“We’re safe nowhere,” Evans agreed.
Florian nodded. “Not even in our bathtubs.”
We smoked our cigars.
“Are we agreed that the motive for the murders is money?” Florian asked after awhile.
Evans and I nodded.
After several puffs of his cigar, Evans said, “I am an artist and therefore above money. Besides that, I have four hundred thousand, give or take a few dollars.”
“Ordinarily I would say that my assets are my own business,” Florian offered. “However under the circumstances I am willing to admit to being worth close to a quarter of a million.”
“I have some five hundred thousand in shipping,” I said.
Actually my checking account showed less than a thousand. I did have a spot of family money three years ago, but I had invested heavily in Taliaferro Transit. I should have known better. The Board of Directors was solid Princeton.
A thought seemed to strike Florian. “By George, but we are safe from murder.”
I failed to see that.
Florian smiled. “Don’t you see, the murderer doesn’t dare strike again.”
“Why not?”
“Because if he murders once more, that will leave just two people in the club.”
“I admire your arithmetic,” I said. “However...”
Florian held up a hand. “Of the two survivors, one is the murderer and one isn’t.”
“Granted.”
“And in that case,” Florian continued, “The one who isn’t the murderer will immediately be forced to flee to the police. It is a naked matter of survival. He cannot sit about waiting to be murdered.”
Florian rubbed his hands. “The murderer will be convicted and executed and therefore the lone survivor will inherit the entire fund. Plus the champagne.”
“What about the anarchy of lawsuits?” Evans asked.
“I’m sure the survivor would risk them rather than his life,” Florian said. He beamed. “I think that bringing this out into the open has been salubrious. The murderer is stymied. He cannot act again.”
Evans nodded. “He murders at his peril.”
“We’ll go on attending these reunions year after year,” Florian said enthusiastically. “Who knows how long that will be.”
“Fifty years,” Evans said. “We all look healthy.”
“And perhaps the murderer will be the last to, die,” I added somberly.
“There’s also this tragic possibility,” Florian said. “Why can’t the two of us that are innocent run to the police, revealing that the one remaining is the murderer. And so, to protect himself, the murderer may kill two instead of one. That’s something we’ve overlooked.”
We all agreed that we had.
We adjourned our meeting shortly after dinner.
I drove back to my hotel, walked upstairs to my room, and locked the door. I lit a cigar and proceeded to think.
Florian had been right. I would have to murder him and Evans, but that presented a difficulty.
Which one of them should I murder first?
If I disposed of my competing murderer, the survivor would immediately rush to the police. I certainly could not have that.
However if I first got rid of the one of us who was pure as the snow, then my opposite number certainly could not go rushing to the police.
His accidents certainly could not bear the scrutiny of the police either.
And that would leave just the two of us — cautious and wary — but I had every faith that I would triumph in the finals.
But which one of them was the murderer? Evans or Florian? Could I get them together and dispatch them as one? I did not see how.
Momentarily I thought of murdering from the viewpoint of availability. I knew where Florian would be tonight. He was the only one of us who made his home in this city. Evans undoubtedly was at a hotel, but I hadn’t the faintest idea which one.
But I rejected that course of action. There was a fifty-fifty chance that I might be killing the wrong man first. Not very good odds after all the work I’d done.
The motive for the decimation of our club was money, but how to discover which one of those two did not actually have any?
A sudden thought came to me. Perhaps there was a way. Not definitive, but I had to do something.
I consulted the yellow pages of the telephone book and winced when I discovered that there were some ninety-three hotels listed. I sighed, picked up the phone, and attacked the columns alphabetically, hoping fervently that Evans was not at the Zymmerman Arms.
Fortunately for my patience, I found that he was registered at the Fraidlie House. The clerk inquired whether I wanted his room rung, but I demurred. Knowing where he was sufficient for my purposes.
I am not familiar with this city nor the status of its hotels, so I left to investigate farther.
The Fraidlie House proved to be not much more than a rat-trap in a dilapidated neighborhood. The chill of evening made it appear even worse. Why, it was hardly better than the miserable place where I was registered.
I smiled. At least that settled that. Evans was the other murderer. His story about having four hundred thousand dollars was pure fabrication. No man in his right mind, and with money, would stay in a place like that.
I was about to start my car again and return to my hotel, when I saw Evans leaving the Fraidlie House.
He carried no luggage, so he couldn’t possibly be returning to Minneapolis. He had the collar of his topcoat turned up; his movements were quick, furtive. Was it possible, I wondered, that tonight he might...?
He hailed a passing cab.
I started my car and followed at a discreet distance.
His taxi went down the avenue and turned onto the lake front drive. After about four miles south, the road turned slightly inland and we were in a district of fine homes — semi-estates, actually, each with four or five acres of land. This was the area in which Florian lived.
I smiled. It did look as though Evans were going to get rid of Florian tonight. I had no objections. It would save me work.
Evans’ taxi stopped directly in front of Florian’s home.
Really now! That wasn’t particularly intelligent.
Evans was paying the driver as I passed. I drove on a bit, frowning. I remembered some of the previous accidents Evans had arranged. Good heavens, I thought, he could bungle the whole thing — and at this stage we certainly did not want a police investigation of any sort.
I made a U-turn and drove back. I stopped a good five hundred feet beyond Florian’s place and then walked back. The street was dimly lit and deserted.
I had been a guest at Florian’s home some years back and I remembered his house as a two story affair, spacious, but with the quarters for the servants — a butler, a chauffeur, a cook, and a maid, married couples — over the four car garage.
It was only ten in the evening, but the living quarters over the garage were dark and the only light from the house came from Florian’s study.
I glanced about, determining again that I was unobserved, and then slipped into the grounds. I made my way toward the light.
The French doors were slightly ajar and I peered inside the room.
Florian lay on the couch, his face flushed, and he was snoring loudly. A portable gas heater burned near his feet, and beside him on the floor stood an almost empty whiskey bottle and a glass.
And standing over him, clumsily gripping a fireplace poker, stood Evans. He closed his eyes, raised the poker, and gave every indication of being about to strike.
I stepped swiftly into the room. “Hold on!”
Evans stopped his swing in midair, opened his eyes, and blinked. “Is that you, Henry?”
“Yes, it’s me,” I whispered savagely. “And keep your voice down. Do you want to wake Florian? What in the world do you think you’re doing?”