Richard Stark - The Mourner

Harrow pursed his lips, and chewed his cheeks, and stared into what was left of his drink. “You could be right.”

“So instead you leave Menlo to me. He gives you the statue, then I take care of him. And he won’t be coming back to bother you or anybody else.”

“And what do you want for this?”

“Just the gun, same as before.”

“I don’t have it here.”

“You better get it quick. If Bett gave you some fancy ideas about crossing me too, forget it. Menlo didn’t even manage to kill my partner. He’s in a private rest home in Washington, and if he doesn’t hear from me at the same time every day, he’ll know you made trouble for me. Then he makes trouble for you.”

“From a hospital bed?”

“He won’t be in it forever.”

Harrow thought that one over. Finally he said, “All right. The gun is in the hotel safe. I’ll have it sent up.”

“After we take care of Menlo. We don’t want any bellboys coming in at the wrong time.”

“No. You’re right.”

There was a soft rapping at the door. Harrow looked startled, and Parker said, “That’s him now.”

“So quickly?”

“Don’t let it throw you. Just go out there and let him in. Get the statue away from him before he sees me, so he doesn’t get a chance to try and break it or something.”

“The statue!” Harrow hurriedly got to his feet. “The statue,” he muttered, and went out through the doorway into the foyer. Parker, still seated on the sofa, heard him say, “You were very quick. Is that it?”

Then Menlo’s voice, “Yes, this is it.”

“Go on in,” Harrow said. His voice was shaking, and Parker shook his head in disgust. “Go on in.”

But Menlo didn’t tip. He came on in through the foyer doorway, and stood stock still when he saw Parker sitting there. The blood drained from his face, and then all of a sudden he did something peculiar with his face, twisting his mouth around. Then he pitched over forward onto the carpet.

Harrow came in, clutching the mourner to his chest. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Parker got to his feet. “The goddam fool. The poison.”

“Poison? You mean, in his tooth?”

“Yeah.” Parker knelt beside him. “He’s dead all right.”

“For God’s sake, man, how do we explain this?”

“We don’t. We stash him away in a closet or something. Tonight, around midnight, pour some booze over him and drop him off the terrace. Who’s to know what floor the poor drunk fell from? Bett will be here to corroborate your story. He didn’t fall from here.”

“I couldn’t do that!” Harrow was staring at Menlo’s body with horror.

“Bett can. All right, call down for the gun now.”

“But—”

“Call for the gun! Stop worrying about Menlo.”

Harrow made the call, his voice trembling, while Parker dragged the body out onto the terrace into a corner where it couldn’t be seen from inside the suite. He heard Harrow ask that the package that was being held for him in the safe be brought up to the suite.

They waited in silence. Harrow seemed more shaken by Menlo’s death than Parker would ever have guessed. He kept working on the Scotch bottle.

After a while a bellboy came with a small package wrapped in brown paper. Harrow tipped him and sent him on his way, while Parker opened it. The gun was inside all right. Parker stowed it away inside his jacket. “Phone Bett. Tell her to come up here but don’t say that I’m here.”

After he’d made the call, Harrow said, “She said she’d be at least half an hour.”

“That’s all right. I’ll be back by then.”

Parker went out to the elevators. He pushed the button, and when the elevator on the left arrived, he asked the operator, “Did you take a fat man down from here about fifteen minutes ago?”

“Not me.”

Parker pushed a ten into his hand. “Forget I even asked.”

“Yes, sir!”

The elevator went back down, and Parker pushed the button again. The other elevator came up this time, and Parker asked the same question, with another ten in his hand.

“Yes, sir, I did. Just about fifteen minutes ago,” the operator answered.

“What floor did he get off?”

“Seven. Then he came right back up here, a few minutes later.”

“Wait here a minute. I want to get this ten’s brother.”

“I’m with you, sir.”

Parker went back to suite D. Harrow wasn’t in the living room. Parker found him in the bedroom, lying on his back, his left hand palm up over his eyes and his right hand holding a glass half full of Scotch.

Parker left him there for a minute, went out to the terrace, and rifled Menlo’s pockets. He found the room key, and went to the bedroom. “Harrow,” he said. “Get up from there. I’m going to want privacy when I talk to your daughter. You take off for a while.”

Harrow sat up. He looked ashen, but he was busy gathering shreds of dignity around him. “That’s not the proper tone of voice.”

“Come on, I’ve got an elevator waiting.”

“You’ve got an elevator waiting?” Harrow seemed bemused by the idea. He got to his feet, took the mourner up from the bed, and put it in a closet and locked the closet door, then pocketed the key and followed Parker out of the suite.

The elevator was still there, the operator patient. Parker slipped the two tens into the operator’s hand and said, “This gentleman is going all the way down to the lobby. I’m getting off at seven.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were silent on the way down. Parker got off at the seventh floor, found room 706, and unlocked the door. The suitcase was in plain sight, in the closet, the same one they’d bought to carry the money in originally. It was locked, but a suitcase lock can be picked with a piece of spaghetti. Parker opened it, saw that it was still full of bills, and closed it again. He went out, located the emergency staircase, and went down to his room on the fifth floor. He stashed the suitcase, went back up to the seventh floor, and rang for the elevator.

It was the same one that had taken him down, and the operator smiled as he got aboard. They were old friends now; twenty dollars old. On the way up, the operator asked if he had any idea about a horse at Hialeah that could make the twenty grow. Parker told him that wasn’t his sport.

He went back into suite D, this time locking the door, and returned the key to room 706 to Menlo’s pocket. Then he sat down.

Bett knocked at the door ten minutes later. He went over and opened it, and she stared at him. “Come on in, Bett,” he said.

She came in, not saying anything, just staring at him. She was wearing pink slacks and a white shirt and Japanese sandals.

“Come over here, Bett.” He took her elbow and guided her through the sitting room and out onto the terrace. He pointed.

She looked. She whispered, “Menlo.”

“How was he, Bett? In the rack, I mean?”

“You killed him,” she said in a whisper.

“Better than that. Menlo killed himself. He did a better job than he did on me.”

“He swore you were dead. He described how he did it. How could he get the statue away from you if you weren’t dead?”

Parker went back into the sitting room, and she followed him. “You want a drink, Bett?”

“Please.”

“You know where the bar is. I want bourbon.”

She hesitated, and then went over and got the drinks. She brought him his bourbon and he took a sip. She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

“You like the strong ones,” he said. “That’s the way it is, isn’t it? You don’t care what they look like, or what they smell like, or if they’re any good in the rack or not. You just want the strong ones. Menlo was going to double-cross me, so that made him strong and you took him into your bed in Washington. Then he came down here and told you how he’d really killed Parker, and that made him the strongest of all. You have a good night, last night, Bett?”