A Short Story For A Rainy Day
BLOODY RAIN
“Bloody rain.” Moffat glowered at the steely clouds, their metallic-smelling waste dropping like tiny bullets on the sidewalk. Having tucked himself in a doorway, he was keeping dry, but knew his condition was temporary.
Someone approaching from his left whistled a familiar tune; a tall man with a pleasant face went by, still trilling the well-known air.
With nothing else to do but observe, Moffat followed the man with his gaze, bored.
The man stopped short of escaping Moffat’s line of site. “Oh, my.” He pulled something from a pocket – a watch on a fob, something one saw almost never – and shook his head. “Look at that.”
Moffat’s gaze narrowed with a calculation. Nice coat, gold watch, comfortable gait, umbrella with no holes…he left the doorway, ignoring the bullets, and went to the man’s side. “I say, good sir, what time do you have?” His accent, East End, made his polite enquiry less so, or so a lady friend had once told him.
The man turned, eyebrows up. “Time? Here you go.” He raised the watch so Moffat could see its elegant face. “Four-thirty-two.”
“Thanks, guv! Lovely watch, that.”
The man stared at it. “You think so?”
“I do.” Moffat noticed how few people were around. This would be easy.
“Well! Would you like it? I have several others, and certainly don’t need that many.” He undid the fob and held it and the watch out.
Astounded, Moffat started to reach for it but stopped. Paranoia was a terrible burden to the thief. “Erm…why are you giving me this?”
“Why not? As I said, I have others, and I noticed you don’t seem to have one yourself, so please – take it.” The man smiled.
Seeing the corners of the man’s eyes crinkling, Moffat decided the smile was genuine, making the offer of the watch trustworthy. “Th-thank you!” He took the item, noticing its weight, the smooth, cool feel of the case, and decided it was real gold. He was shocked, but that was no excuse for letting a great opportunity pass. “Any chance, er, you got some of the ready?”
“The – oh! Money? Let me see.” Reaching into his coat, the man removed a large wallet. “Why, yes! I believe I do! Here you go, good man – enjoy!” He handed Moffat a sizeable stack of bills. “Hold on, now. I think I’ve got a few shillings somewhere.”
“No, that’s…that’s fine. Don’t like carrying it. Too heavy, and I got a hole or two in the ol’ pockets.” What was going on? The man had still not displayed any indication that he was going to call for help, or even that he realized he was being robbed. Or maybe…
“You must be cold and hungry – I know a terrific place you can go to spend a little of that and get a great meal for a raw afternoon. I was heading there myself, but now that you’ve got my lunch money, I’ll just head off.” He chuckled. “If you like, I do have to go right past the place; I’ll walk you there.”
The man, Moffat decided, had to be off his head. Who did something like this? What swell was this nice? He was even talking to Moffat like an equal, which made even less sense than all the rest. “Uh, sure thing.”
“Good! I enjoy company when I walk. Name’s Worthing. What’s yours?”
Moffat didn’t think it was wise to give this man – as fruity as he was – his real name. “Samuels. Erm, Freddie Samuels.” Bill Moffat offered a grin.
“Well, Mr. Samuels, it’s been a pleasure meeting you!”
They’d been walking this whole time, and now Mr. Worthing stopped and waved a hand toward the front of a small eatery. “Here we are.”
“You know, I’m not sure I’m hungry just yet. Mind if I walk a little ways more with ya?”
“Not at all. Look – here’s the park. I always go through this to get home. It’s somewhat seclude, but pleasant nonetheless.”
Secluded was what Moffat was wanting. After all , as nice as Worthing had been, he’d kept the umbrella to himself, and Moffat decided that was what he’d been after all along. Lying to himself was second nature at this point in his young life, so he could see no reason to lie to Worthing about it.
Neither spoke as they entered the park, its ancient trees dripping onto slated pathways. When they were in the deepest part of wooded area, Moffat slid his gun from his pocket, being careful not to accidentally pull out the money he’d put in next to it. Worthing’s money, now his. What else did this odd man have?
“Listen, Worthing.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful or nothin’. I’m just so far down on my luck that I can’t control my darker urges.” He raised the gun. “You been nice to me, and that’s a problem. You know my face, and even if you think you ain’t gonna be telling anyone about this, I know you will. Can’t have it.” He shoved the barrel into Worthing’s chest and pulled the trigger, letting the heavy coat and Mr. W’s body muffle the noise.
Without a word, Mr. Worthing crumpled into the puddles, his blood making a new one. He was smiling.
A creepy feeling overwhelmed Moffat for a moment, but he got past it well enough to tuck the gun into his pants, remove the money from his coat, take the coat off, and then, with care, removed Mr. Worthing’s nice one and put it on. The hole in the back could be mended, he figured.
After a quick glance around to be sure no one had seen what had transpired (the park was typically deserted with all the precipitation), he checked the pockets before transferring his newly-appropriated cash into one.
He found a sheet of paper that had been folded in four and opened it.
“To whomever finds this – if you’re reading it, you probably killed me. My name is Philip Worthing, and I am a wealthy individual who was in the final stages of brain cancer. Call me a coward, if you will, but I’ve had such a grand life, I couldn’t see going out with none of my dignity intact. So I’m taking myself into a less-than-savoury part of London where I intend to get myself murdered. So if you are the murderer, it means I’ve already given you the money on my person, along with, most probably, my gold watch. No doubt, you now have my coat and umbrella as well.
“If, then, you’re the cause of my demise, I thank you for saving me from a prolonged agony of medical treatments designed for the sole purpose of putting off the inevitable for the sake of my loved ones. Not for mine, certainly.
“In gratitude, I would hereby bequeath to you my town house – the rest of my estate will go in equal measure to the surviving members of my family. The only stipulation is that you take this letter to my solicitor whose name and address you will find at the bottom of this letter. You must do this because it represents my final Will and Testament, without which no one will know you have a right to be in my house.
“Having done so, you will no doubt be arrested for murder, but do not fear – part of my Will is that I request no charges be levied against you, and I’m sure the constabulary and English Law will respect this, my final, posthumous wish.
“Should things go well for you in this regard, you will have a lovely home in which to live, enough money to get you through many years, and a happy life.”
At the bottom was a signature and some other words in long-hand that Moffat couldn’t make out. “What the ’ell! Looks like I’m a rich man!” Since the late Mr. Worthing wasn’t going to press charges, he figured he had nothing to lose, and, having recognized the location of the solicitor’s address, raised the umbrella over his head and sauntered away, leaving his benefactor’s remains to be cleansed by nature’s projectiles.
Latin had been offered in the small local school where Moffat had gone, but he’d failed it, being too lazy to trouble himself with a language no one used any more. So the words, “Stercus tauri est” meant nothing.
As he was being led to his execution a few weeks later, he acknowledged the cleverness of Mr. Worthing – a good man was spared, while society was spared the further crimes of an evil one.
Now that was some stercus tauri.
Impressum
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 18.01.2017
Alle Rechte vorbehalten