She didn't say anything.
“I'll never bring this up again,” he said, “but I can't leave it like that. I want you to know that I appreciate what you offered me, but that guy would have stiffened up by the time we were through, so I had to pass it up. You got plenty of reason to be sore at me.”
She said nothing for a few moments. “I'm not sore at you,” she said at last. “I think you're cute to throw me back at myself.”
Just like that. Duffy sighed and groped for a cigarette. “Let's not fight,” he said, “we've got enough on our hands.”
“I'm not fighting,” was all she said.
They rode the next three blocks in silence, then Duffy said, “You turn right here.”
She swung the wheel. Duffy thought she handled the big Cadillac as if she were part of it. She judged distance to the closeness of the paint on her fender and the car threaded its way through the traffic without losing speed at any time. By uncanny anticipation she beat the lights most times. The Cadillac had plenty under the hood, and a touch on the pedal was enough to make it sweep forward like an arrow.
They came upon the burial ground as the clocks were striking two. Duffy leant forward. “Take it easy,” he said, “this is a lonely burg, but someone may be here.”
She stopped the car by the iron gates. Duffy opened the off door and got out. There were no lights to be seen in the burial ground; it was a pretty dark night.
Duffy was glad he wasn't Irish. The place was creepy. He turned to the car. “You wait here,” he said. “I'm just going to take a look round.”
She opened the door and stepped into the road. “I'm not staying here alone,” she said.
Duffy wasn't surprised. He walked to the iron gates and pushed, they yielded, and swung open.
“Suppose you back the bus in,” he suggested, “then we'll be off the road.”
She got in the Cadillac again and started the engine. Duffy let her run the car well down the centre lane of the graveyard and then signalled her to stop. He closed the iron gates again.
When she got out of the car, she was holding a small flashlight. The night air was close, and Duffy hooked a finger in his collar and jerked at it. He looked round the dim place. He didn't like it at all. She stood quite close to him, and he felt her shivering when he touched her.
Up above, the moon hung like a dead face, just visible through the mist. Duffy thought it was likely to rain any time.
“I want to find an old mausoleum,” he said. “If we can park Cattley in one of them, he ain't likely to be turned up for some time, if ever.”
He began to walk slowly down the lane. Annabel kept close beside him. The white stones on each side of them looked ghostly. “What a spot to be in,” Duffy thought.
As they penetrated further into the burial ground it got darker. The trees overhead began to get more dense.
“Nice spot this, ain't it?” Duffy said.
The heavy scent of graveyard flowers hung in the air. Underfoot, the cinders crunched and sounded to Duffy like firecrackers.
“I wish we could get away from here,” Annabel said nervously, “this scares me.”
“Me, I'm quaking,” Duffy said. “I guess we're far enough off the road to chance having a little light.”
He swung the beam of the flash-light. It lit up the tombstones, making them look startlingly white in the darkness.
“I think this looks like it.” Duffy paused and pointed the beam.
Over on the left stood a mausoleum in black marble. It was almost invisible until the beam showed it up. They went over and examined it carefully. The marble door was locked.
“This is Cattley's new home,” Duffy said, running his hand down the smooth cold door. “But how the hell do we get him in?”
He put his shoulder against the door and heaved. He made his shoulder sore, but the door remained solid.
“What's that number there?” Annabel asked. She was holding the flash so that he could push against the door.
Duffy followed her eye. There was a small plate let in on the side of the door with a number 7 printed on it. Duffy said he didn't know.
“Do you think they keep the keys of these places at the porter's place?” she asked.
Duffy grinned at her. “That's a grand idea,” he said. “Let's go an' see.”
The porter's lodge, by the gates, was locked and deserted but Duffy got a window open without much difficulty and looked round. He found a rack of keys by the front door, each key had a wooden tab hanging from it, with a number burned into the wood. He looked for number 7 and found it.
“I believe you've got something,” he said. “Suppose you drive the car up to the crypt while I go on and test the key.”
She got into the Cadillac and began to back it down the lane. He had to come back and help her with the flash, as she ran off the lane once or twice. They got back to the mausoleum at last and Duffy tried the key. The lock turned all right with some heavy pressure from Duffy, and he forced the door back. The air was bad down there, and he stepped away from the open door.
“That guy's going to have good company,” was all he said.
He went to the back of the car and wrestled with the straps that held the trunk. Annabel stood, holding the flash steady. He got the straps off and then levered the trunk to the ground. It was heavy, but he managed to get it down without making any noise. Then he stood up and wiped off his palms with his handkerchief.
“I guess I could do with a drink,” he said heavily.
“There's a pint flask in the driving-pocket.”
Duffy slipped round to the door pretty quick. He belted that pint hard. He thought it would be safer not to give Annabel any of it. Whisky seemed to take her in the wrong way. He didn't like to think of turning her down again.
“I guess I can tackle anything now,” he said, putting the flask in his hip pocket.
He took off his coat and undid his collar, pulling his tie loose. Then he walked over to the trunk and dragged it into the mausoleum. Annabel stood just outside the door, shining the flash. The beam jerked about. Her hand was shaking like a barman at work.
Duffy got the trunk inside and then paused.
“For God's sake gimme that light,” he said.
She seemed glad to do so. “I'm going to be sick,” she said.
“No you ain't,” he said sharply. “Go and sit in the car quick.”
When she had gone he opened the trunk and turned it on its side. The mackintosh parcel was jammed tight and he had to pull at it. The sheet suddenly tore in his hand and he went over backwards. He landed against a shelf, and his hand touched a cold metal strip. He fingered it, then he snatched his hand away. It was a handle of a coffin. His face oozed water as if it had been squeezed.
He went to the door and took a deep breath of the dank air, then he went back to the trunk. Savagely he pulled Cattley out, pulled away the cord, and jerked off the mackintosh sheet. Cattley sprawled at his feet. He didn't look at him. Dumping the sheet into the trunk, he pulled the trunk out of the crypt.