The Second Confesion

One operation remained, but it took less time because I had more experience at taking wax impressions of keys than at photography. The wax was in the medicine case, and the keys, eight of them, were in Rony's fold. There was no need to label the impressions, since I didn't know which key was for what anyway. I took all eight, not wanting to skimp.

“He can't last much longer,” Ruth announced.

“He don't need to.” I shoved a roll of bills at Saul, who had put the suitcase back in the trunk. “This came out of his wallet. I don't know how much it is and don't care, but I don't want it on me. Buy Ruth a string of pearls or give it to the Red Cross. You'd better get going, huh?” They lost no time. Saul and I understand each other so well that all he said was, “Phone in?” and I said, “Yeah,” The next minute they were off. As soon as their car was around the next bend I circled to the other side of the convertible, next the road, stretched out on the grass, and started groaning.

When nothing happened I quit after a while. Just as my weight was bringing the wet in the ground through the grass and on through my clothes, and I was about to shift, a noise came from Rony's side and I let out a groan. I got on to my knees, muttered an expressive word or two, groaned again, reached for the handle of the door and pulled myself to my feet, reached inside and turned on the lights, and saw Rony sitting on the grass inspecting his wallet.

“Hell, you're alive,” I muttered.

He said nothing.

“The bastards,” I muttered.

He said nothing. It took him two more minutes to decide to try to stand up.

I admit that an hour and fifty minutes later, when I drove away from the kerb in front of his apartment on Sixty-ninth Street after letting him out, I was totally in the dark about his opinion of me. He hadn't said more than fifty words all the way, leaving it to me to decide whether we should stop at a State Police barracks to report our misfortune, which I did, knowing that Saul and Ruth were safely out of the county; but I couldn't expect the guy to be very talkative when he was busy recovering after an expert operation by Ruth Brady. I couldn't make up my mind whether he had been sitting beside me in silent sympathy with a fellow sufferer or had merely decided that the time for dealing with me would have to come later, after his brain had got back to something like normal.

The clock on the dash said 1.12 as I turned into the garage on Eleventh Avenue.