Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (11 page)

The problem with Mr. Ferris was that he had been a practical joker. Not just an occasional practical joker; oh, no. A constant, unending, remorseless practical joker. A
Practical Joker
with capitals and in italics. Sugar in the salt shaker; ground black pepper in the tea. Softboiled eggs substituted for hardboiled eggs. Kitchen cleanser substituted for denture powder. Four white rats let loose in the dining room during supper. Photographs of naked ladies pasted inside old Mr. Tipton's
Natural History
magazine. Whoopee cushions, water glasses that dribbled, fuzzy spiders and rubber-legged centipedes all over the walls and furniture. These and a hundred other indignities—a deluge, an avalanche of witless and childish pranks.

Was it any wonder, Mrs. Beresford thought, that somebody had finally done him in? No, it was not. The dispatching of George Ferris, the joker, was in fact an act of great mercy.

"Who could have done it?" Mrs. Lenhart asked after a time.

"Anybody who lives here," Mr. Pascotti said. "Anybody who ever spent ten minutes with that lunatic."

"You don't suppose it was an intruder?"

"Who would want to intrude in this place? No, my guess is it was one of us."

"You don't mean one of
us
?"

"What, you or Mrs. Beresford? Nice widow ladies like you? The thought never crossed my mind, believe me."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Pascotti."

"For what?"

"The compliment. You said we were nice widow ladies."

Mr. Pascotti, who had been a bachelor for nearly seven decades, looked somewhat uncomfortable. "You don't have to worry—the police won't suspect you, either. They'd have to be crazy. Policemen today are funny, but they're not crazy."

"They might suspect you, though," Mrs. Beresford said.

"Me? That's ridiculous. All I did was find him on my way to the john—"

"Lavatory," Mrs. Lenhart said.

"All I did was find him. I didn't make him all over blood."

"But they might think you did," Mrs. Beresford said.

"Not a chance. Ferris was ten years younger than me and
I've got arthritis so bad I can't even knock loud on a door. So how could I stick a big knife in his chest?"

Mrs. Lenhart adjusted the drape of her shawl. "You know, I really can't imagine anybody here doing such a thing. Can you, Irma?"

"As a matter of fact," Mrs. Beresford said, "I can. We all have hidden strengths and capacities, but we don't realize it until we're driven to the point of having to use them."

"That's very profound."

"Sure it is," Mr. Pascotti said. "It's also true."

"Oh, I'm sure it is. But I still prefer to think it was an intruder who sent Mr. Ferris on to his reward, whatever that may be."

Mr. Pascotti gestured toward the parlor windows and the sunshine streaming in through them. "It's broad daylight," he said. "Do intruders intrude in broad daylight?"

"Sometimes they do," Mrs. Lenhart said. "Remember last year, when the police questioned everybody about strangers in the neighborhood? There was a series of daylight bur
glaries right over on Hawthorn Boulevard."

"So it could have been an intruder, I'll admit it. We'll tell the police that's what we think. Why should any of us have to suffer for making that lunatic dead?"

"Isn't it time we did?" Mrs. Beresford asked.

"Did? Did what?"

"Tell the police what we think. After we tell them Mr. Ferris is lying up in his room with a knife in his chest."

"You're right," Mr. Pascotti said, "it is time. Past time. A warm day like this, things happen to dead bodies after a while."

He turned and started over to the telephone. But before he got to it there was a sudden eruption of noise from out in the front hallway. At first it sounded to Mrs. Beresford like a series of odd snorts, wheezes, coughs, and gasps. When all these sounds coalesced into a recognizable bellow, however, she realized that what she was hearing was wild laughter.

Then George Ferris walked into the room.

He was wearing an old sweatshirt and a pair of old dungarees, both of which were, as Mr. Pascotti had said, all over blood. In his left hand he carried a wicked-looking and also very bloody knife. His chubby face was contorted into an expression of mirth bordering on ecstasy and he was laughing so hard that tears flowed down both cheeks.

Mrs. Beresford stared at him with her mouth open. So did Mrs. Lenhart and Mr. Pascotti. Ferris looked back at each of them and what he saw sent him into even greater convulsions.

The noise lasted for fifteen seconds or so, subsided into more snorts, wheezes, and gasps, and finally ceased altogether. Ferris wiped his damp face and got his breathing under control. Then he pointed to the crimson stains on his clothing. "Chicken blood," he said. He pointed to the weapon clutched in his left hand. "Trick knife," he said.

"A joke," Mr. Pascotti said. "It was all a joke."

"Another joke," Mrs. Lenhart said.

"Another indignity," Mrs. Beresford said.

"And you fell for it," Ferris reminded them. "Oh, boy, did you fall for it! You should have seen your faces when I walked in." He began to cackle again. "My best one yet," he said, "no question about it. My best one
ever.
Why, by golly, I don't think I'll live to pull off a better one."

Mrs. Beresford looked at Mrs. Lenhart. Then she looked at Mr. Pascotti. Then she picked up one of her knitting needles and looked at the pudgy joker across its sharp glittering point.

"Neither do we, Mr. Ferris," she said. "Neither do we."

T
he place where they met for dinner was a Neapolitan restaurant on the edge of North Beach, not far from Don's apartment. The decor was very old-fashioned—red-and-white checked tablecloths, Chianti bottles with candle drippings down the necks and sides—but then Don was old-fashioned, too, at least in some ways, so she wasn't surprised when he said it was his favorite restaurant. Meg had never been there before. It wasn't the kind of place Gene would ever have taken her, not in a million years.

They sat at a little table in one corner, away from the windows that overlooked the street, and Don ordered a bottle of wine, something called Valpolicella. He was nervous, probably as nervous and tense as she was, but with him it was close to the surface, not pushed down deep inside. Poor Don. He must suspect why she'd called him, why she'd coaxed him into meeting her for dinner. How could he not suspect? He felt the same about her as she felt about him, she was sure of that. She'd noticed how he looked at her at the Currys' party that night three years ago, felt the mutual attraction then and every time they'd run into each other since. But he'd never done anything about it—never called her or tried to see her alone somewhere. And of course she'd never done anything about it, either. Until tonight.

But I should have
, she thought.
I shouldn't have waited so long—all those bad, empty months and years with Gene. I should have arranged to see Don right away after that party at the Currys'. If I had . . .

But she hadn't. She was such a little lamb. That was what Gene said, anyway, what he always called her in private. His little lamb. He hadn't meant it affectionately, as her being cute and cuddly and soft. No, he'd meant she was placid, no mind of her own, lost without someone to guide her. Just a poor little lost lamb.

Not any more, though. Not tonight.

The waiter came with the wine and to take their orders. She'd asked Don to order for both of them, because he'd come here so often and knew what was especially good. She wanted the dinner, like everything else about this night, to be perfect. He must have wanted that, too, in his own way; he was very deliberate, asking the waiter several questions before he made up his mind. What he finally ordered was zuppa di vongole, green salad, breadsticks, and fusilli alla Vesuviana.

"What is fusilli alla Vesuviana?" she asked after the waiter went away.

"Pasta with tomato and cheese. Vesuvius style."

"Vesuvius? It won't erupt while we're eating, will it?" He laughed, but it was a small laugh—forced, brittle.

"You don't have to worry about that."

"I guess I'm not very good at making jokes . . ."

"No, no, it was a good joke."

There was an uncomfortable little silence. The only thing she could think to say was, "Don, aren't you glad you came?"

". . . Yes, I'm glad."

"You're not acting like it."

"It's just that . . . well . . ."

"Well what?"

"I don't think Gene would like it if he knew."

"He's not going to know. I told you, he's away."

"I know you did, but—"

"Until tomorrow," she said. "Sometime tomorrow." Don seemed about to say something, changed his mind, and took a too-quick drink from his glass and spilled a dribble of wine down over his chin. She had an impulse to reach over and wipe it away, touch him, but she didn't let herself do it. Not just yet.

She tasted her own wine. It was heavy, faintly sweet, not at all the kind of wine she usually liked. Tonight, though, it went with the ambiance here, with this special occasion. She drank a little more, watching Don drain his glass and pour another. She mustn't have too much herself before the food came. She had no tolerance for alcohol and she mustn't get tipsy, mustn't do anything to spoil things for either of them. When she got tipsy she would giggle or have an attack of the hiccups or knock over her glass—something silly and embarrassing like that. So she must be very careful. One glass of wine, no more.

It was just the opposite with Don. He drank two full glasses of Valpolicella and part of a third before he began to relax.

Then she was able to draw him out a bit, get him to talk about his job—he was an editor with one of San Francisco's regional publishing firms—and about people they both knew. When she told him about Marian Cobb's latest trip to a fat farm, and he laughed a genuine laugh, she felt both relieved and reassured.
It's going to be all right
, she told herself.
It really is. Tonight is going to be just fine
.

The zuppa di vongole came. She wasn't at all hungry, she had been sure she would only pick at her food, but she finished all of the soup; and all of the green salad that followed, and then most of the fusilli alla Vesuviana. It amazed her just how much of an appetite she had. And all the while they continued to talk, not about anything personal, just small talk, but there was an intimacy in it of the sort that she and Gene had never shared over a meal. Don felt it too. She could see him gradually give in to it, let the warmth of it enfold him as it was enfolding her.

Afterward they had espresso and a funny licorice-tasting liqueur—Zambucca?—that was served with a coffee bean floating in it. Over their second cup of espresso, she caught him looking at her, an unmistakably hungry look that he quickly covered up. It made her tingle, made her wet down below. She had never responded sexually when Gene looked at her that way. Oh, maybe in the beginning she had, a little. But not like this. She had never felt about Gene as she did about Don.

Why didn't I do this a long time ago?
she asked herself again.
Why, why, why didn't I?

The waiter came with the check. Don paid in cash, and when they were alone again she said, "What I'd like to do now is walk a bit. It's such a nice night."

"Good idea."

"Then what I want to do is go to your apartment."

She said it so casually, so boldly, it surprised her almost as much as it surprised Don. She hadn't meant to be so brazen; the words had just come out. He blinked in a way that was almost comical, like a startled owl. "Meg," he said, and then didn't go on.

"Wouldn't you like to?" she asked.

"I . . . don't think it would be a good idea."

"Why not?"

"You know why, for God's sake."

"Well, I think it's a wonderful idea," she said. "It's what I want and I think it's what you want too. Isn't it?"

He gave her a long searching look. Then he let his gaze slide away and said abruptly, almost painfully, "Yes, damn it. Yes."

"You mustn't be ashamed. I'm not."

"It isn't that I'm ashamed . . ."

She touched him then, touched his hand with the tips of her fingers. It made him jump as if with an electrical shock.

"It's all right," she said. "Don—it's all right."

"It's not all right."

"But it is."

"You're a married woman . . ."

"I don't love Gene. I'm not sure I ever did."