The Complete Stories, Vol. 1: Final Reckonings

by Robert Bloch

  I held the revolver and stared at George's broad back. He was working swiftly with the trowel, closing off the opening entirely and smoothing it over.

  I loaded the revolver, cocked it, and stared again. Ten feet away from me was a perfect target. It was an easy shot. The fool would never know what hit him.

  That was the whole trouble, of course. He'd never know what hit him.

  And I wanted him to know. Somewhere, deep down inside, even an ape like George had the ability to think, to realize. The trick lay in finding a method that would stimulate his imagination.

  So I put down the revolver and walked over to him.

  "Looks like you're finished," I said.

  He nodded and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. An animal odor came from his armpits.

  "Yeah. This stuff sure does a swell job. It's getting hard already. I just got to smooth it off a little more."

  "Never mind." I stepped back. "You look as if you could use a beer."

  He grinned and followed me over to the portable refrigerator in the corner. I took out a bottle of beer and opened it for him. He gulped gratefully. The bottle was empty before he bothered to look up and remark, "Aren't you drinking?"

  I shook my head.

  "Not around firearms, George." I pointed to the cases on the table. "Say, Mr. Logan, I always meant to ask you something. How come a fella like you collects guns?"

  "Why not? It's a fairly common hobby."

  "But I never seen you shoot one."

  I walked over and fished out another beer, uncapped it and handed it to him.

  "Perhaps I don't collect them to shoot, George," I told him. "Perhaps I just collect them as symbols. Take this Colt, for example." I held it up. "My admiration for the black barrel has nothing to do with ballistics. When I look at it, I see a thousand stories. A story for every bullet fired. Scenes of violence and danger, of high drama and low melodrama."

  "Sort of appeals to your imagination, is that it?"

  "Precisely." I handed him another beer. "Go ahead, George," I said. "I've got to clean out the refrigerator anyway. This is our last day, you know. Might as well celebrate."

  He nodded. But he didn't look as though he was in a mood for celebrating our departure. The ice-cold beer, downed rapidly, was beginning to take effect. Just a few bottles on a hot day will do the trick—particularly after violent exertion. I saw to it that another was ready before he had finished this one. He drank quickly, noisily, his neck bulging, his thick lips greedily encircling the mouth of the bottle. On his face was the absorbed look of an animal oblivious to everything except the immediate satisfaction of his appetite.

  I picked up the Colt again and walked over to the cemented portion of the wall. With my left hand I rubbed the solidifying surface. "Marvelous stuff," I said. "Why, it's hard already. And perfectly dry."

  He grunted. He put down the empty bottle and reached for the full one, his fifth. I waited until he had taken a healthy swig. Then I bent down and put my head next to the wall.

  "What's that sound?" I asked.

  He looked up. "I don't hear no sound."

  "Mice," I said. "Back in there."

  "Or rats, like you told me." He nodded.

  "No, I rather think this is a mouse. The squeaking is so shrill Can't you hear it?"

  "I don't hear nothing."

  He came over and stooped. His hand brushed the Colt and I drew it away. "I still can't hear nothing."

  "Well, it doesn't matter. This job is airtight, isn't it?"

  "Sure."

  "Then whatever's inside will suffocate in a few minutes or so." I smiled at him. "You must be deaf to the high tones, George. I heard that sound all during the time you were cementing the wall."

  "What's the matter, it bother you, thinking about the mouse?"

  "Not particularly, George."

  "Anyways, there won't be no more getting through. This wall is really solid, now."

  He thumped it with his fist. "I done a pretty good job."

  "Yes, you certainly did. And it's your last one, too." I went over to the refrigerator. "Which reminds me, it's time we settled up. But first, let's have another drink."

  George glanced at his wristwatch. "Well, I dunno, Mr. Logan. Maybe I better be running along. I got some business over to Dalton. . . ."

  Yes, he had business in Dalton, all right. He wanted to run over and see Louise. Maybe they'd have time to say goodbye again, the way they had last night before I'd arrived. Or before they knew I had arrived. But I saw them then, and I could see them now in my imagination.

  It took a lot of effort for me to shut out the picture of what I had seen, but I did it. I even grinned back at George. And I held out the bottle and said, "Just one more, for old times' sake. And if you don't mind, I'll join you."

  I took out a bottle for myself, opened it, raised it. With my left hand I picked up the Colt again.

  He lifted his beer and belched. The sound echoed through the cellar like a revolver shot.

  'A little toast might be in order," I said.

  "Go ahead."

  I smiled. "Here's to freedom."

  He started to drink, then pulled the bottle away from his lips. I watched the crease form in his sweating forehead. "Freedom?"

  I shrugged. "There's no sense trying to keep any secrets," I said. "After all, you're almost like one of the family, in a way."

  "I don't get it."

  "You will."

  "What's this business about freedom?"

  "Mrs. Logan," I said. "Louise."

  He put the beer down on the table. "Yeah?"

  "We've separated."

  "Sep — "

  "That's right, George." I turned my head. "Do you hear anything from behind the wall?"

  "No. But what's all this about separating? You have a fight or something?"

  "Nothing like that. It was all very sudden. You might say it was completely unexpected, at least as far as she was concerned. But I thought you might like to know."

  "Isn't she over to Dalton, then?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  "You mean she went away already today?"

  "You might say that."

  "Look here, Logan, just what are you driving at? What's the big idea of— "

  I cocked my head toward the wall. "Are you sure you don't hear anything, George?"

  "What's there to hear?"

  "I thought she might be telling you goodbye."

  He got it, then.

  "Jesus, no! Logan, you're kidding me!" I smiled.

  His eyes began to bulge. I watched his hand curl around the mouth of the beer bottle. And I brought the muzzle of the Colt up until he could see it.

  "Put it down, George. It won't do you any good. I've killed a mouse. What makes you think I'd be afraid to kill a rat?"

  He put the bottle down. The minute he let go, his hands started to tremble. "Logan, you couldn't've done it, not you. You wouldn't — "

  I inched the revolver up higher, and he flinched back. "That's right," I said. "I couldn't have. You and Louise were so certain about me, weren't you? You decided I couldn't do anything. I couldn't suspect, couldn't see what was going on right under my eyes. And if I did find out, I couldn't do anything about it, because I'm a poor weak fool. Well, you were wrong, George. And Louise was wrong. I wonder if she can hear me now, eh?" I raised my voice. "Are you listening, Louise?"

  George moved back against the wall, his mouth twitching. "You're lying," he said. "You didn't kill her."

  "That's right. I didn't kill her. She was quite alive when I was finished. I merely saw to it that her arms and legs were bound tightly, so that she couldn't thresh around, and that the gag was firmly in place. Then I lifted her up into the hole and waited for you to come."

  His face was whiter than the wall.

  "You can understand why, can't you, George? Even an ape has enough imagination to appreciate the situation. Quite a joke, isn't it? You cementing up the wall, and all the while I knew you were
killing her. And to make it even funnier, she knew it too, of course. She lay in that black hole, trying to cry out to you, while you sealed her up in a airless tomb, in a darkness that is worse than night, in the darkness of death — "

  "You're crazy!"

  I saw his muscles flex, his neck tighten. "Take one step," I said, "and I'll blow your face off."

  He moved then, but away from me. He went to the wall and he began to pound on it. The cement held.

  "No use," I said. "It's solid. You did a good job, George. Your last job, and your best. Besides, it wouldn't be any use now. The air couldn't have lasted this long. She's gone."

  He turned, panting. He held up his hands, and they were red. "Crazy!" he gasped. "No wonder she was scared of you, hated you. No human being could think of a thing like that."

  I smiled. "Yes they could, George. Haven't you ever read any books? Did you ever hear of Edgar Allan Poe? The Black Cat, or Cask of Amontillado? I guess not, George. You've always been too busy living, haven't you? And Louise was the same way. You believe in action, and you despise people like me. You say we've always got our noses buried in a book, while you're the practical ones, the go-getters. You're proud because you take what you want from life. And you laugh at us. I'll bet you and Louise laughed at me a lot. Now it's my turn."

  "You — you can't get away with it!"

  "Why not?"

  I'll tell. I'll get the sheriff on you!"

  "No you won't. You're an accessory, George. Don't forget, you walled her up. And if you go to the sheriff I'll have my story. I'll tell him we were both in on it together, that I'd promised you half of her insurance. She has quite a lot of insurance, George. I'll tell the sheriff how you walled her up alive, while she writhed and kicked and tried to scream, knowing you were killing her. Not me, George. You!"

  He almost rushed me, then. I took the first step forward and at the sight of the Colt he wilted. When I laughed, he put his hands over his ears.

  "A pity she didn't listen to you last night, George, when you kept urging her not to wait until I came. You wanted her to drop everything and run away right then and there. You could get a ranger's job in Montana, wasn't that it? And nobody would ever know. Only she had to be practical. She wanted to stick around and draw the money out of the bank first. Wasn't that it?"

  "You heard us?"

  "Of course. I parked down the road and came up under the window. Then I went back and drove in, the way I always do. You didn't even have time to plan how you two would meet and arrange for your getaway, did you, George? You couldn't even say goodbye properly. Well, do it now. There's a chance in a thousand that she can still hear you."

  His eyes were glassy. It wasn't the heat and it wasn't the beer. He was shaking, whimpering.

  "Hurry up, George. Tell the lady goodbye. Tell the lovely lady goodbye before she takes her last breath, before she gasps the last gulp of air into her lungs and feels them burn and shrivel. She'll die fast, George, if she isn't dead already. And then she'll crumble. She won't rot, because it's dry in there. There'll be no odor. She'll just mummify. Her limbs will turn to brown leather, and her hair will become brittle and drop out, and her skin will flake and her eyes will finally coagulate in their sockets. But on what's left of her face you'll still be able to see an expression. You'll be able to see how she was at the moment when she died with that last silent scream for mercy. She's screaming at you now. Can't you hear her? She's screaming, 'George, help me! Get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out —' "

  George made a sound deep in his chest. Then he blinked and ran for the stairs. I didn't try to stop him. I let him thud up the steps, listened as he thundered through the kitchen, slammed the door.

  It was very quiet in the cellar after that. I put the Colt away in its case, but first I took the precaution of unloading it and wiping off the barrel and the butt.

  Then I took the empty bottles and stacked them neatly in the corner.

  I finished George's beer and drank my own. And after that, I went upstairs.

  There was nothing left to do now but wait.

  I must have had two or three more beers while I was waiting. I got them from the big refrigerator in the kitchen and carried them into the front room so that they'd be handy while I read. I picked up my copy of Poe, and not by accident. I wondered if his treatment of the situation was as melodramatic as mine had been. Perhaps not, but then, I had my reasons. In retrospect, what I had said to George seemed a bit silly and overdrawn, but it served a purpose.

  After a while, I got absorbed in my reading. Say what you will, Poe had a wonderful imagination, and I can appreciate that.

  It was almost dusk when I heard a tapping on the door. I thought of Poe's raven, and put the book aside.

  "Come in," I said.

  It wasn't Poe's raven, of course.

  "Hello, Louise." I smiled up at her. "Did you get everything accomplished?"

  "Yes, darling." She sat down, and I noticed just the hint of a frown on her face.

  "What's wrong?"

  "Nothing. But something odd happened to me on the way back."

  "So?"

  "I was coming along the County Trunk, just about opposite the Beedsley place, when a state trooper pulled up alongside me."

  "Speeding?"

  "Of course not, silly. You know I never do over fifty. But he asked for my driver's license, and then he did a funny thing. He made me get out of the car and come over to the motorcycle. And he had me talk into the squawk-box. I think that's what he called it, anyway."

  "What on earth for?"

  "He didn't tell me. All I know is I had to give my name to the sheriff. And then he said he was sorry to trouble me, but I'd saved him a trip out here for nothing. And he let me go. I asked him what this was all about, and he just shrugged and said there'd been a little misunderstanding but this cleared everything up. Can you figure it out, darling?"

  I smiled. "Perhaps," I said. "But maybe we'd better talk about it some other time. I don't want you getting all upset over nothing on our last night here."

  "Darling, tell me. I insist!"

  "Well, we had a little excitement around here, too," I told her. "Remember George Parker was supposed to come over and put in that cement?"

  "Yes, that's right." She hesitated. I watched her. It was pleasant to watch her, to sense the way she was waiting for what I'd say next. If I could have, I'd been willing to prolong that particular moment forever. But finally I let it go.

  "Well, he never showed up," I said. I could almost feel the way she sighed with relief. "So finally I went ahead and did it myself."

  "Poor dear. You must be tired."

  "You don't understand. That isn't the excitement I was talking about."

  "N-no?"

  Again I let her wait, savoring the moment. Then I went on, knowing there was a better moment to come. "But along about four, Sheriff Taylor called up, wanting to know where you were. Of course I told him, and I imagine that's why the troopers were out trying to locate you."

  "But whatever for?"

  "Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"

  "Please."

  "It's a rather unpleasant situation, apparently. It seems our friend George has suffered some sort of nervous breakdown."

  "George?"

  "Rather incredible, isn't it? Always seemed like such a stolid, unimaginative fellow, too. You've seen a bit more of him than I did, and I'm sure you wouldn't say he was the sensitive type, would you?"

  "Tell me what's wrong, what's happened — "

  "If you wish. As I get it, friend George came bursting into the sheriff's office with an utterly fantastic story. At first they thought he'd been drinking, but apparently he was in a state of actual hysteria. It seems he was accusing me of murdering you and walling your body up in the cellar."

  "You're joking!"

  "That's what the sheriff told George, at first. Until he realized the poor fellow was almost out of his head with fear. Naturally, the sheriff ca
lled me and I told him to try and locate you. I'm glad he did. I'd hate to have us involved in any trouble just as we're ready to leave."

  I couldn't see her face in the dusk, so I got up and went over to her. She tried to turn away, but I held her and patted her shoulder. "There, there," I murmured. "I didn't want to upset you. Nothing to worry about. It's all over."

  "George!" Her voice started to break, but she controlled it. "How is he?"

  I sighed. "Stark staring, according to the sheriff. They called Doc Silvers right away. Unless he snaps out of it, he'll be committed. A pity, too — somebody said he was planning to take a ranger's job in Montana."

  Louise was shaking, but her voice was firm. "Did he say anything else?"

  "No. What more is there to say?"

  "Why did he think you'd try to kill me?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea. Funny about these strong, silent types. Once their imagination runs away with them, they can't seem to control it. They get keyed up to a certain pitch and then snap, all at once. I'm just glad it didn't happen when he was out here with you. There's no telling what he might have attempted." I laughed. "It may sound far-fetched to you, darling, but he could even have tried to assault you. Can you imagine being made love to by a lunatic?"

  She shuddered and buried her head against me.

  "Let's talk about something more cheerful," I said. "Here, have a beer." I could feel her sob.

  "Don't cry," I told her. "We're going away tomorrow, remember? Back to town. Just you and I. You needn't worry about George — they'll take care of him. You'll never have to see him again. Why, in a little while you'll forget all about him."

  "Y-yes. . ."

  "We're going to have a lot of fun together," I murmured. "That's a promise. I've got it all planned."

  And I have, of course. I wasn't lying to her.

  I intend to have quite a lot of fun with Louise, tonight. She's in the bedroom right now as I write this, sleeping. I gave her quite a strong sedative, but it will wear off in another half hour or so. Then she'll be wide awake again. And I want her to be wide awake.