This Way for a Shroud

As if he were some freak, some revolting object of pity, they would hurriedly look away, make some excuse – anything so long as they didn't have to stay facing him, and she would do that, and when she did, he would kill her.

Moe charged back into the room.

"Come on! Let's go! We've exactly half an hour to get there, do the job and get away, and the goddamn joint's the other side of the town."

Pete picked up a bundle of magazines, checked to make sure the three-inch, razor-sharp ice-pick was in its sheath under his coat, and followed Moe at a run down the dirty rickety stairs and out to the ancient Packard parked at the kerb.

Although it looked old, the Packard's engine was almost as good as new under Moe's skilful handling, and the car shot away from the kerb with a burst of speed that always surprised Pete.

"Here's what we do," Moe said, talking out of the side of his mouth. "I stay wid the heep and keep the engine running. Yuh ring the bell. If she comes to the door, give her the spiel about the magazines, and get her to invite yuh in. If someone else comes to the door, ask for her: Miss Coleman, see? Get her alone. Make out yer coy or something, see? Then give it to her. Hit her hard, and she won't squeal. Then beat it. Use yer rod if yuh have to. Get back in the heep. We beat it to Wilcox an' 14th Street and ditch the heep. Dutch'll pick us up and take us to the club. We take a speed-boat to Reid Key an' an airplane to Cuba."

"Okay," Pete said irritably. "I know all that by heart."

"Yeah, so do I, but it don't hurt to run over it again. The worse spot'll be getting to the club. If we get there, it's a cinch. Cuba! Gee! Yuh ever been to Cuba? I seen pictures of the dump. Terrific! And the women . . . !" He pursed his thin mouth and gave a shrill whistle. "Brother! Just wait until I get among those brown-skinned honies!"

Pete didn't say anything. He was scarcely listening. He was thinking that he was at last approaching the climax of his life. For months now he had thought about this moment: the moment when he would take a life; when he would inflict on someone something worse than had been inflicted on him, and he felt the cold knot tighten inside him.

"This is it," Moe said after five minutes' driving. "Lennox Avenue. She's staying with some frill called Bunty Boyd. I dunno wad yuh do about her. Hit her too if yuh have to." He slowed down to a crawl and drove the car past a long row of four-storey houses. "There it is, across the way." He swung the car across the road and pulled up. That's the one; three houses up. I'll wait here. I'll have the heep movin' towards yuh as yuh come out."

Pete picked up his bundle of magazines, opened the car door and got out. He had a sick feeling inside him, and his hands felt like ice.

"Yuh okay?" Moe asked, staring at him through the car window. "This is important, Pete."

"I'm okay," Pete said. He looked at his wrist-watch. The time was two minutes past half-past ten. He had twenty-one minutes to do the job and get clear.

He walked quickly towards the house, emptying his mind of thought. It would be all right, he told himself, when he saw the look in her eyes. This sick feeling would go away then, and he would enjoy doing what he had come to do.

As he walked up the path that ran between two small lawns, he saw the curtain of one of the ground-floor windows move. He mounted the steps leading to the front door. There were four name-plates and four bells by the side of the door. As he read the name-plates and found Bunty Boyd's apartment was on the second floor, he felt he was being watched, and he looked round sharply in time to see the curtain of the ground-floor window drop hurriedly into place and the dim shadow of a man move away.

Pete rang the second-floor apartment bell, opened the front door and walked across the small hall and climbed the stairs. As he reached the second floor he heard a radio playing swing music. He crossed the landing as the front door of the apartment jerked open.

He felt his mouth suddenly turn dry and his heart skip a beat, then he found himself looking at a blonde-haired girl, wearing a white beach frock, whose young, animated face had a chocolate-box prettiness. She came forward, smiling, but the moment she caught sight of his face she came to an abrupt standstill, and her eyes opened wide and her smile went away.

The look he had come to expect jumped into her eyes, and he knew then it would be all right. He felt a rising viciousness inside him that left him a little breathless.

He forced himself to smile and said in his quiet, gentle voice, Is Miss Coleman in, please?"

"Have – have you come to see Frankie?" the girl asked. "Oh! Then you – you must be Burt Stevens. She won't be a minute. Will you wait just a moment?" She spun around on her heels and ran back into the apartment before he could speak.