Once a Widow (10 page)

“Go ahead. It’s quiet now.”

George had his coffee in a deserted little restaurant around the corner. When he returned to the bank he saw that Mr. Swann was standing behind his window. This was not unusual. Mr. Swann was very obliging about pinch-hitting for tellers who were temporarily absent for one reason or another. The man at the next window was busy with a customer and did not look up as George walked around and entered his cage. He smiled at Mr. Swann. “Thanks. I was out for coffee. I’ll take over now.”

“You’re welcome, George.” Mr. Swann smiled, too, showing large yellow teeth behind thin pale lips. He patted his blue polka dot tie and added, “Uh—too bad about Mr. Sprang, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Sprang?” George said sharply. “What about him?”

Mr. Swann eyed George thoughtfully and fingered his tie. Then he said, “Haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” George averted his gaze and with hands that trembled a little began to count one dollar bills into piles of fifty.

“He’s dead.”

George stopped counting, swallowed and turned. Mr. Swann was watching him like a cat. George’s throat felt tight and he couldn’t speak. He just stood there, his hands filled with dirty and wrinkled one dollar bills, staring at Mr. Swann.

“Murdered,” Mr. Swann said.

George found his voice, repeated the word stupidly. “Murdered?”

Mr. Swann nodded slowly. “Last night in his sleep, in his room at Memorial Hospital. Head bashed in. Chief Beckwith just called Mr. Allison. It’ll soon be all over town.”

George had the same sensation of terror he’d had the afternoon before when Mr. Sprang had told him of his intention to withdraw his savings account, the same sudden numbness and a dizzy feeling that the world was spinning. He took a deep breath, fighting to control his voice. “He—he was in the hospital? I was fishing with him yesterday afternoon and he was all right then.”

“He became ill quite suddenly, I understand.” Mr. Swann licked his thin lips, as if he were savoring ambrosia, and slowly drew from the inside pocket of his neat blue jacket a white slip of paper and held it up for George to see, the forged deposit slip bearing the date, Mr. Sprang’s signature, George’s initials and window stamp.

For a wild second George’s brain searched for a loophole, but there was none. If he had only known about Mr. Sprang he could have said that the lawyer had signed the deposit slip the day before and given it to him, with the money, to deposit for him today; no one could prove that this had not happened, now that Mr. Sprang was dead. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He had been stupid, and it was too late now. He had gotten away with taking the money out of the bank, he thought dismally, and now he was caught on his first attempt to put it back in.

“This slip is dated today,” George heard Mr. Swann say. “How could Mr. Sprang come to the bank this morning, when he was killed last night?”

“I—” George said, and that was as far as he got.

Mr. Swann touched George’s arm gently. “I think we’d better have a little talk with Mr. Allison.”

Mr. Swann was pleased with himself. He had worked in banks all his life, but George was the first embezzler he’d ever caught personally.

Richard Barry returned to the house at Erie Cliffs at a little before one o’clock on Monday morning. On the way he had stopped at a rocky deserted section of shore line to throw the bloody wrench far out into the lake. It would never be found, he was certain. And no one could trace Karen’s death to him, he thought, except that woman at the hospital, the prissy character who had finally given him the room number. She could identify him, if it came to that, and he would think about her a little. Maybe he should have slugged her when she came out of the hospital and passed by the hedge where he’d been hiding. He’d had a vague idea of doing just that, putting her on ice forever; that had been his reason for waiting until she left. But the memory of the wrench striking Karen’s head, the sickening thud and the crunch of bone in the darkness, was too fresh, too vivid, and he’d hesitated a moment too long. The woman had passed, but he’d followed her, just in case. He knew where she lived, had seen a name on the mail box: Thatcher. He’d give it a little thought. She was the only person who could possibly link him with Karen’s death…

It wasn’t the first time Richard Barry had killed, but it was the first time he’d been personally involved. The others, like the last one in L.A. for Alex Kamin, had merely been jobs to do. Alex, or a few others who could afford Richard’s fee, had wanted them dead, usually for excellent reasons. Richard had built up a nice little reputation in exclusive circles and was usually available. That .357 magnum was a sweet little gun. He would have liked to have used it for Karen, but under the circumstances that had been impossible. The magnum was quite impersonal. You just pulled the trigger and it was over. He’d hated to use the wrench. Very crude, but silent. It was the personal contact he’d hated, and he wouldn’t forget it for a long time. He’d had to work fast and the room had been dark. He had barely been able to see the back of Karen’s head, the close-cropped tawny hair showing from beneath the pulled-up sheet. Two swift blows with the wrench, using all his strength, had turned the trick. She hadn’t even moved, except for the head movement caused by the blows. She never knew what hit her, had not uttered a sound. He was glad, because Karen had been good to him, in her way. It was just that sometimes she made him sick to his stomach.

And now he had Rose Ann, young, fresh, beautiful. Smart, too. College girl. Not a moll, not a babe for a roll in the hay. A
nice
girl, didn’t even put out, a virgin, and she was nuts about him. Saving herself for him, by God. He and Rose Ann, with Karen’s, his money now—it would be wonderful. Karen had always harped about wanting to make him happy. Well, she had at last. Thank you, Karen, thank you very much. Still, he wished he could have used the magnum. It would have been much neater.

But how had she made it to that island? She couldn’t swim a stroke. And that Thatcher—he’d have to think about her, he really would. They’d find Karen’s body before long and there’d be a hell of a stink, but they couldn’t connect him to it. Oh, they might ask some questions, but he was used to that. He’d reported Karen’s absence, hadn’t he? Nobody could prove a thing. Nobody but that Thatcher woman. She could identify him as the man who entered Karen’s room after visiting hours…

And so Richard Barry’s thoughts skipped about, as they always did following an emotional climax. Before he went to bed he drank four double shots of bourbon in fairly rapid succession, but nevertheless he slept fitfully. In his dreams he kept seeing Karen’s face as she sank beneath the water, and he heard again the crunch of her skull as the wrench descended. He’d killed Karen twice, and that was once too many times. It had not been as easy as calling softly to a man, a stranger, usually, and pulling the trigger of the magnum from a distance of maybe twenty feet as the man got out of his car in a darkened garage, or wherever the job had been set up. This had been different…

The automatic clock radio on the table between the twin beds awakened him at ten o’clock, the time for which he’d set it. It had been daylight before he’d slept soundly and now he stirred sluggishly and reached out to shut off the radio, but something the newscaster was saying stopped him. He sat up instantly, thinking that Karen’s body would have been found by now. He listened intently.

…
Mr. Sprang’s body was found by hospital attendants early this morning and Dr. Clinton Shannon, county coroner, is expected to issue an official statement after an autopsy is performed. However, Chief of Police Beckwith has stated that death was undoubtedly caused by blows on the head with a heavy weapon. Mr. Sprang was not robbed and there is no apparent motive for the brutal killing. Chief Beckwith has declined to make any statement as to the time of death until after the post mortem examination, and has promised that all facilities at his disposal will be used to apprehend the murderer. Mr. Sprang was one of Harbor City’s most prominent and respected citizens. He entered the hospital yesterday afternoon and was to undergo surgery this morning for a kidney ailment. He is survived by a sister, Mrs. Albert Spooner, of Geneva, Ohio. And now to other local news. Business to be discussed at city council’s regular meeting this evening includes the proposed by-pass for state highway six and…

Richard sank back on the pillow. Karen was still alive, he thought dully, still in the hospital. That damn woman had told him the wrong room number. He’d clobbered someone else, a man, a character named Sprang. He should have made certain that it was Karen in that bed, but he hadn’t wanted her to wake up and make a fuss, and he’d been so
sure.
The room had been dark, but it was the right number and the hair showing from beneath the sheet had looked like Karen’s. One part of his mind listened to the balance of the news broadcast, but no mention was made of the woman found on Snake Island. But she’s still there, he thought, in another room. I can’t go to the hospital again, not now. He stared at the ceiling, cursing softly and steadily. It had looked so simple at first, but everything had gone against him. What should he do now? Pack his clothes, scrape up what cash he could, take one of the cars and head west, maybe to Vegas or L.A.? He’d been on the lam before. But that would be stupid, the act of a scared punk. He was a pro. Nobody had anything on him, not yet. Wait for Karen to make a move, and then deny everything? It would be her word against his.
What was Karen going to do about it?
Had she blabbed to a doctor, a nurse, anybody, about how her husband had tried to drown her? If she had, where were the cops? Was she playing a sly waiting game, tormenting him? And yet, in spite of everything, it was even conceivable that she would forgive him, if he played it right, and things could go on as before. His mind worked rapidly, improvising. He could tell her that he’d been teasing her, had thrown her overboard in an attempt to force her to learn to swim, knowing that he could rescue her if necessary. But the boat had gotten out of control, speeded away, something about the carburetor. When he’d managed to circle back he couldn’t find her.
I went through hell, darling. What happened? How did you get to that island? Did a boat pick you up? Forgive me. I’ll never do a silly thing like that again. I promise, I promise, I love you.

The odd part was that Richard realized, knowing his wife as he did, that such a story might fix it all up. It was quite possible that Karen would believe it, because she wanted to believe, because she knew that Richard was her last chance. Oh, other men would consort with her, even marry her, but none would be as handsome, young and strong as Richard Barry. He represented the only really valuable thing her money could buy for her any more. Richard had known that from the beginning.

He would wait a little, not take a powder, keep on seeing Rose Ann. He couldn’t give her up. He’d stall Rose Ann and maybe later he could do something about Karen. An overdose of sleeping pills in her martinis? Carbon monoxide? An accidental fall from a high bluff to the rocky beach? Everything would be fine. He’d work it out. Right now all he had to worry about was that Thatcher woman, who would know by now what he’d done in room 102 at the hospital. She was the only person who could possibly connect him with the caper, and he would keep her in mind. In the meantime he’d continue to be the worried husband. He would call the hospital to ask if a woman answering his wife’s description had been admitted, learn her room number and the name of the doctor who had treated her. He would pretend not to have heard the radio broadcast the evening before, and his anxious enquiry would be what was expected of a loving husband. Then he would decide whether or not to go to Karen in contriteness.

Richard reached out and picked up the telephone.

Coral Thatcher padded about the kitchen making toast and coffee for her lonely breakfast. Her mother, as usual after a late TV session, was fast asleep in her room upstairs. Ordinarily Coral was due at the hospital at eight, but since she had worked late the evening before, Mr. Grange had told her not to report until ten in the morning, not because he was concerned about Coral getting sufficient sleep, but because he wished to reduce her weekly hours to partly compensate for the added expense of paying her overtime wages for getting the monthly bills out on time. Now it was twenty minutes past nine and Coral was ready for work, except for eating breakfast and changing her slippers and faded robe for street shoes and a dress. It was only a short walk from her home to the hospital.

The phone, ringing on its stand in the hall, startled her. She hurried to answer it, almost choking on a mouthful of toast, fearing that the ringing would awaken her mother, who could be extremely disagreeable when aroused too early. Who could be calling? Coral lifted the receiver. “Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Coral?”

“Yes.”

“This is Martha James,” a cool voice said in her ear. “Aren’t you coming to work today?”

Coral was relieved. Phone calls at her home always frightened her, because she had so few. “Of course I’m coming to work,” she said, “but since I worked late last night, Mr. Grange told me not to come in until ten this morning.”

“He might have told me.” Miss James sounded angry. “Listen, Coral, I’m calling all the staff who worked last night—something terrible has happened.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you now. You’d better come right away,” Miss James hung up.

Slowly Coral returned to the kitchen. What had Miss James meant? What terrible thing had happened? Why did they want her? Coral feared the unknown and her hand trembled a little as she poured some coffee. She tried to finish eating her toast, but the pieces stuck in her throat. She drank the coffee and then went upstairs to her room, next to her mother’s, and quietly finished dressing, aware all the while that her heart was beating too rapidly and that her face felt hot and flushed. When she was ready she paused at her mother’s half-open door, listened a moment to the sound of snoring, and then went down the stairs and out the front door. As she locked the door she noticed that the milk had not yet arrived and with one part of her mind she hoped, as she usually did, that when it did arrive her mother would be up to put it in the refrigerator and not let it stand in the sun. She walked to the hospital, toward the unknown, in a kind of trance.

Upon reaching the hospital she walked around to the staff’s entrance in the rear and was surprised to see an ambulance parked there beside one of the city’s police cruisers. There must have been an accident, she thought excitedly, and hurried into the building, anxious for the news. The first person she saw was Miss James, looking pale and shadowy-eyed, sitting at her desk in the south wing. Before Coral could speak, Miss James said crisply, “You’re wanted in Mr. Grange’s office right away.”

Instantly Coral forgot the ambulance and the police car. “Why? Why does he want me?”

“You’ll find out,” Miss James said grimly. “Step on it.”

Coral turned away, knowing that she could not get any more information from Martha James, and walked swiftly to the administrator’s office. Her heart was now pounding so rapidly that she couldn’t catch her breath, and she felt faint. She knocked nervously on Mr. Granger’s door, and then timidly opened it.

Three men were waiting for her; Chief of Police Beckwith, Mr. Grange and Dr. Shannon. Mr. Grange sat behind his desk and gazed at her sternly. The chief turned away from a window, a cigar in his mouth. His gaze was not stern or unfriendly, just curious. Dr. Shannon, who was standing beside the desk, smiled and indicated a chair. “Come in, Coral, and sit down.”