Kill as Directed

Nine

Karen Gresham, back in cabin 4 at the Golden Cave, said to Dr. Harry Brown, “You go ask, my love. I’m parched.”

“Me, I’m also parched, my love.”

“So go ask.”

“Sure,” said Dr. Harry Brown. “What’ve I got to lose?” He was having a little trouble with his final consonants.

He went out of the cabin and weaved to OFFICE. The sunburned man was sitting soberly in an easy chair, reading a newspaper.

“Hi,” said Harry.

“Hi,” said the man.

“Can I buy some booze?” said Harry.

“Booze, Doctor?” He folded the paper and laid it on the arm of the chair, showing yellow dentures.

“Doctor?” said Harry Brown.

“MD plates on the car,” explained the clerk. “You said booze, Doctor?”

“That’s what I said,” said the doctor.

“Booze,” said the clerk, rising, “is located eight miles due north, which is where you’ll find the nearest package store. Which figures to be closed by now.”

“Which is why I’m asking you.”

“Well, I like a snort once in a while, Doctor, so I guess you’d have to figure I have booze, yes.”

“Vodka, maybe?”

“So happens I do have vodka, Doctor.”

“Sell me a bottle.”

“Now you know better’n that, Doctor. That’s illegal.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said the doctor. “As you observed, I am a doctor. Doctor, medicine. I prescribed vodka. For myself. What do you say, friend? How much for a bottle of vodka medicine?”

“Can’t sell without a license, Doctor,” said the clerk, showing pulpy gums. “But I could give you some.”

“Ah.”

“If you buy what goes along with it.”

“Limes?”

“I have better than limes, Doctor. Bottle of Rose’s Lime Juice. Imported from England. I also have ice cubes.”

“Could I buy the bottle of Rose’s Lime Juice and the ice cubes?”

“Sure. That’s legal. But, this time of night, expensive.”

“And would you then donate the bottle of vodka?”

“I have nothing but respect for doctors, Doctor. I’d like you to accept it as a token of my respect.”

“For how much?”

“For thirty bucks.”

“Thirty bucks!”

“They’re top-quality ice cubes, Doctor.”

“Better be,” said the doctor. He produced his wallet, and the sunburned man produced his token of respect.

Her dress was hung away. She was wearing bra and briefs and shoes, and the catch was off the ponytail; her massed hair surrounded her face like a sunset. She took the tray from Harry and said, “You have persuasive ways, don’t you?”

“Thirty bucks,” Harry said. He took off his jacket.

“Even so, he doesn’t know you from Adam. You could be an inspector or something.”

“He saw the New York MD plates.” He ripped off his tie and his shirt. “Do you have a comb?”

She gave him a comb from her handbag. He went to the lavatory and washed with cold water and combed his hair. When he came back, the gimlets were ready. They clinked glasses.

“To us,” Karen smiled. There was excitement in her eyes.

“Us,” he said.

The room was warm. He opened the windows and tilted the blinds, transferred his cigarettes and matches from his jacket to his trousers. Then he sat down with his drink on the shiny plastic-covered armchair. She stretched out on the bed. The squeak made her laugh.

“A squeaky bed in a motel. Am I a pervert, darling? The idea tickles me.” She laughed again, drank thirstily, and then there was no more laughter. “You parked there for the night, O hairy one?”

“I’m waiting for the next episode,” Harry said.

“Where was I?” She made a face.

“You were managing a night club in Philadelphia at a thousand dollars a week, and the big boss was in love with you.”

“Yes, all the way. He wanted to get married.”

“And so you married him and lived happily ever after.”

“Not that fast. We ran into a technical difficulty.”

“What held it up?”

“Money.”

“The root of all evil.”

“Not money per se. Everybody misquotes that proverb. The love of money is the root of all evil. I Timothy-something.”

“So?”

“So Kurt wanted to get married, and I held out. I think at first he was surprised — he thought I’d jump into his arms at the smell of a ring. When he saw I was serious — he’s a really smart old man — he said, ‘All right, let’s talk about a deal.’”

“And you held him up for a bundle.”

“No. I told him the truth. I told him what I wanted out of life — money, ease, status. I told him I didn’t love him, that if I married him it would be because, as his wife, I could have all three. I told him I’d try to be a good wife, but I warned him I liked men. I told him he was old. I told him I’d probably cheat on him. If he’d marry me on those terms, I’d accept.”

“Pardon me,” said Harry, “if I reach for the salt.”

“He lapped it up, darling. You don’t know Kurt. He’s a man who hates to be fooled. He appreciates straight talk. He thought it over, and then he said he understood. He said he wasn’t a jealous man. He said he was old and used-up and had a bum heart; he didn’t expect me to love him. He said he wanted to own me; and in order to own, you have to buy.”

Thinly Harry said, “Was he to get a bill of sale?”

“The marriage certificate.”

“And what were you to get?”

“A hundred thousand dollars in cash.”

“Cheap. Dirt cheap.”

“Don’t get bitchy, lover, you’re not the type. How about stirring up some more sauce?” Karen held out her empty glass. He got up and in silence made new drinks, lit a cigarette for her, put an ash tray beside her on the bed. He lit a cigarette for himself, and went back to his chair. “That was only to be the down payment,” Karen said comfortably. “Petty cash for emergencies. There was more, much more, in the offing. Like millions.”

“Millions?” Harry said, staring at her body.

“Millions.”

“He agreed to turn over millions?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But didn’t you just say...?”

For some reason his tone inflamed her. Her eyes flashed and she cried, “Listen, damn you! Listen, won’t you?”

“Sorry.” Harry smoked his cigarette.

“We continued our business conference. He wanted to buy me, so the terms became the issue. I went back to his being an old man. He could die suddenly and I’d be left with the short end of the stick. He said his will would take care of me. I said a will could be changed. He talked about a widow’s dower rights. I said, ‘And suppose you died broke?’ The more I dickered, the more respect he showed for me. I won’t bore you with all the details. We had a number of talks.”

“And the final deal?”

“Three million dollars in cash was deposited in a bank in escrow. On Kurt’s death the three million becomes mine. The trust is irrevocable except for one condition — if I divorce him. Otherwise, he can’t touch it.”

“Suppose he divorces you?”

“The trust stands. I insisted on that, and he agreed. He wanted to own me in the worst way.”

“He got his wish, didn’t he?” said Harry. “Maybe he’s not as smart as he has everybody thinking. Was Tony Mitchell your lawyer?” he asked suddenly.

Karen stretched in a lazy-cat way, and laughed. “Now don’t be a complete dope, Doctor. Tony Mitchell was his lawyer.”

“And yours?”

“No one remotely connected with Kurt Gresham, I assure you. I was very careful about that. I retained a top attorney and, after the agreement was all drawn up, I secretly double-checked with another top man.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re quite a woman, Karen. So when Kurt dies, you come into three million dollars, do you?”

“Oh, more than that, lover. I’d get the widow’s mighty mite by law, and then, of course, there’d be his will. I don’t know what’s in it, but I could conceivably come into everything.”

“And how much would that be?”

“Oh, fabulous scads,” she said dreamily. “Who knows?” She raised her glass and sipped, and over its brim her green eyes flicked at him like a whip. “But I’d settle for the three million, the way I feel right now.”

A queer little chill ran down Dr. Harrison Brown’s back. “I thought you said you couldn’t get the three million unless he died.”

“That’s right,” said Karen. Then she said softly, “Lover.”

It seemed to Dr. Harrison Brown that the room was baking over an invisible fire.

“What do you mean?” he asked in a croak.

She murmured, “What you’re thinking I mean.”

“You mean... you wish he were dead?”

“I wish he were dead. Yes, Harry. How’s his heart?”

“Pumping,” he said. “Karen.”

“Yes, darling?”

“If you were free... would you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes.”

He was silent. She was silent. They drank. They smoked.

Karen got off the bed and went into the bathroom and he heard her washing. She came back with a wet towel and, wiping his face tenderly, kissed his damp forehead. Then she took his glass and freshened their drinks and went back to the bed. It squeaked. “Now we come to you,” she said.

“Me,” he said. “Yes. What about me?”

“You’re in,” she said. “And you don’t belong. I feel sorry for you.”

“In what?” he said.

“Already you’re afraid to talk, even to me.”

“In what?” he said.

“One word will do the job.”

“Say the word.”

“Heroin.”

“I’m in,” he said. “Is Tony?”

“I don’t know.”

He grinned. “Oh, come on.”

“I tell you I don’t. If Kurt propositioned him, Tony’s in. Otherwise, he’s only Kurt’s lawyer on legitimate stuff.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that once Kurt makes up his mind to proposition you, you’re either in, or you’re dead.” She drank and wiped her face with the towel and hung it around her neck.

“How did you know about me?” Harry grunted.

“I asked Kurt.”

“How come?”

“Lynne Maxwell.”

The name was like a cold shower. But on a cold day. “Yes?” Harry said. His skin was actually pimpling.

“When Tony got Lieutenant Galivan to spill the story, I mean when Galivan was checking your alibi, I immediately recognized the fine Italian-or-whatever-the-hell-it-is hand of my dear husband. You see, I knew Lynne Maxwell.”

“You knew her?” he cried.

“I’m still part of the screening apparatus, darling,” Karen smiled. “Especially valuable now that I move in exalted circles as Mrs. Kurt Gresham of Park Avenue. I did the prospective-client screening on Lynne Maxwell. Undercover Gal, that’s me. When Lynne was found dead in your apartment, I knew Kurt had selected his New York medical replacement for old Doc Welliver. That’s the way my husband works. I asked him, and he told me.”

“And you mean to say that if I’d turned him down—”

“Harry dear, you are sweet. He’d opened up to you, hadn’t he? Could he afford to let you say no and walk out on him? How do you think Kurt’s been able to keep his operation secret for so many years? But I gather that in your case he wasn’t taking much of a chance.”

“I still find it hard to believe,” Harry said. “So damned melodramatic. Or are you pulling my leg?”

“I wish I were.” She sat up on the bed and unhooked her brassiere and flung it away. She walked over to him and stooped over his chair and kissed him. His lips were cold and she slipped onto his lap and drew his head down to her. “He didn’t tell you about his liquidation department, did he? Or maybe he did and you didn’t’ believe him. It’s permanently staffed with experts, and I mean experts. If Kurt decides you’re dangerous, you have the damnedest accident. You slip in the tub and break your neck, or you get a dizzy spell and fall off a subway platform just as the express is coming in, or you’re found in Central Park dead from a mugging, with your cash missing, or you step in front of a truck, or you take an overdose of sleeping pills with the clear evidence that you’re deeply in debt, or... oh, I can’t think of all the ways you can die without the nasty word ‘murder’ coming into it. I can’t, but Kurt’s liquidation department can.” She put her palms on his face and pulled it back from her moist fragrant body and said, “Now I want you to kiss me.”

“I want to talk.”

“We’ve got all night to talk,” she murmured. “We’re finally touching, Harry, finally making contact. It’s... exciting. It’s so exciting. Harry, kiss me. Take me.”

He kissed her. He took her.