James Chase - Tell It to the Birds

It startled him when they had finished a good, but expensive dinner and had returned to the bar for another drink that Meg should say she wanted to go out to Jason’s Glen.

“What for?” Barlowe asked, slightly fuddled by the drinks he had taken. “I want to go to bed now.” He stared at her, frowning, “I’ve had enough of this.”

“Well, I haven’t,” Meg said. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to be romantic?”

“With you?” Barlowe grimaced. “After all this time? What’s come over you… you’re drunk!”

“All right, so I’m drunk,” she said. “I’m sick of living like a nun. Even a drip like you is better than nothing the way I feel. Let’s go!”

Barlowe shook his head.

“I’m not going, I’m going home.” He thought of tomorrow night; the anticipation of the excitement and the violence made him break out into a sweat. “That place is for courting couples, not for people like you and me.”

She leaned close to him. He could smell the gin on her breath. “You’re coming with me. You’d better! If you don’t, I’ll go out there alone and find someone.”

“I’m not going!” Barlowe said and became aware that the negro bartender was listening and staring. He lowered his voice. “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going home.”

“Then I’ll take the car and you can walk home,” Meg said. “I’m going! You do what you like.”

Barlowe hesitated. After all, he thought, it might be an idea to go out there. He hadn’t been to Jason’s Glen for months.

By going out there now, he would get an idea of how many cars were there… the lay of the ground.

“All right… have it your way,” he said, shrugging. “Then well go.”

“I’ll get my things,” Meg said, and leaving him, she went into the ladies’ room.

She paused, aware that her heart was hammering and she was breathing unsteadily. For a long moment she stood undecided, then with an effort, she went to the telephone booth and shut herself in.

Anson, the telephone receiver hard against his ear, said, “Yes?”

There was a pause, then he heard a woman’s voice say, “Go ahead please,” then Meg came on the line.

“Hello?” He recognized her voice. “Hello?”

“We are leaving now.”

He realized how tense she was from the hysterical shrillness of her voice.

“It’ll be all right,” he said and hung up.

He returned to his car and drove up the narrow dirt road that led to Jason’s Glen. He was a little uneasy. There was a remote chance some other couple might be in the glen. He arrived at the top of the steep road and then drove into the glen. There was plenty of room for cars to be parked and he drove his car between two, overgrown shrubs and turned off the car’s lights. He got out of the car and walked onto the open plateau that gave onto a wide and fine view of the lights of the town below.

Usually ,at this time of night, the plateau was crowded with cars, but this night it was deserted. Courting couples, neckers and smoochers were staying clear of such spots. The police warning that the sex killer might strike again had made an impression.

Anson looked around, then he selected a clump of shrubs that offered concealment. He pushed his way into them and sat down on the sandy, dry ground. He took out the gun and slid back the safety catch. While he waited, he thought with satisfaction that the time switch clock in the office was creating a fool-proof alibi for him. Light would now be showing through the frosted panel of his office door and when Jud Jones passed on his patrol, he would hear the busy clack of the typewriter from the tape recorder.

It would take Barlowe and Meg some thirty minutes to get from the roadhouse to the glen. Anson didn’t expect them to arrive before ten thirty.

As he waited for them to arrive, he fingered the gun, his mind preparing himself for the moment when his finger would take up the slack of the trigger, when the gun would go off and when Barlowe would slump forward, a dead man.

Anson was again surprised by his own calmness and his feeling of complete indifference. He was now experiencing the same feeling that had come to him when he had shot the patrol officer. The death of the big, red-faced cop had meant nothing to him as the death of Barlowe would mean nothing to him when it happened.

A little after ten thirty, he heard the distant sound of an approaching car.

His fingers tightened on the butt of the gun. He half stood up, crouching in the shrubs as he listened. Then he saw the approaching lights of the car.

He watched the shabby Lincoln pull up within twenty feet or so from where he was concealed. Before the head lights went out, he saw the outlined heads of Meg and Barlowe.

In the silent stillness, he heard Barlowe say, “Well, here we are. There’s no one here… .”

Anson moved silently out of his hiding place and started across the open space towards the car.

“Well, here we are,” Barlowe repeated, his pale brown eyes roving around. He noted there were no cars except his own.

A sudden, cold murderous thought dropped into his mind. Why not get rid of Meg? They were alone together. He could do what he liked with her in this loneliness. Then reason made him hesitate. Careful, he told himself, You can’t do a thing like that… they’d know you had killed her and they would then know you had done the other thing.

By now Anson had reached the car. He saw the driver’s window was down. He could see Barlowe clearly in the moonlight.

Meg said, her voice unsteady, “Don’t you want to make love to me?” Then suddenly, her nerve cracked, and she put her hands to her face. She screamed; “No! Don’t do it, John…don’t do it!”

As Barlowe turned towards her in startled surprise, Anson lifted the gun and gently squeezed the trigger.

Meg was still screaming hysterically as the gun went off. Barlowe slumped forward; blood sprayed over the windshield.

Anson dropped the gun into his pocket, then he walked around the car and opened the off-side door. Meg threw up her hands to ward him off.

She was screaming hysterically as he dragged her out of the car.

Steve Harmas walked into the office, put his hat on the peg behind the door, then lowered his long frame into his desk chair.

He and his wife, Helen, had been to a party the previous night which had turned out to be a marathon drinking spree and Hannas was now suffering from a hangover.

He rubbed his forehead, grimaced, then looked with glazed eyes at the mail neatly laid out on his blotter.

There didn’t seem to be anything that needed his immediate attention and he relaxed back and closed his eyes. He thought enviously of his wife still asleep.

The sudden sound of the intercom buzzer made him wince. He flicked down a key, said, “Harmas. Yeah?”

“I want you.”

There was no mistaking Maddox’s voice.

“I’m on my way,” Hannas said, flicked up the key, pushed himself out of his chair and started the long tramp down the corridor to Maddox’s office.

Patty greeted him with a bright smile that made Harmas wince.

“You’re looking like a man with a hangover,” she said. “Do you feel that way?”

“Yeah.” Harmas held his head. “What’s he want?”

“I don’t know. I took the newspaper into him about five minutes ago. There was an explosion, then I heard him yelling for you.”

“I have an idea that this isn’t going to be my favourite day,” Harmas said entering Maddox’s office.

Maddox was smoking furiously. Although it was only a quarter after nine a.m., from the state of his desk and floor, he might have been working throughout the night.