“We must notify the police,” I said.
“We can’t,” she said. “What will you tell them?”
“The truth. What happened.”
She shook her head. “We can’t. I killed him. You killed him. That’s all we can say.”
“We could say it was self defense.”
“They wouldn’t believe it.”
“I suppose not,” I said and, strangely enough, felt amused.
“Bury him,” she said, turning her warm brown eyes on me. “Bury him. In the bottom of the excavation for the pool. Tomorrow they’ll put the concrete in. He’ll never be found.”
“They’d find out,” I said. “Sooner or later they’d find out. They always do.”
“Only in fiction,” she said, and stood up quickly. It were as though she’d come to a decision.
“What do you suggest?” I asked.
“The obvious. Take his place.” She was suddenly very animated, pleading. “You look like him. Take his place.”
“It’s impossible.”
“You wanted an opportunity. Take this one. Everything could be yours. Everything. There’d be no trouble about the business. It’s already sold. We were going away as soon as the pool was in. I could close everything out on the phone. Nobody would ever know. Nobody, just you and me.”
“Where would we go? I’ve no money.”
“We were ready to leave. There’s money here. Enough. Tickets — passports — everything.” She came close to me then, talking, talking, the pattern growing. “It’s just your hair really. We could dye it. People don’t notice things closely. It could be ours, all of it, the money, the house, everything. If we report it, we get nothing. Not even the money. Bury him. Take his place. I’ll help you.”
I weighed her statements carefully. I have a certain talent for masquerade, but this one required the coolest logic. It was a chance, a long one, fraught with danger and difficulties, but filled with drama. Perhaps, this swung the scales for me. “You’ll have to help me,” I said.
She was at my side in an instant, her hand on my arm. “I’ll help you. It’ll work. You’ll see.”
My torn coat was left in the living room while we walked to the excavation, my shoulder numb, but less painful, which assured me that there was no serious damage.
“There’s a shovel in the rear of the house,” she said. “The workmen left their tools.”
It was a luminous California night, moonlight flooding the bottom of the hole, turning the ugly excavation into a magic place. The digging was not difficult, the soft earth easily moved aside. Suddenly, I turned to her. “I thought of something else,” I said. “The fingers. He had two injured fingers. People must know about it.”
Her face was elfin in the moonlight. “I’m a nurse,” she said. “I can do it. It was just the tips.” Her lips were avid now, the wet tongue flicking in and out. “I was treating him. I have some novocaine. You won’t feel it.”
“You’re a little mad,” I said to her.
“Perhaps. A little.” She was smiling at me, gently. “It will all be worth it.”
Together, we dragged the limp and bleeding body to the hole, rolling him in face down, covering him carefully, pounding the loose soil into its old contour again, spreading the residue carefully over the bottom of the excavation. I made a last examination while she held the light.
“Now,” she said. “Now we are committed.”
“Yes,” I replied. “We are committed.”
“Come into the kitchen.”
I was reeling with fatigue. “No,” I said. “Not yet.” She was hard, definite, as she led me into the house. “You can sleep afterwards.”
“Can you do it?” I asked. “Are you sure?”
“I was a surgical nurse, a good one,” she answered. “I can do it. Just don’t watch.”
I woke from a drugged sleep hours later, her face a cameo over me, the memory of the night before a collage of wild color and blurred movements. Disoriented, for a few moments I fought reality. There was a deal of pain, my shoulder aching where Goetz had hit me, a number of other miscellaneous contusions making themselves felt. I looked curiously at my hand, suddenly recalling the scene in the kitchen the night before, the hypodermic and the knives, the hospital smell. Now the bandages were evidence that it had all been real.
“Hurry,” Mina Goetz said. “We’ve work to do.” She pointed to a bedroom window. A truck was standing there, two workmen beginning the construction of the steel basket for the pool.
“Will they dig?” she asked.
“No. There’ll be just the steel to put in.”
“How long before the cement man comes?” she asked.
“Four or five hours,” I said, “Maybe more.”
“They’ll expect you to supervise?”
“Only the steel work. The others are specialists.”
“Go out there now. Do your job. For the last time.” She smiled, a little secret smile. “Keep your bandaged hand in your pocket. They mustn’t see it. I’ll have a cup of good, hot coffee for you in the kitchen.”
Dressing was a painful and awkward process, my injured shoulder and hand making it very difficult to shave. She was in the kitchen when I entered, a charming breakfast set out for me. It was the first decent meal I’d had since coming to Three Forks, a pleasant start to an eventful day.
The inspection of the pool proved routine, although I had some difficulty keeping my eyes from returning time and again to the shallow end where the body lay. Fortunately my bandaged fingers began to ache, giving me a point of concentration while the steel workers built the basket for the pool and every now and then walked over the grave.
Mina was beside me when the truck left the house, our indiscretion covered with a net of steel. “It’s almost over, Jonathan. Almost over.” It was the first time she had called me by my given name. “When you go in that door again, you’ll start a new life. You’ll have a new name and a new life.” She stopped me at the door, both her hands on my shoulders. She kissed me, gently, her lips soft against mine. “You’re Ray Goetz now,” she said. “Rich, retired, and married.” Early that afternoon the cement machine started its work, spraying the layers of cement on the skeleton of steel.
“What do they do next?” Mina asked.
“They plaster it in a few days, then fill it with water. Then we may swim, if we wish.”
There are a hundred little things which go to make up the public memory of a man. I listed them as carefully for the Goetz that I was to become as for the Wainright I must erase. Mina was also busy; she dyed my hair, dressed my fingers which hurt abominably, and rummaged through the wardrobe to find clothes to fit me. As Wainright, I made a call to the Argus Pool Company, resigning without notice, taking a pleasant moment to annoy the management with a politely acid criticism of their product. Mina mailed the last of my business correspondence, returning the contract for the pool with a check in full, carefully signed, proving most adept at this minor forgery. (Actually, it is remarkably easy to forge an acceptable signature, if all the related documents are correct.) I had no family within reach, nor did Goetz. This simplified and helped. My furnished room in Los Angeles was canceled by mail, my clothes and personal effects stored through an obliging moving company. Mina dismissed the servants, and I kept out of sight while they grumbled their gratitude for a month’s salary in lieu of notice.
Day in and day out, Mina helped me with my study, patiently pounding in knowledge of Goetz’s background, reading and re-reading the records of his investments and banking affairs which she produced from the desk in the study. It was really a surprisingly simple chore. Goetz had arranged all his affairs for retirement and, inasmuch as his investments were for the most part in real property, there did not seem to be any difficulties which could not be surmounted. There were no visitors, except an occasional deliveryman, each of whose services, Mina stopped as of that date. Gradually, the personality and background of Goetz became clear to me, the cloak more easily worn, the part I was playing as definite as an actor’s role and as easily assumed.