First Gravedigger (22 page)

Porcelain. A feminine figure. Sitting on a swan's back. I continued to hear a squawking in my ear but the words didn't mean anything.

“I say, old chap, you haven't gone and fainted, have you?”

I slammed down the receiver and rushed Out of the office. The boy-type secretary said something as I rushed past but I didn't stop.

The traffic lights were against me; it took me forever to get to the Shadyside apartment. I unlocked the door, looked inside, then locked the door again. One glance was all I needed. The gaping hole in the fireplace wall told me what I wanted to know.

I went back to the gallery; I didn't have anywhere else to go. So June Murray had been willing to dirty her hands after all. She'd used the Leda to buy herself a partnership in Wightman's gallery.

Just when I was seeing light at the end of the tunnel. God damn Leonard Wightman to hell!
And
June. And god damn Nedda too—if she hadn't announced to the world that the Leda had been stolen at the time of Amos Speer's murder, those two vultures in San Francisco would never have realized the significance of the Meissen figurine.

June had noticed the patched brickwork. She'd dug out the Leda, and then probably spent a few minutes wondering why I would hide a porcelain figurine behind bricks and mortar. Then she'd remembered: something had been stolen from Amos Speer's house the day he was killed. She'd probably checked either with the police or the newspaper morgue; somehow I doubted that she'd called Nedda. When June realized she had evidence linking me to a murder, she'd probably taken a long time thinking over what to do. Blackmailers are in a notoriously high-stress, low-security profession. So she'd opted for safety in numbers and contacted Wightman, and now I'd have the two of them on my back for the rest of my life.

Or the rest of theirs
. Leonard Wightman and June Murray. Under their thumbs forever?

Intolerable.

Therefore I would not tolerate it.
I would not
. I hadn't come this far just to knuckle under to those two. Wightman and his June-bug were going to have to go. And the Leda—well, this time the Leda would be smashed to smithereens.

I couldn't believe I'd been so foolish as to let a sentimental attachment to a piece of porcelain put me in this position. My trophy of survival? Hah! Utter stupidity. Unforgivable. Briefly the thought crossed my mind that keeping the Leda was a sign that I really wanted to be caught and punished. One of the first things you think of, I suppose. I dismissed the notion as fanciful; too much pop psychology in the air these days. I didn't want to be caught. I wasn't going to be caught. I
would
not be caught.

Once before I'd made up my mind to kill a man. I hadn't done it, but only because that man had managed to fade into the scenery. But I knew where these two were. Oh yes, I knew exactly where they were. For some reason I found myself thinking of Miss Centerfold, sitting behind the reception desk in Wightman's gallery. I wondered how long she'd last now that June Murray was out there. Wouldn't matter. Neither June nor Wightman would be around much longer themselves.

I'd pretend to go along with whatever they wanted. I'd have to remember to stay in character, to call Wightman
asshole
a few times. Just delay them long enough to make my plans. My real plans. I sat staring at the grain in the cherry-wood table, waiting for their second call.

The phone rang instead of buzzing; I remembered my secretary hadn't been in the outer office when I got back. “Sommers.”

“Earl? This is Charlie Bates. I gotta—”

“Charlie! My god, just the man I was thinking of! Charlie, I need to see you. Can we meet?”

“Sure, Earl. I—”

“The yak pens in an hour?”

“I'll be there,” he promised.

I hung up, feeling excited and more alive than I'd felt once during this last long, horrible, depressing month. It was going to work—I knew it was going to work! Unless Charlie had been calling to tell me he'd changed professions again. But I didn't think so. No, it was all going to fall into place.

I wondered how much Charlie Bates charged for a double dip.

This time Charlie got there first. He was sitting on the bench, watching two of the yaks exchanging amorous glances. Charlie looked glum. Christ, not another suicidal period, I hoped. Not now.

He looked up and saw me. “Sit down, Earl, I got something to tell you.”

I sat. “Can it wait? I've got something for
you—
”

“No, me first. I called you, remember? You better hear this.”

“All right, but make it fast, will you?”

“It'll be fast. I got a new contract.”

So what was that to me? “You're not going to tell me about it, are you?”

“Yeah, I am. You—”

“Wait a minute, Charlie—I don't want to hear this.”

“Yes, you do. I owe you, Earl.”

“Charlie—stop. I don't want to know.”

“Earl, doncha understand? You're the mark.”

“What?”

“The contract's on you, Earl.”

I understood what he was saying. I knew what the words meant—we both spoke English. I stared at that murderous little creep and wondered what the hell he was talking about. The contract was on me, he said. Sure it was. On
me
. Charlie was watching me sadly.

“Me?” I finally said. “You accepted a contract on
me?
'

“Yeah, Earl.”

“I'm your next victim?”

He made a face at the word. “That's about it.”

“Your old b-b-buddy Earl?” I was so angry and horrified and sick I couldn't talk straight. “Your oldest friend? That you're so grateful to?”

“But I am grateful, Earl. Why d'you think I'm telling you about it? Because I owe you. This way you'll have a chance.”

“A chance to do what? Run and hide?”

“Better'n no chance at all.”

“Charlie, why didn't you refuse the contract? You know I'd make up the fee.”

“Wouldn't solve nothing, Earl. If I don't take the contract, somebody else does. With me, at least, you know what's happening. You know who to look out for. Nobody else is gonna warn you.”

I didn't say anything for a minute, trying to get my breathing under control, trying to come to grips with this grotesque new reality that had just been thrust at me. Charlie Bates was going to kill me. “You wouldn't be warning me yourself if you weren't sure you'd get me.”

A look of simpering modesty, the blockhead. “Don't like to brag, but I am good at my work.”

His work. “Funny way to pay me back, Charlie. By killing me.”

“Aw, that's business, Earl. That don't have nothing to do with me and you.”

Business as usual. That cretin had worked it out in his so-called mind that if he
warned
me before he went ahead and killed me, that would somehow make everything all right. His debt would be paid, the scales would be balanced, it would all even out. That's the way he thought. That's really the way he thought.

“Charlie, look. I'll leave town. I'll give up the galleries, I'll just disappear. I can do that—you did it yourself, you know it can be done. Say you couldn't find me …”

He shook his head. “Won't work, Earl.
Somebody
'll find you.”

“All right then, say you did it. Say you found me and killed me and my, my body—say it's in the river. Say I was crossing a bridge and you shot me and I fell into the river.”

“Guard rails too high.”

“Then something else! It doesn't matter what—we can work out the details! Charlie, I'll pay you double, triple what you're getting—anything! Name your price—it's yours.”

Charlie looked offended. “Wish you hadna said that. I don't take bribes. A man's gotta have pride in his work. This is my calling, Earl—it ain't just another job. Besides, you don't play favorites in this business and stay in this business.”

I still couldn't believe it, I just couldn't believe what I was hearing. “You're talking about business ethics when you're planning to
kill
me?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down.”

I'd heard the edge of hysteria in my own voice. “Charlie, what do you want? Name it. There must be something you don't have that I can get for you.”

“Don't do this, Earl.”

“Something, Charlie! Think. What do you want that you don't have?”

“I got all I want.”

“All you have to do is tell me. I'll get it for you, I don't care what it is—
Charlie, I'll get you your own yak!
Would you like that? I can do it, I can arrange it!”

He turned his head away from me in embarrassment. “Listen at yourself, Earl. You're babbling.”

You're babbling
. With those two words Charlie told me in a way I couldn't possibly misunderstand that I didn't have a chance in hell of talking him out of it. How many times in the past twenty years had I told Charlie Bates to stop babbling? And now I was the one who was doing it, and Charlie Bates was embarrassed.

We sat without talking for a while. The yaks had all moved to the far side of the pen; I kept staring at the large pile of droppings one of them had left as a calling card.

Finally I roused myself. “How long do I have?”

“Twenty-four hours.” He gave a humorless laugh. “I sound like the sheriff in a western. It ain't much, Earl, and I'm sorry about that. But twenty-four hours is all the head start I can give you.”

I stood up, feeling several hundred years old. One more thing. “Charlie.”

“Yeah, Earl?”

“It was my wife who hired you, of course.”

He looked at me sadly. “Yeah, Earl.”

Twenty-four hours.

My first thought was to find Nedda, to make her understand that if she didn't call off the contract I was going to kill her right then and there. But Nedda had gone to New York—removing herself from the scene of the crime. The scene of the crime! Christ. Nedda had probably taken Arthur Simms along to help establish her alibi—I wondered if she'd informed him of that little detail before they took off.

No: Nedda had only said she was going to New York. She could be anywhere—Caracas, Antwerp, Bombay, any place her passport and her credit cards could take her. New York was the one place she wouldn't be. Forget Nedda.

My second thought was to call Valentine, to arrange for a round-the-clock bodyguard. But even as I was thinking it, I saw how futile it would ultimately be. How alert can a bodyguard stay forever? All it'd take would be one moment of inattention on the part of any one of the guards—and Charlie Bates would earn his fee. There really is no way to protect yourself from someone who's determined to get you. I wondered how much Charlie was charging Nedda. What was my life worth on the old buddy scale of values?

My third thought brought the taste of bile to my mouth. But this was no time to be choosy. I went to the police.

Lieutenant D'Elia listened to my edited story with an attention that would have been flattering under other circumstances. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “This hit man
warned
you he's going to kill you?”

“That's right. You see, I know him personally—we went to school together. We were friends once.”

“And that's why he warned you?”

“I think it's a point of pride with him. Not sneaking up on an old friend, I mean. He's a peculiar man.”

“I'll say. You say his name is Bates?”

“Charlie Bates. But he must be going by a different name now.”

“Which is?”

“How would I know? I don't even know how to get in touch with him.”

“Well then, if you don't know the name he's using and you don't have a picture—”

“But can't you find out what name he's using? Don't you have ways of handling these things?”

“Within limits. You can look at the mug shots—”

“That won't do any good. Charlie's never been arrested.”

“You seem to know a lot about him.”

“I've known him for twenty years! Up until about a year ago, when he just dropped out of sight. I guess that's when he became a hit man.”

“A year ago?” D'Elia said alertly. “About the time Amos Speer was murdered?”

I was just too discouraged to care. “About then. I'm not really sure.”

“Did you hire him to kill Speer?”

Variation on the same old tune. “No, Lieutenant, I've never hired Charlie Bates to kill anyone.”

“Who hired him to kill you?”

“My wife.”

“How do you know?”

“Charlie told me.”

D'Elia's eyebrows went up. “This guy's the most accommodating hit man I've ever come across. He just told you?”

“He's not the brightest man in the world. It probably didn't even occur to him I'd go to the police.”

“Now that's something I find very odd indeed. Why would he feel so sure you wouldn't go to the police?”

Thin ice, thin ice
. “I told you he wasn't very bright. Lieutenant, we're wasting time—he gave me only twenty-four hours.”

“Why does your wife want you dead?”

This part of it I could tell. “She wants a divorce, I want the galleries, neither one of us will give in.”

“And that's her way of solving domestic problems? By hiring a contract killer?”

“Nedda doesn't like it when she doesn't get her own way.”
Cause them trouble, cause them both trouble
. “She has a lover—a man named Arthur Simms, with Keystone Management. He's probably in on it.”

D'Elia wrote down the name. “Well, we'll look into it.”

“You'll look into it? What does that mean?”

“We'll have a talk with Mrs. Sommers—”

“She's not here—she left town. So she'd be out of the way when it happens.”