Thoughts of Vivian tore at me, the knowledge that I must do away with the old man before he found out. I knew he would stick to his word if he found that Vivian was now Mrs. Robert Slack. Every dime of his money would go to charity.
The prospect of having to work for a living almost made me ill.
I glanced across the room at him, watching the way the light reflected from his glistening, sun-browned bald head. How could I rid myself of him with safety? I had no desire to pay with my life for his worthless one.
Then there was the sound of a car stopping in front. Uncle Phineas listened a moment, sitting up in his chair, and said under his breath, “That doctor!”
He got to his feet quickly, saying: “Robert, I’m going upstairs to get in bed. Bring the doc up.”
He scurried across the room, hurrying up the stairs, and I heard his door slam in the upper hall. He was, I knew, frantically stripping and getting into pajamas.
There was the sound of footsteps outside the front door; then the chimes, softly muted, pealed twice. I waited, intending to let Higgins answer the door. That would give my uncle that many more seconds to get in bed, where the doctor had probably left him on the last visit. If the old fool wanted to deceive the doctor, that was his affair; I had more important matters on my own mind.
Higgins padded toward the front door, pulled it open, and the doctor came in. I looked up quickly. The doctor was a well-built woman, with softly waving auburn hair, who still retained a great deal of mature beauty.
“Is Mr. Slack upstairs, Higgins?” she asked.
He hesitated, and I rose and said, “Yes, he’s in his room, Doctor...”
“Merriwell,” she said. “Doctor Hazel Merriwell.”
When we reached my uncle’s room, we found him propped up in bed, innocently reading a book. Doctor Merriwell proceeded me into the loom. lie laid aside his book and smirked at her.
“Well, doc, how’m I looking?”
“Not much change — in looks. Have you been in bed since the last attack?”
“Last attack?” I echoed.
“Four days ago,” she said, tilting her head toward me. “He almost died.” It seemed that her shoulders slumped a little. “I do wish I could impress on him the seriousness of his illness.”
He laughed flippantly, but deep down there was a note of fear. And I knew that he was keeping up the pace he had set for himself five years ago, when he’d retired from business, in order to convince himself that he was as young as ever.
I stood by until Dr. Merriwell was ready to leave. She put her stethoscope back in the bag, snapped it shut, and I trailed her out of the room.
At the foot of the angular stairway, she turned to me and said seriously, “I’m glad you are here, Mr. Slack. Didn’t you say you are his nephew?”
“Yes,” I said. “But I won’t be here long, not long enough to do anything for him, I’m afraid.”
“That’s too bad.” She smiled a little wanly. “He’s quite a problem. If he’d be sensible, he might live indefinitely. But you know how he is. He insists on those long sun baths, late hours, and... and too much alcohol, I’m afraid, Mr. Slack.”
“Sun baths?”
“Blood pressure,” she said. “The attack four days ago was brought on when he got a little tight and went down on the ocean’s edge and went to sleep in the sun.”
I opened the door for her. “I’ll look after him,” I said with a smile, “and thank you, Doctor.”
“Not at all.”
I closed the door behind her and stood looking up the stairs.
The clearness of it, the simplicity made me a little giddy. I wouldn’t even have to bother about getting Higgins out of the house, only be careful not to awaken him. Since he was slightly deaf, that didn’t worry me a great deal. At midnight, I thought, Uncle Phineas Slack would die of sunstroke... And the doctor had given me the inspiration.
I was reading when Higgins came into the living room at ten o’clock.
“Is there anything you wish before I retire, sir?”
“No, thanks, Higgins.” He left and closed the door.
Silence settled over the house. Outside the palms whispered sleepily as a faint breeze from off the ocean played through them. It was the worst part of it all — the waiting. The silence in the room was choking. I turned on every light, catwalking about the floor. I filled an ashtray with cigarette stubs.
Uncle Phineas was still awake when I went up to his room just after eleven o’clock. Now that the time was so near, I felt a cold, nagging fear inside me; but no worse than the fear of what he would do when he found out the full truth about Vivian and me.
He looked up at me as I closed the door and came on in the room. Beside his bed, I smiled and held out my hand.
Slowly, a frown deep upon his tanned, chubby face he grasped my hand and shook it. The expression of friendliness on my face had fooled him utterly.
He kept shaking my hand, almost clinging to it, and his eyes changed. I’d never seen him this way before — like a lost boy — or a lonely old man.
“I... I guess I’ve dreamed about this moment a long time, Robert boy. You’re really waking up, aren’t you?” Then he noticed that he was still holding my hand, and dropped it in embarrassment.
He looked out the window, as if he could see anything through the cracks in the Venetian blinds in the darkness beyond.
“I’ve been pretty lonely, Robert. Spent my life making money; never had time for friends.” His voice was reaching out to me, begging me. Cone was all pretense, all flippancy. I felt sickened. Such weakness!
“I talked to the doctor,” I said.
“Ah...” he said slowly. “Yes, the doctor. Maybe... maybe I should change doctors, Robert, get a specialist.”
“You’re thinking...?”
“That maybe I would have something to live for now,” he said. “Robert,” his voice lowered, “you did mean that handshake, didn’t you? It’s the first time you’ve ever come to me and done that.”
“Sure I meant it.” I walked to the window, turned to him, my hands thrust down in my pockets. “I’ve been doing some tall thinking in the last couple of hours, and I can tell you — you needn’t worry about a specialist.”
He started, and I laughed easily.
“Doctor Merriwell,” I said, “confided in me. Your case is not really serious. She’s been exaggerating, thinking to scare you into being good. But maybe things will change now. I’ve been sitting down there in the living room thinking that it wouldn’t be so bad. You and I taking a crack at some business, I mean. I...”
He sat bolt upright in bed, laughing to keep from crying. I waited, watching my every expression.
Then I said, “Let’s have a drink on it.”
“Think I should?” The laughter was still tugging at his lips, causing them to tremble. His eyes were faintly moist.
“Of course,” I laughed. “Just to seal the bargain.” Without saying anything more I crossed the room to his walnut liquor cabinet, opened it, and came back toward the bed with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.
It was ridiculously easy. Five years of self-imposed riotous living had whetted his appetite for strong drink. Soon his words were becoming thick; and at three minutes after twelve he was putting out his hands on either side of him to steady himself. Gently, I kept forcing it upon him, one drink after another. Color rose high in his face, and his eyes began to glaze. Without warning, he went limp, sprawled with his head over the side of the bed, his mouth open, his breath sharp and shallow.
I looked down at him a moment; then, very gently, I bent, grasped his arms, and pulled him up so that he sagged across my shoulder. Wobbling a little under his weight, I carried him out of the room.