Stiletto by Harold Robbins

she began to smile. “So were hundreds of others. Sometimes, Cesare, I think that you’re as crazy as I am.”
    He laughed and got out of the car. He walked around to her side of the car and looked down at her. She had taken out her lipstick and was beginning to apply it.
    “Be a dear, will you, and give me some light?” she said without looking up. “I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of this.”
    He flicked on his lighter and looked down at her. He could feel his lips tightening across his teeth.
    She looked up at him. “What are you staring at?” she asked curiously.
    “You,” he answered tightly. “You’re very beautiful.”
    She smiled. “That deserves another kiss before I put the lipstick on.”
    He bent over the side of the car and kissed her. Her lips were warmer now, they moved against his. “Cesare,” she whispered. “I’m afraid I’m beginning to love you so very much that it doesn’t really matter any more whether you killed those men or not.”
    He straightened up and she turned to begin to apply the lipstick again. He looked down. There was the white flesh of her neck, just below where the short curls turned into ringlets. He raised his right hand, palm out and flat. There was nothing else he could do. Already she had put too many facts together. Death led to death and murder was like concentric ripples in a pool that spread out and out until they reached farther and farther away from the victim and the violator. He brought his hand down sharply in a vicious judo chop.
    The lipstick shot from her hand like a bullet and smashed into the dashboard and then fell tinkling to the floor of the car. He stared down at her, his heart bursting inside him.
    She lay slumped across the wheel, one hand still closed on it, her head in an odd position. He was glad he could not see her eyes. He looked around quickly. There were no cars coming. He ran around to the other side of the car and got into it on the seat beside her. He reached over and turned the key, starting the motor. It caught with a roar.
    He looked around again. The road was still empty. He reached into his sleeve and took out the stiletto and the hook spring to which it was attached. With a quick motion of his hand he flung it far into the darkness and heard it sink into the watery marsh on the other side of the shoulder. He put the car into gear and, steering from his side, moved it out into the road.
    He jammed his foot down on the accelerator. The bridge should be less than a mile from here. In a moment the car was doing eighty. He peered through the fog. Barbara slumped toward him.
    There was the bridge. With a muttered curse, he shoved her back under the wheel. He took his foot from the accelerator and pulled both feet up under him. He held the wheel steady, driving the car right at the concrete abutment at the side of the bridge.
    He sprang high into the air in an arcing dive at almost the moment of impact. The speed of the car pushed him forward and he tumbled awkwardly through the air toward the water.
    The sound of the crash came to his ears at almost the same moment he hit the water. It was cold and black and murky and he gasped for breath. He was going down and down, his lungs were bursting, he would never come up. Frantically his arms flailed the water. The reeds clung to him, trying to keep him down. Then he saw the sky above him again.
    He pulled himself toward the shore. There was a pain inside him now, racing all through his body. He felt his feet touch the land and stumbled to his knees. He crawled out of the water slowly and then sprawled out on the ground. His mouth felt filled with dirt and his face scratched and burning.
    The ground was moist and clammy and its chill raced through him. He began to shudder convulsively, digging his fingers into the earth, clinging to it. Then he closed his eyes and the night came up and over him.
    ***
    Baker leaned back in his chair and stared out the window. The white winter sun formed sharp