"Why, you cheap thief! You think you can brush me off like that? Listen, I've got you where I want you, and before I'm through, I'll have everything you've got!" Chafey's voice was rising with some inner emotion of triumph or hatred. "You think you're so much! Figure you can brush me off, do you?"
He stepped close. "What if I got to that fancy babe of yours and told her what I know? What if I go to Linton and tell him? Why, you're a thief, Fordyce! A damned thiefl You and that fancy babe of yours! Why "
Fordyce hit him. The action was automatic and it was unexpected. In the movies it was always the tough guy who handed out the beatings. His fist flew up and caught Chafey on the jaw. Chafey's feet flew up, and he went down, the back of his neck hitting the bumper with a sickening crack. Then his body slipped slowly to the ground. Arthur Fordyce stood very still, staring down at the crumpled form. His breath was coming in great gasps, and his fist was still clenched hard. Some instinct told him the man was dead.
"Mr. Fordyce?" It was his neighbor, Joe Neal, calling. "Is something wrong?"
Fordyce dropped to one knee and touched the man's head. It lolled loosely, too loosely. He felt for the heart. Nothing. He bent over the man's face, but felt no breath, nothing.
Neal was coming out on the lawn, pulling his belt tight. "Fordyce? Is anything wrong?"
He got to his feet slowly. "Yes, Joe. I wish you'd come down here. I've been held up and I think I think I've killed him."
Joe Neal hurried up, flashlight in hand. He threw the light on the fallen man. "Good heavens!" he gasped. "What did you hit him with? What happened?"
"He was waiting there by the tree. He stepped out with his hand in his pocket you know, like he had a gun. I hit him before I realized."
That was the story, and he made it stick. For several days it was the talk of all his friends. Fordyce had killed a holdup man. That took nerve. And a punch, too. Didn't know he had it in him. Of course, it was the bumper that actually broke his neck. Still had there been any doubts and there were none a check of Chafey's record would have removed them.
He had done time and was on parole at the moment. He had gone up for armed robbery and had been arrested a score of times for investigation. He was suspected of rolling drunks and of various acts of petty pilfering and slugging. A week passed, and a second week. Arthur Fordyce threw himself into his work, never talking about what had happened.
Others forgot it, too, except Joe Neal. Once, commenting on it to his wife, he looked puzzled and said, "You know, I'd have sworn I heard voices that night. I'd have sworn it." "You might have. They might have argued. I imagine that a man might say a lot when excited and not remember it." That was what his wife said, and it was reasonable enough. Nevertheless, Joe Neal was faintly disturbed by it all. He avoided Fordyce. Not that they had ever been friends.
Arthur Fordyce had been lucky. No getting away from that. He had been very lucky, and sometimes when he thought about it, he felt a cold chill come over him. But it was finished now.
Only it wasn't.
It was Monday night, two weeks after the inquest, the first night he had been home since it had happened. He was sitting in his armchair listening to the radio when the telephone rang. Idly, he lifted it from the cradle.
"Mr. Fordyce?" The voice was feminine and strange. "Is this Arthur Fordyce?"
"Speaking."
There was an instant of silence. Then, 'This is Bill Chafey's girl friend, Mr. Fordyce. I thought I would call and congratulate you. You seem to be very, very lucky!" The cold was there again in the pit of his stomach. "I I beg your pardon? I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.' "He told me all about it, Mr. Fordyce. All about that day at the track. All about what he was going to do. Bill had big ideas, Mr. Fordyce, and he thought you were his big chance. Only he thought you were scared. He got too close to you, didn't he, Mr. Fordyce?"
"I'm sure," he kept his voice composed, "that you are seriously in error. I "
She interrupted with a soft laugh, a laugh that did not cover an underlying cruelty. "I'm not going to be as dumb as Bill was, Mr: Fordyce. I'm not going to come anywhere within your reach. Two murders are no worse than one, so I'll stay away. But you're going to pay off, Mr. Fordyce. You're going to pay off like a slot machine. You're going to pay off with a thousand dollars now and five hundred a month from now on."
"I don't know what you're talking about, but you are probably insane," he said quietly. "What you assume is ridiculous. If you are a friend of Chafey's, then you know he was a criminal. I am sorry for you, but there is nothing I can do."
"One thousand dollars by Friday, Mr. Fordyce, and five hundred a month from now on. I don't think you were scared when Bill went to you, but how about the gas chamber, Mr. Fordyce? How about that?"
"What you assume is impossible." He fought to keep his voice controlled. "And you are absurd to think I have that kind of money."
She laughed again. "But you can get it, Buster! You can get it when it means the difference between life as you live it and the gas chamber."
Her voice grew brusque. "Small bills, understand? Nothing bigger than a twenty. And send it to Gertrude Ellis, Box X78, here in town. Send me that thousand dollars by Friday and send the five hundred on the fifth of every month. If you miss by as much as ten days, the whole story goes to your girl friend, to your boss, and to the police." The phone clicked, the line buzzed emptily. Slowly, Fordyce replaced the phone.
So there it was. Now he had not only disgrace and prison before him, but the gas chamber.
A single mistake an instant when his reason was in abeyance and here he was trapped.
He could call her bluff. He could refuse. The woman was obviously unprincipled and she had sounded vindictive. She would certainly follow through as she had threatened.
For hours, he paced the floor, racking his brain for some way out, some avenue of escape. He could go to Charlton, confess everything, and ask for help. Charlton would give it to him, for he was that kind of man, but when it was over, he would drop Fordyce quickly and quietly.
Alice his future everything depended on finding some other way. Some alternative. If something should happen to this woman It might. People were killed every day. There were accidents. He shied away from the idea that lay behind this, but slowly it forced its way into his consciousness. He was considering murder.
No. Never that. He would not he could not. He had killed Chafey, but that had been different. It had not been murder, although if all the facts were known, it might be considered so. It had been an accident. All he had donewas strike out. If he killed now, deliberately and with intent, it would be different.
He ran his fingers through his hair and stared blindly at the floor. Accidentally, he caught a glimpse of his face in a mirror. He looked haggard, beaten. But he was not beaten. There was a way out. There had to be.
Morning found him on the job, working swiftly and silently. He handled the few clients who came in, talked with them and straightened out their problems. He was aware that Charlton was watching him. Finally, at noon, the boss came over.
"Fordyce," he said, "this thing has worried you. You're doing a fine job this morning, so it looks as though you're getting it whipped, but nevertheless, I think a few days' rest would put you right up to snuff. You just go home now, and don't come in until Monday. Go out of town, see a lot of Alice, just anything. But relax."
"Thanks." A flood of relief went over Fordyce as he got up, and genuine gratitude must have showed in his eyes, for Charlton expanded. "I do need a rest."
"Surel" Ed put a hand on his shoulder. "You go call Alice. Take her for a drive. Wonderful girl that. You're lucky. Good connections, too," he added, almost as an afterthought.
The sun was bright in the street, and he stood there thinking. He would call Alice, make a date if possible. He had to do that much, for Ed would be sure to comment later. Then then he must find this woman, this Gertrude Ellis.
He got through the afternoon without a hitch. He and Alice drove
out along the ocean drive, parked by the sea, and then stopped for dinner. It was shortly after ten when he finally dropped her at her home.
He remembered what the police had said about Bill Chafey. They had known about him and they had mentioned that he had been one of several known criminals who frequented a place called Eddie's Bar. If Chafey had gone there, it was possible his girl did, too.
It was a shadowy place with one bartender and a row of leather-covered stools and a half-dozen booths. He picked out a stool and ordered a drink. He was halfway down his second bourbon and soda before the first lead came to him.
A tall Latin-looking young man was talking to the bartender. -Grade been around? I haven't seen her but once since Chafey got it in the neck."
"You figuring on moving in there?"
Are you crazy? That broad gives me the shivers. She's stacked, all right, but she'd cut your heart out for a buck." "Bill handled her."
"You mean she handled him. She was the brains of that setup."
"Leave it to Bill to try to pick up a fast buck." "Yeah, and look at him now."
There was silence, and Fordyce sipped his drink unconcernedly, waiting. After a while it started again. "She's probably working that bar on Sixth Street." "Maybe. She said the other day she was going to quit. That she was expecting a legacy."
"Ill bet. She's got a take lined up."
A few moments later, Fordyce finished his drink and left the place. He went to Sixth Street, studied the bars as he drove along. It might be any one of them. He tried a couple but without luck.
The next morning he slept late. While he was shaving, he studied his face in the mirror. He told himself he did not look like a murderer. But then, what did murderers look like? They were just people.
His face was long, his cheekbones high, and he had a quick, easy smile. His hair was straight and brown, his eyes a light blue. He was nearing thirty and had the assured manner of any young professional man. Despite the fact that he had always held good jobs, he had saved no money to speak of, had always looked ahead for a better position and better chances at money.
He dressed carefully, thinking as he dressed. To get the money, Gertrude Ellis would have to go to the box. She would not expect him to be watching, since she would probably believe he would be at work. Even so, he would have to be careful, for she would be careful herself. She might walk by and merely glance in at first. He wouldhave to get her to open the box. He considered that, then had a hunch.
Shuffling through his own mail, he found what he wanted. It was an advertisement of the type mailed to Boxholder or Occupant. He withdrew the advertising matter to make sure his own name was not on it. Then he carefully removed the address with ink eradicator and substituted the number she had given him.
Her true name would probably be not unlike Gertrude Ellis, which was obviously assumed. The first name was Gracie, and it was a fairly safe bet the last would begin with an E. Unless, as sometimes happened, she used the name of a husband or some friend.
Considering the situation, he had another idea. Eddie's Bar and Sixth Street were not far apart. Hence, she must live somewhere in that vicinity.
He returned to Eddie's that night, and the bartender greeted him briefly. They exchanged a few comments, and then Fordyce asked, "Many babes come in here?"
"Yeah, now and again. Most of 'em are bags. Once in a while, something good shows up."
He went away to attend to the wants of another customer, and Arthur Fordyce waited, stalling over his drink, listening. He heard nothing.
It was much later, when he had finished his third drink, and was turning to look around, that he bumped into someone. She was about to sit down, and he collided with her outstretched arm.
"Oh, I'm sorry! Pardon me."
"That's all right." She was a straight-haired brunette with rather thin lips and cool eyes. But she was pretty, damned pretty. Her clothes were not like those Alice wore, but she did have a style of her own.
She ordered a drink, and he ignored her. After a minute, she got up and went to the ladies' room. The bartender strolled over. -Speaking of babes," he said, "there's a cute 'one. Should be about ready, too. She's, fresh out of boyfriends."
"Her? How come? She's really built."
The bartender shrugged. "Runs with some fast company sometimes. Her boyfriend tried to make a quick buck with a gun and got killed. Chafey. Maybe you read about it."
"Chafey?" Fordyce looked puzzled, although inside he was jumping. "Don't recall the name." He hesitated. -Introduce me?"
-You don't need it. Just buy her a drink." Then the bartender grinned. "But if you go home with her, take your own bottle and pour the drinks yourself. And don't pass out."You mean she'd roll me?"
"I didn't say that, chum. I didn't say anything. But you look like a good guy. Just take care of yourself. After all," he added, "a guy can have a good time without making a sucker of himself."
The girl returned then and sat down on her. Stool. He waited out her drink, and as she was finishing it, he turned. "How about having one with me? I feel I owe it to you after bumping you like that."
She smiled quickly. "Oh, that's all right! Yes, I'll drink with you."
Her name was Gracie Turk. She had been divorced several years ago. They talked about dance bands, movies, swimming. She liked to drink, she admitted, but usually did her drinking at home.
"I'd like that," he said. "Why don't we pick up a bottle and go there?"
She hesitated, then smiled. "All right, let's go."
Fordyce glanced back as he went out. The bartender grinned and made a circle of his thumb and forefinger. Not tonight, Fordyce told himself. Whatever happens, not tonight. He will remember this. They got the bottle and went to her apartment. It was small, cheaply furnished with pretensions toward elegance. Bored, he still managed to seem interested and mixed the drinks himself. He let her see that he had money on him and suddenly, recalled that he was expecting a business call at night. "From back East, you know," he said by way of explanation.
He left, but with a date for the following evening. Anhour later, he called back and canceled the date. His call had come, he said, and he would be out of town.
He made his plans with utmost care. He drove out of town and deliberately wound along dusty roads for several hours, letting his car gather dust. In town, at the same time, he carefully chose a spot at which to dispose of the body.
At eight, he drove around and parked his car near the entrance to the alley behind the girl's apartment. There was a light in the window, so he went into the front entrance, hoping desperately that he would meet no one. Luck was with him, and he reached her door safely. It was around a corner in a corridor off the main hall. At the end was a door to the back stairs.
He tapped lightly and then heard the sound of heels. The door was opened, and Gracie Turk stepped back in surprise.
"Al!" That was the name he had given her. "I thought you were out of town?"
"Missed my train, and I just had a wild idea you might not have gone out."
"Come in!" She stepped back. "I was just fixing something to eat. Want a sandwich? Or a drink?"
He closed the door behind him and looked at her shoulders and the back of her head. That coldness was in the pit of his stomach again. His mouth felt dry, and the palms of his hands were wet. He kept wiping them off, as if they were already He shook himself and accepted the drink she had fixed for him.
She smiled quickly, but her eyes seemed cold. "Well, drink up! There's more where that came from! I'll go get things ready, and then we'll eat. We'll just stay home tonight."
She had good legs, and the seams in her stockings were straight. He was cold. Maybe the drink would fix him up. He drank half of it at a gulp. It was lousy whisky, lousy .- The words of the bartender at Eddie's came back to him. "Take your own bottle," he had said, "and pour your own drinks." He stared at the glass, put it down suddenly.
Suppose it was doped? He had had only half of it. What would that much
do to him? He might not pass out, but would he be able to carry out his plans if He sat down abruptly. She would be coming in soon. He glanced hastily around, then took the drink and reaching back under the divan, poured it, little by little, over the thick carpet. When she came back into the room, he was sitting there holding his empty glass. "Lousy whisky," he commented. "Let me get some for you."
She smiled, but her eyes were still cold and calculating. She seemed to be measuring him as she took the glass from his hand. "I'll just fill this up again. Why don't you lie down?"
"All right," he said, and suddenly made up his mind. He would not wait. It would be now. She might If he passed out, she would open his billfold, and in his billfold was his identification! He started to get up, but the room seemed to spin. He sat down, suddenly filled with panic. He was going; he He got his hand into his pocket, fumbled for the identification card. He got it out of the window in the billfold and shoved it down in another pocket. The money wasn't much, only He had been hearing voices, a girl's and a man's for some time. The girl was speaking now. "I don't care where you drop him. Just take him out of here. The fool didn't have half the money he had the other night! Not half! All this trouble for a lousy forty bucks! Why, I'd bet he had What's the matter?"
"Hey!" The man's voice was hoarse. "Do you know who this is?"
"Who it is? What does it matter?"
Fordyce lay very still. Slowly but surely he was recovering his senses. He could hear the man move back.
"I don't want this, Gracie. Take back your sawbuck. This is hot! I want no part of him! None at all!"
"What's the matter?" She was coming forward. "What have you got there?"
"Don't kid me!" His voice was hoarse with anger. "I'm getting out of here! Just you try to ring me in on your dirty work!"
"Johnny, have you gone nuts? What's the matter?" Her voice was strident."You mean you don't know who this is? This is Fordyce, the guy who knocked off Bill Chafey."
There was dead silence while she absorbed that. Fordyce heard a crackle of paper. That letter it had been in his pocket. It must have fallen out.
the Hills Of Homicide (Ss) (1987) Page 6