All The Way (7 page)

“Yes. It does. It means plenty. But I’ve just discovered you mean more. And if that sounds like something out of a shampoo ad, I’m sorry, but there it is.”

“And this is Jerome Langston Forbes?” she asked pityingly.

I sighed. “All right, rub it in. This is Jerry Forbes, the angle boy. The guy who discovered before he was twenty that this place is just a nut-hatch for the rest of the universe. And maybe when you stop to think about it, it still is. After all these years I finally go overboard completely for a girl, and I have to pick the one who’s decided to throw away her union card in the female sex.” I lit a cigarette, and stood up.

“Then you won’t help me?” she asked.

“No,” I said. I went in and sat down on the bed. I felt like hell. I stretched out, with the ashtray on my chest, and looked up at the ceiling. There didn’t seem to be any answer.

I was still lying there ten minutes later when I heard her come into the room. She lay down across the bed with her face very near mine. “I’m sorry, Jerry,” she said. “I guess I didn’t really grasp what you were saying. When you have nothing left inside but bitterness, a lot of things don’t come through very well.”

“It’s all right,” I said.

Her eyes looked into mine from a distance of a few inches. “What if I would go away with you afterwards?”

“You would?”

“Yes. God knows why you’d want me, but if you still do, I’ll go.”

I thought about it for a minute, wavering. “It still scares me. You know what we’re fooling with.”

“Yes. And you know how we’re going to do it. Nothing can go wrong.” She smiled faintly, and touched my lips with a finger. “You understand it’ll have to be a long time afterwards? Maybe a year. And that it’ll have to be somewhere a long way off, where there’s no chance that anybody who knew him will ever hear your voice.”

“Of course.”

“All right. I have a little money, too. We’ll have well over two hundred thousand. Somewhere in the eastern Mediterranean, or the Aegean. Or if you want to fish, somewhere in the tropics. Ceylon, perhaps. Just the two of us. And no strings attached. When you get tired of me—“

I drew a finger along her check. “I’d never get tired of you.”

“You will, when you get old enough to need younger women.”

“But I wouldn’t have to wait a full year?” I asked. “I mean, before I can even see you again?”

”No. We can meet somewhere after I’m sure I’m not being watched, in a month or so. will you do it, Jerry?”

I thought of that dream I’d had when she was trying to jump off the bridge, and felt cold in the pit of my stomach. Maybe it was a warning that something
could
go wrong. But I knew I was whipped. By this time I was conditioned to taking her on any terms I could get her.

“All right,” I said. “Let’s get started.”

I looked at my watch for the hundredth time, conscious of the increasing tightness of my nerves. The waiting was bad; there was too much time to think. It was forty-five minutes past midnight. I was in the rental car, parked on Collins Avenue across from the entrance to the Dauphine. This was another of those glorified motor hotels of the Gold Coast Strip, about two blocks from the Golden Horn. He had a reservation. She’d made it for him, along with his fishing reservations at Marathon, in the Keys.

I lit another cigarette, and went on watching the oncoming traffic, which was definitely thinning now. I’d already checked the area for phone booths, to be sure I could get to one when I wanted it. I nervously looked at the time again. I’d been here an hour and a half. Maybe he wouldn’t drive all the way through from Mobile in one day. His plans could have changed in the two weeks since their bitter fight and her resignation, and he might be going somewhere else. He could have been in a wreck—I came alert. It was another Cadillac.

Well, I’d seen at least a hundred so far; there was no shortage of them in Miami Beach. But this was one of the big ones, and it was a light gray hardtop. Out-of-state license plate. Then I could see the pelican on it. The car was turning into the driveway of the Dauphine. It was Chapman, all right. And he was alone. I exhaled softly. That was the thing we had to know for sure. If he was going to live it up this trip, he hadn’t picked up a girl so far.

The Cadillac stopped in the circular drive before the glass front wall of the lobby, partially screened from the street by the boxes of tropical vegetation bearing colored lights. I got out and crossed the street.

Chapman had already gone inside, and a porter with a luggage barrow was removing three large expensive-looking bags from the trunk of the car. I went into the lobby and turned towards the two telephone booths at the left rear, beside the archway that opened into the dining room. Nobody paid any attention to me. Chapman was standing at the desk. He was just as she had described him. We looked nothing alike except that we were the same height and—within the limits of the average description— the same build. He wore a lightweight gabardine suit and a cocoa straw hat, white shirt, and a conservatively striped tie. And the glasses, of course.

“Reservation for Harris Chapman,” he said brusquely. It wasn’t a question; it was a statement of fact.

I didn’t hear the clerk’s reply, but he turned away to check. I had reached the telephone now. I went through the motions of looking up a number, and just before I stepped inside I glanced toward the desk again. The clerk had returned. He was smiling as he pushed across the registry card. Then he handed Chapman an envelope. So far, so good. But I had to see what he did with it. If he shoved it in a pocket, he might forget it. He glanced at it curiously, and then set it on the desk while he registered. He’d recognized the handwriting by this time, I thought. It was from Marian. She had written it just before she left for Nassau. I closed the door of the booth and quickly dialed the apartment. She answered on the first ring.

“He’s here,” I said quietly. “And he got the letter.”

“What did he do with it?”

“Nothing, yet. “Wait.” I turned and glanced toward the desk again. “He’s opened it.”

”Good,” she said. “He’ll call when he gets up to the room.”

I wasn’t so sure. He’d just driven over seven hundred miles, and would be ready to fall in bed. But she knew him inside out, and should be able to guess bis reaction pretty well. The letter was an implied but very arrogantly worded blackmail threat. She had something to discuss with him relative to his 1955 income-tax return, and would be waiting for him to call, not later than tonight.

“He failed to report fifty-five thousand dollars,” she’d explained. “It’s pretty well covered, but he knows how they dig once they’re tipped off. And that informers are paid.”

I glanced around again. Chapman had shoved the letter in his coat pocket and was striding toward the booths. “Hang up,” I said quickly. “He’s going to call right now.”

The phone clicked and went dead. He stalked into the other booth and banged the door shut. I went on talking, ad libbing a conversation with an imaginary girl. He was dialing.

“Hello, Marian? Harris.” I could hear him perfectly. “I thought they said you were in New York. What the hell’s this let—? Yeah, I just checked in. Look, if this is some kind of gag to get me to come out to your apartment, I thought we’d agreed that was all over. It wouldn’t change anything, and I don’t see why we have to embarrass ourselves. . . .
What? . . . What’s that?”

There was a longer pause.

“Oh, so that’s the way it is?” he said curtly. “By God, I didn’t think you’d stoop to a thing like this. I guess Coral was right. . . . You know damn well that return’s been checked and double-checked, and they’ve never found a thing wrong with it. . . . Never mind what you think . . . If you need money, why didn’t you take that six months’ pay I offered you? . . . No, I’m not coming out there. I’m tired. I’ve been driving all day. . . . What proof? . . . You haven’t got any proof, and you know it.”

I heard him hang up and slam out of the booth. I pulled down the hook, dropped in another dime, and dialed her again.

“What do you think?” I asked softly, when she answered.

“He’ll come, as soon as he thinks it over. Let me know.”

“Right,” I said.

When I came out of the booth, Chapman was entering the corridor at the other side of the lobby, followed by the porter with his bags. I went back to the car, and lit a cigarette. The Cadillac had been parked in the area off to the left of the main building. Ten minutes went by. Maybe she was wrong. Then an empty cab turned into the driveway. In a minute or two it came out the exit, crossed the traffic to this side of the street, and started south, the way it had come. There was a man in it, wearing a hat. It was Chapman.

I looked at my watch. It had taken me fifteen minutes to drive up, but the traffic had lessened considerably by now. Call it ten. I got out and crossed the street again, and walked down about half a block to the bar I’d noted before. It had a booth, and I didn’t want to go back to the lobby again unless I had to.

There were only three or four customers in the place, and the booth was empty. I was tight as a violin string now, and couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. I ordered a shot of straight whisky, downed it, and went back to the phone. I closed the door, and dialed. She answered immediately.

”He left here five minutes ago, in a cab,” I said.

“Good,” she replied. “Remember, wait two minutes from the time I hang up. I’ll be in the kitchen, getting out the ice cubes.”

“Right,” I said. The drink had loosened me a little now, but it was very hot in the booth and I was sweating. She went on talking. She seemed perfectly calm. The minutes dragged by.

“I think I hear the cab,” she said.

I waited. Then I heard the doorbell, very faintly. The line went dead. Chapman was at the front door.

I checked the time, pulled down the hook, and dropped in another dime to get the dial tone. I looked back out at the bar. No one was near enough to hear any of it through the door. Just before the two minutes were up, I started dialing. It rang twice.

“Hello.” It was Chapman, all right. She’d got him to answer.

“Mrs. Marian Forsyth,” I said brusquely. “Is she there?”

“Just a minute.”

I heard him call her, but not her reply. Then he came on again. “She’s busy at the moment. Who’s calling?”

“Chapman,” I said. “Harris Chapman—”

“What?”

Most people, of course, have no idea how their voices and their speech sound to others, but he did. He was accustomed to using dictating devices and recorders.

“Harris Chapman,” I repeated with the same curt impatience. “From Thomaston, Louisiana. She knows me—”

“Are you crazy?”

I cut in on him. “Will you please call Mrs. Forsyth to the phone? I haven’t got all night.”

”So you’re Chapman, are you? Where are you calling from?”

“What the hell is this?” I barked into the phone. “I’m calling from the Dauphine. I just checked in here. I’ve driven seven hundred and thirty miles today, and I m tired, and I don’t feel like playing games. Maybe
you
want to talk to me about my nineteen-fifty-five income-tax return, is that it? Well, it just happens I’m an attorney, my friend, and I know a little about the law, and about shakedowns. Now, put her on, or I’ll turn this letter of hers over to the police right now.”

“What in the name of God?
Marian—”

I heard the phonograph come up in the background then, softly at first, and then louder. It was a song that had come out the summer Keith had gone mad—
The Music Goes Round and Round
. Shortly before they’d given up and had him committed for treatment, he’d locked himself in his room one day and played the record for nineteen hours without stopping.

“Listen!” I snapped. “What are you people up to? What’s that music—?”

He was still there. I heard him gasp.

Oh, the music goes round and round . . . and it comes out here. . . .

“Turn that off!” I said harshly. “Who told you about Keith? She’s been coaching you. You even sound like me. What’s that woman trying to do to me? I offered her six months’ pay. . . .”

“Marian,” he shouted, “for the love of Christ, who is this man?”

I couldn’t hear her reply, of course, but I knew what it was, and the way she said it. “Why, Harris Chapman, obviously.”

The shots weren’t too loud, mere exclamation points above the level of the music. There were two very close together, and then one more. The phone made a crashing noise, as if it had struck the edge of the table, and I heard him fall.

Oh, you press the middle valve down. . . .

Something else fell. And then there was nothing but the music, and a rhythmic tapping sound, as if the telephone receiver was swinging gently back and forth, bumping the leg of the table.

Bump . . . bump . . .

. . . and the music goes round and round . . . yoo-oo-ohoo. . . .

I made it in a little over ten minutes. As soon as I’d got out in the fresh air I was all right. She’d probably fainted, but she’d come around. I parked a block away. The front door was unlocked. I slipped inside and closed it.

One bridge lamp was burning in a corner, and the lights were on in the kitchen. She wasn’t in here. I sighed with relief. The phonograph had been shut off, and the phone was back on its cradle. The apartment was completely silent except for the humming of the air-conditioner. He was lying face down beside the table which held the telephone. I hurried through to the bedroom. She was in the bathroom, standing with her hands braced on the sides of the wash basin, looking at her face in the mirror. Apparently she’d started to brush her teeth, for some reason, for the toothbrush was lying in the basin where she’d dropped it. She was very pale. I took her arm. She turned, stared at me blankly, and then rubbed a hand across her face. Comprehension returned to her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said. There was no tremor in her voice.

I led her out and sat her on the bed, and knelt beside her. “Just hold on for a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here. You sit right there. Would you like a drink?”

“No,” she said. “I’d rather not.” She spoke precisely without raising her voice. I had an impression it was nothing but iron self-control, and that she was walking very carefully along the edge of screaming. That part of it, however, I couldn’t help her with.

The tarpaulin I’d bought was in a broom closet in the kitchen. I carried it into the living room, spread it on the rug, and rolled him on to it. I didn’t like looking at his face, so I threw a fold of the canvas over it. There was blood on his shirt, and some on the rug where he’d lain. I went through his pockets, taking everything out— wallet, traveler checks, car keys, room key from the Dauphine, small address book, the letter from Marian, cigarette holder, lighter, cigarettes, and a small plastic vial of some kind of pills. I tore up the letter and shoved it back in his coat pocket, along with the pills and the cigarette holder. His glasses had fallen off. I put them in his pocket also. All the other items I placed on the coffee table. He wore no rings. I left his watch on his wrist. The gun, a small .32, was on the rug near the phonograph. I put it in another coat pocket.

I rolled him in the tarpaulin and pulled him out into the kitchen, beside the back door. I cut two strips off the canvas to use for ropes, doubled him into the fetal position, and bound him. I was shaking badly now, and my stomach was acting up again. I leaned against the sink, poured a drink of whisky from the bottle in a cupboard, and downed it. In a minute I felt a little better.

I filled a pan with water, located a sponge, and scrubbed at the blood stain on the living-room rug. It took nearly ten minutes and four pans of water. I knew a lot of it had gone through to the pad beneath, and that the rug would show a water stain when it dried, but I could take care of that later. I’d have the whole rug shampooed. I washed the pan, and the sink, and turned out the kitchen light. It was a relief to get away from him.

She was just getting up from the bed. I took her in my arms. “I’m all right now,” she said. “I’m sorry I broke up that way.”

“Everything’s under control,” I told her. “He had the room key. That was the only thing I was worried about. What time is your flight?”

“I’m wait-listed at five-fifteen, and confirmed at six-thirty.”

I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to two. She’d have a long wait, alone, at the airport, but it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t stay here. She seemed to be in full control of herself, and rational. She put on some lipstick, and her hat, and I closed the overnight case and found her coat, gloves, and purse. I dropped the Dauphine room key in my pocket. There was horror in her eyes just for an instant as we went out through the living room.

“The car’s about a block away,” I said. “I didn’t want any more traffic in and out of here than we had to have.”