Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

How Much to Kill? by Michael Zuroy

“Money talks,” said Cummins. “A man will do anything if the price is right... even kill.”

“So this is it,” said Sam Tuttle, the public-relations man, casting diagnostic eyes over the development. From the road off which Cummins’ car was parked they had walked about a half-mile into the property. “This is the dream stuff you want me to tout. A piece of Florida at a low, low price. Anybody can afford to be a landowner now. Take that first step towards independence and retirement. What’s wrong with the deal, Sheldon? What’s your gimmick?”

The unassailable dignity of Sheldon Cummins’ square cut face did not change, but he attempted no pretense with Tuttle; Tuttle had worked for him before. He merely replied, “That concern you, Sam?”

“It does. I’d like to know what kind of trouble I might get into.”

“It’s not too bad. Not bad at all. Nice-looking property, wouldn’t you say? I’ve got roughly two thousand acres in here, mostly level, crossed by babbling brooks, dotted with charming little ponds, off a good U.S. highway, a short ride to beaches, resort areas, shopping towns and industry. Ideal location and a clear title; every buyer gets an ironclad deed. Minimum plot is one-eighth acre. Streets, as you see, are marked out.”

Tuttle bent his head to let some of the rain water spill from his hat brim. For several days the weather had been unsettled, vacillating between fine drizzles and heavy downpours. The rain was falling harder now. Still fairly dry in their raincoats, the two men stepped beneath the shelter of a tree. Tuttle glanced at the occasional rough signs projecting from the brush and tall grass. The closest sign read, “Beachcomber Drive.”

“Picturesque,” observed Tuttle. “Who wouldn’t want to live on that street. You going to actually build the streets, Sheldon?”

“Hell, no. I’ve had them surveyed and marked. That’s it.”

“Maybe someday the town that collects the taxes will build them, eh? Maybe someday next century, after a fat assessment. But meanwhile the streets are neatly drawn on your plot maps. Let the buyer beware. Well, that doesn’t throw me, Sheldon, but I think there’s more to your gimmick than that.”

“Why so?”

“I look at it like this,” said Tuttle. “Here’s two thousand acres of good-looking land in one of Florida’s more desirable locations. Empty. No buildings, no improvements on it. There are a lot of legitimate real estate developers in Florida — if you’ll pardon the distinction. Some of them sell mail-order. But none of them have touched this parcel, and they haven’t just overlooked it. You picked it up for next to nothing, if I guess right. Something’s extra special wrong about this land. What is it?”

Cummins looked at Tuttle, his thick eyebrows crawling a little closer to each other, like caterpillars. It wasn’t Tuttle’s curiosity he disliked as much as his attitude. He never had liked Tuttle, he remembered. For an instant he toyed with the idea of booting Tuttle off his property, but his keenly developed acumen as to his own self-interests stopped him. He needed the younger man right now. He needed favorable publicity. He didn’t know another public-relations man as competent and as unscrupulous as Tuttle, and anyone who would take on this job would have to be unscrupulous.

There was a lot of money involved here. This was the biggest operation he had ever promoted — by far. It was so big that it frightened him. No one would guess that under his distinguished front beat a frightened heart, but it was true. He was far out of his league — and alone. He didn’t think there was anything as lonely as manipulating a million dollar operation by yourself. Or as worrying.

How he worried! He’d worried every step of the way, over even the smallest decision, over every cent he’d put out. It would be a miracle if he came out of this without an ulcer.

But if things worked out he’d be a millionaire, actually a millionaire. The stake was worth the grief. If things went wrong, he was through. Everything he had and could raise was in this venture.

He said, “Sam, it’s been raining a while now. Look there, at that wash coming along that little gully. Look beyond it, there’s another one, and another one. Look there, at that brook. Notice how wide and rapid it’s become? This is a flood basin, Sam.”

Tuttle nodded comprehendingly. “Thought it was something like that.”

“Ninety-five percent of the year this area’s all right. The rest of the time it’s flooded. You can’t put a house on this property. The rains hit the hills, miles of them, and they all drain into this basin. Looks like Niagara Falls when the run-off is heavy. Flash floods hit every now and then.”

Tuttle swivelled to face Cummins. “Hadn’t we better get out of here then? I’ve read about these flash floods. Read where only a little while back a fellow in a car was swept off a road and drowned.”

“Relax,” said Cummins. “I know this property. There’s a little ridge crossing it from the road, no more than fifty feet wide at best. It’s the only ground that never gets flooded. You could hardly tell, but we’re standing on it now. We’re safe enough. There’s even an old shack the surveyors have been using not far along the ridge.”

“All right.” Tuttle’s sharp face went thoughtful. “So what are you asking for one of your damp-dry eighth-acre plots?”

“One hundred dollars.”

Tuttle nodded. “Doesn’t sound like much. Let’s see, two-thousand acres at eight-hundred an acre...” He whistled softly. “Better than a million and a half dollars!”

“Don’t forget the streets, Sam.”

“O.K. Subtract the streets. Subtract your land investment and all your expenses. Subtract say two-hundred thousand give or take fifty all told. You’re still way over a million.”

Cummins said, “And capital gains taxes?”

“You ought to still clear over a million.”

Cummins again repressed his irritation with Tuttle. He lit a cigar. “You through figuring my deal, Sam?”

“Yes, I’m through. And in answer to your implied question, yes I’m interested. I don’t foresee trouble. It’s not too much of a swindle.”

“No swindle, Sam,” said Cummins slowly. “The customer gets the land. Maybe it’s a little shock when he finds out he can’t build on it, but he still owns the land. He’s only put a hundred dollars in it. He can pitch a tent in nice weather and go hunting or fishing. He can talk about his Florida property. Maybe some day a flood-control job will happen around here, and then the property will really be valuable.”

Tuttle snorted. “Flood control! I wouldn’t want to hold my breath until. But it’s not too bad a swindle, Sheldon. What do you want me to do?”

The rain turned abruptly into a heavy cascade that gushed through the foliage that had been sheltering them. “We’ll be drenched!” yelled Tuttle. “Let’s get back to the car.”

“Too far in this rain. The shack’s a lot closer. Come on.”

The two men pounded along the ridge, the hissing torrent driving through their rain-coats in seconds. The shack showed up, and Cummins fiddled with the lock and they burst in.

The shack had once been used as a dwelling and contained several rooms in one of which the surveyors had stored some equipment. The floors sagged and were covered with dust, dried mud and woods debris, and the walls leaned, but the roof still managed to shed water, and the men took off their wet coats and hung them on a couple of the nails that bristled from the walls. They were silent a while, listening to the fury of the downpour, strumming on the roof shingles as it swept across, slapping at the crusted window panes and leaving flowing streams of water that obscured the outside.

“We’re liable to see some flooding before this is over,” said Cummins. “But, to go on with our business, all I want from you, Sam, is a good press, and I mean nationwide. Most of this land is going to be sold mail-order. Sure, some buyers will come in person, but the odds are they’ll see the property at its best, and for a hundred dollar investment they won’t be doing much investigating. Mainly, it’s the advertising campaign that’ll be doing the selling, so it’s got to be topflight, and believe me, it is. It’s wrapped up now, all set to go, waiting for the word from me. We ran a couple of test ads, and the percentage was pretty.

“But advertising needs support to gain public confidence. You know how it is, Mr. Doakes reads our ad and sits there dreaming how phenomenal the offer is, if he could believe it. Then he starts forgetting it, and turns some pages, and surprise, right before his eyes is a dignified little news article on our beautiful development. That does it. Doakes has learned to trust us. He digs for his money. That’s where you come in, Sam. I want those dignified little articles.”

“Can do,” said Tuttle. “How much?”

“Five thousand now, two payments of ten thousand each as the work progresses.”

“Not enough.” Tuttle’s reaction was automatic. “That’s only twenty-five thousand. I’ll take fifty.”

Cummins glared. “Don’t try to hold me up, Tuttle. The job’s not worth that much. It’s no sweat for you and I know it. I’m offering you more than enough.”

“A job with a smell costs more. Let’s hear another offer.”

Cummins resentment began to boil. Tuttle was a nasty little profiteer and a wise-guy to boot. If there were any handy alternative he’d tell him off. He needed Tuttle all right, but he didn’t appreciate being black-jacked, and maybe someday he could return the favor. Meanwhile, he forced himself to dissemble.

The bickering went on, seeming as endless almost as the hard driving rain, but at last they agreed on a figure of thirty-seven thousand. When it was settled, they grew impatient to get back to Cummins’ car, but the rain refused to let up, so they waited, until finally there came an abrupt cessation of its violence. Through the windows they saw the sky lighten a very little, and the sound outside changed to a delicate unsteady patter. They were donning their raincoats when the new sound began.

“My God!” said Tuttle. “What’s that?”

It was a far-off roar that rushed rapidly and irresistibly, swelling as it came until it had grown to a frightening thunder that seemed to submerge and surround them, holding interminably, finally to lessen to a huge rustling.

Cummins watched Tuttle’s paling face maliciously. He didn’t feel too comfortable himself, but it was good to watch the man fighting against panic. “Flash flood,” he explained at last.

“Well then, let’s get the hell out of here! What are we waiting for?”

“According to my information this ridge has never been under water. This shack’s been standing here a good fifty years, so we should be all right. Let’s take a look.”

The men went out, took a few steps and halted. The narrow strip of dry land which was the ridge still meandered before them, but everything else on either side was under water. It was as though they were standing within a restless lake across the surface of which white, foaming streams still rushed down from the heights.

“My God,” repeated Tuttle. “And this is what you’re selling! What makes it come so fast?”

“Same principle as a rolling snowball. Water flows together as it descends from a thousand different sources.” Cummins headed back along the ridge, but unhurriedly, aware that Tuttle was still afraid, savoring and prolonging Tuttle’s fear. Tuttle could not give up his dignity and run; he had to stick with this pace.

Therefore it was quite some time before the two men reached a view of what had happened out on the water.

Cummins saw it first, his suddenly rigid back bringing Tuttle to his side. Cummins’ immediate reaction was that of a surprised bystander, but then the implications grew clear and a sick feeling pushed into his middle. Why? he thought. Why right now?

“Looks like kids!” Tuttle was shouting in his ear. “Two boys.”

The figures stood a couple of hundred feet across the turbulent water on what had been a knoll, except that it was now about a foot under. The water raced and splashed over the boys’ knees as they hung on to some brush. They began waving and calling frantically at sight of the men.

“How soon’ll the water go down?” yelled Tuttle.

Cummins looked at him grimly, and pointed at the white streams still roaming over the lake, breaking into spray where they divided around the trees that rose from the flood. “Still going up.”

“The kids will drown. We’ve got to get help.”

Cummins grabbed Tuttle’s arm. The blind fool, he thought. Doesn’t he understand? “No time. It’s up to us. The surveyors keep some line in the shack. Let’s get it.” He turned and ran heavily, aware that after a pause Tuttle followed.

When the line was secured and fastened to a tree at a point opposite the marooned boys, Cummins rapidly stripped. Tuttle eyed him with a peculiar expression. “You really going in, Sheldon?”

“What the hell does it look like?”

“I take my hat off to you. I didn’t think you had it in you. I wouldn’t step into that torrent for anything.”

Cummins looped the line around his waist and ungracefully splashed into the flood. He gasped at the cold shock and struck into the turbulence. His muscles felt the strain at once and water surged into his nostrils. He was only a fair swimmer and he was too heavy but he forced his arms alternately ahead with savage persistence until it seemed that he had been swimming a very long time. Then he looked up and was stunned to discover that he had lost ground. The travelling water had moved him below the boys, although he was some distance from the ridge.

Cursing his stupidity in not allowing for the flow, he turned back, gained the ridge and flopped upon the ground, gasping, waiting until his breathing had slowed, paying no attention to Tuttle’s talk.

When he was ready he plunged in again a good distance above his first position. He noted that the boys were now submerged almost to their waists. He had to get them out on this try.

He swam powerfully, but tried to avoid haste, to conserve his strength. Soon his eyes lost all sight but that of the plunging water which struck at his face. There was no sound in his ears but the rushing and roaring of water.

While his body fought for its life, steadily losing power against the tireless water, his mind grew curiously calm and detached, as though this diminished world in which he struggled could make no demands upon it. Was he being a fool, he wondered? His mind deliberately weighed this, while he admired the clarity of his thinking. He had come to the fork in the road, his mind told him. He had rejected the easy path that led to — nothing. It was now all out, and nothing suffered to block him, even the risk of his own life. He was not being a fool.

Now it seemed impossible that he could lift each arm one more time. He was out past the edge of endurance, almost past the edge of consciousness, but the thought held fast: those kids must not drown.

He made it, of course, that single-minded purpose driving him to his object. After he dropped his feet onto the knoll, he fastened the line to the sturdiest and highest limbs he could find among the brush, praying that it would hold. He sized up the kids quickly and sent the larger and huskier of the two back along the line by himself.

He waited until he was sure the kid was making it, then started the other one off, staying right with him. Twice the force of the water began to tear the boy off the rope, but Cummins grabbed him and held him, bulling him along until he regained his grip.

“Why, you’re a hero, a blasted hero,” Tuttle told him when the boys were safe on the ridge, sitting huddled together, resting. “That was a fine thing to do, Sheldon.”

Cummins regarded him contemptuously, and swivelled his head to make sure the boys were out of hearing range. “Save your praise, Sam,” he said. “I did it for only one reason — a million dollars.”

“Clear that up, will you.”

“You slipping, Sam? You can’t be that dense. Suppose the two little punks drowned on my property. That’s news, isn’t it? Headline news a lot of places. The national papers would carry something on it. Florida Flash Flood Drowns Two Youngsters in Real Estate Development. I might as well fold up and steal away after that. Nobody would pay a dime for this property. You don’t think I want to spend my declining years selling insurance, do you?”

Tuttle bowed satirically. “Forgive me for misjudging you. Ever the promoter, eh Sheldon? As a public relations man the aspect you mention should have occurred to me, but I was too concerned about the boys’ danger. Foolish of me. I must he, as you say, slipping.”

“Now, this way,” went on Cummins, “it doesn’t matter too much if the boys chatter about what happened. A close shave is hardly news. Oh, it might make a local paper or two, but that’s about all. The kids are alive, that’s the main thing. Corpses we don’t need around here.”

“I admire your logic,” said Tuttle. He glanced at Cummins meditatively. “You’d do anything for money, wouldn’t you, Sheldon?”

“For enough money. Like anybody else. Don’t you go superior on me, Sam, we’re all the same, all of us humans. The only difference is the price. Everybody has their price, five hundred, five thousand or five million. For me a million does it. I’d do anything for a million. You didn’t jump in after those boys because there was only thirty-five thousand in it for you. Not enough.”

“Plus the fact that I can’t swim.”

The rain began to patter down more strongly again, and Cummins looked worriedly over at the boys. Couldn’t have them contracting pneumonia either; had to get them under shelter. They’d return to the shack.

When they were all inside the old building, Cummins regarded the youngsters keenly. They seemed to be about fifteen or sixteen years old, neither too well built although one was slightly taller. The taller one had a broad jaw, open blue eyes and freckles. The other was spindly looking with sharp features and a narrow head and a weak button of a chin. His eyes seemed perpetually half-closed and flat.

“We want to thank you again for pulling us out of there, Mister,” said the spindly one. He said it reluctantly, as though grudging the necessity.

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” returned Cummins genially. “As long as you kids are safe. Where you from?”

“New York.” The boy pulled up a leg of his worn jeans and scratched casually.

“New York. That’s a long way off. What are you doing all the way down here?”

“Seeing the country.”

“Where are your folks?”

The boy jerked a thumb at his companion. “Joe there, he doesn’t have any. Mine arc still in New York, I guess.”

“You guess? What did you do, run away?”

The boy shrugged. “Nothing to run away from. The old man’s a booze hound. My old lady, well let’s forget her. They ain’t missing me.”

“What’s your name?”

The boy’s grin was almost a snarl. “Elias. Elias Smith. That’s Joe Jones over there.”

“Oh, come on!”

The boy nodded his head vigorously, grinning. “Sure, that’s us. Smith and Jones. Jones and Smith,” He laughed.

“Now don’t get smart,” said Cummins heavily. “What were you doing on this property?”

“Sight-seeing.”

“I’m losing my patience,” said Cummins.

“Well, for Chris-sake, what do you want, a big fancy story? We turned in off the road to sleep last night, that’s all. Say what are you, a cop or somethin’, Mister?”

“No, I’m not a cop, I’d just like to know.”

“Hey, he’s just nosy,” said the other boy.

The spindly one cackled. “Sure, nosy. So this is what happened, nosy. We couldn’t stay dry account of the rain, so in the morning we walked in a ways looking for a better spot. We found one and settled down and all of a sudden there was this wall of water, looked about ten foot high coming down on us. Joe and me, we got to that little hill. The other guy didn’t make it.”

The silence stretched while Cummins absorbed the words. “What other guy?” he asked slowly, at last.

“The other guy, the other guy. Herb, the other buddy. The water caught him.”

“There were three of you? You’re telling me that there were three of you?”

The boy appealed to Tuttle. “Hey, has this lad got all his marbles? Ain’t I just finished tellin’ him there was another guy?”

Suddenly Cummins struck the boy a back-handed blow across the cheek that sent him sprawling. “Enough of your sass. Talk straight, now. What happened to the third boy?”

The boy who called himself Smith lay on the floor as he had fallen, his eyes growing flatter and more heavy-lidded. He did not appear otherwise angered or surprised at the blow; he appeared used to blows. He said softly, “I guess Herb got drowned. That straight enough for you? Anything else you want to know?”

This was too much, Cummins thought. After all he’d been through, to end up with a drowning on his hands was too much. “Let’s take a look around,” he said to Tuttle dully. “You boys wait. We’ll be back.”

The men walked the ridge carefully, not speaking, watching the water and the ragged water line along the ridge. After a while they came upon it, as Cummins had known they would. It was a soaked blob of denims, and when Cummins turned it over with his foot, there was the young drowned face.

“Pity,” said Tuttle.

“Yes, a pity,” said Cummins bitterly, not meaning it the same way.

After a silence, Tuttle said, “I guess this blows your million all right.”

Cummins was thinking hard. “I don’t think I’m through yet, Sam.” His mouth worked. “Suppose nobody finds out about this drowning?”

The two men stared at each other, each working out this line of thought in their own way.

“We bury the body in the muck,” Cummins went on. “It’ll never turn up. The kid was a nobody, like the other two. The chances are there’ll never be any inquiry made after the little bum. There isn’t anybody gives a damn about kids like these or knows where they are. So another drifter disappears.”

“You want me to keep quiet?”

“That’s right.”

“For a price?”

“That’s right. You got a price, Sam.”

Tuttle nodded. “Certainly I have. You know me that well, Sheldon. How much?”

“Seventy thousand.”

Tuttle whistled. “Just for keeping my mouth shut. Well, well. It’s tempting, but risky. What about the other two boys?”

“I admit that’s a weak point. I was thinking we could give them some money and a couple of tickets out of the state.”

Tuttle shook his head slowly. “Not good. They can talk wherever they are. Sooner or later those boys are going to run foul of the police. How do you know what they’ll say then? No, Sheldon, the story’s too apt to come out.”

Cummins looked at him broodingly.

“Count me out,” Tuttle said regretfully. “It’s a nice piece of change, but I don’t want to be accused of hiding a body. Besides, if the story came out it would really queer your little deal, wouldn’t it?”

“I agree with you, Sam,” Cummins said in a strained voice. “It won’t do. But there’s another way to make sure the boys won’t talk.”

Tuttle grinned. “Oh, sure, we can...” But then he saw Cummins’ eyes and the grin died.

“Yes,” said Cummins, “there’s another way.”

“Now don’t be fantastic, Sheldon.”

“Fantastic! I tell you, Sam, this means a million dollars to me. One million dollars! For that price I’ll do it.”

“Forget it, will you. You don’t think for one moment I’d go along?”

“You’ve got a price for this too, Sam.”

“Not for this.”

“Less than an hour’s work, Sam. Two lousy little bums. They’re no use to themselves or anybody else anyway. We’d be doing society a favor. We could plant the three of them so deep in the muck they might as well have vanished into thin air. Nobody’s going to bother wondering about them. Hell, they’d be dead right now if I hadn’t rescued them. So I made a mistake. I’ll just correct that mistake.”

“I wish you’d stop talking this way.”

“What’s the price, Sam? Two hundred thousand?”

“I admit I’ve pulled some shady stunts in my time,” said Tuttle, “but I stop short at murder, at any price. Now cut it out, Sheldon You’re not a murderer and you know it.”

“You’re absolutely right,” replied Cummins. “I have no desire to murder anybody. It makes me sick to think about it. But I’m telling you again, Sam, for this much money I’ll kill. How about three hundred thousand?”

“Look, Sheldon, why don’t you simmer down? Forget it, and I’ll see what I can do about squashing the story.”

Cummins shook his head. “There’s nothing you can do or you would have mentioned it before. A kid drowned in a flood in a big real estate development? That story won’t squash once it gets out. I’m convinced this is the only way. Don’t try holding me up, Sam, I’m warning you. I’ll go four hundred thousand and that’s my limit. Are you going to accept it?”

“No.”

“All right, Sam,” said Cummins softly. “I gave you your chance.” He raised his powerful hands and placed them on Tuttle’s throat. Tuttle tried to jerk back, but the hands tightened. “You’re crazy, Sheldon,” Tuttle yelled and swung his fist against Cummins’ head, but the blow seemed to make no impression.

Cummins began to squeeze, ignoring the man’s struggles, and slowly Tuttle sank to his knees and his back arched, so that Cummins had to bend over him while he squeezed. Cummins went to his own knees to ease the uncomfortable position. After a while he took his hands away and rose to his feet and Tuttle’s body collapsed on the ground.

It was the only solution, Cummins thought. It might be taking a chance, but he had chosen to go all out and he would have to accept the risk. He estimated that the odds were with him. Tuttle was a lone wolf, and since this job was on the shady side it was unlikely that he had discussed it with anyone. He had no car here; he had arrived by plane. It would simply be a case of a man disappearing, a man whose connection with himself would remain private. If ever questioned he would give the proper answers. It would occur to no one to search this property, and in any case, Tuttle’s body would never be found.

Next, the boys. Unfortunately, he had no weapon with him, but if necessary he would take care of them with his bare hands also. However, he seemed to remember something about the surveyors’ supplies. He knitted his brow, trying to visualize. Yes, he remembered. There was an axe.

He decided on his course of action. When he entered the shack he would walk casually to the storeroom and get the axe. They would be unsuspecting, so that he could kill at least one of them without a struggle. After that, the axe would make short work of the other, even if he tried to fight.

Cummins reached the shack, opened the door and stepped in.

The kids were sitting on the floor, backs against the wall. “Hey!” said the skinny one. “Look who’s here.” He rose, grinning sarcastically and sidled over to Cummins. “Where’s the other fellow?”

“He won’t be back,” Cummins said shortly. “Had some business.”

The last thing Cummins saw was the knife the kid pulled...

When the body was still the boy began going through the pockets. “I don’t know if you shudda knocked him off,” the taller boy said doubtfully.

“Why not? Looks well-heeled, don’t he?”

“Yeah, but after all he saved our hides.”

“Because he was a dope. If he wasn’t a dope he wouldn’t have got it now. That’s what I keep tellin’ you, don’t be a dope. He rubbed me the wrong way anyhow.” The boy came up with a fat wallet and cackled. He counted the money and looked up, his flat eyes taking on a glitter. “Two hundred and thirty-eight dollars,” he said, awe creeping into his voice. “It was worth knocking him off. Jeez, for that much money I’d knock off anybody.”