The sergeant nodded understandingly. “Yeah,” he said, and added with dispassionate final judgment: “The rat!”...
Once more alone in his office Gail Morton went to his desk and took from its top drawer the newspaper clipping that he had concealed there before Bracco came in. He walked to the fireplace; stood looking down at the picture of the woman whose faded prettiness still aroused repercussions of beauty in his brain.
Mechanically he murmured to himself the bleak words printed above it: “Mrs. George Pendexter, Whose Husband Was Killed—”
Gail Morton’s ugly face took on a light other than that from the glowing grate.
“You’d have done better to have married me, my dear,” he said aloud. “But you loved Pendexter, and that was that. At least I’ve avenged his death this night.
“A small service, but eminently satisfactory. Adroit, too. Very adroit, if I may say so. Good-by, my only dear, and may the Lord of all our twisted fates be kind to you.”
Gail Morton threw the clipping into the fire.
The Hard Cure
by Richard M. Rose
Dark, deadly was the game they played, the girl who had nothing but her evil beauty and the man who had everything — except a chance to stay alive this night.
Brad Stockwell’s fingertips tingled against the cold handle of the .22 automatic in his lap. The .22 had a familiar feel to it, even though he hadn’t used one since Korea. It was almost like shaking hands with an old friend. And his friend would serve him well tonight.
Stockwell lowered the binoculars, and the figure on the beach below shrank into a bronze speck on a glare of sand. But even at that distance, before he’d confirmed it with the binoculars, he was sure that speck was Gloria.
She’d made it easier for him to find her this time. Once he’d known it was Carmel, he had only to check the tourist accommodations, concentrating on the out-of-the-way rentals. The expensive ones.
The Oceanside Cabanas were both private and expensive. The eight prim white structures, Spanish styled, with tiled patios, stretched out along an isolated beach about five miles from Carmel. Yes, just the kind of place she’d choose for her latest affair, Stockwell thought bitterly. Her latest and last!
As he watched from the front seat of his ’70 Thunderbird, parked just off the asphalt road winding along the edge of the steep bluff, the bronze speck below began to move toward the bungalow at the extreme right.
Stockwell raised the binoculars again, and the image of Gloria, his wife, jumped sharply into focus. He watched her glide across the sand, her exquisite body accentuated by a bright turquoise bikini about the size of a G-string. The sight took the wind out of him like a fist in the stomach.
She still had that impact, even after ten long years of her. Her hips were fuller now, the pert breasts not quite so firm, the blonde hair coarser. But the girlish waist, the long model’s legs, the lovely oval face with its full sensuous mouth and luminous green eyes seemed to have survived the years unaltered by time.
Brad Stockwell’s breath came shudderingly as he watched her and wondered what kind of man she’d picked this time — if he’d know him. He doubted it. Gloria had tired of the local country club studs long ago. But no one was following her to the cabana. Stockwell panned the beach with the binoculars. A few people lingered in deck chairs, soaking up the waning sunshine as the blue-green waters of the Pacific slashed noisily at the shore.
Probably in the cabana, Stockwell thought, lowering the binoculars. Or maybe he hadn’t shown yet. He hoped that was it. He had nothing against the man. There had been too many men. You couldn’t hate them all.
Brad Stockwell lit up a cigarette from the dash lighter and leaned back to watch the sun make its spectacular descent into the sea. The cigarette had no taste. He felt completely dead inside. The last bullet in the .22 would only make it official.
It hadn’t always been that way. Not even during those hellish days in Korea, where a combat engineer was open season for Gook snipers. He’d had the dream to sustain him through them. Stockwell & Company, engineers extraordinary. Build a bridge or blast a tunnel anywhere. Africa, South America, the challenging places. That was for him.
For him, but not for Gloria. Not for a girl whose idea of roughing it was traveling tourist. So the dream had to go. And in its place, the plush house in Burbank, the country club, the cottage at Tahoe, and Gloria. All of which cost money, lots of it, especially Gloria. But the money came easy. As easy as throwing up a shopping center or housing development.
A far cry from the dream, but he could take it as long as he had Gloria.
That was the joker. He hadn’t had her very long. And yet he couldn’t let go. She was his sickness and there was no cure. Not until now. He’d finally found the answer. The final medication to all the years of pain and humiliation.
Stockwell stabbed out the cigarette in the ash tray. It was time. Darkness had descended like a black shroud, wrapping itself around him. The proper mantle for what he had to do.
First he had to know if she was alone. He got out of the car and walked along the crest of the bluff to the carport that belonged to Gloria’s cabana. The Ford Fairlane in the carport looked like a rental. The door was unlocked.
Stockwell found the rental papers inside the glove compartment, made out in Gloria’s name. He found something else too. On the floor, a crumpled cigarette pack. The brand was strong, unfiltered, not like the mild cigarettes Gloria smoked. A man’s brand. His question was answered.
He started cautiously down the steps to the beach. Lights spilled from most of the bungalows below. A mixture of laughter and music drifted toward him with the slight breeze carrying the dank fragrance of the ocean. Someone having a party, he thought. But no one in sight. Good.
He reached the beach. Sand got into his shoes as he waded toward Gloria’s bungalow.
It looked completely dark. Stock-well stopped a few yards away and listened. There were no sounds but the rhythmic roll and slap of the surf minging with the tinkle of music and laughter.
He hoped they wouldn’t be making love when he found them, that he’d be spared that final humiliation. The screen door at the back complained slightly as he eased it open. He was relieved to find the inner door was open. Now that he’d come this far, he wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.
Inside he paused to let his eyes adjust to the blackness. There was no sound except the whisper of his own cautious breathing. Gradually, the forms of an ice box and stove took shape in the darkness. An even blacker opening to the right showed him the way to the living room. He started through it, feeling his way as if he were walking barefoot on broken glass. His palms were sweaty now, the gun hot in his grip.
He stopped, his heart pounding wildly. He’d remembered how it had been in Korea — the prisoners the Gooks left behind, on their knees as if in prayer, their brains splattered all over the ground.
The gun was like a hot poker in his hand now. He must be crazy to think he could kill like that, like the Gooks. No, only one bullet in the gun would be necessary. The one reserved for himself.
He started to raise the gun, turning it toward his temple, when he saw it! There in the darkness, a dull tip of light. He watched it float up, glowing brighter. A face began to materialize. Gloria’s face, eerily illuminated, suspended in blackness.
Maybe he was crazy. Then he saw the cigarette between the smiling lips. And her voice, soft and mocking.
“Hello, darling. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Something hard jammed painfully against the base of Stockwell’s spine. Another voice, a man’s, said, “Easy, Stockwell! Just drop the gun and this thing won’t go off.”