It was as far as Joey’s thoughts went. He heard the squeak of the door behind him. The thought flashed through his mind that someone had been in the storeroom when he’d entered out front. Whoever it was had heard Joey coming toward the back, had sprung behind the door, using it for concealment when Joey’d swung it open.
Joey was half-turned when the blow caught him in the temple. His head was filled with brilliant lights. Then they all went out.
As Joey’s head cleared, he was first aware that night had fallen completely, deep and black. He heard the humming of a motor, felt the jogging motion that jolted him now and then; occasionally he saw the reflections of lights flashing past. He was on the floor mat of the rear of a sedan. As full consciousness returned, the ache in his head was joined by a multitude of aches and agonized tinglings in other parts of his body. He tried to move and couldn’t. Cramped, he was tied like a trick escape artist. Only he was no Houdini.
He craned his neck, saw the shadow of the man driving. His voice wheezed, “Arnheit? Ballinger? Dorrell?”
The man in front laughed. “Make up your mind, punk.” It was Dorrell. It had had to be one of the three. Only four people could have left that book in his store, and one of them — Marge Krayer — was dead.
His voice had needles in it. “Where’s Cora?”
“Your dame? She’ll follow along shortly, chum, when we get through with you,” Dorrell told him.
Joey sagged back, wishing the cold fingers would quit squeezing his stomach dry. “How’d you get we out? The cop shadow...”
“Simple.” Dorrell glanced over the top of the seat, his face very dark in the weak dash light. “We knew the cops would have a tail on you as soon as you tried to cash that bill. I ran my car in the open end of the alley, loaded you, and drove out. The cop watching your store gave me a long look, but he couldn’t see you, chum. You were below window level.”
Joey pictured it in his mind. The alley was made in a square U form, cutting between buildings north of Joey’s store, passing behind most of the block, then cutting back to the street south of the book shop. Joey remembered that he had parked his car at one end of the alley. Dorrell had brought him out the other end. The cop shadow, seeing the store, both ends of the alley, noting that Joey hadn’t emerged from the store and that his car was still parked, quite likely was still bruising his feet in the shadows across the street, naturally believing Joey to be still in the store.
Joey tried to shift himself; a muscle in his thigh cramped until he set his teeth against the knotted pain.
“And what are you going to do with me, Dorrell?”
“Arrange a disappearance,” Dorrell said easily. “The cop’s going to get tired cooling his heels sometime tonight. He’ll take a look in your store. He’ll find Marge Krayer — and enough hot money in her bag to convince them that she was mixed in that armored truck robbery. Your dame, they’ll say. You got in a squabble over the dough after you tried to cash a grand note and found the dough was still hot. You killed her, they’ll say. They’ll hunt you. From now on. But they’ll never think of looking for you at the bottom of the river with a boulder tied about your middle. It’ll serve two purposes — throw the blame for the robbery and for Marge’s death in the wrong direction, leaving me and the boss in the clear, able to spend that half million bucks one of these days when it finally cools, and it’ll get you out of the way. You’re a nosy, smart guy, Thomas. You might have eventually found where that copy of Political Economy came from.”
Joey licked his lips. Dorrell was talking sense, all right. Macabre, unholy sense. Joey said, “But what really happened goes something like this. The whole neighborhood knows my habits, along with the fact that I’m just about bankrupt. You were fairly certain I’d find the thousand dollar bill. So it was planted on me. You had to know if the money was still hot. If I cashed the bill okay, you could start spending. It would be worth a paltry thousand out of a half million to know that. But if I got canned cashing the bill, you’d have warning to hold the dough awhile longer. Nobody would suspect anyone but me. That was worth a thousand too.
“But you’d been holding the dough for a long time already. Marge Krayer’s nerves were breaking. When she found that the money was useless, it drove her frantic. She was mixed in a hellish mess with nothing to show but a pile of hot money. She wanted out of the whole thing. So she was coming to me. She wanted a go-between in making a deal with the district attorney. She was afraid to go directly to the D.A. She knew I’d be open to any suggestion that would get my neck out of it and that I’d fix things, getting plenty of assurance for her safety if she turned state’s witness, before I revealed her identity to the district attorney.
“You tumbled to Marge’s intentions. You followed her through the rear entrance of the store, stabbed her to death. Cora heard the commotion, appeared in back. You caught her at the rear counter of the store. If you’ve harmed her...”
“You’re not in a position to make threats.” Dorrell glanced over the seat again. The small scar on his cheek caught light, like a pale star. “You got one little thing wrong, though. I didn’t kill Marge. In a way, I liked her, had drinks in Tony’s bar with her.”
“Then who did kill her?” Joey asked. “Who is the head man in this mess?”
“You’d like to know,” Dorrell jeered. He pulled the car over to the aide of the road, slowing, and turned sharply. Joey had noticed that passing headlights had been getting scarcer. Now they stopped altogether, and from the lurching of the car, Joey knew Dorrell had turned off on a lonely country road. He dragged the cool night air in his lungs. It tasted nice, the way anything precious tastes when there is only a few more minutes to have it.
Dorrell stopped the car, got out and opened the rear door. He was a tall, thin shadow standing over Joey as he dragged Joey out and dumped him on the dusty earth of the road. The breeze whispered through the pines; a night creature scurried through the dense undergrowth. The night was lonely, shrouded in silence.
Dorrell laid a flashlight on the fender of the car. He knelt, planting his knee in the small of Joey’s back until the gravel of the road bit in Joey’s chest. He could feel Dorrell cutting him loose.
Then Dorrell sprang back. “I’d just as soon let you have it now as later, Thomas. So watch the way you move.”
Joey lay a moment, retching, as circulation returned to his arms and legs. Dorrell said harshly, “Get on your feet, Thomas.”
Joey clambered upright. His feet felt like huge, swollen things, and every step he took was a floating giant-stride.
Very faintly, he could bear the murmur of the river in the distance. Beside the road, the hill dropped away steeply, leading down through the pit of the night to the river. He flashlight and gun prodding him, Joey stepped off the edge of the road.
They moved without speaking, Dorrell silently nerving himself for the bloody task ahead. The rustle of undergrowth, the cracking of twigs marked their slow, sliding progress downward.
They were halfway to the river and through breaks in the foliage Joey could see the gleaming silver of the water now and then. Dorrell a scant two yards behind him, they passed under the yawning branches of a mature maple tree.
Joey slipped, flailed his arms, grabbed a wrist-sized limb of the maple, his feet flying from beneath him. Dorrell shouted, squeezed the trigger nervously, missing Joey’s diving form.
Joey dung to the branch, until it had bent as far as his weight would instantly take it. Then he let go. He beard Dorrell shout again, a startled sound filled with pain this time, as the branch swished back to smash Dorrell in the face and drive him to his knees.