A Swell-Looking Babe (5 page)

He nodded firmly. Dusty shook his head. "I don't think he felt that way. I mean, well, like he was fighting for something. I doubt that he even knew what he was signing. Someone handed him a petition and he just…"

"Yeah?" Kossmeyer waited. "Why didn't he say so, then? That it was all a misunderstanding? That would have let him off the hook."

"Well," Dusty hesitated… he probably thought they wouldn't believe him."

"I see," said Kossmeyer. "Well, possibly you're right. After all, if a son doesn't know his father, who does?"

He stared at Dusty blandly, his bright black eyes friendly and guileless. And yet" there was something about him, there had been something for several minutes how, that was vaguely disturbing. He was like some small deadly bird, coaxing a clumsy prey within staking distance.

"Dusty took out his cigarettes, fumbled one from the package. Instantly, Kossmeyer was holding a match for him.

"Had a pretty rough time of it, haven't you, kid? Losing out on your schooling. Losing your mother. Working and trying to take care of a sick old man at the same time."

"I don't mind," Dusty said. "I'm glad to do what I can."

"Sure, you are, but it's plenty tough just the same. Well, I thought we'd gone pretty easy with you on money, but maybe we can make it a little-lighter still. That's your only objection to going on with the case, isn't it? The expense. If we can take care of that, you'd just as soon we went ahead."

"Well, I – I wouldn't want you to-"

"We'll work something out," Kossmeyer said. "Maybe – y'know, it's just possible we can get by without any more expenses. If I can get your father to cooperate."

"If…?" Dusty's head was beginning to ache. "I don't understand."

"You gave me an idea a minute ago. About your father signing that petition without knowing what he was doing. Now, that might be pretty hard for people to swallow, particularly at this late date. And I kind of think he wouldn't want to make such an admission anyway. If he wasn't any brighter than that, he shouldn't have been holding the job he was in…"

"But what-"

"That petition was floating around everywhere, different copies of it. Maybe someone signed your dad's name to it. You… Here! You're about to burn your fingers, kid."

Kossmeyer reached behind him and procured an ashtray. He extended it in a lean, steady hand.

Dusty ground out his cigarette. "Why would anyone sign his name?"

"Some joker maybe. Some guy who wanted to get him into trouble."

"But why wouldn't Dad have said so if-"

"We-el" – Kossmeyer pursed his lips-" now, that's a question, ain't it? Ordinarily, I'd say he was standing on the principle of the thing. He had a right to sign it, and regardless of whether he did or not isn't important. It's the principle involved, not the physical action itself. But you say he doesn't feel that way, so – That is what you said, isn't it? – so I guess he must have another reason."

He continued to stare at Dusty, frowning thoughtfully, interested and sympathetic: a man helping a friend with a puzzling problem. He waited, watched and waited, and Dusty could only look back at him wordlessly, his throat dry, a slow hot flush creeping over his face. The silence mounted. It became unbearable.

And then Kossmeyer shrugged, and grinned deprecatingly. "Listen to me rave, huh? Who the hell would forge your old man's signature? It don't make sense any way you look at it. All your dad would have to do is call in a handwriting expert, and he'd be in the clear like that."

He snapped his fingers, demonstrating. He slid off the desk, and held out his hand. "Don't want to rush you off, kid, but I got a lot of people waiting and…"

"I've got to run along, anyway." Dusty stood up hastily. "I'll – thanks very much for seeing me, and-"

It wasn't what he wanted to say. He hadn't said anything he'd wanted to say. He'd gotten all twisted around, and all he could think of now was release. All he wanted now was to escape from this friendly, helpful and terrifying little man.

"I'll – I hope I see you again," he mumbled weakly.

"Sure you will." Kossmeyer gave him a hearty clap on the back. "Any old time, kid. If it ain't convenient for you to come in, I'll look you up."

He held the door open, beaming, ushered Dusty through it. He shook hands again. "Yes, sir," he said. "I'll keep in touch. You can depend on it, Dusty."

It was a quiet shift. No guests had come in on the late train, and there had been hardly a dozen room calls thus far. He and Bascom were practically through with their paper work; at least, there was little remaining that he could help with. Lounging at the side of the door of the lobby, he drank in the wonderfully cool clean air, watching the curtain of rain flow endlessly into the oily black pavement.

He was feeling good, all things considered, considering that he had had almost no sleep. It was cool, and Kossmeyer hadn't guessed anything – what the hell was there for him to guess, anyway? – and Bascom was being decent for a change. Bascom had been taking a lot out of him, Dusty decided. You were bound to be nervous and depressed when you had some guy riding you night after night.

Dusty flipped his cigarette into the street, and went back into the lobby. Bascom called to him pleasantly from the cashier's cage.

"How does it look, Bill? Still coming down pretty hard?"

"Not too bad. You can make it all right if you take an umbrella."

"Good. Think I'll go get a bite to eat, then."

Dusty went behind the desk. Bascom came out of the cashier's cage, locked the door behind him and got an umbrella. He opened the door at the rear of the keyrack, and emerged into the lobby.

"Well" – his voice was casual; he spoke almost over his shoulder – "I guess you're not going to go back to college?"

"I'm still thinking about it," Dusty said. "I want to, but it'll take time to work it out."

"I see," Bascom nodded. "At any rate, I don't suppose you could go back before the fall term."

"No, sir. Not very well."

"I'll be back in a few minutes," Bascom said. "You know where to reach me if anything comes up."

He went out the side door, raising the umbrella as he stepped under the marquee. Dusty leaned his elbows on the marble desk top, and let his eyes wander around the lobby. He yawned pleasurably. A good night, any way you looked at it. Bascom, the weather, money-wise. Tug Trowbridge had given him a ten-dollar tip. If he didn't make another nickel between now and quitting time, he'd still have a good shift.

At his elbow, the bell captain's phone rang suddenly. Dusty jumped, startled, then picked up the receiver.

It was her, Marcia Hillis. He recognized her voice instantly, and she recognized his.

"Dusty? Can you bring me some stationery?"

"Yes, ma'am. Right away, Miss – I mean, I can bring them in a few minutes, Miss Hillis. The room clerk's gone out to eat, and I have to watch the desk."

"Oh? Are you afraid it will run away?"

"No, ma'am, I-"

She laughed softly. "I was teasing… As soon as you can, then."

"Yes, ma'am."

He hung the receiver up clumsily. Opening a drawer, he took out a stack of stationery, small and typewriter size, and laid it on the counter. He went behind the keyrack to the lavatory and combed his hair. He came out front again, and looked at the clock. Bascom had been gone… well, he'd been gone long enough. Should be back any minute. He looked at the stack of stationery, shook his head judiciously, and returned two thirds of it to the drawer.

Something in the action stirred his memory. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around: memory, a recollection, brought about the action. Something the superintendent of service had lectured him about at the time of his employment.

"… Very careful about waste, Bill. Lights not in use, leafy water taps, two trips with the elevator when one might suffice, more soap and towels and stationery than a guest can legitimately use. Little things… but they aren't little when you multiply them by several hundred. It's those little things that count. They made the difference between profit and loss…"

Dusty glanced at the clock again. For no reason that he could think of, merely to kill time, he walked up the aisle to the room rack. There was nothing to be learned there, of course. She was just another one of hundreds of small white slips… a capital-lettered composite name, place of residence, rate and date… He returned to the bell captain's section, drummed nervously on the neat stack of stationery.

He picked up me outside phone, dialed the first two numbers of the lunch" room, and replaced the receiver. This wasn't important enough to have Bascom come rushing back. If she waited until this time of night to write letters, she could wait a little longer. That's the way-. Bascom would look at it. That was the way he looked at it. She was just another guest, good for a two-bit tip, perhaps. So what was the hurry?

Dusty leaned over the counter, and looked up the expanse of lobby to the front entrance. He went out the door and waited in front of the counter.

Stationery at three in the morning. Not usual, but it wasn't extraordinary either. A guest couldn't sleep, so to pass the time, he or she wrote letters. It happened. Every few nights or so there'd be a room call for stationery. As for the way she'd talked over the phone, the was she'd acted that first night…

Well…

He shrugged and ended the silent argument. Why kid himself? She'd been interested in him from the beginning. Now, she'd worked herself up to the point of doing a little playing. And so long as she wasn't a spotter – and she wasn't – so long as he let her take all the initiative and he damned well would – it would be okay. No trouble. Not a chance of trouble. He'd never done anything like this before, and he never would again. Just this once.

Bascom came in the front door. Dusty signaled to him, jabbing a finger into the air. The room clerk nodded, and Dusty picked up the stationery and trotted off to the elevator.

At the tenth floor, he opened the door of the car and latched it back with a hook. He started down the long semidark corridor. There was a low whistle from behind him, then a:

"Hey, Dusty!"

Dusty turned. It was Tug Trowbridge, standing in the door of his suite in undershirt and trousers. Two men – the two he had met a few nights before – were with him.

"In a big hurry? How about running my friends downstairs?"

"Well" – Dusty hesitated – "yes, sir," he said. "Glad to." It had to be done. He couldn't leave them waiting indefinitely for an elevator.

He took them downstairs, said good night and went back to the tenth floor. He latched the door back quietly, and started down the hall again.

Slowly, then more slowly.

Now that he was here, rounding the corner of the corridor, approaching her door, standing in front of it – now, his nervousness, his sense of caution, returned. An uneasy premonition stirred in him, a feeling that once before he had done something like this with terrifying, soul-sickening results. There had been another woman, one who like this one was all woman, and he –

He shook himself, driving the memory deep down into its secret hiding place. It had never happened, nothing like this. There had been no other woman.

He raised his hand, tapped lightly on the door. He heard a soft, rustling sound, then, dimly, "Dusty?"

"Yes."

"Come in."

He went in, let the door click shut behind him. He stood there a moment, his eyes still full of the light outside, seeing nothing in the pitch black darkness. His hand unclasped, and the stationery drifted to the floor.

She laughed softy. She murmured… a question, an invitation. He felt his way forward slowly, guided by the sound of her voice.

His knee bumped against the bed. A hand reached up out of the darkness. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and her arms fastened around his neck.

There was one savagely delightful moment as his mouth found hers, as he felt the cool-warm nakedness of her breasts. Then, suddenly, he was sick, shivering with sickness and fear. It was all wrong. It wasn't like it should have been.

Her mouth was covered with lipstick. He could taste its ugly flatness in his own mouth, feel the sticky smears upon his face and neck. And she wasn't naked. Only part of her was nude, and there the nakedness was not complete. It was as though her night clothes had been torn. It – She didn't speak. She was still clinging to him, smearing him, digging her nails into his face. She didn't speak, but there was a voice:

"Y-you filthy, sneaking little bastard! Yes, bastard, do you hear? We got you out of a foundling asylum! And God curse the day we… No, I won't tell him. I won't do that to him. But if you ever -"

He was almost motionless for, a moment, paralyzed by the unbearable voice. But it had never happened. It was only a bad dream. And this…

There was a roll of thunder. The drawn curtains whipped back in a sudden gust of wind, and lightning illuminated the room just for a second, but that was long enough for him to see:

The over-turned chairs. The upset lamp. The deliberate disorder. The night-gown, half ripped from her body. And the smeared red mouth, opened to scream. He hit her as hard as he could.