The Busy Body

22

The nice thing about the trunk of a Lincoln Continental, it’s roomy. The bad thing about this particular Lincoln Continental was that Engel had to share it with a spade, a pick, a flashlight, a jack, a set of tire chains, and something small and round and cold and hard that kept sticking him in the small of the back.

The condition of the streets of New York City are a disgrace, a real disgrace. Back around 1960 the city hired some men to go out and paint yellow lines around all the potholes for some reason, but other than that and since then the potholes have been left to themselves. Engel, riding to and across Brooklyn in the trunk of Kane’s car, devoted a number of thoughts to the municipal government of the City of New York.

But all good things come to an end, and with a final jounce this ride did too. Engel waited, gripping the jack handle in the dark inside the trunk, thinking there was just a chance he’d be able to knock the gun out of Murray Kane’s hand as the trunk lid was being raised.

But no such luck. It was Margo Kane who opened the trunk, while her husband stood well back and slightly to one side, where Engel couldn’t get at him but Margo didn’t block her husband’s aim.

“Leave the jack there, Engel,” Kane said. “But do bring the pick and shovel and flashlight. Margo, get the blanket from the back seat.”

It was the well-remembered path to the well-remembered grave, except that last time Willy Menchik had been along. Yes, and last time it was Willy Menchik who had been slated to go into the grave. Things were a bit different now.

It was still early, only a little past nine, but the cemetery was as deserted as if it were three o’clock in the morning. They clinked and tinkled along the path to the still-raw grave, Margo spread the blanket for a groundcloth, and for the second time in three days Engel proceeded to dig up Charlie Brody’s grave.

The job seemed to go quicker this time, probably because last time he was in a hurry to be done and this time he was in no hurry at all, and so both times ran wrong, with the usual perversity of life. In just minutes Engel was down to the coffin, his spade making a hollow sound as it hit the top of the box.

Kane came over, saying, “Is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“Open it.”

“I can’t while I’m standing on it. I had this trouble last time, and I had to get out to do it.”

Kane made an impatient gesture. “Then come up out of there.”

Engel’s gesture signified helplessness. “I’ll need a pull.”

Kane cocked his head to one side. “Is that so? Think to pull me in with you, wrest the gun away, get the upper hand, is that it? Margo.”

She came forward.

Kane handed her the gun. “Cover him. If he even starts to act up, shoot.”

“All right, Murray,” she said, but she sounded doubtful. “It’s awful damn spooky here,” she said.

“It didn’t bother you up to now,” he said.

“Oh, Murray,” she said, and abruptly fainted, dropping the gun into the grave, where it bounced on the coffin.

Engel had it in his hand before it could bounce twice, and had it trained on Murray Kane, who was poised in indecision, not quite in flight away from here and not quite diving on top of Engel. “Easy,” Engel said. “Take it easy, Kane.”

“Engel, I can make it worth your—”

“Don’t waste your breath, Kane. I’m not going to kill you. Why should I?”

Kane gaped at him. On the ground his wife moaned.

Engel said, “Don’t you get it? The faint was an act, a gamble. Either I got the gun and killed you, or you got the gun and killed me. She didn’t care which way it went. If you killed me, she’d have to figure another way to take care of you later.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s Brock she wants, not you. She doesn’t need you around to inherit.” Engel hefted the gun. “And this is her style, you got to admit it. This time, she sent me to do the job.”

Kane started to growl.

Margo Kane sat up, being bewildered and semi-conscious. “What — what happened?”

“You conniving bitch!” shouted Kane.

Margo hesitated, then flashed Engel a look of cold hate. “I won’t forget you!”

“It’s mutual, honey,” said Engel.

Kane had grabbed the pick, and was now advancing around the grave toward his wife. “You’ll pay,” he was growling, “this time you’ll pay, you—” And so on.

She saw him coming, and scrambled to her feet. With a roar he came running around the grave, and with a yelp she fled into the darkness. Shouting, shrieking, bellowing, screaming, crashing around, the Kanes careened away across the tombstoned landscape, out of sight and — a minute or two later — out of hearing.

Engel stuck the gun in his pocket and clambered out of the grave. He didn’t have either the patience or the inclination to fill it in yet again, so he just left it there.

The key was in the ignition of the Continental, a car which did not, needless to say, have a standard shift. In addition, its front seat offered a much gentler and smoother ride than did its trunk. The trip back across Brooklyn was smooth as silk.

A little after ten, on West 24th Street, Engel parked in front of the same fire hydrant Margo Kane had parked her Mercedes in front of yesterday. He crossed the street, rang Kurt Brock’s bell, and was rewarded by a buzzing sound which meant he could push open the downstairs door now.

Brock was standing in his doorway upstairs. “You,” he said. “You told me you were a policeman.” He seemed indignant.

“You’re lucky I’m not,” Engel told him. “It’s against the law to steal dead bodies. It’s a misdemeanor.” Engel pushed him back from the doorway, stepped in, and shut the door. “You could get thirty days,” he said.

“What? What? I don’t know what—”

“I’m talking about. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard that line before tonight.” Engel took out the gun, held it casually in his palm, and said, “Where do you suppose I got this? Guess who I got it from. Go on, guess.”

Brock was staring at the gun. “What are you, what are you going to—?”

“I won’t use it on you, don’t worry. Not unless I have to. You can’t guess where I got it? Then I’ll have to tell you. From Murray Kane.”

“Murr — Murr—”

“Yeah. Murray Kane. What kind of song and dance did his wife give you, anyway? What did you think that body was for?”

“I–I really — please, I don’t—”

“Cut it out, Brock. The stiff’s name was Charles Brody. Burned face, no viewing.”

Brock was shaking his head, back and forth, back and forth, very monotonously.

Engel said, “Brody was buried today in a grave marked Murray Kane. Where did you think Murray was? He’s alive, you know.”

“No,” whispered Brock, still doing that metronome thing with his head, “no, he isn’t. He drowned.”

“Drowned? Oh, is that what she told you?” Engel laughed. “She’s good, Margo is. I can hear the spiel now. She’s killed Murray because she loves you, but his body’s at the bottom of the lake and there’s no way to prove he’s dead, so the inheritance will be tied up and all, so the thing to do is get another body and fix it so it’ll look like Murray and arrange for Murray to die all over again.”

“How did you—?”

“Because Murray’s alive. It was the insurance swindle. Margo double-crossed you.”

“No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.”

“You’re running away to Hawaii together.”

“Yes!”

“She told me that’s what you thought.”

“Thought?” The truth, all at once, was beginning to seep into Brock. “Thought? She never meant to — She wasn’t going to—”

“Not for a minute.”

“Where—?”

“I don’t know exactly. The last I saw her, Murray was chasing her through a cemetery with a pick in his hands. But she’s pretty fast, she might get away from him. If she does, she might come here, but if I were you I wouldn’t let her in. Murray’s liable to come here too, looking for her, and it probably wouldn’t be smart to let him in either.”

“Murray...”

“Murray thinks his wife went a bit overboard getting your co-operation.”

Brock automatically glanced toward the zebra-stripe couch, and licked his lips nervously. “I got to get out of here,” he said. “I got to clear out before they get here.”

Engel stood blocking the door. “One small thing,” he said, “and then you can go.”

“No, really, I got to—”

“One question,” Engel told him. “Stand still a second and listen to me. One question, and then you can take off wherever you want.”

Brock controlled himself with an obvious effort. “What? I’ll tell you, anything you want, what is it?”

“The suit,” Engel said.

“Suit?”

“Brody was wearing a suit,” Engel said. “A blue suit.”

Brock shook his head. “No, he wasn’t.”

“What?”

“He was wearing a brown suit.”

“A brown suit.”

“Sure. I cremated it.”

“You did what?”

“Mr. Merriweather had his own crematorium out back, and I burned it up in there. It might have been evidence.”

“And it was a brown suit, not a blue suit. A brown suit, you’re sure of that.”

“Oh, yes. I noticed he had on a brown suit and black shoes. You’re not supposed to do that, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Can I go now?”

Engel grinned at him. “Yeah,” he said. “You can go.”

“I don’t know what you want with Brody’s suit,” Brock said earnestly, “but I can guarantee the suit he wore at Mr. Merriweather’s was brown.”

“I believe you,” Engel told him. “Oh, I believe you.”

Brock headed for the door, and Engel said, “One thing more.”

“Now what?”

“If anybody else ever asks you about that suit, you tell them it was the blue one and you burned it. You got that? The blue one, and you burned it. If you say that, you won’t get into any trouble.”

“Then I’ll say it,” Brock promised.

“Good,” said Engel, and laughed out loud.

He followed Brock downstairs to the street, chuckling and shaking his head.