Come Easy, Go Easy (13 page)

"Then where's the boss? I'll talk him into opening your goddamn lunch room!"

"Harry, dear . . ." the blonde woman began nervously.

He turned on her.

"You keep out of this! I'll handle it. I'll talk to the top man. I never waste my time talking to hired hands."

To my alarm, he began to walk off towards the bungalow.

"Okay, okay," I said, jumping to his side. "I'll fix you something. The boss is asleep."

He paused to glare at me. "I've a mind to report you."

"I'll fix you something," I said, and leaving him, I opened up the lunch room and turned on the lights.

I heard him bellow at his wife, "Well, come on! Don't sit there! You're hungry, aren't you?"

They followed me into the lunch room and sat down at one of the tables.

"What have you got?" the man barked at me.

"Chicken sandwiches or cold roast beef," I said. The thought of food made me feel sick to my stomach.

"Chicken, and hurry it up. See your hands are clean before yon touch the bread."

I went into the kitchen. There was a bottle of Scotch on the table. I picked it up and took a long pull. Then I got the chicken out of the ice box and cut several rounds of sandwiches. I heated coffee, put the food on a tray and carried it into the lunch room. The man grunted at me, and began to devour the sandwiches. Suddenly I turned cold and my mouth began to fill with bile. It had been a mistake to have drunk that whisky. I felt if I didn't get out into the open air I would faint: I felt that bad.

I mumbled something about fixing his car and I went out fast. The hot night air didn't help me. I just managed to get around the side of the lunch room before I threw up.

After some minutes I began to recover. I sat on the ground with my back against the wall, my head in my hands, and considered my position.

I was in a jam.

As soon as Lola had got over the shock of her husband's death and I had an idea it wouldn't take her long, she would realise she was also in a jam.

It hadn't crossed my mind that Jenson's death had been anything but an accident. She had been waving the gun around in fury and it had gone off. But she couldn't prove to the police it bad been an accident. They would want to know what she had been doing with a gun in her hand. She would have to admit was going to steal her husband's savings. Once she admitted they would nail her on a murder charge.

How long would it take her to realise her only way out was to fasten Jenson's death on me? I was hand-made for the job.

She could tell the police that she and I had been left together while Jenson had gone to the Legion meeting. She had been busy in the kitchen. I had sneaked into the bungalow and had opened the safe. Jenson had returned unexpectedly and had caught me red-handed. I had killed him. Nothing I could say would shake that kind of evidence once they found out who I was.

My first panicky thought was to get into the station wagon and make a dash for Tropica Springs, but I knew I couldn't beat the speed of a telephone call. As soon as she found I had gone, she would call the police and they would be waiting for me at the bottom of the pass. Even if I disconnected the telephone and tied her up, the chances of someone arriving at the pumps and finding her was too great.

Then suddenly it flashed into my mind that if she had me in a jam, I had her in one too. I realised everything depended on how much she wanted that money in the safe, and I was pretty sure she wanted it more than anything else in the world.

If she gave me away to the police, I had only to tell them that the money in the safe was untaxed and she would never touch it. That had been her threat to Jenson: it could now be mine to her. If I told the police the truth about the money she would never lay her hands on it. This could be stalemate if I handled it right.

I thought of Jenson's body lying in the sitting-room of the bungalow. I would have to bury him. I would also have to think up a story to explain away his absence.

This was as far as I got.

The man and his blonde wife came out of the lunch room and started for their car. I got shakily to my feet and followed them. He paid me the exact amount. He said the place was a disgrace and he would tell his friends about it.

When they had driven away, I ran back to the bungalow.

I was just in time.

As I pushed open the front door, I heard the telephone bell tinkle.

She was calling the police.

The telephone was in the hall.

Lola looked up, her finger poised over the dial. She looked ghastly: her face was white, her eyes sunk into her head, and they were scared. Even her lips were white.

We stared at each other. She held the receiver in her hand. I held the .45 in mine, and I pointed it at her.

"Hang up," I said. "Quick!"

The whiteness of her face turned grey as she looked at the gun. I could see she thought I was going to murder her. Shakily she replaced the receiver.

"Go into your bedroom. We've got to talk."

She backed into the room and I followed her, closing the doom and leaning against it.

"Were you calling the police?" I asked.

She sank on the bed, her clenched fists between her knees, staring at me.

"Did you imagine it would be an idea to pin his death on me?" I went on. "I'll tell you why it isn't such a hot idea. You'd better not do it if you want the money in the safe. If the police arrest me, I'll tell them your husband never paid tax on the money. They'll love that. By the time the tax boys have slapped on fines, there won't be much left for you—if anything. So if you want that money, watch out."

I saw by her sudden change of expression that what I had said had made an impression.

"I can't keep you away from the telephone if you're determined to use it," I said, "but I'm warning you: give me away to the police and I'll see you don't get that money. It's up to you. The alternative is to burry him, put out a story that he has gone away, and then after a while, when I think it is safe, you can have the money and I'll go off somewhere."

"It was an accident," she said, her voice a husky whisper. "If you hide his body and they find it, they'll say it was murder."

Well, at least, she now seemed ready to discuss the situation. I began to breath more easily.

"Can you prove it was an accident? If you had been alone here when it happened you might possibly get away with it, but not with me here. You'd better make up your mind what you are going to do. If you don't want the money, call the police. I won't stop you. If you want the money, then we'll bury him."

It was a nervy five or six seconds while I waited and while she stared at me, hesitating.

I was pretty sure she wouldn't call the police, but if she had made a move to the telephone I would have stopped her.

She said finally, "Give me the money now. I'll leave here. I promise I won't tell anyone about you."

"No! You'll only get the money when I've decided it is safe for you to have it, and not before. If you can't wait for it, then call the police and lose the lot!"

She realised then the jam she was in. Her disappointment, her frustration and her fury showed clearly on her face.

"Get out of here!" she screamed at me. "Get out!"

She threw herself face down on the bed and began to sob wildly.

I knew then I had won. I went out of the room, shutting the door. I would give her a little time to get over her hysterics, then she would have to help me bury him.

I looked at my watch. The time was just on half-past eleven: too early yet to make a start. I had to be sure when we did bury him we wouldn't be interrupted.

I walked over to the lunch room, and for something to do I cleared up the kitchen. I took my time, trying not to think of anything at all, but every now and then the picture of that great muscular body lying on the sitting-room floor would creep into my mind.

Between eleven-thirty and one a.m. five trucks pulled in for gas. But after one, the traffic ceased and I decided to see how Lola was making out.

The light was still showing through her bedroom blind as I approached the bungalow. I went to her bedroom. Turning the handle, I found the door locked.

"Lola! Come on! You've got to help me!"

"Keep away from me!" she screamed through the panels of the door. "I'm not helping you! You'll never make me do it! Keep away from me!"

She sounded hysterical and half out of her mind. I hadn't time to bother with her in that condition. I would have to do the job on my own.

I had thought about where I was going to bury him. At first I thought I would take him out and bury him in the desert, but there was always a chance someone might come along as I was digging the grave, and finally I decided I would bury him in one of the repair sheds. This particular shed had an earth floor.

I collected a pick-axe and a shovel and went into the shed. I started to dig in a far corner near a pile of scrap metal.

The night was still hot and I hadn't got down more than a foot before sweat was pouring off me. But I kept at it, and finally I got down to four feet, and that was enough. By then the time was half-past three. I climbed out of the hole and went over to my cabin. I took a shower, washing the dirt and sweat off me. Then I put on a pair of clean overalls and walked over to the bungalow.

Lola's bedroom light was still on. As I entered the hall, I paused to listen. I could hear no sound. I pushed open the lounge door, fumbled for the switch and flicked it down.

Jenson's great body lay where it had fallen. He hadn't bled much. There was little blood on the carpet.

I touched him. He was beginning to stiffen. In another hour, and with his weight, I wouldn't be able to handle him. As it was, I was sure I hadn't the strength to get him up on my back and carry him across to the shed. He must have weighed over two hundred and thirty pounds.

I stood looking down at him. It was an odd thing, but I found he was just dead flesh to me. I had got over the shock of his death by now. His personality had gone when he had died. This vast, stiffening body meant nothing to me. Carl Jenson, the man I liked and admired, had departed from it. It was just a threat to me that had to be got rid of as quickly as possible.

I went back to the shed and got a hand truck we used to shift the heavy scrap metal. I trundled it over to the bungalow and bumped it up the steps into the hall. I made a lot of noise, not caring, but Lola didn't come out to see what was going on. She must have guessed, of course, and it irritated me that she was so determined not to help me.

I lugged Jenson's body onto the truck, then I stepped to the front door and looked up and down the long winding road to make sure there were no trucks coming out of the night to surprise me.

I could see no distant headlights. The big yellow moon hung above the mountains like the face of a well-fed mandarin.

I went back into the lounge, caught hold of the handle of the truck and pulled the truck into the hall. As I was manoeuvring it to the front door, the telephone bell began to ring.

The sudden, unexpected shrill note of the bell made my heart do a somersault. I stared at the telephone that stood on a small table in the hall.

I hesitated, then letting go of the truck handle, I went over to the instrument and lifted the receiver.

"Hello?"

Who could be calling at this hour of the morning? By my watch it was now twenty minutes to four.

"Is that you, Jenson?"

The voice was loud and aggressive.

"No. Who's calling?"

"I want Mr. Jenson. Tell him it's Hal Lasch. I want to talk to him."

I looked at Jenson's body as it lay on the truck. Sweat was running down my face and into my eyes,

"Mr. Jenson is asleep," I said. "I can't disturb him."

"You tell him it's Hal Lasch. He'll talk to me. I want his advice on the president's funeral. I want to know if he will do the oration; He won't mind you waking him. You tell him it's Hal Lasch."

"I'll tell him in the morning. He'll call you. I'm not disturbing him now."

"Who the hell are you?" His voice was now a bellow. "You do what I tell you! I know Carl. He'll want to talk to me!"

I drew in a long, deep breath.

"Never mind who I am," I said, matching his own aggressive tone. "You or no other goddamn Swede is disturbing Mr. Jenson at this hour. He's in bed, and his wife is sleeping with him. Do you imagine I'm going in there and wake them because you want to talk about a funeral oration at four o'clock in the morning? You call tomorrow," and I slammed down the receiver.

I stood by the telephone waiting for him to call back, but he didn't. I waited maybe for three minutes—it seemed like three hours, then still sweating and with my nerves sticking a yard out of my skin, I went once more to the front door, checked the empty road, then manhandled the truck out of the bungalow. I trundled it over to the shed and got it alongside the grave I had dug.

I got him into the grave and then shovelled in the soil.

It took me the best part of an hour to get the grave filled in and stamped flat. It was a hell of a way to bury a man as good and as fine as Jenson, but there was nothing I could do better if I were going to save myself from the gas chamber.

I felt I should have said a prayer over him, but I had forgotten any prayers I might have known, I just hoped he would understand and I let it go like that, but I felt bad.

I moved a heavy work bench over the grave, swept up, put the pick-axe and shovel away and then surveyed the scene. I had made a thorough job of it. No one would know nor even guess that a dead man lay four feet below that work bench.

I turned off the light and went across to my cabin. I stripped off and took another shower, then I went to my bed and lay down.