Brett Halliday - Six Seconds to Kill

More martinis arrived. Camilla Steele touched the chilled glass lightly with her fingertips. She could coast with this one, taking her time, and if everybody stayed relaxed and cheerful, and if she remembered to eat something, there was a good chance that she could kill the evening, get to sleep at a reasonable hour and kill the night.

She raised her glass and smiled at the man she was with. “Pretty soon we ought to order dinner. But not right away.”

Even without her glasses, despite the subdued light, she was almost positive that the man’s name was either Wally or Joe. Lately the people she went to dinner with had tended to overlap at the edges. They wore the same kind of suits, made their living in similar ways and all, for some reason, seemed to smoke cigars.

He breathed out a plume of smoke. It was Wally, probably. He sold real estate, not that it mattered. He was the best kind-he never asked questions, and wasn’t interested in anything that had happened earlier than the previous week.

“Camilla, you’re the best-looking lady in Miami Beach.”

She murmured something. She didn’t mind compliments, but she was sorry to say this one was hardly true. She was wearing a white cocktail dress, slit deeply at the neck. With her tanned skin, her very blond hair, she probably looked all right at the moment, but that was the point of these dim bars. She was too thin. If she had been interested in that kind of arithmetic, she could have counted her ribs. Until recently she had played a fiercely competitive game of tennis, and her movements still had a kind of controlled quickness and grace. She was thirty years old. In ordinary light she looked forty.

“I have a suggestion,” Wally said, “and I’ve learned from experience that the time to come out with something startling is between the second and third martini. The idea is this. I think we ought to get married.”

His face sprang into focus. Dark eyes, dark hair and sideburns, a humorous set to his mouth. It wasn’t either Wally or Joe. It was Paul London, damn it, which could mean another rough night.

“Do you really want to bother?” she said lightly, hoping that his words, like the cigar smoke, would vanish into the air-conditioning. “Let’s have dinner and then just go to bed together as usual.”

“No reason we can’t do all three.”

She started to raise her glass. Paul took her wrist, spilling some of the gin.

“Put it down for a minute, Cam. I want sixty seconds of your time, and you can clock me. After that we can go on drinking martinis until the management throws us out. Seriously.”

“I hate that word.”

He said it again. “Seriously. We’ve been seeing each other once every ten days, and in my opinion it isn’t enough. But if that’s what you want I’ll settle for it. Nothing stays the same, Camilla. We were in high school together, for God’s sake. What is it-fifteen years ago, now. You sent me marijuana brownies in the Marines, you dear girl. We’ve been having sex, off and on, for fourteen years, which I hope gives me a certain amount of seniority. And lately I’ve been getting the feeling that as far as you were concerned I could be anybody. My name doesn’t happen to be Max. Or Charley.”

“I know exactly what you’re going to say.”

He laughed and released her wrist. “Sure. Stop drinking so much. Stop spending the night with other guys, or cut down a little. Stop taking so many pills, and find out the name of the damn pill before you take it. All that’s standard advice. The reason I want you to marry me is to give you something to think about besides the Honorable Eliot J. Crowther.”

“I have to think about him now and then,” she said reasonably, “if I’m going to assassinate him.”

“Damn it,” he burst out. “That stopped being funny years ago. I hope you haven’t been writing him any more of those nutty letters.”

She smiled. “It’s against the law to write threatening letters to a public official, didn’t anybody ever tell you that?”

“It’s also damned dumb. You aren’t going to kill anybody. It’s not your style. Not to mention the fact that killing the attorney-general of the United States wouldn’t be the easiest thing in the world. His security people probably don’t even let him see your letters. You’re only injuring one person. Not Eliot Crowther-yourself.”

The horrible thing about this was that she knew it was true. She whispered, “It’s the only thing I have to hold on to, Paul.”

“Cut it out,” he said roughly. “It’s ancient history. I’m going to risk a declaration. I think I love you. The reason I’m not sure is that you keep changing. I do know I want to wake up in the same room with you every morning. That part’s definite. When Max calls I’ll tell him you’ve just moved to Hawaii. I’m running over my sixty seconds, but I’m going to say a few more things whether you like it or not. You had a run of bad luck. Getting married to Felix Steele was the unluckiest thing that could happen to a nice young girl. I know it’s a mean thing to say, but the guy was a first-class bastard.”

“You can’t think I didn’t know that.”

Paul looked at her closely. “When did it dawn on you?”

“Sometime in the middle of the second day. It was weird, Paul. He never looked it, but he was so damned insecure. He was always scared I was going to move out. And I finally did, you know. I think that was one of the reasons for what happened. But it isn’t considered ladylike to divorce your husband when he’s on trial for murder.”

She sipped some of her martini. Paul London wasn’t the only idiot who thought that talking about things helped. Three separate doctors had given her the same advice-dredge it up from your subconscious and you’ll feel better. At first she had tried. She had talked endlessly, and of course the more she talked about it the worse she felt.

She said quietly, “Being married to you might be pleasant in some ways. But be thankful I’m saying no-my kind of bad luck can be catching.”

“I’m willing to take a chance.”

“Let’s drop it, Paul. It’s distracting. I have other things on my mind.”

“Such as what?”

“Do you really think Eliot Crowther doesn’t read my letters? He reads them and they terrify him.”

“I’m sure.”

“How do you think I got this freaky job with the foundation? Nobody worries whether I come to work or not. Plenty of money so I can pay my bills at the drugstore and the liquor store. Strings were pulled. They were pulled by Crowther, and I know that for a fact.”

“Then it was nice of him. It must mean he feels a little responsible for what happened.”

She finished her martini in one long pull. It wouldn’t hit her for a moment, but if she wanted to explain anything-she didn’t know why she bothered-she had better do it in a hurry.

“How can I marry you? You’re right-a minute ago I didn’t even know who you were! And I honestly didn’t care! I only have room for one name in my mind, and how clever of you to guess it’s Crowther. I do want to assassinate that man, Paul. I know it won’t be easy, and I’m not sure I’m up to it.”

“I hope you don’t say things like this to other people. I know you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’m being very practical about the difficulties.”

She put her hand on his and said matter-of-factly, “I know I’m a little deranged. That’s no longer news. I don’t even hate him. It just seems to me that he sums everything up! Everything that’s ugly and horrible about the way we live. He knew Felix didn’t kill that woman. He must have known. But what a chance for a district attorney.”