Authors: Donald Hamilton
There was another silence. Lou drank from her glass, holding it with both hands and staring down into it. It was empty again. So was mine, somehow. Her weight was against me now, as we sat there on the big bed. She’d kicked her shoes off for comfort, and her bare feet, on the rag rug, looked more naked and immodest than her halfexposed breast. I hated her. I hated her because, despising the whole obvious business, I still couldn’t keep myself from wanting her badly, just as she’d planned from the start. It had been very neat, the way she’d brought up the subject, laughed at herself, and dismissed it. She’d put a nice reverse twist on the old seduction scene, but the plot and characters remained the same. Well, I’d played coy long enough.
I said, deliberately, “I suppose, like my wife, you couldn’t bear to have me touch you now, after hearing that story.”
She hesitated. Then she reached out quickly and took my hand and put it to her breast. It was a beautiful and touching gesture, something to bring tears to your eyes, except for that brief hesitation, that moment of calculation, that spoiled it completely.
I said, “You sweet goddamn little phony!” and pulled her to me hard.
I kissed her, brutally, until she gasped and turned her face away. Then the full charge of anger hit me, and I wanted to hurt her worse, to strike her—and I couldn’t do it. I was really pretty drunk, I guess, but something kept whispering:
go easy, go easy, watch out, you know too many ways of killing people to horse around like this.
I couldn’t get away from that nagging whisper, but I could drag the dress from her shoulder roughly, remembering how concerned she’d always been about the precious garment. I could kiss her contemptuously on the neck and shoulder and bare arm and breast, forcing the cloth downward, feeling it stretch to its limits of elasticity and beyond. She caught at my wrist in protest as sleeve and bodice tore. To hell with her. I could play as dirty as anybody. She was just a lousy little amateur; she shouldn’t have tried it on an expert.
My fingers brushed the ornate bunch of satin at her hip, slick and stiff and cold to the touch after the warm wool jersey. I suppose every man has known a stray impulse to give a good yank to one of those elaborate rustling structures of satin or taffeta with which women like to call attention to their hips and rear ends. Tonight I gave the impulse free rein, and the stuff came unstitched, protesting shrilly. There seemed to be yards of it, and startlingly great portions of her dress came with it; I heard her gasp as she felt it disintegrate about her. She stopped fighting me and lay passive as I got a fresh grip on what remained, preparing to strip her completely..
Then, lying there together like that, sprawled across the big iron bed, breathing heavily, we were both still, listening to a racketing sound outside: somebody in the railroad station had started up one of the small motorized bikes of which the Swedes are so fond. They’re kind of weak in the muffler department, and you can hear them a long way off. This fellow seemed to be right under the window. He was having trouble, apparently. The thing coughed, spat, choked, and died. He kicked it again, and it caught, and he revved it up until the noise was a high shrieking whine, and I couldn’t see how he could keep from losing a valve or two, except that those damn little two-cycle motors don’t have any valves. Then he rode away, sputtering, leaving silence behind him.
I raised myself slightly and looked down at Lou. She had relaxed; her face showed a kind of peace under her disordered hair.
“All right, Matt,” she whispered. “All right. Go ahead. You’ve got that much coming.”
She’d promised something—implied if not spoken— and she was going to pay off, even if she’d just heard the all-clear signal and knew there was no further need to keep me occupied. Suddenly I was neither drunk nor angry. I just felt kind of foolish and ineffectual, stopped in the middle of ripping the clothes off a woman I couldn’t bring myself to hurt and didn’t, I realized, particularly want to rape. I mean, sex shouldn’t be a weapon, an instrument of hate. It’s something you share with a woman you like. At least you can try to keep it that way.
I got up slowly, and looked at her lying there across the bed, tangled in some inadequate wreckage that no longer bore much resemblance to clothing. I found myself, for some reason, remembering how Sara Lundgren had looked after Caselius and his boys got through with her. Well, at least Lou was still alive; and I’d never claimed that Caselius and I weren’t pretty much on the same level, morally speaking. It remained only to see which of us was tougher, which was smarter.
I started to say something bright and clever, and stopped. Then I started to say something apologetic, which was even sillier. It wasn’t a time or place for speeches, anyway. I just turned and walked out of the room.
In the hall outside my room, I had the key in the lock. I was ready to push the door open and step inside, when it occurred to me that was the way people went and got themselves killed. They got themselves all upset about a woman or something, and forgot to take stock of a changed situation that might hold danger.
If everything had gone according to plan, my situation had changed drastically—at least Caselius would be thinking it had, which was what counted—and I remembered very clearly what had happened to Sara Lundgren when our boy decided he had no further use for her.
I reached in my pocket, got the Solingen knife, and flicked it open. Standing aside, I gave the door a push and waited for it to swing all the way back. Then I waited a little more. If there was anyone inside, he could watch that lighted doorway for a while and wonder whether the first object through would be a human being or a hand grenade. It would do his nerves good, from my point of view.
When I went in, I went in fast and low, at a slant. It would have taken a very good man to pick me off in the brief moment I was silhouetted against the light. I hit the floor inside and kept rolling, and nothing happened. You feel kind of silly, getting yourself bruised and dusty for nothing, but it’s better than being dead. I lay there in the dark long enough to decide that if I wasn’t alone in the room, the other guy must have passed out from holding his breath. Then I got up and moved cautiously to the window to pull the blind, keeping well to one side, before I turned on the light. I didn’t look out. A white face makes a swell target, and I wasn’t curious. If there was a sniper outside, that was a good place for him to be. He didn’t bother me a bit, out there.
With the window safely covered, I went back and closed the door and hit the light switch. The Swedes go in for large push buttons, like overgrown doorbell buttons. You hit them once for light, and once again—the same button—for darkness. Then I looked at the dresser top, which was empty. The films were gone. The surprise wasn’t exactly what you’d call paralyzing.
I went behind the bathroom curtain and looked at myself in the mirror. I had a streak of her lipstick across one cheek and more on my shirt collar; I had her face powder on my lapels. I had some scratches on my wrist where she’d tried to hold me off. Otherwise she’d done me no visible harm. Damage-wise, as the Madison Avenue boys would say, it had been strictly a one-way proposition.
My image in the mirror had that dead-fish look that your mirror image always gets after you’ve drunk too much. I was beginning to need a shave, I noticed. I needed a bath. I needed a good beating-up or the firm application of an old-fashioned horsewhip. I needed a new face and a new personality. I needed twelve hours’ sleep.
I settled for washing my face and taking some aspirin. When someone knocked on the door, the sound was barely audible, but it made me jump a foot. I took out the knife again and went to the door and opened it, taking the routine precautions. Outside was the last person in the world I expected to see right then. You’d have thought she’d had enough of me for a while. I folded the knife and put it away. It was getting lots of fresh air tonight, but no exercise.
“Come in, Lou,” I said. She didn’t move at once. She was watching my face. “Yes,” I said, “your friends have been here. Congratulations.”
She drew a deep breath. “Matt, I—”
“Come in,” I said. “It’s safe. I never maul the same woman twice in one night.”
She stepped inside. I closed the door and turned to look at her. She’d done a quick restoration job; you wouldn’t have known this was a girl I’d just left lying across her bed in rags. She had her old beatnik costume on—the tight black pants, the bulky black sweater—and her hair was brushed and her lipstick was bright and straight. There was a small red area on her chin, that was all.
We faced each other in silence; then I said, “Everything okay?”
She nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I... I’m all right.”
I reached out and touched the mark on her chin. “Whisker burns?” She nodded again. I said, “I’ll have to remember to shave for the next young lady I ravish.”
She said, “You didn’t finish ravishing this one, Matt.” There was a spell of silence. She said, “It wasn’t... wasn’t very nice, what I had to do to you, what we did to each other. I don’t blame you for hating me and wanting to hurt me.”
I didn’t want her damn understanding. “That’s nice of you,” I said. “I appreciate that.”
She shook her head quickly. “Don’t be sarcastic, please. Some day, maybe soon, you’ll understand why...” Her voice ran out. After a little, she said, “If there’s anything... anything I can do to make up for tricking you...”
I said, “I figured we came out pretty even.”
She glanced toward the empty dresser top. “Still?”
“Still,” I said.
She grimaced. “I don’t seem to have much luck selling myself tonight, do I?”
“Oh, is that what you were doing?” I asked. I looked her up and down briefly. “Well, I never could get excited over a woman in pants, doll.”
She said, completely without expression: “That’s easily remedied. They come off, you know.”
It was no use. I couldn’t out-tough her. I admitted defeat. “Let’s cut it out, Lou. I’ve had just about enough of this smart-and-dirty dialogue.”
She said, stiffly, “I just don’t want you to feel… well, cheated. At least not in that way. And I don’t want you to feel noble and forgiving, either. I want to have all our accounts settled when I go out of here. We probably won’t meet again. If you think you’ve got something coming, damn you, now’s the time to collect.” Then she started to cry.
After a little, I got a clean handkerchief from my suitcase and gave it to her. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose and looked at the handkerchief in a baffled way.
“Keep it for a souvenir,” I said. “When you look at the discreet monogram, in the years to come, remember me.”
She stuck it into her pants pocket. “Well, I seem to have finally succeeded in making a complete sap of myself,” she said. “I guess it’s time to go.”
She turned away. I let her get as far as the door. Then I said, “Lou.”
She turned to look at me. “Yes?”
“A message,” I said. “From one M. Helm to one X. Caselius, if you should happen to encounter the gentleman.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “What’s the message, Matt?”
I said, “I offered you a deal, remember? You turned it down.”
“I remember.”
I said, “Well, if Massa Caselius should be in any way dissatisfied with the films you all went to so much trouble to get tonight, honey, you just whisper in his ear that I might be able to help him out. There’s only one catch. He’ll have to come in person. I still have a downright yearning to see his face.”
She was staring at me, wide-eyed, with a look of shock and horror. “Oh,
no!”
she whispered, as if to herself, and then to me: “Oh, you fool! You stupid, meddling
fool!
How
could
you—”
Her voice caught on a sob. She whirled and snatched at the door handle in a blind sort of way, got the door open, and ran out. I heard the scuffing sound of her soft shoes go down the hall fast.
After a moment, I shrugged and went after her. I was a success. I’d got a great big reaction. I’ll be honest and admit I didn’t know why. I went after her to find out. She was turning down the stairs as I came into the hall. I heard her stop halfway down. I went as far as the comer and took a cautious look.
From the head of the narrow stairs you looked right down into the lobby. Actually, it was little more than a vestibule, with just room enough for people to transact their business at the desk and hang up their coats on the way to the dining room. This limited space, I saw from my point of vantage, was rapidly becoming occupied by cops and other people, just as fast as they could get in the door. Halfway down the stairs, pressed against the wall, was Lou, staring down at this influx of law-enforcement talent.
When she came out of her trance and tried to flee, it was too late. One of the policemen had spotted her and pointed her out to Grankvist, our blond friend with the pale eyebrows. He was fast on his feet. He came up those stairs like a man in first-class condition. She missed a step in her haste, coming back up toward me; she went to one knee. Before she could recover, Grankvist had her.
Surprisingly, she gave him a fight. He was just a poor damn government employee doing his duty, but she gave him the battle that, with much more provocation, she hadn’t given me. He got thoroughly bitten and scratched, and two tall policemen had to give him a hand, before he got her subdued.
I’d been too busy watching the ruckus and keeping in the shadow and out of sight—they’d been pretty close to me—to pay much attention to what was going on below. Now, as Lou was hauled down the stairs, I saw a familiar figure down there. They grow Swedes tall, but they don’t generally grow them very wide. This man was both tall and wide. He crowded that little vestibule just by being in it.
“I see you’ve got her,” he said in English to Grankvist.
“Yes, Herr Wellington,” said the blond man, patting his scratched face with a handkerchief. “We have her. But the next time we work together for the good of our respective countries, may I suggest that
you
take the woman?”