Murder Mistress

by Robert Colby

  She heard the sound again. Oh well, probably some salesman…. She sank back and began to soap herself.

  Clay had been terribly angry about the split in the first place. He should get a full fifty percent because without his information there would be no robbery, no knowledge of the half million and exact moment of its arrival. But he was over a barrel. He had to pay back the sixty-two thousand in fake loans. That left him only thirty-eight, not counting her twenty-five thousand. Which was strictly hers. Strictly. And Clay wanted to use Valerie to find out what Marty and Roy were doing with all that money. His mind was already at work.

  Then when he got a picture of Marty traveling alone with the money he came up with a perfectly marvelous, almost foolproof idea to take it away from him. Without his knowing how it was done — if he lived. And Roy just as much in the dark. What Clay did was to steal a car that couldn’t be identified by Marty, a car that wouldn’t even be missed. The car was in the garage of the big house and the people were gone. Clay told the locksmith he had lost his keys and the man made two complete sets. Then together they drove the Cadillac to Marty’s. Waiting in the darkness, they watched him leave.

  They took another route for awhile, a short cut. And got ahead of him. It was easy to figure his approximate traveling time since he wouldn’t dare run a mile over the speed limit. Out in the open country of the Everglades, they waited on a side road. As they waited there was a brief torrential downpour which must have delayed Marty, for he was later than expected. But eventually the familiar cream and red Olds flashed by. They gave it time, then pulled back on the highway and caught up. Marty was doing exactly sixty. They passed, Valerie on the floor, Clay with a hat pulled down on his head. Just a precaution. It was too dark to identify anyone.

  They sped on ahead for a little over a half hour at eighty, figuring Marty to be just a few minutes behind. They came to the gas station joint and Clay let Valerie walk from the intersection over to it as, out of sight, he swung around. She was to wait twenty minutes, though it shouldn’t take over ten since both cars would be speeding towards each other. Then she was to figure on trouble and take the bus or any other transportation she could get back to the house.

  Originally she was to be in the car for the wrecking of Marty so that she could drive down the road and circle back while Clay got the money, assisting him in any way possible. But waiting for Marty in the rain, Clay changed his mind. Though he was an excellent driver and had the element of surprise in his favor, bad luck might befall him — just as it did. Valerie could have been hurt.

  And now when all was done and the danger should have passed, it might be just beginning again.

  Valerie got out of the tub and slowly dried herself. She had just covered her nakedness with a negligee, when over the gurgle of the drain, she heard muted splintering of glass. It sounded like it came from the rear of the house. At the same time, the phone began to ring. Frantic, she didn’t know which way to run. But she had to determine the cause of that sound. She went to the back door just as Roy Whalen came smirking towards her from the kitchen. Distantly, the phone rang on and on.

  “Don’t you ever answer a knock?” said Roy, following as she backed off, not for a moment missing the way her body must be revealed through the flimsy dressing gown.

  “Are you crazy!” she cried. “Did you have to break a window?”

  “Would you have opened the door, sweetheart?”

  She could only stare at him, seeing in the glacial brightness of his eyes nothing but sensual cruelty. The phone, with a final angry trill, stopped ringing.

  “What do you want, Roy?”

  “What do you think?”

  “You’re wasting your time. You can talk with Clay. He’ll be here any minute now,” she lied. “Until then, please get out.”

  “Make me. His hand dropped on her shoulder, his fingers kneading her flesh. Fear clutched and paralyzed her. Fingers sought the neck of the gown and slid under.

  “Don’t, Roy. Please!”

  “I can’t hear you.” He was thoughtful. “Don’t you think,” he mused, “that I’m in a unique position? How many guys ever have it so good? Because what could you do? Call the police?” He snickered. “No, don’t run. You wouldn’t get three steps.” With a quick down-slice of his finger he caught the sash and applied pressure until it came undone. The gown opened.

  “That’s the trouble, Valerie. On this side of the law where can you turn? Except to one of us. Clay? Don’t kid me. I give him a couple of hours yet. Marty’s dead. So that leaves just you and me, baby. All by ourselves.”

  “You wouldn’t enjoy it, Roy. I’d fight you every step.”

  Strangely, if she wasn’t so frightened, she might have enjoyed it herself. For every now and then she became curious about these physical types within whom whirled a dynamo of force, silent and unseen, but charging the air with a feeling of stored energy.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” said Roy. “I’d get a boot out of taking it from you. On the other hand, be smart. Cooperation would be safer. Much safer. I could get carried away.”

  She saw instantly that he was right. A hideous idea was defining itself in her mind.

  “Is this what you came for, Roy?”

  “It was an afterthought,” he said. “But it kept growing on me.” He smiled, a humorless twist of the lips. “So it must have been there all the time.” He ran his hand along her thigh. “I came for two things. One of them was the money. But I’ll get both of them, Valerie. If I have to kill you to do it.”

  He meant it. There was no room for doubt in the set of his jaw. Of course, the money would be more difficult, resting as it was in a half-dozen safety deposit boxes around Palm Beach. But looking in the mirror of Roy’s eyes, she saw herself producing the keys, and then the ride in his car to some motel. And in the morning, Roy waiting behind her as she signed, opened boxes, delivered. All the signatures hers, since Clay had not dared show himself. And all the policemen in their cars and on the streets, beyond calling.

  “I should really attend to business first,” Roy continued. “Business before pleasure. But somehow, I can’t seem to concentrate. Isn’t that a funny one?”

  “Then hurry,” said Valerie. “You’re driving me insane!” She choked a sob.

  “Insane with passion,” said Roy. “Just can’t wait for me, baby. Is that it?”

  He wrenched the gown off her shoulders. It slithered to the floor. “Goddam. Goddam, now.” He whistled. “What I’ve been missing all these years. Man, oh man!”

  She turned her back on him and walked slowly towards the bedroom, knowing he’d follow.

  “Jesus,” said Roy as he closed the door. “Right in your own little nest — you and lover boy. Ain’t that sacrilegious!”

  She pulled down the cover and got between the sheets. Then she waited, turning her head as he began to undress.

  It was in those moments when he was most oblivious that her hand sneaked over to the night table and slowly eased back the drawer. The steel bulk of the .45 seemed immense and so much heavier than when Clay showed her its operation, saying, “Now if that bastard comes looking for trouble while I’m gone, don’t let him get near you. He’s dangerous and you wouldn’t have a chance with him, Val. I mean that. Now this is fully loaded, safety off. You pull this hammer back and then all you do is squeeze the trigger …”

  She understood this. But only in a vague sense, the awful power and dreadful finality in the use of such a weapon.

  As she lifted the pistol in her hand, thumbing back the hammer, it occurred to her that she might merely threaten him. But she saw with certainty that one way or another, the gun would change hands. She turned towards him and brought the barrel of the gun an inch above the top center of his head.

  Then she squeezed the trigger.

  She had a confused, multi-impression of pistol jerking upward in hand, an explosion of terrifying depth and reverberation, the smell of cordite, and finally the small incongruous sigh, as R
oy Whalen exhaled his last breath.

  Her next impression was of a sight so shocking that it would be engraved upon her subconscious, ready to leap into unwelcome view the rest of her days. For the bullet had gone through the top of his head and thundered on to blast away his lower jaw.

  With a tortured moan, she turned her head and the weight of the gun, no longer sustained, carried her hand to rest across his shoulder. The feel of his flesh was revolting and she snapped her hand away, allowing the weapon to sink to the bed.

  With her back to him, feet on the floor, she sat doubled over, weeping. The phone on the table came into misty vision and she reached for it, lifting the receiver. Her hand trembled so badly that she mis-dialed and had to try again. Finally she got the bank and then Clay.

  “Come home,” she sobbed. “Come home … I don’t care how it will look!” she screamed hysterically. “You’ve got to, you’ve got to!” Then she hung up.

  And sat staring at the receiver with its finger-smear of blood.

  SIXTEEN

  Scott and Myra came out of the movie house three blocks from their apartment. Scott bought a paper, glanced at the headlines and tucked it under his arm. They began to walk for home, lights of the thoroughfare fading as they turned the corner. In the smother of heat they ambled west along a shabby street of gloomy buildings.

  “I’ve seen better flickers on TV,” said Myra.

  “On the late, late, late show,” said Scott. “They shouldn’t can stuff like that. They should freeze it. Before it gets too ripe for the public digestion. What a waste of time. I should be pole-vaulting off in all directions and I watch a stinking movie that we wouldn’t run on a test at three AM.”

  “Cool in there, though,” said Myra.

  “Sure. Why do you think we went? We bought a buck’s worth of air, slightly conditioned.”

  “Besides,” declared Myra, “you can’t do a thing until tomorrow.”

  “That’s right,” Scott muttered. He was thoughtful.

  They lapsed into silence.

  A block from the apartment, heads down, both lost in thought, they began to cross the street.

  There was a sudden flare of light, scream of tires, the harsh whine of motor acceleration. They paused in mid-street, turned. Headlights. A shower of brilliance rocketing towards them with a vicious snarl of sound.

  “Back!” he shouted, grabbed her wrist and ran with her. They were on the walk — he all but flung her there. The car seemed out of control. It veered toward them, leaping the curb. He gave Myra a gigantic shove, sent her sprawling. Momentum carried him on. The front fender grazed his hip, spun him around. He lost balance and fell as the rear wheels flew past, up over the curb and down again, the car careening back to the street and gunning away.

  “Baby!” he said, leaning over her, “you all right?”

  “All right,” she said weakly. “Just a skinned kneecap.”

  He helped her up. “Goddam fool!” he said. “Drunk. Some teenage, no-license bastard whose old man should have creamed him long ago. Could have killed you!”

  “What about you?”

  “Me too, brother. Me, too. Couldn’t see the tags. Looked like a Plymouth sedan, though. Three, four years old.”

  They began to walk again, Myra hobbling for a moment. This time they peered in all directions before crossing.

  “Let me see that knee,” he said in the kitchen as she made coffee. She smiled and turned one leg towards him, lifting her skirt. “Not just a run,” she said. “Home run. Another pair of stockings shot.”

  “Never mind the stockings,” he muttered. “They don’t sell knees at the corner store.” He leaned down and inspected. “Not bad. Little scab, maybe. Heal right up.”

  He stood. They looked at each other. He grabbed her and held tight. “My God, my God,” he moaned. “What would I do without you? That was close, close. So close.”

  She kissed him, wrinkled her face, making light of it. “Next time I’ll wear knee guards. You know, those ice hockey things. Can’t you picture it?” She saw that his face was grim, said, “I love you, you big life-saving oaf.”

  He grinned, but the grin faded quickly and his face took on a frowning pensiveness as he sank onto a battered kitchen chair. “You know,” he said, “I have a weird feeling. In the calm of this little kitchen, the whole thing doesn’t seem so accidental.”

  “Your overworked imagination is showing, dear.”

  “No. No, it isn’t. Showing, but not overworked,” he said solemnly. “In the first place, that car wasn’t racing down the street. It just appeared. From nowhere. No lights approaching from a distance. You don’t see them at all. And then — flash! And you do. Why? Because nine chances out of ten the car was either parked, or moving blacked out.”

  “I still think you’re….”

  “And when you hear that kind of engine rev and gear whine, you can bet the guy is in low or second gear for fast takeoff. And what does that spell in big red letters?”

  “Yes, but….”

  “And if that doesn’t sink it, try this. If the guy was drunk or just plain speed-happy, when we ran back likely he would ram ahead on the same course. Oh, no. He follows us like radar, tracking right over the curb. I say that guy was waiting and ready for a kill.”

  She turned from the stove and stared at him steadily. “Now you’ve got me believing it. I think you’re right. But why would anyone want to kill us?”

  “Not us — me. Though if you happened to be in the way

  “You mean someone guessed that you know too much about the robbery?”

  “It’s a deadly way to get the message,” he said. “But they’ve told me that I’m on the right track. And yet all I’ve done is ask a few questions of some perfectly respectable people. Unless Valerie herself … I don’t know. But I’m going to have to talk with Bill Hoag pretty damn soon.”

  “The detective?”

  “Uh-huh. I’m worried, hon. I never thought you’d get involved in this thing.”

  “I just happened to be there.”

  “And so was the mayor of Chicago. He just happened to be there when the guy tried to pick off Roosevelt and shot him instead.”

  “It wouldn’t happen again.”

  “Maybe. But just the same….”

  “Come on, dear. Drink your coffee and let’s go to bed. There’s nothing we can do tonight.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll get hold of this Kingsley guy,” he mused. “He seems about the last hope. And then I’ll make a deal with Hoag. All right, let’s go to bed.”

  Sleep was only a thin veil between dream and reality. The urgent bell-clatter of the phone brought him awake instantly. He snapped the bed lamp and as he yanked the receiver, glanced at the clock. It was twenty after eleven. He hadn’t been asleep a half hour.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr. Daniels?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Mr. Scofield.”

  “Who?”

  “Clayton Scofield of the Second National Bank.” The voice was crackling with strain.

  “Well, my God, what is it?” Myra turned in the bed but didn’t awaken.

  “Hate to call you at this hour, Daniels. But it was too hot to sleep and lying here, I suddenly remembered.”

  “Remembered what, Mr. Scofield?” “That McLean woman. Valerie McLean.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Yes, it all came back to me.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it on the phone, Daniels.”

  “Well, I can’t see any harm. This is a private line and — ”

  “Believe me, Daniels, I have my own very good reasons.” His voice was strident, hammering the words.

  “Very well. In the morning, I could….”

  “It won’t hold for morning, Daniels. Why don’t you hop over here now and we can discuss it privately?”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said, looking at Myra. She was again sleeping peacefully. He could not possibly leave h
er under the circumstances. “Ordinarily, I’d leap at the chance, Mr. Scofield. But we’ve had a bad scare here tonight. I couldn’t leave my wife.”

  “Bring her along, then. If you must.”

  “Well….” Myra with him in the car, traveling the dark streets to wherever Scofield lived. En route, anything could happen. “No, sir, I’m afraid it just can’t be done tonight. But I’ll be at your desk the minute the bank opens.”

  “I can’t talk to you at the bank!” Scofield said angrily.

  “Meet you for lunch, then.”

  There was an interminable silence.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes. I’m thinking. Don’t you want that reward, Daniels?”

  “Of course, but….”

  “You see, I have a document here I want to show you. It seems absolutely incriminating. With a little information from you, the whole rotten business could be broken. I would strongly advise you to put aside any personal problems for the good of the community and drive right on over to my house tonight.”

  “Sorry. I have more than myself to consider.”

  Another silence.

  “You’re making a serious mistake. I don’t like this delay.”

  He said nothing.

  “Can you meet me here, let’s say five o’clock tomorrow afternoon? Sharp.”

  “Tomorrow at five?” Myra could go home with one of the girls at her office. “Yes. I could certainly do that. Give me your address and I’ll be there right on the dot.”

  “It’s 3728 Bayview Drive. Can you remember that?”

  “Sure. 3728 Bayview. I’ll be there.”

  “It’s one of the islands. Take the MacArthur Causeway.” “Right.”

  “And come alone, Daniels. Meanwhile, I pledge you to absolute secrecy. Do I have your word?”

  God! What a pompous ass. “Sure. My word. At five, then. Goodnight.”

  He hung up.

  He lighted a cigarette and found Myra peering at him through slitted eyes. “What is it?” she said sleepily. “Were you talking on the phone?”