Nothing More Than Murder

Hap was watching me like a hawk. He spit on the carpet without ever taking his eyes off me, and picked up his phone.

'Yes,' he said. 'Righto, operator. Put 'em on… Mr. Wilmot? Why, yes. I believe I can reach him. Was there some message you-'

'Give me that phone,' I said, and grabbed for it.

He planted his foot in my stomach, and I doubled up with the wind knocked out of me.

'What?' he said. 'Why, that's terrible! I can't tell you how sorry I-Certainly, I will! Certainly. As a matter of fact, he's just stepped into the office. I'll break the news to him gently.'

He hung up the receiver, poured a glassful of whisky, and handed it to me.

'Brace yourself, old man. There's been a terrible accident. Your wife-'

There was a grin on his face a foot wide.

14

All Stoneville is grieving over the death of Elizabeth Barclay Wilmot, wife of JosephJ. Wilmot, local theater magnate, who passed away in afire at the Wilmot estate Saturday night. Cause of the fire has not been determined, but it is suspected that rats gnawing at the wiring may have been responsible. The fire broke out about nine o'clock, shortly after Mrs. Wilmot had returned from Wheat City where she had gone to pick up Miss Carol Farmer, a household employee. Miss Farmer, who was on her way back to Stoneville from a vacation, had missed her bus while dining in Wheat City, and had called Mrs. Wilmot to come after her. Upon reaching the Wilmot residence here, Miss Farmer went into the house and Mrs. Wilmot repaired to the upstairs of the garage, which was equipped as a film-inspecting room. When the fire burst into being a few minutes later, Miss Farmer notified the Stoneville fire department which promptly and efficiently answered the call. But little if anything could be done to defeat the holocaust. While the inspection room itself was fireproof, the heat was so intense that the supports and exterior walls of the building ignited and crumbled. Mrs. Wilmot was pinned beneath a work bench. Mr. Wilmot, who was out of town on business, was notified of the tragedy by telephone. Suffering from shock and grief, he was accompanied home by Mr. Harbert A. Chance, film company executive. Mr. Chance, an old friend of Mr. Wilmot's will remain in Stoneville temporarily to assist in the conduct of the latter's affairs. Mr. Wilmot has been convalescing in the Stoneville Sanitarium, suffering from shock and grief, but is expected to…

I read a story one time about a fellow that was accidentally slipped into a big job; president of a company or something like that. He looked like the guy that actually was president, see, and when this guy ran off or fell in a mudhole or something and wasn't ever seen again, why this one hooked his place. He didn't know beans about the business, and all he planned on doing was to stick around long enough to snap a few rubber checks and maybe get the other guy's gal alone in the parlor for a while. But once he got inside, the graft looked so good that he decided to stay for a real milking. He was scared out of his pants, naturally, because he didn't know any more about the setup than a hog does about ice skates. But he ran a bluff, and damned if he didn't make good on it.

His work was just cut out for him, see what I mean? The stenographers would bring him letters to sign, and he'd just sign 'em. And when he got any letters, his vice-presidents or some of his secretaries would take charge of them. And when people showed up for conferences all he had to do was keep his eyes and ears open, and he could see what he had to do. He didn't have to move. He got moved. As I remember the yarn, he wound up by getting made president of a lot of other companies and marrying the other guy's gal, and no one ever knew the difference.

Well, when I read that I thought it was strictly off the cob. And I knew it'd be just my luck to have the thing made into a movie and I'd have to see it. But if you asked me now I'd say it wasn't corn. If I hadn't been worried about Hap Chance, and being broke, I wouldn't have done much worrying. Up to a certain point.

I didn't have to explain the accident-if you want to call it that. There were several stories going around that were better than any I could dream up. I didn't have to pretend I was suffering from shock and grief. They told me I was.

A delegation brought me some mourning clothes Tuesday afternoon, and Sheriff Rufe Waters and County Attorney Web Clay and a couple of fellows from the chamber of commerce drove me over to the mortuary in a limousine. Rufe and Webb took me into the chapel to look at the casket-but not inside it- and then they took me right out again.

I didn't hear much of the services because someone thought I was looking peaked, and they took me into the rest room. They gave me a couple of drinks to brace me up, and made me lie down on the lounge. And after the services were over they got me up again.

I rode out to the cemetery with Rufe and Web and one of the Legion boys and a fellow from the Farmers' Union. Rufe is the wheel horse for the Democratic party and Web is the same for the Republicans. If I'd been picking a foursome to ride with from the standpoint of keeping all sides happy, I couldn't have done better. And I hadn't had to do it. It was done for me.

It started to rain a little on the edge of town, just a few drops, but by the time we passed our-my-place it was misting pretty hard. I looked up the lane toward the garage, and of course there wasn't any. Just part of the framework and a pile of timber and metal and ashes. But there was a guy chasing around, trying to cover things up with pieces of canvas.

I asked who he was.

'That's the investigator from the insurance company,' said Rule. 'Looks like he'd have enough decency to lay off during the ceremony.'

'I've got my eye on him,' said Web. 'I'm just hoping he gets out of line a little. He can't come into my county and tell me how to run things.'

I wanted to ask him what the trouble was, but I decided it wouldn't be appropriate. Or smart. The longer I could stay in the background and let my friends do my arguing the better off I was.

I guess almost the whole county was at the cemetery. There wasn't room for half the people inside, and they were parked along the grade for almost a mile on either side of the gates.

They all stood up when we passed, stood along the side of the road or on their running-boards or wagon beds, with their heads bowed. It gave you an awfully funny feeling. It made you feel almost like it was Judgment Day; like they'd all been pulled up out of everywhere for the trumpet's blast before they could move. It was kind of scary.

I remember one woman in particular. She was standing up in a wagon box with a big fat squawling baby in each arm. They looked damned near as big as she was; and she'd started to feed them, I guess, because she had her blouse open and what babies go for was hanging out on each side. It wasn't hanging right, though, and the kids were as mad as all hell, twisting and screaming and grabbing at it, and trying to raise their heads up. But she just stood there with her head bowed like everyone else.

We drove through the cemetery gates, and got out. Web and Rufe stood by me at the grave.

The minister began his oratory; a lot of mumbo jumbo about being washed in the blood of the lamb and people being better off dead than they were alive; and all the time, by God, acting like it was deep stuff. And the different bands began to play 'Nearer My God To Thee,' and they couldn't play with themselves, let alone with each other. And the church choirs kept racing ahead and falling behind. And-but it wasn't funny. I've never felt more like bawling in my life.

There are some things so bad and so careless that you wish to God they didn't pretend to be good intentioned so you could put in a holler without making a heel of yourself. I've felt pretty much the same way looking at newsreels of ceremonies at the tomb of the Unknown Soldier. The bands playing and the people singing, all in their own way, the right way; and the generals, the statesmen, and the club ladies all speaking a little piece for themselves. And they all mean so goddam well-I guess-and no one is responsible any more than I was responsible for her.

I bawled; there beside the grave with the rain coming down harder and harder. I felt just as bad as if I'd known the woman.

I could hardly see a thing I was crying so hard. I saw Carol for a second on the other side of the grave, and then everything got blurry again.

Web and Rufe led me away. We went back to the car and they put me inside while they waited outside, one at each door.

It came over me all of a sudden that I was a prisoner; that the reason they were with me was to watch me. I