Read Online Murder for the Bride by John D. MacDonald - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John D. MacDonald
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friends, but try to do it in such a way that they could not accuse me of doing it on purpose. I shoved the map in my pocket and walked over to Canal. I went into a big department store and bought some shirts. I made no attempt to find out who was tailing me.
I sauntered over near the elevators, and as one was about to close its doors I hurried over and got in. I got off at the third floor, walked to the back of the store, and went down the stairs and out the fire door at the back. I walked through a parking lot to a parallel street and went down two blocks before turning back onto Canal Street. I took the Algiers ferry at the foot of Canal. There was a faint hot breeze on the Mississippi. At ten minutes of three I stood at the corner of Monroe and Wiedman, bundle in hand. Algiers is as complete a refutation of the romance inherent in the name as its African namesake. It is rough and dirty, with narrow potholed streets and bleary store windows.
At a quarter after three, when I was beginning to wonder if I were getting a touch of heat exhaustion, she came up beside me. She was dressed in the same clothes she had worn in the Rickrack. Her dress was crudely pinned under the arm where I had torn it. There were purple patches of exhaustion under her eyes.
“Come quickly,” she said.
I walked down a number of side streets with her. She kept her eyes downcast. She walked as though she were unutterably weary.
“In here,” she said. It was a coffee shop. Octagonal tile floor, wire-legged tables and chairs, a smell of disinfectantand burned grease. The only other customer was an old man with his head cradled in his arms on the table. He could have been sleeping or dead. She led the way to a table that was around a jog in the wall, out of sight of the front windows. A ceiling fan creaked slowly overhead.
She sat down and shut her eyes for long seconds. I asked if she wanted some iced coffee. She nodded without opening her eyes. The shuffling waitress set the two glasses down on the imitation marble with more force than was necessary.
The girl opened her eyes and looked at me. I had not been able to see the color of her eyes in the Rickrack. They were green, with small flecks of brown in the iris, close to the pupil.
“You did very well,” she said. “I had to watch and make certain you weren’t followed.”
“What is this all about?” I asked.
“I thought it would be so simple. Now I don’t know how to say it. I called you because there is no one else. No one to help, and the trouble is your fault.”
“
My
fault! Look, I didn’t ask you to …”
“Please. I have been up all night and I am not thinking clearly or saying things well, Mr. Bryant.” She opened her purse, took something out, and handed it to me. I looked at it under the edge of the table. It was a shoemaker’s awl with the metal spike cut off to half its length and resharpened to a needle point.
“What’s this?”
She sighed. “Mr. Bryant, I had my orders. I was to put my arm around you. We had to use care in following you, because the others were following you. It could be done in any dimly lighted place where you would sit down. If you stood at the bar, I was to go to you there and get you to sit at a table. I was ordered to put my arm around you. That instrument would be in my hand. There is a place right there.…” She leaned over and touched the nape of my neck right at the base of my skull. “A small hollow. I was taught about it very carefully and made to practice how it is done. It is very quick and very good. You wouldn’t cry out. You would slumpas though falling asleep. When my companions saw that, one of them would join us and we would take everything from your body and leave you there.”
I stared at her. “Lovely people you run around with!”
“Please. It would have been very easy but somehow I could not do it. I tried to do it my own way. I did not follow orders. That is a very serious thing. It is something we are
I sauntered over near the elevators, and as one was about to close its doors I hurried over and got in. I got off at the third floor, walked to the back of the store, and went down the stairs and out the fire door at the back. I walked through a parking lot to a parallel street and went down two blocks before turning back onto Canal Street. I took the Algiers ferry at the foot of Canal. There was a faint hot breeze on the Mississippi. At ten minutes of three I stood at the corner of Monroe and Wiedman, bundle in hand. Algiers is as complete a refutation of the romance inherent in the name as its African namesake. It is rough and dirty, with narrow potholed streets and bleary store windows.
At a quarter after three, when I was beginning to wonder if I were getting a touch of heat exhaustion, she came up beside me. She was dressed in the same clothes she had worn in the Rickrack. Her dress was crudely pinned under the arm where I had torn it. There were purple patches of exhaustion under her eyes.
“Come quickly,” she said.
I walked down a number of side streets with her. She kept her eyes downcast. She walked as though she were unutterably weary.
“In here,” she said. It was a coffee shop. Octagonal tile floor, wire-legged tables and chairs, a smell of disinfectantand burned grease. The only other customer was an old man with his head cradled in his arms on the table. He could have been sleeping or dead. She led the way to a table that was around a jog in the wall, out of sight of the front windows. A ceiling fan creaked slowly overhead.
She sat down and shut her eyes for long seconds. I asked if she wanted some iced coffee. She nodded without opening her eyes. The shuffling waitress set the two glasses down on the imitation marble with more force than was necessary.
The girl opened her eyes and looked at me. I had not been able to see the color of her eyes in the Rickrack. They were green, with small flecks of brown in the iris, close to the pupil.
“You did very well,” she said. “I had to watch and make certain you weren’t followed.”
“What is this all about?” I asked.
“I thought it would be so simple. Now I don’t know how to say it. I called you because there is no one else. No one to help, and the trouble is your fault.”
“
My
fault! Look, I didn’t ask you to …”
“Please. I have been up all night and I am not thinking clearly or saying things well, Mr. Bryant.” She opened her purse, took something out, and handed it to me. I looked at it under the edge of the table. It was a shoemaker’s awl with the metal spike cut off to half its length and resharpened to a needle point.
“What’s this?”
She sighed. “Mr. Bryant, I had my orders. I was to put my arm around you. We had to use care in following you, because the others were following you. It could be done in any dimly lighted place where you would sit down. If you stood at the bar, I was to go to you there and get you to sit at a table. I was ordered to put my arm around you. That instrument would be in my hand. There is a place right there.…” She leaned over and touched the nape of my neck right at the base of my skull. “A small hollow. I was taught about it very carefully and made to practice how it is done. It is very quick and very good. You wouldn’t cry out. You would slumpas though falling asleep. When my companions saw that, one of them would join us and we would take everything from your body and leave you there.”
I stared at her. “Lovely people you run around with!”
“Please. It would have been very easy but somehow I could not do it. I tried to do it my own way. I did not follow orders. That is a very serious thing. It is something we are
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