The Faster She Runs

by Robert Colby

  Now what else could she do? Warren put three hundred in her personal checking account every month—her allowance whether she worked or not. But at the moment there were just six dollars and change in the account. The real money was held in savings jointly, though withdrawals required both their signatures.

  Big deal! It was supposed to be an honor—share and share alike. Yet Warren would have to die before she could get a penny of that forty-eight thousand for herself.

  She could write a personal check, but it would bounce. Then why not write several checks, cashing them at different places, depositing the money, borrowing from Peter to pay Paul, meanwhile betting in the hope of recovering herself?

  Yet, where would the cycle end? Right in Warren’s lap—unless she hit the jackpot. And she had a secret doubt of this. Everything was going against her lately. The tide was rushing in the wrong direction, hurtling her toward a giant fall.

  Her thoughts went round and round, but she could resolve nothing. There was only the diamond ring Warren had given her. She might have to pawn it. And God help her if he noticed it was missing, as he certainly would in short order.

  All this trouble because he was so damn stingy.He was stingy and he was a liar. Okay hon, maybe I’ll spend the whole day with you. Liar!

  She got up and went into the bathroom. She ran water in the tub and peeled off the nightgown, posing herself in front of the full-length mirror behind the door.

  Not bad, she thought. Oh, not bad at all, Marian, girl. She ran her hands upward over long supple thighs and flat tummy to the proud bursting cones of her breasts. Marvelous, marvelous, she thought. In the whole city of New York there probably aren’t a dozen figures as beautiful as mine. It’s a good face, too. Striking. Yes, striking!

  I could have any man, absolutely any man I want—anywhere! Remember that, Warren. Any man at all. Yes, and rich ones too. I could take Proctor away from his wife—like that! With a snap of my fingers. If I could only stand him. If I could only have him without letting him touch me. Ugh! Oh, why can’t I sell what I’ve got to the highest bidder? Why was I born with such a weak stomach for ugly sexless men and such a big hunger for the best—the very damn loveliest imported best!

  She climbed into the tub and, sinking beneath the warm scented water, allowed herself to drift upon a sea of imagination in which all the splendor of the world became her very own….

  It was just after nine. The maid had arrived, had called her in sick and was now occupied with the disorder of the kitchen.

  Marian was dressed and seated at the desk in the living room. She was writing a series of checks made out to a liquor store, two supermarkets, a Proctor drugstore, a dress shop and a department store. The checks amounted to four hundred dollars, eighty above what was needed to pay Killian. She would bet the eighty dollars with the bartender, since Killian had stopped her credit permanently.

  It would take time to cash the checks, and the odds against being able to meet them were great. Though Warren would naturally make good before he would allow her to be prosecuted, she saw him as the single cause of her trouble and she was seething with resentment. She was also nervous, chain-smoking and sipping a martini. She was writing the last check when the phone rang.

  “Marian?”

  “Yes, speaking.”

  “Marian Ostermann?”

  That was her maiden name. No one ever used it! “Who is this?”

  “It’s Tony.” Chuckle. “Surprise, huh?”

  “Tony? Tony who?”

  “Tony who else? Tony Viani.” Chuckle. “How many Tonys you know, Marian?”

  She held the phone dumbly, unable to speak. Tony Viani! It must be—how long?—three years. She had said good-bye to him at the door one night and the next day he had vanished without a trace. Six months later she married Warren.

  “Tony,” she said. “My God, Tony, Tony! Whatever happened to you?”

  “It was getting too hot for me in Miami. And I don’t mean the weather. I took off.”

  “Well, all right, Tony. But you could have called me! Oh, God—you did owe me that much.”

  “Marian—listen! I had a wife. And a kid. Out in L. A. I went back to them, for a time. Then I got a divorce. I’m free now.”

  “Sure, fine. But I‘m not! And you never told me you were married.”

  “There were a lot of things I never told you, kiddo. Sometimes it’s the best way.”

  “I don’t agree, Tony. I don’t agree at all.”

  “Still betting the nags, Marian?”

  “That’s just like you, Tony. Change the subject when it’s going against you.”

  “That was always your pet subject, baby. Horses. Remember?”

  How could she forget? During that time just before Tony, she was twelve-hundred-fifty dollars in the red to a book in Miami and couldn’t pay, as usual.

  The man came for her one night just as she was getting dressed for a date. He told her Mr. Viani wanted to see her about the gambling debt and Mr. Viani never took “no” for an answer. There was a quiet aura of menace about the man which convinced her she had better not argue. So she went along with him.

  In silence Tony had stared at her from behind his desk for what seemed close to a full minute. She had never seen such eyes anywhere in the soft world of her experience. They were savage, violent and nakedly evil. They were also sensual woman-wise and hypnotic as the unblinking gaze of a reptile. She was fascinated, but terribly frightened.

  Suddenly he smiled and the whole texture of his personality changed.

  “C’mon,” he said. “We’ll go to dinner and we’ll talk about it. I got a hunch I may be able to get you off the hook.”

  She went to bed with him that first night. Not out of fear. She wanted to. She had to! He was like a jungle animal who understood no law but the law of superior advantage and brute force. He was the only man who could dominate the untamed part of herself which laughed disdainfully at the weak males who sooner or later laid their silly egos and their groveling hungers at her feet. He was the first real challenge, and she had to have the unbridled power of him writhing in her bed.

  He was a superb lover as it turned out. And, surprisingly, for all his savage hungers, he was often gentle.

  In the most irrevocable sense, for perhaps the first time in her life, she fell in love. And she meekly dedicated her entire devotion to Tony, while he gave nothing of himself to her but the superficial cries of passion. He still remained a mystery and a challenge, and this was the key to her surrender for she soon grew bored with anyone who danced at her command.

  In the morning Tony canceled her debt, moved her into a regal hotel-apartment at the beach and made her his mistress.

  She knew he was a power in charge of a segment of Miami gambling interests and guessed that he was involved in other, more dangerous activities. But he told her little and made it plain that she was an outsider so far as his “business” was concerned. He provided much, she loved him much and didn’t care. She more than loved hm, she was his total slave.

  She hinted at marriage but he was always evasive. “Aw,” he might say, “marriage would ruin it for us, baby. If we really had to live together we’d be at each other’s throats in a couple of days. Hold on awhile. I got a lot of problems to settle first. One day I’ll retire from this racket and then we’ll see.”

  Instead, he simply vanished. And no one would admit, if they knew, where he had gone. So she waited a couple of months and when he didn’t show, didn’t even phone or write, she moved to New York. She got the job with Proctor, and in his office she met Warren when he came one day to discuss the stock investments of her boss.

  She married Warren in a mood composed of rebellion and defeat. He was a lot of man, he had looks and money and he was the best substitute for the aching loss of Tony she could find.

  Now she was angry with Tony. Did he think he could come barging in three years later and pick up where he left off?

  “Tony,” she cried. “Let’s sk
ip the chit-chat. I’m on my way out and I’m in a hurry. What do you want?”

  “You,” he said bluntly.

  “Uh-uh, Tony, not me. Never. I’m married, I love my husband and I’m going to stay married. Did you think nothing would change in three years? It’s too late, Tony.”

  “I’m at the Roosevelt Hotel,” he answered. “Room Fourteen twenty-two. I’ll wait one hour.”

  “Tony! Didn’t you hear me say I was married? You can wait one hour or a hundred, I won’t be there. How did you find me, anyway?”

  “Easy. One of your girl friends in Miami. So this guy you’re married to, you got a big thing for him, huh?” His voice sounded detached, a little bored.

  “I’m mad about him, Tony. Simply mad about him!”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Well, have a good, square life, Marian. See you around.” Click! And he was gone.

  Marian looked at the phone in amazement. Oh, damn! The smug gall of that man! She drummed her fingers on the desk. Why didn’t I tell him I don’t care about Warren at all? Right this minute I could strangle him!

  She got the hotel number from information, quickly dialed it and demanded 1422.

  “Yeah?”

  “Tony, listen. I—you didn’t even give me a chance to say good-bye. Besides, I have a favor I want to ask you.”

  “Sure, Marian. How much?”

  “Oh, Tony, for heaven’s sake!”

  “How much?”

  “About five hundred. I bet myself into a hole, and I’m a little short this week.”

  “C’mon over and we’ll talk about it. One hour. Don’t keep me waiting, I’m not here for laughs. I got a lotta business to handle.”

  He hung up.

  Marian took the little pile of checks she had been writing and, smiling slyly, tore them into tiny fragments. She dropped the pieces into the wastebasket.

  Now she moved to the wall mirror and studied herself carefully. With her finger she made a final adjustment to her lipstick.

  She turned abruptly and crossed to the desk. She found paper and scrawled a note.

  Warren,

  Went to the city to visit a girl friend. I won’t be home until late. There’s a steak in the refrig.

  Have fun!

  Marian

  She read the note and decided it was exactly right for him, but it was bad judgment. Better cover the retreat in case things didn’t work out with Tony. She tore up the note and started again.

  Darling,

  Went to the city to meet an old girl friend from out of town. I may get stuck for dinner and a show. Ugh! But I’ll call if I’m going to be late.

  Forgive me for being such an awful bitch this morning. Didn’t mean a word and I’m going to reform. You’ll see!

  Love you,

  Marian

  There! Play it smart and have your little revenge in secret—eh, Marian?

  A picture flashed across the screen of her mind. Tony was framed in the doorway to the hotel room, eyeing her with unconcealed lust.

  She entered. Tony kissed her, almost brutally, his hand wandering from her breasts downward, sneaking under her dress, exploring between her legs.

  Ahhh. Ahhh, Tony, Tony! Don’t hurry, darling. Let’s make it a ritual, an all-day production…

  Still smiling slightly, her face a study in trancelike sensuality, she went to speak with the maid.

  Then she hurried to the hall closet to get her very best coat and hat.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Warren Emrick was about as stoned as he could get on a commercial airliner without drawing attention to himself.

  During the entire flight he had been sipping “coffee” from a thermos. “Always carry my own coffee, Miss.” He didn’t mention that the coffee was laced with bourbon in a ratio of about five to one.

  And he couldn’t mention that he was a little drunk because he came home one night and found his wife had fled, taking with her nearly every dime he had in the world.

  His senses were not really dulled. If anything they had become sharper. The alcohol was eating away the last thread of restraint which held his anger, allowing him to concentrate upon it with a kind of perverse joy, freeing him to conjure up the most insidious, the most uncivilized plans of vengeance.

  He had taken a month’s leave of absence and, if necessary, he would take two or three more—six months, a year if need be, even if it cost him his job!

  “Sir! Won’t you please fasten your seat belt!” She had to tell him twice—because now the jet was close to setting down over the neon blaze of Miami, the city having appeared so suddenly after the dark blanket of ocean that it seemed a gaudy mirage in the desert of night.

  Fumbling with the belt, he looked up into the precise bitter-sweet face of the stewardess, hating the tidy uniform and the jaunty cap perched above that little knife-blade of mechanical smile.

  “Sorry, honey,” he cracked. “I wouldn’t want to spoil your whole goddamm night!” Cocky bitch! he said without sound to her retreating back.

  The plane banked steeply, aiming a wing tip at some car-strewn artery in the sparkling crazy-quilt below. And he thought, I know you’re down there, Marian. Boozing in one of those lighted sewers, or writhing in some dark slimy cave.

  And I’m going to find you. I’m going to hunt you until I find you, Marian. That’s a promise, you sneaky bitch! His hands worked against each other, squeezing, squeezing, the memory of her soft slender neck…

  Some six weeks following the day she went to the city to visit “an old girl friend from out of town,” Warren had come home from the office to find the apartment gutted of all her possessions. In fact, practically everything of value was gone, including some of those articles which he considered exclusively his own—an expensive camera, a two-hundred-dollar pair of binoculars, a fine hunting rifle (my God, a hunting rifle!), a portable typewriter and a perpetual-movement clock.

  Somehow the removal of those personal items which he brought to the marriage doubled his fury. To find that his wife was not only a thief but a petty thief damaged her image beyond repair.

  During the six weeks before she disappeared, Marian had won his absolute pardon, his total forgiveness. She had returned the money she had “borrowed” from him and apparently she had kept her promise to give up betting the horses, an absurdly childish compulsion which he could never quite understand. If Marian had just about everything money could buy (excluding the luxuries of the rich) what was the gain in trying to win a few extra dollars on the ponies? Forgetting taxes, with salary and allowance, she had a hundred seventy-five a week pure spending money! How many wives could say the same? Furthermore, she held the job on her own whim, for her own selfish extras, and could have lounged around the apartment all day doing nothing if she so desired.

  In any case, for a time she had been a model wife. She was good-humored even when he was unreasonable, or irritable, she was affectionate and companionable, she was an unfailingly enthusiastic bed-partner.

  The moody silences she used to indulge were a thing of the past. She told him amusing tales of her days at the office. And she kept him posted on the not so amusing details of the weird extortion plot which had just recently cost Proctor Drugs a quarter of a million dollars.

  Looking back, she seemed strangely alive and spirited, caught up by some excitement which could not be justified by any visible change in the basic structure of her life.

  She made his favorite drinks and fixed those special meals which pleased him. She was attentive and thoughtful, forgetting none of those little comforts which made him want to rush away from the tiresome manipulations of the stock market to that five-room island of joy in Jackson Heights.

  In short—the horrible bitch was setting him up for the kill!

  It happened on a morning when he was placed completely off guard, lulled to sleep by this continuous barrage of good deeds and good will. Anything so temporary as a single night or even three days of sweetness and light would have caused him to seriously doubt her
and so watch for the trap. But six weeks of uncompromising devotion, without a hint that she sought some reward, made it appear to him that she had indeed reformed as promised, had really altered certain elements of her character which were distasteful.

  On that morning, luck played on her side. Or was it that she kept him in bed too long with teasing delays, artful caresses and exotic inventiveness? Probably. Yes, very likely the latter! Anyway, he was late, unusually late. And when she tricked him with that casual remark about the rent and the need to transfer funds to checking, he had one foot out the door…

  “Oh, wait a minute, dear! Did you know that the rent is due, along with all the other monthly bills?”

  “So?”

  “So I just made out the checks for you to sign yesterday and there wasn’t enough money in your checking account to cover. I have the morning off—do you want me to run down to the bank and transfer from savings?”

  “Damn! I wish you’d told me earlier, honey. I’m already late for an appointment and I don’t have time to fool with it.”

  “Well, darling, all you have to do is sign the withdrawal slip and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Okay, okay. Go get it!”

  She came back with a blank savings check, a book to support it and a pen. Quickly he signed on the top of the two signature lines and immediately she withdrew book and check, saying, “We’re a hundred sixty short—how much should I fill this out for?”

  In the past he had always filled in the amount himself, even if she made the transfer. But now there seemed such complete harmony and trust between them it would be insulting to demand the check back so that he could write the figures himself. Besides, he was in such a hurry and she was only trying to be helpful.

  “Make it five hundred,” he said. Then he kissed her and raced down the hall for the elevator.

  Of course that was a fatal mistake—because when he came home that night to find her gone, he got the bank book and discovered she had taken forty-seven of the forty-eight thousand dollars in the account, leaving him all but broke.

  Everything gone—his money, his personal things (What would she do with a rifle?), her clothes and other belongings, and finally she herself had vanished without so much as a note left behind her.