Free Nothing More than Murder by Jim Thompson Page B

like old Joseph do?”
    “B-But—”
    “You do have insurance on the show?”
    “Certainly, I have. But, goddamnit—”
    “Don’t be vehement, laddie. I’m on your side.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, but— but —” My voice rose, and he frowned and started to call me down. And then his eyes narrowed, and he just sat there watching me. It wasn’t necessary to tell me to shut up. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t move.
    You see? He had the whole thing wrong, and yet he was in the right. He was right enough to pin my ears back and keep them pinned, if he wanted to. And he would want to. He’d play it for all it was worth.
    But, bad as that was, it wasn’t what really got me. What got me, what made me feel like I was going crazy, was the realization that the woman was going to die for nothing. Her death wasn’t going to mean a thing. It was just murder, nothing more than murder, with none of us better off than if she had lived.
    And now there wasn’t any way I could stop it. I knew those bus schedules backward and forward; and I knew it was too late.
    There’s nothing quite so silent as film row on Saturday night. The Playgrand exchange was half a dozen doors up the street, but when their phones began ringing they sounded like they were in the next room.
    They stopped ringing in Playgrand and began in Utopian. And then they rang in Colfax and Wolfe. And finally—
    Hap was watching me like a hawk. He spit on the carpet without ever taking his eyes off me, and picked up his phone.
    “Yes,” he said. “Righto, operator. Put ’em on…Mr. Wilmot? Why, yes. I believe I can reach him. Was there some message you—”
    “Give me that phone,” I said, and grabbed for it.
    He planted his foot in my stomach, and I doubled up with the wind knocked out of me.
    “What?” he said. “Why, that’s terrible! I can’t tell you how sorry I— Certainly, I will! Certainly. As a matter of fact, he’s just stepped into the office. I’ll break the news to him gently.”
    He hung up the receiver, poured a glassful of whisky, and handed it to me.
    “Brace yourself, old man. There’s been a terrible accident. Your wife—”
    There was a grin on his face a foot wide.

14
    All Stoneville is grieving over the death of Elizabeth Barclay Wilmot, wife of Joseph J. Wilmot, local theater magnate, who passed away in a fire at the Wilmot estate Saturday night. Cause of the fire has not been determined, but it is suspected that rats gnawing at the wiring may have been responsible. The fire broke out about nine o’clock, shortly after Mrs. Wilmot had returned from Wheat City where she had gone to pick up Miss Carol Farmer, a household employee. Miss Farmer, who was on her way back to Stoneville from a vacation, had missed her bus while dining in Wheat City, and had called Mrs. Wilmot to come after her. Upon reaching the Wilmot residence here, Miss Farmer went into the house and Mrs. Wilmot repaired to the upstairs of the garage, which was equipped as a film-inspecting room. When the fire burst into being a few minutes later, Miss Farmer notified the Stoneville fire department which promptly and efficiently answered the call. But little if anything could be done to defeat the holocaust. While the inspection room itself was fireproof, the heat was so intense that the supports and exterior walls of the building ignited and crumbled. Mrs. Wilmot was pinned beneath a work bench. Mr. Wilmot, who was out of town on business, was notified of the tragedy by telephone. Suffering from shock and grief, he was accompanied home by Mr. Harbert A. Chance, film company executive. Mr. Chance, an old friend of Mr. Wilmot’s will remain in Stoneville temporarily to assist in the conduct of the latter’s affairs. Mr. Wilmot has been convalescing in the Stoneville Sanitarium, suffering from shock and grief, but is expected to…
    I read a story one time about a fellow that was accidentally slipped into a big job; president of a company or