We'll Share A Double Funeral

Chapter 2

As Perry Weston drove his Hertz rental Toyota along the almost deserted highway, his headlights scarcely coping with the pelting rain, his windshield wipers working furiously, he listened on the car radio to some woman screaming pop with a drummer and a saxophone player sounding as if they were out of their minds.

Perry was drunk enough not to care about the screeching voice or the rain.

He had been warned at Jacksonville airport that the weather was turning bad, and that “he must expect to encounter very heavy rain.”

He had smiled at the Hertz girl.

“Who cares about rain?” he had said. “Who cares about anything?”

Well, it was certainly raining, that was for sure. Tomorrow, he told himself hopefully, there would be blue skies and hot sunshine.

He had come from New York and, during the flight down to Jacksonville, he had been drinking Scotch on the rocks steadily, to the concern of the air hostess who kept giving him a refill. At the Jacksonville airport he had bought a bottle of Ballantine to be his companion for the long drive to Rockville. Well, he told himself, it wasn’t all that long, some seventy miles, but this rain was forcing him to drive at a crawl.

He looked at the clock on the lighted dashboard. The time was 9:05. Although Perry wasn’t to know it, at this exact time both Sheriff Ross and Deputy Tom Mason were telephoning the outlying farms, warning the farmers there was a vicious killer loose.

Maybe, Perry thought as he stared at the rain hammering down on the highway, he should have stayed over at Jacksonville. Although he had been warned about the coming rainstorm, he hadn’t bargained for this goddam downpour. Feeling the Scotch dying on him, he pulled up at the side of the highway.

He searched and found the bottle of Ballantine, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig from the bottle.

Better, he thought, as he re-screwed the cap. He lit a cigarette. The woman was still screeching over the radio and he became aware of her raucous voice.

He switched stations. The voice of a man, desperately trying to imitate the voice of Bing Crosby, filled the car. After listening for a few moments, Perry grimaced and turned off the radio. He took another swig from the bottle, then put the bottle back into the glove compartment. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. He felt relaxed and pleasantly drunk. There was no hurry, he told himself. If he reached his fishing lodge any time this night, so what?

His mind shifted to the events of yesterday. How long into the past those events seemed now. Well, he thought, those events certainly started this trip down to his fishing lodge which he had bought some three years ago. It was an isolated wooden structure, right by the river, surrounded by trees and flowering shrubs and some two miles from the village of Rockville. He had bought it for practically nothing, but had spent money on it. It had two bedrooms, a big living room, and he had put in a modern bathroom and a fully equipped kitchen. He had planned, when he wasn’t working in NYC, he would relax at the lodge, fishing for black bass, cooking for himself and enjoying a solitude that was rare in New York.

It hadn’t worked out like that. It was now two years since he had visited the fishing lodge. He had made the fatal mistake to have married a girl fifteen years his junior. It wasn’t her scene to spend two months in some dreary fishing lodge, miles from the bright lights, while he fished. He accepted that, but there were often times when he thought of that peaceful river, the silence, the excitement of landing a black bass and cooking it for a late dinner.

He had now been married for two years. He had done his best, but Sheila was one of those young girls who were never satisfied. She hated him going into his study to work. She was always interrupting, demanding to be taken to some place or the other, places that bored him out of his mind. A fatal marriage, he told himself. Once the glamor of her young, beautiful body became routine, he realized how far, mentally, they were apart.

Then yesterday, when Sheila and he were having a shouting match — something that was now happening pretty well every day — the telephone bell had rung. Sheila had picked up a small Chinese vase which Perry valued and had thrown it at him. He had dodged and the vase smashed against the wall.

Perry had said, “Get out of my sight!”

“You’re a goddam drunk!” Sheila had screamed, and had run out of the room, slamming the door.

The telephone bell was persistent. For a long moment Perry had stared at the shattered pieces of Chinese porcelain, then he had crossed the room and answered the telephone.

“Mr Weston?” A woman’s cool voice.

“Yes.”

“This is Mr Hart’s secretary, Mr. Weston.”

Startled, Perry said, “Oh... why, hello, Grace. How’s life with you?”

“Mr Hart would be glad to see you this morning at eleven o’clock,” Grace Adams said. She always spoke on the telephone as if she had the President of the United States waiting on another line. “Mr Hart will be leaving in three hours for Los Angeles. Please be punctual.”

When the President of the Rad-Hart Movie Corporation asked to see you, you said yes, even if you were in hospital with a broken leg.

“I’ll be there,” Perry said, and tried to beat Grace Adams to the cut off, but he was a split second too late. She was an expert at terminating a telephone conversation.

Sitting in the Toyota, with the rain pouring down, Perry grimaced.

The interview with Silas S. Hart had not gone how he had expected it to. Perry reached for the bottle and took another swig.

Silas S. Hart and he had always got along well. There was a reason. For the past four years, Perry had provided Hart with original film scripts that had made big money for the Rad-Hart Movie Corporation.

Hart had a reputation for ruthlessness and toughness, but, up to now, he appeared to treat Perry as his son. This surprised Perry as he had heard so many tales about the way Hart had treated other scriptwriters who had failed to make the grade, but to him Hart was like an affectionate father. In his bones, Perry knew this attitude of Hart’s was because he had given Hart four money making scripts. Fair enough, but what would happen if the next script that was already in Hart’s hands turned out a flop?

A couple of months ago, Hart and Perry had talked about a future film.

“This time I want something with blood and guts,” Hart had said. “We now have to give these morons who pay at the box office something to make them wet their pants. How do you feel about it? Do you think you can give me something like that? I want something with lots of action, blood and sex. Go away and think about it. Let me have an outline in a couple of months. Okay?”

“You don’t mean a horror film?” Perry asked.

“That’s the last thing I want. I want ordinary people in a situation that is packed with action, blood and sex. Ordinary people, you understand. A situation that can happen to anyone, like being held hostage, like a bunch of thugs moving into their home, like a drunk driver killing a child and trying to cover up. That kind of situation, but none of those. They’ve been done and done. Think about it. With your talent, you’ll come up with a humdinger. Okay?”

“Sure,” Perry said. You don’t show a lack of confidence when talking to Silas S. Hart, not if you wanted to stay his favorite script writer. “I’ll think about it, and let you have an outline of my thinking. Right?”

Hart smiled. “That’s the boy! And, Perry, it’s worth fifty thousand plus five per cent of the producer’s profit. This will be a big deal for you, and a big deal for me.”

For two months, Perry had struggled to invent an original plot that would satisfy his boss. During those two months, Sheila had been at her worst. Perry had explained to her that he had to invent a plot that would bring in big money, so please relax and give him a chance to think, but Sheila wouldn’t leave him alone. At this time, there was a two week film gala on, and she wanted to show herself off with Perry every night.

“I’m the wife of the best scriptwriter in this goddam city,” she had screamed. “What will those snobs think if they don’t see us?”

The gala sessions went on until three o’clock in the morning, and Perry had come home so drunk that Sheila had to drive. The following mornings he was nursing hangovers, then in the afternoons, while Sheila was playing tennis, he tried to put on paper a slim idea that just might please Silas S. Hart. Finally, drunk, he had typed out the outline and had sent it to Grace Adams.

He was now quarrelling with Sheila so continuously that he ceased to care. As he sat in the Toyota, with rain hammering down on the car’s roof, he thought about his wife. What a stupid sucker he had been to have married her! He had been completely carried away by her vivacity, her sensuality and her youth. The fact that all his unmarried men friends were scrambling for her acted as a crazy challenge to his ego. She hadn’t been easy to win. She had played hard to get. The red light should have warned him what he was in for, but he was besotted, and he had won her against heavy odds.

His first three months, married to her, had been exciting and he had basked in his friends’ envy. At first she was marvelous in bed. He was making big money and was able to go along with her constant demands. Then her demands began to worry him. He had his work. Sheila did nothing except swim, play tennis and yak. God! he thought, what a non-stop yakker! When he was wrestling with a script, she would come into his study, sit on his desk and yak about her girl friends, who was sleeping with whom, what nightclub they’d go to that night, how about a trip to Fort Lauderdale to get some sun? He had pointed out, with growing impatience, that he was working. Sheila had stared at him, then gave him a thin little smile and left him. That was when she moved into the second bedroom.

“You need your work,” she had said, staring at him, her China-blue eyes cold. “I need my sleep.”

Perry had found consolation in a bottle of Ballantine.

When Silas S. Hart had asked to see him, Perry felt like a man driving to his doom. The sketchy outline of his script he had sent Hart, he knew was something any third-rate scriptwriter would have thrown together.

As he rode up in the elevator to the Rad-Hart Movie Corporation’s offices, he cursed himself for sending Hart such utter crap. It was only because of his rows with Sheila and the Ballantine that had made him do it. It would have been much wiser to have admitted to Hart that he just wasn’t in the mood to produce and not to have sent him anything.

He lit another cigarette as he stared through the windshield at the drowning rain.

Hart had given him his usual warm welcome, waving him to a chair, sitting back in his big executive chair, his fleshy, tough looking face smiling.

“I haven’t much time, Boy,” Hart said. “I have to get to LA. There are finks there causing trouble, but I wanted to have a word with you.”

Hart always called Perry ‘Boy’, and Perry believed it was a term of affection.

“Want a drink?” Hart asked. “Don’t say no, because I do.” He pressed a button, and Grace Adams appeared. She was tall, thin, around forty, always immaculately dressed, and her pale face looked as if it had been carved from a slab of ivory. She produced two Scotches on the rocks and went away.

“Well, Boy,” Hart went on, “we won’t talk about this thing you sent me, we will talk about you. Okay?”

“If you say so,” Perry said woodenly. Although he longed for a drink, he let the glass stand on the desk.

“Suppose we start this little session,” Hart said, after sipping his drink, “by me saying you are the best original scriptwriter I have been lucky to have. Together, we have made a lot of money. I consider you a valuable property in my corporation. When I have asked you to deliver, up to now, you have always delivered.” He paused to sip his drink, then went on, “Apart from being a valuable property, I like you. I seldom like the people who work for me, knowing they don’t like me, but I like you.” He smiled, then finished his drink. “Well, Boy, I have been keeping an eye on you. When I have a property as valuable as you, I’m like some woman with a two million dollar diamond. She keeps an eye on it, so I arranged to keep an eye on you.”

Perry picked up his glass and drained it.

“That’s your privilege,” he said, setting down the glass.

“Yes. It seems you have two problems that are interfering with your work. The big one is your wife. The smaller one is drink. Right?”

“I don’t want to discuss my wife with anyone,” Perry said, curtly.

“That’s a normal reaction.” Hart moved his back to a more comfortable position in his chair. “Not with anyone — that doesn’t include me! I’m special, and I look on you as a partner. Now, when a man of thirty eight marries a girl of twenty three, and this man is a real inspired worker, he is in natural trouble. Girls of twenty three want the bright lights of life especially when they have married men with your kind of money. Bright lights and creative work don’t marry, nor does hitting the bottle.”

“I’m not in the mood to listen to this,” Perry said. “Did you or didn’t you like the outline I sent you?”

Hart reached for a cigar, stared at it, cut it and lit it. “Did you?”

“Okay,” Perry said. “So what? I tried, but it didn’t work. Get someone else to do it.”

“That’s not the solution, Boy. That’s backing out, and you’re not a quitter. Right?”

“I’d rather you got someone else. I have enough to handle without some goddam movie script—”

“That’s how the situation looks to you, but not to me. There’s always a solution to any problem if you look and think hard enough. I want you to cooperate. I know you can dream up the script I want. I know that, but you can’t do it if you are bothered by your wife.”

Perry got to his feet and walked the length of the big room, then he returned to Hart’s desk.

“I would rather you got someone else and leave me to handle Sheila.”

“You’re not going to handle her, Boy,” Hart said. “She’s going to be a pest — I have had a report on her. She has her hooks into you, and she’s not going to let go until you have no more money to spend on her, then she’ll walk out and find another sucker. I know her a lot better than you do. I’ve had reports on her background and reports of what she is doing while you try to write something worthwhile. She has two boyfriends. I have their names, but that doesn’t matter. She screws around, Boy. You think she plays tennis every afternoon? She doesn’t. She is shacked up with one of these men, having it off. All she’s bothered about is your money. These other two finks haven’t got money. If they had, she would have left you before now. My people bugged the motel room where she has it off. I have a tape, but you won’t want to listen to it. You’ve picked a real bad one, Boy. I’m sorry to tell you this, but I need you and you need me. Right?”

Perry sat down abruptly. “I don’t believe a word of this,” he muttered.

“You do believe it, Boy,” Hart said quietly, “but, naturally, you don’t want to believe it. I wouldn’t either, but I don’t make mistakes. You have to get rid of Sheila. You have to make up your mind that this is your only solution. My people can give you all the evidence for a divorce. Once you are rid of her, you’ll get back to your normal writing self.”

Perry stiffened. “I am not going to discuss Sheila with you nor anyone else,” he said, a snap in his voice. “This is my personal problem, and I’m not having anyone trying to solve it for me.”

Hart nodded. “Before I asked you to come to see me, I did some thinking. I felt sure you would say just what you’ve said. It’s your personal problem, and you don’t want interference. Okay. I would have been disappointed if you had said otherwise. Now, will you do me a favor?”

Perry looked suspiciously at this big man, resting in his executive chair. “A favor?”

“Yes. To both of us.”

“What’s the favor then?”

“You like fishing?”

“Sure, but what has fishing to do with this?”

“You have a fishing lodge in Florida some place?”

Perry stared. “How did you know that?”

“Never mind. You have, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Right. I want you to go down there today. I want you to fish and think. I want you to tell your wife that you have been sent by me on location to work on the script you have given me. As a favor to me and to yourself, do this. Get her out of your mind. Get off the bottle. Fish and think. I told you I want something with action, blood and sex. You sit by the river with a rod in your hand and you’ll produce what I want. Will you do this?”

Listening, Perry realized that this was what he wanted to do: to get away from NYC, away from Sheila and re-find himself in the solitude of the fishing lodge with no one to bother him, just himself, a rod and an idea for a script to think about.

He smiled.

“Okay. You have a deal,” he said.

He returned home in time to catch Sheila who was about to leave for a game of tennis. He told her he was flying that afternoon to Los Angeles with Silas S. Hart. He would be going on location, and maybe, he would be away a couple of months. He expected a scene, but Sheila merely shrugged. Looking at her, he saw excitement growing in her China-blue eyes, and he felt a sudden cold dislike for her.

“So what do I do?” she asked. “Sit around while you’re having it off with some tart?”

“You must please yourself what you do. This is a job, Sheila. I have to go.”

“I can imagine. What do I do about money?”

“I’ll leave you enough. He wrote out a check for seven thousand dollars and gave it to her.

“You call this enough for two months?” she had said.

“Everything is paid for by the bank, Sheila. That’s more than enough.” And leaving her, he went up the stairs to his bedroom. As he began to pack, he heard her car drive away.

“Once you are rid of her, you’ll get back to your normal writing self.”

And now, sitting in the Toyota listening to the rain hammering down on the roof of the car, he nodded to himself. Well, he was rid of her for two months. It remained to be seen if he got back to his normal writing self.

On the telephone, Sheriff Ross was talking to Carl Jenner.

“Look, Carl, what the hell’s happening?” he demanded. “I can’t raise Tom nor your men. What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. Hollis and Davis don’t reply. The telephone at the farm is dead—”

“For God’s sake! I know that! I’ve been trying that telephone for the past hour! What are you doing?”

“I’ve diverted two cars to the farm, Jeff. One of them slid off the road and into a ditch. The driver has a broken arm. The other car stopped to pull the ditched car free, but now the second car is on its way. This is a hell of a night. Lewis and Johnson, in the second car, don’t know the way to the farm. They keep reporting they are on farm tracks and the going is fierce.”

“I’m going to the farm to see for myself!” Ross snapped. “I’ve had enough of this balls-up. I know the road to the farm backwards. I’ll keep in contact with you on radio.”

“Don’t do that, Jeff!” Jenner said. “Wait. Lewis and Johnson can’t be that long. I’ve redirected them. With luck, they should reach the farm in twenty minutes or so.”

“That’s not good enough. I’m worried sick about Tom. I’m going!” Ross hung up.

Mary, who had been listening, came into the office with Ross’s slicker and hat.

“You’ll be careful, Jeff,” she said. “I’ll stand by the telephone.”

He smiled at her.

“Spoken like a true wife of a sheriff,” he said. He put on his slicker, checked his gun, then slapped on his hat. “Don’t worry. I know that road inside out.” He gave her a kiss. “Keep the radio on. I’ll be in touch,” and he plunged out into the rain.

The road up to Loss’s farm had deteriorated since Tom Mason had tackled the drive, and Ross had to struggle to keep the patrol car from sliding into the ditches either side of the road. Driving slowly, he finally reached the crest of the hill where he found Hollis’s car. He switched on full headlights, lighting up the front of the bungalow.

A moment later, he saw two men come to the front door and wave to him.

He pulled up outside the bungalow and got out.

“Hi, Sheriff,” Hollis said. “Glad you made it. So far, my lot haven’t shown up.”

Ross grunted and moved into the lobby, out of the rain.

“What’s going on? Why haven’t you been in contact with Jenner? Where’s Tom Mason?”

“Is your car radio operating, Sheriff?”

“Yes, but...”

“I’ve got to report to Jenner,” Hollis said. “Davis will show you the mess in here,” and he dashed out into the rain and scrambled into Ross’s car. In minutes, he was talking to Jenner, telling him of the situation at the farm. Jenner listened in stunned silence.

“This escapee has gone off in Mason’s car, wearing Mason’s hat and slicker, and he’s taken Mason’s gun,” Hollis concluded.

“This punk must be out of his skull!” Jenner exploded. “This makes five murders he’s committed in one night. Okay, I’ll handle it — I’ll get an ambulance and the MO up to you fastest,” and he hung up.

Returning to the bungalow, Hollis found Ross on one knee beside Tom Mason.

“Better not touch him,” Hollis said. “An ambulance is on its way. He looks real bad.”

“He’s dead,” Ross said in a cold, flat voice. “He just had time to recognize me, then he went.”