‘Is that right? Well, I know better.’ He finished his drink. ‘I know all about the suckers who were caught, but this time it is for real. I’m buying five hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stock as soon as I get probate. This is an inside tip. Jack Sonsan, the Vice President of the company, is an old buddy of mine. I got the tip straight from him and he wouldn’t twist me!’
I knew all about Jack Sonsan. Barton Sharman regarded him as one of the great con men of the century.
‘Look, Frank,’ I said urgently. ‘I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Go help Beth in the garden,’ Marshall snapped, a sudden mean expression in his eyes. ‘Don’t sit around here. I’ve work to do.’
That was telling me I was, after all, the hired help and he didn’t want any advice from me.
‘Anything you say, Frank.’ I got up as he poured another drink, ‘But you’re going to lose your money.’
‘That’s what you say.’ He pointed a finger at me. ‘Listen, son, I know more about money than you’ll ever learn. When I want advice from you, I’ll shout for it... when I want advice.’
The thought of him sinking five hundred thousand dollars into this mythical merger turned me sick. He had said the million would shrink after taxes had been paid. If he put five hundred thousand into Charrington steel he would be worth practically nothing.
‘Frank, I...’
‘Run along, son, I’m busy.’ He reached for a document. As I moved to the door, he went on, ‘You’re okay with me, Keith. That car’s a beaut. You make yourself useful around the house and look after the car. I’ll look after the money.’
‘Just as you say, Frank.’
He leaned back, his face flushed, the mean expression still in his eyes.
‘Suppose we cut out the Frank thing, huh?’ He reached for his glass and took a long drink. ‘Suppose we say Mr. Marshall, huh? No unfriendly feelings... just status symbol, huh?’
‘Why sure, Mr. Marshall.’
We looked at each other.
He laughed: an uneasy, embarrassed laugh.
‘Go along with me, son. I’m feeling like a millionaire.’
You fat, drunken sonofabitch, I thought, I’ll go along with you only because I want to screw your wife.
‘Sure, Mr. Marshall.’
He nodded, then began to read the document.
I left him and walked out into the garden.
It was a big garden with shrubs, trees, flower beds and some of it jungle. Eventually, I found Beth picking raspberries at the far end of the garden. I came upon her as she was dropping fruit into a white bowl.
‘I was told to come out here and help you in the garden... son,’ I said, pausing at her side.
She looked sharply at me.
‘Has he got to calling you that?’
‘That’s it and I’m to call him Mr. Marshall because he is now a millionaire and I’m the hired help. Status symbol, he calls it.’
She continued to pick raspberries. I sat on my heels, feeling the sun on my back and watched her.
‘Beth... he has a wildcat scheme. He is going to put his money into a share investment that will lose him the bulk of the money.’
She paused, her fingers red with the juice of the overripe fruit, and she looked searchingly at me.
‘Although he is a drunk, Keith, he is smart. I’ve told you that already.’
‘Maybe, but he is sold on an investment in steel that can only bring disaster. He is going to buy shares as soon as he gets credit... at the end of next week.’
She continued to stare at me.
‘He’s smart,’ she repeated.
‘But I know this will be a disaster! I was once caught in the same trap! It looks fine, but it just won’t and can’t jell. He’s going to lose every cent of the money that’s coming to him... and you’ll lose it too.’
She began picking raspberries again. I watched her. Her face was as animated as a death mask.
After some minutes, I said, ‘Are you concentrating, Beth?’
‘Yes.’ She turned to face me, holding the bowl of fruit against her tiny breasts. ‘You are really sure what he is planning will go wrong?’
‘I am certain.’
‘And you can’t persuade him to change his mind?’
‘Not a chance.’
She nodded, then began to pick more fruit. Again I watched her for some minutes, then I said, ‘What’s going on in your mind, Beth?’
Without looking at me and continuing to pick the fruit, she said, ‘I was thinking it is a pity he isn’t dead.’
That cold dead finger ran up my spine. Here it is, I thought, and this time from her.
Do me a favour... drop dead.
Now she was saying it.
When he was dead, she would get his money and I would get her, but time was running out. When he got the money, he would lose it in this wildcat investment.
‘There will be no money, Beth, unless he drops dead.’
Her face wooden, she began on the second row of raspberry canes.
‘Beth!’
‘Not now... tonight.’
We looked at each other. Her black eyes were remote.
‘Okay. Will you come to me?’
She nodded.
I stood up and walked through the garden and back to the house. Through the open window his voice came clearly. He was talking on the telephone.
‘... check the deeds,’ he was saying. ‘I can buy in a couple of weeks. I have this big stock deal cooking. Yeah... you get your end straightened out. I’ll be ready in around fifteen days.’
I don’t think you will, Mr. Marshall, I thought as I moved quietly up the stairs. In fifteen days, you should be in a coffin.
I spent the rest of the afternoon, lying on the bed, my mind busy.
Even Marshall’s heavy rumbling voice as he talked continuously on the telephone didn’t distract my thinking.
As I smoked cigarette after cigarette, I told myself this was my second chance to move into the big money. My first chance had flopped and I had landed in jail, but this time it would be different. Instead of gambling with another man’s money, I was now prepared to take a life. I had no compunction about getting rid of this fat drunken slob, yakking on the telephone downstairs. Already an idea how I could get rid of him in safety was beginning to jell. It would have to look like an accident, and then I would get Beth as well as the money.
The more I considered the idea the more I liked it, and finally, I convinced myself it was easy and safe and now convinced, my next move was to convince Beth. From what she had said: I was thinking it’s a pity he doesn’t die, I didn’t think she would need much convincing.
The clock downstairs was chiming seven as I got off the bed.
I went along to the bathroom, had a shave and then regarded myself in the mirror over the toilet basin. I looked as I always looked, but I knew behind the face looking back at me, I had become something I had never thought I was going to become: a killer.
I smelt frying onions. I went down the stairs and into the kitchen. She was standing over the stove, steaks on the grill, onions spluttering in the frying pan.
‘Smells good,’ I said, pausing in the doorway.
She nodded, her expression dead pan. I saw there were only two steaks under the grill.
Lowering my voice, I asked, ‘Where is he?’
‘In there... dead to the world.’
‘Should I get him to bed?’
‘Leave him where he is... later, perhaps.’ She turned the steaks.
Leaving her, I walked quietly into the living room. He was sitting at the table, papers strewn before him, his open eyes fixed and sightless, his breathing heavy and slow.
‘Mr. Marshall?’
I went close and touched him. There was no reaction. I passed my hand before his open eyes: no blink: dead to the world was right. The bottle of Scotch, now empty, stood on the table.