Jerry realized now that Sid must have cut the phone line when he was outside. “If you’re smart you’ll go now. If someone tries to call and can’t get through they might think something’s wrong.”
Sid sneered. “Like wifey, you mean? Forget it, Jerry. I know these broads. Married or single, they’re all alike.”
“You’re wrong. Marjory will try to call me. She always does.”
“Then it’s a chance we’ll just have to take. Now move ahead of me into the kitchen. Slowly.”
In the kitchen Sid rummaged around until he found some clothesline. Using a paring knife to cut two lengths from the coil, he instructed Jerry to lie prone on the floor and proceeded to bind his ankles and wrists. “There. That ought to keep you out of trouble,” he said, and with exaggerated concern for Jerry’s comfort he fetched a pillow from the bedroom and arranged it under his head. “Now try to relax, pal. In the morning it’ll all be over.”
“What are you going to do to me?” Jerry asked.
Sid laughed. “Don’t let it keep you awake. It don’t make a damn bit of difference it you can identify me. They’ll have made me by now from my prints. I’ll ditch your wheels once I’m safely away from here. And even if they catch me they won’t find the money, I’ll make sure of that.” He started for the door and smiled. “You’re a real nice guy, Jerry, even if you are sort of dumb. But don’t worry, hear? Wifey’s not going to be a widow yet.” He switched off the light and presently Jerry heard him moving around in the bedroom before climbing into bed.
Jerry shut his eyes but he didn’t sleep a wink. Would Sid keep his word? If he intended to kill him, wouldn’t he have done it by now? Or did he think it would be wiser, just in case someone did surprise him before he could get away in the morning, to keep Jerry alive so there would be less risk of facing a murder rap?
The sun shone brightly across the floor when Sid came into the kitchen. He looked well rested and jovial. “Sleep O.K., Jerry?”
“What do you think?”
“Oh, well, you can make up for it tonight.”
He filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner, spooned instant coffee into a cup, dropped a couple of slices of bread in the toaster, and poured two glasses of orange juice.
Once he had eaten he put his hands under Jerry’s shoulders and propped his back against the cupboard. “It might be a couple of days before you’re set free, pal. I wouldn’t want you to starve.” With extravagant courtesy he held the glass of orange juice to Jerry’s lips and forced him to swallow it.
“I hope your neighbors aren’t looking out the window when I drive off in your car,” Sid said.
Don’t bet on it, Jerry thought. Especially that nosy Agnes Belinski. She was always glued to her screen door whenever he and Marjory had one of their spats.
Sid looked down at Jerry with a philosophical smile. “Buddy, I can’t tell you how much I’ve appreciated your hospitality. But all good things must come to an end, right? Where are your car keys?”
“On the living-room table by the door.”
Sid went to the bedroom and returned, suitcase in hand. “Don’t be too bored, pal. And do like I said, O.K.? Buy the little woman a pretty dress.”
Jerry listened as the door closed between the kitchen and garage. As soon as he heard the car drive away he let the tension drain out of his body. He didn’t even mind the numbness in his wrists and ankles. He was alive — that was all that mattered.
He tried not to think about how long he might remain helpless. Soon he would begin the effort to free himself. The cutlery drawer was only a feet away. Somehow he could reach one of the knives and cut the rope that bound his ankles.
It was past noon by the time he managed to free himself. Before deciding what to do next, he stripped off his clothes and took a long hot shower.
Then he made himself a stiff drink. He was just finishing it when the police arrived.
“Mr. Melacker?”
Jerry stared at them stupidly. “How did you find out?”
“About Jacobs? His luck ran out. A state trooper pulled him over for speeding on the expressway and recognized him. He’s in custody.”
Curiously, Jerry felt a pang of compassion for Sid. The feeling defied explanation, and yet it was true: a part of him had wanted Sid to get away.
“Jacobs told us he’d tied you up but hadn’t hurt you. Apparently he wasn’t lying about that.”
“You’ve got the money, then.”
The officer shook his head. “Not yet. But we’ll find it. It wasn’t in the car.”
“He said you’d never find it.”
The officer smiled. “There’s not too wide an area where he could have stashed it between here and where he was picked up. We thought for a while he wasn’t as smart as he thinks he is. Figured he pulled a boner when he didn’t get rid of the pick and shovel.”
Jerry stared at the two officers. “Pick and shovel?”
“They were still in the trunk of your car. We figured he must have used them to bury the money. There was an oily deposit on both implements. Only one area where they could have been used. The old refinery property on Wellman Road. No one goes there any more. It seemed a likely spot. As soon as we found the tire tracks leading in, we thought we were right — it didn’t take long to find the spot where it looked like he’d buried the loot.”
The nervous warmth that had suffused Jerry’s body for the last several hours faded, leaving him with an even more uncomfortable sensation of coldness.
“We didn’t find the money, Mr. Melacker. But we found your wife’s body, and the knife that killed her. The lab boys will have lifted the prints by now. Jacobs said you told him you’d dropped your wife off shortly before picking him up. By any chance is that what you meant?”
The Swindle
by Robert Edward Eckels
Right after eight, as I did every morning, I went out and picked up a copy of the Trib at the corner newsstand. As usual the kid who ran it had covered up all the Finals and Five Stars with leftover copies of last night’s City Edition. I did him a favor and didn’t bother to reach under, because as soon as I got back to my phone I pushed the news and sports sections to one side and concentrated on the classifieds.
Most of the ads were the usual help-wanted, this-or-that-for-sale variety, but halfway down the miscellaneous column I found one that looked more than a little promising.
REWARD! $300 for information leading to return of automobile missing from 1732 Beeler since September 30.
There were two phone numbers, a name — I. Dawes — and a kicker — “No questions asked.” I drew a circle around it, then skimmed through the rest of the page to make sure there wasn’t anything else. There wasn’t, so I went back and dialed the number with a city exchange.
As I’d figured, it was a business phone, but the girl who answered put me through to I. Dawes without insisting on the answer to any embarrassing questions.
“You the party looking for the missing car?” I said.
“Yes, I am,” he said, sounding aggrieved, like it was time somebody took him up on his offer.
“Good,” I said. “Maybe I can help you. What kind of car was it?”
“A — hey, now, wait a minute. Who are you? What kind of joke is this?”
“I just told you,” I said. “I’m the guy who may be able to help you. The trouble is, I’ve got all kinds of cars here. Maybe one of them’s yours, maybe not. I won’t know till I know what I’m looking for. So you either tell me or you don’t.”
He was silent for a full half minute. Then he said slowly, “It was taken from in front of 1732 Beeler.”