Джордж Хиггинс - The New Black Mask (No 4)

I was, at least figuratively, a very yellow red man.

I had a streak of snowy gray right down the middle of my raven locks. And I had a streak of another color right down the middle of my tawny back.

I got out of my clothes and took a shower.

I put on pajamas and a robe and carpet slippers.

My pulse was acting up, and there was a kind of jumpiness to my toes. They kept jerking and squirming of their own volition; my toes always do that when I am very nervous. I almost called out to Kay when she came up the stairs, because she was a nurse, wasn’t she? and I certainly needed something to soothe my nerves.

But she was miffed at me, or she would have come to me without being summoned. And if I managed to un-miff her, I was sure, what I would get to soothe me was Kay herself. One of the best little soothers in the world, but one that I simply could not partake of.

I had screwed the lid on that jar (you should excuse the expression). She was forever forbidden fruit, even though I should become one, God forbid.

I tried to concentrate on nonscary things. To think of something nice. And the nicest thing I could think of was something I had just determined not to think of. And while I was doing my damndest not to think of her, simultaneously doing my damndest to think of something else, she came into my room.

Fully dressed, even to her blue cape. Carrying her small nurse’s kit in one hand, her suitcase in the other.

“All right, Britt,” she said. “I’m moving in here with you or I’m moving out. Leaving! Right this minute.”

“Oh, come off of it,” I laughed. “You’d get a permanent black eye with the department. As big as your butt, baby! You’d never get a decent job anywhere.”

“But you won’t know about it, will you, Britt?” She gave me a spiteful grin. “After I leave, and you’re all alone here in this big ol’ house...”

She set her bags down and did a pantomime of what would happen to me, clawing her hands and walking like a zombie. And it was ridiculous as hell, of course, but it was pretty darned scary too.

“... then the big Black Thing will come out of the darkness,” she intoned, in ghostly tones, “and poor little Britt won’t see it until it’s too late. He’ll hear it, but he’ll think it’s just one of those noises he’s always hearing. So he won’t look around, and—”

“Now, knock it off, dammit!” I said. “You stop that, right now!”

“... and the big Black Tiling will come closer and closer.” (She came closer and closer.) “And closer and closer, and closer — GOTCHA!”

“Yeow!” I yelled, my hair standing on end. “Get away from me, you crazy broad!”

“ ’Fraidy cat, ’fraidy cat!” she chanted. “B. R. has a yellow streak running down his spine!”

I said I’d rather have a yellow streak running down it than pimples. She said angrily that she didn’t have pimples running down hers. And I said she would have when my hex went to work.

“A pretty sight you’ll be when you start blushing. Your back will look like peaches flambé in eruption. Ah, Kay, baby,” I said, “enough of this clowning around. Just give me something to make me sleep, and then go back to your room and—”

“I won’t go back to my room! But I’ll give you a hypo if you really want it.”

“If I want it?” I said. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, I won’t be here. You’ll be aww-ll all-alone, with the big Black Things. I thought you might be afraid to go to sleep aww-ll all-alone m this big ol’ house, but—”

“All right,” I said grimly. “We wound up our little affair, and it’s going to stay wound up. You know it’s best for both of us. Why, goddammit—” I waved my arms wildly. “What kind of a cop are you anyway? A cop is supposed to be something pretty special!”

She said she was something pretty special, wasn’t she? — managing a demure blush. I said she could stay or get out, just as she damned pleased.

“It’s strictly up to you, Miss Misbegotten! My car keys are there in the top dresser drawer!”

“Thank you, but I’ll walk, Mr. Mangy Mane. I’m a strong girl, and I’m not afraid of the dark.”

She picked up her bags and left.

I heard the prolonged creaking of the stairs, as she descended them. A couple of moments later, I heard the loud slamming of the front door.

I settled back on the pillows, smugly grinning to myself. Dismissing the notion of going downstairs and setting the bolts on the door. It would be a lot of bother for nothing. I would just have to go down and unbolt it, when Kay came back. As, of course, she would in a very few minutes. Probably she had never left the porch.

I closed my eyes, forcing myself to relax. Ignoring the sibilant scratchings, the all-but-inaudible creakings and poppings peculiar to very old houses.

I thought of the stupid Indian and his blindness to the obvious. I thought of Connie’s senseless refusal to give me a divorce. I thought of Luther Bannerman, his quick admission that Connie had no insurance policy when he thought Claggett was going to check on it.

Why didn’t Connie want a divorce? Why the fear of Claggett’s checking with the insurance company? What—

Oh, my God!

I sat up abruptly, slapping a hand to my forehead, wondering how I could have missed something that an idiot child should have seen.

I was insured. That was what Claggett would have discovered. Bannerman had lied in saying that the insurance company had rejected me.

Why had he lied? Why else but to keep me from becoming wary, to allay any nasty suspicions I might entertain about his and Connie’s plans for me.

Of course, the existence of the policy would have to be revealed in order to collect the death benefit. The double-indemnity payoff of two hundred thousand dollars. But there was absolutely nothing to indicate that fraud and deception had been practiced to obtain the policy. Quite the contrary, in fact.

I, myself, had applied for it and named Connie as my beneficiary. She had what is legally known as an insurable interest in me. And if I was the kind of guy — as I probably was — who might neglect or forget to keep up my premium payments, she had the right to make them for me. Moreover, she definitely was not obligated to make the fact known that I had the policy, an asset that could be cashed in or encumbered to her disadvantage.

If her marital status should change, if, for example, we should be divorced, I would have to certify to the change. And, inevitably, I would actually know what I had only been assumed to know — that I was insured. So there could be no divorce.

Connie and her father couldn’t risk another automobile accident by way of killing me. Two such accidents might make my insurers suspicious. An accident of any kind there on their home grounds might arouse suspicion, and so I had been allowed to clear out.

I returned to my home. After a time, I began remitting sizable sums of money to Connie, and as long as I did I was left alone. They could wait. Time enough to kill me when the flow of money to Connie stopped.

Now, it had stopped. So now—

A blast of cold air swept over me. The front door had opened. I sat up abruptly, the short hairs on my neck rising. I waited and listened, nerves tensing, face contorted into a stiffening mask of fear.

And then I grinned and relaxed, lay back down again.

It would be Kay, of course. I hadn’t expected her to stay away this long. To say that I was damned glad she had returned was a gross understatement. But I must be very careful not to show it. Now, more than ever, Kay had to be kept at a distance.

After all, I had promised to marry her — when and if I was free. And Connie’s attempt to murder me was a felony, noncontestable grounds for divorce.