A Touch Of Death Part 17

"He was still inciting me with this theatrical harangue when I heard my husband coming down the stairs. I took Jack's gun from his pocket and shot him as he came through the door."

She stopped. For a moment she sat staring over my head. Her face showed no emotion whatever.

"All right," I said. "So then of course he took charge of getting rid of the body and the car?"

She nodded. "Yes. He was remarkably efficient and calm. It was almost as if he had planned all the details beforehand. And it really wasn't difficult. The cook wasn't there, as I had been giving her Sat.u.r.days off. We merely had to wait until it was dark."

"And what did they do when they found out it wasn't in the car?"

"They both came, Sunday night. And of course I didn't even know what they were talking about. There was no announcement by the bank until Monday morning, you will remember. And certainly they had never said anything about money before. I was sure Mr. Butler hadn't had any such sum with him.

"They threatened me with everything. But what could they do? If they actually killed me they'd never find it. And obviously they couldn't threaten me with the police because they were equally guilty. It was somewhat in the nature of an impa.s.se.

"It was buried in a flower bed until the police grew tired of searching the house and watching me. Then I brought it down here and put it in those three safe-deposit boxes."

"And so Finley was actually the one that abandoned the car in front of Diana James's apartment. She swore it was you."

She smiled faintly. "Cynthia, perhaps, wasn't the most intelligent of women, but even she should have known I'd never be guilty of such an adolescent gesture as that."

I sat there for a minute thinking about it. It was beautiful, any way you looked at it. She had outguessed them all.

Except me, I thought.

I grinned. I was the only one that had won. They had murdered and double-crossed each other for all that time, and in the end the whole thing was three safe-deposit keys worth forty thousand dollars apiece, and I had all three of them in my pocket.

"Baby," I said, "you're a smart cookie. You were almost smart enough to take the pot."

I went downstairs and around the corner. The morning papers were out now. I bought one.

I opened it.

"MRS. BUTLER DEAD," the headline said "COMPANION SOUGHT."

Seventeen

I stood there on the corner under a street light just holding the paper in my hand while the pieces fell all around me. It was too much. You could get only part of it at a time.

Somebody was saying something.

"What?" I said. I folded the paper and put it under my arm. There were a half-million other copies covering the whole state like a heavy snowfall, but I had to hide this one. Companion sought. I started away. You didn't run. You didn't ever run. You walked, slowly.

"Hey, here's your change. Don't you want your change, mister?" It was the newsboy. Why did they call a man who was seventy years old a newsboy?

"Oh," I said. "Uh-thanks. Thanks." I put it in my pocket.

I couldn't stand here under the light.

As fast as I got a piece of it sorted out, something else would fall on me. I couldn't stay here. I knew that. The man already thought I was crazy or blind drunk. He was watching me.

But I couldn't go back to the apartment with this paper. If she read it I was through.

I could hear her laughing. I was hiding her from the police for $120,000, but the police weren't looking for her. She was dead. They were looking for me.

I had to do something. Throw it away? With the man standing there watching me and already thinking I was nuts? I looked wildly around for the car. It was parked just ahead of me. I got in and pulled out into the traffic, having no idea where I was going.

I turned right at the corner and went out toward the beach. In a minute I saw a parking place in front of a drugstore and pulled into it. There was light here. I could read the paper sitting in the car.

But even as I spread it open I knew I didn't have to read it. I could have written it. The whole thing would fall into place like the pieces in a chess game in which you had been outcla.s.sed before you'd even started to play.

I read it anyway.

It was even worse.

I was right as far as I had guessed, but I hadn't guessed far enough. They had found the body of Diana James, all right. And the deputy sheriff had regained consciousness at last. "Sure it was Mrs. Butler," he said. "I threw the light right in her face. Then this guy slugged me from behind."

Of course they hadn't looked much alike. But they were of the same height and general build, and the same age, and they were both brunettes. There probably wasn't even any dental work to go on, if they called in her dentist. And who was going to?

n.o.body was.

Why should they? The deputy sheriff had seen her there, hadn't he? And she had to be on her way into the building instead of out, because he had been watching it and n.o.body had gone in before. Then there were the shots, after he was slugged. Diana James had come through the back yard while he was unconscious. n.o.body knew anything about her, anyway. She'd been gone for six months.

But I had already guessed all that. It had hit me right in the face the instant I saw the headline.

The thing I hadn't guessed was worse. It was the clincher. It was that cop at the filling station.

I read it.

"It was the same guy, all right," Sgt. Kennedy said flatly. "He fitted the description perfectly. And it was Finley's car. If we'd only known then.

"Sure he was alone, I looked in the car because it had Vale County license tags. There was n.o.body else."

That was it: ". . .he was alone."

I had done a beautiful job. I had done such a wonderful job that if she got away and they picked me up they could hang me.

And all she had to do was walk out the door. She was free.

I could feel the greasy sweat on the palms of my hands and the emptiness inside me as I forced myself to read it all. They repeated my description. It was good. That blonde h.e.l.lcat had an eye for detail. She hadn't missed a thing. My eyes caught the last paragraph.

"There was something about his face that seemed familiar," Charisse Finley said. "I keep thinking I've seen him somewhere before. Or a picture of him."

I took a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it with shaking fingers. That added the finishing touch. Any hour, day or night, it might come back to her. And I'd never know until they knocked on the door.

That was one I wouldn't read in the papers first.

I tried to get hold of myself. Maybe I could still save it She might not remember. She hadn't been able to yet; and the longer she puzzled over it, the less certain she'd be. It had been five years at least since the sports pages had carried a picture of me. A thousand-ten thousand-football players had marched across them since then.

I could wait it out. I had to. I couldn't quit. I just couldn't. h.e.l.l, the money was almost in my hand. The thought of losing it now made my insides twist up into knots. It would take only a few more days. They weren't even looking for her now; all we had to do was buy her some clothes and have that job on her hair patched up a little. I could give her some story, some excuse for hurrying it. But I had to keep her from seeing a paper for the next two or three days, until she was out of the news.

I sat straight upright. What about the radio?

It might come over the air any minute. Why hadn't I thought of that? But, G.o.d, you couldn't remember everything. I hit the starter and shot out of the parking place. When I was around the corner I dropped the paper out in the street. I swung fast at another corner and was headed back to the apartment house.

But maybe she had already heard it. It might even have come over the radio this afternoon while I was gone. How would I know? Did I think she would tell me?

Well, yes, I thought she would tell me. I still had those three keys and that bankroll in my pocket. She wanted those before she left. And there was another thing.

I was the only person left in the world that knew she was still alive.

Maybe she had plans for me. One more wouldn't bother her.

I found a place to park not more than half a block away. I didn't run until I was on the stairs. She wasn't in the living room. The radio was turned off. I closed the door behind me and breathed again with relief. The silence was the most beautiful silence in the world.

I looked quickly around, wondering where she was. I had to do it now; it wouldn't be safe to wait until she had gone to bed. But I had to be sure she wouldn't come in and catch me at it. Then I heard her in the bathroom.

I walked over to the hallway door. It was open, and the bathroom door was open, a few inches. I could hear her humming softly to herself.

"You dressed?" I asked.

"Yes," she called. "Why?" The bathroom door opened wider and she stood looking out at me. She had a towel pinned across her shoulders and was fastening strands of her hair up in little rolls. I could see the difference in shade now. It was definitely lighter, a rich, coppery red.

"I just wondered if you'd heard the news," I said.

Nothing showed in her face. You couldn't read it. She shook her head. "What was it?"

"That deputy sheriff finally came around." I struck a match with my thumbnail and lit the cigarette in my mouth. "And they found Diana James."

"Oh? Well, naturally they would, sooner or later."

"Yeah," I said. "And it was funny. At first they thought it was you "They did?" she asked curiously. "But we didn't look anything alike. She-" She stopped and did another take on it. "I see what you mean. The fire."

I had to admire it. If she was acting, she was magnificent.

"That's right," I said. "You see, that deputy recognized you. And somebody heard the shots. So when they found the body there, they naturally thought it was you. But then they found her name engraved inside her wrist.w.a.tch."

"Oh," she said. You could write your own interpretation. It could mean she believed it, or it could mean she'd already heard the actual news on the radio and was laughing herself sick inside. That was what made it terrible. You might never know for sure until you woke up with a kitchen knife in your throat.

"Well, save the paper," she said carelessly. "I'll read it when I'm through here."

"Oh, d.a.m.n," I said. "I forgot it. I went off and left it in the lunchroom. But that's all there was."

She shrugged and went back into the bathroom.

She'd be busy there for a few minutes, at least. This was the chance I needed. I went into the kitchen and got a butcher knife out of the drawer. While I was at it, I counted them. There were two of the long ones, one short paring knife, and an ice pick. And the scissors, I thought. Any time I didn't know where all those things were, I'd better start watching behind me.

I shot a glance back into the living room. She was still in the bathroom. I slipped in and picked up the radio off the table. I pulled the cord from the receptacle in the wall. Hurriedly loosening the two screws in back on the underside, I pried up the rear of the cha.s.sis enough to get the blade of the knife in under it I shoved and sliced, feeling wires and parts give way. Then I retightened the screws and plugged it back in. I set it right where it had been before, and took the knife back to the kitchen.

It was about ten minutes before she came out of the bathroom. She had a towel wrapped around her head. She lit a cigarette and stood watching me.

"I don't think my hair will look nearly so ragged as soon as it sets," she said. "And the color came out nicely. Did you notice?"

"Yes," I said.

"It's odd what a change of exterior will do. I feel like an entirely different person. As if I were somebody else, and Madelon Butler were dead."

There was no way to tell how she meant it. It might be perfectly innocent, or she might be very subtly tightening the screws on me. The only thing I knew for sure was that mind of hers was dangerous. I'd seen enough of its work by now.

"Well, that was the general idea," I said.

She sat down, switched on the radio, and leaned back. "Let's see if there's any news."

The radio started to warm up. Then smoke began to pour out of the cabinet.

"Hey," I said, "turn it off! The d.a.m.n things burning up"

She switched it off and looked innocently across at me. "Isn't that odd?" she said. "It was all right a little while ago."

"Must have a short in it," I said. "I'll take it to a shop in the morning and have it fixed."

"Do you think it'll take long?"

"No," I said. "Probably get it back in two or three days."

"That long? Perhaps you could rent one while it's being repaired. Or buy a new one."

"Why?" I asked. "You afraid you'll miss the soap operas?"

"No. I just feel so isolated without it." She smiled. "Cut off from the world, you know, as if I didn't know what was going on."

"I'll tell you what's going on. And you can read the papers."

She'd like h.e.l.l read the papers.

Again I tried to guess how much she knew. There was just no way to tell. I began to hate that lovely, imperturbable face. Everywhere I looked it was mocking me. It showed nothing. Absolutely nothing. Inside she could be laughing, just waiting for a chance to kill me.

If she knew, all she had to do was wait for me to go to sleep and let me have it. She would have committed the perfect crime. In my pocket were the three keys to all that money, and I was the only remaining person on earth who knew she was still alive. She could walk out, take the money from the boxes, and leisurely board a plane to anywhere she wanted to go.

It could drive you crazy just thinking about it.

I was wanted by the police for killing her, but she could kill me and walk off with $120,000, and n.o.body would even look for her.