Black Is the Fashion for Dying (26 page)
Read Black Is the Fashion for Dying Online
Authors: Jonathan Latimer
“Survival.”
“Survival?” T. J. echoed.
“What we talked about yesterday.” Fabro scowled at the bewildered face in front of him. “How will Pamela survive if we both go under?” He spat words at T. J. “No house. No heated pool. No Miss Mclntyre. Some germ-ridden charity hospital. Jammed in with thirty other kids in a dark filthy ward. One chance in ten of coming through.”
“You're saying that if I'll sign â¦?”
“Irene will take care of her.”
“Irene?”
“She loves you, T. J.” Fabro reached out, touched the bent shoulder. “Shell cherish Pamela for you. And so will I.” He smiled warmly. “I'll give you a written promise. As soon as you sign.”
“Irene loves me?” T. J. asked wonderingly.
“Yes,” Fabro said. “So sign.”
T. J.'s eyes went down to the type-filled page. Slowly his lips pursed, as though alum had been sprinkled on them. For a long time he stared at the page. Long enough for the frog or toad or whatever it was outside the window to croak six times. Finally he spoke in a voice not unlike the croaking outside. “I can't.”
“Not even for Pamela?”
“I just can't.”
Fabro leaned casually over the desk, pulled open the drawer and took out T. J.'s pistol. A small-caliber Italian weapon, a war souvenir, which he had already made sure was loaded. “I told you once to get rid of this.” He thumbed the safety catch. “Now I'm glad you didn't.”
He found his silk handkerchief, draped it over the butt, grasped handkerchief and weapon with his right hand and came slowly around the desk. T. J. sat frozen, eyes on the pistol, looking like a bird mesmerized by a snake.
“I'm sorry,” Fabro said. “We've been good friends.”
“Karl, you couldn't ⦔
“It's the only alternative,” Fabro said. “Dead by your own hand. Your confession beside you. Written on your typewriter. Giving details only the killer would know.” He smiled. “I'll miss you.”
Eyes still on the pistol, T. J. said nothing.
“You really won't sign?”
T. J. made a faint negative movement with his head. Far back in Fabro's mind a tentative rage flared, a distant shimmer of red sheet-lightning. Then it was gone. He should be angry with T. J., but he wasn't. He raised the pistol.
“One last chance.”
“No.” T. J.'s voice quavered hopelessly. “You'd only kill me afterwards.”
Fabro grinned at the empty face, already the waxy color of death. “You're right. But it doesn't matter. This is just as good.” He felt a joyful surge of blood. It was going to be far easier than with that blonde whore in the car, squawking like a ravished pullet when his fingers found her windpipe. Almost as easy as with Caresse. He bent down so the bullet's angle would be upwards, the way it would be if T. J. had fired it himself. “Close enough for powder burns,” he heard himself say cheerfully. “And the fingerprints later.”
Slowly T. J. began to slide from the chair, finally ending up with his knees on the carpet. He placed his hands, palms opposed, on his chest and bent forwards with closed eyes in an altitude of prayer. Fabro saw that by bending a little further he could still fire upwards through the temple into the brain. He brought the pistol's muzzle close to the silvered sideburn and for a micro-second he thought he had fired. Then, as white hot pain seared his side, he realized the explosion came from another part of the room.
He swung heavily toward the sound and saw her standing just inside the door. She had on the sapphire mink coat and the sequin gown she had worn to the Academy broadcast and her eyes, jet black and far too large for her white face, had an inquiring expression, as though she were waiting for him to answer a question she had asked. In her two hands, held out away from the mink coat, was the .25 Colt automatic he had given her when they were first married. Through the hazy film pain put over his eyes he stared uncomprehendingly. “Irene?” he said. “Irene?” Then comprehension came and with it outrage that she should dare interfere. He started around the table toward her, ignoring the thing tearing at his side. “Give me that,” he said. “Before you spoil everything.” Nearing her, he reached for the automatic and saw to his surprise his outstretched hand still held the Italian pistol but before he could explain flame spurted from the muzzle confronting him.
Richard Blake
Outside the room, in the hall, it had sounded like wooden ducks being knocked over in a penny arcade shooting gallery. But inside, seen from the doorway, it was a third-act curtain at the Grand Guignol.
Christ!
Fabro hunkered down on the carpet, back against an oversize leather chair, face contorted with pain, clutching at his belly with fingers through which blood oozed. Lorrance on his knees behind a gleaming teak and chrome desk, wearing a black silk faille robe over black silk pajamas, eyes closed, hands pressed palm to palm below his chin, a modern monk at his orisons. And by the door Irene Fabro, under her glossy mink coat a dress sparkling with tiny lights, her face so composed that except for the smoking pistol still pointed at where Fabro undoubtedly just was she might have been posing for a fashion page in
Harper's Bazaar.
He would remember it forever.
At his back, from the hallway, he heard the approaching click of Lisa's high heels. He heard her sharp intake of breath as she reached the door, and at the same time he heard a whispering from Fabro. Ho dropped on his knees, peered into the twisted face. There was no recognition in the glowing eyes. Fabro's lips writhed. “Bitch,” he whispered to nobody in particular. “Spoiled everyth ⦔ and the glow went out of his eyes and he toppled over on his side. Where his hands had been on the dress shirt was a blotch of blood.
Blake rose to his feet, looked at Lisa, standing wide-eyed in the doorway, and then at Irene Fabro. She was staring down at Fabro, her face still bland. “Is he â¦?” she asked. Blake nodded and she said quietly, “He was going to kill T.J.”
“How?” he asked.
“How?” She stared at him blankly. Then, smiling, she lowered the pistol until the muzzle was pointing at the carpet “By his arm.”
Blake glanced down at the carpet. Part way under the chair, half concealed by Fabro's sleeve, was another pistol. Some kind of a foreign weapon.
“Love, honor and rape,” Irene Fabro said.
“What?”
“Didn't you know?” She began to laugh softly. “Karl raped me last night.”
Lisa moved to her. “You'd better sit down, Mrs. Fabro.”
“And I'll take that pistol, please,” Blake said.
“No.” Somehow Lorrance had reached them from the desk. “I'll take it.” He drew the pistol from between Irene Fabro's hands. “I'll say I killed him.” He glanced pleadingly at Blake. “She's suffered too much already.”
Irene. Fabro giggled. “Isn't it funny,” she said. “My husband. He raped me last night.”
Lisa slapped her.
“Why â¦?”
Irene Fabro began, wonderingly raising a hand to her cheek. Then it was as though a bulb had been turned on back of her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “Thank you.” She turned to Lorrance. “Please, T. J.” She took the pistol, gave it to Blake. “No more lies.”
“But you'll be involved,” Lorrance protested.
“I don't care, darling. Not if we're involved together.”
He took her hand and they sat down on the couch, close together, not talking, just holding hands. A telephone began to ring. Blake crossed to the teak desk, put down the pistol and picked up the closest receiver. The telephone kept ringing. He picked up the other receiver. It was Josh Gordon. “What the hell gives?” he demanded. Blake told him.
“Irene
shot him?”
“Five slugs in the gut.”
“And the bastard's really dead?”
“Yes.”
Outside, in the street, a siren wailed.
Josh said, “The cops?”
“Just coming.”
Lisa had crossed to the desk. She put her head close to the phone so she could hear what was being said. Her hair smelled of pine cones and lilac.
“Five slugs, eh,” Josh said.
“That's right.”
“Not good.”
“Why isn't it good?”
“Bad precedent,” Josh said. “Give Agnes ideas.” He sighed. “Don't ever get married, Dick.”
Lisa took the phone. “He's getting married tomorrow, if I have to use a shotgun.”
“Shotgun?”
“I want a name for my child.”
“I'll be damned,” Josh said. “How far are you along?”
“Six hours,” Lisa said.
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All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1959 by Jonathan Latimer
Cover design by Jason Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8614-0
This 2014 edition published by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
345 Hudson Street
New York, NY 10014
EBOOKS BY JONATHAN LATIMER
FROM
MYSTERIOUSPRESS.COM
AND OPEN ROAD MEDIA
