1971 - Want to Stay Alive (13 page)

Her shivering ceased and her confidence in herself returned. Furtively, she opened her bag and fingered the five one hundred dollar bills without taking them from the envelope.

She would do it!

Her body jerked with a suppressed sob of relief.

No more Chuck! No more Poke! No more police!

Determined not to have second thoughts, she closed the bag, got up and walked down the aisle to the driver.

“Would you please stop at the Greyhound station?” she said, surprised how steady her voice was. “It’s not far, is it?”

The bus driver was a father of five daughters. They were all nice, good, clean kids: the eldest about this girl’s age, he thought. Well, he was lucky! Thank God, his girls were decent. This girl! He could smell Meg’s stale sweat. He looked at the dirty clothes she had on. Thank God, he wasn’t her father!

“Yeah . . . about two minutes,” he said looking away from her. “I’ll stop.”

“Thank you,” Meg said and went back to her seat.

A few minutes later the bus slid to a stop outside the busy Greyhound bus station.

Meg was already coming down the aisle as the bus slowed. She forced a smile as she climbed down the three steep steps of the bus.

“Thank you.”

“And thank you,” the driver said with heavy sarcasm. He engaged gear and the bus moved on.

Clutching her handbag, Meg started towards the ticket office.

“Hi!”

The sound hit her like a knife thrusts into her heart. She turned, her body suddenly icy cold.

Chuck was leaning out of the window of the Buick. He was grinning.

“Do you want a ride, baby?” he asked.

***

Elliot Hansen was considered one of the great bridge players of the world, but the fact he was a blatant homosexual and cared nothing about competition bridge, he was content to be secretary of the Fifty Club.

On this hot, sunny afternoon, he was behind his desk, regarding Detective Lepski the way you regard a large, hairy spider that has dropped unexpectedly into your bath.

Elliot Hansen was tall, handsome and impressive to look at. His thick white hair fell to his collar. His perfect dentures, cleaned at least three times a day, gleamed when he smiled. He claimed to be sixty years of age, but if you added seven years you could still be off target. He dealt only with the very rich. He lived in luxury and would drink only “29 or “59 chateau bottled wine. He lived in the small world of luxury in the Club, but was not adverse, even now, to a quick fumble in a toilet with any pretty youth who caught his eye.

Chief of Police Terrell had decided if anyone could handle Hansen it would be Lepski who was down to earth, no snob, unimpressed by riches and above all, ambitious.

“Yes?” Hansen asked in his soft, melodious voice. He took a scented silk handkerchief from his cuff and waved it before his elegant nose.

In his cop voice that made Hansen wince, Lepski explained why he was here.

Elliot Hansen was English. Many years ago he had been the major domo to a Duke, until the Duke got into trouble with a boy scout. Then when the English police had become tiresome about Hansen’s own activities, he had left the country and had been pleased to accept the position of Secretary to the most exclusive bridge club in Florida.

Hansen listened to what Lepski was saying, scarcely believing he could be hearing aright.

“But, my good fellow, that’s most unlikely! One of our servants? No! No! Unthinkable!”

Lepski hated homosexuals as much as Hansen hated detectives. He moved impatiently.

“We’re looking for an Indian,” he said. “The description we have is he’s around twenty-three to five years of age, thick black hair, and wears a flowered shirt and dark hipsters. Have you an Indian working here who matches this description?”

“So young?” Hansen winced. “No . . . no . . . all our Indian servants are elderly. They have worked here for years . . . really years, and as for wearing a flowered shirt.” He threw back his head and laughed. To Lepski the sound he made was like the neighing of a mare.

“Yeah . . . but look at it from our angle,” Lepski said. “Two of your club members have been killed. A third one has knocked himself off: his girlfriend killed. We’re wondering if there’s a connection between this killer and this club. We know he is a Seminole Indian. You follow me? Maybe one of your staff is gunning for your members.”

Hansen revealed his dentures in a supercilious smile.

“I assure you, my dear fellow . . . quite, quite wrong thinking. Our servants have been with us for years . . . but, years. They love us all. You can have no idea. These Indians are very loyal. They really love us.”

“Couldn’t one of them possibly have a grudge against the club?” Lepski persisted. “Someone who imagines he’s had a bad deal?”

“A had deal?” Hansen was genuinely shocked. “The staff here are always treated splendidly. We’re just a big, happy family.”

Lepski breathed heavily through his nose.

“Did you ever have reason to dismiss one of your staff? Someone, maybe, who didn’t come up to your standard?”

Hansen was toying with his gold fountain pen. It slipped out of his fingers and rolled across his desk. He gave a little start as if he had a twinge of toothache. This reaction wasn’t lost on Lepski.

There was a long pause, then Hansen picked up his pen and began to toy with it again.

“Well, I suppose . . . in the past . . . yes, that’s possible,” he said slowly and reluctantly.

His mind went back to the young Indian. How long ago was it . . . four months? Until this moment he had put the incident out of his mind, now the memory came back with frightening clarity. What was his name? Toholo?

Yes . . . his father had been working in the Club for twenty years. He remembered the old man coming to him and asking if his son could work at the Club. When he had seen him, he had agreed . . . a lovely, beautifully built boy! But what a savage! That moment when he had smiled at him . . .they had been alone in the washroom and when he had touched him.

Hansen flinched. What a savage! It had been frightening. Of course he had been carried away. The boy had looked so deceptive. He had had to get rid of him. He had been careful to explain to his father that the boy was out of place in the Club . . . too young. The old man had stared at him. Hansen shifted uneasily in his chair. He could still see the contempt in the black eyes.

But he couldn’t possibly tell this ghastly detective about Toholo. The moment he attempted to explain . . . no! It was impossible!

“Do you remember any particular Indian you had to get rid of?” Lepski repeated.

The hard cop voice jarred on Hansen’s nerves.

“It hasn’t happened in years,” he said. “You know how it is.” He looked at Lepski, then his eyes shifted. “Of course they get old. Then we pension them off.”

Lepski knew he was onto something.

“Do you keep a register of your staff?”

Hansen blinked. He took out his silk handkerchief and touched his temples.

“Of course.”

“Can I see it?”

“But I assure you, you’re wasting your time.”

Lepski leaned back in his chair. His lean face made Hansen think of a hawk.

“I got paid to waste time,” he said. “Or don’t you want me to see it?”

Hansen felt suddenly faint. He drew on his dignity.

“I must ask you not to be impertinent,” he said, his voice unsteady. “If you want to see the register, you may.”

Lepski’s cop eyes stared bleakly.

“That’s what I want to see.”

“Well, of course.”

Hansen opened a drawer in his desk. He passed a leather bound book across to Lepski.

Lepski studied the list of names which meant nothing to him, but he was now convinced Hansen was attempting to conceal something.

“I’d like a copy of this. We’ll want to talk to all these men,” he said curtly and dropped the book on the desk.

“Of course.”

Hansen sat motionless. The two men looked at each other, then Lepski said, “I’ll wait.”

“Of course.”

Hansen got shakily to his feet, took the book and went through a door into the outer office. Some five minutes later, he returned and handed a sheet of paper to Lepski.

“There you are . . . it won’t help, but there you are.”

Lepski studied the list of names, then he looked up and stared bleakly at Hansen.

“There’s one missing,” he said. “From your register, you have fifteen Indians working for you. There are only fourteen names here.”

Hansen’s face sagged.

“Excuse me . . . you have no idea the trouble I have with my staff. My secretary is almost an idiot.”

“Is that right?” Lepski held out his hand for the register which Hansen was still holding. His face now pale, Hansen gave it to him.

Lepski checked the names from the register against the list Hansen had given him.

“Toholo? Who is he?” he asked.

Hansen licked his dry lips.

“Did she leave Toholo’s name off the list? How extraordinary! He’s our oldest and most trusted! I assure you you don’t have to give him a thought. Toholo! Why he must have been with us for twenty years!”

Lepski got to his feet.

“Okay . . . sorry to have troubled you.” He started to the door, then paused, “Would it worry you if I talked to Toholo right now?”

Hansen sank into his chair. He picked up his gold pen and stared at it. He now looked older than his years and that made him look very old.

“So long as you don’t inconvenience the members of this club, you may talk to him,” he said huskily. “You will find him in the bar.”

“And where’s that?”

Hansen continued to stare at the gold pen.

“At the far end of the corridor: the door on your left.”

Then he braced himself. He must make an effort, he told himself. He just couldn’t let the life he had made for himself be shattered. He looked up and stared desperately at Lepski. “But I do assure you . . . you will be wasting your time.”

“Yeah . . . you said that before,” Lepski said and left the room.

Hansen dropped the pen. Sick fear gripped him. His mind went back twenty years when he had had a telephone call from a good friend warning him the police were making inquiries about him and he had better get out of England . . . the same sick feeling he had hoped he would never experience again.

But he was to experience it yet again the following morning when he received a letter asking him if he wanted to stay alive. The letter, demanding five hundred dollars was signed: The Executioner.

***

Chuck drove the Buick down a dirt road that led to one of the many beaches along the coast. It was one of the less popular beaches because of the sand dunes, but already there were other cars there and people in the sea.

Chuck parked the car away from the rest of the cars. He turned to look at Meg who sat huddled away from him. They hadn’t spoken during the short drive to the beach.

“Did you get it?” he asked.

With shaking hands, she opened her hag, took out the envelope and gave it to him.

“So you looked?” he said when he saw the envelope was open. He took out the five one hundred dollar bills. “Nice,” he said under his breath. “Beautiful bread!”

Meg shivered.

The letter from the Executioner fluttered out from between the bills and landed on the bench seat.

“You saw this too?”

Meg put her clenched fists between her knees. Words wouldn’t come. She just stared at Chuck.

“Where were you going, baby?” Chuck asked. “Miami?”

She nodded, then making the effort, she said, “I won’t have anything more to do with this!” Her voice was a husky croak. “I’m quitting! I won’t say a thing! I promise! But I’m quitting!”

“Oh, sure.” Chuck folded the bills and put them in his shirt pocket. “Lots of freaks quit . . . some are lucky . . . but you won’t be, baby.”

She beat her fists together as she stared frantically at him.

“I promise! I won’t say a thing! Just let me go! This Indian is sick in the head! Do you want to get mixed up with a crazy Indian?” Again she put her fists between her knees as she rocked to and fro. “Chuck! Think! Let’s get away I He’s murdering people! Please, Chuck, listen to me!”

A large red and white beach ball dropped out of the sky, bounced on the wing of the car and then hit the windshield. Both Chuck and Meg flinched back.

A small boy, wearing a tiny slip, his thin body browned by the sun, came running up to capture the ball. He grinned at Chuck as he picked up the ball.

“Sorry, mister,” the kid said, paused, then went on. “You want to have a kick?”

“Sure.” Chuck got out of the car. Taking the ball from the kid, he bounced it on the sand, then kicked it high into the air. With a squeal of delight, the kid went chasing after the ball as it floated towards the sea.

Chuck got back into the car.

“Nice kid,” he said. “You know something? When I was his age I never had a ball . . . I never had a goddamn thing.”

“I want to quit!” Meg said, her voice shrill. “Will you listen! I’m quitting!”

Chuck picked up the Executioner’s note and read it, then he looked at her.

“Do you want to stay alive, baby?” he asked.

She seemed to shrink inside her clothes and she huddled further away from him.

“Do I have to spell it out?” he went on. “Okay, so he’s crazy. It’s your bad luck. It could be my bad luck too. You take off if that’s the way you “feel about it, but you won’t get far. When you are stuck with a crazy Indian, you’re stuck with something special. But if you want to take off, go ahead, but ask yourself how far you’ll get. Okay, so suppose you get as far as Miami? I don’t see how you’ll do that without money, but suppose you do? What’s the good of getting to Miami if you land up with a knife in your guts or a slug in your head?” He tapped the letter. “You read this, didn’t you? Ask yourself the same question: do you want to stay alive?”

Meg lifted her hair off her shoulders in a frantic gesture of indecision.

“You can’t frighten me! I don’t care! I’m quitting!”

Chuck began to pick his nose.

“You know something? You’re beginning to bore me. Go ahead . . . quit. Get the hell out of this car, but there’s one thing I won’t do . . .”