Case Pending - Dell Shannon (21 page)

Safe and easy. Sure. Before a while ago,
when the scraggly bald old fellow had peered out the drugstore door
at him.

Morgan knew this window by heart now. Everything
in it a little dusty, a little second-hand-looking: out-of-date ad
placards, the platinm blonde with a toothy smile, INSTANT PROTECTION,
the giant tube of shaving cream, the giant bottle of antiseptic, the
cigarette ad, GET SATISFACTION, the face-cream ad, YOU CAN LOOK
YOUNGER. In a vague way he'd known the drugstore was open, but
the door was shut on this coolish evening, he hadn't glanced inside.
When people came by, he'd strolled away the opposite direction:
nobody had seemed to take much notice of him—why should they? And
then that old fellow came to the door, peered out: Morgan met his
glance through the dirty glass panel, by chance, and that was when
time began to race.

God, don't let Smith come now, not until I've had
time to think.

The druggist, alone there, pottering around his store
in the hopeful expectation of a few customers before nine o'clock, or
maybe just because he hadn't anything to go home to. Time on his
hands. Looking out the window, the door, every so often, for
customers at first—and then to see, only out of idle curiosity, if
that fellow was still there on the corner, waiting. . . .All that
clutter in the window, Morgan hadn't noticed him; not much light, no,
but enough—and without thought, when he was standing still he'd
hugged the building for shelter from the chill wind. Most of the
time he'd have been in the perimeter of light from the window, from
the door. God alone knew how often the old man had looked out,
spotted him.

The expression in the rheumy eyes meeting his briefly
through the dirty pane-focused, curious, a little defensive-told
Morgan the man had marked him individually.

And hell, hell, it didn't matter whether the druggist
thought he'd been stood up by a date, or was planning to hold up the
drugstore, or was just lonely or worried or crazy, hanging around
this corner an hour and twelve minutes. The druggist would remember
him. . . .That was a basic principle, and only common sense, in
planning anything underhand and secret—from robbing Junior's piggy
bank to murder: Keep it simple. Don't have too many lies to remember,
don't dream up the complicated routine, the fancy alibi. The way
he'd designed it was like that—short, straight, and sweet. Now, if
he went on with it that way, there'd be the plausible lie to figure
out and remember and stick to: just why the hell had Morgan been
hanging around here, obviously a man waiting for someone?

Half-formed ideas, wild, ridiculous, skittered along
the top of his mind. You know how it is, officer, I met this
blonde, didn't mean any harm but a fellow likes a night out once in a
while; sure I felt guilty, sure I love my wife, but, well, the blonde
said she'd meet me— I tell you how it was, I'd lent this guy a
five-spot, felt sorry for him you know, guess I was a sucker, anyway
he said he'd meet me and pay—Well, I met this fellow who said he'd
give me an inside tip on a horse, only he wouldn't know for sure
until tonight, if I'd meet him—

All right, he thought furiously, all right; of all
the damn-fool ideas. . .So, produce the blonde, the debtor, the
tipster! It couldn't be done that way.

He stood now right at the building corner, close, out
of the druggist's view. Think: if, when Smith comes, what are you
going to do now? What can you do?

The little panic passed and he saw the only possible
answer: it wasn't a very good one, it put more complication into this
than was really safe, but that couldn't be helped.  Obviously,
get Smith away from this place. The farther away the better. In
the car. Stall him and get him into the car, and Christ, the
possibilities, the dangers that opened wouldn't drive far, maybe not
at all, without getting him suspicious. Sure, knock him out with
a wrench or something as soon as they got in, fine, and have it show
up at the autopsy later on. Great, shoot him in the car under
cover of the revving motor, and get blood all over the seat covers.
All right: think.

Yes. It could be managed, it had to be: the only
way. In the car, then, right away, and in the body, so the
clothes would get the blood. Have to take a chance. Then quick
around to Humboldt or Foster, only a few blocks, both dark streets
too, thank God; park the car, get him out to the sidewalk, get his
prints on the gun, make a little disturbance, fire another shot, and
yell for the cops. I was on my way to visit this case I'm on, when—
And the druggist no danger then, no reason to connect a holdup there
with his corner.

Not as safe, but it could work: maybe, with luck, it
would work fine. Now let Smith come.  Morgan was ready for him,
as ready as he'd ever be. He looked at his watch. It was
seventeen minutes past eight.

And suddenly be began to get in a sweat about
something else. Smith had made him wait on Saturday night,
deliberately, to soften him up: but why the hell should Smith delay
coming to collect the ransom he thought was waiting?

Cops, thought Morgan—cold, resentful, sullen,
helpless—cops! Maybe so obvious there outside, inside, that Smith
spotted them-and thought, of course, Morgan had roped them in? God,
the whole thing blown open—
 

ELEVEN

Cops, Marty thought. Cops, he'd said. Funny, the
words meant the same, but seemed like people who didn't like them,
maybe were afraid of them, said "cops," and other people
said "policemen."

He sat up in bed in the dark; it was the bad time
again, the time alone with the secret. And a lot of what made it
bad was, usually, not having outside things to keep him from thinking
about it, remembering; but right now he had, and that somehow made it
worse.

He sat up straight against the headboard; he tried to
sit still as still, but couldn't help shivering even in his flannel
pajamas, with the top of him outside the blanket. If he laid right
down like usual he was afraid he'd go to sleep after a while, even
the long while it'd got to taking him lately; and he mustn't, if he
was going to do what he planned safe. He had to stay awake until
everybody else was asleep, maybe two, three o'clock in the morning,
and then be awful quiet and careful. . . .Like a lesson he was
memorizing, he said it all over again to himself in his mind, all
he'd got to remember about: don't make any noise, get up when it's
time and put on his pants and jacket over his pajamas and get—it—and
remember about the key to the door, take it with him so's he could
get back in. He knew where the place was, where he was going; it
was only three blocks over there, on Main Street. Wouldn't take long,
if nobody saw—or if—

This was the only way to do it if he was going to,
and the worst of that was it didn't seem like such a good idea now, a
kind of silly idea really but he couldn't think of anything else at
all, without breaking the promise, doing the one unforgivable
thing. He'd tried this morning, he'd waited until she was busy
in the kitchen, thought he could pick-it—up and call out good-by
and go off quick, before— But it'd gone wrong, he wasn't quick
enough; and she'd come in, looked awful queer at him—funny, a bit
frightened—and said sharp, "What you up to, still fooling
round here?—you'll be late for school, you go 'long now," and
he'd had to go, with her watching. So now he was waiting until
there'd be nobody awake to see.

And maybe it was silly, it wouldn't make anything
happen. Cops, he thought confusedly: but he did remember Dad saying,
all new scientific things and like that, they were a lot smarter and
some real high educated now, from college. It might Cops. He
didn't like loud voices and people getting so mad they hit each
other.  It made him feel hollow and bad inside—in the movies
you knew it was just put on, and when you were interested in the
story you didn't mind so much, but even there sometimes it made you
feel kind of upset.  That was the first time, tonight, he'd seen
Danny's dad—since he'd come with them. Danny didn't seem to be
ashamed at all, tell his dad had been in jail back east, said it like
it was something to brag about, but that was how Danny was. Marty
sure didn't think he could be much of a dad to brag on, jail or no
jail.

He shut his eyes and just like a movie saw it over
again—himself going up the stairs to Danny's apartment, as if he
wanted go to the movies with him, Ma'd given him thirty cents, said
he could go—and the loud voice swearing inside, "
Cops!
 You
think I can't smell a cop?—yeah, yeah, you say that to me before,
so you walk right past a couple the bastards outside an' never see
'em more'n if they was—listen, what the hell you been up to,
bringin' cops down on the place—"

And Danny, shrill, "I never done nothing, I—"

"Don't talk back t' me, you little bastard—I
ain't fool enough to think, him—I got him too damn scared! If I
hadn't spotted them damned—might've walked right into— What the
hell else could they be after, watching the house? Couldn't've
traced me here—you been up to some o' your piddling kid stuff,
heisting hubcaps or somethin', an' they—"

"I never— Listen, I—"

And the noise of fists hitting, Danny yelling, and
something falling hard against the door—Danny, he guessed, because
then it opened and Danny sort of fell out and banged it after him and
kicked it. It was dark in the hall, Marty had backed off a ways,
and Danny didn't see him. Danny leaned on the wall a minute there,
one hand up to the side of his face, maybe where his dad had hit
him—it looked like his nose was bleeding too—and Marty thought he
was crying, only Danny never did, he wasn't that kind. And then
the door opened again and Mr. Smith came out.

A tough-looking man he was like crooks in the movies,
and there in the room behind that was just like the living room in
the place Marty lived a floor down, was Danny's ma, he'd seen her
before, of course, a little soft-looking lady with a lot of black
hair, and she looked scared and kept saying, "Oh, please, Ray,
it's not his fault, please don't, Ray."

"Oh, for God's sake, I ain't going' do
nothing! So all right, kid, maybe I got my wires crossed an'
it's somethin' else—hope to God it is—but listen, come here, you
gotta go and do that phone call for me, see, I can't—"

Danny yelled at him, "Be damned if I will,
bastard yourself!" and kicked at his shins and bolted for the
stairs as the man snarled at him.

Marty had crept back even farther toward the dark end
of the hall; Mr. Smith didn't see him either.  He made as if to
go after Danny, stopped, said, "Oh, hell!" and went back
into the apartment.

And Marty slid past the shut door and downstairs, but
he didn't see Danny anywhere on the block.  He wondered if Danny
was hurt bad, his dad looked pretty strong. And if he'd ever hit
Danny like that before—probably so, if he got mad that way a lot.
For a minute, thinking about it, Marty felt some better himself,
because maybe his own dad had gone away and left them, but he'd sure
never, ever, hit him or said bad things to him—or anybody. Marty's
dad, he always said it beat all how some fellows were all the time
getting mad, you always sure as fate did something dumb or wrong when
you was mad because you couldn't think straight. There was only
a couple of times Marty could remember his whole life when Dad had
got real mad, and then he didn't swear or yell, why, he'd never heard
Dad say a damn, he was right strict about swearing. He didn't talk an
awful lot any time, but when he was mad he didn't say anything at
all.

He'd been awful mad, that last time—that night
before he went away. Just didn't come home.

And on that thought, everything it made him remember,
Marty stopped feeling better, and stopped wondering why Mr. Smith was
so mad at Danny, what he'd been talking about.

He hadn't gone to the movies after all. It was a kind
of crook picture and he didn't much want to see it really, though if
he'd been with some other fellows he'd've had to pretend he did
because it was the kind of thing everybody was supposed to like.

And now he was sitting here in the dark, alone with
the secret, waiting for it to be time. And remembering, now,
what Mr. Smith had said about cops. Cops outside, watching
the house.  Something funny happened inside Marty's stomach,
like he'd gone hollow, and his heart gave an extra thud. Were
they?—was it, was it because—

You had to do what was right, no matter what. Even if
it meant you'd die, like in the gas thing they had in California. He
knew, and he didn't see how his Ma
could
think a different way, it wasn't right people should get killed—like
that—even if he hadn't ever meant, ever known even— Somebody
ought to know, and stop it happening again. That was why he was
sitting here cold and scared, waiting. Somebody. He hadn't
exactly thought,
the
cops—but of course that was what he'd meant. And all of a
sudden now, thinking about them maybe outside,
cops
meant something different, terrible, to be more scared of than
anything—anything he knew more about. . . .

Sometimes in the movies yelling at guys and hitting
them and a thing called the third degree—the gas chamber in
California—but once Dad had said, about one of those movies Marty'd
told about, that was bad to show, it was wrong because policemen
weren't like that at all any more, that was other times. A
bright light they had shining right in your eyes and they— But Dad
said Marty shut his eyes tight and tried to get back to that place,
couldn't remember how long ago or if it was Tappan Street or Macy
Avenue, where there'd been Dad just like always, sitting at the
kitchen table, digging out his pipe with his knife and looking over
the top of his glasses and saying—and saying—something about
policemen being your friends, to help you.