What's Better Than Money (20 page)

Finally, she shrugged impatiently, got up and walked over to the cloakroom.

Wilbur went over to the bar, ordered a Scotch which he tossed down and then moved over to the exit. The band was playing again, and as he left he snapped his fingers and waved his hands in time with the music.

I got my hat and raincoat from the hat check girl as the dark girl came out of the cloakroom, wearing a plastic mac over her evening dress.

She went out into the darkness with me just behind her.

I paused at the kerbside as if looking for a taxi. The girl hurried down the road. I could see Wilbur waiting for her. The girl joined him, and they crossed the road, walking quickly, and went up a side street.

I followed them, keeping in the shadows. At the corner I paused and looked cautiously around. I was in time to see the girl starting up the steps of an apartment house with Wilbur on her heels.

They disappeared from sight.

I didn’t know if he was planning to stay the night with the girl, but I thought it was unlikely. I took up a position in a dark doorway and waited.

I waited half an hour, then I saw him come down the steps and saunter off down the road.

I went after him.

He wasn’t difficult to follow. He didn’t once look back, and he loitered along, whistling shrilly, and every now and then he went into a complicated dance step.

Finally he entered a dingy hotel near the waterfront. I paused and watched him through the glass panel door take a key off a rack and then wander out of sight up a steep flight of stairs.

I stepped back to read the overhanging sign:
Anderson Hotel Restaurant.

I walked fast to the end of the street where I picked up a taxi and drove back to my hotel.

Was Wilbur staying at the hotel for the night or for longer? I couldn’t risk losing him now I had found him.

But even then I found myself hesitating. Only the thought of Sarita and my urgent need to protect my money stiffened my nerves.

I went to a pay booth in the lobby, turned up the Anderson Hotel in the book and dialled the number.

After a while a girl said, “Yeah? What is it?”

I drew in a long deep breath. I had to make a conscious effort not to put the receiver back on its cradle.

“You got a little guy who wears glasses staying with you?” I said, making my voice sound tough.

“So what?” The girl’s voice sharpened. “Who’s calling?”

“A friend of his. Get him to the phone, sister, and hurry it up.”

“If you’re a friend of his, what’s his name?”

“Stop talking so much. Get him to the phone.”

“Oh, hang on,” she said, her voice suddenly bored.

There was a long wait. I stood in the stuffy pay booth, the receiver clamped against my ear while I listened.

Five minutes dragged by, then I heard sounds. I heard the girl say angrily, “How do I know who it is? I keep telling you, don’t I? Find out for yourself!” Then she gave a sudden squeal of pain. “Oh! You dirty little rat! Keep your filthy paws off me!”

I heard the receiver being picked up.

“Yeah? Who is it?”

I imagined him standing there, the light glittering on his spectacles, his white cruel face expectant.

“Wilbur?” I said.

“That’s me. Who is it?”

Speaking slowly and distinctly, I said, “I saw Rima Marshall last night.”

I heard him draw his breath in a tight little hiss.

“Who are you?”

“Never mind. Would you be interested to know where she is?”

I felt cold sweat on my face as I talked.

“Yeah. Where is she?”

“I’ll send you her address in two days’ time – on Friday morning, and some money to get to where she is,” I said. “Stick around until Friday.”

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “Are you a pal of hers?”

“Do I sound like a pal of hers?” I said, and hung up.

II

Early the next morning, from my hotel room, I put a call through to Dr. Zimmerman’s sanatorium. The receptionist said Dr. Zimmerman wanted to talk to me and would I hold on?

When he came on the line, he sounded cheerful.

“I have good news for you, Mr. Halliday. Your wife is now making very steady progress. She has come out of her coma, and in a couple of days I think you can see her. We’ll have to think about this second operation. When will you be back?”

“Sometime on Friday,” I said. “I’ll call you as soon as I get in. You really think she’s over the worst now?”

“I’m sure she is. If you will come to the sanatorium on Saturday morning it is possible you can see her.”

I said I would be along, and after some more talk I hung up.

The news that Sarita was so much better got me out of my mood of depression. My resolve to get rid of Rima began to weaken again.

Perhaps on Saturday I would be with Sarita. I would know while I stood by her bed that I had deliberately destroyed a life. I wondered how I would feel when our eyes met. Would she see the guilt in mine?

I got up and began to pace the floor. What right had I to take Rima’s life? I asked myself. I was only destroying her to save myself going either to the gas chamber or to jail. Would I be able to live with myself if I were the direct cause of her death? This was a problem of conscience and it tormented me.

I looked for another solution. Suppose I refused to give Rima any more money – what then? I believed she would go to the police and I would be arrested. What would happen to Sarita without me? True, she would have my money, but how would she manage, alone and a cripple?

I tried to be honest with myself. Was I planning to get rid of Rima to save myself going to jail or because of Sarita’s helplessness and her need for me?

I couldn’t decide about this, but I did know Sarita needed me and I did know Rima’s life was worthless.

I realised that my plan to get rid of her was as full of holes as a sieve. Even if I sent Wilbur her address, there was no guarantee that he would kill her. His hatred for her might already have petered out and he might not be bothered to make the journey. Also Vasari might not leave Rima after I had warned him the police were coming for him. If he did go, Rima might go with him and Wilbur would find the bungalow empty. If – if – if. . .

As a murder plan it was completely cock-eyed.

It was at this moment that I decided to leave it cock-eyed. It would be like tossing a coin: heads – Rima dies: tails – I go to jail. That way I need not accept the entire blame if the plan happened to work and Rima died.

To get away from my thoughts, I went down to the breakfast room. I told the waitress to bring me coffee and toast. It was while I was waiting I glanced around the room. There were only eight or nine men eating breakfast: all obviously business men, intent on their food and their papers.

I became aware that one of them in a far corner had looked up and was staring intently at me. He was a fellow about my own age and his round, fleshy face was vaguely familiar. He got abruptly to his feet and came over, smiling at me. It wasn’t until he had reached my table that I recognised him. He was a guy I had worked with at college, sharing the same room. His name was Bill Stovall and he had qualified as an engineer at the same time as I did.

“For the love of Mike!” he said. “It’s Jeff Halliday, isn’t it?”

I got to my feet and shook hands with him. He wanted to know what I was doing in San Francisco and I said I was up on a business trip. He said he had seen
Life
and had read about the bridge.

“You’ve certainly got a job there, Jeff! My goodness! Every damned engineer in the district has been after that one.” We sat down and talked about the bridge. Then I asked him what he was doing.

“I’m with Fraser and Grant, the steel people. Incidentally, Jeff, we might be able to help you. You’ll want steel and we can quote you figures that’ll surprise you.”

It suddenly occurred to me that if anything went wrong with my plan to get rid of Rima and it was traced back to me, it might be a sound idea to have a reason why I had come to San Francisco, so I said any figures on steel would interest me and how about it.

“Tell you what,” he said, getting excited, “suppose you come along around half past ten and I’ll introduce you to our steel man?” He gave me his card. “Will you do that?”

I said I would, and after telling me how to get to his place he went away.

I spent the morning and most of the afternoon with the steel man. The estimates he gave me were two per cent lower than anything I had had from other contractors. I promised to let him know as soon as I had consulted Jack.

I returned to the hotel a little after five o’clock and went up to my room. I took a shower, changed, then I sat at the writing-desk, and wrote Rima’s name and address in large block letters on a sheet of paper. This I put in an envelope together with three ten dollar bills. I addressed the letter to Wilbur, care of Anderson’s Hotel.

I went down to the lobby and asked the porter the times of trains to Holland City. He said there was one out at twenty minutes past eight.

I bought a stamp from him and put it on the letter to Wilbur. It took a conscious effort to cross to the mail box and drop the letter in. As soon as I had done it, I felt the urge to have it back.

I went into the bar and had a drink. I was sweating slightly. By eight o’clock tomorrow morning Wilbur would get the letter. What would he do? If he really intended to murder Rima he could be in Santa Barba by half past two in the afternoon.

He was a junky, and therefore, like Rima, unpredictable. He could easily be tempted to spend the money I had sent him for his fare on drugs. The chances were he would remain in San Francisco and not go to Santa Barba.

With that thought to quell the pricking of my conscience, I went into the snack bar and ate a sandwich. Then I paid my bill, and while waiting for my suitcase to be brought down I shut myself in a pay booth. I asked ‘Information’ to give me the telephone number of The Bungalow, East Shore, Santa Barba. After the usual delay, she told me it was East 6684. I wrote it down in my diary, then leaving the hotel I took a taxi to the station.

I arrived at Holland City soon after midnight. The ticket collector at the barrier grinned cheerfully at me.

“Nice to see you back, Mr. Halliday. Any good news of Mrs. Halliday?”

I said Sarita was making progress and I hoped to see her on Saturday.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “She’s a fine lady, Mr. Halliday. I hope they put that bastard who ran into her away for years.”

The taxi driver who drove me home also wanted to hear the latest news about Sarita. It suddenly dawned on me that she had become quite a public figure and that gave me a feeling of pride.

But I became terribly depressed when I unlocked the front door of my apartment and walked into the silent lounge. I paused for a long moment, half expecting to hear Sarita’s voice greeting me. I felt very lonely as I looked at our familiar possessions, the clock that had stopped on the over-mantel, the film of dust on the television set.

I went into the bedroom, undressed, took a shower and put on my pyjamas. Then I went back to the lounge and mixed myself a stiff whisky and soda. I sat down by the telephone and lit a cigarette. When I had finished my drink and had stubbed out my cigarette I looked at my watch.

The time was now twenty minutes to two a.m. My mind went out into space to Santa Barba to the sordid little bungalow on East Shore. Rima and Vasari would be preparing for bed: maybe they would be in bed already.

I now had to go ahead with the second move in this plan of mine. I took up my pocket diary, lying on the table, checked the telephone number of the bungalow, then called ‘Long Distance.’ When the operator came on the line, I gave her the number. I said I would hold on.

I sat motionless, staring up-at the ceiling, listening to the humming and the ghost voices that came to me over the open line. Then suddenly I heard the steady burr-burr-burr that told me the telephone bell was ringing.

It rang for some time, then there was a click and Rima’s voice said angrily, “East 6684. Who is it?”

I felt my heart contract at the sound of her voice.

Making my voice hard and rough, I said, “Is Ed there?”

“Who’s calling?”

The connection was so good I could hear her quick, uneven breathing.

“A pal of his. Never mind who it is. I want to talk to him.”

“You don’t talk to him unless you tell me who you are,” she said, and I caught the note of uneasiness in her voice.

Then there was the sound of a sudden commotion.

I heard Rima say, “Don’t be a fool, Ed!”

“Shut up!” I heard Vasari say. “I’ll handle this!”

Then his voice barked in my ear: “Who is it?”

“Just a pal,” I said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “You’d better beat it, Ed, and pronto. The cops spotted you this morning. By now they know where you are. They are waiting to get a warrant, then they’re coming for you. . .”

I heard his quick intake of breath, and as he began to speak I hung up.

I sat there, my hand on the telephone receiver, staring across the room. For what it was worth, the stage was now set. Within six hours Wilbur would be opening my letter. He might or might not grab the first train to Santa Barba. If he did, I was pretty sure he would murder Rima, but in the meantime, Vasari might or might not go on the run. If he did, there was just that chance that Rima would go with him, so if Wilbur arrived he would find the bungalow deserted. On the other hand, Vasari might leave Rima, and Wilbur would find her. And yet again Vasari might not be stampeded and remain with Rima, in which case Wilbur would come up against some opposition. As a murder plan it was cock-eyed, but as a problem it did offer a number of solutions. So many it was like the toss of a coin.

At least it was now out of my hands. I had set the stage and I would have to abide by the results.

I turned off the light and went into the bedroom. The empty bed alongside mine made me think of Sarita.

I wanted to pray for her, but the words wouldn’t come.

I got into bed, but I didn’t turn off the light. Darkness has a way of sharpening one’s conscience.