1977 - My Laugh Comes Last Read online

  'Okay, Mr. Lucas,' Harry said, coming forward and taking hold of my arm. 'Let's get back to the car. Benny and Joe will fix him. You happy? I want you to be happy about this.'

  I jerked away from him and walked unsteadily back to my car. He kept by my side. When we reached the car, his hand again took hold of my arm and he steered me firmly to the back of the car. He opened the trunk.

  'Here's a mess, Mr. Lucas, but don't worry your brains. We'll fix it for you.'

  I looked at the blood-soaked rubber lining of the trunk and turned away.

  'Get in the car and relax, Mr. Lucas. You don't have a thing now to worry about.'

  I opened the car door and sat in the passenger's seat.

  Marsh's smashed, bloody face swam in my dazed mind. I sat there until Joe and Benny returned. They got in the car, Harry slid under the driving wheel.

  'I'll drop you off at your place, Mr. Lucas,' he said, 'then Joe'll fix the car. I'll have it put back in your garage this afternoon. You don't have a goddamn thing to worry about.'

  Not a thing, I thought, until Edwin Klaus comes around to pick up the price tag.

  I spent the rest of this Sunday in my apartment, holding an ice bag to my face and considering my position.

  I was sure Klaus intended to blackmail me. But how strong was his position? The body had been buried. No one saw Glenda nor myself at Ferris Point. At least, I saw no one on the drive down and on the beach. Suppose I told Klaus to go to hell when he came to pick up the price tag?

  What would he do? It seemed to me that by arranging to bury the body, his blackmail teeth were drawn. Suppose he called the Sheriff and told him where to find the body and implicate me? What proof had he I had murdered Marsh?

  I had only to keep my nerve and deny everything to be, in what seemed to me at the moment, a strong position.

  I realized that my story to Brannigan of a car accident to account for my bruised face was dangerous. Every car accident, no matter how trivial, had to be reported to the Sharnville police. They were very strict about this. I would have to think of a better story than a car accident, and finally, after some thought, I came up with a better story.

  My mind then shifted to Glenda. Was she involved in this?

  Loving her as I did, I tried hard not to think she had been the bait on the hook. There was one way to find out. Although it was Sunday, I felt sure The Investor worked around the clock. I reached for the telephone and asked the operator to connect me with New York. I said I wanted to talk to The Investor's office. After a delay, I got through. I asked to speak to the acting editor. There was more delay, then a brisk voice said, 'Harrison. Who is this?'

  'I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Harrison,' I said, 'but it is a matter of urgency that I contact Mrs. Glenda Marsh who I understand freelances for you.'

  He repeated the name, then said, "You are in error. We don't know anyone of that name, and we don't employ freelances.'

  'Thank you,' I said, and hung up.

  I got up and walked into the kitchen and wrung out the towel, then I wrapped more ice cubes and returned to my armchair. I had an empty void inside me. So Glenda had been the bait on the hook. Was she still in Sharnville? I doubted it. Surely this put me in a stronger position to tell Klaus to go to hell. If he now tried to involve me, I could not only involve him, but also Glenda, and maybe, once the Sheriff began to question her, she would tell the truth. I found it hard to believe that she didn't love me.

  By 16.00, the swelling in my face had gone down. I now only had a black bruise on my cheek. My head ceased to throb. I was feeling jaded but more confident that I could deal with Klaus if and when he tried to put on the screws.

  Remembering my car, I went down to the garage.

  My car stood in the bay. It had been washed and polished.

  After a moment's hesitation, I opened the trunk. It was immaculate with a new rubber mat: no blood, no sand, no body.

  As I was closing the trunk, Fred Jebson, who lived below me, drove in.

  Jebson, an accountant, was one of those hearty, garrulous men who always liked to chat up anyone in sight.

  'Hi there, Larry,' he said, getting out of his car. ‘Didn't see you at the club.' Then he stared at me. 'For Pete's sake, did he catch you with his wife?' And he gave a bellow of laughter.

  I felt my insides shrink, but I forced a smile.

  'I had an argument with a golf ball,' I said. 'I took a No. 5 down to the beach. The ball ricocheted off a tree and caught me before I could duck.'

  'Jesus!' He looked concerned as he stared at me. ‘You could have lost an eye.'

  'I guess I was lucky.'

  ‘You can say that again. I've got some great stuff for a bruise like that. Come on up, Larry. I'll give it to you. My kid's taken up boxing, and comes back with a shiner from time to time.'

  I went with him, and he took me into his apartment. His wife and kid were out which was fortunate as she was more garrulous than he. He found a tube of ointment.

  ‘Rub this in every two hours. I bet you won't know you have had a bruise in a couple of days.'

  I thanked him, said I had work to do, shook his hand and returned to my apartment. I rubbed in the ointment, then realizing it was getting on for 17.00, and I hadn't eaten all day, I opened a can of soup and heated it.

  I spent a long, restless night, wondering and worrying.

  The following morning, I found the bruise was turning yellow, but my head was still sore, I had a heavy day ahead of me, and I reached the office just after 08.30. Once at my desk, I had no time to think of Klaus, Glenda or Marsh. I had a lunch date with a client and sold him five expensive calculators. After lunch, satisfied with my sale, I drove back to my office block. As I was getting out of the car, Sheriff Thomson materialized.

  'Hi, citizen!'

  'Hey, Joe!'

  He regarded me with his cop eyes, ‘You had an accident?'

  'Golf ball,' I said shortly. 'I forgot to duck. How's life, Joe?'

  'Fair.' He wiped the end of his nose with the back of his hand. ‘You seen Mrs. Marsh?'

  I kept my face expressionless.

  'No. I've been nursing this bruise over the weekend.'

  'She had a date with me to photograph the jail. She didn't show up.'

  'Maybe she forgot.'

  'Seems she's pulled out.' Thomson gave me his cop stare.

  'I went along to her apartment, right opposite yours, and the janitor tells me she left at seven yesterday morning with luggage.'

  'Is that right?' I tried to meet his stare, but failed. I looked down the street for something better to look at. 'That's surprising. Maybe she had an urgent call or something.'

  ‘Yeah. Well, you've got business. I've got business. See you,' and nodding, he walked on.

  For a long moment, I stared after him, then hurried up to my office. I had a feeling of fear, but there was nothing I could do except wait for Klaus's move.

  I waited for five long, uneasy days. It was when I had finished work and had returned to the loneliness of my apartment that the pressure was on. I found I was pacing the floor, my heart beating sluggishly, my mind darting like a mouse trying to avoid a cat. How I longed for Glenda during these hours.

  On the fifth evening, an express delivery arrived as I was unlocking my apartment door. The envelope was bulky, and as I signed for it, I knew the wait was over.

  I shut and locked my apartment door. Then going over to my armchair, I sat down and ripped open the envelope. It contained eight coloured photographs, needle sharp, and obviously taken with a powerful telescopic lens.

  Shot 1 showed Glenda in her bikini on the beach and I approaching her.

  Shot 2 showed Glenda on her back, naked, and I too naked, kneeling over her.

  Shot 3 showed me covering her, and Marsh, his face a snarling mask, coming from behind the sand shrubs.

  Shots 4, 5, 6 showed Marsh and me fighting like savages.

  Shot 7 showed me standing over Marsh, horror on my face, and blood on his.


  Shot 8 showed me standing in the trench, digging.

  As I looked at the photographs, a Siberian wind seemed to be blowing over me. The deadly trap had been carefully sprung, I had walked into it, and the teeth had snapped shut.

  I now realized why Harry had shoved me close to the body, to let the hidden photographer get his shot, and why Harry had given me the trenching tool so I dug for a few minutes before Joe took over.

  My hopes of outwitting Edwin Klaus and telling him to go to hell abruptly evaporated.

  As I was staring at the photographs, I heard a sound that made me stiffen and drop the photographs in an incriminating puddle at my feet: the sad, forlorn tune of a Negro spiritual, played on a harmonica. The player was outside my front door.

  Getting unsteadily to my feet, my mind in a dazed panic, I threw open the door. Joe, looking enormous, still wearing the white singlet and black slacks, was propping up the opposite wall. He gave me his wide, dazzling smile and slipped the harmonica into his short pocket.

  'Evening, Mr. Lucas. The boss wants to chat you up. Let's go.'

  Leaving the door open, I went back and picked up the photographs, stuffed them into the envelope and locked the envelope in my desk drawer.

  It didn't cross my mind to refuse to go with this Negro. I was trapped, and I knew it.

  We rode down in the elevator. Parked outside the apartment block was a dusty, beaten-up Chevy.

  Joe was humming to himself. He unlocked the car door, reached across and flicked up the lock button of the passenger's seat. I went around the car and got in.

  He set the car in motion. At this time in the evening the streets were almost deserted. He drove carefully, still humming to himself, then he said suddenly, 'You happy about your car, Mr. Lucas? I sure worked on it. Plenty of wax.'

  I sat motionless, my clenched fists between my knees. I couldn't bring myself to speak to him.

  He glanced at me.

  ‘You know something, Mr. Lucas? I was just another nigger before Mr. Klaus picked me up. Now, it's all different. I've got a pad of my own. I get regular money. I've got a girl. I've got time to play my harmonica. You go along with Mr. Klaus. That's the smart thing to do. He's a real power man.' He chuckled. 'Power means money, Mr. Lucas. That's what I like - real money. Not piddly dimes, but fat dollars.'

  Still, I said nothing.

  He leaned forward and pressed down on a cassette and the car was filled with strident beat music.

  We drove for some fifteen minutes, then he turned off the highway and headed into the country. When the cassette finished, he again looked at me.

  'Mr. Lucas, sir, I know you're in a spot of trouble. Take my tip, Mr. Lucas, and go along. Don't dig your own grave. You do what the boss tells you, and you'll be happy.'

  'Screw you,' I said, in no mood to take his advice.

  He giggled.

  'That's it, Mr. Lucas. That's what they all say to me, but this nigger boy knows what he's talking about. Just don't dig your own grave.'

  He swung the car into a narrow road and drove to a ranch-style house, half hidden by trees, He stopped before a farm gate, and a figure emerged from the shadows. It was Harry. He opened the gate, and as Joe drove forward, Harry waved to me. I ignored him. Joe drove to the entrance of the house and pulled up.

  Lights showed in six windows.

  Joe got out and went around and opened my door.

  'Here we are, Mr. Lucas.'

  As I got out, Benny appeared.

  'Come on, fink,' Benny said, and catching hold of my arm in a vice-like grip, he shoved me roughly towards the open front door. He propelled me along a passage and into a big living-room.

  The room had a picture window that looked on to the distant lights of Sharnville. There were comfortable lounging chairs, a big settee before an empty fireplace. To the right was a well-stocked bar. There was a TV set and a stereo radio. Three good-looking rugs covered the floor, but the room gave off the atmosphere of being rented, and not lived in.

  'Want a drink, fink?' Benny asked as I came to rest in the middle of the room. 'The boss is busy right now. Have a Scotch, huh?'

  I went to one of the armchairs and dropped into it.

  'Nothing,' I said.

  He shrugged and went out, closing the door.

  I sat there, my heart thumping, my hands clammy. After a while I heard Joe playing his harmonica: the same sad tune.

  I sat there for some ten minutes, then the door opened abruptly and Klaus came in. He shut the door, paused to regard me, then came over and sat in a chair opposite mine.

  His teak-wood face was expressionless.

  'I apologize for keeping you waiting, Mr. Lucas. I have many affairs' to attend to.' Then as I said nothing, he went on, 'What do you think of the photographs?' He lifted his eyebrows inquiringly. 'I thought they were exceptionally good. They, alone, would convince any judge that you had murdered Marsh, don't you think?'

  I looked at him, hating him.

  "What do you want?'

  'We will come to that in a moment.' He leaned back, resting his small brown hands in his lap. 'Let me first spell out your position, Mr. Lucas. You were foolish enough to write to Glenda. I have that letter, arranging a meeting with her, I have the trenching tool with your fingerprints on it. I have the stained trunk mat. I have only to hand the photographs with your letter, the trenching tool and the trunk mat to Sheriff Thomson for you to go away for life.'

  ‘Does Glenda know about this?' I had to know.

  'Of course. She does exactly what I tell her to do as you are going to do exactly what I tell you to do. She will be the principal witness at your trial if you are stupid enough not to cooperate with me. She will swear she saw you kill her husband. Make no mistake about this, Mr. Lucas, unless you do exactly what I want you to do.'

  'And what do you want me to do?' I sat forward, registering what he had said: She does exactly what I tell her to do.

  This must mean that Glenda whom I loved was also a victim of Klaus's blackmail. This knowledge gave me a feeling of relief. She had been forced to betray me!

  'First, let me tell you a story,' Klaus said. 'Some forty years ago, your patron, Farrell Brannigan and I were small-time tellers in a small-time bank in the Midwest. We were close friends. We shared the same tiny apartment, and we were both ambitious. Brannigan is a self-righteous man. While he worked nights on banking law and so on, I was out on the town. I got involved with a woman.' He paused to stare thoughtfully at me. 'It is necessary for me to tell you this so that you can understand why you are here, and why I am going to tell you what I want you to do.'

  I said nothing.

  'This woman was expensive,' Klaus went on. 'I was young. To hold her, I had to spend money on her, and I had very little money as a small-time teller. I found what I thought to be a safe way of taking money from the bank. Because of this woman, I embezzled some six thousand dollars. I felt safe to do this as the bank audit wasn't due for six months. I spent five thousand dollars amusing this woman, then a month before the audit, I backed a certain winner, running in the Kentucky Derby, using my last thousand dollars. I won ten thousand dollars. There would be no problem about repaying the six thousand I had stolen, but I had reckoned without Brannigan. Without my knowledge, Brannigan conducted a bank audit on his own. I had no idea why he stayed night after night at the bank, and I didn't care. I thought he was preparing for his next bank examination. He did the audit because he wanted to add to his experience. Brannigan always sought experience. It didn't take him long to find that I had stolen six thousand dollars. Although it is now some forty years ago, I can still see him, very self-righteous, accusing me of embezzlement. We were close friends. I trusted him. I admitted I had stolen the money, but I would repay it. When he learned I had backed a horse - something that was utterly repellent to him - he said I was not only a thief, but a gambler, and I had no right to work in any bank. He gave me no chance to repay the money.' For a brief moment, Klaus's slate-grey eyes lit up
in a glare of unnerving fury. Then the light in his eyes vanished. But that one brief glimpse warned me how dangerous he was. 'He was then, and still is, a self-righteous man. He went to the bank directors and betrayed me. I was jailed for five years.'

  I was now listening intently. It began to dawn on me, having seen that maniacal glare, that I could be dealing with a psychopath.

  ‘When you serve a five-year sentence in a tough jail, Mr. Lucas, you acquire a new slant on life,' he continued, his voice now quiet and controlled. 'I was finished as a bank official. I had to make a new career for myself. I mixed with all kinds of men when in jail. At the age of thirty, I was very ambitious, so when I came out, I attempted a fraud that would have made me a lot of money, but because of my associates, the fraud turned sour, and I went back to jail for fifteen years. Life in jail, Mr. Lucas, makes a man bitter. During those years while I was kept like a caged animal, I thought about Farrell Brannigan. Had he not been such a self-righteous man, I could have put the money back, and I could have been some kind of a banker: not in the same class as Brannigan, because he never stopped working and learning to become the top banker which he now is. I didn't have his drive nor talent, but I could have made a reason-able living as a branch manager had he given me the chance. When I came out of jail, Brannigan had become President of the Californian National Bank. I had had fifteen years in which to think about my future. I had made several useful contacts with other prisoners. I had gained useful experience. Through my contacts and my experience, I have made a lot of money. I am now about to retire. I plan to live in luxury somewhere in the sun.' He paused, then went on, 'But before I do so, I have a score to settle with Brannigan. I have waited many years for this opportunity, and this will be my last operation before I retire.'

  I continued to listen intently, studying this man, watching his movements, listening to the snarl in his voice.

  'Well now, Mr. Lucas, this is where you come in,' Klaus continued. 'Through the press and other media, Brannigan now boasts he owns the safest bank in the world. That is the boast of a self-righteous man, and a challenge I intend to take up. I intend to break into his safest bank in the world, and strip out his vault which has cash and jewellery his clients have entrusted to him: hidden cash to avoid tax and uninsured jewellery. Although Brannigan is a self-righteous man, he is also vain. The one thing that can hit him, as nothing else can, is to be made a world laughing-stock. By cleaning out his safest bank in the world, he will be reduced to midget size." Again the slate-grey eyes blazed. Klaus leaned forward and stared at me, his mouth twitching. He pointed a small brown finger at me. You made the bank safe, Mr. Lucas, and now, you are going to make it unsafe!'