It was still intensely hot in the cabin and I was thirsty. I stripped off my shirt and slacks, hung them draped over hangers on the front porch so the perspiration would dry, took the water pail, and walked up the trail to the spring in my shorts. I dipped up a pail full with the small aluminum saucepan hanging from a nail driven into a sweetgum tree beside the spring, took a good, long drink of it, and came back.
I arranged the paper beside the typewriter, got a pad of cigarettes and some matches out of one of the bags, and located an ash tray. I dragged up a chair and sat down before the typewriter. It was deathly silent. I had this whole end of the world to myself and I was about to put down on paper the highest-priced short piece of prose ever written. I grinned. All it took to be a successful writer was a guaranteed audience; Hitler had proved that.
Never mind the gags, I thought impatiently; get to work. I rolled a sheet of the yellow paper into the machine for a rough first draft and began. I made a lot of mistakes at first because I wasn’t familiar with the machine and hadn’t used one for a long time. I didn’t like the way it began, and after I’d wadded it up I didn’t like the next version either. The pile of discarded yellow pages grew higher on the floor beside me. Sweat ran down my body and I got a towel to mop it off. It was an hour and a half before I had it all down the way I wanted, a little more than a full page, single spaced.
I read it over:
To the District Attorneys at Houston, Texas, and “Wayles, Texas, it began.
My name is John Gallagher Harlan. I was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma, July 10th, 1927, the son of Patrick and Marianne Harlan, both now deceased. I am a graduate of ____________ University, class of 1949, and former professional football player. I am six feet, three inches tall, and weigh two hundred and thirty pounds. There is a hirsute mole under my left shoulder-blade, and considerable scar tissue around and below my left knee. An examination of the bones of my left leg will show it was badly broken in two places, not very long ago. The bridgework, the result of teeth lost in football scrimmages, was done by Paul J. Scarff, DDS, Medical-Dental Building, San Francisco, California.
The above data is unimportant except for purposes of possible identification and verification of the fact I actually existed, because if you receive this at all it will only be because I am dead. I will have been killed by Daniel R. Tallant and/or Mrs. Howard L. Cannon, both of Wayles, Texas.
I do not know whether you will be able to find my body, or, in the event that you do, whether you will ever be able to gather sufficient evidence to convict them, but this will assist you to the extent of explaining their motive. I was killed to prevent my disclosure of the following information:
Both Mrs. Cannon and Mr. Tallant are already guilty of murder. Mrs. Cannon’s husband did not die as the result of an automobile accident on the night of March 4th, 1956, as was believed, but was bludgeoned to death by Mr. Tallant, with Mrs. Cannon’s connivance and/or assistance, shortly afterward as he lay unconscious in the wreckage of his car. I was present at the time, pinned under the side of my own automobile some sixty yards away. I heard voices, followed by the sound of a blow, but feigned unconsciousness to keep from being killed myself.
I went on to explain how I had seen her out there near the lake a few minutes before and how Cannon had driven me off the road because he believed I was Tallant and that she was in the car with me.
I wound it up:
This will also clear up the death of Mr. Wilton L. Purvis of 10325 Caroline Street, Houston, Texas, on the night of August 8, 1956. He was attempting to blackmail the aforesaid two murderers on the strength of the evidence he had collected against them, and was himself killed by a single powerful blow on the head delivered by Mr. Tallant. I was present in the apartment at the time, in the kitchen where I could not be seen from the living-room or the doorway to the dining-room. Mr. Tallant gained access to the Purvis apartment by posing as a Federal radio inspector investigating complaints of neighborhood television interference. In corroboration of the fact that I was there, I offer the following: Mr. Purvis was wearing a dark blue sports shirt and gray flannel slacks. His left arm was broken by the blow. There were two bottles of imported beer on the drainboard in the kitchen, opened but untouched.
I am aware that none of the above is acceptable as evidence in a court of law, but I believe that, given the facts, you can eventually get a confession from them or enough evidence of your own to convict.
Your inference, as to why I withheld this information is correct. I am using it for extortion, to the extent of $100,000. This disclosure, I realize, will tend greatly to discredit my story on the ground that I am a criminal myself, even if a first offender. There is another, and slightly more subtle, side to this, however, if you will consider it closely. I freely admit the attempted extortion; the mere fact that you are reading this guarantees I am dead. Therefore it is, in effect, a deathbed confession, and should carry some weight.
Signed: JOHN GALLAGHER HARLAN.
I rolled in two fresh sheets of paper with a carbon between; and copied it very neatly, going slowly and making no mistakes. When I had finished I tore the originals into strips, wadded them up with all the discarded versions and the carbon paper, and burned them in the cookstove, later using the poker to reduce the ashes to powder. The two pages of the carbon copy I folded and left on the table. I closed the typewriter and put it away. So much for that.
There were two rolls of spare recorder tape in one of the bags. Removing them from the flat cardboard boxes they were packed in, I took them down to the edge of the lake and threw them far out into the water. They sank. Coming back to the kitchen, I put the six bass bugs I’d bought in one of the boxes, wrapped it with some of the brown paper, tied it with twine, and put on an address sticker. The other box was identical, and would look just the same when it was wrapped. I took both of them out to the car and put them in the glove compartment, along with the wrapping paper, address labels, twine, and a book of stamps.
I took the .45 automatic out of the bag, loaded the clip and inserted it, and put it in the car. It was late in the afternoon now. I walked out on the little pier where the skiff was tied up with a padlock and chain and went for a swim. When I came out I built up a fire in the stove, made some coffee, and fried a couple of eggs. Afterward I washed the dishes and sat on the front porch in the gathering dusk, smoking a cigarette. This time tomorrow I’d be well on my way to becoming rich, or any one or all three of us might be dead. I wasn’t too nervous. I felt about the same way I always did standing in my own end zone on opening kickoff while I watched the ball come sailing down toward me.
When it was completely dark I dressed in a charcoal flannel suit, crepe-soled shoes, and a blue shirt. I made sure I had the pencil flashlight and my pen, locked the windows and doors, and went out and got in the car. I was as ready now as I was ever going to be.
8
Just before I came out on the highway I pulled off the road among the pines far enough to be out of range of any passing headlights, and waited. No car came out behind me. I lit a cigarette, and looked at my watch. It was a little after eight. I still had lots of time to put in, and this was a good place to find out if he was checking up on me. An hour dragged by, and then another. Mosquitoes buzzed around my ears and an owl went who-who-who-ah-who somewhere out in the timber. Now and then a car went past on the pavement beyond but none of them turned in. I pulled back onto the road and went on. About halfway to town, headlights showed up behind me. I slowed deliberately to see if he would pass. He did. It was an old pickup truck. It went on and out of sight.
When I came into town I turned left, taking to the side streets. There were big trees on both sides, with street lights only at the intersections. It was after eleven now and few cars were about. Some six blocks over I turned north again until I hit the street that went up the hill past the Cannon house. I followed it for several blocks, until I came to the playing field which was on the left. The street began to rise here, going up the hill.
There were four or five houses on the right. I pulled to the curb in dense shadow under the streetside trees and cut the lights. There was no one in sight; no cars went past. I waited a few minutes, letting my eyes become accustomed to the darkness. There was no sound except a radio playing faintly somewhere inside one of the houses. I got out and lifted out the recorder, checking to be sure I had the three-way outlet plug, the ball of twine, and my pocketknife.
Stars shone brilliantly in a clear sky, but there was no moon. I crossed the street and went up past the playing field. There were no street lights ahead now. The sidewalk stopped and I stayed near the edge of the pavement, ready to fade into the darkness away from the road if a car appeared. None did. I went on up the hill. When I reached the wooded area behind and below the Cannon house I crossed the street again and stepped in among the pines. The dense shadows were like velvet. I stepped softly on pine needles, moving on up toward the light I could see briefly at intervals through the trees. I came out at last in a narrow open strip just behind the patio wall, the easement where the utility poles went through in back of the lots. Standing beside one of the poles, I looked at the rear of the house.
Lights were on in the living-room. The drape was still drawn across the big plate glass window, but I could see through it well enough to make out four people seated around a card table. It looked like two men and two women. I wondered if one of them could be Tallant but didn’t see any silhouette that appeared to be large enough. It was going to be a long wait, though, because even after these people went home I had to be sure he wasn’t going to show.
A half hour crept past. I began to want a cigarette very badly, but I couldn’t light one here in the open. I put the recorder down near the pole and walked back among the pines. When I was screened by them on all sides I hunkered down and lit one with a brief flare of a match. I smoked it slowly and ground the stub out against the ground. When I came back up in the easement the bridge game was breaking up. They all disappeared into the hallway at the left end of the living-room, and in a moment one person came back. Presumably that was Mrs. Cannon. I could hear two cars driving away from the front of the house. Lights began to go out in the room. Then one came on at the rear of the right wing of the house. That would be her bedroom. The curtains over the windows were opaque here, but I could see the glow of illumination around the edges. In about twenty minutes these lights clicked off too and the whole house was in darkness. She had gone to bed. Alone? So far, I thought. If Tallant had been one of the bridge players, he would have left to come back later. I looked at the luminous hands of my watch again. It was ten minutes past midnight.
I settled down for the monotonous wait. Mosquitoes swarmed about my ears and bit me on the backs of the hands. Then suddenly a light came on behind a small ground-glass window just forward of the bedroom. Bath, I thought. Did that mean Tallant was there? No. It went off again almost immediately. She was probably after a sleeping pill or glass of water. If Cannon’s head had looked anything like Purvis’s after they hit him, I thought, she probably bought sleeping pills by the quart.
The minutes dragged on: It was one o’clock. Then one-thirty. There were no signs of Tallant. He must not be coming, or he’d have been here by this time. Some Tallant, I thought. I’d have been in there before the light bulb got cold. I thought of her in that room alone and wondered if she slept in one of those shortie nightgowns or maybe just in the raw. Then I wrenched my mind away from her and cursed under my breath. Thinking about her always made me uncomfortable. Well, maybe she’d told him not to come. That happened, too.
The house was dark and silent and the others in the neighborhood had long since put out their lights. I began to grow impatient, and a little nervous, wanting to get it over with, but I made myself wait. Being caught in there would ruin everything. Give her until three o’clock, anyway. She should be asleep then if she was going to sleep at all. I began to worry about the door again. Suppose she had discovered the night latch was off? But I’d seen her leave the living-room to go to bed, and she hadn’t checked it. Stop stewing about it. Mosquitoes sang about my face. I flailed at them with my hands. It was a long, long hour.
When the hands of the watch came up to three I was tense and eager. I set the recorder on top of the wall and climbed over, landing softly on the grass on the other side. Going slowly and avoiding the lawn furniture from memory, I eased up to the flagstone terrace outside the living-room door. The soft-soled shoes made no sound on it. I located the door and reached for the screen. It didn’t open.
I stood for a moment, cursing silently. I’d been right there at the door and hadn’t had brains enough to check the screen to see if it was unlatched. But maybe it had been latched since then. That would mean the door was locked again. Well, there was no way to tell until I got the screen open. I set down the recorder and took out my pocketknife.
Switching on the little flashlight, I ran the beam along the edge of the frame inside until I located the hook. It took only a few seconds to work the knife blade through the mesh, place it under the hook, and pry upward. It came free with a little rattle as it bounced up and fell back against the wood. I switched off the light and waited, holding my breath. The night was silent all around me. It was all right, I thought; she couldn’t have heard it inside with all the doors and windows closed. The door, damn it, the door! I eased the screen open and took hold of the knob. It turned. I breathed softly.
I stepped inside, gently closed the door, and pushed around the end of the drape. It was cool after the heat outside. The blackness was impenetrable. I stood motionless for a long minute, listening intently. There was utter silence except for a faint whirring noise somewhere in the house from the blower mechanism of the air-conditioner. I switched on the flashlight and stepped across the room to the long, custom-built sofa. Lifting the red-shaded lamp off the end table, I placed it on the sofa and moved the table out of the way. Nothing made any sound on the carpet. Squatting, I looked behind the sofa. It was fine. There was plenty of room for the recorder, between the back of the sofa and the wall. I set the light down on the table, picked up the end of the sofa, and moved it out from the wall until I could get behind it.
I was working fast now, and silently, with all the moves worked out and memorized in advance. Taking out my knife, I cut away a section of the fabric of the sofa back, near the center, and stuffed it in one of the pockets of my coat. I could see the coil springs now, and the padding in front of them. I opened the case of the recorder, took out the microphone, and put it in position between two of the springs, facing the front. I lashed it securely in place with some of the twine. Feeling around with my fingers, I was satisfied. It wasn’t quite touching the padding.
I turned and located the electrical outlet in the baseboard under the drapery of the window. Just as I had thought, it was a dual receptacle with both circuits in use by the big lamps at each end of the sofa. I pulled out one of the lamp cords, inserted the multiple plug in its place, and then plugged in the lamp and the recorder in two of its outlets. I put the recorder on the floor against the wall and set the controls, all except the on-off switch. Moving the sofa back to its original position very carefully, I replaced the end table, and put the lamp back on it. Sitting on the end of the sofa, I reached back with my right hand. I could just touch the switch. I turned it on and brushed my fingertip against one of the spools. It was turning. The drape wasn’t fouling it anywhere; everything should be all right. I turned it off again and stood up. Moving away a little, I swung the light around the end of the sofa to see if there was anything visible that would give it away. It was all right. The end table cut off any view behind the sofa.
I straightened and wiped my face with my handkerchief, suddenly conscious that in spite of the air-conditioning I was soaked with sweat. I had been oblivious to everything, working under pressure with tremendous concentration. It was all set now; the only thing that remained was getting out of here. I swept the light around once more to be sure I hadn’t
left anything, and eased over to the door. Pulling back the drape, I slipped out, closed the door gently, eased the screen back into position, and was outside on the terrace. I exhaled a long breath and felt the tension unwind inside me. I went back down the hill and looked at my watch as I unlocked the door and got in the car. It was twenty minutes past three.
I rolled down the windows and lit a cigarette. I had four and a half hours to wait, and then came the tricky and dangerous part of it. I wondered if I’d be able to sleep if I sacked out somewhere. No. There wasn’t a chance. I was still keyed too high. It would be better not to go back to the cabin, anyway. I didn’t know where Tallant was, and as long as I didn’t it would be a good idea to stay away from anywhere he could find me. The best thing to do right now was stay out of sight and keep moving. I drove back through the quiet streets and hit the road going south, but when I came to the turnoff I went on past. It was twenty miles down to Breward. I drove slowly. When I got down there I found an all-night café open on the highway and had some breakfast.
I took my time eating it and read yesterday’s paper as if I hadn’t heard any news since Hitler marched into Poland. Dawn was breaking when I started back. A few miles out of Breward I found a place to pull off the road at an old abandoned sawmill. There was a huge pile of sawdust and a pond with pads growing in it. I got out of the car and sat on a big timber, smoking cigarettes and thinking while it grew light and the sun came up. The air was intensely still. I looked at my watch every few minutes, growing tighter now.