The Follower Read Online Free
was too dark for anyone to see him. Somewhere, far off, a radio or a phonograph was playing. He could just make out soprano voices caroling: Hark the Herald Angels Sing.
At the head of the alley he propped the body in a sitting position against the house wall. This was the most dangerous moment — the moment of getting it into the car. Corey was very obviously dead. No one close enough to see him clearly would mistake him for a Christmas drunk.
Mark moved to the corner, glanced out and then flattened himself back against the wall. Across the street, behind the Cadillac, a woman in a leopard-skin coat was walking a Doberman Pinscher on a leash. Mark had been alone so long that, although the street separated them, she seemed frighteningly close. And the dog … Did dogs smell corpses? Would it raise its nose, sniff, drag its mistress across the street? The fantastic notion and his extreme reaction to it warned him that his nervous energy was more nearly exhausted than he had supposed. He stood, close to the wall. Corey’s shoulder sagged, limp, against the back of his knee.
The woman paraded up and down, her leopard collar flapped up to protect her from the snow. The dog was snuffing listlessly along the sidewalk. At last it strained towards a snow-capped fire-hydrant and lifted its leg.
‘Good doggie; good Eisenhower.’
The woman’s voice seemed shatteringly loud. She bent and patted the dog, which looked up at her, foolishly lolling its tongue. She started away down the street, with the Doberman pulling her forward.
No one else was in sight. He moved to the car and opened the rear door. An automobile rug was on the back seat. He threw it over the front seat and, returning to the alley, hauled Corey up to a standing position, then, in a clumsy rush, impelled him across the sidewalk and toppled him into the back seat. He managed to cram the body down on the floor and threw the rug over it.
Sweating in spite of the cold, he drove to the garage and swerved the car up the ramp. As the office flashed by, he glanced inside it. Joe did not seem to be there. On the second floor he parked just outside the sliding doors which led to Dead Storage. He got out and stood, straining his ears. In the dank silence he could hear an occasional echoing clank of metal from below. Joe was still at work. His luck hadn’t deserted him yet.
With a speed that now had in it a touch of hysteria, he maneuvered the body out of the car and half dragged, half carried it the few feet into the darkness of the Dead Storage room. He parked the Cadillac in its original position and returned to the body. He resisted the temptation to dump it in the nearest car. It would be safer to choose one deeper in the spectral phalanx.
He walked along a row of shadowy, jacked-up automobiles and selected one at random near the end of the line. It was a station wagon. He could just make out its sleek contours. He tried the rear door. It was unlocked. He returned to the body and lugged it to the wagon. Bracing himself, he lifted it and tried to push it into the rear seat, but it sank back on him, pinioning him against the side of the adjoining automobile. He slid out from under it, and climbed into the station wagon’s back seat. From inside, he reached out and, grabbing the body, tugged and wrenched at it, gradually pulling it in towards him.
There was something about that silent battle which, for the first time since he had left the apartment, kindled horror in him. The full realization suddenly returned that this senseless, passive antagonist was Corey Lathrop, important business executive, well-known New York social figure, Ellie’s ex-fiancé, who had been killed in Ellie’s apartment. Downstairs, pottering with an automobile, was the garage attendant, representing law and retribution for the law-breaker. Surely, at any moment, he would hear Joe’s footsteps clattering towards him over the oil-stained cement.
But no sounds came.
With one last jerk, he
At the head of the alley he propped the body in a sitting position against the house wall. This was the most dangerous moment — the moment of getting it into the car. Corey was very obviously dead. No one close enough to see him clearly would mistake him for a Christmas drunk.
Mark moved to the corner, glanced out and then flattened himself back against the wall. Across the street, behind the Cadillac, a woman in a leopard-skin coat was walking a Doberman Pinscher on a leash. Mark had been alone so long that, although the street separated them, she seemed frighteningly close. And the dog … Did dogs smell corpses? Would it raise its nose, sniff, drag its mistress across the street? The fantastic notion and his extreme reaction to it warned him that his nervous energy was more nearly exhausted than he had supposed. He stood, close to the wall. Corey’s shoulder sagged, limp, against the back of his knee.
The woman paraded up and down, her leopard collar flapped up to protect her from the snow. The dog was snuffing listlessly along the sidewalk. At last it strained towards a snow-capped fire-hydrant and lifted its leg.
‘Good doggie; good Eisenhower.’
The woman’s voice seemed shatteringly loud. She bent and patted the dog, which looked up at her, foolishly lolling its tongue. She started away down the street, with the Doberman pulling her forward.
No one else was in sight. He moved to the car and opened the rear door. An automobile rug was on the back seat. He threw it over the front seat and, returning to the alley, hauled Corey up to a standing position, then, in a clumsy rush, impelled him across the sidewalk and toppled him into the back seat. He managed to cram the body down on the floor and threw the rug over it.
Sweating in spite of the cold, he drove to the garage and swerved the car up the ramp. As the office flashed by, he glanced inside it. Joe did not seem to be there. On the second floor he parked just outside the sliding doors which led to Dead Storage. He got out and stood, straining his ears. In the dank silence he could hear an occasional echoing clank of metal from below. Joe was still at work. His luck hadn’t deserted him yet.
With a speed that now had in it a touch of hysteria, he maneuvered the body out of the car and half dragged, half carried it the few feet into the darkness of the Dead Storage room. He parked the Cadillac in its original position and returned to the body. He resisted the temptation to dump it in the nearest car. It would be safer to choose one deeper in the spectral phalanx.
He walked along a row of shadowy, jacked-up automobiles and selected one at random near the end of the line. It was a station wagon. He could just make out its sleek contours. He tried the rear door. It was unlocked. He returned to the body and lugged it to the wagon. Bracing himself, he lifted it and tried to push it into the rear seat, but it sank back on him, pinioning him against the side of the adjoining automobile. He slid out from under it, and climbed into the station wagon’s back seat. From inside, he reached out and, grabbing the body, tugged and wrenched at it, gradually pulling it in towards him.
There was something about that silent battle which, for the first time since he had left the apartment, kindled horror in him. The full realization suddenly returned that this senseless, passive antagonist was Corey Lathrop, important business executive, well-known New York social figure, Ellie’s ex-fiancé, who had been killed in Ellie’s apartment. Downstairs, pottering with an automobile, was the garage attendant, representing law and retribution for the law-breaker. Surely, at any moment, he would hear Joe’s footsteps clattering towards him over the oil-stained cement.
But no sounds came.
With one last jerk, he
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