I got one break and it probably saved my life.
The Chrysler screeched to a stop in front of the cabin, but the station wagon went on and didn’t stop until it as fifty yards up the road.
The fat man got out of the front seat. He looked around for a moment and then he walked slowly to the door. He wasn’t three feet from where I was squatting when he softly knocked.
“Mr. Russell?” he whispered, his voice a hoarse, nervous croak.
He rattled the knob. The door was open but he didn’t come in.
"Mr. Leopold?” I asked. “Come right in.”
But he wasn’t having any.
"This is Leopold,” he said. “I understand you have something for me. Do you want to give it to me? If you do, please come out.
“I have your money, Mr. Leopold,” I called through the door. “Or at least I understand it is yours. But you will have to come in for it.”
He hesitated for several moments. I could see what was going through his mind. He felt it would be a mistake to open that door. It would have been.
“The money is mine,” he said at last. “I suggest if you are telling the truth, you come outside. And bring it with you. ”
“You come in, Mr. Leopold.”
He waited again for a moment and I saw the knob begin to turn. But then he must have changed his mind. The knob stopped turning and the next thing I saw was his big meaty shoulders as he slowly walked back to the Chrysler.
He must have made some sort of signal that I didn’t see. The next moment I heard the sound of a motor as someone stepped on a throttle and an engine suddenly roared. There was the scream of tires spinning in a torturous start on the cement pavement.
I knew what was going to happen next. So did Mr. Leopold. But he made one mistake. He figured that because he didn’t have a gun, that because he was just simply walking away and getting back into his car, he was safe.
I only waited until the crack of the first shot and even that was risky. But I took the chance. Mr. Leopold had no chance at all.
The single shot I was able to get off before I flattened out on the floor, caught him just in back of his right ear, a little to the left.
And then all hell broke loose.
If Fleming’s estimate was right, I had two and a half minutes to go.
Their strategy would have done credit to a brigadier general, but unfortunately, it wasn’t correct for the current target. They drove past, firing everything they had at the cabin and they went up the road a hundred yards or so and braked and came back and tried it all over again. I just lay there, not moving.
They did it once more, and then, on the last trip back, the wagon screeched to a stop. I heard the doors open.
I didn’t get up but just raised the gun and fired blindly out of the window. I didn't care if I hit anyone or not. I j ust wanted them to know that I still had firepower. I knew if I could stall them for another half minute, I would have it made.
A couple of them must have had Tommy guns, because the woodwork just above my head began to open up as though a buzz saw was going through it.
I rolled over, past the door and fired through the other window.
The Tommies opened up again and I started to change my mind about guessing right. And then I heard the sirens.
For the next three or four minutes it sounded like a busy morning on the Western Front. And then suddenly it was over.
The cabin looked like a sieve.
I stood up, went over to the iron bed. I reached under it and pulled out the mattress.
Suzy slowly got to her feet. She was as white as a sheet and I truly believe it was the only time in her entire life that she was really frightened.
A half-hour later seven of us were crowded together in the tiny office of Cutter’s Cabins. Sarah Cutter, Fleming, Suzy, myself and three husky state troopers. One trooper had a notebook in his hand and Fleming, as usual, was popping off.
Outside were a half dozen state police cars. An ambulance had just left with the last of the dead and a couple of troopers were hurrying traffic past.
“All right, Russell, you have proved your point,” Fleming said. "You almost got us all shot down by that gang of killers, but you proved your point. You have only made one mistake. You haven’t proved anything which changes my mind. Officer,” he turned to one of the troopers, "put the handcuffs on that man. I am holding him for murder.”
I sighed.
“Will you listen to me for just one minute,” I said. “Just one minute, please.”
He hesitated and the trooper hesitated. I hurried it up. He wasn’t going to give me anything.
Just which murder are you talking about now?” I asked. “The prisoner should have the right to know.”
The murder of a woman named Marilyn Kelley will do as well as the next,
Literature & Fiction Dept.
Los Angeles Public Library 630 W. Fifth Street Los Angeles, CA 90071
he said.
I laughed.
“You have the evidence?” I asked.
“I have the corpse.”
It was the time for the gambit.
“You have a corpse Mr. Fleming, but you have the wrong corpse.” I said.
There was a sudden gasp and I looked quickly over at Suzy. I went on quickly.
"Fingerprints don’t lie,” I said. “This girl here is Marilyn Kelley, or as she likes to be known, ‘Marilyn K.’l”
There was a sudden din of voices and then Fleming yelled for silence.
“Let him finish,” he said. “It’s pathetic, but let him finish.”
"Thanks,” I said. "Thanks a lot. As far as identity is concerned, that’s easy. The Kelley sisters were entertainers. In New York. They would have had to have been fingerprinted, according to municipal regulations. The fingerprints of this girl here—” I looked over to where the girl who had been calling herself Suzy stood—”of this girl and the corpse can be checked. You could save time by not bothering with any denials.”
They all looked at her then. She didn’t move; her expression remained cold and unchanged. She just stood there, saying nothing. I looked back at Fleming. I could see that for the first time I was beginning to reach him.
“Now can I have a couple of minutes?” I asked.
He nodded.
“This is Marilyn К.” I said. “The dead girl is Suzy, her twin sister, whom she murdered. And here is exactly what happened. I will start with Marcus.”
No one said a word. I took a deep breath and went on.
"Itwastheway Itoldittoyou, Fleming,” Isaid. "I stopped when I saw her at the side of the road and picked her up. There was just one thing that I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand that she had just finished murdering a man named Aurelio Marcus. She got him with a blackjack, at the root of the neck. She’s an expert with that sort of thing. I know. I have witnessed her at work.”
This time is was Marilyn who interrupted.
“You louse,” she said. “You dirty louse. You can't prove a thing. Not a thing. Nobody can prove that Marcus—”
“You’ll have your turn to talk,” Fleming said. “Let him finish.”
“She killed Marcus. I didn’t know that at the time but I know it now. I know because she planted the blackjack in my car. The one you found. But I did know she had the money. She told me, right away.
“The second time she murdered she killed Herman Battle, your deputy. Battle was more or less an accident. He smelled something and moved in,
98
LIONEL WHITE
planning to shake us down. It cost him his life. And it was deliberate murder. Battle was tied up; I had tied him up myself. And then, for a moment, I stepped out of the room. When I came back, his forehead was caved in and he was dead. She used the tire iron from my car for that one.”
Again she interrupted, her voice a harsh croak. “Proof, ” she said. “Where’s the proof?”
“I’m the proof,” I said. “I saw you do it. But let’s go on. As I say, Battle was a sort of innocent bystander. But her twin sister, the girl who lies in the marble slab, was not just a casual little piece of homicide. That was the real murder. The one she had planned all along. The one she has probably been planning for years. Because sister Suzy was the only person in the world who could give her something that she absolutely had to have.”
Her voice was sarcastic now. And she wasn’t bothering to deny her identity any longer.
“And what could Suzy ever give me that I needed or wanted?” she asked.
"Her identity,” I said. “Her identity, baby. Your sister was clean, she had a decent reputation, she didn’t fool around with mobs. She had talent, although God knows you have your share of that, too, in a slightly different field. But you knew one thing. That the only way you would ever get away from your Mob friends was to lose your identity—or trade it for your sister’s. This would be especially true if you stole money from them.
“And so you planned it. Planned it beautifully. The one thing you lacked, I came along and supplied. You lacked a patsy. If there was to be a murder, there had to be a murderer. Leopold might fit the bill, but that would be a calculated risk. I was a perfect setup and I played right into your hands. You arranged to have Suzy arrive at the motel after I left. When she walked into that room, you killed her. And then you did the kind of job on her that no one would ever believe a woman would do. But I know you, sweetie. I know what you are capable of. Your trouble is you made one big mistake.”
Yes—and what was that? ’ ’ The voice was bitter with sarcasm.
“You didn’t sucker me completely. You didn’t get the money. And so you had to come back and try all over again!”
“You dirty louse,” she said. “You promised!”
I really had to laugh at that one. I promised!
“Sure I promised.” I said. “I’ll keep that promise, too. The money is still in the locker at the airport where I told you I would stash it. The key is at the General Delivery window in Baltimore, just like I said.”
“You’re a liar!” she screamed. “There was no key.”
“Yes, there was and there is, toots,” I said. “The trouble with you is you aren’t used to using your own name. You see, I wanted to make doubly sure you got that money. I mailed the key under your name—I mailed it to Marilyn Kelley!”
That was the one that finally got her. It took all three troopers to hold her. After about six minutes they finally got her calmed down and they put the cuffs on her.
They were starting to take her out when she balked. She turned to me.
“Tell me something,” she asked and her voice was as calm as a summer’s breeze. “Tell me something. How did you know? You couldn’t have checked fingerprints. I am a good actress and my sister and I were absolutely identical. So how could you tell?”
“I couldn’t—at first,” I said. “You did a great job with the hair bleach and the lack of make-up was a disguise in itself. You are a great actress—you don’t know how great, baby. But there is one thing you couldn’t change. You couldn’t change that birthmark on your leg. And the chance of twins having identical birthmarks just doesn’t exist. But don’t feel bad about it. I knew, even before I switched on the light early this morning and saw that heart-shaped mark.”
“You’re a liar,” she said. “You couldn’t have known.”
I shook my head sadly.
“I knew,” I said. “I knew, all right. You see, baby, there is one thing a woman can never lie about successfully and one thing which a woman can never forget.”
“And they are?” she asked, still sardonic.
“She can’t lie about being a virgin,” I said, “and she can’t forget her technique in a bed—not if she really has a technique. And you do, Marilyn K.— you do!”
They took her away then and I felt sick about it. No matter what she was or what she had done, it made me sick to see her go out of that room.
But I was glad about one thing. I was glad I had kept my promise and that she would get the three hundred thousand dollars.
A woman like Marilyn K., with her talents and three hundred grand, can do amazing things with a jury.
THEEND
This book is for Helene My wife
Whom I Love
A man not reticent in accepting credit when credit was due, Gerald Tomlinson was particularly proud of his wisdom in selecting Fairlawn Acres as a base of operations.
The choice of Fairlawn, of course, was just another of the endless details in Tomlinson’s overall planning; a mere cypher, but in a sense, symptomatic of the extreme care and vivid imagination Tomlinson exercised in laying the groundwork. Tomlinson, a tall, thin man with a complexion like aging newsprint, had been at one time a policeman, a second grade detective in fact, before the scandal broke and he’d been forced to leave the department in disgrace.
That early training had come in handy more than once and it was largely responsible for the slightly unorthodox, but rather brilliant arrangements which the ex-policeman made before embarking on the venture.
As Tomlinson had explained it to Arbuckle, there were several essential factors which must be present to insure success.
“The first thing,” he’d said, in his ridiculously high-pitched voice, “the first thing is to have a place to go after we leave. The place must be not too far away; it should be readily approachable from a number of different routes, it should be in a nice, middle-class residential neighborhood. A neighborhood of small homes, young married couples with children, run-of-the-mill working people. A neighborhood where our arrival, by car if we’re lucky, or by taxi or even walking if we're not, won’t seem at all unusual.”
He had been equally conservative in other details, details like the time that it was to take place, the business of switching cars, the securing of maps of the surrounding streets and the checking of the routine habits of everyone in the immediate neighborhood. He had also checked on the location of traffic policemen, the availability of public telephones in the vicinity, and a hundred and one other details which anyone else, contemplating such a maneuver, might easily overlook.
Even his selection of Arbuckle, Danny Arbuckle, an ex-con whom he’d known from the old days, and his limiting the operation to only the two of them, had shown foresight.
“The two of us can handle it without help,” he’d said to Arbuckle. “We don’t want a gang walking in on this. More than two, at that hour and place, would arouse suspicion. Anyway, this is a job which takes brains, not muscles.”
Arbuckle was inclined to be skeptical, but quick reflection that a two-way split was a lot more attractive than a three- or four-way split, was sufficient to set his mind at rest. In any case, he had a lot of confidence in Tomlinson. When the whole thing had been satisfactorily outlined for him, he was forced to agree with the other man, that barring a miracle, it was foolproof.
If Arbuckle had any worries at all, they were not concerned with the job itself; they were, strangely enough, concerned with the place out at Fairlawn which Tomlinson had rented. Several times during the last two weeks, while they had been busy making the arrangements, he'd brought up the matter. Each time Tomlinson had reassured him.
“Don’t worry about it,” he’d say. “I’ve told you. A dozen times now I’ve told you. She’s my brother’s widow and she doesn't even know what the score is. All she knows is that she’s being paid, well paid, to stay there in the house with the kid. If anyone gets nosy, I’m supposed to be her husband and I’m a salesman. She isn’t likely to do any crabbing. She understands what would happen—to her and the kid, too—if she talks. Anyway, I’ve been keeping her since George died and she’s grateful.”
“But how about the kid? Hell, a nine-year-old girl must...”
“I said don’t worry. The girl thinks we’re married. Marian and I have been together for some time now. I've used them both before for this kind of thing.”
And so, naturally, Arbuckle didn’t worry about the woman and the child. After a while, as the time approached, he stopped worrying about anything, even the possibility of a miracle. Arbuckle didn't believe in miracles, either good or bad.
Certainly no one in this world could possibly have considered old Mrs. Manheimer—Mrs. Isidore Manheimer, the woman who ran the newsstand in the kiosk on the street by the subway station out in J amaica—in any sense a miracle. Nor would they have considered a certain very pretty fifteen-year-old girl, hysterically running from the embraces of a middle-aged pursuer, a miracle; at least in any sense other than that each and every living human being is to a certain extent a rather miraculous thing, when you come to think of it.
The fact remains, nevertheless, that if it hadn’t been first for Mrs. Manheimer, and then later for that certain fifteen-year-old girl, Tomlinson’s plans would have been without flaw and nothing in particular would have happened except the loss of some forty-eight thousand dollars in deposits by the South Shore National Bank.
The bank, however, could have suffered the loss with considerably less discomfort than the discomfort suffered by Allie Neilsen and her husband, Len, two normal young persons who were to be vitally affected because of what was to happen.
Tomlinson and his partner, Arbuckle, having finally checked every small < detail and allowed for every possible contingency, made the first move in put
ting their plans into execution around four o’clock on the second Friday in Jan
uary.
The day itself was a little overcast, but it was not particularly cold or unpleasant for the time of year.
Arbuckle alone took the initial step. He stole a Checker Cab from its parking spot near a barroom in Long Island City.
It wasn’t a difficult theft in as much as Arbuckle had invited the driver into the bar earlier in the afternoon and had spent a considerable sum of money in getting the man drunk. He had stood the cabbie to drinks several times before and he knew his man. It hadn’t even been necessary to drink along with him. After two hours of knocking over boiler makers, the cab driver had been helped into a booth where he drooped over black coffee, carefully spiked with brandy. Arbuckle departed when the cabbie’s head began to nod.
He’d had no difficulty starting the cab as the driver had left the key in the lock. Arbuckle was sure that the cab wouldn’t be missed for at least two hours and two hours was all that they needed.
At four-thirty, wearing a chauffeur’s cap and a leather jacket, Arbuckle, by prearrangement, picked up Tomlinson in downtown Jamaica. Tomlinson himself was dressed as usual except that he wore a yellow rubber slicker over his topcoat and had on dark glasses. He said nothing at all as he got into the back of the taxi and Arbuckle immediately pulled the flag down and started toward their destination.
It was necessary to kill a half hour as Tomlinson had arranged things so as to give them a little leeway in case there was any trouble in getting the taxi. Consequently, they drove at a normal speed, but around a rather circuitous route which had previously been mapped. They arrived in front of the South Shore Bank at exactly five o’clock.
The bank itself had closed for the business day at two o’clock. That is to say, at two o’clock the bank’s doors were no longer open for regular business with the public. By two-twenty, all monies had been taken from the tellers’ cages and placed in the burglar- proof safe, the door closed and the time lock set, so that it couldn’t possibly he opened again until the following Monday morning.
At three-thirty the two guards who worked on the floor during banking hours had finished certain extra curricular chores, punched the time clock, and were leaving the building by a side entrance. One of them proceeded immediately to a nearby tavern where he ordered a shot of straight whiskey and drank it slowly as he looked over a scratch sheet. The other, a family man, picked up his car in an adjacent parking lot and went home.
At four o’clock the last employee had left by the same side door and the bank was deserted.
The South Shore Bank is, like thousands of similar institutions about the country, a rather phenomenal institution. In spite of the fact that its doors were closed and locked, that the employees had gone their diverse ways and all activities within its sterile confines had ceased, the South Shore Bank continued absorbing money into its greedy maw.
It accomplished this singular feat by the use of a very simple device; a device which consisted of a large brass roller drawer imbedded in its granite face, some three and a half feet up from the sidewalk and next to the main entrance. It had been placed there to accommodate depositors who, finding themselves with large amounts of cash on hand after banking hours, wished to deposit those sums in a safe and secure sanctuary.
Among the several hundred persons who periodically found the device at the South Shore Bank a convenience was a man by the name of Angelo Bertolli.
Bertolli was a private detective, but a very special kind of private detective. He didn’t dabble with divorce cases, or investigate bad credit risks or handle the usual type of work which occupied his brethren in the profession. He had but a single customer. The customer wasn’t an individual; the customer was a syndicate. To be exact, a horse betting syndicate which used Mr. Bertolli’s services for only one reason. It used him each afternoon for the safe conduct of a large sum of money, which had been collected by its various runners from bookies who made "layoff” bets. Bertolli carried the money from a certain central office to the South Shore Bank.
The fact that this money wasn’t gathered until fairly late in the afternoon was responsible for the using of Mr. Bertolli to guarantee that it reached ultimate safety in the night depository of the bank. Mr. Bertolli, as a private detective, was licensed to carry a gun. The syndicate, whenever possible, preferred to use legal methods in the conduct of its business.
One of the few persons outside of the inner circle of syndicate members who was aware of Bertolli’s daily chore was Gerald Tomlinson. How he happened to know about this is relatively unimportant; the thing is that he did know and that on this particular Friday afternoon, at five minutes after five, he was sitting in a cab opposite the front door of the bank as Angelo Bertolli drove up and parked.
Each man stepped to the sidewalk at the same moment. Bertolli had been driving his own car, a Cadillac convertible, and Arbuckle was in the driver’s seat of Tomlinson’s car, the stolen taxi.
Bertolli carried a large yellow manila envelope under his left arm and as he approached the bank, he pulled the depository key from his right-hand trouser pocket. Tomlinson was not two feet away, in his own left hand a somewhat similar envelope.
Bertolli saw Tomlinson out of the corner of his eye and he also noticed the envelope he carried. He paid him no further attention.
The street was comparatively busy at this moment as the bank was at a busy corner and a number of neighborhood offices were emptying. A half dozen persons were within fifty or sixty feet, but each was intent only on reaching his own destination and no one noticed as Tomlinson suddenly took a quick step forward. At the same moment he tore the end off the envelope he carried . He had raised the gun and was bringing it down on Bertolli’s skull even as the other man started to swing around.
It was at this precise moment that Mrs. Manheimer rounded the corner.
Bertolli knew that something was happening; perhaps he felt the swift rush of air as Tomlinson swung or perhaps it was only instinct. But he knew there was something wrong and he started to duck. He would never, however, have escaped the full force of that vicious blow, if it hadn’t been for Mrs. Manheimer.
Less than ten minutes before, Mrs. Manheimer had left her newsstand where she had been on duty since seven o’clock that morning. She had been relieved by her oldest son, but before she had left, she had collected the day’s receipts, tallied them up and made out a deposit slip. As usual she had gone directly to the bank to leave the money in the night depository.
The odd thing was that Mrs. Manheimer, when she saw the gun in Tomlinson's hand about to descend on the head of Bertolli, hadn’t the slightest idea of what was happening or what was about to happen. One thought and one thought alone occurred to her. In front of her, not five feet distant, was a man with a gun. And in the large cloth bag which she carried was her day’s receipts.
Mrs. Manheimer screamed.
The scream didn’t act as an additional warning to Bertolli. It was too late for that. But what it did was to halt, for just the fraction of a second, the action of Tomlinson’s arm as he brought the gun crashing down.
That sudden high-pitched cry, coming from less than two yards distance, was one of the few things which Tomlinson had not allowed for in making his plans.
The split-second lapse in timing was enough to cause the damage. Instead of the pistol butt crashing into Bertolli’s skull, it slashed down the side of his face leaving a long brutal gash and almost dismembering an ear.
Bertolli sunk to the sidewalk, but he didn’t lose consciousness. For a moment he was powerless, the moment it took Tomlinson to grab the yellow manila envelope and turn and leap into the cab. And then, while Mrs. Manheimer was still screaming as though it were she herself who had been assaulted, Bertolli pulled out the thirty-eight cal. revolver for which he had a license.
He managed to fire twice as the cab screeched away from the curb.
It wasn’t until the taxi had turned the second corner that Tomlinson realized something was wrong. Until that time he had been busy stripping off the yellow raincoat and changing his homburg for a soft felt hat he’d rolled up and stuffed into his pocket. Also, he’d been watching behind to see if by any chance they were being followed.
Assuring himself that at least for the time being they had made a clean break, he finally leaned forward in his seat to speak to Arbuckle. He was about to warn him to slow down when he saw the blood welling from the side of his partner’s neck.
“Jesus!” He pushed his head through the opened window separating himself from the other man as he made the exclamation. “He got you, Dan!” Tomlinson said. “How bad is it?”
The other man spoke in a low, choking voice, not turning his head and barely moving his lips.
“I can make the car,” he said. “But I’ll never get up the steps. There’s something wrong with my stomach. ”
Tomlinson could see that except for the place where the channel of blood ran down his neck and soaked into the collar of the leather jacket, Arbuckle’s face was deathly white. He knew he was badly hurt. He understood at once about the steps.
“The hell with the steps, ” he said. “Go right to the car. Stop anywhere near it.”
It was the first change he had to make in his blueprint. Until that moment, he had planned that they should drive the half dozen blocks to the Long Island Railroad station in Jamaica.
They would be there, if things went according to schedule, at just about five-fifteen. At this hour, the neighborhood would be jammed with commuters, literally thousands of whom drove into J amaica and parked their cars and then took the train on into New York. Five-fifteen would see the first big batches of them returning.
This particular station had another advantage. A large percentage of all trains coming from New York stopped at Jamaica, and passengers destined for points on the eastern end of Long Island were forced to change trains. As a result the station at this hour was a maelstrom of confusion, overrun by rushing commuters. Tomlinson’s plans called for ducking out of the cab, running upstairs to the station, crossing over among the crowds to the far platform and going back on down the stairs to the street.
He had parked his own Chevrolet sedan not two blocks from the station.
He was confident, that even if they should be followed, this technique would I be bound to shake off any pursuers. Arbuckle was to discard the leather jacket
and the chauffeur’s cap as they deserted the cab. Once in the Chewie, he knew
that they’d be safe.
If the police were looking for anything by that time, it would be for a Checker Cab. No one who saw them leave the cab could possibly see them entering Tomlinson’s own car.
But now this plan was out. Arbuckle was bleeding badly. He’d never be able to run up and down those long flights of stairs; never be able to fight his way through the crowds. And even if he could, a man with a stream of blood running down his neck would attract far too much attention.
Tomlinson leaned forward again in the seat.
“Directly to the car, Dan,” he said again. “Wait in the cab until I get the Chewie. I’ll drive alongside and pick you up. You sure you can make it?”
Arbuckle didn’t answer. It was taking every ounce of his will power and his rapidly flagging strength to drive the car. As it was, he ran through the next stop light, never seeing it at all. Fortunately, there was no police officer around.
They were hitting heavy traffic now and Tomlinson leaned forward again. He took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and padding it, he tucked it into the top of Arbuckle’s leather collar so that it partly covered the blood.
It was one hell of a break. But he didn’t panic. When the cab pulled into the street on which he’d left his car an hour before, Tomlinson drew a long breath of relief.
Three cars down from where the Chewie stood, on the same side of the street, was a fire plug. Arbuckle swung the cab into the empty space and cut the ignition. As Tomlinson leaped out of the back of the taxi, Arbuckle slowly leaned over the steering wheel until his head was resting on its rim.
A minute later and the Chewie was parallel with him. Tomlinson had to get out and run around the car and open the door in order to help him out. Arbuckle’s eyes were half closed and he was groaning as Tomlinson got him into the front seat and closed the door.
Several persons had stopped and were watching curiously as the Chevrolet pulled away.
A half mile from the business section of the town, Tomlinson found a dark, narrow alley. He pulled into it long enough to transfer Arbuckle from the front seat to the back of the car, where he laid him on the floor. Arbuckle, by now, was unconscious.
It was dark by the time Tomlinson cut into Northern State Parkway. Traffic was extremely heavy, as was only normal for that hour on a Friday evening. He knew that he was safe. Once or twice as he drove east in the endless stream
of cars, he heard muffled groans from the back. He would have liked to have been able to stop to see if there was anything he could do for Arbuckle, but he didn’t dare. He knew that the parkway was well patrolled and pulling off the road, even for a minute or two, would invite trouble.
The possibility of dumping the other man entered his mind for a moment but he quickly discarded it. It wasn’t that he had any scruples as far as loyalty to Arbuckle went. Arbuckle had to take his chances; it was unfortunate that things had gone wrong, but such things were a calculated risk. Tomlinson would have gotten rid of him in a second if it were the practical thing to do. But Tomlinson was well aware of Arbuckle's criminal record and he knew that, dead or alive, the other man would be found. He’d be fingerprinted and identified and once the police had his identity, they would be quick to trace the connection to himself.
No, he had to hang on to Arbuckle, even though the other man had become an albatross around his own neck. The trick would be getting him out of the car and into the house unobserved. Once in the house, things would be all right.
It was going to be too bad if Arbuckle needed a doctor. A doctor would be out of the question.
Tomlinson found himself considering the possibility that Arbuckle might die—if he were not already dead. He’d heard no sound for several miles now. Arbuckle, dead, was worth a lot more than Arbuckle alive. His death would mean that everything in the envelope would be his, Tomlinson’s. No split would be necessary. There would, of course, be the matter of disposing of the body. Given time, however, this shouldn't prove too difficult. Time, enough time, was of the essence.
Tomlinson turned off the parkway at the exit marked thirty-six. He headed south for a mile or two and then turned once more and entered Fairlawn Acres. The street lights were on, but there was almost no traffic.
A couple of minutes later he again turned and drove slowly up the driveway next to the house. The garage doors had been left open. He drove in, got out of the car, and closed and locked the overhead door from the inside. He then opened the back door of the car and looked in. Arbuckle lay still, a crumpled, formless mass. Carefully, Tomlinson closed the car door. He would do what he had to do after the child was safely asleep in bed. Almost unconsciously he caressed the revolver he was carrying in the outside pocket of his jacket.
Marian, his brother’s widow, was standing at the kitchen sink as he came through the back door. She stood there, her back to the sink and stared at him, her eyes wide and curious.
“Patsy?” Tomlinson said.
‘‘In the living room, looking at television.”
“Get her to bed.”
He went to the cupboard over the drainboard and opened the cabinet door. He took out the bottle of bourbon, reached for a water glass and filled it a third full. He drank it straight.
“Get dinner,” he said.
It was the proper hour for serving dinner among the six or seven hundred residents of Fairlawn Acres.
Len Neilsen put the first call through at exactly five minutes after six, which normally would have been the time he would be stepping off the train out at Fairlawn. Actually, of course, the station wasn't at Fairlawn; it was at Hicksville, but Hicksville was the nearest station on the Long Island Rail Road and Len preferred to think of the station as Fairlawn rather than Hicksville. Fairlawn sounded better, somehow.
In any case, Len telephoned his wife at six-five on the spot. It was the first opportunity he’d had since George Randolph called him upstairs shortly after four o’clock that afternoon. Naturally enough, he’d wanted to call Allie right off, the very first minute he heard the news. But he could hardly make the call from Mr. Randolph's private office and so he had been forced to wait, barely able to contain himself, until he returned to his own small cubicle on the third floor of the building. He was impatient with the delay as the operator put the call through, knowing that any second Mr. Randolph would be down to pick him up. He neither wanted to have George Randolph overhear what he had to say, nor did he want to keep Mr. Randolph waiting.
The operator apparently had to wait a few seconds for a circuit and Len nervously tapped his long tapered fingers on his green desk blotter. A little twisted smile played around the comers of his wide, pleasant mouth and it was in strange contrast to the faint frown which marred his forehead, a frown brought on by his impatience.
It happened just as he had been afraid it would. Allie picked up the receiver out in the ranch house at Fairlawn, just as George Randolph walked into the office. He was buttoning up his gray tweed topcoat and adjusting his scarf.
Len looked up at him, a half apologetic smile on his face, as Allie said hello.
Embarrassed in the presence of the other man, Len quickly changed his mind about what he had planned to say.
Allie,” he said, "Allie, this is Len.”
He heard the slight, hesitant sort of sound of a breath being sharply withdrawn from the other end of the line. He didn’t give her a chance to ask any questions.
“I’m still at the office, honey,” he said. “Just leaving. But I’ll be a little late so don’t wait dinner. You and Bill go on without me. I’m having dinner with Mr. Randolph.”
He wondered why he should feel so self-conscious, almost guilty, as he said the words. He hardly heard Allie’s surprised voice as she started to ask questions. Looking up again at George Randolph’s solid figure as the older man stood looking out the window he desperately wanted to tell Allie the news; suspected that Mr. Randolph himself would expect him to. But somehow, he couldn't do it. It was something he wanted to share with her alone, something he didn't want to tell her in front of anyone, not even the man who was responsible for the news itself.
And so he cut in again and repeated himself, telling her once more that he’d be late and for her to go ahead and have dinner and not to worry. He hung up while she was still talking, not meaning to cut her off, but because he was nervous.
Five minutes later, Len Neilsen, traffic manager for Eastern Engineering Company—who next Monday morning would assume his new duties as general office manager—and George Randolph, senior vice-president of the firm, left the building on East Thirty-eighth street and turned uptown.
Len was sorry that he'd cut Allie off so short; he was also sorry that he hadn’t been able to tell her about it. Nevertheless he felt like ten million dollars.
A light snow was beginning to fall, the first of the season, although it was January. They didn’t bother with a cab.
"It’s only a few blocks,” Randolph said, pulling up his coat collar to keep the wet snow from falling on the back of his neck, “so let's walk it. It’s about the only chance I get for a breath of fresh air and exercise, walking from the hotel to the office and back each day.”
Len agreed with him, enthusiastically.
Len was a little surprised that they were going to the hotel. He'd sort of half expected Randolph would take him to any one of the dozen or so places in the immediate neighborhood.
When they reached the lobby of the Waldorf, Randolph went immediately to the bank of elevators reserved for the Tower Apartments.
‘ ‘We’ll go up to my diggings and freshen up, ” he said.''We can order a drink and while we’re waiting, I’ll have a menu sent up. ”
After they had taken off their overcoats and hats, and dropped them over a chair in the dressing room, Randolph turned to him and asked what he d like. Len was on the verge of saying Scotch and water, but before he had the chance, Randolph went on to say that he himself invariably had a Martini before dinner.
Len at once said that he, too, would like a Martini.
“I like them dry,” Randolph said, “about eight to one.”
He laughed and reached for the house phone. When he got room service, he gave his name and his room number first.
“Two Martinis,” he ordered. “Very dry, you know, the way I like them. Tell William they are for me.” He turned and looked at Len and smiled. “Better make them doubles,” he added, and hung up.
Len smiled back at him.
"After all,” Randolph said, “this calls for a little celebration.”
Later, they ordered dinner from the menu which the bellboy had brought up to the room and after Randolph found out they would have a half hour wait for a table downstairs, he ordered two more Martinis.
Len had a little trouble finishing his second double. The older man hadn’t been lying when he said he liked them dry. They tasted like straight gin. Len looked at his boss with new admiration. A couple of hours ago he would have sworn that George Randolph was a man who probably didn’t take one drink in a month. It just showed—you never really knew.
They ate in the main dining room and the food was exceptional. The only trouble was, Randolph ordered a bottle of sparkling Burgundy with the dinner, and Len, not wishing to be impolite, drank drink for drink with his host. That, on top of the two double Martinis, was a lot more than Len Neilsen was used to. He plowed through the guinea hen and wild rice hardly appreciating the excellence of the cuisine.
He knew that the liquor was affecting him—his heavy, horn-rimmed glasses seemed to continually cloud up and he was having a little difficulty in focusing his eyes. Alcohol always seemed to affect his eyes the first thing.
He had expected the other man to talk about the work and possibly the new job, but for some reason Randolph avoided all shop talk and confined his conversation to a monologue about his earlier days with the firm, when he was an engineer out in the field.
While they were waiting for the brandy and coffee, Len looked at his wrist watch and was surprised to see that it was already a quarter to nine. He was amazed how swiftly the time had passed.
Taking advantage of a temporary lull in the conversation, he said, “I wonder if you would excuse me for a moment, Mr. Randolph. I’d like to call Alii®—that is, Mrs. Neilsen—back. I’m afraid I’m going to be a little later than I thought.”
Randolph looked at him, slightly amused.
You do that, son,” he said. “Never let the little lady start worrying. Idid.
That’s one reason I’m single today.”
When Len stood up, he felt a bit dizzy, but he quickly gathered his wits and started for the lobby. He was conscious, however, that his steps were unsteady. Well, he’d have the brandy and coffee and that would be it.
He was amazed at the many unexpected facets to George Randolph’s character-small, unimportant but interesting bits of information which had come out during the evening. Somehow or other he’d assumed that old Randolph had always been a pretty stolid, dull sort of character. Randolph, however, was turning out to be anything but dull.
Not only that, but apparently Randolph knew how to handle his liquor, and plenty of it. Len knew that he himself was definitely getting a little bit tight.
It wasn’t until he was shut in the telephone booth down in the men’s room, however, that he realized just how tight he really was.
Len couldn’t remember his own telephone number. He had already found a dime and put it in to get the operator and give her the number, when for some ridiculous reason, his mind went completely blank.
He put the receiver back after she had twice asked what number he was calling. It was the silliest thing. Of course they had only lived out there in Fairlawn for a little over three months, being one of the last families who had moved into the development, but still and all, it was pretty damned silly, not remembering his own telephone number.
He had quite a time explaining to the operator that the number was not yet listed in the directory, but she finally gave him information and she in turn, after a long delay, got it for him. The toll charge was thirty cents.
Allie answered almost at once.
“Honey,” Len said, “I’m sorry, but I’m still tied up. Looks Eke I’ll be a little later than I thought.”
“Is this you, Len?”
It was a bad connection, but he finally got through so that she understood him.
“Your voice sounds funny, Len,” Allie said. “Areyou...”
“I’mfine, honey,” hesaid. “Never felt better in my Efe.” And then, forsome reason and without even planning it, he blurted out the good news.
“Baby,” he said, “listen. This dinner is a sort of celebration. I have some great news. Got a new job!”
“Len,” Allie said. “Why Len, what do you mean? What happened to the old job. Where are you anyway and...”
“You don’t understand me,” Len told her quickly. “I mean I got a promotion. I’m the new office manager. And at twelve thousand. Twelve thousand a year, honey.”
He had to repeat it twice before he got her to understand and then she was as excited as he was and they were both talking at once for the next couple of minutes. At last he told her that he’d have to hang up, that his money was running out, and that the boss was waiting.
‘ ‘You take care of yourself and don’t worry, ’ ’ he said at last. “Bill in bed yet? ” he asked.
“Of course, silly,” Allie said. “And don’t worry about me. Don’t worry at all. Take your time. I’ll wait up.”
“If you’re nervous,” Len began.
“I’m not nervous a bit,” Allie said. “Not one little bit. Anyway, they have a big party going on across the street and I’m just sitting here listening to their radio blasting away.”
The operator told him that his time was up and so he yelled a quick good-by and told her once more not to worry.
Hanging up the receiver, he turned to open the door. “A darling,” he said, half under his breath. “A real darling!”
Going back to the dining room, he determined to get away as soon as he could. He knew that in spite of what Allie had said, she might well be nervous out there all alone with young Bill. After all, until they were married, and in fact up until he had made the down payment on the house in Fairlawn, Allie had never in her life lived away from New York City or farther than three blocks from the nearest subway entrance.
Len smiled, amused, as he thought about it. When Allie had first seen the little six-room house and the less-than-quarter-acre plot, her eyes had opened wide and she’d squealed with pleasure. The developers had called it a ranch house, and to all intents and purposes, it was truly a ranch house to Allie, who in all of her life had never even lived in a place which could boast a back yard.
Allie had been pretty skeptical at first about moving out of the city, but she’d been forced to agree with Len when he’d argued that young Bill was almost six and that he didn’t want any child of his being brought up in New York and going to the New York City schools. They’d managed to save several thousand dollars and had started looking around.
Len had been pretty discouraged at first. They’d started in Connecticut and Westchester County as they had to limit the area of their search to commuting distance.
Len had been amazed at the prices the brokers wanted for houses. He himself had been brought up out in Dayton, Ohio, but for the last dozen years, since he’d left home to go to college and then taken the job with Eastern Engineering, he'd been away from home. The places they’d looked at, smaller houses than the one he’d been brought up in himself, were going for around thirty and forty thousand dollars. Most of them were jerry-built at that.
They d had to give up ideas about going north and began looking around
Long Island. The minute they d seen the place out at Fairlawn Acres Allied fallen in love with it. The fact that it was just one of some five or six hundred other houses, all of which were almost identical, hadn’t seemed to phase her in the slightest. Of course, to Allie, who’d always lived in apartments, this didn’t strike her as in any way unusual.
And she’d been fascinated with the newly planted lawn, with the half dozen small evergreen trees, the shrubbery and the tiny flower garden. Everything about the place pleased her—the modem, up-to-date kitchen with the dishwasher and the tiny service bar, the fresh new paint of the bedrooms and the vaulted, cathedral ceiling of the living room. Of course she didn’t notice, or criticize, the phony, nonsupporting beams. The size of the room, which to Len seemed cramped, struck her as more than adequate. Compared to a New York apartment, it probably was.
The price of the place was $14,995 and they had more than enough money to make the down payment. Len drove around the neighborhood with Allie and they passed the newly constructed, modern schoolhouse, the playgrounds and the public swimming pool, designed exclusively for the use of the residents of Fairlawn. Allie was wild with enthusiasm and Len didn’t have the heart to try to disillusion her.
After all, he reflected, it was a damned sight better than a New York apartment and young Bill would have other kids—his own type of kids—to play with. They’d have plenty of fresh air and they weren’t too far from the beach.
So Len made his down payment and they moved in. They were among the last hundred families to take possession.
George Randolph was standing up, his napkin in his hand as he talked with a short, muscular man and a gray-haired woman, when Len returned to the table. He introduced them as Dr. and Mrs. Peatri, friends of his. He invited them to sit down to a drink.
“Len here,” he said, “is our new office manager. We were just holding a sort of little private celebration.
Mrs. Peatri smiled at Len and her husband insisted the occasion called for a bottle of champagne. Randolph agreed, but insisted the party was on him and he called the wine steward.
Len sipped the brandy and coffee while the waiter brought the bottle to the table in a silver ice bucket. He carefully covered the neck with a towel and drew the cork after twisting the bottle for several minutes in the cracked ice. Dr. Peatri was busy talking with Randolph and his wife turned to Len.
“Are you new in New York?” she asked.
Len told her that he'd been with the company for several years, in fact since he’d graduated back in 1947 from M.I.T.
Mrs. Peatri said, “How nice for you.”
The waiter poured and they lifted their glasses.
The conversation went on, but later, when Len tried to remember what they had talked about, he was unable to recall a single thing.
Somehow or other time passed and the next thing Len knew all of them were leaving the dining room. They ended up at a night club in the East Fifties, but Len never did have the slightest recollection of it.
There were, also, more drinks.
Somehow, he didn’t remember leaving the night club and getting into the taxi. And then the next thing he knew; someone was shaking him by the shoulder.
His glasses had fallen off and he had to squint to see at all. He was in the back seat of a cab and the door was open so that the overhead light was on. A man in a peaked cap was half in the back of the car and was trying to get him awake.
“We’re here,” the man said. “Wake up, fellow, we're here.”
Len looked up and tried to get the man in focus.
“Where’s here?” he asked, his voice thick.
“Where you said to take you. Fairlawn Acres. Now tell me, which is your house? I’ll drop you off.”
He wanted to go back to sleep. His head was splitting and all he wanted to do was curl up in the seat and go back to sleep.
“Listen, Mister,” the driver said, "tell me where to take you. I want to get home sometime tonight, myself.”
Len made an effort and opened his eyes again. It took every bit of concentration possible, but finally he got the words out.
“Crescent Drive,” he said. “Take me to Cres’ Drive.”
“You gotta number?”
“Yeah—ninety-six. Nine six Cres’.”
Len closed his eyes again. He’d forgotten all about his glasses, which were lying on the floor at his feet.
It took the driver a half hour to find Crescent Drive. He cursed whoever it was who’d laid out the development as he drove around, straining his eyes to see street signs. He was tempted to drop his passenger at random and go on back to New York. But he remembered the twenty-dollar bill that the big gray haired man had given him and he resisted the temptation. The man might have taken down his license number before he had piled his passenger aboard.
When he did find Crescent Drive he looked at the long row of houses in disgust. Each one was an exact replica of its neighbor and try as he might, he was unable to see a number.
“Goddamn ’em,” he said, “you’d think they’d at least put the goddamned numbers where you could see ’em.”
He stopped finally and took a flashlight from his pocket. He flashed it on the front of a house and still found no number. So he climbed down from his seat and walked toward the front door. Finally the light found what he was looking for. It was number eighty-two.
Going back to the cab, he drove in low gear for several hundred yards until he came to the seventh house down. He didn’t bother to use the flashlight again, but got out and opened the back door of the cab.
"O.K. chum,” he said. “You’re home.” Once more he reached in and shook Len by the shoulder.
Len Nielsen looked up blankly, squinting his eyes and finally closing one of them. He grunted unintelligibly and then staggered from the cab. The driver hesitated a moment before taking him by the arm. They walked up the path and to the front door of the house.
“You’re all right now, bud,” he said. He turned as Len fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
Back in the front seat of the taxi, the driver slipped the car into gear and then hesitated, his foot on the clutch. He watched as Len tried to fit his key into the front door lock.
When the door wouldn’t open, Len started to reach for the bell, then hesitated. He was still pretty tight, but his mind was beginning to clear. He knew it was very late; the house was dark. AlEe would have gone to bed. He didn’t want to awaken her.
It was probably because he had lost his glasses, but somehow that damned door wouldn't open. Len knew the bedroom window would be half opened and he remembered that he himself had taken off the screen shortly after they had moved in.
AlEe was a heavy sleeper. She would never hear him.
Still staggering slightly, and holding one hand out in front of himself, Len carefully felt his way around the side of the house. He stumbled once over a small bush, but didn’t faU. He found the window and it was opened barely a crack. But he was able to put his hand in and wind the handle opening the casement wide.
He lifted one foot high and put it over the window sill. A moment later and he was in the room.
The taxi driver waited until Len had disappeared around the side of the house. Then he slipped the clutch and the car left the curb.
“Brother!” he said. “Some load. I wouldn’t want to have his headache tomorrow morning!”
He never said a truer word in his Efe.