The Gorgeous Murderer Page 2

  He owned one of the most lucrative gambling setups in Miami and his brother, Little Dee, was his second in command. Senor had grown to be a big man in the town, a rich and solid citizen. His wife had borne him three sons in quick succession, and within ten years he had amassed a fortune of his own. He had his affairs, but always discreetly, and unsuspected by his wealthy wife. He hand-picked his girl-friends. He propositioned them and if they agreed he paid them liberally.

  He used them until he tired of them, and when he did, he dismissed them with an enormous gift of money and a plane ticket for a faraway city. His respectability had to be guarded at all costs; his wife must continue to think him faithful, devoted to her alone. He dared not risk a divorce court exposure, with all that would follow in its wake. His wife had powerful friends and relations.

  He never had any difficulty with any of his girls. He never suffered embarrassment from any of his passing amours. The girls, on their part, understood their situation. Nobody had held a club to them. They knew with whom they were dealing. Senor Pedro Orgaz. A big man, a rich man, an important man, an owner of an illegal gambling casino, and consequently a dangerous man. He had never had embarrassment—until Evangeline Ashley.

  Too frequently, she was not there when he called. He had his moments and he came when he pleased. Too frequently late evenings, she was not there. Too frequently, afternoons, on her days off, she was not there. He did not equate these times with Bill Grant’s days off (two each week); he had not the remotest idea of any relationship between Bill Grant and Evangeline Ashley; he did not think of Bill Grant at all in this personal quandary. But he did, at length, become suspicious of Evangeline Ashley. He was, at this time of his life, almost prudent; a man of fierce pride, he was, at this time of his life, slow to wrath; but a niggling pique had begun to eat within him.

  He wanted to know but there was no one he could trust for the assignment except Little Dee, and he had to tell Little Dee, and Little Dee’s amused cynical expressions of sentiment added flame to the pique. Little Dee was out on watch and Little Dee reported—Bill Grant.

  Senor could not believe. Senor had to see for himself. And Senor saw for himself and flaming pique burst into killing fury, long-quiescent. They were laughing at him—and their laughter, unheard, was heard by him, and his stomach coiled in hate. Like all of the ignorant and unlearned, swelled to pomposity, he had a dread and a hatred of being laughed at.

  And they were laughing at him; the dapper, superior, smooth-talking Bill Grant was laughing at him; the cold, contemptuous superior college-girl was laughing at him. They would laugh on the other side of their faces. Fury became final and implacable. A violent nature needed release. And now Senor was drinking whiskey in his office and drumming fingertips on a desk-top…

  ON THE THIRD DAY of March, at ten minutes after ten of a humid moonless night, Bill Grant drove a black Cadillac onto the concrete driveway of Diego Orgaz’s ocean-front cottage by the sea in Miami Beach. He pulled up the brake, turned off the motor, switched off the lights, squirmed out of the car, slammed the car-door, walked lightly to the front door of the cottage, and touched his finger to the door-bell. At once Little Dee opened the door.

  “Hi, Billy,” he said.

  “Senor sent me for the cabbage.”

  “Yeah, yeah, come in, come in.” Grant entered into a small foyer. Little Dee turned the lock on the door. “In the study,” he said. “You know the way. You been here before.”

  “How do you feel Little Dee?”

  “Fair. Caught up with one of them bugs.”

  Little Dee wore brown moccasins, brown slacks, and a brown Basque shirt. In the roomy, pine-panelled study, Little Dee used a key to lock the door and dropped the key into a pocket of his slacks.

  “Senor wants me back in twenty minutes,” said Bill Grant.

  “Maybe it’ll take a little longer.”

  “Senor said twenty minutes.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Little Dee went to a desk, opened a drawer, and brought out an automatic.

  “What the hell goes?” said Bill Grant.

  “It will take more than twenty minutes,” said Little Dee.

  “You out of your mind?”

  “You’re out of your mind, Billyboy.” Little Dee pointed the gun and came close to Bill Grant. Little Dee’s face was shining. Perspiration ran along the sides of his broken nose. His teeth gleamed in a happy smile. “It ain’t nice to make out with Senor’s girl. Senor don’t like it when a couple of double crossers laugh at him.”

  “Who’s laughing?”

  “You and that college-girl hooker, that’s who’s laughing. But you ain’t going to laugh no more, Billyboy. Little Dee is going to break you up into a lot of little pieces, but nice and slow and easy, and you’re going to cry and cry. How’s it sound, Billy-boy?”

  “Peachy,” said Bill Grant.

  “And after I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry and cry, Little Dee is going to feel sorry for you, and put you out of your goddamn misery. Then Little Dee will wrap you up nice and comfy and take you out to the boat.”

  Little Dee was close to Bill Grant. Little Dee towered above Bill Grant. Little Dee was an experienced torturer and an experienced murderer but Bill Grant was no slob in either department himself. Bill Grant tensed himself and watched carefully.

  “What boat?” said Bill Grant.

  “The boat like what will be your hearse,” said Little Dee.

  Bill Grant watched. He did not have to jump Little Dee because Little Dee was not going to murder him, yet. To jump Little Dee would be an act of desperation, because Little Dee was obviously stronger, and Bill Grant could lose.

  “Like how a boat for a hearse?” said Bill Grant.

  “After I break you up a little bit, and cut you up a little bit, and you cry instead of laugh, and I put you out of your misery, I take you out to the boat, and I wrap chains all around you, and I take you way out to the deep, and I drop you in, and you sink, and the fishes will eat what’s left of you. Nice, huh?”

  “Peachy,” said Bill Grant.

  “So you want to laugh now, baby?”

  Bill Grant watched. The gun twisted in the massive hand, held like a hammer now, butt protruding. Bill Grant’s face assumed a look of fear; he turned as though to run. The hand swiftly rose and fell in a powerful hammer-chop directed at Bill Grant’s head.

  Bill Grant moved his head, just enough, as expert as an expert boxer; he let the gun hit, a sliding blow without effect, and now guile was added to his act. He screamed and fell and lay quivering and he heard the gritting laughter above him.

  As Little Dee bent for a second chop, Bill Grant’s foot shot out in a crushing kick to the testicles, and as the big man fell back, grunting, Bill Grant was upon him, his switch-knife in his hand, and he plunged a six-inch blade into Little Dee’s groin, and cut upward, all the way to the diaphragm, and gas exploded from Little Dee’s stomach, and blood lumped the Basque shirt in a curious reddening bulge.

  Little Dee stood quite still for a moment, teeth gleaming in a death-grin, no pain in his face, nothing but an expression of pure, almost child-like, surprise. The gun fell first. Then Little Dee fell, supine. And Bill Grant was upon him, stomping his high heels into the expression of surprise, stomping until there was no expression, until there was almost no face.

  He stood still, red knife in hand. He breathed deeply until he recovered his wind. Then he laid the knife on the floor and turned the faceless man over. He took the key from the pocket of the slacks, went to the door, unlocked it, returned, threw the key on the floor, and picked up the dripping knife.

  He went through a corridor to the bathroom where, first, he washed the knife. He dried it on a bath towel, folded it, and replaced it in the pocket where he always carried it. Then he removed his jacket and shirt and washed himself thoroughly. He combed his hair, re-dressed, went back to the study, skirted the dead man, and explored the desk-drawers for money. Of course there was no
money. He left all the lights burning and went out to the car.

  He drove to his apartment and packed quickly. He took sixteen hundred dollars from its hiding place in a closet and placed it into his wallet. He turned off the lights, went back to the car, and drove to the airport. He spread a bit of bribe-money, talked about an emergency involving an acutely ill mother, and procured a ticket to Havana on a flight that was leaving in forty-five minutes. Then he went to a booth and made a phone call.

  IV

  ON THE THIRD DAY of March, at seven minutes to eleven of a humid moonless evening, Evangeline Ashley sat in a soft chair in Room 203 of Hotel Cascade reading a three-paragraph gossip-column on a back page of a daily newspaper.

  She was nearing the end of the last paragraph when the phone rang. She laid the paper aside and went to the telephone. She was wearing a grey gabardine suit, grey stockings, black patent-leather pumps, and a frilly-fronted white blouse. She lifted the receiver and said, “Yes??”

  “Eve? This is Bill.”

  “What’s the matter? What—”

  “Shut up. Listen. I’m at the airport.”

  “You’re where…?”

  “Airport. I’m leaving soon. Next forty minutes—”

  “For where?”

  “Havana. Now shut up. Listen to me, will you please? Get into your car and drive out here. Fast. No time for fooling around. Hang up, get into your car, and drive out here. Important. I’m waiting. Bye now.”

  He hung up. She hung up. She turned off the lights, left the room, locked the door, ran down the stairs, ran to the garage, got into her powder-blue convertible, and drove without event to the airport.

  She parked, ran in, and he was there waiting. He took her to an uncrowded spot and told her what had happened.

  “Take me with you,” she said. “Please take me.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I love you, Bill.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Will you send for me?”

  “No. Now look, you’re in a spot.”

  “I’m in no spot.”

  “Senor.”

  “I can handle him.”

  “I don’t think you can. That creep has popped his cork, I tell you. And when he finds out what happened to Little Dee, he’ll really flip.”

  “I can handle him.”

  “But he knows about us.”

  “He hasn’t seen us together, has he? He hasn’t seen us in bed, has he? So he knows we’ve been out together. So he knows I came visiting you. So he knows, even, that I stayed over. I can talk him out of all of that. I’m a woman. He’s a man. I can handle him.”

  He drew out his wallet, pinched out money. “Here’s three hundred bucks. Pack up and git. You can always take out the five thousand you have in the Savings Bank by mail or something.” She held back. “Take it,” he said. She took the money. He put his wallet away. “That’s my advice. Pack up and blow. Tonight.”

  “I told you I can handle him,” she insisted.

  “Look.” He talked rapidly, quietly. “I gave a guy his lumps tonight. I’m running. I’m hot. I figure to be hot for quite a while. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come with me. I’ll be moving around, like looking over my shoulder. For a while, anyway. Until it simmers down. Even if I wanted you, I wouldn’t let you come. And I don’t want you. It’s been nice, but I’ve had it. I’m a loner. I’m a loner, looking for the big score. I’ve got to go my own way, and I’ve got to go unhampered. That’s it. I don’t like long good-byes. I’m going to turn around and walk away. You go back to your car.”

  “Billy, please.”

  “Honey, there’s a dead man around, and I killed him. It may blow up big, it may not blow up at all, depending on whether Senor pipes. If it blows big, there’ll be cops looking for me. They inquire at airports. There’s no sense somebody seeing us and tying you into it. There’s no sense in your being an accessory. I don’t want you hanging around here with me. Good-bye, Evie.”

  “Billy, say one nice word.”

  “Good-bye, baby.”

  “Billy, do you love me?”

  “No.”

  He turned and walked, gracefully, on his high heels, into gloom. She restrained an impulse to run after him. You did not run after Bill Grant. You did not make scenes with Bill Grant. You gave him all the love you were capable of. You gave him money to nurture his expensive tastes. You held him and you made love to him and he made love to you, but you knew all the while he was gossamer, you had no sense of possession, you knew one day he would go away. Now he was going away.

  She returned to her car and drove back to town. She had coffee in Wolfie’s and thought of her own problem. She was certain she could handle Senor. Her body and her beauty could manage Senor, as they had managed so many others, excluding Bill Grant. Her approach to Senor must be one of outrage: he had doubted her when he should not have. She, of course, would know nothing of what had occurred. He would accuse, and she would quickly, openly, honestly defend.

  Of course, she had been seeing Bill Grant. Love? Love affair? Don’t be silly. The poor guy was sick, impotent, on the verge of a nervous breakdown—there could be no love affair with Bill Grant. She had been as a mother to him, as a sister, as a nurse; the man was in the throes of a psychopathological melancholy; she had even stayed over with him on occasion, actually to prevent a suicide.

  She would have to think it all out, think clearly, and she was far too upset and confused to think clearly now. She parked the car and ran up the stairs. She needed a drink. She needed a few drinks, badly. Then she would run a warm bath and rest and soak and try to relax and try to think. She opened the door, closed it behind her, switched on the lights, but she did not lock the door.

  Instead, she stood silent, gaping, body rigid, mouth working, and the key slipped from limp fingers without a sound to the carpet.

  Senor was there. He was seated, fat knees spread, in an armchair. The kinky hair was disheveled. There were deep lines in the flushed face. Perspiration gleamed in globules in the sockets of the eyes. The mouth was tight. The nostrils were dilated, sweat on the upper lip. The protruding eyes were red and raging. The hands were encased in black silk gloves.

  He rose, and he moved toward her, and she moved away, and he circled, moving toward her, and she backed away, all assurance drained from her. She knew now she could not handle him. He was beyond handling. His eyes were insane. His breathing was rapid and raucous. He moved toward her, black hands outstretched.

  “No. Don’t,” she said. “No, please, Senor, don’t.”

  He stopped, black hands outstretched. Thickly he said, “Yes, do, Senor. Do. Do.”

  She had moved away from him step by step, until the back of her legs touched the liquor table. Her hands were behind her. Her right hand felt a bottle, crept stealthily to its neck, and grasped it.

  “No!”, she said. “No, Senor! I beg you! No!”

  “Laugh, you little tramp! Laugh at Senor! Laugh, now! Laugh, till my hands come to you, and I choke out the laughter!”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So what?”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “No mistake.”

  “They’ll get you.”

  “Who? Bill Grant?”

  “Cops.”

  “Never. I got no connection with you.”

  “You have. They’ll get you.”

  “Never. Nobody seen me come. Nobody’ll see me go. I choke until you’re dead. I leave you here and it’s finished. Another cheap broad gets knocked off. There’s a million of them. I got no connection. Now, laugh, tramp. Die laughing.”

  “You’re drunk.” He moved. “No! Wait!”

  He moved forward. He was drunk. He stumbled.

  She lashed out with all her strength. She was young, and strong. The bottle, weapon-held, came from behind in a high, swift, terrifying arc, descending full upon the left side of the head. The bottle burst, inundating the head and face with running, seeping, caustic-
smelling whiskey, quickly mixed with blood; the kinky hair opened, mangled, to a fracture of the skull, blood bubbling from a deep fissure of splintered bone in a high geyser, splashing the face; the eyes were blinded with blood and whiskey; but still he did not fall.

  From deep in his chest came a babble of gasping, retching profanity, and he moved, forward, slowly, blindly, black hands extended. And now she waited, crouched, sobbing, taut, right hand gripped to the broken, jagged, lethal bottle-neck, and as the hands touched her, she thrust it into his throat and tore sideways, and the red-purple jugular blood spurted streaming, staining her. And still he stood; and then the black hands dropped; and he sighed; and he fell; and she went down to her knees, almost upon him, fighting for consciousness.

  So they remained, for minutes, in tableau, and then she straightened to her feet, dropped the bottle-neck, and stood looking down upon him, without pity, licking her lips, swallowing, thinking.

  Abruptly she lifted her skirt and kneeled beside him. She removed the black silk gloves, folded them, and stuffed them into a pocket of his jacket. She drew a long deep breath, lowered her head, placed her mouth against the dead sunken mouth, and firmly rubbed her lips to his. She stood up, gaping, sucking air, crunching back nausea. Recovered, she looked down at the bloody face. Lipstick was a shapeless imprint on the mouth.

  She went to a mirror and looked upon herself. She was drawn, livid, her lipstick smeared, the pupils of her eyes contracted to tiny points. Watching her reflection, she put her hands to her hair and pulled until it hung straggly, disarranged, and tousled. Watching her reflection, she tore at the jacket of her suit until it ripped and came apart; tore at the blouse until it rent; tore at her brassier until a strap burst and it hung awry at her middle.

  As a slattern, clothing torn, hair hanging, full bosom exposed, she turned from the mirror, kicked over a chair, rumpled the covers of the bed, and went again to the dead Senor, and knelt beside him. She clasped the back of his right hand in hers, made a claw of his hand, and ripped his fingernails down one naked shoulder and breast, ripped until blood oozed from long welts, and the skin of her flesh was beneath his blunt nails.