No Pockets in a Shroud [Short Story]

Chapter Seven Skidproof Alibi

The rain gradually increased in intensity until it became a steady downpour. Gloria’s driving, which was uncertain enough in clear weather, became more and more capricious. She knew only one speed — forty miles an hour — and apparently was incapable of adjusting it either up or down to suit varying highway conditions. Now she began to add to the suspense by continually throwing me side glances.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I said finally.

Dutifully she fixed her eyes straight ahead and kept them there long enough to swerve abruptly around a truck whose tail gate materialized out of the rain almost in our laps. Then her glance shifted back toward me again.

“Where we going?” she asked.

“To your place.”

She drove in silence for a few moments, most of the time keeping her head turned toward me, but occasionally peering through the windshield as a gesture to indicate she still realized she was driving.

“Suppose Amos comes home?” she said.

“Suppose he does?”

She let time pass again. “He won’t like it.”

I made no answer and we drove the rest of the way in complete silence. Gloria continued to look sidewise at frequent intervals. In the darkness I couldn’t make out her expression, but I guessed it was puzzled.

When we neared her apartment house she swung into the alley, drove headlong through the open garage door and jolted to a stop which nearly put me through the windshield. I pulled down the door for her, latched it and followed her along the dark yard at a dead run in an attempt to cheat the rain. In the lower hall we paused to regain our breaths.

Our coats were dripping wet, but underneath we were relatively dry from our necks to our knees. Below that we were both soaked.

After a short rest we climbed the stairs to apartment C. Gloria pulled the chain of a floor lamp in the living room and immediately disappeared into the bedroom. I carefully hung my coat and hat on a clothes tree near the door, where they wouldn’t drip on the rug, took off my shoes and socks, rung the water from the socks and put them in my pocket, wiped the shoes out with my handkerchief and put them back on.

I was stretched flat on the sofa with my head on a pillow, when Gloria reappeared wearing a flowered housecoat.

“It’s nearly one,” Gloria said. “We haven’t much time.”

“Time for what?”

“Before Amos gets home.”

“Good.”

She stood in the hall doorway, her hands fidgeting with the knot holding her housecoat together and watched me puzzledly.

“I came home with you because I want to see Amos,” I explained.

Her puzzlement turned to a frown, but her brain was too vapid for anger. She looked more disappointed than nettled. For a moment she examined me disapprovingly, then turned and disappeared without even a goodnight. I folded my hands across my chest and went to sleep with the light on.

The rasp of a key drawing the front door bolt brought me awake. I raised my left wrist to the level of my face, saw it was five of two and sat erect in time to see Amos Horne come into the room.

He stopped short when he saw me. “What you doing here?”

“Looking for the tires. Thought you might be able to tell me where to trade skidproofs for new synthetics.”

He hung his sopping coat and hat from a peg next to mine and dug a cigarette from a box on an end table. When he had it drawing properly, he took a seat opposite me. He didn’t say anything.

“Stop me if I’m wrong,” I said. “Yesterday morning you get rid of four perfectly good tires and got four synthetics in trade. You made the switch because you realized the skidproofs left nice identifiable marks where you parked near El Patio.”

He raised one hand to scratch the fuzz over his ear, and tried to seem undisturbed. “Who says I swapped tires?”

“Your intelligent wife. She wasn’t squealing. She just doesn’t know any better. Want to tell me all about things?”

“I got nothing to tell”

I rose. “Stick around while I phone Homicide.” I started toward the hall.

He rose also. “Wait a minute! You can’t arrest me. You’re no cop.”

Gloria appeared in the hallway, still wearing her housecoat.

I said: “I’m not arresting you. I’m phoning Homicide.”

He went over to the clothes tree, lifted his hat and took his coat from under it.

“Where you bound?” I asked.

He shrugged himself into the wet coat. “You can’t even detain me. You got no legal authority.”

I laughed at him. “Take it off.”

He put on his hat.

“How far can you walk with two broken legs?” I asked.

He looked at me belligerently, then his expression turned uncertain. He glanced at his wife, started to swell his chest with bravado, looked back at me and suddenly deflated.

I said: “Take it off.”

He hung up his coat and hat again and sat down. Gloria watched placidly as I dialed the phone.

Instead of the sleepy answer I expected, a wide awake voice growled: “City police.”

“This is Moon,” I said.

“Moon? Manville Moon?”

“Yeah.”

“Been trying to get your apartment for two hours. Hang on.”

A half minute passed and then Warren Day’s voice complained: “Don’t you ever stay home?”

“Seldom. What got you up at two A.M.?”

“Work. We got the O’Conner thing solved.”

I said: “Yeah?”

“It was an accident. Gerald Foster, the other name on the bracelet, turned up twenty miles down the river. He drifted farther, you see.”

I said: “Obviously.”

“They were just a couple of kids out canoeing who upset and drowned. Reason we didn’t get it sooner, they lived on the Illinois side and the cops over there didn’t contact us till they saw our story in the papers.”

I asked: “So why are you looking for me?”

“Want to talk to you. This leaves Byron Wade wide open on the Bagnell thing again.”

“Forget him,” I said. “Wait till you see what I got. Send the wagon to 1418 Newberry, Apartment C.” I hung up before he could ask questions.

When I returned to the living room, Amos was beginning to sweat and the fuzz over his ears stood out with static electricity from his furious rubbing.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t bump Bagnell. I can explain everything.”

I lifted my hat and coat from their peg. Amos started to talk rapidly, as though afraid I might cut him off before he got out the whole story.

“I got to thinking that night after I got to work, and I began to wonder if maybe Gloria might be out with Bagnell even after I warned her. So I phoned home and got no answer. That worried me more. I jumped in my car, drove here and sure enough, Gloria was gone. Naturally I got mad and decided to go yank her home. I knew where to look, but when I got near El Patio, I got cold feet and decided I’d just watch for her to come out instead of going in after her. So I parked half off the road where you found the tire tracks and just sat there. I didn’t even get out of the car. After a while a siren sounded and a police car pulled into the drive right behind me. I figured the joint was getting raided, so I scrammed.”

“Why the tire switch?”

“When Gloria didn’t come home, I figured she got caught in the raid and was probably in jail overnight. That didn’t worry me none. I figured it would serve her right.” He leered at his wife in the doorway. “But when you’re used to someone in the house, you don’t feel comfortable without her, even if she is a moron. I couldn’t sleep, so about four in the morning I turned on the radio for news. A flash about the murder came over and right away I thought about leaving tire marks and how unusual my tread was. I didn’t want to be tied up in no murder. First I thought about driving back to El Patio and rubbing out the tracks, but I was afraid I’d get caught and make it look even worse. Then I remembered the night station attendant where I buy gas offered me four synthetics about a week ago. So I climbed in my car, ran over to his place and made a deal for the switch. I had the tires changed right then, and beat it back home to bed.”

“Makes a nice story,” I said.

“It’s the honest truth.” He looked up at me earnestly.

A siren sounded in the distance and grew louder.

I said: “You can put on your hat and coat now.”

It had stopped raining by the time I got home at 8:00 A.M. Sleepily I pushed open my apartment door and switched on the light while still holding the key. The first thing I saw was Danny. He sat with his hat on facing me, his feet braced against the floor and both hands jammed in his coat pockets.

Even though I knew he was a coked-up psychopath and that hands-in-pockets was his melodramatic stance in preparation for a draw, he caught me off guard again. His screwball stance lulled you into a sense of security, because it looked so impossible for that obviously empty right hand to move clear to his armpit with any speed. Maybe that was the psychology.

So with my right arm straight out to the light switch, and with the key held between index finger and thumb. I stopped to ask questions instead of starting to draw.

I said: “How’d you get in?”

His right hand moved with incredible speed. It moved so fast, it was darting beneath his arm before I got around to dropping the key and starting my own hand inward.

I might as well have saved the effort. By the time my fingers touched the butt, I was looking into the narrow bore of his target pistol.

He said tauntingly: “I thought you were supposed to be fast, Mister Moon.”

“I probably don’t sniff enough coke,” I said.

His eyelids narrowed around widely dilated pupils. “That smart tongue gets you in trouble, Mister Moon. I’m surprised you’ve lived as long as you have. Turn around.”

I turned around, and Danny carefully relieved me of my P .38.

“Forward march,” he said.

We went down the stairs in single file, with me leading the column. After the rain the moon had come out huge and brilliant, and as Danny prodded me up the street I began to hope someone would see us. But the streets were deserted. A half-block from my apartment we stopped next to a brand new Oldsmobile.

“Get in,” Danny said.

I got in the right front seat.

“Under the wheel,” Danny said.

I moved over under the wheel and Danny slipped in next to me. “Head out highway 42.”

“Listen, Junior,” I said. “My right leg is only good for walking. I can’t drive a car.”

“Use your left. This job is hydromatic. All you got to push is a brake pedal.”

I said: “I haven’t got a license.”

“Do you want it right here?” Danny asked.

I started the car. I have driven cars with both a clutch and brake pedal and this was a snap, but I made it look difficult. I sat side-saddle with my left foot where my right should have been, and my right over in Danny’s territory. At every stop sign I tried killing the engine, but with that blamed hydromatic clutch the car practically drove itself, and I finally gave up and just drove.

When we reached the highway I asked: “This Wade’s idea, or your own?”

“My own,” Danny said. “Nobody pushes me around and lives to brag about it. Not even the tough Mister Moon.”

About a mile short of North Shore Club Danny ordered me to turn off on a dirt road. The road ended suddenly at the river bank. On the principle that when you’re in a spot any added confusion is a help, I pretended difficulty with the controls and kept on going for the bank. Danny spoiled my fun by cutting the ignition, and we stopped six feet short of the water.

“Get out,” he said.

I got out and stood waiting. Danny centered his little .22 between my eyes.

“Don’t feel put out,” he said. “You’re getting it from the best there is.”

“The best at what?”

“With one of these.” He moved the slim barrel of his gun slightly. “There isn’t anybody faster. Nobody at all. And I can light a match head at twenty yards.”

I said: “Remember how Houdini died? A kid hit him in the stomach when he wasn’t expecting it.”

In the moonlight his eyes were puzzled. “So what?”

“Any amateur can get the jump if the other guy has no warning. A ten-year-old kid could outdraw you if he just walked up and drew when you weren’t expecting it.”

His face turned coldly superior. “I beat you twice, didn’t I? Say your prayers, Mister Moon.”

“Gonna go back and tell the boys you beat me on the draw?” I asked.

“I did beat you on the draw.”

I made my voice contemptuous. “You just surprised me. Go ahead and get it over with, Billy-the-Kid Junior.”

His features pinched in sudden rage. “Why you second-rate amateur! I could give you a two-minute start and nail you before you started to move.” With his left hand he pulled my P .38 from under his belt and tossed it beyond me. “Turn around and pick it up.”

I turned slowly, picked up the gun and stood waiting with my back to him.

“Put it away. Then keep your arms at your sides and turn back around.”

I did as he ordered. Backing two paces, he slowly seated his Woodsman under his arm, then deliberately thrust both hands in his coat pockets.

“You start,” he said.

Our eyes locked, and the certainty in his sent a tingle along my spine. All at once I knew we were going to repeat the same old routine, and I’d be touching my gun butt when his muzzle began to point at me. Only this time the tiny barrel would erupt death. Something of my knowledge must have appeared in my eyes, for his crinkled in cruel amusement.

“You start,” he repeated.

I thought, What the hell. Long as I’m going down, I might as well make it look good, and slowly raised my hands to my coat pockets. I thrust them deep inside.

“You start,” I suggested. “You’re going to need more time.”

His face stiffened and his eyes registered the faintest touch of uncertainty. Figuring this was the farthest he’d ever be off guard, I started my draw.

The next part of a second went by in slow motion. My hand left its pocket the barest instant before his, and reached the gun butt the barest instant after his. As our guns came out, his the narrowest part of a micro-second before mine, his face began to dissolve in panic. And as my muzzle centered on his heart, his spat flame and a small wind whispered past my ear. Then mine was spitting flame too.

“You’d have made it,” I said softly, “if you hadn’t hurried your shot.”

But he wasn’t listening.

By the time I explained things to Homicide and got a begrudging release from the desk man, it was nearly 6:00 A.M. I fell into bed and lay there without stirring a hair until the apartment doorbell buzzed me awake at noon. It continued to buzz at intervals during the next five minutes, while I strapped on my leg and got a robe over my pajamas. I also took time to don slippers and eliminate my right foot’s aluminum clang. By then my caller leaned steadily on the push button.

I pulled open the door and said: “O.K. I can hear you.”

Eleanor Wade said: “It’s about time. Were you shooing that blonde out the back?”

“A redhead,” I answered grumpily.

She let her coat slide from her shoulders into a chair and raised her face to be kissed. I gave her a courtesy peck without taking my hands from robe pockets. She frowned disgustedly.

“And I called you virile!”

I said: “The redhead wore me out. I’ve got shaving to do. Make yourself useful while you wait. Coffee’s on top of the icebox.”

She examined me critically, her head on one side. “You don’t look too terrible for just getting up,” she decided. “That is,” she explained carefully, “you don’t look more terrible than usual, considering what a good start you have on looking terrible, even before you get tip.”

This being too complicated to follow before coffee, I went into the bathroom without answering. She trailed behind me and stood in the door while I studied my darkened cheeks in the mirror.

“You’re an old bear when you get up, though. I’m not sure I’ll like living with you.”

I picked up my shaving brush. “The coffee’s on the icebox.”

She stuck out her tongue, swished her back at me and went out to the kitchen. Momentarily I concentrated on her remark about living with me, wondered whether she meant legally or in sin. But it’s hard to concentrate before breakfast. A nicked ear wrenched my thoughts back to shaving.

Eleanor knew how to make coffee. By the second cup I began to be nice to her.

“So you’ve decided to live with me?”

“Uh huh.”

“You moving in now, or just here after another report?”

“Neither. I just wanted to see you.”

When we finished our coffee, Eleanor washed the pot and cups and I wiped. Afterward we repaired to the living room and I mixed dessert in a couple of tall glasses.

“Feeling virile yet?” Eleanor asked.

The question was not banter, like the sequence about living together. It was definite invitation. I felt vague annoyance, probably a hangover from some prudish ancestor. And then I felt annoyed at my annoyance, if you understand what I mean. I certainly was not shocked, and I didn’t understand my irritation. Suddenly I remembered Fausta’s, “Me you never invite to your fiat,” and my amused reaction to it. Eleanor’s invitation was no more definite, but its spirit seemed different, more casual — almost routine — as though she had used exactly the same words in exactly the same tone before.

I said, “I’ll tell you when,” and drained my glass in one drink.

She took a cigarette from her case and had me light it for her. Leaning back, she blew smoke at me and studied my face through the haze.

“What’s the matter, Manny? I say something wrong?”

“No. Why?”

“You looked gruff.” She watched my face a moment more, then said: “I will have a report, after all.”

I noted her glass was untouched, and mixed another drink for myself. I tasted it before speaking.

“It’s more or less solved,” I said.

Her glass, halfway to her lips, stopped in mid-air. “Yes?”

“Yeah.”

She waited, the glass remaining suspended.

“It isn’t your husband,” I said.

“No?”

“It’s a guy named Amos Horne. I told you about him before. The blonde’s husband. The Tuesday and Thursday blonde.”

The glass continued its interrupted trip and half the contents disappeared.

I said: “Remember I told you the tire tracks didn’t match his tread? He’s switched tires.”

“Do the police have him?”

“Yeah,”

She lit another cigarette from tie butt of the first. “Then I owe you five hundred dollars.”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Wait till it’s on ice.”

“I thought you said it was solved.”

“I said more or less. The evidence is all circumstantial and he hadn’t confessed, last I heard.”

For a minute she smoked in silence. “What do you think?”

“Me? I think he did it, probably. But I’ve been wrong before. The evidence isn’t phony, because I gathered it myself. But I still think your husband was building an alibi the other night, and this solution leases him out. He’s clear on the O’Conner girl, too.”

“I know. I read about her in the paper.”

“Horne’s probably the murderer, but I’m not quite satisfied. It’s not a hunch, just a feeling I might go wrong. Hold your check until the cops break him down.”

She said musingly: “I hope you are wrong.” Her voice was soft and significant.

I felt a slight chill. “You’ve hoped it was Byron all along, haven’t you?”

She nodded, then quickly drained her glass.

“That’s really why you hired me, isn’t it? You hoped I’d pin it on your husband.”

She nodded again without hesitation.

“Why so eager to get rid of him? Bagnell didn’t mean that much to you.”

She pursed her lips and watched me thoughtfully a long time before speaking, as though solving a problem in her mind. “Are you fond of me?” she asked finally.

“Sure,” I said, surprised.

“Do you love me?”

It was my turn to think. I shook my head. “Love is too big a word. I get scared.”

She didn’t seem disappointed. “But you do like me?”

“Sure.”

“A lot?”

“A lot,” I conceded. “What about it?”

“I’m going to tell you why I really hired you.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Because the minute I saw you, I wanted to leave Byron and be with you. Before, I was content to stay married to him and go where I pleased, but you did something to me. I wanted to get rid of him altogether.”

I felt vaguely embarrassed. “Why not poison him? It’s cheaper.”

“I will,” she said flippantly, “if you want.” Her face smiled, but her eyes were serious.

I rose and picked up her coat. “This is a silly conversation. Let’s go out and get some air.”