by Gil Brewer
The buzzer sounded.
I just stood there, staring at the door. The apartment seemed unduly quiet. I realized I was still holding the newspaper.
The buzzer sounded again. There was something lazy, and very patient about the sound of the buzzer.
I went over to my desk, tossed the crumpled newspaper into the wastepaper basket, then walked to the door and opened it.
It was Doctor Miraglia.
“Hi,” he said.
He stood there soberly. I tried to grin. It must have looked great, because a nerve was jumping in my face.
“I stopped around at your store,” he said. “But they told me you were, sleeping late these days.”
“Been hitting it hard,” I said. “Come on in, doctor.”
“Thanks.”
He stepped inside and I closed the door. He wore a suit today, a pale blue gabardine. A pale yellow shirt, the collar open, and without a tie. He was very calm as he turned to look at me, the rimless glasses glinting faintly against the smooth pink coloring of his flesh.
“You go right ahead with whatever you were doing,” he said in that mild voice. “I just wanted to talk with you for a few minutes. If you could spare the time.”
Miraglia was a man who would carefully finish his sentences.
“Sit down,” I told him. “Just getting ready to head for the store. But I’m in no hurry. That place is running me ragged lately.”
“I’ll bet.”
He went over and sat down on the couch in front of the windows at the front of the apartment. He looked extremely clean, and not a hair of his black mop was out of place. I came over and took a chair across from the couch.
The silence of the apartment was even more pronounced.
He sat there. He shook his head mildly.
He said, “I suppose you know why I’m here?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
He didn’t speak for a minute. He would come to the point in his own good time. And when I looked at him, all I could see were the bright opaque circles of the lenses of his glasses where they caught the light from across the room.
“Well,” he said. “You must have read about it in the papers.”
“I’ll bet you mean Spondell. That old guy?”
“Yes,” he said. “That’s who I mean.”
“I read about it, the other day. Died.” I leaned forward. “Doc,” I said. “I couldn’t figure why all the bother about that stuff they had me put in the house. Frankly, he looked pretty bad to me. I figured it would be a short time.”
“Yes.”
I leaned back. I had taken the wrong tack. I was so nervous it was all I could do to keep from jumping up and pacing the room. I had to sit here and talk with him, just as long as he felt like talking.
I put one elbow on the chair arm, and pointed a finger at Miraglia. Sometimes you could put them on the defensive that way, at least I’d done it to customers. “You know?” I said. “I couldn’t help but feel sorry for that poor kid—Miss Angela. It must have been rough on her.”
“His dying?”
“No. Taking care of him. I mean, young as she is, she should be out with kids her own age.”
“It was rough.”
I was blabbering. I should be sitting here listening to him tell me why he was here, not telling him things.
He faintly cleared his throat, looked around the room, then focused those damned lenses on me again. I wished I could see his eyes.
“I was rather attached to Victor,” Miraglia said. “He was just a patient, but sometimes patients become good friends. It was that way in this case. He was an arrogant old fool, who didn’t really believe he would die. I liked him.”
He paused and I didn’t speak.
He said, “Victor shouldn’t have died, Mr. Ruxton.”
“Shouldn’t have died?”
“He wasn’t due. Not really.” He shrugged, then said, “Of course, he did die. I even suppose I was afraid he might die. But it wasn’t entirely natural, his dying. It was really an accident, beyond his control.”
“How’s that?”
He didn’t speak for a moment. He sat there, rubbed the side of his jaw with the heel of his hand, and shook his head.
“That intercom system,” he said. “It went on the blink. Shirley was outside the house when it all happened. She didn’t hear him call. A terrible thing—what must have gone on in that bedroom.”
I made a deep frown and held it. Here it was. “You must be mistaken,” I said. “That intercom system was working fine.”
“Now, look, Mr. Ruxton. Don’t get on the defensive. I’m not accusing you of anything.”
Everything would have been all right, maybe, if he hadn’t used that word. “Accusing.” He was a corker, quick to work his psychological gimmicks. I hadn’t had a chance to be on the defensive.
“I don’t get you,” I said. “I don’t get you at all.”
“I think you do.”
“I don’t.”
“Nobody else is here, Mr. Ruxton.” He reassured himself of that by glancing quickly around the room. “Just you and me. It doesn’t matter what you tell me. We both know how a careless soldering job can ground out a circuit if it’s in an especially vital part, don’t we? And since you’re in the business, you must have realized that you made an extremely inadequate job of soldering that condenser that went out.”
I waited a second to make it look good. “So, that’s it,” I said.
“That’s it. I checked the units myself. I located the spot. I used to fool around with electronics myself. It interests me.” He lifted one hand and motioned with it, then laid it carefully on the couch beside him, as if it were a piece of fragile glassware. “It was an accident, of course—in a manner of speaking.”
“What are you getting at?”
“You knew that was a sloppy soldering job, didn’t you?”
“It worked. I don’t have time to...”
He interrupted brightly. “You don’t have time.” His voice became mild again. “It’s a shame you don’t have time, Ruxton. If you’d had time, that ‘old guy’ would have been alive right now.”
“Boy, you’re hot, you are.”
“I said I’m not accusing you of anything. It’s just the way it is, and I wanted you to know I knew.”
“All right. So we both know.”
“And nobody else knows. There’s certainly no need for them knowing, is there.”
I didn’t say anything at all to that. I wanted to get up and throw him out on his ear. I couldn’t do that, either. He had me so far up a tree I couldn’t see the ground for the branches.
On the other hand, it was out, and I had expected this. It had worked all right. Miraglia knew why Spondell had died, and he knew it was my fault. The only thing was, I had figured to be sad about it. How could I be sad when he had me so damned irked I could wring his throat? And something else I didn’t like was his too obvious deep concern over the thing.
“All right,” I said. “If you look at it that way, I guess maybe it was my fault.”
“Sorry I had to bring the news.”
“Then why did you bring it? Just to cheer up my day?”
He said, “I want you to know I thought an awful lot of Victor. We had become very good friends. I even had a notion I might be able to get him back on his feet. I couldn’t clear him up entirely, but I could have maybe added a couple more years to his life. That’s why I’ve come to you, to tell you what you’ve done.”
“Seems to me you’re kind of over-ready to blame somebody.”
“I told you, I thought a lot of him.”
“You said all that. What’s the matter? He leave you part of his loot? That it? I’d think you’d be happier with him gone, if that’s the case.”
He didn’t speak. Right away I wished I hadn’t said that. The glasses gleamed and glinted, and his face had paled.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sorry I said that. It just jumped out. I didn’t m
ean it. Guess I’m taking it out on myself. I feel bad about what’s happened, what you’ve told me. I see now, it was my fault—in a way.”
He still said nothing.
I said, “The fact is, I kind of liked the old guy myself. He always called me a son of a bitch.”
Miraglia didn’t change expression and he did not speak.
“Well,” I said. “There’s nothing anybody can do now.”
He grunted softly, as if he’d been punched.
I said, “At least the girl, there—she’ll be well taken care of, now. She won’t have anything to worry about. She can go off somewhere and have herself a rest. She sure must deserve it.”
“How do you mean ‘well taken care of’?” Miraglia said.
“Don’t tell me Spondell wasn’t loaded. It’s pretty obvious who he’d leave it all to.”
“Is it?”
I frowned at him.
“You’re right,” he said. “Victor did leave Shirley some money. A lot of money.”
“Okay, then.”
I was trying to act as natural as possible, and say the things any disinterested party might say.
“Only,” he said. “It’ll be at least a year before she can touch any of the money.”
It was like being struck across the face, hard. My jaw started to drop. I said, “Oh?” fast. It came out as a kind of croak, but I let it go. “How do you mean?” I said.
I was numb all over. It made me dizzy, just sitting there looking at him. Every muscle in my body was like a steel strap, and I was trying hard to recover balance.
“It’s rather involved,” Miraglia said. “And I’m no lawyer, but I can explain it fairly well. It boils down to the fact that when a person dies intestate, the money goes to the next of kin. Meaning, in this case, Shirley. But,” he said. He really laid into that ‘But.’ “The next of kin can’t touch the money for eight to twelve months. Twelve is the real figure. He can’t have any part of it till then. This doesn’t leave Shirley in a very comfortable position, as you see. She has no funds of her own. I presume the attorney, or the judge, or the administrator the judge appoints, will work out something for her. Though the law is emphatic.” He shrugged, and I sat there sort of tuned in on him as if he were a distant radio station with lots of atmospherics.
“That’s tough,” I said.
He said, “As for getting the money Victor left her—” He moved his head slowly from side to side. “At least a year. It has to be published. By that I mean in newspapers throughout the country. A formality, in this case. It’s done because of the law, to give anyone who might contest a chance to step forward. This takes time. The law doesn’t hurry, Ruxton. It grinds exceeding slow.”
By now I had a fair grip on myself. But I was under water all the way. “I’ll be darned,” I said. “I never knew about that.”
I felt dead. Because if we had to run, we would ride the rails, or not go at all.
“All because an intercom didn’t work,” Miraglia said. “ž‘For the sake of a nail, the shoe,’ and so forth.”
“You’re riding me,” I said. “Come off it.”
He looked down, then up at me again. “Maybe it’s my turn to be sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t ride you like this. I just—I don’t know. It troubles me.” The glasses glinted. “It just gnaws at me all the time. I’ve waited ever since he died to say something to you. I had to say something to somebody. I couldn’t let it go.”
I stood up. “Well, you’ve sure said it. I feel plenty bad.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t seem to realize I was on my feet, waiting for him to leave. He had something else on his mind. I had to know what it was. The guy was really beginning to scare me. I sat down again.
“I know you’re anxious to get to the store,” he said, absently. “I suppose you read about Shirley’s next door neighbor?”
Somehow, I spoke. “No. I don’t believe—what’s that?”
He was watching me closely. I sat like a rock. Inside I was flying to pieces.
He tipped his head. “Shirley feels very bad. Everything on top of everything else. Strange you didn’t see it—it was on the front page of this morning’s paper.”
“I haven’t read the paper yet.”
“You take the paper?”
“Sure—I—”
“Get it.”
Already I had remembered balling it up and throwing it in the wastepaper basket. I creaked out of the chair and walked numbly across the room. “I didn’t get it in, yet,” I said. I realized I was doing everything all wrong. I turned and went back to the chair and sat down. “What’s it about, anyway? I’ll read it later.”
“Mrs. Lamphier. I think you met her, fixed her TV set, or something.”
“Oh—her. Sure. I remember her.”
“She’s dead. They hadn’t discovered who she was when the paper went to press. But they know now. She drove into the old Blackland Canal—you know where that is.” He didn’t say it as a question, but we waited for me to answer.
“No. Don’t believe I do.”
“No matter. She apparently got drunk and drove into the canal and drowned. Her husband’s in Alaska. He’s a mining engineer. They’ve called him home.”
“That’s sure tough.”
“Isn’t it?”
“When did it happen?”
“As close as the medical examiner has come, he says probably the same night Victor Spondell died.”
“I see. Well—”
Miraglia stood up suddenly. “You know?” he said. “I feel much better now?”
“Glad.”
“I had to talk to somebody.”
“Know how it is.”
“Old Vic, he was kind of like a father to me. Something like that. I thought a lot of him.”
“I can see that.”
“Yes, well— I won’t take up any more of your time, Ruxton. Better be going.” He glanced at his watch. “Behind time,” he said. “Got the hospital rounds to make yet this morning.” He started toward the door. He glanced at the desk. The newspaper was as big as life, sticking up out of the wastepaper basket, balled and crumpled and shredded. I couldn’t tell whether he saw it or not. In any event, he couldn’t say for sure if it were today’s paper.
“I could at least have fixed some coffee,” I said.
He didn’t reply. He was nearly to the door. I saw his back stiffen. He turned, went over to the desk, stooped above the wastepaper basket and took out the paper.
I stood there. I couldn’t speak. I watched him unfold the mess of shredded leaves and look at the front page. Then he crumpled the paper up again and tossed it into the basket. He turned without looking at me and walked toward the door again.
“What was all that for?” I said.
He stopped and looked at me.
He said, “That was today’s paper, Ruxton. I thought you said you hadn’t seen today’s paper.”
“Today’s? You must be mistaken.”
“Yes. Certainly.”
I went over to the basket. I took the paper and looked at the date. I shook my head. I frowned. It was all stage acting, and lousy, at that. But I did remember not to make much of a to-do about it.
“The maid,” I said. “She was here earlier. I was still in bed. I hardly ever bother reading the paper here. She knows that. She must have thrown it away.”
“Maids can play hell,” Miraglia said. “Well, I’ll be running along. Oh,” he said. “You can read that story about Mrs. Lamphier now. If you like. The front page is rather torn up. But I guess you can make it out.”
I started for the door. He opened the door and went out and closed it softly behind him.
Twelve
When the door had clicked shut I covered my face with both hands and just stood there. I didn’t know whether he was wise to anything. I didn’t know. Everything he did and said could all have been strictly on the up and up, completely natural. On the other hand...
I went over and sat down in the chair.
I was perfectly calm now, as calm as I’d ever been in my life. My mind began to function at a steady pace, and everything it read off to me was very bad. I took it all like a punch-drunk fighter, not even bothering to rock with the blows.
I had to talk with Shirley, and I couldn’t possibly call her on the phone. There was no way of my going out there now. Only I had to see her.
What a crazy thing to do—saying I hadn’t seen the paper. A tiny flaw. Like a mountain.
Nerves? Brass? Miraglia had the stuff. A real honest to God corker. He didn’t give a damn about anything. The way he’d turned and gone after that newspaper had been something to see. How many people would do that? And, if they did, why would they? The average guy would let it go. Even if he suspected the paper might be today’s paper, he would let it go. Unless he was suspicious.
Why was Miraglia suspicious?
I knew I had to see Shirley.
I came out of the chair and started pacing the floor.
The money. A year. We couldn’t wait a year. I couldn’t wait a year. I wouldn’t.
Wouldn’t I? What could I do?
I went into the bedroom, and looked at myself in the minor over the bureau. My face was plenty grim. I was dressed except for my jacket. I grabbed one off a hook in the closet, and got out of there.
I drove to Tampa and got a gun.
Even doing it, I didn’t know why I was doing it. I just wanted a gun. Maybe it was just a way to be doing something. A reason to get out of town for a while, and just let the thoughts drift through my head.
I drove around Tampa, looking. I didn’t want to try the hockshops, because I knew you’d have to sign a purchase slip. After a while, I spotted a run-down antique store, and went in. I told the old lady in charge that I was just looking around, and she let me be. Finally, I found what I wanted. It was a beat-up old P-38. The old gal was at her desk, poring over a ledger. I moved on around, looking, then passed the gun again, lying among some Arabian knives with slim, curved blades. I checked the old lady. She was looking at the ledger. I slipped the P-38 into my pocket, and picked up one of the knives. It looked the best of them.
“Guess I’ll take this,” I told her.