For Murder — or Worse

Chapter Four You Kill Me!

I saw the gleam of her eyes as the lids shot up and I heard the harsh intake of breath. Before it could be expelled in a scream, I clamped my hand over her mouth. I imagine it was very like falling onto a live panther. I began to understand why she had felt relatively safe with a stranger. She had an amazing variety of muscles, all of them in excellent tone. She also seemed to be equipped with eight hands, all of them ending in claws, six knees which thumped me with sickening rapidity, while all the time she grunted and made muffled sounds and tried to sink her teeth into the palm of my hand. I protected my face by burrowing it into her neck and whispering as loud as I dared, “Please don’t fight. I want to talk to you.”

Suddenly she lay quite still. I thought it was a ruse. Without removing my hand from her mouth I whispered, “I’m a prisoner in this house, too. I want to help you. I’ve got to talk to you. Please don’t scream when I take my hand away.”

I cautiously took my hand away. As I removed my face from its protected position, a hard little fist came out of nowhere and hit my jaw just under the ear. I sat abruptly on the floor beside the bed. Her face appeared above me. “If you want to talk, talk from there,” she whispered.

The ringing in my ears slowly subsided. Organizing my thoughts in a coherent pattern, I recounted in detail all that had happened to me, starting with the stranger’s request for a change of compartments. What I could not understand were the odd sounds that came from her at intervals during my recountal. It was absurd to think that a girl in her dire situation could giggle, thus it had to be sobs of panic.

I finished and she said, “You went over to Dave and tried to tell him that you were going to kidnap me?”

“Exactly.”

Again she made that odd, muffled sound. I said, “And I do not believe that your sister is a very nice sort of person, Patricia.”

She was silent for a moment. “Did I hurt you, Omar?”

“My face feels as though... considerable areas of it are missing.”

We went into the bathroom. She shut the door and turned on the light. She cluckled with sympathy as she saw my face. I sat on the edge of the tub while she washed the gouges. There was cotton and adhesive tape in the cabinet. She put small bandages over the more serious wounds. She stood and looked at me for a moment. The impudent eyes went soft, suddenly. She put her hands on my shoulders and leaned over and kissed me full on the lips. It was a most odd sensation. I tried to cling to my loyalty to Martha, but in spite of my attempts at immobility I found that I was on my feet and my arms were wrapped around her small frame with a curious tightness.

She murmured, “Omar, you’re kind of cute and silly.”

My guilty conscience forced me to thrust her away. I said firmly, “This is hardly the time to go into character analysis. Tomorrow I shall be expected to shoot Mr. Dermody.”

That sobered her. “But you can’t!”

“That is the cause of the problem, Patricia.”

We turned out the light and went back in and sat side by side on the bed, and I found that her fingers were tightly linked with mine. It was strangely pleasurable.

“What will they do with me?” she demanded.

“Since you are of no further use to him, Patricia, I shall suggest to him that it may be possible to force you to sign a release wherein you state that you came here of your own free will and left when you were ready. If it works, you will be released, and I suggest that you then hasten to the police and convince them that it would be wise to... ah... raid the joint.”

“Gee, you’re cute,” she sighed, resting her head on my shoulder.

“Must you keep saying that?”

She seemed to radiate an air of intense vitality. Accustomed as I am to Martha’s quiet ways, I found her aura most disturbing. In fact, after I had returned to my own room, the memory of her parting kiss kept me tossing with an odd restlessness.

Mr. Artigan, bristling with excitement and determination, joined me at breakfast. I said, “As to Miss Kelly, Mr. Artigan, I feel it would be possible to work out—”

“Skip her, Anderson. What happened to your face?”

“Dull razor,” I said.

“We haven’t got any time to waste. Right now Dermody is in the City Hall on some business. We’ll get him as he comes down the steps. Rather, you will. Artie’s gone out to grab a car. He ought to be back any minute. Artie’ll drive for you. He’s better on a getaway than George is. George’ll be along to cover you just in case. George’ll have the rest of the dough with him. As soon as the job is done they’ll hand it over and drop you at the bus station. You’ll have time to take the first bus out before they clamp the lid on the town. That means I won’t be seeing you again, Anderson. Give my regards to Nicky. Better run up and get your bag. I think Artie’s out there now.”

“But Miss Kelly—”

“Skip that. That’s our problem. There won’t be any trouble about her. I can promise you that.”

I had no time to think, they hurried me so. Artie had stolen a small green sedan. George and my suitcase were in back. I had placed the box of our new items in the suitcase with the sole exception of the Zing-Bang pistol, which was tucked into my belt. I sat beside Artie. He seemed awfully nervous, but George, in the back seat, minus his chauffeur’s uniform, was humming happily, checking the load in his silenced pistol.

Artie drove fast and expertly, but without breaking any traffic laws. I had a difficult time swallowing a lump that kept coming up into my throat. They parked across from the wide marble steps of the City Hall. A small man standing on the corner made a furtive gesture with his hand and scurried away.

“Good,” said Artie, “He’s still in there.”

“Artigan says do it this way,” George said in his silky voice, “Get over there on the other side like you were waiting for a bus. Dermody’s wearing grey slacks and a white sport jacket, a tan straw hat with a green and grey ribbon. He’s tall and heavy. When we spot him, we’ll roll the car forward a few feet. You keep watching us. We’ll be covering you every minute, baby. This would be a hell of a time to cross Artigan, believe me. Walk along the sidewalk and time it so you get him when he’s halfway down the steps. Empty that cannon of yours into his fat belly and then sprint for that corner down there. We’ll be going around the corner with the door open just as you get there. Pile in fast and we’ll dump you at the Greyhound Station in four minutes. There’s a bus to L.A. leaving at nine ten. You ought to make it okay.”

I walked woodenly across the street. It seemed that all colors were intensified. The sun shone brightly and it was a very poor day for dying. All the women were beautiful and the air smelled sweet, even impregnated as it was with gasoline fumes.

Sweat ran in streams down my ribs. In too brief a time the green sedan moved forward. I turned slowly and saw the man they had described coming out of the City Hall. He was smiling and chatting with another man of much the same type. No policeman had appeared to resolve my dilemma. My mind had ceased to function. All I could think of was the deadly weapon in George’s capable hand. I walked slowly along the sunlit sidewalk, stopped and turned, looking up the wide marble steps. Mr. Dermody glanced at me. I gave him what I guess must have been a painfully shy smile as I took our new product out. I pointed it at him. The man with Dermody gave a little yelp and scrambled back up the steps. Dermody stared at what I must admit is a most vicious looking weapon, his face slowly going grey.

The spring was wound tight, I knew. I pressed the trigger. I must admit that at that moment I felt a certain disgust with our new product. You might say that the brisk snapping of our loudest variety of caps was somewhat anticlimatic, and the built-in siren of which I was so proud sounded merely like a tin whistle. The entire eight caps exploded, however.

Mr. Dermody’s eyes rolled back up into his head and he pitched forward down the steps. I was frozen with horror as I saw his head hit the steps, heard the sickening crack it made. The straw hat rolled down to my feet. Women screamed and men yelled hoarsely. A victim of real panic, I ran for the corner. The car was there, moving slowly, the door open, as George had promised.

I piled in, much too frightened to do anything except gasp for air. George reached over from the back seat and twisted our new product out of my slippery hand. He examined it and said a number of very bad words.

“Bus station ahead,” Artie said.

“Skip it,” George growled, “We’re taking this screwball back to the house.”

George and I dropped off as Artie sped on to dispose of the stolen car. George prodded me roughly in the small of the back with the gun he held as we went up the drive to the side door.

Artigan stood at the foot of the stairs and his eyes widened as I came in, wincing each time George’s gun jabbed me.

“Just what the hell is this?” Artigan demanded.

George handed him the gun. “Ask this guy, boss. This is what he shot Dermody with.”

Artigan examined the weapon with an intensely bewildered expression. I said, using a portion of my planned speech, “You will notice that the caps can be easily inserted by sliding the butt plate down. The spring is of the best quality steel available and guaranteed to—”

“Shut your face,” Artigan said. The hall phone rang. He picked it up. He listened for a few minutes and then roared, “How the hell do I know?” He slammed the phone back on the cradle and rocked from side to side.

“That,” he said, “was our friend from Homicide. Dermody’s dead. Heart attack. They got twenty witnesses some screwball fires at him with a cap gun and he drops dead. He wants to know what he should do next.”

My heart sank. I knew that despite what legal interpretation was made of the matter, I was ethically guilty of murder — murder in the first degree.

“Take this clown in my office and hold a gun on him, George. I’m going to take a chance and phone Nicky.”

We had a long and uncomfortable wait in the office. George hummed softly. The slow minutes crept by. When Artigan came in he looked like a man who might drop any moment from weariness.

He stared at me. “All right. You’re not Jumpy Anderson. You don’t match the description. Just who the hell are you?”

“I am Omar Dudley, Sales Manager of the Idle Hour Novelties Company. I am afraid that your Mr. Anderson was killed in such a way that it was thought that I was killed. At least I experienced the rather extraordinary sensation of reading an account of my own death.”

Artigan stared at me. He smiled, but there was something in that smile which had the same effect as a trickle of ice water down the spine. “I regret, Mr. Dudley, that you have become so well informed on our particular problems. You are a man of honor, I imagine.”

“Of course.”

“That makes it quite impossible for you to be released. Your honor would send you running to the law, wouldn’t it?”

“Of course,” I said.

“We saw no reason last night to keep you out of the Kelly girl’s room. She was the dull razor, I imagine. I suppose you had a nice long chat with her.”

“No,” I said, too quickly and too loudly.

He still wore his smile. I wondered how I had ever managed to see him as a distinguished-looking man.

“I don’t like to be crude, Mr. Dudley. I am going to have to keep you in this room under guard. We’ll have the Kelly girl brought down and guarded here also. You can tell her, if you see fit, that your futures are pretty limited.”

I could not get the dryness out of my mouth. “What do you mean?”

“Tonight we’re going to take the two of you on a moonlight boat ride, complete with cinder blocks and wire.”

“Isn’t that a bit... extreme?”

“This is an extreme situation, Mr. Dudley.”

He left and soon Patricia was thrust forcibly into the room. She saw at once that I had been properly identified. George seemed quietly amused. He sat behind the desk with the gun on the blotter in front of him. Patricia and I were seated on straight chairs, some five feet apart, the chairs backed up against the wall some six feet from the desk. George had no objection to our talking with each other. I brought her up to date.

Contrary to what I had been led to believe, the condemned were not given a hearty meal. We were given no meal at all. Oddly enough it was this deliberate oversight which finally broke down the final barrier of disbelief in my mind. As I have mentioned, I am a mild man of even temper. Also, I am logical. Logic was difficult to achieve when I could look over and see the slender line of Patricia’s throat, the stubborn little chin, the impudent nose. However, I managed. Logic said that if we were to die — and Artigan had no purpose in bluffing us — then any risk taken to avoid that dire end was justified. Also, following the same pattern, if Patricia were to be of maximum use to me, she should be informed of her fate-to-be. I told her. She turned as white as paper, then slowly the color came back. Her chin went up and her eyes narrowed. I managed to give her a long and solemn wink, hoping that it would infer to her that I intended to make some effort.

To test George’s reactions I made a sudden movement. Even before I had completed it the ugly muzzle of the gun pointed at a spot between my eyes.

“Careful, baby,” he whispered.

After considerable thought, I asked him if I might get a fresh handkerchief from my suitcase.

“Go ahead. But don’t try anything.”

He watched me carefully and made me lift the suitcase up onto a chair where he could see more clearly. My box of samples was open. I very casually took our new Super-Dribble Glass and set it on the edge of the desk. I palmed the Wiggly without any clear idea of how I would use it. Taking a fresh handkerchief I sat down.

After what seemed a suitable interval, I remarked that I was thirsty. Patricia said that she was thirsty also. George was inclined to ignore us. Patricia began to plead with him. The small bar was off to his left. He opened it, stuck glasses under the tap, then placed them on the edge of the desk. We drank, and I made myself drink noisily, a mannerism that I detested.

Opening the bar exposed the line of bottles. I saw George run his tongue along his lips. At last he reached out and took the glass that had come from my suitcase. As he did so, I slowly pulled my feet back under my chair, preparing to move with all the speed of which I was capable. He poured two fingers of whisky into the Super-Dribble, put in two ice cubes and filled it from the soda syphon.

As I was instrumental in suggesting the design and working with our technicians while they perfected it, I knew the precise angle which would activate the spring in the base.

George tilted the glass to his lips. He took two sips and then the glass reached the proper angle. The whisky and soda was hurled full into his face, forcing itself up his nose and flooding his eyes. As it did so, I lunged for the desk. His hand slapped for the gun, but his aim was bad. I had it first. I reversed it and in my haste I inadvertently pulled the trigger. The silencer was extremely effective. There was a tiny coughing sound and the slug removed the lobe of George’s left ear before burying itself in the paneling behind him.

His hands went up as though they were tied to springs. He was still gasping and choking.

“Let’s go, honey,” Patricia said.

I backed to the door, keeping George covered. I believe that is the correct expression. I found the knob behind me and opened the door. Much to my dismay, a hard object was prodded into my back and I recognized Brenda’s voice as she said, “Drop that, you naughty boy.”

My finger inadvertently convulsed on the trigger. The impact of the slug spun George in a half circle in the swivel chair. The gun slid out of my hand.

“Get back in there!” Brenda said.

George’s back was to us, his chin on his chest. I wondered if he were dead. Oddly enough, I didn’t seem to care. I put my hands over my head. The Wiggly was still in my left hand. With my hands in the air I wound it up.

Brenda went around the desk to take a look at George, the gun in her hand aimed in our general direction, her left hand resting on the desk top. I risked setting the Wiggly down on the desk top. It began to scuttle busily toward her hand.

She did not notice it until it actually touched her hand, its mechanical legs working busily, sliding on the smooth wood of the desk.

When she saw it she gave a strangled scream and fell back onto George.

It was then that Patricia proved that she had the true salesman’s instinct for improvisation. She leaned across the desk and as Brenda came up, she swung that hard little fist the same way she had used it on me. But this time she had more elbow room and the light was better. Brenda stood for a fraction of a second, her eyes glazed and faintly crossed, and then she went down onto George again.

Patricia snatched up Brenda’s gun and I took the one I had dropped on the floor. Soong met us in the hallway. He gave a high, thin cry and raced for the kitchen. We went down and out the door. The big blue sedan was there and I jumped behind the wheel. The key was in the ignition and the motor caught at once. As we streaked toward the big closed gate Patricia leaned out the window on her side, yelling, “Eeee-YAH-hoooo!”

The big gate offered only momentary resistance. The tires screamed on the street and I turned toward the shopping section.

Patricia stopped yelling long enough to give me advice. We decided against the police station due to the possibility of running into too many friends of Mr. Artigan. She said that as far as she knew, the Pacific City Courier was beholden to no one.

I made a slight mistake in judgment when I pulled up in front of the Courier building. The front bumper sheared off a city hydrant. The hard stream of water, as big around as a man’s thigh, shot up through the motor and was deflected out through the grill in a series of fine, hard streams that reached pedestrians eighty feet away.

In the excitement we ran into the building and up the stairs to the news room on the third floor. In a remarkably short time we were closeted in a big office with the editor-in-chief.

In the extra that came out at six o’clock, our pictures appeared on the first page. It was all most confusing. All I wished to do was to clear myself of criminal intent. It was only incidental that, to quote the managing editor, my testimony should “smash Artigan, break the back of the Pardo mob and give the reform government its first chance in fifteen years.”

They brought food up to us and we ate with enormous hunger. Every once in a while somebody would come in with more flash bulbs and take our pictures. It began to get very wearing. Our Mr. Darben managed to reach me by phone and inform me that he had contacted Mr. Max Idelhaur in the east and had given him the news. He stated that Mr. Idelhaur seemed most pleased over the publicity.

It was at that moment that I remembered the ten thousand dollars. A horrid urge struck me with the force of a blow. If I should say nothing about that money... however that would not be honest. When for a few moments we were left alone, I told Patricia of my oversight, and of my intent to inform the authorities.

I had no idea that her blue eyes could get so hard. “You lunk, don’t you think you ought to have a little payment for mental anguish? We can get in there and get the money.”

“I would have to declare it on my income tax.”

“Go ahead. Declare it. But if you tell these people, some cop is going to drag it home on a string to the wife and babies.”

“How long do we have to stay here?”

“Until the whole crew is rounded up. So far, Artie is the only one missing. And George, bless his flinty little heart, is going to recover.”

At that moment the door opened and a tall girl came in. She reminded me curiously of Martha. The same type.

She said, “You dear people, you! I must trouble you for material for a Sunday feature. Tell me all about your romance. When do you plan to be married?”

Patricia stood up. There was a glint in her eye. She said, “I must advise you that our romance, as you so inaccurately put it, is merely the product of a period of propinquity during which time we were in mortal danger, and as such should be discounted.” It surprised me to find that she could speak so well and so clearly.

I stood up too. I thought of Martha. I thought of the bank account. I folded Patricia into my arms with a fervor that astounded me. Just before my lips met hers I murmured, “Cut the chatter, darlin’. Let’s move onto the front burner.”

From a great distance a very annoying voice kept saying, “Mr. Dudley! Wait! Mr. Dudley! Just a moment!”

A good salesman can ignore distractions.