Free Collection 1983 - The Hills Of Homicide (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour

“Fordyce? Is anything wrong?”
    He got to his feet slowly. “Yes, Joe. I wish you’d come down here. I’ve been held up and I think—I think I’ve killed him.”
    Joe Neal hurried up, flashlight in hand. He threw the light on the fallen man. “Good heavens!” he gasped. “What did you hit him with? What happened?”
    “He was waiting there by the tree. He stepped out with his hand in his pocket—you know, like he had a gun. I hit him before I realized.”

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    T HAT WAS THE story, and he made it stick. For several days it was the talk of all his friends. Fordyce had killed a holdup man. That took nerve. And a punch, too. Didn’t know he had it in him. Of course, it was the bumper that actually broke his neck. Still—had there been any doubts—and there were none—a check of Chafey’s record would have removed them.
    He had done time and was on parole at the moment. He had gone up for armed robbery and had been arrested a score of times for investigation. He was suspected of rolling drunks and of various acts of petty pilfering and slugging. A week passed, and a second week. Arthur Fordyce threw himself into his work, never talking about what had happened.
    Others forgot it, too, except Joe Neal. Once, commenting on it to his wife, he looked puzzled and said, “You know, I’d have sworn I heard voices that night. I’d have sworn it.”
    “You might have. They might have argued. I imagine that a man might say a lot when excited and not remember it.” That was what his wife said, and it was reasonable enough. Nevertheless, Joe Neal was faintly disturbed by it all. He avoided Fordyce. Not that they had ever been friends.

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    A RTHUR FORDYCE HAD been lucky. No getting away from that. He had been very lucky, and sometimes when he thought about it, he felt a cold chill come over him. But it was finished now.
    Only it wasn’t.
    It was Monday night, two weeks after the inquest, the first night he had been home since it had happened. He was sitting in his armchair listening to the radio when the telephone rang. Idly, he lifted it from the cradle.
    “Mr. Fordyce?” The voice was feminine and strange. “Is this Arthur Fordyce?”
    “Speaking.”
    There was an instant of silence. Then, “This is Bill Chafey’s girl friend, Mr. Fordyce. I thought I would call and congratulate you. You seem to be very, very lucky!”
    The cold was there again in the pit of his stomach. “I—I beg your pardon? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
    “He told me all about it, Mr. Fordyce. All about that day at the track. All about what he was going to do. Bill had big ideas, Mr. Fordyce, and he thought you were his big chance. Only he thought you were scared. He got too close to you, didn’t he, Mr. Fordyce?”
    “I’m sure,” he kept his voice composed, “that you are seriously in error. I—”
    She interrupted with a soft laugh, a laugh that did not cover an underlying cruelty. “I’m not going to be as dumb as Bill was, Mr. Fordyce. I’m not going to come anywhere within your reach. Two murders are no worse than one, so I’ll stay away. But you’re going to pay off, Mr. Fordyce. You’re going to pay off like a slot machine. You’re going to pay off with a thousand dollars now and five hundred a month from now on.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you are probably insane,” he said quietly. “What you assume is ridiculous. If you are a friend of Chafey’s, then you know he was a criminal. I am sorry for you, but there is nothing I can do.”
    “One thousand dollars by Friday, Mr. Fordyce, and five hundred a month from now on. I don’t think you were scared when Bill went to you, but how about the gas chamber, Mr. Fordyce? How about that?”
    “What you assume is impossible.” He fought to keep his voice controlled. “And you are absurd to think I have that kind of money.”
    She laughed again. “But you can get it, Buster! You can get it when it means the difference