“I doubt that you will get Marcia to say any such untrue thing before witnesses,” Rush said. Seafield smiled and looked pleased with himself.
“And now John Pighee’s wife’s death,” I said.
Rush looked again at Seafield, who sat impassive. “Mrs. Pighee is dead?” he asked.
“She died last night,” I said. “Presumably because when her husband is allowed to stop breathing on January 28th next year, you would owe her a large chunk of money. And for economy’s sake, not to mention the greed that’s got you all into this, you decided it would be better to get out of that commitment.”
“I certainly did not know that Mrs. Pighee was dead, and had nothing to do with it,” Rush said firmly. “Lee? Do you know anything?”
“Why do you always ask me about stuff like that?” he said. He sounded hurt. “I don’t know anything about Pighee’s goddamn wife. Why should I?”
Formally, Rush turned to Walker. “Tommy?”
Gravely, Walker shook his head.
Rush said, “As I said, you have some very strange ideas about what we are doing. I assure you, we risk violence only when there are absolutely no alternatives. And plans which involve risk sometimes take courses which are more extreme than we would want.” Inadvertently he again looked at Seafield.
“Your bullyboy gets out of hand sometimes, does he?” I asked.
Seafield stood up. “Put your pants on, Samson,” he said. “Unless you’re afraid you’re going to piss in them.”
“Sit down, Lee,” Rush said.
But Walker overruled him. “No. Get him ready to go out. We’ve wasted enough time on our visitor. I’ve got to get on the road.”
“Shall I call the police and have them pick him up here?” Rush asked.
“No,” Walker said. “Let Lee deal with him.”
“Save the taxpayers some money,” Rush said. “Take him down to headquarters. They’ve been looking for him long enough.”
“Good,” I said. “The police is exactly where I want to go.”
Walker looked at Rush questioningly.
Rush shook his head emphatically. “Who’d possibly believe him? They’ll commit him to a loony bin soon as look at him. He’ll be out of circulation forever. As far as they’re concerned, he’s a raving lunatic. Hell, he is a raving lunatic.”
Seafield took me firmly by the arm again. “Come on, cowboy,” he said.
He marched me to the kitchen.
“Hey,” he called back. “Somebody has broken a window in here.”
“Get him out of here, Lee!” Rush shouted back. “Before I do something to him that I’ll regret.”
Chapter Fourty
“O.K., cowboy,” Seafield said in the garage. “Let’s have the keys to your car out there.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Keys!”
I gave him the keys, and started toward the garage door.
“Stop!”
I stopped and turned. He had acquired a piece of rope and was advancing on me.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he said.
“Don’t be silly!”
“Hands behind your back!”
“You’re taking me to the cops. I’m happy to go to the cops,” I said. “What’s the problem?”
His answer was another big fist hurtling toward my jaw. I let him have the last word.
I woke up slowly. Conscious first of a belated surprise. Surprised that Rush, under pressure, was sticking to the F.B.I. story. My version of the tale had a different ending.
I didn’t get time to worry about it. My consciousness widened to the point of opening my eyes. Even then, life was still pretty dark. I was face down on the floor in the back of a car. Whose car—Linn Pighee’s or Seafield’s or Rush’s—I didn’t know.
My head hurt. I wanted to rub it. But I couldn’t. My hands were tied.
I decided to turn over and sit up. But I couldn’t. My legs were tied. I squirmed for some leverage or position. There wasn’t any.
I bounced heavily as the car came to a stop. I twisted my head to get a hint through a window of where we were. I couldn’t see much of a window. In any case, it was nearly dark outside and where we were there was no street-lighting.
I waited for something to happen.
Nothing did. Then the car radio came on. I decided to ask whether it was time to go see the police now and why I was trussed up. It came out “Mmmwhhhhsssmm-mmmnnnmmmmm.”
My mouth was taped.
But the sound was enough to attract my chauffeur’s attention. “Are we wakies, cowboy?” he asked. I felt a hand on my back. Then the hand pulled testingly on the rope that bound my hands.
“Mmmowowow!” I said.
It let go. “How nice,” Seafield said. “Some company for me while I wait.”
We waited for more than an hour. I kept track by the news bulletins on the radio. I dozed part of the time. My head cleared some.
“All right,” he said, at last. “Time to go visiting.” He got out of the car, opened a back door, and pulled me out feet first. He cut the ropes on my feet, then stood me up. I had trouble balancing and leaned heavily on the car. But I saw we were at the back of Marcia Merom’s apartment building.
“I don’t want any trouble with you,” Seafield said sharply.
It was news to me that there was any kind of trouble I could cause him.
Holding me securely and actually giving me some support while I got my land legs, he led me to the back stairs. There was no one around at all.
We went up to the third floor. Only as we stepped onto Merom’s porch at the top did I think clearly enough to ask myself why I was cooperating with him. The fact that he wanted me upstairs was surely reason enough to fight to stay down.
I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to answer me.
Then I was. Because I’d thought wishfully . . . because I’d drifted into the acquiescent state of mind. Which worked on the assumption that if I didn’t fight, then he wouldn’t do anything really bad to me.
But the man was a murderer. And it could hardly be in doubt that he had scheduled me for the next notch on his metaphorical gun.
My God!
From his pocket Seafield took some keys and opened the back door.
Think, think! Keys meant Merom was not at home. Keys meant Merom was cooperating.
I shouted for help through my tape—“Mmmmfmdmdmghmmdhfkdkfmmm”—as Seafield pulled me into the apartment. It didn’t come out very loud. All a sound like that might attract was the neighborhood cat.
After he closed the door behind us, Seafield said, “Come on,” and led me through to the living room. He turned on a light, then shoved me down against the bedroom door.
He went back to the kitchen.
I didn’t waste the time. I scrambled to my feet and went to the telephone. I nearly sat on it to get the receiver off with my hands behind my back. I lowered the receiver to the table, then squatted again over the dial. I felt for the “O,” to get the operator. I got a finger into it and managed to get the dial all the way around first time.
I turned around then and crouched next to the receiver as it lay flat on the tabletop.
A high-pitched voice said, “Operator. What may I do for you— coffee, tea, or me?”
The voice came from the kitchen doorway. Seafield was leaning casually against the frame. Watching me and not trying to suppress his mirth.
“Bit awkward for you, is it?” he asked. “Let me hold it for you.”
He came to the table and held the receiver up to my ear and mouth. “Go on,” he urged. “Go on.”
The phone was dead. I turned away.
“That’s right,” Seafield said, waving the instrument back and forth in front of my nose. “Last time we were here, you wanted to make a phone call and I pulled the wire out of the wall. And it hasn’t been fixed yet, has it? Has it?”
“Mmmrrmmph.”
“No, it hasn’t. Now, you didn’t think I’d forget something like th
at, did you?”
He rolled me onto the floor. “Mmrr.”
“But,” he said, “what I’m going to do now is fix the phone. Don’t get me wrong, cowboy. I’m not going to fix it for you, but at least next time, if you think you’ve got a chance, then it will be live. Can’t necessarily say that you will be, though.”
I watched him reconnect the wires he’d pulled out only the day before.
When he finished, he held up the little screwdriver he’d used and said, “See? All fixies.”
He went to the phone. I pulled and squirmed at the ropes on my hands, trying to find a little looseness, some way to wriggle free. For the tenth time I didn’t find any.
He dialed a number. “It’s me,” he said. “Henry says that we can’t do anything now but get rid of the impurity. You are to help.” He paused, then said sharply, “Get yourself over here!”
He slammed the receiver down and walked to the kitchen.
I struggled to my knees and edged toward the phone again.
Seafield reappeared in the doorway, looked at me, and shook his head. “You’re game for an old fella,” he said.
He walked back into the room and pulled the phone wire out. Before going back to the kitchen he kicked me in the stomach.
It wasn’t a kind thing to do.
I heard him open the back door and go out. But a moment later he came in again. And then he was back in the living room with me. He carried a piece of a cement block on a newspaper. He set it down on the floor, returned to the kitchen.
When he joined me again, he had a thick glass wine bottle, empty, in his hand. “This will do nicely, don’t you think?” he said.
“Mmmmnnnrmmm,” I said, in a conciliatory tone. I raised and lowered my eyebrows invitingly. I wanted to talk.
“Over my dead body,” he said.
I didn’t like him dwelling on death, so I asked again, “Mmmmrph?”
“You’ve been such a pain in the ass,” he said, waving the bottle at me. “It’s hard to be patient. And no matter what happens now, you’ve gone and busted the sweetest setup a poor country boy was ever likely to stumble into.”
“Mmm?”
“Oh, yes, you’ve got what you wanted. You’ve busted it up. With people asking questions, it can’t possibly stay undercover much longer. But you shouldn’t take all the credit. People just aren’t as willing to do their country’s duty as they were when we started.” He shook his head. “Yes,” he said, “It’s all through. Like you.”
“Mmmnn?”
“You better believe it, cowboy.”
Despite additional eloquent entreaties, he didn’t say anything else to me. Until Merom arrived.
Chapter Fourty One
Seafield divided his time equally between sitting in an armchair and pacing around the room. Then we heard a key in one of the locks in the front door. Seafield stood inside waiting for her.
Merom opened the door. He pulled her roughly into the room, and locked the door behind her.
“Hello, honey,” he said, He towered over her. With his left hand, he bunched her long hair and pulled it, tipping her face up to his. With his right hand between her legs, he lifted her to the tips of her toes as he bent and kissed her roughly.
Halfway through the long greeting, she put her hands loosely on his waist.
When he unhanded her, Seafield turned to me and leered. The last time the three of us had met in the room he’d had to back down. He was showing me who was in charge, who was the dominant male.
Standing over me, he seemed never to end as I looked up at him, a great rifle of a man who was showing me that his trigger was definitely below the belt.
I tried to look bored. It’s hard to attempt anything else with your mouth taped and your hands tied behind your back.
Seafield wasn’t finished. “Take off your clothes,” he said to Merom.
She hesitated.
He took a slight step toward her, threatening in a couple of centimeters extreme physical violence.
She took off her clothes.
He sat in the chair again and watched for a minute. Then he said, “The idea is this. You’ve just got out of bed. You’ve heard something out here and it turns out to be this wicked man who’s broken into your apartment.”
“Mmmmnnrmm,” I said.
Ignoring me, he said, “For protection, you keep this empty bottle by your bed. When you come out to see what the noise is, you bring it with you. Because he’s such a coward, he runs for it. But at the back door, on the porch, you catch him and hit him. He stumbles and falls over the railing and hits his head on the cement brick there, which just happens to be at the bottom.” He turned to me. “Bad luck, cowboy.”
He wasn’t leaving my bad luck to chance.
Merom said whiningly, “But, Lee—”
He cut her off. “Shut up. That’s how it is. After it happens, you call the police like a good citizen.”
She didn’t look happy. He looked at her fiercely. “All right, I will,” she said.
“Too right you will.” Then he turned to me again. “But you’ve got some time yet, cowboy.” He looked at his watch. “Because we’ve got to wait till it’s late enough for the lady to have gone to bed.”
They also had to make the bed look as if it had been used. Seafield decided to help Merom with that, but not until he had immobilized my legs again. He tied them and looped a line from them to the bedroom door. On the theory that if I did manage to get free, I wouldn’t be able to do it without banging the door and attracting their attention.
I read a book about Houdini once that said he tensed his muscles as he was being tied up so that there would be some slack to play with when he came to try to escape. I tensed my muscles as Seafield tied my feet. Unfortunately, I’m not Houdini.
All I ended up doing was making noise, banging my head against the door, and pushing at the door. And straining at my bonds so they would leave marks on the parts, of my body they were restraining.
But no neighbors complained. And I wasn’t all that excited at the prospect of leaving marks to try to catch the eye of the coroner. After a while I just rested. He was going to have to untie me sometime.
And I was getting more rest than he was.
It was nearly midnight when he turned his concern back to me. He untied my feet and pocketed the rope. He stood me up roughly. For a moment the blood left my head. I moaned. He wasn’t sympathetic.
He stood me against the wall and hit me twice in the stomach, once with each hand. The great fists felt like meat mallets. Which was unnecessary. I was already tender.
Then he took me to the kitchen and cut my hands free.
While I stood dazed and rubbing my wrists, he opened the back door.
He pulled me by the right arm. “Make a fist,” he said.
I wouldn’t. So he pushed the back of my open hand through the lowest windowpane.
He brought me in again and closed the door. He looked at my hand. It wasn’t marked enough to satisfy him. He rubbed it in the glass on the floor. That satisfied him.
“Come on,” he said, and led me back toward the living room.
Finally, I pulled at the tape on my mouth, and tore it off.
“This is ridiculous,” I said.
He pushed me through the doorway and into the room.
“You’ll never get away with it,” I said, always a quick man to turn a phrase.
“Then that will console you,” Seafield said to me.
I saw a shadow behind me and turned to face Merom, who was brandishing her empty wine bottle. I realized from her eyes that she was eager. Which was bad. I’d hoped her initial hesitation was genuine reluctance to commit murder. But she did what she was told. She took orders. And that was bad for me. “You want this yet, Lee?” she asked.
“Good,” he said. He took the bottle. He acknowledged that she was completely involved now. “Go put on a nightie,” he snapped at her.
She turned, but hesitated. “Don’t do anything un
til I get back.”
“Hurry up, then.”
She jumped to the bedroom. This was the woman who had been petrified of Seafield when she actually caught me breaking in. She’d feared him. But that was all part of the greater reality that she gravitated to wherever the dominance was greatest. It told me more about John Pighee than I’d found out since I’d started investigating him.
And it also told me how to play things. If she was attracted by power and fear, and if Seafield lived for exercising and inspiring same, there was no room for me in that pairing. It didn’t pay for me to be overawed or frightened.
I rubbed my stomach and tried to pick some glass fragments out of my hand.
“All right,” I said, “you’re going to kill me, but there’s no need to rush it and make a messy job.” I took half a step forward.
In an instant the bottle was raised.
“Relax,” I said. “You’ve got me. There’s nothing I can do.”
Seafield studied me and was suspicious. He didn’t say anything and he didn’t lower the bottle.
I stood still and asked conversationally, “Was Simon Rackey your first?”
He hesitated again.
“It was a good job. The police didn’t have the slightest suspicion. I asked them about it. They weren’t interested.”
“But not my last,” he said, finally answering my first question.
“No,” I said. “Pighee’s wife was your last before tonight.”
Merom appeared in the doorway. “Is this all right?”
Seafield didn’t look. He watched me, keyed to pounce at the slightest movement. “Let’s see,” he said.
Merom stepped into his line of vision. “What’s he so happy about?” she asked.
“He’s trying to bluff it out, so I’ll relax and he can make a run for it.”
“Am I so transparent?” I asked.
“I can see right through it,” Seafield said. But not to me. He spoke to Merom angrily. “You’re not going to entertain the fucking police in that. Don’t you have anything thick and opaque? Use that famous head, why don’t you.”
“All right,” she said, and went back into the bedroom. “You’re going to kill me, right?” I said as I stepped slightly farther forward.
The Silent Salesman Page 24