Invitation to Violence (6 page)

    She never did know how she'd happened to let him talk her into agreeing to spend the week end at the lodge up in Saratoga. The place was owned by a friend of Gerald's and he told her that his friend and his friend's wife had asked them both up over the week end. They drove up, leaving on Friday night.

    It was a small, weather-beaten shanty, a sort of hunting cabin, up in the mountains above the town and they went up late in the fall when the weather was brisk and clear and very cold at night. He'd been there before and he had no difficulty in finding the place in spite of the lonely back roads leading to it. They arrived near midnight-finding the cabin completely dark.

    She hadn't suspected anything at first, had merely assumed that Gerald's friends had tired of waiting for them and retired. Gerald had taken their bags from the car and gone to the front door and let himself in, using a key that he carried. The place was empty and he explained that their hosts were probably late getting away from the city and had not arrived as yet.

    There was a fire already laid in the great field-stone fireplace, which covered one wall of the room, and Gerald had lighted it. Then, while she warmed herself and took off her coat, he went into the kitchen and made a pot of hot coffee.

    She was chilled through and the steaming coffee was welcome. Immediately she noticed the peculiar taste and Gerald explained that he'd laced it with brandy. She protested, as she almost never drank, but he'd insisted. It was odd the effect the drink had on her. It seemed to go through her veins like fire, warming her and making her pleasantly drowsy. He hadn't had to argue about her taking a second cup.

    Later, when she came to think about it, she realized that those two drinks had actually made her half drunk. It was while she was finishing that second cup that Gerald had confessed to her. The people who owned the cabin were not coming up. They would be alone in the place.

    The strange thing was that she had argued only feebly. She knew of course that she should have insisted and that they left at once. She should have been furious at his deception. But the fact was she was very tired from the drive and she hated to face the thought of the long, lonely road back. She hated to leave the warm comfort of the place.

    He had pulled the great bear rug from the couch and thrown it on the floor in front of the fireplace and she stretched out on it, half dozing in front of the flickering flames. She was only half conscious of his sitting beside her, holding her head in his lap as he talked with her. She was very drowsy, and the brandy was making her sleepy so she only half listened as he talked.

    Then suddenly she had decided that she hated him; that she hated all men but especially him.

    The strange part of it was the decision she reached the moment she realized it. She would never let him go. She would marry him, as they had planned, sometime in the future. He must belong to her, now and forever. But there must be time, time for her to adjust herself.

    He owed her something and he must be made to pay for it. Yes, they would be married, but when the time came, things would be different. It would be a marriage on her terms, not his.

    She was the stronger of the two; in spite of what he had done to her, she was the stronger. And it would work out the way she wanted it to. There was no doubt about that in her mind.

    

    

    Lying on the bed and thinking things over, her thin-lipped mouth formed into a hard thin line and her jaw became resolute and firm. Gerald was like her father and she could handle him the same way she handled her father. If he thought he could callously break dates with her, he'd have another guess coming.

    

    

    It was the sound of the ringing of the bell which awakened Sue, but she didn't open her eyes. Instead her hand instinctively reached out and she fumbled around until she found the small, square clock and pressed the button on the top of it.

    The ringing stopped and she started to fall back on the bed again. But just as her head again reached the pillow, the ringing began once more.

    "Damn," she said, her voice low and sleepy. This time she opened her eyes and the first thing she noticed, even before again seeking the clock, was the fact that it was barely daylight.

    Almost immediately it came to her then. It wasn't the alarm clock at all which had awakened her. The ringing was coming from the other room. She grabbed the dressing gown from the end of the bed as she leaped to her feet and started for the door. It wasn't the telephone. It wasn't that kind of a ring. It must be the doorbell.

    Sue Dunne silently cursed whoever it was that was waking up the household at this unearthly hour.

    The living room curtains were drawn and the room was in semidarkness, but she had no trouble finding her way to the front door which opened directly into the apartment. The first thing she noticed was that the burglar chain was not in its slot, but the significance of this failed to register. She twisted the knob and when the door didn't at once open, realized that the lock had been snapped. She turned it and opened the door, standing in front of it sleepy-eyed and barely avoiding a wide yawn. With her robe held tight around her and her disheveled hair circling her small sleepy face, she looked very much like a little girl. Which, indeed, she was.

    The man didn't open his mouth. Didn't say a word. He waited only a second until the door three-quarters opened and then he suddenly lunged forward and crashed into the room, pushing her roughly aside with one heavy, long arm as he entered. It was then that she saw the gun in his hand.

    Sue didn't scream. She did nothing, nothing at all but simply stand there, her mouth agape and her eyes wide and alarmed.

    He moved fast, still saying nothing. The hand which was not holding the gun whipped out and found the light switch and the room was suddenly bathed in brilliance. It took him less than a second to see that there was no one in the room except the two of them and before Sue had a chance to find her voice, he passed on into the bedroom. She heard the slam of the bathroom door and then the sound of the closet opening and closing. A moment later and he was back, standing in the doorway between the living room and the bedroom.

    "All right, where is he?"

    For a long moment she just stood there staring at him. She wasn't frightened; it had been too sudden for that.

    Wordlessly she moved and half fell into the big upholstered chair near the window. Quickly she shook her head, getting the sleep out of her mind. She started to open her mouth, to say something, and then suddenly stopped. Her eyes had gone quickly around the room and for the first time she saw that the folding bed hadn't been pulled out. Vince had not returned home from the late movie.

    "Vincent Dunne," the man said. "He lives here, doesn't he, sister?"

    Sue realized that her dressing gown had fallen open and that the top of her pajamas was unbuttoned. Instinctively she clutched the cloth of the robe close to her bosom.

    "Say! Say, just who are you?" she said. Her voice was filled with indignation.

    For the first time he looked at her as though she might be human. He didn't smile, but at least he looked a little less like a maniac.

    "Sorry," he said. He put the gun in his side pocket and then reached into a second pocket and took out the nickel shield.

    "Detective Wilson. Out of Headquarters," he said. "Sorry to bust in like this, Miss. But I'm looking for a punk named Vincent Dunne. Understand he lives here. That right?"

    "Vincent Dunne is my brother and he lives here all right," Sue said. She was fully awake at last and the fear which had escaped her when the man first burst into the apartment was all too apparent at last. But the fear had nothing to do with the man who stood facing her.

    "What is it?" she asked. "What has Vince done. Why are you here? What…"

    "Take it easy, Miss," the detective said. "I don't know if he's done anything. I'm just anxious to see him. You say he lives here? Then where…"

    In spite of herself, her eyes went helplessly around the room.

    "Yes, he lives here," she said at last, her voice weak. She fought to keep the fear out of it, to keep her chin from quivering. "Please," she said. "Please? Is Vince in some sort of trouble? Has he…"

    "I'm just trying to find him, that's all. Just want to talk to him. You say he lives here? Then how come…"

    Sue stood up and unconsciously went toward the couch which made up into a bed.

    "He's not here," she said. "He went out last night, to a movie, and he hasn't come back. Tell me…"

    "Your brother hang around with a guy by the name of Dominic Petri?" Detective Wilson asked. "Kid about twenty-one, twenty-two. Goes by the name Dommie. Does your brother know him?"

    Sue looked at the man for a moment and then slowly shook her head.

    "I don't know who he knows," she said.

    "Or a man named Jake Riddle?"

    She couldn't help but start as he mentioned the name. She didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say. All she could do was wonder and worry. Worry where Vince was, what he'd been doing. Why hadn't he come home? Where…

    "I can see that he knows them," Wilson said. "You want to help your brother, you best come clean. Tell me…"

    "I've heard those names," Sue said. "That's all, just heard the names. Vince may have known them, but they weren't friends of his. I'm sure of that. They weren't friends of his. Vince is just a kid. He's a good boy; he doesn't hang out with riffraff. He…"

    "He's fresh out of reform school and on parole. He's a punk. If you don't know it, you should. Now, come on, tell me…"

    This time, when the bell suddenly rang and interrupted his words, Sue didn't have to think to know what it was. There was no doubt about it. It was the phone which stood on the end table next to her and the shrill sound of the ring cut his voice short.

    For a second both their eyes went to the instrument and then the detective quickly looked back at her. She could see that he wanted her to answer it and as she leaned over to take the receiver from the hook, he quickly crossed the room, leaning close so that he might overhear the voice at the other end.

    "Yes?" Her voice was a bare whisper.

    The voice which came through the wires was even lower than her own. A deep, soft, masculine voice.

    "Vince there?"

    She hesitated a moment and looked up at the detective who stared at her without expression.

    "Who's calling?" she asked.

    "I want to speak to Vince Dunne. It's important."

    "Who is this?" Sue said. "This is Vincent's sister. Who's calling him, please?"

    Quickly the detective leaned over and took the telephone from her and put the receiver to his ear. He listened for a second or two and then spoke in a high, disguised voice.

    "Vince talking," he said.

    He waited a moment or two and then spoke again. "This is Vince," he said. "Who's this?"

    There was a sharp sound of a click at the other end of the wire and in a moment Wilson hung up the receiver in disgust.

    He turned once more to the girl.

    "Better get your clothes on," he said. "There's a man down at Headquarters wants to talk to you. Detective Lieutenant Hopper-of Homicide."

    Sue slowly nodded and stood up. She looked sick.

    "I suppose I can go inside and get dressed?" she said.

    Detective Wilson nodded.

    "Sure, kid," he said. "Go right ahead. And don't take it so hard. Maybe nothing happened at all. Maybe your brother wasn't mixed up in anything and just stayed out over night."

    He watched her as she crossed the room and entered the bedroom.

    Yeah, maybe. But he didn't believe it. Didn't believe it at all.

    And neither did Sue Dunne believe it.

    

    

    The house, sitting well back on the half-acre plot, was in one of the older sections of town. It was surrounded by large shade trees and a high privet hedge protected it from the street in front and the neighbors on each side and the rear. It was one of the first split-level houses built, having been constructed to fit the natural slope of the land rather than conform to a popular building fashion. As a result, the three levels conformed with the landscaping naturally, allowing the garage level and basement to follow the contours of the driveway, which came in on the right side as one entered the grounds.

    A flagstone walk led from a break in the hedge to the front door, which opened onto the second floor.

    Originally the house had been designed for a doctor who planned to practice out of his home. Entering a central hallway, a visitor was confronted by a wide arch, which had been curtained off, and doors on each side. The door to the left led downstairs into the garage and basement; the door on the right led into the main residential part of the house, which consisted of half the second floor and all of the third. The archway itself led into what had originally been planned as the doctor's offices.

    When the present owners had purchased the house, they had converted the office section into a separate small apartment. This consisted of a living room, a small bedroom, a bath and a tiny kitchenette. These were the quarters which Gerald Hanna had rented and in which he lived. He paid only a nominal rent as the family which owned the house had been friends of his mother and leased out the apartment more as a personal favor then because of any desire for extra income.

    The Sandersons, his mother's friends, were an elderly couple whose children had long ago married and left to establish homes of their own. Carl Sanderson was a retired bank executive and he and his wife spent a good deal of time traveling. At present they were in Bermuda, where they usually spent the spring and part of the summer. They were only too glad to have Gerald as a tenant, liking the idea of someone around the place while they were away.