A Swell-Looking Babe (6 page)

He was washing his face, combing his hair, under Tug's supervision. He was in the elevator, then crossing a seemingly endless expanse of the lobby. With Bascom's eyes on him every step of the way. And at last – at last, immediately – he was facing Bascom across the marble counter.

Trying to explain the inexplicable.

"Bill! Answer me, Bill!"

"Y-yes, sir…?"

"What took you so long? What have you been doing up there in Miss Hillis' room?"

"I – I-"

It made no impression on him at the time: the fact that, illogically, Bascom knew where he had been. He was still too frightened, too conscience-stricken, to raise even a silent question.

"Bill!"

"N-nothing, sir. The – the window in her room was stuck. I had to pry it open for her. P-prop it open."

"And that took you thirty minutes? Nonsense! What were you doing up there? What have you done to – to -"

Bascom's voice trailed away. Eyes fastened on Dusty's face, he picked up the telephone. Gave a room number to the operator.

Dusty would have run, then. He would have, but his legs refused to obey the frantic signaling of his mind. He could only stand, paralyzed, wait and listen as Bascom spoke into the phone.

"… uh, Miss Hillis? This is the night clerk. The bellboy tells me that you were having some trouble – that there was some trouble with your window, and… I see. You're all right – I mean, everything is taken care of, then? Thank you very much, and I hope I haven't disturbed you."

He hung up the phone. Incredibly, he hung it up… without summoning the police or the house detective. And, seemingly, the nightmare began to draw to a close.

Dusty could breathe again. He could talk – and think – again.

Tug had squared the dame some way. He'd bought her off. Or, more likely, he'd frightened her away from whatever stunt she'd been attempting. Probably he'd been there in the room with her when Bascom called. Letting her know – making her believe – that she'd get her teeth slapped out if she pulled anything funny.

At any rate, everything was all right. A miracle had happened, and he was too grateful to inquire as to its creation or authenticity.

"I told you," he said – he heard himself saying. "What the hell did you think I was doing?"

Bascom frowned at him puzzledly. He gave him a long, level look, and at last turned back to his work on the transcript sheets.

"I'll tell you what I think," he said. "What I've been thinking for quite a while. You don't belong here in this job. Sooner or later, if you stay on, you'll find yourself in very serious trouble."

Dusty laughed. Almost steadily. "What have you got it in for me about, anyway? I can't turn around any more without you making a production out of it."

"Come around the desk," said Bascom. "Give me some help. Do a little something to earn your pay."

"Sure," Dusty grinned. "Why not?"

He and the clerk finished the few remaining two man chores. Then, Bascom retired to the cashier's cage, and Dusty sauntered back to the bell-captain's area. Elbows propped on the marble counter, he wondered- – without really caring – how Tug had managed to square Miss Marcia Hillis, of Dallas, Tex.

A little slapping around, he supposed, not enough to mark her up, but more than enough to scare hell out of her. She hadn't counted on his having a friend like Tug. She'd framed him into a case of seeming attempted rape, the objective a hefty lawsuit against the hotel. But now that she'd seen what she was up against, that the only thing she was likely to collect was a broken neck…

Dusty frowned, still not actually caring or worrying about her, but continuing to wonder. He'd have sworn that she wasn't a shakedown artist. How could he have been so wrong? And if she was one – since she was one – why had she waited so long to pull this rape setup?

A dame as smart as she seemed to be would have made the try right away. She'd have known that the hotel might become suspicious, decide that her room was subject to "previous reservation" and that, regrettably, no others were available.

She should have know that. Anyone who knew anything at all about hotels, had to know it. And yet… Dusty's face cleared, and he smiled almost pityingly. Despite the ordeal she'd put him through, he felt a little sorry for her.

She didn't know anything about hotels: that was the answer to the riddle. She was a swell-looking babe, and doubtless smart enough in other respects, but what she didn't know about hotels was everything. As little as she knew about the rackets.

He'd been right about her. She wasn't a shakedown operator. This was her first attempt. She'd been rocking along somewhere, respectably enough, and then she'd gotten this big idea – one she thought was completely original. So she'd gone to work on it. And made every blunder in the book.

The Manton itself had been blunder number one. A professional would have chosen a really big house with heavy turnover in personnel and guests. Then, there was error number two – a thing to make a real pro wince. That was her biggest bonehead, checking in in the middle of the night, without a reservation for God's sake! And demanding a low-priced room! And making a play, arousing the suspicions of an employee, before she was ready to carry through with it…

One mistake after another. In a way, her many and incredible blunders had protected her. Ignorance had masqueraded as innocence, and while he had been disturbed by her, he had had no strong suspicions.

Well… Dusty sighed regretfully. She wasn't the only one who'd been stupid. If he'd seen the simple truth sooner, he could have avoided tonight's terrifying experience. Replaced it with one exceedingly more pleasant. He could have said, Look, honey. You're trying this in the wrong place and on the wrong guy… And doubtless she would have been grateful. Very grateful.

As things stood now – well, just where did things stand now? Covertly, he glanced down the long aisle toward Bascom, hesitated, then sighed again. The clerk was already suspicious. Aside from that, a call or a visit to her room was out of the question. She'd be frightened and angry, afraid of and ready to repel any overtures he might make. Also, Tug might still be with her… and so occupied as to make him resent an intrusion. That would be like Tug. She had made trouble for the big man; in a word, she owed him something. And he would collect as a matter of course.

Dusty wished he could get her out of his mind. He wished he could feel more relieved, grateful, for escaping from what had seemed an inescapable mess. But as the long night drew to a close, he felt only one thing: a sense of irreplaceable loss. He had lost her again. For the second time, he had lost the only woman in the world.

The vanguard of the day shift began \o arrive. The first elevator boy want to work, the first mezzanine maid, the first lobby attendant. The head baggage-porter retrieved the checkroom key, unlocked it under the drowsy gaze of a black-shined subordinate. As dawn spread into daylight, Dusty was forced out of his reverie. With the calls piling on top of each other he was kept too busy to think about her.

He raced up and down on the service elevator, de rigueur, when in use, for the hotel's employees. He raced up and down the long, deeply carpeted hallways. Tapping on doors. Delivering cigarettes and morning papers and toilet articles and a dozen-odd things. Everything moved in' a blur of automatic action. There were no people, only room numbers. And the numbers themselves soon lost meaning. They were connected with the transitory moment's errand, and beyond that they had no existence.

… He said, "Thank you, very much, sir," and pocketed a quarter tip. He rounded the corner of the corridor, moving at a fast trot. He looked up, just in time to keep from piling into them.

The baggage porter was in the lead, her overnight case under one arm, her hatbox and suitcase in his hands. Sauntering along behind him was one of Tug's men, and at the rear of the procession was another. She was walking between the two. Knotted at the back of her head were the cords of a heavy black veil.

Dusty gulped. He turned and darted back around the corner. He couldn't say why the scene was such a shock to him, why it sent waves of sickness through his brain. Because, naturally, he should have expected something like this. Tug would feel that he had to get her out of the hotel. Nothing less would be safe – absolutely safe – and Tug was not the kind to take unnecessary chances. So… so there was nothing wrong. Tug, or, rather, Tug's boys would see that she checked out. They'd slip her a little money and load her on a train, and – and that was all they would do. Just enough to insure Tug's safety and his, Dusty's, own.

Everything was as it should be, then. As he should have expect it to be. But still he was sick, and getting sicker by the moment was as though he'd witnessed a death procession, a criminal being sent to the execution chamber.

He ran down the service stairs to the next landing. He raced dm that corridor, and around to the service elevator. Why, he could have said, because certainly he couldn't interfere. It would be his own neck if he did, and… and why should he, anyway?

Why, he demanded furiously. She tried to get me, didn't she? They won't do anything to her, but why should I care if they did?

The sickness mounted. It disintegrated suddenly, still in him spread through his body, no longer a compact, centralized force mixing with it, adulterating it, was a strange feeling of pride Tug Trowbridge. He and Tug. She'd stepped on Dusty's toes, and now by God, she was learning a lesson. They were showing her, her and the Manton and the rest of the world. She had everything on her side all the forces of law and order. And against him and Tug, they didn't mean a thing. She was being kidnaped in broad daylight from one of the biggest hotels in town.

They were bolder than the others, see? They could think faster than the others. Sure, everyone knew who Tug's boys were, but the boys weren't with her, understand? They just happened to be around when she decided to check out.

They made her call for a porter. Then, they set her baggage out in the hall, and told her to wait there until the porter arrived. And when he did, well, they were just down the hall a few steps, just coming out of another room – it appeared. And very casually, oh, so innocently, they all headed for the elevator together. True, one got ahead of the other, but what of it? Doubtless the second guy had had to pause to tie a shoelace.

Dusty stepped off the elevator, hurried toward the entrance to the lobby. He was panting unconsciously; the pounding of his heart grew wilder and wilder. The next step, now – how would he and Tug manage that! She'd have to pay her own bill. She'd have to leave the hotel alone. They wouldn't dare let her, but they'd have to. God, what else could they do? And once she got out on the street – or, Christ even before she got to the street even here in the lobby…!

They couldn't hold a gun in her back down here. They couldn't follow her right up to the cashier's cage, wait until she paid her bill, and then march her out to the street. They couldn't, but they had to! They had to without letting anyone know they were doing it. And how the hell could they manage that?

Blindly, Dusty entered the lobby. The swelling pride was gone, now; disintegrated as suddenly as the sickness. And the sickness was coagulating and -mounting again, taking charge of his every fiber and cell.

He and Tug, rather, Tug and his boys would never get away with it. They were a bunch of stupid stumblebums, and they'd got him in twice the mess he'd already been in, and –

The four were just emerging from the elevator. They passed within inches of him as he paused near the check stand, too stricken to proceed into the lobby proper. Blinded, choking with sickness and terror.

Hell, why had they had to do it like this? Why try to do it so damned right that it was bound to be wrong? They shouldn't have bothered with her baggage or her bill. Just left the bags in her room, and let the bill go unpaid. Of course, that would cause troublesome inquiries eventually. The hotel would chalk her up as a skip, and her name and description would be circularized in, every hotel in the country. Her baggage would be opened and examined. Her hometown police would be notified. And if it appeared that she was a responsible person – that she'd simply dropped out of sight in this city – well, it could be tough for anyone who'd had contact with her. But that would be better than this, wouldn't it? You'd stand a chance that way, and this way there was no chance. You were licked before-you started.

… The baggage porter was heading toward the taxi entrance. She was proceeding up the lobby toward the cashier's cage. Quite alone, now, for the two men had dropped well behind. They had paused to talk", casually, letting her go on alone. Leaving her to scream or run – to appeal to that blurred figure who stood in front of the cashier's cage.

She went forward slowly, stiffly, like a person walking in her sleep. She was almost there, almost safe, completely beyond the reach of her guards.