The Patrolman - 15

 

 

15.

 

 

 

Three in the morning - the witching hour. Mr. Slate couldn't sleep for nothing. He got 20 minutes at most, stretching out in the passenger seat. He struggled to sit up and rubbed his face. Barclay's mansion loomed further up the hill, quiet now. The party was more or less over. Time to move.

As he grabbed the handle, headlights filled his mirrors. He stopped. A cab drove up the hill and rolled to a stop outside Barclay's. The green DeSoto waited a minute. A girl came out and opened the passenger door. He recognized her. The older girl - the one on all fours. The cab swung back around and drove past him, into town.

Taking the .32 out from under the seat, he tucked it in his waistband and climbed the hill. Crossing the moonlit driveway. Something startled him when he reached the front door. A light flicked off upstairs. Somebody moving. Maybe Barclay finally taking himself off to bed. Mr. Slate entered the house.

He snatched a dish towel from the kitchen and went left down a corridor. It led to another identical corridor. The place was a maze. He found himself at the main staircase with hand-carved rails. At the top, a thick piled carpet masked his steps. Expensive-looking Scandinavian furniture lined the hallway. He figured the door at the end had to be the master bedroom.

Mr. Slate turned the brass handle with the dish towel. Inside, a big four-poster bed sat in the corner, linen covers thrown open. He crossed the room and pressed a hand to the mattress, still warm. Barclay had been here. He took out the .32 and went back down the hall checking the rest of the rooms. No dice. The room at the top of the stairs was a guest bathroom. He went downstairs taking the steps two at a time. A set of double doors caught his eye and he pushed through them.

A home theater. The projector hummed, the film flapping like someone beating a rug. Ash and candy wrappers littered the carpet. There were two rows of seats, enough for 10 people. Cigar burns covered the armrests. He ran the gun along the rows of seats. Nobody. The projector’s lamp dimmed from overheating. He opened the film gate and reset it on the reels. He checked the spool. He rethreaded the nitrate film. Then he cranked it, so the first frame was in line with the shutter. When he was happy, he closed the metal door and flicked the switch. He never thought his skills from a short gig way back when would come in useful. Light flickered through the room. High-class smut filled the big screen. No sound. Some poor Latina tied to a bargepole, and getting flogged. Nasty stuff.

Somebody snored.

It came from the back. He pulled back the hammer and stuck the .32 at a figure stretched out on a daybed.

The light from the pictures showed him who it was.

A girl.

Couldn't've been older than 16. The dark eyebrows gave away that her hair wasn't actually blonde. She was Latina. Wide mouth, long nose, big freckled cheeks. Too pale - sick looking. There wasn’t an ounce of fat under the A-line dress. He had seen her before. The girl from the party. The girl Barclay had had his way with. He saw bruising on her wrists and ankles.

She snored again, her mouth falling open. Lipstick smeared on buck teeth.

Let her sleep, he figured. She’d be free of this nightmare soon.

He searched every room on the ground floor. He found a greenhouse that was about as warm as a slow oven. A room where they kept the girl. He found an indoor swimming pool, but no sign of Barclay.

The front drive was the same. The Packard limousine hadn’t moved, so Barclay couldn’t have heard something and made a run for it. There was nothing left to do but retrace his steps to the garden.

Mr. Slate stopped short through the kitchen. A blue light. He retreated into the doorway and held very still. Had he got spotted? Only if they were facing him. He took a deep breath and listened. No voices. No fast movements. Nobody called out or challenged him.

He faced the wall and, using his hands, pulled himself around the corner. Inch by inch. Slow as he could. The blue light came from the icebox, the door had swung wide open, illuminating the room. A man sat at the kitchen table in a polka-dot bathrobe, shoveling ice cream into his mouth. Typewritten pages spread across the counter, covered in scribbles and crossed-out lines.

Mr. Slate moved behind the wall, resolved himself to what he came here to do, and started walking. Gun behind his back, his feet echoed off the black-and-white tile.

Barclay looked up.

Mr. Slate walked up behind him, clamped the dish towel over his mouth, and jammed the .32 into his temple.

His eyes snapped open, full of fear.

'The book,' he said.  

Barclay wheezed. ‘You - what in the devil are you doing in my house?’

‘Who’s the girl?’

‘You fool. She doesn’t matter, more come here on the bus every day.’

He placed his left hand on Barclay’s shoulder like he was letting go of him.

The gun popped.

Barclay’s eyes widened for a terror-stricken instant. A cry came to his throat but didn't escape. The brown eyes rolled to the back of his head.

The revolver popped two more times. Three neat puffs of pink smoke hung in the air. No blood splattered on the walls. His long hair hid the mess. The .32-calibre rounds had blown his head apart from the inside. He thought he heard the bullets rattling around in there. He had wanted it to be long, drawn-out, and painful. But his death was instant. There was no remorse, no knowing he was about to die. He might have seen a flash of flame but that was it. Quick and painless. Unclimactic. Barclay deserved worse.

Now there was only one person left breathing in the room.

Mr. Slate took one of Barclay’s cigarettes, sat opposite him, and thought on it. The three shots ruled out suicide, so it was, what it said on the tin, a murder. But he couldn't let this come back on him. His father’s security man had seen his face. So he needed to stage it as something else.

A burglary gone bad.

He smoked while he tossed the kitchen. He pulled out drawers and smashed plates on the floor. Made a real mess. He found a brown paper bag and snagged Barclay’s wristwatch. Mr. Slate went upstairs to the master bedroom and took his money clip. He grabbed anything that looked valuable.

Burglary didn’t justify three bullets in the head. First-degree burglary might’ve got you 15 years. But first-degree murder meant an all-expenses paid trip to the gas chamber.

Back downstairs, he found the garden key. He broke the glass with his elbow and let himself in. Locking the door behind him, he stashed the key where he found it.

The blue light filled the kitchen.

He crossed the black-and-white tile and closed the icebox door.

And there she was.

The girl.

Standing behind the door, sucking her thumb, giggling like she'd been Mickey Finn'd. ‘You’re cute,’ she said.

Drunk, drugged, it didn't matter. She'd seen his face.

He slapped her, hard, across both cheeks.

She hit the deck and went out like a pilot light.

Mr. Slate stood there a long minute, looking down at her. Now he had a new problem. What the hell to do with her?

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons