There was one final touch necessary to complete his plan.
'If you care to pay the first premium in cash, I'll be able to give you a five per cent discount. You may as well have the discount and it saves book-keeping for me.'
And of course Barlowe had agreed.
Anson picked up one of the policy blanks. He inserted it into the typewriter and filled in the necessary details. This policy was for $5,000: the beneficiary in the event of the death of the insured was to be Mrs. Philip Barlowe.
He put in another blank, duplicating what he had already done. The third and fourth policy blanks were different. These, he made out for the sum of $50,000. If Barlowe happened to spot the difference, Anson could always say it was a typist's error.
Tomorrow night would be Thursday. Anson knew Meg would be alone. Although he was tempted to go out to the lonely house and make love to her, he knew this now would be too dangerous. He would have to wait. In six months, perhaps less, he and she would be together for as long as he liked: he and she and fifty thousand dollars ... worth waiting for.
He called the Barlowe house. Meg answered the telephone.
'It's all fixed,' he said. 'I'll be coming out the night after tomorrow. I told you I'd fix it, didn't I?'
'You are sure it is going to be all right?' The note of anxiety in her voice excited him. 'When he has signed ....what are you going to do?'
'Let's wait until he signs,' Anson said. 'I'm thinking of you. I wish I were with you,' and he put down the receiver.
A few minutes after six o'clock a.m. Philip Barlowe came awake with a sudden start. He had been dreaming. His grey-white pillow was damp with sweat.
He came awake the way an animal comes awake: instantly alert, suspicious, slightly frightened. He lay still, listening, then when he heard no sound to alarm him, he relaxed and moved further down in the single bed, making himself more comfortable.
Thursday!
The two days that meant more to him were Monday and Thursday when he got away from the house to spend the night alone after the dreary night classes when he attempted to instil into the minds of a group of pimply youths the basic theory of horticulture.
This night, he told himself, he would go out to Jason's Glen. There, he would be sure to find a number of smoochers and petters: young people behaving disgracefully in their secondhand cars. The thought of what he had heard and seen in the past brought beads of sweat out on his high forehead.
One of these days, he told himself, his small, well shaped hands turning in to fists, he would teach these sluts a lesson.
Their feeble, immoral petting disgusted him. Sometime in the very near future, some girl would learn what it meant to go beyond a giggle, a struggle and vapid gasp of breath.
Impatiently, he tossed off the blanket and sheet and got out of bed. He crossed to the mirror above the dressing-table and stared at himself. The shock of black hair, the white drawn ill-tempered face made him grimace. He turned away and walked over to a cupboard on the wall. He hesitated, listened, then took a key from his pyjama pocket. He unlocked the cupboard and looked at the .38 automatic revolver that lay on the shelf.
By the gun was a white bathing cap. He picked up the cap; stretching it, he drew it down over his head. From the shelf he took two small rubber pads. These he fitted between his gums and the inside of his cheeks ... they filled out his face, altering his appearance in a startling way. He moved over to the mirror and stared again at himself. The ill-tempered, thin-faced Barlowe had disappeared. Instead, there was a fat-faced nightmarish looking creature: the white bathing cap making him look completely bald. He picked up the gun. His fingers curled lovingly around the trigger, and he smiled.
Not so far in the future, he told himself, this gun would explode into sound. Not so far into the future ... someone would die.
He put the gun back on to the shelf. He took off the bathing cap. He took,the rubber pads from his mouth and replaced them on the shelf. Then he carefully locked the cupboard door. He paused for a long moment staring into space, then whistling tunelessly, he went into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, he returned to his room. He dressed, again opened the cupboard and put the bathing cap and the rubber pads into his hip pocket. For a long moment he stared at the gun, hesitated then decided to leave it where it was.
He stepped into the corridor. He paused outside Meg's bedroom door. He put his ear against the locked door panel and listened. He could hear nothing. He stood there for several moments, then with a frustrated grimace, he went down the stairs to prepare his routine breakfast of eggs and bacon.
Unaware of what had been going on, Meg continued to sleep restlessly.
Jason's Glen was a favourite place for young couples who were lucky enough to have a car, but unfortunate enough to have no room, little money, and no facilities in which to make love. No matter what the weather offered, Jason's Glen always had at least two or three cars in which couples made desperate and natural love.
This Thursday night, rain was falling. There were only two cars parked under the trees. One of them was a smal British sports car: the other a battered, aged Buick.
From under the heavy overgrown shrubs, Barlowe watched the two cars. They were separated by some fifty yards.
Suddenly a girl exclaimed: 'Jeff! No! What do you think you're doing? Jeff! ... No!'
The voice came from the Buick.
Crouching like a black crab, the white bathing helmet pulled down over his thick black hair, Barlowe crept out into the rain towards the parked Buick.
The man in the sports car called out, 'Don't let her take no for an answer, pal,' and the girl with him gave a squeal of hysterical laughter.
Barlowe suddenly had a furious, frustrated desire to have his gun in his hand. With a gun ... he could teach these young, filthy animals a lesson.
He moved up to the Buick, unaware of the rain that was beating down on his crouched body. When the girl in the car began to moan, Barlowe suddenly fell on his knees. His hands clawed into the wet, soft soil. He remained like that, his body arched, and when the girl suddenly cried out, he dug his fingers deeper into the soil.
Anson was flicking through a pile of coupon inquiries when the telephone bell rang.
Anna picked up the receiver.
Looking across at her from his desk, Anson saw her usual placid expression change to alertness and he had a sudden feeling of danger.
'Yes ... yes, he's here. I'll put you through.'
Anna looked at Anson and waved the telephone receiver warningly. Then she flicked down the key and hissed, 'It's Mr. Maddox.'
His face wooden, his heart suddenly thumping, Anson picked up his receiver and said, 'Anson here.'
A hard, curt voice barked, '1 want you out here. How are you fixed for tomorrow?'
'I can manage that,' Anson said, 'anything special?'
'You don't imagine I'd pull you off your territory just to look at you, do you?' Maddox snapped. 'Okay, then ten o'clock tomorrow,' and he hung up.
Anson replaced his receiver, pushed back his chair and walked to the window so Anna couldn't see how white he had gone.
Barlowe's policy for $50,000, signed and completed, had gone to Head Office three days ago. Why had Maddox got on to it so quickly? Anson dug his sweating hands into his trouser pockets as he wondered.
'What does he want?' Anna asked curiously.
Making an effort, Anson returned to his desk. He sat down.
'I don't know,' he said, picking up another batch of coupons. 'Why should I worry?'
Anna lifted her fat shoulders.
'Well, if you're not worrying, why should I?' Anson went on sorting through the coupons. There was a chill around his heart. Maddox! Even before Barlowe was dead this jinx of a man was suspicious... or was he?
