The Second Longest Night
Page 18
Deirdre said, “He was afraid. And he was furious. He said if I didn't come across with proof about Deirdre, he could just as easily pin it on me. It would have been a grim joke, because that was one of the reasons Lydia had had to die. So I prepared a letter for him in which Deirdre confessed everything before she killed herself. If Marianne Wilder hadn't barged in while I was writing it—”
“Your brother Blairy didn't fit at first,” I said. “He didn't know what was going on. He's just a snotty kid. He wanted me to lay off on general principles. I wonder what he'll think now.”
“I don't care what he thinks. I thought Ralph was my biggest problem. Everything was going to be fine. I would go down to Venezuela alone. I would stay a long time. I would have an accident, injuring my leg. But Ralph had to look after me. Ralph came along.
“Only, Ralph wasn't my biggest problem. You are. I don't know what to do. I can't kill you now. Chet, listen. We're a couple of fools. We're all mixed up. Don't you remember? Don't you want to remember? We were in love once. You can't deny it. Can you?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, why should you? What was the big thing wrong between us? I'll tell you what. I had money and you didn't. You were a poor slob of a private dick and you made believe you liked it. But now it's different. Look. Ralph is dead. I'm Lydia. I'm a widow. We can wait long enough,” she told me eagerly, smiling at me, formulating her plans, making decisions for both of us, “until it won't seem peculiar. There's no hurry. Then, a year from now, say—we can get married. We have ten per cent of King Oil. That's a lot of money. We can have everything we want.
“Chet, are you listening to me? It's the only way, isn't it? Do you know another way?”
She was very beautiful sitting there, if you didn't see the blood on her hands. Her eyes were rapt. She was seeing visions of South America again, of how we could spend the fortune our share of King Oil would bring. Maybe she really meant it. I don't know. I didn't hate her. I felt sorry for her.
“No,” I said. “I don't know of any other way out. For you.”
“Chet. Do you remember? It was always very good. You could turn me to jelly in bed. You were the only one, I swear. No one else could do that. No one else came close. You can still do it. I know you can. Say the word, I don't want to kill you. Just say it, Chet.”
When I didn't answer she said, “You're afraid? My big beautiful shamus, afraid? But you have a guarantee, don't you see?” With her free hand she took my left hand and stroked it along her thigh until my fingertips touched the scar. “That's your guarantee, Chet. You know. You're the only one who knows. I can never walk out on you again unless you want me' to.”
I could feel the knife point moving against my neck. I said, “Sure, baby.” Her grin was really something to see then. “Sure. Until you decide you have to kill me too. When will you do it—some night after I turn you to jelly in bed?”
The grin froze on her face. The knife moved again. My hand was still on her thigh, touching the long scar. I closed my fist, hard and suddenly, catching her flesh. I rolled away from her and struck at the knife. She screamed and then I felt a quick hot pain against the side of my neck.
She leaned over me for the knife, pinning me to the floor. I was so weak from loss of blood I couldn't push her off me, but I got the knife in my left hand and said “Get up.”
She put her elbow on my Adam's apple and leaned down on it, clawing with her other hand for the knife. I brought it up slowly and stuck the point against the side of her ribs. She knew I could slide it through between the ribs to her lungs or heart before she could choke me with the elbow. She leaned off me and stood up.
I got to my feet slowly. I was groggy. She backed away from me, moving toward the door. She said, “I'll kill myself. I swear I will. I'll go outside and kill myself.”
She opened the door and stood there with the sunlight behind her, watching me. I laughed and said, “Not you.”
She turned and went outside and walked toward the edge of the cliff, where Ralph had gone over. I placed my hands against the table in the cabin to steady myself and waited. The knife was in front of me on the planks if I needed it.
In a few minutes she was back. I said, “I thought you were going to kill yourself.”
“You dirty bastard,” she said. All the fight had drained out of her now. She went with me to Duane Cabot's car and we climbed in. “What's going to happen to me now?” she asked.
I didn't answer her. I didn't give a damn. Maybe some day, I thought as we drove down the hill, I would get out of this business. Because in it you make money, if you make money, on other people's ugliness.
I knew how the Senator would react. He wouldn't lift a finger to help Deirdre now. I hoped all this wouldn't kill his wife, but I didn't really care about that, either. Deirdre was their daughter. She wasn't born that way, not entirely. It's part the way you're born and part the way they fashion you.
Marianne Wilder was waiting at the door of the house at the foot of the hill. She looked worried. She would have her story now, if she still wanted it. We got out of the car. Deirdre walked stiffly, like a mechanical toy, saying nothing.
I grinned. Marianne had been crying, but at least one good thing had come out of all this. She'd ditched Duane Cabot, the bright young Congressman. She'd saved herself a lot of unpleasantness, because sooner or later she would have discovered what he was like.
Now she needed a lift. So did I. After all this was over, which would still take a while. Nothing serious, though. I'd had more than my bellyful for a while. But if she wanted it that way, swell.
I smiled at her. She smiled at me. “Hello, Marianne,” I said.
THE END
of a novel by Stephen Marlowe