Wilson Tucker
To Keep or Kill
for
DOROTHY and WELBY,
and their old dog,
TIP
One
The redheaded girl was a practical joker.
And a man sat quietly in the darkened window of his second-story office waiting for the sun to go down. His coat was hung over the back of the chair he sat in, the sleeves of his light blue shirt were rolled at the wrist, and a cold pipe hung between his teeth.
The protesting screech of an ancient streetcar grinding to a halt at the corner half a block away came to his ears. That would be the 7:20 car, regardless of what the correct time happened to be, making its westbound run. It started up again just a short minute before the redhead walked into his line of sight. The man sitting before the window removed the pipe from his mouth and shifted his eyes to the left, curious as to who had come to Wilsey Street.
Wilsey Street was rather dark; there were only a few lighted shopwindows throwing wide splashes of illumination across the sidewalks here and there along the block.
The street was fairly quiet with the fresh stillness of an early summer evening following a sultry, and from a merchant’s point of view, noisy, busy day. The man loafing in the window was not a merchant. For the moment there was no motor traffic in the street. Wilsey Street was one of the lesser business streets of Boone.
The riverbank metropolis of Boone, Illinois, was a large town or a small city, depending upon the individual citizen’s current state of mind and his personal opinions of the place. From the frugal viewpoint of the city water and light department it was no more than a large town, therefore the street lights were not turned on until the very last glimmers of the sinking sun vanished from the fringe of the highest white cloud in the sky overhead.
A few faint streaks must have been lingering however lightly on a cloud somewhere for the lights were unlit. The tall green standards spaced along the curb held clusters of amber-tinted globes, all dark.
The redhead walked in semidarkness.
He picked up the sharp, steady clacking of her heels on the pavement an instant before he saw her. The spiked heels were telegraph keys on the cement sidewalk, sending up to him an invitation to look. He leaned slowly across the dirty sill of the open window and looked down. She had red hair and she was passing the brilliantly lit display window of the hardware store, on his left; that much he glimpsed before the first blink.
Between that and the next blink she had moved away from the lighted window into semidarkness again. A small boy coming from the opposite direction whipped past her on singing roller skates, to vanish towards the noise of the departing streetcar.
In a loose manner of speaking she was a redhead.
Actually her hair was much darker than the term implies. It might be described as auburn with glints. Soft lights placed in the proper positions, as above a dance floor, would bring out tints of fiery gold or bright copper. He judged her height at about five foot nine, making an allowance for the angle of his vision. Tall, and very lovely. She passed directly beneath him, examining the twin taillights of an automobile parked up the block to his right.
He switched his gaze to the car, noted that the license plate between the two red lights held an amazing number of zeros, and looked back to her. Those spiked, beating heels commanded attention. Her stride was magnificent.
Another isolated show window revealed more of her features. They were nice, too, and somewhat exciting. He imagined the possibilities. It would be unfair to say a girl had a peaches-and-cream complexion because peaches and cream are large yellow globs in pale, milky fluid. That would look like the devil on a girl’s face. He preferred to phrase it an inviting complexion.
The redhead had a kissable face: if you missed the lips on the first try, no matter, the rest of the face would taste good, too. He found her figure satisfactory. There were no shortages anywhere; attractive, perhaps dangerous curves all along the route.
She walked from beneath him and continued up Wilsey Street watching the parked car. The man put his dead pipe in the pocket of the coat hanging behind him and considered the rear view.
Her shape, as seen from the above-and-rear angle would look good in slacks. Slacks look fine in front, but... The redhead would do all right in slacks.
But the redhead was a practical joker.
He watched her long, rangy stride, watched the admirable way she used her legs to cover ground. Abruptly the heels stopped. She had halted suddenly beside the car which held her attention. There was no one in it. She read the license number above the rear bumper and then stepped to the front to examine the tax sticker on the windshield. Both apparently satisfied her. She opened the car door, reached in and switched off the parking lights.
If there was anything to the theory of mental telepathy the back of her neck should be itching furiously. The seated man placed his elbow on the window sill, his chin in his upturned palm, and watched. She acted superbly sure of herself. Down the street another show window lit up, controlled by an automatic clock.
The redhead standing beside the car opened her purse, removed a cigarette case, a matching lighter, and something else. In the fast gathering dusk the something else appeared to be a small, red package. There must have been strings or wires attached to either end of it for she hooked the string, or wire, over one finger and let the small red something dangle there while she lit a cigarette.
All the while she was removing the articles from her purse and lighting up her sharp eyes were casually yet closely and completely examining both sides of Wilsey Street, skipping along the sidewalk and store fronts looking for somebody... anybody.
The man in the window grinned, involuntarily. Wilsey Street was being cased by an obvious master of the art. At last satisfied there was no one along the street to observe her actions, she raised penetrating eyes to the bank of upper windows on the opposite side of the street, searching out possible onlookers. They were blank, dark.
She would have discovered him within seconds.
He slid quickly out of his chair and dodged behind the window casement to wait. He felt thankful there was no pipe smoke in the window to betray his presence. The office behind him was dark; the lights hadn’t been on all day and for the last hour or so he had simply been sitting there waiting for dusk to fall so he could go home. He was usually the last tenant to leave the building; there would be no lights elsewhere on the second floor.
Unlike the stores below him (with their jangling cash registers), he had had no business to speak of all day. Save for one caller. The caller had been waiting for him when he arrived at the office; the man had been standing flushed and impatient in the hallway outside his door, playing with a key ring.
The caller was an obese person wearing, and wearing well, the wet personality of a worm. Horne unlocked the door bearing the inscription:
and stood aside to let the worm enter.
“You are Charles Horne?”
“I am.”
Horne saw it coming. The worm that walked like a man wanted a divorce, he said, from a nagging and adulterous wife; and Charles Horne of Confidential Services was to obtain the necessary evidence.
Horne said, no thanks.
“I beg your pardon?” The worm gripped the desk.
“You needn’t. I said no, thanks. I’m not buying.”
The worm could also imitate a pompous ass.
“Now, see here, Horne! I do not brook refusals. I have money — you have a price. I am more than willing to pay you any reasonable fee you may demand.” He was tapping a gloved finger on the desk. “I realize there will be other expenses involved. (I’m not interested in the unpleasant details.) Bother the cost! I am hiring you to deliver to my attorney an airtight case.”