Flying back, Adams decided to drop Baker’s camping gear over the mountains, then realized that would look anything but authentic. He would fly somewhere out of the way and bury it or incinerate it.
Adams was seized by panic that somehow he would be found out and would spend the rest of his life in prison. He did not sleep at all Saturday night. He chain-smoked and drank a fifth of whiskey. Sunday he dozed off and on in his drunkenness and awoke from nightmares of Baker and two policemen coming to take him away. Another nightmare which brought him awake cold and sweating was of Mrs. Horton picking him out of a police lineup.
Sunday night was also sleepless until almost time to get up Monday morning. He had a trip to make to another state, so he busied himself with that. Up in the air he felt safe and free. He was alone and protected by his aloneness. No one could get to him when he was in the air. On the ground he was on the edge of panic. He was like the bomb dismantlers he had known in the war: dismantling a live bomb, their hands were steady and sure; later on in the bar their hands shook so badly they couldn’t light a cigarette.
By the time Adams was finished Monday afternoon, it was too late to fly back. He checked into a local motel and went to the nearest bar. He got drunk again, tried to pick up the barmaid, and was finally escorted to the door by the bouncer.
On Tuesday, Adams felt certain that when he got home the authorities would be waiting on his doorstep. His heart beat faster as he approached the runway. But after he arrived, he saw that no one was treating him any differently from the way they always did. Everything on the ground was normal.
Adams went to the office Wednesday morning and realized he had better notify someone of Baker’s disappearance. It scared him to do it, but he knew it was the sensible thing to do. He called the forest ranger station in the northeast, informed them where Baker had entered the woods, and that he had not returned on schedule. Adams was told there had been a new snow, so tracking would not be easy, but they would look into it and keep him posted.
Adams’ panic was renewed when someone from the police called him to ask some routine questions. He told the police the same story he had told the forest ranger. Adams’ fears were allayed when the police called back a few days later to say they had checked out his story and found it to be true, but they couldn’t know if any foul play was involved until they located the body.
Adams thanked them for calling and asked them to let him know if there was any news.
After a few weeks Adams began to quit worrying that he would be found out. Winter had come to the mountains in earnest, preventing further searching, and by spring all suspicions would have grown dim.
Adams made the claim for the insurance and was promptly paid the $100,000 in accordance with the terms. He hired a receptionist at minimum wages to take orders for him. He more than doubled Baker’s prices, but orders did not diminish. The business was finally doing what it should have been doing all along.
But Adams was still haunted. Not by a fear or dread of being caught, but by a guilt of having actually killed someone. He lay awake at night unable to exorcise the ghost of Baker. The guilt grew so great at times he resolved that in the morning he would seek out a priest and confess or go directly to the police. But by morning he had collected his wits again and told himself that he had pulled off the perfect murder — and for good reason — and there was no cause to ruin it now.
Other times Adams thought about the murder in the context of his war experiences. He had dropped bombs on who-knows-how-many people. He had felt momentary guilt at that, but that too was justified, and he had got over it. Survival of the fittest, right? Baker was just another of his bombing victims. They were all justifiable homicides. There was no reason to feel guilty.
And in time the guilt did subside, just as the fear of being caught had. Adams began to sleep — and sleep without nightmares. He ate well; he drank less. He felt better than he had in years.
The Adams Air Transport Service flourished. In fact, it became the most prosperous business in town. By summer Adams had purchased another plane and hired another pilot. He still flew himself because it gave him his only true freedom. In the fall Adams was elected President of the local Chamber of Commerce. With the passing of time and all his newfound respectability, Adams had all but forgotten that he had murdered his partner. Every successful business has something to hide, he reasoned. His secret was in the category of war memories and other unpleasant memories, suppressed in a seldom visited corner of his mind.
Of course, he couldn’t avoid it completely. An unexpected reminder hit him occasionally, such as when someone asked about Baker. But even then he was growing accustomed to passing it off easily.
One morning Adams came into the office to check on the new orders.
“We have two,” the receptionist said. “One to Sutton, and one to Bainbridge.”
Adams felt the sudden rush of fear hit him like a sharp wind. He paused momentarily to regain control. It had been nearly a year since Baker’s death, and this was the first order for Bainbridge since then. No cause for alarm, Adams assured himself. He must not balk at an order to go to Bainbridge. He must adjust to the name Bainbridge as he had to Baker.
“Okay,” he said, “fine.” He was going to meet it head-on but at the last moment he choked. “I’ll take Sutton. Howard, you can have the Bainbridge trip.”
“Okay,” Howard said.
Late that afternoon Adams was back in the office before Howard returned. Adams looked over the orders for the month. It was his best month yet. He felt proud of himself for building the business so well and so fast. Finally, he felt, he had overcome the unfortunate Baker trouble. Now he was where he wanted to be — and without any nagging guilt.
Howard soon came in. He was a young pilot but good and dependable, a real asset to the company.
“How was the trip?” Adams asked.
“You won’t believe it,” Howard said.
“Why not? Rough weather?”
“No, the weather was fine. It was the cargo.”
“What did you take up there?”
“I didn’t take anything up there. But you won’t believe what I brought back. I’m going to fumigate the plane the first thing in the morning. It was all I could do to keep from gagging.”
“What do you mean?” There was urgency in Adams’ voice.
“Some lady died about a year ago. Now they’re suing her doctor for malpractice. They got a court order for a new autopsy, so her body had to be exhumed and brought back here. I just delivered it to the hospital. I’ve never in my life smelled anything so rank. I may be sick yet.”
But it was Adams who was pale and faint.
Raffles in Love
by Barry Perowne
© 1979 by Philip Atkey.
Once again we journey back to the life and times of A. J. Raffles, amateur cricketer, professional cracksman, and sophisticated man-about-town, and his chronicler-in-crime, Bunny Manders. The year in this affair is 1907, and the first decade of the twentieth century is depicted in loving and living detail, as exactly as if the story had been written seventy years ago. For example, Raffles rides in a 1907 Darracq landaulette, and through Barry Perowne’s eyes you can almost see that early motor-car.
Now, a strange point has just occurred to us. A story about Sherlock Holmes in love is almost unthinkable. But Holmes’s criminal counterpart, the handsome, charming, debonair Raffles, one of the most eligible bachelors of his time — why not? Why not indeed...