‘Wait a moment, Mr. Lucas,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a look-see.’
He got out of the car and walked around the high-growing sand shrubs.
Joe stopped playing his harmonica. He and Benny got out of the car. I sat still and waited. After a few minutes, Harry returned.
‘It’s okay. Let’s go, Mr. Lucas. We have some digging to do.’
Joe opened the trunk of my car and produced two trenching tools. Leaving Benny by the car, Harry, Joe and I walked into the jungle of shrubs.
In sight of the deserted beach and the sea, Harry stopped.
‘How about here, Mr. Lucas? We’ll put him in deep.’
I surveyed the place, looked around, and then down at | the bare patch of sand, surrounded by shrubs.
‘Yes,’ I heard myself say.
Joe began to dig. It was heavy work. The sand kept falling back into the hole he was making. The sun, by now, was hot.
I stood there in my nightmare, waiting.
When Joe had made a seven-foot trench of about a foot deep, Harry, using his trenching tool, began to clear the sand Joe was throwing up. The work moved faster.
The two men were sweating. I watched Joe’s muscles rippling, and the sweat dripping from Harry’s beard. The whole scene was so unreal, I could have been doing a moonwalk.
When the trench was some five feet deep, Harry said, ‘Okay, Joe. Hold it.’
Joe grinned, wiped the sweat off his face with the back of his hand and climbed out of the trench.
Harry turned and looked at me.
‘Well now, Mr. Lucas, this is your funeral, isn’t it? We want another foot deeper.’ He offered me his trenching tool. ‘Do some digging!’ The sudden vicious snap in his voice told me I had no alternative. I took off my jacket, took the trenching tool and stepped down into the trench.
Harry and Joe moved back.
Still in this nightmare, I began to dig. I had only dug for two or three minutes, when Harry said, ‘Fine, Mr. Lucas. Joe’ll finish it. He digs digging,’ and he laughed. He reached down, caught hold of my wrist and pulled me out of the trench. Joe took my place, and in a few minutes, the trench was some six feet deep.
‘Do you think that’s okay, Mr. Lucas?’ Harry asked. ‘I can’t see any child or dog digging down that far. Once he’s in there, he’s in for good. What do you say?’
I draped my jacket over my shoulders, sweat streaming down my aching face.
‘Yes.’
Harry looked at Joe.
‘Go get him.’
The Negro ran off towards the car.
I waited.
Harry, holding the trenching tool by its blade, stared at the beach and the sea.
‘A nice spot,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t mind being buried here. Better than those crummy cemeteries with their crosses and flowers.’
I didn’t say anything.
Joe and Benny appeared, carrying the body of the squat man. I turned away, feeling sick. I heard a thump as they dropped the body by the open grave.
‘Mr. Lucas, just take a look. Make sure, huh?’ Harry said.
I turned.
Joe and Benny moved back. There was the squat man, bloody, and in death, lying on the sand.
Harry gave me a sudden hard shove, and I staggered forward so I was right on top of the body. I looked down in horror. His face had been smashed in. I could see the white of his brains on his broken forehead.
‘Okay, Mr. Lucas,’ Harry said, coming forward and taking hold of my arm. ‘Let’s get back to the car. Benny and Joe will fix him. You happy? I want you to be happy about this.’
I jerked away from him and walked unsteadily back to my car. He kept by my side. When we reached the car, his hand again took hold of my arm and he steered me firmly to the back of the car. He opened the trunk.
‘Here’s a mess, Mr. Lucas, but don’t worry your brains. We’ll fix it for you.’
I looked at the blood-soaked rubber lining of the trunk and turned away.
‘Get in the car and relax, Mr. Lucas. You don’t have a thing now to worry about.’
I opened the car door and sat in the passenger’s seat. Marsh’s smashed, bloody face swam in my dazed mind. I sat there until Joe and Benny returned. They got in the car, Harry slid under the driving wheel.
‘I’ll drop you off at your place, Mr. Lucas,’ he said, ‘then Joe’ll fix the car. I’ll have it put back in your garage this afternoon. You don’t have a goddamn thing to worry about.’
Not a thing, I thought, until Edwin Klaus comes around to pick up the price tag.
I spent the rest of this Sunday in my apartment, holding an ice bag to my face and considering my position.
I was sure Klaus intended to blackmail me. But how strong was his position? The body had been buried. No one saw Glenda nor myself at Ferris Point. At least, I saw no one on the drive down and on the beach. Suppose I told Klaus to go to hell when he came to pick up the price tag? What would he do? It seemed to me that by arranging to bury the body, his blackmail teeth were drawn. Suppose he called the Sheriff and told him where to find the body and implicate me? What proof had he I had murdered Marsh? I had only to keep my nerve and deny everything to be, in what seemed to me at the moment, a strong position.
I realized that my story to Brannigan of a car accident to account for my bruised face was dangerous. Every car accident, no matter how trivial, had to be reported to the Sharnville police. They were very strict about this. I would have to think of a better story than a car accident, and finally, after some thought, I came up with a better story. My mind then shifted to Glenda. Was she involved in this? Loving her as I did, I tried hard not to think she had been the bait on the hook. There was one way to find out. Although it was Sunday, I felt sure The Investor worked around the clock. I reached for the telephone and asked the operator to connect me with New York. I said I wanted to talk to The Investor’s office. After a delay, I got through. I asked to speak to the acting editor. There was more delay, then a brisk voice said, ‘Harrison. Who is this?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison,’ I said, ‘but it is a matter of urgency that I contact Mrs. Glenda Marsh who I understand freelances for you.’
He repeated the name, then said, ‘You are in error. We don’t know anyone of that name, and we don’t employ freelances.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, and hung up.
I got up and walked into the kitchen and wrung out the towel, then I wrapped more ice cubes and returned to my armchair. I had an empty void inside me. So Glenda had been the bait on the hook. Was she still in Sharnville? I doubted it. Surely this put me in a stronger position to tell Klaus to go to hell. If he now tried to involve me, I could not only involve him, but also Glenda, and maybe, once the Sheriff began to question her, she would tell the truth. I found it hard to believe that she didn’t love me.
By 16.00, the swelling in my face had gone down. I now only had a black bruise on my cheek. My head ceased to throb. I was feeling jaded but more confident that I could deal with Klaus if and when he tried to put on the screws.
Remembering my car, I went down to the garage.
My car stood in the bay. It had been washed and polished. After a moment’s hesitation, I opened the trunk. It was immaculate with a new rubber mat: no blood, no sand, no body.
As I was closing the trunk, Fred Jebson, who lived below me, drove in.
Jebson, an accountant, was one of those hearty, garrulous men who always liked to chat up anyone in sight.
‘Hi there, Larry,’ he said, getting out of his car. ‘Didn’t see you at the club.’ Then he stared at me. ‘For Pete’s sake, did he catch you with his wife?’ And he gave a bellow of laughter.
I felt my insides shrink, but I forced a smile.
‘I had an argument with a golf ball,’ I said. ‘I took a No. 5 down to the beach. The ball ricocheted off a tree and caught me before I could duck.’