James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

“Yuh okay?” Moe asked, staring at him through the car window. “This is important, Pete.”

“I’m okay,” Pete said. He looked at his wrist-watch. The time was two minutes past half-past ten. He had twenty-one minutes to do the job and get clear.

He walked quickly towards the house, emptying his mind of thought. It would be all right, he told himself, when he saw the look in her eyes. This sick feeling would go away then, and he would enjoy doing what he had come to do.

As he walked up the path that ran between two small lawns, he saw the curtain of one of the ground-floor windows move. He mounted the steps leading to the front door. There were four name-plates and four bells by the side of the door. As he read the name-plates and found Bunty Boyd’s apartment was on the second floor, he felt he was being watched, and he looked round sharply in time to see the curtain of the ground-floor window drop hurriedly into place and the dim shadow of a man move away.

Pete rang the second-floor apartment bell, opened the front door and walked across the small hall and climbed the stairs. As he reached the second floor he heard a radio playing swing music. He crossed the landing as the front door of the apartment jerked open.

He felt his mouth suddenly turn dry and his heart skip a beat, then he found himself looking at a blonde-haired girl, wearing a white beach frock, whose young, animated face had a chocolate-box prettiness. She came forward, smiling, but the moment she caught sight of his face she came to an abrupt standstill, and her eyes opened wide and her smile went away.

The look he had come to expect jumped into her eyes, and he knew then it would be all right. He felt a rising viciousness inside him that left him a little breathless.

He forced himself to smile and said in his quiet, gentle voice, Is Miss Coleman in, please?”

“Have — have you come to see Frankie?” the girl asked. “Oh! Then you — you must be Burt Stevens. She won’t be a minute. Will you wait just a moment?” She spun around on her heels and ran back into the apartment before he could speak.

He stood waiting, his hand inside his coat, his fingers around the plastic handle of the ice-pick. If she came out on to the landing, he could do it at once. It would be easier and safer than doing it inside where the other girl might not leave them alone. A cold anger and an overpowering desire to inflict pain and fear gripped him.

Through the half-open door he heard Bunty say in a dramatic whisper, “But he’s awful! You can’t go with him, Frankie! You simply can’t!”

He waited, his heart pounding, blood beating against his temples. Then the door opened, and she came out on to the sunlit landing.

She might have stepped out of her photograph, except she was smaller than he had imagined. She had a beautiful little figure that not even the severe pale blue linen dress could conceal. Her dark silky hair rested on her shoulders. Her smile was bright and sincere, and there was that look in her eyes that had had such an effect on him when he had seen her picture for the first time.

Her fresh young beauty paralyzed him, and he waited for her smile to fade and for disgust to come into her eyes, and his fingers tightened on the ice-pick.

But the smile didn’t fade; pleasure lit up her face as if she were really happy to see him. He stood there, staring at her, waiting for the change, and not believing it wouldn’t come.

“You must be Burt,” she said, coming to him and holding out her hand. “Terry said you were going to take his place. It’s sweet of you to have come at the last moment. I should have been sunk if you hadn’t come. I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”

His hand came out from inside his coat, leaving the ice-pick in its sheath. He felt her cool fingers slide into his hand and he looked down at her, watching her, waiting for the change, and then suddenly realizing with a sense of shock that it wasn’t coming.

The girl, Bunty, came out on to the landing, followed immediately by a tall, powerfully built young fellow with a crew haircut and a wide india-rubber grin. He was wearing a red-patterned shirt worn outside a pair of fawn slacks, and in his hand he carried a gay red-and-white striped hold-all.

Still holding Pete’s hand, Frances turned and smiled at Bunty.

“Are you ready, then, at last?” she asked.

“Buster says if we don’t hurry we’ll miss the tide.”

“Burt, this is Buster Walker,” Frances said, turning to look at Pete. “You’ve already met Bunty, haven’t you?”

Pete’s eyes moved over the big fellow who pushed out his hand, grinning. There was no disgust, no surprise in the big fellow’s eyes, just a desire to be friendly.

“Glad to know you,” Buster said. “Sorry we couldn’t give you longer notice. I don’t know what I should have done if I had to have these two on my hands without support. It’s as much as I can do to manage Bunty.”

Pete muttered something as he shook hands.

“Would you like to leave those magazines and pick them up when we get back?” Frances asked, and held out her hand for them.

Pete let her take them. He watched her return to the apartment, lay them on the hall table, then shut the front door on the catch lock.

“Now, let’s go,” she said, and took his arm.

He allowed her to lead him down the stairs. He didn’t know what to do. His mind was confused. He knew he couldn’t turn on her now, not in cold blood, not a girl who hadn’t flinched away from him and who was actually holding his arm. If only it had been the other girl, the job would have been over by now.

As they walked down the stairs into the hall, Buster said, “I suppose Terry did tell you where we were going, Burt?”

Pete looked back over his shoulder.

“No… he didn’t say…”

“Isn’t that like Terry!” Buster exclaimed. The nut! Well, we’re going to spend the day on the beach, and take in the amusement park.”

“Buster imagines he’s going to take me on the Big Wheel,” Bunty said, “but he’s quite, quite mistaken. I wouldn’t go on that thing for Gregory Peck, let alone Buster Walker!”

Buster laughed.

“You’ll come on with me if I have to carry you.” He opened the front door and stood aside to let the girls pass. “I have a car at the corner,” he went on, falling into step with Pete. “I got a flat and I left it at the garage to be fixed.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Pete saw the curtain move again in the groundfloor window, and again caught sight of a shadowy outline of a man, drawing back quickly.

“Old nosy-parker’s snooping again,” Bunty said scornfully. “That’s all he does, peep through the curtains.”

“Perhaps he’s lonely,” Frances said. “He never seems to go out, does he?”

“Oh, you’re hopeless, Frankie,” Bunty said impatiently. “You always find some excuse for lame dogs. The fact is he’s a nasty old drunk who spends all his time spying on people, and that’s all there is to it.”

Pete felt blood rise to his face. That was it, he thought. It’s pity. She’s one of those people who live by pity. That was why she hadn’t flinched when she had seen his face. She may have flinched inwardly, but rather than hurt his feelings, she had controlled her expression. Once again he felt the cold knot tighten inside him, and his hand went inside his coat and he touched the handle of the ice-pick.

The Packard was only twenty yards away. If he hit her now, he could reach the car before the other two could recover from the shock.

Again he knew he was deluding himself, for Frances and Bunty were now several yards ahead of him, and Buster was walking by his side.

He saw the Packard move forward and then stop, and he wondered what Moe was thinking. He felt a little chill run up his spine. Perhaps Moe would move into action. Suppose he shot her from the car? The moment the thought dropped into his mind, he quickened his step and closed the gap between himself and Frances, and walked just behind her, covering her back from Moe with his body.