Тэлмидж Пауэлл - The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™ - 25 Classic Mysteries

“That clock won’t stop, not unless the electricity goes off.”

“I know — it will keep going. On and on. One midnight is just like another to the clock.”

“That’s right — and what’s so different about this one?”

She didn’t answer him. Her eyes were on the clock.

Four minutes.

A pulse was beating in the hollow of her throat. She glanced at him. “Meet me down on the corner, will you?”

“Now why should I—”

“I don’t want to be seen leaving with you. Leave, Larry. Now!”

“Well, okay,” he said rather stiffly.

“I won’t be long,” she said. “You’ll be there?”

His face lost its sudden touch of ill humor. “Sure, but don’t keep me waiting.”

Larry slid out of the booth, paid the tab, and left.

The girl watched the clock.

One minute.

Light came and went in her eyes. Her teeth gleamed.

Midnight.

She slumped back in the booth, as if exhausted.

In a far off state penitentiary a man had been seated. A switch had been thrown. Impulses, like unleashed demons, had crashed through wires, relays. The man had died, for the capital crime of rape.

Larry was standing impatiently on the corner. He came forward to meet her. She stopped, waiting. At her left was the mouth of an alley.

Larry reached out to take her arm. But as he looked in her eyes, he became frozen, hand outstretched.

“Beast,” she said. “You beast.”

Her hand went up and tore the shoulder of her dress. Then she began screaming.

Larry grabbed her, tried to shut her up by shaking her. They were like that when the shout of the cop came toward them.

Larry stood in confusion a moment. Then he broke and ran. He heard the shouted command to stop, two sharp cracks of a gun... pain, a falling into a deep black pit of pain...

Jeannine was crying when the cop reached her. “That man... he... I was going home... I...”

The cop loomed big and stalwart over her innocence and delicacy. He looked at her misty eyes and his jaw muscles knotted.

“There, there, little lady. He’ll never hurt nobody no more. Now, try not to think about it...”

Originally published in Manhunt , July 1957.

It was Joe Edgerly’s wedding night. He sat on the side of the bed in the expensive motel room and held his head in his hands.

Lean, slim, muscular in his new pajamas, he stared at the floor and wondered if any of the other guests in the motel had heard his wife scream the moment he had touched her.

Wedding night.

But we’re not husband and wife yet.

I wonder if we ever will be.

She was quiet now, lying very still on the bed behind him.

“I’m sorry, Joe,” she said in a faraway voice.

He turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes ached.

Her body molded the bed linens beautifully. Her face, for all its waxen cast, was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Her blonde hair spilled and sparkled across the pillow like gold.

She was looking away from him. At the window. At the night. Or at something far beyond the window or night.

“It’s all right,” he said. It wasn’t all right, but he didn’t see how he could say anything else.

She wasn’t crying now. She didn’t seem to feel anything. “You shouldn’t have let me cry out like that, Joe. You should have made me stop.”

He turned toward her, almost reached out to touch the white marble of her shoulder. He let his hand drop.

“We’ll forget this happened,” he said. “You’re not the first bride to get panic-stricken, Dusty.”

“I should never have let you talk me into running away and getting married,” Dusty said. “I’ll only hurt you. I’m not right for you. I’m — not pure, Joe.” The final words seeped out of her, almost inaudible.

He felt the muscles contort in his face, changing its dimensions and planes.

“Who hurt you, Dusty?”

“Joe...” she pleaded.

“Who?” he demanded.

“A man named Radford.”

“Did you — did you love this Radford?”

“I never saw him before that day, Joe.” Her voice pulled as tight as it could go, broke, and words tumbled out. “It happened three years ago, when I was living in Colterville. There was a swamp... out on the edge of town. My mother used to nag me to stay away from the place. But I liked the swamp, the old trees, the water... There was a shack in the swamp. I was tired. I went in. The place didn’t look lived in, just an old daybed and rickety table for furnishings. Radford — he came in while I was there.”

“An old bum,” Joe said.

“Not old. Young. Dressed up, he would have been handsome. But he was dirty. Living there like an animal. I told him I had wandered into the shack by mistake.”

She had to pause to get saliva into her mouth. Joe sat unmoving, only hurting. Each word like a bullet, he thought.

“He said,” Dusty whispered, “that he lived in the shack during the spring every year, on his way north from bumming around Florida.

“I wasn’t afraid at first. He didn’t talk like a tramp. I even began to wonder what made him tick, how a man who could talk well could be a vagabond, a homeless wanderer.”

“So you talked to him for some time?”

“Yes. And then as I was leaving, he looked at me with a twisted smile on his face and said it was too early to leave.

“I was afraid then. He came up to me and took hold of my arms. I screamed. He laughed. There was nobody to hear me scream...”

There was a singing in Joe’s head. It rose to such a pitch that he felt as if he were losing his balance and would fall off the edge of the bed.

He got up and lighted a cigarette and walked back and forth across the room.

She lay with her arm over her eyes, “You made me tell you, Joe.”

“It was best.”

“Now you’re upset.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You can’t deny it, Joe. It’s been a mistake. You should walk out the door and not come back.”

Joe lay down on the bed and continued smoking. He reached up and turned off the bed lamp. Dusty lay still and tense beside him. After a long time, he realized they were both pretending to be asleep.

The quiet shell he wore in the office brought some ribbing from men who worked with him.

“...Married life getting you down, Joe?”

“...Look at the guy — married a week now and all he can do is go around thinking of his wife. It’s almost five, Joe. Almost quitting time. You’ll be home to her in less than an hour.”

“...When do we meet the bride, Joe? Geez, I got to meet the gal who’s terrific enough to addle Joe Edgerly’s brains.”

By the end of the week, Joe admitted to himself that he had changed inside. The thing had grown in him like a ravening monster. He could think of nothing but Radford.

He went in old man Simpkins’ office and reminded Simpkins that he had several days of sick leave coming.

“I’d like a few days off,” Joe said.

Simpkins, a withered man with a dry sense of humor, leaned back behind his desk. “I guess it can be arranged, Joe. Can’t say that I blame you. I’d hate to come right back to work myself after a short weekend honeymoon. By the way, when am I going to meet the missus?”

“Very soon,” Joe said, “Thanks for the time off, Mr. Simpkins.”

Simpkins waved him out of the office.

Nevertheless, as if a part of him had been iced over, Joe left the office and drove across town.

He chose a cheap pawnshop. Dirty windows. Shelves and showcases piled full of broken dreams and moments of fear. A wizened old man, like a packrat, coming out into the light.

“I want to buy a gun,” Joe said.

“Do you have a permit?”