“I was going to kill Joyce, too,” I heard Murray say. “I had that all set up. Do you remember a conversation we had a little while ago? I told you she was getting despondent, suicidal. Do you remember?”
I remembered.
“That was part of the plan,” he said. “I was just planting the idea in a few people’s minds. Then it would have been easy enough. All I had to do was tap her over the head with a poker, knock her cold. Then I would pry open her mouth and shovel the Demerol down her throat. It’s easy to make an unconscious person swallow something. You flip the pill to the back of the mouth and massage the throat until the person swallows. All I had to do was feed her a bottle of pills and let them carry her off.”
“You’re not—”
“No.”
I closed my eyes and pictured him doing it. Knocking her cold, then popping sleeping pills down her throat. And sitting by her side, waiting with his special kind of patience. Waiting for Joyce to die.
“I decided I wanted her,” he said. “I play to win—I keep saying that, but it sums things up. I play to win. I want Joyce.” He smiled. “Joyce and I had a long talk tonight,” he said. “Joyce will think very carefully before she looks at anyone else. Joyce is going to settle back into the role of loving wife again. She makes a good wife when she puts her mind to it.”
He had bought her and paid for her. Now he wanted to go on owning her. I looked at him and my mind searched for an out and I didn’t get anywhere. He wasn’t even pointing a gun at me. He wasn’t even threatening me. He was sitting there, calm and steady, explaining to me just how he had planned to murder his wife and just how he intended to murder me. A big-time tax lawyer, carefully summing up his case for the jury, being quite explicit, filling in all the blanks, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s.
“Why tell me this?” I said.
“So you know what’s coming. So you can work up a sweat.”
“Suppose I go to the police?”
“Go ahead.”
At first they would think I was lying. I could prove my story easily enough. And then they would clap me in a cell and leave me there to rot.
“You won’t go to the police,” he said. “And it wouldn’t do you any good if you did. I haven’t done anything wrong. I haven’t broken a single law. I’ll break one when I kill you, but it will be a little late for you to go to the police by then.”
“How are you going to kill me from a jail cell?”
He laughed. “I’ll never be in jail again. A respectable man who killed a nonentity who was blackmailing him. My plea is temporary insanity. The prosecution has a weak case without a corpse anyway. Don’t you think I’ll beat the rap?”
He would. Easy.
Silence in a smoky room. I got another cigarette going. My hands were surprisingly steady. I asked him how and when he was going to kill me. Murray smiled. He was enjoying this. It was his show, and he was having fun.
“I haven’t decided yet. I’m in no hurry. I’ve nothing to gain by rushing things. Besides, I want to give you plenty of time to sweat.”
“I may be tough to kill.”
“I don’t think so. You may be tough to find, but I’ll manage it. You’ll be leaving town, of course. I wonder where you’ll run to. Do you remember what Joe Louis used to say? They can run but they can’t hide. I’ll find you.”
“All by yourself?”
“Possibly. I’ve got all the time in the world. I think I’ll give up my law practice, Maynard. The disgrace and all—an understandable move. I don’t have to worry about earning a living. And I have a feeling I’ll enjoy hunting you down. If the problem becomes too tough I can always hire detectives. Or professional killers. What do you think a couple of pros would charge to murder you, Maynard? Think I could afford it?”
I didn’t say anything. He gazed at me, no smile, no frown. Then, slowly, he got to his feet.
“I don’t envy you,” he said.
I stood up.
“I don’t envy you at all. Wherever you go, you’ll be waiting for me. Wherever you are, you’ll know I’m after you. It will be a temptation for me to prolong it. Except for the fact that I’ll never be entirely satisfied until you are dead.”
He used that for an exit line. He walked to the door and opened it. I didn’t see him out.
I had to wait until morning. Waiting was hell, but there were things that had to be done. I needed money—money from Perry Carver, money from my bank account. I had to give up a few hours for the dough, which didn’t mean much in the long run. But it was hell trying to stay in that apartment, trying to sleep, trying to survive until it was time to run.
I had one drink after he left, then left the bottle strictly alone. I packed my suitcases and loaded them into the trunk of the Ford. I took a bath and smoked a lot of cigarettes and tried to sleep and saw right away that it wasn’t going to work. I made a cup of coffee, drank it, smoked some more, left the apartment to go to an all-night beanery for a hamburger and more coffee, returned to the apartment and, somehow, God knows how, made it through the night.
Murray was running a bluff, I kept telling myself. He had tipped to everything and wanted me to leave town and work up a sweat. But he wasn’t a killer and he wouldn’t kill me. It was nothing but a bluff. Except that I couldn’t make myself believe the bluff. I knew the man. I’d spent hours talking with him. I’d played plenty of cards with him. If he were bluffing, I was Marie of Romania.
I appeared at the Black Sand office first thing in the morning. I told Perry as much as I had to tell him. Just that I was leaving town, and leaving right away.
“I just don’t get it,” Perry Carver said. “If somebody made you a better offer, let me know about it. I’ll top it.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
“Wanderlust,” I said. “I’ve got itchy feet, I guess.
I’ve spent my whole life on the move. I thought I could change my style, but it hasn’t been working.”
“You’re making good money,” Perry said.
“I know.”
“And you’ll make better money. Don’t you like the city?”
“I like it well enough. I just want to get on the move again.”
“Where to?”
“The West Coast,” I lied. “San Francisco, probably.”
“That’s a long way to go for nothing in particular. You’ve grown close to Murray, haven’t you? His troubles on your mind?”
I shrugged.
“Nothing I can do to change your mind, Bill?”
“I’m afraid not,” I said.
Perry Carver sighed. My prospect file was on his desk where I had put it. He pulled out a stack of cards and riffled through them unseeingly. For a minute I thought he was going to shuffle them and deal them out. He stuffed them back into the file and regarded me.
“It’s the damnedest thing,” he said. “You turned out to be the best man to work out in my office in I don’t know how long. You’ve got a real future if you’ll stay in one place long enough to become established. Going to stick with the investment business?”
“Probably.”
“If you ever want work—”
“Thanks.”
Another sigh. “Some day you’ll be tired of moving around. Meet the right girl, that sort of thing. It’s just a shame it couldn’t have happened in this city.”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”