be bothered to make the journey. Also Vasari might not leave Rima after I had warned him the police were coming for him. If he did go, Rima might go with him and Wilbur would find the bungalow empty. If – if – if…
As a murder plan it was completely cock-eyed.
It was at this moment that I decided to leave it cock-eyed. It would be like tossing a coin: heads –
Rima dies: tails – I go to jail. That way I need not accept the entire blame if the plan happened to work and Rima died.
To get away from my thoughts, I went down to the breakfast room. I told the waitress to bring me coffee and toast. It was while I was waiting I glanced around the room. There were only eight or nine men eating breakfast: all obviously business men, intent on their food and their papers.
I became aware that one of them in a far corner had looked up and was staring intently at me. He was a fellow about my own age and his round, fleshy face was vaguely familiar. He got abruptly to his feet and came over, smiling at me. It wasn’t until he had reached my table that I recognised him. He was a guy I had worked with at college, sharing the same room. His name was Bill Stovall and he had qualified as an engineer at the same time as I did.
‘For the love of Mike!’ he said. ‘It’s Jeff Halliday, isn’t it?’
I got to my feet and shook hands with him. He wanted to know what I was doing in San Francisco and I said I was up on a business trip. He said he had seen
‘You’ve certainly got a job there, Jeff! My goodness! Every damned engineer in the district has been after that one.’ We sat down and talked about the bridge. Then I asked him what he was doing.
‘I’m with Fraser and Grant, the steel people. Incidentally, Jeff, we might be able to help you. You’ll want steel and we can quote you figures that’ll surprise you.’
It suddenly occurred to me that if anything went wrong with my plan to get rid of Rima and it was traced back to me, it might be a sound idea to have a reason why I had come to San Francisco, so I said any figures on steel would interest me and how about it.
‘Tell you what,’ he said, getting excited, ‘suppose you come along around half past ten and I’ll introduce you to our steel man?’ He gave me his card. ‘Will you do that?’
I said I would, and after telling me how to get to his place he went away.
I spent the morning and most of the afternoon with the steel man. The estimates he gave me were two per cent lower than anything I had had from other contractors. I promised to let him know as soon as I had consulted Jack.
I returned to the hotel a little after five o’clock and went up to my room. I took a shower, changed, then I sat at the writing-desk, and wrote Rima’s name and address in large block letters on a sheet of paper. This I put in an envelope together with three ten dollar bills. I addressed the letter to Wilbur, care of Anderson’s Hotel.
I went down to the lobby and asked the porter the times of trains to Holland City. He said there was one out at twenty minutes past eight.
I bought a stamp from him and put it on the letter to Wilbur. It took a conscious effort to cross to the mail box and drop the letter in. As soon as I had done it, I felt the urge to have it back.
I went into the bar and had a drink. I was sweating slightly. By eight o’clock tomorrow morning Wilbur would get the letter. What would he do? If he really intended to murder Rima he could be in Santa Barba by half past two in the afternoon.
He was a junky, and therefore, like Rima, unpredictable. He could easily be tempted to spend the money I had sent him for his fare on drugs. The chances were he would remain in San Francisco and not go to Santa Barba.
With that thought to quell the pricking of my conscience, I went into the snack bar and ate a sandwich. Then I paid my bill, and while waiting for my suitcase to be brought down I shut myself in a pay booth. I asked ‘Information’ to give me the telephone number of The Bungalow, East Shore, Santa Barba. After the usual delay, she told me it was East 6684. I wrote it down in my diary, then leaving the hotel I took a taxi to the station.
I arrived at Holland City soon after midnight. The ticket collector at the barrier grinned cheerfully at me.
‘Nice to see you back, Mr. Halliday. Any good news of Mrs. Halliday?’
I said Sarita was making progress and I hoped to see her on Saturday.
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘She’s a fine lady, Mr. Halliday. I hope they put that bastard who ran into her away for years.’
The taxi driver who drove me home also wanted to hear the latest news about Sarita. It suddenly dawned on me that she had become quite a public figure and that gave me a feeling of pride.
But I became terribly depressed when I unlocked the front door of my apartment and walked into the silent lounge. I paused for a long moment, half expecting to hear Sarita’s voice greeting me. I felt very lonely as I looked at our familiar possessions, the clock that had stopped on the over-mantel, the film of dust on the television set.
I went into the bedroom, undressed, took a shower and put on my pyjamas. Then I went back to the lounge and mixed myself a stiff whisky and soda. I sat down by the telephone and lit a cigarette. When I had finished my drink and had stubbed out my cigarette I looked at my watch.
The time was now twenty minutes to two a.m. My mind went out into space to Santa Barba to the sordid little bungalow on East Shore. Rima and Vasari would be preparing for bed: maybe they would be in bed already.
I now had to go ahead with the second move in this plan of mine. I took up my pocket diary, lying on the table, checked the telephone number of the bungalow, then called ‘Long Distance.’ When the operator came on the line, I gave her the number. I said I would hold on.
I sat motionless, staring up-at the ceiling, listening to the humming and the ghost voices that came to me over the open line. Then suddenly I heard the steady burr-burr-burr that told me the telephone bell was ringing.
It rang for some time, then there was a click and Rima’s voice said angrily, ‘East 6684. Who is it?’
I felt my heart contract at the sound of her voice.
Making my voice hard and rough, I said, ‘Is Ed there?’
‘Who’s calling?’
The connection was so good I could hear her quick, uneven breathing.
‘A pal of his. Never mind who it is. I want to talk to him.’
‘You don’t talk to him unless you tell me who you are,’ she said, and I caught the note of uneasiness in her voice.
Then there was the sound of a sudden commotion.
I heard Rima say, ‘Don’t be a fool, Ed!’
‘Shut up!’ I heard Vasari say. ‘I’ll handle this!’
Then his voice barked in my ear: ‘Who is it?’
‘Just a pal,’ I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. ‘You’d better beat it, Ed, and pronto. The cops spotted you this morning. By now they know where you are. They are waiting to get a warrant, then they’re coming for you…’
I heard his quick intake of breath, and as he began to speak I hung up.
I sat there, my hand on the telephone receiver, staring across the room. For what it was worth, the stage was now set. Within six hours Wilbur would be opening my letter. He might or might not grab the first train to Santa Barba. If he did, I was pretty sure he would murder Rima, but in the meantime, Vasari might or might not go on the run. If he did, there was just that chance that Rima would go with him, so if Wilbur arrived he would find the bungalow deserted. On the other hand, Vasari might leave Rima, and Wilbur would find her. And yet again Vasari might not be stampeded and remain with Rima, in which case Wilbur would come up against some opposition. As a murder plan it was cock-eyed, but as a problem it did offer a number of solutions. So many it was like the toss of a coin.
At least it was now out of my hands. I had set the stage and I would have to abide by the results.
I turned off the light and went into the bedroom. The empty bed alongside mine made me think of Sarita.
