Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

“We can’t put him in the coffin with a striped tie,” K said.

“How much did you say they’re worth?” Purcell asked.

“The three big ones?”

“Yeah.”

“Nine thousand dollars a carat.”

“And the smaller ones?”

“Five thousand a carat.”

“That doesn’t come to half a million, does it?”

“No one ever said it did.”

“You said it did.”

“I said four hundred and ninety thousand dollars.”

“You said half a million.”

“I said not quite half a million.”

“Are you getting that tie, McReady?”

“I could only find a black bow tie,” McReady said.

“Do they bury people in bow ties?”

“Why not?”

“This is a nice bow tie,” McReady said.

“I wonder what happened to his yellow shirt.”

“Jasmine,” McReady said, and chuckled.

“Jasmine,” K repeated, and chuckled with him.

“Let’s get the tie on him,” Purcell said.

“We’ll have to shoot him in the back of the head,” K said. “Otherwise it’ll show.”

“Yeah,” Purcell agreed. “I still say you should have done that in the beginning.”

“I told you we didn’t know the coffin would be hijacked.”

“You should have figured it might have been.”

“Why?” McReady said. “Gouda thought we’d already fenced the stuff and been paid for it.”

“How do you fasten this tie?” K asked.

“Isn’t there a clip or something?”

“No. Oh, wait a minute, is this it?”

“Yes, that’s it,” McReady said.

“I’ve never seen anyone buried in a bow tie,” Purcell said. “Bow ties are for weddings.”

“It’ll have to do,” K said. “You complain an awful lot, did you know that, Purcell?”

“I hate sloppy jobs.”

“Gouda used to complain a lot, too,” McReady said.

“Yeah, but I’m not working for Kruger.”

“We hope not,” McReady said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Calm down,” K said.

“Well, tell him not to make those kind of remarks.”

“Don’t make those kind of remarks,” K said.

“It’s not my fault you were careless,” Purcell said.

“We were not careless.”

“We wanted Gouda to think we’d received payment.”

“We wanted him to steal the money.”

“We wanted him to think we were innocently shipping half a million dollars in paper scraps to Rome.”

“Yeah,” Purcell said sourly, “the only trouble is it didn’t work.”

“It almost worked.”

“Almost ain’t quite,” Purcell said. “The way four hundred and ninety thousand dollars ain’t quite half a million.”

“We had no idea Kruger would tip.”

“The counterfeit bills were very good,” K said.

“Excellent,” McReady said.

“They were so good, I hated to part with them.”

“Where’d you get them?” Purcell asked.

“Ladro’s New York people supplied them.”

“He was furious when I spoke to him,” McReady said.

“Well, he’ll be happy tomorrow morning,” K said. “Let’s get the jacket on him.”

“Let’s shoot him first,” Purcell said.

“You think so?”

“Sure. Otherwise we’ll get blood on the jacket.”

“What do you think, McReady?”

“Either way, let’s get it over with.”

Well, how about it? Mullaney thought, and would have made his move right then, but something still was bothering him, the same elusive something that had begun nagging him back in the Brooklyn basement before he’d started gambling with Melissa, the same something that was eluding him now. You had better move, Mullaney, he told himself, you had better move now and fast and figure out what’s bothering you later because if you don’t you’re going to be figuring it out in a coffin, dead this time, and I am told getting shot in the head is not a very pleasant death. Grandma told me that, however, and she has been proven notoriously wrong about a great many things.

“Lift him,” K said.

“Why?” McReady asked.

“So Purcell can get to the back of his head.”

“Oh,” McReady said. “Yes.”

McReady tugged at his hands, pulling him up into a sitting position. He could hear Purcell walking around behind him.

“Watch the angle now,” K said.

“What do you mean?”

“Make sure you don’t send the bullet through his head and into me.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Point the gun up toward the ceiling.”

“Right,” Purcell said.

With his eyes still closed, Mullaney felt something hard and cold against the back of his skull.

“No, tilt it more,” K said.

“Like this?”

“Can’t you tilt it?”

“Not without crouching down.”

“Then crouch down.”

“You’re behaving like an amateur,” McReady said.

“Tell him to stop making those kind of remarks,” Purcell said. “Stop making those kind of remarks,” K said.

The gun moved away from Mullaney’s head. In that instant, he yanked his hands free of McReady’s loose grip, and swung around in time to catch Purcell just as he was going into his crouch, knocking him back on his heels. There was a silencer on the gun, he saw, making it easier to grab, but rendering it none the less deadly. They can kill me here in this cottage as easily as whispering in church, he thought, and reached for the gun, missing. There was a short puffing explosion. A window shattered across the room. He clutched at Purcell’s wrist, grasped it tightly in both hands, and slammed Purcell’s knuckles against the floor, knocking the gun loose. He lunged for the gun, straddling Purcell as he did so, and then nimbly stepped over him and whirled to face all three men, the gun level in his hand.

“It is now post time,” he said, and grinned.

“Give me that gun, Mullaney,” K said.

“Ha-ha,” Mullaney said, “you are very comical.”

“Give me the gun.”

“No. You give me the jacket.” He extended his left hand.

“The jacket is ours,” K said.

“Correct. Give it to me anyway.”

“The diamonds arc ours, too,” K said.

“No, the diamonds belong to a jewelry firm on Forty-seventh Street,” Mullaney said, and suddenly realized what had been bothering him in the basement, what had continued to bother him all along. The diamonds were neither K’s nor his. The diamonds had been stolen.

He frowned.

“I ...”

And hesitated.

“I want that jacket,” he said.

“Are you ready to kill for it?” K asked.

“What?”

“Because that’s what you’ll have to do,” K said. “You’ll have to kill all three of us.”

He thought This isn’t fair. He thought There’s half a million dollars’ worth of diamonds sewn to that jacket, what do I care whether or not they were stolen? I knew that all along, didn’t I? These men are thugs, these men are hoods, these men are killers. I knew that all along, and it didn’t stop me from making plans for Monte Carlo or London or Jakarta, why should I care now? Kill them, they’re enemies of society, he thought, kill them and get out of here with the loot, who cares? You are a winner, Mullaney, you are holding the winning hand at last.

He was sweating now, the gun in his right hand was trembling. He could see the jacket draped loosely over K’s arm, the middle button repainted black, an innocuous-looking burial garment that would be sent to Rome in exchange for four hundred and ninety thousand dollars, enough for a million and one Arabian nights, kill them, he thought, take the jacket, win!

Yes, Mullaney, he thought, kill them. You have done enough for possession of that jacket in these past two days, you have done enough over this past year, all of it part of the gamble, you have begged, you have borrowed, you have lied, you have cheated, you have stolen, you have Used, you have Taken, you have Grabbed, so what difference will it make if you perform one last slightly less than honorable act before you catch a plane out of the country, what the hell difference will it make?