Джон Макдональд: More Good Old Stuff

“And then yesterday afternoon, after he finished work, he went right to the garage?”

“Yes. I remember he said something about repacking the rear wheels and adjusting the rear shocks, whatever that means, Mr. Brown.”

Mr. Brown sighed. “Well, it’s a pretty clear case. He jacked the car up and took off both rear wheels and blocked the axle with bricks. It was a damn fool thing to do. Probably when he was tightening a nut or something, he moved it enough off balance so that it—”

She suddenly covered her face with her hands and sobbed hoarsely. In a matter of seconds, she felt his heavy hand on her shoulder, patting her gently.

“There, there, Mrs. Goodkin,” he said. “Sorry I had to upset you this way. Howard wasn’t in any pain. He never felt a thing. That differential came right down and killed him instantly.”

As she sobbed, as she felt his comforting arms around her, she relived those few moments in the garage. She had bent over, looked under the car, said, “How are you doing, honey?”

His face was smeared with grease. “Just about another twenty minutes ought to do it.”

He was in the right position, his face under the bulge of the differential. She had straightened up, walked to the side of the car, picked up a dust rag, used it to shield her hands as she pushed the car with all her strength.

It had swayed and the bricks had cracked in warning. Howard had given one startled gasp as the car had come down heavily.

Screaming wildly, she had run out into the street. As soon as she was certain that neighbors were running toward her, she had slowly and gracefully collapsed in a mock faint.

Yes, this one had been smoother than most of them. Less questioning. She could leave sooner, cover her tracks, go to some quiet resort place and start over again.

Seventeen hundred for the car and at least twelve thousand for the house. Counting incidentals and insurance, you could figure on twenty-six thousand after all expenses.

Through her sobs she said, “Mr. Brown, I... I can’t stay here. The... the memories. I won’t be able — to stand it.”

“I understand,” he whispered. “We’ll all understand.”

Mr. Davis, the vice-president of the Wanderloo National Bank, coughed a few times and said, “This is — well, it’s rather a large sum of money for a woman to take away in cash, you know. We could establish a trust for you and send you the income every—”

She lifted her chin bravely. “Mr. Davis, I’m sorry, but I want to cut all strings tying me to Wanderloo. If you’d authorize the cashier to give me the cash balance—”

“Possibly traveler’s checks, Mrs. Goodkin?”

“No one but you and the cashier and myself will know I’m taking that amount of cash with me. And I certainly don’t plan to advertise it. If you must know, Mr. Davis, I plan to pin the major share of it inside my girdle. I rather imagine it will be safe there until I decide where I want to settle.”

Mr. Davis blushed, scratched his chin and sighed. “How do you want it, Mrs. Goodkin?” he said, standing up.

“Twenty one-thousand-dollar bills and the balance in fifties, hundreds and twenties.”

“I may have to contact the other two banks.”

She glanced at her watch. “Please hurry. My train leaves in an hour and fifteen minutes.”

With the money on her person, she bought her ticket to Detroit. She carried one suitcase containing her best clothes and the all-important packet. In Detroit she could shake off any possible pursuit and then take a train to Chicago. The large bills would go into one of the four boxes. The remaining four thousand and something would give her a new start with a new name in a new place. Resort places were best.

She decided that this time she would look for a younger man. They felt so flattered when an older woman became interested.

The trip from Chicago to whatever resort she decided on could be used in devising a new name and new background. A new identity was the easiest thing in the world to establish. It was merely a case of arranging to take out a driver’s license, opening a checking account and a few charge accounts.

She would be forgotten in Wanderloo. “I wonder what happened to that sweet little Mrs. Goodkin. She left town, you know, after her husband died. Tragic affair. They had a perfect marriage. A good thing there were no children, you know.”

As she waited for her train to be announced, she looked at herself in the oval mirror in her compact. The off-lavender eyes stared back at her with clarity — innocence — and an uncanny youthfulness. It was good to be free again. Free for adventure...

Jay Kelso sat like a scrawny Buddha in his bed, clad only in blue silk shorts that were too big for him. The afternoon was hot and he was bored and troubled. A pair of faun slacks were slung over the back of a straight chair not far from the bed. He knew without looking that there was but forty-two dollars in the gold money clip in the pocket of the slacks.

He had intended to stay a week in this hole called Komfort Court, but the week had turned into six weeks. That was bad.

By now the finance company in New Jersey would have turned the license number over to the skip tracers and they would be hunting the yellow wagon. He knew from experience that his equity was just large enough so that they would enjoy repossessing the wagon.

And maybe that Myra dish in Camden had hired lawyers. That would be bad, because they could make trouble and he didn’t have the money to buy the legal talent to squeak out of it. He had always felt wonderfully independent of the female sex.

And here he was stuck in inland Florida just because a hick babe was keeping him on the hook.

He wondered if he should run out, make some dough and come back this way for a second attempt. No, that tan bruiser, Lawton, had too eager a look in his eye when Serena — what a hell of a name — walked by. It would be a sad thing to come back and find that Lawton had nailed her on the rebound.

He knew that the longer he stayed, the worse shape he would be in. He knew that already his stake was too small.

He smacked his fist into his palm and glared at the far wall. Suddenly a startling thought entered his mind. Maybe he wanted to marry the girl.

Maybe that was the right deal. Unload the car. Sell it for cash. Then ease that Lawton punk out of his job and settle down right here. After the old man kicked off, which shouldn’t be long, he and Serena would own the business. Then if he got sick of her, he could sell and shove off.

But he remembered how the muscles stood out on Lawton’s back while he worked. No, better keep Lawton around for the heavy stuff. Besides, it might be too tough to ease him out. He and the old man seemed to get along pretty good.

He grinned. Jay Kelso — thinking of marriage. That was a hot one!

Slowly he got off the bed. He put on a sand-pink sports shirt, carefully knotted the white and crimson tie, belted the high-waisted faun slacks around his trim, flat middle and slipped into a pair of brown-and-white moccasins.

At that moment there was a knock on his door. A gentle knock. Eagerly he opened the door, hoping that it was Serena Bright. Instead he saw Lawton’s bronzed broad chest, impassive face.

“After the trash,” Lawton said.

“Hell, you knock like a woman,” Jay Kelso said, turning away in disgust.

“Thought you might open quicker if I did,” Lawton said gently.

Kelso wheeled on him. “Are you being wise?”

Lawton smiled tightly. “I wonder exactly what you’d do if I said yes.”

Kelso straightened his shoulders. “I might take a poke at you. I was Golden Gloves, guy. Remember that.”

Lawton grinned lazily and said, “Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir.” The contempt was obvious.