The Big Bite

8
Just before I came out on the highway I pulled off the road among the pines far enough to be out of range of any passing headlights, and waited. No car came out behind me. I lit a cigarette, and looked at my watch. It was a little after eight. I still had lots of time to put in, and this was a good place to find out if he was checking up on me. An hour dragged by, and then another. Mosquitoes buzzed around my ears and an owl went who-who-who-ah-who somewhere out in the timber. Now and then a car went past on the pavement beyond but none of them turned in. I pulled back onto the road and went on. About halfway to town, headlights showed up behind me. I slowed deliberately to see if he would pass. He did. It was an old pickup truck. It went on and out of sight.
When I came into town I turned left, taking to the side streets. There were big trees on both sides, with street lights only at the intersections. It was after eleven now and few cars were about. Some six blocks over I turned north again until I hit the street that went up the hill past the Cannon house. I followed it for several blocks, until I came to the playing field which was on the left. The street began to rise here, going up the hill. There were four or five houses on the right. I pulled to the curb in dense shadow under the streetside trees and cut the lights. There was no one in sight; no cars went past. I waited a few minutes, letting my eyes become accustomed to the darkness. There was no sound except a radio playing faintly somewhere inside one of the houses. I got out and lifted out the recorder, checking to be sure I had the three-way outlet plug, the ball of twine, and my pocketknife.
Stars shone brilliantly in a clear sky, but there was no moon. I crossed the street and went up past the playing field. There were no street lights ahead now. The sidewalk stopped and I stayed near the edge of the pavement, ready to fade into the darkness away from the road if a car appeared. None did. I went on up the hill. When I reached the wooded area behind and below the Cannon house I crossed the street again and stepped in among the pines. The dense shadows were like velvet. I stepped softly on pine needles, moving on up toward the light I could see briefly at intervals through the trees. I came out at last in a narrow open strip just behind the patio wall, the easement where the utility poles went through in back of the lots. Standing beside one of the poles, I looked at the rear of the house.
Lights were on in the living-room. The drape was still drawn across the big plate glass window, but I could see through it well enough to make out four people seated around a card table. It looked like two men and two women. I wondered if one of them could be Tallant but didn’t see any silhouette that appeared to be large enough. It was going to be a long wait, though, because even after these people went home I had to be sure he wasn’t going to show.
A half hour crept past. I began to want a cigarette very badly, but I couldn’t light one here in the open. I put the recorder down near the pole and walked back among the pines. When I was screened by them on all sides I hunkered down and lit one with a brief flare of a match. I smoked it slowly and ground the stub out against the ground. When I came back up in the easement the bridge game was breaking up. They all disappeared into the hallway at the left end of the living-room, and in a moment one person came back. Presumably that was Mrs. Cannon. I could hear two cars driving away from the front of the house. Lights began to go out in the room. Then one came on at the rear of the right wing of the house. That would be her bedroom. The curtains over the windows were opaque here, but I could see the glow of illumination around the edges. In about twenty minutes these lights clicked off too and the whole house was in darkness. She had gone to bed. Alone? So far, I thought. If Tallant had been one of the bridge players, he would have left to come back later. I looked at the luminous hands of my watch again. It was ten minutes past midnight.
I settled down for the monotonous wait. Mosquitoes swarmed about my ears and bit me on the backs of the hands. Then suddenly a light came on behind a small ground-glass window just forward of the bedroom. Bath, I thought. Did that mean Tallant was there? No. It went off again almost immediately. She was probably after a sleeping pill or glass of water. If Cannon’s head had looked anything like Purvis’s after they hit him, I thought, she probably bought sleeping pills by the quart.
The minutes dragged on: It was one o’clock. Then one-thirty. There were no signs of Tallant. He must not be coming, or he’d have been here by this time. Some Tallant, I thought. I’d have been in there before the light bulb got cold. I thought of her in that room alone and wondered if she slept in one of those shortie nightgowns or maybe just in the raw. Then I wrenched my mind away from her and cursed under my breath. Thinking about her always made me uncomfortable. Well, maybe she’d told him not to come. That happened, too.
The house was dark and silent and the others in the neighborhood had long since put out their lights. I began to grow impatient, and a little nervous, wanting to get it over with, but I made myself wait. Being caught in there would ruin everything. Give her until three o’clock, anyway. She should be asleep then if she was going to sleep at all. I began to worry about the door again. Suppose she had discovered the night latch was off? But I’d seen her leave the living-room to go to bed, and she hadn’t checked it. Stop stewing about it. Mosquitoes sang about my face. I flailed at them with my hands. It was a long, long hour.
When the hands of the watch came up to three I was tense and eager. I set the recorder on top of the wall and climbed over, landing softly on the grass on the other side. Going slowly and avoiding the lawn furniture from memory, I eased up to the flagstone terrace outside the living-room door. The soft-soled shoes made no sound on it. I located the door and reached for the screen. It didn’t open.
I stood for a moment, cursing silently. I’d been right there at the door and hadn’t had brains enough to check the screen to see if it was unlatched. But maybe it had been latched since then. That would mean the door was locked again. Well, there was no way to tell until I got the screen open. I set down the recorder and took out my pocketknife.
Switching on the little flashlight, I ran the beam along the edge of the frame inside until I located the hook. It took only a few seconds to work the knife blade through the mesh, place it under the hook, and pry upward. It came free with a little rattle as it bounced up and fell back against the wood. I switched off the light and waited, holding my breath. The night was silent all around me. It was all right, I thought; she couldn’t have heard it inside with all the doors and windows closed. The door, damn it, the door! I eased the screen open and took hold of the knob. It turned. I breathed softly.
I stepped inside, gently closed the door, and pushed around the end of the drape. It was cool after the heat outside. The blackness was impenetrable. I stood motionless for a long minute, listening intently. There was utter silence except for a faint whirring noise somewhere in the house from the blower mechanism of the air-conditioner. I switched on the flashlight and stepped across the room to the long, custom-built sofa. Lifting the red-shaded lamp off the end table, I placed it on the sofa and moved the table out of the way. Nothing made any sound on the carpet. Squatting, I looked behind the sofa. It was fine. There was plenty of room for the recorder, between the back of the sofa and the wall. I set the light down on the table, picked up the end of the sofa, and moved it out from the wall until I could get behind it.
I was working fast now, and silently, with all the moves worked out and memorized in advance. Taking out my knife, I cut away a section of the fabric of the sofa back, near the center, and stuffed it in one of the pockets of my coat. I could see the coil springs now, and the padding in front of them. I opened the case of the recorder, took out the microphone, and put it in position between two of the springs, facing the front. I lashed it securely in place with some of the twine. Feeling around with my fingers, I was satisfied. It wasn’t quite touching the padding.
I turned and located the electrical outlet in the baseboard under the drapery of the window. Just as I had thought, it was a dual receptacle with both circuits in use by the big lamps at each end of the sofa. I pulled out one of the lamp cords, inserted the multiple plug in its place, and then plugged in the lamp and the recorder in two of its outlets. I put the recorder on the floor against the wall and set the controls, all except the on-off switch. Moving the sofa back to its original position very carefully, I replaced the end table, and put the lamp back on it. Sitting on the end of the sofa, I reached back with my right hand. I could just touch the switch. I turned it on and brushed my fingertip against one of the spools. It was turning. The drape wasn’t fouling it anywhere; everything should be all right. I turned it off again and stood up. Moving away a little, I swung the light around the end of the sofa to see if there was anything visible that would give it away. It was all right. The end table cut off any view behind the sofa.
I straightened and wiped my face with my handkerchief, suddenly conscious that in spite of the air-conditioning I was soaked with sweat. I had been oblivious to everything, working under pressure with tremendous concentration. It was all set now; the only thing that remained was getting out of here. I swept the light around once more to be sure I hadn’t left anything, and eased over to the door. Pulling back the drape, I slipped out, closed the door gently, eased the screen back into position, and was outside on the terrace. I exhaled a long breath and felt the tension unwind inside me. I went back down the hill and looked at my watch as I unlocked the door and got in the car. It was twenty minutes past three.
I rolled down the windows and lit a cigarette. I had four and a half hours to wait, and then came the tricky and dangerous part of it. I wondered if I’d be able to sleep if I sacked out somewhere. No. There wasn’t a chance. I was still keyed too high. It would be better not to go back to the cabin, anyway. I didn’t know where Tallant was, and as long as I didn’t it would be a good idea to stay away from anywhere he could find me. The best thing to do right now was stay out of sight and keep moving. I drove back through the quiet streets and hit the road going south, but when I came to the turnoff I went on past. It was twenty miles down to Breward. I drove slowly. When I got down there I found an all-night café open on the highway and had some breakfast.
I took my time eating it and read yesterday’s paper as if I hadn’t heard any news since Hitler marched into Poland. Dawn was breaking when I started back. A few miles out of Breward I found a place to pull off the road at an old abandoned sawmill. There was a huge pile of sawdust and a pond with pads growing in it. I got out of the car and sat on a big timber, smoking cigarettes and thinking while it grew light and the sun came up. The air was intensely still. I looked at my watch every few minutes, growing tighter now.
Timing was very important. I wanted to hit them early in the morning while they still had sleep in their eyes, and it was vital I get there before the maid showed up and started work. But it also had to be within shooting distance of 8:30 so the postoffice would be open when I was ready for it.
It was time to go. I flipped the last cigarette into the pond and stood up. I took the .45 out of the glove compartment and slid it into the right-hand pocket of my jacket, wondering how easily people bluffed who had already committed two murders. Probably not too readily, I thought. I wheeled the car onto the road and started back to town.
* * *
It was ten minutes of eight when I pulled to the curb in front of the Cannon house. The sun was higher now and growing hot; nothing stirred along the street except a dog making his morning rounds. I hurried up the walk. A rolled newspaper lay on the concrete slab of the porch. I picked it up and leaned on the buzzer. I could hear it somewhere inside the house. I waited a moment and jabbed it again, long and impatiently. Standing there in the sun, I was roasting inside the flannel suit. Somewhere down the block I heard a garage door fall, and a car backed out into the street I was just reaching for the buzzer again when the door opened.
I’d got her out of bed, all right. The dark hair was tousled and she was wearing a blue, robe tied tightly about the slender waist. The big eyes were still a little, sleepy and the irritation in them came into focus as she looked out and saw me. She made a half-hearted attempt to mask it, but it didn’t quite come off.
“Oh. It’s you, Mr. Harlan. Aren’t you up a little early?”
“I’ve got to talk to you,” I said curtly. I pushed on in. She stepped back, a little startled. I reached back to close the door behind me, and as I did I slid my fingers down the edge, found the two push-buttons of the night latch and reversed them. She was watching my face and didn’t see it.
You could see she thought all this was a little highhanded. “I beg your, pardon—”
“Shut up,” I said.
She took another step backward and her eyes went round with amazement. In another second she recovered, and the surprise gave way to blazing anger. “Would you mind telling me—”
I cut her off. “Is the maid here yet?”
“Mr. Harlan, will you please leave this house? Before I call the police.”
I caught the front of her robe. “Shut up. And listen. If the maid’s here, get rid of her. If she’s due within the next half hour, call her and tell her not to come. You wouldn’t want her to hear this.”
She was scared now, but trying not to show it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m not a sex maniac that’s flipped his lid, if that’s bothering you. This is strictly business. Now, how about that maid?”
She moistened her lips. “She comes at nine.”
“Good,” I said. I let go her robe and grinned at her a little coldly. “Let’s go into the living-room, shall we? What kind of hostess are you, anyway?”
She was still having a little trouble trying to catch up. She’d typed me yesterday as a harmless yokel with two left feet, and now I’d crossed her up. I had to give her credit, though; by the time we’d walked on into the living-room and sat down facing each other across the coffee table she had recovered. I was just something she had to endure until I decided to leave.
“Cigarette?” I asked, holding out the pack.
She shook her head.
“Better have one,” I said. “Good for the nerves. This is going to be a little rugged.”
“Would you mind just saying whatever it was you forced your way in here to say—”
“Right,” I answered. “I’ve got something here I’d like you to read.”
She stared at me as I took the folded yellow pages of the carbon copy from the breast pocket of my jacket. I held them while I finished lighting the cigarette and dropped the match in a tray. “Here,” I said.
She unfolded them. I studied her face as she started to read. There was a hint of shock right at first, and I knew that, was when she saw the thing was addressed to the two District Attorneys. From then on her face was a mask—a very lovely honey-colored mask dominated by two brown eyes that were completely inscrutable. She finished, folded it up, and dropped it on the coffee table.
I leaned back on the sofa with my hands behind my head and the cigarette hanging out of the side of my mouth. “Well?” I asked.
She took one of the cigarettes from the pack I had left lying on the table. She lit it with the table lighter. Her hands were steady. “Mr. Harlan,” she asked quietly, “do. you mind if I ask a rather personal question? Have you ever been confined in a mental institution?”
“Pretty good act,” I said. “But you’re wasting time.”
“I mean it.”
I sighed. “This is a nice routine, but we can skip the rest of it, if it’s all right with you, and get on with the negotiations. I want a hundred thousand dollars. Do I get it?”
She stared at me. “You couldn’t be serious.”
I nodded toward the letter. “You read that, didn’t you?”
“Yes. And a more fantastic—”
I cut her off. “Save the arguments for the jury. If this goes to trial you’re going to need them. The two of you killed your husband while he was unconscious, and if you think you can get that reduced from murder in the first degree, you’re crazy as hell. The jury wouldn’t be out long enough to finish their cigarettes. Now, listen—”
“Of all the utterly fantastic, insane—”
I leaned forward across the table. “Shut up, and I’ll read the score to you. You and Tallant and your husband can go around killing each other every day of the week and twice on Sundays, and I couldn’t care less. But when you rope me in on it it’s a different story. Your husband deliberately tried to kill me because he thought I was Tallant, and he wound up by putting a permanent wave in one of my legs. They may not look like much, compared to Grable’s, but I made a damn good living with them, and now I don’t any more. He left you a hundred thousand dollars in insurance, but that was just a clerical error. He should have left it to me. I’ve come after it. Do I get it, or don’t I?”
She stared at me. “You have a wonderful imagination, Mr. Harlan, even if it is slightly deranged. My husband was drinking. He lost control of his car—”
I cut her off; “We’ve wasted enough time. Get Tallant on the phone. I’ll tell you what to say.”
“You mean the Mr. Tallant who runs the sporting goods shop?”
“Among other things, that’s the Mr. Tallant. Now get with it.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And if I don’t?”
I reached across the table, caught her by the front of the robe, and hauled her to her feet. “You’re not big enough to tell me whether you will or won’t. Where’s the phone?”
The brown eyes were full of contempt. “You’re looking right at it.” She half turned her head and nodded. The telephone was on a stand in the corner of the room between the rear window and the dining-room door.
“Come on,” I said. I took her arm and propelled her ahead of me. The directory was on a shelf under the instrument. I handed it to her opened to the first page inside the cover.
“There are the numbers,” I said. “The local police, and the Sheriff’s office. If you think I’m bluffing, or crazy, here’s your chance to call me. Dial either one. Tell them a man has forced his way into your house and is threatening you. They’ll have a car here in less than three minutes.”
She eyed me coolly. “And in less than two I would be disfigured for life.”
“I won’t touch you. I’ve got a gun, but I won’t resist arrest, either. I’m not that silly. Add it up. Carrying a gun without a permit, illegal entry, assault, attempted extortion—say five to ten years for a package deal. Go ahead.”
She looked at me and then at the telephone. I picked up the instrument and held it out toward her. “Call the police. Or call Tallant. It’s up to you.”
She tried to bluff it out. For an instant her eyes locked with mine, but then they dropped. She lifted the receiver and dialed.
It wasn’t one of the emergency numbers. She was calling Tallant.