Detour (16 page)

As for myself, I was doing plenty of heavy thinking, too. I knew Vera well enough by this time to realize she was one of the most stubborn mules in the world. If she thought an idea was good, she'd try it at any cost.

That meant I would have to prove to her it was screwy... and it wouldn't be easy. That it was dangerous and almost certain to end in disaster wouldn't bother her much. All she had to lose was me.

“Vera,” I pleaded, “don't you realize if I'm caught they'll want to know where I got the car and stuff? Then they'd have me on a murder rap.”

“If you're smart, you won't get caught.”

I hadn't counted much on that angle, so I tried another.

“And if I am, don't you realize you'll be out, too?”

She seemed more interested in that. She looked up from her hand immediately. “How will I be out?”

The bitch. I could get caught and hanged for all she cared. But let her drop a dollar and it was a catastrophe. “You'll be out the seven hundred we could have grossed on the car.”

She didn't say anything to that for a second and I began to hope. A slight frown and narrowed eyes made it clear that this bit of it had not occurred to her before. “Really, Vera,” I went on, “you'd be an awful chump to throw away all that dough on a dizzy long-shot. Let me sell the Buick tomorrow. With the money it'll bring, and with what you've already got, a clever kid like you can run it up in no time. Then we'd both be in the clear.”

“I'd be in the clear anyway.”

“Maybe, maybe. If I got caught I'd be good and sore at you, you know.”

You mean you'd squeal?” I saw her eyes begin to blaze and I knew I'd put my foot into it. “No, not squeal, exactly. I meant..”

“Never mind what you meant. Even if you did tell the cops I was in it with you, what could they do to me? They might give me the same medicine they'd give you but I'm on the way anyhow. All they would be doing would be hastening it.”

“All right. But think of the seven hundred you might lose. You'd kick yourself around the block if it got away from you.”

She paused a moment before speaking. There was a little war going on inside her. Should she pocket her winnings or parley? “I'll take the chance,” she said.

I shrugged, as if her decision made no difference to me. I didn't want to let her know that behind my mask I was furious. I felt like clipping her one and when she was on the floor taking that skinny neck in my hands and throttling her. “You're being foolish,” I remarked, keeping my voice even. “That's how people wind up behind the eight-ball. Once they get a few dollars they become greedy and want more.”

No reply to this.

“Caesar—you know, that Roman general—got his for being greedy. He wasn't satisfied and the final wind-up was he took the count.”

Still no answer. I might as well have been talking to a stone wall. But it was a good sign, I thought. Maybe what I was telling her was sinking in (I hoped).

“A couple of days ago you didn't have a dime. Why, you were so broke you couldn't have gotten into a pay-toilet. Now you've got over seven hundred bucks with seven hundred more in the offing. Take my advice and don't try for more.”

Vera's answer to that was a disgusted groan. She threw down her cards. “I'm tired of this game. Let's play Fantan.” Realizing now that she hadn't even been listening to me, I burned and got up. “Play solitaire,” I growled.

“O.K., if that's the way you feel about it.”

“That's the way I feel about it.” I flopped on the couch, yanked one of the pillows away and threw it into a far corner. It came close to knocking a picture off the wall.

“Getting sore and throwing things won't help, Roth. For Heaven's sake, I'm really doing you a favor. I help you out of a jam by keeping my mouth shut, I show you how to make yourself some soft money, and what thanks do I get?”

“Thanks?”

“Sure. Would you rather I call the cops and tell them you killed a man and stole his money?”

“I didn't kill anybody!”

“You did.”

“I didn't, God damn it, and you know it!”

“All right, then. Suppose I call the police? If you're innocent, what have you got to be scared of?”

“Call them, you bitch! Go ahead, call them! See if I care. At least they'll give me a square deal!”

“You want me to call them?”

“You heard me. But I'm warning you. If I'm pinched, I'll swear you were in on it! I'll say you helped me! If I burn for it, I'll get even with you!”

“You wouldn't dare.”

“No? Then try it and see. Call them.” All this was about half an hour before she died and the conversation, while not particularly cool, was at least pitched low. However, as the minutes passed, and more obstacles to the plan popped into my head, the air got blue. Each word coming from our lips snapped like a whip.

I reminded her that as Charles Haskell I didn't even know my mother's name, whether Dolores' birthday was in September or May, where I had attended school, the name of my best friend, whether I had an Aunt Emma or not, if I had ever owned a dog, my religious denomination, or even what the “J” in my name stood for. I also pointed out that the original Haskell bore a scar on his wrist.

“His people never saw that scar,” retorted Vera. “He told me he ran away right after putting out the kid's eye.”

“Yes,” I agreed heatedly, “but his father knew he was cut. There would have to be something on the wrist to show.”

“So what? The old man's dead—or will be, I hope, by tomorrow morning's paper. Anyway, you could cut yourself a little, couldn't you? Christ, for seven million I'd let you cut my leg off.”

“No. Turn me in, if you want, but I won't get mixed up in it. Besides, Haskell was a hop head. Maybe he wasn't the man's son at all. Maybe he dreamed all this, for all we know.”

“Well, dream it or not, you won't be dreaming when the law lay hands on you. They've got a cute gas-chamber waiting for you, Roth—and extradition to Arizona is a cinch...”

“Go on, go on. You haven't the guts to call them!”

But, folks, she did. And if it was a bluff, it was a good one; because I fell for it, and that is exactly how it happened. She went to the phone, began calling the police and I strangled her to death.

Accidentally, though. Much as I feared and hated her, the last thing I wanted was for her to die. I was in enough trouble, liable to be suspected of a murder, without actually committing one. But when I heard her ask Information for the number of the Hollywood police station, heard her repeat it and heard her dial it, I rushed across the room and tried to get the receiver from her hand. Somehow, as we struggled for the thing, her throat got in the way. I grabbed on to it and squeezed. It was soft, much softer than I'd dreamed; because when she let the phone fall and slumped against me, I noticed the marks of my fingers, blue and deep. I let go of her then and she dropped to the floor. God, it's easy to kill a person.

The world is full of skeptics. I know. I'm one myself. In the Haskell business, how many of you would have believed me if I had allowed myself to be arrested and brought to trial? And now, after killing Vera without really meaning to do it, how many of you would believe it wasn't premeditated? In a jury room, every last one of you would go down shouting that she had me over a barrel and my only out was force. Accidents are accidents, mistakes are mistakes, but coincidence is baloney, no matter how you spell it.

All this became immediately clear to me in the minutes or seconds or hours that I stood over Vera's body, staring at it. I was like a kid, admiring his first bicycle—only it wasn't a bicycle and I wasn't admiring it. I was amazed and dreadfully shocked at what I saw.

The room was still, so quiet that for a time I wondered if I had suddenly gone deaf. Then, gradually, as my senses returned, sounds began to fill my ears: the rumble of a bus on Sunset Boulevard, the whine of a vacuum cleaner, the sour notes of a trumpet being practiced somewhere in the building, the blasting voice of a radio politician. All this added to my astonishment. Here I had just snuffed out a human life as easily as falling off a log and the world was going on the same as always. The sun was still shining, the birds singing, the people eating, sleeping, working, making love, spanking their children, patting their dogs. It was undeniable proof that man is unimportant in the scheme of things, that one life more or less doesn't make a hell of a difference. Yet to me, who had taken a life and whose own life hung in the balance, this was crazy. God Almighty, I thought, man
is
important. A few seconds ago Vera was alive. Blood ran through her veins; saliva was in her mouth; she could feel things: the tickling sensation that made her cough now and then, the pimple on the lobe of her left ear.

Now she lay still and dead. That must mean
something.
It must! Why, if I died... But I couldn't imagine myself dying. I couldn't imagine not being
me
any more.

These thoughts ran through my mind rapidly and I could barely keep myself from running to the window and shouting, “Pipe down! Shut up! Don't you realize someone died? How would you like to die, you heartless sons of bitches?”

I was hysterical—but without making a sound. My eyes clung to Vera as she lay twisted on the floor, her legs sprawled out awkwardly. Her face was flushed. Her hands, crossed on her breast with the fingers at her throat, were stiff as boards. The fingers themselves were bloodstained—which made me conscious for the first time that my wrists were aching. Looking at them, I saw that they were scratched to ribbons. Believe me, if I could have laughed, I would have. Now I was Charles Haskell to a 'T. As Vera kicked off she had added the final touch. It was only three minutes by Haskell's watch, strapped to the dead woman's wrist, that I stood there looking down at her. It seemed hours. Her hair had fallen across her face, so, thank God, I couldn't see her eyes; but her mouth was a little open, as if she had been struggling to yell “Copper!” when death came. The little whore. I wasn't sorry she was dead; just sorry it was me who killed her. After a time, my eyes reluctantly left Vera and traveled around the room. It was in disorder for we hadn't straightened up after our drinking-bout the night before. Cigarette stubs were strewn on the carpet, some of them with lipstick on them. There was a broken glass by the couch. My pyjamas lay in a corner where I'd tossed them. The telephone was still on the floor with the receiver off the hook. Something warned me that it might be a good idea to replace it. Nevertheless, I couldn't budge.

I was aware that now, since I was undoubtedly a murderer, I had better be a successful one and not get caught. What evidence there was about the place had to be destroyed—and from the looks of things there was plenty. In a book, the murderer generally tries to pin the crime on someone else, the rat. Well, I didn't have anyone I could pin it on, so that was out. What first? Finger-prints. Surely everything was lousy with them. But where to begin? Where?

I started to wipe a table before I saw the phone, and then I began wondering if fingerprints can be detected in human flesh. I was nervous. My heart was sinking so fast it hurt. I thought that if only I could compose myself and treat it like a game, maybe I'd get away with it. I'd get a sheet or a blanket first and cover Vera up....

But as soon as I made a move towards the bedroom, the full realization dawned on me.
There was no way out of this.
I could polish off prints for ten years but there'd always be witnesses. The landlady, for one. She could identify me. Although we rented the place early in the evening and the transaction took place in a dim room without a light and Vera had done most of the talking, she most certainly noticed me. Then too, there was the car dealer. He could identify me. After Vera's demonstration of temper he wouldn't be likely to forget us for a long while. And the police. They might have received the call Vera put through. Even now they might be tracing it.

I listened for the sound of sirens.... Yes! That was one now! And it seemed to be coming.... No, no. That wasn't a police siren. Only that damned vacuum cleaner.

My nerves were shot to pieces. While once I had remained beside a dead body, planning carefully how to avoid being accused of murdering him, this time I couldn't. This time I was guilty—knew I was guilty and felt it. Stupid or not, I couldn't help doing the thing which once before I had managed not to do.

I ran.

WHEN a person you have been very fond of passes away, you are supposed to cry—so I cried. However, hypocritical as it may seem, I didn't feel much like crying. I guess I was never really in love with Alex, for when I read he had been found dead in a ditch I was more relieved than anything else. It made things much less complicated. The article in the paper immediately blew away whatever fog had been obscuring my true feelings. I was very, very sorry about Alex—but it was Raoul I loved.

It is strange how something pretty terrible must happen before we can accurately analyze things and place them in their proper grooves. If Alex had remained alive, I might have gone on for years thinking I loved him. I might even have married him. Things we have grown accustomed to in this life we cling to long after they have ceased to function. It took the news of Alex's death to make me conscious he was only a friend.

Of course there is always a certain amount of sadness connected with a death—especially such a horrible one as had overtaken Alex. Nevertheless, it surprised and even annoyed me a little to find that Ewy, who had never even met the man, was taking it a good deal harder than I was. We were seated on the living-room divan with our arms around each other, and she was weeping on my neck rather than me weeping on hers.

In a picture, when the heroine's brother or boy friend dies—in an airplane or performing some act of bravery in the war—the accepted reaction no longer calls for a copious flow of tears, bosom beating and hair-tearing. That went over big in the silent days. Now there is little more than a perceptible stiffening of the shoulders, a dullness about the eyes, and some graceful, expressive gesture. In close-up, the mouth may twitch a trifle—but no more than just that. Whether this is how a person would react in real life or not, I don't know, never having experienced a truly overwhelming sorrow. The news that Alex was dead came as a shock—but after the shock passed there was nothing.