His college career had presaged his later business life. His marks had been average, he dabbled without distinction at a few extracurricular sports and activities. He didn’t bother much with girls, coming from slightly poverty-stricken but respectable parents who had to strain themselves in order to see him through college at all. He was a normal, rather dull, thoroughly respectable, reliable and very average young man. He had neither unusual vices nor outstanding virtues. He was, in short, the stuff of which the backbone of the nation is made up.
A hernia which bothered him not at all had kept him out of military service, for which he was vaguely grateful.
At thirty, Gerald was a good-looking, medium-built young man who still had all of his hair and almost all of his teeth. He was beginning to believe that his eyes were getting a bit nearsighted and had recently been promising himself to find out if he would be needing glasses, at least for reading. He had normal taste, rather limited ambition (knowing the possibilities of an insurance actuary’s career), and a sort of lingering desire to get married and settle down. He had met Maryjane Swiftwater at a house party given by one of the men who worked in his office, and they had been engaged for several years.
He had known, for some time now, that there was something wrong with his life. But he didn’t know quite what it was. Didn’t know, except that he realized his job was dull, his activities were dull and that even the girl he planned and hoped to marry had herself become just a little dull with the passing of the waiting years.
That evening he had taken a foolish chance when he had drawn to an inside straight. It wasn’t a matter of the petty sum of money involved. It was a silly, ridiculous thing to do. As an actuary, he could figure percentages.
But he had taken the chance and drawn to the inside straight and it had paid off.
Now, here, lying at his feet, was a fortune in gems.
Gerald’s decision involved a second foolish chance. A chance contrary to every law of percentages. A truly insane chance.
Gerald Hanna flipped on the dashboard light and opened the door at his side of the car. He circled around the front of the car and opened the other door. The boy’s body was surprisingly light. It took him only a minute or two to half lift and half drag the mortal remains of Vince Dunne from the front seat and over to the side of the road. He was almost gentle as he laid his burden into the pile of bushes, making only a slight effort to conceal it.
That was the easy part of it. What was a thousand times harder was making the trip back to Roslyn and the house in which he lived; finding the house and opening the garage doors and putting the ear away and taking the jewels and the gun and wrapping them in his jacket and carrying them up to his room.
He knew the chance he was taking; knew the percentages. He wasn’t sure, of course, if the car had been identified. Wasn’t sure that even now the pickup alarm wasn’t out. He also knew the chance of a cruising policeman stopping a car with a broken windshield, on general suspicion. Of course, if it happened before he turned into his own street, it would be all right. He’d just tell the truth, tell them that he was on the way to find help.
But it hadn’t been necessary; there had been no one to tell. He’d made the house without passing a single car or person. That had been a break and the second break was one which already existed and made it possible for him to put his plan into operation. The second break was the fact that the family from whom he rented his rooms were away for a month’s vacation in Bermuda. He had the house to himself and what was more important, he had the garage to himself.
There were neighbors, of course, but no one ever came around and even the milkman had suspended service while the owners were absent.
Sitting there in the small bedroom with the blinds carefully drawn and only the single dim desk light on for illumination, he was looking at more wealth, or potential wealth, than he would normally see if he worked for the rest of his life and saved up every cent he was ever to make.
Until this moment, not once in his entire life had he ever considered doing anything dishonest.
Very suddenly he laughed.
Well, in the purest sense of the word, he still hadn’t. A man with a gun in his hand had forced his way into his car. The man had later died, probably of a gunshot wound sustained in a battle with the police and had. conveniently, left a fortune in jewels scattered at his feet.
Gerald had merely removed a body which had intruded on him. He had driven home. One life already had paid for the gems and if Gerald was any sort of judge and his eyes hadn’t deceived him, several other lives had been forfeited. Certainly it was too late to do anything about that.
As for the owners of the gems, Gerald was certain they were covered by insurance.
Having spent some of the best years of his life slaving for a surety company which neglected to pay him enough money to get married and live decently, Gerald was not overly sympathetic. After all, that was why they were in business and why they charged very high premiums-to take care of just such losses as this.
Before going to bed, he did two things. He returned to the garage and removed the fragments of glass from the broken windshield. Then he carefully checked the car for bloodstains, wiped it over with a damp rag.
He placed the jewels in a brief case and put it into his bottom dresser drawer. He knew there would be no point in trying to hide the stuff; he must take a gamble that no one had taken the license number of his car.
It was a calculated risk and one which, in view of the possible rewards, he was perfectly willing to assume.
It was very much like the poker game; he’d already filled his inside straight. Now all he had to do was be sure no one else held a higher hand and he would collect the proper rewards for the rather insane risk he was taking.
Just before falling asleep, Gerald Hanna reminded himself that he must be sure and call Maryjane the first thing in the morning. He must make the proper excuses about the week end. It would, of course, be perfect if he were only able to run up to Connecticut as he usually did, but that would be impossible. You can’t run around in a car without a windshield. Certainly not in a certain Chevvie convertible which even now was sitting downstairs in the garage.
The idea of disappointing Maryjane failed to upset him and he had no difficulty in falling asleep almost at once.
After all, Maryjane had been disappointing him for a number of years now.
The people who knew Maryjane Swiftwater all agreed on one thing-she was a nice girl. A nice girl and a good girl. Just look at the way she took care of that invalid father of hers. And everyone knows how hard invalids are to get along with.
The expression Maryjane used, however, as she slammed the receiver back on the hook, was anything but nice. In fact, even people who didn’t know Maryjane and hadn’t as much as thought about her one way or the other, would have been hard put to figure out how anyone who looked as sweetly innocent and demure as Miss Swiftwater, would even know such an expression.
Old Horace Swiftwater, however, was neither surprised nor shocked when he overheard his daughter’s bitter voice as she hung up. Horace knew his daughter very well indeed.