Then he unfastened his suitcase and opened it, and got out a pad of yellow, ruled paper and a fresh packet of razor blades.
He sat on the edge of the bed with the blades lying beside him and the pad on his knees, and got out his pen and wrote as firmly as he could: “To whom it may concern.”
He paused, staring down at the words, trying to get them into focus, angry because his hand was still so unsteady. He decided he needed another drink before he could get on with the job.
He went to the bureau and slowly emptied the glass again, shuddering convulsively as he did so, then sat on the edge of the bed again and laboriously began composing his death message.
5
Timothy Rourke, star reporter for the Miami News, awoke that next morning languidly and slowly, with an almost unbelievable sense of physical well-being flooding through him as he became pleasantly aware of bright sunshine and fresh sea air flooding through the open window beside his bed, and listened to the unexcited twittering of birds in a tree just outside.
He had no semblance of a hangover, no taste of dry asbestos in his mouth. He had no idea what time it was and, very happily, he did not care to know. He blinked up drowsily at the low ceiling of the motel room and consciously willed himself to drift into a self-congratulatory reverie that was half-sleeping and half-waking.
This, by God, was what happened to a man when he went to bed stone, cold sober, all by himself in his own monastic bed, and slept the entire night through without a single nightmare, without once waking to the taste of sour retching in his throat.
He ought to do this sort of thing oftener, he told himself sternly; and he wondered sleepily why he didn’t, and he vaguely pitied himself because he knew very well why he didn’t do it more often.
It was because he just didn’t have the requisite willpower. Last night, for instance, had required no will- power at all. It was purely accidental and not of his own volition that he had turned in at eleven o’clock without a drink in his belly except the two cocktails he had allowed himself at dinner in Jacksonville. He had held himself down to those two at dinner because he wanted to cover another hundred miles or so toward Miami before stopping to spend the night, and he did have enough common sense and willpower to keep himself fairly sober while driving on the highway, and it had given him something to look forward to as he drove southward through the night.
So it was that when he pulled off the road and turned in at the Sunray Beach Motel a little after ten o’clock it had been with the happy anticipation of belting down half a dozen or more fast slugs before turning in for the night. But he made the mistake of signing the register and paying for his room before casually asking the motel clerk where he would have to go to find a drink.
The clerk had appeared slyly pleased to inform him that Sunray’s only bar closed promptly at ten o’clock and the nearest place open at that hour was thirty-three miles down the road.
And, Nossir, said the clerk, he sure didn’t have a bottle around the place. He didn’t have a license to sell liquor, and he never touched the stuff his own self.
Timothy Rourke lay in bed and grinned now as he recalled how angry and outraged he had been at that sorry state of affairs last night. He had killed his own travelling bottle in Atlanta the previous evening, and had stupidly neglected to buy another during the day. He had been sorely tempted to drive on thirty-three miles, but a small streak of self-respect had refused to allow him to give the clerk the satisfaction of demanding his money back so he could go on to where a drink would be available.
He wasn’t a dipso, damn it. He had always said he could take the stuff or leave it alone. Who the hell had to have a drink? So he had stalked out of the office and driven around in front of the empty unit and gone to bed. And to instant, dreamless sleep.
And now he felt blissfully pleased with himself and deliciously hungry, and he lay in bed another five minutes savoring the pleasant sensation and wondering why he didn’t try it more often.
His watch on the bedside table said it was nine-thirty when he finally threw off the light cover and slid out of bed. He showered swiftly, and shaved, and as he dressed he planned what he would have for breakfast. By God, he was hungry. And not even slightly thirsty. He righteously told himself he didn’t give a whoop in hell when Sunray’s only bar opened for business in the morning. What he wanted was food, in huge quantities.
He had noticed a coffee shop next to the motel office last night, and he strode out impatiently into the bright sunlight and crossed the parking area toward it. This morning there were only three cars besides his own in the rectangle although it had been almost full when he turned in last night.
The coffee shop was bright and clean and cheerful, with a long lunch counter and a row of unoccupied stools in front of it. There were tables along the wall, and a young couple with two small children sat at one of them in the corner.
Rourke went blithely to the counter and sat down, and the waitress opened a dog-eared breakfast menu in front of him. She was big-busted and big-butted, and had a pleasantly bovine face, and she asked cheerfully, “What’s it going to be this morning?”
“Food,” the reporter told her with gusto. He pushed the printed menu away and said, “Toast. With lots of butter spread on while it’s hot. Do you have any sausage?”
She nodded. “Country-style patties. It’s home-made and real tasty.”
“Just what the doctor ordered,” he told her happily. “Three patties of tasty sausage, well done and very crisp. And three scrambled eggs. Do you think you could use your influence with the cook,” he added earnestly, “to get the eggs scrambled lightly… so they’re real fluffy? He spread out his hands appealingly and smiled, and she smiled back and said, “You just bet I will. If there’s anything makes me sick to my stomach in the morning it’s old, tired, tough scrambled eggs.” She started to turn away and asked over her shoulder, “Hash-brown potatoes with that?”
“Lord, yes,” he told her enthusiastically. “Hash-browns, certainly. And a cup of coffee to start, if you don’t mind.” My God, he thought as he watched the wriggling of her wide buttocks as she went back to give his order, how long had it been since he could even face the thought of fried potatoes for breakfast. Now his mouth actually watered at the prospect.
She returned with a large china mug of fresh, very hot and very strong coffee and placed it in front of him, and took a step backward from the counter and folded her arms across her ample bosom and said, “Isn’t it just awful about last night?”
Rourke took an appreciative sip of the good coffee and wondered why they didn’t make it like that in Miami any more. “What,” he asked, looking across the rim of the steaming cup at her, “is awful about last night?”
“Didn’t you hear about it?” she asked eagerly, planting both hands on her hips and leaning forward. “It’s been on the radio since seven o’clock.”
“What’s been on the radio?”
“Murder. That’s what. Right here in Sunray. Can you beat it? Lordy, it sends the shivers up and down my spine every time I think of it.”
“It happens,” said Rourke sententiously, “in the best of communities.”
“I guess so, but you just never think… you know? Like that book somebody wrote: ‘It can’t happen here’. But it did happen here. Right last night. While everybody was sound asleep.”
Timothy Rourke tilted the thick mug in both hands and drank as deeply as he dared of the hot liquid.
“Everybody in town wasn’t asleep,” he argued gently. “There was the murderer and the murderee. Who were they?”
“Mrs. Blake. That’s who. One of the nicest, sweetest women you’d ever know. You’re a stranger in town, aren’t you?” She half-closed her eyes to study his thin and deeply-lined face. “Just stopping through?”
Rourke nodded. “On my way to Miami. Tell me more about your murder. I’m a newspaper reporter.”
“Are you, now? From Miami? I guess it’ll make the headlines, all right. Put Sunray right on the map. Maybe you’ll write it up for your paper, huh?”
“Maybe. If so, I’ll want to quote you, of course. In an exclusive interview this morning, this reporter was told by… what is your name?”
“Me? Mabel Handel. But you wouldn’t put my name in, would you? I don’t know anything except what I’ve
