All The Way by Charles Williams

income-tax return, is that it? Well, it just happens I’m an attorney, my friend, and I know a little about the law, and about shakedowns. Now, put her on, or I’ll turn this letter of hers over to the police right now.”
    “What in the name of God? Marian—”
    I heard the phonograph come up in the background then, softly at first, and then louder. It was a song that had come out the summer Keith had gone mad— The Music Goes Round and Round . Shortly before they’d given up and had him committed for treatment, he’d locked himself in his room one day and played the record for nineteen hours without stopping.
    “Listen!” I snapped. “What are you people up to? What’s that music—?”
    He was still there. I heard him gasp.
    Oh, the music goes round and round . . . and it comes out here. . . .
    “Turn that off!” I said harshly. “Who told you about Keith? She’s been coaching you. You even sound like me. What’s that woman trying to do to me? I offered her six months’ pay. . . .”
    “Marian,” he shouted, “for the love of Christ, who is this man?”
    I couldn’t hear her reply, of course, but I knew what it was, and the way she said it. “Why, Harris Chapman, obviously.”
    The shots weren’t too loud, mere exclamation points above the level of the music. There were two very close together, and then one more. The phone made a crashing noise, as if it had struck the edge of the table, and I heard him fall.
    Oh, you press the middle valve down. . . .
    Something else fell. And then there was nothing but the music, and a rhythmic tapping sound, as if the telephone receiver was swinging gently back and forth, bumping the leg of the table.
    Bump . . . bump . . .
    . . . and the music goes round and round . . . yoo-oo-ohoo. . . .
    * * *
    I made it in a little over ten minutes. As soon as I’d got out in the fresh air I was all right. She’d probably fainted, but she’d come around. I parked a block away. The front door was unlocked. I slipped inside and closed it.
    One bridge lamp was burning in a corner, and the lights were on in the kitchen. She wasn’t in here. I sighed with relief. The phonograph had been shut off, and the phone was back on its cradle. The apartment was completely silent except for the humming of the air-conditioner. He was lying face down beside the table which held the telephone. I hurried through to the bedroom. She was in the bathroom, standing with her hands braced on the sides of the wash basin, looking at her face in the mirror. Apparently she’d started to brush her teeth, for some reason, for the toothbrush was lying in the basin where she’d dropped it. She was very pale. I took her arm. She turned, stared at me blankly, and then rubbed a hand across her face. Comprehension returned to her eyes. “I’m all right,” she said. There was no tremor in her voice.
    I led her out and sat her on the bed, and knelt beside her. “Just hold on for a few minutes, and we’ll be out of here. You sit right there. Would you like a drink?”
    “No,” she said. “I’d rather not.” She spoke precisely without raising her voice. I had an impression it was nothing but iron self-control, and that she was walking very carefully along the edge of screaming. That part of it, however, I couldn’t help her with.
    The tarpaulin I’d bought was in a broom closet in the kitchen. I carried it into the living room, spread it on the rug, and rolled him on to it. I didn’t like looking at his face, so I threw a fold of the canvas over it. There was blood on his shirt, and some on the rug where he’d lain. I went through his pockets, taking everything out— wallet, traveler checks, car keys, room key from the Dauphine, small address book, the letter from Marian, cigarette holder, lighter, cigarettes, and a small plastic vial of some kind of pills. I tore up the letter and shoved it back in his coat pocket, along with the pills and the cigarette holder. His glasses had fallen off. I put