Final Reckonings (50 page)
"You're crazy!"
I saw his muscles flex, his neck tighten. "Take one step," I said, "and I'll blow your face off."
He moved then, but away from me. He went to the wall and he began to pound on it. The cement held.
"No use," I said. "It's solid. You did a good job, George. Your last job, and your best. Besides, it wouldn't be any use now. The air couldn't have lasted this long. She's gone."
He turned, panting. He held up his hands, and they were red. "Crazy!" he gasped. "No wonder she was scared of you, hated you. No human being could think of a thing like that."
I smiled. "Yes they could, George. Haven't you ever read any books? Did you ever hear of Edgar Allan Poe?
The Black Cat
, or
Cask of Amontillado?
I guess not, George. You've always been too busy living, haven't you? And Louise was the same way. You believe in action, and you despise people like me. You say we've always got our noses buried in a book, while you're the practical ones, the go-getters. You're proud because you take what you want from life. And you laugh at us. I'll bet you and Louise laughed at me a lot. Now it's my turn."
"You — you can't get away with it!"
"Why not?"
I'll tell. I'll get the sheriff on you!"
"No you won't. You're an accessory, George. Don't forget, you walled her up. And if you go to the sheriff I'll have my story. I'll tell him we were both in on it together, that I'd promised you half of her insurance. She has quite a lot of insurance, George. I'll tell the sheriff how you walled her up alive, while she writhed and kicked and tried to scream, knowing you were killing her. Not me, George. You!"
He almost rushed me, then. I took the first step forward and at the sight of the Colt he wilted. When I laughed, he put his hands over his ears.
"A pity she didn't listen to you last night, George, when you kept urging her not to wait until I came. You wanted her to drop everything and run away right then and there. You could get a ranger's job in Montana, wasn't that it? And nobody would ever know. Only she had to be practical. She wanted to stick around and draw the money out of the bank first. Wasn't that it?"
"You heard us?"
"Of course. I parked down the road and came up under the window. Then I went back and drove in, the way I always do. You didn't even have time to plan how you two would meet and arrange for your getaway, did you, George? You couldn't even say goodbye properly. Well, do it now. There's a chance in a thousand that she can still hear you."
His eyes were glassy. It wasn't the heat and it wasn't the beer. He was shaking, whimpering.
"Hurry up, George. Tell the lady goodbye. Tell the lovely lady goodbye before she takes her last breath, before she gasps the last gulp of air into her lungs and feels them burn and shrivel. She'll die fast, George, if she isn't dead already. And then she'll crumble. She won't rot, because it's dry in there. There'll be no odor. She'll just mummify. Her limbs will turn to brown leather, and her hair will become brittle and drop out, and her skin will flake and her eyes will finally coagulate in their sockets. But on what's left of her face you'll still be able to see an expression. You'll be able to see how she was at the moment when she died with that last silent scream for mercy. She's screaming at you now. Can't you hear her? She's screaming, 'George, help me! Get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out —' "
George made a sound deep in his chest. Then he blinked and ran for the stairs. I didn't try to stop him. I let him thud up the steps, listened as he thundered through the kitchen, slammed the door.
It was very quiet in the cellar after that. I put the Colt away in its case, but first I took the precaution of unloading it and wiping off the barrel and the butt.
Then I took the empty bottles and stacked them neatly in the corner.
I finished George's beer and drank my own. And after that, I went upstairs.
There was nothing left to do now but wait.
I must have had two or three more beers while I was waiting. I got them from the big refrigerator in the kitchen and carried them into the front room so that they'd be handy while I read. I picked up my copy of Poe, and not by accident. I wondered if his treatment of the situation was as melodramatic as mine had been. Perhaps not, but then, I had my reasons. In retrospect, what I had said to George seemed a bit silly and overdrawn, but it served a purpose.
After a while, I got absorbed in my reading. Say what you will, Poe had a wonderful imagination, and I can appreciate that.
It was almost dusk when I heard a tapping on the door. I thought of Poe's raven, and put the book aside.
"Come in," I said.
It wasn't Poe's raven, of course.
"Hello, Louise." I smiled up at her. "Did you get everything accomplished?"
"Yes, darling." She sat down, and I noticed just the hint of a frown on her face.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. But something odd happened to me on the way back."
"So?"
"I was coming along the County Trunk, just about opposite the Beedsley place, when a state trooper pulled up alongside me."
"Speeding?"
"Of course not, silly. You know I never do over fifty. But he asked for my driver's license, and then he did a funny thing. He made me get out of the car and come over to the motorcycle. And he had me talk into the squawk-box. I think that's what he called it, anyway."
"What on earth for?"
"He didn't tell me. All I know is I had to give my name to the sheriff. And then he said he was sorry to trouble me, but I'd saved him a trip out here for nothing. And he let me go. I asked him what this was all about, and he just shrugged and said there'd been a little misunderstanding but this cleared everything up. Can you figure it out, darling?"
I smiled. "Perhaps," I said. "But maybe we'd better talk about it some other time. I don't want you getting all upset over nothing on our last night here."
"Darling, tell me. I insist!"
"Well, we had a little excitement around here, too," I told her. "Remember George Parker was supposed to come over and put in that cement?"
"Yes, that's right." She hesitated. I watched her. It was pleasant to watch her, to sense the way she was waiting for what I'd say next. If I could have, I'd been willing to prolong that particular moment forever. But finally I let it go.
"Well, he never showed up," I said. I could almost
feel
the way she sighed with relief. "So finally I went ahead and did it myself."
"Poor dear. You must be tired."
"You don't understand. That isn't the excitement I was talking about."
"N-no?"
Again I let her wait, savoring the moment. Then I went on, knowing there was a better moment to come. "But along about four, Sheriff Taylor called up, wanting to know where you were. Of course I told him, and I imagine that's why the troopers were out trying to locate you."
"But whatever for?"
"Are you sure you want to hear the rest?"
"Please."
"It's a rather unpleasant situation, apparently. It seems our friend George has suffered some sort of nervous breakdown."
"George?"
"Rather incredible, isn't it? Always seemed like such a stolid, unimaginative fellow, too. You've seen a bit more of him than I did, and I'm sure you wouldn't say he was the sensitive type, would you?"
"Tell me what's wrong, what's happened — "
"If you wish. As I get it, friend George came bursting into the sheriff's office with an utterly fantastic story. At first they thought he'd been drinking, but apparently he was in a state of actual hysteria. It seems he was accusing me of murdering you and walling your body up in the cellar."
"You're joking!"
"That's what the sheriff told George, at first. Until he realized the poor fellow was almost out of his head with fear. Naturally, the sheriff called me and I told him to try and locate you. I'm glad he did. I'd hate to have us involved in any trouble just as we're ready to leave."
I couldn't see her face in the dusk, so I got up and went over to her. She tried to turn away, but I held her and patted her shoulder. "There, there," I murmured. "I didn't want to upset you. Nothing to worry about. It's all over."
"George!" Her voice started to break, but she controlled it. "How is he?"
I sighed. "Stark staring, according to the sheriff. They called Doc Silvers right away. Unless he snaps out of it, he'll be committed. A pity, too — somebody said he was planning to take a ranger's job in Montana."
Louise was shaking, but her voice was firm. "Did he say anything else?"
"No. What more is there to say?"
"Why did he think you'd try to kill me?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Funny about these strong, silent types. Once their imagination runs away with them, they can't seem to control it. They get keyed up to a certain pitch and then snap, all at once. I'm just glad it didn't happen when he was out here with you. There's no telling what he might have attempted." I laughed. "It may sound far-fetched to you, darling, but he could even have tried to assault you. Can you imagine being made love to by a lunatic?"
She shuddered and buried her head against me.
"Let's talk about something more cheerful," I said. "Here, have a beer." I could feel her sob.
"Don't cry," I told her. "We're going away tomorrow, remember? Back to town. Just you and I. You needn't worry about George — they'll take care of him. You'll never have to see him again. Why, in a little while you'll forget all about him."
"Y-yes. . ."
"We're going to have a lot of fun together," I murmured. "That's a promise. I've got it all planned."
And I have, of course. I wasn't lying to her.
I intend to have quite a lot of fun with Louise, tonight. She's in the bedroom right now as I write this, sleeping. I gave her quite a strong sedative, but it will wear off in another half hour or so. Then she'll be wide awake again. And I want her to be wide awake.
I want her to be wide awake when I take her in my arms, and I want her to be wide awake afterwards, when I hold her ever so gently, but ever so firmly, and tell her just what really happened. I want her to know how clever I am, and how strong, and how wise. I want her to know that I'm stronger and wiser than George could ever be.
She must realize the cleverness that brought everything to perfection. She must come to appreciate that I'm the better man after all. And of course I am.
It would have been stupid to confront them both with their guilt; what could I possibly have gained? And it would have been equally stupid for me to kill George and run the risk of discovery. As things worked out, as I
planned
them to work out, George is disposed of forever. I've sealed
him
up behind the walls of a madhouse for life. He'll live on and suffer, thinking Louise is dead and that he killed her. And of course the sheriff and the folks around here know differently. They know she's alive, and that there's nothing behind the cement wall. They'll remember talking to her and to me, and that she was to go away with me. Neither the new owners nor anyone else will ever tear down that wall.
I'm going to make all this very plain to Louise. I'm going to tell her exactly what happened. In fact, that's why I'm writing this. I don't trust myself to find the exact word to convey the meaning of the moment.
I'll let her read what I've written.
Have
you read this far, Louise?
Do you understand now? Do you understand what I've done?
And do you understand what I'm going to do, in just another moment?
That's right, Louise.
I'm going to bind and gag you. And I'm going to carry you down into the cellar, and tear the wall open once again. I'm going to thrust you into the darkness and let you scream away your life and your sanity while I wall you up again with fresh cement — wall you up forever, until your body rots to match your rotten soul.
I'll be standing right behind you when you've read this far, so you won't have a chance to scream. And you won't have a chance to beg, or plead, or try any of your stupid feminine tricks with me. Not that they would do any good. No use telling me I'll be caught, either. You know better than that.
The alibi is already set. I'll leave here alone in the morning. And you'll stay here forever.
That's because everything was planned, Louise. Because, you see, I
am
a better man than George. He was only an animal, really. And the difference between an animal and a man is really very simple.
It's all a matter of knowing how to use your imagination.
T
HE LAST PSYCHIATRIST ON
E
ARTH
sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door.
"Come in," he said.
A tall robot entered, the electronic beam of its single eye piercing the gloom and focusing on the psychiatrist's face.
"Dr. Anson,' the robot said, "the rent is due today. Pay me."
Dr. Howard Anson blinked. He did not like the harsh light, nor the harsh voice, nor the harsh meaning of the message. As he rose, he attempted to conceal his inner reactions with a bland smile, then remembered that his facial expression meant nothing to the robot.
That was precisely the trouble with the damned things, he told himself; you couldn't use psychology on them.
"Sixty tokens," the robot chanted, and rolled across the room toward him.
"But —" Dr. Anson hesitated, then took the plunge. "But I haven't got sixty tokens at the moment. I told the manager yesterday. If you'll only give me a little time, a slight extension of credit — "
"Sixty tokens," the robot repeated, as if totally unmindful of the interruption, which, Dr. Anson assured himself, was exactly the case. The robot was unmindful. It did not react to unpredictable factors; that was not its function. The robot didn't see the rental figures in this office building and had no power to make decisions regarding credit. It was built to collect the rent, nothing more.
But that was enough. More than enough.