Ричард Деминг - Hit and Run

“I know you too well, Helena,” he said crossly. “You’re all set to soften me up. This time it’s not going to work. I want some answers, and I want them right now.”

He turned, strode into the front room, and took up a stance before the empty fireplace. Helena followed slowly. She stopped three feet from him and thrust her hands in the pockets of the housecoat. The movement widened the V at her throat, apparently by accident, so that the tips of her breasts just showed.

“Aren’t you even going to kiss me hello?” she inquired.

“No,” he said definitely. “And cover yourself up. I have no intention of even touching you until you’ve explained what’s going on.”

For a long time Helena examined him without expression. Then she shrugged, removed her hands from her pockets, and drew the housecoat so closely around her that it covered her to the hollow of her throat.

“Very well, Harry,” she said tonelessly. “Since you insist. Lawrence is dead.”

Cushman’s face gradually paled. But his expression was only that of a man whose worst fears have suddenly been confirmed. There was no surprise in it.

“How?” he asked in a low voice.

“He was murdered,” Helena said calmly. “I’m afraid you’re an accessory to first-degree murder, Harry.”

“Me?” he said on a high note. “I had nothing to do with it. I don’t want any part of it.”

Her lip corners lifted in the suggestion of a smile. “You don’t have much choice, Harry. You’d never convince the police you didn’t know he was dead when you substituted for him on the plane.”

He said indignantly, “He was already dead then? You tricked me. How did it happen? Where is he?”

She answered only the last question. “On the bottom of Lake Erie, Harry. We’re quite safe. There isn’t a chance in the world the body will ever be recovered.”

“Why did you do it? And how?”

She shook her head. “Mr. Calhoun instructed me to tell you nothing except that you’re an accessory to murder. He doesn’t want you to know any details.”

Cushman walked over to the portable bar, poured a double shot of bourbon into a glass, and tossed it off. He didn’t inquire if Helena wanted a drink.

After a slight shudder, he returned to the fireplace and faced her again. In a voice that trembled slightly he said, “Did you kill him, or did Calhoun?”

When she merely shook her head, he said, “I have to know, Helena.”

“What difference does it make?” she inquired. “If we’re ever caught, we’re all three equally guilty under the law.”

“It makes a difference to me,” he said tightly. “I have no intention of marrying a murderess.”

“That’s all right, Harry,” she said agreeably. “You don’t have to marry me. I was never too enthusiastic about the idea, anyway, if you’ll remember. It was always you who wanted marriage.”

“Then it was you who killed him!”

“Don’t look so horrified,” she said. “It was necessary. He discovered the damage to the car, and was going to call the police.” She paused as a thought struck her. “Harry, Lawrence’s clothing is still hidden in the garage. I forgot it completely. We’ll have to get it and burn it tonight. Right now.”

“Not me,” he said in a definite tone. “I’m having nothing more to do with any of your plans. I’m walking out right now. Forever.”

She studied him thoughtfully. “You’re not planning to go to the police, are you, Harry?”

“And stick my own neck in a noose?” he inquired with bitterness. “You’ve arranged things so I can’t afford to do that.”

Walking back to the portable bar, he spilled more whisky into a glass, this time lifted a siphon bottle to add soda. As she moodily contemplated his back, it suddenly occurred to Helena how she could get Barney Calhoun to come back to her.

Her moody expression disappeared and a full smile appeared on her face.

Quietly she faded to the opposite side of the room, her bare feet making no sound on the thick rug. With one eye on Cushman’s back, she soundlessly drew open the top drawer of a secretary. Reaching into the drawer, her fingers closed over the butt of a.32-caliber automatic.

She crossed the room again. Harry Cushman was tilting his drink to his lips when she placed the muzzle of the gun at the back of his head.

Since Sunday night Barney Calhoun had spent little time away from his flat. He couldn’t escape the feeling that something might develop, and he wanted to be close to his phone. On the two occasions that Helena phoned, he had been prepared for the worst. Yet when each call had turned out to be unnecessary, his reaction was anger at her calling rather than relief.

When her third call came shortly after ten P.M. on Tuesday, it didn’t anger him. The minute he picked up the phone he sensed that this time she had something important to say.

“What is it?” he asked in a controlled voice.

“How soon can you get out to my home, Barney?” she asked.

He felt a cold chill run along his spine. “Why?”

“I need you. Right away.”

“Why?” he asked again.

“I can’t tell you over the phone. But you must come. Right away.”

“Twenty minutes,” he said, and hung up.

All the way during the drive up Delaware he wondered what possibly could have gone wrong. There wasn’t anything that could have gone wrong, he kept assuring himself. If ever a perfect murder had been pulled, Lawrence Powers’ was it. Not only was the body beyond recovery, the police didn’t even suspect there had been a murder, and probably never would. And it couldn’t be anything about the hit-and-run case. The police had already examined the car and had apologized for bothering Helena.

The only thing he could think of was that Harry Cushman had gone to the police. But that seemed inconceivable to Calhoun. If he had evaluated Cushman correctly, the man would stay as far away from both the police and Helena as he could get from the minute he realized he could be charged as an accessory to first-degree homicide.

His thoughts didn’t accomplish anything but to get him all upset by the time he arrived at Helena’s home.

Helena met him at the front door. She wore a white housecoat, tightly wrapped around her from the throat nearly to the ankles. He suspected it was all she had on. She was barefoot. She looked as calm and unruffled as ever.

“Don’t look so worried,” she greeted him. “We’re all alone. Alice doesn’t stay after eight, you know.”

As she locked the door behind him, he said, “What is it?”

“Harry,” she said calmly. “He came over tonight, and I told him all about it.”

So it was Harry Cushman after all who was causing whatever the trouble was.

He said, “Has he gone to the police?”

“Oh no,” she said. “Nothing as serious as that. Would you like a drink before we talk?”

“No, I wouldn’t like a drink before we talk,” he said, exasperated. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’d rather show you.”

The words raised the hair at the base of his neck. The last time she’d used similar words, she had led him to her husband’s iced corpse. Now she took his hand, just as she had that previous time, and led him into the front room. He followed numbly, almost knowing what to expect.

The light was off in the front room, but the switch was by the door. Helena flipped it on as they entered. Then she dropped Calhoun’s hand and looked at him expectantly.

Lying face down in front of a portable bar was Harry Cushman. The entire back of his head was soaked with blood, and there was a small round hole in his forehead where the bullet had come out. High on the wall a scar in the plaster showed where the bullet had ended up. Cushman’s left hand clutched a glass from which liquid had spilled, and near his outstretched right hand lay a siphon bottle on its side. Next to him lay a.32-caliber automatic.