The Collection (152 page)

Valenti, the only man with the carney strong enough to kill,
as Shorty had been killed. And as Pop Williams was going to be killed right
now. So the blame would fall on Lil.

Why, when he didn't really believe Lil had killed Shorty,
hadn't he thought of Valenti? Valenti, who wouldn't shoot dice because it
wasn't enough of a gamble for him. Who was strong enough to wring a man's neck
like a farmer would wring a chicken's. Who had the nerve to dive eighty feet
into a shallow tank every day—

And only a second ago, he could have yelled. He could have
waked Lil, and she'd have pulled her stake and come running.

Too late, now. That hand over his mouth was like the iron
jaw of a vise. His ribs and his neck-Only his feet were free. Frantically, he
kicked backward with his heels.

Frantically, he tried to make some sort of noise loud enough
to wake Lil or to summon other help.

One heel caught Valenti's ankle, hard, but then the shoe
fell off Pop's foot. He still hadn't taken time to tie them on after that
desperate rush to get out of bed and hide Tepperman's rifle.

As the crushing pressure around his ribs tightened, he tried
again to yell. But it was only a faint squeak, not so loud as their voices,
which, in normal conversation a moment ago, had not disturbed the sleeping
elephant.

Help, adequate help, ten feet away directly in front of him
— but sound asleep.

And Valenti was standing with his legs braced wide apart.
Pop couldn't even kick at the ankles of the man who was killing him. He tried,
and almost lost his other shoe.

Then, in extremity, a last, desperate hope.

He kicked forward, instead of backward, with all that
remained of his strength. And at the end of the kick, straightened his foot and
let the shoe fly off.

Miraculously, it went straight. Lil grunted and awoke as the
shoe thudded against her trunk.

For just an instant, her little eyes glared angrily at the
tableau before her. Angry merely at being awakened, in so rude a manner.

And then — possibly from the helpless kicking motions of
Pop's bare feet, or possibly from mere animal instinct, or because Pop had
never hit her — it got across to her that Pop, whom she loved, was in trouble.

She snorted, trumpeted. And charged forward, jerking her
stake out of the ground as though it had been embedded in butter.

Valenti dropped Pop Williams and ran. There's a limit to
what even a daredevil can face, and a red-eyed, charging elephant is past that
limit. Way past.

Pop managed to gasp, “Atta girl,” as Lil ran on over him,
with that uncanny ability of elephants to step over things they cannot see.
“Atta girl. Go get him” — as Pop scrambled to his feet behind her and wobbled
after.

Around the Dip-a-Whirl and alongside the Hawaiian-show top,
and Valenti was only a few yards in front, toward the midway. Valenti ducking
under the ropes and Lil walking through them as though they were cobwebs. She
trumpeted again, a blast of sound that brought carneys running from all parts
of the lot and from the cars back on the railroad siding behind it.

There was terror on Valenti's face as he ran out into the
open of the midway. Death's hot breath was on the back of his neck as he
reached the area in the center of the midway where stood the tank and the
diving tower. He scrambled up the ladder of the tower, evading by inches the
trunk that reached up to drag him down.

Then Tepperman was there, and the carney grounds cop with a
drawn revolver in his hand. And Pop was explaining, the instant he had Lil
quieted down. Somebody brought news that Bill Gruber was back of the
Hawaiian-show top, out cold.

Running, he'd apparently taken a header over a tent stake
and smacked into a prop trunk.

Doc Berg started that way, but by that time enough of Pop's
story was out and Tepperman sent him to Valenti's trailer instead. No hurry
about reviving a man who was going to burn anyway; the kid came first.

The cop yelled to Valenti to come down and surrender.

But Valenti had his nerve back now. Pop had a hunch what was
going to happen next, and made the excuse of taking Lil back where she
belonged. He did it while Valenti was thumbing his nose at the cop, and before
Valenti poised himself on the diving platform — over the drained, empty tank
eighty feet below.

 
“Smile, then, Pagliaccio, at the heart that is broken—”

Pop Williams's voice, off-key and cracking, but plenty loud,
preceded him along the path from the lot to the carnival cars. It was almost
dawn, but what was that to a man who'd been told by the boss to sleep as late
as he wanted to sleep.

And who'd been given a ten-buck advance on an increased wage
and had spent it all. Scotch wasn't bad stuff, after all, although it took a
lot of it.

Whitey was with him, and Whitey had tried Scotch, too.

Whitey asked, “Who's this P-Pally-achoo you're yowling
about, Pop?”

“A clown, like me, Whitey. Di' I tell you Tepperman's gonna
let me ride Lil in th' parade, in clown cos-coschume?”

“Only fifty times you told me.”

“Oh,” said Pop, and his voice boomed out again.

 
“Change into humor all this sor-row unspoken—”

A beautiful sentiment, no doubt, but not quite true. He
hadn't been happier in fifty years.

No one who lives a reasonably sane, law-abiding life ever
thinks seriously of murder in connection with himself.

Nemesis is a gal who follows somebody else, follows him and
catches up with him somewhere, and you read about it over your morning coffee.
The name of the victim is just a name you never heard of. It couldn't be yours.

Or could it?

Take Carl Harlow. He was an ordinary-enough guy. And right
up to the time the bullet hit him, he didn't know Nemesis was after him. He
didn't guess it even then, until the second bullet — the one that missed —
whined past his ear like a steel-jacketed hornet out of hell.

You couldn't blame Carl Harlow for not knowing.

Certainly, there hadn't been any buildup to murder. No
warning note printed on cheap stationery. When he'd driven home from the poker
game the night before, no specters had perched gibbering on his radiator cap.
No black cats had crossed his path. Nothing sinister.

In fact, he'd won seventeen dollars. Doubly sweet because
most of it was Doc Millard's money and although he liked Doc a lot, it served
him right for the outrageous bills he'd sent. And a couple of bucks had been
Tom Pryor's, and bank officers deserved robbing if anybody did.

True, he'd drunk too much. But he was used to that, and took
it in his stride, now. He'd got up early this morning —Saturday morning — just
as early as ever, and at breakfast he'd gone so far in righteousness as to
split his winnings with Elsie, his wife. But maybe that was because Elsie would
probably find out, from one of the other fellow's wives, how much he had won.
Wilshire Hills has a grapevine system that is second to none.

Nor did he see anything sinister in the fact that his boss—
or rather, one of his two bosses — had assigned him to write copy for the
Eternity Burial Vault account. Carl Harlow sat down and began to study the
selling points of those vaults, and he waxed enthusiastic.

“Lookit, Bill,” he said, “these burial vaults really
are
something! When you come to think about it, an ordinary coffin must
disintegrate pretty darned quick. But these things are made of concrete—”

“Like your head!” snapped Bill Owen. “Don't sell
me
on the things; write it down— Oh, hell, Carl, I'm sorry I'm so irritable. But
you know why. Have you told Elsie yet?” Carl Harlow nodded soberly. “Told her
last week, Bill. She took it like a sport, of course. Said I'd get another job
as good or better. Wish I was that confident myself. It's hell to work for a
place for twenty years and then have it fold up under you.

Course, I've got savings, but — I suppose it's certain for
the first of the month?”

“All too certain,” said Bill Owen.

Carl took the Eternity account folders over to his desk and
sat down to make a rough layout. And to write a catch line, something about
eternal peace, only you could not use the word “eternal” because that was too
close to the name of the company. And you shouldn't make any direct mention of
corpses or death or decomposition. Nothing sinister.

It was tough copy to write. There was a dull throb in his
head, too. A
thump-thump-thump
that Carl didn't recognize as the
footsteps of Nemesis. Few of us recognize those footsteps.

All they meant to Carl Harlow was:
“I've been drinking
too
much. I've got to cut down.”
 Even though he knew he wouldn't.

He knew that once you got the pick-me-up habit you were
pretty near a goner. If, when you woke up after a bit of too much, your first
thought was to reach for a drink, then the stuff had you. But otherwise you
stayed in a fog. And things went
thump-thump.

He'd had his eye-opener this morning, of course, the first
minute out of bed — but apparently it hadn't been enough. He took another now,
from the bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk.

It cleared his head, and his hand became steadier. Hell, he
had it already — an angle the Eternity account had never used! He thought it
could be handled so they'd go for it in a big way. He started on the layout.
Old English type for the catch line. His pencil went faster.

At ten-thirty he showed it to Bill Owen. “How's this?”

“Mm-m-m! Pretty good, I'd say. I'll send it around to them,
in just that form.”

“Okay, Bill. Anything else important? Bank closes at-noon
today, and I got something to do there and thought I'd toddle along about
eleven.”

“Sure! Leave now, if you want.”

“Say, Doc Millard and I are playing golf at two. Want to
make it a threesome?”

Bill Owen grinned. “Where was your mind at the poker game?
Tom Pryor and I mentioned we were dated in a foursome teeing off at three
o'clock.”

“Oh, sure, I forgot that. Well, guess I
will
run
along now, instead of eleven. Elsie is going to her mother's this morning, for
overnight, and I got to forage my own food. Well, see you at the nineteenth
hole.”

He straightened his desk, and then decided to try calling
home. Not that there was any real reason. “Oh, hello, honey,” he said when
Elsie answered. “Thought I might catch you before you left. Have a good
weekend.”

“I will, Carl; thanks for calling. Don't forget to take care
of Tabby.”

Carl Harlow chuckled. “Don't worry, honey. I'll put out the
clock and wind the cat. Don't worry about me. . . . 'By.”

And at the bank, the teller at the window boggled a bit at
the check Carl handed in at the window. Carl had expected him to boggle; it was
a ten-thousand-dollar check, and he would have been a bit disappointed if the
money had been handed over without comment.

The teller said, “Just a minute, sir,” and left his cage.

When he came back, it was without the check, and he said,

“Mr. Pryor would like to see you in his office, sir.”

Carl Harlow went through the gate in the railing and back to
Pryor's office. He said, “Hi, Tom! Suppose you want to inquisition me about
that check.” He dropped his hat on Pryor's littered desk and sat down in the
chair the fat-and-forty little cashier waved him to.

He grinned at Tom. “Okay, okay,” he said. “It's for an
investment. I'm going to start a farm — to raise angleworms.

With all the fishing that's done every summer, I figure I
ought to clear—”

“Now, Carl, be serious,” said Pryor. “First place, we
usually require ten days' notice on savings withdrawals. We never invoke that rule
for any reasonable amounts, of course, but—”

Carl Harlow stirred impatiently. “Be a good fellow, Tom, and
let me have the money.”

Tom Pryor looked at him keenly. “We might,” he admitted,
“but that isn't all I wanted to say. Second place, ten thousand dollars is a
lot of money for
you,
 Carl. Your account here — checking and savings
together — is ten thousand four hundred, which means you're practically closing
it out. And I know you well enough to know that's everything you've got in the
world, except an equity in your house, two automobiles, and ten or fifteen
thousand life insurance.”

Carl nodded. “But listen, Tom, I'm not drawing it out to go
on a bat or anything. I suppose I might as well tell you.

You've heard the Keefe-Owen Agency isn't doing so well, I
suppose. Well, it's worse than that. It's on the rocks!

“And if it goes under, well — I don't know what I'll do. I
want to try to buy out Roger Keefe. Owen's good, but Keefe is the bottleneck
there. If Bill Owen and I could run it together, without that damned— Well, you
know what I mean.

Incidentally, this is confidential. Not even Bill — nor
Keefe, either, as yet — knows what I have in mind.”

Tom whistled softly. “Taking a big risk, Carl!”

“Maybe it is, but I'm sure Bill Owen and I can make a go of
that agency, with Keefe out.
If
I can talk Keefe into letting me buy his
share.”

“But, Carl, why the cash? People do business otherwise.

And you'll have to carry the money, besides maybe keeping it
overnight. Why take that risk?”

Carl Harlow nodded. “There's that, of course. But I have a
small safe at home. And nobody's going to know I got the money except you and
the teller outside. I don't think either of you would try burglary — although
after one or two of the bluffs you tried to run in that poker game last night—”

Pryor chuckled. “It's an idea. Ten thousand is a lot of
money. A year's salary for me, Carl; I'm not a high-priced advertising
executive like you and Bill. But granting there's little risk of losing it, I
still don't see why you want cash.”