“You mean you say on the tape who killed her?” Hewett asked.
“That’s right. Here. Have a drink. Then we’ll listen to it. Together.”
“Can’t you just tell me?” Hewett asked plaintively. He tilted the glass high, drained it.
“Now I can tell you. I’ll turn the tape on. Like this.”
“Who is it? Who killed her?”
“You did, Hewett. You killed her. Can’t you remember?”
“What kind of a damn fool joke is this?”
His friend went quickly toward the door, opened it, glanced out into the hall. He turned. “Goodbye, Bill. Give my regards to Lisa. My very best regards. I think you might live another ten seconds—after that drink I gave you.”
The door shut softly. Hewett stared at the empty glass. It slipped from his hands to the rug, bounced, didn’t break. He put both hands to his throat and turned dizzily. The moon was bright on the small private terrace. He saw a brown arm, almost black in the moonlight, reach over the terrace wall, saw a man pull himself up quickly.
Hewett fell to his knees.
They were all near the fire, the ember glow reddening their faces. Mick was telling them how the lights went out in Round Five during his bout with John Henry Lewis.
Park came close to them. Mick looked over and stopped talking.
“What is it?” Taffy asked quickly.
“I’ve just told Norris to come over. The local police will be here, too. Our little house party is over, I’m afraid.”
Georgie Wane looked around the circle. “Where’s Bill?” she demanded.
“Bill is in my room. He’s very dead, and not at all pretty. Poison.”
He heard the hard intake of breath. Taffy said, “Oh, no!”
“Before he did it he left his confession. I think you might like to hear it. Mick, go on up and play the tape that’s on the recorder right now. Pipe it onto the front terrace. We’ll walk over there to listen.”
Mick went across the sand and into the darkness. They stood up slowly, full of the embarrassed gravity with which any group meets the death of one of their number. Taffy came next to Park in the darkness as they walked, her fingers chill on his wrist.
“No, Park. I can’t … believe it.”
They stood on the front terrace, close to the sea. The amplifier made a scratching sound. The voice that came was thin, taut with emotion. There was no need for the voice to identify itself.
“I can’t pretend any more. She said she was through with me. She told me she was fed up with neurotics. I had her meet me at the farm. Falkner trapped me about that. I took a shovel and coveralls. I came up behind her, struck her with the flat of the shovel blade. I carried her fifty feet into the woodlot and buried her there. I burned the shovel handle and the coveralls. I drove her car back and put it in the busiest lot I could find and tore up the check. I couldn’t face the thought of her going to someone else, someone else’s arms around her and lips on hers. I’m not sorry. Not sorry at all …”
There was a dry, rasping sound of needle on empty grooves and then silence as Mick lifted the arm.
“Crazy,” June Luce said softly. “Plain crazy. Gee, the poor guy.”
Sirens shrilled through the distant night, coming closer. Park said quickly, “Go on into the front living room, all of you. They’ll take the body out and then Norris will probably want to talk to you. I see no reason why it might not be simple routine.”
It was a full forty-five minutes after the cars had swung across the private causeway and parked that Lieutenant Norris came into the front living room. He was a tall, stooped, sick-looking man, with a face that showed the lean fragility of the bone structure underneath. He wore an incongruous dark suit and his eyes were remote, disinterested.
“Let’s get it over,” he said. “You’re Smith? No? Oh, Darana. And you’re Brian. Okay, I got you all straight now. I guess. I can question you all at once. Did Hewett seem depressed since you’ve been here?”
Several people said yes at the same moment.
Georgie said, “The guy was pretty antisocial. I thought it was because his gal had disappeared. I’ve been wrong before.”
“Now,” said Norris, “about this beach party tonight. Anybody see him leave?”
There was silence. Park said, “The sea was warm. About half the group were swimming from time to time. You couldn’t really keep track of any individual. I guess that at one time or another every one of us wandered off. I found Hewett, as I told you, when I went up to my room to change to dry clothes. It was getting just a little chilly.”
Prine Smith crossed his arms. “Let’s drop this patty-cake routine, shall we?”
Norris stared coldly at him. “What’s on your mind?”
“Hewett was drinking too much. That record sounds too sober to me. And I knew Hewett inside and out. I say nuts to this suicide angle. Lisa was his gal and she meant every look she gave him. I’m the only one outside of Bill and Lisa that knew the wedding date was set. I thought Falkner’s idea was a bust for a time, but I’ve felt the tension growing here. And now I think I know the angle.” He spun and took two steps toward Stacey Brian. “Come on, kid. Make imitations for the people. Show ’em how you can be Jimmy Stewart, or Edward G. Robinson—or Bill Hewett. Maybe you were Bill Hewett over the phone when you got Lisa to go out there to that farm. Bill never killed himself. He had more guts than anyone you know. For my money, Stacey, you got him up there to Falkner’s room, made the record yourself, and slipped him a drink with the stuff in it.”
Stacey Brian turned as white as a human being can turn. He came out of the chair like a coiled spring suddenly released. His fist spatted off Prine Smith’s mouth before Smith could lift his arms. Park leaped in and grabbed Brian from behind. He struggled and then gave it up.
“Will you be good?” Park asked.
Stacey Brian nodded. Park released him.
Stacey said in a level monotone, “Any guy who can think up that kind of an angle probably did it himself. He was on the make for Lisa ever since the first time Bill brought her around. We all knew that. We didn’t tell the cops because we didn’t think he was a guy to kill anybody. Sure I make imitations. But if any of you think I did a thing like that, you can all go to hell in a basket.”
Norris drawled, “You guys can slap each other around until you’re tired. It doesn’t make no nevermind to me. I got my case solved, and I like the solution. Hewett smeared his gal and covered it nice. I got the dope today they found the body just like he said in the tape.”
“But, damn it, man,” Prine said, “can’t you see that Brian could put that on the tape and make it sound just like Hewett?”
Stacey said, “Smith, I don’t want to ever see you or talk to you or hear your name again as long as I live. I’m going back to New York just as fast as I can get there, and I’m packing my stuff and moving out of that apartment we got two months ago.”
“Good!” Smith said.
“You sound like a couple of babies,” Guy Darana said.
“He’s a slick one, he is,” Prine said. “He even did his imitations here for us, because he knew that if he didn’t do them somebody would wonder why he’d given up his pet party trick.”
Norris sighed. “I’m tired. You people are trying to foul up my case. Sleep on it, will you? Nobody leaves the island. I’ll be back in the morning. They’ve taken the body to town.” He looked around with a sudden, surprising, wry amusement. “Have fun,” he said. He turned and left the room.
Guy whispered to Georgie and then said to the room at large, “We’re taking a walk. The air is fresh out there.”
“Be back in half an hour,” Park said. “We’ll all meet at the enclosed patio at the rear of the house. I think that by then we’ll be able to talk calmly and iron out this trouble.”
“Never!” Stacey Brian said calmly.
“But you’ll give it a try.”
“If it’ll amuse you. It’s your party.”
Park walk
ed off the terrace out into the night and sat in the sand, his back against the concrete seawall. He heard a sound and looked up over his right shoulder. Taffy stood with her elbows on the wall, her head bent, her thick white hair falling toward him, a sheen in the pale moonlight behind her.
“He’s right, you know: Smith,” she said. There was utter sadness in her voice.
“Don’t fret, Taff.”
“The poor lost man. Poor Bill. This is a night for losing things. We’re lost too, you know.”
“How do you mean that?”
“I could go along with your plans before this happened, Park. I told myself you were doing good. But I really didn’t believe it. Now a boy is dead. And boys stay dead a long time. It’s been nice.”
He found her hand. “Trust me.”
“I want to. But I can’t. Not any more. Because this thing that happened is wrong. Norris is a fool. You’re being a fool too.”
“I don’t want to lose you, Taff.”
“But you did. When Bill died you lost me.”
“Old Taff. The world mother, the open warm heart for lost dogs and children.”
“Don’t make bright talk. Just kiss me and say goodbye like a little man.”
“You can’t go now.”
“I’ll stay until morning, but this is a good time for goodbye.”
When he came in with Taff they were all in the enclosed patio. The wall lights were on, the bulbs of that odd orange that repels insects.
“Post mortem,” June Luce said. “A post mortem by my generous uncle who pays me two hundred a day to grace his lovely home.” She laughed. There was liquor in her laugh.
“Please shut up, dear,” Georgie said.
“Well,” Park said, “it all seems to be over. And I, for one, am satisfied with Norris’s conclusion.”
“I’m happy for you,” Prine Smith said. “You’re easily satisfied.”
Guy Darana stood with his big arm around Georgie’s slim waist. He rubbed his chin against her sleek golden head.
Taffy wore the look of a lost child. Mick, by the corner bar, was glum.
“He didn’t die easy,” Park said. “It was quick, but from the look of his face there wasn’t anything easy about it.”
“Is this discussion necessary?” June asked. “Even at my wage scale there’s a limit.”
“I’m switching to bourbon, Mick,” Stacey said.
June glanced beyond Falkner to the stone arch that led out into the side garden. She made a sound. It was not a scream. It was harsh and long and came from the deepest part of her lungs.
Park moved to one side.
Guy Darana had his arm around Georgie Wane’s waist. With one heave of his shoulder he flung her to the side. She spun, tripped, and fell hard.
Bill Hewett, ghastly pale in the archway, his mouth twisting so that lips were pale worms entwining, said, “I left some unfinished business behind, I think.”
Prine Smith stood without a movement, with no expression at all on his face. Stacey Brian stood with the glass in his hand. His hand shut and the glass made a brittle sound. A clot of blood dropped and spattered on the stone.
Guy Darana stood with his hands flattened against the wall behind him.
“No,” he whispered. “No!”
His big pale hand flickered in the light, disappeared, reappeared with the glint of metal. Bill Hewett took a slow step toward Guy. The gun spoke, a slapping, stick-breaking sound, metallic in the enclosed patio. He fired point-blank at Bill Hewett. He fired six times. The hammer clicked three more times. The gun dropped onto the stone. Hewett took another slow step toward Darana, grinning now, grinning in a ghastly fashion.
Darana’s big, handsome face lost its human look. The features seemed to grow loose and fluid. Knee bones thudded against the stone. It was as though he were at prayer, worshiping some new and inhuman god. His lips moved and he made sounds, muted little growlings and gobblings that were zoo sounds.
Norris came in from the garden as though walking into a drugstore for a pack of cigarettes. “Okay,” he said, “print that. It ought to do it. On your feet, Darana.”
Guy looked up at him and said, the words pasted stickily together, “There’s nothing you can do to me because it is part of me to avenge and destroy. There is sin and weakness in the world. Weakness and sin. They have to be punished. I’m an instrument of death. The garden and the word. The time is now. All the rich orchard time of turning, and no man is known who can unbend the others.” He glared around at them, then slipped down onto his haunches and began idly patting the stone with the palm of his hand, cooing softly, crooning to himself.
“Ain’t it the way,” Norris said with disgust. “You go to all this trouble and what do you get? He flips just as you grab him. Well, maybe we piled it on a little strong. Help me, you guys. If he’s violent he’ll be tough to handle.”
But Guy Darana let himself be led out placidly. He looked vacantly at Georgie on the way out. She put the back of her hand to her lips, and her eyes were wide and terrified.
They gathered in Falkner’s room. It was two in the morning. The fireplace fire drove back the night chill.
Georgie’s burned knee and elbow had been bandaged. She had lost almost all her casual flippancy.
“What can you believe about people?” Prine Smith asked. “I had Darana pretty well evaluated in my own mind. A big handsome hunk with more of a spark of acting talent than he was willing to admit. I had him pegged to go a long way. Hollywood had nibbled once, but he didn’t like the offer. How do you figure it, Park?”
Falkner shrugged. “Women came running to him. He must have alternated between thinking he was a minor god and feeling a strong sense of guilt, probably the result of a strict childhood home life. Guilt can do odd things. He must have been on the edge when he made a play for Lisa. She turned him down. That was something new. He brooded over it. The one woman he wanted he couldn’t have, and Hewett’s happiness with her was like a blow in the face. He was an actor. He could do tricks with that voice of his. We’ll never know for sure, probably, but I think he phoned her pretending to be you, Bill. I guess you can fill out the rest of the details. He justified himself by saying to himself that he was punishing her for a sin.”
Park turned to Prine again.
“Our precautions were very simple. Lew and Mick took turns going through your rooms, deactivating anything that looked lethal. Lew was the one who found the gun while Guy was swimming. He reloaded with frangible blanks that look like the McCoy. Mick found the unlabeled bottle. He emptied it on a hunch, washed it, refilled it in the kitchen. While we swam at night, Lew was out beyond the breaker line in the Nancy watching with night glasses to see that nothing funny happened. I saw Darana talk to Bill and then leave in the direction of the house. In a little while Bill followed along. I followed him. When I saw him go into my room I went down onto the terrace below mine and climbed up. Guy left the room as I came over the wall. Poor Bill thought he’d really been poisoned. When I convinced him that he hadn’t, he was willing to play ball with us. I called Norris and explained it to him. We needed a little more on Darana than Bill’s naked word. Well … we got it.”
Hewett said, “It’s over now, I guess. I knew all along she must be dead. But because I didn’t know who or how, I couldn’t relax. Now I can start rebuilding.”
“Can you use any help?” June asked, smiling.
Hewett grinned. “I’ll consider it.”
The group broke up. Park promised transportation after breakfast. Taffy and Georgie Wane lingered behind. Georgie gave Taffy a quick look and then she smiled at Park, saying, “Here I am, wounded. Look, does a girl get a chance to stay here for a few days? Recuperation, we could call it, and it won’t cost you. Only what I can eat.”
Park looked expressionlessly at Taffy. “Why, I suppose that it would be—”
Taffy gave Georgie the warmest smile in her book. “Darling, Mr. Falkner intends to give you a little bonus to take care of that scrape
d knee and elbow. I really think it would be best for all concerned if you went with the others.”
Georgie shrugged. “Sorry, boss. I didn’t see any signs on him. ‘Night, all.”
Taffy shut the door firmly. She turned, her hands on her hips. “If you think for one minute I’d let you keep that—that female here after the others go …”
Park gave her a look of outraged innocence. “But you told me we were through!”
“Well, we aren’t. Any arguments?”
He didn’t give her an argument. He was too busy.
A Time for Dying
The swimming pool, under the moon, was like black ink in a white stone tray. Beyond the fringe of trees, blatant and gaudy, were the lights of Los Angeles, that painted lady of the Pacific.
Up on the night hill, by the pool, it was a time of silence, of quiet voices and a blessed peace. Jimmy Hake, that round and comical man of television, that owl-faced, elfin, blundering character in whom every man saw a part of his own image, reclined on the wheeled redwood chaise and watched the way the faint light from both the moon and the house windows made mysterious the features of his beloved.
Jimmy Hake needed all his acting talents to keep his voice and manner relaxed. Murder makes the breath short, makes the palms sweat, the voice tremble, the neck muscles bind.
Murder is something that had been two years a-growing Murder is the answer to a question that couldn’t otherwise be answered.
It was a Sunday night. Tomorrow the final rehearsal, and then the network program itself at eight, live because the network and the sponsor thought a live show would be a good hype, a good kickoff for the series. Jimmy Hake, presented live by the makers of Shynaline Products, the cosmetics that bring out the natural beauty of your skin. Available at all fine department stores.…
Going back to a series was a gamble, after two seasons of guest shots, talk shows with Merv and Johnny, one motion picture that grossed medium okay, three well-paid beer commercials. But his instinct told him this series would work. The character was perfect. The scripts were great. They had five good shows in the can, so they could follow up the live opener on the agreed weekly schedule.
The Good Old Stuff Page 24