aren’t, like everybody else I know.”
Even if she was a screwball, even if she had murder on her twisted little mind, it made me feel a little guilty to have her say that to me. Anyway, that was my first reaction. And then I found myself wondering if maybe that wasn’t the reaction she’d been trying for.
It occurred to me suddenly that I’d been overlooking something: I’d been overlooking the fact that Jean’s room had been wired for sound. She’d reported to that effect, and an agent of her experience wouldn’t make a mistake about it. I had to assume, therefore, that some tapes had been recorded last night. I had to assume that the person I was trying to locate-the contact-had already played those tapes, carefully studying the dialogue that had passed between Jean and me before she died. I’d been putting on an act of sorts, if you recall-so had Jean-but anybody listening to our recorded conversation would certainly know I wasn’t a gangster named Petroni.
Yet the two people who had made contact with me so far had acted on the assumption that I really was Lash Petroni, a ruthless, unscrupulous, but possibly useful individual: a killer for hire. Or had they? It was, after all, a coincidence that two people should have hit on the idea of hiring me for the same job. Perhaps at least one of them knew perfectly well that the man he-or she- was ostensibly trying to bribe to commit murder was really a government agent. Perhaps it was a clever cover-up as well as a delicious joke and a way of keeping an eye on my activities.
I glanced at the kid standing in front of me with the sun bright on her cap of pale hair. Her words ran through my head again: You don’t pretend to be anything you aren’t. She could be perfectly sincere in her cockeyed way, but I couldn’t overlook the possibility that she was throwing me a mocking hint, taunting me with her secret knowledge that, as a one-man Murder, Inc., I was the world’s biggest fake.
I said, “Everybody pretends something, small fry. How are you at pretending?”
Her blue eyes got narrow, as if I’d accused her of something. Well, maybe I had. “Are you busy tonight?” I asked easily.
She relaxed. “Well, yes. I have a date.”
“Break it. Wait a minute. Who’s the guy?”
“Who would it be?” she asked with a grimace. “How many people do I really know in this forsaken town? He kept pestering me and what else was there to do except sit in that lousy motel room and think?”
“Orcutt?” I said. “Well, can you get him to take you to a cocktail party being given this evening by some people named Sandeman? I gather they’re relatives of Mrs. Rosten, which means they’re relatives of Orcutt, so he should be able to swing it.”
She said, “Well, I can try, but-”
“When you get there,” I said, “ditch the Thunderbird boy temporarily and make a play for Louis Rosten. Can you do that? Can you play them both, Orcutt and Rosten! Can you take Rosten away from his wife and make her mad so she’ll march out of the place fuming-and then can you get the two men together and spend the evening with them? I think it would be a good idea if you all wound up at the Rosten place for drinks, say eleven-twelve o’clock. Can you swing that?”
She hesitated. Her eyes were bright, contemplating the challenge. “Of course I can, but-but why do you want me to do it?”
I said, “Don’t be more stupid than you have to. I want Mrs. Rosten alone, naturally. And I think it would be a hell of a good idea if you had a solid alibi for the whole evening. Don’t you?”
“Oh.” Her breath caught. “I see. You mean-it’s tonight? So soon?”
“Do you want me to stall around so you can dream about it?” I glanced at her, and said casually, “Talking about dreams, I forgot to ask what kind of a job you want me to do. Smooth or rough?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
I said impatiently, “Hell, the price you’re paying entitles you to a few frills if you want them. So tell me, do you just want the dame dead? Or do you want her dead with her face smashed in, her teeth knocked out, her breasts sliced off, and her fingernails ripped out by the bloody roots?”
She gulped. “Don’t be so damn graphic, Jim!”
I said sneeringly, “That’s what I thought! You’re really chicken, aren’t you? Now you listen to me and get this straight: we don’t give refunds. You can call it off now, but once we leave here you’re in for the whole job and the whole five grand; so don’t come whimpering to me later about how you’ve changed your mind.” I took the envelope out of my pocket and held it out. “This is it, kid. In or out. You call it.”
She hesitated. I let my lip curl scornfully. She saw it and slapped the envelope aside. “Go ahead,” she said. “Go ahead, Jim! I’ll be there; midnight at the Rosten house. And you can do it just as rough as you please; it can’t be too rough for me!” She giggled abruptly.
“What’s funny?”
“Just something you said. She’d never miss them.”
“Miss what?”
“She’s pretty flat-chested, you know. She’d never miss them.”
I watched her run along the pier to the shore and jump into a small white sports car-an MG, if it matters. She clashed the gears badly getting into low, and again shifting up, which is hard to do with a synchromesh transmission, but she managed. She was really a pretty horrible little girl. At least she was working hard to give that impression.
THIRTEEN
I WAS EARLY for Rosten. It’s always best to beat the other party to the rendezvous if you don’t trust him very much; besides, I wanted to look the place over and see if it would do for another purpose I had in mind. It was a pretty, sandy cove bordered by a honeysuckle jungle such as they have in this part of the world; anybody who thinks of that stuff as just a pretty garden vine has never been in Maryland. Presently the big yellow Cadillac came nosing through the tangled woods like a prehistoric monster, and stopped at the parking place favored by the people who used the beach for picnics in the summer. You could tell by the rusty beer cans.
I settled with Rosten quickly enough and had him drive me back to town, leaving my car where it was hidden. I gave him instructions paralleling those I’d given Teddy. He didn’t like the idea of doing or knowing anything about it until I brought up the alibi question and pointed out the legal advantages of having people around at the moment of his great bereavement.
Later that evening, I found myself waiting in a rose garden, reflecting that each part of the world seemed to have its own peculiar disadvantages for undercover work. During the past few years, in the practice of my profession, I had sloshed through Arctic bogs full of tangled laurel, fought my way across snow-covered mountains, and sweated over deserts full of spiny cacti. Now I had honeysuckle and roses to contend with. Only the people remained the same, and the job.
Having formulated this piece of deep philosophy, I took stock of my surroundings. It was a formal garden, with hedges, shrubs and ornamental trees all pruned within inches of their lives. Mrs. Sandeman, I learned, was by way of being the local rose authority with a state-wide reputation. I couldn’t help wishing she’d concentrated on dahlias or some other thornless species.
From where I stood concealed, I could see the graveled circle in front of the house. All parking space around it was already filled; the vehicles currently arriving discharged the ladies at the front door and were taken around the circle and back towards the gate by the gentlemen, to be parked beside the long, straight, tree-lined lane leading in from the highway. It was a big, well-kept place with a carefully maintained air of antique southern grandeur. One might have thought it dated from the era of carriages and crinolines. The records indicated, however, that it had been constructed less than five years ago with the antiquity built in.
I saw the white Thunderbird convertible drive up. Teddy Michaelis got out and waited on the steps while Orcutt parked the car. She looked like a dressed-up child, standing there, with long white gloves on, and ridiculously high heels, and a short, shiny blue dress with a bubble of a skirt that looked odd and impractical to me; but I don’t claim to understand women’s fashions. It was too bad, I thought, that she was a screwball; even at that distance, she was cute.
It would have been nice if the Rostens had managed to arrive while she was standing there alone, so she could do her stuff right off, but you can’t have everything. Orcutt came back and escorted her inside, treating her like a precious and fragile work of art. It was another fifteen minutes, and practically dark, before the yellow Cadillac came along.
Mrs. Rosten was wearing something straight, white and dramatic that left one shoulder bare. She had furs draped over her arm. The white dress showed up well, but her sunburned skin seemed to melt into the dusk, for a rather eerie effect. She paused only briefly on the steps, to shake out the furs and drape them about her; no waiting around in the night air for her. She marched inside, leaving Louis to make it on his own.
I watched him park the car down the lane, return on foot and vanish inside. I checked my watch and decided it would be at least half an hour before anything happened. At last I backed myself out of my place of concealment, ran the gauntlet of Mrs. Sandeman’s thorns, made my way cautiously across the lawn, and got into the rear of the Rosten Cadillac.
I was tempted to sit up until I saw somebody actually approaching from the house, but that would have been sloppy technique. You never know who’s going to be wandering around at a party like that, peeking into parked cars for kicks. I checked my watch again and lay down on the floor where I wasn’t likely to be noticed-in Petroni’s dark suit-unless somebody actually opened the door and pulled the front seat out of the way to make a thorough inspection. That’s one advantage of two-door cars, but I don’t suppose the advertising boys can do much with it.
I wasn’t comfortable, and time passed slowly. It was another half-hour, plus about seven-and-a-half minutes, before I heard my lady coming. She was walking fast, and she had long legs and a business-like stride, but even on the gravel you could tell she was a woman hampered by high heels and a narrow dress. She jerked the car door open, hit the front seat hard, and bounced herself over about ten inches to line up with the wheel. She slammed the door closed. I heard her fumble in her purse for the keys.
“Oh, God damn!” she said savagely, as something got in her way.
I received a face-full of mink or sable as she flung her furs in the general direction of the rear seat. Then she had the keys. I waited until she had put the right one into the ignition lock for me; then, under cover of the noise of the starter, I rose up and got a head-hold with my left arm, covering her mouth at the same time, locking my hands together, holding her head hard against me as she writhed and tried to cry out, I used the leverage of both arms to exert knuckle pressure upon a certain nerve center in a certain way. Her body went slack with frightening abruptness.
I couldn’t help remembering Jean, and the little sigh she’d given as she crumpled to the floor. I was tempted to feel for a pulse, but there was no time for sentimental horsing around. I got out the little kit we’re issued-the one that contains a number of fascinating chemicals, including the death pill for the agent’s own use-and slipped the needle, already loaded, into Mrs. Rosten’s arm. That would keep her under for about four hours, if she wasn’t already dead and if I’d judged the dose correctly.
I dragged her out from behind the wheel, climbed over, started the big car, and drove out of there fast, like an angry woman might-or a man with a limp female body beside him. It took me about half an hour to make my way through town and out the shore road where I’d been that afternoon. The little woods track leading to Mason’s Cove wasn’t easy to locate in the dark, but I found it, and drove into the clearing where I’d met Rosten earlier, hoping that nobody had decided to use it for a lovers’ lane tonight.
The place was empty of vehicles. I checked Mrs. Rosten’s pulse and found it strong and steady, which was a relief. I cut the lights and motor, got out and prowled around in the dark, and saw nothing. I sat down to wait. It was a very quiet place. One car went by on the shore road, sounding far away; that was all. There was no wind. There was a mist; I could see stars through the treetops, but they looked vague and distant. Well, I wasn’t expecting trouble from that direction, but if anybody on this planet was planning to interfere with the grim work for which I’d been hired twice, it was about time he-or she- showed up.
Nobody came. The moon rose, big and hazy through the trees. A little wind came up and died away. Some small nocturnal animals got used to my presence and went about their nightly affairs. An owl hooted far off, then closer and then far off again. It was a weird sound to hear in the middle of the night. I couldn’t help wondering if it had some sinister significance, but after all, I wasn’t Daniel Boone surrounded by hostile redskins. I didn’t think the people I was after would go in for bird calls, although I still didn’t know anything about them. All I knew was Mac’s verdict: They must learn not to monkey with the buzz saw when it is busy cutting wood.
