A Hell of a Woman (Crime Masterworks) (14 page)

WELL, DEAR READER, in looking over my last installment I discovered that I have made a small error or two in fact. This was no fault of mine because, although I seldom complain, you have doubtless discovered that lam one hard luck son-of-a-bitch, and people keep pouring it on me until I don't know my tail from a t-bone. So this was the case in this case. There was so much happening at once that I got slightly balled up in my facts.

The truth is this-the truth about this girl, Mona, I was telling you about. This old woman she was living with, she wasn't actually her aunt at all. She was a kidnapper, see, and she'd kidnapped this poor girl from her wealthy parents while she was still no more than a tot-so naturally she didn't remember anything about them-and this one hundred thousand dollars was ransom money. The old woman was afraid to spend it because, well, hell, how do I know? Oh, yeah. She was afraid to spend it because at first she had to lay low until the heat was off, and after a while everyone got to believing that she didn't have a dime to her name and she _couldn 't_ spend it. It would have looked funny as hell, know what I mean? So that was the way it happened, or something like that. She couldn't bring herself to throw the dough away, but she couldn't spend it either. It was some sort of screwy deal like that, and however it was, it isn't really important. The important thing is that the money really belonged to Mona, since her wealthy parents had been dead many years of broken hearts. And since I had saved her from a fate worse than death, it wasn't any more than right that she should kind of let me take care of it for her. Or maybe even keep it all. Because if she was actually a tramp, like rumor said, I sure as hell wasn't going to have her tagging around with me.

Well, I was going to explain these true events to my wife, Joyce, when she returned unexpectedly and caught me with the dough. But I just couldn't think fast enough, Iguess, so I stalled and a day or so later I told her I'd found the money. It sounded more logical than the truth, and anyway I hadn't been able to figure out the truth yet. Hell, how could I, the way things were popping at me right and left? This character Staples was giving me a hard time. Mona was giving me a hard time: worrying me about whether she was a tramp or not, and getting scared and making me scared. And, Joyce, well, I was glad she'd come back, because it looked like she'd turned over a new leaf and all was about to be well between us. But you can see how it was just one more goddamned thing to mix me up.

So I hadn't got around to tell her the truth yet. There wasn't any real incentive to, you know, as long as she believed that I'd found the money. Then the day came when she gave the house a good cleaning-and believe me it could stand it!-and when I get home that night, all knocked out after a rugged day of toil, she starts giving me a hard time. She hardly lets me finish my dinner before she starts yapping at me- wants me to come back in the bedroom and do some talking. So I rush through my meal and step in the bedroom for a minute-for God's sake, what's the world coming to when a guy can't go to the bathroom? But it seems like even this humble privilege is not to be mine.

I hardly have the door closed before she's calling to me. And I know something's plenty wrong, see, and all! want is time enough to figure out a good story. It's for her own sake, understand? Because if she decides I'm lying about the money, it leaves her in a pretty bad spot. She'll want me to go to the police or she'll go herself and I just can't allow that. Even though the money is rightfully mine. The cops won't believe the truth any more than she does, so – -. so, well you can see the situation.

I'm a pretty easy-going guy, and never hurt anyone in my life if I could get out of it. But if she tried to pin me down, give me a hard time when I already had more than I could stand, it would be just too bad for her.

So I stalled in the bathroom, wondering what the hell she'd found out and how the hell I could squirm out of it. But she just wouldn't have it that way; she wouldn't let me protect her. She had to bust into the bathroom on me, and ask where did I get the money. I told her. I said hell, honey, I already told you where I got it. And she said, you lied, Doily. I must have known it right from the beginning, but I wanted so much to believe that-that- "Where were you on Monday night, Dolly?"

"Monday night?" I said. "Oh, the night you came home. Why, I was out collecting, baby. I caught up with some long-time skips, and they paid off like-"

"They did not pay off. Because you weren't collecting."

"Now, wait just a minute," I said. "I told you about it at the time, told you exactly where I'd been. You saw the money! took in, and-"

"I saw you take some money out of that little bag and put it in your wallet. That was all you had, Dolly, except for a dollar or two. I could see that it was the next morning when you took the money I'd brought back from my trip."

I shrugged. I gave her the cold eye. Hell, what if! hadn't told her the whole truth? Was that any reason for her to break into the bathroom and accuse me of lying, and act like I'd committed a crime or something?

I will leave you to be the judge, dear reader.

All I will say is that, if you insist on putting yourself on a spot, pushing a man who has already been pushed too far, you have got to take the consequences.

"How well did you know Pete Hendrickson, Dolly?"

"Pete?" I said. "Pete Hendrickson?! never heard of him in my life."

"He was killed Monday night. He and a woman named Farrell."

"Yeah?" I said. "Oh, yeah. Seems like! remember reading something about it."

"You didn't know him personally?"

"Know him?" I laughed. "Why would I know a character like that?"

"You didn't know him?"

"I'm telling you," I said.

"Then why was he in this house? Why did he sleep here?"

I gave her a look like I thought she was crazy. I wanted to protect her, see, and believe me I was doing everything I could. "Why, my God, honey," I said. "That's the screwiest thing I ever hear of! What ever gave you the idea that-?"

"This," she said. "I cleaned house today, and I found this. Down on the floor behind the bed."

She opened her hand, and held it out: a little blue and white card. Pete Hendrickson's social security card.

The stupid, sloppy bastard had slept with his clothes on that one night, and he'd let this slip out of his pocket. Just to give me a hard time later, sure. And-and what did it matter, anyhow? Look at the way he'd treated Mona; and besides that he was a Nazi or a Communist or- "Why did you lie about it, Dolly? Why did you tell me you didn't know him?"

"Well, hell," I said, "I know a lot of people. I just didn't see that it made any difference."

"Were any of those other people here while I was away?"

"You think I'm running a hotel?" I said. "No, there wasn't anyone else here, and the only reason he was here was because I felt sorry for him and-uh-"

"Then he was with you Monday night, wasn't he? Monday evening before the murd-bef ore it happened. There'd been someone with you; I could tell it the minute I stepped into the house. Two people had been here, drinking and smoking – -. and if there wasn't anyone else…"

"Baby," I said. "You're making a lot out of nothing. So what if he was here, what if it works out that I wasn't collecting that night? Don't you-"

"I want to know," she said. "That's what I want to know. Why you iied if it didn't matter."

"Don't you trust me?" I said. "Don't you love me? My God, maybe I did get a little mixed up and forget a few things, but-"

She moved away from me, shrugging my hands off her shoulders. "Why, Doily? And where? Where were you Monday night, and where did you get that money?"

"Leave me alone," I said. "Goddammit, leave me alone!"

I didn't like to talk to her that way, understand, but why did she have to give me a hard time? And all over nothing.

"I'm waiting, Doily."

"I already told you," I said. "I mean, maybe it wasn't the truth exactly. But that doesn't mean I did anything wrong. I am-rn-my God, you act like you thought I'd killed those two people. Beat the old woman to death and shot Pete and – -. Where you going? Where do you think you're going?"

"Oh, Dolly," she said. "H-how-what have you-"

I tried to tell her, then, what had happened. How things really were. How they could have been. And how did she know it wasn't true? How did she know that the old woman wasn't a kidnapper and that this money didn't belong to Mona's wealthy parents who had died years ago of broken hearts and. – –

And she wouldn't even listen to me. She was tugging at the doorknob, staring at me with her eyes getting wider and wider like I was a goddamned maniac or something.

I made a grab for her, just trying to make her listen to reason you know. And for a moment I thought she was going to scream-yeah, call for help against her own husband-but she didn't. All she did was say- nothing. Nothing I remember. Not anything important.

It was an accident, of course. Hell, you know me, dear reader, and you are aware that I wouldn't hurt a goddamned fly if I could get out of it. I was just trying to grab her, to hold onto her while I made her listen to reason. But I grabbed pretty hard, I guess-sort of swung-and an unkind Fate decreed that the small understanding between us should end otherwise than happy… TO BE CONTINUED (MAYBE).

_She said, "N-no, Dolly. Oh, n-no. I had to come back. I wanted to, anyway, but I had to. I was going to tell you as soon as everything was settled_-"

"_Everything's settled, "I said. "It's damned good and settled_."

"… _don 't know what you 'redoing! You can 't, Dolly! N-no, please, NO! I'm pregnant!_"

_It was too late to stop. Anyway, how could I have stopped, even if it hadn 't been too late?_

_I hooked her, and she went down in the bathtub. Ibent over the tub, and… And when Ifinally stripped off the nightgown and lifted her out, she didn't look like Joyce any more. Or anyone_.

_I carried her out the back door. I tossed her body up on the top of one of the coal cars, and climbed up after it. I dugdown in the coal with my hands, scoopingouta long shallow hole, and I buried her in that. Buried them_.

It was too much, but now it was all over and they couldn't- I came back into the house. I washed and cleaned up, thinking, thinking-just thinking-but not worrying.

They couldn't identify her. That train would be three days getting into Kansas City, and it stopped a half a dozen places between here and there. They wouldn't know where it had happened, when she'd been put onto the coal car, who she was. All I had to do was get rid of her clothes when I cleared out of here- and I'd be clearing out damned fast.

Because too much had already happened, and now nothing else could.

Mona could stay here with me tonight. Why not? The deal was on ice-nothing to worry about-and she was one swell kid. And I needed someone to be with me. I've always needed someone to be with me, and tonight- So she'd stay here tonight, and in the morning I'd quit the store. Pick an argument with Staples and then tell him to go to hell, and walk out. And then Mona and I would take off, just the two of us and that good old hundred grand. It would be okay. There wasn't a hole in it any place, not on my side or hers. The county had ordered her to clear out of the house. No one could make anything out of it if she got out a little ahead of time.

We'd take off together, Joy-Mona-and me, and from then on, from now on.. Nothing more could happen.

I finished cleaning myself up and cleaning up the bathroom. I went out into the living room and had a good stiff drink. It seemed like it should have been awfully late, but it was only a little after eight-thirty. Almost twenty-five minutes before I was to meet Mona-before someone would be here with me.

I poured another stiff drink. I drank it, and I got to thinking it couldn't have happened-so much, so quickly-and if it couldn't, why it hadn't. And maybe I ought to take her back a little drink, since she wasn't feeling well. And I poured it out for her.

And drank it.

There was a knock on the door. I gave a little jump, and then I went to answer it; and, no, I didn't hesitate. Because there couldn't be anything more now, nothing ever again, and there was nothing to be afraid of.

I opened the door. Staples said, "Good evening, Frank," and I didn't answer-I couldn't answer-and he walked in past me.

"Well, Frank. You don't appear at all pleased to see me. Aren't you going to ask me to sit down?"

I shook my head. I said, "No. What the hell do you want, Stape?"

He sat down, crossing his fat little legs. "What do I want, Frank? We-el, let's say I'll be quite happy with pot luck. I'll take whatever you have."

I started shaking my head. I didn't know what to say or do so I just shook my head.

"Yes," he said. "Oh, yes, Frank. Yes, indeed."

"No-no! I won't-" I broke off, made my voice steady. "What do you want? What are you talking about, anyway?"

And he laughed softly.

"Oh, Frank. You've been so clumsy, so obvious; such a thorough botch from the very beginning… Must we go into the tiresome details, or can't you see it for yourself?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "You h-hear? I don't-"

"Well," he sighed, "if we must, we must. I'll begin at the beginning and spell it out very slowly. Item.

He held up a hand, then folded one of the chubby little fingers back into his palm. "Item one, Frank. On the day before your arrest for stealing company funds, you collected some thirty-eight dollars from the late Pete Hendrickson. On the same day you made a cash sale-or, rather, you turned in a cash-sale contract- in the amount of thirty-three dollars to one Mona Farrell. In the morning, then, on these two accounts, you should have checked in about seventy-one dollars. And frantic as you were to stave off arrest, you certainly would have turned it in, if you had had it. But you didn't; all you had was the money for the silverware. You used Pete's money, or most of it, to buy the girl a present."

"Now, wait a minute," I said. "That doesn't mean- you can't prove-"

"Prove?" His lips pursed thoughtfully. "Well, perhaps not, if we take it out of context, which, happily, I am not forced to do. At any rate, and at the moment, we are not discussing proof. I am merely pointing out your initial error, delving down to the center strand of that very ugly rope which you have hung around your neck.

"You gave the girl a thirty-three dollar present, and perhaps that is meaningless of itself. One more manifestation of a distorted personality. But it is not meaningless-it is not, my dear boy-when this same girl arrives at the store, and bails you out to the tune of more than three hundred dollars… Or are you going to tell me that it wasn't the same girl?"

There was no use in denying it. I knew now who'd been watching her, who'd turned the car lights on her.

"All right," I said. "So! know her, I like her and she likes me. What of it? My wife skipped out and-"

"Please!" He held up his hand again. "I'm not at all interested in your morals. Nor in you personally, for that matter. Only in the money you obtained from what must be the two clumsiest murders on record."

He waited, waiting for me to deny it. And it wasn't any use, of course, but I did. "Money?" I said. "Murders? I don't know what you're-"

"Money. Murders," he nodded. "And, please, Frank, you're trying my patience. I don't know how you got next to the girl or how you managed to frame Pete, but I know that you did. The girl tipped you off to the fact that the old woman had a substantial sum of money. You-skipping over the gory details-you got it, and you still have it. Except for those amounts which you checked in as collections."

"Now, wait a-"

"Which you checked in as collections," he said firmly. "Would you like me to show it to you? I've laid it aside just in case you became stubborn. Approximately a dozen bills, supposedly collected from an assorted group of people but with their serial numbers in sequence. You got it, Frank, and you got a very substantial sum. Nothing less would have tempted you to take such a terrible risk, and Ma Farraday was just the woman to have had a hefty chunk of cash."

"But-Ma Farraday?" I said.

"Mmmm. Do you recall my telling you that I'd been to visit an old friend? That was Ma-better known locally as Mrs. Farrell. I went to see her in the morgue after my suspicions about you became aroused. Once I recognized her, I was certain that-but I see you don't recognize the name?"

He waited again, one eyebrow cocked upward. Then, he grinned and went on:

"A little before your time, I imagine, but the Farraday gang was notorious in the Southwest some twenty to twenty-five years ago. Bank robbers. Ma and her three sons. Ma doing the planning, and the three men faithfully carrying out her orders. Three of the orneriest, coldest-blooded killers ever to shoot a teller in the back. And their wives and children-they all lived together near the town where I worked- their wives and children were just as ornery as they were. Why-Yes, Frank?"

"N-nothing," I said. "I mean, I thought…"

"I know. I was confident that your interest in the oil business and my early days in Oklahoma was something more than casual. But, no, there was no oil on the Farraday property; they lived too far back in the hills. For that matter, I doubt that even had they owned oil-producing land, it would have altered their way of life a whit. They were cruel, vicious, because they wanted to be. It was all they understood-men, women and children. Being a very clannish lot, with little trust in the law, their neighbors protected and put up with them for years. In the end, however, they finally became so outraged that they moved in and massacred the lot of them. Shot them like the swine they were, then burned their dwellings. Wiped out the entire family-supposedly."

_Mona. She was part of an outfit like that. No wonder she'd been so ready to kill her own aunt-her grandmother, probably. No wonder that she acted like_- "I said _supposedly_, Frank. Criminal investigation was just emerging from swaddling clothes in those days and, of course, neither Ma nor the various children had police records. A number of bodies were found in the smoldering ruins; also the charred remnants of a quantity of currency. Ergo, and in the absence of proof to the contrary, it was assumed- _believed_, I should say-that the entire family was wiped out, and with them their ill-gotten gains. But you and I know better, don't we, Frank? We are the only ones who do know."

He winked at me, grinning with his puffy little lips drawn back from his teeth. Like a cat that's just had a good meal. He licked his lips slightly, grinning and waiting, and my stomach turned over and over. And the band grew tighter and tighter around my head.

I began to tremble. My mouth opened and I felt a scream crawling up from my throat, and I had to swallow hard to choke it back.

"N-no!" I said. "You've got it all wrong, Stape! I-"

"Dear, dear," he said. "Oh, dear me. You are such a tiresome fellow, Frank."

"I'm telling you! It's the God's truth, Stape. The girl was kidnapped, see. She was actually the daughter of a very wealthy family, and the money was ransom money and-and-"

He laughed out loud. "And you were going to act as custodian of it, eh? Oh, my dear boy, I'm almost embarrassed for you."

"It's true, goddammit!" _It had to be true. Something had to be true besides what-what was true_. "That's why the old woman didn't spend any of the money, see? She found out it was marked, and-"

"But it wasn't marked, Frank. I know it. You must know it also, unless you're a much bigger fool than you appear."

"Well-uh-well, then, she found out-she figured out-that the serial numbers had been recorded, and-"

"Oh? Then why, since it was unspendable, did she keep it all these years?"

He was playing with me, laughing at me, having a hell of a time for himself. "Yes, Frank? And why-if the authorities are on the lookout for those serials- why aren't you in custody?"

"Well-" I had to go on. I was talking crap, making a horse's ass of myself, but I had to go on. "Well, there's bound to be something wrong with it. If there wasn't, why didn't she spend it? Why did she go on living like a goddamned hog when-"

"Because she was one, a grasping old sow."

"You don't know," I said. "You don't know that the money isn't hot. She could have found out that-"

"Then, why, as I asked a moment ago, didn't she destroy it?"

"Well-uh-well, because she couldn't! Jesus, you've got a hun-a pretty good wad of dough, how
can
you destroy it? I couldn't. She couldn't. So she just hung onto it, figuring that maybe some day, somehow, she might be able to shove it-"

"Oh, Frank…"

"You don't know," I said. "Goddammit, you can't be sure, Stape!"

"I not only can be, but I am. You see, I had some several dealings with the Farradays at this store I managed. Delivered merchandise to their mountain retreat at considerably above the market prices. There was nothing criminal about our association- nothing provably illegal, I should say-but the company became embarrassed to the point of transferring me to another town… However! Enough of personal history. My point is that the Farradays were strictly bank robbers."

"But they might have pulled one kid-"

"Stop it! No more nonsense, Frank… How much did you get and where is it?"

I looked down at the floor. I looked up again, keeping my eyes away from the corner where the sample case was.

"She didn't have as much as I thought. Just ten thousand dollars. I can-well, I got it out in the country, see-but I can bring it in the morning."

"Ten thousand? You mean, a hundred thousand, I'm sure. You almost said it a moment ago."

"All right," I said. "So goddammit, there's a hundred thousand. Come on with me and we'll go and get it."

He hesitated. Then he nodded, smiling faintly. "Very well, Frank, but perhaps I should tell you something first. I left a letter with the night clerk at my hotel-a very reliable man, incidentally. He's instructed to mail it if I fail to return by midnight."

His smile spread, and he laughed out loud again.

I thought, _It can 't be like this_… And I guess I must have said it.

"But it is, Frank; it is like that. And now you will produce the money. Immediately!"

I got up. I brought the case over to the coffee table and snapped it open. I started to reach in for the satchel, digging it out from under the samples, and he brushed my hands away and grabbed it himself.

He opened it. He made a funny purring sound.

"Mmmm. Wonderful… I hope you won't think I'm greedy if I don't offer to share with you?"

"You've got to," I said. I kept saying it. "You got to, Stape. A-a few grand, well, one grand. Something! Anything! I ki-I did it all, and-"

"So sorry." He shook his head. "But I'll be happy to give you a word of wisdom. You have no problems which money will solve."

"You son-of-a-bitch," I said.

"You really don't, Frank. You'd be just as miserable with the money as without it… Well, much as I hate to leave such pleasant company…"

He buttoned his coat, and stood up. He tucked the money satchel under his arm.

"I want that silverware contract back," I said. "By God, you'll never be able to hold that over me."

"The sil-oh, yes, to be sure. And very shrewd of you. You can pick it up in the morning, get your wages to date at the same time."

"My wages," I said.

"Well? No more questions? You're not wondering why I delayed calling you to account until tonight?"

"Get out," I said.

"The girl, dear boy: the clinching bit of proof. I didn't really need it, but-"

"Get out!"

"Of course. But shouldn't you invite her in, Frank? She's just around the corner… and you do look so lonesome."