Page 14 of Tightrope

Sure, he hadn’t pulled the trigger, but if his role in the business was ever discovered, he would probably be executed. He’d heard that California was no longer hanging convicted killers. Instead, the state was installing something called a gas chamber in San Quentin prison. He didn’t know which method would be less awful.

He should have paid attention to his gut. He’d had misgivings about the job from the start but he had let himself be convinced that the promised payoff was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

He needed a plan, because the person who had promised him a fortune wasn’t going to cough up a lot of cash for a broken typewriter.

He shot to his feet and began to pace the small cabin. He had a car and he had the gun he had purchased at the start of this business, just in case things went badly. He also had some cash—not a lot, just a few bucks, but he knew how to make it last for a while. One thing you could say about Pickwell, he had come through with a weekly salary. Regular as clockwork.

Charlie considered his options and came to the conclusion that so many others had arrived at when they found themselves on the wrongside of the law. The answer was Mexico. They said that a man with a little money could live like a king south of the border. But first he had to get rid of everything that linked him to the murder.

He came to a halt and contemplated the typewriter and the suitcase. He had to dump all of it and do so in a way that would make sure none of the items were ever found.

And while he was cleaning up, he needed to get rid of the one person who could tie him to the murder, the person he had let into the theater through the back door. The killer.

Who was due to arrive at any minute.

The old, abandoned auto court was only a couple of miles from the ocean. It dawned on him that the simplest way to make the evidence and a body disappear was to toss everything off a cliff into the sea.

The muffled rumble of a car engine interrupted his thoughts. He went to the table, picked up the gun, and moved to the window. He twitched the edge of the faded curtain out of the way and watched the vehicle pull off the road. It came to a halt in front of the cabin.

Charlie tightened his grip on the gun. Might as well start getting rid of problems now. He had never shot anyone but how hard could it be?

He went to the door and opened it, careful to keep his right hand, the one clenched around the grip of the pistol, out of sight behind the wooden panels.

Pickwell’s killer got out of the car and walked toward the door, a coat draped casually over one arm.

“Something has come up,” Charlie said, trying to appear cool and calm.

He was concentrating so hard on his acting that he failed to realize he had miscalculated until too late.

The killer pulled the trigger of the gun hidden under the coat.

The first shot struck Charlie in the chest and sent him staggeringbackward. He dropped his own gun and went down hard on his knees. He clutched at his chest.

The killer moved to stand over him, taking aim again.

Charlie managed a hoarse, blood-choked laugh.

“It’s just a busted typewriter,” he whispered. “Two murders for nothing. Enjoy that new gas chamber in San Quentin.”

The killer pulled the trigger a second time.

Chapter 6

The phone on the hotel room desk rang just as Matthias was halfway through his morning shave. He put down the razor, used a towel to wipe off most of the lather, and went out into the other room to pick up the receiver.

“I have a long-distance call for you from Seattle,” the front-desk operator said. “A Mrs. Henrietta Jones.”

Matthias stifled a groan.

“Put her through,” he said.

His mother came on the line.

“Your father and I got your telegram this morning,” Henrietta said. “What in the world are you doing in Burning Cove? That’s where Hollywood people go to vacation. You are not a movie star. You’re an engineer. At least you’re supposed to be an engineer.”

“I’m working a case for Luther Pell,” Matthias said.

“I was afraid of that. How much longer are you going to drift around the country doing odd jobs for that nightclub owner?”

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