The Gorgeous Murderer

by Henry, Kane,

  “I’m still uncomfortable, Mr. Grant.” Blinney pointed. “The gun.”

  “But you’re quite a marksman yourself, aren’t you, sir?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know, I know.” Grant’s head moved up and down. “I know so much about you, Mr. Blinney, I’m fairly leaking information. I’ve devoted the last six weeks of my life to you, Mr. Blinney. To you, almost exclusively.”

  Grant lowered the gun, and his shoulders moved as he chuckled. “All right. Sit down. Over there.” He pointed to an easy chair facing his. “Sit, and let’s stop making with the charming palaver. We have serious talking to do, you and I.”

  Blinney sat in the chair indicated.

  Grant rose and placed the gun on a mantel behind his chair, returned to the chair, sat, slumped, crossed his legs and clasped his hands. “Where do you want me to begin, Mr. Blinney?” he said.

  “Since I have no idea why I’m here, or what you want to begin—begin wherever you like, Mr. Grant.”

  “Now you’re getting annoying, Mr. Blinney.” Grant unclasped his hands and straightened in the chair. “Don’t annoy me. I don’t like it.”

  “What do you want of me, Mr. Grant? You called me. And how did you know to call me there?”

  “Now come off it, pal. I told you I’ve practically been living on your tail these past six weeks. I know so much about you, it makes me sick. I know about your Mama and your Papa and why you were called Oscar and your fight-career and the bank and Alfred Hodges and Mr. McKnish and the Board of Directors and the fancy chick you’re living with. I know so much about you, Mr. Blinney, I’m regurgitating with it.”

  “Why?” said Blinney.

  Grant wrinkled his nose and his voice touched falsetto. “Because I’m going to help you, that’s why, Mr. Blinney.”

  “Look,” said Blinney. “Are you in love with Evangeline? Is that what all this back-scratching is about? Because, if you are, first I want to tell you—”

  “In love with that two-timing little tramp!” Grant’s eyes went round and he raised a hand and pushed it against the air as though holding something back. “Are you out of your mind? Look here, Mr. Blinney, you married that bum, not me. You married her, remember? And she’s trouble, big trouble, especially for a guy like you. And I’m here to get you out of your trouble.”

  “How?” said Oscar Blinney. He rested his elbows upon the arms of the frayed easy chair and he touched the fingers of one hand to the fingers of the other.

  “May I start at the beginning now?” said Bill Grant.

  “Please do,” said Oscar Blinney.

  “No. I’ll be kind. I won’t tell you all about Evangeline. Only as applies to us, you and me. First off, even crud like that had somewhere, hidden within it, emotion. And I”—he lowered his head in a form of bow—“am the fortunate recipient of the flow of her emotion. You, for instance, are the jerk of jerks to her. Me? I’m God. Sort of gives me a bit of power, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes,” said Blinney.

  “We were friends in Miami. She knew I’d gone to Havana. And when she got sick and tired and bored to death of you, she came to Havana seeking me. She did not need an abortion, Mr. Blinney.”

  “Oh, no. No…”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. She did not need an abortion. She knew you for the jerk you are and she knew how to work her points. She held you up for that two thousand, like expense money, to pay her way while she tried to find me. She found me. She knew I had no interest in her but she knew I had an interest in a big score. A big score. Do you know what that means, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Yes. I think…”

  “She knew my interest in a big score would freshen up my interest in her. She told me all about you. Everything. All about you. Naturally, she’s a crumb. She threw the pitch but she threw the wrong one. You know what her idea was, Mr. Blinney?”

  “No,” he said.

  “To let you out. To ease you out. I was to convince you that a proper divorce, at any price, was cheap—which, of course, in your case, it is. You’d pay, right through the nose. You had seventeen big ones in the bank. You gave two to her. That left fifteen. Your house in Mount Vernon is now worth thirty thousand dollars. In case you don’t know that, I’m telling you. Your wife made discreet inquiries. Thirty and fifteen is forty-five.

  “A guy like you figures to be able to borrow like fifteen. Total, sixty large ones. That was her proposition. That I come up to the States, and use my… er… persuasion to convince you. For a guy like you, it would be worth it. Aside from the job-business, you’re not a guy who can mix in filth. You weren’t brought up that way; it’s not in you. Free and clear and no complications, I could convince you.”

  “And that’s why you came up here?”

  “No.”

  “But didn’t you say—”

  “Mr. Blinney, you married into another world. We’re people who don’t even speak your language. I’m trying hard to get through so that you can understand. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve worked it out for you, Mr. Blinney. I’m your deliverer. I’ve planted a double-frame, it’s so perfect, it tickles me. You’re protected, I’m protected—and even your banker’s mind won’t be able to figure out a flaw. And you’re out—clean, clear, once and for all—and it costs you nothing, you hang on to your sixty gee.

  “There’s only one way, Mr. Blinney. Way down deep in your heart, you know it. What you’ve been pushing away, what you don’t dare let yourself think about. There’s only one way, Mr. Blinney, and you damned well know it.”

  Faintly: “What way?”

  “We kill her, Mr. Blinney,” said Grant.

  “No!” Blinney half-rose from the chair.

  “Sit down.”

  Blinney sat.

  “We’re going to kill her, Mr. Blinney. It’s so perfect, it’s beautiful. You read in the storybooks about a perfect crime. Daddy, this is it. I’ve already put the thing into operation, the gears are meshing like crazy. Everybody is going to be protected. Nobody is going to be able to put the finger on anybody. And everybody’s going to be protected a hundred percent. One hundred percent. You’re going to be out—clean, clear, a hundred percent. And you’ll probably wind up marrying that Adrienne Moore of yours and live happily ever after.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want to live happily ever after?”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “You don’t want to kill her, Mr. Blinney. Is that it?”

  “Are you mad? Of course I don’t!”

  “Well, you’re not going to, pal. I am. I’m going to kill her on your behalf. I’m going to do you the biggest favor that ever happened, except, actually, I’m not a hundred percent Samaritan. I figure to make a score on this myself. A nice lovely score for me, and a nice lovely score for you, only different kinds of scores. Me? I’ll have loot to burn. You? You’ll have Adrienne Moore, and you’ll get married, and you’ll live happily ever after.”

  “No!” said Oscar Blinney.

  “Yes!” said Bill Grant. “Wait’ll I tell you. You’re not going to be able to resist this, Mr. Blinney. Not even you.”

  XII

  BILL GRANT ROSE UP from his chair and went to the slide-door of a shallow closet and slid the door and said, “I have bourbon and I have Scotch. What’s your preference, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Scotch,” said Blinney.

  Bill Grant tipped bottles to tumblers, added tap water from the bathroom, brought a drink to Blinney and held a drink for himself. “I must first give you a prologue, Mr. Blinney. I must first tell you about me. I’m a guy that’s been looking for the big score all his life,” said Bill Grant. “Sure, I’ve earned money in my time. Oh, I can’t deny that. Five hundred a week. A thou a week. Two thousand a week.

  “But that’s money that you spend. It’s not money, like capital. It’s not a hunk you can throw into a stock market, and if you get lucky, you’re a big man. It’s not a lump that you can operate
from. I’ve always been looking for that lump, for a piece all together, for a big score. Can you understand that, Mr. Blinney?”

  Blinney said nothing.

  “This bum whom you married came down to Havana with a proposition which she thought I’d tie on to. I didn’t. The take wasn’t big enough, and the mark—that’s you—might shake it off. But the more she talked, the more I grew interested, because there were angles present that that idiot had no conception of. So I came back here to the States and checked and checked and checked. And you gain, and I gain, and there is no risk, and we get rid of what we don’t want. Are you with me, Mr. Blinney?”

  Blinney still said nothing.

  “You’re not the talkative type, are you?”

  “No,” said Blinney.

  Grant went to the drawer of a rickety desk, opened it, extracted long green sheets, and brought them to Blinney. “Recognize?” he said.

  “What the hell are you doing with these?”

  “Part of my research, Mr. Blinney. The payroll sheets that you’d study at home.” He sat down, and scanned the green sheets. He read from them: “Martin Aircraft. Number of employees, six hundred and fifty five. Total payroll, seventy thousand dollars. Fifty-five thousand in one hundred dollar bills. Five thousand in fifties. The rest in smaller bills. Hughes Construction. Number of employees, five hundred and Forty. Total payroll, sixty thousand dollars…” His voice droned on and on.

  “I didn’t need the reading,” said Blinney. “I know those figures.”

  “But do you understand the significance of those figures, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Actually, they are approximations. Each set is for the week before.”

  “Now don’t go banker on me, Mr. Blinney. Do you understand the significance?”

  “What significance?”

  Grant’s chuckle came from his chest. “Oh, you weird banker innocents. This significance, Mr. Blinney. Before distribution into all the little pay-envelopes, before the armored cars make their trips, before that whole big-deal operation of distribution, there’s like three hundred thousand dollars sitting nice and quiet in your cage-drawer, and like two hundred and fifty thousand of that—a quarter of a million bucks—is in large bills without earmarks. It is coming through to you, Mr. Blinney?” Blinney squinted in disbelief, shook his head as though in remonstrance to a mischievous child, said nothing, drank.

  Grant returned the payroll sheets to the drawer, went to the closet, and came back with an attaché case. He opened it. “Notice, Mr. Blinney. An attaché case, but a rather deep one, deeper than the usual kind.” He stared down at Blinney who was gazing up at him. Blinney was still squinting disbelief.

  “This case,” said Bill Grant, “will hold two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in packages of one-hundred and fifties. I know. I measured. I used a dummy package. Of course it didn’t contain hundreds. It contained singles. But hundreds are no thicker than singles, are they, Mr. Blinney?”

  “You’re crazy,” said Blinney.

  “Like a fox, I’m crazy.”

  “You can’t possibly think you can get away with anything like this. What’s the matter with you?”

  Grant restored the attaché case to the closet, and made drinks for both of them. He sipped and Blinney sipped and then he placed his glass beside the gun and leaned, easily and gracefully, against the mantel.

  “I’ve cased that joint many times, your First National Mercantile. I’ve studied the entire layout. For instance, the south door lets you out practically at the entrance to the subway on Thirty-fourth Street. Did you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know that the south door is thirty-seven paces from your cage; thirty-seven paces of a normal man walking? Did you know that, Mr. Blinney?”

  “No.”

  “And the subway station right outside the door—the platform downstairs extends all the way to Thirty-sixth Street. As a matter of fact, if you put in your token and become part of that subway system, there’s a ramp underneath that goes practically to Thirty-eighth Street, with exits leading out to each street. Did you know that, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Yes, yes, I know that.”

  “I just want you to know that I know all of that, Mr. Blinney. Man, I’ve had six weeks of concentration on this. And I also know about alarm signals, and motion picture cameras that start shooting at the press of a button, and the four guards that patrol the floor with loaded guns in their holsters, and I don’t give a damn for any of that. Now I’d like to show you some more, Mr. Blinney.” He went again to the desk-drawer, extracted several objects, brought them to Blinney. “First take a look at these,” he said.

  Blinney looked. He saw two tickets for a plane flight to London.

  “Non-stop,” said Bill Grant. “Notice the date?”

  “August eighteenth.”

  “Which is tomorrow. And tomorrow is a Thursday. Flight time, by the way, is three o’clock in the afternoon.” He slipped the tickets into his pocket, handed Blinney another object. “You know what that is, don’t you, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Passport.”

  “Well, look at it, please. Examine it. Don’t be bashful.” Blinney examined. He saw a passport, in perfect order, made out to one William Granville. He saw a photo of a smooth-shaven young man wearing glasses.

  “Did you ever meet William Granville?” said Bill Grant.

  “No,” said Oscar Blinney.

  “You’re talking to him,” said Bill Grant.

  “You?” said Blinney, looking up. “But, but—”

  And now Bill Grant placed the last object in his hands, a pair of glasses, upon the bridge of his nose. “Clean-shaven and with my specs, I’m William Granville. And you have the signal honor, Mr. Blinney, outside of official-stuff, official documents, you know—you have the signal honor of being the first person in my adult life to have become acquainted with Mr. William Granville.”

  “I tell you you’re crazy, Mr.… Mr.…”

  “Stick to Grant, Mr. Blinney.”

  “You’re crazy, Mr. Grant.”

  “You’ll change your mind before I’m through, Mr. Blinney.” He removed the glasses, took the passport from Blinney, brought them to the mantel, deposited them. He sipped his drink, smiled. “I’m still up at the Silver Crest, you know.” He waved a hand. “I retained this princely abode about three weeks ago—as Bill Grant, of course. I paid a month’s rent in advance. Nobody knows about this place—except you, now. I’ve probably been here three times before today.”

  “But why?” Blinney sipped, sighed. “Mr. Grant, you’re probably older than I am, but I should like to give you some fatherly advice. I’m afraid that you, as so many others who have deluded themselves before you, has worked out, or thinks he has worked out, some airtight, foolproof, elaborate—”

  “Shut up!”

  Blinney shrugged.

  “Now let me tell you what this room contains, Mr. Blinney. Aside from these little personal effects that I showed you, there is a scissors, a razor, and shaving cream. There is also a blue suit, a white shirt, a blue tie, a pair of blue socks, and a pair of black shoes. There is also the attaché case and these couple of bottles of whiskey and there is nothing else. Oh! Let me show you the shoes. You’ll like that.”

  “Shoes?” said Blinney.

  Grant brought a pair of black slip-on-type shoes from the closet He held them in one hand as he stood before Blinney, holding himself tall and erect. “First observe me now.”

  Once more Blinney shrugged. He sipped, nodded. “I have observed you.”

  Grant kicked out of the shoes he was wearing and slipped on the new ones. He stood straight. “Now observe,” he said.

  Blinney instantly noted the difference. “But… but… how… I don’t understand…”

  “Vanity,” said Bill Grant. “The other shoes are custom-made, built-up. With those, I’m six feet. These are regular shoes. With these, I’m five feet ten inches. Two inches make a vast difference in the height of an
individual.”

  “You’re right,” said Blinney. “No question.”

  “I’ll be wearing the built-up ones when I visit you tomorrow.”

  “Visit? Me? Are you back on that…?”

  Grant drank, then seated himself opposite Blinney. “Now you listen to me, pal. And listen real hard. Tomorrow morning, at about ten o’clock, Bill Grant shall leave his room at the Silver Crest Motel. He shall go to the office, ask to use the office typewriter, type out a note, and place this into his pocket. He shall be wearing these high-heeled shoes and a neat grey suit. He shall be carrying a large suitcase which shall be practically empty. He shall take a taxi to the railroad station and take a train to New York. He shall arrive, by train scheduled, at eleven-forty Have you followed that, Mr. Blinney?”

  “Yes.”

  “Arriving in New York, he shall purchase a box of cigars, and he shall ask to have that wrapped in plain brown paper. Then he shall come here to this flea-trap, rest, pace, prowl, whatever, until the proper time. At the proper time, leaving his large and empty suitcase here, he shall take up his box of cigars in the plain brown-paper wrapping, and his empty attaché case, and he shall go to the First National Mercantile Bank.

  “He shall arrive there at twenty-five minutes to one, a crowded hour, and he shall get on the line in front of the cage of Mr. Oscar Blinney. When his turn comes, he shall give Mr. Blinney the typewritten note. Mr. Blinney shall comply with the directions contained in the note. Won’t you, Mr. Blinney?”

  “No. No, I won’t.”

  “Yes you will. For a number of reasons. The first reason—the contents of the note. The note states that the bearer has knowledge of the payrolls waiting in your drawer. The note states that the bearer is carrying, under his left arm, a highly explosive bomb. If he drops it, it will wreck the bank, kill you, kill him, and kill at least fifty others. And you’ll do exactly what the note tells you to do, Mr. Blinney.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh, you will. And nobody can blame you, can they? A bomb threat, which is not only a threat to you and to the bearer, but to so many innocent people who are in the bank.”