"How will we —"
"Hang on," I said. "I'm trying to think." I put my elbow on the table and rested my forehead in the palm of my hand. I closed my eyes and tried like hell to think straight. It wasn't particularly easy. Brassard and money and Mona and heroin were chasing one another around a beanpole with my face. There had to be a way to fit all the pieces together and come out with a plan. But I couldn't find it.
"Well?"
I lighted a cigarette, then studied her face through a cloud of smoke. I rested the cigarette in a small glass ashtray and took her hands in mine. All of a sudden whatever plan I might have thought of became quite unimportant. It was like the first time. And the second time, and every time. I guess electric is the right word for it. It was exactly that effect.
Electric. One time I saw a man pick up a lamp cord that had frayed right through to the bare wire. The current glued him and the cord together. He couldn't let go. The voltage was a little too low to kill him, but he remained stuck to that wire until some young genius cut the power.
That's how it was.
"Joe —"
"Let's get out of here."
"Where are we going?"
"My hotel."
"Is that safe?"
I stared at her.
"Someone might see us," she said. "It would mean taking a chance. And we can't afford to take chances."
She knew how much I needed her. And now she was teasing, playing games. I looked at her and watched her turn into a sex symbol in front of my eyes. She did not look sweet and virginal and lovely any more. I looked at the very simple summer dress and saw breasts and belly and hips. I looked at her eyes and saw lust as naked as my own.
"I'll go shopping now," she said. "I'll buy a pair of shoes so that Keith won't wonder why I came to the city. Meanwhile you go back to the hotel and think up a jim-dandy plan. Then you call me and tell me all about it and we'll see what we can work out That's the safe way."
"To hell with the safe way."
"But we can't afford to take chances. We've got to do it the safe way, Joe. You know that."
They were just words and she didn't mean them at all. I stood up without letting go of her hand, crossed over to her side of the booth and sat down next to her. Our eyes locked.
"Joe —"
I put my hand on the very soft skin of her throat I ran it down slowly over her breasts to her thighs. I pressed her.
"Now," I said. "Now tell me about the safe way."
We caught a cab right outside the bar. It was less than three blocks to the Collingwood but we were in too much of a hurry to walk.
It was almost too good.
Maybe the tension was responsible for it, the tremendous mutual need for something that would push the fear away and postpone the immediacy of what we were planning to do. Maybe some grain of morality imbedded within us both made our adultery as amazingly gratifying as it was.
Whatever it was, I was all in favor of it.
I lighted cigarettes for both of us and gave one of them to her. We lay side by side and smoked them all the way down without saying a word. I finished mine first and stubbed it. It took her a few seconds more. Then she flipped the butt out the open window.
"Maybe I'll set fire to New York," she said. "Maybe the whole city will burn."
"Maybe."
"Or maybe it landed on somebody's head."
"I doubt it. The window opens out on an airshaft. Nobody walks around down there."
"That's good," she said. "I wouldn't want to set anybody on fire."
"Not even me?"
"That's different."
I kissed her face and her throat. She stretched out on her back with her eyes closed and purred like a fat cat in front of a hot fire. I stroked her and she purred some more.
"How, Joe?"
And we were back where we started from. Back to murder. Now, for some reason, it was easier to talk about it. Maybe our lovemaking was responsible for that; maybe strong proof of our mutual need was a means of justifying our actions.
"Joe?"
"Let's talk about Keith," I said. "Has he been acting any different lately?"
"Like how?"
"Because the heroin is missing."
"Oh," she said. "At first he seemed worried about something. He still acts a little... well, irritated, I guess."
"That figures."
She nodded slowly. "But he's not doing anything different," she said. "Not running around or anything. He's his usual self."
"That figures too. He's not an errand boy. He's an executive. All he can do is pass the word and see what happens."
"I guess so." She yawned and stretched. "So life goes on. He gets up in the morning and reads the paper. Then he does the crossword puzzle. Did I ever tell you about that? He's sort of a crossword puzzle nut. I can't even talk to him when he's working on one of them. Every morning the Times comes and every morning it's the same ritual. First the financial page and then the crossword puzzle. And if he's stuck on the puzzle it doesn't matter. He doesn't throw the damned thing out like a sensible person would. He keeps plowing away at it until it's done. He even uses a dictionary. Did you ever hear of doing crossword puzzles with a dictionary? That's the way he does them."
I pictured him at the breakfast table, pencil in hand, dictionary at his side. I could see him working very steadily, filling in all the blank squares with neat letters. Of course he would use his dictionary, and of course he wouldn't quit until he was finished. It was all in character.
"Then he goes to the office," she went on. "Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. He goes to the office."
I looked up. "I thought he didn't have a regular schedule?"
"He doesn't, exactly. Sometimes he works on a Tuesday or Thursday, if he's busy. But almost every Monday and Wednesday and Friday, off he goes to the office. Then he comes home, and we eat, and it's another dull evening with Mr. and Mrs. L. Keith Brassard. Then it's morning, and another dull day."
"Is today a dull day?"
She grinned. She reached out a hand and touched me, a gentle touch. I reached for her.
"Not now, Joe. You were going to tell me the plan. How you're going to kill him."
How you're going to kill him. Not we're going to kill him. But at the time I hardly heard the difference.
"I'm not going to tell you, Mona."
"No?"
I shook my head.
"Don't you trust me?"
I had to laugh. "Trust you? If I didn't trust you there would be no point in the whole thing. Of course I trust you."
"Then tell me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
Part of the reason was that I didn't know myself. But I didn't want to toss that one at her. There was another reason, and I decided it would have to do for the time being. "The police are going to question you," I told her. "Up and down and back and forth. You're money and class, respectable as all hell, so they won't use the bright lights and the rubber hoses. Not the class-conscious Westchester police. But at the same time he's a rich old man and you're a pretty wife, so they'll suspect you."
"I'll have an alibi."
"No kidding." I went looking for another cigarette and set fire to the end of it. "Of course you'll have an alibi. That's what the cops will figure in the first place. They'll read it for a standard wife's-boyfriend-slays-rich-hubby gambit. Page three in the Daily News four days out of five. They'll be quiet, and they'll be polite as Emily Post's little boy, but they will be sharp. The more questions you can say I don't know to, the better off we'll both be. The less you know, the easier it'll be to give that answer. So I'm telling you as little as possible."
She didn't say anything. She wasn't looking at me now. She was staring across the room, looking at the far wall. At least it looked that way, but I got the feeling that she didn't see that wall at all. I got the feeling that she was looking right through it, way out into space.
I wondered what she saw.
"Joe," she said.<
br />
I waited.
"I'm worried," she said. "I tried not to think about it before. But you're right. Page three in the Daily News four days out of five. They'll question me."
"Of course they will."
"Maybe I'll crack."
"Don't be silly."
"Maybe —"
I looked at her. She was trembling. It wasn't a good old-fashioned case of the shakes, but I could see it. I took her in my arms and rubbed the back of her neck. I held her close and stroked her until I could feel the tension drain out of her, and then I kissed her once and let her go.
"Don't worry, Mona."
"I'm all right now. I just —"
"I know. But don't worry. They won't work you that hard. You won't know anything, remember? You'll tell them the same things you told me the first time you met me. You don't know exactly what Keith does for a living. He doesn't have any enemies that you know about. You don't know why anybody would want to kill him. It doesn't make any sense to you. He was your husband and you loved him. Don't overwork the grief bit, but let yourself react naturally. You'll probably be a little sorry once it's done, you know. The normal human reaction. Let it show, but don't milk it."
She nodded.
"Keep calm," I said. "That's the important thing."
"When?"
I looked at her.
"When are you going to do it?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know or you're not telling me?"
I shrugged. "A little of both. Probably this week, probably on one of the days when he goes to work."
"At his office?"
"Maybe. Maybe not. Don't leave the house until he's off to work. Understand?"
She nodded.
"Is there a maid or something around there?"
"Two maids. Why?"
"I just wondered. Be in the house with them when he leaves for work. Got that?"
A nod.
"And don't worry. That's the important thing. If you just take it easy there won't be a thing in the world to worry about."
I squashed my cigarette like a bug and started thinking. My mind was working now. Things were beginning to take shape. I was turning into a machine, and that made everything just that much simpler. Machines don't sweat. You throw a switch or turn a crank and the machine does what it's supposed to do. The machine named Joe Marlin was thinking now. I thought like clocks tick.
"Afterward," I said. "That's the big thing. If the hit goes properly, they won't sweat you too much. But they'll remember you. They'll list the crime as unsolved and they'll leave the file open. I can't come and move in with you the day he's in the ground. It wouldn't be too safe."
She seemed to shiver.
"The scandal will bother you," I said. "You'll stay at home awhile and then you'll go to a real estate agent. You don't want to live in Cheshire Point any more. It bothers you. You're not comfortable there any more.
You just want to get away by yourself for a good long time. You can think about another house later."
"It's a nice house —"
"Just listen to me, will you? You tell him to sell the house furnished and all. Don't act hungry for money. There will be plenty of money. Tell him to list the house and take whatever he thinks is the most it'll bring. Tell him there's no rush, he should use his own judgment with the price. Then go to a travel agency and book a flight to Miami."
"Miami?"
"Right You fly to Miami about a week after the hit Maybe ten days at the outside. You'll have plenty of dough — insurance, loose cash. You'll go first-class, stay at the Eden Roc. You're a widow whose husband met a rather scandalous death. You want to forget about it"
"I see."
I got another cigarette going. I looked at her and I could see wheels turning inside her head. She was not a stupid woman. She would remember everything I was telling her. That was good. If she forgot, we were in trouble.
"I'll be in Miami Beach myself," I said. "I'll get a room at the Eden Roc. You see, right after the hit, I'll get the hell out of New York. Go to Cleveland, Chicago, some place like that. A week or so later I'll head for Miami. We'll be two strangers winding up at the same hotel. We won't know each other, won't arrive at the same time, won't even come from the same town. We'll meet cold and warm up. A nice relationship developing and blooming in a fast-moving resort town where relationships like that are no cause for comment. We'll talk, date, fall in love. Nothing will connect us with Keith or New York or anything before Miami Beach."
"A fresh start"
"You got it. From there on we do what we want. Travel, maybe. A trip around the world. Europe, the Riviera, the works. We'll have each other and we'll have a worldful of money and two lifetimes to spend it in."
"It sounds good."
"It's as good as it sounds," the machine said. "Now repeat back to me exactly what I've told you."
No tape recorder could have done it better. I heard her through, reviewed a detail or two with her, and told her she better get going. We got up from the bed and started dressing. I watched her put that virginal dress on that sensual body and felt like tearing it off again. But there would be time. Plenty of time.
I was straightening my tie in the mirror when I heard her laughing. I turned around and looked at her. She was fully dressed and she was standing close to me. I looked at the top of her head — her hair was neatly combed.
She was looking at my feet.
"What's so funny?"
She went right on laughing. I looked down and didn't get the joke. My socks matched. My shoes were good brown cordovans and I'd had a shine just a day or so ago.
She looked up and she was trying to control the laughter. I asked her once again what was so funny and she giggled.
"The shoes," she said. "You're wearing his shoes. He's still alive and already you're wearing his shoes."
I looked at the shoes, at her. She was right, of course. They were his shoes, from his suitcase. They fit perfectly and I had seen no reason to chuck them out. I stood there, a little uncertain, trying to decide how to react. Then I started to laugh, too. It was funny. We laughed until it wasn't funny any more and then I walked with her to the door.
"You'll need money," she said.
"I suppose so."
"I've been watching money since we were in Atlantic City," she said. "And I had some set aside around the house. I brought it today, almost forgot to give it to you. I don't know how long it'll last but it should be some help."
She gave me an envelope. It had his name and address in the upper left-hand corner. I made a mental note to destroy it.
"You won't call me again?"
I shook my head.
"And we won't see each other?"
"Not until it's done."
"Suppose something happens? How do I get in touch with you?"
"What could happen?"
"An emergency."
I thought about it. "No emergencies," I said. "None where getting in touch with me will do any good."
"You're afraid I'll put the police on you?"
"Don't be silly."
"Then —"
"I don't know where I'll be," I said. "And nothing could come up, nothing where it would help to have us in contact with one another. Just do what I told you. That's all."
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. It was an awkward moment
"Well," she said, "I'll see you in Miami."
I nodded, awkwardly, and then I reached for her. She half-fell against me and my arms folded around her. I don't know whether the kiss was a sign of love or a bargain sealed in lipstick instead of blood. I let go of her and we stared at each other.
"Today was good," she said. "It'll be hard. Waiting a month for you."
Then she was gone. I watched her for a few seconds, then closed the door. I sat on the bed and tore the envelope open. I burned it in an ashtray, feeling slightly melodramatic, and flushed the ashes down the toilet, feeling still more melodramatic. Then I counted the
money.
There was a lot of it. Over seven hundred dollars. It wasn't that much when you stopped to consider train fare to Chicago or Cleveland, then a plane to Miami. It wasn't much balanced against all the expenses I was going to run up in the next month. But it was still seven hundred dollars. It would be more than useful.
Then a thought sailed home. This was the second time Mona had given me an envelope filled with money. Both times it was shortly after we had finished making love.
That bothered me.
Chapter 7
* * *
Monday night was monotonous. I ate dinner, sat around my room at the Collingwood, and waited for time to go by. I thought about her and I thought about him and I thought about myself, and I wondered how I was going to do it. I'd made it look good for her. I'd let her think I was the boy genius with the whole routine down pat. Maybe the act set her mind to rest, but I wasn't fooling myself. I was a novice at murder.
I kept putting it together and it kept coming out wrong. My thoughts went in the usual places. I wanted to kill a man and get away with it. There are a few standard ways of doing this, and I ran them all through my head and looked for one that would fit. None of them did.
I could make it look like an accident. But the trouble with that is that there is no margin for error. When you fake an accident, or a suicide, you make one mistake and the ball game is over. One mistake and it's no longer an accident or a suicide. It's murder, and you're it.
Cops are too good. Crime labs are too good. I could slug that fat bastard behind the ear, load him into his car and drive him over the nearest convenient cliff. Then the snoops would begin snooping. I'd leave a fingerprint somewhere, or some little punk would figure out that he'd been hit over the head before he went over the cliff, or any one of another thousand things.
Or I could get a gun, and I could stick the barrel in his fat mouth, and I could wrap his lousy hand around it and pull the trigger for him and blow his brains all over the nearest wall. And something would be wrong, something somewhere, and somebody would know it wasn't suicide.
Then they would take Mona and they would lean on her. She'd do fine at the beginning. She'd throw it back as hard as they threw it at her.
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