You've Got It Coming

chapter seven

I

It was only when the rays of the sun came through the car window, unpleasantly hot against his face, that Harry stirred himself. He had no idea how long he had been sitting in the car, and now he wondered what Glorie was doing. He couldn’t leave her in this lonely spot, he told himself, that was at least two miles from the highway, and yet he hesitated to go back after the way she had screamed at him.

With a hand that was still unsteady, he lit a cigarette. Then he turned to look through the rear window to see if there was any sign of her, and his eyes fell on her suitcase, lying on the back of the seat. That decided him. He couldn't go off with her things, nor could he leave the heavy suitcase by the road for her to lug to the highway.

He started the car, and after some trouble, for the road was narrow, he turned and drove slowly down the road until he reached the open beach.

By now the mid-morning sun was violently hot, and it beat down on him as he got out of the car and walked beyond the palmetto trees on to the soft sand.

He paused, frowning, as he looked across the stretch of beach.

He could see Glorie: she was lying on her side, apparently asleep or resting. He wondered why she had remained out there in the heat of the sun instead of seeking shelter in the shade.

From the palmetto thicket, Borg watched him, his fat face expressionless, his hand resting on the butt of his gun that he carried strapped under his armpit.

“Glorie!” Harry called, not wanting to go over to her and startle her. “Glorie!”

But she didn't move nor did she appear to hear him. With growing uneasiness he started across the beach towards her.

“Glorie!” he called again, and then he came to an abrupt stop.

The crimson stain on the sand by her head sent a cold chill creeping over him.

For a long moment he stood motionless, then very slowly he moved forward until he was within a few feet of her. Then he saw the injuries to her head, her fixed grimace of terror, her half-open, sightless eyes, and he knew without touching her that she was dead.

The cigarette he was holding slipped out of his fingers and dropped in the sand. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. It came into his mind that he had done this thing himself, and it took him some seconds to gain enough control to reassure himself that he hadn't. She couldn't possibly have given herself such injuries, he thought, and he looked to right and left, his body going clammy with fear.

The great stretch of beach was empty. His eyes went to the long, thick belt of wood. Was someone hiding in there? Had someone been watching him and her as they had quarrelled?

He looked for the extra set of footprints in the sand. There were his; there were hers, but there were no other footprints.

He wasn't to know that Borg had stepped back into his own prints as he had retreated to the wood, and had smoothed over each print with his fat, dirty hand as he stepped from it. He had had plenty of time, and he had made a good job of it. He had left no trace of his coming nor of his going.

The empty, unmarked sand that stretched back to the wood convinced Harry that no one had come down to her. Had something fallen from the sky and hit her? But he could see no missile of any description near her, only her handbag that lay by her side.

He wiped his sweating face, keeping his eyes from her still, injured body. If anyone should come down to the beach now, he thought, they would imagine he had killed her. Fear gripped him. Even if no one saw him, and the body was found, the police would suspect him before anyone.

They would have reason to suspect him. It was possible that someone had heard their quarrel in the cabin. He remembered that Glorie had warned him he had been shouting. Then there was the truck driver who had seen them standing by the road and had asked the way to the Denbridge service station. He would remember them and tell the police. If they found her body, he was sunk!

Again he looked towards the wood, and Borg, guessing his intentions, moved silently away to where he had hidden his car. Harry felt he couldn't leave without making sure no one was in the wood. He turned and began to walk slowly back the way he had come. He had only taken a few steps when he heard a car engine start up.

The sound brought him to an abrupt stop, his heart slamming against his ribs. So there had been someone! He heard the engine accelerate, and, galvanized into action, he raced across the burning sand to the head of the road. But he was too late. When he reached the road there was no sign of the car. His own car still stood at the opening of the road, but it was facing the sea, and he knew by the time he had turned it, the other car would be too far away to pursue.

Who had it been? he asked himself. Some crazy creature who had seen Glorie on her own and had attacked her? It could only have been the killer who had driven away. He wasn't likely to tell anyone he had seen him, Harry thought. He would be too scared he would implicate himself.

As he stood by the car, the hot sun beating down on him, Harry tried to calm his frightened mind, and to plan what he had best do. He could drive to Collier City and tell the police that someone had murdered Glorie, but he had no hope of the police believing him. If they arrested him and took his fingerprints he would be sunk. The safest thing he could do was to follow out his original plan. He unlocked the car boot and took out the shovel. He stripped off the brown paper, folded it and put the paper in the boot which he closed. Then he walked back to where Glorie lay.

He knew he should carry her to the wood and bury her there where she would be less likely to be found, but he couldn't bring himself to pick her up. He dug a grave within a few feet of where she lay. Digging the sand out wasn't easy, as it kept collapsing into the hole as he made it, but eventually he made a hole, big and deep enough to take her.

His shirt was black with sweat by the time he had filled in the grave, and he was gasping for breath. He smoothed the sand over with the back of the shovel, then he went down to the sea and collected a pile of seaweed, returned to the grave and scattered the seaweed over it, concealing the disturbed sand. He guessed in a day or so the action of the wind would settle the sand and no one would be able to tell that she was buried there. The danger lay in the next day if someone happened along and wondered at the disturbance of the sand.

He looked back at the footprints he and Glorie had made. He would have to get rid of them. For the next half-hour he toiled in the sun, smoothing over the footprints as he slowly worked his way back to the car. When he finally reached the car, he paused to examine the stretch of beach that lay before him.

Except for the little heap of seaweed there was no evidence that he and Glorie had been there, and for the first time since he had found Glorie's body, he felt more sure of himself.

He cleaned the shovel in the long grass and put it in the boot. Then he remembered Glorie's suitcase and he cursed. That too would have to be buried. He got out the shovel, and, carrying the suitcase into the wood, he found a soft piece of ground and dug out a hole. He buried the suitcase, then sat on the trunk of a fallen pine for a few minutes' rest.

His mind was already becoming active again. He was rid of Glorie now for good, and he hadn't her death on his conscience. He was free to return to Miami. He had his capital intact, and there was Joan, anxiously waiting for him. He'd better get away from here, he told himself. Someone might come and find him, although the danger, he felt, was now past. As he stood up, he remembered the wrench he had thrown away. He had to have that.

If it were found it might be checked for fingerprints and he was sure his prints were on it. He tried to remember where he had thrown it. He recollected flinging it away from him in his fury. He remembered it flying off somewhere towards the wood.

He walked along the edge of the wood, his eyes searching the sandy ground. He hadn't gone more than a dozen paces Wore he came upon, in the sand, the unmistakable impression of the wrench, but the wrench itself wasn't there.

He stared down at the clear cut impression, his heart thudding.

There were three odd little marks by the impression, and it was only when he bent down and placed the back of his hand alongside the marks that he realized they had been made by the knuckles of a hand that had dipped into the sand to pick up the wrench.

It occurred to him then that the killer had murdered Glorie with the wrench, and, in spite of the blazing heat, he turned cold. If the killer had thrown the wrench away and it was later found by the police, it would hook Harry for the killing.

For more than half an hour, he feverishly searched the wood, but he didn't find the wrench, and finally he had to give up looking for it. He tried to assure himself that the killer had hidden the wrench where no one would find it. He must get, this whole thing out of his mind, he told himself. He was now free of Glorie, he had his future to think of. He must get back to Miami and to Joan.

He drove up the road leading from the beach. When he reached the junction, he turned left and on to the main highway. Almost at once he was caught up in a ribbon of traffic, and he felt safer as he drove fast along the road back to Miami.

In his car, at the edge of the road, Borg had been waiting patiently. When he saw Harry's Buick go by, he went after him. He drove about a quarter of a mile behind the fast-moving Buick, content to let two other cars keep between his car and Harry's.

After Harry had driven some miles, he saw an oil truck coming towards him and he recognized the green-and-white markings: it was the truck driven by the man who had asked the way to the Denbridge service station. Harry cursed his bad luck to meet this driver again. He sank low in his seat, hoping the driver wouldn't recognize him, but he did. He blasted his horn and waved out of the window as he went by. Harry ignored him, increasing his speed.

If the police found Glorie's body and the murder got into the papers, the truck driver was certain to remember that he had seen Harry with Glorie, and some three hours later had seen Harry coming back without her. Harry felt a trickle of cold sweat run down his back. That kind of bad luck could put a man into the death cell, he thought.

He reached Miami around half-past four. Pulling up outside a drug store, he left the Buick, went in and put a call through to the Graynor's residence. He was told that Joan was out, but she was expected back after six. He said he would call later and went out on to the street again. Pausing by the car, he considered what his next move should be.

He decided to find cheaper accommodation than the motel he had left. Across the way he spotted a Tourist Information Bureau. He crossed the street and got from the bureau the address of a moderate motel. He drove out to Biscayne Boulevard where he found the motel facing the sea. He rented a cabin in a secluded corner of the well-laid-out grounds and, leaving his car outside, he entered the cabin.

A minute after he had closed the door, Borg appeared. He noted the number of Harry's cabin, then went to the office and rented a cabin near Harry's. He also left his car outside his cabin. He entered and, pulling up a chair to the window, he sat down. From where he sat he could see Harry's front door and from time to time he caught a glimpse of him through the window as Harry moved around the room.

Borg was feeling relaxed and a little tired. The heat and the exertion of the day hadn't agreed with his bulk, but he didn't care. So far it had been a satisfactory day. He had killed for the first time in two years. Killing agreed with him. He looked across at Harry's cabin. Well, one of them was dead, the other could wait awhile. There was no need to rush it. Once he went back to work for Delaney he wouldn't get the chance of another killing.

He took from his hip pocket a flask containing sherbert powder mixed with water. He took a long swig from the flask, wiped his thick lips with the back of his hand and sighed contentedly.

Since he had been a kid playing in the gutters of Chicago, he had had a passion for sherbert: now he drank nothing else. He took another long swig, then, setting his flask on the windowsill, he settled down to wait.

By the time Harry had taken a shower, changed and had a couple of drinks from a bottle of whisky he had telephoned for, it was after six, and he called the Graynor's residence. Joan answered the telephone.

“What news, Harry?” she asked eagerly. “I didn't expect you to call so soon.”

“She's gone. I finally got it fixed.”

“She really has? Where has she gone to?”

“Mexico City. Didn't I tell you? She has a brother there.”

“I'm so glad. Did you have to give her much?”

“Well, no. When it came to the shell out, she'd only take a couple of thousand. I wanted her to have more, but she wouldn't She was pretty nice about it. She even wished us luck.”

“She did?” The incredulous note in Joan's voice warned him to be careful what he said.

“Yes. I guess it was a shock when I told her we had to part. Her immediate reaction was to turn sour, but she soon got over it. She didn't realize you and I plan to get married. As soon as the nickel dropped, she was fine.”

“Thank goodness. I was worrying. Did she go by train?”

Harry moved impatiently.

“Yeah. Look, Joan, never mind about her. When am I going to see you? We've things to talk about.”

“Where are you?”

“In the Biscayne Boulevard motel: cabin 376.”

“I’ll come out now. Wait for me, Harry.”

“What do you think? Of course I’ll wait.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, me too.”

He replaced the receiver, then, taking the whisky and his glass he went out on to the stoop and sat in a wicker rocking chair, feeling the hot rays of the evening sun on him. From his window, Borg watched him, his little pig's eyes screwed up as the smoke from his cigarette spiralled up past his short, fat nose.