawlins. Mrs. Rawlins was sobbing. They might as well close up, she sobbed, and go back to Iowa. They were ruined here. No one would ever come to Rockledge after this awful scandal.

  “Don’t be silly, lady,” the constable said. Bernice stared at him.

  “What do you mean?” Mrs. Rawlins sniffled.

  “This is the best publicity you could ever get,” the constable replied. “Here’s a woman who murdered a man. A man with his pockets crammed with money. There’s your motive. A clever, scheming woman who used a man and then discarded him. And she lived here at your place.”

  Everyone in the room was looking at Bernice.

  “Sure,” said the constable. “They were living pretty royally down here. Cadillac. Ninety bucks a week for this little nest. All the liquor they could drink. There’s the money. What happened here tonight? Was this Brandon trying to leave this woman? Is that what happened? He was going to leave her, and he was taking all his money. I think when she starts to talk, that’s what she’ll tell us.” He leaned over Bernice again. “Is that it? He was leaving and you were frantic? Maybe he had some other woman? He had money and you didn’t want to share it. You wanted it all. And you killed him for it, didn’t you?”