by Robert Bloch
Bailey lowered his binoculars to look at the girl. “What I want for you to do is easy. Just trot back out to the front room, turn all the lights on, and start walking around casual-like, in front of the window, taking off your clothes.”
Cozy threw her sandwich down beside Skreen on the bed. “I didn’t come here to be made sport of.”
Bailey shrugged and returned his attention to the building across the playground. “Do like I say, honey. If it makes you feel better you can turn on the radio. The other way, you’d just be undressing; with music on I guess it’s a art-form.” He thrust two fingers into the breast pocket of his overalls and, without looking at it, flipped Cozy a folded bill. “There’s your pay. Now let’s have the show.”
Cozy picked up the bill. When she’d unfolded it enough to read the 100s on the corners, she hurried out onto her stage without further protest. She clicked on the radio and the lights—it was twilight-dark outside—and kicked off her shoes.
In the bedroom, Sowbelly Bailey played his binoculars over the face of the building that held Cozy’s prospective audience. Skreen, glancing down at the bed, saw the steak sandwich Cozy had abandoned beside him. Checking to make sure Bailey was preoccupied with his spotter’s duties, Skreen picked up the sandwich and began, cautiously, to work through it. He was kind of hungry after all, with all this excitement.
“Just gel the critter’s head splotch in the middle of the sights and mash the trigger like you was fond of it,” Bailey said, his voice a coaching, coaxing murmur. “Keep ready, Skreen. That Tom fellow is bound to poke his head out in the open to see the show.”
Skreen finished the sandwich, swallowed the last of the steak with a microscopic movement of his Adam’s apple, careful that the sound didn’t give him away to Bailey. He glanced out of the tail of his eye to see how Cozy was doing in the next room. Real well, he decided, grinning and giving his full attention to her. That little chick was heaped something terrible, and more of her all-over tan was showing by the minute. She strutted an arc in front of the window, dropping a bit of cloth here, a bit there, humming accompaniment to the radio’s music.
“Boy, I don’t want to hear you breathing deep!” Bailey snapped without looking away from the binoculars. “Keep your mind on that gun you’re looking through. think we got us a nibble. See that window directly across, one story up? The one with the yellow-colored curtains blowing out? I saw someone kind of push against the curtains. Get your sights on that window.”
Skreen glanced over the rifle to find his way, then picked up the window, a box balanced on the bead of the front sight, framed in the peephole of the rear sight. “Yeah, man,” he said. “I could pick off a spider’s earlobes with this giz.”
“Shut up and squeeze away the slack on the trigger,” Sowbelly said. “One shot, General Grant; that’s all you got.” The yellow curtain across the way parted. “Get him!” Bailey shouted at the instant the rifle fired.
“Got him!” Skreen yelled, dropping the rifle and bounding up from the bed. “Did you dig the face on that cat?”
“Ugliest one I ever did see,” Bailey said. “Had a face like a busted fist.” He stood and tucked his binoculars back into their leather holster.
“But I got him,” Skreen boasted.
“You sure enough did,” Bailey agreed.
The two men walked out into the living room, Skreen carrying the rifle as proudly as though he were parading for another marksman’s medal. He leaned the rifle against the sofa. Cozy, stripped to her brassiere and a lace breech-clout, was frozen midway in her dance across the window. Suddenly she came to life again, grabbing up her purse and a double handful of clothes from the floor and running toward the door.
“Get dressed first,” Skreen said. “You ain’t decent.” Cozy fought the latch free, and was out in the hall before he could stop her. Skreen chuckled. “There goes a chick with a bad set of nerves.”
There was a click as Sowbelly Bailey closed the bolt of the rifle on a fresh cartridge. He poked the muzzle of the gun against Skreen’s spine. “How are your nerves, Skreen?” he asked.
“Mean, man,” Skreen laughed. “I’m like ice, Sowbelly—dry ice. I’m cold, I burn, and when I’m gone there’s nothing to show I was there. Now stop messing with my backbone, will you?”
“I don’t aim to mess with it much,” Bailey said. “I only want to find out if you’d druther be blew in two, or splattered on cement.”
Skreen stopped smiling. “Man, what you gaining trying to cool me?” he asked. “I’m the hottest peddler the organization’s got, picking up fresh meat right and left, recruiting new pushers.”
“I’m sick and tired of you fouling up all the time,” Bailey said. “And my troops are tired of dumping all the bad boys you can’t handle. Now you gonna walk out that window friend-like, or do I got to blast you through it?”
Skreen stepped toward the open window. He began to raise his hands. “Sowbelly buddy, you’re twitching wild,” he said. “Lay down that crazy gun and I’ll make as if you didn’t go nuts.”
“March, little soldier,” Bailey said.
Skreen’s hands came level with his shoulders. Without a flicker of warning he flipped to the right, banging his elbow against the muzzle of the Remington. He spun on his right foot, facing Bailey, and snaked his right arm under the rifle and over Bailey’s left wrist, grabbing the stock. Pulling with his left hand, shoving down hard with all the strength of his right, Skreen forced Bailey against the windowsill. He tugged the rifle free and tossed it back into the room. Bailey kicked toward Skreen’s belly. Skreen twisted, grabbed hold of the flying instep, and flipped Sowbelly Bailey out the window. Three flowerpots went with him.
Bailey went down like a bomb, head-first and screaming. “Luckier than the girl was,” Skreen said. “He’s got his flowers already.” He picked up the rifle and ejected the cartridge. “Dumb hoosier wouldn’t believe I fired good rifle,” he murmured. “Probably wouldn’t believe I was hot on that unarmed defense jazz, except I showed him.”
He picked up the three flowerpots that remained on the window-ledge and dumped the geraniums and soil onto the carpet to pick out the decks of H. He took the heroin to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet, flushing three times to make sure that this evidence was really gone. Nothing he could do now about the Horse in the busted flowerpots down on the playground, beside Sowbelly’s body.
Shouts were drifting up now. Bailey’s screams had brought people from the lower apartments on both sides of the playground. “Better clear this scene,” Skreen told himself. He glanced around. All he really needed were his lockbox keys, safe on his keychain. There was nothing else here he couldn’t easier buy somewhere else than take with him. Travel light, he thought, only carry money.
He’d just put his hand to the door-latch when the, phone rang. Skreen sweated out four rings without moving, then ran to the phone and grabbed it up. “What you want?” he demanded.
“Congratulations, old man!” Tom said. “A magnificent job! I’ve watched a lot of people through these old binoculars of mine, but you’re unique.”
“How bad you hurt?” Skreen asked, sitting on the edge of the telephone table and holding the phone with both hands.
“Hurt? I? Not a bit of it,” Tom assured him. “Perfect health! But how kind of you to inquire.”
“Damn it, I shot you! I saw you slump down onto the floor,” Skreen insisted.
“Perfectly natural mistake, old man,” Tom said. “I was out of my flat for a moment. You shot my companion.”
“That ugly so-so? Skreen demanded.
“Please control your language,” Tom said. “Blouzalind was a lady, a lovely lady, a prize Boxer bitch. I’ll rather miss her, you know. But that’s another matter entirely. I must congratulate you on your rifle marksmanship, Mr. Skreen. You caught her square between the eyes.”
“We had steaks frying here,” Skreen said. “Your dog must have smelled them, and come to the window.”
“Quit
e likely,” Tom agreed. “Blouzalind was a bit greedy. Well, I’ve enjoyed our little conversation, Mr. Skreen.”
“You ain't gonna hit me for that money?” Skreen asked.
“Heavens, no!” Tom said. “You’re far too dangerous a man for me to do business with. Let’s just forget the whole matter, shall we?”
“Crazy by me,” Skreen said, grinning. He glanced back over his shoulder. Somebody was messing around outside his door.
“Fine,” Tom said. “I’d best ring off now; I’ve chatted quite long enough. You see, Mr. Skreen, I telephoned the police just before I called you. You could pay me off for simple murder, old man, or even two of them; but for killing my dog I’ll see you hang. Cheerio!”
Selena Robs the White House
Patricia McGerr
In the White House Blue Room Selena sipped champagne and listened to a senator explain his views on taxes. They had just finished dinner and would shortly move on to the East Ballroom for a musical program. The guest of honor was the Premier of one of the newest African republics.
Over the senator’s shoulder, Selena’s eyes kept straying to the antique table on which rested a teak and ivory box the Premier had brought as a gift to the President’s wife. It was a center of attraction for the gathering since, when the lid was lifted, a sparkling melody tinkled forth. Person after person approached the box to raise the lid and play the tune. And each time Selena tensed, found herself expectantly waiting, remembering her conversation with Hugh Pierce earlier that day.
“It may be just a crazy hunch,” he had conceded. “A bad habit we have at Section Q of seeing Red in everything the least out of the ordinary. All we have to go on is the mix-up about the Premier’s luggage. The case containing the music box was misplaced at the airport, and turned up an hour later in the public baggage room. There’s always a certain amount of confusion at a VIP arrival, so the explanation could be quite innocent. But when the life of the President is involved, we’re extra nervous.”
“Naturally,” Selena agreed. “What do you think happened to it?”
“The fact that he was bringing this gift was well publicized. Pictures of it and a full description appeared in the papers long enough ago that an exact duplicate could be made. And the duplicate could be a murder weapon.”
“But why?”
“The Premier has enemies in his own country and outside. He’s firmly allied with the West. But he was a hero of the struggle for independence and the people are solidly behind him. It would take a real blockbuster to discredit him with them. But if his gift had blown up in the President’s face this morning, that would have done it. Not to mention its effect in the United States. It would mean an end to him and his pro-Western party, to friendly relations with the U.S. and a quick cutoff of foreign aid. Anybody who wanted to force his country into the Communist bloc couldn’t find a better way of doing it.”
“But according to the stories I read, the music box was intended for the First Lady.”
“That’s true. If she hadn’t delayed her return from Florida an extra day, the presentation would have been to her. But the same explanation applies. An attack on the President’s wife would bring as strong a reaction as on himself—maybe even stronger.”
“That’s all part of history now,” Selena said. “In her absence, the Premier made the presentation to the President, and nothing happened. What I don’t understand is, if you thought there was danger, how could you risk letting him take it to the White House?”
“Unfortunately, Section Q isn’t all powerful, especially in the delicate area of diplomacy. With nothing to back up our suspicions, we couldn’t tell a foreign head of state we thought his present might be a lethal weapon. But we took all possible precautions. While the Premier slept last night we spirited the box out of Blair House and had our experts give it a thorough examination. We took the lid off, put it back, played the tune till it ran down, then wound it up again, shook it, waved it, listened to it with delicate instruments to make sure it didn’t contain a timing device. In fact, we did everything but take it apart. It was made by master craftsmen and we couldn’t risk damaging the beauty of the workmanship or the delicate musical mechanism. And all the results were negative.”
“Then why are you still worried?”
“An occupational disease, I guess. I should have relaxed when the presentation went off without a hitch. But the Premier’s country is in a very pivotal spot, and I can’t put away the thought that destroying our friendship would be a very good break for his enemies and ours. And they’re the kind of people who don’t wait for breaks—they go out and make them. So I can’t quite make myself believe that the box vanished yesterday and then reappeared without their being behind it. Now ask me why I came to you with this story, and I’ll have to admit that’s a crazy hunch too.”
“I suppose it’s because you know I’m going to the President’s Dinner for the Premier tonight?”
“Yes, your being an ambassador’s daughter gives you some special advantages for Security work. But that’s only part of my reason. I’ve been thinking about your brother Greg and what a science nut he’s always been. When we were at Harvard together everyone expected him to burn down the house with one of his experiments. And you were the only girl who ever came up there who could understand what he was doing. So I thought, since you’re going to be at the White House anyway, you could look the box over. You just might come up with something our experts missed. Besides that, since it’s a powder box, maybe what we need is a feminine angle.”
“Could it be the powder itself?” she suggested. “Some poison that might seep in through the skin?”
“The box is empty,” he answered. “It’s strictly for looking at and listening to. The fact is, we’ve eliminated every possibility, Selena, and I’ve come to you because I’m desperate. Logic tells me there’s nothing wrong with that box. But I can’t stop picturing it sitting there in the White House waiting to jump. So you’ll just have to humor me. It’s been set out in the Blue Room for tonight’s guests to admire. Tomorrow it will be moved into one of the bedrooms. All I’m asking you to do is look at it—think about it—and maybe you’ll come up with an intuition to match my hunch.”
After he left her, she did start thinking and the first result was a quick shopping expedition. She had to go to three stores to find what she wanted but at last came home with an oversize black velvet pouch bag which, as the clerk said, was just right for the theater, being large enough to hold opera glasses and flashlight along with all the other feminine paraphernalia. It hung now from her left wrist and the senator, winding up his tax monologue, glanced down at it.
“I declare, Selena!” he exclaimed, “You look as if you’re equipped to pay the national debt single-handed. I tell my wife she carries the biggest handbags in town, but you’ve got her beat. You set to carry off the gold plate?”
She smiled at the joke, hoping that her rising color did not betray his nearness to the truth. As others joined them, she eased away to draw nearer to the group that was admiring the musical powder box. In a few minutes the signal came to prepare for the concert and, as the group started to move out, Selena took from her bag a jeweled cigarette case and, backing up to the table, set it gently down beside the music box. Then she started toward the door, deliberately holding back so that she was among the last to leave.
She crossed the Green Room and was about to enter the East Room when she did a pantomimed discovery of loss, said to her companions, “Oh! I left my cigarettes!” and before any man could volunteer to go, whirled and hurried back to the Blue Room. She smiled at the tide beside the door, said self-deprecatingly, “Forgot my cigarette case.” She had her bag open when she reached the table, swept the powder box into it and pulled tight the drawstring, then picked up the cigarettes. Waving the case triumphantly at the aide, she sped back to join her friends in the ballroom.
During the first number she was uneasy, imagining the theft discovered, a search instituted,
herself led off in disgrace. But she quickly realized the absurdity of this picture. The chances were that the music box wouldn’t even be missed. And if it was, no one would disrupt a diplomatic party with such a disclosure. Nor could the distinguished guests be searched. So she sat back and listened to the music, trying to subdue her impatience to be out of there with her loot.
An hour later she was back in her own house. Her first act was to phone Hugh, her second to change into street clothes, her third to go down into her garden and wait there for the soft purr of Hugh’s car moving slowly without lights down the alley that ran from his house to hers. Swiftly she was out the gate and in the seat beside him. Neither spoke till they were out on the main street. Then he glanced at the bag in her lap and shook his head.
“So you stole the box,” he said. “It’s been missing from the airport—from Blair House—and now from the White House. Reminds me of the saying that third accidents are fatal.”
“If it’s still intact tomorrow, Section Q will have to figure out how to get it back without hue and cry. But if my idea is correct, there won’t be anything to return.”
“You haven't told me your idea. In fact, your phone call was excessively cryptic. I felt as if I were being sent on a scavenger hunt. The 50-foot cord was easy enough and the battery-operated remote control tape recorder and speaker was only a minor challenge. But a midnight call for a tape of the First Lady’s voice ready strained our resources.”
She looked at him anxiously. “You did get it, though?”
“Oh yes. We located a strip from the television tour of the White House.”
They had crossed Key Bridge. Driving on to the edge of a large field, he parked his car.
“And here’s your wide-open space.”
She stood beside him clutching her parcel while he unloaded the trunk, then walked with him to the center of the field.