It was 6:10. Hazel had said she might not be home until 7, as there were bits and pieces of work at the office. That might mean 8, Carter knew. Hazel’s office was being quite nice. “They’re acting okay—more or less.” Hazel had said evasively when he had asked her how Ginny Joplin, her matronly boss, and Mr. Piers, the in-and-outer, and Fanny, the secretary, were behaving. Naturally, no one would come out and chastise her for immorality, not in these days, but they’d act smug and holier-than-thou, which was worse, maybe even priding themselves on broadmindedness while secretly envying her and—the awful fact remained, the worst fact remained, her husband had been in prison once and they all knew it. Though they had all met him, he’d even met Fanny once when he came to pick Hazel up, and though he appeared to be a nice-looking man, rather like everyone else, they all must be thinking now that he was a tough character underneath, and that killing someone, under these circumstances, would be nothing that would make him turn a hair. Therefore Hazel was working late, because her job was rather shaky now.
“Damn it to hell,” Carter said, and went into the kitchen to get a drink.
While he was pouring it, the door opened, and he went with his glass into the living room, thinking it was Hazel, but it was Timmy.
Timmy glanced up shyly, and removed his cap. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi there. Where’ve you been?”
“Oh, I went out for ink and I ran into Stephen. We took a walk.” Timmy smiled a little at him, chocolate syrup in the corner of his mouth. His tongue moved out and licked off the brown stain.
Carter smiled. “Since when do you take walks in drugstores?”
Timmy hung his head as he walked toward his room, but he was smiling. He stopped and turned. “Mommy’s not home?”
“Not yet. She said she’d be a little late.”
Timmy went on. He turned his light on, but did not close the door.
Carter stood looking at the slightly open door, grateful for it as if it were a pair of open arms. Ten days ago, Timmy would have closed the door, closed his heart, his ears. This was the power of the newspapers, Carter thought, of public opinion. Timmy’s schoolmates were letting up on him, and thinking now that O’Brien might have done it. Or maybe, like children, they were getting tired of the story. At any rate, they weren’t badgering Timmy so much, and Timmy was feeling better. It was the wonderful thing about children, that their crises could quickly blow over, Carter thought, even Hazel and Sullivan’s affair might blow over in Timmy’s mind, like Sullivan’s death, which had really not clouded his New Hampshire holiday. Years from now, when Timmy knew what affairs meant, he would understand, and it would not have blown over, really, but at twelve now, for immediate and practical purposes, Carter thought it had.
Immediate and practical purposes. Friday night. Forty-eight hours away. There was five thousand in one of their savings banks and two thousand in the other. Hazel had said about a month ago, that they should give Tom Elliott another three thousand to invest, that it was silly to have so much in a savings bank when it could be earning more invested. If he took it, he could say he’d given it to Elliott, but to buy what? There’d be no statement from Elliott about buying any stock. That wouldn’t be the end of O’Brien, and it was conceivable that if the police didn’t indict either him or O’Brien, O’Brien could milk fifty thousand dollars out of him. Carter smiled nervously to himself. It wouldn’t go unnoticed by Hazel. He walked about the room, listening for the faintest sound that might be Hazel’s step on the stairs, at the same time trying to think. He got a second scotch and water.
If he could kill O’Brien, everything would be simple. If he killed O’Brien and got away with that—
It could look like the work of another of Gawill’s pals. Of course, Gawill wanted him dead so he wouldn’t talk, so he’d never have to pay him, either.
Tenth Street and Eighth Avenue. It was pretty far west, maybe not too well lighted, Carter couldn’t remember, and they might walk farther west. Carter suddenly envisaged a policeman tailing O’Brien—O’Brien would be tailed, no doubt, unless he was clever enough to shake the tailer—and coming right up to them as the money exchanged hands. All right, Carter. That’s what we wanted to know. Carter walked about the room.
No, no money, he thought, no matter what thoughts entered his head between now and Friday. The blackmail try, Carter thought, might even be an idea concocted by the police to see if he’d agree. The police might have been by O’Brien’s side as he made the call. Carter felt a little relieved that he hadn’t said he would meet O’Brien with the money. But he also hadn’t said anything when O’Brien said, “. . . you know the either-or part, Mr. Carter . . .” Carter wiped the film of sweat from his forehead.
He saw no alternative but to kill O’Brien. Persuade him to walk a little farther west, where the streets got darker toward the Hudson River. Pull something out of his pocket, or pretend to, as if he were taking out the money, get O’Brien close to him, and deliver the blow that kills, as Alex used to say. Then he thought of O’Brien’s gigantic size, and his right thumb began to ache. Carter collapsed in the armchair, and looked at his right hand. He was holding his thumb tightly against the index finger, ready to strike a sidewise blow. The sides of his hands were no longer calloused, and even if he succeeded, they would learn from Dr. Cassini, from Hazel, that Carter knew judo. The bones in the front of O’Brien’s throat would be broken. It would have to be something like a brick that he used on O’Brien. Carter got up from the armchair.
Then Hazel came in, so suddenly that Carter jumped.
Hazel smiled and closed the door. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Just me.”
He moved slowly toward her, held his right hand out, and she came into his outstretched arm, leaned against his chest.
“What a day! Henny-Penny and Mr. Piers.” She called her boss, Ginny, Henny-Penny.
“Fix you a drink?”
“Yes, please,” Hazel said.
She was tired, so Carter did the dishes after dinner, and Timmy dried them and put them away.
Carter said as he was undressing for bed, “I’ve got to have dinner with Jenkins and Butterworth Friday night. They want me to meet some future client or something. I thought if you wanted to see anyone—”
“I doubt if I’ll want to do anything but get to bed early,” Hazel said, her face almost buried in the pillow.
Thus he prepared for Friday.
And he also considered standing O’Brien up. O’Brien wouldn’t talk immediately to the police, Carter thought, not unless he was in some overwrought and desperate condition which he didn’t appear to be in as yet. He’d wait and try asking for money again. But how long could that last? O’Brien had less to lose by exposing him than by standing trial for murder. Of course, before he ever stood trial, he’d come out with the real story. The plain fact was, O’Brien had him. Carter had got no further than this by Thursday.
He stood looking out of his window at the mist-blurred ships on the East River. A couple of functional tugs burrowed along in the water, and a rather nice-looking black and white and red freighter rode high as she moved out toward the Atlantic. On the other side of Manhattan, more beautiful ships were coming in and sailing off for Europe, South America, the Bahamas. In three months, he might be on one with Hazel. Everything at rest. Everything. Once he got over this hump. Wasn’t it worth it to try to kill O’Brien? O’Brien would never let it be pinned on himself. If O’Brien told his story, and it was not believed, if O’Brien were even tried and convicted, his story would leave a fatal doubt, a fatal wound in Hazel’s mind and in the minds of many other people. Even if Carter withstood all the grilling the police might give him, the doubt would remain, if O’Brien told his story well, and he would, because it was true.
On Thursday night, Carter and Hazel had Phyllis Millen over for dinner, and again nothing was said about the undiscovered kill
er of Sullivan, nothing about what the police were doing or might be doing. During coffee the telephone rang, and it was the Laffertys. Hazel spoke to Mrs. Lafferty, then to her husband. After a moment, he asked to speak to Carter.
“Hello,” Carter said, and the memory of the conversation they had had in French in the Japanese restaurant came back to him. Every separation takes a little away from a man . . . And every murder, Carter thought.
“Well, Philip. How are things?” Lafferty asked in his genial tone, in a manner that did not demand an answer. “What’s the latest on the front? Your wife said you had company, so maybe you can’t talk. But I wanted to say greetings and send you my good wishes.”
“Thanks very much. I don’t know that I’ve got anything to say,” Carter said, his back to Hazel and Phyllis, who were in the far corner of the big living room, and talking to each other now. “Things haven’t changed for several days. That’s all I know.”
“The papers are telling everything? All there is to know?”
“Yes.” Except Gawill’s rage, Carter thought, except the fact O’Brien was impatient for his payment. “Yes, that’s about it.— If anything does happen, I’m sure Hazel will let you know.”
They finished the conversation casually, and Carter returned to the table to pour snifters of brandy. His hand was very steady, rather his hands, as he used both to pour the bottle.
“Nice of them to call,” Hazel said.
“Yes. I like him.” Carter sat down.
“We must have them over. You know the Laffertys, don’t you Phyllis?”
Phyllis did.
The conversation trickled on. Carter hardly listened. He looked at his son, who was finishing his plate of ice cream. Timmy wore his best dark blue suit, a white shirt, and blue tie. The candlelight shone on his neatly combed blond hair. The phonograph dropped a new record and the Goldberg Variations began to play. Carter blinked away inexplicable tears. He took one of Hazel’s Seconals that night to be sure he got to sleep.
27
By 7 p.m. the next evening, Carter had had two very slow scotch and sodas in two different bars in the East 40s, and still the time dragged insufferably.
He called Gawill, and found that he was out. Or at least he didn’t answer. What should he make of that? Were the police holding Gawill so they would be sure he didn’t try to tip Carter off about the police following O’Brien tonight? But why should Gawill want to tip him off? That didn’t make sense. Carter began to telephone Gawill every fifteen minutes. By 9 o’clock, it became an obsession to find Gawill at home, to go to his house even, to see if he were there and just not answering the telephone.
Carter began to be more and more sure he was walking into a police trap. He looked around him so often for someone who looked like a plainclothesman that people began to look at him. Then Carter made himself stop turning his head.
He went abruptly into a movie on 23rd Street.
Now and again, he looked at his watch as he lit a cigarette. At 10:15 he could sit there no longer, and went out and walked south. At the first place with a telephone, a cigar store, he went in and called Gawill, and Gawill answered. Carter almost sighed with relief.
“Well, what’s on your mind now?” Gawill asked in a vaguely annoyed way, and this was also reassuring to Carter.
He had nothing to say. “Have you paid O’Brien yet?” he asked.
“No, have you?” Gawill retorted.
It was so to the point, Carter laughed a real laugh, and felt better, like the times in prison when he had laughed at fate, at the truth, at demoniacal accidents. But Gawill was deadly serious, or rather deadly bitter. That, too, was in character with Gawill and comforting to Carter. Carter sobered suddenly and said, “Are you in a little later? I might come by and see you. I’ve got something to tell you.” He hung up before Gawill could say anything, and swung open the door of the telephone booth.
He began to walk rapidly downtown. Why? Well, he knew why. It was a kind of limping alibi for “around 11 o’clock,” and also—Gawill was a lower depth, even lower than O’Brien, as low as what he might do tonight. Carter made himself slow his walking, to save his strength, but something inside him seemed to be racing on anyway, spending his energy.
He was five minutes early at 10th Street and Eighth Avenue.
O’Brien came up from downtown, walking casually, a folded newspaper in his left hand. He wore a hat and a trenchcoat unbuttoned with its belt dangling. He saw Carter, gestured with the newspaper, and they joined each other a few yards farther west on the sidewalk of the north side of 10th Street. It was a darkish block, a couple of closed garages on it, the fronts of quiet, low tenements. O’Brien looked behind him.
“You weren’t followed?” he asked.
“No,” Carter said.
“Did you look?”
“Yes.”
O’Brien seemed four inches taller than Carter, enormous in the open trenchcoat, but Carter knew he was very little taller, if any. Just a lot heavier and stronger.
“Were you followed?”
“Oh, sure,” O’Brien said, looking straight ahead of him, nodding with resignation. “As usual. But I took a few taxis. I’m not followed now. Usually, I don’t bother.” He smiled slightly, glanced at Carter, and his right hand, which now held the newspaper, gestured nervously. “You got it?”
“Yes,” Carter said. One, two, three, four, he counted off his steps. They were walking rather slowly, the way people would walk who were chatting and not in a hurry. “One thing, O’Brien.”
“Yeah?”
“Is this the last payment, or what should I expect?”
O’Brien laughed a short, nervous laugh. “I really don’t have to tell you, do I? Okay, it’s the last.— Unless I get really gone over by the cops, in which case I don’t think I should get all my teeth knocked out and my nose broken for you, do you?”
The hostility barely registered on Carter as hostility. It was just something there, the way it had always been there in prison, among the inmates he walked beside, who might turn on him, who might have turned on him because of his friendship with Max, and who just happened never to have turned. O’Brien was slowing. Ahead of them on the left corner, across Greenwich Street, or Carter thought it was Greenwich Street, loomed the black, windowless side of a warehouse. Below it a wire fence ten feet high, a corner with a lamppost. A man crossed Greenwich Street and came walking in their direction, but on the opposite sidewalk.
“Well?” O’Brien said, stopping.
Carter looked at the man across the street, who was passing them now, paying no attention to them. He reached for the inner pocket of his overcoat, and took his hand out again, empty. “Let’s go over there,” he said, nodding toward the light.
“Why?” asked O’Brien suspiciously.
Because beside them were dwellings, where someone might stick a head out at a noise, or yell, Carter thought, and the warehouse was a deserted warehouse. “Safer,” Carter said, starting across the street before O’Brien could protest.
O’Brien followed him, but slowly, hands in his trenchcoat pockets. Finally, there was twenty feet between them, as Carter stepped on to the sidewalk by the warehouse, and O’Brien off the curb opposite to follow him. O’Brien looked right and left. A taxi’s headlights flowed across Greenwich Street, paused at the intersection, then went on across.
Carter bowed his head with his hands not far from his chest, as if he were counting bills he had just pulled from his pocket. He stood about fifteen feet from the streetlamp, facing it.
O’Brien came up beside him, saying, “Christ, do you have to count it again?”
Carter turned so his back was to the light, so O’Brien would not see that he had nothing.
O’Brien faced him now and bent a little to see.
Carter raised both hands simultaneous
ly, catching O’Brien under the chin, which did nothing to O’Brien but toss his head back, but that was all Carter wanted. O’Brien came at him with a quick right, but Carter sidestepped, and slashed sideways with his left hand—between the front and side of O’Brien’s throat, not where he would break any bones. It didn’t seem to jar O’Brien’s bulk, but it hurt him. He bent over a little, and Carter gave him another backhanded blow with his left hand, and a right to the back of the neck just below the skull. O’Brien was down on the sidewalk, and now Carter used a foot on his neck. He glanced about and saw a hunk of cement, but it wouldn’t dislodge because it was part of the wire fence support. Carter slammed a foot down again on the side of O’Brien’s neck. O’Brien wasn’t moving. Carter might have kicked his face, which lay in profile against the sidewalk, but he couldn’t, or didn’t.
“Hey!— Hey!”
Carter ran from the voice. He ran into the first street to the left, eastward. Then he trotted lightly, not too fast, in the shadow of the buildings on the north side of the street, because a couple of men were walking toward him. Carter began to walk. Whoever had yelled would be looking at O’Brien for a few seconds before chasing after him, Carter thought. Carter crossed an avenue, not bothering to see what avenue it was. Now he was walking normally, not hurrying, he knew, though it seemed like slow motion to him. He walked southward, zigzagging eastward at every street. A trickling sensation on his right little finger made him lift his hand, and he saw blood running down. Carter sucked at the stinging place on the side of his hand. The cut felt small to his tongue. He found a Kleenex in his overcoat pocket, and held it to the cut as he walked, using the fresh blood to wipe off the drying blood on his finger. When the Kleenex was soaked, he tossed it in a rubbish basket and took his handkerchief from his breast pocket.