“Hey, now get hold of yourself. We’ve got to think.”
“One second,” Timothy sobbed wildly, “I was a decent, law-abiding guy with a business interest and a girl. The next tick of the clock and I’m a killer, and nothing will ever make things exactly the same again.”
Marco gripped him by the shoulders. “That’s right Timothy. You have to get used to the idea.”
“Marco, I’m scared to face the police.”
“No need for you to. Crazy if you do, pal. You were drinking when you hit that guy. They’ll really throw the book at you!”
Timothy shuddered and dropped his forehead on the rim of the steering wheel.
“But cheer up, pal,” Marco slapped him on the shoulder. “There’s a way out.”
“There is?”
“Sure. I’m going to help you, Timothy.”
“How?”
“We’ll go back to my apartment I’ll give you all the ready cash I’ve got. You’ll have a long head start before that guy is found. They’ll never find you.”
“You mean — run away?”
“Any better ideas, Timothy?”
“But I’d lose my share of the business, my girl.”
“There are other businesses, other girls. But you just have the next twenty years one time, Timothy. Of course, if you want to throw them away, along with the business and girl...” Marco shrugged. “I’m trying to help you salvage what you can, that’s all. I see no other way but for you to get going quick, go far, and never look back. And try not to take it so hard, Timothy. You’re not the first guy to have a thing like this happen.”
Timothy became quieter. He pulled himself erect, reached to the ignition key, and started the car. Marco was glad he had the cover of darkness to hide his elation.
They rode the self-service elevator up five flights to Marco’s apartment. Marco let them in and turned on a light in the living room.
He gripped Timothy’s bicep briefly. “Cheer up, Timothy You’ll start a new life under another name a thousand miles away, and all this will seem a bad dream. Now, I’ll see how much cash I can rustle.” Timothy moved dully to the window and opened it. He drew in a deep breath of air. The rain had stopped. The night outside was clean tasting and very silent.
Marco returned. “Here’s about five hundred bucks, Timothy. Not much, maybe, but used sparingly, it’ll take you a long way.” Timothy took the money, looked at it as if he didn’t quite realize what it was, and slipped it into his pocket. The lower portion of his face parted in a gray smile. “Murderer...” he mused. “You know, Marco, once you get over the first shock of knowing you’re a murderer, it changes your whole outlook.”
“Just don’t think about it, Timothy,” Marco admonished him then.
“Why not? Once you’ve killed, then human life assumes a completely new value. Or should I say lack of value?”
Marco began to feel uneasy. “Timothy, you ought to use every possible minute to put as much distance...”
“I hate to think of losing the business and my girl, Marco. Really I do, especially since there is only one thing that can definitely link me to the hitchhiker. The rain must have washed the tire tread marks from the shoulder of the road, and I can burn my shoes, in case I left footprints. That leaves just one thing, Marco. You, the lone witness.” Before Marco could speak, Timothy clipped him on the jaw. As he crumpled, Timothy took Marco’s shoulders and directed his fall out the open window. Then he kicked back the throw rug from under the window, which made everything reasonably obvious. Timothy would agree with everyone that it had been most unfortunate for the rug to slip.
Proxy
Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, June 1966.
When I left her apartment, I skedaddled straight to Mr. Friedland’s estate. I left the car standing in the driveway and went in the big stone mansion like a coon with a pack on his trail.
I asked the butler where Mr. Friedland was, and the butler said our boss was in the study. So I busted in the study and closed the heavy walnut door behind me quick.
Mr. Friedland was at his desk. He looked up, bugged for a second by me coming in this way. But he didn’t bless me out. He got up quick and said, “What’s the matter, William?”
I knuckled some sweat off my forehead, walked to the desk, and laid the envelope down. The envelope had a thousand smackers, cash, in it.
Mr. Friedland picked up the money. He looked a little addle pated.
“You did go to Marla Scanlon’s apartment, William?”
“Yes, sir.”
“She was there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But she didn’t accept the money? William, I simply can’t believe it.”
I couldn’t think of an easy way to explain it to him. “She’s dead, Mr. Friedland.”
He cut his keen eyes from the money to me. He was a lean, handsome man who looked about thirty-five years old in the face. It was just the pure white hair that hinted at his real age.
“Dead?” he said. “How, William?”
“Looked to me like somebody strangled her to death. I didn’t hang around to make sure. There’s bruises on her neck, and her tongue is stuck out and all swelled up like a hunk of bleached liver. She was a mighty fetching hunk of female,” I added with a sigh.
“Yes,” Mr. Friedland said, “she was.”
“But she don’t look so good now.”
“Was she alone in the apartment?”
“I reckon. I didn’t feel the urge to poke around. Just had a look at her there on her living-room floor and hightailed it here.”
Mr. Friedland absently put the thousand bucks in his inside coat pocket. “She was alive three hours ago. She phoned me, just before I went out. I returned, gave you the envelope, and you went to her place and found her dead. Three hours. She was killed between two and five this afternoon.”
“Could have been a lot of traffic in that much time, Mr. Friedland.”
“I doubt it. Not today. Today she was expecting a caller with a white envelope. William, you didn’t see anyone on your way out of the building?”
“No, sir.”
“Phone anyone? Speak to anyone?”
“Not a soul, Mr. Friedland, until I got here and asked the butler where you was.”
“Good. You’re always a good man, William.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “I try to be.” Which was no lie. I’m a hillbilly from near Comfort, North Carolina, which is back up in the mountains. It’s a mighty poorly place, believe me. Mr. Friedland came up there one summer for a week of fishing. I worked for him that week, and when the week was over he said as how would I like to keep working for him. He said I was intelligent and clean-cut and had respect for other people. He said he needed a chauffeur and a man to do errands and personal chores. He said I would have quarters on a nice estate and steady pay. So naturally I jumped at the chance. That was near five years ago, and I’m glad to say that Mr. Friedland has come to depend on me as few folks can depend on a personal worker. He trusts me and knows I can keep my mouth shut. And that means a lot to a big shot newspaper publisher and television station owner like Mr. Friedland.
While I was simmering down and losing the shakes from my experience in Miss Marla Scanlon’s apartment, Mr. Friedland was busy on the phone. He called Judge Harrison Corday and Mr. Robert Grenick, who is the prosecuting attorney. They were both close friends of Mr. Friedland. He told them to drop everything, he had to see them right away. He said a thing of utmost importance had happened which couldn’t be talked about on the phone. He asked them to come to his study pronto, which they did.
Judge Corday got there first. He was one of the youngest superior court judges in the state. He liked parties and booze, and it was beginning to show around the softening edges of his face. He was a big, reddish man. He’d been a famous football star in college.