There were only three or four customers in the place, and the booth was empty. I was tight as a violin string now, and couldn’t seem to take a deep breath. I ordered a shot of straight whisky, downed it, and went back to the phone. I closed the door, and dialed. She answered immediately.
”He left here five minutes ago, in a cab,” I said.
“Good,” she replied. “Remember, wait two minutes from the time I hang up. I’ll be in the kitchen, getting out the ice cubes.”
“Right,” I said. The drink had loosened me a little now, but it was very hot in the booth and I was sweating. She went on talking. She seemed perfectly calm. The minutes dragged by.
“I think I hear the cab,” she said.
I waited. Then I heard the doorbell, very faintly. The line went dead. Chapman was at the front door.
I checked the time, pulled down the hook, and dropped in another dime to get the dial tone. I looked back out at the bar. No one was near enough to hear any of it through the door. Just before the two minutes were up, I started dialing. It rang twice.
“Hello.” It was Chapman, all right. She’d got him to answer.
“Mrs. Marian Forsyth,” I said brusquely. “Is she there?”
“Just a minute.”
I heard him call her, but not her reply. Then he came on again. “She’s busy at the moment. Who’s calling?”
“Chapman,” I said. “Harris Chapman—”
“What?”
Most people, of course, have no idea how their voices and their speech sound to others, but he did. He was accustomed to using dictating devices and recorders.
“Harris Chapman,” I repeated with the same curt impatience. “From Thomaston, Louisiana. She knows me—”
“Are you crazy?”
I cut in on him. “Will you please call Mrs. Forsyth to the phone? I haven’t got all night.”
”So you’re Chapman, are you? Where are you calling from?”
“What the hell is this?” I barked into the phone. “I’m calling from the Dauphine. I just checked in here. I’ve driven seven hundred and thirty miles today, and I m tired, and I don’t feel like playing games. Maybe you want to talk to me about my nineteen-fifty-five income-tax return, is that it? Well, it just happens I’m an attorney, my friend, and I know a little about the law, and about shakedowns. Now, put her on, or I’ll turn this letter of hers over to the police right now.”
“What in the name of God? Marian—”
I heard the phonograph come up in the background then, softly at first, and then louder. It was a song that had come out the summer Keith had gone mad—The Music Goes Round and Round. Shortly before they’d given up and had him committed for treatment, he’d locked himself in his room one day and played the record for nineteen hours without stopping.
“Listen!” I snapped. “What are you people up to? What’s that music—?”
He was still there. I heard him gasp.
Oh, the music goes round and round . . . and it comes out here. . . .
“Turn that off!” I said harshly. “Who told you about Keith? She’s been coaching you. You even sound like me. What’s that woman trying to do to me? I offered her six months’ pay. . . .”
“Marian,” he shouted, “for the love of Christ, who is this man?”
I couldn’t hear her reply, of course, but I knew what it was, and the way she said it. “Why, Harris Chapman, obviously.”
The shots weren’t too loud, mere exclamation points above the level of the music. There were two very close together, and then one more. The phone made a crashing noise, as if it had struck the edge of the table, and I heard him fall.
Oh, you press the middle valve down. . . .
Something else fell. And then there was nothing but the music, and a rhythmic tapping sound, as if the telephone receiver was swinging gently back and forth, bumping the leg of the table.
Bump . . . bump . . .
. . . and the music goes round and round . . . yoo-oo-ohoo. . . .
* * *
I made it in a little over ten minutes. As soon as I’d got out in the fresh air I was all right. She’d probably fainted, but she’d come around. I parked a block away. The front door was unlocked. I slipped inside and closed it.
One bridge lamp was burning in a corner, and the lights were on in the kitchen. She wasn’t in here. I sighed with relief. The phonograph had been shut off, and the phone was back on its cradle. The apartment was completely silent except for the humming of the air-conditioner. He was lying face down beside the table which held the telephone. I hurried through to the bedroom. She was in the bathroom, standing with her hands braced on the sides of the wash basin, looking at her face in the mirror. Apparently she’d started to brush her teeth, for some reason, for the toothbrush was lying in the basin where she’d dropped it. She was very pale. I took her arm. She turned, stared at me blankly, and then rubbed a hand across her face. Comprehension returned to her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said. There was no tremor in her voice.
I led her out and sat her on the bed, and knelt beside her. “Just hold on for a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here. You sit right there. Would you like a drink?”
“No,” she said. “I’d rather not.” She spoke precisely without raising her voice. I had an impression it was nothing but iron self-control, and that she was walking very carefully along the edge of screaming. That part of it, however, I couldn’t help her with.
The tarpaulin I’d bought was in a broom closet in the kitchen. I carried it into the living room, spread it on the rug, and rolled him on to it. I didn’t like looking at his face, so I threw a fold of the canvas over it. There was blood on his shirt, and some on the rug where he’d lain. I went through his pockets, taking everything out— wallet, traveler checks, car keys, room key from the Dauphine, small address book, the letter from Marian, cigarette holder, lighter, cigarettes, and a small plastic vial of some kind of pills. I tore up the letter and shoved it back in his coat pocket, along with the pills and the cigarette holder. His glasses had fallen off. I put them in his pocket also. All the other items I placed on the coffee table. He wore no rings. I left his watch on his wrist. The gun, a small .32, was on the rug near the phonograph. I put it in another coat pocket.
I rolled him in the tarpaulin and pulled him out into the kitchen, beside the back door. I cut two strips off the canvas to use for ropes, doubled him into the fetal position, and bound him. I was shaking badly now, and my stomach was acting up again. I leaned against the sink, poured a drink of whisky from the bottle in a cupboard, and downed it. In a minute I felt a little better.
I filled a pan with water, located a sponge, and scrubbed at the blood stain on the living-room rug. It took nearly ten minutes and four pans of water. I knew a lot of it had gone through to the pad beneath, and that the rug would show a water stain when it dried, but I could take care of that later. I’d have the whole rug shampooed. I washed the pan, and the sink, and turned out the kitchen light. It was a relief to get away from him.
She was just getting up from the bed. I took her in my arms. “I’m all right now,” she said. “I’m sorry I broke up that way.”
“Everything’s under control,” I told her. “He had the room key. That was the only thing I was worried about. What time is your flight?”
“I’m wait-listed at five-fifteen, and confirmed at six-thirty.”
I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to two. She’d have a long wait, alone, at the airport, but it couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t stay here. She seemed to be in full control of herself, and rational. She put on some lipstick, and her hat, and I closed the overnight case and found her coat, gloves, and purse. I dropped the Dauphine room key in my pocket. There was horror in her eyes just for an instant as we went out through the living room.