To Keep or Kill

Seven

He hugged the pillow without moving and watched the black shape moving towards him across the blacker darkness of the bedroom.

The formless thing was moving with extreme caution and apparently all the time in the world to reach its objective. The objective was his bed. Lying there, his eyes straining to follow the moving mass, he tried to estimate the size and outline of the shape but failed completely. It was simply too damned dark to see it clearly. When he didn’t try to stare directly at it he was aware there was something there, something moving across the bedroom that shouldn’t be in the room at all.

It moved effortlessly in a silent, halting glide, and had betrayed itself only by a strange ticking noise, the indescribable sound which had awakened him.

A wrist watch? He listened closely and decided against it. The shape was wearing nothing that gave out an audible ticking.

No, the initial sound had been something else, something that was familiar but which he couldn’t put his finger on. He had heard only a low, faraway gurgle-like ticking of very short duration. But it had been enough to awaken him. There was no further sound, nothing but the shape creeping upon him. He loosened his muscles, knowing that he could move more quickly if he wasn’t packed into a tight, nervous knot.

There came the sudden soft drumming of a summer rain beating on the windows. A small wind somewhere was blowing it in one of the windows, wetting the floor. Mother Hubbard’s lace curtains fluttered in the rain and the wind.

Several long, strained minutes fled by until finally the black and formless something stood beside his bed, near the footboard. Surprisingly, he caught the subtle, tantalizing scent of a heady perfume.

Home groaned silently when the odor reached his nostrils and in the next second realized the groan hadn’t been as silent as he had thought.

A low and husky voice reached out of the blackness.

“Are you awake?” it queried very softly.

“No,” he answered.

The scent moved nearer. He felt a finger creeping across the taut sheet pulled up under his chin, searching for his face. When the finger reached his chin it wasn’t a finger at all but the cold, steel point of a gun.

The business end of the barrel snaked across his face and came to a quivering stop immediately beneath his right eye, the round snout resting with an easy pressure on the ridge of bone guarding the eye socket.

“Do you understand this?” the husky voice asked.

He shuddered. “Only too well. Take it easy!”

“We understand each other. Get up. Close the windows and draw the blinds.”

“Yes mam.” He climbed out of the bed as the gun was withdrawn from his eye, dragging the sheet with him.

“Drop the sheet,” she commanded quickly.

“You’ll be sorry—”

“Drop it!”

The gun was a pricking mosquito in the small of his back. He let the sheet fall to the floor and walked to the nearest window. Far away through the falling rain he saw a corner street light glowing dimly. He closed the window and pulled the blind all the way down. The others followed in as many seconds. He did it with a quiet quickness that surprised him.

“Well,” he asked, turning, “now what...?”

He sensed the formless shape of her moving across the room towards the door and the light switch.

“Don’t turn that light on!”

She flicked the switch and faced him. The overhead bulb caught him standing in the center of the room. Her eyes dropped down his body and a slow flush stole across her cheeks. She fought it away.

Horne shrugged as casually as he could manage and scratched the thick mat of hair on his chest.

“You insisted...” he reminded her.

She nodded curtly.

“I did. Shut up and get dressed. And be quiet about it!” She exhibited the revolver in a well-balanced hand.

Professional interest turned his eyes to the weapon. It was a Smith & Wesson. She handled it with an easy grace as though she were quite used to it; an amateur grips the handle too hard, nervous tension in the hand often leaping to the trigger finger with disastrous results. He noted she held the weapon in a bead on him that was a trifle to her left of center. In firing, the pressure on the trigger would swing the snout to the right, to dead center.

He went for his clothes.

“I can put a slug into you faster than you can try to pull a stunt — is that understood?”

“Yes mam!”

“Then get something on. You’re too tempting.”

Surprise and mild shock stung him; he wondered how she intended that? Few women expressed themselves so openly. If, of course, she had placed that meaning to her words. Well — why not? If the situation had been the reverse, he would be keenly enjoying the spectacle of her... He opened a bureau drawer and selected a pair of shorts patterned in large red polka dots.

“Sissy!” she stated witheringly.

“You’re dripping water on my floor,” he retorted.

He turned his back and stepped into the shorts, reached in the drawer for an undershirt, put it on, and turned to face her again. She was silently laughing at him.

She had taken up a position near the door, her back to the wall, standing with shining legs braced apart, watching his every move. The shining legs were clad in nylon, he decided. Fetchingly clad. He mentally compared her with an earlier description he had tabulated, already knowing the answer and already wondering what he was going to do about it.

She stood close to five-foot-nine in high heels. The boots she wore fitted over them. Water dripped from a small, mannish hat pulled low over her eyes, dripping onto a dark green raincoat that outlined her figure. The rim of the coat was depositing the water on the floor. She kept her eyes on him.

He hoped she wasn’t the nervous type, and slipped into his trousers. Later, in the act of buttoning his shirt the crazy humor of the scene struck him. He started to laugh, silently and steadily, his shoulders shaking.

Instantly she stepped away from the wall.

“What is so funny?”

“You... me... this—” He waved a wide hand to include both of them and the room at large. “A lot of things have happened to me, but this ties it.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. Sorry, but I can’t help it. Its comical.”

She whispered crushingly, “You may be laughing out of the other side of your face — soon.”

He abruptly wiped the laughter off.

“Say — how did you get in here?”

She shrugged. “Walked in.”

He brushed it aside, impatiently. “I mean up here? Up the stairs?”

“Walked up,” she answered irritatingly.

“But the front door was locked.”

She cocked her head aside. “I haven’t yet met the door that can stop me.”

He paused to consider the remark.

“Take off your hat,” he said suddenly.

She eyed him. “Why should I?”

“I want to see if your hair is red... or auburn.”

“It is.” She didn’t remove the hat.

“Ummm. You play tricks with automobiles?”

“Do I?”

“You do. I know who you are, you see.”

“Oh... do you?” She added a certain something to the tone of her voice that he couldn’t immediately identify.

“Well, I’ve seen you before.”

The face beneath the mannish hat nodded. “Yes, I’ve realized that. It’s too bad.”

“Is it?” he asked, imitating her replies.

“Stop stalling! Let’s be moving. Get your coat; don’t put your shoes on.”

“Don’t put my— But its raining outside!”

“Do as I say!” The gun moved suggestively.

He put his coat on, reached into the closet for his raincoat and a showerproof hat, picked up his shoes and followed her to the door. She stopped him.

“Turn out your pockets.”

“Turn out my— Why?”

Her hand whipped up behind him and there was a steady pressure in his back. She held out her other hand open.

“Turn them out.”

He shrugged and gave her the contents of his pockets. A comb, wallet, pen and pencil, key ring, a crumpled receipt, a bookie’s tab on a three-day-old horse race, a tin of aspirin, a handkerchief, and some small change. His pipe, tobacco pouch and a booklet of matches completed the haul. She took stock of it.

“Where’s your gun?” Suspicion was in her tone.

Horne’s face turned deeply pink and he jerked a thumb behind him.

“Where is it?”

“Under my pillow.”

A derisive laugh broke on her lips. “My hero!”

“A guy can’t win all the time,” he said defensively. “Only the movie heroes do. I want the handkerchief and—”

“Does it have an initial?”

“No.”

“All right. Take it, and the comb, and the pills.” He took the articles from her hand and she threw the rest on the floor.

“Hey — my wallet.”

She wagged her head solemnly. “You’ll have no use for money, not after tonight.”

He frowned. She had let him keep some things.

“There is but one more word,” she said huskily. She stood close to him, so close he could stare down into the black pupils of her fascinating green eyes, so close there was but the length of the steel barrel separating his body from hers. Her heady perfume beat at him in waves. “A last word,” she continued, “of excellent advice.”

He said to the eyes, “Fire away, baby.”

The eyes flicked briefly. “The old lady who runs this house is a tidy housekeeper, I imagine?”

“You imagine right.”

“A tidy housekeeper would be rather badly upset to find a body at the foot of the stairs and the carpets ruined by blood, I imagine?”

“You have an excellent imagination.”

The fine skin about her eyes crinkled but the smile never appeared on her lips. She nodded. “Your body will not be found there, I can also imagine.”

“How right you are! But what is this leading to?”

“Simply this: go down those stairs and out the door without making noise. Do that, and the old lady won’t become upset. Do something foolish to attract attention and you’ll give her a shock. I trust I make myself clear?”

She did. He put on his hat and switched out the bedroom light. The descent of the stairway was made in silence. No one was stirring on the ground floor. He saw a light under the door of Dr. Saari’s room but there was no movement behind the door. Together they slipped through the front entrance. She put out a hand to stop him.

“You can put your shoes on now.”

He slipped them on, struggled into the raincoat, and turned to her. She was watching him with pursed lips, openly speculating upon something known only to herself.

“Well—” he demanded.

“My car is down there... around the corner. Now frankly, Jack, you were expensive and I’d hate to lose you. On the other hand, I value my car; I don’t want the upholstery ruined any more than this old lady would want to see her best rug ruined. So, if you’re planning anything foolish do it now, before we reach the car.”

“Like getting away from you, you mean?”

She nodded. “Go on, try it. The rain will wash away the stains.”

He hesitated, unable to decide the degree of seriousness to her voice. She correctly interpreted his hesitation.

“If you’re going to do it, Jack, do it now. Get it out of your system. Go on, I dare you.”

Still he hesitated. He thought he could disarm the woman before she could use the gun, possibly throw her from the porch, but he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t so foolish as to try to run away from her. On the other hand the desire to stay and see it through was a strong one. She had made some statements that were highly curious. Such as referring to him as being expensive... as if she had purchased him. He turned that over in his mind and was lost.

“My name isn’t Jack,” he said defensively.

She openly laughed at him.

“Come on... property!” She pushed him off the small porch into the rain. Holding onto his arm in the manner of an ever-loving wife, she firmly guided his steps towards the near corner. The car was a new Buick coupe in two-toned blue. She put him in, closed the door, walked around the front of the car to climb behind the wheel. Where was that plainclothesman?

She drove with one hand, holding the other at her side. He noticed that and looked up to find her eyes on him.

“I’m ambidextrous. Don’t make me spoil the upholstery. And listen, you can ride with me sitting up, or you can ride asleep. It all depends upon your conduct. I prefer you awake. You might make interesting conversation.”

“Tough little baby, aren’t you?” he asked.

“You’re damned right I’m tough, Jack. And any time you think I’m not, try something.”

“Maybe I will... sometime. Where’d you get it?”

“Get what?”

“This toughness, real or fancied? This urge to go around blowing up people? This... this anti-social attitude?”

“I was in the army... a while.”

“Oh — how short a while?”

“Eight months, maybe ten. And then I got out.”

“How?”

“Over the hill. Became fed up with it. That war was a racket. Why should I work like a bitch for fifty dollars a month when big men were getting fifty a minute?”

“Well, I’m... damned, I guess. I didn’t know they were.”

She nodded grimly, eyes on the street. “They were. I got wise. I decided to cut myself a slice of it, and I did.”

“How?”

She snapped, “That’s my business.”

He changed tactics. “You’re a swell looking girl.”

“I know it.”

“Ah... oh, you do? Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that a girl with your assets could climb to the top of almost any ladder you picked?”

She favored him with a brief, scornful glance. “Don’t be a sucker! I’m at the top of the ladder... almost.”

“But what a ladder! Death, destruction—”

“It gets me what I want.”

“Does it?”

“I’ve got you!” she snapped at him.

“I’ve been intending to get around to that. I’m no prize. Why did you want me? And what’s the meaning — the real meaning behind all these cracks you’ve been making? I was expensive, I’m property, you’ve got me. Hell, talk sense!”

She whipped the car around the corner onto Main Street and headed west for the city limits. He watched familiar spots flickering by.

“And,” he added as an afterthought, “why the kidnaping and where are we going in such a rush?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I can ask a lot more.”

“A hell of a lot of good it would do you, Jack. Listen, there’s something you must get through your skull.”

She cut it short to steer the fast Buick around a slower car. The rain was slanting down in sheets, hanging like shower curtains around the coupe. Visibility was poor.

“I’m waiting,” he reminded her curtly.

“Keep your britches on. Well, this: I bought you, Jack. Paid out good, hard-earned cash for you. My own money, too! I bought your life for my amusement. I liked you. And before you get hotheaded about it, I saved your life. You were first on the X list. Now go ahead: blow steam.”

He was too stunned to answer, he could only glare.

She waited a moment and went on, her lips hard and biting, the words harsh. “You were in a position to know too much, you and your damned mania for prying. If you hadn’t worked in Boone it would have been all right; easy sailing. But you knew everybody, everything about Boone. You’d have smelled a rat when the claims started piling up against your company. So you had to go before we could start work.”

“Go on.”

“If you hadn’t been sitting in your office that day, hadn’t seen me plant that howler in Channy’s car, it might have been different, I don’t know. I might have waited a few days to pick you up.”

“You knew I was there?” he asked incredulously.

“I phoned you, stupid. Don’t you remember that? And you answered. You thought it was a wrong number. After I walked away from Channy’s automobile, I remembered you and realized you still might be in the office. You were. We both made a mistake there.”

“Yeah. I’m beginning to see it.”

She nodded. “I should have phoned you first to find out where you were. And you shouldn’t have answered the phone after seeing me. When I phoned and found out where you were, I started back after you and at that instant saw Channy walking towards the car. I realized I wouldn’t have time to reach you.”

“You were there? All the time? You didn’t leave on the streetcar?”

“Why should I? I wanted to see the fun. I stopped at the restaurant on the corner to wait. And call you. Well, when I saw that I couldn’t get to you in time, believe me, I was mad! There was a hundred thousand dollars going up in smoke, and ten thousand of it mine! I was so damned mad I couldn’t see straight. I wrote you off my book right there.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he retorted stiffly. “I was only knocked around.”

“So I heard. And I don’t mind telling you it cheered me up. My investment wasn’t lost after all. So — tonight I came after you to collect.”

“Collect?”

“Collect. I paid out ten thousand dollars of my own money for your life, big boy, and arranged for the folks to collect ninety thousand more. I hope you’re worth it!”

Horne said dazedly, “G-388,017.”

“What’s that?”

“That was fat boy — Channy — his policy number. Forty-five thousand payable at death; ninety thousand if it were an accidental death — and we both entertain doubts about that.”

“That was the deal; it cost me his ninety and my own ten thousand to buy you. Papa agreed.”

Horne struggled to understand that and only partly succeeded. He said as much. “I watch you blow a guy to hell,” he complained dispiritedly, “and you kidnap me and tell me you blew him up to save me because I saw you do it. I think you’re bats. And you won’t get that ninety thousand.”

“Oh, no!” She made an impatient gesture. “You’ve got it all wrong, silly. Look at it this way: first, there is Boone, and there are us, and finally, there you are. Now a small city like Boone is much too small for both you and my... us. A gumshoe like you can make things difficult, mostly because you handle the confidential insurance business. You are the fly in our soup, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

“And you don’t like flies in soup?”

“Of course not. What can we do? You couldn’t be bribed, you would eventually pry into our affairs, so there remained but one other alternative; to arrange an accident for you. And then we could go about our business.”

He grunted and said nothing, collecting his thoughts.

She continued on a statement he had made.

“What makes you so sure we won’t get that ninety thousand dollars? Papa’s method is foolproof.”

“Only a fool,” he replied cynically, “can wreck a foolproof device. Lady, that certainly was not an accidental death!”

“It... wasn’t?” The words were hesitant.

“That was premeditated murder, and no insurance company in the world will pay double the face value for premeditated murder.”

The statement jarred her. The wheel wriggled nervously under her fingers. She considered his words for several minutes of thoughtful silence.

“But there’s no body — no corpus delicti.”

He laughed. “That doesn’t mean a damned thing here,” he said savagely. “You certainly stuck your white neck out this time. The greenest rookie cop on the force can collect positive evidence a bomb was planted in that car. And that was certainly no accident. Don’t you know what accidental death means?”

The girl said slowly, “That leaves me in something of a jam. Papa will be angry.”

Horne burst into savage laughter. “Papa will be angry! The prize understatement of the year. Who is Papa?”

“Shut up!” she lashed back. “I didn’t mean it that way. Papa is my Papa.”

“How did you mean it? And what has Papa to do...?”

She cut in. “Papa... they’re expecting a hundred thousand. The insurance company’s ninety thousand—”

“You’ll never see,” Horne stated emphatically. “And when I get to a telegraph office, you’ll not see the forty-five thousand.”

She smiled at him but made no reply.

“Look,” he continued puzzledly, “a moment ago you said you saved my life, you bought me to prevent someone from killing me. Why?”

The girl was a long time in answering. She steered the car through the rain, watching the road. Finally she said, refusing to meet his eyes,

“I like you. I like you a lot. I think... I think I love you. And Papa said I could have you. For a hundred thousand.”

Horne let the answer ride for five minutes of deep silence. This “Papa” must certainly be a BTO. “Papa” and somebody else referred to as “they.”

Unless the girl was a graduate of an asylum.

These people were using, or preparing to use, an animal hospital as a means of milking money from the insurance company — and possibly other companies. That in itself wasn’t new. All sorts of schemes have been tried, many of them successful for a while. Here and there a policyholder dies, leaving a tidy sum to an institution to which he owes an emotional debt.

But first the local detective must be gotten out of the way; he handles an insurance account and is in a position to smell an unripe odor in short order. Very well, away with him!

But this girl beside him said no. She liked him, she liked him a lot. She even thought she was in love with him. She loved him to the extent of one hundred thousand dollars, ten thousand of it her own money. She loved him to the extent of murdering a man whose policy she expected to furnish the remaining ninety thousand dollars. All for love of him.

Certain institutions were full of people who thought like that.

He said suddenly, thinking out loud,

“How come they fell for this fantastic proposition?”

“They’re a couple of damned money-sucking hogs!” She was bitterly emphatic about it. “I suppose the sheer audacity of it appealed to them. And I had to agree to take you out of circulation and keep you out! Not,” she added warmly, “that I object to that part of it.”

A couple of money-sucking hogs. Two others, besides herself. And there was Channy—

He decided to ask it indirectly. “Channy wasn’t a whole lot of value to you, then. Alive, I mean.”

She answered no, and let it ride. Horne made a mental note to come back to Channy in a few minutes.

This girl loved him (she thought), to the extent of a right smart sum. But he had never seen her before the night she walked along the sidewalk beneath his window. Quite apparently she had seen him before that night — long before. She had known him long enough to feel sorry for him when her two cohorts decided to rub him out. She had known him long enough to shell out ten thousand dollars and kill for ninety more. That takes some knowing, he reflected ruefully.

“How long?” he asked aloud.

“How long what?”

“Do you claim to have known me?”

“I’ve had a lot of fun with you, Jack. For the better part of a year. You’re like a very dear friend.”

“I think you’re bats.”

She laughed. “I had to know you, Jack. You were a gumshoe; we made it our business to know all about you. Jack, I’ve kept my good eye on you for months. I know your every habit, good or bad. I know what you do in the daytime and where you go at night. In short, my stupid little playmate, I’ve been your constant companion. You’re an open book to me.”

“Well I’ll be damned.”

“No,” she rolled her head in amusement. “Since the other day, you’re Betty’s. That’s me. You’re mine, all mine. How do you like your new owner?”

“We’ll talk about that some day when I believe you. When I believe any of this fairy tale. Slavery went out with Lincoln. Or hadn’t you heard?”

She laughed in his face and spoke two words.

He cut back with, “You’re a cold... cold...”

“Go on; say it. A cold bitch. Sure. I know what I want. Money. And I’m getting it. I’ve also got you. I think I’m going to be very happy.”

“Until,” he reminded her, “I find a telephone.”

She waggled a gentle finger in his face. “You aren’t going to be near a telephone, baby doll. Not for a long time.”

“Want to bet on it?” he chided.

“Don’t ever doubt it!” she said severely. “You’re mine, darling, all mine, to do with as I please. And when I’m done with you, you won’t be allowed to live five minutes longer. I own you like a farmer owns a cow!”

“There’s a slight difference,” Horne reminded her stiffly, “between me and a cow.”

“So there is.” Keen, ribald amusement rippled across her attractive face. She chose to misinterpret his protest. “Yes, I’ll concede that. Wrong sex.”

“That isn’t what I meant—”

“But I do,” she snapped back. “As you’ll discover. You’ll have to earn your keep, Jack.” She pointed to the dash compartment. “Get me a cigarette. Want one?”

“No.” He put a cigarette between her lips and held a match to it. She thanked him by blowing smoke in his face.

“Let’s get back to Channy.”

“That ass! Why talk about him? He served a purpose.”

“I want to talk about him because he interests me. He is the weak link in the chain. And I’m going to use him, redhead, to smash your racket.”

She shrugged. “The name is Betty.”

“If Channy had lived — what then?”

“He would have been useful as an errand boy.”

“You paid him too much money to run errands. He had a pretty good income since he appeared in Boone some years ago.”

The girl sent him a sidewise glance.

“A moment ago you said I was crazy, that you didn’t believe all this.”

“I can believe the parts I witnessed. What about Channy’s wife?” He asked that for the reaction, knowing well Channy never actually had a wife.

She shook her head. “Not married.”

“No?” Horne ran his tongue between his teeth and felt pleasure in delivering the jolt. “Then why did he come to see me about a divorce?”

Her auburn head jerked around towards him, startled.

Abruptly, she peered out the window for a place to stop. A darkened filling station loomed up on the side of the road after a few minutes of tense, pregnant silence. She braked the Buick and pulled off the road, letting the car roll to a stop by a locked gasoline pump. There were no lights around them.

And then she faced him, pulling her knees up on the seat between them.

Sharply, “Channy visited you? When?”

“The morning of the same day you killed him.”

“What did he want?”

“A divorce, he said.”

“I’ve told you he’s not married.”

Horne shrugged. “And I’ve told you that’s what he said.”

Her fingernails dug into his near shoulder. “Did he tell you anything else?”

“Now you’re getting hot under the collar.” In the enveloping darkness, the detective grinned. “No, he didn’t. I told him I didn’t handle the kind of divorce cases he said he wanted, and practically threw him out of the office. So what?”

She said slowly, “I think I believe you. You aren’t in the habit of lying.”

That gave him satisfaction. It was a little, personal victory to jolt this crazy woman once — just once. And, he told himself, he could probably jolt her again if he wanted to. He could tell her about the man who had stood on the stairs below his office to watch the fireworks. But he would hold that back, now.

He decided it was time to go home.

The game was played along far enough to convince him an unbalanced woman had killed a man and kidnaped him because she thought she was in love. He had been confident he could back out at any time he chose — after they had left Mother Hubbard’s place — and call it a night. The time was now.

“See here, redhead...”

“The name is Betty.”

“I can’t figure out if you’re sane or crazy, and I’m not going to try, tonight. I’ve had enough of this. I’ve been yanked out of bed at the point of a gun in the middle of the night, and taken for a joy ride. That I can understand because it happens. You pretend you’ve bought my life with an insurance policy and a hunk of money, and that you own me. That I refuse to understand because it doesn’t happen.”

“So?”

He put his hand on the door handle, watching for a movement of the gun. “So this is where I say good night. I’ve had enough of this foolishness.”

“May I remind you who you are?”

“No need to. I’m the world’s worst detective and know it. Good night.”

The hand on his shoulder quickly flew to his neck. He was surprised to find the hand was open, empty, and the fingers were soft on his skin. Her face loomed nearer his.

“Kiss me?”

“Kiss you! You?”

“And why not? Whatever you think of me, you must admit I’m nice looking.”

“Yes.” The soft fingers stroked his throat.

She removed her knees from the seat and edged closer to him. He saw that both hands were empty of weapons.

“And if I own you,” she persisted, “I can command you to kiss me, can’t I?”

“If you own me,” he pointed out sarcastically.

“You are a man, aren’t you?” she snapped icily.

“I hope so.” He didn’t notice that her right hand had left his neck and had dipped to the small window shelf behind the seat.

“Then, damn you, kiss me!”

Even in the darkness, he reflected, the face matched the anger in her voice. He shrugged and smiled at her.

“Why not, baby?”

Leaning towards her, he instinctively closed his eyes, searching for her lips.

The blackjack caught him behind the ear.

Horne sagged instantly. She caught his falling body and pillowed his head on her lap. The rain beat down on the steel top of the car. Singing aloud softly, as though she were afraid of waking him, she piloted the Buick back onto the highway and pressed down hard on the throttle.

“I’ve got him, Papa,” she said happily. “Damn, but he’s stubborn.”