by John Lutz
"They wouldn't believe you. And it isn't likely that anyone would take the gun without smudging or overlapping your prints. What the law would do is run a ballistics test on it, determine it was the murder weapon then arrest you. What's your alibi?"
"Belson —"
"You'd be contradicting your own story. And I doubt if Belson would come to your defense now. No one would believe either of you anyway. Then there's that past you mentioned."
I grinned, watching the fallen, trapped expression on her pouting face. A bitter, resigned look widened her dark eyes. When I rose, still grinning, and moved toward her she backed away.
"You're crazy!" Fear broke her voice and she raised her hands palms out before her. "Crazy!"
"It's been said," I told her as calmly as I could.
I made love to her then, while the moon-struck ocean roared its approval.
Afterward she lay beside me, completely meek.
"We were going to be together anyway, darling, always," she whispered, lightly trailing her long fingernails over me. Her fingernails were lacquered pale pink, and I saw that two of them were broken. "It doesn't matter about the revolver. I don't blame you. Not for anything."
She'd do anything to recover the gun, to recover her freedom.
"I'm glad," I said, holding her tight against me, feeling the blood-rush pounding in her heart.
"It doesn't matter," she repeated softly, "doesn't matter."
That's when I knew the really deadly game was just beginning.
Prospectus on Death
Roger Tabber sat quietly behind the wide desk in his private office, listening to the muted sounds of the traffic streaming below him on Seventh Avenue. He was visible really from three angles, for the plush office was furnished with several huge mirrors stretching from floor to ceiling, to give the impression of space. It was the nature of Tabber's business that he spent much time confined to his office, and he wanted to spend that time in an unstifled atmosphere conducive to decision-making. The three Roger Tabbers were men of about fifty, beginning to gray, with handsome, aggressive faces becoming slightly padded with the excess flesh of middle age. They lifted their right arms simultaneously and picked up the telephone receiver.
"Louis?" Tabber said into the telephone. "Give me a quote on Laytun Oil."
"I see," Tabber said after a pause. He drummed his fingers on the smooth desk top, letting the man on the other end of the line wait. "Buy me five hundred shares," he said then. "I'll talk to you later, Louis."
Tabber hung up the phone and gazed around him at the many handsomely framed charts hanging on the walls, at the wide table in the office corner covered with more charts and graphs, financial reports, figure sheets on great corporations and small alike. With his pencil, with his ascending and descending lines and sheet after sheet of figures, Roger Tabber was able to keep his finger on the pulse of the stock market. As an independent speculator and investor he had to in order to stay in business.
Tabber was intimately familiar with the countless graphs around him, and he believed in them. If all the pertinent facts were known, almost anything could be reduced to a graph, could be analyzed, plotted, and, more importantly, predicted, at least to the degree that Roger Tabber had made a profitable business out of it.
When he'd returned from Haiti last year he had started the business, working out of his apartment, but soon the reams of graphs and assorted information, the tools of his trade, became too numerous. He was making plenty of money, so he rented this office on Seventh Avenue, had it lavishly decorated and had two telephones installed. Here, alone in his office with his charts and telephones, he was building his fortune.
Tabber gave a little start behind his desk at the knock on his door. It was most unusual for anyone to be calling on him at the office. He straightened his tie and called for the visitor to enter.
A tall, dark-complected man stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. He was broad-shouldered and muscular, though the trim cut of his dark-blue business suit made him appear almost slender. With a wide smile on his pleasant face, he glanced around him at the imposing graphs hanging upon the walls before advancing on the desk.
"Mr. Tabber," he said, extending his right hand, "I am Siano . . . of the Leasia family."
Tabber's heart leaped as he shook hands. Well, there was nothing this man could do about it now, even if he were fully aware of what had really happened.
"Yes," Tabber said, "I know of the family from my stay in Haiti. And I have heard of you."
"I'm honored, sir," Siano said in his velvet, high-pitched voice. It was a cultured voice, grammatically precise, and Tabber could almost see the verbal punctuation in the air. "I have been a long time away from the island. It surprises me that you have heard of me."
"I heard you mentioned in a conversation about your father," Tabber said. "Your father, you know, is rumored to be a . . . 'What is it?"
"A hungan," Siano said pleasantly, "and it is good, sir, that you know I am of his family."
Again Tabber felt an irregularity in his heartbeat. He remembered now — native superstition. A hungan, or shaman as he'd heard them called, was a voodoo witch doctor. There was always talk of such nonsense when he was on the island; it had developed into quite a gimmick for the tourist trade. And this was Siano, one of the sons of the Leasia clan, well-traveled and educated in Europe — on some kind of foundation grant, no doubt.
"Well," Tabber said, "what is it that brings you to New York?"
"I will be here for some time," Siano said, "staying at the Hilshire, and I thought I would talk with you about the Sweet Kane Sugar Company."
"But . . ." Tabber shrugged, ". . . it no longer exists."
"I am aware," Siano said in a sad voice behind his smile. "Bankruptcy, liquidation — it was cruel."
"Cruel?" Tabber shook his head. "It was unavoidable."
Siano's smiling dark eyes met Tabber's directly. "You, sir, as the manager, should know better. After an entire tribe of people had migrated from their homes, after they had been promised wages to live on, you got them to help you strip the land and then liquidated the company, paying them no wages, leaving them to poverty and hunger."
Tabber pressed the flat of his hand on the desk. "But there simply was no money! Don't you understand?"
"I understand, sir, the mechanics of business," Siano said. "I know that the profits of Sweet Kane Sugar went to the parent company that owned most of the stock, that all assets went in various ways to the parent company so that when liquidation occurred there was nothing for the people. I am not inexperienced in the world of finance, sir." Tabber drew a gold fountain pen from his pocket and began toying with it. "Well," he said, staring at the pen, "it does no good to talk about it how."
"That's true," Siano said, "but I must tell you that my people will not tolerate what happened. I, too, have called the Loa, I am also a hungan, and I have been sent to New York to see that death visits you."
Tabber's body stiffened in sudden shock. "And how do you propose to do that?" he asked in a tight voice.
"You needn't fear death by the hand of man," Siano said in his pleasant, smooth voice, "but death will come to you; death is on the way to you."
Tabber felt himself getting angry. "What the hell do you intend to do, stick pins in a doll or something? I don't believe in your malarkey any more than I believe in leprechauns, and I'm surprised an educated man like yourself does. You must know that voodoo works by the power of suggestion; the intended victim must believe in it or it's worthless. And I assure you I don't believe in it!"
"I am aware," Siano said calmly.
"I am aware, too," Tabber said angrily. "Now get the hell out."
He watched Siano smile and get up slowly. Tabber felt the hardness of his walnut desk top for reassurance. Around him were the wall charts, the square-cornered filing cabinets, the accouterments of commerce, of civilization, while below him he could hear the Seventh Avenue traffic passing below his window in a
n endless stream of reassuring noise and gleaming metal. This was New York, not Haiti. Was this savage in an expensive business suit out of his mind? Siano turned and walked gracefully to the door. Tabber expected him to turn back and say something before leaving but he didn't.
Tabber sat motionless for a while, looking at the blank panel of the closed door. Then the heavy quiet of the office was broken by the jangle of one of the telephones on the desk. It was Louis, calling to tell Tabber that he had been able to buy Laytun Oil at 24 1/4.
Within a week Tabber had forgotten about Siano's visit, and there was no reason for him to remember it when he received the piece of mail from Snowden Investment Research advising him to consider buying Belfor Electronics. The letter, an ordinary form letter, was like hundreds of others that Tabber received each year. He was always deluged by mail from private research firms, hoping to get him to subscribe to their weekly or monthly newsletter at bargain rates; and like Snowden Investment Research, they often supplied sample tips to lure customers. Tabber tossed the letter onto a pile with the rest of his correspondence and promptly put it out of his mind.
Three days later he noticed that Belfor Electronics had risen almost three points, from 30 5/8 to 33 1/2. He began to watch it more carefully.
That same day another letter arrived from Snowden Investment Research, advising him again to buy Belfor Electronics. Tabber folded the letter and placed it in one of his desk drawers.
Belfor remained around 33 for the next week, then Tabber received another letter telling him that, due to certain information they couldn't divulge, Belfor's stock was due for a sudden upsurge.
Tabber stared at the letter for a long time. Then he picked up the telephone and called his broker to inquire about Belfor Electronics and to ask for a prospectus.
Louis knew nothing about the stock that might suggest it would rise. Belfor was a fairly large company that made radio parts and showed a steady increase in earnings each year, though last quarter they had taken something of a beating due to the expense of opening a new plant.
The next day the prospectus on Belfor Electronics came in the mail, along with another letter from Snowden urging again the purchase of shares in the company. This time the letter was accompanied by a set of graphs showing the expected curve of Belfor's sales and profits into 1972. Tabber compared the graphs with the information on the prospectus and found that up to the last quarter they tallied exactly. Apparently Snowden Investment Research had done some accurate homework. But would their upward sweeping curve into the future be correct?
Belfor seemed to be a solid company at least, so after studying the prospectus Tabber picked up the phone and bought a hundred shares, just for a feeler.
Within a few clays Belfor Electronics stock was up to 38 1/4. Another letter and set of graphs arrived from Snowden Research, telling Tabber that Belfor was still a smart buy despite the rise, that the stock was destined to move higher very shortly. Tabber talked to Louis, who told him that there were rumors about Belfor now, about possible takeovers, mergers, government contracts, but only rumors. Tabber studied his charts from Snowden carefully, called Louis back and bought 500 shares.
Profit-taking drove Belfor stock down to 34, then it began to climb steadily on heavy volume. The news broke in the papers that Belfor Electronics had been awarded a fat government contract to make components for the space project, and by the end of the month the stock had soared to 47 3/8.
A letter came from Snowden Research, advising Tabber to hold all his Belfor stock, and this time, along with the letter and graphs, came a curious thing.
It was a carefully composed actuary chart from one of the biggest insurance companies in the country, showing the decreased life expectancy of people with a history of heart trouble at various ages. There was no explanation, only the chart. Perhaps it had been placed in the envelope by mistake — but Tabber had a history of heart trouble.
When the next letter from Snowden arrived, Tabber got a momentary jolt. Along with the usual information was a chart listing the unfavorable life-expectancy statistics for people who had suffered exactly the same type of heart attack that Tabber had suffered three years before. Smoking decreased the number of years these people had to live; being overweight cut more years from their lives; working in professions that tried the nerves was unfavorable; married ex-heart patients tended to live longer than those unmarried; rural patients outlived urban dwellers. As Tabber's eyes studied the deadly statistics he realized that all of these things, all of them applied to him.
It was then that he remembered Siano's visit and a flash of indignation and anger shot through him. Of course Tabber's heart attack hadn't been a secret, and Siano would have the money and resources to research him quite thoroughly. Imagine trying something like this! He lifted the telephone to call Siano at the Hilshire and vent his anger, then he thought better of it and replaced the receiver in its cradle. Why give the man the satisfaction of knowing he'd gotten his intended victim angry? Tabber cursed himself for becoming upset over such superstitious harassment and crumpled the information from Snowden and tossed it into the wastebasket. He noted as he did so, however, that Snowden still advised holding Belfor Electronics.
The next week, out of curiosity, Tabber inquired into Snowden Investment Research's address in Brooklyn and found it to be the address of a mortuary. That, he thought, was a nice touch.
That same afternoon another letter arrived from the fictitious Snowden Research, telling Tabber to sell Belfor Electronics. The letter stated that despite the government contract another unfavorable earnings report would drive the price of the stock down. There was another graph enclosed with the letter, a graph that made Tabber's breathing quicken and his right hand move unconsciously to his chest. At the top of the lined paper was the heading: Life And Projected Life Expectancy Of Roger Tabber. A thick black line started at the left side of the graph in a column marked Oct. 3rd, 1920, the date of Tabber's birth, rose through adolescence into adulthood, remained steady, curved downward into middle age, then dipped sharply at the date of his heart attack. Then the line went into a gradual decline, turned gray at today's date, extended to the end of the month and finally stopped completely.
Tabber reached for the telephone again to call Siano, but he paused, the receiver pressed to his ear, and instead called Louis and sold half his shares of Belfor Electronics stock.
A week later Belfor did issue a very unfavorable earnings report, and their stock plummeted. Tabber sold the rest of his shares at 43 and still made a nice profit. Letters from Snowden were arriving almost daily now, accompanied by graphs and information sheets that predicted Tabber's demise. Tabber was becoming nervous, irritated at the slightest things, but the last thing he would do, the most unwise thing he could do, would be to call Siano and ask him to quit. He could call the police, of course, but what would they be able to prove? They would think that he, Tabber, was the superstitious fool.
It was the day the elevator was out of commission that it happened.
Tabber had to climb the six flights of stairs to his office, but he took the steps slowly and carefully. His heart had been beating quickly and irregularly of late anyway, and after the operation his doctor had told him not to exert himself. Nevertheless, when he closed his office door behind him he was breathing quickly, too quickly. From the corner of his eye he saw the top of an envelope from Snowden Research sticking out of the wastebasket. Did his heart skip a beat? A waver of fear went through Tabber as he leaned on the door. Of course his heart might have skipped a beat! That was normal, he was out of breath, it had skipped a beat before.
Tabber drew a deep, steadying breath and began to cross the office toward his desk, and his heart did skip a beat, it did! His hand moved to his chest, wrinkling his white shirt front beneath his tie. Now his heart seemed to be beating irregularly, spasmodically!
Siano! Could it be possible? Was he actually able with his statistics and graphs to suggest to Tabber the moment of his death? O
f course not! . . . But he had been right about Belfor Electronics stock, and Belfor Electronics stock had gone down!
Then Tabber felt the pain. It was a quick, subtle pain that might have been all in his mind, or might not have been. He felt his heart leap beneath his clutching fingers and fear shot up in him like a flame. Clumsily, he stretched out his left hand and supported himself on the desk, waiting for the next pain. It came, searing through his chest like fire, moving up and out, cutting off his breath, turning his arm to molten lead! Gasping, his face mottled and distorted, Tabber struggled around the desk to the telephones and dialed the first person he could think of. "Louis . . ."
It was a massive heart attack but not a fatal one. Afterward, though the doctors claimed Tabber was in critical condition and too ill to have visitors, they finally acquiesced to his demands to see his "old friend" Siano.
Tabber watched him come through the door to the tiny hospital room, somehow walking silently over the tile floor. Siano was immaculately groomed, as before, wearing a tailored dark suit and with the suggestion of a smile on his dark face. "They told me you wished to see me," he said pleasantly.
Tabber waited for the nurse to leave before answering, then he looked up at Siano. Siano had lost, Tabber told himself. Tabber had had his heart attack, but he was still living.
"You've caused this," he said to Siano in a hoarse voice. "You have caused me to be an invalid for the rest of my life if I'm wheeled out of here alive."
Siano smiled down at him. "You are the one who caused it, sir."
Tabber felt the anger stir in him, but he had promised himself that he'd stay calm. After all, it was just possible he'd have had his heart attack if Siano had never entered his life. That was the thing he really wanted to believe. He was not a superstitious man, but there was something he still didn't understand.
"I called you here to ask you one question," Tabber said, "and I want you to promise to tell me the truth."
Siano considered for a moment before answering. "I will give you that promise."