James Chase: This Way for a Shroud

Dolores stood by the open casement window. She looked slim and lovely in a simple black dress. There were shadows under her eyes, and she was pale.

“Hello, Jack.”

“There you are, Dolly,” Maurer said. “Get me a drink, will you?”

He joined her at the window and looked down the long terraced garden. Guards stood about on the terraces, some of them cradled rifles under their arms.

“Seigel tried to knock off Ferrari,” Maurer said, as Dolores poured a stiff highball. He sank into an armchair, his back to the window. “Ferrari stuck a knife into him. I’m taking a few precautions until Ferrari leaves town.”

Dolores didn’t say anything. She brought the drink over to Maurer and set it on a small table near him.

“Well, Dolly, this is the last drink I’ll have with you, I’m leaving town for good.”

“Are you?” she said, in a flat disinterested voice.

“Yes. I’m going to Florida,” Maurer said. “I’m kissing the Syndicate good-bye. There are a lot of opportunities for a man with my abilities, money and organization in Florida. I shall have to decide what to do with you.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Dolores said, not looking at him. She moved over to the window.

“Oh, I’m not going to worry about you, Dolly,” Maurer said, and laughed. “I don’t think Abe will make you a good husband. Abe’s rather gone to pieces. I think he might meet with a little accident some time to-day. Would you be sorry?”

“No.”

“I thought you were hoping he’d take you over, Dolly.”

“I wonder what gave you that idea?” Dolores said.

She looked down the long flight of steps that linked one terrace with another. Coming up the steps was a small figure in a black suit and black hat. It was Ferrari. He walked slowly and softly. His hands in his pockets, his face raised, his eyes fixed on the casement windows, he appeared completely unaware of the guards who stood motionless, watching him coming.

He passed one guard, then another. Neither of the men moved. They just stared at him. He came slowly, a tiny menacing figure, moving like a ghost.

“Then I’m wrong?” Maurer said. “Was it Seigel you had your eyes on?”

“No.” She came away from the window and walked slowly across the room to the door. “You won’t want me to come with you, Jack?”

He looked at her, smiling.

“You won’t be going anywhere, Dolly — nowhere at all.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, and he was a little surprised to see there was no fear in her exciting eyes.

“I see,” she said, opened the door and went into the hall.

There were no guards in the hall.

As she walked slowly up the stairs to her room, she wondered when Big Joe had taken over the organization. He must have moved fast. She wondered, too, what her life would be like with Ferrari.

She went into her bedroom and sat down. Because she had lived with Maurer for four long years, sharing his bed with him, taking his gifts as well as his insults, she felt sick and cold.

She closed her eyes and waited for the sound that would tell her that she was

Ferrari’s chattel and Maurer’s widow.

The sudden crash of gunfire from downstairs struck her like a physical blow. She leaned forward, her hands covering her face, and for the first time for many years she wept.

She wasn’t weeping for Maurer. She was weeping for herself.