When Dobbs came back, Ambrose asked, “What are these things we’re wearing?”
“Shrouds,” Dobbs said.
I didn’t exactly shudder, but I hoped he had set the dryer on high.
Dobbs went over to a cabinet, took out three water glasses and a bottle of Scotch. I noted that there were several other bottles in the cabinet. He set the glasses on one of the embalming tables, poured a stiff jolt into each glass and held onto the bottle.
“Let’s go in here where it’s more comfortable,” he said, and led us into a comfortable little den. Dobbs set the bottle on a desk and took an easy chair, Ambrose took another and I sat on the sofa.
“Cheers,” Dobbs said, raising his glass.
We raised ours in salute. Dobbs tossed off his whole drink. Ambrose and I each took only about half of ours.
It went that way for the next half-hour. For every ounce of Scotch Ambrose and I drank, Dobbs put away two. At the end of the half-hour the bottle was empty. Dobbs tried to get out of his chair and found that he couldn’t.
“I say, old man,” he said to Ambrose, “would you mind getting us a fresh bottle?”
The swim had considerably sobered me, but I was beginning to feel a little fuzzy again. Ambrose seemed perfectly sober, though, when he rose, clutched his toga around him and went into the embalming room. I noticed he carried the empty Scotch bottle with him.
“How long does that dryer take?” I asked Dobbs.
“Dryer?”
“You put our clothes in the dryer, remember?” I said. “How long does it take?”
“Oh, your clothes. Yes, of course. They’re out in the dryer, old man.”
“How long does it take?” I asked patiently.
“The dryer? About forty-five minutes. Wasn’t there another gentleman with us a moment ago?”
“He went after more Scotch,” I informed him.
“He did? That was unnecessary. There’s plenty in the embalming room.” He attempted to focus his eyes on a wristwatch, gave up and asked, “What time is it, old friend?”
My watch said eleven-thirty, which surprised me. Then I realized it was stopped. It wasn’t waterproof.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d guess about twelve-thirty.”
Ambrose came back carrying two bottles. He handed one to Dobbs, poured drinks for me and himself from the other. Dobbs poured his tumbler nearly full. We all drank, Dobbs, as usual, pouring it all down in one gulp. He looked surprised.
“Was that Scotch?” he asked in a squeaky voice.
He picked up his private bottle and looked at the label. His eyes wouldn’t focus on it, so I went over and looked at it.
“Scotch,” I verified.
Dobbs gave a relieved nod and poured himself another glassful. I went back to the sofa, sat down and looked at Ambrose. He was looking at Dobbs.
Ambrose raised his glass and said, “Cheers.”
Dobbs drained his glass and looked surprised again. “Odd,” he said, staring at the glass.
Ambrose got up, wrapped his toga about him and went over to pour the man a third drink. Dobbs merely continued to stare down at it thoughtfully.
We sat there in silence for about ten minutes. Ambrose and I finished our drinks and Ambrose poured two more. Dobbs hadn’t sampled his third one.
“Cheers,” Ambrose said, raising his glass.
Dobbs raised his very slowly. It took him a couple of minutes to let it trickle down his throat, but he managed to put it all away. His arm came down with equal slowness, resting the glass on the arm of his chair.
Ambrose asked, “How long does that dryer take?”
Our host didn’t answer. I said, “Forty-five minutes.”
“Then our clothes should be done,” Ambrose said.
The dryer had stopped. Our clothes were bone dry, but our suits were wrinkled and the shoes were stiff.
When we had dressed, Ambrose carefully refolded the shrouds and replaced them in the cupboard. We picked our pocket items from the embalming table and stowed them away.
“What about him?” I asked, jerking my thumb toward the den.
“He should be done, too.”
A trifle unsteadily he walked into the den. I trailed along. Dobbs sat in his chair with a fixed smile on his face. Ambrose went over and shook him. There was no response.
Ambrose tried to lift the glass from his hand, but couldn’t. He tried to pry the man’s fingers loose, but they were gripping the glass too tightly.
“What’s the matter with him?” I asked.
“He drank about a fifth of embalming fluid.”
I gave the man in the chair a startled look. “You mean he’s finally dead?”
“Cold as a carp. We’d better get him out of here.”
“Why?” I asked.
Ambrose thought this over, weaving slightly. Presently he said, “I think we’d better collect on this tonight and then blow town, instead of waiting until tomorrow night. And what better proof of accomplishment can we show than this corpse?”
It was my turn to think matters over. Somehow his suggestion didn’t strike me as very wise. If we left Dobbs where he was, it seemed to me the cops would assume he got too stoned to know the difference between Scotch and embalming fluid, which was more or less what had actually happened. Driving around with a corpse in the car seemed asking for trouble, but as Ambrose had pointed out, what better proof could there be than the corpse?
Ambrose said, “Take that glass out of his hand.”
I tried, but I couldn’t bend his fingers.
“The hell with it,” Ambrose said. “Just carry him out to the car.”
He was stiff as a frozen steak. When I heaved him into my arms, he remained in his seated position, his right arm thrust out in front of him and the glass still clutched in his hand.
Ambrose picked up the Scotch bottle we had partly emptied, plus the one containing the embalming fluid. He switched off the den light and carried the two bottles into the embalming room.
He set down the Scotch bottle and dumped the embalming fluid in the other one down the sink. I stood with the rigid body of Dobbs in my arms as he rinsed out the bottle and dropped it into a waste can. Then he picked up the Scotch bottle and preceded me into the casket room, switching off the embalming room light as he went through the door.
At the top of the stairs he flicked the light switch to turn off the light in the casket room. When I had carried Dobbs into the foyer, he closed the door behind me. The foyer light had been on when we entered, so we left it that way. Ambrose set the spring lock on the side door before pulling it closed behind us.
I set Dobbs in the rear of the jalopy, where he sat erect, smiling frozenly and thrusting his glass out before him. I climbed in front and Ambrose backed out of the driveway.
It was a long drive to the home of Everett and Cornelia Dobbs. When we passed the place where the car had crashed, someone had pulled the wheel and fender off onto the shoulder, but the road was still littered with glass.
It must have been 2:00 a.m. when we finally arrived. A curving drive led past a swimming pool which had underwater lights. Since no one was in the pool, I assumed the lights were left on all night as a safety precaution so no one would fall into it in the dark.
The house was a two-story brick. Ambrose parked right in front of the porch and we both went up to the door. Through a window we could see a night light on in the front room. Ambrose rang the bell.
“Suppose she’s not alone?” I said.
“She will be. She outlined her plans to me in detail. She was having some women in for bridge to establish her alibi. She estimated they would leave about midnight, and she was going to ask the woman who had driven the others here to call her when she got home so she’d know everybody got home safely. That would cover her until about twelve-thirty, then she planned to go to bed until the police awakened her to report the accident.”