Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense

by Armstrong Charlotte

  Henry said, “I’ll tell you why. For auld lang syne.”

  How many things were there that didn’t jibe? Hallie was thinking as she turned on Verbena.

  One: She had smelled liquor on the man’s breath. There was no such smell on the man’s breath.

  Two: She had spoken with him. He’d had his neck broken and could not have spoken.

  Three: He had told her there was no phone in the Rock Shop. But there was a phone, and Walter Bryson knew it.

  (Hallie saw the name ‘Bryson’ painted on a rock and stopped walking, went on thinking.)

  Four: She had put her coat over a living man. There was no coat over the dead man.

  Five: (Yes, there was a fifth!) There had been blood on her hand, but Sam Miller had asked her whose blood it was and Henry Green had examined her hands. For what, if not for some cut or wound? They had reason to believe then, that it could not have been the dead man’s blood. Did one bleed from a broken neck? She shuddered.

  Too many. Too much. What, then? Had someone come after her and broken Walter Bryson’s neck where he lay in the road? No, because Walter Bryson still had not been drinking, still would have known about the phone . . .

  But then . . .! Now the logical answer loomed, full and plain. Why then, the man she had left in the road was not the same man that Henry Green had found in the road.

  But if that were so . . .! Hallie was excited. She began to run up the path to the house. Then she hadn’t killed a man, at all! Not even by accident!

  The house was sand-colored, snuggling into the terrain. Hallie made the chimes sound. Mr. John ought to be told. Next of kin, he had the right to know it was no accident. And that he had no reason to look at Hallie White . . . She punched the button again. The door trembled.

  At the police station Bob Mackay and his wife, Ruby, faced Henry Green.

  “Just dictate what you have to say into the machine,” said Henry impatiently. “Sam will run it for you.”

  “What am I supposed to say?” Ruby was sullen.

  “You say what happened, just as it seemed to you. Excuse me . . .”

  Bob said, “You asked for this, Henry.”

  “I have to go.”

  Sam Miller said, “Henry, listen, what am I supposed to do?”

  Henry said, “Record her testimony. Then type it and have her sign it. Routine.” Henry walked swiftly out.

  The old man wore weather-beaten jeans and dusty old shoes. His stringy neck rose out of a collarless gray sweat shirt. There were gray bristles on his chin. He took a step backward as if he would withdraw shyly, like a mouse into a hole.

  “It’s Hallie White, Mr. John,” she said, full of her excitement. “Please let me come in and talk to you. It isn’t what you think . . .”

  “Walter is dead,” he said.

  “I know . . .” said Hallie, putting her foot over the threshold,

  “But something strange must have happened. Let me tell you, please . . .”

  He stepped back and when she stood blinking in the dimness of the curtained room, he moved to close the door behind her.

  “You’re not worrying, are you, my dear?” he said in plaintive tones. He was an inch shorter than she. He peered up into her face with small blue anxious eyes. She received on his breath the smell of whiskey. Now her limbs froze. Her throat seemed to close. Small particles of fact seemed to shift like the bright bits of glass in a kaleidoscope.

  “You’ll have to excuse the way I look,” he rambled on, turning away. “I’m just an old desert rat these days. A poor old man. Excuse me a minute, Miss Hallie.”

  He sidled around her and went into another room. Hallie stood there, her nostrils pinched. Not the same. She was receiving the trace of a different perfume from that faint flowery sweetness she had sensed in the dark of the road. But could she trust the memory of so faint a sensation? She tested over every inflection of that remembered voice. Could she trust her ears? A kind of horror was paralyzing her. But the blood, she thought. No cut, no wound—about his face.

  He came sidling back in a second. Something about his gait was furtive and sly. His eyes had a bright hot look now. His right hand was inside the patch of material on the front of his sweat shirt that made a kind

  of muff there.

  He said, coaxingly, “It was an accident. Everyone understands that. You’ll forget about it, my dear? Nothing bad will happen to you. You don’t live here. You’ll go back east again and you can put it all behind you? Isn’t that so?”

  She said slowly, “Do you think it is so easy to forget that you killed a man?”

  “Oh,” he said wheedlingly, “you are young . . .”

  Her heart was thudding. “Can you forget it?” she blurted.

  The old man’s lips pulled back. His teeth were brown. He said, “Now, Miss Hallie, you sit down in that chair—right there.” The right hand came out of the shirt. There was a gun in it.

  And Hallie laughed aloud. She laughed with relief, as the whole burden rolled off her spirits.

  But the savagery in his voice and the red look in his eye chopped her laughter short. “Sit down,” he said to her. “It looks old and rusty, don’t it? It looks out-of-date, like me? Don’t you think it’s loaded? Don’t you think I can fire it if I want to? Don’t you think so?” He seemed on the very brink of pulling the trigger and she believed at once that the ancient weapon was loaded and that he could fire it and that he might.

  Hallie took two steps backward until she felt the edge of the wing chair hit the back of her knees. Then she sat down. She said, “It won’t do any good for you to shoot me. How could that help you?”

  “You could help me,” the old man said. “You could keep still. That’s what you could do. Nobody will do anything bad to you. A pretty girl like you.”

  He must imagine that he’s smiling, Hallie thought, watching the strange lines on his face. She said, trying to sound as if she seriously considered the suggestion, “If I only understood how it happened . . .” She didn’t know what she was going to do.

  “It was an accident,” he said eagerly. He sat down on the edge of the sofa, facing her, not four feet away. He was keeping the muzzle of the small gun pointed at her, and she dared not watch his ancient sinewy hand. She watched his face. She tried to listen with full attention. He might forget about the gun. He couldn’t be fully sane if he had done what he must have done. She didn’t know how she knew what he had done . . . what he was even now explaining.

  “Walter and I had an argument. That’s all it was,” he said eagerly. “A little argument. Well, it was about the accounts down at the shop.

  He said he was going to the shop, right then, and take a good look at the books. Nothing would stop him. I tried, but he wouldn’t listen. He got in his car. Well, I got in, too. He didn’t pay me a cent of salary, Miss Hallie. And he had money. Don’t you see that? Look around. Walter had plenty of money. He could have afforded more than my board and room. Listen, you try and run an old car, even. It took the whole of my pension. So it was just a misunderstanding. That’s all it really was. Why, if I’d have thought he’d care so much about a few dollars . . . I was trying to explain that to him, but he wouldn’t listen. Why should he care so much? The Rock Shop was only a hobby. It wasn’t his living. I was the one who had to stay there and do the work, and it was pretty dull sometimes, cooped up there. Well, I thought a few dollars was no more than right. All he had to do was tell me that he didn’t like it and I would have stopped taking them. Don’t you see?”

  “I think I do,” Hallie murmured.

  “Do you? No, you don’t. You’ve got money.”

  “I work,” she began—and stopped.

  The lean old face was bitter and angry. “Haven’t I worked? Haven’t

  I always been nice to people, too. Done my job? And treated them courteous? Everybody likes me. I’ve been very nice to Walter’s daughter-in-law. She likes me.” The face grew sly. “She won’t throw me out with nothing. She’ll give me the sh
op. I think she will. She’ll feel sorry for the way I’m left with nothing but my pension. She knows I’m very well thought of in this town. I’ll be all right.” He nodded his head.

  Not if you kill me, Hallie thought. But she did not speak. She would not remind him of that project.

  “Walter got so mad he went to hit me,” said old John. “Down there at the shop. What do you think of that? Hit an old man, eh? I only defended myself. What else could I do? I just put up my hands and I pushed. I had a right. How could I know he was going to fall the way he did? There’s one big rock we got on the floor, and right in the angle of it . . . Just a freak accident.”

  Hallie said, stiff-lipped, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry does no good,” said John Bryson primly. “Not when people think so much of money. Think money means everything. As if I’d do a thing like that for a few dollars. Of course I wouldn’t. I did myself the worst turn in the world. Now, all I’ve got is my pension.” He was inconsistent, Hallie noted. Frantic, haunted, dangerous.

  “Too bad . . .” she murmured.

  “Oh, it was too bad, all right. I was sick. I’ll tell you. I’m not a wicked man. I felt terrible, terrible about it. I felt so sick I stepped outside. I had to breathe. I turned out the lights. Couldn’t bear to see him. Oh, I knew he was dead, and it made me sick. I thought I should take him home, you know, but I didn’t know whether I could drive his car. I didn’t know what to do. I was shaking all over. Dark and cold, and I saw the lights coming down the road. Well, I . . .”

  She thought for a moment that he was going to drop the gun, but he did not. It shook in his agitated hand but it did not turn or fall.

  “I knew there was no use,” he cried. “I had to call somebody. Didn’t call the police. Didn’t want them in the shop. The books . . .” the old man slobbered a little and licked his lip. “Books were all around and it was going to look so bad. For a few dollars. But I knew that I was going to have to do it. I thought I’d stop the car and tell the people. I meant to do that. I got up my nerve to do the right thing and stop them, and it was like jumping off a cliff. But I had to, and I did. Only I left it late. Well—wasn’t much of a blow, but it spun me around, and then I was on the ground.”

  “I see,” said Hallie.

  “And YOU said . . .” He seemed to turn on her with anger as if this were her fault, “You thought you might have killed somebody.”

  “Gave you . . . the idea . . .?” she managed to say calmly. (Keep him going, talking on. Maybe there’ll be a chance. Some way. The old weapon could miss fire, she thought. No, that’s crazy!)

  “The thing was,” said the old man more quietly, “you didn’t have a match. It just seemed like providence. And you kept on saying you couldn’t see. You did that. You kept on saying that. You couldn’t see me. You couldn’t tell who it was.”

  “I remember,” she murmured.

  “You didn’t have a match or a light, and you couldn’t see.” His face sharpened. “So how did you know it was me?”

  She said, “I didn’t know. But now that I understand . . .” Let him believe she would conspire.

  He caught her hint and said eagerly, “That’s right. Nobody blames you. Another car accident, that’s all. You wouldn’t have to think about it. You can go away. Listen, I’m an old man. I’m a good man,” he said. “Everybody likes me.”

  Hallie put her hand up to her face. “I always liked you, Mr. John,” she said wistfully.

  “Then you see? You already thought you could have killed somebody. So what would be the difference? That’s what came to me.” He licked his lip again. “I knew if I could get a little time to myself . . .”

  “So you sent me into town?” she said.

  “You were a good girl,” he said in those wheedling tones, “to go for help.”

  Hallie’s eyes burned with unshed tears, whether rage or pity she could not tell. The dead man had been in the Rock Shop. No wonder old John had lied about a telephone. “While I was gone . . .” she said.

  “Why, sure,” he said, and he chuckled a little. “Then I just got Walter and put him where I’d been. And I ran cross-country home, so as to be here when I’d be called on the phone. No need to say I’d been out at all, I thought. And there wasn’t. And there isn’t. What do you say?”

  How could she convince him that it was safe to let her go? “I suppose . . .” she began.

  “Who’s that?” He shot off the sofa to his feet. The gun was grasped

  firmly.

  “What?”

  “That’s a car.” He flashed one look out the front window. “It’s Henry Green.”

  “Oh?”

  “He knows, does he?”

  Hallie shook her head from side to side by pure instinct.

  “He better not,” said John Bryson savagely. “You’re one thing, but Henry Green’s another. He’s the police.” The old man sidled to the front door and did something to the latch. He scuttled back to the sofa. He sat down where he had been sitting and put his right hand and the little old gun inside the patch of material at the front of his sweat shirt, where it was hidden but still dangerous. He said, “Did you tell Henry Green?”

  “How could I?” she gasped. “I didn’t know . . .”

  “Oh, yes, you know. You going to tell him?”

  “Don’t . . . please . . .”

  The old man let her see his brown teeth again. “If you try to tell him anything by even one wink,” he said, “I’ll shoot Henry Green in the heart, right here and right now, and don’t think I can’t do it. If he knows already, then I’ll have to do it. But if he don’t . . . then you wait him out, hear me? You say you want to stay with me. Because if you don’t . . .”

  “Mr. John, you can’t kill either one of us . . .”

  “Yes, I can,” he said querulously. “If there’s only one way out of this now . . . then I’d rather.”

  “But—”

  The door chimes sounded.

  Hallie said, “You couldn’t hide that.”

  The old man said, “I’d rather. I’d be something, wouldn’t I?”

  So she knew she wasn’t dealing with what was rational. She could feel his excitement and his recklessness. She believed that he would rather kill one or two more than be exposed for a blundering petty thief, a weak old fool.

  “Come on in, Henry,” the old man sang out, almost gaily.

  Hallie sat very still where she was, in the wing chair.

  Henry opened the door himself. “Well, well—” said Henry, “got company, have you?”

  “Come in, come in,” said Bryson. “Excuse an old man for not getting up, eh, Henry? Hallie White, here, is calling on me, too. Now isn’t this nice?”

  Sandy hair, green eyes, long limbs. Big foolish grin on his face. Big man she’d fought with covering anger, because she might too easily have done quite otherwise—and been made a fool of. Hallie thought to herself sternly, I do not want Henry Green shot in the heart. And I will not have it so. She said, “Hi, Henry,” and she smiled radiantly.

  “Sit down,” said the old man.

  “Thanks,” said Henry with bumpkin pleasure. He sat down.

  Hallie knew that the old hand was turning the little gun. Henry now sat directly before its danger. She could not see the fingers, or whether they were tightening.

  She said easily, “We were chatting.”

  John Bryson said, “That’s right.”

  Hallie said, “Mr. John is so kind. He understands that I never meant to do it.”

  Bryson said, “ ’Course she didn’t. How are you, Henry?”

  “I dropped in to tell you the results of the autopsy,” Henry said in a genial voice. “It was what we thought; the neck was broken.”

  “Is that so?” said John Bryson, drawing out the sounds dolorously.

  “And we heard Mrs. Smith is on her way. Her husband’s in the hospital with something or other, but she’s coming. Thought I’d let you know.

  “I had a wire, Henry. Thank
s, anyhow.”

  “How are you, Mr. John?” said Henry kindly. “Feeling better?”

  His strong body sat there quietly in the chair and he could die in the next second of time. He doesn’t know, thought Hallie frantically. If he were on guard he might do something, but he isn’t! And it could be so quick! So quick! I must just wait him out, then. Afterwards, anything could happen. Maybe I can talk the old man out of hurting me. I’ll have to try it that way. So I cannot now twitch or sigh or let out one hint that everything isn’t just lovely. She smiled and made her eyes shine.

  “I guess I feel a little better,” said old John. “Thanks for coming, Henry.” It was a phrase of dismissal.

  “My job, that’s all,” said Henry. “Looks like it may rain.”

  “Is that so?” said old John automatically.

  Hallie knew that the hand was on the gun, the old man was tense and not entirely sane, and as dangerous as a bomb.

  “Well, we need it,” Henry said.

  “Surely do.”

  “Funny thing, rain on the desert,” Henry said, easy in his chair. “Always does fascinate me. Especially one of those cloudbursts. Nothing on the mountains to hold the rain. I never get over it—how the water pours off so fast and gathers in the creases, you might say, and comes bursting out of there.”

  “You think we’ll get some flash floods?” said old John with faint relaxation.

  “Usually do, in the season,” said Henry. “Remember the one that goudged that fifteen foot hole in main street?”

  “Years ago,” John Bryson said.

  This is country talk, thought Hallie. It is polite to chat before leaving, and preferably about the weather. It’s buffer talk. It’s customary. But oh, Henry, go. Go quickly!

  “I remember some flash floods,” she said brightly, “when we were kids. They certainly were fascinating.” She smiled at Henry brilliantly.

  “One year to the next,” said Henry, “people forget, though. They think they’ve changed things around to suit themselves. They build the walls, and all, and think they’ve got it licked. The next time water comes rushing down, full of power, why it’s going to go where it will go. And it cuts and — it tears.” Henry seemed carried away by a vision. “And a lot of men’s little work melts and vanishes, like that.” He snapped his fingers and Hallie flinched at the sharp sound.