by David Goodis
Then they were walking together down the stone steps and there was space between them but it was as though he were touching her. It was actually as though he were holding her, gripping her, hugging her, his thick fingers squeezing her, kneading her flesh, melting her. She heard a voice that could have been his voice but she knew it wasn’t his voice; it was coming from far away and it was saying, “Don’t get yourself dirty.” She spoke back to the voice, her nerves taut and straining with all the defiance she could summon, saying, Leave me alone, leave me alone. Can’t you leave me alone? Can’t you understand? I want this. I need it. I know how much I need it and I’ve got to have it. But of course you can’t have it, you’re afraid of it. But why? Why are you so afraid? Well, it’s filthy, it’s shameful and dreadful. It’s contaminating, that’s what it is. You can’t even do it with the man whose ring you wear. For some reason…
For some unearthly, ghastly reason…
She shivered. And then for a moment her mind was a lens focused on time and she was seeing through a very long tunnel filled with the darkness of years and years and more years. It’s back there, she thought. Something happened back there. It took hold of me and never let go. It’s like clawing fingers in my brain, the fingers gripping the thoughts and twisting the thoughts to choke off all growth. Yes, that’s what it’s done to you. It’s kept you from growing. But what does that mean? You know what it means. It means you’re not a woman, not really. You’re just a frightened little girl.
I won’t be frightened, she said to herself. I’m twenty-nine years old and I’m reasonably intelligent, at least sufficiently intelligent to see it for what it is. Well then, what is it?
Well, whatever it is, it’s nothing to cause fright. Certainly there’s no reason to be frightened of this man Atkinson. Sure, he’s on the rugged side, and I think underneath that healthy wholesome Boy Scout manner he’s got some nasty bully in him. For instance, that business about punching his wife in the face and breaking her jaw. He didn’t need to mention that, but he seemed to enjoy mentioning it. But all the same, I’m sure he’s more gentleman than otherwise and there won’t be any trouble. Let’s start from that premise, shall we?
But I want it, she said to herself.
No, you don’t mean that.
But yes, I do. I want him to—
Now stop that, she told herself. Stop that once and for all.
All right, I’ll stop it. I’ll try to stop it.
She said aloud, “I wish I had a parasol.”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s really blazing out here.”
“It’s a scorcher,” she said. And then, her voice somewhat unsteady, “Let’s— I mean, let’s go back.”
“There’s some shade over there.” He was pointing toward a collection of shrubs and trees. “Maybe there’s a bench and you can rest for a while. At any rate, you can cool off.”
They’d arrived at the base of the stone steps and now they were moving toward the shrubs and trees. There was a narrow path slicing through thick foliage going toward the trees and she was walking in front of him and feeling his presence very close behind her. She was telling herself he was too close, then telling herself the path was too narrow, the foliage was too thick. She shivered again. She told herself to stop shivering and keep walking and she walked slowly and steadily along the path, which made a turn and turned again and went between the trees to show her the small pond. It was a very small pond placed in there among the bushes. It was a goldfish pond.
She let out a racking cry and started to run. Then she collapsed. As he lifted her from the ground she was gasping and saying, “Take me away—take me away from here.”
A waiter came to the table and said to Bevan, “What will it be, sir?”
“Anything. You name it.”
“Something with rum?”
“Rum,” he murmured musingly. He looked at the dark face of the waiter. “What kind of rum?” “The best, sir. We serve only the best.” “I don’t want the best. I want the worst.” The waiter smiled patiently.
“The worst,” Bevan said. “The brand that’s labeled For Hopeless Wrecks Only.’ “
“I’m afraid we don’t serve that here, sir.”
“You’re damn right you don’t serve it here. Your customers here are decent, wholesome, respectable people. Correct?”
“Correct, sir.”
“So there you have it,” Bevan said. “That lets me out.”
He stood up, smiling pleasantly at the waiter. He took out his wallet and handed the waiter a dollar bill.
“But really, sir—”
“Hold onto it,” he said. “Keep it for a souvenir. A going-away present.”
“You mean you’re checking out, sir?”
“With bells on.” He gave the waiter an amiable pat on the shoulder and walked out of the bar and through the lobby to the main exit, facing Harbour Street. At the outer gate some taxi drivers were clustered, and as he approached they flocked around him, all of them talking fast and each pointing to his taxi as though it had more to offer than the others. He climbed into the nearest taxi, and as the driver moved in behind the wheel, he said, “Winnie’s Place.”
The driver turned and gaped at him.
“You heard me,” he told the driver. “I said Winnie’s Place.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Captain. But are you quite certain—”
“Yes, I’m quite certain.” “But Mr. Captain—”
“Say look, you want this fare or don’t you?” The driver faced the windshield and started the engine.
Chapter Eight
There was considerable traffic and the taxi moved slowly, its engine stalling every now and then as it came to jolting stops at blocked intersections.
This taxi driver wore an old felt hat, his grimy shirt was buttoned at the collar, and his ragged suit was thick cheviot. The temperature was well over a hundred, but it didn’t bother him at all. The only visible sign of discomfort was the way he turned his head every now and then to look at Bevan, in the back seat. Bevan was slumped with his head far back, his half-closed eyes gazing up at the roof of the car, his mouth shaping a dim smile. He had a lighted cigarette between his fingers, but he wasn’t smoking it. He held it in front of his face and the smoke curled up past his Buddha-like smile. It added up to the appearance of a living incense burner.
The taxi driver was taking another look at him and saying, “You feel all right, Mr. Captain?”
“Wonderful,” he murmured. “Just wonderful.”
“You sure? You look—”
“Don’t tell me how I look. I know how I look.” “If dere is anything I can do—” “Just take me to Winnies Place.” The taxi driver shrugged and returned his attention to the wheel. But he was frowning puzzledly, and
after some moments he said, “You have some business there?”
“Business?” He let the smile fade away. “Yes, I guess you could call it business.”
“In dat house?” The taxi driver was loudly incredulous. “On Barry Street? I must admit, Mr. Captain, you make me very curious.”
“That’s a trait I have,” Bevan murmured. “I go around making people curious.”
The taxi driver took another look at him. “You better watch where you’re driving,” Bevan said mildly. “You’re liable to put us through a plate-glass window.”
They were stopped at an intersection. There was a long line of cars ahead of them. The taxi driver turned in his seat, facing Bevan and saying, “Do you mind if I make de question?”
“Not at all.” Bevan’s smile was polite and friendly. “What would you like to know?”
“Why you go to Winnie’s Place?”
“That’s an easy one,” Bevan said. “I’m going there to drink rum.”
“But why dere?”
“I like it there.”
“You mean de rum? It is all de same rum, Mr. Captain. You can obtain de rum anyplace. Me interested to know why you prefer Winnie’s house.”
Bevan shrugged. “Maybe it�
��s the decor.”
“De what?”
“Nothing,” Bevan said. “Let’s skip that.”
“Barry Street is bad area,” the taxi driver said. “It very bad, Mr. Captain. It street of much notoriety and scandal. Me not recommend it for tourist.”
“I’m not a tourist. Not really.”
“Den what are you?”
“I’m Mr. Captain,” he said. “Captain of a ship that wanders around. Just wanders around, getting lost.”
“Me fail to understand.”
“Me too.” He grinned at the taxi driver.
The Jamaican frowned back at him and said, “It not lair to make de joke wid me.”
“It’s no joke,” he said. “And you can bet your sweet life on that.”
The taxi driver was somewhat appeased. “You see, Mr. Captain, me announce dese tings for you own good welfare. Me live in dis city all my life and me know what happens here. Me say to you wid de most of seriousness, you put risk on your shoulders when you go to Barry Street. If me can persuade you—”
“I don’t think you can,” Bevan said softly.
“But listen, Mr. Captain. Please listen to me—”
“You trying to sell me a longer ride?”
“Believe me, Mr. Captain, it is not dat. Me only attempting to warn you. When you enter Barry Street, you invite all varieties of trouble. Winnie’s Place is decidedly a location of much danger. Now me give you de fact to support de statement. Last night at dat house a gentlemon was murdered.”
“Really?”
“Yes, and a ghastly thing it was. Dey find he in de alley outside de house. He throat is cut.”
“Too bad,” Bevan murmured. He pointed toward the windshield that showed the traffic moving. “We can go now.”
The driver turned and faced the wheel. The taxi gave a jolt as he let the clutch out too fast. It jolted again in second gear, but after that he had it going smoothly and for some moments he concentrated on his driving. Then again he turned his head and said, “Stone cold dead wid he throat all cut. A dreadful way for gentlemon to die, don’t you tink?”
“Yes,” Bevan said. “Whoever did it ought to be—”
“Dey got he,” the driver said.
Bevan stiffened slightly. “Got who?”
“De gentlemon who do it,” the driver said.
The taxi turned off Harbour onto Duke Street, going north toward Barry.
Bevan threw the half-burned cigarette out the window. Now he was sitting very stiffly on the edge of the seat. He wasn’t saying anything.
The driver said, “Dey capture he dis morning, Mr. Captain. Dey go to he house and he in de bed sleeping. It causes me to wonder. Me cannot understand how a gentlemon can sleep after doing a ting like dat.”
Bevan’s hands were folded tightly in his lap. He was looking down at his crossed thumbs.
“Of course, he make de protest, he say he innocent. But innocent is not de word for dat gentlemon. Dat is bad one, very bad from long time back. A maker of trouble ever since he a child. Dey sent him to de correction school, but he refuse to be corrected, he come out badder than ever, so later dey put he in prison, and again it is waste of de taxpayers’ funds. Many times dis gentlemon go to prison, and on each occasion when he come out he meaner and more vicious dan before. But dis time he take it too far. Dey will put de rope around he neck and dat will be de end of he.”
Bevan’s voice was a low murmur, scarcely audible. Are they sure they’ve got the right man?”
“Not de slightest doubt,” the taxi driver said. “De ease against dis gentlemon is fully established. De victim his hated enemy. It a matter of gambling debts dat de victim could not pay.”
“How much was it?”
“Dey say one pound, two shillings.”
“That comes to around three dollars.”
“Three dollars and eight cents,” the taxi driver said.
“That isn’t very much.”
“You tink not?”
“It’s hardly a motive for cutting a man’s throat.”
The taxi driver gave a dry laugh.
“Did I say something funny?”
“Extremely funny,” the taxi driver said. “Captain, you do not understand de economics of dis island.”
“Don’t give me economics. Give me more on the man they arrested.”
“Why you want to know?” The driver threw a glance over his shoulder. “What make you so interested?”
Bevan didn’t reply. He spoke aloud to himself. “The motive isn’t enough. They need evidence.”
“Dey have it.”
“How do you know?” Bevan spoke a trifle more loudly. “How do you know so much about it?”
“Me dere when dey bring de gentlemon in. Me driving de taxi past police headquarters, on Queen Street, and me see all de people gathered. It considerable assemblage and much noise and excitement. It very exciting when he make de frantic attempt.”
“What attempt?”
“De gentlemon attempt to get away.”
“But why?” Again Bevan was talking aloud to himself. “Why would he want to do that?”
The driver shrugged. “It his only chance. He aware he have no chance in de courtroom.”
“But if he can prove—” And then of course there was no way to go on with it.
“He can prove nothing,” the driver said. “De court do all de proving. First ting dey do, dey tell de jury what a bad character dis gentlemon is. Dey state he long list of crimes, he prison record. Dey bring witnesses to describe de many times he threatened de victim, and if they call me, me will tell dem of occasion when me hear dem quarreling and dis gentlemon he say, ‘You pay me de money you owe or someday soon your wife is widow.’ Dat is de exact words me hear. And den of course de prosecutor bring in more witnesses, de ones who actually saw—”
“Saw what?”
“De violence dat takes place last night at Winnie’s, a dispute breaking out among de customers and dey do a lot of damage, dey smash bottles and bust up de tables and chairs and many of de men are badly hurt. A gentlemon who was dere, he tell me about it. He say de gentlemen who later died in de alley was murdered
by dis killer, who at first tried to knock he brains out wid table leg, and den try to get he with a chair aimed at he head, and later pull a knife and throw it but it miss. So den dis killer he leave Winnies Place and he wait outside in de alley. You see, now he have no knife, he need other instrument. So he use broken bottle. Dey tell me it caused by broken bottle inserted in de victim’s throat. Dey find de pieces of glass in he flesh so dey know it broken bottle. Of course, dis killer he not want dem to find de bottle, it would show he fingerprints, so dey assume he hide it somewhere. But dat no matter, dey not need de bottle for evidence. De evidence dey have is witnesses. Dere many witnesses and dey will tell all dat needs to be told. De jury will be out maybe two minutes, maybe three, no longer dan dat, it is safe to wager.”
The taxi was making a turn off Duke, coming onto Barry Street and heading east.
“You still wish to go to Winnie’s Place?” the driver asked.
“Yes,” Bevan said. He said it emphatically.
“Very well, Mr. Captain. But you cause me to wonder. Me cannot understand why you insist to go to dat house.”
Bevan didn’t reply. He was thinking, It’s easy to understand. It’s the old fable of the demon slayer, pulled by the tide of whatever the hell it is that takes him back to the scene of the slaying.
Chapter Nine
You knew it all the time, he thought. You knew you’d come back here to see it again, to live through it again. He was standing in the sun-splashed, heat-drenched alley outside Winnie’s Place, looking down at the dark-gray soil that showed through the broken paving. He noticed there were no garbage cans or tin cans or other rubbish in the area, and he knew it had all been cleared away during the early-morning search for the murder weapon. But they won’t need that, he said to himself.
They certainly won’t need that
. As the taxi driver puts it, they’ve established the motive and they have witnesses who’ll point their fingers at the accused and that’ll do it, that’ll finish him.
Well, now. What about that?
What are you going to do about it? You going to stand around and let it happen?
I think the only move is, we go to the police and let them know the truth. Yes, I think that’s what we’ll do.
Because it’s the right thing to do? The fair thing to do? Or because you’re primarily interested in being classified as a law-abiding individual?
No, it isn’t that. It isn’t any of that.
It’s simply and solely because you have nothing to lose. You just don’t give a damn. The most they can do is stretch your neck with a rope, and that’s as good an exit as any. The thing is, you’ve been playing around with the idea of making an exit, so if they string you up they’ll just be sparing you the effort.
All right, then. Forward, march. Let’s see now, our friend the taxi driver gave us the location; he said police headquarters are on Queen Street. Very good, and what we do now is follow Barry to the first intersection and turn north toward Queen.
But he didn’t move.
Well, he asked himself. What’s the delay?
But there’s really no hurry, not in terms of hours, anyway. If you want to, you can stand here for hours and shove it around, wrestle with it.
That’s what it amounts to, a wrestling match. You’re sitting at ringside and watching them going at it. In black tights we have Masked Demon, otherwise known as the ruined soul, he wants to end it all. In white tights, giving away a lot of weight and very definitely the underdog, an accumulation of living tissue that wants to remain alive. He’s a slippery customer, that one in white tights. He slides out of those holds like an eel. But sooner or later he’ll weaken, I’m willing to give odds on that. Let’s make it seven to one.
Or maybe not. Better make it even money. Better yet, let’s quit this clowning and get down to business. The business at hand is the clear-cut issue of going to the local gendarmes or not going to the local gendarmes. Let’s assume you go to them and tell them you did it. You’ll be saying you did it to protect yourself from an armed robber. You’ll say he had a blackjack.