Ed Lacy - The Woman Aroused

I turned and stared at her and now I was the one sporting the stupid look.

She said—almost gently, “Police say no reason to kill Hank. Now... you take Hank's wife and Hank's money... What police say?”

“Where's that note, you bitch?” I shouted. “You know damn well you killed Hank. Give me that note!”

As I walked toward her she threw her cigarette on the coffee table, burning it, got to her feet. I stopped. I didn't have the slightest doubt in my mind that she could (and would) not only beat me, but kill me.

I turned and went to the closet, took my hat and coat. She walked over to the door, asked, “Where you go?”

“You can stay here, I'm leaving.” I said, full of fear as I walked by her, expecting those big hands on me as I opened the door. A draft of cold air hit her naked body.

“George!”

I was safely outside. I turned and asked what she wanted, or maybe I merely opened my mouth and tried to talk: I was so upset my mouth was cotton dry.

“On Montag... Monday... you bring Lee money like before? Yes? No?”

I wanted to scream, tell her to go straight to hell, but she had me over a barrel. I nodded and walked away from my own house.

I walked down Park Avenue, trying desperately to think. I was in a rough spot. Would the police suspect me of murdering Hank? I didn't have an alibi, or even the faintest idea where I was on the night Hank was murdered. In fact I didn't know the exact date. I was probably out at Southampton, but that wasn't an alibi. Would the police really suspect me? For all I knew the note for the money, my living with this backward girl, might be enough to convict me, hold me for trial. Actually, I wasn't worrying about a murder rap so much, I was worrying like hell about the mess it would stir up, the juicy newspaper stories... as if I had been found robbing and sleeping with a ten-year-old girl. That note made it much more than merely an affair.

If this ever hit the papers, got out... what could I do? Run away? Kill myself? I could see the whole world staring at me; “they” would be pointing a million fingers of shame and scorn at me. (Actually, if I had been able to reason it out I would have realized that the worst the scandal could do to me would be the loss of my job, my few friends. As for the murder angle, it would never stand up in any court, but the very thought of a trial made me hysterical.) My comfortable velvet rut was being smashed to tiny pieces.

As I walked I thought of a hundred outs: call a mental institution, tell them there was a lunatic living in my house; get in touch with Ellis Island, Lee was certainly an undesirable alien; I even considered something as “basic” as getting her out of the house by a money ruse, then changing the locks and let her raise hell. And all the time I knew I couldn't do anything as long as she held that damn receipt. Without that piece of paper it might not be too bad, her word against mine. Living with a backward girl wasn't a crime, but with that note, my great “cleverness” exposed, that meant I was a heel of the first water... they might even call it some sort of forced prostitution, with the girl getting paid with her own money—which, as the old joke says, makes it rape. I wondered just how “backward” Lee was, when she had found the note, how long it took her to understand its power?

I had a headache by the time I reached 42nd Street and it suddenly occurred to me I was homeless, had to find a place to sleep. I was also hungry. I had a sandwich and coffee, walked west till I reached the Turkish bath. I took a room for the night and didn't even bother with the baths.

But I couldn't sleep and in the middle of the night I went downstairs, sat in the pine steam room and brooded. I was really in hell.

In the morning I realized I didn't have a clean shirt and I bought one and a pair of socks, changed in the men's room of a hotel, throwing my old clothes away. After breakfast and a shave, I stopped at the bank and cashed a two hundred dollar check. It was another shock to find I had a little under $1500 left of the seven thousand. I had given Eddie a grand, spent another on her clothes, we had spent over a thousand—plus my salary—eating out, doing the town, and giving her a hundred a week accounted for another thousand.

I'd slept a few hours at the baths and now I spent the morning trying to think of an out. Harvey was away on a story, so I had the office to myself. I fixed the approximate date of Hank's death, sent my secretary out to buy old copies of the Times. Joe came in to find out what horses I had, looked surprised when I told him I'd forgotten to play that morning. He was full of a lot of breezy small talk and when he left, I read and reread the newspaper reports of Hank's death. There wasn't much to go on, evidently the police never considered the murder angle too much. I wondered how I could get them interested in the case again—without getting them interested in one George Jackson.

I dropped into Jake Webster's office. He said, “Early, Mr. Jackson, first race ain't started yet.”

I told him I was going to do a feature on him for the Sun and he puffed up with pleasure. Then I said, “By the way, Jake, you know police methods. I'm writing a piece of fiction, going to try it on the Saturday Evening Post, but I'm in doubt about some of the police details.”

“You came to the right party, Mr. Jackson. If I had the right people behind me, no telling how high I would have gone in the department. What do you want to know?”

“Well, in this story I'm making up,” I said, picking my words carefully, “the girl was once suspected of killing her husband. He was a lush and died as a result of a fall....”

“He was a no-good,” Jake said, nodding.

“Well... yes. Anyway, he fell or was pushed down a steep flight of... eh... stairs, and died. The police made a routine investigation, called it an accident. But the hero of my yarn is suspicious of the girl. Now it's several months since the 'accident' happened. At the time, the gal's alibi was that she was down in the basement using the washing machine. Nobody saw her, the police took her at her word. As I said, months have gone by, the case is forgotten. Supposing the hero tried playing detective, wanted to get the cops interested in the killing again, what would he do?”

“You mean the hero wants to turn in the wife of this no-good?” Jake asked, as if it was impossible.

“Yes.”

“But Mr. Jackson, in most stories it would be the cops trying to pin a bum rap on the gal and the hero saving her, especially if she's a pretty babe and...?”

“This one is absolutely ravishing, but she's bad. It's a new twist,” I added, almost smiling. “How would my hero go about it?”

“Tell you, Mr. Jackson, you ain't giving the hero much to go on. Like whether she was or wasn't at the washing machine. Your dick could go back to the house, question the other people there, and get no place. You got to count on the fact the cops did that too, at the time of the killing. Why don't you dream up some eh... thing, like a woman remembering she argued with her at the washing machine because maybe some colors ran and spoiled the woman's laundry, and it was the shirt she give her husband for his birthday, so that made it the day before the killing, or something like that? Get what I mean, using a washing machine ain't nothing anybody could remember months later. In fact, if the gal was a murderess, that would be a smart alibi—it's simple. Them complicated alibis are the ones that fall apart. Even if someone claimed they did remember she wasn't at the machine, it would never hold up in court, unless you got a... a... thing to prove it. Understand?”

“Yes. Looks like I'm stuck with my story.”