Bond 10 - The Spy Who Loved Me (9 page)

The business about the station-wagons opened my eyes to the seamy side of the motel business. It seemed that there were people, particularly young couples just married and in process of setting up house, who would check in at some lonely motel carrying at least the minimum ‘passport’ of a single suitcase. This suitcase would in fact contain nothing but a full set of precision tools, together with false licence plates for their roomy station-wagon that would be parked in the car-port alongside their cabin door. After locking themselves in and waiting for the lights to go out in the office, the couple would set to work on inconspicuous things like loosening the screws of the bathroom fixtures, testing the anchoring of the TV set and so on. Once the management had gone to bed, they would really get down to it, making neat piles of bedding, towels and shower curtains, dismantling light-fixtures, bed-frames, lavatory-seats and even the lavatories themselves if they had plumbing knowledge. They worked in darkness of course, with pencil torches, and, when everything was ready, say around two in the morning, they would quietly carry everything through the door into the car-port and pile it into the station-wagon. The last job would be to roll up the carpets and use them, the reverse side up, as tarpaulins to cover the contents of the station-wagon. Then change the plates and softly away with their new bedroom suite all ready to lay out in their unfurnished flat many miles away in another State!

Two or three hauls like that would also look after the living-room and spare bedroom and they would be set up for life. If they had a garden, or a front porch, a few midnight forays around the rich, out-of-town ‘swimming-pool’ residences would take care of the outdoor furniture, children’s heavy playthings, perhaps even the lawn-mower and sprinklers.

Mrs Phancey said the motels had no defence against this sort of attack. Everything was screwed down that could be screwed down, and marked with the name of the motel. The only hope was to smell the marauders when they registered and then either turn them away or sit up all night with a shot-gun. In cities, motels had other problems – prostitutes who set up shop, murderers who left corpses in the shower, and occasional holdups for the money in the cash register. But I was not to worry. Just call for Jed if I smelled trouble. He could act real tough and he had a gun. And, with this cold comfort, I was left to ponder on the darker side of the motel industry.

Of course it all turned out perfectly all right and the job was no problem. In fact there was so little to do that I did rather wonder why the Phanceys had bothered to take me on. But they were lazy and it wasn’t their money they were paying me and I guessed that part of the reason was that Jed thought he had found himself an easy lay. But that also was no problem. I just had to dodge his hands and snub him icily on an average of once a day and hook a chair under my door handle when I went to bed to defeat the pass-key he tried on my second night.

We had a few overnighters in the first week and I found that I was expected to lend a hand with the housekeeping, but that too was all right with me, and anyway the customers slacked off, until, after October tenth, there wasn’t a single one.

Apparently October fifteenth is a kind of magical date in this particular holiday world. Everything closes down on that day, except along the major highways. It is supposed to be the beginning of winter. There is the hunting season coming up, but the rich hunters have their own hunting clubs and camps in the mountains, and the poor ones take their cars to one or another of the picnic areas and climb up into the forests before dawn to get their deer. Anyway, around October fifteenth the tourists disappear from the scene and there is no more easy money to be made in the Adirondacks.

As closing day came nearer, there was a good deal of talk on the telephone between the Phanceys and Mr Sanguinetti in Troy, and on the eleventh Mrs Phancey told me casually that she and Jed would be leaving for Troy on the thirteenth and would I mind staying in charge that night and handing over the keys to Mr Sanguinetti, who would be coming up finally to close the place around noon on the fourteenth?

It seemed a vague sort of arrangement to leave an unknown girl in charge of such a valuable property, but it was explained that the Phanceys would be taking the cash and the register and the stock of food and drinks with them, and all I had to do was switch off the lights and lock up before I went to bed. Mr Sanguinetti would be coming up with trucks for the rest of the movables the next morning. Then I could be on my way. So I said yes, that would be all right, and Mrs Phancey beamed and said I was a very good girl, but when I asked if she would give me a reference, she got cagey and said she would have to leave that to Mr Sanguinetti, but she would make a point of telling him how helpful I had been.

So the last day was spent packing things into their station-wagon until the stores and cafeteria were empty of everything except plenty of bacon and eggs and coffee and bread for me and for the truckers to eat when they came up.

That last day I had expected the Phanceys to be rather nice to me. After all we had got on all right together and I had gone out of my way to be helpful about everything. But oddly enough, they were just the reverse. Mrs Phancey ordered me about as if I was a skivvy, and Jed became tough and nasty in his leching, using filthy words even when his wife was in earshot and quite openly reaching for my body whenever he got within range. I couldn’t understand the change. It was as if they had had what they wanted out of me and could now discard me with contempt – and even, it seemed to me, almost with loathing. I got so furious that I finally went to Mrs Phancey and said I was going and could I have my money? But she just laughed, and said. Oh, no. Mr Sanguinetti would be giving me that. They couldn’t take a chance of the cutlery being short when he came to count it. After this, and rather than face them at supper, I made myself some jam sandwiches and went and locked myself in my cabin and prayed for the morning, when they would be gone. And, as I have said, six o’clock did at last come and I saw the last of the monsters.

And now this was my last night at The Dreamy Pines and tomorrow I would be off again. It had been a slice of life, not totally unpleasant in spite of the Phanceys, and I had learned the fringes of a job that might stand me in good stead. I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock and here was the doomful WOKO from Albany with its storm bulletin. The Adirondacks would be clear by midnight. So, with any luck, I would have dry roads in the morning. I went behind the cafeteria bar, turned on the electric cooker, and put out three eggs and six slices of hickory-smoked bacon. I was hungry.

And then came a loud hammering on the door.

M
Y HEART
went to my mouth. Who could it possibly be? And then I remembered. The Vacancy sign! I had pulled the switch when the lightning struck and I had forgotten to turn the damned thing off. What an idiot! The banging started up again. Well, I would just have to face it, apologize, and send the people on to Lake George. I went nervously across to the door, unlocked it, and held it on the chain.

There was no porch. The neon Vacancy sign made a red halo in the sheet of rain and glittered redly on the shiny black oilskins and hoods of the two men. Behind them was a black sedan. The leading man said politely, ‘Miss Michel?’

‘Yes, that’s me. But I’m afraid the Vacancy sign’s on by mistake. The motel’s closed down.’

‘Sure, sure. We’re from Mr Sanguinetti. From his insurance company. Come to make a quick inventory before things get taken away tomorrow. Can we come in out of the rain, miss? Show you our credentials inside. Sure is a terrible night.’

I looked doubtfully from one to the other, but I could see little of the faces under the oilskin hoods. It sounded all right, but I didn’t like it. I said nervously, ‘But the Phanceys, the managers, they didn’t say anything about you coming.’

‘Well they should of, miss. I’ll havta report that back to Mr Sanguinetti.’ He turned to the man behind him. ‘That right, Mister Jones?’

The other man stifled a giggle. Why did he giggle? ‘Sure, that’s right, Mister Thomson.’ He giggled again.

‘Okay then, miss. Can we come inside, please? It sure is wetter’n hell out here.’

‘Well, I don’t know. I was told not to let anyone in. But as it’s from Mr Sanguinetti …’ I nervously undid the chain and opened the door.

They pushed in, shouldering roughly past me, and stood side by side looking the big room over. The man who had been addressed as ‘Mr Thomson’ sniffed. Black eyes looked at me out of a cold, grey face. ‘You smoke?’

‘Yes, a little. Why?’

‘Reckoned you could have company.’ He took the door handle from me, slammed the door, locked it, and put up the chain. The two men stripped off their dripping oilskins and threw them messily down on the floor and, now that I could see them both, I felt in extreme danger.

‘Mr Thomson’, obviously the leader, was tall and thin, almost skeletal, and his skin had this grey, drowned look as if he always lived indoors. The black eyes were slow-moving, incurious, and the lips thin and purplish like an unstitched wound. When he spoke there was a glint of grey silvery metal from his front teeth and I supposed they had been cheaply capped with steel, as I had heard was done in Russia and Japan. The ears lay very flat and close to the bony, rather box-shaped head and the stiff, greyish-black hair was cut so close to the skull that the skin showed whitely through it. He was wearing a black, sharp-looking single-breasted coat with shoulders padded square, stovepipe trousers so narrow that the bones of his knees bulged through the material, and a grey shirt buttoned up to the throat with no tie. His shoes were pointed in the Italian style and of grey suede. They and the clothes looked new. He was a frightening lizard of a man, and my skin crawled with fear of him.

Where this man was deadly, the other was merely unpleasant – a short, moon-faced youth with wet, very pale blue eyes and fat wet lips. His skin was very white and he had that hideous disease of no hair – no eyebrows and no eyelashes, and none on a head that was as polished as a billiard ball. I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn’t been so frightened, particularly as he seemed to have a bad cold and began blowing his nose as soon as he got his oilskins off. Under them he wore a black leather windcheater, grubby trousers and those Mexican saddle-leather boots with straps that they wear in Texas. He looked a young monster, the sort that pulls wings off flies, and I desperately wished that I had dressed in clothes that didn’t make me seem so terribly naked.

Sure enough, he now finished blowing his nose and seemed to take me in for the first time. He looked me over, grinning delightedly. Then he walked all round me and came back and gave a long, low whistle. ‘Say, Horror,’ he winked at the other man. ‘This is some bimbo! Git an eyeful of those knockers! And a rear-end to match! Geez, what a dish!’

‘Not now, Sluggsy. Later. Git goin’ and look those cabins over. Meantime, the lady’s goin’ to fix us some chow. How you want your eggs?’

The man called Sluggsy grinned at me. ‘Scramble ’em, baby. And nice and wet. Like mother makes. Otherwise poppa spank. Right across that sweet little biscuit of yours. Oh boy, oh boy!’ He did some little dancing, boxing steps towards me and I backed away to the door. I pretended to be even more frightened than I was, and when he got within range I slapped him as hard as I could across the face and, before he could recover from his surprise, I had darted sideways behind a table and picked up one of the little metal chairs and held it with the feet pointing at him.

The thin man gave a short, barking laugh. ‘Ixnay, Sluggsy. I said later. Leave the stupid slot be. There’s all night for that. Git goin’ like I said.’

The eyes in the pale moon-face were now red with excitement. The man rubbed his cheek. The wet lips parted in a slow smile. ‘You know what, baby? You just earned yourself one whale of a night. An’ it’s goin’ to be long and slow an’ again and again. Get me?’

I looked at them both from behind the raised chair. Inside I was whimpering. These men were dynamite from Nightmare-land. Somehow I kept my voice steady. ‘Who are you? What’s this all about? Let’s see those credentials. The next car that comes by, I’ll break a window and get help. I’m from Canada. You do anything to me and you’ll be in bad trouble tomorrow.’

Sluggsy laughed. ‘Tomorrow’s tomorrow. What you got to worry about’s tonight, baby.’ He turned to the thin man. ‘Mebbe you better wise her up, Horror. Then mebbe we’ll get some co-operation.’

Horror looked across at me. His expression was cold, uninterested. ‘Ya shouldn’t of hit Sluggsy, lady. The boy’s tough. He don’t like the dames not to go for him. Thinks it may be on account of his kisser. Been like that since he done a spell in solitary at San Q. Nervous sickness. What’s that the docs call it, Sluggsy?’

Sluggsy looked proud. He brought the Latin words out carefully. ‘
Alopecia totalis
. That means no hair, see? Not a one.’ He gestured at his body. ‘Not here, or here, or here. What d’ya know about that, eh, bimbo?’

Horror continued. ‘So Sluggsy gets mad easy. Thinks he ain’t had a fair deal from society. You had that puss of his, mebbe you’d be the same. So he’s what we call in Troy an enforcer. Guys hire him to make other guys do what they want, if you get me. He’s on Mr Sanguinetti’s roll, and Mr Sanguinetti thought he and I better come along and keep an eye on this joint till the truckers come. Mr Sanguinetti didn’t care for a young lady like you bein’ all alone here at night. So he sent us along for company. Ain’t that so, Sluggsy?’

‘That’s the spiel. Sure is,’ he giggled. ‘Just to keep you company, bimbo. Keep the wolves away. With them statistics of yours, there must be times when you need protection real bad. Right?’

I lowered the chair on to the table top. ‘Well, what are your names? What about these credentials?’

There was a single tin of Maxwell House coffee on the shelf above the bar counter, all by itself. Sluggsy suddenly swivelled and his right hand – I hadn’t even seen him draw a gun – shot flame. There was the crash of gunfire. The tin jumped sideways and then fell. In mid-air Sluggsy hit it again and there was a brown explosion of coffee. Then a deafening silence in which the last empty shell tinkled away on the floor. Sluggsy turned back to me. His hands were empty. The gun had gone. His eyes were dreamy with pleasure at his marksmanship. He said softly, ‘How’s them for credentials, baby?’