by Barbara Paul
Snooks couldn’t see Gus Bilinski as a partner in a murder. He just didn’t have the killer instinct. Megan had it—oh boy, did she have it. That young woman had a pronounced streak of ruthlessness that showed up quite clearly under hypnosis.
Up to now Megan’s strong, healthy ego had kept her aggressive impulses under control, had directed them into constructive channels that had helped her to succeed in the business world. But now Megan was faced with an extraordinary problem, and her usual strategies for handling conflict weren’t working. So she was turning to a strategy she’d never used before. No question: Megan Phillips was quite capable of killing.
Snooks felt that if she could just get to Megan, if she could talk to her—she might be able to help her strengthen her controls. Megan wouldn’t want to kill if she could see another way out of her dilemma. Perhaps together they could find a way.
She looked at her watch: five minutes until her next patient. Snooks reached for the phone. Nothing to do but keep trying.
Gus was having trouble talking. He kept tripping over his tongue, he couldn’t seem to finish his sentences, he’d say one thing when he meant something quite different. The students didn’t notice. They were half asleep anyway.
Tonight, he thought. After tonight Megan would be free. After tonight nobody would have to worry about Glickman drugs being sold to schoolchildren. After tonight he’d know a little better the kind of person he was.
“I’d like you to pay special attention to Coleridge’s use of the stallad banza,” he told the class. He didn’t bother correcting the spoonerism, since he was the only one who’d noticed it.
Gus was terrified. He’d started shaking even before he got out of bed that morning and he didn’t have his tremors under control even yet. He’d met Polly for coffee earlier and right away she’d noticed something was wrong. Gus had mumbled some excuse and Polly hadn’t pressed him, bless her.
Gus was obsessed with the fear that he’d flake out when the testing moment came. What if he did let Megan down when she needed help the most? Was he the sort of person who could give help only when the giving was easy?
“It’s not so much the subject matter as the poet’s attitude toward his subject matter that counts, especially when you’re trying to cram everything inside a rigid rhyme scheme and metric pattern but of course you can always vary the meter a little as long as you keep the same number of feet in each line and you go on into things like terza rima and.” Gus wondered what on earth he’d been trying to say. Someone in the last row was yawning, not even bothering to cover his mouth.
It was a simple choice between Megan Phillips and Harrison J. Algren. One of those two people was going to destroy the other. The only question was which would get which. And that made it no question at all. Algren has to die, Gus thought. Hold on to that, keep telling yourself: Algren has to die. What had Algren done to Megan over that weekend to give him such a lock on her mind? What kind of drugs had he forced her to take, what kind of conditioning had he subjected her to? What kind of monster could do such a disgusting thing to a fellow human being?
“The line of descent is quite clear, but it’s not until we get to Keats that we realize Algren has to die.” Gus stopped, horrified.
He needn’t have worried. Nobody was listening.
Snooks, thought Megan.
Tonight Megan was going to take a loaded gun, point it at a man she didn’t know, and pull the trigger. Then tomorrow Snooks would read in the paper that an Oakland hypnotherapist had been murdered, and it would take her about one tenth of one second to figure out whodunit. What would she do?
She might go to the police. With no evidence, but with her own statement that a certain Megan Phillips had, in her presence, declared her intention to kill a then unnamed hypnotist. Snooks had her position at Pittsburgh Psychiatric Clinic to give her words weight; the police would listen. And investigate. And maybe turn up a link between Megan and Harrison J. Algren.
What kind of link? Some unknown piece of evidence she might leave in Algren’s office—a thread from her clothing, a hair. Or was it only television cops that noticed that kind of detail? Megan had a hunch it wasn’t; she certainly couldn’t count on the Pittsburgh police’s conveniently overlooking anything of the sort. She’d have to be very, very careful tonight.
Or what if the police uncovered the connection between Algren and whoever hired him to hypnotize Megan? If that person (those persons?) had anything at all to do with drugs, the link with Megan might be revealed that way. Depended on how much that person or those persons talked. It struck Megan there was an awfully large number of things that could happen that she’d have no control over.
But without Snooks to fill in the blank places, the police wouldn’t know where to look. They couldn’t pick up one of her black hairs and know to rush out to Howe Street with a warrant in their hands. Only Snooks could tell the police about the Megan connection. Always it came back to Snooks.
But maybe Snooks wouldn’t go to the police. That was a pretty big maybe, too big for Megan to gamble her freedom on. It was possible that she had fooled Snooks, had made her think she was resigned to whatever hypnotic fate awaited her. Megan called the switchboard operator and asked for messages. A Dr. Henrietta Snooks had called four times. Nope. She hadn’t fooled her.
Snooks had to be prevented from going to the police, she had to be convinced. But how? Megan’s unsupported assertion wouldn’t do the trick—especially if a dead hypnotist just happened to turn up tomorrow morning. What would convince Snooks? What would make her think Megan wouldn’t go through with it?
The belief that Megan had no reason to go through with it. Megan chewed on that one awhile. Yes. That was it. Snooks had to be convinced that the hypnotist no longer had a hold on her.
How would it go? Say she told Snooks she got another one of those reinforcing phone calls, while Gus listened in on the extension. Say the hypnotist started the routine, maybe spoke one line of the poetry—and then was interrupted. By the sound of a gun being fired. Oh, good heavens no! When Harrison J. Algren was going to turn up with a bullet in him? Snooks would see through that in a minute.
All right, try it again. The hypnotist calls, recites the first line of poetry, stops. There are sounds of a struggle. Ugh, no—too melodramatic. A heart attack—he has a heart attack! Gus is on the extension and he’s listening to the caller gasping and wheezing and maybe saying the word “heart.”
What would Gus Bilinski do in a situation like that? He’d dial 911 and scream for an ambulance. No—he couldn’t do that unless he knew where to send it. And Gus was supposed not to know who the hypnotist was. So that’s what he’d do: he’d try to get the hypnotist to tell him his name, where he was. But the gasping, wheezing caller dies without saying another word. Then Gus goes into the living room and finds Megan standing like a statue, the receiver glued to her ear. He speaks the second line of poetry to complete the ritual; she hangs up; she tells Gus, “Wrong number.” Megan wondered how Gus would appreciate the starring role she was writing for him. Then together they would go to Snooks and tell her they were fairly certain Megan’s hypnotist had just died of a heart attack. So the murdered hypnotherapist in Oakland would be … a murdered hypnotherapist in Oakland.
It just might work. Snooks would be skeptical, of course; it would all depend on how convincing a story they told. Details. Go over it again, get the details right.
The phone interrupted her. Mr. Ziegler would like to see Ms Phillips, please.
And Ms Phillips would like to see Mr. Ziegler. She hurried to his office, wondering if he had any news.
In a way. “I suppose you know Bill McKay from our Joliet branch was here for an interview,” Mr. Ziegler started out. “You might not know he got into Pittsburgh Monday night, had his interview the next morning, and was on a plane back to Joliet late Tuesday afternoon. That makes it look good for you. If he was a serious candidate for the position, the board would have kept him here longer.”
; Megan felt her spirits lift—that did indeed make it look good for her!
“Since this vice-presidency has always been held before by someone with a marketing background,” Mr. Ziegler went on, “the board probably feels it ought at least to consider other possible candidates. McKay was the logical one to call in, because he’s been with Glickman for so long. But I think Bill McKay functions best right where he is, in a branch manager’s office. I feel certain the board thinks so too.” He gave Megan his quick mechanical smile. “I’m telling you all this because I was afraid you might be getting discouraged.”
“Your fears were justified,” Megan told him wryly. She knew he had another reason for telling her. He was increasing her in-debtedness to him. Making sure of her personal loyalty in the future. I’m on your side, see? I’m doing everything I can for you. “The board has kept me waiting a long time,” she said.
“They might keep you waiting even longer,” he cautioned. “There’ll probably be a few more like Bill McKay. But I think it’s safe to say that at this point, at least, no serious rival for the position has appeared on the scene.”
Megan left his office feeling better than she’d felt all week. Ziegler was smart—he knew just when a little pep talk would help most. Would help him, too. Since Megan was Ziegler’s declared choice for the job, it wouldn’t do to have her drooping around the place.
All she had to do was get through tonight’s ghastly business without mishap and handle Snooks right. Then she could concentrate all her energies on nailing down the vice-presidency.
CHAPTER 12
Megan’s appointment with Algren was for seven o’clock. The Kinderling Professional Building in Oakland was only a ten-minute drive from the Howe Street apartment in Shadyside, but Megan and Gus left at six. Worried about being late to their first murder.
“We should be cool and possessed and in full control of ourselves,” Gus had complained. “Instead I’m shaking like a leaf and you keep opening your shoulder bag to see if the gun’s still there. If we don’t calm down fast, we’re going to blow this whole thing.”
“Shut up and help me look for a parking place,” Megan muttered through clenched teeth.
“There’s one,” Gus said. “See that white car pulling out?”
Megan drove up even with the car in front of the newly created parking space and shifted to reverse. She twisted around to look out the back window and saw an old Volkswagen zip into the space behind her.
Gus stuck his head out the window. “Thanks a lot, buddy,” he called. “Proud of yourself?”
The Volkswagen driver stuck his head out the window. “Get rid of that gas-guzzler and you won’t get beat out so easy.”
“It’s not a gas-guzzler—that’s just an excuse for acting like a prick!”
“Your problem, big mouth. Not mine.”
“No, you’re the problem. People like you.”
The driver sat in his Volkswagen laughing at them. Megan shifted gears and drove away.
“I am undergoing a drastic personality change,” Gus announced matter-of-factly. “Never before in my life have I yelled back at people like that guy. I’ve wanted to—but I always just sit quietly wishing a magic death ray would strike them in their mean little hearts. But I don’t yell at them. Now look at me—hanging out the car window, screaming names at that guy. Trying to get through to him.”
“Waste of time,” Megan said. “People like that never hear.”
“I know,” Gus sighed. “And it didn’t even make me feel better.”
They found a place at last, and as she locked the car Megan decided Gus was right. They were too jumpy, too amateurish; the encounter with the Volkswagen hadn’t helped. The time was 6:20. If they walked around the streets of Oakland for another forty minutes they’d both be basket cases when the time came. “Maybe we should get something to eat,” she said. “That might settle us down a little.”
“Do we have time?”
“There’s a junk-food place on the corner. We have time for that.”
They went into the brightly lit, all-plastic (including the food) eatery and had their orders filled on the spot. Gus’s tab came to $3.98. He opened his billfold to see one lonely dollar bill resting there in solitary splendor. “Megan, I have exactly one buck.”
“Never mind, I’ve got it.” Megan had ordered only a hot dog; the two orders together came to $4.88. She handed the girl behind the counter a ten-dollar bill and received twelve cents in change.
“I gave you a ten,” Megan told the girl.
“You gave me a five.”
“No, it was a ten.”
The girl opened the cash register and peered inside, as if looking at the money would give her the answer. “Sorry—you gave me five dollars.”
“She gave you a ten-dollar bill,” Gus said.
The girl shrugged. “I’m not allowed to hand money over to people who claim they’ve been short-changed. You’ll have to wait until we check the cash against the tapes and see if we’re five dollars over.”
“And when will that be?”
“When we close tonight.” Megan rolled her eyes. “You won’t have to come back,” the counter girl said. “You just fill out a form and then if we’re over, they’ll mail you a check.”
Gus’s eyes grew wide. “This happens so often you have a form printed up to take care of it?”
“Oh, forget it,” Megan said irritably. “I can’t be bothered with this now.” She took her tray over to a table.
Gus was disgusted. “Is that how you get your tips?” The counter girl stared at him blandly.
When he got to the table his food was lukewarm. Gus had been surprised when Megan ordered a hot dog and was even more surprised when she actually took a bite before pushing it away. Gus wolfed down his cheeseburgers and french fries; he hadn’t realized he was hungry until then.
When he was finished he leaned back in his seat and held up his hands: they did seem a little steadier now. Megan opened her bag to check on the gun.
“Megan. I’ll do it.”
“No. It’s my responsibility.” She mustered a weak smile. “I’ve corrupted you enough already. I can’t let you do all my dirty work.”
“Oh, Megan.”
“Let’s stick to the plan.”
“Some plan.” Go into his office, whip out the gun, let him have it.
“What’s wrong with it? Gus, don’t start picking holes now!”
“Nothing’s wrong with the plan,” he said reassuringly. “I just feel like grumbling a little.” What was wrong with the plan was that it made everything seem too easy.
“Hello, Miss Phillips.”
Gus looked up to see a large man hovering over their table. The man was ignoring him; he had eyes only for Megan. Another old boyfriend?
He heard Megan’s sharp intake of breath before she made the introductions. “Mr. Bogert, Mr. Bilinski.”
Bogert! Jesus. “Hello,” Gus said nervously, his heart suddenly thudding loudly in his chest.
Bogert grunted something at Gus and turned his attention back to Megan. “Enjoying your dinner?”
Megan glanced down at the hot dog with one bite taken out of it. “Yes, thank you.”
“Out for an evening on the town?”
In Oakland? “No, ah, ah, I have a doctor’s appointment,” Megan said. And that told Gus how nervous she was: explaining herself to Bogert.
“At night? That’s some friendly doctor.”
Gus tried to help. “He has a night practice. I mean, a lot of his patients come in at night. People who work during the day. They can’t come in during the day, they, uh …” Gus trailed off; Bogert wasn’t paying any attention to him.
“I hope nothing’s wrong,” Bogert said to Megan.
“No, just my annual physical checkup.” Still explaining herself.
“But didn’t you have a checkup a few months ago?”
That remark brought out the real Megan. “Have you been memorizing my personnel file, Bogert
?” she asked sharply.
“Security reads everybody’s file, you know that.”
“And you just happened to remember the last time I saw a doctor?”
He shrugged. “Odd details sometimes stick in your mind.”
“In your mind, yes. Why are you checking up on me?”
Her hostility turned his mouth into a thin line. “Standard operating procedure, Miss Phillips. Everybody who’s under consideration for a key job goes under the microscope.”
“Did Mr. Ziegler tell you to, ah, check me out? Or is this something you thought up all by yourself?”
Bogert’s face clouded and he started to say something but stopped himself. Then: “Standard procedure,” he repeated. “Nothing personal. Well, see you on Monday.” He grunted at Gus again and went away.
“He’s the lookout!” Gus gasped, totally forgetting his earlier acceptance of Bogert’s innocence. “Algren sent him here to act as lookout!”
“No, he didn’t, Gus. What would be the point of a lookout? He knows we’re coming.” Megan was breathing shallowly. “But running into Bogert like that—that’s a little shock I could have done without just now.”
“Oh, that was a chance meeting, was it?” Gus’s voice was rising. “Merely a coincidence that he happens to be in Oakland right now?”
“Keep your voice down, Gus. For Pete’s sake, the man lives in Oakland. Why shouldn’t he be here right now?”
“But he was pumping you, trying to find out what you were doing here—”
“No, he wasn’t. That’s just Bogert’s way of being polite.”
“Polite! You call that grilling polite?”
“I don’t, but he does. Gus, he’s just one of those people who don’t know any way to make conversation except by asking questions. Believe me, I know what a real Bogert grilling is, and take my word for it, that wasn’t it. Now for crying out loud, relax!” She opened her bag and touched the gun.
“Omigod, look at the time!” Gus said, aghast. The clock on the wall said nine minutes to seven.
“Is that clock right?” Megan asked the girl behind the counter as they left.