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Authors: Fletcher Flora
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from the one who gives me the ticket when I arrive, and so there’s no chance of arousing suspicion there. It’s doubtful that anyone would pay any particular attention to either of us, anyhow.”
“True, Cousin. I like the sound of it. It’s solid.”
“Do you agree to do it, then?”
“For the sake of our dear old mothers, I do.”
“Good. I knew I could count on the family tie.” Quincy drained his glass and stood up. “Any time after four, but you better hadn’t make it too long.”
“I dig you. My market stays open all hours.”
“Goodbye, Cousin Fred.”
“Goodbye, Cousin Quincy.”
Quincy went outside and back to his Plymouth. He was confident that Cousin Fred would dispose of the Buick expertly and expeditiously; he felt no concern about that. The problem would be, of course, to get it out of Howard’s garage and out of Quivera without detection, but this should also, because of the detached and woody character of the neighborhood, be accomplished without untoward incident; he had no less confidence in his own cleverness than in Fred’s. In the Plymouth, he drove north across the Sixth Street Trafficway to the Municipal Airport. He parked the Plymouth and went inside and inquired at an airlines desk about flights to Dallas, Texas. He was not in the least surprised to learn that there was an available seat on a plane leaving early the next morning, but not so early that he couldn’t catch it after completing his necessary tasks. He was not surprised because he had that feeling of quiet elation which comes with the assurance that everything is going right, just right, and the feeling was even more secured by the information that he could catch a plane back that would land him in KC tomorrow night, the night of the same day of his departure. He bought a round-trip ticket in the name of Elton E. Smallwood and went back to the Plymouth and started home. There remained, of course, the small risk that someone from Quivera who knew him might be on the same plane to Dallas. Citizens of Quivera were not flying out of the airport every day, however, or even a substantial percentage of days, and so the risk was hardly a material danger, and it only added, even if it was, a little salt to the sauce. He did not question his capacity to handle the situation if it developed.
There was now the letter to think about, and he thought about it earnestly on the way to Quivera. He felt that a husband’s farewell letter to his deserted wife, written at the beginning of a great adventure, between one life and another, should have the quality of artistic excellence. He felt, moreover, that he was just the fellow to achieve the quality, but he was handicapped by Howard’s limitations. Unfortunately, in spite of a certain shrewdness in certain matters, Howard had been barely literate. It would never do to give the letter the polish it deserved, for then no one would ever believe that old Howard had written it. He would have to be satisfied, Quincy thought, with achieving a clumsy intensity—a kind of appropriate lubberly pathos. And this, to be sure, would be challenge enough to ingenuity.
The letter would have to be typewritten, of course. He could not, even if he had time to practice, which he didn’t, duplicate Howard’s scrawl. He wondered for a moment if it would be readily accepted that such a personal letter would be written on a typewriter, and he decided that in Howard’s case it would. It was well known by nearly everyone that old Howard, because his writing was practically illegible, wrote everything on a typewriter, hunt-and-peck style. He had a Royal portable in his bedroom at home, as a matter of fact, and this would have to be disposed of, along with Howard and the three bags, to support the deception that he had taken it with him and had used it in Dallas to write the letter. There was almost no chance that there would be any sample of the machine’s typing about, for Howard never wrote anything
“True, Cousin. I like the sound of it. It’s solid.”
“Do you agree to do it, then?”
“For the sake of our dear old mothers, I do.”
“Good. I knew I could count on the family tie.” Quincy drained his glass and stood up. “Any time after four, but you better hadn’t make it too long.”
“I dig you. My market stays open all hours.”
“Goodbye, Cousin Fred.”
“Goodbye, Cousin Quincy.”
Quincy went outside and back to his Plymouth. He was confident that Cousin Fred would dispose of the Buick expertly and expeditiously; he felt no concern about that. The problem would be, of course, to get it out of Howard’s garage and out of Quivera without detection, but this should also, because of the detached and woody character of the neighborhood, be accomplished without untoward incident; he had no less confidence in his own cleverness than in Fred’s. In the Plymouth, he drove north across the Sixth Street Trafficway to the Municipal Airport. He parked the Plymouth and went inside and inquired at an airlines desk about flights to Dallas, Texas. He was not in the least surprised to learn that there was an available seat on a plane leaving early the next morning, but not so early that he couldn’t catch it after completing his necessary tasks. He was not surprised because he had that feeling of quiet elation which comes with the assurance that everything is going right, just right, and the feeling was even more secured by the information that he could catch a plane back that would land him in KC tomorrow night, the night of the same day of his departure. He bought a round-trip ticket in the name of Elton E. Smallwood and went back to the Plymouth and started home. There remained, of course, the small risk that someone from Quivera who knew him might be on the same plane to Dallas. Citizens of Quivera were not flying out of the airport every day, however, or even a substantial percentage of days, and so the risk was hardly a material danger, and it only added, even if it was, a little salt to the sauce. He did not question his capacity to handle the situation if it developed.
There was now the letter to think about, and he thought about it earnestly on the way to Quivera. He felt that a husband’s farewell letter to his deserted wife, written at the beginning of a great adventure, between one life and another, should have the quality of artistic excellence. He felt, moreover, that he was just the fellow to achieve the quality, but he was handicapped by Howard’s limitations. Unfortunately, in spite of a certain shrewdness in certain matters, Howard had been barely literate. It would never do to give the letter the polish it deserved, for then no one would ever believe that old Howard had written it. He would have to be satisfied, Quincy thought, with achieving a clumsy intensity—a kind of appropriate lubberly pathos. And this, to be sure, would be challenge enough to ingenuity.
The letter would have to be typewritten, of course. He could not, even if he had time to practice, which he didn’t, duplicate Howard’s scrawl. He wondered for a moment if it would be readily accepted that such a personal letter would be written on a typewriter, and he decided that in Howard’s case it would. It was well known by nearly everyone that old Howard, because his writing was practically illegible, wrote everything on a typewriter, hunt-and-peck style. He had a Royal portable in his bedroom at home, as a matter of fact, and this would have to be disposed of, along with Howard and the three bags, to support the deception that he had taken it with him and had used it in Dallas to write the letter. There was almost no chance that there would be any sample of the machine’s typing about, for Howard never wrote anything
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