Fletcher Flora - The First Golden Age of Mystery & Crime MEGAPACK™ - 26 Stories by Fletcher Flora

She turned away from him and crossed to the windows. Against the light, the double haze of nylon was nearly dissolved. He stood behind her, watching her, the pulses in his temples and throat throbbing suddenly and painfully like a trio of malignancies. She looked out into the bright light and spoke to him over her shoulder.

“Look, darling. You talk about my guts. You talk about my breaking down. I thought you knew me better than that. I thought you knew me as well as I’ve ever been known by anyone on earth. I guess I was mistaken, though, and so I’d better set you right. To look at me now you might not realize it, but I was one of seven kids. My old man was a leery bum, and my old lady was a whining slattern. I’ve eaten so damn much bread and potatoes just to fill my belly that I never want to see a potato or a loaf of bread again. I’ve worn cast-off clothes that weren’t fit to wear when they were new, and I’ve had rags against my skin that were so damn rough they gave me gall. I got me a philosophy early in life, darling, and there isn’t anything in it, not one damn thing except what happens in bed, that you aren’t supposed to pay income tax on.”

She turned suddenly and faced him. “Look at me. I’m soft, aren’t I? I’m lots of fun in the right time and place, aren’t I? Just a soft, generous girl? If you got that idea, you’re crazy. I want you all right, darling, I want you like hell, but I want you with a million bucks, and I wouldn’t have you for keeps any other way. Now forget about my guts, darling. And forget about my caring a damn what anyone thinks or says.”

He went over to her then, and she was soft, as he had known perfectly well she was, and she was also hard, hard as a diamond beneath the softness, and he had really known that perfectly well, too. Not that he cared. He preferred it that way. It only made him want her more, because he was, after all, just the kind of man who would want a woman like that.

They used up an hour, and when he was ready to leave, he said, “I mentioned your name in the note. That means someone will probably be here on his way to me. When he comes, whoever he is, tell him I’m at the Ambassador, and I’ll be there waiting for him. Open trail leading nowhere, that’s the strategy, darling.”

“When do you think they’ll find her?”

“It’s our maid’s day off, so possibly not until morning. But it doesn’t matter. It’s all set up for them, whenever it is.”

She touched the tip of a finger to her lips and his. “Okay. Whoever it is and whenever it is, I’ll send him on.”

He left her with that and went back to the Ambassador, and it was about nine hours later when he heard her voice again. The next time was on the telephone, and he was just thinking about going down to the dining room for some dinner when the bell rang.

He lifted the instrument and said hello, and she said, “He was here, darling. He just left.”

“Already? Who found her? How did it happen?”

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to sound too curious about things like that.”

“All right. I’ll wait for him here.”

He hung up and waited, and it was only a short time before the desk rang up to tell him that there was a man from the police to see him. He told the desk to send the man up, and he waited the last couple of minutes in the open doorway to the hall.

The cop was a thin, middle-aged man with shoulders stooped almost to the point of deformity, and this seemed to make his arms hang down farther than normal, which gave him, in that one respect, a rather simian appearance. He took off his hat politely and spoke with a tired voice.

“Mr. Bruce?”

“Yes. Are you the policeman?”

“That’s right. Name’s Benson.”

“Come in, please. I’ve been wondering what on earth you could want with me.”

Benson walked into the room and turned as Charles closed the door.

“I’m afraid it’s bad news. Your wife, Mr. Bruce. She’s dead.”

“Dead!” Charles gave a passable impression of shock. “She was all right this morning when I left. That is, I assume she was. As a matter of fact, she was still sleeping, and I didn’t disturb her.”

“Maybe you disturbed her a hell of a lot more than you thought, Mr. Bruce. Anyhow, she’s dead.”

Charles ran fingers through his hair and worked his features into a simulation of concern. “See here, Mr. Benson... 

“Sergeant.”

“All right. Sergeant. The point is. I may be somewhat responsible if Wanda’s done anything ...

“We found the note.”

“I see. Well ...

Benson cut across his words with a gusty sigh and said with quiet bitterness, “Look, Mr. Bruce. I’m not the one to explain it to. I’m just a guy running an errand. There’s a big-shot lieutenant down at Headquarters wants to talk with you. He’s the one, so if you’ll just come along.”

“Very well. I suppose there are certain formalities in these matters.”

“That’s right, Mr. Bruce. Formalities.”

It was a short ride to Headquarters. The traffic was heavy, but Benson threaded the police car through it expertly, and they were there quickly. They found the lieutenant in a small room sparsely furnished with essential items, and he was a younger man than Benson, although he ranked him, and this might have been a reason for Benson’s tired and quiet bitterness. The lieutenant’s name turned out to be Tomlinson. He had a hard square face and competent square hands, and his brain was fairly effective, too. Next to being a lieutenant, he was proudest of knowing about things like predicate nominatives and how to use them. He studied books at home.

He introduced himself. “Thanks for coming, Mr. Bruce. I’m Lieutenant Tomlinson of Homicide.” Homicide, he said. So it had come to that so soon. After the initial shock, Charles wasn’t especially concerned, however. He imagined, thinking about it, that probably all suicides were at least perfunctorily investigated by Homicide.

He sat down and said, “Sergeant Benson tells me my wife is dead, Lieutenant, but that’s all I know. I wish you would be kind enough to explain.”

“Certainly, Mr. Bruce. I’ll explain some things to you, and you can explain some to me. That’s why you’re here. Your wife apparently committed suicide.”

Charles sagged a little in his chair, doing it quite effectively. He was silent for a moment, staring at the floor, before he spoke again.

“I was afraid of that, with the police concerned and all.”

“Was that the only reason you were afraid of it? Because the police were concerned?”

“No. Sergeant Benson has told me that you found my note, so you must be aware of my grounds for fear. I may say in defense, however, that I never really thought she’d do it.”

“Do what?”

Charles let his eyebrows rise in a brief expression of cold surprise. “Why, kill herself because I left her, of course.”

“You think she did that?”

“It certainly seems very obvious.”

Lieutenant Tomlinson shook his head slowly. “I don’t think so.” He kept on shaking his head, and his face seemed suddenly much older. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think she killed herself at all. I think she was killed. Possibly by you, Mr. Bruce.”

The sudden violent constriction in his chest was a kind of pain that Charles had never known. It was as though a powerful centripetal force had closed in upon his heart, and he wanted to cry out with the pain, but nothing of what he felt showed in his face. Not the least indication of it. There was nothing in his face but icy and arrogant disdain.

“You’re insane,” he said.

“Perhaps.” Tomlinson turned side-wise and said, “Mr. Creely.”