Murder is the Pay-Off

by Leslie Ford

  He could hear himself, too. “Janey and I get on all right, Connie—thanks just the same.” Stiff like, putting Miss Maynard right back in her own place. He could hear her laugh as she’d bent over to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

  “Okay, darling. You’ll find out. Everybody else knows it. And sometime you’re going to want to kiss me good night—and will I let you? I sure will. We’re the same sort, Gus. Janey’s too sweet for either of us. We’re both stinkers at heart, dear. Well, good night, Gus. Thanks for bringing me home.”

  He got up, took his dishes over to the sink, and turned on the hot water. He stood there for a moment, looking down at them. There was a lot in it. Somehow, he’d realized it all a long time ago, in fact, when he married Janey. The idea of permanence had not really been part of it, not that he’d thought about it rationally in any such terms but because impermanence was something he just naturally took for granted. You had a job in New York in February and in San Francisco in March, and in May you were in London helping cover a war that was knocking everything people had thought was permanent to very small bits and to hell with it. Connie Maynard had come as near to the idea of permanence as he’d ever particularly thought of, during the war and just after it, when permanence in your personal non-material life had taken on a peculiar importance. But Connie had cured him of that quaint idea.

  He put his dishes on the drain board with Janey’s and little Jane’s. It wasn’t until Connie sounded off the night before that he’d thought much about any of it again. Or after he’d left her rather, and started to walk home and decided to go down to the paper and write up the Wernitz deal instead. It was one of the nice things about a newspaper. Everything was so damned current. You didn’t have time to worry about the past, or the future—or even your own personal present. He went into the pantry and stood there, listening, to see if, now he was out of the window and out of the kitchen, Janey would come on in. And after a few minutes she did. He heard her shut the door and stop at the sink, surprised, probably, that he’d cleared and washed his dishes. Then she came on toward the pantry.

  “Oh,” she said. She stopped, her eyes wide as they always were, but different, as if she had pulled an opaque blue curtain down behind them. “Oh. I thought you’d probably gone. You must have a lot to do, don’t you? I’m going down to Mother’s as soon as I get the beds made.”

  “Janey.” As he stepped toward her he trod on the loose board in front of the pantry door. It creaked loudly. Her body tensed and he saw her fists clench tightly. She was nervous as a cat. As he stepped off the board it creaked again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I really will get a carpenter to come fix that.” He’d said it dozens of times, but she’d always laughed. She didn’t even smile now.

  “You’ve said that before. But it’s all right. It doesn’t matter.”

  It made it harder for him to go on, but he did.

  “Janey, if I’ve done anything peculiarly and especially obnoxious to you, I’m sorry,” he said seriously. “I’m sorry I was so late last night, and I’m sorry I wasn’t up in time to drive your mother home this morning.”

  He could hear the courthouse clock strike nine. Half an hour late now. He was always at his desk by eight-thirty. He saw Janey’s eyes move off, listening to it, too, and it seemed to him listening for something else. The light flush that stained her cheeks when he mentioned her mother faded. He looked at her intently. “Your mother did stay all night, didn’t she?”

  She flushed again, and hesitated, moistening her lips. Then she turned her blue eyes up to his. “No. I told a lie,” she said warmly. “She went back home as soon I came in.” He stared at her. “What the—” He stopped himself abruptly. What was the matter with him? He was always getting sore at somebody lately. And Janey was getting sore, too. Sore at him. That was something that had never happened before. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter. But I want you to quit saying, ‘What the hell,’ to me. Just quit it! I won’t stand for it any more. And quit saying you’ll have the floor board fixed or the drain pipe fixed, or any of the other things you’re always going to do and never think of any more. Because it doesn’t matter. I don’t want you to do anything around here. All I want you to do is go away and go on about your own business, and let me go on about mine!”

  She could hear herself saying things she didn’t mean and didn’t care about, because she was angry and wounded still from last night, and bitterly resentful. But she did mean part of it. She did want him to get out of the house before the police came. She had to get him out before they came. This was her business. She’d started it without him, and waited desperately for him to come and take it out of her hands, and he came and brought Connie Maynard and was cross and rude to her. Connie was rude and offensive—“It’s her dining-room, isn’t it?”—raising her eyebrows, belittling Janey’s taste and Janey’s pride—and then he’d gone off with, Connie and stayed until five o’clock in the morning. And he could go again. He could go back to Connie and leave her to go on taking care of herself and little Jane. She could do it very well. She didn’t need anyone to stand around and act as if she were a stupid little fool, and got sore at her because she was trying to do her job the best she could.

  She tried to listen out the back way and out the front at the same time. She had to have Gus out of the way when the police came. She didn’t want him ever to know what had happened the night before. He could go away and stay until five o’clock with Connie. Let him go to her now. She didn’t want him there anymore. The police would be there soon, to fingerprint the fuse box in the basement. And there was the thing she’d just discovered out in the damp bare patch near the brick walk.

  It was a large clear footprint made by someone who was running. The sole of the shoe was quite deep and the heel barely showed at all. It was headed toward the end of the garden. Even if there weren’t fingerprints in the basement, a footprint would help. But somehow, during the night, either asleep or awake, she had become convinced of the importance of finding out who had come into the house. It was someone who wanted something. It wasn’t the few bits of silver on the sideboard, and she had no jewelry anybody would want. It had to be something else—and there was only one thing she had that was of any value. She’d thought it over and over again in the night. That was little Jane.

  She caught her breath now and held it for an instant before she turned and ran out into the kitchen. It hadn’t occurred to her until that moment that if they’d come into the house to take little Jane they could just as easily come into the yard— But little Jane was there, playing in the sandbox. “Janey! What is the matter with you?”

  As Gus followed her into the kitchen she flashed around at him, her eyes hot, her lips trembling. “Just go, will you? Just go and leave me alone! That’s all that’s the matter with me! I just don’t want you to be here—I want to be alone!”

  He stood there a moment, a little dazed and unbelieving. This was incredible. This wasn’t Janey at all. It was someone he’d never known or heard of. It was as if the little Dane’s white lop-eared rabbit had suddenly turned into a snarling wildcat at the foot of the crib. And as he took a step backward to retire with whatever dignity he could manage, she turned around and flew out into the yard. He saw her at the play pen, turned, and went back through the pantry. As he stepped on the creaking board again, a wave of anger flashed up in him. Drain pipes, bare spots in the grass, loose boards. By God, he’d fix one of them, anyway. He opened the basement door, banged it shut behind him, and went downstairs. The garden box was in the corner by the area door. He yanked it open. Lime, fertilizer, grass seed. He picked up the seed and took the rake off the hook behind the box. He could hear Janey upstairs in the kitchen, and he waited until he heard her go through the pantry and dining-room and start upstairs with little Jane. He opened the area door and went up to the ground level. A colored boy with a bamboo leaf rake was coming around the side of the house.

  “You want the leaves raked up
?”

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “Here. Take this.” He handed him the box of grass seed. “See that patch there? Rake it up and seed it. If you know anybody that can fix a drain spout, tell ’em to come and fix it and send me the bill.”

  He went back down the area steps into the basement, hung up his rake, closed the garden box, and went upstairs. The hinge on the door whined as he closed and latched it. The loose board creaked as he went into the dining-room. He took his overcoat and hat off the chair and started out. At the front door he turned. Maybe there was still something he could say to Janey. He looked up the stair well. She was standing up there, holding to the rail, looking down, her face frozen into the most extraordinary mask.

  “Janey—for God’s sake, what—”

  She drew her body erect and taut. “Oh,” she said. “It’s you. I—I thought you’d gone. Please—please go.” She turned away slowly and disappeared toward little Jane’s room.

  For a moment Gus stood there, not knowing what to do. He took off his coat and put it and his hat on the chair. He couldn’t leave her like this. As he turned to go up the stairs, he heard someone come onto the porch and heard the doorbell ring through the dining-room from the pantry. And heard Janey’s footsteps on the top floor, running out into the hall. He went to the door and opened it. He said, “Oh. Oh, hello, Orvie.”

  Orvie Rogers’s mouth dropped open a little. “Oh,” he said. “I—I thought you’d gone to the office. I—I just stopped by to speak to Janey.”

  For a moment Gus stood there motionless. It was only a moment, but it seemed to him a very long time indeed before he could unloosen his hand from the doorknob and get his vocal cords in a fit order to function sensibly and audibly. It evidently seemed a long time to Orvie Rogers. He swallowed before he said, “It—it wasn’t important anyway, Gus. I—I’ll come back later. It was just something—”

  “Not at all,” Gus said. He could hear the false cheery cordiality in his voice and knew he was sounding like a third-rate aristocrat in a bad movie. “Not at all,” he said again. “Come in. I was just leaving.” He got the doorknob out of his hand, got back into the hall, and picked up his hat and coat again. “I was just shoving off.”

  He managed to move toward the stairs. She was up there, looking expectantly over the banister rail, one hand up, breathlessly holding on to the neck of her red sweater. He caught the briefest glimpse of her, not having meant to look up, not wanting to see her caught out. Oh, God! he thought; Not Janey! The saliva that flushed into his mouth was bitter as wormwood and gall. He swallowed it down with an effort that wrenched and churned the food in his stomach, tasting it sour and bilious again. No wonder she was so damned anxious to get him out of the house. He controlled himself deliberately, sick at himself for being able to make his voice sound as if everything was swell. Everything perfectly fine.

  “It’s Orvie, Janey.”

  “Orvie?” He could see her swallow and moisten her lips. “What—what does he want, Gus?”

  He was rather proud of himself then. In a way. He sounded fine as he said, “I don’t know. Why don’t you come on down and ask him? I’ve got to shove off. So long.” He started to the door. “Or why don’t you go on up to the living-room, Orvie? I’ll see you later.”

  “Okay,” Orvie Rogers said.

  Gus closed the front door and went down the walk. Or he assumed he did. He found himself at his desk a little while later. At least he guessed it was his desk. Swede Carlson was sitting beside it waiting for him, talking to Connie Maynard while he waited.

  TWELVE

  “MORNING, GUS.” Connie Maynard’s cheerful lilt gave his stomach another wrench. She made it sound as if they’d just had breakfast together but don’t ever let anybody else know our beautiful, lovely secret. One colorless eye of Swede Carlson flickered. Gus felt the other cocked bleakly on him as he hung his overcoat on the hook by the washbowl in the corner and stuck his hat on top of it. The hell with both of them. He turned back. Swede Carlson looked at him disinterestedly.

  “Thought you came back and did your story last night,” he said.

  “That’s right,” Gus answered curtly. “Got anything to add to it? I thought you were going home and go to bed.”

  Oh, oh, Connie Maynard thought. He’s mad about something. I bet little sheep-eyes gave him one hell of a going-over this morning.

  She had a bright picture of Janey trailing lugubriously around in her old yellow bathrobe and wool-lined slippers, no lipstick, tow hair unkempt, red-nosed, probably weeping into his coffee cup. She caught a quick glimpse of herself, crisply tailored and neat, in the cracked mirror over the washbowl, and smiled at it before she moved around and perched on the corner of his desk, looking casual but businesslike, waiting for orders. Chief Carlson was cutting something off an oblong brown block. She shuddered inside a little. She hadn’t known people still chewed tobacco.

  “I did go home, just like I said,” Carlson said placidly. He closed his knife and put it and the plug back in his pocket. “But I got up this morning. Still haven’t got anythin’ to add, not right now. The boy’s still out, over at the hospital.” He put on his hat. “I’m just makin’ a few calls. Routine checkup, I guess you people call it.”

  His bleak gaze was still fixed on Gus. If it meant anything, Gus Blake, embroiled in his own special kettle of bitterly simmering oil, was missing it. He jerked his chair up to the desk.

  “Then why don’t you get on and make ’em?” he said offensively. “Tell me about it later. But just get the hell out of here, will you? You, too, Connie. Both of you. Clear out and shut the door. Cut out all the yakkety yak, for just five minutes. I’ve got to work.”

  “Thought maybe I’d like to see that editorial I hear you wrote,” Carlson said equably. “Understand you—”

  “Okay, okay. I’m not pulling it, if that’s what you want to know. I’m letting it ride just like it is. Connie’ll get it for you. Now get out, will you? Get out before I throw you out.”

  He heard the door close as they went into Connie Maynard’s small office next to his, and waited a moment before he stretched his head up and back as far as he could, gritting his teeth, staring up at the stains on the grimy ceiling. He was sick as a horse. If there was only some place he could go and get the hell out of here. Get drunk, he thought; go out and get lousy stinking drunk and just forget about the whole business. He jerked his head forward again and pushed his chair violently back, got up, started toward his overcoat in the corner, stopped, and came slowly back. He was drunk already—or his stomach felt as if he had been drunk. It was churning now; it had the classic dimensions of a first-class hang-over. Anyway, getting polluted and going through it all over again wasn’t going to help. It never had and it never would.

  He ripped his handkerchief out and blew his nose. In a minute or two he was going to bawl like the little Dane. It was going to be the second time in his life he’d wanted to cry, the first since he’d been in the hospital plane flying in to Pearl from Iwo Jima. And bawling didn’t help any more than getting boiled did. He blew his nose again, and sat down in his chair. Forget it, Blake. Just take it—socko, wham—take it and shut up.

  He stuck a sheet of paper in his typewriter and stared at it until it gradually came into focus and the room gathered itself together, everything coming back into solid form and settling itself firmly where he was used to seeing it. It settled back, but it was all changed. All small-time, all down at the heel. A rattling typewriter on a rattletrap desk in the back room of a run-down building that ought to have been condemned before the Civil War. What the hell was he doing there? What the hell was he doing sitting in a room with Managing Editor printed on the door— the G and E rubbed off so that it read Managin ditor? What was he doing there, anyway? Grubbing away at a hundred bucks a week on the understanding that if he pulled the paper out of the red in four years he would buy a controlling interest in it over the next four years at the appraised value the day he came to it. It was all funny as he
ll, now he was seeing it with the fish scales off his eyes. Whatever— But that brought him to Janey again, and he wasn’t going to think about Janey. That had been his first mistake. Blake. Blake the lion in the street, doing a favor because he had a little time to spare.

  A copy boy kicking the door brought him to sharply. “Come in!” he bellowed. “And next time knock! Don’t kick the damn door down, you little—” He swung around, hearing himself and seeing the astonished boy. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Sorry. I take it all back. Just put it in the basket, will you, Ty?”

  “Here it is.” Connie Maynard pulled the proof sheet of the day’s editorial off the holder by her desk and glanced at it again. It was how she knew Gus must have come back to the office to work after he’d left her at her door a little before three o’clock. The first few lines under the head Suckers had been changed.

  Slot machine operators come and go. They go quietly sometimes. Sometimes they’re murdered before they get a chance to go quietly. Like Doc Wernitz out at Newton’s Corner last night.

  The suckers who play them go on forever.

  The rest of it was the same. She handed it over to Swede Carlson.

  “You know, Chief,” she said, sitting down at her desk, “I don’t think Gus has the faintest idea that his wife is in such a mess over the slot machines.”

  She pulled her chair up abruptly to cover her own surprise. Was that why he was so all-fired mad? It hadn’t occurred to her until that second. That was the trouble with the egotistic approach. She could almost hear her father saying it to her. She had simply taken for granted that the row between Gus and Janey must have been over her. And row there had been—she knew Gus too well to make any mistake about that—but what she’d just thought of was much more likely. She looked at Carlson. He had his horn-rimmed reading-glasses on, concentrated on the editorial. She pulled forward a bunch of rewrite stuff the boy had put on her desk while she was talking to him in Gus’s office, and glanced at the top sheet. It was the report from the blotter at the city police station for the twenty-four preceding hours, and never very interesting. Today there was a scribbled note clipped to it. She picked it up and read it.