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

“Is it done?” she said.

“Yes, it’s done.”

“Is it all right?”

“Yes, it’s all right.”

Neva poured brandy into her goblet and sat down. The doorbell rang, and Clara; went to answer it. Neva could hear Clara’s voice, and the voice of a man, in the hall. She finished her brandy and set aside her glass.

Martin Crandell came into the room. He was a fairly tall man, just over six feet, with the carefully preserved and tended body of a perennial beach boy prepared to go regularly on display in next to nothing. Now he was wearing a conservative gray suit with a white shirt and maroon tie and burnished black shoes. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow. His hair was pale blond, brushed smoothly across a narrow skull, and his eyes were a faded blue, restless in their sockets, probing always for secrets. He crossed the room to Neva with a kind of subdued grace, his legs swinging easily, his arms and torso hardly moving.

“Darling,” he said, “how are you?”

“Don’t call me that,” she said.

“Oh. Sorry. I forgot for a moment that things have changed between us. Neva, then, if you prefer.”

“I prefer Mrs. Durward.”

“Well, let it go. I see that this visit is to be strictly business. Fair enough. That being so, are you prepared to settle our little affair?”

“That depends. In what way?”

“Is there more than one way? To put it crassly, do you have the money? Fifty thousand dollars, I believe, was the amount agreed upon.”

She stood up and moved away from him, and then, as if suddenly changing her mind, turned back to face him squarely.

“No,” she said, “I don’t have it.”

“That’s too bad. And not quite honest, if you don’t mind my saying so. When you called and asked me to see you here, you assured me that you would have the money. Could I possibly have come on the wrong night?”

“No. It’s the right night.”

“At the wrong time? You did nine o’clock sharp, didn’t you?”

“It’s the right time.”

“I must say, then, that I can see no excuse for your negligence. Or is it deception? Perhaps, however, you’ve simply decided that this is not the right place. I admit that our own home hardly seems appropriate. Not that I have any objection, you understand, but it seems that you are taking unnecessary risks yourself. I was fully prepared to meet you in a neutral place. Skulking in an obscure bar, for instance, or lurking in the bushes of some remote park.”

“There is no need for skulking or lurking, one place or another. I have decided not to pay you the money.”

“What’s that?”

“You heard me. I don’t have the money, I don’t intend to get the money, and if I had it or could get it. I wouldn’t give it to you.”

He was perfectly still and silent, watching her. His pale eyes seemed to have gone suddenly blind behind cataractal film. “I believe you’re serious,” he said at last.

“You had better believe it,” she said.

“Are you aware of the consequences?”

“Perfectly.”

“Nevertheless, let us review them. I shall be forced by your obstinacy to reveal the details of our illicit little affair to the formidable Dwight, who is a prig and a moralist and a snob. I shall be prepared to support my revelations, of course, with sufficient documentary proof in the way of indiscreet notes and several naughty photographs that I was cad enough to collect surreptitiously as mementos of our tender relationship. Dwight, as you know, will pay through his blue nose to avert a scandal. But that’s not all. He will also throw you out, darling, Neva, Mrs. Durward, bag and baggage. He will divorce you forthwith and disinherit you in the time it takes to call his lawyer. Come; let us reason together. Are you prepared to lose millions in order to save a paltry fifty thousand?”

“I’m prepared for anything.”

“In that case, I must confess everything to Dwight as soon as may be. I regret it, of course, but a man must live. If you won’t pay, Dwight must.”

“Go on and confess. Confess and be damned.”

“I hope you are not suffering the fatal illusion that I won’t.”

“Not at all. Why should I? I know you perfectly well for the iniquitous bloodsucker you are.”

“Quite so. We understand each other. Well, I won’t intrude any longer, for I can see that I’m not wanted. I’ll have a chat with Dwight at my earliest convenience. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“Tomorrow? Why delay? Why not now?”

“Now?”

“Certainly. It will save you the time and trouble of an extra trip. Dwight’s in the library. I’m sure he’d be happy to spare you a few minutes to entertain him with the story of his wife’s infidelity.”

He was silent again for a moment, staring at her intently, his pale eyes glittering through narrowed lids. “What’s the gimmick?”

“No gimmick. I invited you here to settle our business with each other. I’m sick of it and wish to be done with it. Let’s get it settled.”

“You’ll regret it.”

“That’s as may be.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right. There’s nothing to be gained by delaying what would be better done at once. Where’s the library, love?”

“I’ll show you. In fact, I’ll stay and hear your confession. I may be able to supply a few details if you happen to omit them.”

She brushed past him and went out of the room and down the hall, hearing his steps match hers a pace behind. Opening the library door without hesitation, she stepped in and aside, permitting him to pass in front of her. He came, after two steps, to an abrupt halt. His body went rigid, still as stone. She heard the breath whinny shrilly in his nostrils. She closed the door.

“There’s Dwight,” she said. “Tell him whatever you wish.”

He whirled half around to face her. His body was drawn into a crouch, as if he were about to spring at her, and in his pale, probing eyes there was sudden shock and a flicker of nascent fear. His voice was harsh, an exaggerated whisper from a constricted throat.

“What the hell are you trying to pull on me?”

“Pull? Nothing whatever. I have just shown you that Dwight is dead. He’s been killed. You can surely understand that any threat to my security has been removed. Dwight is dead, and I am neither divorced nor disinherited. I shall be free and rich. Did you ever imagine for a moment that I cared for more than that? Do you think I give a solitary damn for my precious reputation? Nonsense. Tell the world that we went to bed together. See if I care. Publish the story with pictures. Have it syndicated. Do whatever you please.”

He straightened his body with a long sigh. An expression of deadly slyness replaced the flickering fear in his eyes. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Not so fast. Dwight is dead, all right, and you killed him. That’s obvious enough.”

“Did I? You’re free to make that assumption if it pleases you. The truth is, I’m rather sorry that he’s dead. I’d have much preferred killing you, if I were going to kill anyone.”

“No doubt. But you didn’t. You’ve killed your husband, and you’ve made, in my opinion, a bad botch of the job. From the appearance of things, you shot him. I wonder why. Why didn’t you simply put something in his coffee or brandy, for instance? Everyone knew his heart was bad. It might have passed as a natural death.”

“Do you think so? I doubt it. Not without suspicion, at least.

“The police have nasty minds, and young widows of rich old husbands are naturally suspect. Suspicion calls for autopsies, and autopsies reveal poisons. As it is, he has clearly been shot by an intruder, or perhaps by someone he had expected. See for yourself. The gun on the floor is Dwight’s own revolver. He kept it loaded in the right top drawer of his desk. There are several indications of a struggle. You don’t have to be very clever to reconstruct what happened. Dwight was impelled for some reason to threaten his visitor, whoever he was, with the revolver. There was a struggle. The revolver discharged, and Dwight was killed. The killer then escaped through the door onto the terrace there behind the drapes. You will see that the door has been left partially open if you care to look.”