All the way

worded blackmail threat. She had something to discuss with him relative to his 1955 income-tax return, and would be waiting for him to call, not later than tonight.

“He failed to report fifty-five thousand dollars,” she’d explained. “It’s pretty well covered, but he knows how they dig once they’re tipped off. And that informers are paid.”

I glanced around again. Chapman had shoved the letter in his coat pocket and was striding toward the booths. “Hang up,” I said quickly. “He’s going to call right now.”

The phone clicked and went dead. He stalked into the other booth and banged the door shut. I went on talking, ad libbing a conversation with an imaginary girl. He was dialing.

“Hello, Marian? Harris.” I could hear him perfectly. “I thought they said you were in New York. What the hell’s this let—? Yeah, I just checked in. Look, if this is some kind of gag to get me to come out to your apartment, I thought we’d agreed that was all over. It wouldn’t change anything, and I don’t see why we have to embarrass ourselves. . . . What? . . . What’s that?”

There was a longer pause.

“Oh, so that’s the way it is?” he said curtly. “By God, I didn’t think you’d stoop to a thing like this. I guess Coral was right. . . . You know damn well that return’s been checked and double-checked, and they’ve never found a thing wrong with it. . . . Never mind what you think . . . If you need money, why didn’t you take that six months’ pay I offered you? . . . No, I’m not coming out there. I’m tired. I’ve been driving all day. . . . What proof? . . . You haven’t got any proof, and you know it.”

I heard him hang up and slam out of the booth. I pulled down the hook, dropped in another dime, and dialed her again.

“What do you think?” I asked softly, when she answered.

“He’ll come, as soon as he thinks it over. Let me know.”

“Right,” I said.

When I came out of the booth, Chapman was entering the corridor at the other side of the lobby, followed by the porter with his bags. I went back to the car, and lit a cigarette. The Cadillac had been parked in the area off to the left of the main building. Ten minutes went by. Maybe she was wrong. Then an empty cab turned into the driveway. In a minute or two it came out the exit, crossed the traffic to this side of the street, and started south, the way it had come. There was a man in it, wearing a hat. It was Chapman.

I looked at my watch. It had taken me fifteen minutes to drive up, but the traffic had lessened considerably by now. Call it ten. I got out and crossed the street again, and walked down about half a block to the bar I’d noted before. It had a booth, and I didn’t want to go back to the lobby again unless I had to.

There were only three or four customers in the place, and the booth was empty. I was tight as a violin string now, and couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. I ordered a shot of straight whisky, downed it, and went back to the phone. I closed the door, and dialed. She answered immediately.

”He left here five minutes ago, in a cab,” I said.

“Good,” she replied. “Remember, wait two minutes from the time I hang up. I’ll be in the kitchen, getting out the ice cubes.”

“Right,” I said. The drink had loosened me a little now, but it was very hot in the booth and I was sweating. She went on talking. She seemed perfectly calm. The minutes dragged by.

“I think I hear the cab,” she said.

I waited. Then I heard the doorbell, very faintly. The line went dead. Chapman was at the front door.

I checked the time, pulled down the hook, and dropped in another dime to get the dial tone. I looked back out at the bar. No one was near enough to hear any of it through the door. Just before the two minutes were up, I started dialing. It rang twice.

“Hello.” It was Chapman, all right. She’d got him to answer.

“Mrs. Marian Forsyth,” I said brusquely. “Is she there?”

“Just a minute.”

I heard him call her, but not her reply. Then he came on again. “She’s busy at the moment. Who’s calling?”

“Chapman,” I said. “Harris Chapman—”

“What?”

Most people, of course, have no idea how their voices and their speech sound to others, but he did. He was accustomed to using dictating devices and recorders.

“Harris Chapman,” I repeated with the same curt impatience. “From Thomaston, Louisiana. She knows me —”

“Are you crazy?”

I cut in on him. “Will you please call Mrs. Forsyth to the phone? I haven’t got all night.”

”So you’re Chapman, are you? Where are you calling from?”

“What the hell is this?” I barked into the phone. “I’m calling from the Dauphine. I just checked in here. I’ve driven seven hundred and thirty miles today, and I m tired, and I don’t feel like playing games. Maybe you want to talk to me about my nineteen-fifty-five income-tax return, is that it? Well, it just happens I’m an attorney, my friend, and I know a little about the law, and about shakedowns. Now, put her on, or I’ll turn this letter of hers over to the police right now.”

“What in the name of God? Marian—”

I heard the phonograph come up in the background then, softly at first, and then louder. It was a song that had come out the summer Keith had gone mad—The Music Goes Round and Round. Shortly before they’d given up and had him committed for treatment, he’d locked himself in his room one day and played the record for nineteen hours without stopping.

“Listen!” I snapped. “What are you people up to? What’s that music—?”

He was still there. I heard him gasp.

Oh, the music goes round and round . . . and it comes out here. . . .

“Turn that off!” I said harshly. “Who told you about Keith? She’s been coaching you. You even sound like me. What’s that woman trying to do to me? I offered her six months’ pay. . . .”

“Marian,” he shouted, “for the love of Christ, who is this man?”

I couldn’t hear her reply, of course, but I knew what it was, and the way she said it. “Why, Harris Chapman, obviously.”

The shots weren’t too loud, mere exclamation points above the level of the music. There were two very close together, and then one more. The phone made a crashing noise, as if it had struck the edge of the table, and I heard him fall.

Oh, you press the middle valve down. . . .

Something else fell. And then there was nothing but the music, and a rhythmic tapping sound, as if the telephone receiver was swinging gently back and forth, bumping the leg of the table.

Bump . . . bump . . .

. . . and the music goes round and round . . . yoo-oo-ohoo. . . .

* * *

I made it in a little over ten minutes. As soon as I’d got out in the fresh air I was all right. She’d probably fainted, but she’d come around. I parked a block away. The front door was unlocked. I slipped inside and closed it.

One bridge lamp was burning in a corner, and the lights were on in the kitchen. She wasn’t in here. I sighed with relief. The phonograph had been shut off, and the phone was back on its cradle. The apartment was completely silent except for the humming of the air-conditioner. He was lying face down beside the table which held the telephone. I hurried through to the bedroom. She was in the bathroom, standing with her hands braced on the sides of the wash basin, looking at her face in the mirror. Apparently she’d started to brush her teeth, for some reason, for the toothbrush was lying in the basin where she’d dropped it. She was very pale. I took her arm. She turned, stared at me blankly, and then rubbed a hand across her face. Comprehension returned to her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said. There was no tremor in her voice.

I led her out and sat her on the bed, and knelt beside her. “Just hold on for a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here. You sit right there. Would you like a drink?”

“No,” she said. “I’d rather not.” She spoke precisely without raising her voice. I had an impression it was