Tell It To The Birds (4 page)

"How would you approach him?"

"Knowing he needs capital," Anson said, "I wouldn't try to sell him a policy as a life insurance. I'd sell him the policy as security to get a loan from the bank. Banks accept life policies as securities for a loan, and as he is so keen to set up on his own, I would have him half sold already." Meg shifted to a more comfortable position. "You're clever," she said. "I hadn't ¦ thought of that." "That's only the start of it," Anson said. "I know I wouldn't be able to sell him anything larger than a five thousand dollar coverage. That's not much good, is it? It's all right for him: he could raise a three thousand dollar loan on that coverage, but if he died suddenly, it wouldn't be much use to you, would it?"

She shook her head, staring into the fire.

"It wouldn't be much use to me either, but fifty thousand dollars would be ... wouldn't it?" She looked at him. "Yes, but..."

"The trick in this is I could insure him for fifty thousand and he would imagine he was insured only for five thousand."

Again there was a long pause, then Meg said, "It's beginning to be interesting. Just suppose Phil did take out an insurance coverage for fifty thousand dollars ... then what happens?"

Here was the danger spot of the plan, Anson thought. He would now have to move very carefully. Maybe he was rushing this too fast.

"Don't let's keep this story on such a personal basis," he| said. "I was using your husband because it makes it more believable. Let's now imagine, shall we, we have a man - any man - insured for fifty thousand dollars although he doesn't know it... his wife and an insurance salesman who are in love with each other ... okay?" "Yes ... of course."

"These two are in love and they need money. If the husband dies, the wife will get fifty thousand dollars, which she will share with her lover, but it isn't going to be that easy because the husband shows no signs of dying. So these two begin to think about how to get rid of him. The wife mustn't have anything to do with the ... the getting rid of the husband.

That would be completely fatal. His death must appear to be an accident without the wife being involved in any way."

"You've really thought about this, haven't you, John?" she said, looking at him, her cobalt eyes intent. "Go on... so what happens?" "Suppose the husband is keen on gardening. Suppose he has a miniature pond," Anson said, his voice a little husky. "One Saturday afternoon, the wife goes down to the shops, leaving her husband working in the garden. He falls off a ladder and hits his head on the side of the pond ... his face goes into the water and when the wife returns, she finds him drowned. Of course, what really happened is the insurance salesman has knocked the husband over the head and drowned him in the pond."

Neither of them looked at each other. Anson felt rather than saw Meg suppress a shudder. She said, "But what about this man you were talking about... Maddox? The man in charge of the Claims department?"

Anson took another drink. He had nothing to worry about now, he told himself. She was ready to co-operate with him.

She had abruptly brought the story back into real life by mentioning Maddox. She was ready to be rid of her husband.

He was sure of that if he could convince her he could do it with safety and with profit.

"Yes: there's Maddox. We mustn't underestimate him. He's dangerous, but he does think in a groove. Man and wife: man insures his life for fifty thousand dollars and suddenly dies. How about the wife? That's the way his mind works. It is essential to our plan that you have a cast-iron alibi. He must be absolutely convinced that you couldn't have had anything to do with your husband's death. Once he is convinced of that, he'll let the claim go through. I can convince him."

She picked up the poker and stirred the fire.

"So if I went into Pru Town while you ... you handled Phil, it would be all right?" she asked as calmly and as casually as if they were discussing a movie they had seen.

"That's the way I see it," Anson said. He finished the whisky and sat up. "Do you like the idea?"

She turned slowly and stared at him.

"Oh, yes, John, I like it. If only you knew how this drab life with him is crushing me! Fifty thousand dollars! I can't believe it ... all that money and my freedom!"

Anson felt a chill of uneasiness run through him. This was too easy, he thought. She has either been planning to murder Barlowe for months or she doesn't realize what she is getting into. It's too easy.

"The money would come to you," he said, looking intently at her. "I would have to trust you to share it with me. I need the money badly, Meg."

She got to her feet.

"Let's go upstairs."

The expression in her eyes wiped out his uneasiness.

Somewhere downstairs a clock chimed five. Through the open window, the first grey light of the dawn made light enough for Anson to look around the shabby bedroom.

He grimaced at its poverty, and then looked at Meg, lying by his side. The grey light softened her features. She looked younger and even more beautiful.

"Meg..."

She stirred, murmured something and her hand touched his naked chest.

"Asleep?"

She opened her eyes and looked blankly at him, then she smiled

"Not really ... dozing ..."

"Me too." He slid his arm around her, pulling her to him. "I've been thinking; you really want to go ahead with this thing? It's not just: something you're imagining is going to happen in one of your stories?"

"I want to go ahead with it. I can't go on living this way. I must have money ..."

"That's the way I feel, but it won't be easy. There is a lot to think about. We've only just started; we're only on the fringe of this thing."

She was now fully awake and she sat up. "I'll get some coffee. Let's talk. We may not get the chance again ... not to have a real talk."

She was right of course. After this, he knew he would have to be very careful about seeing her again. If Maddox ever found out they were lovers, the plan forming in his mind would be cooked.

He waited for her, listening to her moving around downstairs. She came back eventually with coffee and set the tray on a table by the bed.

She had on a pale green nylon nightdress that was completely transparent, but now Anson could look at her without feeling the desperate urge to possess her, for their love making had been long and satisfying.

She poured a cup of coffee and gave it to him. "If we do it ... you're sure it will work?" she asked, sitting on the edge of the bed while she poured herself a cup.

Her attitude not only made him uneasy, but it irritated him. She couldn't be so utterly cold-blooded as she sounded, he thought. She just didn't realize what they were planning.

"No, I'm not sure," he said, determined to make her realize the danger of this thing. "It will take time. I'll have to plan every move. But first I want to be absolutely certain you're really willing ... you really want to do this thing." She made an impatient movement. "Of course I do."

"Do you realize what we are planning to do?" Anson paused, then went on, speaking slowly and deliberately, "We are going to commit a murder! Do you realize that?"

He was watching her. Her expression hardened, but she didn't flinch.

'"You heard me, Meg? We are going to commit murder!"

"I know." She looked at him, her mouth set in a determined line. "Does it frighten you?"

He drew in a deep breath.

"Yes ... it frightens me. Doesn't it frighten you?"

Again she made an impatient movement.

"I can't even feel sorry for him. I've had to live with him for nearly a year. I've thought for months now how happy I could be if he were dead ..."

"You could have divorced him," Anson said, staring at her.

"Where would that get me? At least I have a roof and food -no other woman but a mug like me would look at him ...and now I won't have him near me. You don't imagine he sleeps in this bed, do you? I lock him out. I've locked him out ever since our first horrible night together. You don't know ... he's vile ... he's ..." She stopped grimaced. "I'm not talking about it. Some men have these kinks ... he has ... I'll be glad when he's dead!"

Anson relaxed. Now he could understand her indifference. At last, he had found someone he could work with. This woman wouldn't let him down.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know it was as bad as that. Well, all right ... we'll use him, but you must think about it. If I make a mistake, you'll be involved. Don't kid yourself the jury will be kind to you. A woman who helps to murder her husband for gain gets a pretty rugged time." "Why should you make a mistake?" Anson smiled mirthlessly.

"Murder is a funny thing. You can plan carefully and you can be awfully smart, but you can still make a mistake and you have only to make one mistake."

"Is that what you are going to do?" She put down her cup and lit a cigarette. "I don't think so, John. I have faith in you. I think you're clever enough not to make a mistake."

"Have you any money?" he asked abruptly. "I want three thousand dollars if I'm going to work this the way it has to be worked."

"Three thousand dollars?" She stared at him. "I haven't even twenty dollars to call my own."

He had expected that. He had thought it would be too good to be true if she had the money he needed.- "All right...forget it... I'll get it somehow." "But why do you want three thousand dollars?" she asked curiously, staring at him.

Anson felt an impulse to be dramatic. He flicked aside the sheet so she could see the horrible bruise that discoloured the skin of his stomach.

Meg caught her breath.

"What happened? That must be terribly painful ... John! What happened?"

He flicked the sheet over himself. Her concern made the encounter with Hogan now trifling.

Staring up at the ceiling he told her about Hogan and he told her about Bernstein.

"I'm in trouble," he concluded. "I must have money. For months now I have been hunting for a way out. Now I have found you. The two of us will escape together at the cost of a man's life."

"You owe this bookmaker a thousand ... why do you need three thousand?" Meg asked.

"I need two thousand to cover the first premium on a fifty thousand dollar life policy," Anson told her. "Until the first premium is paid, we can't even think about how we can get rid of your husband. So ... somehow ... I have to raise three thousand dollars." He leaned back against the pillows, looking out of the dirt grimed window at the rising sun. "I'll have to steal it." He looked at her and grinned. "One thing leads to another, doesn't it? When you get involved in murder, you go the whole way or you don't go at all."

"Steal it? What do you mean?" He put his hand on her thigh.

"Just that. I must have three thousand dollars. It shouldn't be difficult. I'm committed now. I must find some way to get it." There was a pause, then as she said nothing, but stared quizzingly at him, he went on, "What kind of man is your husband business-wise?"

She made a contemptuous movement.

"All he thinks about ... apart from sex ... is flowers."

"Suppose he has papers to sign? Would he read all the details, including the small print? Is he cautious about what he signs? Some people read every word: others sign without reading anything. This is important. Would he want to read every word of an insurance policy before he signed?"

"No, but he would never sign an insurance policy."

"Just suppose he had a policy in front of him with three or maybe four copies ... would he check them all?"

"He wouldn't. He's not like that."

Anson finished his coffee and set down the cup.

"That's all I want to know ... it'll do for a start." He leaned forward and pulled her down beside him. "You really want to go ahead with this thing, Meg? Once you're in it, there'll be no turning back."

She ran her fingers through his blond hair.

"Why do you keep doubting me?" she asked. "/ said I'll do it with you. Don't you understand? To have you and all that money, I'll take any risk."

In the silence of the bedroom with the first rays of the sun striking the dusty mirror above the dressing-table, feeling her fingers caressing through his hair and down the back of his neck, Anson was stupid enough to believe her.

It was while he was eating an under-done egg and burned toast that Anson happened to notice something in a frame, hanging on the wall opposite to where he was sitting.

"What's that?" he asked, pointing a buttery knife. "What's that on the wall?"

Meg was sipping coffee. The time was ten minutes past eight. She was now wearing a shabby green wrap that was none too clean. Her hair was tousled, but in spite of the lack of make-up, she still looked sensually and excitingly beautiful.

She glanced in the direction to which he was pointing.

"Oh, that's Phil's. He's very proud of it. It's a certificate for shooting. Phil is quite a shot."

Anson pushed back his chair and crossed the room and examined the ornate certificate in its black frame. He read that the certificate had been awarded by the Pru's Town Small Arms and Target Club to Philip Barlowe for winning the first prize in the .38 revolver shooting tournament held last March.

Anson walked thoughtfully back to the table. He sat down and pushed aside his half eaten egg. His expression was so thoughtful that Meg looked enquiringly at him.

"What is it, John?"

"So he shoots," Anson said.

"Not now, but he used to. He hasn't done any shooting for nearly a year. I wish be would go to his dreary club. He would be out of my way."

"He owns a gun?" Anson asked.

"Yes," Meg said, frowning. "What's on your mind now, John?"

"Is the gun here... in the house?"

"Yes." She nodded to the ugly sideboard. "In there."

"I would like to see it."

"See it? But why?"

"May I see it?"

She shrugged, got to her feet and went to the sideboard. She pulled open a drawer and took from it a wooden box which she put on the table.

Anson opened the box to find it contained a .38 police Special, a spare clip and a box of cartridges.