Death of a Citizen (7 page)

Then I took Tina’s gun and carried it, with the rest of her belongings, to where she stood looking thoughtfully at the open bathroom door as if she hadn’t quite decided what should be done with what was inside. I put the purse and pistol into her hands, and laid the furs over her shoulders. I touched the little mark on her arm, and she glanced at me.

“Does it still show?”

“Very little,” I said, and she turned to look at me fully, and her eyes were remembering exactly how it had been.

“We killed the pig, didn’t we?” she murmured. “We killed him good. And we killed the one who almost caught us as we were getting away, and, hiding in the bushes, waiting, we made love like animals to wipe out for me the memory of that Nazi beast, while they hunted us in the dark and rain. And then the planes came in, those beautiful planes, those beautiful American planes, coming right on the hour, on the minute, coming in with the dawn, filling the sky with thunder and the earth with fire… And now you have a wife and three pretty children and write stories about cowboys and Indians!”

“Yes,” I said, “and you seem to be doing your best to break up my happy home. Did you have to shoot the girl?”

“But yes,” she said, “of course we had to shoot the girl. Why do you think Mac sent us here, my love, except to shoot her?”

It changed things. Somehow, even after learning how well she’d been armed, I’d assumed Barbara Herrera was merely a minor character who’d blundered into the line of fire, so to speak. But if she’d been important enough that Mac had made her the target of a full-scale mission…

Before I could frame a question, somebody knocked on the door. Tina and I looked at each other, startled; then I cast a hasty, appraising glance around the studio, reflecting that Beth must have seen the truck still standing in the yard and my lights on, and come over to help me pack, perhaps with a cup of coffee. The only things I could see that might attract her attention were the shotgun by the door, the pistol in my belt, and, of course, Tina.

“Into the bathroom, quick,” I whispered, “and flush the john when you get there. Count ten, then close and lock the door.” She nodded, and hurried away, moving on tiptoe so the sound of her heels would not betray her. I turned towards the front door and called: “Just a minute. I’ll be right out.”

The john flushed—our timing was good—and I tucked the .22 inside my wool shirt, made sure the .38 was well buried in my hip pocket, and stuck the shotgun back in the rack. The bathroom door was just closing. It occurred to me, rather unpleasantly, that it was my wife I was deceiving with such nice, clock-like precision, and with the aid of another woman, a former mistress, to boot. But there was no alternative. I could hardly explain Tina’s presence without going into details I wasn’t free to divulge, nor could I very well escort Beth into the bathroom, show her the thing in the tub, and suggest that she grab a shovel from the garage and start digging… Thinking along these lines, I pulled the studio door open, and saw Frank Loris’s bulky figure outside.

Even if I didn’t like the man, it was a relief. I stepped back to let him in, and closed the door behind him.

“Where is she?” he asked.

I jerked my head towards the bathroom. He started that way, but Tina, having heard his voice, came out before he reached the door.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Finding out what you’re doing here,” he said. He glanced at me briefly. “What’s the matter, is he balking?” He turned back and looked her up and down, obviously checking on the condition of her dress and hair and lipstick. “Or have you two been renewing old friendships? How the hell long do you expect me to sit waiting at the corner in the dead chick’s car, anyway?”

Tina said, “You had your orders.”

“I don’t have to like them.”

“Where’s Herrera’s car now?”

“Outside in the alley. And the junk’s all in Writer-Boy’s truck. I threw it in back just now. Suitcase, handbag, hatbox, raincoat, and a bunch of dresses and stuff on hangers. Your problem, honey. The heap’s clean, so now I’ll take it the hell down to Albuquerque and bury it like you said. With your permission, of course.” He bowed in a burlesque way, and then turned and walked up to me, looked at me, and said over his shoulder: “Has this guy been giving you trouble?”

Tina said quickly, “Frank! If you’ve got everything out of the car, you’d better get it out of the alley before somebody sees it here.”

The big man didn’t pay her any attention. He was still looking at me, and I was looking at him. It occurred to me that with his square jaw, curly blond hair, and powerful frame, he might have seemed attractive to some women. He had strange eyes. They were kind of golden brown with flecks of a darker color, and they were set wide apart in his head. This is supposed to be a sign of intelligence and reliability, but I’ve never found it so. The man with the greatest space between the eyes I’ve ever seen—a Czech with an unpronounceable name—I had to use a club on to keep from betraying our hiding place by cutting loose on a Nazi patrol that had already passed us by. He’d killed once that day, and it had apparently whetted his appetite; he just couldn’t stand seeing all those nice, broad, uniformed backs moving out of range of his gun.

“Writer-Boy,” Loris said softly, “don’t get independent, Writer-Boy. You were big stuff once, she tells me, but the war’s over now. You do as you’re told, Writer-Boy, and you’ll be all right.”

Then he hit me. His eyes gave no warning at all—if the man knows his business, they don’t. I shouldn’t have been watching his eyes, anyway, but I was still full of peacetime trust and goodfellowship. In peacetime, people don’t haul off and poke in you in the diaphragm for no reason at all, and they don’t crack you across the back of the neck as you double up, or kick you in the side as you hit the floor…

“Just a sample, Writer-Boy. Just do as you’re told. You’ll be all right.”

His voice reached me only dimly. I wasn’t interested in his conversation. I was concentrating on making it look good. The blow just below the breastbone, while half-paralyzing, made a good excuse for bringing my hands to my midsection as I lay curled up on the floor, writhing in agony with my best Grade A writhe. One hand got the shirt open and the other got a firm grip on the butt of the Woodsman pistol. I heard him move towards the door. The doorknob rattled. I sat up with the gun in my hand and aimed it carefully at the place where his spine joined his skull. He never even looked around. A darning needle will kill in that spot, let alone a .22 bullet.

I sighed and lowered the pistol, watched the door close behind him, and listened to his footsteps dying away outside. He’d keep. I had enough dead bodies on the premises already. I got up slowly, and glanced at Tina. Her posture was a little peculiar. She’d slipped the glossy, satin-lined mink stole off her shoulders and was holding it, with both hands, as a bullfighter would hold his cape. Obviously she’d been prepared to fling it over my head to blind me, if she thought I was really going to shoot. It occurred to me that she was getting more mileage out of those furs, in more different ways, than the furrier had ever dreamed of.

She shook her head quickly.
“Chéri,
don’t look like that. We need him.”

“I don’t need him,” I said. “I plan to do without him, completely, as soon as it can be conveniently arranged. And I don’t need you, either, sweetheart. Goodbye.”

She looked at me for a moment. Then she shrugged and threw the minks back around her shoulders. “If that is how you want it,” she said. “If you are quite sure that is how you want it.”

I looked at her narrowly. “Spell it out, Tina.”

“I would think carefully,
amigo mio.
I would not let my intelligence be warped by the jealous actions of one big fool.” She moved her hand casually towards the bathroom door. “There is still that to consider.”

Slowly, I put the .22 back under my belt. “I think,” I said, “it’s about time you told me what this is all about. Who was Barbara Herrera, what was she up to here in Santa Fe, and why did Mac order her killed? How does he get away with killing people in peacetime, anyway?” I grimaced. “When you’ve finished that little chore, you can go on to tell me why she had to be killed in my studio with my gun...” I broke off. Tina was laughing. I said, “What’s so damn funny?”

“You are,
Liebchen,”
she said, reaching out to pat my cheek. “You wiggle so amusingly, like the fish on the hook.”

“Go on,” I said, when she paused.

She smiled into my eyes. “But it
is
your studio, my dear,
and
your gun. And you heard Loris, all the dead girl’s belongings are now in your truck. And if I walk out and leave you now, it’s your baby.”

“Go on,” I said.

“I’m afraid you don’t appreciate me,
chéri,”
she said. “It was really very nice of me to come back to help you. I would not have done it for anyone else. Loris knows it; that’s what makes him wild with jealousy… Of course, you can make things easier for us, if you cooperate.” She laughed at me, softly. “Think, Eric! A writer—an unstable person, of course—reports finding a pretty girl, whom he just met at a cocktail party, with whom he was heard to discuss an assignation after the party... this girl he now claims to have discovered shot to death, oh, much to his surprise, in his private writing place. But who will believe his astonishment and horror? The murder gun is his! Come now, come now, Mr. Helm”—her voice deepened and took on a masculine quality—“we are all men of the world here! Why don’t you just admit that you slipped Miss Herrera the studio key and told her to wait for you, you’d be out—to read her manuscript, of course!—as soon as your wife was asleep… That’s what they’ll say to you,” Tina murmured, still smiling, “if you call the police. And what will you say, my dear?”

There was a little silence. She found cigarettes in her purse. I let her light her own. When she looked at me again, the smile was gone; and when she spoke, her voice was low and intense.

“What will you say, Eric? The war is a long time ago. How long does it take to forget? Thirty years, twenty, or perhaps only fifteen or twelve? There was never any oath of silence, was there; never any stupid oath of loyalty? Mac always said that the person who needed to swear an oath was the person who would break that oath. We fought together at Kronheim, Eric. We loved together. Will you give me to the police now?”

She waited. I didn’t speak; it was her show. She drew on her cigarette and blew out the smoke in that proud, surprised way that almost all women use, that looks as if they’re forever congratulating themselves on not strangling on the stuff.

She looked at me, and murmured: “I take back the threats, my dear, and apologize for them. For you, there are no threats. I will tell you: I killed this girl, I, Madeleine Loris, Tina, killed her. Under orders, I killed her, because she deserved to die, because her death was thought necessary to prevent another death, perhaps more than one—but I killed her. We guessed, after she talked to you so long, that she might come here to wait for you; we got here first. It was a gamble, and we won. Loris was waiting behind the door. It is the one thing he knows, and he does it well. But she was still alive when he carried her in there. It was I who found your pistol—the only locked drawer in the place, chéri, and what a pitiful little lock!— and it was I who shot her to death, as she had shot others. Do you think she carried a knife and gun for adornment? Do you think we are the only ones who know how to kill?” Tina drew herself up. “But call your police and I will tell them, I will confess my crime. I will not make you pay for it. And I will go to the electric chair, and I will not talk, because I do not need an oath of silence to keep my lips forever sealed. But I will remember that you, who send me to my death now, were once the only man I ever worked with, whom I wanted to… to play with, afterwards. But I will not hate you. I will only remember that beautiful week in London, so long ago...” Her voice stopped. She drew on her cigarette again, and smiled at me pleasantly. “I’m pretty good, don’t you think, baby? I should be in the movies.”

I drew a deep breath. “You should be anywhere but in my studio, damn you. Where’s a rag so I can mop my eyes, and what do you want me to do?”

I mean, no matter what heart-throbs she’d put into it, what she’d said was quite true. I couldn’t very well give her to the police, and I couldn’t talk. It didn’t leave me much choice.

Ten minutes later, we had the pickup ready to roll. You could look inside the rear canopy and not see a thing except camera equipment, luggage, and camping gear.

Unless you knew too much already, you wouldn’t be likely to look close enough to discover that the luggage wasn’t all mine.

I found myself crouching to peer underneath, I suppose to check that no blood was dripping out of the truck bed, no dead white hand dangling, no long dark hair. The years of peace had drawn the hard temper of my nervous system, and I guess you take corpses more seriously in peacetime, anyway. Hell, you’ve got to. During the war, in enemy territory, caught with the goods, there was always a possibility that you could shoot your way clear; but I couldn’t quite see myself whipping out a gun and burning down a bunch of worthy local cops named Martinez or O’Brien.

I helped Tina to join her silent traveling companion inside. She had to hitch her cocktail dress hip-high to make the tailgate; I heard her swear feelingly in a language I did not understand.

“What’s the matter?” I whispered.

“It’s nothing,
chéri.
Just a run in one of my best nylons, that’s all.”

“The hell,” I said, “with your best nylons.”

I raised the gate, hooked the retaining chains in place, and brought down the canopy door, which opens upwards like a station wagon transom. Before closing it, I stuck my head inside.

“Get over on that mattress and hang on,” I said. “And you’d better stick your false teeth in your purse so you don’t swallow them. They forgot to supply springs with this thing.”

I closed the door, and started to turn away. Then a screen door slammed at the house, and I saw Beth come out of the kitchen and start across the flagstone patio in the glare of the lights. Well, she could have come at a worse time. I locked the truck canopy and went to meet her.