“So Kurt would know where the suit is.”
Kane said, “You understand, Mr. Engel, so far as you are concerned all this has become academic. It won’t be possible to let you live.”
Mrs. Kane said, “Murray, I don’t like this at all. At first it was just a simple honest insurance swindle, but now it’s becoming criminal. You’ve already murdered one man in cold blood, and now you’re going to do it again. Murray, you can’t allow yourself to get into the habit of thinking of murder as the solution to all your problems.”
“Don’t you lecture me,” Kane snapped. Then he composed his face again in the lines of pleasant humor, and said to Engel, “I’m sorry, Mr. Engel, I truly am. But I don’t dare leave anyone who knows I’m still alive.”
“Sure,” said Engel. He was thinking. Jump through one of the tall windows? He’d never get there in time. No, wait and see what developed.
Mrs. Kane was saying, “But how, Murray? What are we going to do with his body?” Abruptly, she giggled. “All at once we’ve got more bodies than we know what to do with.”
“Oh, I know what to do with Mr. Engel,” Kane said. “Yes, indeed. Mr. Engel won’t be found, darling, don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”
“You know what to do with him?”
“That I do.”
“What? Tell me!”
“I know a grave,” quoth Kane, “without a body. A casket and all, but no body.” He smiled upon Engel. “You won’t mind too awfully much, Mr. Engel,” he said, “if your headstone should read Brody?”
22
The nice thing about the trunk of a Lincoln Continental, it’s roomy. The bad thing about this particular Lincoln Continental was that Engel had to share it with a spade, a pick, a flashlight, a jack, a set of tire chains, and something small and round and cold and hard that kept sticking him in the small of the back.
The condition of the streets of New York City are a disgrace, a real disgrace. Back around 1960 the city hired some men to go out and paint yellow lines around all the potholes for some reason, but other than that and since then the potholes have been left to themselves. Engel, riding to and across Brooklyn in the trunk of Kane’s car, devoted a number of thoughts to the municipal government of the City of New York.
But all good things come to an end, and with a final jounce this ride did too. Engel waited, gripping the jack handle in the dark inside the trunk, thinking there was just a chance he’d be able to knock the gun out of Murray Kane’s hand as the trunk lid was being raised.
But no such luck. It was Margo Kane who opened the trunk, while her husband stood well back and slightly to one side, where Engel couldn’t get at him but Margo didn’t block her husband’s aim.
“Leave the jack there, Engel,” Kane said. “But do bring the pick and shovel and flashlight. Margo, get the blanket from the back seat.”
It was the well-remembered path to the well-remembered grave, except that last time Willy Menchik had been along. Yes, and last time it was Willy Menchik who had been slated to go into the grave. Things were a bit different now.
It was still early, only a little past nine, but the cemetery was as deserted as if it were three o’clock in the morning. They clinked and tinkled along the path to the still-raw grave, Margo spread the blanket for a groundcloth, and for the second time in three days Engel proceeded to dig up Charlie Brody’s grave.
The job seemed to go quicker this time, probably because last time he was in a hurry to be done and this time he was in no hurry at all, and so both times ran wrong, with the usual perversity of life. In just minutes Engel was down to the coffin, his spade making a hollow sound as it hit the top of the box.
Kane came over, saying, “Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“Open it.”
“I can’t while I’m standing on it. I had this trouble last time, and I had to get out to do it.”
Kane made an impatient gesture. “Then come up out of there.”
Engel’s gesture signified helplessness. “I’ll need a pull.”
Kane cocked his head to one side. “Is that so? Think to pull me in with you, wrest the gun away, get the upper hand, is that it? Margo.”
She came forward.
Kane handed her the gun. “Cover him. If he even starts to act up, shoot.”
“All right, Murray,” she said, but she sounded doubtful. “It’s awful damn spooky here,” she said.
“It didn’t bother you up to now,” he said.
“Oh, Murray,” she said, and abruptly fainted, dropping the gun into the grave, where it bounced on the coffin.
Engel had it in his hand before it could bounce twice, and had it trained on Murray Kane, who was poised in indecision, not quite in flight away from here and not quite diving on top of Engel. “Easy,” Engel said. “Take it easy, Kane.”
“Engel, I can make it worth your—”
“Don’t waste your breath, Kane. I’m not going to kill you. Why should I?”
Kane gaped at him. On the ground his wife moaned.
Engel said, “Don’t you get it? The faint was an act, a gamble. Either I got the gun and killed you, or you got the gun and killed me. She didn’t care which way it went. If you killed me, she’d have to figure another way to take care of you later.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Brock she wants, not you. She doesn’t need you around to inherit.” Engel hefted the gun. “And this is her style, you got to admit it. This time, she sent me to do the job.”
Kane started to growl.
Margo Kane sat up, being bewildered and semi-conscious. “What — what happened?”
“You conniving bitch!” shouted Kane.
Margo hesitated, then flashed Engel a look of cold hate. “I won’t forget you!”
“It’s mutual, honey,” said Engel.
Kane had grabbed the pick, and was now advancing around the grave toward his wife. “You’ll pay,” he was growling, “this time you’ll pay, you—” And so on.
She saw him coming, and scrambled to her feet. With a roar he came running around the grave, and with a yelp she fled into the darkness. Shouting, shrieking, bellowing, screaming, crashing around, the Kanes careened away across the tombstoned landscape, out of sight and — a minute or two later — out of hearing.
Engel stuck the gun in his pocket and clambered out of the grave. He didn’t have either the patience or the inclination to fill it in yet again, so he just left it there.
The key was in the ignition of the Continental, a car which did not, needless to say, have a standard shift. In addition, its front seat offered a much gentler and smoother ride than did its trunk. The trip back across Brooklyn was smooth as silk.
A little after ten, on West 24th Street, Engel parked in front of the same fire hydrant Margo Kane had parked her Mercedes in front of yesterday. He crossed the street, rang Kurt Brock’s bell, and was rewarded by a buzzing sound which meant he could push open the downstairs door now.
Brock was standing in his doorway upstairs. “You,” he said. “You told me you were a policeman.” He seemed indignant.
“You’re lucky I’m not,” Engel told him. “It’s against the law to steal dead bodies. It’s a misdemeanor.” Engel pushed him back from the doorway, stepped in, and shut the door. “You could get thirty days,” he said.
“What? What? I don’t know what—”
“I’m talking about. Yeah, I know, I’ve heard that line before tonight.” Engel took out the gun, held it casually in his palm, and said, “Where do you suppose I got this? Guess who I got it from. Go on, guess.”
Brock was staring at the gun. “What are you, what are you going to—?”
“I won’t use it on you, don’t worry. Not unless I have to. You can’t guess where I got it? Then I’ll have to tell you. From Murray Kane.”