The Kill-off Part 17

"Mr. P-Pavlov," he said. "Can't you ever-?"

"Guess you didn't need many seats in your church for a while, did you?" I said. "Guess most of the fellows didn't feel like settin' down. Not much more like it, maybe, than some of the folks they visited with bullwhips."

I grinned and winked at him. He stood leaning against the fence, his mouth quivering, his hands gripping and ungripping the pickets.

"Mr. Pavlov," he said. "It-that was such a long time ago, Mr. Pavlov."

"Don't seem long to me," I said. "But me, I got a long memory."

"If you know how sorry I was, how often I've begged G.o.d's forgiveness . . ."

"Yeah?" I said. "Well, I guess I better be going. I stand around here much longer, I might lose my appet.i.te."

My house was in the next block, a big two-story job with plenty of yard s.p.a.ce. It was probably the best-built house in town, but it sure didn't look like much. What it looked like was h.e.l.l.

I'd been pretty busy at the time I finished it, fifteen years ago. Had four or five contract jobs running-jobs I'd taken money on. Figured I had to take care of them, and do it right, before I prettied up my own place.

So I did that. And while I was doing it, my neighbors. .h.i.t me with a pet.i.tion. I tore it up, and threw it at 'em. They took me into court, and I fought 'em to a standstill. If they'd just left me alone, stopped to consider that they didn't have no monopoly on wanting things nice-but they just wouldn't do that. They tried to make me do something. No one makes me do anything.

The house has never been painted. The yard has never been cleaned up. It's littered with odds and ends of lumber, sawhorses, left-over brick and so on. There's a couple of old wheelbarrows, almost rusted and rotted to bits, and a big mixing trough, caked with cement. There's- But I already said it.

It looks like h.e.l.l. It ain't ever going to look any other way-at least, it ain't going to look any better-as long as I'm alive.

It was a couple of minutes after twelve when I went in. So lunch was already on the table, and Myra and my wife, Gretchen, were standing by their chairs waiting for me.

I said h.e.l.lo. They mumbled and ducked their heads. I said, well, let's sit; and we all sat down.

I filled their plates and mine. I took a couple bites-it was beef and potato dumplings-and then I mentioned the matter of Doc Ashton.

"Dug up a big building job for me over in Atlantic Center," I said. "How'd you feel about us all going there to live for four or five months?"

Gretchen didn't look up, but I saw her eyes slant toward Myra. A kind of red flush spread over Myra's face, and her hand shook as she raised her fork.

Half way to her mouth, the fork slipped out of her fingers, landed with a clatter on her plate. She and Gretchen jumped. I laughed.

"Don't worry," I said. "We ain't going. I never had no notion of going. Just thought I'd tell you about it."

I took a big bite of grub, staring at them while I chewed it. Myra's face got redder and redder. And then she jumped up suddenly, and ran out of the room.

I laughed. I didn't feel much like it, but I did. Gretchen looked up at last.

"Why don't you leave her alone?" she said, not mumbling or whining like she usually does. "Ain't you done enough, taking all the spirit out of her? Beatin' her down until she goes around like a whipped dog? Do you have to go on and on, seeing how miserable-"

"Huh-uh," I said. "That's something I ain't going to do. I sure ain't going on and on."

"What-" She hesitated. "What do you mean by that?"

I shrugged. After a moment or so, she turned and left, headed up the stairs toward Myra's room.

I finished eating, wiping my plate clean with a piece of bread. Afterwards, I dug my teeth a little with a toothpick, and after that I took a big chaw of tobacco. I looked at my watch, then-saw that it was two minutes to one o'clock. I went on looking until the hands pointed to one sharp. Then, I got my hat off the hallrack and started back toward town.

I did everything just like always, you know. Seemed like I hadn't ought to, but I'd never had but one way of doing things, and I stuck to it now. Right or wrong, it was my way. And to me, it seemed right.

Take the spirit out of 'em? Why, h.e.l.l, I tried to put spirit into 'em! I gave 'em something to be proud of-something to hold their heads high about. I built something out of nothing, just my head and my two bare hands. And I never bent my back to no man while I was doing it. I never let no one take the spirit out of me. And believe me, there was plenty of them that tried. Why, those two-Gretchen and Myra-if they'd taken just half of what I took- I got back to my office. I finished my chaw, and took a big drink of whiskey. And I kind of laughed to myself and thought, Well, h.e.l.l. What you got to show for it all, Pieter Pavlovski? A wife? Gretchen's a wife? A daughter? Myra- that sheep-eyed s.l.u.t-is your daughter? Well, what then, besides the buildings? Aside from your buildings. Because them buildings ain't yours no more. You've held onto them as long as you can, and . . .

I took another big drink. I tried to laugh again, because it was a h.e.l.l of a joke on me, you know. But I just wasn't up to laughing. Not when it was about losing this pavilion and the hotels and the restaurants and the cottages and- and everything I had. All the things that took the place of what I didn't have.

I couldn't hardly think about it, let alone laugh.

I took the gun out of my desk. I checked it over, and put it back in the drawer again.

I thought, her fault, his fault, theirs, mine, the whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned world's-what the h.e.l.l's the difference? It's a bad job. It's got your name on it. So there's just one thing to do about it.

It was about nine-thirty when Bobbie Ashton showed up at my office. I'd been drinking quite a bit, and it gave me a pretty bad jar when I looked up and saw him in the doorway. I didn't cuss him out, though-just grunted a "How are you, Bobbie?" and he smiled and sat down.

I said I thought him and Myra were out on a date tonight.

"We were," he nodded. "I mean, we still are. I just drove by to see you for a minute."

"Yeah?" I said. "Wasn't going to ask me if it was all right for you to go with her, was you?"

"No," he said. "I was going to ask if-had you heard that Mrs. Devore was dead?"

"Well, yeah." I sat up a little in my chair. "Ralph called and told me. What about it, anyway?"

"Perhaps nothing," he said. "On the other hand . . ."

He took a long white envelope out of his pocket, and laid it on my desk. He stood up again, smiling a cool, funny little smile.

"I want you to read that," he said. "If it becomes necessary-that is, to protect an innocent person-and you may interpret the word liberally-I want you to use it."

"Use it? What the h.e.l.l is it?" I said. "Why not use it yourself?"

His smile widened. He shook his head gently. And then, before I could say anything more, he was gone.

I opened the envelope, and began to read.

It was a confession, written in his own handwriting, to the murder of Luane Devore. It told how he'd figured out that Ralph must have had a pile of money saved, and how he needed a pile himself. And it went on to say just how the murder had come about.

He'd had a handkerchief tied over his face. He'd kept quiet-not saying anything, I mean-so she couldn't recognize his voice. He'd slipped upstairs, not intending to really hurt her; just to give her a shove or maybe a sock, so's he could grab the money. And it wasn't his intention to steal it outright. He was going to send it back anonymously as soon as he could. But-well, everything went wrong, and nothing worked out like he'd planned.

Luane was waiting for him at the head of the stairs. She piled into him, and he tried to fight her off. And the next thing he knew, she was lying at the foot of the stairs, dead.

He forgot all about the money, and beat it. He was too scared to do anything else . . .

I finished reading the confession. I glanced back over it again, kind of marveling over it-wondering how the thing could sound so true unless it was. There was just one hole in it that I could see. That part about him being scared. If it was possible to scare that kid, I didn't know how the h.e.l.l it would be.

I took another drink. I struck a match to the confession, and tossed it into the spittoon. Because nothing had changed. Killing Luane was one crime he'd never be punished for. And probably he knew it, too.

That was why he'd written the confession-probably. He knew he was going to die anyway, so the confession couldn't hurt him and it might help someone else a lot.

I got my gun out, and slid it into my hip pocket. I turned off the lights and went out to my car.

It was no trouble finding them, Bobbie and Myra. Just a matter of driving a while, and then getting out and walking a while, creeping along a winding trail. All I had to do was think of where I'd go if I was in his place. And the place I'd've gone to was the place he'd taken her.

They were stretched out on a patch of sand in a little clearing, and they were locked together. I couldn't really see her, just him. And that made it pretty hard, because him-he-was all I really cared about.

I didn't know how he'd got to her. Or why. I was afraid to even think about it, for fear I might try to excuse him. And it couldn't be that way. I was pretty sure he wouldn't want it that way. But it was d.a.m.ned hard, just the same.

Me and him-we were so much alike. We thought so much alike. That was how he'd been able to confess to a killing I'd done-yeah, I killed Luane-and have his facts almost completely straight.

I had planned on sticking Luane up for the money. I had worn a handkerchief over my face, and I hadn't answered when she called downstairs, so that she couldn't recognize my voice.

Then, right at the last minute, I changed my mind; I couldn't go through with the stunt. I'd never pulled anything sneaky in my life, and I couldn't do it now. And, by G.o.d, there was no reason why I should.

She owed me money. Ten thousand dollars with almost twenty-five years' interest. I jerked the handkerchief down off my face and put the gun in my pocket, and told her I was there to collect.

"And don't tell me you ain't got it," I said, when she started jabbering and squawking ninety to the minute. "Ralph's made it, and he ain't spent it-and he ain't got it either. You're keeping it to keep him. If Ralph had it, he'd've jumped town with that singer long ago."

I went on up the stairs, walking slowly and keeping a sharp eye on her. She begged, and then she began yelling threats. I'd never get away with it, she yelled. She'd have me arrested. I wouldn't get to keep the money, and I'd go to prison besides.

"Maybe," I said, "but I figure not. Everyone thinks I got plenty of money, and even my worst enemy wouldn't never accuse me of stealing. So I figure I'll get away with it. It'll be as easy as it was for you and your Pa to cheat me."

Well, I thought for a minute that she was going to give up. Because she stopped yelling and stood back against the wall, as if to let me pa.s.s. Then, just as I took the last step, she screamed and lunged at me.

I flung my arm out, trying to ward her off. It caught her a sweeping blow, and being off balance like she was, she went down the stairs head-first.

I went down and took a quick look at her. I got out of there. I didn't need money no more.

. . . I kind of sighed. I took the gun out of my pocket, staring across to the patch of sand where Bobbie and Myra were.

I hesitated, wondering if I ought to toss a rock at them. Give 'em a chance, you know, like you do when you're out hunting and you see a setting rabbit.

But they weren't rabbits. He wasn't, anyway. And if I didn't get them now, I'd just have to do the job later. And there wasn't going to be any later for me. I wouldn't be roaming around after tonight. So I raised the gun and took aim.

I waited a second. Two or three seconds. He turned his head suddenly, and kissed her. And, then, right at that moment, I started shooting.

I figure they died happy.

I blew the smoke out of my gun, went back to my car and headed for town. I drove to the courthouse and turned myself in for the three killings.

Kossy was my lawyer at the trial. But there wasn't nothing a lawyer could do for me. There wasn't nothing I'd've let him do. So now it's all over-or it d.a.m.ned soon will be-and now that it is, I kind of wonder.

I wonder if I really did kill Luane Devore.

She was a pretty tough old bag. Could be that the fall downstairs just knocked her out, and someone else came along and finished the job. Could be that someone was hiding in the house right at the time I was there.

It would be just about a perfect murder, you know. They, this party, could do the killing and I'd take the blame for it. Anyone who knew me knew that I would.

Who do I think did it-that is, if I didn't?

Well, I don't figure it was anyone you might ordinarily suspect, the people who seemed to have the best motives. The very fact that they had good reasons for wanting Luane dead-and that everyone knew it-would be the thing that would keep them from killing her. They'd be too afraid, you know, that the job might be pinned on them.

Aside from that, and maybe excepting Danny Lee, all the prime suspects were too fond of living to commit murder. They'd proved it over and over, through the years; proved it by the way they lived. They'd give up their principles, their good name-everything they had; just as long as they could go on living. Living any d.a.m.ned old way. And people like that, they ain't going to take the risk of killing.

Me, now, I'm not that way-just in case you haven't discovered it. I have to live a certain way or I'd rather be dead, which I'm just about to be. Putting it in a nutsh.e.l.l, I never had but one thing to live for. And if I thought I was going to lose that, like I did lose it, why . . .

I guess you see what I'm driving at. Whoever killed Luane was a one-reason-for-living person. Whoever killed Luane was someone who didn't seem to have a motive- who could do it with a good chance of never being suspected. And there's only one person I can think of who fits that description.

She was smart and efficient, but she'd stuck to the same cheap dull job for years. She was pretty as a picture and a d.a.m.ned nice girl to boot, but she'd never gotten married.

She stuck to her job and she'd never gotten married for the same reason-because she was in love with her boss. She never showed it in any of the usual ways. She never made any pa.s.ses at him-she wasn't that kind. And she never stepped out with him. There wasn't a thing she did that could cause gossip about her. But, h.e.l.l, it was plain as day how she felt. It was clear to me, anyway. I'd seen the way she kowtowed to him, and made over him, and it kind of made me squirm. I'd think: Now, why the h.e.l.l does she do it-a gal that could have her pick of jobs and men? And of course there couldn't be but one reason why she did it.

She must have known that he was nothing but a fatmouthed dunce. She must have known he wasn't ever going to marry her-that he was too self-centered to marry anyone, and that his sister probably wouldn't let him if he wanted to. But that didn't change anything. Maybe, women being like they are, it might have made her love him all the more. Anyway, she was crazy about him-she had to be, you know-crazy enough to kill anyone who hurt him. And someone was hurting him. It was getting to the point where he might lose his job-the only one he could hold-and if he did they'd be separated, and- Yeah, that's right. I'm talking about Nellie Otis, the county attorney's secretary.

I figure that Nellie killed Luane-if I didn't do it. I guess I ain't ever likely to know for sure, and I don't know as I give a d.a.m.n.

I was just wondering, you know, thinking. And now that I've thought it through, to h.e.l.l with it.

END.