Richard Deming - No Pockets in a Shroud

Our eyes locked, and the certainty in his sent a tingle along my spine. All at once I knew we were going to repeat the same old routine, and I’d be touching my gun butt when his muzzle began to point at me. Only this time the tiny barrel would erupt death. Something of my knowledge must have appeared in my eyes, for his crinkled in cruel amusement.

“You start,” he repeated.

I thought, What the hell. Long as I’m going down, I might as well make it look good, and slowly raised my hands to my coat pockets. I thrust them deep inside.

“You start,” I suggested. “You’re going to need more time.”

His face stiffened and his eyes registered the faintest touch of uncertainty. Figuring this was the farthest he’d ever be off guard, I started my draw.

The next part of a second went by in slow motion. My hand left its pocket the barest instant before his, and reached the gun butt the barest instant after his. As our guns came out, his the narrowest part of a micro-second before mine, his face began to dissolve in panic. And as my muzzle centered on his heart, his spat flame and a small wind whispered past my ear. Then mine was spitting flame too.

“You’d have made it,” I said softly, “if you hadn’t hurried your shot.”

But he wasn’t listening.

By the time I explained things to Homicide and got a begrudging release from the desk man, it was nearly 6:00 A.M. I fell into bed and lay there without stirring a hair until the apartment doorbell buzzed me awake at noon. It continued to buzz at intervals during the next five minutes, while I strapped on my leg and got a robe over my pajamas. I also took time to don slippers and eliminate my right foot’s aluminum clang. By then my caller leaned steadily on the push button.

I pulled open the door and said: “O.K. I can hear you.”

Eleanor Wade said: “It’s about time. Were you shooing that blonde out the back?”

“A redhead,” I answered grumpily.

She let her coat slide from her shoulders into a chair and raised her face to be kissed. I gave her a courtesy peck without taking my hands from robe pockets. She frowned disgustedly.

“And I called you virile!”

I said: “The redhead wore me out. I’ve got shaving to do. Make yourself useful while you wait. Coffee’s on top of the icebox.”

She examined me critically, her head on one side. “You don’t look too terrible for just getting up,” she decided. “That is,” she explained carefully, “you don’t look more terrible than usual, considering what a good start you have on looking terrible, even before you get tip.”

This being too complicated to follow before coffee, I went into the bathroom without answering. She trailed behind me and stood in the door while I studied my darkened cheeks in the mirror.

“You’re an old bear when you get up, though. I’m not sure I’ll like living with you.”

I picked up my shaving brush. “The coffee’s on the icebox.”

She stuck out her tongue, swished her back at me and went out to the kitchen. Momentarily I concentrated on her remark about living with me, wondered whether she meant legally or in sin. But it’s hard to concentrate before breakfast. A nicked ear wrenched my thoughts back to shaving.

Eleanor knew how to make coffee. By the second cup I began to be nice to her.

“So you’ve decided to live with me?”

“Uh huh.”

“You moving in now, or just here after another report?”

“Neither. I just wanted to see you.”

When we finished our coffee, Eleanor washed the pot and cups and I wiped. Afterward we repaired to the living room and I mixed dessert in a couple of tall glasses.

“Feeling virile yet?” Eleanor asked.

The question was not banter, like the sequence about living together. It was definite invitation. I felt vague annoyance, probably a hangover from some prudish ancestor. And then I felt annoyed at my annoyance, if you understand what I mean. I certainly was not shocked, and I didn’t understand my irritation. Suddenly I remembered Fausta’s, “Me you never invite to your fiat,” and my amused reaction to it. Eleanor’s invitation was no more definite, but its spirit seemed different, more casual — almost routine — as though she had used exactly the same words in exactly the same tone before.

I said, “I’ll tell you when,” and drained my glass in one drink.

She took a cigarette from her case and had me light it for her. Leaning back, she blew smoke at me and studied my face through the haze.

“What’s the matter, Manny? I say something wrong?”

“No. Why?”

“You looked gruff.” She watched my face a moment more, then said: “I will have a report, after all.”

I noted her glass was untouched, and mixed another drink for myself. I tasted it before speaking.

“It’s more or less solved,” I said.

Her glass, halfway to her lips, stopped in mid-air. “Yes?”

“Yeah.”

She waited, the glass remaining suspended.

“It isn’t your husband,” I said.

“No?”

“It’s a guy named Amos Horne. I told you about him before. The blonde’s husband. The Tuesday and Thursday blonde.”

The glass continued its interrupted trip and half the contents disappeared.

I said: “Remember I told you the tire tracks didn’t match his tread? He’s switched tires.”

“Do the police have him?”

“Yeah,”

She lit another cigarette from tie butt of the first. “Then I owe you five hundred dollars.”

I shook my head. “Not yet. Wait till it’s on ice.”

“I thought you said it was solved.”

“I said more or less. The evidence is all circumstantial and he hadn’t confessed, last I heard.”

For a minute she smoked in silence. “What do you think?”

“Me? I think he did it, probably. But I’ve been wrong before. The evidence isn’t phony, because I gathered it myself. But I still think your husband was building an alibi the other night, and this solution leases him out. He’s clear on the O’Conner girl, too.”

“I know. I read about her in the paper.”

“Horne’s probably the murderer, but I’m not quite satisfied. It’s not a hunch, just a feeling I might go wrong. Hold your check until the cops break him down.”

She said musingly: “I hope you are wrong.” Her voice was soft and significant.

I felt a slight chill. “You’ve hoped it was Byron all along, haven’t you?”

She nodded, then quickly drained her glass.

“That’s really why you hired me, isn’t it? You hoped I’d pin it on your husband.”

She nodded again without hesitation.

“Why so eager to get rid of him? Bagnell didn’t mean that much to you.”

She pursed her lips and watched me thoughtfully a long time before speaking, as though solving a problem in her mind. “Are you fond of me?” she asked finally.

“Sure,” I said, surprised.

“Do you love me?”

It was my turn to think. I shook my head. “Love is too big a word. I get scared.”

She didn’t seem disappointed. “But you do like me?”

“Sure.”

“A lot?”

“A lot,” I conceded. “What about it?”

“I’m going to tell you why I really hired you.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Because the minute I saw you, I wanted to leave Byron and be with you. Before, I was content to stay married to him and go where I pleased, but you did something to me. I wanted to get rid of him altogether.”

I felt vaguely embarrassed. “Why not poison him? It’s cheaper.”

“I will,” she said flippantly, “if you want.” Her face smiled, but her eyes were serious.

I rose and picked up her coat. “This is a silly conversation. Let’s go out and get some air.”