Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

He went through sixies in a breeze, feeling stronger and more confident all the time, not even noticing Melissa or her friends anymore, his full and complete concentration on the table top as he raced through sevensies, and eightsies, and ninesies, and then paused to catch his breath.

“Play,” Melissa said.

“This is the last one,” he said. “If I get through this one, I win.”

“That’s right,” Melissa said.

“But first you have to get through it,” Frieda said.

“First you have to win, mister.”

“The game isn’t over yet, mister.”

“You can still lose, mister.”

“Shut up!” he said.

The room went silent.

He picked up the jacks. I must win, he told himself. I must win. He dropped the jacks onto the table top. Nine of them fell miraculously together in a small cluster. The tenth jack rolled clear across the table, at least two feet away from the others.

“Too bad,” Melissa said. “You give up?”

“I can make it,” Mullaney said.

“It’s a harder shot than mine was,” Melissa said.

“I can make it.”

“Let’s see you,” she said.

“All right.”

The pile of nine first, he thought, then go for the one, and then catch the ball. No. The one first, sweep it toward the bigger pile using the flat of my hand, the way Melissa used hers, then scoop up all ten together and catch the...

No.

Wait a minute.

Yes.

Yes, that’s the only way to do it.

“Here goes,” he said.

“Bad luck” the three girls said together, and he threw the ball into the air.

His hand seemed to move out so terribly slowly, hitting the single lonely jack across the table and sweeping it toward the larger pile, the ball was dropping so very quickly, he would never make it, the pile of ten was now beneath his grasping fingers, he closed his hand, his eyes swung over to the dropping ball, he scooped up the jacks, the ball bounced, slid his closed hand across the table and, without lifting it from the wooden surface, flipped it over, opened the fingers, spread the hand wide, caught the ball and was closing his hand again when he felt the ball slipping from his grasp.

No, he thought, no!

He tightened his hand so suddenly and so fiercely that he thought he would break his fingers. He tightened it around the ball as though he were grasping for life itself, crushing the ball and the jacks into his palm, holding them securely, his hand in mid-air, and then slowly bringing his fist down onto the table.

“I win,” he said without opening his hand.

“You bastid,” Melissa said, and threw the shopping bag onto the table top. She rose from her tiny chair, tossed her dark hair, and walked swiftly out of the room.

“You bastid,” Frieda said.

“You bastid,” Hilda said, and they followed Melissa out.

He sat exhausted at the small table, his head hanging between his knees, his hand still clutched tightly around the jacks and the rubber ball. At last, he opened his hand and let the jacks spill onto the table, allowed the rubber ball to roll to the edge and fall to the concrete floor, bouncing away across the basement.

The room was very still.

He turned over the Judy Bond shopping bag and shook the black burial jacket onto the table top. He fingered the large buttons at the front, and the smaller buttons on the sleeves, and then he picked up one of the jacks and moved it toward the center front button. Using the point of the jack, he scraped at the button. A peeling ribbon of black followed the tip of the jack. Flakes of black paint sprinkled onto the table top. He smiled and scratched at the button more vigorously, thinking There are three buttons down the front of the jacket (each about ten carats, Bozzaris had said), ten, eleven, and nine, in that order, scratching at the button, chipping away the paint; and there are four smaller buttons on each sleeve, eight at five to six carats each, I am a rich man. Mullaney thought, I am in possession of half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds.

He had scraped all the paint off the middle button now.

He grasped the button between his thumb and forefinger, lifted it and the jacket to which it was fastened toward the hanging light bulb. It caught the incandescent rays, reflected them back in a dazzling glitter. This must be the eleven-carat beauty, he thought, it’s slightly larger than the other two, I am a rich man, he thought, I am at last a winner.

“Hand it over,” the voice behind him said.

He turned.

K and Purcell were standing in the doorway to the room. Mullaney had no intention of handing over the jacket, but it didn’t matter because Purcell immediately walked over to him and hit him full in the face with the butt of a revolver.

The sound of furies howling in the cemetery beyond, am I dreaming or am I dead, voices mumbling, K’s and Purcell’s, “should have made sure he was dead before you started for the airport.”

“We thought he would suffocate in the closed coffin.”

“He didn’t.”

“Nor did we expect the coffin to be hijacked and opened.”

“You should have been more careful.”

“Are you in charge here, or am I?”

“You are, but...”

“Then keep quiet.”

“Here’re the new trousers.” Another voice, McReady’s. He dared not open his eyes, were they in McReady’s cottage again? Proximity to cemeteries makes me somewhat ill, Mullaney thought, or perhaps its only getting hit on the head so often.

“We wouldn’t have to be doing this twice if you’d done it right the first time,” Purcell said.

“We got the diamonds back,” McReady said, “so what difference does it make?”

“This time we’ll make sure he’s dead,” K said.

“Take off his shoes,” McReady said.

“Why?”

“So we can get these pants on him.”

“Is he still out?”

“Yeah.”

“Drag him over here, near the coffin.”

Someone’s hands clutched at his ankles. He felt the floor scraping beneath his shoulders and back, heard the rasping sound of cloth catching at splintered wood. They had not bound him, his hands and feet were free, he could still fight or run.

He wondered how they had located him in the basement room, and then remembered he had left the cab sitting at the curb outside the building, that had been a mistake, a terrible oversight; I have been making a lot of mistakes these past two days, he thought, and I am very tired. Kill me and put me in the goddamn coffin, get it over with.

“Take off his pants,” McReady said.

Purcell pulled at the pants he was wearing. It was cold on the floor of the cottage. He could feel the wind seeping under the front door, Why is it always so cold on the edge of cemeteries? he wondered.

“Polka-dot shorts,” Purcell said, and laughed. “That kills me.”

“Here,” McReady said.

Purcell pulled the new set of trousers over Mullaney’s feet and ankles, up over his legs.

“Doesn’t he need a belt?”

“No, the jacket will cover the trouser loops.”

“We’re lucky the buttons are still on it,” Purcell said.

“They’re fastened securely,” McReady said.

“We had a hole drilled through the pavilion of each diamond...”

“The what?”

“The pavilion,” K said. “The part below the mounting. Doesn’t he need a different tie?”

“A black one,” Purcell said. “You could have cracked those stones, you know.”

“An expert did the job. Don’t we have a black tie, McReady?”

“If you’d cracked the big ones...”

“I know.”

“... the value would have gone all the way down.”

“I’ll look in the other room.”