Little Dee was close to Bill Grant. Little Dee towered above Bill Grant. Little Dee was an experienced torturer and an experienced murderer but Bill Grant was no slob in either department himself. Bill Grant tensed himself and watched carefully.
“What boat?” said Bill Grant.
“The boat like what will be your hearse,” said Little Dee.
Bill Grant watched. He did not have to jump Little Dee because Little Dee was not going to murder him, yet. To jump Little Dee would be an act of desperation, because Little Dee was obviously stronger, and Bill Grant could lose.
“Like how a boat for a hearse?” said Bill Grant.
“After I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry instead of laugh, and I put you out of your misery, I take you out to the boat, and I wrap chains all around you, and I take you way out to the deep, and I drop you in, and you sink, and the fishes will eat what’s left of you. Nice, huh?”
“Peachy,” said Bill Grant.
“So you want to laugh now, baby?”
Bill Grant watched. The gun twisted in the massive hand, held like a hammer now, butt protruding. Bill Grant’s face assumed a look of fear; he turned as though to run. The hand swiftly rose and fell in a powerful hammer-chop directed at Bill Grant’s head.
Bill Grant moved his head, just enough, as expert as an expert boxer; he let the gun hit, a sliding blow without effect, and now guile was added to his act. He screamed and fell and lay quivering and he heard the gritting laughter above him.
As Little Dee bent for a second chop, Bill Grant’s foot shot out in a crushing kick to the testicles, and as the big man fell back, grunting, Bill Grant was upon him, his switch-knife in his hand, and he plunged a six-inch blade into Little Dee’s groin, and cut upward, all the way to the diaphragm, and gas exploded from Little Dee’s stomach, and blood lumped the Basque shirt in a curious reddening bulge.
Little Dee stood quite still for a moment, teeth gleaming in a death-grin, no pain in his face, nothing but an expression of pure, almost child-like, surprise. The gun fell first. Then Little Dee fell, supine. And Bill Grant was upon him, stomping his high heels into the expression of surprise, stomping until there was no expression, until there was almost no face.
He stood still, red knife in hand. He breathed deeply until he recovered his wind. Then he laid the knife on the floor and turned the faceless man over. He took the key from the pocket of the slacks, went to the door, unlocked it, returned, threw the key on the floor, and picked up the dripping knife.
He went through a corridor to the bathroom where, first, he washed the knife. He dried it on a bath towel, folded it, and replaced it in the pocket where he always carried it. Then he removed his jacket and shirt and washed himself thoroughly. He combed his hair, re-dressed, went back to the study, skirted the dead man, and explored the desk-drawers for money. Of course there was no money. He left all the lights burning and went out to the car.
He drove to his apartment and packed quickly. He took sixteen hundred dollars from its hiding place in a closet and placed it into his wallet. He turned off the lights, went back to the car, and drove to the airport. He spread a bit of bribe-money, talked about an emergency involving an acutely ill mother, and procured a ticket to Havana on a flight that was leaving in forty-five minutes. Then he went to a booth and made a phone call.
IV
On the third day of March, at seven minutes to eleven of a humid moonless evening, Evangeline Ashley sat in a soft chair in Room 203 of Hotel Cascade reading a three-paragraph gossip-column on a back page of a daily newspaper.
She was nearing the end of the last paragraph when the phone rang. She laid the paper aside and went to the telephone. She was wearing a grey gabardine suit, grey stockings, black patent-leather pumps, and a frilly-fronted white blouse. She lifted the receiver and said, “Yes??”
“Eve? This is Bill.”
“What’s the matter? What—”
“Shut up. Listen. I’m at the airport.”
“You’re where...?”
“Airport. I’m leaving soon. Next forty minutes—”
“For where?”
“Havana. Now shut up. Listen to me, will you please? Get into your car and drive out here. Fast. No time for fooling around. Hang up, get into your car, and drive out here. Important. I’m waiting. Bye now.”
He hung up. She hung up. She turned off the lights, left the room, locked the door, ran down the stairs, ran to the garage, got into her powder-blue convertible, and drove without event to the airport.
She parked, ran in, and he was there waiting. He took her to an uncrowded spot and told her what had happened.
“Take me with you,” she said. “Please take me.”
“Forget it.”
“I love you, Bill.”
“Forget it.”
“Will you send for me?”
“No. Now look, you’re in a spot.”
“I’m in no spot.”
“Senor.”
“I can handle him.”
“I don’t think you can. That creep has popped his cork, I tell you. And when he finds out what happened to Little Dee, he’ll really flip.”
“I can handle him.”
“But he knows about us.”
“He hasn’t seen us together, has he? He hasn’t seen us in bed, has he? So he knows we’ve been out together. So he knows I came visiting you. So he knows, even, that I stayed over. I can talk him out of all of that. I’m a woman. He’s a man. I can handle him.”
He drew out his wallet, pinched out money. “Here’s three hundred bucks. Pack up and git. You can always take out the five thousand you have in the Savings Bank by mail or something.” She held back. “Take it,” he said. She took the money. He put his wallet away. “That’s my advice. Pack up and blow. Tonight.”
“I told you I can handle him,” she insisted.
“Look.” He talked rapidly, quietly. “I gave a guy his lumps tonight. I’m running. I’m hot I figure to be hot for quite a while. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come with me. I’ll be moving around, like looking over my shoulder. For a while, anyway. Until it simmers down. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come. And I don’t want you. It’s been nice, but I’ve had it. I’m a loner. I’m a loner, looking for the big score. I’ve got to go my own way, and I’ve got to go unhampered. That’s it. I don’t like long good-byes. I’m going to turn around and walk away. You go back to your car.”
“Billy, please.”
“Honey, there’s a dead man around, and I killed him. It may blow up big, it may not blow up at all, depending on whether Senor pipes. If it blows big, there’ll be cops looking for me. They inquire at airports. There’s no sense somebody seeing us and tying you into it. There’s no sense in your being an accessory. I don’t want you hanging around here with me. Good-bye, Evie.”
“Billy, say one nice word.”
“Good-bye, baby.”
“Billy, do you love me?”
“No.”
He turned and walked, gracefully, on his high heels, into gloom. She restrained an impulse to run after him. You did not run after Bill Grant. You did not make scenes with Bill Grant. You gave him all the love you were capable of. You gave him money to nurture his expensive tastes. You held him and you made love to him and he made love to you, but you knew all the while he was gossamer, you had no sense of possession, you knew one day be would go away. Now he was going away.
She returned to her car and drove back to town. She had coffee in Wolfie’s and thought of her own problem. She was certain she could handle Senor. Her body and her beauty could manage Senor, as they had managed so many others, excluding Bill Grant. Her approach to Senor must be one of outrage: he had doubted her when he should not have. She, of course, would know nothing of what had occurred. He would accuse, and she would quickly, openly, honestly defend.