My Laugh Comes Last

Chapter Three

As I opened the door of my apartment and walked unsteadily into my living-room, I saw him, sitting in my favourite armchair, his legs crossed, his hands resting in his lap, relaxed and at ease.

He could have been anything from fifty-five to sixty-five years of age. His thick, snow-white hair was immaculate. Everything about him was immaculate: his charcoal-grey suit, his white silk shirt, the Pierre Cardin tie and the glistening black shoes. His face could have been chiselled out of teak: nut brown, a thin beaky nose, a slit for a mouth, big slate-grey eyes and flat pointed ears.

The shock of finding the squat man dead in my trunk had stunned me. I felt as if I were experiencing a horrible nightmare, and in a few moments, I would wake up and find, to my utter relief, all this had never happened, and it was just another Sunday morning.

This man, sitting facing me, was just an addition to this nightmare. I closed the door and leaned against it and stared at him.

‘I found your door open,’ he said. ‘Excuse me for taking the liberty. The name is Edwin Klaus: K-l-a-u-s.’

I felt a trickle of sweat run down my aching cheek. This was no nightmare: this was for real.

‘What do you want?’

His slate-grey eyes, as expressionless as blobs of ice, regarded me.

‘I want to help you.’ He waved to a chair. ‘I can see you are suffering. I told Benny to be careful.’ He lifted small, brown hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘He doesn’t know his own strength. Do sit down, Mr. Lucas.’

Because my head began to ache again, and my legs felt shaky, I moved to the chair and sat down.

‘You have a problem, Mr. Lucas. It would seem you too don’t know your own strength,’ Klaus said, in his soft, gentle voice. ‘But your problem can be arranged if you care to accept my help.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked, staring at him.

‘We won’t go into that for the moment. The problem is Alex Marsh, whom you murdered. What are you going to do about the body, Mr. Lucas?’

I closed my eyes. The scene came back to me. I had wanted to kill him. I remembered smashing my fists down on his up-turned face. I was lifting my fists to hit him again when I received a blow on my head. I had hurt him: probably broken his nose, but I was sure I hadn’t killed him. If only this pain in my head would go away so I could think clearly!

‘I didn’t kill him,’ I said, meeting Edwin Klaus’s slate-grey eyes.

‘That is for die judge and jury to decide, isn’t it, Mr. Lucas?’

I got to my feet and, moving unsteadily, I went into the bathroom and swallowed four Aspro tablets. I ran the water, then picking up a sponge, I bathed my face. I was now beginning to think more clearly.

I didn’t know who this immaculately dressed man was, but my instincts told me he was a blackmailer. I put my hands on the toilet basin and forced myself to stand upright. I stared at my reflection in the mirror above the toilet basin. I stared at a stranger: someone remotely resembling myself, but with a puffy bruised cheek and wild, frightened eyes. I remained staring for some five minutes, and then the pills began to work, and the pain in my head began to recede to a dull throb.

Alex Marsh! So the squat man had been Glenda’s husband!

Who was this man, sitting in my living-room so quiet, so relaxed, offering to help me?

I waited, still holding on to the toilet basin, still staring at myself in the mirror until the throb in my head became bearable. He had asked me what I was going to do with the body in the trunk of my car.

What was I going to do?

My immediate thought was to call Sheriff Thomson and let him handle the whole thing. If I did, would he, would anyone, believe my story? Suppose, by the merest chance, I was believed, I knew I would be finished in Sharnville. I would have to admit I had been making love to a married woman when her husband surprised us. Would they believe someone — who? — had hit me over the head while her husband and I were fighting?

I thought of the body, screwed up in the trunk of my car. For a moment I had the wild idea of driving the car to some isolated spot, dragging the body out and burying it. A wild idea! This, I knew, I couldn’t do.

Your problem can be arranged if you care to accept my help.

Why should this man offer to help me? What was in it for him? This I had to find out.

Now in more control of myself, I returned to the living-room.

Edwin Klaus was still sitting in my favourite armchair, relaxed, his legs crossed, his hands in his lap. He exuded infinite patience.

‘Feeling better, Mr. Lucas?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, but, no doubt, you have heard of rigor mortis. In an hour or so, Marsh will be very difficult to handle.’

I felt a cold shudder run through me. This, I hadn’t thought of, but now began to think about it. Marsh had been forced into my trunk, curled up. His body could jam when he stiffened. The thought turned me sick.

I sat down, facing him.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ I said. ‘While we were fighting, someone hit me over the head. That someone must have killed him while I was unconscious.’

‘Mr. Lucas,’ he said patiently, ‘at the moment, it doesn’t matter who killed him. The fact is he is in the trunk of your car, and he can’t remain there much longer. Do you want my help or don’t you?’

‘Who are you? Why are you offering to help me?’

‘The name is Klaus: K-l-a-u-s.’ He spelt it out. ‘The reason why I am prepared to help you is that I have followed your career, and find it remarkable how well you have succeeded. I think it would be a tremendous pity for you to lose all you have built up and have worked for.’

‘Don’t tell me you are offering this help for nothing. What do you get in return?’

He lifted his small brown hands and let them drop back in his lap.

‘Something, of course, but this we can discuss later. The immediate problem is the disposal of Marsh’s body. I have an organization that is equipped to handle this kind of emergency. However, you may not wish to accept my help. You can either call the Sheriff and face a certain murder charge or you can attempt to dispose of the body yourself. You have the freedom of choice, Mr. Lucas. I assure you if you refuse my help, you will hear nothing further from me. It is entirely up to you.’

‘What do you want from me? I must know!’

‘A service, but I am not prepared to discuss this until later.’

‘I must know! Do you imagine I’m that stupid I would do a deal with you without knowing what the deal is?’ I said, raising my voice.

Again he lifted his small brown hands.

‘Then I take it you don’t want my help.’ He got to his feet. ‘Then I will leave you. You had better hurry, Mr. Lucas. Very soon the body will be impossible to handle. Don’t forget to buy a spade, though where you will get one on Sunday will be your problem. I suggest the safest way for you is to bury him at Ferris Point, but you must hurry. I wish you luck,’ and he moved to the door.

My mind worked swiftly. While he was moving to the door, I visualized all the grinding hours of work to build Better Electronics. I thought of my position as one of the leading citizens of Sharnville. I thought of Bill Dixon. Then I thought of driving my car to Ferris Point, digging a grave, if I could find a spade, dragging the body from the trunk and dragging it to the grave. The very thought of touching that squat, blood-soaked body sent a sick chill through me.

I assure you if you refuse my help, and you attempt to dispose of the body yourself, you will hear nothing further from me.

It was just possible I would hear nothing further from him, but he had only to put an anonymous telephone call through to the Sheriff to fix me.

A service?

What did that mean? By now I was in such a turmoil, I didn’t care.

‘Wait,’ I said feverishly.

I had to get rid of the body! I had to have his help! Once rid of the body, I would be in a better position to deal with this man. Once I knew what service he wanted, I would be able to think of a way to outwit him. I had to have time to think!

He paused at the door and looked at me.

‘I agree. I need your help,’ I said, my voice husky.

‘Very wise, Mr. Lucas.’ He moved back to his chair and sat down. ‘I have three trustworthy men who will handle it for you, but you must go with them. You must see what they intend to do so you are convinced that, once buried, the body will never be discovered. If you will go down to the garage, you will find them waiting. The whole operation can be over in an hour or so. I suggest you go now. The longer you wait, the more difficult the operation.’

I stared at him.

‘And when do you pick up the price tag?’

‘There’s plenty of time for that. Let us get this problem solved first. Go along, Mr. Lucas.’ He glanced at his strap watch. ‘I am already late for an appointment.’

Bracing myself, I left him and rode down in the elevator to the garage. The time now was 10.15: still a safe hour. The people who lived in my complex seldom stirred into life on Sunday before midday.

As I came out of the elevator, I saw them, standing by my car.

Three men.

As I approached them, I looked searchingly at them.

The man who caught my attention was leaning against the driver’s door. He was tall, lean, around twenty-five years of age. He had blond hair and a beard. He had minor movie star good looks. His eyes, exuding a cocky confidence, were sky blue. He looked, from his heavy tan, as if he spent days idling in the sun, most certainly ogling the girls. He had on a green singlet and tight white jeans.

The second man was standing at the head of the car. He was built like a bar bouncer: dark, hairy, a flat face, little eyes and long black sideboards. As a muscle man for a B movie he was perfect. He wore a shabby leather windcheater and black slacks.

The third man was a Negro. He was so tall, he was resting his elbows on the roof of the car. His massive shoulder muscles rippled under a white T-shirt. He reminded me of Joe Louis, when in his prime.

The bearded man came forward with a cocky, cheerful grin.

‘I’m Harry, Mr. Lucas,’ he said. ‘That’s Benny,’ he jerked his thumb at die second man. ‘And that’s Joe.’

The Negro’s face split into a dazzling grin, but the man called Benny just stared sullenly at me.

Benny! The man who had hit me over the head!

‘Let’s go, Mr. Lucas,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll drive. You just take it easy.’

The other two got into the back seats while Harry went around and opened the passenger’s door for me. I wasn’t fooled for one moment by this politeness. I felt the menace of these three men as one feels the oppressive atmosphere of an approaching thunderstorm.

I got in the car. Harry went around and slid under the driving wheel and drove the car up the ramp and on to Sharnville’s main street.

Church bells were ringing and people were on the move. Harry swung the car down a side street, and keeping to the side streets, he headed for the highway. He drove just below the speed limit and drove well.

Joe, sitting behind me, began to play a harmonica. The tune he produced was sad and forlorn. It could have been a Negro spiritual.

As we headed towards Ferris Point, my mind was busy. I had an instinctive idea that Benny, after knocking me over the head, had been the one who had murdered Marsh. He had that sullen, brutal look of a man who would kill without thought or feeling. My head still ached, and my face hurt me. My mind wasn’t clear enough yet to form a complete picture of what was happening to me. I felt as if I were still in a nightmare, but it was gradually dawning on me I was now in a deadly trap. By allowing Klaus to get rid of Marsh’s body, I was delivering myself into his hands.

Harry swung the car off the highway and drove down the sandy road to Ferris Point. He pulled up under the shade of a clump of palm trees.

‘Wait a moment, Mr. Lucas,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a look-see.’

He got out of the car and walked around the high-growing sand shrubs.

Joe stopped playing his harmonica. He and Benny got out of the car. I sat still and waited. After a few minutes, Harry returned.

‘It’s okay. Let’s go, Mr. Lucas. We have some digging to do.’

Joe opened the trunk of my car and produced two trenching tools. Leaving Benny by the car, Harry, Joe and I walked into the jungle of shrubs.

In sight of the deserted beach and the sea, Harry stopped.

‘How about here, Mr. Lucas? We’ll put him in deep.’

I surveyed the place, looked around, and then down at | the bare patch of sand, surrounded by shrubs.

‘Yes,’ I heard myself say.

Joe began to dig. It was heavy work. The sand kept falling back into the hole he was making. The sun, by now, was hot.

I stood there in my nightmare, waiting.

When Joe had made a seven-foot trench of about a foot deep, Harry, using his trenching tool, began to clear the sand Joe was throwing up. The work moved faster.

The two men were sweating. I watched Joe’s muscles rippling, and the sweat dripping from Harry’s beard. The whole scene was so unreal, I could have been doing a moonwalk.

When the trench was some five feet deep, Harry said, ‘Okay, Joe. Hold it.’

Joe grinned, wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and climbed out of the trench.

Harry turned and looked at me.

‘Well now, Mr. Lucas, this is your funeral, isn’t it? We want another foot deeper.’ He offered me his trenching tool. ‘Do some digging!’ The sudden vicious snap in his voice told me I had no alternative. I took off my jacket, took the trenching tool and stepped down into the trench.

Harry and Joe moved back.

Still in this nightmare, I began to dig. I had only dug for two or three minutes, when Harry said, ‘Fine, Mr. Lucas. Joe’ll finish it. He digs digging,’ and he laughed. He reached down, caught hold of my wrist and pulled me out of the trench. Joe took my place, and in a few minutes, the trench was some six feet deep.

‘Do you think that’s okay, Mr. Lucas?’ Harry asked. ‘I can’t see any child or dog digging down that far. Once he’s in there, he’s in for good. What do you say?’

I draped my jacket over my shoulders, sweat streaming down my aching face.

‘Yes.’

Harry looked at Joe.

‘Go get him.’

The Negro ran off towards the car.

I waited.

Harry, holding the trenching tool by its blade, stared at the beach and the sea.

‘A nice spot,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind being buried here. Better than those crummy cemeteries with their crosses and flowers.’

I didn’t say anything.

Joe and Benny appeared, carrying the body of the squat man. I turned away, feeling sick. I heard a thump as they dropped the body by the open grave.

‘Mr. Lucas, just take a look. Make sure, huh?’ Harry said.

I turned.

Joe and Benny moved back. There was the squat man, bloody, and in death, lying on the sand.

Harry gave me a sudden hard shove, and I staggered forward so I was right on top of the body. I looked down in horror. His face had been smashed in. I could see the white of his brains on his broken forehead.

‘Okay, Mr. Lucas,’ Harry said, coming forward and taking hold of my arm. ‘Let’s get back to the car. Benny and Joe will fix him. You happy? I want you to be happy about this.’

I jerked away from him and walked unsteadily back to my car. He kept by my side. When we reached the car, his hand again took hold of my arm and he steered me firmly to the back of the car. He opened the trunk.

‘Here’s a mess, Mr. Lucas, but don’t worry your brains. We’ll fix it for you.’

I looked at the blood-soaked rubber lining of the trunk and turned away.

‘Get in the car and relax, Mr. Lucas. You don’t have a thing now to worry about.’

I opened the car door and sat in the passenger’s seat. Marsh’s smashed, bloody face swam in my dazed mind. I sat there until Joe and Benny returned. They got in the car, Harry slid under the driving wheel.

‘I’ll drop you off at your place, Mr. Lucas,’ he said, ‘then Joe’ll fix the car. I’ll have it put back in your garage this afternoon. You don’t have a goddamn thing to worry about.’

Not a thing, I thought, until Edwin Klaus comes around to pick up the price tag.

I spent the rest of this Sunday in my apartment, holding an ice bag to my face and considering my position.

I was sure Klaus intended to blackmail me. But how strong was his position? The body had been buried. No one saw Glenda nor myself at Ferris Point. At least, I saw no one on the drive down and on the beach. Suppose I told Klaus to go to hell when he came to pick up the price tag? What would he do? It seemed to me that by arranging to bury the body, his blackmail teeth were drawn. Suppose he called the Sheriff and told him where to find the body and implicate me? What proof had he I had murdered Marsh? I had only to keep my nerve and deny everything to be, in what seemed to me at the moment, a strong position.

I realized that my story to Brannigan of a car accident to account for my bruised face was dangerous. Every car accident, no matter how trivial, had to be reported to the Sharnville police. They were very strict about this. I would have to think of a better story than a car accident, and finally, after some thought, I came up with a better story. My mind then shifted to Glenda. Was she involved in this? Loving her as I did, I tried hard not to think she had been the bait on the hook. There was one way to find out. Although it was Sunday, I felt sure The Investor worked around the clock. I reached for the telephone and asked the operator to connect me with New York. I said I wanted to talk to The Investor’s office. After a delay, I got through. I asked to speak to the acting editor. There was more delay, then a brisk voice said, ‘Harrison. Who is this?’

‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison,’ I said, ‘but it is a matter of urgency that I contact Mrs. Glenda Marsh who I understand freelances for you.’

He repeated the name, then said, ‘You are in error. We don’t know anyone of that name, and we don’t employ freelances.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and hung up.

I got up and walked into the kitchen and wrung out the towel, then I wrapped more ice cubes and returned to my armchair. I had an empty void inside me. So Glenda had been the bait on the hook. Was she still in Sharnville? I doubted it. Surely this put me in a stronger position to tell Klaus to go to hell. If he now tried to involve me, I could not only involve him, but also Glenda, and maybe, once the Sheriff began to question her, she would tell the truth. I found it hard to believe that she didn’t love me.

By 16.00, the swelling in my face had gone down. I now only had a black bruise on my cheek. My head ceased to throb. I was feeling jaded but more confident that I could deal with Klaus if and when he tried to put on the screws.

Remembering my car, I went down to the garage.

My car stood in the bay. It had been washed and polished. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the trunk. It was immaculate with a new rubber mat: no blood, no sand, no body.

As I was closing the trunk, Fred Jebson, who lived below me, drove in.

Jebson, an accountant, was one of those hearty, garrulous men who always liked to chat up anyone in sight.

‘Hi there, Larry,’ he said, getting out of his car. ‘Didn’t see you at the club.’ Then he stared at me. ‘For Pete’s sake, did he catch you with his wife?’ And he gave a bellow of laughter.

I felt my insides shrink, but I forced a smile.

‘I had an argument with a golf ball,’ I said. ‘I took a No. 5 down to the beach. The ball ricocheted off a tree and caught me before I could duck.’

‘Jesus!’ He looked concerned as he stared at me. ‘You could have lost an eye.’

‘I guess I was lucky.’

‘You can say that again. I’ve got some great stuff for a bruise like that. Come on up, Larry. I’ll give it to you. My kid’s taken up boxing, and comes back with a shiner from time to time.’

I went with him, and he took me into his apartment. His wife and kid were out which was fortunate as she was more garrulous than he. He found a tube of ointment.

‘Rub this in every two hours. I bet you won’t know you have had a bruise in a couple of days.’

I thanked him, said I had work to do, shook his hand and returned to my apartment. I rubbed in the ointment, then realizing it was getting on for 17.00, and I hadn’t eaten all day, I opened a can of soup and heated it.

I spent a long, restless night, wondering and worrying. The following morning, I found the bruise was turning yellow, but my head was still sore.

I had a heavy day ahead of me, and I reached the office just after 08.30. Once at my desk, I had no time to think of Klaus, Glenda or Marsh. I had a lunch date with a client and sold him five expensive calculators. After lunch, satisfied with my sale, I drove back to my office block. As I was getting out of the car, Sheriff Thomson materialized.

‘Hi, citizen!’

‘Hey, Joe!’

He regarded me with his cop eyes.

‘You had an accident?’

‘Golf ball,’ I said shortly. ‘I forgot to duck. How’s life, Joe?’

‘Fair.’ He wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You seen Mrs. Marsh?’

I kept my face expressionless.

‘No. I’ve been nursing this bruise over the weekend.’

‘She had a date with me to photograph the jail. She didn’t show up.’

‘Maybe she forgot.’

‘Seems she’s pulled out.’ Thomson gave me his cop stare. ‘I went along to her apartment, right opposite yours, and the janitor tells me she left at seven yesterday morning with luggage.’

‘Is that right?’ I tried to meet his stare, but failed. I looked down the street for something better to look at. ‘That’s surprising. Maybe she had an urgent call or something.’

‘Yeah. Well, you’ve got business. I’ve got business. See you,’ and nodding, he walked on.

For a long moment, I stared after him, then hurried up to my office. I had a feeling of fear, but there was nothing I could do except wait for Klaus’s move.

I waited for five long, uneasy days. It was when I had finished work and had returned to the loneliness of my apartment that the pressure was on. I found I was pacing the floor, my heart beating sluggishly, my mind darting like a mouse trying to avoid a cat. How I longed for Glenda during these hours.

On the fifth evening, an express delivery arrived as I was unlocking my apartment door. The envelope was bulky, and as I signed for it, I knew the wait was over.

I shut and locked my apartment door. Then going over to my armchair, I sat down and ripped open the envelope. It contained eight coloured photographs, needle sharp, and obviously taken with a powerful telescopic lens.

Shot 1 showed Glenda in her bikini on the beach and I approaching her.

Shot 2 showed Glenda on her back, naked, and I too naked, kneeling over her.

Shot 3 showed me covering her, and Marsh, his face a snarling mask, coming from behind the sand shrubs.

Shots 4, 5, 6 showed Marsh and me fighting like savages.

Shot 7 showed me standing over Marsh, horror on my face, and blood on his.

Shot 8 showed me standing in the trench, digging.

As I looked at the photographs, a Siberian wind seemed to be blowing over me. The deadly trap had been carefully sprung, I had walked into it, and the teeth had snapped shut.

I now realized why Harry had shoved me close to the body, to let the hidden photographer get his shot, and why Harry had given me the trenching tool so I dug for a few minutes before Joe took over.

My hopes of outwitting Edwin Klaus and telling him to go to hell abruptly evaporated.

As I was staring at the photographs, I heard a sound that made me stiffen and drop the photographs in an incriminating puddle at my feet: the sad, forlorn tune of a Negro spiritual, played on a harmonica. The player was outside my front door.

Getting unsteadily to my feet, my mind in a dazed panic, I threw open the door. Joe, looking enormous, still wearing the white singlet and black slacks, was propping up the opposite wall. He gave me his wide, dazzling smile and slipped the harmonica into his short pocket.

‘Evening, Mr. Lucas. The boss wants to chat you up. Let’s go.’

Leaving the door open, I went back and picked up the photographs, stuffed them into the envelope and locked the envelope in my desk drawer.

It didn’t cross my mind to refuse to go with this Negro. I was trapped, and I knew it.

We rode down in the elevator. Parked outside the apartment block was a dusty, beaten-up Chevy.

Joe was humming to himself. He unlocked the car door, reached across and flicked up the lock button of the passenger’s seat. I went around the car and got in.

He set the car in motion. At this time in the evening the streets were almost deserted. He drove carefully, still humming to himself, then he said suddenly, ‘You happy about your car, Mr. Lucas? I sure worked on it. Plenty of wax.’

I sat motionless, my clenched fists between my knees. I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him.

He glanced at me.

‘You know something, Mr. Lucas? I was just another nigger before Mr. Klaus picked me up. Now, it’s all different. I’ve got a pad of my own. I get regular money. I’ve got a girl. I’ve got time to play my harmonica. You go along with Mr. Klaus. That’s the smart thing to do. He’s a real power man.’ He chuckled. ‘Power means money, Mr. Lucas. That’s what I like — real money. Not piddly dimes, but fat dollars.’

Still, I said nothing.

He leaned forward and pressed down on a cassette and the car was filled with strident beat music.

We drove for some fifteen minutes, then he turned off the highway and headed into the country. When the cassette finished, he again looked at me.

‘Mr. Lucas, sir, I know you’re in a spot of trouble. Take my tip, Mr. Lucas, and go along. Don’t dig your own grave. You do what the boss tells you, and you’ll be happy.’

‘Screw you,’ I said, in no mood to take his advice.

He giggled.

‘That’s it, Mr. Lucas. That’s what they all say to me, but this nigger boy knows what he’s talking about. Just don’t dig your own grave.’

He swung the car into a narrow road and drove to a ranch-style house, half hidden by trees, He stopped before a farm gate, and a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Harry. He opened the gate, and as Joe drove forward, Harry waved to me. I ignored him. Joe drove to the entrance of the house and pulled up.

Lights showed in six windows.

Joe got out and went around and opened my door.

‘Here we are, Mr. Lucas.’

As I got out, Benny appeared.

‘Come on, fink,’ Benny said, and catching hold of my arm in a vice-like grip, he shoved me roughly towards the open front door. He propelled me along a passage and into a big living-room.

The room had a picture window that looked on to the distant lights of Sharnville. There were comfortable lounging chairs, a big settee before an empty fireplace. To the right was a well-stocked bar. There was a TV set and a stereo radio. Three good-looking rugs covered the floor, but the room gave off the atmosphere of being rented, and not lived in.

‘Want a drink, fink?’ Benny asked as I came to rest in the middle of the room. ‘The boss is busy right now. Have a Scotch, huh?’

I went to one of the armchairs and dropped into it.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

He shrugged and went out, closing the door.

I sat there, my heart thumping, my hands clammy. After a while I heard Joe playing his harmonica: the same sad tune.

I sat there for some ten minutes, then the door opened abruptly and Klaus came in. He shut the door, paused to regard me, then came over and sat in a chair opposite mine. His teak-wood face was expressionless.

‘I apologize for keeping you waiting, Mr. Lucas. I have many affairs’ to attend to.’ Then as I said nothing, he went on, ‘What do you think of the photographs?’ He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. ‘I thought they were exceptionally good. They, alone, would convince any judge that you had murdered Marsh, don’t you think?’

I looked at him, hating him.

‘What do you want?’

‘We will come to that in a moment.’ He leaned back, resting his small brown hands in his lap. ‘Let me first spell out your position, Mr. Lucas. You were foolish enough to write to Glenda. I have that letter, arranging a meeting with her, I have the trenching tool with your fingerprints on it. I have the stained trunk mat. I have only to hand the photographs with your letter, the trenching tool and the trunk mat to Sheriff Thomson for you to go away for life.’

‘Does Glenda know about this?’ I had to know.

‘Of course. She does exactly what I tell her to do as you are going to do exactly what I tell you to do. She will be the principal witness at your trial if you are stupid enough not to cooperate with me. She will swear she saw you kill her husband. Make no mistake about this, Mr. Lucas, unless you do exactly what I want you to do.’

‘And what do you want me to do?’ I sat forward, registering what he had said: She does exactly what I tell her to do. This must mean that Glenda whom I loved was also a victim of Klaus’s blackmail. This knowledge gave me a feeling of relief. She had been forced to betray me!

‘First, let me tell you a story,’ Klaus said. ‘Some forty years ago, your patron, Farrell Brannigan and I were small-time tellers in a small-time bank in the Midwest. We were close friends. We shared the same tiny apartment, and we were both ambitious. Brannigan is a self-righteous man. While he worked nights on banking law and so on, I was out on the town. I got involved with a woman.’ He paused to stare thoughtfully at me. ‘It is necessary for me to tell you this so that you can understand why you are here, and why I am going to tell you what I want you to do.’

I said nothing.

‘This woman was expensive,’ Klaus went on. ‘I was young. To hold her, I had to spend money on her, and I had very little money as a small-time teller. I found what I thought to be a safe way of taking money from the bank. Because of this woman, I embezzled some six thousand dollars. I felt safe to do this as the bank audit wasn’t due for six months. I spent five thousand dollars amusing this woman, then a month before the audit, I backed a certain winner, running in the Kentucky Derby, using my last thousand dollars. I won ten thousand dollars. There would be no problem about repaying the six thousand I had stolen, but I had reckoned without Brannigan. Without my knowledge, Brannigan conducted a bank audit on his own. I had no idea why he stayed night after night at the bank, and I didn’t care. I thought he was preparing for his next bank examination. He did the audit because he wanted to add to his experience. Brannigan always sought experience. It didn’t take him long to find that I had stolen six thousand dollars. Although it is now some forty years ago, I can still see him, very self-righteous, accusing me of embezzlement. We were close friends. I trusted him. I admitted I had stolen the money, but I would repay it. When he learned I had backed a horse — something that was utterly repellent to him — he said I was not only a thief, but a gambler, and I had no right to work in any bank. He gave me no chance to repay the money.’ For a brief moment, Klaus’s slate-grey eyes lit up in a glare of unnerving fury. Then the light in his eyes vanished. But that one brief glimpse warned me how dangerous he was. ‘He was then, and still is, a self-righteous man. He went to the bank directors and betrayed me. I was jailed for five years.’

I was now listening intently. It began to dawn on me, having seen that maniacal glare, that I could be dealing with a psychopath.

‘When you serve a five-year sentence in a tough jail, Mr. Lucas, you acquire a new slant on life,’ he continued, his voice now quiet and controlled. ‘I was finished as a bank official. I had to make a new career for myself. I mixed with all kinds of men when in jail. At the age of thirty, I was very ambitious, so when I came out, I attempted a fraud that would have made me a lot of money, but because of my associates, the fraud turned sour, and I went back to jail for fifteen years. Life in jail, Mr. Lucas, makes a man bitter. During those years while I was kept like a caged animal, I thought about Farrell Brannigan. Had he not been such a self-righteous man, I could have put the money back, and I could have been some kind of a banker: not in the same class as Brannigan, because he never stopped working and learning to become the top banker which he now is. I didn’t have his drive nor talent, but I could have made a reason-able living as a branch manager had he given me the chance. When I came out of jail, Brannigan had become President of the Californian National Bank. I had had fifteen years in which to think about my future. I had made several useful contacts with other prisoners. I had gained useful experience. Through my contacts and my experience, I have made a lot of money. I am now about to retire. I plan to live in luxury somewhere in the sun.’ He paused, then went on, ‘But before I do so, I have a score to settle with Brannigan. I have waited many years for this opportunity, and this will be my last operation before I retire.’

I continued to listen intently, studying this man, watching his movements, listening to the snarl in his voice.

‘Well now, Mr. Lucas, this is where you come in,’ Klaus continued. ‘Through the press and other media, Brannigan now boasts he owns the safest bank in the world. That is the boast of a self-righteous man, and a challenge I intend to take up. I intend to break into his safest bank in the world, and strip out his vault which has cash and jewellery his clients have entrusted to him: hidden cash to avoid tax and uninsured jewellery. Although Brannigan is a self-righteous man, he is also vain. The one thing that can hit him, as nothing else can, is to be made a world laughing-stock. By cleaning out his safest bank in the world, he will be reduced to midget size.’ Again the slate-grey eyes blazed. Klaus leaned forward and stared at me, his mouth twitching. He pointed a small brown finger at me. ‘You made the bank safe, Mr. Lucas, and now, you are going to make it unsafe!’

So there it was: an impossible task, but, at least, I now knew his blackmail conditions.

My voice husky, I said, ‘I made it safe, and it remains safe. There is nothing I can do to make it unsafe. I assure you of that. The electronic devices, protecting the vault, are foolproof. It is no idle boast that this bank is the safest bank in the world. If you have to get even with Brannigan, you will have to dream up some other sick idea.’

Klaus looked down at his small hands.

‘Fifteen years is a long time for a young, ambitious man like you, Mr. Lucas, to rot in jail. I know from experience. I assure you that unless you come up with a foolproof plan to break into that vault, I will send all the evidence I have against you to Sheriff Thomson, and you will not only be ruined in Sharnville, but you will most certainly get a life sentence.’ He stood up. ‘You have seven days, Mr. Lucas. At nine o’clock next Friday night, you will receive a telephone call. You will either say yes or no. If it is yes, then we will meet again. If it is no, the Sheriff will call on you.’ He left the room, and Benny came in.

‘Move with the feet, fink,’ he said. ‘Joe’ll cart you home.’

During the drive back, it was impossible to think. The car rocked with strident beat music, going full blast from a cassette. As Joe drove, he kept shouting, ‘Yes, man! Yes, man! Dig-dig-dig!’

He pulled up outside my apartment and switched off the cassette. It was at that moment of silence that the full impact of my talk with Klaus hit me.

As I got out of the car, Joe leaned forward and caught hold of my arm.

‘Use your head, Mr. Lucas,’ he said earnestly. ‘You go along with the boss, and you’ll be in the rich gravy, don’t dig your own grave.’

I pulled free, and walked across the sidewalk, into my apartment block and rode up in the elevator.

As I was unlocking my front door, the door of the opposite apartment jerked open.

‘Quick!’ Glenda said breathlessly, and pushing by me, she ran into my living-room.

I moved inside, closed the door, then turned and faced her.

In black stretch-pants and a red T-shirt, she stood in the middle of the room. Her full breasts rose and fell with her laboured breathing. Her face was chalk white and her eyes were wild.

As we stared at each other, I heard, through the open window, a car start up and drive away.