“Le’ go!” the young man croaked, clawing at the arm against his throat.
“Turn around,” Peewee said, loosening his grip. “But don’t try runnin’.” He poked the nephew with the iron bar he was carrying. As the nephew turned. Slattery took up the slack on the woollen collar.
“Sure, lad, look into my face,” he said. “Ah, so you know me now, do you? The runt? The troll?” It was a treat Slattery would remember all his life, watching recognition spread over the nasty face.
Yes, it had been worth It. Peewee thought, rubbing the weals where the leather of the harness had bitten deep into his flesh, thankful that he would never have to wear the apparatus again. “It’s burned you’ll be,” he said to the suit, size 42 long, as he folded it into the grate. Next came the legs with the cleverly hinged feet, the leather straps, the blond wig. He tucked lumps of peat under and around the lot, touched a flame to the firelighter, and waited for the flames to burn away his hate.
On Saturday morning, all cleaned and pressed, Patrick Slattery checked in at the Aer Lingus counter at Dublin Airport. He had a reservation on the noon flight to New York and on across America all the way to Hawaii, the Friendly Islands of his dreams. His only luggage was a small suitcase. The bundles of bank notes were stuffed into a special pouch fastened onto his shoulder beneath his shirt. It was safe enough. The Irish were always kind to the handicapped. He wouldn’t be searched.
A pretty Ground Hostess whisked Slattery past the bomb checkpoint untouched. When his flight was called, she carried his hag to the seat-reservation desk. Being a monster has its rewards, Peewee thought, moving with the line toward the smiling girl in green who was checking tickets and alloting seat numbers. There were only two people ahead of him when a heavy hand came down on his padded shoulder.
Oh, Cod, not now! Slattery prayed, going cold. Don’t make me go hack now! Questions raced through his mind. Could the nephew have lived to identify him? No one else would have recognized him as the tall blond man.
“Peewee Slattery,” a familiar voice said.
“You!” Peewee turned to face Detective Sergeant Patrick O’Byrne. And his heart almost stopped. He knew. It was the candles. God’s candles. Sure I’ll buy you a million candles, God, his mind screamed.
“Is it yourself, Peewee Slattery?” O’Byrne said, his hand still resting on the dwarfs overstaffed shoulder. “And where would you be goin’, you bein’ a wanted man and all?”
“To see me sister,” Peewee said, the falsehood clinging to his suddenly dry mouth. “To see me sister in New York.”
“Your sister in New York,” O’Byrne repeated. “You know, of course, there’s a complaint out on you. It’s of a minor nature, but all the same I’ll have to be takin’ you in.” Bloody hell, he thought, removing his hand from Peewee’s lumped-up shoulder, I didn’t realize the little yoke was hunchbacked too. “It shouldn’t delay your trip more than a day or two,” he said apologetically, “but you have some explanations to make to Father O’Shea at St. Michael’s and a few other members of the Dublin clergy before I can let you leave. They believe a little restitution is in order. I’ve had my eye out for you, more or less, for weeks.”
Gently he led Peewee from the head of the line.
All you need is luck, Peewee reminded himself. With a bit o’ luck I can still be on my way.
“Funny,” O’Byrne said, “I almost missed you. It was just by luck I spotted you out here. I wasn’t looking for you at all.”
The Return of Bridget
by Jack Ritchie
She had only one real weapon — her voice...
I had killed the woman. There was no doubt about that. If only she hadn’t tossed that damn can of peas at me.
I had entered the supermarket just before closing time and wheeled a cart down one of the aisles, randomly removing from the shelves an item here and an item there. I did not expect to take any of them with me when I departed.
At nine o’clock, the IN door of the supermarket had been locked and the twenty or so customers remaining in the store gradually finished their shopping and gravitated toward the checkout counters. I, however, continued to linger in the aisles.
Some fifteen minutes passed before a rather statuesque woman in her forties, wearing the red manager’s jacket, approached me.
“Sir,” she said, “it’s closing time.”
I glanced down the aisle. The remaining customers had departed and only a single gum-chewing cashier remained at her post, glaring significantly in my direction. The other cashier and store personnel had apparently departed, not being prone to linger past working hours.
I pushed my cart to the front of the store, noting through the show windows that the parking lot was now empty, except for my own vehicle.
I shoved the cart aside and produced my gun. I spoke to the red-jacketed woman. “You will kindly hand me all of your cash. At this time of night, I suspect that most of it is already in the store safe.”
There had been a freeze reaction while the two women adjusted to the fact that they were being held up.
The manageress’s eyes narrowed, and I could see she was about to go into action.
“Madam,” I said, “if I were you, I would not attempt—”
My warning was too late.
Her hand found a can on the shelf next to her and she flung it in my direction. It seemed to travel through the air at slow-motion pace and I distinctly remember that its label indicated that it contained peas.
The can struck me on the upper arm and my finger convulsively pulled the trigger of the gun. The manageress’s eyes indicated cosmic surprise and she slipped to the floor, irrevocably dead.
The cashier fainted.
I sighed, thrust the revolver back in my pocket, and walked out to my waiting car. Inside it, I sat for perhaps a minute before I turned the ignition key.
I drove to the harbor bridge. Traffic was light and I braked to a stop. Leaving the engine running, I went to the railing and heaved the gun out as far as I could. My false beard followed.
Then I returned to the car and drove until I was approximately two blocks from my apartment building. There I abandoned the automobile and walked the rest of the way.
In my fourth-floor apartment, I took off my coat, hat, and gloves. I could have used a stiff drink, but I settled for a glass of water.
I sat down. Well, what was done was done.
How efficient were the police? It didn’t really matter if anyone had succeeded in getting my license number since I had stolen the automobile, but had I been followed?
In the distance I heard the sound of a police siren. I listened, feeling resigned, but the patrol car passed my building and continued on its way.
I felt quite tired, very possibly an emotional reaction to the killing. I got into my pajamas and pulled down the Murphy bed.
I thought I might have some difficulty getting to sleep, but I dropped off immediately.
I woke to the sound of the neighborhood church bell striking two A.M. I lay there, my eyes closed, but I had the distinct feeling that I was not alone in the room. I opened my eyes.
She stood at the foot of the bed in her red jacket, her face coldly pale. I half expected to see a bullet hole and bloodstains, but I was spared that much.
Yes, I thought, I’m having a nightmare. It’s to be expected.
Her eyes fixed mine. “I am Bridget O’Keefe. You murdered me last night.” She peered a bit closer. “You are Oliver Wilson, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What happened to your beard?”
“It was false.”
She accepted that. “Oliver Wilson,” she repeated, “you murdered me.”