“You’ll be just conscious enough to get water in your lungs. I untie your hands. You’ll notice I used a silk cloth so as not to leave marks. I use another piece of cloth to tie your feel to a hundred-pound weight, but this cloth has been chemically treated to decompose in about seventy-two hours. Get the picture?”
Brad Stockwell got the picture all too clearly. He would not wash up early. And when he did, his body would be so bloated and disfigured that no one would doubt he wasn’t the same man they’d seen on the beach with Gloria.
Now Brad felt the anger swelling inside him like a living thing. But it was too late for anger, too late for anything. Teal had tucked the barrel of the Luger into his trunks and was taking something out of the table drawer. A small case the size of a jewelry case. He opened it and removed a hypodermic syringe.
“You said there would be witnesses,” Brad Stockwell said, his brain spinning. Damned if he was going to let them just wrap him up and throw him away like so much garbage! But all he could do was stall, try to figure a way out. “Do you really think you can fake a drowning?”
“Stanley’s an expert swimmer, darling,” Gloria said, as she returned from the kitchen with the familiar martini. “He’ll make it look good.”
“Better than good,” Teal added. He carefully filled the hypo from a plastic ampoule. “I’ve got a tank with fifty pounds of air. I’ll sink it about a hundred yards off shore tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll simply swim around until I find it. Then I’ll go into my drowning act.”
“And no one will see him come up,” Gloria said, easing into the armchair. She popped an olive between her mocking lips and gnawed on the pit. “He’ll swim under water for about a mile. We’ve got a suitcase hidden there with clothes and money. Later, after it’s dark, he’ll walk into Carmel and catch a bus for the airport. Simple, isn’t it, darling?”
Yes, very simple, Stockwell thought bitterly. For the first time he began to think they could get away with it.
Stanley Teal had finished filling the hypo. He tested it, squirting a drop into the air, his shark smile stretching.
“Now, Stockwell. A little something to give you a good night’s sleep.”
This is it, Stockwell thought. He could put up a struggle, but Teal would hold him down while Gloria gave him the shot. No good. His eyes swept the room, saw Gloria’s face, her eyes glowing with excitement, the martini trembling in her hand. Then he spotted it... the .22 on the table next to her. One chance!
He threw back his head and forced the laughter, great choking gushes of laughter.
“Something funny, Stockwell?” Teal said, the smile souring.
“Yes. Something’s funny!” Brad Stockwell gasped. “You, you poor son! You’re funny!”
The white teeth clicked together. “You got a big mouth for a dead man, Stockwell.”
Brad Stockwell choked out more laughter. “That’s just it, Stanley. You shove that needle in me and you’ll be as dead as me. Tell him, Gloria. Tell him about the money you’ll get when you’re a widow.”
“I know about the money—” Teal began.
“Let’s see, there’s the hundred thousand in insurance. And the business. Well, she should be able to get at least half a million for that. Which leaves her a moderately wealthy widow, Stanley. But where does it leave you?”
“You don’t get the picture, Stock-well. We’re crazy about each other.”
Brad Stockwell laughed again and felt his jaw rattled by the back of Teal’s left hand. Good, he thought. Getting to you, Stanley.
“I’ve got news for you, sucker,” he said. “She’ll have her fill of you in six months. But you’ll be easier to get rid of than me. Because she’ll have the money. She can buy your death as casually as she buys a new hat.”
“Shut up!” This time it was Gloria who spoke, her face all twisted with hate.
Brad Stockwell ignored her, the words tumbling from his throbbing mouth like broken teeth. “Did you think your resembling me was a coincidence, Stanley? Don’t you know you were hand-picked? She needed an expert swimmer, someone with my general height and build. Now tell me, Stanley. Tell me how this whole accidental drowning scene was your idea.”
“You bastard!” Gloria shrieked. She was on her feet now, her lovely body as rigid as death.
Even Stanley Teal’s face had lost some of its deep tan. “It looks like you want it the hard way, Stock-well!”
Stockwell watched the big hand raise and shrank back against the couch. He’d shaken Teal up enough to make him careless. He’d have one shot. Just one. It would have to be good.
As Stanley Teal stepped forward, his hand sweeping toward his face, Stockwell stabbed out with his right foot. He felt a wet spray of spittle as the toe of his shoe sank into Teal’s groin, jarring the gun from his trunks. Teal dropped the hypo, and staggered like a drunk, his face sculptured in pain.
Brad Stockwell was off the sofa like a shot, hurtling his one hundred and seventy pounds at Gloria. He hit her with a shoulder block. The impact sent her spinning back like a paper doll caught in a draft. Her head made an ugy sound as it struck the oak paneled wall. She collapsed into a silent heap.
Brad Stockwell didn’t look at her. He had only one thought now. The .22. He’d hoped the kick would put Teal out of commission long enough to work his hands loose. But Teal was a tough one. He’d sagged to his knees, clawing at his groin, his eyes glazed, uncomprehending.
But in a moment Stockwell knew he’d recover enough to pounce on him. Not enough time to get loose. But if he could get the .22...
He backed against the table, his fingers feeling for the gun. Teal was already shaking his head, shoving himself groggily to his feet. Stockwell leaned back further, his fingers probing, probing. He knew Teal couldn’t see the gun behind him and prayed he’d forgotten it was there. That might buy him a few more seconds.
But time had run out. Stanley Teal was on his feet now, his eyes blazing with hate. His voice rasped in a hoarse, deadly whisper, “I’m going to kill you, Stockwell! Slow, with my hands, where it won’t show! Then, when you’re begging me to end it, I’ll feed you to the fish!”
Stockwell watched Stanley Teal’s big hands flex, the thick fingers stretching, curling, stretching. Suddenly, he felt something cold and metallic. The .22! The fingers of his right hand fumbled at the handle. The gun made a slight scraping noise against the table. Stockwell saw Teal’s eyes question the sound for a second.
It gave him the chance to grip the gun firmly and point it directly behind him. Then Teal’s black eyebrows smashed together. A second later he was lunging at him, a terrible expression on his face.
But Stockwell was already turning, squeezing off the rounds as fast as possible as his body pivoted. By raking the target, he hoped one bullet would connect. The room seemed to erupt with sound that hammered cry between explosions, but a second at his ears. He thought he heard a later Teal’s body smashed against his back, knocking the gun from his hand. Stockwell’s head struck the edge of the table as he pitched face down on the floor.
He lay there for seconds — minutes — he didn’t know. Waves of intense pain swirled inside his head, his vision blurred by a red mist. Slowly the mist parted and the pain in his head subsided into a steady throbbing. He made a feeble effort to move but it was no use. He could feel Teal’s weight on top of him now, pinning him to the floor.
Okay, Stanley Teal, he thought dully. Your turn. Get it over. Had my try.
But nothing happened. The weight on top of him neither moved nor made a sound. Then Stockwell understood.