1971 - Want to Stay Alive Read Online Free PDF Page B

& Glass Corporation, a million dollar concern that supplied packaging to Florida’s fruit growers. McCuen, six feet tall, iron-grey hair with a whisky complexion, was a man who drove himself and his employees and achieved results. He had been married three times: each wife had left him, unable to tolerate his temper, his way of living and his demands.
    McCuen lived by the clock. He rose at 07.00: spent half an hour in his gymnasium in the basement of his opulent house that stood in two acres of flowered gardens, showered at 07.31, breakfasted at 08.00, dictated until 09.00, then left at 09.30 in his Rolls-Royce for his office. This was an exact routine and never varied.
    During the three years Martha Delvine had served him as his secretary she had never known him to be a second late and this bright summer morning as he came down the vast staircase to the breakfast room, she knew it was one second to 08.00 without looking at her watch.
    Martha Delvine, aged thirty-six, tall, dark and without charm, was waiting at the breakfast table, the morning mail in her hand.
    “Good morning, Mr. McCuen,” she said and put the mail on the table.
    McCuen nodded. He was a man who didn’t believe in superfluous words.
    He sat down and spread his napkin as Toko, his Japanese Man Friday, poured coffee and served scrambled eggs and lamb kidneys.
    “Anything in the mail?” McCuen asked after he had munched a kidney.
    “Nothing important,” Martha said. “The usual invitations.” She paused, hesitated, then went on, “There’s one odd thing . . .”
    McCuen speared another kidney, then frowned.
    “Odd? Thing? What do you mean?”
    She put a half sheet of cheap notepaper before him.
    “This was amongst the mail.”
    McCuen took out his bifocals, put them on and peered at the sheet of paper. Written in block letters was the message:
    R. I. P.
    09.03

THE EXECUTIONER
    “What the hell is this?” McCuen demanded in a grating voice.
    Toko, standing behind McCuen’s chair, grimaced. From the tone of the voice he realised the morning was to begin badly.
    “I don’t know,” Martha said. “I thought you should see it.”
    “Why?” McCuen glared at her. “Can’t you see it’s from some lunatic? Don’t you know better than to bother me with this kind of thing? This is a deliberate attempt to spoil my breakfast!” He flicked the piece of paper off the table onto the floor.
    “I’m sorry, Mr. McCuen.”
    McCuen whirled around in his chair to glare at Toko.
    “This toast is cold! What’s the matter with you all this morning? Get some more!”
    At 09.03, his dictation finished, his temper still smouldering, McCuen stalked out into the sunshine where his Rolls was waiting.
    Brant, his middle aged, long suffering chauffeur, cap under his arm, was waiting by the car door. Martha Delvine came to the top of the imposing flight of steps to see McCuen off.
    “I’ll be back at six. Halliday will be coming. He said about six-thirty, but you know what he is. He can never be punctual . . .”
    Those were the last words Dean K. McCuen was to utter. Martha took the horrible memory of the next second with her to her grave. She was standing close to McCuen, looking up at him and she saw his high forehead turn into a spongy mess of blood and brains. A small lump of his brains splashed her face and began to ooze down her cheek. His blood sprayed her white skirt.
    He fell heavily, his briefcase spilling open as it hit the marble steps.
    Paralysed with horror, she watched McCuen’s thick set body rolling down the steps, feeling the awful, slimy thing on her face, then she began to scream.
     
    ***
     
    Dr. Lowis, Police Medical Officer, came down the stairs to the hall, where Terrell, Beigler and Lepski waited. Lowis was a short, fat man with a balding head, freckled complexion and a talent Terrell relied on.
    The call had come through as Lepski had finished alerting the press about the stolen gun. The call had been made by Steve Roberts, a prowl