Hamilton, Donald - Novel 01 (17 page)

     
"Cut it out," he said. "Why
the hell don't you ask me before you start slapping me around?"

THEY
HEARD Paul
Laflin's
footsteps recede along the
flagged walk that led from the cellar door to the corner of the house. His legs
showed suddenly and surprisingly at the window at the end of the cellar as he
mounted the outside stairs to the porch. The screen door slammed, the heavy
steps walked deliberately along the porch over their heads, the door opened and
closed; and the indistinct murmur of voices came down to them from the living
room.

     
"Give me my purse, darling,"
Jeannette Duval said. "What?"

     
"My purse.
On my coat.
On the woodpile beside
you."

     
"Do you want the coat?" Branch
asked, turning.

     
"Yes," she said. "Please,
darling. He picked up the purse and lifted the fur coat carefully away from the
rough bark of the logs stacked chest high under the window.

     
"Just put it over my shoulders,"
she said.

     
When he had dropped the coat about her she
pulled it into place, moving with deliberate caution, as if her clothes were
binding her and she did not wish to tear them. Branch watched her open the
purse and, pushing back the untidy strands of her hair, examine her face in the
mirror.

     
"Have you got a handkerchief?"
she asked, holding out a hand without looking away from the mirror.

     
He gave it to her. She started to dab at
her mouth; then looked at him sideways, the streaked mouth suddenly savage in
her dirty face.

     
"I don't know what I would do without
you, Phillip," she said. "I really don't know what I would do without
you, darling."

     
He did not say anything, but stood
watching her.

     
She scrubbed at her lips with the
handkerchief. "Didn't even make a pretense.....!I" she breathed.
"Staring as if it were ... a burlesque show...."

     
"Take it easy," he said.
"Is there a head in the joint?"

     
The anger died out of her face, leaving it
empty.

     
"Can," he said irritably.
"Johnny.
Plumbing."

     
"In the corner," she said.
"But the water isn't running."

     
Emerging from the wallboard cubicle, he
closed the door behind him and began to pick his way along the junk piled
against the rear wall of the cellar; and he had a sudden vision of impaling
Paul
Laflin
on a spading fork, or beheading Mr. Hahn
with a hoe. Across the cellar, the girl, her purse propped up on the edge of
the washtubs, was combing her hair, forming the hair into braids behind each
ear, and drawing the braids up to pin them together across the top of her head.
She did not look up, and, reaching the windows, he tested them surreptitiously
and found them not too secure. They were held by rusty ten-penny nails driven
into the rotten sill.

     
In the sunlight the woods outside looked
sparse and open along the hillside, but he pictured the two of them running,
the girl in her fur coat, suit, silk stockings, and low pumps; he in uniform,
raincoat, and city shoes; and he recalled the vine-choked ravines he had seen
from the road. It was just as well, he thought, that they were not going to do
it. If I can only get that mill going, he thought; if the damn thing starts for
me, and keeps running, and if the wind holds up. If only the wind holds up. It
annoyed him that they should have put him in a place from which escape would be
so easy that it was impossible not to consider it. He pulled a striped canvas
deck chair from a pile in the corner and, carrying it into the center of the
cellar, set it up, the dust transferring itself liberally to his blue raincoat
and trousers.

     
The girl touched the loose dark wave at
her temples with the comb, put the comb away, closed the purse, and came across
the cellar to him; just enough shorter than he that she could walk erect under
the beams where he had to bend his head. She sat down on the footrest of his
chair, he making room for her, and without embarrassment raised first one long
leg and then the other to draw and smooth the damaged stockings into place.

     
"Now your blouse," he said
boldly. "You're practically hanging out."

     
She glanced at him and down at her
partially unfastened shirt.

     
"Now you are flattering me,
Phillip," she said, smiling, as she arranged the undergarments over her
flat, small breasts and pinned the yellow silk of the shirt, one button
missing, with the S-shaped gold pin that he could remember her wearing on the
train when he had first seen her. She shivered a little and put her arms into
the sleeves of her coat and drew the coat about her. "Give me a cigarette,
darling."

     
When he had lighted it for her she tossed
back her neatly combed head. "Philip, do you remember Clara
Petacci
?"

     
"Never met the girl," he said.

     
"Mussolini's-"

     
"Oh," he said. "Yes."

     
"I used to have nightmares about
it," Jeannette Duval said, moistening a finger to touch a run in one
stocking. "But after all, she was dead when it was happening. She did not
have to ... to watch herself disintegrating." She touched her finger to
her tongue again and bent over, ministering to her stockings. "If it
wasn't so cold I would take them off," she said.

     
"You can't tell me they keep your
legs warm," he said.

     
"You'd be surprised," she said.
She glanced at him. "It wasn't worth it, Phillip," she said. "I
am really quite fond of him, but it wasn't worth it. I have done everything I
could. It is not my fault that everything went wrong."

     
"Am I going to be in the boat?"
she demanded abruptly.

     
"I don't know," he said after a
moment. "They didn't say."

     
"I would rather not be in the
boat," she said. "I would rather wait here. Will you ask them
... ?"

     
"What makes you think that my asking
will do any
good ?"

     
"You can tell them that it would be
overloaded."

     
"A tub like
that?"
He laughed. "Don't be silly."

     
"How would they know?" she
demanded. "Can't you even do that for me, Phillip? I thought you came here
to help me."

     
She turned her face towards him, smoothly
made up again, and no bruises showed. He could see a new thought come into her
mind.

     
"Can't you run aground
or
do something to the motor so we'll be late?"

     
He said, "Andy Gump is going to sit
right beside me with his pistol. It's ten to one that the minute anything
happens he'll let go at me. He's the nervous type." He saw the flicker of
her eyelids. "Sure," he said. "That would be
swell
for you. They'd probably have to wait for her to drift ashore since none of
them knows anything about it. They'd be late, all right. But I'd be dead. No
thanks, darling."

     
She rose and parted her coat to brush at
the soft striped yellow wool of her skirt, badly smudged with dust; and tried
to fit together the edges of the single pleat, but the wool was strained and
warped and the edges would not meet or stay together. She straightened up.
"If you had let me change last night
... ."

     
"You didn't have anything to change
to."

     
"My black
dress."

     
"Wouldn't you look lovely, he said
. "
He wouldn't have left enough of it to pin together.
Not to mention the dust. Look at me in these damned blues."

     
"Well, I could at least have put on a
sweater instead of this rag," site said, plucking at her limp shirt. She
sat down abruptly on the edge of the footrest, facing him. "What's the
matter with us?" she demanded. "What has happened to us,
Phillip?" There was a trace of panic in her voice. "Is it because I
... ?"

     
"I don't know what you mean,
darling," he said uncomfortably. "I'm sorry if I don't seem ... I'm
kind of bushed and my feet hurt like hell...."

     
"Poor darling," she said
bitterly. "Poor frightened darling. I wish I knew why in God's name you
bothered to come."

PAUL
LAFLIN cast a long shadow across the cellar door, the sky orange behind him,
as, standing in the
doorway,
he pushed the door back
against the washtubs to assure himself that there was no one behind it. He
carried a tray and no weapon. His eyes searched the cellar narrowly and he
began to ease the tray from his hand to the woodpile beside him without locking
at it.

     
"Don't have a fit," Branch said.
"She's in the head."

     
The large young man straightened up and
rid himself of the tray, not wholly convinced, hesitating to expose himself to
a trap by coming inside while the girl was yet invisible; then she emerged from
the cubicle in the corner, pulling her skirt straight about her waist. She
looked up, stopped, and dropped her hands into the pockets of her coat.

     
"Food," said Paul
Laflin
.

     
The girl remained motionless. Branch rose,
knocked the ashes from his pipe, and crossed the cement floor to the tray.

     
"Sandwiches," he said, "and
coffee...." He turned to the girl. "Anyway, they aren't planning to
starve us to death."

     
"Hurry up," Paul
Laflin
said. "I have to bring the tray back."

     
Branch began to pull the waxed paper from
a sandwich, regarding the man beside him: the width of the shoulders and the
smallness of the mouth and nose in the wide fleshy face. I don't like you, he
told the other man silently as he began to eat; I don't like big men with curly
hair and turtle-necked sweaters. I don't like women who slap my face or men who
point guns at me, or anyone who has anything to do with burning my feet; but I
particularly don't like you, you big moron, in fact I think I would enjoy killing
you.

     
Aloud he said, "If Madame came down
we could have a rubber of bridge if we had some cards.

     
The man ignored him, watching the girl and
asking, "Aren't you going to eat, Madame Duval?"

     
He reached for a sandwich and thrust it at
her as she came slowly forward. "Here, Madame Duval."

     
Jeannette Duval stopped, her hands still
buried in the deep pockets of her fur coat. Branch watched her and thought, oh,
for God's sake, take it!
and
presently she freed one
hand and took it.

     
"Thank me," said Paul
Laflin
.

     
"Thank you," she said
mechanically.

     
"But with a smile," the man
said.

     
She threw the sandwich into his face
without violence, merely tossing it at him. The paper wrapping opened and
pieces of bread and sandwich meat fell to the floor apart from the portion
still remaining in the waxed paper. The girl smiled slowly.

     
"Thank you," she whispered.
"Thank you very much, M.
Laflin
."

     
Her hands had returned to the pockets of
her coat and in some way this made her seem defenseless and remote and detached.
She was almost as tall as the man but, even in the bulky coat much slighter.

     
"Thank you so much," she
whispered, and suddenly there were small crinkles of laughter about her eyes;
and her eyes were laughing at him; and she slipped under his arm as he reached
for her, and turned again to face him, her back to the doorjamb. He slapped her
hard on the cheek.

     
The blow brought tears to her eyes, but
she continued to smile and did not lift her hands.

     
"You are so kind, M.
Laflin
. Thank you so much," she whispered
breathlessly. "Yes ..." she breathed as he glanced down. "Yes,
make me eat it. Rub it on the dirty floor and make me eat it."

     
She detached herself abruptly from the
doorjamb and took a swinging step forward to stand against him, her fur coat
brushing his
sweater,
her eyes only a little lower
than his eyes. Her heel made a small impatient sound against the cement.

     
"You're a fool,
Laflin
,"
she said.

     
She did not move or free her hands as he
seized her, his fingers gradually closing so hard that where her coat was
already torn at the shoulder the ripped seam opened further.

     
"You're tearing my coat," she
whispered.

     
Abruptly the man released her and glanced
at Branch, his breathing audible. The girl turned away from him and went to the
tray.

     
"Pour me some coffee, Phillip,"
she said, reaching for a paper-wrapped sandwich.

     
Branch watched the large young man
hesitate, shrug his shoulders and laugh uncomfortably, and go out. The door
closed and the key rattled in the lock. Branch leaned against the woodpile and
looked at the girl. Her face was deliberately expressionless and she took a
large bite of her sandwich, holding it with both hands gingerly away from her
coat. Then, chewing, she craned her neck to look over her shoulder at the
extent of the damage, wiped her hands on Branch's handkerchief, and explored
the rent with her fingers.

     
"Aren't you going to pour me some
coffee, darling?" she asked impatiently.

     
He poured it for her and, leaving it for
her, carried his own cup and a fresh sandwich to the deck chair and sat down,
considering her from the ten-foot distance. She turned to look at him. He could
not see her expression for the light from the window behind her.

     
"Well, Phillip
..
"

     
He took a mouthful of sandwich and washed
it down with bitter coffee. "Don't worry about me, sweetheart. If you
think it's worth it, go ahead. I'll make out all right."

     
"Don't be hardboiled, Phillip,"
she said stiffly. "It doesn't become you."

     
Something in her voice made him look up
sharply. He swallowed the last of his sandwich and drained his cup and carried
it back to the tray.

     
"Jeannette," he said, touching
her.

     
She turned away from the window. "Do
you think that boat is any good?" she asked quickly. "It looks to
me..."

     
"It's all right," he said, and
grinned.
"Anything that floats, baby, anything that
floats."
He saw her face a little bewildered by the allusion and
remembered that he had made his boast to a different girl. She regarded him
gravely and he stopped grinning. "What are you going to do, darling?"

     
"Darling!"
She laughed. "Do I have to
teIl
you?"

     
He licked his lips. "What about
Louis?"

     
Her laughter faltered and died. "I'm
tired of Louis," she said dully. "I've done all I could for Louis. I
can't help that it didn't turn out very well. After a moment she said, "I
simply don't want to die, you understand, Phillip."

     
He saw the fear in her eyes and searched
for the words that could reassure her without committing him too deeply.
"Nobody's going to die, sweetheart," he said.

     
"You can't say that," she
whispered. "You don't know that."

     
He could feel her watching his face for
encouragement.

     
"No," he said heavily. "I
don't know it." How the hell, he asked her silently, could I know it? What
am I supposed to do, hand out a printed guarantee?

     
Her laugh was brittle in the growing dark
of the cellar. "You are only ... whistling in the graveyard, Phillip,
aren't you?" she said lightly. "Thank you for trying to cheer me. You
are quite a swell person, darling. It is only too bad you are a coward."

     
He saw the fear now displaced by anger in
her eyes and knew that she was thinking that, with luck, she could have struck
on someone who would have consented to her demand the previous night; and she
would never have gone to Parks' house alone, and the rest would never have
happened. Or someone who even now could guarantee a way out....

     
He grinned with forced malice.
"You're some little heroine yourself, darling," he said, patting her
shoulder. He turned to the tray. "Well, since he left the stuff here
..."

     
"Don't hurry
yourself
,"
she said. "He won't come back until it is quite dark."

     
When he came they had been sitting in the
dark for some time. The glow of the girl's cigarette wavered when the footsteps
descended the outside stairs, brightened as she drew smoke into her lungs, and
vanished as, leaning over the side of the deck chair Branch had set up for her,
she crushed the cigarette out on the floor. The door opened and the beam of a
flashlight slashed across the cellar. Branch could hear the man's low chuckle.
He watched the light cross the cellar to the girl's chair; she sitting up in
the circle of it and touching her hands to her braided hair. She said something
in the language Branch could not understand, and the man spoke harshly,
commanding her. She swung her legs off the footrest and spoke again, laughing a
little, and he kicked away the support for the backrest of the chair, laughed
loudly as the chair collapsed, and turned out the flashlight and pulled the
girl to her feet, the rent in her coat audibly enlarging itself.

     
Branch watched the shapes of the two of
them appear against the dim rectangle of the floor and stop, the girl tossing
back her loosened hair and laughing and freeing herself, asking a favor that
the man was not inclined to grant. She stood close to him and touched him and
pleaded with him, half laughing and half serious, and without waiting for his
answer, turned and ran back through the dusk to her chair. The man shone the
flashlight on her as she returned and took the purse from her hands and
examined it. Then he pushed her outside, followed her, and closed and locked
the door behind them.

     
Well, thought Branch, well, if that's the
way she wants it. If she wants to peddle it for a ticket out of here it's none
of my business, is it? I only hope, for her sake, that it works. What the hell
was I supposed to do, tell
her,
sure, I've got a
foolproof way of getting us out, tell the guy to go to hell, darling,
I'l
get you out. What the hell does she think I came here
for, anyway?

     
He rose and made his way through the dark
to the far window and tested the nails. After five minutes working, the first
one came free, and the second yielded even more easily. He slipped the catch
and pulled the window towards him, the hinges wailing softly in the darkness;
they were stiff enough so that when he released the catch the weight of the
sash did not carry it completely closed.

     
He turned away and moved cautiously,
feeling his way, to the chair in which the girl had been sitting, and examined
it by the light of a match, bent down, and dislodged a small tuft of brown fur,
caught in the angle between two members of the chair when it collapsed.
Returning to the window he arranged the scrap of fur artistically on the sharp
rusted protruding head of one of the screws attaching the fixed portion of the
window catch to the sill. Then he cautiously opened the window a little further
so that it would be more noticeable.

     
Going back, he set up the collapsed chair
and, returning to his own chair, removed his coat, drawing it over him like a
blanket as he settled himself in the chair. Always, he thought, always I'm the
guy that's there when they come around. I hope he beats hell out of her, he
thought, I wouldn't mind the job myself. It's only too bad that you are a
coward. Why the hell couldn't she trust me? Should I have to draw a diagram? I
came when she yelled, didn't I? He knocked out his pipe and tried to sleep.