Brett Halliday - Counterfeit Wife

Shayne had neither heard Irvin’s name nor thought of the man since that time. He wondered what the devil he was mixed up in now. Counterfeiting, apparently. That could be the only answer to his curious interest in a couple of ordinary looking hundred-dollar bills.

He took another drink.

The senator had changed a lot in five years. Shayne remembered him as a pompous stuffed shirt. Five years had turned him into something else. What was it Bates had said over the telephone? “Put the big shot on.”

So Irvin was a big shot now, with gunmen and shiv artists to do his bidding. Shayne could still hear the soft purr of his voice when he said, “Hit him, Getchie,” and, as he remembered, a cold fear ran sickeningly over his naked frame.

He hadn’t thought about that angle very much. But, thinking back, he knew now that Irvin had made up his mind about something as soon as he, Shayne, had been recognized by the rosy-cheeked ex-senator.

Irvin knew Shayne’s reputation, and he knew a thing like that would never be forgotten. There was only one possible answer-Irvin had ruthlessly decided that Shayne would never be in a position to do anything about it, and for that reason hadn’t hesitated to have Getchie slap him around.

He remembered Irvin’s saying that he had to convince Shayne that this was serious business. That, thought Shayne, was a masterpiece of understatement. What it actually meant was that he didn’t intend to let Shayne out of the place alive, so the manner in which he was treated didn’t matter. They’d keep him alive until they checked his story with Slocum, the man who had rented his apartment. When they found they could learn nothing from him, they’d put the screws on.

He realized now that he should have put up a fight upstairs. He would have if he had thought things out clearly. The whisky was helping to clarify his mind and he excused his previous vacillation by telling himself he had been in no condition to think straight. His left shoulder and arm were of little use. Besides, he had been thrown off-stride by the suddenness of it all; by his complete lack of comprehension of what it was all about. He had been dazed and uncertain by the swiftness of events since he overheard the blonde talking to the freckle-nosed girl at the air terminal, and by the fact that none of it made any sense.

His mind was clear now, his thinking coldly logical. The odds were still a thousand to one against him, but they wouldn’t get any better while he sat and waited for the night to drag itself out.

He drank the rest of the whisky and turned the bottle over and over in his hands. It was a tall, round bottle. Better for his purpose than a squat, square one.

He took a solid grip on the neck and struck it a sharp blow just below the center against the edge of the lavatory. The bottom broke off neatly and clattered into the basin. He tapped the lower rim of the upper portion gently, turning it and working at it until three jagged glass prongs remained, then he studied it approvingly.

Except for a gun, he couldn’t ask for anything better, and for close work this was far better than a gun. The next thing was to arrange for some close work, preferably in the dark.

He stooped down and carefully gathered the fragments of glass from around the lavatory and tossed them into a corner. When he stood up, he knew he was quite drunk. That was good, for no sober, sane man would do what he was going to do.

He laid the top half of the bottle carefully on top of the water closet, reached a long bare arm overhead and unscrewed the electric bulb from the ceiling socket.

Feeling his way to the lavatory, he turned on the water and held the brass contact end of the bulb under the flow for a moment, then screwed it back into the socket. The instant the connection was made there was a momentary flare, then the water-shorted circuit brought impenetrable blackness again.

He gave another twist to set the bulb tightly in the socket, and sank back on the toilet seat to wait. Groping behind him, he got hold of his improvised weapon and hunched forward with his elbows on his knees.

It was hot and stifling and soundless inside the room. He knew a fuse had been blown, but he had no way of knowing whether it also controlled an upstairs circuit or only shorted the basement lights. He didn’t know, either, whether all the others upstairs were in bed. If their lights were not burning, they wouldn’t know a fuse had been blown.

He could only wait in the darkness and the silence and listen.

He waited a long time and nothing happened. He thought about Lucy Hamilton and about a lot of things he could have said to her over the telephone. None of this would have happened if he’d thought fast enough and kept her on the wire.

He was sorry he would never see Lucy again. Sorry that he would not be able to give her the string of simulated pearls, the only payment he had received or would have taken for recovering the real pearls for Christine Hudson, who had been Phyllis’s dearest friend.

Waiting in the black silence, his thoughts went back to Phyllis, his wife whom he had loved so dearly, who had died so valiantly trying to bring their son into the world.

Lucy was a lot like Phyllis. Perhaps that accounted for his feeling toward her. A mood of dejection seized him, and he thought, Phyllis is gone. Lucy is gone. The pearls are gone. He would probably never see his clothes or any of the things that were in his pockets.

The overhead light flared suddenly, went out again just as suddenly. Alert now, he sat naked and motionless on the toilet stool, waiting. Someone had found the burned-out fuse and replaced it with a good one. Current had flashed through for an instant, only to be shorted again by the wet contact.

Eagerness and anxiety flowed through him. Sweat ran down in streams from his body and made little pools of wetness on the floor around his feet. He wondered if they had any more fuses-if they would realize that it was he who was causing the short circuits from his concrete prison.

When the light flashed on again and burned steadily, he knew that the contact end of the bulb had dried sufficiently to let the current flow again.

He sat immobile and waited. No need to hurry now. Better to let the lights burn for a time. Long enough to convince those upstairs that they weren’t dealing with an ordinary short circuit. When he blew another fuse, they would know it was he who was causing it.

While he waited he decided to take advantage of the light, and he poured cold water over his face and body from his cupped hands, massaging his aching shoulder and working it gently as he did so. He took the broken glass out of the basin, then filled it and doused his head, washing the matted blood from his red and unruly hair.

When he finished he felt better. He reached over to the roll of toilet paper and tore off a sheet, folded it into a tiny square, then soaked it thoroughly. He held it ready in his left hand while unscrewing the bulb again.

Pressing the sodden mass firmly against the end of the bulb he inserted it carefully in the socket and twisted it tight. There was not even a momentary flash of current as it made contact.

Groping in the dark, he got a firm grip on the bottle neck and settled himself on the toilet to wait, confident that none of the house lights could burn again until the wad of wet tissue was removed.

He felt detached and impersonal about the whole thing now. His muscles were relaxed and he felt good. The darkness was reassuring and friendly. They had to come to him in the dark and he was going to have his chance. Maybe not a fifty-fifty chance, for, like all criminals, Perry and Getchie were cowards and would come together. He would, however, certainly have better than the thousand-to-one odds he had calculated a short time ago.