Лестер Дент: Honey in His Mouth

Harsh jerked his head in the direction of the station wagon. “What’s her problem?”

“Shock.” Mr. Hassam prepared to jump the ditch. “El Presidente is dead. She was his mistress for twenty years.”

“Oh.” Harsh had not supposed Miss Muirz to be much more than thirty years of age now.

Mr. Hassam read his thought. “El Presidente always liked them young.” He sprang at the ditch, landing in the mud and water with a splash. He swore, kicked his feet to throw off the loose mud.

They climbed up a slope toward the wrecked limousine. The two patrolmen, intent on what the interior of the wreck held, did not notice their approach at first. One officer said something to his companion and both ran around to the other side of the wreck.

Mr. Hassam’s whisper was firm and unafraid. “I will tell the officers I am a doctor, and the body is alive, and must be rushed to a hospital. Using that excuse, we will make off with it.”

“I hope they fall for it. It’s a good idea.”

At least fifty feet away from the wreck the reek of raw gasoline was pronounced. Harsh stumbled over an object and looked down and saw the object was a wheel with the tire still in place on it, the wheel almost entirely embedded in the soft earth. At closer view, the limousine looked even less like an automobile than it had appeared from the road.

Nearby palm trees with tall silver trunks leaned forward like inquiring sentries.

“Dick, watch it!” One patrolman drew his revolver. “Oh, it’s the people from the station wagon.” He raised his voice irritably. “I thought I told you folks to stay on the road.”

Mr. Hassam strode forward. “I am a doctor. Someone here may need medical care.”

“Well, okay.” There was quite a lot of dark blood on the patrolman’s hands. “There’s three bodies in there, it looks like. But it’s a mess.”

Harsh tried to sound calm. “Doc and I will do what we can.” He peered into the tangle of steel, wishing he had a flashlight.

The reek of gasoline was overpowering. Harsh could hear it still trickling from a hole in the tank. He was appalled. He had not imagined an automobile could be reduced to such a shapeless thing—even D.C. Roebuck’s hadn’t been mangled quite this thoroughly. He thrust his right arm into what had been the rear seat section.

“If anybody’s alive, it’s in front.” The patrolman sounded impatient.

“I saw something move.” Harsh was lying. His groping fingers had encountered cold flesh that was firm to the touch. “Doc!”

Mr. Hassam got down beside him. “The body?” Mr. Hassam’s whisper was flat and without emotion.

“Yes.” Harsh decided he had hold of an arm. He pulled with all his strength. “Damn thing won’t budge.” He began to pant.

Mr. Hassam also seized the body’s arm, and they both tugged with all their might. The body would not move.

The patrolmen were working on the other side of the wreck. They were yanking and kicking at the twisted metal.

Mr. Hassam’s lips were against Harsh’s ear. “It’s wedged. A knife! Have you a knife?”

“No. Why?”

“I want to cut off the head and hands.”

“No, I ain’t got a knife.” Harsh’s stomach did not feel well.

Both the patrolmen abruptly stood erect. They were looking in the direction of the highway. One lifted his voice. “Hey, lady! Lady, you stay back. Don’t come down here.”

Miss Muirz was coming toward them from the station wagon. She had crossed the ditch and she walked jerkily as if propelled by clockwork. She was looking straight ahead as she came. Her trim legs wore their coating of mud nearly to the knees, like boots.

“Go back, lady! Stay away!” The patrolman waved both arms urgently. “This’ll just make you sick. Go back!”

Miss Muirz had both hands clasped together before her breasts, and Harsh suddenly realized she had a revolver in her hands. Mr. Hassam realized this also. The patrolman had not noticed the gun.

“Gotta stop her!” Harsh hurried forward, Mr. Hassam on his heels, and they put themselves between Miss Muirz and the officers before the latter could see the revolver.

Miss Muirz did not seem to have any awareness of Harsh and Mr. Hassam standing in her path. Her progress ended only when she collided with Mr. Hassam, and even then she continued to stare vacantly in the same direction she had been staring as she walked. Mr. Hassam gripped her shoulders and held them.

“Harsh, go back, use a piece of broken window glass, cut off the hands and head.” Mr. Hassam still seemed calm.

“Won’t work. The cops got their eyes on us.” Harsh’s teeth chattered together. “Listen, I got an idea. The whole wreck is soaked with gasoline. I’m gonna pretend to light a cigarette, drop the match. That’ll burn the bodies.”

Miss Muirz’s body was rigidly inclined against Mr. Hassam as if she were still trying to walk.

“All right, Harsh.”

Harsh ran back to the wreck. One of the patrolmen looked up from the wreck. “So you got the woman headed off? Good. This would be a bad thing for her to see.”

“Yeah. She’s okay.”

The beams from the flashlights the patrolmen held were glistening on gasoline wetness throughout the wreckage. Harsh thought the fuel tank must have split wide open when the limousine was somersaulting. “How are you guys making out?”

The patrolman shrugged. “Three of them. All dead, near as we can tell.”

“I’m gonna work on the other side, officer.” Harsh moved around the wreckage, feeling for a cigarette. Then he realized he had no cigarettes. However he had matches, and if the officers did not see him, he could claim he had dropped his cigarette in his excitement when the wreck caught fire. They might or might not believe that, but they’d have no way to prove it wasn’t so.

He found a match and struck it. The flame leaped with unexpected brightness in his face. The patrolmen were not looking. He dropped the burning match in the wreckage quickly.

A blast of flame enveloped him. His clothing was ablaze. He had, he realized with horror, underestimated the explosive violence of gasoline vapor. He stumbled back. He had also forgotten he had been squirming around in the gasoline-drenched wreckage trying to get the body out. Jesus, he thought, I’m burning like a torch.

Mr. Hassam turned his head when the wreckage mushroomed in flame, and he squinted into the enormous mass that was the wreck, then saw a smaller violently moving bundle of flames that he knew must be Harsh. The stupid fool, Mr. Hassam thought. He could see Harsh was clawing and slapping at the flames with his arms, both the arm in a cast and the one that was not. The cast itself was in flames, too, and so was the bandage on Harsh’s face, which fell off in cinders as he watched. Mr. Hassam suddenly felt tired. Everything had been working so perfectly; now it was in such a mess. Everything was black and white like that. With an impersonator to stand in for El Presidente they could have looted the hidden funds; without such an impersonator there would be no chance. A few hours ago Harsh had been in good condition and cooperating; now Harsh had stupidly thrown everything away. The stupid fool, the utterly stupid fool.

Also Mr. Hassam felt concern about Miss Muirz. He could tell she was in deep shock, her contact with reality badly disrupted. He was not really surprised; Miss Muirz’s emotional existence for some twenty years had been tied to the man she had suddenly learned was dead, his body now burning in the wrecked limousine. Mr. Hassam and Doctor Englaster had discussed Miss Muirz’s emotional ties with El Presidente previously; they had determined to insulate her as much as possible from the murder when it was done. But everything had gotten out of hand, thanks to the idiot Harsh. There was really nothing much he could do about it, was there?