“Come off of it! The bathtub’s dry as an oven. The shower was never turned on, and you know why it wasn’t. Because there was a guy standing inside of it.”
“B-but – but I don’t know anything. I was unconscious, and—”
“Then, how do you know what happened? How do you know this guy went into the bedroom and started tearing it apart? And how did you make that telephone call?”
“Well, I . . . I wasn’t completely unconscious. I sort of knew what was going on without really—”
“Now, you listen to me,” he said harshly. “You made that fake call of yours – yes, I said fake – to the operator at twenty-three minutes after five. There happened to be a prowl car right here in the neighborhood, so two minutes later, at five-twenty-five, there were cops here in your apartment. You were unconscious then, more than an hour ago. You’ve been unconscious until just now.”
Ardis’ brain whirled. Then, it cleared suddenly, and a great calm came over her.
“I don’t see quite what you’re hinting at, lieutenant. If you’re saying that I was confused, mixed up – that I must have dreamed or imagined some of the things I told you – I’ll admit it.”
“You know what I’m saying! I’m saying that no guy could have got in and out of this place, and done what this one did, in any two minutes!”
“Then the telephone operator must have been mistaken about the time,” Ardis said brightly. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”
Powers grunted. He said he could give her a better explanation – and he gave it to her. The right one. Ardis listened to it placidly, murmuring polite objections.
“That’s ridiculous, lieutenant. Regardless of any gossip you may have heard, I don’t know this, uh, Tony person. And I most certainly did not plot with him or anyone else to kill my husband. Why—”
“He says you did. We got a signed confession from him.”
“Have you?” But of course they didn’t have. They might have found out about Tony, but he would never have talked. “That hardly proves anything, does it?”
“Now, you listen to me, Mrs Clinton! Maybe you think that—”
“How is my husband, anyway? I do hope he wasn’t seriously hurt.”
“How is he?” the lieutenant snarled. “How would he be after gettin’ worked over with—” He broke off, his eyes flickering. “As a matter of fact,” he said heavily, “he’s going to be all right. He was pretty badly injured, but he was able to give us a statement and—”
“I’m so glad. But why are you questioning me, then?” It was another trick. Bill had to be dead. “If he gave you a statement, then you must know that everything happened just like I said.”
She waited, looked at him quizzically. Powers scowled, his stern face wrinkling with exasperation.
“All right,” he said, at last. “All right, Mrs Clinton. Your husband is dead. We don’t have any statement from him, and we don’t have any confession from Tony.”
“Yes?”
“But we know that you’re guilty, and you know that you are. And you’d better get it off your conscience while you still can.”
“While I still can?”
“Doc” – Powers jerked his head at the doctor. At the man, that is, who appeared to be a doctor. “Lay it on the line, doc. Tell her that her boyfriend hit her a little too hard.”
The man came forward hesitantly. He said, “I’m sorry, Mrs Clinton. You have a – uh – you’ve sustained a very serious injury.”
“Have I?” Ardis smiled. “I feel fine.”
“I don’t think,” the doctor said judiciously, “that that’s quite true. What you mean is that you don’t feel anything at all. You couldn’t. You see, with an injury such as yours—”
“Get out,” Ardis said. “Both of you get out.”
“Please, Mrs Clinton. Believe me, this isn’t a trick. I haven’t wanted to alarm you, but—”
“And you haven’t,” she said. “You haven’t scared me even a little bit, mister. Now, clear out!”
She closed her eyes, kept them closed firmly. When, at last, she reopened them, Powers and the doctor – if he really had been a doctor – were gone. And the room was in darkness.
She lay smiling to herself, congratulating herself. In the corridor outside, she heard heavy footsteps approaching; and she tensed for a moment. Then, remembering, she relaxed again.
Not Bill, of course. She was through with that jerk forever. He’d driven her half out of her mind, got her to the point where she couldn’t have taken another minute of him if her life depended on it. But now . . .
The footsteps stopped in front of her door. A key turned in the lock, the door opened and closed.
There was a clatter of a lunchpail being set down; then a familiar voice – maddeningly familiar words:
“Well. Another day, another dollar.”
Ardis’ mouth tightened; it twisted slowly, in a malicious grin. So they hadn’t given up yet! They were pulling this one last trick. Well, let them; she’d play along with the gag.
The man plodded across the room, stooped, and gave her a half-hearted peck on the cheek. “Long time no see,” he said. “What we havin’ for supper?”
“Bill . . .” Ardis said. “How do I look, Bill?”
“Okay. Got your lipstick smeared, though. What’d you say we was having for supper?”
“Stewed owls! Now, look, mister. I don’t know who you—”
“Sounds good. We got any hot water?”
“Of course, we’ve got hot water! Don’t we always have? Why do you always have to ask if – if –”
She couldn’t go through with it. Even as a gag – even someone who merely sounded and acted like he did – it was too much to bear.
“Y-you get out of here!” she quavered. “I don’t have to stand for this! I c-can’t stand it! I did it for fifteen years, and—”
“So what’s to get excited about?” he said. “Well, guess I’ll go splash the chassis.”
“Stop it! STOP IT!” Her screams filled the room . . . silent screams ripping through silence. “He’s – you’re dead! I know you are! You’re dead, and I don’t have to put up with you for another minute. And – and – !”
“Wouldn’t take no bets on that if I was you,” he said mildly. “Not with a broken neck like yours.”
He trudged off toward the bathroom, wherever the bathroom is in Eternity.
THE BLOODY TIDE
Day Keene
1. Out of the Jug
Morning was slow in coming. I’d waited for it a long time. Three years the man said. And three years I had done without any nonsense about parole or executive clemency.
I was washed and dressed and waiting when the rising siren blew. As McKenny, the screw on our tier, clomped down the steel catwalk to pull the master switch, he paused in front of my cell and grinned:
“This is the day, eh, Charlie?”
The lump in my throat was so big all I could do was nod.
Breakfast wasn’t much better. The pock marks in the plaster of the mess hall bothered me. I knew them for what they were. If it hadn’t been for Swede, I could be dead instead of going out this morning. I could be with Mickey and Saltz. I could be down in solitary with the other ringleaders of the riot. I could even be with Swede.
The thought cost me my appetite. When we finally filed out of the mess hall a front-of-the-prison guard asked if my name was Charlie White. When I said it was, he led the way to a small room in the administration building. The clothes I’d signed for the day before were hanging on a wire hanger.
“When you’re dressed,” he said, “turn the things you’re wearing now over to the supply clerk. Then go straight down the hall to the warden’s office.” He laughed. “That is, unless you want to keep your denim as a souvenir.”