Росс Томас - Cast a Yellow Shadow

“Gee, Magda you think of everything,” I said. I took the .38 out and put it on the floor.

“Now kick it gently towards me,” she said.

I kicked it gently towards her.

“What happens after two hours? You just walk out into the street and call a taxi?”

“Something like that.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “I think in two hours you’ll leave, all right, but the three of us will be dead. That’s your assignment from Dymec, isn’t it?”

“You have two entire hours to worry about it.”

“How much was the payoff?”

“So much money, McCorkle. So very much lovely money.”

“Enough to retire?”

“Quite enough.”

“I always favored early retirement — especially after an active life.”

“You chatter too much.”

“I’m nervous”

Sylvia Under hill, slightly behind Magda, pulled up her skirt as if to adjust her hose. When her hands came up she held a nickel-plated .25 automatic in them. Her eyes were wide and she held the automatic with both hands, but it still shook. Her eyes asked me the question and I nodded my head just slightly and Sylvia Underhill shot Magda Shadid twice in the back. She held the small automatic in both hands and jerked the trigger. The first time, her eyes were closed. The second time she pulled the trigger, they were open. She looked as if she were going to cry.

Magda stumbled forward, caught herself and turned. “You little bitch,” she said and tried to get her gun up so that she could shoot Sylvia Underhill or Fredl McCorkle. I don’t think she cared which. I was across the room by then, the switchblade was open in my right hand, and it went into her back and the blade scraped her spine.

She fell then with the knife still in her back. I reached down and pulled it out and wiped it on the bedspread. Sylvia was crying. She sat in the chair, bent forward, the small automatic still in her hands, and cried.

“Let’s go,” I said.

She looked up at me. There was a lot of revulsion in her face. “I killed her,” she said.

“I helped.”

“I’ve never killed anything before, not even animals. Not even a bird.”

I picked Fredl up from the bed. She didn’t seem to weigh very much.

“Let’s go,” I said to Sylvia.

She rose, the automatic still dangling in her hand. “Put that in my pocket,” I said. “The one on the floor, too.”

She walked around the bed and picked up the .38 that I had kicked towards Magda and put it into my right coat pocket. She dropped hers into the other pocket where it clicked against the knife. I walked over to the door and turned. Sylvia was standing in the center of the room, staring down at the lifeless body.

“You’ll have to open the door,” I said. “I have my hands full.”

“I didn’t want to kill you,” she said to the body on the floor.

It was a long, difficult drive to Betty’s. I went fast, unconscious of the speed limits, crossing the Anacostia River on the Eleventh Street Bridge and turning right on Potomac Avenue. I cut left on Pennsylvania Avenue and followed it to the Library of Congress, turned right on First Street, sped past the Supreme Court and the Senate Office Building, wound around the maze in front of Union Station, got on to North Capitol Street until I hit Florida Avenue, then caught Georgia Avenue at the old Griffith Stadium site and drove past Howard University until I came to Fairmont.

Sylvia Underhill held Fredl in her arms while I drove. Neither of us said anything. I tried the car’s telephone once to see if the conference call was still working, but it was dead. I parked in the no parking zone in front of Betty’s apartment house, went around the car, and helped Sylvia out. She needed help. A reaction seemed to have set in and she was trembling.

“Hold on a few more minutes,” I said. I picked Fredl up and we walked up a flight of steps and into the building. I had Sylvia ring the doorbell. Betty answered it.

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Bring her into the bedroom. I’ll get hold of Doctor Lambert. He’s spectin to be called.”

I didn’t take off my shoes as I walked across the white carpet and into the room with the big oval bed. I put Fredl down on it gently.

“She’s very pretty,” Sylvia said from behind me.

“Yes, she is, isn’t she.”

Betty came into the bedroom. “She sick or hurt?”

“Doped.”

She nodded as if it happened every day in her house. Maybe it did. “Doctor’s on his way.” She turned to Sylvia. “Who’s this?”

“This is Sylvia. She helped us find my wife.”

Betty looked at the girl carefully. “Look like Sylvia needs a drink. She’s shaking.”

“So am I.”

Betty put her hands on her hips. She was wearing lime green stretch pants, a white blouse, and no shoes. “You know where the liquor is. You all go on in the livingroom and I’ll get your wife undressed and tucked into bed. Don’t look like she’s gonna be waking up anytime soon.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“And take off your shoes.”

After I got my shoes off, I mixed two drinks and gave one to Sylvia. “Drink it,” I said. “It’ll help your shakes.”

She nodded and drank. We sat in the livingroom until Doctor Lambert knocked on the door. He nodded at me. “Who’s the patient?” he asked.

“My wife. She’s in the bedroom.”

He went in, carrying his doctor’s bag, and I sat there on the couch and stared at the white rug. Sylvia said nothing. The doctor and Betty came out in a quarter of an hour.

“I can’t determine what they gave her,” he said. “But it was an injection — in her right arm. She’s in no danger, but the best thing to do would be to let her sleep. I estimate she’ll be out for another four or five hours at least.”

“You sure she’s all right?”

“Yes.”

“Take a look at this one then,” I said, nodding my head at Sylvia.

“Has she been hurt?”

“In a way,” I said. “But it’s mostly fright. She doesn’t like herself very much either.”

The doctor’s dark face was impassive. “Go take a look at your wife,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do for your friend.”

I went back into the bedroom and looked down at the oval bed where Fredl lay sleeping, the covers drawn up to her chin. She stirred slightly, but not much. I stood there for what seemed to be a long time and looked at her and I found myself smiling. I put my drink down on the dresser, then went back to the bed, bent down, and kissed Fredl on the forehead. She didn’t stir. I stood there for a while longer, just looking at her and smiling until my jaws seemed to grow stiff, then I picked up the drink and went back into the livingroom.

Dr. Lambert was handing Sylvia a capsule and a glass of water. “Some people,” he said to me, “seem to think that liquor is the cure for everything.”

I looked at the drink in my hand and then took a swallow. “I’ve known it to brighten a few dark moments,” I said.

“It’s a depressant,” he snapped. “Not a stimulant.”

“I didn’t think she needed a pep pill.”

“She needs to sleep,” the doctor said testily, “not to brood. This will help her sleep.”

“She can sleep on the couch,” Betty said. “You want the floor?” she asked me.

“I have to go,” I said.

“You don’t look too well yourself,” the doctor said. “You look beat.”

“I’m all right,” I said and waved my drink at him. “I’ll stick to the home remedy.”

“Liver,” Doctor Lambert murmured. “It gets them all in the liver.”

“What about the bill?” I said.

“Three hundred.”

I got my billfold out and paid him. “I’ll drop back by in a couple of hours,” he said.