Dark Passage (3 page)

Parry said, “How come you got matches if
you don’t smoke?”

The man didn’t answer. Parry kept his face
frontward but his gaze was sideways and he could see the man's
weather-darkened features and the short thin nose and the long
chin. He got his gaze a little more to the side and he could see
the car and the mixture of black and white hair beneath the
rippling brim of the felt hat. The light temple, he was thinking.
Or maybe just under the right ear. He had heard somewhere that just
under the ear was the best place.

“Where you from?” the man said.

“Arizona.”

“Whereabouts in Arizona?”

“Maricopa,” Parry said
truthfully.

“Hitched all the way from Maricopa,
eh?”

“That’s right,” Parry said. He eyed the
rear-view mirror. The road back there was empty. He got ready. His
right hand formed a fist and he tightened it, making it hard. His
right arm quivered.

The man said, “Why Frisco?”

“What?”

“I said why are you going to
Frisco?”

Parry rubbed his fist against his thigh.
He turned his body and leaned against the door as he looked at the
man. He said, “Mister, you get on my nerves with all these
questions. I don’t need to be bothered with you. I can get another
ride.”

The man frowned, deepened it and then let
it break and shape itself into a weak grin. He said, “What you
getting excited about? All I did was—”

“Forget it,” Parry said angrily.” I’ll
pick up the kind of a ride where I don't have to tell my life
history. How far am I from Frisco?”

“No more than fifteen miles,” the man
said. “But you’re being foolish. I'm trying to help you out and
you're—”

“Stop the car, mister. And thanks for
taking me this far.”

The man shrugged. He lifted a foot from
the accelerator, brought it over to the brake. The car moved to the
side of the road and as it came to a stop Parry leaned forward and
sent his right arm toward the man’s head. His fist landed on the
upper part of the man's jaw, just under the ear. The aim was all
right, but Parry didn't have much of a punch and the man let out a
yell and clutched Parry's arm as the fist went forward again. Parry
squirmed and tried to use his left. The man was stronger than Parry
had supposed, and mingled fear and desperation increased the
strength and tripled Parry's trouble. The man brought up a knee and
tried to put it against Parry's groin. Parry managed to send a
straight left into the man's face and the man let out another yell.
The knee made another try at Parry's groin. Parry tried to stand
up, but the knee was in his way. The man began to shout for help.
Parry put another left in the man's face, followed it with a
straight right that landed against the man's temple. The man was
all fear now and he stopped shouting and he began to plead. As
Parry hit him again he begged Parry to lay off. He said he didn't
have much money on him but he'd hand it over if Parry would only
leave him alone and allow him to go on his way. Parry again banged
him on the temple, banged him on the jaw and on the temple again.
The man's head went back and Parry punched him under the right ear
and knocked him out.

Parry was very tired. He blew air out of
his mouth and rested his head back against torn upholstery. Through
the sound of the idling Studebaker he could hear another sound, the
sound of an automobile coming down the road. It was coming from the
Frisco direction. Straight ahead down the road it was a shining
grey convertible coupe that was growing too quickly. Parry wanted
to throw the whole thing away. He wanted to open the door and leap
out into the woods and keep going. He called that a bright idea and
told himself that another bright idea was to try hiding on the
floor of the Studebaker. They were wonderful, these bright ideas.
He saw smoke coming up from the floor, coming from the half-smoked
cigarette. He reached down, picked up the cigarette, brought it
toward the face of the unconscious man. He had his hands cupped
around the end of the cigarette. He had his eyes on the grey
convertible coupe coming down the road. Let them think there had
been three in the Studebaker and the Studebaker was stopping here
so that one of them could go into the woods for something and the
other two were waiting here and having a smoke.

The grey convertible rushed in and went
past. Parry blew more air out of his mouth. There would soon be
another car coming down the road. Now the road seemed to average a
car every four or five minutes. Let the next car think there was
only one in the Studebaker, and the Studebaker was parked here
while the driver went into the woods for something. Parry opened
the door, pulled the unconscious man out of the car and quickly
dragged him into the woods. He undressed the man and he was putting
on the man’s clothes when the man opened his eyes and started to
open a bleeding mouth. Parry bent low and chopped a right to the
side of the head. The man went out again and Parry went back to his
dressing.

It wasn’t a bad fit. The felt hat was the
best item. It had a fairly wide brim that would shadow his face to
a great extent. There was a dirty checkered shirt and a purple tie
with orange circles on it. There was a dark-brown coat patched in
half a dozen places and a pair of navy-blue trousers rounding out
their first decade.

He had the clothes on and he was going
back to the Studebaker. Nearing the edge of the woods he stopped
and put fingers to his chin. He saw the Studebaker and the grey
convertible coupe parked directly behind the Studebaker. The grey
convertible was a Pontiac. He saw grey-violet behind the wheel.
Grey-violet of a blouse belonging to a girl with blonde hair. She
was sitting there behind the wheel, waiting for Parry to come out
of the woods. He decided to go back into the woods and keep on
going. As he turned, he saw the girl open the door and step out of
the Pontiac.

She saw him. She beckoned to him. There
was authority in the beckoning and Parry was very frightened. He
completed the turn and he started to run.

It was hard going. There were a lot of
trees and twigs in his way. He could hear footsteps back there, the
breaking of foliage, and he knew the girl was coming after him.
Once he looked back and he saw her. She was about twenty yards
behind him and she was doing her best. The snake came gliding into
the pool. He would get her about fifty yards deep in the woods and
then he would knock her unconscious and go back and grab the
Studebaker. The snake made a turn and started gliding out of the
pool. He didn’t need to knock her unconscious. He didn't need to be
afraid. The whole thing was very simple. The girl was lost on the
road. Her Pontiac had passed the Studebaker and gone down the road
maybe a half mile and when she saw she was lost she made a U-turn.
She remembered the parked Studebaker and she came back to ask
directions. That was all. He had only imagined the authority in
that beckoning. It was curiosity and perhaps a stubborn decision to
get her bearings that made her chase him through the
woods.

Anyway he was now fifty yards deep in the
woods and either way there was nothing to worry about. He stopped
and turned and waited for her.

She came running up to him. The
grey-violet blouse was supplemented by a dark grey-violet skirt.
She was little. She was about five two and not more than a hundred.
The blonde hair was very blonde but it wasn’t peroxide. And there
was a minimum of paint. A trace of orange-ish lipstick that went
nicely with genuine grey eyes. She was something just a bit deeper
than pretty, although she couldn't be called pretty. Her face was
too thin.

He said, “What’s on your mind?”

“I had a look at the fuel gauge. It shows
almost empty.” Her voice harmonized with the grey eyes and the lack
of peroxide in her hair.

Parry said, “Where do I come
in?”

“I don’t know this road. I'd hate to be
stuck here.”

“So would I.” Parry examined the grey eyes
and couldn’t find anything.

She was looking at the old clothes. She
said, “Could you spare a few gallons? I’d pay a dollar a
gallon.”

It was an equation and it checked. The
thing to do was to get rid of her in a hurry. Parry said, “Let’s go
back to the road and we'll talk it over.”

They started back to the road. Parry
waited for something but it didn’t happen. He guided her away from
the spot where he had left his man, and yet he had a feeling that
she had already seen the man. He had a feeling that the gasoline
story was just a story. Maybe this girl was lonely and she wanted a
friend. Maybe this girl was starved for excitement and she wanted
action. There were a lot of maybes and none of them went
anywhere.

He got another good look at her. She was
twenty-seven if she was a day. Give her a big break and call her
twenty-six. He saw lines under her eyes that told him she didn’t
get much sleep. The way her lips were set told him she didn't get
much out of life. One thing, she had money. That grey-violet outfit
was money. The Pontiac was money. He looked for something on her
hands and the only thing he saw was a large pale amethyst on the
ring finger of her right hand.

They came to the edge of the road. She
turned to him and said, “All right, let’s get in my car and get out
of here fast.”

CHAPTER 3

Parry took a step away from her. He said,
“I don’t get you.”

She gestured back to the woods.” I saw the
body.”

“He isn’t dead. He gave me a lift and he
tried to take my wallet. I knocked him out and then I got scared
and took him into the woods. I'm not scared now. I'm going to take
his car. Don't you try to scare me.”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said.
“I'm trying to help you.” She started toward the Pontiac and
gestured for him to come along. She said, “Come on,
Vincent.”

He stood there with his eyes coming out of
his face.

She said, “Please Vincent—we don’t have
much time.”

He stabbed a glance at the idling
Studebaker. Then he remembered that the Studebaker couldn’t do
better than thirty. The Pontiac could do plenty. It was a 1940 and
it had good tires. He could use something like that. He looked at
the girl. He looked at the point of her chin.

He took a step toward her.

She didn’t budge. She said, “It won't get
you anywhere, Vincent. If you're alone in that car you'll be picked
up. If you come with me I'll hide you in the back seat. I've got a
blanket there.”

“You’re with the police.”

“If I was with the police I’d be carrying
a gun. Look, Vincent, you've got a chance here, and if you don't
take it-”

“I’m going to take it.” He took another
step toward her.

This time she cowered. Backing away from
him she pleaded, “Don’t do it, Vincent. Please don't. I'm for you.
I've always been for you—”

It stopped him. He said, “What do you
mean—always?”

“From the very beginning. From the day the
trial opened. Come on, Vincent—please? Stick with me and I won’t
let them get you.”

The way she said it brought tears to his
eyes and out of his eyes, brought the thought from his brain and
out of his mouth and he said, “I don’t know what to do —I don't
know what to do — ”

She put a hand on his wrist and took him
to the Pontiac. She opened the door, pulled up the front seat. He
got in the back and crawled under the blanket.

The door slammed. The motor started and
the Pontiac began to roll.

He got his head out from under the blanket
and he said, “Where are we going—Frisco?”

“Yes. You’ll stay at my place. Keep under
that blanket. We're due to be stopped. They've got all roads
blocked. We're lucky they're not probing this road.”

“You’re in on it. I know you're in on it.”
He couldn't get the quiver out of his voice. The tears kept coming
out of his eyes.

The Pontiac was doing forty. It made a
turn and Parry felt a sudden decrease in speed. Then he heard the
sound of motors —sharp little motors —motorcycles. His body started
to shake. He tried to stop the shaking. He bit deep into the back
of his hand. The motorcycles were coming from up front, closing in,
getting louder. The Pontiac went down to twenty—fifteen—it was
going to stop.

He could hear her saying, “Don’t move,
Vincent. Don't make a sound. It's going to be all
right.”

The Pontiac stopped. The sound of
motorcycles came close, broke like big waves nearing a beach, then
became little waves coming up on the beach. The motorcycles were
idling now. Parry pictured them parked at the side of the road. All
he could see was the black inside of the blanket that was even
blacker than the inside of the barrel. And yet he got his mind past
the blanket and he could picture the police walking over to the
parked Pontiac.

Then he didn’t need to picture it any more
because he was hearing it.

A motorcycle policeman said, “Got your
license, miss?”

He could hear the sound of a panel
compartment getting opened. He begged himself to stop the
shaking.

“Where are you going, miss?” The same
voice.