Beth took the bottle from me and poured the drink. Her hand was rock steady.
‘Careful of that,’ she said. ‘I’ll go back to bed now. We call Dr. Saunders at eight o’clock?’
I stared at her. Her utter indifference horrified and angered me.
‘He’s dying in there,’ I said, my voice cracking and out of control. ‘Doesn’t it mean anything to you?’
Her remote eyes examined my sweating face.
‘It was your idea,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t mine. Go easy with the whisky,’ and turning, she went silently out of the kitchen as a sudden crash of thunder shook the house.
The clock downstairs struck seven.
For the past hours, I had been lying on my bed, my mind in a turmoil.
I had committed murder!
Planning a murder was one thing. While I had planned it, my mind was obsessed with Beth and money. Now I had done it, fear of the consequences swamped me. I told myself that Marshall would have died from drink anyway, but that didn’t help. I thought of Beth. While we were making love, she was the most important thing in my life, but when I thought of her standing in the kitchen, cold, ruthless and utterly indifferent knowing Marshall was suffocating to death, my lust for her faltered.
I had brought the bottle of whisky up with me and I now reached for it, but as my hand hovered over it, I restrained myself. I was not going to become a lush like Marshall because of her.
I got off the bed, stripped off my shirt and went into the bathroom. I shaved and sloshed water over myself. Then putting on a clean shirt and my shoes, I opened the bedroom door. As I did so, Beth’s door opened.
She had on the shapeless sweater and slacks and her hair was anyhow. Her face was pale, and there were dark rings under her eyes, but her expression was controlled and deadpan.
We looked at each other.
‘I’ll go down and open the garage door,’ I said. ‘The concentration of gas in there will be dangerous. We’ll have to give it time to clear.’
She nodded.
I went down, left the house and walked around to the garage. I pulled out the wedge and dropped it into my pocket. Then with my heart thumping, I swung up the garage door and stepped back. Peering into the garage, all I could see was the Caddy. He must be lying out of sight at the back of the car.
I returned to the house, went through the kitchen to the garage door and removed the second wedge. I went into the boiler room and dropped the two wedges into the oil furnace. As I started up the stairs, I saw her in the living room, staring out of the window. She had removed the armchair from the recess and had put it back where it usually stood.
I took the bottle of whisky from my bedside table, emptied the contents down my toilet basin, then took the empty bottle into the kitchen and dropped it in the trash bin.
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Come on. It’ll be safe enough now.’
‘You can do it,’ she said without turning.
‘I can’t handle him alone.’
She didn’t turn. Going to her, I gripped her arm.
‘We’re in this together!’ I shouted at her. ‘Come on!’
She hunched her shoulders, then without looking at me, went into the kitchen. Moving ahead of her, I went down the passage and opened the garage door.
He was lying face down, his head close to the exhaust pipe. He looked as if someone had deliberately put him there.
Was he dead?
With a shaking hand, I took the car keys from my pocket, unlocked and opened the car door. The heat in the car hit me like a blow in the face. I slid in and turned off the motor, then reaching across, I opened the glove compartment and took out the half bottle of whisky, holding it by its neck. I had thought about this. Both Marshall and I had handled the bottle. I wasn’t worried about my prints, but I wanted them to find his on the bottle.
Unscrewing the cap, I laid the bottle on the floor of the car. The whisky ran out making a stain on the lamb’s wool carpet.
While I was doing this, Beth stood motionless in the doorway, her arms crossed while she stared fixedly at Marshall’s body.
I got out of the car. Bracing myself, I went to him, knelt and dragged him over on his back. One look at him told me he was dead. His eyes were wide open and fixed. There were tiny flecks of foam around his mouth.
‘We’ve got to get him into the car.’ My voice was a croak.
‘Is he dead?’
‘Look at him! Of course he’s dead!’
I saw her shudder, then she came to me. Between us, we dragged him to the car door. While she held him, I went around and opened the passenger’s door. Kneeling on the bench seat, I hauled him in while she pushed.
‘Okay. Now call Saunders,’ I said. ‘Tell him we found him in here and you’re sure he is dead. Tell him the motor was running and ask him what we should do.’
She went away.
I let his body fall forward across the driving wheel. The car stank of whisky. Shutting the passenger’s door, but leaving the driving door open, I walked into the fresh air. Lowering the garage door, I examined it to see if the wedge had left a mark. It hadn’t. I went back into the garage and examined the door leading to the kitchen. There was a slight mark, but so slight as to be almost invisible. I was sure no one would notice it.
I then checked the whole set-up, knowing this was the last chance I would have before the Sheriff arrived.
It looked good with Marshall slumped over the driving wheel, the empty whisky bottle at his feet, the heater control on. It seemed to me the picture told its own story.
I went into the living room. Beth was standing by the window, her back to me.
‘What did he say?’
‘To leave him how we found him. He’s coming, and he is calling the Sheriff.’
I went to her and swung her around.
‘Now listen to me! Neither the Sheriff nor Bernstein have ever seen you. For God’s sake, take that deadpan expression off your face! You have just lost your husband! Okay, you were sick of his drinking, but that doesn’t mean you don’t give a damn that he is dead! Try to show some emotion!’
She jerked free.
‘And you get a hold of yourself,’ she said in a low, hissing voice. ‘You looked frightened.’
I was frightened! With an effort I pulled myself together.
‘I’ll call Bernstein.’ I went to the telephone and dialled his home number. When he came on the line, I told him that Marshall was dead and how it had happened.
Apart from a grunt or two, he listened and didn’t ask questions.
‘The doctor and the Sheriff are on the way,’ I said. ‘Could you get over here, Mr. Bernstein?’
‘You’re sure he is dead?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’m coming,’ and he hung up.
Beth had gone into the kitchen. She came out with two cups of coffee.
‘Be very careful how you handle Bernstein,’ I said. ‘He’s coming. Remember he’s the dangerous man.’
‘Don’t keep on! I’ll handle him!’ Her voice was sharp.
We sipped the coffee.
‘I won’t be able to stay on here, Beth,’ I said. I’ll have to go back to Wicksteed. We can keep in touch by telephone. I’ll call you every evening at half past eight from a call box. If there is an emergency, call Mrs. Hansen and say there’s something wrong with the Caddy and you want me to come up.’
She nodded.
‘As soon as you know you’re going to get the money, Beth, I’ll move to Frisco. You stay on for a week or so, then put the house up for sale and then join me. Right?’
Again she nodded.
‘I hate being away from you for so long, but there’s no other safe way. No one must suspect what we mean to each other.’
‘Yes.’