The Third Talmage Powell Crime MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Mysteries

We killed her, Ralph Corson and I, as surely as if we had used a knife or a gun, and it is the manner of the killing that haunts and torments me.

I met Peri in Miami. She was the wife of as good a friend as I ever had.

It was right after I lost my shirt in an orange deal. I’d bought a bunch of futures in oranges, and a freeze had killed the crop. I was sitting in a small waterfront tavern, making wet rings on the bar with a beer glass and wondering what to do next, when a man walked up behind me and laid his hand on my shoulder.

“Tom Danton,” he said in a quiet voice. “It’s good to see you after such a long time.”

I turned on the bar stool and felt better right away. Marty Janus had always affected me that way, even in our college days.

A subtle change came over any room Marty entered. He was a dark, good-looking, slender, energetic man, but it wasn’t his looks that did it. It was the Marty Janus dwelling deep in the flesh and bones, the Marty who believed in the beauties and joys of life, the worth of life, the worth, decency, and integrity of his fellow man.

But by no stretch of the imagination was Marty a dreamy starry-eyed fool. He was smart, tough, courageous. The occasional individual who tried to take advantage of him because of his outlook, social position, and wealth failed to sour Marty. He accepted them as part of the world and time into which he had been born and felt sorry for them.

In short, Marty was a rare man. I suspect that if and when Marty’s kind become the majority, most of the world’s ills will vanish along with fear and hatred.

“Sit down,” I said. “I’m buying.”

“Thanks. You re looking fit, Tom.” A smile crinkled the deeply tanned flesh at the corners of his eyes. “Fifteen years out of college, and I’ll bet you could still do a broken field run that would make the other team dizzy.”

“If I had Marty Janus with me as a blocking back,” I said.

“Hell,” he laughed, “you’re just saying it because it’s true. I heard you were in Miami, Tom. Wanted very much to see you. What you been doing for yourself?”

“I dropped my roll on some oranges.”

“That’s too bad. Married yet?”

“Nope.”

“Business deal lined up?”

“Not so far.”

“No strings on you — O.K., so we’ll go fishing. We’ll get the kinks out of our systems, the cobwebs out of the old brains, and figure out an assault on the future.”

“Thanks, Marty, but I...”

“I’m planning a trip. A real jaunt. You enjoy fishing?”

Tropical water, a brilliant sun, the roll of a boat, the big ones hitting... “Are you kidding, Marty?”

“Then it’s settled.”

“No,” I said. “I meant it when I said I dropped my roll. I couldn’t make a down payment on the bait.”

“The heat’s got him,” Marty said to no one, “so how can I consider it an insult?” He turned and looked at me. “All right, you’re broke. Think of the advantage in that. You can face the future, enter the next round of the scrap with everything to gain, not a thing to lose. Check?”

“I suppose. He wasn’t simply a wealthy man talking from a lofty position of security. Marty would never have to worry about money; but he’d made it honestly, because he’d been smart enough to know the time and place for his subdivisions and because people couldn’t be in the state a week without knowing you’d get your money’s worth if you bought a home in a Janus development.

As a kid he’d lived on a Florida farm with sneakers as his Sunday shoes. He’d waited on tables, studied like a Socrates, and played football to get himself through college. He’d worked on construction jobs in South American jungles and mountains and lived on beans for two years to get his first tiny capital together.

“‘I suppose,’” he echoed, “Tomas, muchacho, that proves it. You need open sky and fresh air to put some vigor in your outlook. I got a boat docked no more than a couple of blocks from here. I was on my way to the marine supply house when I glanced in here, did a double-take, and realized it was really you. The gear can wait. I want you to see the new boat, the Peri. It’s named after my wife.”

If you knew Marty really well, you could catch the faint inflection when he said “my wife.” He said it with a vast and deep contentment, as if life, after this, could only be perfect, never topping itself.