A Swell-Looking Babe (8 page)

"Oh, B-Bill! Darling! W-what would I ever do without-"

"Nothing. Because I'll always be with you. Now. Hold still a minute and…"

He took the handkerchief and tapped the tears from her face. Very business-like, he tapped them from her neck… From her half-exposed breasts.

"My," he said, "a little bit more and you'd have been soaking." And he cupped one of his hands over the bare flesh. "You just ought to feel yourself."

He looked up, then, forced himself to, and he saw the shadows in her eyes. Then, his eyes narrowed, lazily, and she buried her face against his chest. And she whispered, "You shouldn't do that, Bill. You know you shouldn't. Never ever."

"Why not?" he said. "If you knew how much I loved you…"

"I know. I love you, too, darling. You've been so wonderful, so good to me that – Oh, Bill, sweet" – she tightened her arms desperately-"I wish I could tell you how much you mean to me."

Her body stiffened and went limp. He withdrew his hand, shifted her gently from his lap to the lounge. She lay there, motionless, hardly seeming to breathe, one arm flung across her face.

He hesitated. Then, kneeling, he turned back her robe, and pulled up her nightgown, and…

Her open palm exploded against his face.

It rocked him back on his heels, and he sat down on the floor. She sat up,"readjusting her nightclothes.

"I had to be sure," she said, quietly. "I couldn't believe that you meant what you seemed to – I hated to believe it. But I had to be sure…"

… Then, she had begun to scream at him… bastard… filth… monster… pouring out her hatred and disgust.

Fortunately, Mr. Rhodes had taken a heavy sedative before retiring.

… The fan hummed drowsily. Stretched out before its warm, narcotic breeze, Dusty relived that terrible scene with his foster mother and found it not so terrible after all. He was glad that he had done this, forced himself to honestly re-examine the past. Taken bit by bit, looked at in the light of background happenings, he had only reacted normally to an abnormal situation. It was her fault, not his. She had been the aggressor, not he. Probably, if he had been a little more adroit, a little less clumsy, she would have done what he wanted her to and what she undoubtedly wanted him to do to her.

No, it wasn't so bad, and he wasn't so bad. On the whole, he had behaved, and was behaving, a lot more decently than most guys.

He didn't hate Dad. He got a little annoyed with him, depressed when he thought of being saddled with him for years to come – but who wouldn't? He didn't hate him, certainly, and most certainly he didn't wish him dead.

And Bascom. He didn't hate Bascom, nor wish him dead… even if it was possible to bring his death about. Bascom had rubbed his nose into the dirt for months. Now, the old guy was scared out of his wits, and it was his, Dusty's, turn to do some rubbing. And why should he have been disturbed about doing it?

Tug Trowbridge. He felt no admiration for Tug, no identification with him. It had been up to Tug to rescue him from a trap. Naturally, since the matter was vital to him, he had been keenly interested in its success. That was all there was to it.

Marcia Hillis…

Well, his attitude toward her was harder to analyze. First, he had been sick with concern for her. Then, the concern had shifted to something that was almost hate. She had been the prey, and they the hunters, and when it seemed that she might escape – as he had hoped she would a moment before – he had almost hated her.

Well. But was that so odd, after all? He had much the same mixed feelings about that other her, his foster mother. And there had been a parallel situation in that case. He had been afraid that she might tell Dad – dreadfully, sickeningly afraid. So loving her, unable to keep from loving her, he had also hated her. He had wanted her punished for the terror she had caused him.

Now, well, now, of course, he only loved her; he would have loved her if she had still been alive. And now that the danger to himself was past, he felt only love – he could think of no other way to describe his feelings – for Marcia Hillis. He would talk to Tug tonight. Find out where she had gone. Then, when Dad died… if he died… or sometime, somehow, he would get in touch with her. Go to her or have her come back here. She liked him. He was sure of that, despite this thing she had tried to do for financial gain. So… so they would be together, and this time it would be different The scene would be the same but this time…

… no sudden, terrifying blow in the face. No icy voice, no hatefully screamed reproaches. Only the yielding ivory body, the warm welcoming arms, the mass of hair tumbling silkily over his face… And, at last, fulfilment.

Dusty stirred restlessly. His eyes dragged open, and after a minute's more tossing, he sat up. He lighted a cigarette, blew the smoke out in nervous, excited puffs.

It would be like that. It had to be, he realized now. Through the years, he had been so formed that he could accept only one woman. And without her there could be nothing – no rest, no peace, no completion. Only an aching void where strange fears dwelled and multiplied, and gnawed unceasingly.

He had to have her, and he would. She liked him. He made good money – and there were ways of making more – and if she'd been desperate enough to attempt… dimly, he heard the phone ring. Then, his father's voice answering it, and his footsteps shuffling back from the living room. He stood up, just as the old man opened the door.

"Hate to call you, Bill, but someone from the hotel…"

Dusty muttered a curse. "You've already told them I was here? Well, okay."

He thrust his way past Mr. Rhodes, and snatched up the phone. Then, forcing his voice to a semblance of politeness, he said, "Yes, sir. This is Bill Rhodes."

"How are you, fellow?" It was Tug Trowbridge. "Sorry to wake you up, but I figured you and me had better have a little talk… Now, yeah,"

He parked his coupe behind the gangster's big black Cadillac. Tug beamed and extended a bottle of beer as Dusty slid into the seat next to him.

"Ain't this a scorcher, kid? Here, get a load of this inside of you and you'll feel better"

Dusty jerked his head nervously. "I don't drink, thanks. W-what did you-"

"Not even beer? Well" – Tug elevated the bottle and swallowed, gurglingly-"you could do a lot worse, kid. A guy's got to let off a little steam some way, and beer's about the safest thing I know of."

He belched, and tossed the bottle through the window. Reaching over the seat, he reached another bottle from a pail of ice. He pulled the cap with his teeth, took a long, thoughtful drink. He stared through the windshield absently, belching again.

"Yes, sir," he said. "A man can do a lot worse than drink beer."

"About last night," said Dusty. "Was that what-"

"Yeah," Tug said. "Last night, now there's an example. You stick to beer after this, fellow, and leave the babes alone. It'll save you a lot of trouble. Save everyone a lot of trouble."

Dusty's face flushed. "But it wasn't like that! It was like I told you! She called for some stationery, and then when I went in she-"

"So who cares," Tug shrugged, indifferently, "but that wasn't her story. And, kid, she seemed plenty legit to me. She talked it and she had the stuff to back it up. Newspaper clippings and letters and so on. It looked like she was just what she claimed to be – a high-class nightclub dancer. Came to town early figuring she might pick up an engagement during the races."

"But that doesn't mean-"

"Sure, I know. Maybe she'd just started on the make. Or maybe she just used the legit as a cover-up for the other. Maybe. But that little maybe could cause a hell of a lot of trouble. You put that maybe in there, and it's an entirely different deal from the one I figured on. Give some shakedown baby the heave-ho, dial's nothing. She can't squawk or if she does squawk it don't do her no good. But a woman like this one – someone who can prove she's legitimate, or maybe make it impossible for you to prove that she ain't – well…"

He raised the bottle to his lips. Covertly, out of the corners of his shrewd animal's eyes, he studied Dusty's pale face. He grinned to himself, forcing his features into a thoughtful scowl.

"Not nice, huh, kid? I saw we'd caught a hot one right away, but of course it was too late to let go then. We had to go ahead, me and three of my boys, and I'm telling you, they don't like it much either. They got their necks stuck out to here – they have and you have and I have. And that little lady says just a few words, and all five are going to pop."

"P-pop?"

"Pop," Tug nodded solemnly. "Attempted rape. Kidnaping. They ain't the same thing as running through a traffic signal, kid, or spitting on the sidewalk. They particularly ain't the same thing down here in the south."

"But it's just her word-"

"Huh-uh. Not that her word wouldn't be plenty against us, a bellboy and, three heavies, but there's a lot more than that. Think it over, Dusty. Probably a dozen people saw that little frammis this morning. It didn't mean anything to them at the time, but they saw it. And they'll talk just as soon as she does."

Thinly it over? Dusty's eyes were glazing. God, he didn't need to think it over. "Isn't mere some way t-to to -?"

"Yes," said Tug, slowly. "There's a way. I'd sure hate to do it, and the boys don't like it either, but…"

His voice trailed off into silence. Dusty stared at him, not immediately understanding, and then his face went a shade paler.

"No!" he gasped. "No!' You can't do that!"

"We-el" – Tug gave him another covert glance. "Like I say, I'd sure hate to. With some babes it would almost be a pleasure, but a dame like her – real class and all kinds of looks and a shape that's out of this world, why..'."

"You w-won't do it, will you? Promise you won't!"

"We-el… You know where you can lay your hands on ten thousand dollars?,"

"Ten thous – Of course not!"

"Neither do I. But that's what it's got to be, Dusty. That or the other. For ten grand she keeps quiet. She puts it down in black and white that none of us laid a finger on her, and she left the hotel of her own free will."

He paused, again studying the bellboy, smiling again secretly. He went on, frowning earnestly. "When I say I ain't got it, I mean it, kid. It's strictly under your hat, see, but I'm broke. I'm a hell of a lot worse than broke."

"But" – Dusty shook his head, incredulously- "but how-"

"I can still flash a roll? Drive a big car? Pay heavy rent? Yeah, I can do it – for a couple more weeks. I've been slipping for a long time, Dusty, and now I'm right down at the bottom of the sack. I'm broke. I've got a hell of a big income-tax rap hanging over me. I've been stalling it for years, and now I can't stall any longer. I either pay up or else." He sighed, flung the emptied bottle out the window. "Of course, it makes it easy for me in a way. The spot I'm in, this dame could yell her head off and she couldn't make it much worse."

"B-but-"

"Sure," Tug nodded. "There's you and the boys to think about. And of course I don't like to just sit still and wait for old Uncle Whiskers to sock it to me. If I can't do anything better, I'd like to get a big enough roll to skip the country."

He lapsed into another silence, his big good-natured face long with concern. His big face that looked good-natured turned toward the window. There was a small mirror there, attached to the windscreen. It gave him a full view of Dusty's tortured features.

He sighed heavily, shifted the sound into an absently amused laugh. "Y'know it's a funny thing, kid – about this Hillis woman, I mean. You might think she'd be sore as hell at you, but she don't seem to be at all. In fact, I kind of got the idea that she liked you a lot. She's been pushed around and she figures she ought to be paid for it. But there's nothing personal in it, see? Why, I'll bet if you were in the chips – you'd have to be, of course, with a babe like that – I'll bet she'd come a running to you like-"

"I've got to know," said Dusty. "I've got to know the truth, Mr. Trowbridge. Is she-"

"Yeah? And why don't you just make it Tug, kid?"

"I've got to know, Tug. Is she – you haven't already killed her?"

"Huh!" Tug exclaimed. "Why, of course, we ain't, and we ain't going to if there's another way out. We got her hid nice and comfortable, a lot more comfortable than you and me are right now."

"Could I – could I see her?"

"Sure you can," Tug said evenly. "If you think I'm lying, just say so and I'll take you to her."

Dusty hesitated. Then, the implications of Tug's statement hit him full force, and he shook his head firmly. He had to believe the gangster. At least, he couldn't appear to doubt him. For if Tug had ordered her death to keep her quiet, and if he was forced to admit the fact… well, he, Dusty, would also be quieted. Similarly. Permanently.

Tug would feel compelled to do it, and not merely to protect himself. The big man was desperate. He wanted something from Dusty and he intended to get it, and the woman was vital to his getting – a means of enforcing his demands. She had to be alive, then. He could not openly doubt that she was alive. To do so would be to make himself useless to Tug – a man with dangerous knowledge who refused to cooperate – and he would not live long.

Dusty thought it was that way, but he wasn't positive. He spoke cautiously, testing his theory:

"There's one thing I don't understand, Tug. You figure on jumping the country, anyway? Well, then, why not just let this woman go when you're ready to jump? Let her talk all she wants to. You won't be around to face the music."

"Well – Tug shifted in the seat- "I, uh, couldn't hardly do that, kid. An income-tax rap is one thing. Kidnaping and abetting a rape is somethin' else."

"But you wouldn't be around. You don't intend to come back."

"Well, uh, like I said a moment ago, there's you and the boys to think about. We're all in this together, and you'd still be here, and-" He broke off, eyes glinting. "I say something funny, kid?"

"No" – Dusty shook his head. "I just wanted to know how things stood."

"Okay!" Tug snapped harshly. "Now you know. Now you got the picture. I got some plans and I ain't letting 'em be screwed up. I didn't figure you in 'em originally, but that's the way it's worked out. You're in and you're going to play. Or else!"

Furiously, he reached over the seat and snatched up another bottle of beer. The cap grated against his teeth, popped loose, and he spat it out and drank.

He coughed, leaning back in the seat, and the old joviality came back into his voice. A little strained, but nonetheless there. "Aaahh, kid. This is no way for pals to talk to each other, and I've always been your pal, ain't I? Always friendly and easy to get along with, and tossing the dough around. I liked you, see? I felt like you were my kind of people and I know you felt the same way about me. Why, who did you come to this morning when you were in a real jam? Why, you came to me, didn't you, and I didn't hesitate a minute, did I? I had plenty big worries of my own, but I just said, Why, sure, Dusty. Just leave it to me and I'll take care of it. Ain't that right, now?"

"That's right," Dusty murmured.

"And I didn't know what I was getting into, didn't I? I didn't have the slightest idea that it was going to work out so's I could put the squeeze – ask you to do me a favor. Help me out and put yourself on easy street at the same time. I didn't have any idea it was going to be that way. All I knew was – that you were a pal, and I was ready to knock myself out to give you a hand…"

His voice droned on earnestly… pals… favors… give you a hand… didn't know. And Dusty nodded earnestly. Fighting to keep his sudden excitement from showing in his face.

Suppose Tug had known. Suppose he had arranged the whole thing! It made sense, didn't it? It made sense to a degree that no other explanation could approach. It explained things that could be explained in no other way.

Bascom. Why had he allowed Marcia Hillis to register – a woman alone, arriving late at night? Why, because Tug had told him to and he had been afraid to refuse. And the ten-dollar room? Why, the answer to that was beautifully simply, too. There were only a few such rooms in the hotel, and one of them was on Tug's floor. Without arousing Dusty's suspicions, she had been put right where Tug wanted her – and wanted him – when she sprang the trap. The circumstance would practically impel his appeal to the gangster. His old pal, Tug, would be right there at hand, and he would run to him automatically.

The kidnaping. The "kidnaping." And he had been afraid that they wouldn't get away with it – -justifiably afraid. For they wouldn't have got away with the real thing. They wouldn't even have attempted the real thing. It was all an act, part of the scheme to make him vulnerable to Tug's demands.

There were a few loose ends to the theory, but on the whole it made a very neat package. And relatively, at least, it was as comfortable as it was plausible. If Marcia Hillis was working with Tug, then naturally she was in no danger. If she worked with Tug, then she was attainable by him, Dusty. Not through money alone, of course. Despite the part she had played, or appeared to have played, he didn't believe that she could be influenced very far or very long by money alone. But certainly, with a woman like that, money would be an essential. She would expect it, take it for granted. And with Tug's help, by helping Tug with his scheme, whatever that scheme was…

"Just a minute, kid." Tug leaned over him, flipped open the door of the glove compartment. "I know you maybe think I'm giving you a snow job about that babe, so take a gander at this."

He drew it out of the compartment, a crumpled eight-by-ten oblong of glossy cardboard. He smoothed it out carelessly and handed it to the bellboy, and Dusty's breath sucked in with a gasp. It was her picture, a theatrical shot, with her name written along the bottom in white ink. She was posed against a background of artificial palms; she lay, smiling, along the sloping trunk of one. A wisp of some thinly leafed vine' was between her thighs. Her hands, fingers spread in a revealing lattice, lay over her breasts. Otherwise she was nude. "Well, kid" – Tug took the picture from his hands and crammed it back into the compartment-"she's just what I said, huh? I wasn't lying, was I?"

Dusty shook his head., So she was an entertainer, or had been one. That still didn't prove that she wasn't working with Tug.

A lot of woman, huh, Dusty?" Tug smacked his lips. "You ever see anything like her in your life?"

"No.. I mean not quite, I guess," Dusty said.

"But she ain't got a bit more on the ball than you, Dusty. For a man, you've got just as much as she has. All the looks and the class that she has, and then some."

"And you really think" – Dusty cleared his throat-"you really think that she would – that she might-"

"That she'd go for you? If you were in the chips? I'll tell you what I think, kid." Tug tapped him solemnly on the knee. "I'd guarantee it, know what I mean? Yes, sir, I'd guarantee she would."