A Swell-Looking Babe (12 page)

So now he was a hero, above dispute and suspicion. A plucky young man who had tried to wrest a loaded gun from a murderer's grasp. The newspapers carried daily reports on his condition. The hotel, in addition to paying his hospital bills, had given him a check for three hundred dollars. Detectives had taken him back and forth through his story repeatedly, but they were respectful, apologetic, about it. They were at a dead end in the case, had been almost from the beginning. And they had to go through the motions of doing something.

A detective was with him today, the last of his nine days in the hospital. He had just happened to be in the neighborhood, he explained, rather abashedly. So if Dusty wouldn't mind, since he'd be going home tomorrow and they wouldn't be bothering him any more…

Dusty felt a little sorry for him. He said it was no bother at all. "I don't think I've overlooked or forgotten anything, but I might have."

"Well… Now about the time, then. Were you and Bascom always in the cashier's cage at two-thirty?"

"Almost always. Of course, I might have a bell – a call – or Bascom might have to leave for a minute. But we'd almost always be there at that time."

"Why that particular time instead of some other?"

"It was the quietest part of the shift, for one thing. We weren't so apt to be interrupted. Also, there'd seldom be any room charges after that time. If we tried to do it before that, while the coffee shop was still open and a lot of people were still up-"

"Uh-huh, sure. But what about the tag end of your shift, say up between six and seven in the morning? You'd start getting more charges, then, wouldn't you?"

"A few. Bascom would put them on the room accounts as fast as they came."

"Why didn't you do them all at once? If you'd done that, held up your cashier work until there were other people around…" The detective broke off with a sheepish look. "How stupid can I get, huh? I ask you why you don't do something when you'd've been too busy to do it."

"That's right." Dusty smiled sympathetically. "I wouldn't have had

time to help. Bascom would have been busy with people checking in

and out."

"Yeah, sure," the defective nodded. "Now, what did you think when you saw Tug and his two thugs heading down the stairs? didn't that strike you as pretty screwy? I know he was paying the hotel big money and he'd never caused any trouble before. But two-thirty in the morning – three guys hiking down nine flights of stairs at two-thirty in the morning – you must have-"

"It's like I told you," Dusty said. "I figured that the nightbell on the elevator must have gone out of order. They'd signaled and when didn't come with the car they'd walked down."

"But what would they be doing up at that hour, anyway? I know you told me, but it just don't seem like-"

"I'm afraid it's about all I can tell you. We were used to seeing Tug up late. He. usually came in late, with a couple of his men, and sometimes he came back downstairs with them when they left."

"Well" – the detective sighed and leaned back in his chair. Then, he straightened up suddenly. "Wait a minute! You say you figured the elevator bell was out of order. But if that had been the case he'd have called you, wouldn't he? When the elevator didn't come he'd have telephoned downstairs from his room?"

… Dusty hesitated. It was a point that had been overlooked until now. "You're right," he said. "I should have thought of that. But I just wasn't suspicious of Tug like I might have been of some people, and there wasn't any time to think. I saw him and those fellows coming down the stairs. The next thing I knew, he'd grabbed Bascom and shoved a gun in his ribs. All I could think of was that I'd better do what he said or he'd kill Bascom."

"Uh-uh, sure." The detective sighed again. "Now what was it Tug said there at the last, just before he pulled the trigger on Bascom?"

"He said, Here's your share. Or maybe it was, Here's your cut."

"And that didn't register on you, either? It didn't occur to you that Bascom must have been working with Tug?"

"Look. Officer" – Dusty spread his hands. "Here's a man I've.waited on for more than a year, a man who's always been friendly, a star guest of the hotel. And suddenly he holds us up, and shoots the man I'm working with. All within the space of a few minutes. You don't do much reasoning at a time like that. Maybe you would, but-"

"Okay, okay," the detective said hastily. "I didn't mean to sound like I was faulting you, Mr. Rhodes. You were a lot more clearheaded than most people would have been, showed a hell of a lot more guts. Me, I can't see myself making a grab for that gun."

"Well," Dusty smiled engagingly, "I probably wouldn't do it again either. I was just scared, I suppose, afraid I was going to get killed next."

"And you weren't far wrong at that." The detective shook his head, frowning. "That Bascom – y'know, I just can't figure him. Even if Tug had shot square with him, he must have known that he'd be on a spot. We'd investigate him, and find out about his record. The hotel had already got a letter about him – you know about that, I guess – and-"

"But they didn't pay much attention to it. Bascom had worked there for years, and he'd never given them any reason to suspect him. One anonymous letter wouldn't have counted much against a record like his."

"Yeah. Well, maybe not then. Maybe we wouldn't have checked on him. The way he thought the deal was going to be, it would have left him looking pretty good. Tug grabs him before he knows what's happening. He doesn't even touch the boxes himself. So maybe…"

His voice wandered on absently, aimlessly, a dull probe seeking the non-existent. And a sudden hunch sprang into Dusty's mind.

If his and Bascom's roles had been reversed, if he had been killed and if Bascom had quoted Tug as saying 'Here's your cut…'

Why not? A bellboy was about as low down the ladder as you amid get, while a night clerk was a minor executive. His story would have been believed. He would have been the hero, and Dusty the dead villain… Doubtless, Bascom had believed it would be that way. And, doubtless – perhaps – Had Tug planned it that way in the beginning?

It wasn't nice to think about. There was no sense in thinking about it, and there were much more pleasant things to dwell upon. Marcia Hillis, for example, and fifty per cent of two hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars.

"Well" – the detective stood up. "Guess I'd better be running along. If you should happen to think of anything, why…"

"I don't know what it would be but I'll certainly let you know."

"Fine. Appreciate it." He turned dispiritedly toward the door, a big man with sagging shoulders and a tired gray face. "Oh, yeah," he paused. "Guess I didn't tell you, did I? We found those guys that were with Tug."

"Found them! W-what-?"

"Uh-huh. In the river. Tied together with bailing wire. Looks like they'd been there since the night of the hold up."

"W-well" – Dusty swallowed. "Why… What do you suppose -?"

"Tug, of course. To beat them out of their split. Seems like they should have figured on it, and given it to him instead. But, well, that's the way things go."

He left.

Dusty walked over to the window, pulling his bathrobe around him. So Tug's boys had got it, too. Tug had double-crossed them, just as he had Bascom. And what about it, anyway? What difference did it make? Tug wouldn't double-cross him, because he damned well couldn't, and that was all that mattered.

He'd be out of the hospital tomorrow. In a few days, as soon as his shoulder limbered, up a little more, he'd be back to work. Then, the split of the money – Tug would get in touch with him about that – and then…

He turned away from the window. He sank down into an easy chair and leaned back, propping his feet up on the bed. The money. He still didn't know how Tug planned to collect his share. The gangster had impatiently pointed out that they'd have to wait and see, mat circumstances following the robbery would dictate arrangements. And that was true, of course; it was just about the way it had to be.

But still – hadn't he been pretty offhand about it? Had he been concealing something on this point as he had on the other?

Well… Dusty shrugged, dismissing the idea. That didn't matter either. Tug could only get to the money through him. There was no. way that Tug could do him out of his share. That was the important thing, so to hell with details.

… A nurse brought his dinner on a tray. He ate leisurely and read the evening papers. There was a brief item about his leaving the hospital tomorrow. There was a long story about the discovery of the murdered gangsters. He laid the papers aside, yawning, and glanced at his wristwatch.

He had told his father not to visit him tonight, since it was his last night here, and he hoped to God that he wouldn't. Not that the old man hadn't looked presentable on his nightly visits, but – well, he'd just rather not scare him. His concern made Dusty uncomfortable. His presence was a reminder of a perplexing and seemingly insoluble problem. Dusty just couldn't think when his father was around. There was a stumbling block in his mind, an obscuring shadow over the pleasant picture of his thoughts.

Marcia Hillis was working with Tug. He had become more and more sure of that fact. He was also sure of his attraction for her – strange how very sure he was of that. And now that her work with Tug was done, now that he had money, it would only be a matter of time until they were together.

That was the way it would be. It was the way it had to be. It wasn't just wishful thinking – by God, it wasn't! He had lost her once, lost the only woman in the world. And, now, miraculously, she had reappeared, she had come back into the aching emptiness of his life. And this time, this time, he would not let her get away.

He would have her. It was unthinkable that he might not. In his mind, the possession was already accomplished; they were already together, he and Marcia Hillis, delighting in one another, delighting one another. And there was no room in the picture for his father. With his father, there was no picture.

How could he explain her to the old man? How could he explain the money? He wouldn't have to explain right away, of course. It would be months before he dared quit the hotel and move on to another city – another country. But the time would come. Or, rather, it would never come, as long as his father lived.

As long as he lived…

Dusty had no visitors that night. In the morning, the doctor gave him a final examination and a nurse brought his clothes. He took an elevator downstairs. Unused to exercise, he wobbled a little as he started across the lobby to the street. And a soft hand closed over his arm.

"Let me help you, Mr. Rhodes," said Marcia Hillis.

"They" took a cab to his house. She assisted him inside, was received with absent matter-of-factness by the old man. He was glad, he said, that Bill had hired her. They would need someone, with Bill just out of the hospital, and he himself wasn't much help he guessed.

"Now, nonsense, Dad!" Dusty was almost exuberant in his happiness "You do a lot more than you should. I've been meaning to get someone in before this to make things easier for you."

"Well, now," Mr. Rhodes beamed. "I – that's certainly nice of you, son."

"You must have had a hard time while I was gone. So today you get a vacation. Go to a good show, get yourself a good meal; just take it easy and enjoy yourself."

He pressed a ten-dollar bill upon Mr. Rhodes. He saw him out the door, watched for a moment as he trudged down the walk toward the bus stop. That would take care of the old nuisance. It was worth ten times ten dollars to get rid of him for a while.

He was on the point of saying as much when he turned back around, but the look on Marcia's face stopped him. There was a tenderness in her eyes, a warmth in her expression, that he had never seen before.

"You know," she said softly, "I think I like you."

"Think?"

"Mmmm," she said, and laughed. "And I think I'd like some coffee, too. So if you'll introduce me to your kitchen, show me where you keep things…"

She made coffee, donning an apron he gave her. He watched her, dreamily, as she moved about the kitchen, drinking in every delicious detail of her. The hair, the compactly curving body, the clothes, the – The clothes. He couldn't be sure of it, but she seemed to be dressed the same as she had been the last time he'd seen her.

She turned around suddenly, surprising him in his looking. She said, "Yes? Something on your mind, Dusty?" And he hastily shook his head.

"I was just wondering about your clothes. I mean, you'll be here for some time and…"

"Oh," she shrugged. "Well, I'll pick my baggage up in a day or two. It wasn't convenient this morning."

She set the coffee on the table, and sat down across from him. Hand trembling a little, he lifted the cup. Reaction was setting in; he at last felt surprise – wonder at this incredibly wondrous happening. She was actually here! They were really together. And, of course, he had known that they would be, but now that they were…

He had to put down the coffee cup. Fingers fumbling, he managed to light a cigarette and hold a match for hers. She smiled sympathetically, steadying his hand with her own.

"You don't have your strength back yet, Dusty. Why don't you lie down for a while?"

"I'm all right. We've got a lot to talk about, and-"

"You can lie down and talk. Come on, now, before you wear yourself out completely."

She guided him into his bedroom. He stretched out on the bed, and she sat down at his side.

"Well, Dusty…" She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "You didn't seem very surprised to see me today."

"I wasn't. I was pretty sure you must be working with Tug."

"You were? And how did that make you feel about me, Dusty, about being tricked into -?"

"It didn't change anything. I figured you were probably in the same boat I was in. You were on a spot, and you had to follow orders."

"did you, Dusty?" She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you understood. Some day I'll tell you how it was, but-"

"It doesn't matter – nothing mattered but you. Right from the first time I saw you."

The statement sounded awkwardly blunt, a little ridiculous. But she smiled gravely, obviously pleased.

"I'm glad, Dusty. Because, you see… well, I rather felt the same way. It was the way you acted, I guess, as though you'd been waiting for me, expecting me. I felt like you were someone I'd known a long time ago, and – Oh, I don't know," she laughed. "Anyway, I don't suppose a girl should admit such things, should she?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I mean – I don't mean you should -"

"I know what you mean, Dusty. I know."

She bent down, pressing her mouth against his. Then, as his arms went around her, she slid firmly out of his embrace.

"Not now, darling. I hope there will be more later – a great deal more." But, now, I don't know."

"But why?" He started to sit up, and she pushed him back down." "You said you liked me, felt the same way as I did. I'll have plenty of' money, and-"

"The money isn't too important to me, Dusty. Not nearly as much, I'm afraid, as it is to you. I like it, yes, but I've never had a great deal and I've gotten along all right without it. I could keep right on getting along without it. I wonder if you could."

"But I – we won't have to!"

"Won't we? That money won't last forever, no more than ten, years, say, if we're only mildly extravagant. What would you do when it's gone?"

"Well, I-" He shook his head impatiently. "What would anyone:

do? Marcia, I-"

"Not anyone. You. I'm quite a bit older than you are, Dusty. I won't be young ten years from now, but you will. How would you feel then – broke and saddled with a middle-aged woman? What would you do about it?"

"What?" he frowned. "I – look, Marcia. I want you to marry me not just-"

"I hoped you did. But that still doesn't answer my question. What happens when my looks are gone, and the money's gone? Would there still be something left for you, something more important than money or appearances? I'd have to be sure of that, Dusty. I have to know you better than I do now."

"I… I don't know what you mean," he said slowly. "I don't see what you're driving at."

"Murder, mainly. Murderers. If a man kills to get himself out of one unpleasant situation, he'll do it again."

She nodded calmly, staring down at him in the shade-drawn dimness, and a cold chill raced up Dusty's spine. He was suddenly conscious of the room's quiet, of their isolation here.

"B-but-" He gulped. "But I haven't killed anyone!"

"Not actually, perhaps, but technically. You knew Bascom was going to be killed!"

"But I didn't! Tug didn't tell me a thing about it. He told me – told me that no one would be hurt."

"And you believed him?"

"Why not? I didn't know anything about things like that. All I knew was that you were in trouble, that you might get killed if I didn't do what Tug told me to."

"That isn't what you said a moment ago. You said you knew I was working with Tug."

"Not at the time. Even afterwards, I wasn't positive. I – Who are you to talk, anyway? You got me into the deal. If it hadn't been for you, I-"

"Would it have made any difference, Dusty? You don't think you might have been in it anyway?"

"How could I have been? What do you mean? Dammit" – he sat up, scowling. "I could ask some questions myself. What about you knowing that Bascom was going to be killed? You quiz me about it when you must have known yourself that-"

"I didn't. If I had, I'd hardly be concerned about your being involved."

"Well, I didn't know either."

"I hope not, Dusty. I want to believe that you didn't. So let's not discuss it any more now, shall we not? Give me a little more time, tell me how we're going to get the money out of the hotel, and men – well, we'll see then."

"But, why? What's there to -?"

"Why not? We'll have to wait anyway. We've just met, supposedly. You'll have to go on working at the hotel"

"Yes, but – but, Marcia…"

He broke off, unable' to say what he had intended to, to point out the incongruity of the situation. She was in this thing as deeply as he, she was closer to Tug apparently than he was. She'd been around – she damned well had to know what the score was. So why then all this squeamishness? Why all the fuss about Bascom's death?

It didn't add up. Even taking that older-than-you-are, what-about-the-future stuff at its face value it didn't fit together. So maybe they had to be careful for a while. Maybe it was logical for her to go slow on tying herself up permanently. But they were alone now, and she'd been around from way back. And yet he couldn't even give her a feel without –

"Oh," she said, and it was as though he had spoken the thought aloud. "I see, Dusty, and I don't blame you. I haven't been everything I should be, and-"

"Nuts, nonsense," he said quickly. "Now about the money. Come around to the hotel any time after I go on duty, a little after twelve, say. You, want to get something out of a suitcase you've left in the checkroom – a lot of people do that – and-" understand. I supposed you'd do it that way."

"Well, uh – that's all there is to it, then."

She nodded, went on looking at him. At last she said absently, "Perhaps we shouldn't wait. Perhaps it would be better now, since you feel as you do. Since it's so important – or unimportant."

"Now, wait a minute!" His face flushed. "I haven't said anything! My God, you can't blame me for wanting to – to-"

"I don't. Nor for thinking what you think."

She got up and left the room. He heard the front door close, and the snap of the lock, and men she was back again.

She toed off one shoe, then the other. Quite casually, she unfastened the snaps of her dress, slipped it up and over her head. The slip came next. Then – then the other things. All that remained.

And then she stretched out at his side. And waited.

He was too startled to move for a moment; it had all happened so swiftly. Then, his senses responded to the wonderful reality of her, and he moaned and…

She lay supine, docile, under his hungrily groping hands. They roamed over her body unhindered, nothing forbidden nor withheld. And her mouth received his in long, breathtaking kisses. It was almost too much, more ecstasy than he could bear. To have her at last, after all these years of hunger and hopelessness, to have this – the impossible dream come true – his for the taking.

He moaned again. He turned, pulling her body under his and then he opened his eyes. Looked into hers.

"What – what's the matter?" he said.

"You mean," she said, "you're not enjoying yourself?"

"Look. If you didn't want to, why -?"

"I thought I explained. To see how important this was to you – how much value or little value you placed on it."

"But that – that's crazy! What does it prove? For God's sake, Marcia, you can't-"

"To me, it proves a great deal. To you – well, I'm waiting to find out."

"B-but-" But it was impossible, unbearable! He couldn't stop now. Jesus, he couldn't! He couldn't! But if he didn't…

He bit his lip. Suddenly, he thrust himself up, dropped down panting at her side. And he lay there, eyes clenched, trembling from the terrible effort. It was all right now. He was exhausted, now, drained dry of strength – weak as he was disappointed.

Her arm went around his neck, pulling his head against her breast. She held it there, gently, stroking his hair.

"You'll be glad, darling," she whispered. "You'll see. You'll be so glad you waited."

"All right," he said. "I… all right."

"You don't hate me, do you, darling? Please don't. No matter what I – how I act. Because I won't be doing it to hurt you. I love you and I want you to love me, to keep on loving me, and if we don't get started off right…"

"All right," he repeated. "I said it was all right, didn't I?" "And I said you'd be glad," she whispered. "And you will…"