A Swell-Looking Babe (11 page)

"Yes?" he said, his face thrust almost against Dusty's. "You said something to me, Rhodes?"

I said," said 'Dusty, evenly, "that if you don't want to treat the case, I can call in another doctor."

"No" – Lane shook his head. "No," he said again, his voice muted to an icy purr. "I'll tell you what you can do, Rhodes. You can start takeing better care of your father, or you can hire someone who will take care of him. Do I make myself clear? You can do it of your own free will, as a son should, or I'll take steps to compel you to." He hesitated,'wet his lips, continued in a milder tone. After all, he'd been. the Rhodes' family doctor for years. And he'd known this young man sincere was a squirt in short pants. "Sure that, uh, nothing of that kind will be necessary," he went on. "I know your expenses have been pretty high, and it's hard for a man holding a full-time job to do much else. But, well, see what you can do about it, eh? Do the best you can."

Dusty promised that he certainly would. He was no more afraid of the doctor than he was of Kossmeyer, but there was no point in making an enemy of him. He needed friends; he was very apt to need them, at any rate. And – and the realization startled him – he had none. There were friends of the family, friends of his father. But there was none of his own. No one who could be depended upon to fight for him, stick up for him, if he got into trouble.

"I'll get busy on it right away," he promised. "I'm only sorry that you had to be bothered about such things, Doctor."

"Well. Well, that's all right," Lane said gruffly. "Know you've got the old man's welfare at heart – just a little thoughtless perhaps – or I wouldn't have said anything."

He drove away.

Entering the house, Dusty again sent Mr. Rhodes to the barber, again gathered up his clothes and called the laundry and cleaners. It would mean losing sleep today and still more tomorrow. But that would be the end of this particular difficulty. Kossmeyer was dropping his father's case. He would be making no more demands for money, and the old man would thus cease to filch from the household funds as he had been doing.

Dusty dialed the telephone, thinking of the attorney with sardonic amusement. That was always the way with these holier-than-thou guys, these guys who made such a show of standing on principles and to hell with the cost. They didn't care about money – oh, not at all! – but they never turned any down. They were too good to give you a decent word, to show a little understanding for you, but they weren't too good to take your money. If they couldn't get it in one way, they'd do it in another. Squeeze it out of someone close to you who was too trusting to see through them.

Kossmeyer must have known that Mr. Rhodes had no money of his own. He must have been aware that Dusty would not, or could not, have authorized the old man's steady and substantial expenditures. And yet –

Dusty frowned faintly, the smoothly satisfying chain of his thoughts temporarily unlinked. He didn't know, of course, that Kossmeyer had gotten any dough from his father. It would seem that he hadn't, in fact, since Mr. Rhodes had pestered him frequently to send me attorney a remittance. Then, well, then there was the way Kossmeyer had acted a few days ago: mere in his office when the subject of fees had come up. He'd brushed it aside as something of no importance. In so many words, he'd offered to work for nothing. He'd been pretty sure, no doubt, that the offer would not be accepted, and, of course, a man as sharp as he was would know when to take it easy and when to put on the screws. But suppose… suppose he had really meant it. Suppose he hadn't received those hundreds of dollars, as much as fifteen or twenty dollars a week for more than a year.

Well – Dusty shrugged and resumed his telephoning – -suppose he hadn't? What difference did it make whether the old man had simply wasted the money, let it get away from him, or whether he had given it to Kossmeyer?

He hung up the phone, and leaned back on the lounge. Fretfully, he lighted a cigarette and leaned forward again.

… Hundreds of dollars, close to a thousand. And if Kossmeyer hadn't got it, who had? It didn't make any difference, of course – how could it? – but "still ft was damned puzzling. He couldn't push the riddle out of his mind.

Squandered? Wasted? Absently dribbled away or lost? The more he thought about it, the more preposterous the theory became. Mr. Rhodes had no vices, nothing he might have spent so much money on Years of living on a modest salary had made him chronically frugal. He abhorred waste, and had demonstrated the fact frequently and recently. He was absent-minded, true, but not that absent-minded. On occasion, he might have forgotten his change from a purchase or lost a bill from his pocket. It was out of character, but he might "have. But he would not have done so steadily, consistently, week after week.

There was only one explanation, then. Kossmeyer. The money had either gone to him, or it simply hadn't gone. And if it hadn't…

Dusty crushed out his cigarette, and stood up. Stepping to the screen door, he looked up and down the street. He stood there in the door for a moment, hesitant, feeling a faint twinge of shame. Then, he turned away purposefully, and entered his father's room.

It was as neat as the old man was unneat. The bed was made. The floor appeared to have been recently swept. A handful of toilet articles was tidily arranged on the dresser. Books stood in orderly array upon their several shelves.

He examined them, the books first. Riffling their pages, shaking them, hastily replacing them on the shelves. Next, after another look up and down the street, came the bed. He jerked off the covers, went over the mattress swiftly but carefully. There was nothing. No smallest slit, nor any place where the ticking had been re-stitched. He re-did the. bed and moved to the dresser. In the bottom drawer he found a small steel file. He lifted it out, and raised the unlocked lid.

There was nothing here, either. Only old letters, old receipts, old and yellowed newspaper clippings. And a couple of old insurance policies. One, a thousand-dollar policy, carried a twenty-year-old date. The other – ten thousand dollars, double indemnity – was dated some five years ago. Both, of course, named his mother as beneficiary. Both, consequently, would have long since lapsed.

He returned the file to the drawer. That completed his search of the room.

The following morning, having sent his father to a picture show, he searched the rest of the house. His findings totaled a dime (under the bathtub) and three pennies (extricated from the cushions of the living-room furniture). That was all.

Well, he hadn't actually expected to turn up a horde. He'd been sure all along that Kossmeyer had got the money. He went to bed, more pleased than otherwise, glad that his opinion of the attorney had been positively confirmed.

He slept.

He worked.

He conferred with Tug and his boys several times. He went to extraordinary pains to keep Mr. Rhodes presentable.

Eat, sleep, work: that was about the sum of his existence. It seemed that there should have been something more, but that was all.

The days, the nights, slipped by, blending uneventfully one with another. Almost abruptly the day came, that day.

Two-thirty in the morning of that day.

The silence was contagious; it pressed in on you, demanding silence. Up in the cashier's cage, Dusty unconsciously lowered his voice. Then, as Bascom squirmed on his stool, he raised it again. Five-oh-five, Holloway. Food thirty-eight dollars, tips five, total forty-three. Bar twenty, tips three-fifty, total twenty-three fifty. Newsstand miscellaneous, twelve. C.O.D.'s fifty-two. Valet-"

"Let's see!" Bascom held out his hand for the charge slips without turning around. "Hmmm. Living high, but he doesn't spend a nickel. Could be that he doesn't have it to spend."

"Could be," Dusty murmured.

"Well"-Bascom tossed the account to one side-"that's a headache for the clay crew. Let's have the next one."

Dusty continued. Now and then he stole a look at the clerk. Bascom was strangely calm, matter-of-fact, tonight. Not friendly or unfriendly., simply a man carrying out a job that had to be done.

It was the way he should act, of course; everything had to go on as usual right up until the time of the holdup. But Dusty wondered at his ability to do it. He, himself, was anything but calm. Now, here right at the last when he needed confidence most, it was suddenly draining away.

Dusty glanced at the lobby clock. Two-thirty sharp. What was holding them up? They – Tug and the two men who were in on the deal – should have started down the stairs at two-twenty. Ten minutes was more than enough time to get down to the lobby. So unless something had gone wrong…

Tug had warned him not to leave the cashier's cage after two-thirty. If there was a room call or an elevator signal at two-twenty-five, or even a minute or so later, fine. He was to take care of it, and get back to the cage as fast as he could. But after that, no. People couldn't expect prompt service at this hour of the morning. If they did comment on the fact later, nothing could be made of it. The robbery, would have been going on, and –

But it wasn't going on! It was two-thirty-four, well, two-thirty-three, and nothing had happened. Suppose he got a room call, or the elevator night-bell rang, now. Suppose he stalled on it, and Tug and his boys didn't show up until three. How would he be able to explain that? And how could he cover up, meanwhile, with Bascom? Bascom wasn't supposed to know that he was in on the robbery. And Bascom certainly would suspect the truth, if he stalled indefinitely. A few minutes, yes: while they finished a transcript sheet or a series of charges. But a few minutes had already passed – it was already two thirty – and… Where were they? For God's sake, where were they?

"Bill…" Bascom spoke with his back still turned. "You made a bad mistake, Bill."

"W-what?" Dusty plunged out of fear and into terror.

"W-when? H-how do you -?"

"You've been making a lot of mistakes. You don't know what you're doing. Why don't you go home? I can say that you took sick, and call for another boy."

What was he talking about? The work or the other? did he know or…?

"Do it, Bill. Now. Before you make a really big mistake."

"I – No!" Dusty gasped. "I mean, I'm all right I-"

"You're all wrong. But if you leave now, you can still…" Bascom paused, leaving the sentence unfinished. For from somewhere, up there on the echoing darkness of the mezzanine, a door had creaked open, and now there was the rapid pad-pad of feet upon thick carpeting. And then the clatter of those same feet descending the marble steps to the lobby.

They came down in a group, almost on each other's heels. One of them hurried up the lobby to the front door, another took up a position at the taxi entrance. And the third, Tug Trowbridge, stopped at the cashier's cage.

Something dropped to the desk from his hand, tinkled faintly. Six – no, seven tiny keys. The same hand grasped Bascom by the shirt front, hauled him up against the opening. The other thrust a gun into the clerk's chest.

"All right, kid," he snapped. "Get busy!"

"B-but-" Dusty stared at him, stupefied. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Tug had promised to keep him in the clear, with nothing to do but –

"Goddammit,"move! Get the ledger and the other keys. Get them boxes out here!"

Dusty's head was swimming. He stammered, "B-but you s-said-"

"You heard what I said. Now, do it!"

He couldn't do it. He. couldn't even move. Then his eyes moved from the gangster to Bascom, and he couldn't see him full-face, but what he saw was enough. Bascom was startled, too. For him also things were hot going as they had been planned.

"You hear me, Dusty? I have to tell you one more goddamned time, and-" And Dusty sprang into action.

He had left the platform. The plunge was over, and now there was nothing but the short easy swim to shore. This was as it should be. As he must have known it would be. He hadn't known, of course, or certainly he wouldn't have agreed to it. He'd had no idea of the real truth. But so long as it was this way…

He sank deeper and deeper into the water; its pressure was unbearable. And then he was on the bottom – absolute bottom. And amazingly the pressure was gone. Once he surrendered to it fully, ceased to resist, there was no more.

Sure, he'd known; and he knew what must certainly happen after this. And what the hell of it? All that mattered now was getting to shore… getting away with it.

Swiftly, he unlocked seven of the little vault doors, yanked out their long steel boxes. He placed them on the desk, to one side of Bascom, and Tug gave him a tightlipped grin of approval.

"Atta boy! Now, reach around him, kid – I got the bag under my coat – and… Swell. You're doing fine. Now stuff the dough into it, and-"

"What about a count on it?"

"Count!" Tug let out a surprised grunt, then chuckled softly. "A real pro, ain't he, Bask?" Bascom was silent. "A good idea, kid, but make it fast. Just riffle through it. Don't matter if you're a grand or two off."

Dusty nodded. He flipped back the lid of the first box, turned through the thick sheaf of bills. They were all hundreds and fifties,,with a preponderance of the latter. Large enough to total high without bulk, small enough for easy negotiation.

"Twenty-seven thousand." He glanced at Tug. "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah! For Christ's sake, Dusty!"

There was twenty-four thousand, five hundred in the next box. The third held thirty-eight thousand, fifty.

The fourth…

All together there was two hundred and thirty-two thousand. Approximately that much. Tug nodded impatiently as he repeated the figure.

"Yeah, hell. It's close enough anyway… Now, you remember the combo on that bag? One turn right from zero, back left to ten, right to forty, and then left to--"

"I know. All the way, ten, forty, thirty… What about your own box, here? Haven't you got -?"

uneasiness of the two men at the doors. Why, they were jumpy. They were, and he was not. He was grinning secretly, patronizingly, as he entered and locked the door of the cashier's cage.

Everything was all right. It was exactly eight minutes since Tug had thrust his gun into Bascom's ribs. How much better could they want it?

"That goddamned phone, Dusty! Maybe you ought to – "

"Huh-uh. The operator will figure I'm busy. She'll stop, and call back in a few minutes."

"You sure? She won't – " The ringing stopped, but Tug still looked anxious. "She won't call someone, tell 'em that she – "

Dusty shook his head. "What's the difference, anyway? It's all over, isn't it?"

"Well… well, yeah," said Tug, almost wonderingly. 'I guess it just about is, kid."

"Bill!" Bascom spoke for the first time. "Listen to me, Bill! It doesn't matter about me, but you've got to prom – "

Tug's gun exploded. Bascom reeled backward, clutching his chest, and Tug fired again. And again. The clerk's body jerked. Slowly, it began to bend at the waist. It sagged down and down, and he was clawing at his chest, now, gasping and clawing – a terrible rattle in his throat. Then, his knees swayed and crumpled, and blood gushed from his mouth, and he pitched forward to the floor.

The raiding ceased. He lay silent, motionless.

"All right, kid" – Tug's gun swerved and pointed at Dusty. "Here's your story…"

He spoke swiftly. He said, "Got it?" And then, "Now, just take it easy – we got to make this look good – but just take it easy and – "

And he fired again.

Dusty screamed. He staggered and went down, on top of Bascom's body.

Tug cursed shakily. "Jesus Christ! Forget it, will you? Just get the thing checked and get back here!"

Dusty snapped the bag shut, spun the knob of the combination lock. He unlocked the cage, and hurried down the long counter, snatching up the checkroom key from the bell captain's stand.

He emerged from behind the counter, turned into the alcove which bordered one side of the check stand. The baggage-receiving space opened onto that. He unlocked its long window, vaulted the brass-surfaced counter, and turned on the light switch.

Two cigar boxes were nailed to the wall immediately below the switch. Dusty took a rubber band from one, and an orange-colored oblong of pasteboard from another. He affixed a check to the bag, shredded its stub into a wastebasket, took a long look at the number as he slid the bag onto the shelf. Four, nine, nine, four. Forty-nine, ninety-four. Forty-nine and reverse. That would be easy to remember.

He switched off the light, vaulted back over the counter, relocked the window. Hurrying back down into the lobby, swift but sure of himself, unpanicked, he heard the ringing of the bell captain's phone. And yards away he saw the alarm on Tug's face, and the sudden

uneasiness of the two men at the doors. Why, they were jumpy. They were, and he was not. He was grinning secretly, patronizingly, as he entered and locked the door of the cashier's cage.

Everything was all right. It was exactly eight minutes since Tug had thrust his gun into Bascom's ribs. How much better could they want it?

"That goddamned phone, Dusty! Maybe you ought to-"

"Huh-uh. The operator will figure I'm busy. She'll stop, and call back in a few minutes."

"You sure? She won't – " The ringing stopped, but Tug still looked anxious. "She won't call someone, tell 'em that she – "

Dusty shook his head. "What's the difference, anyway? It's all over, isn't it?"

"Well… well, yeah," said Tug, almost wonderingly. 'I guess it just about is, kid."

"Bill!" Bascom spoke for the first time. "Listen to me, Bill! It doesn't matter about me, but you've got to prom – "

Tug's gun exploded. Bascom reeled backward, clutching his chest, and Tug fired again. And again. The clerk's body jerked. Slowly, it began to bend at the waist. It sagged down and down, and he was clawing at his chest, now, gasping and clawing – a terrible rattle in his throat. Then, his knees swayed and crumpled, and blood gushed from his mouth, and he pitched forward to the floor.

The raiding ceased. He lay silent, motionless.

"All right, kid" – Tug's gun swerved and pointed at Dusty. "Here's your story…"

He spoke swiftly. He said, "Got it?" And then, "Now, just take it easy – we got to make this look good – but just take it easy and-"

And he fired again.

Dusty screamed. He staggered and went down, on top of Bascom's body.