A Swell-Looking Babe (4 page)

"Just as fast as I can get there," Dusty promised.

He was on his way out of the house within ten minutes, still too grumpy with sleep to care much about the reason for the summons… That.Steelman, he grumbled silently. You'd think he was God instate! of just the Manton's manager. He "wasn't available" after five, Mr. Steelman wasn't, just couldn't be bothered, no matter what came up. But everyone else had to be available. He could drag you out of bed in the middle of the day, and that was perfectly all right.

Dusty, found a parking space at the rear of the hotel, and went in the employees' entrance as usual. He rode a service elevator to the second floor, walked on past the auditor's offices and the switchboard room and entered the outer room of the manager's office. The receptionist nodded promptly when he mentioned his name.

"Oh, yes. They're waiting for you. Go right on in."

She gestured toward the door marked PRIVATE. Dusty opened it and went in.

The manager was seated behind his desk, crisp and cool looking in a white linen suit. Tolliver, the superintendent of service, sat a little to one side of him, his fumed-oak chair pulled up at the end of the desk. They were studying some papers when Dusty entered, and they continued to study them for a few moments longer. Then, Steelman murmured something under his breath and Tolliver laughed unctuously, and the two of them looked up.

"Sit down, Bill." Tolliver motioned to a chair. "No, better pull it up here. We'll get this over with as quickly as possible."

Dusty sat down, a faint feeling of nausea in his stomach. It was almost a physical shock to come into this air-conditioned, indirectly-lighted room from the blinding heat outside.

Tolliver went on. "Now this is strictly confidential, Bill. Not a word about it to anyone, you understand? Good. Here's what we want to know. You've been working with Mr. Bascom for about a year. You've been around him more – presumably talked with and observed him more – than any of the rest of us. What can you tell us about him?"

"Tell you?" Dusty smiled puzzledly. "I guess I don't understand what-"

"Put it this way. Has he done or said anything that would lead you to believe he wasn't strictly on the level?"

"Why – why, no, sir." Dusty shook his head. "I mean, well, I don't believe that he has."

"Has he told you anything about his past, what he did before he came here? Any of his experiences, say, at other hotels?"

"No."

"To the best of your knowledge, he's an honest man who does his work as it should be done?"

"Yes, sir." Dusty looked from Tolliver to Steelman. "I'm not being inquisitive, but maybe if you could tell me what the trouble is I might-"

"Here's the trouble," the manager said crisply. "We've received an anonymous letter about Mr. Bascom. It's not at all specific, doesn't give us any details, but it does indicate that Mr. Bascom's character leaves something to be desired. Ordinarily, we'd pay no attention to such a communication. If one of our other clerks was involved, someone we knew something about-"

"Someone you knew something about?" Dusty frowned. "You mean, you don't know anything about Mr. Bascom?"

"Practically nothing. According to his application blank, he'd always been self-employed, kind of a small-time jobber. He bought novelties and candy and the like from wholesale houses and resold them to retailers. Now, there's nothing wrong with that, of course, but it doesn't tell us much about him. Doesn't give us anything we can check on. And it's the same story with his character references – the director of a YMCA where he lived a few months, the minister of a church he attended. Virtually meaningless. Those people hand out references right and left."

"But" – Dusty spread his hands – "but why did you hire him, then?"

Tolliver laughed wryly. "Doesn't sound much like the Manton, does it, Bill? But you see, Bascom was hired during the war, right back at the beginning of it. We had to take what we could get, and very few questions asked. Afterwards, since he seemed to have worked out very well, we simply let matters ride. We can't very well start questioning him about his background at this late date. Always assuming, of course, that questioning would do any good."

"It wouldn't" said Steelman. "When a man's applying for a job, he tells everything he can that will be a credit to him. No, we have to go on accepting Bascom at his word, which is just about what it boils down to. Or we have to let him go."

"I'd hate to do that," Tolliver said, "with nothing more against him than an anonymous note. I – yes, Bill?"

"I was just going, to say that the bonding company must have investigated him. As long as they feel-"

"He isn't bonded. We've never felt it necessary to bond the night clerk. He carries a very small change bank, doesn't handle much cash. He doesn't have access to any valuables. So…"

"Let's see," said Steelman. "Do you have many one-shift guests, Rhodes? People who arrive after midnight and leave before seven?"

"Not very many. If you wanted to check the transcript-" "We already have. I was wondering whether Mr. Bascom ever ordered you to make up those checked-out rooms instead of leaving them for the maids."

"You mean have I helped him steal the price of the room?" Dusty said. "No, sir, I haven't."

"Now, Bill" – Tolliver frowned. "That wasn't Mr. Steelman's question."

"I'm sorry," Dusty said. "No, sir, Mr. Bascom has never told me to do anything like that. He knows that I wouldn't do it if he did ask me. If he was going to pull anything crooked, he'd get rid of me before…"

His voice trailed away, leaving the sentence unfinished. Steelman glanced at him shrewdly.

"Go on, Rhodes. He's been riding you, trying to get rid of you?"

"Well," Dusty hesitated. "Yes, sir, he has. But I'm not sure he doesn't mean it for my own good. You see he thinks – he seems to think – that I ought to go back to college."

"Mmm. I wonder," said Steelman. "If he could get another bellboy on the job, work out a deal with him… Tolly, do you remember that night team they caught out in Denver a while back? Stealing rent. Refunding – right into their own pockets. Carting out linens and supplies by the armload. God only knows how many thousands of dollars they cleaned up."

"I remember," Tolliver nodded. "But with nothing more against the man than this one letter, which doesn't really tell us anything, I'd be very reluctant to jump to any conclusions. After all, Bascom worked with a number of other bellboys before Bill came here. His work is audited daily, and we run comparison reaudits from month to month. It seems to me that if he was pulling anything, we'd have found out about it in ten years time."

"Perhaps he hasn't pulled anything. Maybe he's just getting ready to."

"Well," said Tolliver. "Maybe."

"I don't like it, Tolly." Steelman's lips thinned fretfully. "A letter like this concerning the one man we know nothing about. If a man's been a crook once – and this indicates that he has – he's very apt to be one again. He feels a sudden pinch, has to get money in a hurry, and he's off to the races."

"Yes, I suppose so," Tolliver nodded. "What about that, Bill? Does Mr. Bascom have any money problems that you know of?"

"No, sir. He's never mentioned any."

"Well, there's still another angle," the manager went on. "Suppose the author of this letter is trying to blackmail Bascom. He doesn't want him dismissed from his job, so he says just enough to disturb us. As he sees it, we'll be impelled to make some mention of the matter and Bascom will be frightened into paying off. Otherwise, there'll be another letter with more details."

Tolliver frowned solemnly. Then, suddenly, his mouth twisted and he bent forward laughing. "Excuse me, John, but – ha, ha, ha – when I try to picture poor old Bascom in the toils of a blackmailer, I – ha, ha – I-"

"Well," Steelman grinned a trifle sheepishly. "Maybe I'd better start reading westerns instead of detective stories. I can't see the prim old boy in the role myself. Seriously, however…"

"We've gotten crank letters before, John. It's not unnatural, after all the years he's been with us, that one should eventually crop up about Bascom. If we get another one, we certainly ought to take some action, but I don't see how we can at this point. For the present, we can just keep our eyes and ears open – that means you particularly, Bill – and -"

"What about putting Bascom on a day shift?"

"If you say so, but I wouldn't like to. He doesn't have the zip, the polish for a front-office day job. Aside from that, it takes a long time to break a man in on the night paper work.

Steelman nodded. "All right, Tolly. I'll leave it up to you. You don,'t think you should mention the letter to Bascom? Very casually, of course. If he's on the level, there's no harm done, and if he isn't, well, it might keep him out of trouble."

"Except with that blackmailer, eh?" Tolliver laughed. "But I think you may be right, John. Now…"

They discussed the matter for a minute or two longer. Then, Tolliver looked at Dusty and stood up. "There's no reason to keep Bill around for this, is there? There's nothing more you have to say to him?"

"Can't think of anything." The manager shook his head. "Thanks for coming down, Rhodes."

"And remember," Tolliver said, "under your hat, Bill. You don't know anything about this matter."

"Yes, sir," said Dusty.

… Later, when it was too late to do much about it, it seemed to him that he should have seen the connection between the letter and Marcia Hillis and Tug Trowbridge and Bascom… and the threat they represented to himself. Later, he did not know he had been so blind as to fail to see. It was all so simple, simple and deadly. All the parts to the puzzle had been in his hands, and he had only to look at them.

That, however, was later. At the time, it was only an annoyance and one for which there was little excuse. His sleep had been broken into. He had been dragged downtown on a hot afternoon. And all because some nut, some guest probably with a hangover grouch, had written an anonymous note. That was all it amounted to when you got right down to it. If the hotel had any real doubts about Bascom, he wouldn't have stayed there ten years.

Dusty went home, found that his father had returned from his stroll or wherever he had been, and went to bed. It was now nearing six o'clock, but he was too tired and hot to eat. Too tired to sleep, for that matter. He heard his father moving about in the kitchen, closing and reclosing the refrigerator, rattling ice trays, setting a pan on the stove. It went on and on, it seemed. Interminably. It would – he began to drift into sleep – always go on. The heat and the noise… and… and his father. And nothingness.

A vivid image of his mother flashed into his mind, and he tossed restlessly. The image changed, a line here, a line there, and it was another woman: alluring, youthful, and above all warm and interested… and understanding.

He fell asleep, half-frowning, half-smiling.

Dusty drove straight home from work. Or, rather, he started to. Halfway there he remembered that his father was to see the optometrist and that he had no clean clothes. Wearily, cursing, he let the car slow. Of course, the cleaning and laundry might get back early today, but it also might not. And now that he'd taken a firm stand with his father, he'd better carry through with it. There was going to be no more of this putting off, letting him go on with his expensive and embarrassing shiftlessness. He'd been told to see the optometrist today, so today it would be.

Dusty drove back to town, eating breakfast while he waited for the stores to open. He bought a pair of summer trousers, a shirt and underwear, and started home again.

Mr. Rhodes was in the kitchen, dabbling ineffectually at the suds-filled sink. He lifted a platter from the dishwater, peering at his son reproachfully as he began to scrub it.

"Had a nice breakfast fixed for you, Bill," he said. "Bacon and eggs and toast, and-".

"Sorry," Dusty said, shortly. – "Wash up, and put these on, Dad. I'll drive you down to the optometrist."

"Thought sure you'd be here," the old man went on. "After buying all that stuff yesterday. If you'd told me you were going to be late,

"I'm telling you now!" Dusty snapped. "I mean, I'm sorry, but»please hurry, Dad. I want to get to sleep. I'll drive you down, and you can come home by yourself."

Mr. Rhodes nodded mildly, and put down the platter. "This night work, son – do you really think it pays? You don't get your proper rest, and it costs more to-"

"I know. We'll talk about it another time," Dusty cut in. "Now, please hurry, Dad."

He waited in the car while the old man got ready. Impatiently. Trying to stifle his irritation. Probably, he decided, his father was right. He made more money by working nights, but his expenses were higher. There was this car, for example; bus service was slow and irregular late at night, so the car was virtually a necessity. And that was only part of, the story. There were usually two sets of meals to fix- – or to buy away from home. There was his father, free to do as he chose and always in need of money. Still…

Dusty shrugged and shook his head. He wouldn't change jobs for a while, anyway. Not anyway until – and if – he went back to college. He didn't sleep well at night. He hadn't slept well since his mother's death, and, yes, even before that. Of course, it was hard sleeping in the daytime, but that was different. It wasn't like lying alone in the darkness and quiet, thinking and worrying and – and listening.

… He drove the old man downtown, and opened the car door for him. Mr. Rhodes started to slide out of the seat, hesitated.

"You know, Bill, we never did get around to talking about my case. I mentioned that letter the other night, and you said-", "I haven't forgotten," Dusty said. "We'll see about it."

"Well…" Mr. Rhodes looked at him thoughtfully, sighed and put a foot on the sidewalk. "I thought I might go to a show after I get through here, Bill. If that's all right with you."

"You do that," Dusty nodded. "Pick some place with air-conditioning."

"Well, I-I'm not sure that-"

"I am," Dusty said firmly. "You must have enough money, Dad. You couldn't help but have."

"Well… well, maybe," the old man mumbled. "I guess I have at that."

He got out and trudged away. Dusty drove home, and went to bed. This was one day, he thought, he'd really get some sleep. He was so tired that… that…

He was asleep almost the moment that he climbed into bed. An hour later he was aroused by the laundry man.

He put the laundry away, and went back to sleep. Another hour passed – roughly an hour. And the man from the cleaner's came.

This time it was harder returning to sleep. He smoked a couple of cigarettes, got a drink of water, tossed and turned restlessly on the bedclothes. Finally, at long last, he drifted off into unconsciousness. And the phone rang.

He tried to ignore it, to pretend that it was not ringing. It rang on and on, refusing to be denied. Cursing, Dusty flung himself out of bed and answered it.

"Mr. Rhodes? Hope I didn't interrupt anything, but your father said I was to be sure to…"

It was the optometrist.

Dusty learned the amount of his bill, muttered a goodbye and slammed the phone back in its cradle. He returned to bed, but now, of course, sleep was impossible. His eyes kept popping open. His head throbbed with a surly, sullen anger. Unreasoning, focusing gradually on just one object… Why the hell did he have to go to a show today?

Why couldn't he ever do anything except make a damned nuisance of himself? All he thought of was his own comfort, his own welfare. Lying and sponging to get money for those –

Abruptly, Dusty got up. Sullenly ashamed, vaguely alarmed. He didn't really feel that way about his father. He couldn't be blamed much if he did, but he didn't. He didn't feel at all (hat way. He was just grouchy with the heat and work and not being able to sleep.

There was still some coffee on the stove. He drank a cup, smoking a cigarette with it, and went into the bathroom. Today was as good a time as any to see those lawyers. A good time to get it over with, since he couldn't sleep. He came out of the bathroom, dressed and headed for town.

… The building was an old faded-brick walkup, squatting almost directly across the street from the county courthouse. Dusty climbed the worn stairs to the second floor, and proceeded past a series of doors with the legend:

McTeague & Kossmeyer

Attorneys at Law

Entrance 200

Room 200 was at the end of the corridor, uncarpeted, high-ceiling barren of everything – it seemed to Dusty – except spittoons and people. A low wooden rail with a swinging gate enclosed one corner of the room. Dusty made his way to the barrier, and gave his name to a graying, harried looking woman.

"McTeague?" she said. "Something personal? You a friend of his? Well, you don't see Mac then. Kossy does all the seeing in this firm."

"Well…" Dusty hesitated. He didn't want to see Kossmeyer – "Caustic" Kossmeyer, as the newspapers called him. From what he had observed of the attorney, it would not be easy to say the things to him that he had come to say.

"Well," the woman said. "Kossmeyer?"

"You're sure I can't -?"

"Kossmeyer," she said grimly. With finality. And jabbed a plug into her switchboard. "Now sit down and stay put, will you? Don't go wandering off someplace where I can't find you."

She kept her eyes on him until he sat down – on a bench between a middle-aged Mexican in soiled khakis and a middle-aged matron in crisp cretonne. Dusty started to light a cigarette, then noting the sidelong glance the matron gave him, dropped it into one of the ubiquitous spittoons. Uncomfortably, he looked around the room.

A young, scared-looking couple sat in one of the windows, holding hands. A few feet away from them, a paunchy man in an expensive suit talked earnestly to a bosomy, flashily dressed blonde. Two men with zoot coats and snapbrimmed hats were playing the match game. Three Negroes, obviously mother, father and son, huddled in a corner and conversed in whispers… It was as though a cross-section of the city's population had been swept up and set down in the room.

Dusty stood up, casually. The receptionist wasn't looking at him. He'd just saunter on out. Tomorrow he'd write a letter to the firm. A letter would do just as well as a personal talk – almost as well, anyway – and…

The door inside the barrier opened, and Kossmeyer came out. Rather, he lunged out, pushing a sharp-faced oldish young man ahead of him. His voice rasped stridently through the suddenly stilled room.

"All right," he was saying. "Suit yourself. Be your own lawyer. But don't come crying to me afterwards. You want to go to the jug, it's your funeral, but I ain't sending any flowers."

"Now, look, Kossy" – the man's eyes darted around the room. "I didn't mean-"

"You look,' said Kossmeyer. "You ever see yourself in a mirror? Well, take a good gander…"

Dusty watched, fascinated.

Kossmeyer didn't look anything like the other man; he was barely five feet tall and he couldn't have weighed more than a hundred pounds. But now, despite their facial and physical dissimilarity, he looked strikingly like him. In an instant, he had made himself into a hideous caricature of the other. His eyes had become shifting and beady, his face sinisterly slack-jawed. He had called in his chest, simultaneously squaring his shoulders so that his elbows were forced out from his sides. His pants were drawn high beneath his armpits. He wore no coat, but he seemed to, a coat that hung almost to the knees like the other man's. Eyes darting he slowly revolved, not moving a muscle of his dead-pan face…

He was preposterous. Preposterous yet some how frightening. A cartoon labelled CRIME. And, then, suddenly, he was himself again.

"You seen Ace? You got three strikes called the minute they look at you. Just handing it to 'em straight ain't good enough. We got to knock 'em over, know what I mean? Pile it around 'em so high they can't see over it."

The man nodded. "You got me sold. Now, how about-"

"Beat it. Come back tomorrow." Kossmeyer gave him a shove through the gate, and bent over the receptionist. He said, "Yeah? Where?" and glanced up. Then Dusty heard him say, "Oh… the son… junior…"

And the next instant he was out of the enclosure and gripping Dusty's hand.

"Glad to see you, Rhodes, Bill… No, I bet they call you Dusty, don't they? Come on in."

Dusty hung back. Or tried to. "I – it's nothing important, Mr. Kossmeyer. I can come back some other-"

"Nonsense." The attorney propelled him through the throng. "Been hoping you'd drop in. Let's see, you're over at the Manton, right? Nice people. Done a little work for them myself. How's your father? How you like this weather? What…?"

Talking, rapidly, answering his own questions, he ushered Dusty into his office and slammed the door.

Except for the bookcases, the room was practically as barren as the one outside. Kossmeyer waved Dusty to a chair, and perched on the desk in front of him.

"Glad you came in," he repeated. "Wanted to ask you, but I knew you worked nights. How about a drink? You look kind of tired."

"Thanks. I don't drink," Dusty said.

"Yeah? Well I was saying – I'm damned glad you came in. I got a pretty good idea how you feel, Dusty. We've been on this thing about a year now, and we seem to be getting nowhere fast. Your father still out of a job. You stuck with a lot of expenses. You're asking yourself, what the hell, and I don't blame-"

"About that" – Dusty cleared his throat. "About the expenses, Mr. Kossmeyer. I'm afraid I can't – I mean, it seems to me that-"

"Sure." The little man nodded vigorously. "They've been high. Just the costs alone on a deal like this can hit a guy pretty hard. I-" he paused. "You know that's all we've taken, don't you? Just the actual expense of filing briefs and serving papers, and so on."

"Well, no," Dusty said. "I didn't know it. But-"

"But it's still too much," Kossmeyer interrupted. "Anything's too much when it ain't buying anything. But that's just the way it looks to you, y'know, Dusty? It's just the way it looks from the outside. Actually, we're making a lot of headway. We've been pouring in the nickels, and now we're just about to hit the jackpot. I-"

"Mr. Kossmeyer," said Dusty, "I want you to drop the case."

"Huh-uh. No, you don't," the lawyer said. "You just think you do. Like I've been telling you, kid, we're just about to pick up the marbles. Give me two or three more months, and-"

"It won't do any good if Dad does win. He's not going to be able to go back to his job. He's not – well, he's just not himself any more."

"Who the hell is?" Kossmeyer shrugged. "But I know what you mean, Dusty. I've seen him myself, y'know. This knocked the props out from under him, and he's still going around in a daze. I'd say the best way to snap him out of it is to-"

"He's not physically well either. He's-"

"Sure, he's not," Kossmeyer agreed. "A man's sick, he's sick all over."

"I want you to drop it," Dusty said stubbornly. "Winning the case won't really change anything. People will go right on thinking that – what they've been thinking. It would be impossible for him to work."

"Yeah, but, kid…" Kossmeyer paused, a puzzled frown on his small, sharp-featured face. "Let me see if I got you right, Dusty. We're supposed to have free speech in this country; it's guaranteed by the constitution. So a man does something in support of that guarantee, and a bunch of know-nothings and professional patriots do a job on him. He's right and they're as wrong as teeth in a turkey, but he's supposed to take it. Just crawl in a hole and stay there. Don't give 'em no trouble, so they can go on and do the same kind of job on another guy. Is that what you mean?"

"I'm sorry," Dusty said doggedly. "I can't help it that things are the way they are. It's not right, of course, but-"

"I think you're low-pricing your dad," Kossmeyer said. "He thought enough of this issue to go to bat on it. I don't see him running for the dugout just because they're tossing pop bottles. If he gets his job back – when he gets it back, I should say – he won't let 'em smoke him out. He'll be right in there pitching a long time after these bastards are,ducking for cover themselves."