by Day Keene
As I put on my coat, my wallet fell out of my pocket, and with it the bus ticket to Hibbing.
I looked at the ticket for a long time. Then I went back to take care of Wolkowysk.
Chapter Seven
Corliss was standing in front of her dressing table, giving her hair and make-up a quick once-over, trying to hide the swelling under her eye with face powder.
I said, “Never mind your eye. Get dressed.”
She said, “Yes, Swede,” meekly, and slipped out of her torn yellow dress. There was nothing under it but her. Long hours in the hot Southern California sun had tanned her legs and back a rich copper. But as she padded across the floor to the clothes closet it looked as if she were wearing white satin briefs.
She took a pale green dress from the closet and, holding it in front of her, she crossed the room and kissed me. “I love you, Swede.”
“I love you, Corliss,” I told her.
We kissed for a long time, straining against each other.
Then I rolled Wolkowysk in the white pile rug on which he’d died. I had to unroll him again, gagging and fighting for breath, when I remembered that his clothes were lying on the chair beside the bed.
Corliss tried to help dress him and couldn’t. Her hands shook too badly. She said, “Just the feel of his flesh makes me sick.”
I told her to sit on the bed while I dressed him. She sat on a chair instead, watching me with brooding eyes.
I put on his socks and his underwear. I zipped up his pants. I forced his arms into his shirt and coat. I tied his tie. Handling his body revolted me as much as it did Corliss. But for a different reason.
So he was only a dead man. I’d handled lots of dead men. In Africa. In Central and South America. At sea. But this dead man was different. Wolkowysk was my baby. This one was charged to me. So far it was only manslaughter. But once I dumped his body, no one would believe our story. It was up to me to do a good job of hiding him. For my own sake. If and when his body was found, the tab would read first degree.
When I had him dressed I went to the head and lost the rye. Then I rolled him in the white rug again, being careful to wad most of it around his head to keep blood from dripping on the floor while I carried him out the side door opening into the carport and put him in the turtle back of Corliss’ green Caddy.
I locked the turtle back and, at Corliss’ suggestion, we went over the cottage on our hands and knees, looking for anything of Wolkowysk’s I might have missed.
“I’ll buy a new rug the first thing in the morning,” she said.
I found his gun on the floor and put it in my pocket. Then I found a few spots of blood where he had leaked through the rug.
Corliss got to her feet, tense with strain. “Now what, Swede?”
I told her to wipe the table, the lamp, the doorknob, anything that he might have touched, while I wiped up the blood on the floor with cold water.
I was glad the deck was asphalt tile and heavily waxed. As far as I could tell, none of the blood had sunk in. When I finished wiping the floor I wrapped the rag I had used with newspaper and put it in my pocket, along with Wolkowysk’s gun.
My shoes squished when I walked. My heavy uniform coat was as wet as if I’d swum a mile in it.
Corliss was as nervous as I was. She tried twice to fasten the straps of her silver sandals. I finally had to fasten them for her. She caught her fingers in my hair and pushed my head back. “Have you thought of anything, Swede? I mean, about him?”
“No,” I admitted. “I haven’t. How clean are we to start with?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Did anyone see him come in here?”
Corliss’ fingers tightened in my hair. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”
I stood up and gripped her shoulders. “Be positive.”
“I am. Wally had been gone a good five minutes when I heard the knock on the door. I thought it was Wally coming back. That’s why I unlocked the door.” Her face screwed up as if she were going to scream. “Then he—”
I shook her until her head bobbled. “Stop it. It’s over. He’s dead. Forget it.”
Corliss’ fingernails bit into my forearms. “I’ll try. Honest I will, Swede.”
“What time was it when he came in?”
“I’d say half past two.”
“The bar was open or closed?”
“It should have been closed a half hour. Mamie always closes it promptly. She doesn’t like to work back of the bar.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Meek. She manages the court for me. Her husband is the gardener.”
“A little man in blue dungarees and a gray sweater?”
“That would describe him. But why the interest in the Meeks?”
I said, “I’m just trying to cover all the angles. Mamie was in the bar tonight. So was Wolkowysk. Would he be apt to confide in her that he was going to call on you?”
Corliss shook her head. “No. I only went out with Jerry the one time. Mamie wouldn’t know him from any other customer in the bar.”
I got her a camel’s-hair coat from the closet and walked her out to the green Cadillac. Then I eased out of the carport as quietly as I could and pointed the car north on U.S. 101, a vague plan forming in my mind. I drove for perhaps five miles, neither of us speaking, being careful to observe the legal maximum. Then I thought of something I should have remembered and jammed on the brakes so hard that a big Diesel trailer almost rammed us.
Corliss caught at my arm. “Now what?”
I gasped, “His car. It’s a cinch Wolkowysk didn’t walk from Laguna Beach to the Purple Parrot. His car has to be back there.”
Fear had numbed her brain. “Back where?”
“In front of the Purple Parrot.” I shouted the words at her as I swung the car in a sharp U turn and drove back the five miles we had come at ninety miles an hour, cursing the big Diesel trucks making the night haul up to Los Angeles, their drivers blinking their lights and blasting their horns at me.
There were two cars in front of the dark bar. One was a beaten-up Ford. Corliss said it belonged to Wally. The other was a ’47 gray Buick super with the keys in the ignition and a pink registry slip made out to Gerald Wolkowysk in a glassine case on the steering column.
I leaned against the Buick smoking a cigarette, listening to the sounds of the crickets, getting my breath back, letting my idea grow.
Then in a lull between trucks I took Wolkowysk out of the turtle back. I unrolled the rug and put it back in the Caddy for future disposal. I’d caved in the left side of Wolkowysk’s head. The right side didn’t look too bad. If I pulled his hat over his eyes he could pass for drunk. I put him in the right-hand front seat of the Buick and pulled his hat over his eyes.
Corliss watched me in silence, her breasts rising and falling unnaturally fast.
When I had Wolkowysk arranged to suit me, I motioned her under the wheel of the Caddy. “You drive. Follow me.”
She whispered, “Where?”
“To that turnoff where we parked.”
She brushed my face with the tips of her fingers. “Whatever you say, Swede.”
I slid behind the wheel of the Buick and eased it out onto the highway, back the way we had come, driving slowly now, making certain I dimmed my lights for every approaching car and observing what few stop signs there were. I didn’t want to be picked up for a traffic violation. Not with the cargo I was carrying.
There was little traffic on the road. Nothing but trucks rolling north to L.A. and others rolling south to Dago, plus a few early-rising fishermen. Nearing the turnoff I slowed still more. When I reached it I turned off my lights. I hoped Corliss would think to do the same. I didn’t want any nosy highway cop investigating our headlights. At least, not until I’d got rid of Wolkowysk.
The fog was thicker here. I drove through it slowly toward the top of the cliff and the cluster of wind-distorted trees under which Corliss and I had parked. When I figured I�
�d gone far enough, I stopped and set the hand brake. Then I got out of the car and paced the distance to the lip of the cliff. It was a little more than two hundred feet across level solid rock.
I stood near the edge and looked down. The drop was as sheer as I remembered it. Three hundred feet down the waves pounded against a confusion of jagged rocks, the white water sucking in and out of the caves that the sea and time had worn in the base of the cliff.
A cold hand touched mine. I jumped. Then I saw it was Corliss. She’d turned off her lights without being told. The Cadillac was parked a short distance back of the Buick. There was no one to hear her, but she whispered, her whisper almost carried away by the wind. “What are you going to do, Swede?”
I said, “I’m not going to do anything. But Wolkowysk got stinking drunk in your bar last night. So drunk he drove his car off a cliff.”
Corliss’ fingernails dug into my back as she kissed me. Her kiss was a prayer, a wish on a star. “What can I do, Swede?”
I said, “Stand five feet from the edge of the cliff. As close to the path of the car as you dare.”
She protested, “But I want to help.”
Tension began to build in me like steam in a boiler, until I was afraid I’d blow my top any minute. “You will be helping,” I snarled. “When I’m even with you, I’ll jump. Take off your coat. That dress will show up better in the fog.”
She dropped her coat and stood where I’d told her to stand. I walked back to the Buick, stiff-kneed, wishing that Wolkowysk hadn’t been such a cheap sonofabitch. If he’d laid out the extra money for Dynaflow, goosing the car over the cliff would be simple.
Wolkowysk hadn’t gone for a walk. His smashed head still lolled on the seat back. I cursed him as I took the newspaper-wrapped rag from my pocket. I threw the paper away and used the rag to wipe my fingerprints off the wheel. When I was certain the wheel was clean I pulled his stiffening body under it and bent his fingers around the wheel.
The fog was thicker now, a wall of gray between me and the lip of the cliff. I hoped I could see Corliss in time to jump. I made certain the car was in neutral. Then I released the emergency brake, turned on the ignition, and stepped on the accelerator.
The car would idle fine. Finding a way to feed it gas was another matter. I solved the problem by wedging Wolkowysk’s right foot in such a way that when I pushed on his left shoulder his foot would depress the gas pedal. I tried it a couple of times, making the motor roar, so I could be sure it would work.
My back ached by the time I was set. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. But I had to go through with it now. I pushed the left front door open until the catch held it. Then, standing on the sliver of running board on my left foot, my right foot depressing the clutch pedal, I switched on the lights, shifted the car into second gear, took my foot off the clutch, and pushed hard on Wolkowysk’s shoulder.
The car darted forward like a startled dolphin sighting a shark, me helping Wolkowysk steer with my left hand. When I saw Corliss I jumped backward, pushing myself away from the car — and almost didn’t make it.
As the front wheels went over the edge the pan dropped down on the rock with a scream of tortured metal, teetering the car and springing the left rear door. The door swung forward like a flat pile driver, hitting me in the back as I jumped, slamming me down on the rock at the very lip of the cliff, my legs dangling in space, the big car beside me grinding desperately for life. On the edge of nothing.
There was a screaming in my ears. Hands clawed at me. I realized it was Corliss, tugging me back to safety as the Buick fell end over end, its headlights sweeping the sky as it plunged three hundred feet into jagged rock and white water, carrying Jerry Wolkowysk with it.
I lay on the lip of the cliff, exhausted, fighting for breath. Corliss lay a few feet away. In her struggle to keep me from going over the cliff, the low neckline of her dress had slipped down over one shoulder, half exposing her breast. As I watched her she wriggled across the rock toward me. Corliss pulled the dress still farther down on her shoulder, and her upper lip curled away from her teeth. She looked the way she had in the cabin right after I’d killed Wolkowysk.
She hooked the fingers of my hand in her bodice. “Take it off, Swede,” she pleaded. “Help me. Please.”
Her dress ripped easily and then she was wriggling out of what was left of the cloth. I felt her eager fingers fumbling at my shirt, my tie. Then her searching mouth found mine as we both lay in the moonlight, her body a fever, a fire, burning wherever her flesh touched me.
Corliss cupped the back of my head in her hands. “They won’t ever find him, will they, Swede?”
I kissed her eyes. “I hope not.”
She pressed herself against me. “They can’t. Not now. It wouldn’t be fair.” Her hands caressed my shoulders, my back. “I’m safe with you, aren’t I, Swede?”
I kissed her hair, her cheeks, her lips. “Of course.”
“You love me?”
I lifted my head to look at her. “I do.”
Corliss’ eyes burned into mine. “I love you, Swede. Say you love me.”
“I love you.”
She bit my chest. “Then prove it,” she screamed at me. “Prove it.”
I did, the hard rock ripping our flesh. We were mad. We had reason to be. We were Adam and Eve dressed in fog, escaping from fear into each other’s arms. And to hell with the fiery angel with the flaming sword. It was brutal. Elemental. Good. There was no right. There was no wrong. There was only Corliss and Swede.
When at last I rolled on my elbow and lay breathless, looking at her, Corliss lay still on her back in the moonlight, her hair a golden pillow, fog eddying over her like a transparent blanket. Her upper lip covered her teeth again. Her half-closed eyes were sullen. The future Mrs. Nelson, I thought, and I wished she had some clothes on.
The wind off the sea was suddenly cold. I could taste salt on my lips. The pound of the waves where the Buick was dying was like the booming of a great drum.
My breath caught in my chest. It was a funny feeling. I tried to brush it aside. I couldn’t. It was ridiculous, but I had a feeling that this time, I was the one who had been forced.
Chapter Eight
Neither Corliss nor I spoke on our way back to the Purple Parrot. I ran the green Cadillac into the carport of her cottage. We sat in the dark, still silent. Then Corliss came into my arms.
“I love you, Swede,” she said.
“I love you, Corliss,” I told her.
She kissed me without heat. “And this won’t change the other? We’ll be married today?”
I said, “This afternoon.”
“Where?”
“In Los Angeles or San Diego. Whichever you prefer.”
Corliss thought a moment. “I think I’d like to be married in L.A.”
I said, “Los Angeles is fine with me.”
She took her keys from her bag and opened the door of the car.
“You’ll be all right?” I asked her.
“I — think so,” she said.
She turned and kissed me again. With more heat this time. “Thank you, Swede,” she said simply. Then, holding her coat together to cover her torn dress, she unlocked the door of her cottage and closed it softly behind her.
I waited until I saw a light. Then I walked next door to Number 3. Sometime toward dawn I slept. But not for long. At seven o’clock there was a loud flurry of talking and laughing and slamming of cottage and car doors in the carport next to my cottage as some cheerful character from Iowa got off to an early start for Tucson.
“Yup. Gonna make four hunnerd an’ twenty-two miles t’day,” he cackled.
I wished I could have slept. There was a sour taste in my mouth. I wanted a cup of coffee. There was a light in the kitchen of the restaurant, but none in the bar or dining room.
To kill time, I showered and shaved. While I was shaving there was a thud on the door, like the single tap of a knuckle. My nerves still wer
en’t any too steady. I damn near cut myself. I laid down the razor and looked out the window again. It seemed a morning paper was included in the eight dollars’ rent per cabin. The nondescript man in blue dungarees and gray sweater was distributing the Los Angeles Times.
I propped my paper behind the faucets and glanced at the front page while I finished shaving. Two of the headlines were new. One of the better-known dewy-eyed movie glamour girls had announced her intention of going to the altar, and presumably to bed, with her fifth husband. A new tax increase had been approved. The rich guy I’d read about the first night of my binge was still on the front page. It was quite a yarn. It seemed he had been the thirty-five-year-old screwball son of a respected and very wealthy old-line Chicago family, with a penchant for getting into messes. His last escapade had been to marry a youthful red-haired South Chicago stripper named — but not called — Sophia Palanka and take her on a grand tour of Europe. The happy bridal pair had cabled from London and Paris, then from Bucharest. And that had been the last that had ever been heard from Phillip E. Palmer III.
In the three intervening years there had been considerable diplomatic exchange about the matter. From time to time, goaded by the playboy’s family, the State Department had attempted to make another Vogeler case of his mysterious disappearance. And from time to time the indignant Rumanian authorities had protested they knew anything whatsoever about Phillip E. Palmer III and his slightly tarnished bride.
There the matter had rested until some duck hunters had found a body in a slough near Gary, Indiana, and the body had been identified as that of the missing playboy who was supposed to have disappeared back of the Iron Curtain.
He had been dead a long time — quite possibly for three years. Further checking revealed that shortly before his reported departure for Europe he had cashed in stocks and bonds for a total of a quarter of a million dollars, which same money had disappeared with him.
Now the F.B.I. was inclined to believe he had been murdered shortly after his marriage to Sophia Palanka and the man with whom the red-haired stripper had sailed for Europe had been one Lippy Saltz, a small-time Chicago gambler who bore a superficial resemblance to Palmer. At least enough for passport purposes. The names on the passports had read, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Phillip E. Palmer III.