Brett Halliday - Mike Shayne's Torrid Twelve

“Look, honey,” Wallace said. “I have a little girl of my own who was your age once. She looked a little like you, too — only she was blonder. And she used to sit on my lap a lot. Just like this.

“Did you ever sit on your Daddy’s lap, and put your head against his chest?” He put one big, hairy hand over her face, almost covering it, and pressed it back. “And did you ever, then, talk about things you’d never talk about when you were sitting up looking at him? And weren’t those things the true things, because you couldn’t possibly say anything that wasn’t true when you were leaning back against him, hearing his heart beat under your ear?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Only Daddy told me the true things then.”

“Tell me some of them. Tell me some of the true things Daddy told you.”

“That I was strong. That I could take care of Mother. That I shouldn’t be afraid of anything — not even death.”

“And then, after Uncle Bob died,” Wallace asked gently, “did Daddy tell you to tell me you had all killed him?”

“No. I knew we had. Because I knew I’d helped to start it.”

“But who fired the gun?” Wallace demanded, “and why?”

“That doesn’t matter. It was when I switched the letters that counted. And that’s part of ‘why.’”

“… Tess! Tess! I’ve won First Prize!”

She yawned, opening her pink mouth so the white little teeth showed, close-set and sharp, like a frame around a picture of her tongue; then burrowed deeper into the soft nest of quilts and pillows.

“What?” she asked dully.

“The picture. The Fellows Contest. I’ve won it! Only,” he paused, his wide forehead wrinkling, “the check isn’t here.”

She roused slightly. She was fully dressed. It was late afternoon but she had been drinking and had gone to bed to sleep it off.

“You didn’t win,” she said, “and you never will. Why don’t you give up trying?”

“This time I did! Here’s the letter. It’s addressed to me, see? Mr. P. Lorman—” He started to hand it to her, then withdrew it suddenly and carried it to the window, snapping the shade to the top with such force that it twirled around until the circle at the end finally stopped it.

Her laughter started slowly, only a faint titter at first, but it grew deeper and turned raucous, gaining impetus and strength, until, at the end, she was rolling on the bed. She raised her knees to her chest, then flung her legs straight, beating her feet and holding her aching stomach.

“That kid,” she spluttered. “That kid’ll do anything for you…”

“Uncle Bob left the letter saying he’d won,” Betty said, “and I erased the R, so that it looked like a P, and then I opened Daddy’s envelope — it wasn’t stuck tight — and saw that he only got Honorable Mention. So I put Uncle Bob’s letter in and glued it shut again.

“I thought it would make him happy,” she said. “I’d forgotten about the check. And it did make him happy for a minute. But that just wasn’t worth the awful way he felt when he found out what I’d done. And it wasn’t worth the awful fight he had either.”

“With Uncle Bob?” Wallace asked. “Was that this morning?”

“No, with Mother, because Mother laughed. And it wasn’t this morning. It was a long time ago.”

“Well, let’s get back to this morning. Did you go to school today? Was Uncle Bob lying there on the floor when you got home?”

“Yes, he was dead when I got home,” Betty said. “You don’t have to be afraid to say the word. Daddy was here and he talked to me and then they gave me the note to read over the telephone and they kissed me and they left.”

“You said Daddy was here, and then they kissed me. Where was Mother when you got home?”

Before she answered, Betty sat up straight, taking her head away from Wallace’s chest. “Mother was here,” she said after a moment. “In the bedroom.”

“And was Mother upset?”

“Yes. So was Daddy. But this morning she was happier than she’s ever been.”

“Now put your head back,” Wallace pressed gently against her face, “and tell me everything that happened since you got up this morning. You washed your face and brushed your teeth and…”

“I’m all dressed, Mother. May I have breakfast now?”

“Give her breakfast, Peter. I’m sick.”

“What’s it from this time?”

“What’s it ever from? Rotgut.”

“Why do you drink it?”

“Why do I drink it? he asks. I drink it to escape, that’s why!”

“To escape what, Tess? Your guilty conscience? Because you told me Betty wasn’t mine?”

“It’s the truth.”

“Why do you need to torture me, Tess? You and I both know she is.”

“Because you’re so damned virtuous. You don’t drink, you don’t smoke — and you don’t understand people who have to.”

“I understand you, Tess. You’re a baby with the devil in you and you’ve never learned to walk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to leave you.”

“Leave me? You can’t, Peter!”

“I can. It’s the only way I can win. The only thing I can win — aloneness.”

“Aloneness? Peter, I need you! I wouldn’t be anything without you. Peter… Peter… please.”

“Did you ever love me, Tess?”

“Darling, I did. I do! I’ve grown up now and I do.”

“Have you really, baby? Prove it!”

“I will… I lied about Betty… She’s yours, ours.”

“Of course, I belonged to all three of them,” Betty said.

“Anyway, Mother and Daddy came out and got my breakfast and while I was eating we laughed and had fun and Mother looked beautiful and happy.”

“And then, when you got home from school you found Uncle Bob was dead. Didn’t you cry? Didn’t you feel bad? Didn’t you ask why your Daddy killed him?”

“We all cried. We hated to have him dead. But we knew why he was dead. When something’s in your way it has to be removed.”

“Even something you love?”

“You can love something or someone and it can still be in your way.”

“All right. How was Uncle Bob in Daddy’s way? Did he live here? Was it too crowded?”

“No, he boarded down the street. He wasn’t really-truly in the way. Not like a chair you keep falling over all the time or a door that opens in front of your toy chest, so you can’t get at it, or a winter coat that you never wear that’s hanging in front of all the other things you do wear — or a — or a—”

“I get it,” Wallace said shortly. “He wasn’t really-truly in the way, but he wasn’t just-pretend in the way either, or else your Daddy wouldn’t have had to kill him. His body wasn’t in the way, but some of the things he said or did or thought were in the way. In the way of your Daddy’s happiness?”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right.”

“Good. Now, let’s get down to business. How was he in the way of your Daddy’s happiness?”

“He kept winning things.”

“Winning things!” Wallace repeated incredulously.

“Yes. When he and Daddy were young, Uncle Bob won a scholarship. So he went to college.”

“I see. And Daddy didn’t?”

“No. And then, I told you how Uncle Bob won first prize in the art contest. I can’t figure why. It was only some old flowers. Daddy’s picture was better. ‘Death Riding a White Rat.’”

“Good Lord!” Wallace said. “Well, anyway, what else did Uncle Bob win — that your Daddy wanted, I mean?”

“I don’t remember them all. An electric clock once, but we already had one. Anyway, it was more of a feeling Daddy had… Oh, and then a long time ago, there was a girl. At first, I thought it was Mother, until I realized Daddy had won her.”