by Robert Bloch
Sweet William smiled reminiscently, then sobered. "But tonight I'll indulge in a bit of duplicity. I won't really hit the stuff. When she's out, I'll take up a collection."
"Are you sure the pearls will be there?"
"I'll make sure. Usually she keeps them in the safe — you were right about that. But they'll be around her neck tonight, until I remove them. By the way, there happen to be eleven of them, not ten. You miscounted, old boy. But I forgive you since it's in our favor."
Jerry frowned. "Okay, then what?"
"Then we travel. In your car, naturally. We throw them off the scent. Nothing could be simpler. I'll check out now. You check out before midnight. Drive around to the parking lot of the Golden Wheel. Look out for me about two at the latest. I'll have a cab drop my luggage in the lobby checkroom and you can pick it up. No sense chancing someone seeing the baggage going into your car. Right?"
"Right."
Jerry wanted to say more, but Sweet William was gone. And now there was nothing to do but wait. Wait and sweat.
He waited and he sweated through supper. Then he went out and took a walk around. No sense drinking—not if he was going to drive tonight. They'd have to at least clear the state line by morning before holing up in a motel.
He walked around until eleven or so, then went back to the hotel and checked out. He got the car and took it to the parking lot and sat there. Just sat there, waiting and sweating.
Waiting and sweating was bad enough, but thinking was worse. Funny thing, he wasn't thinking about what might go wrong with the deal. Sweet William could swing it all right, and there was no sense in getting antsy over something he couldn't help either way.
What bothered him was thinking about the Ranee. The Ranee and Sweet William together, alone up in her suite. He wondered what they were doing and then he knew what they were doing and that was the worst part of it.
So he tried thinking about something else. He tried wondering what went with a dame like that. Husband committed suicide last year — was that the story? Guy must be nuts, killing himself when he had a dame like that.
Maybe she hit the pipe too hard, though. Maybe she was too much for him to handle. Maybe that's why she went around now, alone, moving from Miami to Vegas to Reno to Colorado Springs — the Big Circuit — picking up guys and getting her kicks on the way. Funny she hadn't been taken before. Asking for it, really. Unless those two stooges of hers protected her.
If that was the way it worked, then perhaps Sweet William would run into trouble. But no, no use figuring like that. Got to trust Sweet William. He'd get the pearls.
Wait and sweat.
Jerry glanced at his watch. Holy hellsmoke, two-thirty! And where was the joker?
He tried to hold it down, tried to bury it in his mind, but it kept popping up in other places — his stomach, for instance. His stomach began to jump up and down. At three o'clock he was ready to flip.
Maybe the two little guys, those servants, were knife artists. Sweet William might be up there with a shiv in his back. You couldn't trust foreigners anyhow. He'd wait another half hour, and then —
And then it was three-thirty, and no Sweet William. So what could he do? He could barge up to the Ranee's suite and knock on the door. But maybe he'd better go back to the hotel and check.
So he went back, and he checked.
The clerk on the desk was very polite. Yes, Mr. Henderson had left, about ten o'clock.
It was funny to think of Sweet William as "Mr. Henderson," but the rest wasn't so funny. Because while the clerk was explaining that no, Mr. Henderson hadn't left a message, somebody bumped into Jerry at the desk.
He looked around and there was one of the little guys — one of the Ranee's servants.
"You wish news of Mr. Henderson, sir?" he asked.
Jerry could hardly understand him, but he understood enough to nod and listen close.
"It is as the dark says. You friend go away, in his car."
"His car?"
"I know. I assist him with his bags."
Jerry nodded again. There was nothing else to say to the little character. He went away, and Jerry walked over to the lounge and sat down.
Sweet William was gone. Sweet William the joker, the guy who was so sure he'd get the pearls. Well, that's exactly what he'd done — and how easy it had been! Set Jerry up to wait for him, then skip out with a good four or five hours' start.
Almost six hours now, and no telling which direction he'd taken off in. There'd be no way of catching up with him. It was a clean getaway. So clean the Ranee probably didn't even know about it yet; the little guy in the turban didn't sound upset. Hell, the trick was so slick Sweet William even had him carry out his bags!
Jerry had to hand it to the joker. He wished he could hand him something, right now. Playing the Ranee for a mark was one thing — but playing him, too!
But there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. Not a damned thing to do, now. Except to get his own bags, check in again, and try to figure out what could be done tomorrow.
All at once Jerry was very bushed. He needed a drink, and remembered the pint in his bag.
So he went up to the clerk, got himself a room again, let the bellboy haul in his stuff, and then he was set. The pint helped. He sat on the bed and drank it straight, drank it fast. Every time he felt like cursing Sweet William he shoved the old bottle into his mouth. It was almost light when he fell back across the bed and passed out.
It was almost dark when he woke up again. No hangover, but then he'd slept the clock around.
Jerry got up, shaved, dressed, and went downstairs. He was hungry, but the rage in his stomach kept him from eating. A drink would be better. Damn it, there must be something he could do to copper his bets. He'd counted on those pearls. He'd counted on a lot of things, including that lousy, double-crossing —
He was just walking into the bar when she stopped him.
"I beg your pardon," she said.
He'd never heard her voice before, and it did something to him. It made his stomach churn faster, but not with rage, not with hunger, not with thirst.
The Ranee was standing there in the corridor leading from the bar, and she was smiling at him.
"Aren't you the gentleman who was asking for Mr. Henderson last night? Ghopal spoke to me about it."
Jerry didn't know what to say. If she was trying to get a lead on her missing ice, he'd better dummy up fast.
Then he blinked. He'd been so busy watching her smile he'd never looked at her throat.
And she was still wearing the pearls. There they were! She had on the ring and the bracelet, too. And matching earrings. So Sweet William hadn't snatched the loot after all.
Jerry smiled. "Why, yes," he said. "We had a business matter to discuss."
"I happen to know where Mr. Henderson is," the Ranee told him. "He had an urgent call yesterday evening — something about an appointment in the city. But he told me he expected to be back before six. In fact, we had a dinner engagement."
It sounded phony as hell. But there was just an off-chance it might be true. Sweet Wiiliam was a smoothie; he always had a couple of deals cooking. Could he have gotten a fast blast from town and scooted off to take care of it? There was no way he could have gotten in touch with Jerry beforehand, and maybe he was too smart to leave a note that would tie them together later.
So he'd checked out and planned to come back tonight. It was worth thinking about, anyway. And meanwhile, the Ranee was still here. The Ranee and that necklace, or whatever it was, with the big pearls. Big pearls, big eyes, big—
"I was on my way in to dinner," the Ranee was saying, "in hopes that your friend might join me later."
"Good idea," Jerry said. "How's about us waiting together?"
It was crude, and he could have kicked himself, but she didn't seem to mind. That smile of hers hit him hard. Maybe he'd been underestimating himself. She didn't seem to object when he introduced himself, and then they were sitting toget
her and the two stooges were going through their routine with the chairs and the menu.
They poured the champagne, too, and it was easy to talk, and pretty soon Jerry didn't give a damn whether Sweet William showed or not.
What the hell, he could handle this. Sweet William wasn't the only one who could work the rich-bitch racket. Just because he was a smoothie, and easy on the eyes, that didn't mean guys like Jerry Gibson were good for nothing but that wait and sweat routine. Come to think of it, worse-looking guys than him managed to get places with the broads.
And he was certainly getting places with this one. The way the champagne hit on an empty stomach, he was talking a blue streak. And here it was — must have been—nine o'clock already, and they were still sitting here, eating and living it up. She was telling him all about Gwolapur, and how she and the Rajah used to go on shoots — which meant tiger-hunting, with elephants, just like in those movies — and about how she missed all that.
Then they talked about traveling and about how beautiful she was and what a shame it was that Sweet William had stood her up, and somehow he let it slip out how much he admired her ice. Of course he didn't call it ice, and she didn't get sore. She just said she had a lot more of it up in her suite. And would he like to see the collection?
That's when Jerry sobered up.
Here he'd been running off at the mouth, letting himself get half-crocked, and all the while he should have been figuring angles.
Now, when his chance came, he wasn't ready. He'd have to watch himself.
But he wanted to go up to the suite, all right. It would be a good chance to case the setup. He wouldn't pull anything off tonight, anyway—just take a look around. If he played it close to the chest he might be able to come back. And next time he'd have a plan.
So he stood up and she stood up and the turbans pulled out the chairs, and they took the elevator.
The elevator hesitated after the twelfth floor and for a second Jerry was afraid they'd stop at thirteen. Not that he was superstitious or anything, but he just didn't like thirteen. But of course that was a lot of malarkey. Hotels didn't have thirteenth floors any more. The elevator left them off at fourteen.
Then he was in the suite. There was a plush layout for you — big rooms, all dim lights, and lots of fancy cloths hung over the furniture and draped on the walls; she must have brought the stuff with her. It looked like one of those harems you see in the movies.
Funny smell, incense or something. Jerry remembered what Sweet William had said about yen shee gow, and it was funny to think of this gorgeous dish being a hophead. But then it was funny that she could go for him, too; sitting him down on one of the big sofas and bringing him a drink with her own hands. Because the two servants had disappeared.
They were all alone in the dim coolness, and the drink wasn't strong. He know he could take it without feeling it. He could take anything, he could take her if she just moved a little closer. The way she smiled, and her soft voice going through him, and talking to him about how lonely it was to live like this, traveling from place to place with nothing but memories —
Then Jerry saw the guy standing in the corner and he wanted to jump. He was big and black and he had six arms.
The Ranee laughed at him. "Do not be afraid," she said. "She will not do you harm."
"She?"
"The statue. Durga, the goddess of our household. Kali."
Jerry stared at the statue before leaning back again. She had six arms, all right, and looked plenty mean. There was a string of white things around the statue's neck, and it took Jerry less than five seconds to make out what they were. Little ivory skulls. Human skulls. A hell of a necklace.
Thinking of necklaces made him think of the pearls. The Ranee was sitting next to him now, and something about the way she rested her head on his shoulder told him he could take her in his arms, if he wanted to. If he wanted to? Just feeling her near him, feeling the whiteness and the redness and the blackness all blending in heat and perfume was enough to stone him. But before he reached out, he had to look at the pearls.
They were there, resting against her throat, moving up and down — big and round and perfect. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve of them.
Twelve?
He'd counted ten, and Sweet William told him there were eleven. But that was before Sweet William went away.
There were ten the first day, and then the gray-haired man had gone away. After that, there were eleven. Then Sweet William went away, and now there were twelve —
She must have seen him jump, and he tried to smile and cover it up. He said, "You've got a better taste in jewelry than that statue of yours, if you don't mind my saying so."
And she smiled too, and said, "Kali is the goddess of the Thugs, you know. Each skull represents one of her victims."
Jerry stood up. She didn't try to hold him.
'The Thugs are stranglers, you know. They kill as a sacrifice. The cult was supposedly stamped out many years ago, but it still has its devotees. My late husband was a believer. He chose me as a bride because he looked upon me as a reincarnation of the goddess. Quaint, isn't it?"
Jerry looked at the necklace. She was close enough for him to make a grab for her, so he wasn't afraid. Besides, the servants were gone.
"So you killed him, huh? And you've been going around ever since, knocking guys off and adding to your string of pearls. That's what you did to the Greek, and to Sweet William. You're crazy as a bedbug."
The Ranee laughed. "How utterly absurd!" she said.
"Like hell it is," Jerry said. "You just got me up here because you were scared I'd kick up a fuss if Sweet William didn't come back. And maybe you had some loony idea of making me number thirteen in your necklace. Well, let me tell you — "
But Jerry Gibson never got a chance to tell her. Because all at once the servants were back, and one of them was holding his arms and the other one was wrapping something tight around his neck, something that squeezed and squeezed.
Jerry's eyes began to bulge. The last thing he saw was the string of pearls around the Ranee's neck. It wasn't really a necklace, of course. He knew that now.
It was more like a choker.
Acknowledgements
Notes for FINAL RECKONINGS
Mannikins of Horror, Weird Tales Copyright © 1939, renewed 1967 by Robert Bloch.
Almost Human, Fantastic Adventures Copyright © 1943, renewed 1971 by Robert Bloch.
The Beasts of Barsac, Weird Tales Copyright © 1944, renewed 1972 by Robert Bloch.
The Skull of the Marquis de Sade, Weird Tales Copyright © 1945, renewed 1973 by Robert Bloch.
The Bogey Man Will Get You, Weird Tales Copyright © 1946, renewed 1974 by Robert Bloch.
Frozen Fear, Weird Tales Copyright © 1946, renewed 1974 by Robert Bloch.
The Tunnel of Love (as "Hell Is My Legacy"), New Detective Copyright © 1948, renewed 1976 by Robert Bloch.
The Unspeakable Betrothal, Avon Fantasy Reader #9 Copyright © 1948, renewed 1976 by Robert Bloch.
Tell Your Fortune, Weird Tales Copyright © 1950, renewed 1978 by Robert Bloch.
The Head Man, 15 Mystery Stories Copyright © 1950, renewed 1978 by Robert Bloch.
The Shadow from the Steeple, Weird Tales Copyright © 1950, renewed 1978 by Robert Bloch.
The Man Who Collected Poe, Famous Fantastic Mysteries Copyright © 1951, renewed 1979 by Robert Bloch.
Lucy Comes to Stay, Weird Tales Copyright © 1952, renewed 1980 by Robert Bloch.
The Thinking Cap, Other Worlds Copyright © 1953, renewed 1981 by Robert Bloch.
Constant Reader, Universe Copyright © 1953, renewed 1981 by Robert Bloch.
The Pin, Amazing Stories Copyright © 1954, renewed 1982 by Robert Bloch.
The Goddess of Wisdom, Fantastic Universe Copyright © 1954, renewed 1982 by Robert Bloch.
The Past Master, Blue Book Copyright © 1955, renewed 1983 by Robert Bloch.
Where the Buffalo Roam, Other Worlds Copyright © 1
955, renewed 1983 by Robert Bloch.
I Like Blondes, Playboy Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
You Got to Have Brains, Fantastic Universe Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
A Good Imagination, Suspect Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
Dead-End Doctor, Galaxy Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
Terror in the Night, Manhunt Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
All on a Golden Afternoon, Fantasy & Science Fiction Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
Founding Fathers, Fantastic Universe Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.
String of Pearls, The Saint Copyright © 1956, renewed 1984 by Robert Bloch.