Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

The Hard Cure by Richard M. Rose

Dark, deadly was the game they played, the girl who had nothing but her evil beauty and the man who had everything — except a chance to stay alive this night.

Brad Stockwell’s fingertips tingled against the cold handle of the .22 automatic in his lap. The .22 had a familiar feel to it, even though he hadn’t used one since Korea. It was almost like shaking hands with an old friend. And his friend would serve him well tonight.

Stockwell lowered the binoculars, and the figure on the beach below shrank into a bronze speck on a glare of sand. But even at that distance, before he’d confirmed it with the binoculars, he was sure that speck was Gloria.

She’d made it easier for him to find her this time. Once he’d known it was Carmel, he had only to check the tourist accommodations, concentrating on the out-of-the-way rentals. The expensive ones.

The Oceanside Cabanas were both private and expensive. The eight prim white structures, Spanish styled, with tiled patios, stretched out along an isolated beach about five miles from Carmel. Yes, just the kind of place she’d choose for her latest affair, Stockwell thought bitterly. Her latest and last!

As he watched from the front seat of his ’70 Thunderbird, parked just off the asphalt road winding along the edge of the steep bluff, the bronze speck below began to move toward the bungalow at the extreme right.

Stockwell raised the binoculars again, and the image of Gloria, his wife, jumped sharply into focus. He watched her glide across the sand, her exquisite body accentuated by a bright turquoise bikini about the size of a G-string. The sight took the wind out of him like a fist in the stomach.

She still had that impact, even after ten long years of her. Her hips were fuller now, the pert breasts not quite so firm, the blonde hair coarser. But the girlish waist, the long model’s legs, the lovely oval face with its full sensuous mouth and luminous green eyes seemed to have survived the years unaltered by time.

Brad Stockwell’s breath came shudderingly as he watched her and wondered what kind of man she’d picked this time — if he’d know him. He doubted it. Gloria had tired of the local country club studs long ago. But no one was following her to the cabana. Stockwell panned the beach with the binoculars. A few people lingered in deck chairs, soaking up the waning sunshine as the blue-green waters of the Pacific slashed noisily at the shore.

Probably in the cabana, Stockwell thought, lowering the binoculars. Or maybe he hadn’t shown yet. He hoped that was it. He had nothing against the man. There had been too many men. You couldn’t hate them all.

Brad Stockwell lit up a cigarette from the dash lighter and leaned back to watch the sun make its spectacular descent into the sea. The cigarette had no taste. He felt completely dead inside. The last bullet in the .22 would only make it official.

It hadn’t always been that way. Not even during those hellish days in Korea, where a combat engineer was open season for Gook snipers. He’d had the dream to sustain him through them. Stockwell & Company, engineers extraordinary. Build a bridge or blast a tunnel anywhere. Africa, South America, the challenging places. That was for him.

For him, but not for Gloria. Not for a girl whose idea of roughing it was traveling tourist. So the dream had to go. And in its place, the plush house in Burbank, the country club, the cottage at Tahoe, and Gloria. All of which cost money, lots of it, especially Gloria. But the money came easy. As easy as throwing up a shopping center or housing development.

A far cry from the dream, but he could take it as long as he had Gloria.

That was the joker. He hadn’t had her very long. And yet he couldn’t let go. She was his sickness and there was no cure. Not until now. He’d finally found the answer. The final medication to all the years of pain and humiliation.

Stockwell stabbed out the cigarette in the ash tray. It was time. Darkness had descended like a black shroud, wrapping itself around him. The proper mantle for what he had to do.

First he had to know if she was alone. He got out of the car and walked along the crest of the bluff to the carport that belonged to Gloria’s cabana. The Ford Fairlane in the carport looked like a rental. The door was unlocked.

Stockwell found the rental papers inside the glove compartment, made out in Gloria’s name. He found something else too. On the floor, a crumpled cigarette pack. The brand was strong, unfiltered, not like the mild cigarettes Gloria smoked. A man’s brand. His question was answered.

He started cautiously down the steps to the beach. Lights spilled from most of the bungalows below. A mixture of laughter and music drifted toward him with the slight breeze carrying the dank fragrance of the ocean. Someone having a party, he thought. But no one in sight. Good.

He reached the beach. Sand got into his shoes as he waded toward Gloria’s bungalow.

It looked completely dark. Stock-well stopped a few yards away and listened. There were no sounds but the rhythmic roll and slap of the surf minging with the tinkle of music and laughter.

He hoped they wouldn’t be making love when he found them, that he’d be spared that final humiliation. The screen door at the back complained slightly as he eased it open. He was relieved to find the inner door was open. Now that he’d come this far, he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Inside he paused to let his eyes adjust to the blackness. There was no sound except the whisper of his own cautious breathing. Gradually, the forms of an ice box and stove took shape in the darkness. An even blacker opening to the right showed him the way to the living room. He started through it, feeling his way as if he were walking barefoot on broken glass. His palms were sweaty now, the gun hot in his grip.

He stopped, his heart pounding wildly. He’d remembered how it had been in Korea — the prisoners the Gooks left behind, on their knees as if in prayer, their brains splattered all over the ground.

The gun was like a hot poker in his hand now. He must be crazy to think he could kill like that, like the Gooks. No, only one bullet in the gun would be necessary. The one reserved for himself.

He started to raise the gun, turning it toward his temple, when he saw it! There in the darkness, a dull tip of light. He watched it float up, glowing brighter. A face began to materialize. Gloria’s face, eerily illuminated, suspended in blackness.

Maybe he was crazy. Then he saw the cigarette between the smiling lips. And her voice, soft and mocking.

“Hello, darling. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Something hard jammed painfully against the base of Stockwell’s spine. Another voice, a man’s, said, “Easy, Stockwell! Just drop the gun and this thing won’t go off.”

Stockwell did as he was told, blinking in the sudden flare of light from the table lamp. Gloria was curled up in the arm chair next to the lamp, her long model’s legs protruding from a turquoise shift. Her sensuous mouth was smiling its usual mocking smile.

“Darling, how nice of you to drop in.”

“Hello, Gloria,” Brad Stockwell said thickly.

“Get his gun, baby,” the man behind him said. “Keep him covered while I tie him up.”

Gloria uncurled herself from the chair and picked up the .22 at Brad’s feet.

Her gun. He’d bought it for her when they were first married. He watched her thumb off the safety with a long polished nail, the way he’d taught her, and level the gun at his stomach. The pressure left his spine. A moment later his arms were jerked painfully behind his back, and something that felt like soft cloth was being wrapped tightly around his wrists.

“That won’t be necessary,” Stockwell said. “I’m over the revenge obsession.”

The voice behind him snarled a reply.

“Okay. On the couch, Stockwell!”

Stockwell felt a hand shove him roughly toward the long beige couch. He was surprised by the sudden flash of anger that surged through him. He spun around to confront the man, Gloria’s latest lover.

Stockwell’s jaw dropped. That he didn’t know the man was no surprise. What threw him was the man’s general resemblance to himself. About the same medium height and build, with thick arms and calves, a taunt face a little too rugged to be called handsome, even the greying crew cut. Except the man’s face was younger, and his body, clad only in black skin-tight swim trunks, looked hard where his had gone soft.

The man put out a big hairy hand against his chest and pushed him down onto the couch. A moment later Brad Stockwell was staring into the barrel of an ugly looking Luger.

“Oh, my, where are my manners?” Gloria said, with a little theatrical pout of self reproach. “Darling, meet Stanley Teal. Stanley, my husband.” She said husband as if it were a dirty word.

Teal’s deeply tanned face was split by a shark-like smile that exposed two rows of flashing white teeth.

“We didn’t expect you to come with a gun, Stockwell. Lucky thing Gloria spotted your car up there on the bluff.”

Brad Stockwell didn’t understand. They’d expected him. How could they? And why?

“Yes, that was terribly melodramatic of you, darling,” his wife said, flourishing the .22. “Were you really going to use this?”

“That was the idea.”

“Well, I’m impressed, darling,” Gloria said in that mocking tone that went with the smile. “I thought you’d come crawling, begging me to come back, like the other times.”

“No more crawling,” Stockwell said, the old hurt creeping into his stomach. “No more anything. Just give me five minutes alone. With the gun.”

Gloria studied him a moment, then grimaced skeptically. “Suicide? Oh, come on, darling. If we could believe that we wouldn’t have to kill you, would we?”

It took several seconds for the words to register. Several more for Brad Stockwell to believe them. But as he stared at her, saw the flush of excitement in her cheeks, he knew it was true.

“So you finally seduced somebody into murdering for you.”

Teal’s teeth flashed. “The only way, Stockwell. Gloria knew you’d never give her a divorce.”

Stockwell looked hard at Teal. In the old days, when he was bulldozing roads out of Central American jungle, he could have taken Teal. Maybe he still could.

“Where did you find this one, Gloria? Doing push-ups at the Y?”

Teal’s eyes narrowed. Colorless eyes, like dried ice. “Don’t make it hard on yourself, Stockwell. I can hurt you bad first, if that’s the way you want it.”

“No!” Gloria’s voice snapped. Then, more calmly, “We can’t take a chance, lover. It has to look like an accident.”

Brad Stockwell forced a stiff grin. “Accident, eh? Better make it look good, Gloria. With your track record with men, the police will take a very long, hard look at a dead husband.”

“It will look good, darling husband,” Gloria said, smirking confidently. “We’ve planned everything, you see. And the first thing we had to do was get you here, where people don’t know us.”

“I see,” Brad said. “I thought that tourist pamphlet of Carmel on your dresser drawer was a little too convenient.”

“But you still took the bait, didn’t you? Came running right to mama. Of course, we didn’t expect you to come with a gun, but it worked anyway.”

“Kind of a roundabout way of setting me up,” Brad Stockwell said. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”

Gloria laughed as if the idea was absurd. “I’m sorry, darling, but I really think I could have been convincing. I’ve grown too fond of hating you. Besides, a sudden change of heart might have made you suspicious.”

It might have at that, Stockwell admitted to himself. This way he’d walked right into it like a hick into a carnival sideshow.

“You see, this whole thing depends on people believing we’ve reconciled,” Gloria explained, laying the gun on the table. She removed a cigarette from a silver case and clicked a lighter. “Second honeymoon and all. I’ve already told a few of our so-called friends in Burbank.”

“Second honeymoon. Maybe some people will wonder why we didn’t come here together.”

“Why, darling, don’t you remember?” Gloria said, smoking extravagantly. “You had some business to clean up before you could join me.”

“Well, now that I’ve joined you, what happens? Don’t tell me you planned to have me accidentally shoot myself.”

Gloria laughed her mocking laugh. “Nothing so crude, darling. It’s really perfectly simple. Stanley has kept out of sight until now. Tomorrow he becomes you. People will see us laughing and cuddling fondly on the beach. They’ll think, my, what a happy couple!”

Stockwell felt the anger stirring in him again. Gloria was getting such a damned kick out of this. He blurted a harsh laugh, saying, “Do you really think Stanley here can pass for me?”

“Of course. Stanley’s about your height and build. The crew cut and a little touch of grey in his hair was enough to make him a suitable double. Remember, these people don’t know you, darling. Stanley only has to look enough like you for no one to get suspicious later.”

As Gloria talked, the whole thing began to fall into shape for Stock-well. He already knew the answer, but he asked the question anyway.

“And where will I be all this time?”

“You’ll be dead, Stockwell!”

Stockwell had almost forgotten Stanley Teal was in the room. Now as he looked at the hard colorless eyes and the shark smile, he knew Gloria had picked well. Stanley Teal would kill for her.

Gloria rose from the chair. “Tell him how it will be, lover. I’m going to mix myself a martini. Join me?”

“Later, baby. After it’s over.”

Brad Stockwell saw Stanley Teal’s eyes follow Gloria hungrily as she went into the kitchen. If his hands had been free, he’d have jumped Teal then. He wanted to put a fist through that shark smile. He tried to twist his wrists to loosen the cloth, but it was no use. It would take time to work those bonds loose. And the Luger in Teal’s hand said time was running out.

Hoarsely, he said, “Yes, tell me, Stanley. Tell me how you’re going to commit the perfect murder.”

“Not murder, Stockwell. An accident, remember. You get a cramp and drown. With witnesses. That’s the beauty of it. But you go tonight. Can’t take any chances of your getting loose.”

“I hope I don’t embarrass you by washing up too early.”

Teal chuckled deep in his throat. “No way, Stockwell. Here’s how it happens. We give you a shot to knock you out. We put a bathing suit on you, like the one I’m wearing. Then along about one or two, when everything’s quiet, I take you out in my rubber life raft. Way out, about half a mile. Then I drown you.

“You’ll be just conscious enough to get water in your lungs. I untie your hands. You’ll notice I used a silk cloth so as not to leave marks. I use another piece of cloth to tie your feel to a hundred-pound weight, but this cloth has been chemically treated to decompose in about seventy-two hours. Get the picture?”

Brad Stockwell got the picture all too clearly. He would not wash up early. And when he did, his body would be so bloated and disfigured that no one would doubt he wasn’t the same man they’d seen on the beach with Gloria.

Now Brad felt the anger swelling inside him like a living thing. But it was too late for anger, too late for anything. Teal had tucked the barrel of the Luger into his trunks and was taking something out of the table drawer. A small case the size of a jewelry case. He opened it and removed a hypodermic syringe.

“You said there would be witnesses,” Brad Stockwell said, his brain spinning. Damned if he was going to let them just wrap him up and throw him away like so much garbage! But all he could do was stall, try to figure a way out. “Do you really think you can fake a drowning?”

“Stanley’s an expert swimmer, darling,” Gloria said, as she returned from the kitchen with the familiar martini. “He’ll make it look good.”

“Better than good,” Teal added. He carefully filled the hypo from a plastic ampoule. “I’ve got a tank with fifty pounds of air. I’ll sink it about a hundred yards off shore tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll simply swim around until I find it. Then I’ll go into my drowning act.”

“And no one will see him come up,” Gloria said, easing into the armchair. She popped an olive between her mocking lips and gnawed on the pit. “He’ll swim under water for about a mile. We’ve got a suitcase hidden there with clothes and money. Later, after it’s dark, he’ll walk into Carmel and catch a bus for the airport. Simple, isn’t it, darling?”

Yes, very simple, Stockwell thought bitterly. For the first time he began to think they could get away with it.

Stanley Teal had finished filling the hypo. He tested it, squirting a drop into the air, his shark smile stretching.

“Now, Stockwell. A little something to give you a good night’s sleep.”

This is it, Stockwell thought. He could put up a struggle, but Teal would hold him down while Gloria gave him the shot. No good. His eyes swept the room, saw Gloria’s face, her eyes glowing with excitement, the martini trembling in her hand. Then he spotted it... the .22 on the table next to her. One chance!

He threw back his head and forced the laughter, great choking gushes of laughter.

“Something funny, Stockwell?” Teal said, the smile souring.

“Yes. Something’s funny!” Brad Stockwell gasped. “You, you poor son! You’re funny!”

The white teeth clicked together. “You got a big mouth for a dead man, Stockwell.”

Brad Stockwell choked out more laughter. “That’s just it, Stanley. You shove that needle in me and you’ll be as dead as me. Tell him, Gloria. Tell him about the money you’ll get when you’re a widow.”

“I know about the money—” Teal began.

“Let’s see, there’s the hundred thousand in insurance. And the business. Well, she should be able to get at least half a million for that. Which leaves her a moderately wealthy widow, Stanley. But where does it leave you?”

“You don’t get the picture, Stock-well. We’re crazy about each other.”

Brad Stockwell laughed again and felt his jaw rattled by the back of Teal’s left hand. Good, he thought. Getting to you, Stanley.

“I’ve got news for you, sucker,” he said. “She’ll have her fill of you in six months. But you’ll be easier to get rid of than me. Because she’ll have the money. She can buy your death as casually as she buys a new hat.”

“Shut up!” This time it was Gloria who spoke, her face all twisted with hate.

Brad Stockwell ignored her, the words tumbling from his throbbing mouth like broken teeth. “Did you think your resembling me was a coincidence, Stanley? Don’t you know you were hand-picked? She needed an expert swimmer, someone with my general height and build. Now tell me, Stanley. Tell me how this whole accidental drowning scene was your idea.”

“You bastard!” Gloria shrieked. She was on her feet now, her lovely body as rigid as death.

Even Stanley Teal’s face had lost some of its deep tan. “It looks like you want it the hard way, Stock-well!”

Stockwell watched the big hand raise and shrank back against the couch. He’d shaken Teal up enough to make him careless. He’d have one shot. Just one. It would have to be good.

As Stanley Teal stepped forward, his hand sweeping toward his face, Stockwell stabbed out with his right foot. He felt a wet spray of spittle as the toe of his shoe sank into Teal’s groin, jarring the gun from his trunks. Teal dropped the hypo, and staggered like a drunk, his face sculptured in pain.

Brad Stockwell was off the sofa like a shot, hurtling his one hundred and seventy pounds at Gloria. He hit her with a shoulder block. The impact sent her spinning back like a paper doll caught in a draft. Her head made an ugy sound as it struck the oak paneled wall. She collapsed into a silent heap.

Brad Stockwell didn’t look at her. He had only one thought now. The .22. He’d hoped the kick would put Teal out of commission long enough to work his hands loose. But Teal was a tough one. He’d sagged to his knees, clawing at his groin, his eyes glazed, uncomprehending.

But in a moment Stockwell knew he’d recover enough to pounce on him. Not enough time to get loose. But if he could get the .22...

He backed against the table, his fingers feeling for the gun. Teal was already shaking his head, shoving himself groggily to his feet. Stockwell leaned back further, his fingers probing, probing. He knew Teal couldn’t see the gun behind him and prayed he’d forgotten it was there. That might buy him a few more seconds.

But time had run out. Stanley Teal was on his feet now, his eyes blazing with hate. His voice rasped in a hoarse, deadly whisper, “I’m going to kill you, Stockwell! Slow, with my hands, where it won’t show! Then, when you’re begging me to end it, I’ll feed you to the fish!”

Stockwell watched Stanley Teal’s big hands flex, the thick fingers stretching, curling, stretching. Suddenly, he felt something cold and metallic. The .22! The fingers of his right hand fumbled at the handle. The gun made a slight scraping noise against the table. Stockwell saw Teal’s eyes question the sound for a second.

It gave him the chance to grip the gun firmly and point it directly behind him. Then Teal’s black eyebrows smashed together. A second later he was lunging at him, a terrible expression on his face.

But Stockwell was already turning, squeezing off the rounds as fast as possible as his body pivoted. By raking the target, he hoped one bullet would connect. The room seemed to erupt with sound that hammered cry between explosions, but a second at his ears. He thought he heard a later Teal’s body smashed against his back, knocking the gun from his hand. Stockwell’s head struck the edge of the table as he pitched face down on the floor.

He lay there for seconds — minutes — he didn’t know. Waves of intense pain swirled inside his head, his vision blurred by a red mist. Slowly the mist parted and the pain in his head subsided into a steady throbbing. He made a feeble effort to move but it was no use. He could feel Teal’s weight on top of him now, pinning him to the floor.

Okay, Stanley Teal, he thought dully. Your turn. Get it over. Had my try.

But nothing happened. The weight on top of him neither moved nor made a sound. Then Stockwell understood.

It was dead weight!

The headlights of the Thunderbird swept along the dual highway, colliding briefly against the sign that glowed out the words, “San Francisco, 60 Miles.” Stockwell’s foot eased on the accelerator and he watched the speedometer needle sink from ninety to seventy. He kept it at a steady seventy.

Some of the tension began to drain from his body for the first time since he’d left that cabin. It had only taken a few minutes to work his hands loose. Stanley Teal was finished. He’d caught two of the slugs, one in the chest, the other in the stomach. But Gloria was just unconscious. She lay crumpled against the wall like a discarded doll.

He’d knelt beside her, his fingers slipping around the neck. He could feel the jugular vein pulsing against his thumbs.

She deserved to die. But the anger in him was dead. So was something else. The hunger for her, the raw gut-aching hunger, stronger than pride, stronger than disgust. Dead! As he looked at her, the mocking lips curled back in an ugly smile, he felt like vomiting. And now he knew exactly what he had to do.

The hypo was undamaged. Using a handkerchief to avoid fingerprints, Stockwell released about half its contents and injected the rest into Gloria’s thigh. That should keep her out for a while. He put the hypo back into the case and tucked it into his pocket.

Then he carried his wife over to where he’d fired the shots. Carefully he wiped his prints off the .22 and put it in her limp right hand. With his hand over hers, he forced her to squeeze off another round. The slug slapped into the opposite wall where some of the others had struck.

Brad Stockwell assumed nobody had heard the shots, or paid any attention to them, or the police would be all over the place by now.

Nonetheless, he scanned the rows of cabanas before he left. Most were dark. And he could detect no movement on the beach. As a final precaution, he smudged the door handle with his hand. It was the only other thing he could remember touching.

Gloria couldn’t have planned it better, Brad Stockwell thought, his eyes fixed on the flowing white ribbon of cement. No one had seen him come or leave. Gloria would take the fall for Stanley Teal all by herself. A lovers’ quarrel, that’s how it would look. Manslaughter at worst, better than she deserved. A good lawyer might even convince a jury it was self-defense.

Brad Stockwell couldn’t care less. He had other things to think about now. Liquidating the business, starting over again some place else. Africa, South America, maybe even India. He’d heard they needed engineers in India.

When the lights of San Francisco glittered at him in the distance, he was whistling, whistling like a kid. He hadn’t done that for a very long time.