Murder Twice Told

by Donald Hamilton

  “He was rattled. He knew he had no business leaving his truck like that; and then a girl comes at him out of the darkness looking like she did in that white dress and bawling him out hysterically, accusing him of having killed me…” Everything that happened to Janice was always somebody else’s fault, he remembered wryly. “He just swung with whatever he had in his hand; and then he had to finish the job.”

  The black-haired man was no longer interested. “If that’s what you really think happened… I mean if you really saw it like that, then it’s your right to make a statement and it will be put in evidence against the man when we catch him,” he said. Then he sat down on the bed and slowly produced another cigarette and lighted it. “It’s your right,” he said. “But I’m advising you not to exercise it, Phillips.”

  “Why?”

  The older man glanced at him. “I know quite a bit about murder, kid,” he said. “Before you get yourself out on a limb, I want you to remember that murder is something you can’t stop once it gets started, and it’s also something you never get away from, once it has touched you. In other words, you make your statement, we catch the man, and you’ve got to go through with it or admit you were seeing things. If you go through with it your story won’t stick. The first thing the defense will do is put your statement to Sergeant Case in evidence: My wife was killed by a man wielding a black cross. Period. That washes you up. You say it was a socket wrench. Defense attorney asks when did you decide it was a socket wrench. You say you decided it talking to Mr. Holt of the sheriff’s office.” Mr. Holt smiled. “Take it from there, kid.”

  “Yes,” said Phillips dryly. “I get it, all right. In other words I can see a man kill my wife and because I don’t happen to pick on the right name for a certain tool the murderer goes free…”

  “Not necessarily,” Mr. Holt said. “It just casts a certain doubt on your standing as a witness, don’t you see? I’m not arguing with you for your own good, I’ll admit,” he went on, smiling. “We don’t want the papers heckling us about a murder we can’t prove even happened since the only witness is a young fellow who had a pretty nasty crack on the head. Furthermore we want this man for leaving the scene of an accident, and we’ve got a damn sight better chance of getting him if he doesn’t hear that he’s wanted for murder, too. Finally, we’ve got plenty of work to do without wasting time on a case that’s going to be thrown out of court. That’s one side of the picture, Phillips,” the black-haired man said, standing up again beside the bed. “The other is this: I’ve heard your story. I won’t say I believe it, but you can bet your boots I won’t forget it. We’re going to get that lad and when we get him I’m going to grill him, personally.”

  There was a peculiar quality to his smile and to the small wrist movement with which he flicked ashes at the tray on the table.

  “I’m pretty good at that, kid,” he said softly. “If there’s a crack in the man’s story, I’ll find it. I don’t like murder any more than you do. It’s my business not to like it. I’ll be watching for it. If the guy killed your wife like you say, I’ll get it out of him…”

  “And then,” said Phillips evenly, “my evidence won’t be any good because they’ll want to know why I didn’t sing out sooner.”

  Mr. Holt said, “You make your statement, notarized, and keep your mouth shut at the inquest. I keep the statement in the sheriff’s safe. If we do find the man did it I’ll say that we were withholding your evidence so that the man would not get spooked and leave the country.”

  “I don’t like it,” Hugh Phillips said. “I want to get up in court and say that my wife was murdered.”

  “No, you don’t,” Mr. Holt said. “You know you don’t. Nobody wants to have anything to do with murder. You just feel you ought to.”

  Phillips was silent.

  “I didn’t finish telling you about murder,” the blackhaired man said. “I said, it’s something you don’t ever get away from, once it’s touched you. I think you’re feeling what I mean right now. You’d rather not mess with it, but you have to. You’d a damn sight rather she’d just died in the accident, wouldn’t you?”

  Phillips nodded.

  “I don’t want to give the impression of trying to scare you,” Mr. Holt said gently. “I’m just telling you what will happen if you insist on forcing us to call it murder. Remember that you’d been quarreling with your wife and that people knew you didn’t get along too well…”

  “We got along fine,” Phillips said, and it seemed strange to realize that they actually hadn’t. “We got along beautifully except when she played the radio too loud.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Holt, “but other people had a different impression. When we catch this man, the murder charge won’t stick, assuming that no new evidence shows up. And pretty soon people will start to remember that the last anybody saw both of you together you were both pretty mad at each other. There won’t be any evidence against you and nothing will ever be done about it, but people will wonder just why you were so hot to hang the poor man. They’ll remember murder against you, oh, very vaguely: Wasn’t there something about his wife? That’s right, she was murdered; anyway, that’s what he said. Did she have any insurance?”

  “No.”

  “But she had been spending money pretty freely, and all you had was an instructor’s salary?”

  “That’s right. So I killed her to keep her from spending her own money.”

  “I didn’t say it,” the black-haired man murmured, smiling. “I didn’t even think it. I’m just telling you the way people in general think. You don’t want to start this unless you can finish it, and you can’t.”

  “You’re pretty hot to have me keep quiet, aren’t you?” Hugh Phillips said harshly.

  The black-haired man laughed cheerfully and buttoned the coat of his gabardine suit. “Think it over and you’ll see I haven’t said anything that isn’t the truth, kid. As far as I’m concerned, as far as the old man’s concerned, we don’t feel justified in making a murder charge on the evidence we’ve got; and we don’t want a lot of shouting in the papers. It’s just the same with us as with you, they’ll remember it against us as another unsolved case even if we catch the man and bring him to trial, because he’ll be acquitted and that’ll leave us with a murder case and no suspect.” He stroked his black hair. “I’ll send in a stenographer and you make your statement. We’ll hold it. What you say at the inquest is your own business. Nobody’s going to coerce you.” At the door he turned. “Would you say you could identify the man, kid?”

  Hugh Phillips sat very still for a long moment. Then he said slowly, “Yes, I’ll know him.”

  As the door closed he frowned, wondering why he had lied. The man had been only a dark shape in coveralls holding the wrench and a flashlight; and if they ever asked him to pick out Janice’s murderer from a row of men he would have to admit that it could be any or none of them, that the murderer could come up to him and ask him for a match and he would never know the difference.

  But there were two people in the world who knew how Janice had died, and he had served notice on the other. Because if Hugh Phillips could identify the man, he must have seen him; and if he had seen him, the man would know that he had also seen him kill her. There was a vague chance that he might want to do something about it other than get as far away from Phillips as possible. There were times when you had to stick your neck out a little way.

  Hugh Phillips looked at the mirror above the dresser at the foot of the bed. The face in the mirror had a black eye, freckles, a swollen lip, and a lump of adhesive tape a little back from the right temple where the short reddish hair had been shaved away to make room for it. The face still looked younger than its twenty-six years in spite of its battered condition. He felt years older than the face, but when he lay back on the pillow it vanished below the frame of the mirror, so apparently it belonged to him. He had never been so lonely in his life and there was nobody he wanted to see except one person, and she would not come.
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  He hoped she would forgive him for doing what the black-haired man wanted.

  III

  He waited until the courtroom had cleared before he moved toward the door, still feeling rather weak and fragile and not equal to being shoved around by a crowd of people. He felt a great sense of relief at having the inquest over with. It could not have been more routine; everything had gone the way the black-haired man would have wanted it, and it was a little surprising that he had not turned up to see it; but the doctor and the state policeman named Case had said all that needed to be said. Then the coroner had made a little speech about liquor and gasoline not mixing very well; and he had verbally patted Miss Shirley Carlson on the head for her quickness in notifying the police, and censured the absent truck-driver for his disappearance. The police had come in for a dose of gentle sarcasm: it was a little strange, the coroner had said, that a moving van complete with driver could vanish without trace in the Free State of Maryland. The coroner had been kind to Hugh Phillips: if the bereaved husband had not learned his lesson from tragic experience, he had said, then words would be futile. He had directed that the truck-driver be charged with criminal negligence and leaving the scene of an accident; and that Mr. Phillips keep himself available to identify the man when apprehended.

  Outside it was bright sunshine and Phillips stood for a moment, while people walked past him, squinting down the long dazzling flight of stone steps ahead of him. It would, he thought, be damned silly if he were to fall down them and break his fool neck, but he did not feel at all sure of getting down safely. For a moment he regretted having insisted on his parents’ leaving; but it would have looked too ridiculous for a grown man to bring his folks into court with him, like a small boy caught throwing stones at the grammar school windows. He wondered where he could find a taxi and if he had enough money with him to cover the ride to Sand Point. Well, there was money in the house. He found himself still standing at the head of the steps, a little afraid to start down.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  He turned sharply and saw the girl who had driven the other car coming out of the shade of the building behind him. She was wearing a yellow silk dress printed with black; and the thin dress, and the high heels she was wearing, made her body seem all legs. Well, if you like the coltish type, Janice would have said. Other women always reminded Janice unflatteringly of domestic animals. The girl had soft brown hair and a fresh snubnosed face.

  “Can I… do you feel all right?” she asked uncertainly.

  He was suddenly afraid that she was going to take his arm as if he were an invalid. He turned and started down the steps, and heard her heels, after a moment, rapping a little unevenly on the stones behind him. When he glanced back she was flushing, trying to act as if she were coming out of the courthouse quite alone: she thought he had deliberately snubbed her.

  “I realize you’d rather not talk to me,” she said stiffly, reaching him. “I’m sorry I…”

  “Nuts,” he said.

  “I’m not a very good driver,” she said breathlessly. Her heels made two quick taps on the steps, and then she waited for him, and then two more and another pause while he took the steps slowly, one at a time. “I’ve been hating myself for being so stupid, Mr. Phillips,” she said, and he could see that she had saved all this up to tell him if she could get the chance. “If I’d had the sense to pull out to the side when I saw your lights… But you were coming so fast, and I couldn’t think of anything except slamming on the brakes and… and just sitting there with my silly mouth open…” Her heels tap-tap-tapped on the stone steps as he got a little ahead of her. It was like waiting for water to drip from a faucet.

  Hugh Phillips said irritably, “Listen, we were coming around that corner practically on two wheels, Miss Carlson. She couldn’t have turned any sharper if she’d had the state of Texas over there to shoot at; we’d have rolled right over. The truck fixed us. You didn’t have a thing to do with it. It wasn’t your fault and would you mind not talking about it…” He felt himself go red. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  She was silent and the heels settled to a sedate crisp rhythm beside him. On the sidewalk she stopped to face him.

  “Can I drive you anywhere? My car’s right around the corner.”

  He shook his head. “It’s ’way out in the sticks. I’ll take a taxi.”

  “Where?”

  “Out near Rio Vista.”

  “That’s only a couple of miles past our place,” she said, making it a statement, not urging him.

  He hesitated and shook his head again. “I… want to take a look at something first, Miss Carlson. Thanks a lot, anyway.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, “of course.” Then she frowned. “But I thought your parents took… her up to Baltimore… one of the policemen told me…” She was quite pink and tongue-tied. She thought he was going to look at Janice’s grave.

  He said flatly, “That’s right. They did.”

  “Oh,” she said, and the color faded from her face. She studied him for a moment. “You’re going… out there?”

  He nodded. “Gruesome, ain’t it?”

  She drew a deep breath. “Let me drive you, please. I’d feel I had at least done something to help …”

  “All right,” he said, and they walked around the corner to her car, a new Pontiac sedan. “Lucky girl,” he said, sitting back against the cushions as she sent the car away from the curb.

  She glanced at him. “Oh, the car? Yes, isn’t it lovely?”

  “I’m going to have to get something to drive, living out there,” he said. “I can’t see myself hiking five miles for groceries with this leg.”

  “You’re staying on, then?”

  “I’ve still got a bunch of courses to work up.” After a moment he said, “Of course, you know you saved my neck, Miss Carlson.”

  She looked startled. Then she laughed. “Oh, you mean when that man wanted me to say that you were driving?”

  “He tried to get you to say that?”

  “Not really. I mean, he didn’t actually tell me… You know what I mean.”

  “It’s lucky for me you saw it.” Hugh Phillips grinned. “As far as I was concerned, King Kong could have been driving this car.” He glanced at her, toying with an idea he had had before. “Did I look scared?”

  Shirley Carlson laughed, watching the road unwind ahead of them. They were leaving the outskirts of Annapolis.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t notice you, Mr. Phillips. I was looking at the driver, I guess to see what she was going to do. I thought for a moment she was going to turn right toward me. I sort of subconsciously noticed that it was a girl…”

  “The hair,” he said.

  The girl nodded. “I guess so. I just knew it was a girl, that’s all, so when he asked me…”

  “Jan had her hair up,” Hugh Phillips said quietly. “She always pulled it up tight when she wanted to look real slick. And I mean tight, just a couple of braids across her head.”

  He could feel his heart beating strongly as he waited for the girl in the yellow dress to answer. It had seemed to him almost impossible that in the moment the headlights, never dimmed, flashed around the curve and over the shoulder into the trees, Miss Shirley Carlson could have noticed the sex of the driver. Yet there was no good reason why she should have put herself out to help him; and she might have noticed it as you do notice some one thing when you are very frightened; and if so he was making a fool of himself and being very rude to a girl who had done her best to be nice to him.

  The car came to a gentle halt beside the road; and as it stopped he began to hear the crickets in the bright field beyond the fence to the right.

  “It’s not very nice of you to play detective,” Shirley Carlson’s voice said. “It’s not very nice of you to trick me, Mr. Phillips. I came back with them and saw you being carried away, and her, and they told me she was dead. It seemed a little unnecessary that you should have any more trouble, so when the man asked me I said t
hat she had been driving… I don’t know who was driving, Mr. Phillips,” the girl said breathlessly, “but it seems to me now that the only way you could know I was lying…” She was abruptly silent. “Now I’m playing detective,” she said at last, and started the car forward again.

  The road was black and shimmering with heat in the sunshine, and he watched it wind away ahead of them.

  “I don’t want to know,” the girl said stiffly. “Please don’t tell me.”

  “I remembered that I hadn’t seen you,” he said. “All I saw was headlights. And Jan with her hair up… well, her head got a funny boyish look, I mean funny considering that she was about the least boyish-looking girl you could imagine. If you just caught a glimpse of it I couldn’t see how you could tell, to swear to it.” He grimaced. “I’m sorry, Miss Carlson. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”

  “It’s all right,” the girl said without taking her eyes from the road.

  “Please,” he said. “I’m grateful as hell. And she was driving.”

  Shirley Carlson smiled at last. “Well, it was mean of you to trick me,” she said.

  When they came to the place there was nobody at all around, and the tire tracks in the earth cutbank where the man had driven out to avoid Hugh Phillips when he stumbled out on the road that night were blurred with the rain of a past thundershower. There was only the smooth sharp curve of the highway leading out of sight in front of them. When a car came around it they both sat very still in the parked sedan and watched it, as if expecting to see it hurtle over the edge into the trees, but it went on, and the sound of it died behind them.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Phillips said.

  The girl nodded, her eyes thanking him for not asking her to go with him. He limped across the road and saw the broken bushes below him, but everything seemed to be growing back very quickly. The rain had helped, but it seemed as if the woods were hastening to hide the scar. The car was gone. It had been hauled out the next day, his mother had told him, and a junk-man had taken it. It was the insurance company’s business, anyway.