Small Felonies - Fifty Mystery Short Stories (31 page)

Satisfied, I returned unobserved to the house, had a bath, and spent the remainder of the day reading in my room.

Uncle Walter was apoplectic. "What did you do with it?" he shouted at me. "What did you do with it?"

I looked at him innocently across his desk. It was just past eight the following morning, and he had summoned me from my room with furious poundings on the door. I was still in my robe and slippers.

"What did I do with what?" I asked.

"You know what!"

"I'm afraid I don't, Uncle."

"I know it was you, Harold, just as I knew all along it was you in the oleander bushes two nights ago. So you heard and saw everything, did you? Well, go ahead—admit it."

"I have nothing to admit."

He slapped the desk top with the palm of one hand. "Why did you move it? That's what I fail to comprehend."

"The conversation seems to be going around in circles," I said. "I really don't know what you're talking about, Uncle."

"Of course you know what I'm talking about! Harold— what did you do with it?"

"With what?"

"You know—" He caught himself, and his face was an interesting color bordering on mauve. "Why do you persist in lying to me? What are you up to?"

"I'm not up to anything," I lied.

"Harold . . ."

"If you're finished with me, I would like to get dressed."

"Yes, get dressed. And then you're coming with me."

"Where are we going?"

"Out to look for it. I want you along."

"What are we going to look for?"

He glared at me. "I'll find it," he said. "You can't have moved it far. I will find it, Harold!"

Of course he didn't.

I knocked on the library door late that evening and stepped inside. Uncle Walter was sitting at his desk, holding his head as if it pained him greatly; his face was gray, and I saw that there were heavy pouches under his eyes. The time, it seemed, was right.

When he saw me, the gray pallor modulated into crimson. He certainly did change color often, like a chameleon. "You," he said. "You!"

"Are you feeling all right, Uncle? You don't look very well."

"If you weren't a relative of mine, if you weren't—oh, what's the use? Harold, just tell me what you did with it. I just want to know that it's . . . safe. Do you understand?"

"Not really," I said. I looked at him steadily. "But I have the feeling that whatever it is you were looking for today is safe."

He brightened. "Are you sure?"

"One can never be sure about anything, can one?"

"What does that mean?"

I sat down and said, "You know, Uncle, I've been thinking. My monthly allowance is really rather small, and I wonder if you could see your way clear to raising it."

"So that's it."

"What's it?"

"What you're up to, why you keep lying to me and why you moved the . . . it. All I've done is trade one blackmailer for another, and my own nephew at that!"

"Blackmailer?" I managed to look shocked. "What a terrible thing to say, Uncle. I'm only asking for an increase in my monthly allowance. That's not the same thing at all, is it?"

He calmed down. "No," he said. "No, it isn't. Of course not. Very well, then, you shall have your increase. Now, where is it?"

"Where is what?" I asked.

"Now look here—"

"I still don't know what it is you're talking about," I said. "But then, if I weren't to get my increase—or if I were to get it and it should suddenly be revoked—I could find out what is going on. I could talk to Aunt Pearl, or even to the police . . ."

My uncle sighed resignedly. "You've made your point, Harold. I suppose the only important thing is that . . . it is safe, and you've already told me that much, haven't you? Well, how much of an increase do you want?"

"Triple the present sum, I think."

"One hundred and fifty dollars a month?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to do with that much money? You're only eleven years old!"

"I'll think of something, Uncle. I'm very clever, you know."

He closed his eyes. "All right, consider your allowance tripled, but you're never to request a single penny more. Not a single penny, Harold."

"Oh, I won't—not a single penny," I lied, and smiled inwardly. Unlike most everyone else of my age, I knew exactly what I was going to be when I grew up . . .

W
hen Tarrant came home from the office, Fran was in the kitchen drinking a glass of buttermilk.

She greeted him perfunctorily as he entered, turning her face up for his kiss. But Tarrant didn't kiss her. Her upper lip was mustached with a thin, yellowish residue. Lord, he thought. He sat heavily on one of the kitchen chairs and rubbed his neck with an already damp pocket handkerchief.

"Why do you have to drink that stuff?" he asked.

"What stuff?"

"What stuff do you think?"

"Buttermilk? I like it."

"Well, I don't."

"It's just the thing in this heat."

Tarrant stood abruptly, went to the sink and turned on the cold water tap. It ran tepid. He cursed and shut it off again.

Behind him Fran said, "You look flushed tonight."

"It's ninety-five, for God's sake!"

"You don't have to snap at me. I know it's ninety-five."

"You know," Tarrant said. "You know." He returned to the table.

"What would you like to eat?" Fran asked.

"Nothing. I'm not hungry."

"You'd better eat something. The Bensons and the Waverlys will be here at seven for bridge."

"Christ, not tonight!"

"Now, Stan, don't start in."

"It's too hot for company."

"It'll cool off later on."

"The hell it will. Cancel them, can't you? I'm not in the mood for bridge and polite chit-chat. I want to relax."

"I won't cancel it," Fran said peevishly. "You know how active Ida Benson and Jean Waverly are in the country club. If we want to get that membership—"

"To hell with the damn membership!"

"Stan, what's the matter with you tonight?"

"I don't like the Bensons or the Waverlys," Tarrant said, "that's what the matter is. They're boors, the lot of them."

"They happen to be very important people around here. Maybe it doesn't matter to you, but their friendship means a great deal to me and I'm not calling off the bridge game. Now stop acting like a child."

Tarrant glared at her for a moment, and then stood again. "I'm going outside for a while," he said.

On the patio, he sat in one of the lawn chairs beneath the gumberry tree. The white flagstones reflected the sun like a mirror; he closed his eyes. My head feels like it's going to explode, he thought. Rat race at the office today, work backlogged, everybody chattering like a bunch of wind-up squirrels. Then the freeway traffic, horns braying, brakes screaming. Stop and go, stop and go. And this heat. Two months now, two months with no relief in sight . . .

"Hey-o, Stan," a voice called.

Tarrant opened his eyes. Across the drive to his right was a waist-high privet hedge separating his property from that of his neighbor, Tom Nichols. Nichols was standing at the hedge, a bright blue baseball cap pulled down on his forehead. In one hand he held a tumbler filled with ice and clear liquid.

"Evening, Tom."

"Hot enough for you, boy?"

Tarrant's lips pulled in against his teeth. You damned fool, why do you have to keep asking that same trite question? Every time I see you, it's the same stupid goddamn question.

"Gin and tonic," Nichols said, raising the tumbler. "Want a belt to cool off?"

Tarrant shook his head.

"Look like you could use one, boy."

"Not right now, thanks."

"Suit yourself. What time you want to leave in the morning?"

"What?"

"Tomorrow's Saturday. Golf day, remember?"

"I don't think I'll be playing tomorrow."

"Why not?"

"It's going to be hot again."

"Hell, we haven't missed a Saturday in two years." Tarrant's temples began to pound. "What difference does that make? There some kind of law that says we have to play golf every Saturday morning? Is that what life is all about, bang ing a little white ball around every Saturday morning?" Nichols said, frowning, "I thought you enjoyed the game."

"It's a great game. Just a wonderful frigging game."

"Well, if that's the way you feel—"

"Does it really matter to you how I feel?"

Nichols started away in a huff. Then he paused and looked back across the hedge at Tarrant. "What the hell got into you all of a sudden, Stan?"

Tarrant didn't answer. He rose from the lawn chair and went back inside the house. Fran was shredding cabbage into a colander, making coleslaw. "We'll eat in twenty minutes," she said. "You'd better shower and get ready."

Tarrant went on into their bedroom. From his dresser he took a thin cotton shirt and a pair of summer slacks, carried them into the bathroom, stripped off his suit and sodden underwear, and then turned on the cold water in the shower.

After ten minutes under the spray, he began to feel a little better. The pain in his temples had subsided. He toweled himself dry, dressed, ran a comb through his hair, and walked out to the kitchen.

A large, beaded pitcher of buttermilk sat on the table.

Anger flared inside him. Damn it, Fran, he thought, I told you about that stuff Didn't I tell you about that stuff? He turned on his heel, crossed the air-conditioned living room—air conditioner still wasn't working right—and sank into a chair and stared through the window at the street outside. Beautiful Shady Port: a sweltering sea of heat.

Fran came in. "Everything's on the table," she said. "I told you before, I'm not hungry."

"Well, you have to eat."

"Why? Why do I have to eat?"

"I've had a hard day, Stan. You're not making it any easier.

"You've had a hard day? What about me? What about my day?"

"Oh, God, I don't want to argue."

"Who the hell is arguing?"

"What's the use?" Fran said, exasperated. "There's just no point in talking to you when you're like this." She retreated to the kitchen and slammed the door.

Tarrant sat and stared out the window a while longer. Then he got up and switched on the TV. The screen lit up immediately, but there was no picture; the set emitted a swelling hum that seemed to set up an answering vibration inside his head. He drove the palm of his hand against the Off button.

"Fran!" he shouted.

"What is it?"

"Come in here!"

She opened the kitchen door and looked in.

"What's the matter with this thing?" Tarrant demanded. "The television? I don't know. It won't play."

"Why didn't you call a repairman?"

"I was going to, but I had so many other things to do today, it slipped my mind."

"Oh, that's fine, that's just great. What do I do for some relaxation this weekend?"

"Read a book or something," she said, and put the door between them again.

Tarrant ran his hands through his hair, then wiped them across the front of his shirt. His temples were throbbing again. Why doesn't this headache go away? Once more he sat down and looked out through the window.

Time passed. Tarrant sat motionless, breathing through his mouth. Fran came in after a while and began setting up the card table and laying out snacks. She said nothing to him.

The doorbell rang at exactly seven. Fran appeared from the bedroom; she had changed into a fashionable summer frock and fluffed her hair and applied makeup. She said to Tarrant, "They're here. Try to be civil, will you? This is important to me."

"To you," he said. "To you."

"Stan, please!"

"All right," he said.

Fran admitted the Bensons and the Waverlys. Tarrant shook hands with each of them and smiled until his jaws ached. I don't want them here, he thought the whole while. I don't want anything to do with them, they're boors, they're snobs. I just want this headache to go away, and some rain, and some peace.

"A scorcher today, wasn't it, Stan," Frank Benson said. "Yes, a scorcher."

"Damnedest heat wave in the history of the state."

"Yes."

"Did you catch Barker's speech tonight, Stan?" Brian Waverly asked.

"Barker?"

"Sam Barker. You're backing him for assemblyman, aren't you? Every right-thinking person in the community is."

"Oh," Tarrant said. "Barker. Yes."

"Did you catch his speech on TV tonight?"