Merchants of Menace

by Joan Aiken

  “And what were you going to live on when you got there?” asked Fred curiously.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?’’ Davis broke in angrily. “She’s not telling all she knows by a long sight. He’s transferred his money somewhere, and she knows where. And he’s not dead, either, by my guess—he’s waiting for her and she thinks she’s going to go scot-free after we’ve dug up the place here and found the bodies—if they are here. Well, she’s not. She’s an accessory after the fact, if nothing more, and since the murders were committed in your territory, you can have her.”

  “No,” agreed Fred quietly, “he’s not dead. But she’s not an accessory.”

  “Damn it, Mullins, I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “This,” said Fred. He looked thoughtfully at their witness. She was crying again, her face in her hands.

  Fred leaned over, and almost gently, he handcuffed her right wrist to his left one.

  She pulled away violently and yelled. Davis gaped.

  “Come on, Davis,” said the detective calmly. “Didn’t you ever see anyone arrested for murder before?”

  “Murder!” screamed Mrs. Faulkner. “Are you crazy? I never—”

  “Tell me,” Mullins asked, “what was your name before you were married?”

  “Mary Dwight. Why—”

  “And where’s your marriage certificate?”

  “How do I know? Somewhere.”

  “Maybe. I guess you’re not a very good lawyer after all. Did you really think you could get away with this?”

  “I’m not a lawyer at all—my husband is—was. Oh, what are you talking about? Let me go!”

  “If you’re Mrs. Faulkner,” snapped Fred Mullins sternly, “and you’ve never been familiar with that house, how did you know the garage was in back, through the kitchen?’’

  “He told me—he—”

  “And if you never saw me before, and didn’t know my name, how did you know it was my wife who telephoned when Miss Harriet disappeared?”

  “He—”

  “Sure, there was a girl named Mary Dwight that Philip Faulkner went with. Maybe he married her—but if he did, I’ll bet she’s planted right here on this place with his sisters. My guess is he never married her.”

  “But I’m—”

  “You’re a good actor, Philip Faulkner: I give you that. But you’re a bum lawyer, and I think you must be crazy: and crazy or not, you’re a cold-blooded murderer. Better come quietly now. I’ll have your own clothes sent to you in jail.”

  The Dead Past

  Al Nussbaum

  Here is a short piece with, most definitely, an artist’s touch.

  When he reached the grave, Felix Kurtz sat on a nearby head­stone and swore. At eighty-five, age hadn’t diminished his ability to unleash a torrent of imaginative profanity; but the cursing did nothing to steady his shaky legs, or remedy his lack of breath, and these were the cause of his anger. Only his own weaknesses could anger him more than the failings of others. His was an active and impatient mind, trapped in a body unable to meet its demands, and he didn’t like reminders of the fact.

  Fifty years, half a century had passed since the funeral. He hadn’t set foot inside the cemetery in all that time, but he’d had no difficulty finding the weed-covered grave with its weather-stained tombstone. When a life has been made up of one huge success followed by another and another, every failure is memorable. He’d always associated Kurtzville, the company town founded by his grandfather, with that early failure, rather than the huge profits the sale of coal had brought during the two world wars. Because of this, he’d been happy when reduced profits forced him to close the mines in the late forties and move his business headquarters to Pittsburgh. Now, Kurtzville was the Pennsylvania equivalent of the western ghost towns, and he’d returned to take away one of its citizens.

  Of course, he could have delegated the job of supervising the reburial to one of the many vice-presidents of his numerous corporations. Or he could have taken no action at all. The state would have moved the grave along with all the others in the path of the new highway. The illogic of his being there neither escaped him nor troubled him. It had been a long time since he had believed himself to be a rational being. He knew that emotions of one kind or another had always governed his actions and reactions. It was only later, after a decision had been made or a deed had been done, that he had devised rea­sons for them. In this case, he had no reasons; he simply wanted to be present.

  A flatbed truck, equipped with a winch and boom, turned at the rusted cemetery gates and bumped along the gravel trail toward Kurtz. As it passed the black limousine where Kurtz’s driver was waiting, the man quickly raised his window to keep out the dust and flying stones. It stopped near the grave.

  Three workmen climbed down from the cab. While two of them busied themselves removing picks and shovels from a chest behind the cab, the third approached Kurtz. “Mr. Kurtz?” he said. “Which grave is it?”

  Kurtz pointed to the grave as the other men approached and dropped their tools at its foot with a clatter.

  The first man squatted beside the headstone and ran his fingers over the dates. “After all this time, there ain’t gonna be much left.”

  “Yes, there will,” Kurtz contradicted. “The coffin was cast iron from the foundry in town. It took six strong men to carry it.”

  “Anyhow, this is gonna take a while, mister. If ya wanta wait in your car, I’ll call ya when we’re ready to use the winch to lift it.”

  “Don’t take all day—I’m paying you people by the hour, you know,” Kurtz said, and turned toward the limousine...

  From the window of his office overlooking the main entrance to the mine property, Felix Kurtz saw Myron Shay adjust his cravat with nervous fingers as he stated his business to a company policeman. Explanations were unnecessary. Everyone in the company town knew about the artist who had arrived during the excitement of the last cave-in to make drawings for a Washington, D.C., newspaper. They knew too that Kurtz had hired him away from the newspaper on the pretext of having him paint a portrait of his sister Emily, thereby cunningly avoid­ing publicity which might have resulted in legislation to force expensive safety measures in the mines.

  Minutes later a clerk, holding his green eyeshade deferentially at his side, came to say that Myron Shay was downstairs. Kurtz told him to send the man up. He was pleased by the good fortune, whatever its cause, that had brought Shay to him when he was about to send for him.

  Myron Shay was approximately twenty-five, ten years younger than Felix Kurtz, and they differed greatly. Kurtz was tall, powerfully built, and favored dark suits, suitable for trips down into the mines. Shay was slightly built, given to wearing light browns and blues and the bright yellow, ivory-buttoned spats of a dandy. Kurtz combed his black mane straight back and had a large mustache whose ends were stiffly waxed, while Shay’s blond hair was parted neatly in the middle, and his pink face appeared to have no need of a razor.

  “I thought you were an accomplished artist,” Kurtz said, seizing the initiative. “I thought you said you worked effectively in all mediums.”

  Shay stood in front of Kurtz’s mahogany desk and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Yes, sir—clay, stone, oils, charcoal—”

  “Is it your normal practice to spend over a month on one small likeness?”

  “Well, sir, I—”

  “No matter, no matter.” Kurtz waved him to silence with a gesture of impatience. “I do not propose to pay for your services unless they are completed satisfactorily by Friday of this week.” The newspaper artist no longer represented an immediate threat to him, but Kurtz wanted him away before something happened to alter the situation.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t think of charging you, sir,” Myron Shay said.

  Kurtz frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Shay moved his hands nervously, as a man will who is forced to speak when he is used to expressing himself in other ways. “Your sister and I�
�Emily and I are in love. We wish to marry. I—I’ve come to ask your blessing.”

  Kurtz laughed humorlessly, then stood and came around the desk. “You want to marry my sister?”

  “Yes, sir. I love her and—”

  “Love her? Do you think you’re the first man who’s pretended an interest in her simply because she’s my sister? Well, let me be the first to inform you she is underage and has no funds of her own. And just because I hired you to paint her portrait, don’t think I’m unaware of how plain she is.”

  “Sir! Emily is not unattractive, and she’s a very warm and sensitive human being.”

  “Enough of this foolishness! My sister is not going to be tied to any second-rate opportunist. I suppose you think I’ll offer you money to stay away from Emily. If you do, you’re mistaken. I own this town and everything in it. Nothing happens here without my knowledge and consent.”

  Kurtz reached out swiftly and grasped one of the artist’s wrists in each huge hand. “You’re threatening something of mine, so I’ll do the same for you.” He raised his arms until Shay’s long tapered fingers dangled limply in front of his face. “You have fifteen minutes to return to the loft you’re using for a studio, pack your equipment into your automobile, and take the road out of town. If you fail to leave, I’ll have these fingers smashed into sausage meat.”

  To emphasize his last two words, Kurtz spun the younger man around and pushed him from the room, pausing only long enough to throw open the door. White-faced, Shay walked past the whispering clerks and left the mine offices without looking back.

  Kurtz motioned to a clerk and said: “Telephone Miss Kurtz. Tell her to come down here right away.”

  The man returned in a few minutes. “She isn’t at home, Mr. Kurtz. The maid said she went to sit for her portrait.”

  Kurtz snatched his hat from the rack and left his office, slap­ping the hat against his right thigh like a riding crop. “I’ll be back later,” he called over his shoulder, and descended the steps two at a time. He paused at the main gate to order two company policemen to come with him, then signaled for his sedan. Kurtz climbed into the front seat with the driver, and the two company policemen sat in the rear.

  When they reached the street where the artist’s studio was located, Shay and Emily were pulling away from the curb in an open car. Shay looked back once, then his vehicle picked up speed.

  “Catch them! Cut them off!” Kurtz shouted at his driver. The man pushed the accelerator to the floor, but the large sedan was unable to gain on the smaller automobile. The two vehicles sped along the cobblestone street, and Kurtz pounded the dashboard with his fists. “Stop them!” he shouted. “Stop them!”

  The reports of two closely spaced pistol shots crashed above the roar of the racing engines. Kurtz turned in amazement to find one of his policemen leaning from the window of the sedan with his weapon in his hand. Ahead of them, the smaller car swerved once, then slowed and stopped.

  Kurtz’s driver skidded to a halt behind it, and all four men rushed forward. They found Myron Shay cradling Emily in his arms, while a red stain on her dress grew rapidly larger.

  Later, at the company hospital, Dr. Moreau came out of the private room and closed the door quietly behind him, his frown almost hidden on a face already deeply etched by time. Both Kurtz and Shay took steps toward him, but he fixed his bloodshot eyes on the younger man and spoke to him, ignoring Kurtz. They exchanged a few words of rapid French, then the elderly doctor patted Shay on the shoulder and Shay went to the door of the sickroom.

  Kurtz moved to follow, but the doctor stepped in front of him. “How did it happen?’’ he asked in English.

  Kurtz licked his lips. “An accident...a sad misunderstanding. Emily was running away with that—that artist! I was trying to overtake them, and one of my policemen thought a crime had been committed.”

  “I suppose it was young Shay who was going to have the accident—like the other young men you had beaten after they showed an interest in your sister,” the doctor said dryly.

  The shock was wearing off, and Kurtz didn’t like underlings to talk back to him. “Look, you old drunk, don’t preach to me. I hired you when no one else would.” He didn’t mention that he paid the doctor far less than he would have had to pay someone else. “You have only two jobs in this town—taking care of the sick and seeing to it that the dead are buried. Confine your­ self to your duties as doctor-mortician, nothing else.”

  “Yes, sir,” the doctor said meekly, but his narrowed eyes glinted.

  “Fine. We understand each other. Now, how come you and Shay seem so friendly? Is he a foreigner too?”

  “He studied in Paris and speaks French,” Moreau explained. “We met when he arrived here and found we have interests in common.”

  Kurtz stared at the doctor’s red-veined nose. “Mutual interests? Like what—whiskey and gin?”

  “Chess and conversation,” the doctor said. “The French language is well suited to talk of art and literature.”

  Kurtz waved a finger imperiously under Moreau’s nose. “How suited is your English to talk of medicine? What’s my sister’s condition? How soon can she leave here?”

  “The bullet passed through the seat before striking her. It didn’t penetrate very deeply, and no vital organ seems to have been damaged, but she lost a great deal of blood,” the doctor said. “I wouldn’t recommend moving her for at least a week. She must have complete rest—no excitement. Then, if there are no complications...’’ He held one hand out with the palm up in a noncommittal yet pointed gesture.

  Kurtz paused. “All right, doctor, but I advise you to stay sober.”

  The doctor drew himself up stiffly. “I never drink when I have a patient.”

  “See that you don’t,” Kurtz said.

  The following days were unhappy ones for Felix Kurtz. It was obvious that the news of Emily’s accident had spread. Every­one knew he had suffered his first failure—the artist hadn’t been frightened away. Whenever Kurtz turned quickly, he caught people smiling at him, and groups of miners fell silent whenever he appeared. Kurtz had known that his employees hated him, but he was mildly surprised to find that his sister’s misfortune was a source of amusement because of the embarrassment it caused him.

  Kurtz didn’t like being laughed at, but for the moment he was helpless to do anything about it. Emily was too sick to leave the hospital, and Myron Shay had virtually moved into the place to be near her. Kurtz was forced to postpone his efforts to break up the romance until the girl was stronger. Then he’d see how long he remained an object of ridicule. In the meantime, the looks of fear he got from the young couple during his daily visits made it possible for him to endure his humiliation. Both he and they knew their days together were numbered.

  And then the unexpected happened. Ten days after the accident, Kurtz was called to the hospital. He was met by a stone-faced Dr. Moreau, who informed him Emily had died during the night. Kurtz raised the sheet and looked at the still form for a moment; then, completely without a sign of emo­tion, he ordered Dr. Moreau to make the funeral arrangements.

  Myron Shay left town without attending the funeral; thereby proving Kurtz had been correct about him all along…

  “Mr. Kurtz! Mr. Kurtz!” It was the chauffeur’s voice, and Kurtz awoke to find him shaking his arm. “They’re ready to lift the coffin.”

  “Don’t shout, you fool. I was merely resting my eyes.” He climbed stiffly from the car and joined the workmen at the open grave.

  The truck was beside the hole and heavy chains had been fastened to the rusty coffin in preparation for hoisting it to the bed of the truck. Two men were set to operate the winch and boom while the other was in position to guide the coffin.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? Get on with it. Time is money, you know. And be careful—that’s heavy.”

  “Not as heavy as it was,” the foreman said. “There’s so much rust in the grave, there can’t be more than a thin shell left.”
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br />   The man waved his hand and the winch began to turn, taking up the slack in the chain. Then the dull red of the iron coffin rose into the open and swayed gently from the boom while the foreman steadied it with one outstretched arm.

  Sud­denly, the edge of the grave collapsed under the weight of one of the truck’s rear wheels. As the wheel dropped, causing the truck to tilt, the coffin swung away, smashed into a nearby headstone, then crashed to the ground.

  The men on the truck bed hung onto the winch and stared open-mouthed at the coffin. Kurtz went to it and looked down.

  A two-foot section of the lid had shattered, revealing the reclining figure of a young woman, wearing the high-necked, long-sleeved fashion of half a century before. One of her ears had been damaged by a piece of the cover, and he touched it with trembling fingers.

  The wax ear, like all of the dummy’s other delicate features, had been formed with loving care by the sensitive hands of an artist.

  The Cries of Love

  Patricia Highsmith

  When it comes to man’s inhumanity to man, or woman’s to woman, Patricia Highsmith not only can see it, she can very hauntingly reveal it.

  Hattie pulled the little chain of the reading lamp, drew the covers over her shoulders and lay tense, waiting for Alice’s sniffs and coughs to subside.