“All set?” Artie’s eyes flicking, checking the pockets of the car. “All the equipment on hand?” Nothing forgotten, of the items they had planned, so many evenings, planning this.
In the pocket on Judd’s side, handy, the ether cans. The length of clothesline. Artie had wanted a silken cord, but at the last moment they couldn’t find one. In the other pocket, on Artie’s side, the chisel and the hydrochloric.
What made this the day?
Again Judd saw the last test of the train. “Perfect! Let’s set the day!” And even then he had thought of something. What about the car? If someone spotted his car? Artie had the answer—cover up the license, smear mud on it the way bootleggers did, running stuff in from Canada. Anybody’d know the Stutz, Judd objected. Then Artie wanted to make it a stolen car, but Judd said no, that would only increase the danger of apprehension. To make it a perfect crime, the car had to be unidentifiable.
There it hung. Artie became sullen. But driving down Michigan, passing the Drive-Ur-Self place, Judd suddenly had the idea. A rented car. This proved he still wanted to do it, and Artie came partly back. A shitty idea, he argued; if they trace the car, they trace who rented it. You can’t just use a fake name; they check references. Okay, Judd had said, we establish a fictitious identity—with references!
That brought Artie back entirely. Shifting closer on the seat, Artie plotted an identity. A fake name. You could open up a bank account. And register in a hotel. Then the personal reference. That was easy. “You give them a number where I’ll be waiting, and I’ll answer. Why, I’ve known Jonesey for ten years. He’s a fine, upright citizen!”
Great! Judd slapped Artie’s knee. Another thing, Judd said. Better take the car out at least once before, so there would be no suspicion.
Artie gave him a glance. Was this more stalling?
It was a whole chain of things, then. It stretched from one week into the next; could it even have stretched till the day never came, till he sailed with the thing undone? Had he really meant to do it?
There was the going down to the Morrison Hotel, Artie throwing a suitcase into the Stutz, the one he claimed he always had ready for registering with a girl. The suitcase felt too light, and Artie threw a couple of books into it, a history from the university library, and H. G. Wells—that made it heavy enough. And what about a name? J. Poindexter Fish, Artie offered, and how about P. Aretino, Judd proposed, and that led to a great game, each outdoing the other. Jack Ripper, Mark Sade, D. Gray, and Peter Whiffle. Or how about making it someone they knew, like Morty Kornhauser, the prig, for causing all that trouble at Charlevoix? Or Milt Lewis, the ponderass? But then, settling down to it, they chose a name from a store window—Singer Sewing Machines. Artie signed James Singer in the register, and they went up, and laughed and laughed in the room, and had a drink and fooled around, and then Artie said, “Come on, how about renting the car?”
Leaving the suitcase, they drove up Michigan, and Judd said, “Wait, don’t forget the bank account for Mr. Singer.” Artie put in three hundred, signing James Singer, Morrison Hotel at the Corn Exchange Bank. And then, how about some mail at the hotel for Mr. Singer? They wrote a couple of letters, crazy stuff: How about a jazz, Jimmy dear? My husband is out of town. Your devoted Cuddles. It was getting better and better! Next, they would meet Mr. James Singer coming out of the Morrison!
Then, the reference. A name: Walter Brewster. Then, stopping at a lunch counter on the corner of 21st, Judd taking down the number in the phone booth, leaving Artie sitting at the counter, waiting. It was smooth, perfect.
Selecting a Willys at the Drive-Ur-Self. “What business, Mr. Singer?” . . . “Salesman.” . . . “Any references in town, Mr. Singer? You know, we are required to have at least one business reference.” . . . “Oh, that’s all right, you can call—Mr. Walter Brewster.” And giving him the number. Then waiting while the dope called. “We have a Mr. James Singer here, to rent a car . . . Yes? Yes, thank you, Mr. Brewster. Any time we may be of service to you, sir.” . . . And driving out with it, picking up Artie at the lunch counter—smooth as silk.
“Okay, let’s set the day.” Not too soon after the first car rental. So the rental guy wouldn’t remember you too clearly. A week must pass, at least. That would be past the middle of May.
And the day his steamer ticket came, Judd had to show it to Artie. Artie’s eyes, wise to him, until Judd had to say, “How about writing the note tonight?” That made it so close, it had to happen. The ransom letter ready—Dear Sir—and the blank envelope waiting for a name to be written on it. The specimen to be selected. That was it. Life and death, pure chance. The day itself a random choice, yet descended from a million determinants, from the days of testing the train, the days of establishing identity, until Artie said, “Friday?”
And Judd said, “No, I’ve got the lousy Harvard Law exam.” And if it waited past the exam, and past the week end, it would already reach the week before his sailing. Then, Max’s engagement party . . .
“All right” Artie gave him that cunning look, and pinned him, moving the date forward instead of farther away. “Wednesday.”
And Judd could say nothing except, “Hey, we were supposed to have lunch with Willie.”
“The nuts!” Artie said. Willie would be an alibi, ready-made. Wednesday, then. Yesterday.
After his ten-o’clock, driving down Michigan with Artie. “I had one of your cars out, once before. James Singer. Just got back into town.” And then the two cars driving back south, Artie ahead of him in the Willys, pushing the speed, and himself racing the Bearcat, nose to tail, as though the cars were magnetized. Then, picking up the last things. The hydrochloric, though he wasn’t entirely sure—maybe sulfuric would work faster. But hydrochloric should do it. The first drugstore didn’t have it in quarts. Two drugstores, without any luck. At the third, Artie going in, otherwise too many druggists might remember the same short, dark young man with the unusual request. Artie, bringing it. And finally the chisel. A hardware store on Cottage Grove. Artie knowing the kind that was best, the kind with the steel going all the way up through the wooden head.
And then stopping to get Max’s boots. And remembering—a silken cord. Artie tramping through the bedrooms. “Hey, how about this?” The cord from the old man’s dressing gown. Great!
“No, he might miss it.” Then, Artie: “All right, the hell, any piece of rope. Buy some clothesline. Wait, don’t forget to pick up the goddam adhesive tape.” In the medicine chest.
And then just time enough before lunch to stop in Jackson Park, Artie showing him how to wind the tape around the chisel, thick around the blade—tape makes a perfect grip.
Thus, all set. The lunch at the Windermere, and Willie the dope, Willie the Horrible Hebe with his oily dark face, trying to act real clever, quoting from Havelock Ellis, flashing his medical-student sex-anatomy knowledge, trying to play up to Artie, and never knowing, never having the faintest idea what was going on between his luncheon partners, never in his thick head being even capable of imagining what was in the car they had outside.
And after a long gay luncheon, it was nearly time. Coming out, they ducked Willie, so he wouldn’t see the car they were using. Then, on the way to the Twain School, Judd went into his house once more. From the bottom drawer in Max’s room, he took the revolver. Artie already had his own, in his pocket.
Even when they were ready on the spot, waiting, so close to the school, it still did not seem that the thing was happening and that the plan would after all be carried out. The school doors opened, and a flock emerged—first
