Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

It was almost dark. The last thin light of late October was a metal band along the horizon, and Tom knew it would be black and starless by the time he got home. The car rolled along through the last of the valley with a leashed-in power and he switched on his headlights as he started up the twisting hills that led to Curtis Mountain and home. The unexpected telephone call kept going through his mind. It didn’t seem real talking to Helen again.

“Helen, I don’t care what your problem is or why you want to see me, it’s no dice.” He was alone in the office but the door was open and he knew his secretary could hear bits of the conversation. Helen’s voice sounded flatter but more calm than he remembered.

“Tom, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. I’ll be waiting at the house when you get there, so you may as well go right home.”

It didn’t sound as if she was drinking and Tom wondered for a moment whether she had given that up. He could feel anger rising like a bad taste in his mouth and he didn’t want to explode and give the girl something to talk about.

“All right, Helen. I’ll be there, but you’ll have to wait on the patio. I had all the locks changed.” He felt stupidly embarrassed.

Helen gave a short, unfriendly laugh. “Were you afraid I’d try to move back in?” She hesitated for a moment. “If that’s what’s worrying you, forget it. Five years of your sadism was enough even for me.”

“Okay, okay, Helen. Let’s not get started. I’ll see you as soon as I can get away.”

“Make that very soon.” She hung up without any formal goodbye.

He dropped to a lower gear for the last long pull up the hill. The headlights picked out the house and washed across its low silhouette. He drove the car into the circle in front of the garage and parked. The patio was on the other side where the driveway circled the cliff. He hadn’t been able to see, as he drove past, whether Helen was there or not.

He listened as his own steps crunched on the gravel. Then her voice.

“Tom, is that you?” It was like a rasp. Did you turn out the light in the bathroom? Did you pick up the bread at the bakery? Did you remember to pay the phone bill? It was simple. Full of ugly memories.

“Who did you think it was, Jack the Ripper?” He enjoyed the joke.

“I can tell you haven’t changed.”

He could make out her shape in the chair in the corner. She sat half facing the wall, blurred by deep shadow. She didn’t look at him directly but spoke to the air in general.

“Shall we go inside? It’s sort of cold out here.”

She stirred uncertainly for a moment. “So. Let’s stay out here. What I want will only take a few minutes and then you can call me a cab.”

“What happened to your car?”

“I sold it.” She cut him short. “But I didn’t come up to talk about my transportation.” There was a pause. “Tom, I need five thousand dollars.”

He winced. It was like a physical pain. Then he laughed.

“You’re out of your mind, Helen. If that’s why you came you should have saved yourself the trip. I wouldn’t give you five cents.” He walked to the edge of the patio and looked across the ink stained valley. Helen sat in silence. “Why don’t you ask Bob Parker for it. He ought to pay for what he’s getting.” It came out wrong, jealous. Not the way he meant.

Helen’s voice dropped to a far away whisper. “It’s not that way with Bob. He’s been very kind, nothing more.”

Tom snorted.

“I don’t know why I even try to explain. I certainly don’t care. I just want the money. My money.”

“Your money!” Tom exploded. “That’s a laugh. That’s real rich. Just because I started in business with money from your father doesn’t mean you own part of it.”

“Tom, I didn’t come to argue. Just hear me out.” He was quiet. “I could tell you I need an operation. But that wouldn’t mean anything to you. So I’ll spell it out. I know all about your shady business deals and about what goes on up here on weekends.”

“Now, wait a minute...” Tom tried to break in, but she cut him short.

“I don’t care one way or the other about your crimes or your orgies, but I can ruin you in five seconds of it’s necessary.”

“That’s blackmail!” He shouted the word as though he invented it.

Her voice went on calmly. “I guess it is, Tom. Yes, I guess it’s blackmail. But I’ll expect your check in the morning.” She fumbled with something in the dark, then stood up and straightened her skirt. She took a step toward the wall, turned, and brushed against a table that teetered for a moment. “All right, Tom. You can call my cab now.”

He stood looking down the drive and knew with an absolute clarity that he had to kill her. It didn’t come as a searing passion. There was no rage. Just a calm necessity. The method, the alibi, the story for his friends came together like prearranged parts of a puzzle. He turned and walked over to her.

“Helen.”