Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“All right, keep the dough and forget you were hired. You’ve already had the ‘plus,’ and you can keep that as a memory.”

“I’ve only been paid half the dough,” MacGregor said.

“When’s the rest due?”

“When you drop the case.”

“I can’t match it, MacGregor, but I’ll give you a thou for your trouble. You’re getting off easy, believe me. If I don’t crack this, the Feds will, and then you’ll really be in hot water.”

“Yeah,” MacGregor said, nodding.

“Does that mean you’ll forget it?”

“Where’s the G-note?”

Davis reached for his wallet on the dresser.

“Who hired you, MacGregor?”

He looked up.

MacGregor’s smile had widened now.

“I’ll take it all, Miltie.”

“Huh?”

“All of it.” MacGregor waved the gun. “Everything in the wallet. Come on.”

“You are a jackass, aren’t you?” Davis said.

He fanned out the money in the wallet, and held it out to MacGregor. MacGregor reached for it, and Davis loosened his grip, and the bills began fluttering toward the floor. MacGregor grabbed for them with his free hand, turning sideways at the same time, taking the gun off Davis.

It had to be then, and it had to be right, because the talking game was over and MacGregor wasn’t buying anything.

Davis leaped, ramming his shoulder against the fat man’s chest. MacGregor staggered back, and then swung his arm around just as Davis’s fingers clamped on his wrist. They staggered across the room in a clumsy embrace, like partners at a dance school for beginners. Davis had both hands on MacGregor’s gun wrist now. They didn’t speak or curse. MacGregor grunted loudly each time he swung his arm, and Davis’s breath was audible as it rushed through his parted lips. He did not loosen his grip. He forced MacGregor across the room, and when the fat man’s back was against the wall Davis began methodically smashing the gun hand against the plaster.

“Drop it,” he said through clenched teeth. “Drop it.”

He hit the wall with MacGregor’s hand again, and this time the fat man’s fingers opened and the gun clattered to the floor. Davis stepped back for just an instant, kicking the gun across the room, and then rushed forward and sank his clenched fist into the fat man’s middle.

MacGregor’s face went white. Clutching his belly, he lurched backward, slamming into the wall, knocking a picture to the floor. Davis hit him once more, on the point of the jaw, and MacGregor pitched forward onto his face. He wriggled once, and was still.

Davis stood over him, breathing hard. He waited until he caught his breath, and then he glanced at his watch. Quickly, he picked up the .38 from where it lay on the floor. He broke it open, checked the load, and then brought it to his suitcase and placed it on top of his shirts.

He snapped the suitcase shut, called the police to tell them he’d just subdued a burglar in his apartment, and then left to catch his Las Vegas plane.

He started with the biggest hotels first.

“Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner,” he said. “Are they registered here?”

The clerks all looked the same.

“Radner, Radner. The name doesn’t sound familiar, but I’ll check, sir.”

Then the shifting of the ledger, the turning of pages, the signature largely scrawled, and usually illegible.

“No, sir, I’m sorry. No Radner.”

“Perhaps you’d recognize the woman, if I showed you her picture?”

“Well...” The apologetic cough. “Well, we get an awful lot of guests, sir.”

And the fair-haired girl emerging from the wallet. The black-and-white, stereotyped snapshot of Alice Trimble, and the explanation, “She’s a newlywed with her husband.”

“We get a lot of newlyweds, sir.” The careful scrutiny of the head shot, the tilting of one eyebrow, the picture held at arm’s length, then closer.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t recognize her. Why don’t you try...?”

He tried them all, all the hotels, and then all the rooming houses and then all the motor courts. They were all very sorry. They had no Radners registered, and couldn’t identify the photograph.

So he started making the rounds then.

He lingered at the machines, feeding quarters into the slots, watching the oranges and lemons and cherries whirl before his eyes, but never watching them too closely, always watching the place instead, looking for the elusive woman named Alice Trimble Radner.

Or he sat at the bars, nursing endless scotches, his eyes fastened to the mirrors that commanded the entrance doorways. He was bored, and he was tired, but he kept watching, and he began making the rounds again as dusk tinted the sky, and the lights of the city flicked their siren song on the air.

He picked up the local newspaper in the hotel lobby.

In his room, drinking a scotch from the minibar, he flipped through the paper idly, and almost missed the story.

The headline read: FATAL ACCIDENT. The subhead read: FATE CHEATS BRIDE.

The article told of a Pontiac crashing through a highway guardrail, instantly killing its occupant. Initial inspection indicated defective brakes. The occupant’s name was Anthony Radner. There was a picture of Alice Trimble Radner leaving the coroner’s office. She was raising her hand to cover her face when the picture was taken. It was a good shot, close up, clear. The caption read: Tearful Alice Trimble Radner, leaving the coroner’s office after identifying the body of her husband, Anthony Radner.

Davis did not notice any tears on Alice’s face.

Little Alice Trimble, he thought.

Shy, often awkward.

Honest.

A simple girl.

Well, murder is a simple thing, he thought. All it involves is killing another person or persons. You can be shy and awkward, and even honest — but that doesn’t mean you can’t be a murderer besides. So what is it that takes a simple girl like Alice Trimble and transforms her into a murderess?

Figure it this way. Figure a louse named Tony Radner who sees a way of striking back at the girl who jilted him and coming in to a goodly chunk of dough besides. Figure a lot of secret conversation, a pile of carefully planned moves. Figure a wedding, planned to coincide with the day of the plotted murder, so the murderers can be far away when the bomb they planted explodes.

Radner gets to see Janet Carruthers on some pretext, perhaps a farewell drink to show there are no hard feelings. This is his wedding day, and he introduces her to his bride, Alice Trimble. They share a drink, perhaps, but the drink is loaded and Janet suddenly feels very woozy. They help her to the airport, and they stow the bomb in her valise. None of the pilots know Radner. The only bad piece of luck is the fact that the fire-warning system is acting up, and a mechanic named Mangione recognizes him. But, hey, those are the breaks.

Radner helps her aboard and then goes back to his loving wife, Alice. They hop the next plane for Vegas, and when the bomb explodes they’re far, far away. They get the news from the papers, file claim, and come into two hundred thousand bucks.

Just like falling off Pier 8.

Except that it begins to go sour about there. Except that maybe Alice Trimble likes the big time now. Two hundred G’s is a nice little pile. Why share it?

So Tony Radner meets with an accident. If he’s not insured, the two hundred grand is still Alice’s. If he is insured, there’s more for her.

The little girl has made her debut. The shy, awkward thing has emerged.

Portrait of a killer.

The easy part was over, of course. The hard part was still ahead. He still had to tell Anne about it, and he’d give his right arm not to have that task ahead of him. Alice Trimble? The police would find her. She probably left Vegas the moment Radner piled up the Pontiac. She was an amateur, and it wouldn’t be too hard to find her. But telling Anne, that was the difficult thing.