Body For Sale Page 11

  My tone and words seemed to tell Mathews for the first time that his treatment wasn’t just spur-of-the-moment action on our part. He twisted his head around to stare at his wife with growing understanding. His eyes developed a strained look.

  “What’s gotten into you, honey?” he asked in a voice that cracked slightly. “You’re not planning anything foolish, are you?”

  Without answering him, Helen turned and left the room. I followed, pulling the door closed behind me and leaving Mathews alone with his thoughts.

  Leading Helen down to the beach, I had her help me heave the boat over rightside up and slide the stern into the water. Then I sent her after fishing gear while I clamped on the outboard motor and laid a set of oars in the bottom.

  Helen returned from the house with a tackle box and two fishing rods. I stowed this equipment in the boat, too.

  Leading her into the shed attached to the cottage, I handed her the Coleman lantern to carry and picked up a four-gallon bucket in each hand. With a puzzled expression on her face she followed me back to the boat, where I set the buckets down on the sand and took the lantern from her.

  The gasoline lantern had a bolt welded to its bottom to serve as a pin which could be inserted into one of the oarlocks. I slipped the pin into place so that the bottom of the lantern rested on the gunwale, looking as though it were precariously balanced, but actually anchored in place.

  Helen spoke for the first time since I had forced her husband into the kitchen at gunpoint. “Why do we have to do all this now if we aren’t going to need the boat until ten?”

  “I want it all set to shove off,” I said. “I want George in the lake as soon after he’s dead as possible. We can’t risk an autopsy showing he drowned an hour or more before you yelled for help.”

  I picked up the two four-gallon buckets.

  “What are you going to do with those?” she asked.

  “Carry water from the lake to fill the bathtub.”

  She looked confused. “Why go to all that trouble? Why not just turn on the tap?”

  “Because an analysis of the water in his lungs would show he drowned in tap water instead of lake water.”

  Her eyes widened. “Will they analyze the water in his lungs?”

  “Probably not. But if they did and found tap water, they’d automatically tag it murder. And we wouldn’t have a chance in the world to beat the rap after rigging it as an accident. We won’t take the chance. This is going to be a foolproof murder.”

  Her expression became one of grudging respect. “You think of everything, don’t you, Tom?”

  “You’d better hope I do,” I growled. “Because if I overlook a single bet, we may end up holding hands in the electric chair.”

  Wading knee-deep into the lake, I filled both buckets and carried them ashore. I refused her offer to carry one to the house, preferring to have her go ahead of me to open doors.

  When we walked into the bedroom, we found Mathews lying on his stomach as we had left him. His eyes followed us as we marched to the bathroom.

  When Helen had flipped on the drain block, I emptied both buckets. It was a long, old-fashioned tub on legs and the nearly eight gallons of water filled it only a couple of inches.

  “This is going to take a number of trips,” I said.

  It took five trips and nearly forty gallons of water before it came up to the level of the overflow drain. And each time we walked through the room, the look of horror on George Mathews’ face increased.

  It was obvious to me that Mathews had figured out why we were filling the bathtub. And the way Helen’s eyes glittered at her husband each time we trooped past made it equally obvious that she was obtaining considerable sadistic pleasure from his mental suffering. She even tried to prolong the ordeal by suggesting, ostensibly out of concern for me, that it would be easier if I carried only one bucket at a time.

  But Mathews’ murder was only a job to me, not a mission of revenge. In spite of my dislike for the man, I found myself feeling a little sorry for him. I continued to carry the double load.

  The whole procedure was carried on in dead silence, neither of us speaking either to each other or to Mathews as we walked back and forth through the room. And Mathews didn’t open his mouth once. At least not until the chore was completed.

  When the tub was full, I returned the buckets to the shed. Re-entering the cottage, I discovered that Mathews had finally broken the prolonged silence. Helen stood in the bedroom doorway looking at him.

  “He knows what’s coming,” she said to me in a flat voice. “He’s been pleading with me to untie him. He thinks this is all your idea.”

  I checked his bonds and found them as tight as ever. Apparently he’d done a little struggling, for his wrists were slightly chafed, but he hadn’t succeeded in loosening the knots.

  I loosened them somewhat, not enough for him to pull his hands free but enough to allow freer circulation, kneaded his wrists for a minute and tightened the bonds again.

  “Why are you trying to make him more comfortable?” Helen inquired coldly.

  It wasn’t out of the goodness of my heart. I just didn’t want the rope marks to show after he was dead. But I saw no point in increasing Mathews’ despair by announcing my purpose. I ignored the question.

  Suddenly Mathews said with a peculiar mixture of eagerness and hopelessness, “Listen, Cavanaugh, I’ll give Helen a divorce if that’s what you want.”

  “She doesn’t want a divorce,” I told him. “I suggested that myself. She wants revenge.”

  “Revenge for what?” he asked on a high note. “Helen, I never did anything to you.”

  The glitter I had periodically noted before appeared in Helen’s eyes again. Approaching the bed, she squatted on her heels so that her face was nearly level with his.

  “Think about your hot little mistress, Gertie Drake,” she hissed at him. “Maybe it will make you feel better when you begin to suck in water.”

  Mathews’ sickly gaze moved from his wife to me, then back again. Knowing it would be useless to deny Gertie’s existence, he tried another tack.

  “Cavanaugh told you about Gertie just to turn you against me, honey. Because he wants you for himself. I admit I played with her a little, but it’s all over. I swear it. After this past weekend I never intended to see her again. You have to believe me.”

  Helen’s lips curled in the expression of a cat getting ready to spit. Reaching down, I drew her to her feet before she could speak.

  “It’s only a quarter of eight,” I said. “We’ve over two hours to wait, and we’re not going to spend it goading the man. Come out of here now.”

  Her eyes continued to glitter back toward her husband, but she allowed herself to be led from the room.

  “Wait!” Mathews called desperately as we reached the door. “Can’t we talk this over?”

  Propelling Helen into the kitchen, I closed the door behind us. But not in time to cut off the long, drawn-out sob that came from the doomed man.

  18

  IN THE KITCHEN HELEN STARED AT ME ALMOST ACCUSINGLY, as though I had somehow spoiled her pleasure.

  “How about a couple of sandwiches or at least a cup of coffee,” I said tactfully. “We haven’t had any dinner.”

  Wordlessly she turned toward the stove.

  She fixed a plate of sandwiches, but the prospect of the task ahead had driven the appetite from both of us. A couple of nibbles was all I could manage, and Helen didn’t even attempt that. We settled for coffee.

  The next two hours dragged interminably. After that one short period in the bedroom when she had momentarily lost control and started to upbraid her husband, Helen showed no desire to go near him. Periodically I went in to loosen his bonds for a moment, but otherwise we left him to his own thoughts.

  These didn’t seem to be very pleasant. He had sunk into a sort of hopeless lethargy, just lying inert and waiting for the inevitable. He made no attempt to speak to me when I was in the room or even to look
at me.

  Helen’s emotions underwent several visible changes during our wait. When Mathews had first arrived at the cottage, she had been so tense she seemed on the verge of flying apart. Later, when I was carrying water, she had become deadly calm, still later had flared with anger at the helpless man. Now, in reaction to her anger, she at first seemed to grow numb, then gradually nervous tension set in until she had to control herself from trembling.

  At eight thirty she poured herself a straight shot of whisky and gave me an inquiring look.

  “One, maybe,” I said. “We don’t want to get drunk and louse this thing up.”

  She filled another shot glass and ran water into two tumblers for chasers.

  “Cheers,” I said sarcastically, tossing mine off.

  Helen drank hers, shuddered slightly and immediately poured another.

  “You’d better go easy on that,” I warned.

  Throwing me a defiant look, she tossed it off, chased it with a sip of water and poured a third. Reaching across the table, I drew the shot glass over to my side.

  “Two is enough,” I said in a definite tone.

  After staring at me indignantly for a moment, she dropped her eyes. When I lit two cigarettes and handed one to her, she said in a subdued voice, “Thanks.”

  She made no effort to talk me into another drink during the next hour, but her gaze kept straying to the full shot glass which stood untouched at my elbow. The two drinks she had already seemed to have quieted her nerves somewhat She kept shifting around in her chair, but she no longer looked as though she were on the verge of leaping out of her skin.

  At nine thirty I said to her, “Better put on whatever you customarily wear fishing.”

  Her face grew still. Staring at the full shot glass, she asked quietly, “May I have that now, please?”

  I frowned at her. “Alcohol mixes with murder even worse than it does with driving, Helen.”

  “It won’t make me drunk,” she said on a note of near pleading. “I need it, Tom.”

  Studying her face, I decided that she probably did. I pushed the shot glass across to her. Giving me a grateful look, she threw it down, made a face and took a sip of water. She continued to sit for a moment, waiting for the calming effect of the shot to spread through her. She visibly relaxed.

  Finally she rose from the table and moved toward the bedroom. Following, I stood in the doorway and watched as she took a blue cotton blouse and a pair of blue jeans from her closet and laid them on the bed next to Mathews. From a dresser drawer she obtained a brassiere and panties, laid them with the other clothing.

  For a time she stood looking down at her husband without expression. Then, slowly and deliberately, she peeled off her swimming suit.

  It was an exquisite bit of torture such as only a feminine mind could conceive. She was fully conscious of the beauty of her body and was giving Mathews a last look at what he no longer possessed. At the same time, by so casually stripping in front of me, she was flaunting our relationship in his face.

  The demonstration succeeded in rousing Mathews from his hopeless stupor. Momentarily his nostrils flared in shocked and impotent rage. Then the flame died and he only looked sick.

  The man’s brief show of emotion spurred Helen to attempt rousing him again. Her eyes glittered down at him, then she moved over to me, put her arms about my neck and pressed her naked body against mine.

  “A few minutes one way or the other won’t make any difference, will it, darling?” she asked in a soft voice.

  I stood with my hands at my sides, frowning down at her, not saying anything.

  Raising her lips to within an inch of mine, she whispered, “Take me first, Tom. Right now.”

  As usual when she had some alcohol in her, her desire developed rapidly. I could literally feel it begin to flame through her body. Despite the presence of a witness, some of her feeling transmitted itself to me, rousing me even though the situation repelled me.

  Placing my hands on the swell of her hips, I pushed her slightly away. But her arms remained about my neck.

  “Not in front of him,” I said a little thickly. “Stop it.”

  Her arms tightened about my neck and she threw herself against me again. Forcing her lips against mine, her body began to writhe with passion.

  “Now,” she said. “Right now. You have to.”

  With one part of my mind I knew it was her desire for vengeance that had suddenly spurred her desire. Yet it wasn’t simulated passion. She had suddenly became so on fire with overwhelming desire that it demanded instant satisfaction. Despite my horror at the situation, I couldn’t prevent an answering flame from engulfing me.

  “In the kitchen,” I said huskily, attempting to push her toward the door.

  “Here,” she gasped, resisting my effort to shove her from the room.

  Her arms came from about my neck and she began to tug downward at the waist of my swim trunks. The forty-five automatic, still tucked into the waistband, clattered to the floor.

  If the mere wish to torture her husband had started her demonstration, it had now gone beyond that. She wasn’t pretending passion. It was such a raging desire that her passion on previous occasions seemed near frigidity in comparison. For the first time in our relationship she had gone completely out of control. She was a consuming flame that could be quenched in only one way.

  I couldn’t help myself. I forgot the man on the bed. I forgot everything but the passion that surged up in me to match her own. We fell to the floor where we were, locked in each other’s arms.

  “Yes,” she said with incoherent eagerness. “Yes, yes, yes.” Then she began to moan.

  When I finally staggered to my feet, she lay motionless for a time, her limbs ungracefully sprawled and her eyes closed. Her breasts heaved spasmodically with her breathing until it gradually began to quiet.

  Glancing at the bed, I saw that Mathews’ face was turned toward us, but his eyes were squeezed tightly closed. His cheeks were wet with tears and he was sobbing his heart out.

  Unsteadily I pulled up my trunks, picked up the gun and dropped it into my open bag, which lay on the floor next to the dresser. Helen slowly opened her eyes, then rose to her feet. The expression of sadistic triumph she threw at the man on the bed sent a wave of revulsion over me.

  I very nearly called off the whole thing right there. I had to steel myself with the thought of Helen’s fortune in order to force myself to go on.

  Taking her time, her eyes continuing to glitter at the sobbing Mathews, Helen dressed in her fishing costume. She didn’t put on shoes, apparently in the habit of fishing barefoot.

  “I’m ready,” she said quietly.

  Mathews choked off his sobs and his eyes popped open. He stared at us in sudden fear.

  Approaching the bed, I got an arm under his chest and another around his legs. Understandably enough he refused to co-operate, wriggling in his bonds so much that I couldn’t lift him.

  “I guess you’ll have to help,” I told Helen. “Take his legs and I’ll take his head.”

  Together we managed to get him off the bed. He began to plead.

  “Don’t do it, for God’s sake,” he said in a near whimper as we carried him into the bathroom. “Please, Helen! For God’s sake, Cavanaugh! Don’t do it. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll disappear and never bother you again. I swear I will!”

  We got him suspended over the tub, when suddenly he began to scream. He renewed his struggles, too, so violently that we nearly dropped him.

  Falling to one knee, I lowered the upper part of his body into the water while Helen, desperately holding on to his threshing legs, tried to help guide him downward. The screaming stopped abruptly as I shoved his head under the water.

  I was conscious that behind me it was only with supreme effort that Helen was able to hold his legs still as he fought for his life.

  After what seemed an eon, but was probably only a matter of a minute or two, there was a horrible gurgling sound and hi
s threshing grew weaker and weaker until it stopped altogether.

  I stood up and looked at Helen. Releasing Mathews’ legs, she backed unsteadily to the door and leaned against it, needing its support. Mathews slid a little farther forward into the tub, his knees flopped past the inside edge and his legs made such a loud splash, we both jumped.

  Helen kept staring at the tub. She began to shake uncontrollably.

  I found that I didn’t want to look at her. Leaning over Mathews, I untied his hands and feet, coiled the rope and laid it on the edge of the washbowl. Examining his wrists, I could find no evidence of rope burn. My periodic loosening of the bonds and massaging of his wrists had prevented that.

  A slight choking sound made me look up.

  Helen still leaned against the door, and now tears were streaming down her face. “He’s dead, isn’t he?” she said in a near hysterical whimper.

  “You wanted him that way,” I said sharply. “Get hold of yourself. It’s a little late to cry now.”

  “He’s dead,” she repeated dully. “I’ll never see him again.”

  Walking over to her, I took her by the arms and gave her a slight shake. “If you go to pieces now, we’re both finished, Helen. You’ve still got a big role to play.”

  She gazed at me sightlessly and repeated again in the same dull tone, “He’s dead. We killed him.”

  Deliberately I brought my palm across her face in a stinging slap. Shock replaced the dullness in her eyes and she looked at me incredulously.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just an antidote for hysteria. You all right now?”

  Her hand felt her cheek and she continued to stare at me. Then, abruptly, her shoulders slumped and she said in a small voice, “I’ll be all right.”

  “Then let’s get moving. The faster we work now, the better our chances are of beating the electric chair.”

  That completed her recovery, which is why I said it. Up to now Helen’s mind had been too full of vengeance to think of consequences. A gentle reminder of what we were both up against if we didn’t make this a perfect job might keep her mind on her work.