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Authors: Donald Hamilton
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A plausible sequence of events wasn’t hard to imagine, if you dismissed the notion of a frameup and took the glove to be exactly what it seemed: a betraying clue dropped at the scene by the real murderess, call her Genevieve Drilling for convenience. Afterwards, realizing that she’d left it, Genevieve could have made contact somehow with her accomplice, Ruyter, and explained the spot she was in. He could have agreed to clean up after her, by giving the police a solution of the case so simple and tidy that they’d be glad to overlook the minor discrepancy of a glove that didn’t quite fit. In any case, whatever his reasons, he’d obviously come here to tie up the loose ends of one murder by committing another.
Of course, neither Genevieve nor her Hans knew that the police didn’t have the missing glove: I had it. Perhaps Elaine would not have died if they’d known that. And perhaps she would not have died if she had not been expecting me and therefore, perhaps, despite my warning, had not been quite as careful about opening the door as she should have been. I grimaced and shoved the glove back into my pocket. You can take the guilt of the whole world on your shoulders any time you want to try, and many people do, but I didn’t have time for the sackcloth-and-ashes routine just then.
As I started for the door, the telephone rang. I hesitated, but it seemed useful to know who was calling, so I took out my handkerchief and used it to pick up the instrument on the third ring. A young male voice I’d heard before in some wet woods in the dark, said:
“Elaine? We just got word from Denver on this Clevenger character you’re seeing tonight. He seems to be okay, a real, honest-to-God private eye... Elaine? Who’s there?”
The decision wasn’t hard to make. I could hang up and leave Larry Fenton and Marcus Johnston guessing, but Elaine had obviously told them she was expecting me—which answered one of Mac’s questions. All three of them had apparently been working together. Under the circumstances, the remaining two would be bound to come around to question me when they learned what had happened to Elaine. It was better to give an impression of boyish frankness.
I said, “This is the Clevenger character. If you’re the Larry character, you’d better get over here. Bring a shovel, you’ve got something to bury. If you want me afterwards, I’ll be out at the campground. If you don’t know where, it’s time you found out.”
“Listen, you stay right where you—”
I put the phone down. I looked at the bed, but there wasn’t anybody there to talk to. I mean, sentimentally telling a dead girl goodbye, or dramatically promising to avenge her, is just a way of talking to yourself, and they lock people up for that. Besides, I reflected grimly, I wasn’t being paid to wield the sword of retribution. On the contrary, I was under strict orders to help the murderers escape free and clear.
9
The last pink glow of sunset was just fading from the sky when I came out of there. I reached my car without incident, drove away, and stopped at a filling station after a dozen blocks. While the attendant was putting gas into the Volks, I went into the restroom, locked the door, took out the stained white glove and my knife, and cut my private murder clue into small pieces, which I then flushed down the john a few at a time, not wanting to risk clogging the plumbing.
On the assumption that the incriminating glove did belong to Genevieve Drilling—and who else would Hans Ruyter be covering for?—I couldn’t take the risk of keeping it around any longer. I could think of no useful purpose it could serve me, either as Dave Clevenger or as Matt Helm, and I couldn’t afford to let it serve anybody else, certainly not anybody with a legalistic mind. The last place for Genevieve to be, if I was to carry out my instructions, was in jail. She was my baby, all murderous, acid-throwing five feet seven of her; and Hans
A plausible sequence of events wasn’t hard to imagine, if you dismissed the notion of a frameup and took the glove to be exactly what it seemed: a betraying clue dropped at the scene by the real murderess, call her Genevieve Drilling for convenience. Afterwards, realizing that she’d left it, Genevieve could have made contact somehow with her accomplice, Ruyter, and explained the spot she was in. He could have agreed to clean up after her, by giving the police a solution of the case so simple and tidy that they’d be glad to overlook the minor discrepancy of a glove that didn’t quite fit. In any case, whatever his reasons, he’d obviously come here to tie up the loose ends of one murder by committing another.
Of course, neither Genevieve nor her Hans knew that the police didn’t have the missing glove: I had it. Perhaps Elaine would not have died if they’d known that. And perhaps she would not have died if she had not been expecting me and therefore, perhaps, despite my warning, had not been quite as careful about opening the door as she should have been. I grimaced and shoved the glove back into my pocket. You can take the guilt of the whole world on your shoulders any time you want to try, and many people do, but I didn’t have time for the sackcloth-and-ashes routine just then.
As I started for the door, the telephone rang. I hesitated, but it seemed useful to know who was calling, so I took out my handkerchief and used it to pick up the instrument on the third ring. A young male voice I’d heard before in some wet woods in the dark, said:
“Elaine? We just got word from Denver on this Clevenger character you’re seeing tonight. He seems to be okay, a real, honest-to-God private eye... Elaine? Who’s there?”
The decision wasn’t hard to make. I could hang up and leave Larry Fenton and Marcus Johnston guessing, but Elaine had obviously told them she was expecting me—which answered one of Mac’s questions. All three of them had apparently been working together. Under the circumstances, the remaining two would be bound to come around to question me when they learned what had happened to Elaine. It was better to give an impression of boyish frankness.
I said, “This is the Clevenger character. If you’re the Larry character, you’d better get over here. Bring a shovel, you’ve got something to bury. If you want me afterwards, I’ll be out at the campground. If you don’t know where, it’s time you found out.”
“Listen, you stay right where you—”
I put the phone down. I looked at the bed, but there wasn’t anybody there to talk to. I mean, sentimentally telling a dead girl goodbye, or dramatically promising to avenge her, is just a way of talking to yourself, and they lock people up for that. Besides, I reflected grimly, I wasn’t being paid to wield the sword of retribution. On the contrary, I was under strict orders to help the murderers escape free and clear.
9
The last pink glow of sunset was just fading from the sky when I came out of there. I reached my car without incident, drove away, and stopped at a filling station after a dozen blocks. While the attendant was putting gas into the Volks, I went into the restroom, locked the door, took out the stained white glove and my knife, and cut my private murder clue into small pieces, which I then flushed down the john a few at a time, not wanting to risk clogging the plumbing.
On the assumption that the incriminating glove did belong to Genevieve Drilling—and who else would Hans Ruyter be covering for?—I couldn’t take the risk of keeping it around any longer. I could think of no useful purpose it could serve me, either as Dave Clevenger or as Matt Helm, and I couldn’t afford to let it serve anybody else, certainly not anybody with a legalistic mind. The last place for Genevieve to be, if I was to carry out my instructions, was in jail. She was my baby, all murderous, acid-throwing five feet seven of her; and Hans
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