Girl Out Back (12 page)

Just to be sure, I picked up each one individually and riffled through it to make certain the serial numbers ran consecutively. They all did. I performed a quick calculation, using the sums printed on the bands. The twelve packages added up to twelve thousand dollars, which was an odd coincidence, I reflected, since they varied individually between $500 and $2,500 depending on denomination. I looked at the little stack of it.
Twelve thousand dollars!
All right, hero, I thought, you said you could; let’s see you do it. Don’t stall around long enough to begin to wonder if maybe it wouldn’t be safe ten years from now. It’ll never be safe as long as you live, and the world’s not big enough to find a place you could spend it. There are people who buy it, sure. But then somebody knows. The way it is now, nobody does, or ever will. Keep it that way. Do it right.

Tossing all twelve of them over beside the hole, I began breaking the bands and crumpling bills into the bottom of it. When I had a neat pile of them I stuck the flame of the lighter against the corner of a fifty and shoved it in. They began to burn, flaming up nicely. I went on breaking open the bands and dropping money on the blaze, not enough at a time to smother it or cause it to flare too high. I remembered the other time, at the edge of the lake, and reflected that if you did enough of this to become an addict it could be a damned expensive habit. When it all was reduced to ashes I picked up a stick and crushed them to dust. I shoved in a little earth and stirred it about, mixing it. Then, taking the shovel, I caved the hole in all around, smoothing it out, and wound up by spreading the old dead leaves back over the whole thing. Boys, I thought, your trail is cold forever.

I was about to turn back to the other when I stopped, listening intently. It had sounded like an outboard motor starting, a long way off. I grinned. He could get down to the camp-ground faster that way, all right, and carry his luggage with less trouble. I held my breath and listened again, but I couldn’t be sure whether I still heard it or not. A mile was too far, and he was going the other way.
Bon voyage,
Walter. I deem it a great honor to have touched your gentle spirit, however briefly, and may the pastures be forever green.

Well, they were green enough, I thought. He had that $3,800 I’d given him, and while this didn’t run to such items of baronial splendor as coconut farms, it would last him the rest of his life. That overseer would probably have shot him, anyway.

I knelt beside the money on the shirt and began putting it back into the pails. In a moment I was struck by the bizarre fact that while it was a streak of rust on a twenty-dollar bill that had started me theorizing in the first place and had eventually led to the correct solution in this thing, the present pails were shiny and clean inside. He had changed them a few months ago. Some of the money was badly streaked with the old stains, but getting them off would present no great problem. A few minutes’ research in any library would produce the answer. Then I grinned. I could even write
Good Housekeeping
.

I finished the job, took one last, gloating look, and pounded the lids back on. After donning my shirt, I sat down to light another cigarette before starting back. Give him a little more time, to be sure he didn’t come back to the cabin after one of his comic books. He should be just about down to the campground now and getting into the car.

I noticed that in all the excitement over the money I had forgotten to put my shoe back on. I reached for it and slid it on my foot, but did not lace it. It was too luxurious just sitting there on the leaves with my back against the log while I smoked and thought of the $101,000 there in front of me.

When I had finished the cigarette and ground it out, I looked at my watch. It was nearly six. Time to roll. I leaned forward to lace the shoe, and then froze up. What I’d heard was behind me, and quite near, and there was no doubt as to what it was. It was something or somebody walking through dry leaves.

I whirled, still sitting, and stared with growing horror. It was Cliffords. He was puffing his way toward me like some pudgy and self-consciously important gnome, and in his hands he was carrying a brown paper bag and a home-made crutch.

I knew I had to quit staring some way, but nothing seemed to work. The whole thing was crashing down around me, and my mind didn’t seem capable of grasping anything except the fact that now we were
both
headed for prison.

He hurried up. “Well, this’ll fix you up, Mr. Ward. I made you a real good crutch.” He showed it to me.

He wanted me to tell him how good it was.

“You. . . .” I shook my head and tried again. This time I finally got tracked. “You were gone so long. I thought you’d decided to run for it.”

He shook his head. “No,
sir
. Not me, Mr. Ward. Ain’t no use tryin’ to outfox the F.B.I. I found that out.”

I tried to keep my face expressionless. What was the matter with the suet-headed little moron? I’d drawn him a picture; I’d sat down patiently and spelled it out for him, syllable by syllable. I’d told him how horrible it was in prison, and that he’d get ten years for what he’d done. I’d given him $3,800. I’d furnished him a car. I’d broken my goddamned ankle for him and promised him it would be at least twelve to twenty-four hours before anybody even found out he’d escaped. I wanted to scream at him. What the hell did he want—Brownell to come down here and carry him out piggy-back and furnish him with a Duncan Hines list of approved hiding places;

“Ain’t nobody escapes from the G-men,” he went on, hunkering down in front of me. “I should of knowed better in the first place. Look at how you got Dillinger, and Machine-gun Kelly, and Karpis. . . .”

He was an F.B.I, buff. And I’d opened my fat mouth and made it worse.

“. . . and when you explained how you fellers’d caught up with me . . .” He stopped and gave a sententious shake of the head.

You’re good, Godwin. You were magnificent. Tell him some more about how bright you are.

“. . . and if you can’t travel at all, Mr. Ward, I got it all figured out. I’ll go down the lake and call your office and have ‘em send out help. . . .”

If only he’d
shut up
. I was contemplating the ultimate madness of it. I’d arrested him, and now there was no way on earth I could escape from him. I was his hero—along with the F.B.I, in general. By God,
he
wasn’t going to desert me. He’d help me get back to the office if it took the rest of the week. Maybe they’d put his picture in the papers. If I took him down to Sanport and kicked him out of the car he’d be in F.B.I, headquarters inside of twenty minutes telling them all about it. If I left him here and ran, he’d do the same thing. They’d get a description from him, and it might take Ramsey as long as five minutes to recognize me.

No, that wasn’t quite the ultimate. The final, most putrid joke of all was the fact they probably wouldn’t even prosecute the fatuous little meat-head. Why should they? They’d have me. Presumably I was intelligent enough to know right from wrong, and they could reach into the State and Federal grab-bags without even looking and come up with a half-dozen charges that would stick. I tried a few on for size—conspiracy, obstructing justice, destroying evidence, impersonating a Federal officer, compounding a felony, and probably grand theft and accessory to armed robbery. Add flight to escape prosecution. And, oh yes, I had just finished destroying twelve thousand dollars worth of United States currency they were trying to recover. They were going to like me better than anybody they’d had in their hair since Gaston B. Means.

“You got your shoe back on,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied wearily. “It began to feel a little better.”

“Don’t seem to be swole much. You reckon you’ll need the bandage?”

“I don’t think so.” I laced the shoe up rather loosely. He handed me the crutch and I struggled to my feet, not bothering to make much of a production of it. What difference did it make now? Anyway, I was an F.B.I, superman, wasn’t I? If I tucked my feet up my pants legs and roared off the ground like a pheasant he wouldn’t consider it more than mildly noteworthy.

I’ll carry the surp buckets,” he said. He strung their handles on the wooden shaft of the shovel and slung it across his shoulder. I stared at them.

I’ll go slow,” he said. “Just tell me when you want to stop and rest.”

He started out. I fell in behind him.

In a moment lie looked back over his shoulder. “Is the crutch about right?”

“It’s fine,” I said. He went on.

The three pails bumped gently together as they swayed to his stride, forever three feet before my eyes. I tried to look away from them. I tried not to hear the small metallic sounds they made.

“We’ll make her in fine shape,” he told me reassuringly over his shoulder. “Sure,” I said.

“When we get to the cabin, we’ll use the boat.”

I didn’t say anything. I merely reflected it would be wonderful if we drowned. It would be such a fitting close to our brief encounter and to this perfect idyll of a day. Nothing short of committing suicide could lend it that final little brush-stroke it needed to make it complete. A truly formidable day. I thought, trying to keep my mind and attention off those pails; the great whore of all days.
Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes, and smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.

The pails clinked companionably.

They contained one-hundred-and-one thousand dollars, and there were only two people on earth who knew it.

I wrenched my eyes away from the pails, feeling sick and very cold in my stomach. Still pools of shadow clotted and thickened under the trees as the sun went down.

Nobody knew I was out here, or that I had even been here.

That was irrelevant. That wasn’t the question at all.

The proposition as stated is that everything you buy in this antic bazaar has its individual price tag. Look at it first; don’t be a fool and cry about the bill afterward. You know what it is now; and understand that it won’t be any different after it’s too late to return the merchandise.

He backed me into this corner. . . .

No, he didn’t. You backed yourself into it. Don’t wait and make that great discovery after it’s too late. Accept it now. You can buy your way out in something less than a minute, but it’s not going to be on a pass.

The pails swung gently behind his shoulder, three feet away. I was becoming hypnotized. I kept seeing them as they had looked when they were open on the ground. I could put out my hand and touch them. Godwin’s Law of Character Erosion states that the attrition of honesty. . . . Never mind that bright and sophomoric bit of wisdom. This is something else. Well, isn’t murder the ultimate dishonesty?

The thing that was so terrible about it was its simplicity. I could go on and go to prison, for nothing. Or I could merely walk out of here with a fortune, and not go to prison at all.

It was twilight. I saw the edge of the clearing and the darkening bulk of the cabin ahead of us.

All right, I thought. But when you start, do it fast and very coldly, and don’t think at all.

Now we were inside the cabin, from which the light was almost gone. I felt very tight, and far away, and was concentrating on details like remembering to limp as I walked. I had picked up my jacket and the paper bag that contained the $3,800. He had already put the three pails in the boat and had come back after the clothes he was going to take. He placed them in a cheap little imitation leather bag he took from under the bed.

“I reckon I can phone Mrs. Nunn to pick up the rest of my stuff,” he said. “Mebbe sell it for me.”

“Yes,” I said.

I picked up the gun-belt from the floor. The loops were filled with cartridges and it was heavy. I held it out to him.

“I reckon I better leave that here,” he said.

“You can take it,” I told him. I’ll turn in the gun, and maybe you can sell it to one of the deputies.”

He had to have it on, but I wished we could stop talking. My voice sounded squeezed and breathless, as if it were coming off the top of my throat.

He buckled on the belt. He looked once around the cabin and went on through the door without saying anything. I was glad; that was past now. The encircling wall of trees was dark. Far overhead in the fading sky a few splashes of orange and pink were left over from the silent explosion of sunset. He looked up at them and then around at the clearing’s thickening dusk.

“I . . .” he said.

Don’t look at him. Don’t listen.

“I liked it here,” he said simply. “It was a nice place.”

I clamped my jaws shut against the cold and terrible up-welling of pressure inside me and turned away. I gestured with my hand. We went down the trail toward the boat.

An old log running out into the water served as a pier. We got in. He handed me the valise, which I put forward with the pails. I shoved the folded paper bag into one of the pockets of my jacket, and dropped the jacket across the valise. He turned the boat outward and gave it a shove with an oar against the log. I sat on the midships seat, facing him. We coasted out of the cove on water that was as flat and black as oil. It was intensely still, and on both sides of the waterway night grew and deepened among the trees, pushing outward to overrun this last outpost of day. I turned a little, looking forward, and slipped the wallet from the pocket of my trousers. I put it in the jacket. He cranked the motor. It began kicking us outward, away from the shore, as he headed for the bend. I removed my hat.

Almost at the same time I cried out, “Wait!” His face was a blur under the big shadow of his hat as he looked at me inquiringly. I reached past his arm and cut the motor. Instantly, the vast silence of the forest rolled back over us, unbroken except for the faint swish of water past the hull and the roaring in my ears. I was cold now, and he was locked out and far away.

I stood up. “I thought . . .” The boat rocked under my weight. I swayed, and lunged astern and outward, grabbing frantically for him as I fell. We went over the side together. The water closed over us. He kicked against me. I lost him. I went upward, and my head broke the surface.

Water swirled behind me, and I heard him gasp. “You . . . You all right, Mr. Ward?”

I turned and found him, and pressed him down into the water. He struggled wildly for a few seconds, and then he jerked with one final convulsion and became still under my hands, settling away from them toward the bottom. I snatched the gun from my trousers and let it drop. A last bubble of air, released from somewhere in his clothing, came upward, brushing against my throat.

It was a problem, an assignment you were handed and told to work out on the spot and under pressure; my mind was ice cold and very clear, shored off from everything as I concentrated on it. The boat was a deeper clot of shadow some ten feet away. I swam over to it, moving clumsily in my clothes and shoes. Catching the gunwale with one hand, I oriented myself with the dark shore-line, and began kicking back the way we had come. In a few minutes, just outside the cove, I could reach bottom with my feet. I waded in, pulling the boat.

Landing it beside the log, I stood alongside it while water ran out of my hair and clothing. Stripping the cuff-links from my shirt, I dropped them in the pocket of my jacket, which was still across his valise. I slipped off the tie and shirt, wrung them out, rolled them together, and tossed them on to the bank. Then I stepped out of the trousers, squeezed as much of the water from them as I could, and stepped out on the ground myself. I put the trousers down with the shirt and tie. I emptied the water out of my shoes, wrung out the socks and put them with the other clothing, and put the shoes back on. Then, going back and forth on the log, I removed the valise, my jacket and hat, and the three pails from the boat, placing them near the pale blur of the shirt which I could see fairly well in the darkness. I went up to the cabin. Just outside the door and a little to one side, where he had dropped them, I felt around for the spinning rod and the big bass on its stringer. I couldn’t find either of them. I oriented myself, and tried some more. That was odd. He’d dropped them both right here. Then I understood. When he came back for the bandage and the crutch, he’d moved them. But where? I
had
to have that rod.

Well, obviously, he would have taken it inside the cabin. I straightened and was about to go in when I stopped. How in the name of God was I going to find anything in there without a light? My cigarette lighter was down there in my trousers, soaking wet. It would be hours before it would work. Well, he had matches in there somewhere; I just had to find them. I stepped inside and groped my way toward the rear, bumping into a chair. The noise it made as it fell to the floor was startling and all out of proportion in the stillness. I went on until I felt the stove, and then stopped, trying to visualize the exact layout. Nearly all the back wall was covered with shelves, as I remembered, but the matches should be on the end near the stove. I moved, holding my hands before me. I touched the edge of a shelf and began sliding my hands along it. Something fell to the floor and broke. I cursed. I knocked something else over, but it remained on the shelf. I was beginning to be nervous and apprehensive now. It might take an hour to find his box of matches. Then I grunted. I had felt them. It was a large cardboard box, slid partly open. They were the big kitchen ones.

I struck one, and the instant it flared he came flying back at me from a dozen directions at once, from the dirty, syrup-smeared dishes and the unmade bed and from the piles of cheap and pathetic magazines. The poor, lost, futile. . . .

Stop it!

I coldly sealed him out and swung around, searching for the lamp. It was on the big packing box that had the oilcloth on it. I lit it, replaced the chimney, and looked around in the dim yellow light. There was the rod. It was in the corner by the chest of drawers, where the rifle and shotgun stood. The stringer was on the floor beside it. The bass was gone. Well, naturally, he would have thrown it back in the lake so it wouldn’t smell up the place.

I was about to go across to pick up the rod when I became conscious of something sticky under my shoe. I looked down. The thing I had knocked off the shelf and broken was a syrup pitcher, and I was tracking syrup all over the cabin. I swore, whispering harshly in the darkness. Damn the rotten luck. Well, I’d clean it up later; I had to come back, anyway. There were some torn-up comic books in the wood-box beside the stove. I ripped some pages off one, cleaned the syrup from my shoe, and stuffed the paper in the stove. Setting two matches on the floor just to one side of the door where I could find them next time, I picked up the rod, blew out the lamp, and went out.

It was two or three minutes before my eyes became accustomed to the darkness again. I went down to the boat and put the rod in. It still had a small spinner attached to the line. I felt around under the forward seat until I located his tackle box. It was a metal one, with a tray that hinged upward when the lid was raised. Opening it, I set it on the bottom grating between the midships and after seats. Placing my shoe near one end of the tray, I stepped down, putting part of my weight on it. I felt it bend a little, and then the box upset, spilling lures about the bottom of the boat and under the grating. Taking off my shoes. I set them out on the log and shoved off with the oar.