Alan paid the check and they drove out Collins Avenue to the Hartley estate. The downstairs light was on as usual, but the servants had all been dismissed. Alan said, "I think I'll stay out here and grab a chunk of moonlight."
Chuck's eyes narrowed speculatively as he walked inside with Sunny. She said, "I want to talk to you, Chuck.”
His face was expressionless. He said, "Go ahead. Talk.”
"Not here. Mind coming up to my room?"
He said, "I don't mind."
They walked upstairs together, and she stopped at her door. "Give me five minutes, Chuck. I'll do a strip tease."
Sunny closed her door and ripped off the evening gown. She slipped into a robe of white velvet that clung intimately to her luxurious figure. She kicked off her evening slippers and put on white mules with absurd little white pompoms. She took a quick glance into the mirror, touched fingers to hair and eyes, and found the effect satisfactory.
She felt tight inside. She tried to concentrate on the moment, to keep her thoughts from traveling too far into the future. She had a job to do, a tough job. She scarcely heard Chuck's knock, but she was smiling for him when the door opened.
She motioned to a little flowered armchair, and when he had eased his wiry figure into it she pulled up another so that she was very close to him and facing him. She was carefully negligent of her hostess gown. She was counting heavily on her feminine charm.
Chuck looked straight at her. He did not know that his eyes were not icy, that his face was expressive. Sunny had the power to affect him that way, and she turned it on full force. She put her hand on his knee.
She said, "When does it happen. Chuck?"
His voice was flat. "I expected something like this."
"Sure. I want to know."
"Why?"
"I'm in as deep as you are."
He said, "Deeper, maybe."
"I caught it at dinner," she persisted. "Hamilton must have given you the word."
"So what? You knew it was coming."
"I want to know when. Tonight or tomorrow night?" He made no effort to soften it.
"That depends."
"Why the hurry, Chuck?"
"Things been happening."
"I thought it was supposed to look accidental."
"Maybe it will. But no matter what, it'll be complete."
There was a desperate urgency in her voice: "You're leading with your chin."
"It's my chin."
"Hartley gets killed..." It was easier to say "Hartley" than to say "Alan." "Hartley gets killed," she went on. "You get picked up. You're out of luck."
He said, "Let's have it, Sunny. You ain't worried about me."
She said steadily, "You know the answer."
"Yeah. You've fallen for Douglas. You figure it'd be better not to go through with it."
"That's about it."
He shrugged. "The chips are down. There's no other way."
She said, "You're in love with me."
"I'm in love with you," he said, punishing himself. "But it doesn't get me anywhere."
"It will—if you want." She saw that she had startled him. "Lay off Alan and you can call the shots from now on."
His voice was low. "Let's have that so I understand it."
"All right." She leaned forward so that he caught the fragrance of her body. "I'm playing straight with you— maybe because you're too smart to fall for anything else. I've gone off the deep end about Alan. I don't want to see things wind up like they're planned. I'm willing to pay my share, straight across the board. Lay off and I'll do whatever you say. I'll marry you, if you want. If that doesn't suit, I'll live with you."
"You hate my guts."
"That's not true. I'm not in love with you, but I like you. I like you more than I ever liked Lew Hartley." That wasn't true, but it was plausible enough for her to hope he'd believe it. "We'll go where you say, do what you want, and live your way. I'll never squawk, no matter what happens. You know I'll play square."
"I suppose you would." He shook his head. "But there ain't a chance."
"Why?"
"Dope it out for yourself, Sunny. You ain't dumb. We double-cross Hartley, what happens to us?"
“They'd never find us."
"Don't kid yourself. No matter what we did, the finger would be on us, but good."
She said, "There's one way out."
"Name it."
"Suppose we disappear? You and me, we take a powder together. We write two notes, one to Alan and the other to the police. We just set 'em straight that Alan isn't Lew Hartley, and once they suspect that, it's simple enough to prove it. The D.A. in New York clamps down on Lew right away, and nobody's hunting too hard for us."
Chuck said, "You want this thing so bad, you ain't even thinking clear. Hartley sees that somebody gets us. Hamilton arranges it for him. Maybe we're picked up for conspiracy to commit murder, or to defraud. I ain't a lawyer. I wouldn't be knowing the words. But they'd grab us for something."
She took another track. "You'd be taking chances Chuck, sure you would. But I'd be with you. I'd stick close. I'd be everything you wanted. Doesn't that add up to something?"
"More than you got any idea." His eyes were hot. "But not enough."
She leaned back in her chair, so that the velvet lay close against her figure. Her gesture was not consciously seductive. It just happened that way. Her eyes were half closed and she was thinking fast. She said, "I'm coming clean with you, Chuck. I'm not going to let it go through. I can stop it."
"How?"
"If anything happens to Alan, I'm going to spill the whole story to the police."
He said, "Now you're talking funny."
"What'll stop me?"
"You will, yourself. Alan's washed up. You talk. So what? So you're an accessory."
"You know what would happen to you?"
"I still wouldn't be worrying. Get this, Sunny, and get it straight: Maybe you'd do a lot for this guy while he's alive. Once he's rubbed out, you wouldn't do a damned thing, because there wouldn't be any percentage in it for you. You're soft for him now—you'll play noble to help him. But you ain't kidding me. You got common sense. You're tough. Once you knew you couldn't help him, you'd start looking out for number one again. So don't try to rib me about yelling to the cops after it's finished."
"You know me pretty well, don't you, Chuck?"
"Well enough."
"All right, then—try to figure whether I'm giving this to you on the level." Her voice was far from steady. "I've made a proposition to you. It's a better deal than you know, Chuck. Because if you did this thing for me, I could come awfully close to loving you—so close that you'd never know the difference."
He said, "I'd do almost anything for you, Sunny. But not that."
"You know where that puts me, don't you?"
"Behind, the eight ball."
"No. It puts me where I've got to handle things my own way." She rose and walked across the room to the little ivory telephone table that stood beside her bed. "If the answer is still no, Chuck, I'm telephoning the police. Now."
He rose. It was a smooth, effortless motion. His eyes were slits, his body tense. He said, "You better not play that way, Sunny."
"I don't want to. But that's how it is. Do you promise to lay off Alan, or do I telephone?"
"Neither."
"You asked for it, Chuck." She lifted the receiver and stretched a long, slender forefinger out toward the dial.
His voice came steadily: "Don't do that, Sunny."
There was a tense instant. Then she spun the dial.
She never saw Chuck move. It came suddenly, devastatingly, and with incredible speed.
His right hand snapped under his dinner jacket as he leaped forward. It came out holding the vicious little automatic that he always carried. He drew back his hand and reversed the gun with a single deft motion.
He struck hard with the butt of the gun. It crashed against the wonderful hair that was the color of n
ew pennies.
Chuck Williams tossed the gun on the bed, and caught Sunny's sagging body. Then he disengaged one hand and gently replaced the telephone on its stand.
Chapter Twenty-four
The cigarette case that Alan pulled from his pocket was inscribed with the initials L. H., the face that was limned briefly by the flare of a match was the sinister countenance of Lew Hartley, but the young man who sauntered toward the beach wasn't feeling at all like the man who owned the name.
He stretched out in a beach chair and relaxed, mentally and physically. The rich fragrance of Cape Jasmine and of roses came to him and helped to create a sensation of supreme well-being.
The apprehension that had lived with him since his first encounter with Gail had been dissipated, and it was good to know that she understood the strange state of affairs and was no longer beset by uncertainty.
He was giving that angle of it some mighty careful thought. He wondered whether he should tell Wayne Hamilton. The decision was not a simple one. He had done what seemed the sensible and proper thing under the circumstances. Yet he wasn't sure whether it would help to let Hamilton know.
He had other thoughts as he relaxed in the fragrant night: thoughts of Sunny Ralston and of Chuck Williams. He felt a sense of embarrassment when he thought of Sunny. Not because she so obviously was what she was, but because he had no ego at all where women were concerned, and never had quite sold himself the idea that Sunny was in love with him.
He hoisted himself from the chair and rambled toward the house. He went in through the front door and walked upstairs to his room. He snapped on the light and reached mechanically for the jeweled cigarette case.
Then he stood motionless, the unopened case in one hand, the other hand poised in the air. He heard sounds from beyond the door leading to Sunny Ralston's bedroom, and the sounds were harsh and unpleasant.
He edged closer to the door. Voices, tight and strained. Sunny and Chuck Williams. He caught only a few words here and there, but there was no mistaking the tension.
He heard Sunny: "You asked for it, Chuck."
And then came the dangerous voice of the man: "Don't do that, Sunny."
Alan heard something that sounded like a telephone dial. And then another sound.
He couldn't distinguish what that other sound was. Not at first. Not until he realized that it had been followed by what might have been a groan.
Alan flung the door open.
Sunny was in Chuck's arms. She was wearing some sort of intimate, rich-looking robe, which had fallen open. Her eyes were closed; her head sagged unnaturally. Chuck was easing her onto the bed. Alan looked at the bed.
On top of the absurdly gay coverlet there was a stubby, ugly, black object. A gun.
The room was alive with danger. Chuck's eyes flashed to the open door, to the tall figure of Alan, still clad in his dinner clothes.
Alan saw something in Chuck's eyes that he had never seen before. The eyes that stared across that room from over Sunny's limp figure were the eyes of a killer.
Alan moved forward and asked, "What happened?"
Chuck released the girl and she dropped heavily onto the bed. He straightened and for one interminable instant the men looked at each other. No need here for words.
Alan saw Chuck's eyes move to the gun. As the smaller man made his grab, Alan leaped in. Their hands closed on the automatic at the same instant. Chuck tried to jerk away and Alan hung on. He knew what would happen if Chuck got that gun free.
They struggled desperately. Alan was astounded by Chuck's strength. The man seemed to be made of steel. Then Chuck brought his knee up and it crashed into Alan's groin. The taller man felt a wave of agony, but he did not relax his hold on the gun. He knew now that he was fighting for his life.
That single desperate kick had made the combat about even; had even tipped the scales slightly in favor of the smaller man. Chuck threshed about, using every trick of barroom fighting he knew: head, shoulders, elbows, feet, knees. Alan crowded closer and closer, using his superior weight, feeling the agonizing impact of the butts and kicks that came with rapid-fire frequency.
It was a grotesque scene, a fantastic climax to a fantastic situation. Two men battling silently and desperately for a gun, an unconscious woman sprawled out on the bed.
You find yourself locked in combat with a killer, and you forget the rules. Alan was learning fast. You tolerate agony that would render you helpless under other circumstances. You find yourself employing tactics that come to you instinctively, because you know you never learned them anywhere. You butt with your head and kick viciously with your knees. You stretch out your one free arm for a squirming, dangerous figure that is strong as a coiled spring and elusive as an eel. You catch an occasional glimpse of eyes filled with deadly hatred. You know that if you ever let go that gun the end will have come.
Alan forced Chuck backward against the mirrored dressing table. They crashed into it and a perfume bottle spilled, filling the room with a too sweet, too pungent odor. Chuck had his back to the dressing table, and Alan took advantage of that. He bent his own bruised but powerful body forward, shoving his forehead into Chuck's face, arching Chuck's body backward.
He felt a sudden desperate lunge of Chuck's body. There was fresh strength, amazing new power. Chuck's hand tore the gun loose. Just for an instant. And in that instant Alan grabbed for it again.
He caught the hand, caught the gun. He bent the arm down and down. He crowded Chuck tight against the dresser.
The explosion seemed to come from nowhere. It was sudden and deafening. Alan felt Chuck's body relax. The acrid smell of powder came to his nostrils.
Chuck Williams dropped slowly to the floor. There was nothing dramatic about it; no crash. He settled down like an empty sack and then sprawled out.
Alan stood looking at the gun in his own hand. He looked at the inert figure, not knowing what had happened.
The hall door opened.
Wayne Hamilton walked into the room. His face was ashen. He looked at Alan, whose face and shirt front were covered with blood. He saw Chuck's gun in his right hand, Chuck's figure on the floor.
Wayne Hamilton crossed the room. He bent over the prostrate figure of the pasty-faced bodyguard. He turned him over and felt for the pulse.
Then he rose and looked at Alan Douglas.
"Chuck is dead," he said quietly. "You killed him."
Chapter Twenty-five
The fact of having killed a man was not easy for Alan to grasp. And there were so many things about this homicide that were weird: the incongruous setting—a frilly, satiny, perfumed bedroom; the gray figure huddled on the floor; Sunny sprawled unconscious on the bed; Wayne Hamilton, correct and immaculate in dinner clothes. Everything was out of focus.
Alan was aware of pain. He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his face. He looked at the handkerchief and saw that it was crimson. He felt ill, and was grateful for the steady sound of Hamilton's voice. The lawyer was saying, "Take hold of yourself, son."
Alan tried, but without much success. He'd seen things like this in pictures, on the stage, and the person involved had seemed always to have glib speeches ready, to be capable of thinking clearly, of analyzing the situation, and of discussing it calmly. This was different. His head was whirling, his brain shied from accepting a ghastly fact. He was feeling rather than thinking.
Hamilton said, "Can you tell me what happened?"
But Alan couldn't tell him. Not then. He had to get one idea established. He looked down at Chuck and then at the lawyer:
"You're sure he's dead?"
"Yes."
Simple. Like that. Alan spoke again, and even to himself his voice sounded unnatural. He said, "What about Sunny?"
Hamilton put his hand on Alan's arm. He pressed tightly and looked straight into the eyes of the younger man. "Snap out of it," he ordered, not unkindly. Then he walked to the side of the bed and looked at Sunny.
He felt her pulse and her heart, he
listened to her breathing, he looked for bruises. When he straightened up and looked at Alan again, he was shaking his head.
"She's out cold," he said. "Her pulse is normal, her breathing is good, I don't see any marks. Maybe she fainted."
"No. I think Chuck hit her with the gun."
"Oh." Wayne Hamilton nodded. "Then it's probably concussion; maybe even a slight fracture. With that pulse there's nothing to worry about."
Alan said dully, "You'd better call a doctor."
"I will. But first..." Hamilton took Alan by the arm and guided him into Sunny's bathroom. He turned the cold water and spoke quietly. "Get yourself fixed up. You're a mess."
Alan glanced into the full-length mirror. Hamilton had not exaggerated. One eye was puffed and discolored, his lip was split, there was blood on his face and on the front of his dinner shirt. His muscles were sore, there was a dull, throbbing ache in his midsection, his right knee felt stiff and swollen, his head hurt, and he was dizzy.
Hamilton said, "Let's go to your room. Get those things off and take a cold shower." He opened the doors of a cellarette and poured a stiff drink of Scotch. "Take it," he ordered, and Alan obeyed. "Now, off with the things and get yourself scrubbed up."
Alan said, "You'll phone for the doctor?"
"Sure. Sure I will. Now hop to it. You've got to clear your head up before anyone gets here."
The needle spray was icy. It jabbed at his flesh and snapped him back to a semblance of normalcy. He lift his face to the overhead shower and turned it on full. He turned every cold-water faucet, so that the invigorating spray spurted out at him from every angle. His body commenced to feel alive again. He stepped out of the shower and rubbed himself briskly with a huge Turkish towel. He slipped into a lounging robe and slippers.
Things were better now. He was thinking more clearly and that was good, although his thoughts were frightening. He hesitated briefly on the threshold of Sunny room, steeling himself to face again the lifeless figure of Chuck Williams. Entering that room required physic; courage, but he went in.
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