September 3, 2010

Charles Williams 1954-A Touch of Death(9)

darkness.
The beam of a flashlight hit the ground a few feet
to my left. He walked forward. He was nearly on top
of me now. The beam flipped upward toward the car,
and then swung back. It hit me right in the face. I
stared into it, blinded.
“What are you doing here?” a voice growled. “You
hurt? Or drunk?” Then I heard the sharp intake of
breath. “Hey!”
I came off the ground, right into the light. He
hadn’t had time to pull the gun. I caught part of his
uniform, pulling him down to me and clubbing for
his face with my fist. We were in the sand together.
He kicked backward. I followed, swarming over him,
wild now, my breath sobbing in my throat. I located
his face at last, and swung. He jerked. I held him by
the collar and swung again.
I snatched up the light, my hands shaking and
dropped it. I clawed it up out of the sand again and
flashed it in his face. He was out cold. I ran to the
patrol car, jerked the keys out, and threw them far
away in the darkness. I heaved the flashlight after
them, lunged toward my own car, and fled.
I’d got away from him, but I was just buying time.
And there wasn’t much more to buy. They would
know now that I was here in town.

Charles Williams 1954-A Touch of Death(8)

“I just wondered if you’d heard the news,” I said.
Nothing showed in her face. You couldn’t read it.
She shook her head. “What was it?”
“That deputy sheriff finally came around.” I struck
a match with my thumbnail and lit the cigarette in
my mouth. “And they found Diana James.”
“Oh? Well, naturally they would, sooner or later.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And it was funny. At first they
thought it was you
“They did?” she asked curiously. “But we didn’t
look anything alike. She—” She stopped and did
another take on it. “I see what you mean. The fire.”
I had to admire it. If she was acting, she was
magnificent.

Charles Williams 1954-A Touch of Death(7)

Then I remembered that the news in them
wouldn’t be as late as what she’d heard on the radio
at ten.
She sat down in the big chair and lit a cigarette.
She leaned back and said, “Pacing the floor isn’t
going to help— Incidentally, how soundproof are
these walls and floors?”
I tried to make myself sit still. “They’re all right,” I
said. “I’ve never heard any of the other tenants. Just
be sure you wear those slippers, and don’t play the
radio too loud.”
“Is there anyone who comes in and cleans up? Or
has to read the meters, or anything?”

Charles Williams 1954-A Touch of Death(7)

Then I remembered that the news in them
wouldn’t be as late as what she’d heard on the radio
at ten.
She sat down in the big chair and lit a cigarette.
She leaned back and said, “Pacing the floor isn’t
going to help— Incidentally, how soundproof are
these walls and floors?”
I tried to make myself sit still. “They’re all right,” I
said. “I’ve never heard any of the other tenants. Just
be sure you wear those slippers, and don’t play the
radio too loud.”
“Is there anyone who comes in and cleans up? Or
has to read the meters, or anything?”
“No,” I said. “I had a woman who cleaned up the
place once a week, but she quit a month or so ago.
And all the gas and electric meters are down in the
basement. There’s no occasion for anyone to come in
here unless we have something delivered, in which
case I’ll be here to take it. Never answer the door, of
course, or the telephone. Nobody’ll ever know you’re
here.”
She smiled faintly. “I really have to give you credit.
I believe it will work. How long do you think it will
be before I can go out?”
A Touch of Death — 135
“It depends on whether that guy dies or not,” I
said. “Of course, they’re never going to quit looking
for you, but normally some of the heat would die
down after a while and every cop in the state
wouldn’t have your picture in front of his eyes all the
time. However, that deputy sheriff is going to make
it rough. If he dies, they’re looking for two people
who killed a cop.”
“If he dies,” she said coolly, “you killed him. I
didn’t.”
“That hasn’t got anything to do with it. Nobody
knew I was there. They have no description of me.
Actually, they don’t even know I exist. So they have
to get you, to get me. They have descriptions of you,
and pictures. You’re real. You exist. They know who
they’re looking for. Which brings us right up against
the problem. We might as well get started on it.
Stand up.”
She looked at me questioningly.
“Stand up,” I repeated irritably. “Turn around,
very slowly. Lets get an idea of the job.”
She shrugged, but did as I said.
“All right.” I lit a cigarette. It wasn’t going to be
easy. It was all right to talk about, but just where did
you start? A man could grow a mustache, or shave it
off, or break his nose. . .
What did you do to camouflage a dish like this?
“A little over average height,” I said, more to
myself than to her. “But that part’s all right. There
are lots of tall women. But damn few of them as
beautiful.”
She smiled sardonically. “Thank you.”
“I’m not complimenting you,” I said, “so don’t
rupture yourself. This is no game. You’re not going
to be easy to hide, and if we don’t do a good job,
we’re dead.”
“Well, you took the job.”
“Keep your shirt on. Let’s break it down. There are
things we can change, and things we can’t. We can
change the color of your hair and the way you do it,
A Touch of Death — 136
but that alone isn’t enough. We can’t do anything
about those eyes. Or the bone structure and general
shape of your face.
“You can wear glasses, but that’s pretty obvious.
And you can splash on more make-up and widen
your mouth with lipstick, but that still isn’t going to
do the job.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about it. She
started to say something, but I broke in on her.
“Just a minute and then we’ll get your ideas. Here
are mine. We can’t make you plain and drab enough
to blend into the scenery because you’re too much
whistle bait to start with and there are too many
things we can’t change, so we have to make you a
different kind of dish.
“Here’s the angle. All the people who are looking
for you are men. And since we can’t keep ‘em from
noticing you, we’ll make ‘em notice the wrong
things. We’ll start by bleaching your hair up three or
four shades. I think we can make it as far as red, or
reddish brown. We cut it. You put it up close to your
head in tight curls. We may butch it up somewhat,
but after we get the groundwork done it’ll be safe
enough for you to go to a beauty shop and have it
patched. You splash on the make-up. Pluck your
eyebrows. Over-paint your mouth. So far, so good.
Now. Do you wear a girdle?”
She stared coldly. “Really.”
“I asked you a question. Do you wear a girdle?”
“When I’m going out, and dressed.”
“All right. And how about falsies? How much of all
that is yours?”
“Of all the utterly revolting—”
“Shut up,” I said. “Maybe there just isn’t any way I
can get it through your thick head that this is
serious. Can’t you see what I’m trying to do? You’re
going to come out a dish, no matter how we slice
you, so what we’ve got to do is make you an entirely
different kind of dish. A cheap one. Flashy. If you’re
not already wearing padding up there, you’re going
A Touch of Death — 137
to, and plenty of it. Change your way of walking. Get
dresses tight across the hips, leave off the girdle,
and let it roll. Cops are men. Who’s going to keep his
mind on the job and look for the patrician Mrs.
Butler with all that going on?”
She shook her head. “You have the most amazing
genius for vulgarity I have ever encountered.”
“Oh, knock it off,” I said. “If you don’t like the
idea, let’s see you come up with a better one.”
“You misunderstand me. I wasn’t criticizing the
idea. It’s very good. In fact, it’s remarkably
ingenious. I was merely objecting to your crude way
of expressing yourself, and marveling that someone
without even the faintest glimmerings of taste or
discrimination could have figured it out.”
“Save it, save it.” I waved her off. “You can make a
speech some other time. Now, if we’ve agreed on the
idea, let’s work out the details. We’ve got to do
something about your complexion. Do you tan all
right?”
‘Yes. Except that I avoid it.”
“Not any more. Now, let’s see. I could get a sun
lamp, except that anybody asking for one at a store
here on the Gulf Coast in summer might be locked
up for a maniac, so we’ll get along without it. This
living-room window faces west, and in the afternoon
the sun comes in if we raise the Venetian blind.
There’s no building across the avenue high enough
for anybody to see you if you’re lying on the floor.
Item one, suntan oil.”
I got up and found some paper and a pencil and
wrote it down.
“Now, what else?”
“Do you have any scissors?”
“No,” I said. I wrote that down, and went on:
“Home-permanent outfit. Sunglasses. Now, what do
I get to bleach your hair with?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said.
“You’re a big help,” I said. “But never mind. I’ll get
it. Now, can you think of anything else?”
A Touch of Death — 138
“Only cigarettes. And a bottle of bourbon.”
“You won’t get tanked up?”
“I never get tanked up, as you put it.”
“All right.” I stood up. As I started toward the door
I stopped and turned. “What banks are those safedeposit
boxes in?”
She answered without hesitation. “The Merchants
Trust Company, the Third National, and the
Seaboard Bank and Trust Company.”
“What name did you use?”
“Names,” she said easily. “Each box is under a
different one.”
“What are they?”
She leaned back in the chair and smiled. “A little
late to be checking up now, aren’t you? I doubt if
they’d answer your questions, anyway.”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking of calling them. I’m
still going under the assumption you had better
sense than to try to lie about it, under the
circumstances.”
“I wasn’t lying. The money’s in those three banks.”
“And the names?”
“Mrs. James R. Hatch, Mrs. Lucille Manning, and
Mrs. Henry L. Carstairs.” She named the names off
easily, but stopped abruptly at the end and sat there
staring at her cigarette, frowning a little. “What is
it?” I asked.
She glanced up at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought you started to say something else.”
“No,” she said, still frowning as if she were trying
to think of something. “That was all. Those are the
names.”
“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll be back in a little while.” As I
went down in the elevator I tried to figure out what
was bothering me. The whole thing was easy now,
wasn’t it? Even if that deputy sheriff died, they
couldn’t catch us. She was the only lead they had,
and she was too well hidden. The money was there,
waiting for me. Then what was it?
A Touch of Death — 139
It wasn’t anything you could put a finger on. It was
just a feeling she was a little unconcerned about
giving up all that money. She didn’t seem to mind.
A Touch of Death — 140
Fifteen
I took a bus across town and got my car out of the
storage garage. Both the afternoon papers were out
now, but there was nothing new. The deputy sheriff
was still unconscious, his condition unchanged. They
were tearing the state apart for Madelon Butler.
I found a place to park near a drugstore. Buying a
couple of women’s magazines, I took them back to
the car and began flipping hurriedly through the
ads. I didn’t find what I wanted. These were the
wrong ones, full of cooking recipes and articles on
how to refurnish your living room for $64.50. I went
back and picked up some more, the glamour type.
There were dozens of ads for different lands of
hair concoctions, but most of them were pretty coy.
“You can regain your golden loveliness,” they
promised, but they didn’t say how the hell you got
there in the first place.
I threw the magazines in the back seat and found
another drugstore. It would be dangerous to keep
haunting the same one all the time. I went to the
cosmetic counter.
“Could I help you?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I want one of those home-permanent
outfits. And there was something else my wife told
A Touch of Death — 141
me to get but I can’t remember the name of it, some
kind of goo she uses to lighten the color of her hair.”
“A rinse?”
“I don’t know what you call it. Anyway, her hair’,
dark brown to begin with, and with this stuff she
gets a little past midfield into blonde territory a sort
of coppery color.”
She named three or four.
“That’s it,” I said on the third one. “I remember
now it was Something-Tint. Give me a slip on it,
though, just in case I’m wrong and have to bring it
back.”
I took it back to the car, along with the permanentwave
outfit, and read the instructions. We had to
have some cotton pads to put it on with and
shampoo to get rid of it after it had been on long
enough. I hunted up still another drugstore for
these, and while I was there I bought the sunglasses,
suntan lotion, and scissors.
That was everything except the whisky and
cigarettes. When I stopped for these I saw a
delicatessen next to the liquor store and picked up a
roast chicken and a bottle of milk, and bought a
shopping bag that would hold all of it.
It was one-thirty when I got back to the apartment.
The Venetian blind was raised and she was lying on
the rug with her face and arms in the sun. She had
taken off the robe and rolled the sleeves of Her
pajamas up to her shoulders. Maybe she had decided
to take some interest in the proceedings at last.
“Here.” I dug around in the shopping bag and
found the suntan lotion. “Smear some of this on.”
She sat up and made a face. “I hate being tanned.”
“Cheer up,” I said. “It’s better than prison pallor.”
“Yes. Isn’t it.” She opened the bottle and rubbed
some on her face and arms. “Did you get the
whisky?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Go ahead with your tan. I’ll bring a
drink.”
A Touch of Death — 142
“Thank you.” She lay down again and closed her
eyes. The rug was gray, and the long hair was very
dark against it.
I unpacked the shopping bag and opened one of
the bottles, hiding the other in the back of the broom
closet. Since she seemed to be able to handle it
without getting noisy, I poured her a heavy one, half
a water tumbler with only a little water in it. After
all, she was buying it.
I went back into the living room. “How long have
you been in the sun now?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“You’d better knock off, then. If you blister and
peel, you’ll just have to start over.”
“Yes.” She sat up. I handed her the glass and
lowered the Venetian blind.
She took a sip of the drink, still sitting on the floor,
and looked at me and smiled. “Hmmm,” she said.
“You’re an excellent bartender. Where’s yours?”
“I didn’t want any,” I said.
“Don’t you drink at all?”
“Very little.”
She held up the glass. “Well, here’s to the
admirable Mr. Scarborough. His strength is as the
strength of ten, because his heart is pure.”
“You seem to feel better.”
“I do,” she said. “Lots better.” She slid over a little
so she could lean back against the chair. “I’ve been
thinking about your brilliant idea ever since you left
and the more I think about it, the better I like it. It
can’t fail. How can they catch Madelon Butler if she
has changed completely into someone else?”
“Remember, it’s not easy.”
“I know. But we can do it. When do we begin?”
“Right now,” I said. “Unless you want to finish
your drink first.”
“I can work on it while you’re hacking up my hair.”
She laughed. “It’ll give me courage.”
A Touch of Death — 143
“You’ll probably need it,” I said.
I spread a bunch of newspapers on the floor and
set one of the dining-room chairs in the middle of
them. “Sit here,” I said. She sat down, looking quite
pleased and happy.
The radio was turned on, playing music. “Was
there any news while I was gone?” I asked.
She glanced up at me. “Oh, yes. Wasn’t it in the
papers?”
“What?” I demanded. “For God’s sake, what?”
“That deputy sheriff’s condition is improving, and
they say he’ll probably recover.”
I sat down weakly and lit a cigarette, the
haircutting forgotten. I hadn’t realized how bad the
pressure had really been until now that it was gone.
I hadn’t killed any cop. The heat was off me. Even if
they caught us, they could only get me for rapping
him on the head. Of course, there was still the
matter of Diana James, but that was different,
somehow. I hadn’t actually done that. She had. And
Diana James wasn’t a cop.
“Has he recovered consciousness yet?” I asked.
“No, but they expect him to any time.”
“There’s one thing, though,” I said. “He
recognized you, remember?”
“Yes,” she said carelessly. “I know.”
“That part won’t help,” I said, wondering why she
was so unconcerned about it.
“Oh, well, they seem to be certain enough that I
was there anyway,” she said. “His identification
won’t change anything.”
I should have begun to catch on then, but I
fumbled it. The roof had to fall in on me before I
realized why the news about that deputy sheriff
made her so happy.
“Well, Pygmalion,” she said, “shall we commence?
I’m quite eager to begin life as Susie Mumble.”
A Touch of Death — 144
I was digging through the pile of women’s
magazines. “There’s more to it than a haircut,” I
said. “You have to learn to talk like Susie.”
“I know. Just don’t rush me, honey.”
I jerked my face around and stared at her. She was
smiling.
“You catch on fast,” I said.
“Thanks, honey. I’m tryin’ all the time.” She had
even dropped her voice down a little, into a kind of
throaty contralto purr. I was conscious of thinking
that her husband and Diana James and even the
police force had been outnumbered from the first in
trying to outguess her.
I found the magazine I was looking for, the one
that had several pages of pictures of hair styles.
Some of them were short-cropped and careless, and
they looked easy. I had a hunch, though, that they
weren’t that easy.
She was sitting upright in the chair, waiting. I
folded the magazine open at one of the pictures and
put it on the coffee table where I could see it and
use it for a guide. I looked from it to Madelon Butler.
The long dark hair just brushed her shoulders.
She glanced down at the picture and then at me
with amusement. “You won’t find it that simple,” she
said. “Carelessness is very carefully planned and
executed.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. I took the scissors out of the
bag and went into the bathroom for a towel and
comb. I put the towel around her shoulders, under
the cascade of hair. “Hold it there,” I said.
She caught it in front, at her throat. “You’ll make
an awful mess of it,” she said. “But remember, it
doesn’t matter. The principal thing is to get started,
to get it cut, bleached, and waved. Then as soon as
my face is tanned I can go to a beauty shop and have
it repaired. I’ll just say I’ve been in Central America,
and cry a little on their shoulders about the
atrocious beauty shops down there.”
A Touch of Death — 145
“That’s the idea,” I said. I pulled the comb through
her hair, sighted at it, and started snipping. I cut
around one side and then stood off and looked at it.
It was awful.
It looked as if she’d got caught in a machine.
“Let me see,” she said. She got up and went into
the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I went with
her. She didn’t explode, though. She merely sighed
and shook her head.
“If you were thinking of hair dressing as a career
—”
“So it doesn’t look so hot. I’m not finished yet.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you what you’re doing
wrong. Don’t cut straight across as if you were
sawing a plank in two. Hold the comb at an angle
and taper it. And let each bunch of hair slide a little
between the blades of the scissors so it won’t be
chopped off square.”
We went back and I tried again. I’d left it plenty
long intentionally so the first two or three runs at it
would just be practice. I cut the other side and
evened it up.
This time I got away from that square, chopped-off
effect, but it was ragged. It was full of notches up
the side of her head. She looked at it again.
“That’s better,” she said. “And now when you’re
trying to smooth out those chopped places, the way
to do it is to keep the comb and scissors both moving
while you cut. Let the hair run through the comb.
That way they’re not all the same length.”
I tried it again. I got the hang of it a little better
and managed to erase some of the notches. Then I
combed it again and went around the bottom once
more, straightening out the jagged ends. We went
into the bathroom and took another look at it in the
mirror. I stood behind her. Our eyes met.
“It’s pretty bad,” I said. “But there’s one thing.”
“What’s that?”
A Touch of Death — 146
“You sure as hell don’t look like the pictures of
Mrs. Butler.”
“Remember, darling?” she said in that throaty
voice. “I’m not Mrs. Butler.”
“It’s a start,” I said. I went out and got the bottle
of bleach. I handed it to her. “Mix yourself a
redhead.”
While she was working on it I cleaned up the rug. I
rolled the cut-off hair in the newspapers and threw
the whole works down the garbage chute.
We were erasing Madelon Butler.
No, I thought; she was erasing Madelon Butler. I
had suggested it and started the job, but she was the
one who knew how to do it. I could see her already
getting the feel of it. She was brilliant; and she was
an actress all the way in and out. When she finished
the job they’d never find her. The person they were
looking for would have ceased to exist. The coolly
beautiful aristocrat would be a sexy cupcake talking
slang.
It was two-thirty. I tuned the radio across all the
stations and found a news program. There was no
mention of her or of the deputy sheriff. I wondered if
she had been lying. Well, it would be in the late
editions.
She came out of the bathroom. She had finished
shampooing her hair and was rubbing it with a
towel. It was wild and tousled, and she looked like a
chrysanthemum. I couldn’t see any change in the
color.
“It looks as dark as ever,” I said.
“That’s because it’s still wet. As soon as it’s dry we
can tell.”
She raised the Venetian blind again and sat down
on the rug before the window, still rubbing her head
with the towel. In a few minutes she threw the towel
to one side and just ran her fingers through her hair,
riffling it in the sunlight.
“I could use another drink,” she murmured,
glancing around sidewise at me.
A Touch of Death — 147
“You live on the stuff, don’t you?”
“Well,” she said, “it’s one way.”
I went out to the kitchen and poured her another.
When I handed it to her she gave me that upthrough-
the-eyelashes glance and said, “Thank you,
honey.”
She looked like a chrysanthemum, all right, but a
damn beautiful one. And the pajamas didn’t do her
any harm.
“Practicing Susie again?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “How’m I doin’?”
“Not bad, considering you’re riding on a pass.”
She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “What do you
mean?”
I squatted down in front of her and ran my fingers
up into the tousled hair at the back of her neck.
“You’re trying to get in free. From what I hear of
Susie, she talked like the rustle of new-mown hay
because she’d been there and she liked it. But I’d be
glad to help you out.”
The eyes turned cold. “Aren’t you expecting a little
too much?”
“How’s that?”
“Not even Susie could match your abysmal
vulgarity.”
“Well, don’t get in an uproar. I just asked.”
“So you did, in your inimitable fashion. And now if
you feel you have received an answer that is
intelligible even to you, perhaps you’ll take your
hand off me.”
“This is Susie talking?” I didn’t take the hand
away. I moved it. It wasn’t padding.
“No,” she said. She put the drink down on the rug.
“This is Susie.”
She hit me across the face.
I caught both her wrists and held them in my left
hand. “Don’t make a habit of that,” I said. “It could
get you into trouble.”
A Touch of Death — 148
The eyes were completely unafraid. They seemed
to be merely thoughtful. “I doubt that I’ll ever
understand you,” she said. “At times you seem to
have what passes for intelligence, and yet you
deliberately go out of your way to wallow in that
revolting crudity.”
“Let’s don’t make a Supreme Court case out of it,”
I said, turning her arms loose. “It’s not that
important. If you don’t want to put out a little
smooching on the side, I’ll still live. That you can get
anywhere. The geetus is the main issue, remember?”
“You are a sentimental soul, aren’t you?”
I stood up. “Baby, where I grew up you could buy a
lot more with a hundred and twenty thousand
dollars than you could with sentiment.”
She said nothing. I started toward the door. As I
picked up the car keys off the table, I said, “And,
besides, look who’s talking.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You’re the one who’s killed two people. Not me.”
She stared at me. “Yes,” she said. “But even hate
is an emotion.”
“I guess so,” I said. “But there’s not much money
in it.”
I went out and got in the car and drove downtown.
I didn’t have anything in mind except that I didn’t
want to get rock-happy sitting around the apartment
listening to her yakking. Why didn’t she get wise to
herself? We were going to be there for a month
together; it wouldn’t cost anything extra to relax and
have a little fun out of it on the side.
But maybe it was just as well, when you thought
about it. No woman could ever do anything as simple
as going to bed without trying to louse it up with a
lot of complicated ground rules and romantic double
talk and then wanting a mortgage on your soul. As
long as we were mixed up in a business deal and tied
to each other for a whole month, we’d probably be
better off to go on barking at each other.
A Touch of Death — 149
I bought an afternoon paper and went into a
restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee. “DEPUTY
IMPROVED,” the headline said. Doctors expected
him to recover.
He still hadn’t regained consciousness.
The rest of the story was the usual rehash, another
description of Madelon Butler and the car, and more
speculation as to what had become of the money
Butler stole. They didn’t believe she could have got
out of the area with all the roads covered; she must
be holed up somewhere inside the ring. They would
get her. She was too eye-arresting to escape
detection anywhere. And there was the Cadillac. I
thought of the Cadillac, and grinned coldly as I
sipped the coffee.
There was still no mention of Diana James, but
that was understandable. Her body was in the
basement, and the whole house had burned down on
top of her. It had been only last night. They wouldn’t
be poking around in the ruins yet. I didn’t like to
think about it.
I went out. The streets were hot and the air was
heavy and breathless, as if a storm were coming up.
I could hear the rumble of thunder now and then
above the sound of traffic. I didn’t have any idea
where I was going until I found myself standing on
the corner outside the marble-columned entrance. It
was the Seaboard Bank and Trust Company.
There was a terrible fascination about it. I stood
on the corner while the traffic light changed and a
river of people flowed past and around me. It was
inside there; it was safe, just waiting to be picked
up. In my mind I could see the massive and circular
underground door of the vault and the narrow
passageways between rows of shiny metal
honeycomb made up of thousands of boxes stacked
and numbered from floor to ceiling. One of them was
bulging with fat bundles of banknotes fastened
around the middle with paper bands. And the key to
the box was in my pocket.
A Touch of Death — 150
Two blocks up, on the other side of the street, was
the Third National. I could see it from here. Left at
the next corner and three blocks south was the
Merchants Trust Company. It wouldn’t take twenty
minutes to cover the three of them. All she had to do
was go down the stairs to the vault, sign the card,
give her key to the attendant.
People were jostling me. Everybody was hurrying.
Two teenage girls tried to shove past me. They
looked at each other. One gave me a dirty look and
said, “Maybe it’s something they started to build
here.” They went on. I awoke then. It was raining.
I ran across the street and stood under an awning.
Water splashed down in sheets. There was no
chance of getting back to the car without being
soaked. I looked around. The awning I was under
was the front of a movie. I bought a ticket and went
in without even looking to see what the picture was.
When I came out I still didn’t know, but the rain
had stopped and it was dusk. Lights glistened on
shiny black pavement and tires hissed in the street.
Newsboys were calling the late editions. I bought
one and opened it.
The headline exploded in my face:
“YOUTH CONFESSES IN BUTLER SLAYING.”
It was four blocks back to the car, four blocks of
feeling naked and trying not to run.
A Touch of Death — 151
Sixteen
Youth confesses.
What about Madelon Butler?
But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t the big news. If
they had caught that blonde and her brother, they
had a description of me.
I took the steps three at a time and let myself into
the apartment. A light was on in the living room, but
I didn’t see her anywhere. Then I heard her
splashing in the bathroom. I dropped on the sofa and
spread the paper open.
I put a cigarette in my mouth but forgot to light it.
Mount Temple. Aug. 6—A startling break
in the investigation of the death of J. N.
Butler came shortly after 2 P.M. today
with the police announcement that Jack D.
Finley, 22, of Mount Temple, had broken
under questioning and admitted
implication in the two-month-old slaying
of the missing bank official, whose body
was discovered Tuesday afternoon.
Finley, ashen-faced and sobbing, named
Mrs. Madelon Butler, the victim’s
attractive widow, as the mastermind
behind the sordid crime.
A Touch of Death — 152
I stopped and lit the cigarette. It was about the
way I’d had it figured. Finley was the fall guy. I went
on, reading fast.
Finley, who was taken into custody early
this morning on a country road some 50
miles southeast of here by officers
investigating a tip that a car answering
the description of Mrs. Butler’s had been
seen in the vicinity, at first maintained his
innocence, despite his inability to explain
what he and his sister, Charisse, 27, were
doing in the area. Both had tried to flee at
sight of the officers’ car.
Later, however, when confronted with the
fact that other members of the posse had
found Mrs. Butler’s Cadillac abandoned at
a fishing camp at the end of the road on
which they were walking, Finley broke
and admitted being an accessory to the
slaying.
Mrs. Butler and an unidentified male
companion had taken his car at gunpoint
and fled early the night before, he said.
Police have broadcast a complete
description of the stranger.
Well, there it was. I dropped the paper in my lap
and sat staring across the room. But it wasn’t
hopeless. They still didn’t have anything but a
description. The only person who knew who I was
was Diana James, and she was dead.
I started to pick up the paper again. Madelon
Butler came in. She was dressed in the skirt and
blouse she’d had on last night, and was wearing
nylons and bedroom slippers. She switched on the
radio and sat down.
Glancing at the paper in my lap, she asked, “Is
there anything interesting in the news?”
“You might call it interesting,” I said. “Take a
look.” I tossed it to her.
A Touch of Death — 153
She raised it and looked at the glaring headline.
“Oh?”
“Look,” I said, “they just captured your boyfriend.
Is that all you’ve got to say? Just oh?”
She shrugged. “Don’t you think I might be
pardoned for a slight lack of concern? After all, he
tried to kill me. And he wasn’t my boyfriend,
anyway.”
“He wasn’t? Then how in hell did he get mixed up
in it?”
“He was in love with Cynthia Cannon. Or Diana
James, as you call her.”
“In love with Diana James? But I don’t see—”
She smiled. “It does seem incredible, doesn’t, it?
But I suppose there’s no accounting for tastes.”
“Cut it out!” I said. I felt as if my head were about
to fly off. “Will you answer my question? Or hand me
back that paper? I’d like to know at least as much
about this as several million other people do by
now.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you.” The radio came
on then, blaring jazz. She shuddered and reached for
the knob. “Excuse me.”
She turned the dial and some long-hair music
came on. She adjusted the volume, kicked off her
mules, and curled her legs up under her in the chair.
Lighting a cigarette, she leaned back contentedly.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Don’t you love Debussy at this
time of day?”
“No,” I said. “Which one of you killed Butler?”
Her eyes had a faraway look in them as she
listened to the music. “I did,” she said.
She was utterly calm. There was no remorse in it,
or anger, or anything else. Butler was dead. She had
killed him. Like that.
“Why?” I asked. “For the money?”
“No. Because I hated him. And I hated Cynthia
Cannon. You don’t mind if I refer to her by her right
name, do you?”
A Touch of Death — 154
I was just getting more mixed up all the time.
“Then you mean the money didn’t have anything to
do with it? But still you’ve got it?”
She smiled a little coldly. “You still attach too
much importance to money. I didn’t say it didn’t
have anything to do with it. It had some significance.
I killed both of them because I hated them, and the
money was one of the reasons I did hate them. You
see, actually, he wasn’t stealing it from the bank. He
was stealing it from me.”
I stared. “From you!”
“That’s right. Both of them were quite clever. He
was going to use my money to support himself and
his trollop. I was to subsidize them. Ingenious,
wasn’t it?”
I shook my head. “You’ve lost me. I don’t even
know what you’re talking about. You say this Finley
kid was in love with Diana James, and that Butler
was stealing the money from you. Are you crazy, or
am I? The papers said he stole it from the bank.”
She took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaled the
smoke, and looked at the glowing tip. “The
newspaper stories were quite correct. But I’ll try to
explain. The bank referred to was founded by my
great-grandfather.”
“Oh,” I said. “I get it now. You owned it.”
She smiled. “No. I said it was founded by my
great-grandfather. But there were several
intervening generations more talented in spending
money than in making it. The bank has long since
passed into other hands, but at the time my father
died he still owned a little over a hundred thousand
dollars’ worth of its stock. As the sole surviving
member of the family, I inherited it.
“Now do you understand? My husband owned
nothing of his own, except charm. He was vice
president of the bank by virtue of the block of bank
stock we owned jointly under the state community
property laws. But when he decided to leave me for
Cynthia Cannon, he wanted to take the money with
A Touch of Death — 155
him. There was no way he could, legally, of course;
but there was another way.
“He merely stole it from the bank. And the bank,
after all efforts to capture him and recover the
money had failed, would only have to take over the
stock to recover the loss. The search would stop. He
would be forgotten. No one would lose anything
except me.’ She stopped. Then she smiled coldly and
went on: “And I didn’t matter, of course.”
I had forgotten the cigarette between my fingers.
It was burning my hand. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Aren’t we all?”
“But,” I said, “if you knew beforehand that he was
going to do it—and apparently you did, some way—
couldn’t you have just called the police that
afternoon and had them come out and get the money
back and arrest him?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I resent being taken for
a fool—And my patience has a limit. Cynthia Cannon
wasn’t the first. She merely happened, with my
assistance, to be the last. Before her it was Charisse
Finley, who worked in the bank, and before that it
was someone else.
“I had borne his other infidelities, but when he
calmly decided that I was going to support him and
his paramour for the rest of their lives, I just as
calmly decided he was going to die. After all, when
you have nothing further to lose, you no longer have
anything to fear.”
“But,” I said, “I still don’t understand what that
Finley kid had to do with it.”
“That was a little more complex,” she said. “He
came very near to being a tragic figure, but wound
up by being only a fool. He probably regards himself
as having been betrayed by two women, both older
than he, but the thing that really betrayed him was
that money.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I said.
A Touch of Death — 156
She smiled. “Forgive me,” she said. “I keep
forgetting I’m talking to a man to whom there is
never any motive except money.
“Cynthia Cannon,” she went on, “perhaps told you
that she was a nurse and that she was in Mount
Temple for some seven or eight months taking care
of an invalid. The woman she was caring for was the
mother of Jack and Charisse Finley.
“That was when Jack Finley began to get this
fantastic obsession for her. I don’t know whether she
encouraged him at first, but at any rate she was
nearly ten years older than he was and hardly the
type to remain interested very long in being
worshiped with such an intense and adolescent
passion. I can imagine he was rather sickening, at
least to a veteran with Cynthia Cannon’s flair for
casual bitchiness.
“Anyway, she apparently dropped him rather
thoroughly as soon as she began having an affair
with my husband. He was older, you see, and less
like a moonstruck calf, and she thought he had more
money.
“I didn’t know any of this until nearly a month
after dear Cynthia had left her job in Mount Temple
and come back here to Sanport. Then, one Saturday
night when my husband was presumably on another
fishing trip, Jack Finley came to see me. He was
nearly out of his mind. I really don’t know what his
idea was in telling me, unless it was some absurd
notion that possibly I would speak to my husband
about it and ask him to leave Cynthia alone. He was
actually that wild.
“I began to see very shortly, however, that he was
in a really dangerous condition. He had been
following my husband down here on weekends, and
spying on them, and once had come very close to
murdering them both in a hotel room. He had gone
up there with a gun, but just before he knocked on
the door some returning glimmer of sanity made him
turn away and run out.
A Touch of Death — 157
“I felt sorry for him and tried to show him the
stupidity of ruining his life over a casual trollop like
Cynthia Cannon, but there is nothing more futile
than trying to reason with someone caught up in an
obsession like that. He was going to kill my
husband.”
“I’m beginning to get it,” I said. “You had a sucker
just made to order. All you had to do was needle him
a little.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, a little coldly.
“I have just told you I tried to talk him out of his
idiocy. It was only when the picture changed and I
began to see that it was he and his charming sister
that were trying to needle me, as you put it—”
“You’re losing me again,” I said. “Back up.”
She lit another cigarette, chain fashion, and
crushed the stub of the first out in the tray. The
music went on. The whole thing was crazy. She was
perfectly relaxed and at ease and wrapped up in the
spell of the music, and the thing she was telling me
about was murder.
“All right,” she said. “I told you it was somewhat
complex. At first it was just a rather stupid young
man in the grip of an insane jealousy. It changed
later, but he was the one that changed it—he and his
sister.
“It was something he let fall that started me
thinking. In the course of his spying on them he had
discovered that Cynthia Cannon had changed her
name. He apparently wondered about it, but didn’t
attach much importance to it in the overwrought
state he was in.
“I did, however, and I arranged a little
investigation of my own. She’d changed her name,
all right, but I learned several other things that were
even more significant. My husband never went near
her place when he was meeting her here in Sanport.
And on several occasions he bought a considerable
amount of clothing for himself, which she took back
to her apartment.
A Touch of Death — 158
“Then I happened to learn that he had let all his
life-insurance policies lapse and had borrowed all he
could on them. I had a rather good idea by that time
as to what they were planning.
“I began, also, to notice a change in Jack Finley.
There was something just a little hollow creeping
into those tragic protestations that my husband had
ruined his life, and mine, and was ruining Cynthia’s.
He gave me an odd impression of a man who was
torn by an insane jealousy, but a jealousy that was
under perfect control and was waiting for
something.
“Two months of this went by, and I began to
suspect what it was. He had told his sister, Charisse.
She was slightly more intelligent, and she had
guessed why Cynthia Cannon had changed her
name. And she hated my husband. I think I have
already told you that she had been another of his
sordid affairs.
“She also worked in the bank. This was
important.”
She broke off and glanced across at me. “You see
it now, don’t you?”
“I think so,” I said. “Yes. I think I do.”
She nodded and went on. “I let myself be
persuaded. Our lives were ruined. What more did we
have to live for, except revenge? Jack continued to
rave about not being able to stand it any longer each
time my husband disappeared for the weekend on
some pretext or other, but he went on waiting.
“Well, that Saturday noon my husband came home
from the bank a few minutes late, and said he was
going on another fishing trip. He packed his
camping equipment and went upstairs to shower and
change clothes. I slipped out, as usual, and searched
the car.
“This was the day. I found it.
“It was in a briefcase, rolled up in his bedding.
During all those months, while I had been
suspecting it and watching, I had often wondered if I
A Touch of Death — 159
would actually go through with it if I ever found the
proof and knew, but the moment I opened that
briefcase and saw the money there was no longer
any doubt or hesitation.
“There wasn’t much time. I slipped it out of the car
and hid it in the basement, knowing about how long
it would take Jack to get there after Charisse had
phoned him my husband had been the last to leave
the bank and that he was carrying a briefcase.
“He arrived approximately on schedule, coming in
the back way on foot. He was quite convincing. His
face was white, and his eyes stared like a madman’s.
He demanded to know if my husband had said he
was going fishing again. I told him yes, and perhaps
I was just a bit hammy myself. He said we couldn’t
go on. We couldn’t stand it any longer.
“He was still inciting me with this theatrical
harangue when I heard my husband coming down
the stairs. I took Jack’s gun from his pocket and shot
him as he came through the door.”
She stopped. For a moment she sat staring over
my head. Her face showed no emotion whatever.
“All right,” I said. “So then of course he took
charge of getting rid of the body and the car?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was remarkably efficient
and calm. It was almost as if he had planned all the
details beforehand. And it really wasn’t difficult. The
cook wasn’t there, as I had been giving her
Saturdays off. We merely had to wait until it was
dark.”
“And what did they do when they found out it
wasn’t in the car?”
“They both came, Sunday night. And of course I
didn’t even know what they were talking about.
There was no announcement by the bank until
Monday morning, you will remember. And certainly
they had never said anything about money before. I
was sure Mr. Butler hadn’t had any such sum with
him.
A Touch of Death — 160
“They threatened me with everything. But what
could they do? If they actually killed me they’d never
find it. And obviously they couldn’t threaten me with
the police because they were equally guilty. It was
somewhat in the nature of an impasse.
“It was buried in a flower bed until the police grew
tired of searching the house and watching me. Then
I brought it down here and put it in those three safedeposit
boxes.”
“And so Finley was actually the one that
abandoned the car in front of Diana James’s
apartment. She swore it was you.”
She smiled faintly. “Cynthia, perhaps, wasn’t the
most intelligent of women, but even she should have
known I’d never be guilty of such an adolescent
gesture as that.”
I sat there for a minute thinking about it. It was
beautiful, any way you looked at it. She had
outguessed them all.
Except me, I thought.
I grinned. I was the only one that had won. They
had murdered and double-crossed each other for all
that time, and in the end the whole thing was three
safe-deposit keys worth forty thousand dollars
apiece, and I had all three of them in my pocket.
“Baby,” I said, “you’re a smart cookie. You were
almost smart enough to take the pot.”
I went downstairs and around the corner. The
morning papers were out now. I bought one.
I opened it.
“MRS. BUTLER DEAD,” the headline said
“COMPANION SOUGHT.”
A Touch of Death — 161
Seventeen
I stood there on the corner under a street light just
holding the paper in my hand while the pieces fell all
around me. It was too much. You could get only part
of it at a time.
Somebody was saying something.
“What?” I said. I folded the paper and put it under
my arm. There were a half-million other copies
covering the whole state like a heavy snowfall, but I
had to hide this one. Companion sought. I started
away. You didn’t run. You didn’t ever run. You
walked, slowly.
“Hey, here’s your change. Don’t you want your
change, mister?” It was the newsboy. Why did they
call a man who was seventy years old a newsboy?
“Oh,” I said. “Uh—thanks. Thanks.” I put it in my
pocket.
I couldn’t stand here under the light.
As fast as I got a piece of it sorted out, something
else would fall on me. I couldn’t stay here. I knew
that. The man already thought I was crazy or blind
drunk. He was watching me.
But I couldn’t go back to the apartment with this
paper. If she read it I was through.
A Touch of Death — 162
I could hear her laughing. I was hiding her from
the police for $120,000, but the police weren’t
looking for her. She was dead. They were looking for
me.
I had to do something. Throw it away? With the
man standing there watching me and already
thinking I was nuts? I looked wildly around for the
car. It was parked just ahead of me. I got in and
pulled out into the traffic, having no idea where I
was going.
I turned right at the corner and went out toward
the beach. In a minute I saw a parking place in front
of a drugstore and pulled into it. There was light
here. I could read the paper sitting in the car.
But even as I spread it open I knew I didn’t have to
read it. I could have written it. The whole thing
would fall into place like the pieces in a chess game
in which you had been outclassed before you’d even
started to play.
I read it anyway.
It was even worse.
I was right as far as I had guessed, but I hadn’t
guessed far enough. They had found the body of
Diana James, all right. And the deputy sheriff had
regained consciousness at last. “Sure it was Mrs.
Butler,” he said. “I threw the light right in her face.
Then this guy slugged me from behind.”
Of course they hadn’t looked much alike. But they
were of the same height and general build, and the
same age, and they were both brunettes. There
probably wasn’t even any dental work to go on, if
they called in her dentist. And who was going to?
Nobody was.
Why should they? The deputy sheriff had seen her
there, hadn’t he? And she had to be on her way into
the building instead of out, because he had been
watching it and nobody had gone in before. Then
there were the shots, after he was slugged. Diana
James had come through the back yard while he was
A Touch of Death — 163
unconscious. Nobody knew anything about her,
anyway. She’d been gone for six months.
But I had already guessed all that. It had hit me
right in the face the instant I saw the headline.
The thing I hadn’t guessed was worse. It was the
clincher. It was that cop at the filling station.
I read it.
“It was the same guy, all right,” Sgt. Kennedy said
flatly. “He fitted the description perfectly. And it was
Finley’s car. If we’d only known then.
“Sure he was alone, I looked in the car because it
had Vale County license tags. There was nobody
else.”
That was it: “. . .he was alone.”
I had done a beautiful job. I had done such a
wonderful job that if she got away and they picked
me up they could hang me.
And all she had to do was walk out the door. She
was free.
I could feel the greasy sweat on the palms of my
hands and the emptiness inside me as I forced
myself to read it all. They repeated my description.
It was good. That blonde hellcat had an eye for
detail. She hadn’t missed a thing. My eyes caught
the last paragraph.
“There was something about his face that seemed
familiar,” Charisse Finley said. “I keep thinking I’ve
seen him somewhere before. Or a picture of him.”
I took a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it with
shaking fingers. That added the finishing touch. Any
hour, day or night, it might come back to her. And
I’d never know until they knocked on the door.
That was one I wouldn’t read in the papers first.
I tried to get hold of myself. Maybe I could still
save it She might not remember. She hadn’t been
able to yet; and the longer she puzzled over it, the
less certain she’d be. It had been five years at least
since the sports pages had carried a picture of me. A
A Touch of Death — 164
thousand—ten thousand—football players had
marched across them since then.
I could wait it out. I had to. I couldn’t quit. I just
couldn’t. Hell, the money was almost in my hand.
The thought of losing it now made my insides twist
up into knots. It would take only a few more days.
They weren’t even looking for her now; all we had to
do was buy her some clothes and have that job on
her hair patched up a little. I could give her some
story, some excuse for hurrying it. But I had to keep
her from seeing a paper for the next two or three
days, until she was out of the news.
I sat straight upright. What about the radio?
It might come over the air any minute. Why hadn’t
I thought of that? But, God, you couldn’t remember
everything. I hit the starter and shot out of the
parking place. When I was around the corner I
dropped the paper out in the street. I swung fast at
another corner and was headed back to the
apartment house.
But maybe she had already heard it. It might even
have come over the radio this afternoon while I was
gone. How would I know? Did I think she would tell
me?
Well, yes, I thought she would tell me. I still had
those three keys and that bankroll in my pocket. She
wanted those before she left. And there was another
thing.
I was the only person left in the world that knew
she was still alive.
Maybe she had plans for me. One more wouldn’t
bother her.
I found a place to park not more than half a block
away. I didn’t run until I was on the stairs. She
wasn’t in the living room. The radio was turned off. I
closed the door behind me and breathed again with
relief. The silence was the most beautiful silence in
the world.
I looked quickly around, wondering where she
was. I had to do it now; it wouldn’t be safe to wait
A Touch of Death — 165
until she had gone to bed. But I had to be sure she
wouldn’t come in and catch me at it. Then I heard
her in the bathroom.
I walked over to the hallway door. It was open, and
the bathroom door was open, a few inches. I could
hear her humming softly to herself.
“You dressed?” I asked.
“Yes,” she called. “Why?” The bathroom door
opened wider and she stood looking out at me. She
had a towel pinned across her shoulders and was
fastening strands of her hair up in little rolls. I could
see the difference in shade now. It was definitely
lighter, a rich, coppery red.

Charles Williams 1954-A Touch of Death(7)

Then I remembered that the news in them
wouldn’t be as late as what she’d heard on the radio
at ten.
She sat down in the big chair and lit a cigarette.
She leaned back and said, “Pacing the floor isn’t
going to help— Incidentally, how soundproof are
these walls and floors?”
I tried to make myself sit still. “They’re all right,” I
said. “I’ve never heard any of the other tenants. Just
be sure you wear those slippers, and don’t play the
radio too loud.”
“Is there anyone who comes in and cleans up? Or
has to read the meters, or anything?”
“No,” I said. “I had a woman who cleaned up the
place once a week, but she quit a month or so ago.
And all the gas and electric meters are down in the
basement. There’s no occasion for anyone to come in
here unless we have something delivered, in which
case I’ll be here to take it. Never answer the door, of
course, or the telephone. Nobody’ll ever know you’re
here.”
She smiled faintly. “I really have to give you credit.
I believe it will work. How long do you think it will
be before I can go out?”
A Touch of Death — 135
“It depends on whether that guy dies or not,” I
said. “Of course, they’re never going to quit looking
for you, but normally some of the heat would die
down after a while and every cop in the state
wouldn’t have your picture in front of his eyes all the
time. However, that deputy sheriff is going to make
it rough. If he dies, they’re looking for two people
who killed a cop.”
“If he dies,” she said coolly, “you killed him. I
didn’t.”
“That hasn’t got anything to do with it. Nobody
knew I was there. They have no description of me.
Actually, they don’t even know I exist. So they have
to get you, to get me. They have descriptions of you,
and pictures. You’re real. You exist. They know who
they’re looking for. Which brings us right up against
the problem. We might as well get started on it.
Stand up.”
She looked at me questioningly.
“Stand up,” I repeated irritably. “Turn around,
very slowly. Lets get an idea of the job.”
She shrugged, but did as I said.
“All right.” I lit a cigarette. It wasn’t going to be
easy. It was all right to talk about, but just where did
you start? A man could grow a mustache, or shave it
off, or break his nose. . .
What did you do to camouflage a dish like this?
“A little over average height,” I said, more to
myself than to her. “But that part’s all right. There
are lots of tall women. But damn few of them as
beautiful.”
She smiled sardonically. “Thank you.”
“I’m not complimenting you,” I said, “so don’t
rupture yourself. This is no game. You’re not going
to be easy to hide, and if we don’t do a good job,
we’re dead.”
“Well, you took the job.”
“Keep your shirt on. Let’s break it down. There are
things we can change, and things we can’t. We can
change the color of your hair and the way you do it,
A Touch of Death — 136
but that alone isn’t enough. We can’t do anything
about those eyes. Or the bone structure and general
shape of your face.
“You can wear glasses, but that’s pretty obvious.
And you can splash on more make-up and widen
your mouth with lipstick, but that still isn’t going to
do the job.”
I was silent for a moment, thinking about it. She
started to say something, but I broke in on her.
“Just a minute and then we’ll get your ideas. Here
are mine. We can’t make you plain and drab enough
to blend into the scenery because you’re too much
whistle bait to start with and there are too many
things we can’t change, so we have to make you a
different kind of dish.
“Here’s the angle. All the people who are looking
for you are men. And since we can’t keep ‘em from
noticing you, we’ll make ‘em notice the wrong
things. We’ll start by bleaching your hair up three or
four shades. I think we can make it as far as red, or
reddish brown. We cut it. You put it up close to your
head in tight curls. We may butch it up somewhat,
but after we get the groundwork done it’ll be safe
enough for you to go to a beauty shop and have it
patched. You splash on the make-up. Pluck your
eyebrows. Over-paint your mouth. So far, so good.
Now. Do you wear a girdle?”
She stared coldly. “Really.”
“I asked you a question. Do you wear a girdle?”
“When I’m going out, and dressed.”
“All right. And how about falsies? How much of all
that is yours?”
“Of all the utterly revolting—”
“Shut up,” I said. “Maybe there just isn’t any way I
can get it through your thick head that this is
serious. Can’t you see what I’m trying to do? You’re
going to come out a dish, no matter how we slice
you, so what we’ve got to do is make you an entirely
different kind of dish. A cheap one. Flashy. If you’re
not already wearing padding up there, you’re going
A Touch of Death — 137
to, and plenty of it. Change your way of walking. Get
dresses tight across the hips, leave off the girdle,
and let it roll. Cops are men. Who’s going to keep his
mind on the job and look for the patrician Mrs.
Butler with all that going on?”
She shook her head. “You have the most amazing
genius for vulgarity I have ever encountered.”
“Oh, knock it off,” I said. “If you don’t like the
idea, let’s see you come up with a better one.”
“You misunderstand me. I wasn’t criticizing the
idea. It’s very good. In fact, it’s remarkably
ingenious. I was merely objecting to your crude way
of expressing yourself, and marveling that someone
without even the faintest glimmerings of taste or
discrimination could have figured it out.”
“Save it, save it.” I waved her off. “You can make a
speech some other time. Now, if we’ve agreed on the
idea, let’s work out the details. We’ve got to do
something about your complexion. Do you tan all
right?”
‘Yes. Except that I avoid it.”
“Not any more. Now, let’s see. I could get a sun
lamp, except that anybody asking for one at a store
here on the Gulf Coast in summer might be locked
up for a maniac, so we’ll get along without it. This
living-room window faces west, and in the afternoon
the sun comes in if we raise the Venetian blind.
There’s no building across the avenue high enough
for anybody to see you if you’re lying on the floor.
Item one, suntan oil.”
I got up and found some paper and a pencil and
wrote it down.
“Now, what else?”
“Do you have any scissors?”
“No,” I said. I wrote that down, and went on:
“Home-permanent outfit. Sunglasses. Now, what do
I get to bleach your hair with?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said.
“You’re a big help,” I said. “But never mind. I’ll get
it. Now, can you think of anything else?”
A Touch of Death — 138
“Only cigarettes. And a bottle of bourbon.”
“You won’t get tanked up?”
“I never get tanked up, as you put it.”
“All right.” I stood up. As I started toward the door
I stopped and turned. “What banks are those safedeposit
boxes in?”
She answered without hesitation. “The Merchants
Trust Company, the Third National, and the
Seaboard Bank and Trust Company.”
“What name did you use?”
“Names,” she said easily. “Each box is under a
different one.”
“What are they?”
She leaned back in the chair and smiled. “A little
late to be checking up now, aren’t you? I doubt if
they’d answer your questions, anyway.”
“No,” I said. “I wasn’t thinking of calling them. I’m
still going under the assumption you had better
sense than to try to lie about it, under the
circumstances.”
“I wasn’t lying. The money’s in those three banks.”
“And the names?”
“Mrs. James R. Hatch, Mrs. Lucille Manning, and
Mrs. Henry L. Carstairs.” She named the names off
easily, but stopped abruptly at the end and sat there
staring at her cigarette, frowning a little. “What is
it?” I asked.
She glanced up at me. “I beg your pardon?”
“I thought you started to say something else.”
“No,” she said, still frowning as if she were trying
to think of something. “That was all. Those are the
names.”
“O.K.,” I said. “I’ll be back in a little while.” As I
went down in the elevator I tried to figure out what
was bothering me. The whole thing was easy now,
wasn’t it? Even if that deputy sheriff died, they
couldn’t catch us. She was the only lead they had,
and she was too well hidden. The money was there,
waiting for me. Then what was it?
A Touch of Death — 139
It wasn’t anything you could put a finger on. It was
just a feeling she was a little unconcerned about
giving up all that money. She didn’t seem to mind.
A Touch of Death — 140
Fifteen
I took a bus across town and got my car out of the
storage garage. Both the afternoon papers were out
now, but there was nothing new. The deputy sheriff
was still unconscious, his condition unchanged. They
were tearing the state apart for Madelon Butler.
I found a place to park near a drugstore. Buying a
couple of women’s magazines, I took them back to
the car and began flipping hurriedly through the
ads. I didn’t find what I wanted. These were the
wrong ones, full of cooking recipes and articles on
how to refurnish your living room for $64.50. I went
back and picked up some more, the glamour type.
There were dozens of ads for different lands of
hair concoctions, but most of them were pretty coy.
“You can regain your golden loveliness,” they
promised, but they didn’t say how the hell you got
there in the first place.
I threw the magazines in the back seat and found
another drugstore. It would be dangerous to keep
haunting the same one all the time. I went to the
cosmetic counter.
“Could I help you?” the girl asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I want one of those home-permanent
outfits. And there was something else my wife told
A Touch of Death — 141
me to get but I can’t remember the name of it, some
kind of goo she uses to lighten the color of her hair.”
“A rinse?”
“I don’t know what you call it. Anyway, her hair’,
dark brown to begin with, and with this stuff she
gets a little past midfield into blonde territory a sort
of coppery color.”
She named three or four.
“That’s it,” I said on the third one. “I remember
now it was Something-Tint. Give me a slip on it,
though, just in case I’m wrong and have to bring it
back.”
I took it back to the car, along with the permanentwave
outfit, and read the instructions. We had to
have some cotton pads to put it on with and
shampoo to get rid of it after it had been on long
enough. I hunted up still another drugstore for
these, and while I was there I bought the sunglasses,
suntan lotion, and scissors.
That was everything except the whisky and
cigarettes. When I stopped for these I saw a
delicatessen next to the liquor store and picked up a
roast chicken and a bottle of milk, and bought a
shopping bag that would hold all of it.
It was one-thirty when I got back to the apartment.
The Venetian blind was raised and she was lying on
the rug with her face and arms in the sun. She had
taken off the robe and rolled the sleeves of Her
pajamas up to her shoulders. Maybe she had decided
to take some interest in the proceedings at last.
“Here.” I dug around in the shopping bag and
found the suntan lotion. “Smear some of this on.”
She sat up and made a face. “I hate being tanned.”
“Cheer up,” I said. “It’s better than prison pallor.”
“Yes. Isn’t it.” She opened the bottle and rubbed
some on her face and arms. “Did you get the
whisky?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Go ahead with your tan. I’ll bring a
drink.”
A Touch of Death — 142
“Thank you.” She lay down again and closed her
eyes. The rug was gray, and the long hair was very
dark against it.
I unpacked the shopping bag and opened one of
the bottles, hiding the other in the back of the broom
closet. Since she seemed to be able to handle it
without getting noisy, I poured her a heavy one, half
a water tumbler with only a little water in it. After
all, she was buying it.
I went back into the living room. “How long have
you been in the sun now?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“You’d better knock off, then. If you blister and
peel, you’ll just have to start over.”
“Yes.” She sat up. I handed her the glass and
lowered the Venetian blind.
She took a sip of the drink, still sitting on the floor,
and looked at me and smiled. “Hmmm,” she said.
“You’re an excellent bartender. Where’s yours?”
“I didn’t want any,” I said.
“Don’t you drink at all?”
“Very little.”
She held up the glass. “Well, here’s to the
admirable Mr. Scarborough. His strength is as the
strength of ten, because his heart is pure.”
“You seem to feel better.”
“I do,” she said. “Lots better.” She slid over a little
so she could lean back against the chair. “I’ve been
thinking about your brilliant idea ever since you left
and the more I think about it, the better I like it. It
can’t fail. How can they catch Madelon Butler if she
has changed completely into someone else?”
“Remember, it’s not easy.”
“I know. But we can do it. When do we begin?”
“Right now,” I said. “Unless you want to finish
your drink first.”
“I can work on it while you’re hacking up my hair.”
She laughed. “It’ll give me courage.”
A Touch of Death — 143
“You’ll probably need it,” I said.
I spread a bunch of newspapers on the floor and
set one of the dining-room chairs in the middle of
them. “Sit here,” I said. She sat down, looking quite
pleased and happy.
The radio was turned on, playing music. “Was
there any news while I was gone?” I asked.
She glanced up at me. “Oh, yes. Wasn’t it in the
papers?”
“What?” I demanded. “For God’s sake, what?”
“That deputy sheriff’s condition is improving, and
they say he’ll probably recover.”
I sat down weakly and lit a cigarette, the
haircutting forgotten. I hadn’t realized how bad the
pressure had really been until now that it was gone.
I hadn’t killed any cop. The heat was off me. Even if
they caught us, they could only get me for rapping
him on the head. Of course, there was still the
matter of Diana James, but that was different,
somehow. I hadn’t actually done that. She had. And
Diana James wasn’t a cop.
“Has he recovered consciousness yet?” I asked.
“No, but they expect him to any time.”
“There’s one thing, though,” I said. “He
recognized you, remember?”
“Yes,” she said carelessly. “I know.”
“That part won’t help,” I said, wondering why she
was so unconcerned about it.
“Oh, well, they seem to be certain enough that I
was there anyway,” she said. “His identification
won’t change anything.”
I should have begun to catch on then, but I
fumbled it. The roof had to fall in on me before I
realized why the news about that deputy sheriff
made her so happy.
“Well, Pygmalion,” she said, “shall we commence?
I’m quite eager to begin life as Susie Mumble.”
A Touch of Death — 144
I was digging through the pile of women’s
magazines. “There’s more to it than a haircut,” I
said. “You have to learn to talk like Susie.”
“I know. Just don’t rush me, honey.”
I jerked my face around and stared at her. She was
smiling.
“You catch on fast,” I said.
“Thanks, honey. I’m tryin’ all the time.” She had
even dropped her voice down a little, into a kind of
throaty contralto purr. I was conscious of thinking
that her husband and Diana James and even the
police force had been outnumbered from the first in
trying to outguess her.
I found the magazine I was looking for, the one
that had several pages of pictures of hair styles.
Some of them were short-cropped and careless, and
they looked easy. I had a hunch, though, that they
weren’t that easy.
She was sitting upright in the chair, waiting. I
folded the magazine open at one of the pictures and
put it on the coffee table where I could see it and
use it for a guide. I looked from it to Madelon Butler.
The long dark hair just brushed her shoulders.
She glanced down at the picture and then at me
with amusement. “You won’t find it that simple,” she
said. “Carelessness is very carefully planned and
executed.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. I took the scissors out of the
bag and went into the bathroom for a towel and
comb. I put the towel around her shoulders, under
the cascade of hair. “Hold it there,” I said.
She caught it in front, at her throat. “You’ll make
an awful mess of it,” she said. “But remember, it
doesn’t matter. The principal thing is to get started,
to get it cut, bleached, and waved. Then as soon as
my face is tanned I can go to a beauty shop and have
it repaired. I’ll just say I’ve been in Central America,
and cry a little on their shoulders about the
atrocious beauty shops down there.”
A Touch of Death — 145
“That’s the idea,” I said. I pulled the comb through
her hair, sighted at it, and started snipping. I cut
around one side and then stood off and looked at it.
It was awful.
It looked as if she’d got caught in a machine.
“Let me see,” she said. She got up and went into
the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I went with
her. She didn’t explode, though. She merely sighed
and shook her head.
“If you were thinking of hair dressing as a career
—”
“So it doesn’t look so hot. I’m not finished yet.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you what you’re doing
wrong. Don’t cut straight across as if you were
sawing a plank in two. Hold the comb at an angle
and taper it. And let each bunch of hair slide a little
between the blades of the scissors so it won’t be
chopped off square.”
We went back and I tried again. I’d left it plenty
long intentionally so the first two or three runs at it
would just be practice. I cut the other side and
evened it up.
This time I got away from that square, chopped-off
effect, but it was ragged. It was full of notches up
the side of her head. She looked at it again.
“That’s better,” she said. “And now when you’re
trying to smooth out those chopped places, the way
to do it is to keep the comb and scissors both moving
while you cut. Let the hair run through the comb.
That way they’re not all the same length.”
I tried it again. I got the hang of it a little better
and managed to erase some of the notches. Then I
combed it again and went around the bottom once
more, straightening out the jagged ends. We went
into the bathroom and took another look at it in the
mirror. I stood behind her. Our eyes met.
“It’s pretty bad,” I said. “But there’s one thing.”
“What’s that?”
A Touch of Death — 146
“You sure as hell don’t look like the pictures of
Mrs. Butler.”
“Remember, darling?” she said in that throaty
voice. “I’m not Mrs. Butler.”
“It’s a start,” I said. I went out and got the bottle
of bleach. I handed it to her. “Mix yourself a
redhead.”
While she was working on it I cleaned up the rug. I
rolled the cut-off hair in the newspapers and threw
the whole works down the garbage chute.
We were erasing Madelon Butler.
No, I thought; she was erasing Madelon Butler. I
had suggested it and started the job, but she was the
one who knew how to do it. I could see her already
getting the feel of it. She was brilliant; and she was
an actress all the way in and out. When she finished
the job they’d never find her. The person they were
looking for would have ceased to exist. The coolly
beautiful aristocrat would be a sexy cupcake talking
slang.
It was two-thirty. I tuned the radio across all the
stations and found a news program. There was no
mention of her or of the deputy sheriff. I wondered if
she had been lying. Well, it would be in the late
editions.
She came out of the bathroom. She had finished
shampooing her hair and was rubbing it with a
towel. It was wild and tousled, and she looked like a
chrysanthemum. I couldn’t see any change in the
color.
“It looks as dark as ever,” I said.
“That’s because it’s still wet. As soon as it’s dry we
can tell.”
She raised the Venetian blind again and sat down
on the rug before the window, still rubbing her head
with the towel. In a few minutes she threw the towel
to one side and just ran her fingers through her hair,
riffling it in the sunlight.
“I could use another drink,” she murmured,
glancing around sidewise at me.
A Touch of Death — 147
“You live on the stuff, don’t you?”
“Well,” she said, “it’s one way.”
I went out to the kitchen and poured her another.
When I handed it to her she gave me that upthrough-
the-eyelashes glance and said, “Thank you,
honey.”
She looked like a chrysanthemum, all right, but a
damn beautiful one. And the pajamas didn’t do her
any harm.
“Practicing Susie again?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. “How’m I doin’?”
“Not bad, considering you’re riding on a pass.”
She looked up at me, wide-eyed. “What do you
mean?”
I squatted down in front of her and ran my fingers
up into the tousled hair at the back of her neck.
“You’re trying to get in free. From what I hear of
Susie, she talked like the rustle of new-mown hay
because she’d been there and she liked it. But I’d be
glad to help you out.”
The eyes turned cold. “Aren’t you expecting a little
too much?”
“How’s that?”
“Not even Susie could match your abysmal
vulgarity.”
“Well, don’t get in an uproar. I just asked.”
“So you did, in your inimitable fashion. And now if
you feel you have received an answer that is
intelligible even to you, perhaps you’ll take your
hand off me.”
“This is Susie talking?” I didn’t take the hand
away. I moved it. It wasn’t padding.
“No,” she said. She put the drink down on the rug.
“This is Susie.”
She hit me across the face.
I caught both her wrists and held them in my left
hand. “Don’t make a habit of that,” I said. “It could
get you into trouble.”
A Touch of Death — 148
The eyes were completely unafraid. They seemed
to be merely thoughtful. “I doubt that I’ll ever
understand you,” she said. “At times you seem to
have what passes for intelligence, and yet you
deliberately go out of your way to wallow in that
revolting crudity.”
“Let’s don’t make a Supreme Court case out of it,”
I said, turning her arms loose. “It’s not that
important. If you don’t want to put out a little
smooching on the side, I’ll still live. That you can get
anywhere. The geetus is the main issue, remember?”
“You are a sentimental soul, aren’t you?”
I stood up. “Baby, where I grew up you could buy a
lot more with a hundred and twenty thousand
dollars than you could with sentiment.”
She said nothing. I started toward the door. As I
picked up the car keys off the table, I said, “And,
besides, look who’s talking.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You’re the one who’s killed two people. Not me.”
She stared at me. “Yes,” she said. “But even hate
is an emotion.”
“I guess so,” I said. “But there’s not much money
in it.”
I went out and got in the car and drove downtown.
I didn’t have anything in mind except that I didn’t
want to get rock-happy sitting around the apartment
listening to her yakking. Why didn’t she get wise to
herself? We were going to be there for a month
together; it wouldn’t cost anything extra to relax and
have a little fun out of it on the side.
But maybe it was just as well, when you thought
about it. No woman could ever do anything as simple
as going to bed without trying to louse it up with a
lot of complicated ground rules and romantic double
talk and then wanting a mortgage on your soul. As
long as we were mixed up in a business deal and tied
to each other for a whole month, we’d probably be
better off to go on barking at each other.
A Touch of Death — 149
I bought an afternoon paper and went into a
restaurant and ordered a cup of coffee. “DEPUTY
IMPROVED,” the headline said. Doctors expected
him to recover.
He still hadn’t regained consciousness.
The rest of the story was the usual rehash, another
description of Madelon Butler and the car, and more
speculation as to what had become of the money
Butler stole. They didn’t believe she could have got
out of the area with all the roads covered; she must
be holed up somewhere inside the ring. They would
get her. She was too eye-arresting to escape
detection anywhere. And there was the Cadillac. I
thought of the Cadillac, and grinned coldly as I
sipped the coffee.
There was still no mention of Diana James, but
that was understandable. Her body was in the
basement, and the whole house had burned down on
top of her. It had been only last night. They wouldn’t
be poking around in the ruins yet. I didn’t like to
think about it.
I went out. The streets were hot and the air was
heavy and breathless, as if a storm were coming up.
I could hear the rumble of thunder now and then
above the sound of traffic. I didn’t have any idea
where I was going until I found myself standing on
the corner outside the marble-columned entrance. It
was the Seaboard Bank and Trust Company.
There was a terrible fascination about it. I stood
on the corner while the traffic light changed and a
river of people flowed past and around me. It was
inside there; it was safe, just waiting to be picked
up. In my mind I could see the massive and circular
underground door of the vault and the narrow
passageways between rows of shiny metal
honeycomb made up of thousands of boxes stacked
and numbered from floor to ceiling. One of them was
bulging with fat bundles of banknotes fastened
around the middle with paper bands. And the key to
the box was in my pocket.
A Touch of Death — 150
Two blocks up, on the other side of the street, was
the Third National. I could see it from here. Left at
the next corner and three blocks south was the
Merchants Trust Company. It wouldn’t take twenty
minutes to cover the three of them. All she had to do
was go down the stairs to the vault, sign the card,
give her key to the attendant.
People were jostling me. Everybody was hurrying.
Two teenage girls tried to shove past me. They
looked at each other. One gave me a dirty look and
said, “Maybe it’s something they started to build
here.” They went on. I awoke then. It was raining.
I ran across the street and stood under an awning.
Water splashed down in sheets. There was no
chance of getting back to the car without being
soaked. I looked around. The awning I was under
was the front of a movie. I bought a ticket and went
in without even looking to see what the picture was.
When I came out I still didn’t know, but the rain
had stopped and it was dusk. Lights glistened on
shiny black pavement and tires hissed in the street.
Newsboys were calling the late editions. I bought
one and opened it.
The headline exploded in my face:
“YOUTH CONFESSES IN BUTLER SLAYING.”
It was four blocks back to the car, four blocks of
feeling naked and trying not to run.
A Touch of Death — 151
Sixteen
Youth confesses.
What about Madelon Butler?
But that wasn’t it. That wasn’t the big news. If
they had caught that blonde and her brother, they
had a description of me.
I took the steps three at a time and let myself into
the apartment. A light was on in the living room, but
I didn’t see her anywhere. Then I heard her
splashing in the bathroom. I dropped on the sofa and
spread the paper open.
I put a cigarette in my mouth but forgot to light it.
Mount Temple. Aug. 6—A startling break
in the investigation of the death of J. N.
Butler came shortly after 2 P.M. today
with the police announcement that Jack D.
Finley, 22, of Mount Temple, had broken
under questioning and admitted
implication in the two-month-old slaying
of the missing bank official, whose body
was discovered Tuesday afternoon.
Finley, ashen-faced and sobbing, named
Mrs. Madelon Butler, the victim’s
attractive widow, as the mastermind
behind the sordid crime.
A Touch of Death — 152
I stopped and lit the cigarette. It was about the
way I’d had it figured. Finley was the fall guy. I went
on, reading fast.
Finley, who was taken into custody early
this morning on a country road some 50
miles southeast of here by officers
investigating a tip that a car answering
the description of Mrs. Butler’s had been
seen in the vicinity, at first maintained his
innocence, despite his inability to explain
what he and his sister, Charisse, 27, were
doing in the area. Both had tried to flee at
sight of the officers’ car.
Later, however, when confronted with the
fact that other members of the posse had
found Mrs. Butler’s Cadillac abandoned at
a fishing camp at the end of the road on
which they were walking, Finley broke
and admitted being an accessory to the
slaying.
Mrs. Butler and an unidentified male
companion had taken his car at gunpoint
and fled early the night before, he said.
Police have broadcast a complete
description of the stranger.
Well, there it was. I dropped the paper in my lap
and sat staring across the room. But it wasn’t
hopeless. They still didn’t have anything but a
description. The only person who knew who I was
was Diana James, and she was dead.
I started to pick up the paper again. Madelon
Butler came in. She was dressed in the skirt and
blouse she’d had on last night, and was wearing
nylons and bedroom slippers. She switched on the
radio and sat down.
Glancing at the paper in my lap, she asked, “Is
there anything interesting in the news?”
“You might call it interesting,” I said. “Take a
look.” I tossed it to her.
A Touch of Death — 153
She raised it and looked at the glaring headline.
“Oh?”
“Look,” I said, “they just captured your boyfriend.
Is that all you’ve got to say? Just oh?”
She shrugged. “Don’t you think I might be
pardoned for a slight lack of concern? After all, he
tried to kill me. And he wasn’t my boyfriend,
anyway.”
“He wasn’t? Then how in hell did he get mixed up
in it?”
“He was in love with Cynthia Cannon. Or Diana
James, as you call her.”
“In love with Diana James? But I don’t see—”
She smiled. “It does seem incredible, doesn’t, it?
But I suppose there’s no accounting for tastes.”
“Cut it out!” I said. I felt as if my head were about
to fly off. “Will you answer my question? Or hand me
back that paper? I’d like to know at least as much
about this as several million other people do by
now.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll tell you.” The radio came
on then, blaring jazz. She shuddered and reached for
the knob. “Excuse me.”
She turned the dial and some long-hair music
came on. She adjusted the volume, kicked off her
mules, and curled her legs up under her in the chair.
Lighting a cigarette, she leaned back contentedly.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Don’t you love Debussy at this
time of day?”
“No,” I said. “Which one of you killed Butler?”
Her eyes had a faraway look in them as she
listened to the music. “I did,” she said.
She was utterly calm. There was no remorse in it,
or anger, or anything else. Butler was dead. She had
killed him. Like that.
“Why?” I asked. “For the money?”
“No. Because I hated him. And I hated Cynthia
Cannon. You don’t mind if I refer to her by her right
name, do you?”
A Touch of Death — 154
I was just getting more mixed up all the time.
“Then you mean the money didn’t have anything to
do with it? But still you’ve got it?”
She smiled a little coldly. “You still attach too
much importance to money. I didn’t say it didn’t
have anything to do with it. It had some significance.
I killed both of them because I hated them, and the
money was one of the reasons I did hate them. You
see, actually, he wasn’t stealing it from the bank. He
was stealing it from me.”
I stared. “From you!”
“That’s right. Both of them were quite clever. He
was going to use my money to support himself and
his trollop. I was to subsidize them. Ingenious,
wasn’t it?”
I shook my head. “You’ve lost me. I don’t even
know what you’re talking about. You say this Finley
kid was in love with Diana James, and that Butler
was stealing the money from you. Are you crazy, or
am I? The papers said he stole it from the bank.”
She took a long drag on the cigarette, exhaled the
smoke, and looked at the glowing tip. “The
newspaper stories were quite correct. But I’ll try to
explain. The bank referred to was founded by my
great-grandfather.”
“Oh,” I said. “I get it now. You owned it.”
She smiled. “No. I said it was founded by my
great-grandfather. But there were several
intervening generations more talented in spending
money than in making it. The bank has long since
passed into other hands, but at the time my father
died he still owned a little over a hundred thousand
dollars’ worth of its stock. As the sole surviving
member of the family, I inherited it.
“Now do you understand? My husband owned
nothing of his own, except charm. He was vice
president of the bank by virtue of the block of bank
stock we owned jointly under the state community
property laws. But when he decided to leave me for
Cynthia Cannon, he wanted to take the money with
A Touch of Death — 155
him. There was no way he could, legally, of course;
but there was another way.
“He merely stole it from the bank. And the bank,
after all efforts to capture him and recover the
money had failed, would only have to take over the
stock to recover the loss. The search would stop. He
would be forgotten. No one would lose anything
except me.’ She stopped. Then she smiled coldly and
went on: “And I didn’t matter, of course.”
I had forgotten the cigarette between my fingers.
It was burning my hand. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Aren’t we all?”
“But,” I said, “if you knew beforehand that he was
going to do it—and apparently you did, some way—
couldn’t you have just called the police that
afternoon and had them come out and get the money
back and arrest him?”
“Perhaps,” she said. “But I resent being taken for
a fool—And my patience has a limit. Cynthia Cannon
wasn’t the first. She merely happened, with my
assistance, to be the last. Before her it was Charisse
Finley, who worked in the bank, and before that it
was someone else.
“I had borne his other infidelities, but when he
calmly decided that I was going to support him and
his paramour for the rest of their lives, I just as
calmly decided he was going to die. After all, when
you have nothing further to lose, you no longer have
anything to fear.”
“But,” I said, “I still don’t understand what that
Finley kid had to do with it.”
“That was a little more complex,” she said. “He
came very near to being a tragic figure, but wound
up by being only a fool. He probably regards himself
as having been betrayed by two women, both older
than he, but the thing that really betrayed him was
that money.”
“You’re not making any sense,” I said.
A Touch of Death — 156
She smiled. “Forgive me,” she said. “I keep
forgetting I’m talking to a man to whom there is
never any motive except money.
“Cynthia Cannon,” she went on, “perhaps told you
that she was a nurse and that she was in Mount
Temple for some seven or eight months taking care
of an invalid. The woman she was caring for was the
mother of Jack and Charisse Finley.
“That was when Jack Finley began to get this
fantastic obsession for her. I don’t know whether she
encouraged him at first, but at any rate she was
nearly ten years older than he was and hardly the
type to remain interested very long in being
worshiped with such an intense and adolescent
passion. I can imagine he was rather sickening, at
least to a veteran with Cynthia Cannon’s flair for
casual bitchiness.
“Anyway, she apparently dropped him rather
thoroughly as soon as she began having an affair
with my husband. He was older, you see, and less
like a moonstruck calf, and she thought he had more
money.
“I didn’t know any of this until nearly a month
after dear Cynthia had left her job in Mount Temple
and come back here to Sanport. Then, one Saturday
night when my husband was presumably on another
fishing trip, Jack Finley came to see me. He was
nearly out of his mind. I really don’t know what his
idea was in telling me, unless it was some absurd
notion that possibly I would speak to my husband
about it and ask him to leave Cynthia alone. He was
actually that wild.
“I began to see very shortly, however, that he was
in a really dangerous condition. He had been
following my husband down here on weekends, and
spying on them, and once had come very close to
murdering them both in a hotel room. He had gone
up there with a gun, but just before he knocked on
the door some returning glimmer of sanity made him
turn away and run out.
A Touch of Death — 157
“I felt sorry for him and tried to show him the
stupidity of ruining his life over a casual trollop like
Cynthia Cannon, but there is nothing more futile
than trying to reason with someone caught up in an
obsession like that. He was going to kill my
husband.”
“I’m beginning to get it,” I said. “You had a sucker
just made to order. All you had to do was needle him
a little.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, a little coldly.
“I have just told you I tried to talk him out of his
idiocy. It was only when the picture changed and I
began to see that it was he and his charming sister
that were trying to needle me, as you put it—”
“You’re losing me again,” I said. “Back up.”
She lit another cigarette, chain fashion, and
crushed the stub of the first out in the tray. The
music went on. The whole thing was crazy. She was
perfectly relaxed and at ease and wrapped up in the
spell of the music, and the thing she was telling me
about was murder.
“All right,” she said. “I told you it was somewhat
complex. At first it was just a rather stupid young
man in the grip of an insane jealousy. It changed
later, but he was the one that changed it—he and his
sister.
“It was something he let fall that started me
thinking. In the course of his spying on them he had
discovered that Cynthia Cannon had changed her
name. He apparently wondered about it, but didn’t
attach much importance to it in the overwrought
state he was in.
“I did, however, and I arranged a little
investigation of my own. She’d changed her name,
all right, but I learned several other things that were
even more significant. My husband never went near
her place when he was meeting her here in Sanport.
And on several occasions he bought a considerable
amount of clothing for himself, which she took back
to her apartment.
A Touch of Death — 158
“Then I happened to learn that he had let all his
life-insurance policies lapse and had borrowed all he
could on them. I had a rather good idea by that time
as to what they were planning.
“I began, also, to notice a change in Jack Finley.
There was something just a little hollow creeping
into those tragic protestations that my husband had
ruined his life, and mine, and was ruining Cynthia’s.
He gave me an odd impression of a man who was
torn by an insane jealousy, but a jealousy that was
under perfect control and was waiting for
something.
“Two months of this went by, and I began to
suspect what it was. He had told his sister, Charisse.
She was slightly more intelligent, and she had
guessed why Cynthia Cannon had changed her
name. And she hated my husband. I think I have
already told you that she had been another of his
sordid affairs.
“She also worked in the bank. This was
important.”
She broke off and glanced across at me. “You see
it now, don’t you?”
“I think so,” I said. “Yes. I think I do.”
She nodded and went on. “I let myself be
persuaded. Our lives were ruined. What more did we
have to live for, except revenge? Jack continued to
rave about not being able to stand it any longer each
time my husband disappeared for the weekend on
some pretext or other, but he went on waiting.
“Well, that Saturday noon my husband came home
from the bank a few minutes late, and said he was
going on another fishing trip. He packed his
camping equipment and went upstairs to shower and
change clothes. I slipped out, as usual, and searched
the car.
“This was the day. I found it.
“It was in a briefcase, rolled up in his bedding.
During all those months, while I had been
suspecting it and watching, I had often wondered if I
A Touch of Death — 159
would actually go through with it if I ever found the
proof and knew, but the moment I opened that
briefcase and saw the money there was no longer
any doubt or hesitation.
“There wasn’t much time. I slipped it out of the car
and hid it in the basement, knowing about how long
it would take Jack to get there after Charisse had
phoned him my husband had been the last to leave
the bank and that he was carrying a briefcase.
“He arrived approximately on schedule, coming in
the back way on foot. He was quite convincing. His
face was white, and his eyes stared like a madman’s.
He demanded to know if my husband had said he
was going fishing again. I told him yes, and perhaps
I was just a bit hammy myself. He said we couldn’t
go on. We couldn’t stand it any longer.
“He was still inciting me with this theatrical
harangue when I heard my husband coming down
the stairs. I took Jack’s gun from his pocket and shot
him as he came through the door.”
She stopped. For a moment she sat staring over
my head. Her face showed no emotion whatever.
“All right,” I said. “So then of course he took
charge of getting rid of the body and the car?”
She nodded. “Yes. He was remarkably efficient
and calm. It was almost as if he had planned all the
details beforehand. And it really wasn’t difficult. The
cook wasn’t there, as I had been giving her
Saturdays off. We merely had to wait until it was
dark.”
“And what did they do when they found out it
wasn’t in the car?”
“They both came, Sunday night. And of course I
didn’t even know what they were talking about.
There was no announcement by the bank until
Monday morning, you will remember. And certainly
they had never said anything about money before. I
was sure Mr. Butler hadn’t had any such sum with
him.
A Touch of Death — 160
“They threatened me with everything. But what
could they do? If they actually killed me they’d never
find it. And obviously they couldn’t threaten me with
the police because they were equally guilty. It was
somewhat in the nature of an impasse.
“It was buried in a flower bed until the police grew
tired of searching the house and watching me. Then
I brought it down here and put it in those three safedeposit
boxes.”
“And so Finley was actually the one that
abandoned the car in front of Diana James’s
apartment. She swore it was you.”
She smiled faintly. “Cynthia, perhaps, wasn’t the
most intelligent of women, but even she should have
known I’d never be guilty of such an adolescent
gesture as that.”
I sat there for a minute thinking about it. It was
beautiful, any way you looked at it. She had
outguessed them all.
Except me, I thought.
I grinned. I was the only one that had won. They
had murdered and double-crossed each other for all
that time, and in the end the whole thing was three
safe-deposit keys worth forty thousand dollars
apiece, and I had all three of them in my pocket.
“Baby,” I said, “you’re a smart cookie. You were
almost smart enough to take the pot.”
I went downstairs and around the corner. The
morning papers were out now. I bought one.
I opened it.
“MRS. BUTLER DEAD,” the headline said
“COMPANION SOUGHT.”
A Touch of Death — 161
Seventeen
I stood there on the corner under a street light just
holding the paper in my hand while the pieces fell all
around me. It was too much. You could get only part
of it at a time.
Somebody was saying something.
“What?” I said. I folded the paper and put it under
my arm. There were a half-million other copies
covering the whole state like a heavy snowfall, but I
had to hide this one. Companion sought. I started
away. You didn’t run. You didn’t ever run. You
walked, slowly.
“Hey, here’s your change. Don’t you want your
change, mister?” It was the newsboy. Why did they
call a man who was seventy years old a newsboy?
“Oh,” I said. “Uh—thanks. Thanks.” I put it in my
pocket.
I couldn’t stand here under the light.
As fast as I got a piece of it sorted out, something
else would fall on me. I couldn’t stay here. I knew
that. The man already thought I was crazy or blind
drunk. He was watching me.
But I couldn’t go back to the apartment with this
paper. If she read it I was through.
A Touch of Death — 162
I could hear her laughing. I was hiding her from
the police for $120,000, but the police weren’t
looking for her. She was dead. They were looking for
me.
I had to do something. Throw it away? With the
man standing there watching me and already
thinking I was nuts? I looked wildly around for the
car. It was parked just ahead of me. I got in and
pulled out into the traffic, having no idea where I
was going.
I turned right at the corner and went out toward
the beach. In a minute I saw a parking place in front
of a drugstore and pulled into it. There was light
here. I could read the paper sitting in the car.
But even as I spread it open I knew I didn’t have to
read it. I could have written it. The whole thing
would fall into place like the pieces in a chess game
in which you had been outclassed before you’d even
started to play.
I read it anyway.
It was even worse.
I was right as far as I had guessed, but I hadn’t
guessed far enough. They had found the body of
Diana James, all right. And the deputy sheriff had
regained consciousness at last. “Sure it was Mrs.
Butler,” he said. “I threw the light right in her face.
Then this guy slugged me from behind.”
Of course they hadn’t looked much alike. But they
were of the same height and general build, and the
same age, and they were both brunettes. There
probably wasn’t even any dental work to go on, if
they called in her dentist. And who was going to?
Nobody was.
Why should they? The deputy sheriff had seen her
there, hadn’t he? And she had to be on her way into
the building instead of out, because he had been
watching it and nobody had gone in before. Then
there were the shots, after he was slugged. Diana
James had come through the back yard while he was
A Touch of Death — 163
unconscious. Nobody knew anything about her,
anyway. She’d been gone for six months.
But I had already guessed all that. It had hit me
right in the face the instant I saw the headline.
The thing I hadn’t guessed was worse. It was the
clincher. It was that cop at the filling station.
I read it.
“It was the same guy, all right,” Sgt. Kennedy said
flatly. “He fitted the description perfectly. And it was
Finley’s car. If we’d only known then.
“Sure he was alone, I looked in the car because it
had Vale County license tags. There was nobody
else.”
That was it: “. . .he was alone.”
I had done a beautiful job. I had done such a
wonderful job that if she got away and they picked
me up they could hang me.
And all she had to do was walk out the door. She
was free.
I could feel the greasy sweat on the palms of my
hands and the emptiness inside me as I forced
myself to read it all. They repeated my description.
It was good. That blonde hellcat had an eye for
detail. She hadn’t missed a thing. My eyes caught
the last paragraph.
“There was something about his face that seemed
familiar,” Charisse Finley said. “I keep thinking I’ve
seen him somewhere before. Or a picture of him.”
I took a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it with
shaking fingers. That added the finishing touch. Any
hour, day or night, it might come back to her. And
I’d never know until they knocked on the door.
That was one I wouldn’t read in the papers first.
I tried to get hold of myself. Maybe I could still
save it She might not remember. She hadn’t been
able to yet; and the longer she puzzled over it, the
less certain she’d be. It had been five years at least
since the sports pages had carried a picture of me. A
A Touch of Death — 164
thousand—ten thousand—football players had
marched across them since then.
I could wait it out. I had to. I couldn’t quit. I just
couldn’t. Hell, the money was almost in my hand.
The thought of losing it now made my insides twist
up into knots. It would take only a few more days.
They weren’t even looking for her now; all we had to
do was buy her some clothes and have that job on
her hair patched up a little. I could give her some
story, some excuse for hurrying it. But I had to keep
her from seeing a paper for the next two or three
days, until she was out of the news.
I sat straight upright. What about the radio?
It might come over the air any minute. Why hadn’t
I thought of that? But, God, you couldn’t remember
everything. I hit the starter and shot out of the
parking place. When I was around the corner I
dropped the paper out in the street. I swung fast at
another corner and was headed back to the
apartment house.
But maybe she had already heard it. It might even
have come over the radio this afternoon while I was
gone. How would I know? Did I think she would tell
me?
Well, yes, I thought she would tell me. I still had
those three keys and that bankroll in my pocket. She
wanted those before she left. And there was another
thing.
I was the only person left in the world that knew
she was still alive.
Maybe she had plans for me. One more wouldn’t
bother her.
I found a place to park not more than half a block
away. I didn’t run until I was on the stairs. She
wasn’t in the living room. The radio was turned off. I
closed the door behind me and breathed again with
relief. The silence was the most beautiful silence in
the world.
I looked quickly around, wondering where she
was. I had to do it now; it wouldn’t be safe to wait
A Touch of Death — 165
until she had gone to bed. But I had to be sure she
wouldn’t come in and catch me at it. Then I heard
her in the bathroom.
I walked over to the hallway door. It was open, and
the bathroom door was open, a few inches. I could
hear her humming softly to herself.
“You dressed?” I asked.
“Yes,” she called. “Why?” The bathroom door
opened wider and she stood looking out at me. She
had a towel pinned across her shoulders and was
fastening strands of her hair up in little rolls. I could
see the difference in shade now. It was definitely
lighter, a rich, coppery red.

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn