Tell It To The Birds (12 page)

"This maniac ... still no trace of him?"

"No, but the Chief is a wily bird. He may not be giving any secrets away. He told me that he/is convinced the heistman who killed Patrol Officer Sanquist was an out-of-towner, but he's convinced this maniac is a local man."

"What makes him think that?" Anson asked.

"He figures no one but a local man would know Glyn Hill. It's way off the beaten track. No passing motorist would ever find it."

"A man as bald as an egg shouldn't be so hard to find."

"That's a fact, but the Chief isn't a hundred per cent sure the girl was right when she said the guy was bald. She was in a hell of a panic. Could be he had white hair or very fair hair and he looked bald to her in the moonlight."

"Well, I guess it isn't too tough to check every blond or white headed man in the district and find out what he was doing at the time of the lolling," Anson said.

Frisbee, whose hair was as black as a raven's wing, looked at Anson's blond hair and grinned.

"Just what were you doing at the time?"

Anson forced a laugh.

"In the sack with my local homework," he said and winked. "Anyway, according to the girl, this guy was in his fifties and fat ... that's something you aren't," Frisbee said. "I guess she was lucky to come out of it alive."

When Frisbee had left, Anson went into the restaurant. So far then, he told himself, the maniac hadn't been found, but there were still lots of hours to get through before he killed Barlowe, and during those hours the maniac could be arrested. After lunch, Anson continued his routine calls. Around seven thirty, he drove out to the Barlowe house, and put his car in the garage. He rang the front door bell and the door was immediately opened by Meg.

He followed her into the sitting-room. In the light of the shaded lamp, he saw she looked pale and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked as if she had been sleeping badly.

"What's wrong?" he asked, taking her in his arms. "You look tired. What's the matter?" She pushed him away.

"Wrong? You ask what's the matter?" She faced him angrily. "This thing is on my mind! I can't sleep. How would you like to sleep in the same house with someone you are planning to murder? You ask what's wrong? Are you that insensitive?" Anson lifted his shoulders.

"You made your mind up to go ahead," he said. "You should have no regrets."

She sat on the settee, her clenched fists resting on her knees. "I can't believe it is going to happen tomorrow night!" "It depends on you," Anson said, sitting beside her. "Can you get him out to Jason's Glen? The forecast is good ... it won't rain. If you can get him out there, then it's fixed." Meg moved uneasily.

"Yes ... I'll get him out there," she said. "We are going to have dinner at the Court roadhouse. After, I'll make him take me to Jason's Glen."

"I was out there last night," Anson said. "There's a telephone call box on the highway about half a mile from the glen.

I'll be waiting there. I want you to call me and let me know for

certain if you are coming. If something goes wrong, and he insists on returning home, I must know."

He took from his wallet a scrap of paper which he gave to her. "That's the number of the call box. I'll be waiting from ten o'clock onwards."

She nodded, putting the paper in her bag.

"When you get to the glen," Anson went on, "stay in the car, but keep the windows down."

Meg shuddered.

"I understand."

"When I've got rid of him," Anson said, staring into the fire, "I'll have to work on you." He reached out and put his hand over hers. At his touch she closed her eyes. "You're going to get hurt, Meg. We daren't take any chances. You'll have to be brave about this ... you understand? You mustn't blame me. What I do to you will convince Maddox and the police you are in the clear. The doctor must be convinced that this isn't a faked attack."

She felt a chill creep up her spine, but thinking of Sailor Hogan, she nodded.

"It's all right... I understand."

"From the glen to the highway is about a quarter of a mile," Anson said. "You'll have to get down to the highway. He'll be in the driving seat. You won't be able to use the car. It may take some time before passing motorists see you. You must fake you're unconscious. Remember, you say nothing until you get flowers from me. If you get carnations, you'll know the maniac has been caught. If you get roses, you'll know he's still at large." He took a folded paper from his wallet. "Here is a description of a man I have made up. You'll use this if the maniac has been arrested. You understand all this?"

"Yes."

"That's about it," Anson said. "Don't let them rattle you and don't say a word until you see my flowers. The doctor won't let the police worry you until he is sure you are good and ready."

She looked at him, her eyes dark ringed and scared.

"You are sure this is going to work?" she asked. "You're sure we'll get the money?"

"We'll get it," Anson said. "With this set-up we can't go wrong. You'll have the public's sympathy and Maddox will know if he tries to block your claim, it'll be bad publicity and he hates that. I'll work on the reporters. Yes ... we'll get the money all right."

Meg, still thinking of Hogan, said, "I can't believe it's going to happen."

"In a couple of weeks^ you'll be worth fifty thousand dollars!" Anson said. "We'll go away together! You, me and fifty thousand dollars!" He put his arm around her. "Together with that kind of money, we'll take the sun out of the sky!"

"Yes."

Meg broke away and went over to the fire.

Anson stood up.

"I mustn't forget the gun," he said and crossed to the sideboard and took the wooden box from the drawer. From it, he took the gun and six cartridges.

Watching him with growing horror, Meg said, "You'll have to leave now, John." She felt she couldn't bear to have this cold-blooded planner of murder any longer in the room. "Phil is coming back. He said he would be back by nine."

Anson turned and stared at her; a surge of angry disappointment ran through him.

"I thought we were going to spend the night together. Why is he coming back?"

"He has given up his classes now he is going to Florida," Meg lied. "He is seeing this man he's doing the deal with, then he's coming home. You really must go, John. He mustn't see you as you go down the lane."

A sudden cold suspicious expression came into Anson's eyes.

"You're not falling out of love with me, are you?"

"Of course not... but you take all this so calmly. I'm frightened. I'll do it with you, but I can't be so, so coldblooded about it as you are."

"This man is nothing," Anson said. "Fifty thousand dollars will mean everything to us. I'm not being cold-blooded ... it is a matter of how much you want the money."

"You must go ... look at the time."

"I'll be waiting for your telephone call," Anson said. "Remember what I've told you. Ifil work." He picked up the gun and put it in his pocket. "Come here, Meg..."

She forced herself to go to him. His kisses made her feel physically ill and the feel of his hands as they moved down her back made her cringe.

She pushed away.

"You must go!"

He looked at her for a long moment, then nodded and went out to his car.

She sank onto the settee, her hands to her face, shuddering.

Sailor Hogan came out of the kitchen where he had been listening to everything that had been said.

"Well, you nearly balled up everything," he said, coming into the room. "What's the matter with you? Why didn't you love the guy a little? He was wanting it. Now you've sent him away with a bee in his workbox."

"I hate him!" Meg said. "He terrifies me."

"What's the matter with you? He's smart and he means business. He's quite a boy with his talk of taking the sun out of the sky ... I dig for that."

Meg jumped up and put her arms around Hogan's thick muscular shoulders.

"Love me, Jerry," she said, her lips lightly touching his thick coarse skin. "Please love me."

With a bored grimace, Hogan swung her down onto the settee.

At half past five on Friday evening, Anna Garvin pushed aside her typewriter, collected the papers on her desk and put them in one of her desk drawers.

"Time to go home, Mr. Anson," she said as she got to her feet.

Anson regarded her as he leaned back in his desk chair. His desk was covered with papers which he had deliberately laid out to create an impression that he was busy.

"You run along, Anna," he said. "I've still a few things to clear up.

"Can't I help?"

"No ... I'm just killing time. This is nothing urgent. I just don't happen to be in a rush to get home."

When Anna had gone, Anson scooped up all the papers on his desk and pushed them into a file. He then took from his desk drawer the time switch clock he had bought the previous day. He read the instructions again, then plugged the gadget in to the mains socket. To the lead from it, he plugged in a two-way adapter to his tape recorder and his desk lamp.

He then set the switch to operate in five minutes and he sat back, lit a cigarette and waited. After five minutes tiad crawled by his desk lamp suddenly came on and the tape recorder started up, playing back the tape he had made of his typing. He turned up the volume until he was satisfied the sound of the typing could be heard in the corridor. He waited another five minutes, then he watched the desk lamp go out and the recorder stop.

He then reset the time switch to come into operation at nine thirty. He set the turn offhand of the clock to eleven.

Satisfied the gadget worked, he locked up his office and rode down in the elevator to the ground floor.

He found Jud Jones reading the evening newspaper in his office.

"Jud ... I'll be working late tonight. Don't think I have a burglar in my office."

Jones grinned and winked.

"That's okay, Mr. Anson. I won't disturb you."

"This is work, Jud, so take that leer off your face," Anson said grinning. "I'm going out to supper, then I'll be back.'

"Okay, Mr. Anson, have you your key?"

"Yeah ... see you," Anson nodded and went out into the street.

He had a light supper and then drove to his apartment. He cleaned and loaded Barlowe's gun. Putting the gun in his top coat pocket, he went down to his car.

The time was now eight o'clock. He drove back to his office. Parking his car some way from the entrance to the block, he entered the block. He walked to Jones's office.

"I'm back," he said. "I'll be working to around eleven." Jones shook his head.

"You watch out, Mr. Anson ... the way you work, you could get an ulcer."

"I'll watch it," Anson said, and he went over to the elevator and rode up to his floor. He waited a few moments, then silently walked down the stairs and left the office block. He got in his car and drove fast to the Brent-Pru Town highway.

When he was in sight of the telephone call box, he pulled off the highway onto a lay-by, turned off the car's lights and lit a cigarette. He had a long wait ahead of him.

He relaxed in the driving seat, aware of the weight of the gun in his pocket, his mind probing the plan he had made. He could find no flaw in it.

At twenty minutes to ten, he left the car and walked to the call box. He sat on the dry earth behind the box out of sight of the passing motorist and waited. Again he had a long wait. The minutes crawled by and he was beginning to wonder if something had gone wrong when the telephone bell in the call box began to ring. He opened the door to the call box and picked up the receiver.

Barlowe was startled when Meg had suggested they should go to the Court road house to celebrate their wedding anniversary.

Meg had appeared while he was eating his breakfast. She had on her soiled green wrap and her hair was tousled. She leaned against the doorway, a cigarette between her full lips and Barlowe, looking at her, felt faint desire stir in him.

"We haven't been out for months," Meg said. "I'm sick of hanging around this dump. If you don't want to take me, say so, I'll go alone."

Barlowe said, "A place like that costs money ..."

"Well spend some money for a change," Meg said. "I want to get drunk tonight." She stared at him. "There are other things I want to do tonight as well."

They looked at each other for a long moment, then she turned and went upstairs to her room.

Barlowe pushed aside his half eaten breakfast and leaned back in his chair. Meg would have been surprised and shocked if she knew what was going on in his sick mind. He was no longer interested in her. That moment when he had laid hands on the screaming, terrified girl had been the most exciting and sensational thing that had happened to him in his life.

The living and the dead, he thought and got to his feet. The man rolling out of the car, shot through the head, and the girl struggling and screaming. Meg was poor stuff to such an experience, but if she wanted to be taken out, he'd better take her out. He was now nervous that anyone should suspect that he had done this thing. He had put the gun, the white bathing cap and the cheek pads under the floorboards in his room. He wanted to have the chance of doing this act of violence many times ... he had no intention of being caught.

Tomorrow night, he intended to go out again on the prowl. He would try Jason's Glen this time. He might be lucky to find two young people up there alone.

It startled him when they had finished a good, but expensive dinner and had returned to the bar for another drink that Meg should say she wanted to go out to Jason's Glen.

"What for?" Barlowe asked, slightly fuddled by the drinks he had taken. "I want to go to bed now." He stared at her, frowning, "I've had enough of this."

"Well, I haven't," Meg said. "What's the matter with you? Don't you want to be romantic?"

"With you?" Barlowe grimaced. "After all this time? What's come over you ... you're drunk!"

"All right, so I'm drunk," she said. "I'm sick of living like a nun. Even a drip like you is better than nothing the way I feel. Let's go!"

Barlowe shook his head.