Savage Night (5 page)

“I—I’m”—she shuddered and gulped down a sob—“I’m l-listening, Carl.”

I found the whiskey bottle in the cupboard and poured out a stiff shot. I stood over her, watching her to see that she drank every last drop.

“Better, huh?” I grinned. “Now you’re going to eat something, and then you’re going to lie down.”

“No! I—”

“You have to be at school this afternoon? Have to? Sure, you don’t, and you’re not going to. Everything’s jake here. No one showed for lunch but Kendall and he won’t say anything. I’ll talk to him and see that he doesn’t.”

“Y-you don’t know! Mrs. Winroy—”

“She went downtown to get some money. She’ll get it if she has to take it out of Winroy’s hide, and after she gets it she’ll have to spend it. She won’t be home for a long time. I know, get me? I know exactly what she’ll do.”

“B-but”—she looked at me, curiously, a faint frown on her face—“I h-have to make—”

“Make the beds. What else?”

“Well. P-pick up the rooms a little.”

“What time do you usually get out of school?”

“Four.”

“Well, today maybe you cut a class. See what I mean? If she gets home before I think she will. You’re home early, and you’re hard at it when she gets here. Okay?”

“But I have to—”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “And don’t tell me I can’t. I’m a whiz at making beds and picking up. Now, I’ll fix you a little lunch and help you upstairs, and—”

“No, Carl! Just—just do the other. I’ll fix my own lunch. Honest, I will. I’ll do anything you say, but p-please—”

“How are you going to do it? What about your crutch?”

“I’ll fix it! I’ve done it before. I can tighten the screws with a case knife, and there’s some tape here and— Please, Carl!”

I didn’t argue with her. It was better to let her do a little something than to have her go hysterical again.

I gave her the crutch and a knife and the roll of tape.

There were two bedrooms downstairs, Ruth’s and an unoccupied one—I didn’t have to bother with them, of course. Upstairs there were four bedrooms, or, I should say, four rooms with beds in them. Because you couldn’t call the place Jake slept a real bedroom. It was more like a long, narrow closet, barely big enough for a bed and a chair and a lopsided chest of drawers. I guessed it had been a closet before Fay Winroy had stopped sleeping with him.

Since he hadn’t slept there the night before, there wasn’t much of anything to do to it. Nothing at all, in fact. But I went in and looked around—after I’d put my gloves on.

There was a half-empty fifth of port on the chest of drawers. Six-bits a bottle stuff. In the top drawer of the chest was a small white prescription box. I rocked it a little with the tip of one finger. I studied the label.
Amyt. 5 gr. NO MORE THAN ONE IN ANY SIX HOUR PERIOD.

Five-grain amytal. Goofballs. Tricky stuff. You take one, and you forget that you’ve done it. So you take more…A few of those in that rotgut wine, and—?

Nothing. Not good enough. He might drink too little, and you’d only tip your hand. He might toss down too much, and throw it up.

No, it wasn’t good enough, but the basic idea was sound. It would have to be something like that, something that could logically happen to him because of what he was.

In the bottom drawer, there was a forty-five with a sawed-off barrel.

I looked it over, moving it with my finger tips, and saw that it was cleaned and loaded. I closed the drawer and left the room.

You didn’t really have to aim that gun for close-range shooting. All you had to do was pull the trigger and let it spray. And if you happen to be cleaning it when…

Huh-uh. It was too obvious. Whenever a man’s killed with something that’s made for killing—well, you see what I mean. People get ideas even where there’s nothing to get ideas about.

Mrs. Winroy’s room looked like a cyclone had struck it; it looked like she might have tried to see how big a mess she could make. I did a particularly good job on it, and went on to Mr. Kendall’s room.

Everything there was about as you’d expect it to be. Clothes all hung up. Bookcases stretching along one side of the room and halfway down another. About the only thing out of place was a book lying across the arm of an easy chair.

I picked it up after I’d finished doing the little work that had to be done, and saw that it was something called
Mr. Blettsworthy on Rampole Island
by H.G. Wells. I read a few paragraphs at the place where it had been left open. It was about a guy who’d been picked up by a bunch of savages, and they were holding him prisoner down in a kind of canyon. And he was pretty worried about getting to be as crummy as they were, but he was more worried about something else. Just staying alive. I only ready those few paragraphs, like I’ve said, but I could see how it was going to turn out. When it came to a choice of being nice and dead or crummy and alive, the guy would work overtime at being a heel.

I crossed the hall to my own room. I was just finishing it up when I heard Ruth coming up the stairs.

She looked in all the other rooms first, making sure, I guess, that I’d done them up right.

I asked her how she was feeling. She said, “J-just fine,” and, “C-carl, I can’t tell you how much I—”

“What’s the use trying, then?” I grinned. “Come on, now, and I’ll help you downstairs. I want you to get some rest before Mrs. Winroy shows up.”

“But I’m all—I don’t need any—”

“I think you do,” I said. “You still look a little shaky to me.”

I took her back downstairs, making her put most of her weight on me. I made her lie down on her bed, and I sat down on the edge of it. And there wasn’t anything more I could do for her, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. But she lay there, looking at me as though she expected something more; and when I started to get up she put her hand over mine.

I
think I’d better shove off,” I said. “I want to tell Mr. Kendall not to say anything about missing his lunch.”

“C-arl. Do you—?”

“What about him, anyway?” I said. “How long has he been boarding here?”

“Well”—she hesitated—“not very long. They didn’t start keeping boarders until this last fall.”

“And he moved in right away?”

“Well—yes. I mean, I think he was the one who gave them the idea of running a boarding house. You see, the way it is here, in a college town, you can’t have both girls and boys—men—living in the same place. So the place where he was living, all the boarders were boys and they were awfully noisy, I guess, and—”

“I see. The Winroys had plenty of room, so he asked them to take him in. And as long as they had the one boarder, they decided to go after some others.”

“Uh-huh. Only no one else would stay with them. I guess Mr. Kendall knew it would never be crowded here.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I imagine he did. Well, I think I’ll go and see him, and—”

“Carl.” Her hand tightened on mine. “About last…I’m not sorry, Carl.”

“All right,” I said, trying to be firm and gentle at the same time. “I’m glad you’re not sorry, Ruthie, and there’s nothing for you to worry about. Now let’s just leave it at that, huh? Let’s make like it never happened.”

“B-but I—I thought—”

“It’s better that way, Ruthie. Mrs. Winroy might catch on. I’ve got an idea she wouldn’t like it.”

“B-but she didn’t last night. If w-we were careful and—”

She was blushing; she couldn’t look at me straight.

“Look,” I said, “that stuff won’t get you anything, kid. Nothing but trouble. You were doing all right before, weren’t you? Well, then—”

“Tell me something, Carl. Is it because of my—because I’m like I am?”

“I’ve told you why,” I said. “It’s just damned bad business. I haven’t got anything. I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. You can’t win, know what I mean? You ought to be doing your stepping out with one of the local boys—some nice steady guy you can marry some day and give you the kind of life you ought to have.”

She bit her lip, turning her head on the pillows until she was staring at the wall.

“Yes,” she said, slowly. “I suppose that’s what I’d better do. Start stepping out. Get married. Thank you.”

“Look,” I said. “All I’m trying to do is—”

“It’s my fault, Carl. I felt different around you. You seemed to like me, and you didn’t seem to notice how—notice anything. And I guess I thought it was because you—I don’t mean there’s anything wrong with you—but—”

“I know,” I said. “I felt the same way.”

“And”—she didn’t seem to have heard me—“you were just trying to be nice, weren’t you?”

“Ruth,” I said.

“It’s all right, Carl. Thanks for everything. You’d better go, now.”

I didn’t go, of course. I couldn’t after that. I lay down at her side, pulling her around facing me, holding her when she tried to pull away. And after a moment, she stopped trying; she was holding me twice as hard.

“Don’t go away, Carl! Promise you won’t go away! I’ve n-never had anyone, and if you went away I—”

“I won’t,” I said. “Not for a long time, anyway. I’m going to stay right here, Ruthie.”

“Was it g-g—” She was whispering, whispering and shivering, her face pressed close to mine. “Did you l-like—me?”

“I—Look,” I said. “I just don’t think—”

“Please, Carl. P-please!” she said, and slowly she turned her body under mine. And there was just one way of telling her that it was all right.

It was all right. It was better than all right. I didn’t look down at that little baby foot, and nothing could have been any better.

We went up to the bathroom together. Then I left the house and headed for the bakery.

It was a long one-story, buff brick building, about a block and a half up the street toward the business section. I passed up the offices, and went around to the side where a couple of guys were loading bread into trucks.

“Mr. Kendall?” One of them jerked his head at the side door. “He’s probably in on the floor. Just keep going until you spot him.”

I went in. I went down a long corridor, crowded with wire racks of bread, and came out into a big room where about fifty guys were working. Some of them where throwing long ropes of dough over hooks in the wall, throwing it and pulling it back and throwing it again. And others were carrying the dough away from the hooks and laying it out on long wooden tables.

One side of the room was made up of a row of brick ovens, and the guys working in front of them were stripped to the waist. They’d flick the door of the oven open, and reach inside with a kind of flat-bladed shovel; they’d reach about sixty times to the second, it looked like. I was watching them, thinking that that kind of work I could do without, when Mr. Kendall came up behind me.

“Well,” he said, touching me on the arm. “What do you think of us, Mr. Bigelow?”

“It’s quite a place,” I said.

“Not completely modern,” he said. “I mean, it’s not mechanized to the extent that big-city bakeries are. But with help so cheap there’s no reason why it should be.”

I nodded. “I came over to explain about Ruth, Mr. Kendall. She had an accident on the way home at noon, and—”

“An accident! Was she badly hurt?”

“Just shaken up. Her crutch gave way under her, and she took a spill.”

“The poor child! You’re not in any hurry? Well, let’s get out of this noise for a moment.”

I followed him across the room, a fussy polite little guy in white overalls and a white sailor cap.

We entered another room, about a third of the size of the first one, and he pushed the connecting door shut. He boosted himself up on a table and gestured for me to sit beside him.

“It’s clean, Mr. Bigelow. We don’t keep flour in here, just the more or less precious commodities. Looks a little like a grocery store, doesn’t it, with all these shelves?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Now, about Ruth. I wanted to ask you—”

“You don’t need to, Mr. Bigelow.” He took out his pipe and began filling it. “Naturally, I won’t say anything to Mrs. Winroy. But thank you for letting me know what the situation was.”

“That’s all right,” I said. “I helped her set the rooms straight. I mean—”

I let my voice trail away, cursing myself. I didn’t want anyone to know that I’d been through the rooms.

“Mmm,” he nodded absent-mindedly. “I’m very glad you came over, Mr. Bigelow. As I said at noon. I don’t want to appear presumptuous, but I’ve been thinking—uh—don’t you believe that, instead of merely waiting around until you hear from the sheriff, it might be well for you to start putting roots down? In a word, don’t you feel it would be sound psychology to demonstrate that there is not the slightest doubt in your own mind of the outcome of last night’s unfortunate business?”

“Yeah?” I said. “I don’t get you.”

“I was referring to—” He paused. “Now that—your response just now—brings up something else I wanted to speak to you about. If, that is, you won’t think I’m—uh—being—”

“Let’s say, I won’t,” I said. “You’re not being presumptuous. You just feel a friendly interest in me, and you want to give me a little fatherly advice.”

I’d said it the right way, and there wasn’t anything in my face to show that I didn’t mean it.

“I’m glad you understand, Mr. Bigelow. To take the second matter first, I was going to suggest that you be a little more careful about the language you use. I know most young men talk rather slangily and—uh—tough these days, and no one thinks anything of it. But in your case, well, don’t you see?”

“I understand. And I appreciate the advice,” I said. “After all, regardless of what’s happened, it won’t hurt me to talk a little better brand of English.”

“I’m afraid I put things rather badly,” he said. “Badly or baldly, if there’s any difference, I suppose I’m so used to ordering these student workers around that—”

“Sure—surely,” I said. “Don’t apologize, Mr. Kendall. Like I say, I appreciate your interest.”

“It’s a very warm interest, Mr. Bigelow.” He bobbed his head seriously. “All my life, I’ve had someone to look after, and now with my parents dead—God rest them—and nothing to occupy me but my job and my books, I—I—”

“Sure. Surely,” I repeated.

He laughed, a shamed sad little laugh. “I tried to take a vacation last year. I own a little lakeside cabin up in Canada—nothing pretentious, you understand; the site is too isolated to have any value, and we, my father and I, built the cabin ourselves—so I bought a car and started to drive up there. Two days after I left town, I was back here again. Back here working. And I’ve hardly had my car out of the garage since.”

I nodded, waiting. He chuckled halfheartedly. “That’s an explanation and an apology, if you can unravel it. Incidentally, if you’d like to use the car some time, you’ll be entirely welcome.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’d be glad to pay you for it.”

“You’d only complicate my life further for me.” He laughed again. “I could only add it to my savings, and since they, obviously, can do me not the slightest good—I couldn’t appreciate the pleasures they might buy, and the pension which will soon be due me is more than enough to provide for my wants—so—”

I said, “I understand,” or something equally brilliant.

“I imagine I’m too old to acquire the habit of spending,” he went on. “Thrift like work has become a vice with me. I’m not comfortable with them, but I’d be less content without them. Does that sound pretty stupid to you?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” I said. “I’d say, though, that if you had
enough
money—you know twenty or thirty thousand dollars—you might get quite a bit of fun out of it.”

“Mmm. You feel the case is similar to that of having a little knowledge, eh? Perhaps you’re right. But since the relative little is what I do have and I see no way of substantially increasing it—” He ended the sentence with a shrug. “Now to get back to you, Mr. Bigelow, if I may—if you won’t feel that I’m trying to order your life for you—”

“Not at all,” I said.

“I’ve felt for a long time that there should be a storeroom man in here. Someone to check these supplies out instead of merely letting the different departments help themselves. I mentioned the fact to the owner today and he gave his approval, so if you’d like to have the job you can start in immediately.”

“And you think I should?” I said. “Start in immediately, I mean.”

“Well”—he hesitated; then he nodded firmly—“I certainly don’t see that you could lose anything by it.”

I lighted a cigarette, stalling for a minute’s time. I thought it over fast, and I decided that whatever he was or wasn’t, I was on my own. This was my job, my game, and I knew how to play it. And if anyone was going to tell me what to do, it would have to be The Man.

“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Kendall,” I said. “I’ve had a long trip, and I’m pretty tired and—”

“The job won’t be at all arduous. You can set your own hours, practically, and much of the time there’s nothing at all to—”

“I think I’d rather wait,” I said. “I plan on running into New York tomorrow night, or Saturday at the latest. Today would probably be the only day I could get in before Sunday.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, of course, in that case—”

“I would like to have the job, though,” I said. “That is, if you can hold it for me.”

He said that he could, rather reluctantly, apparently not too pleased at failing to get his own way. Then his face cleared suddenly, and he slid down off the table.

“I can give it to you, now,” he said. “We’ll say that you’re just laying off for a couple of days.”

“Fine,” I said.

“I know I’m overcautious and apprehensive. But I always feel that if there’s any small barrier we can erect against potential difficulties we should take advantage of it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” I said.

We walked along the rows of shelves, with him pointing out the different cans and packages of baking ingredients and giving me a running commentary on how they were used.

“I’m having some batch cards designed—that is, requisitions for ingredients which the various departments will submit to you. All you’ll have to do is fill them. Now, over here is our cold-storage room where we keep perishables—”

He levered the door on a big walk-in refrigerator, the kind you see in meat markets, and we went inside. “Egg whites,” he said, tapping a fifteen-gallon can with the toe of his shoe. “And these are egg yolks, and here are whole eggs,” tapping two more cans. “Bakeries buy these things this way for two reasons: they’re considerably cheaper, of course, and they can be measured much more easily.”

“I see,” I said, trying to keep from shivering. I’d only been in the place for a minute, but the cold was cutting me to the bone.

“Now, this door,” he said, pushing it open again. “You’ll notice that I left it well off the latch. I’d suggest that you do the same if you don’t want to risk freezing to death. As”—he smiled pleasantly—“I’m sure you don’t.”

“You can sing two choruses of that,” I said, following him out of the refrigerator. “I mean—”

He laughed and gave me a dignified clap on the back. “Quite all right, Mr. Bigelow. As I said a moment ago, I’m inclined to be overcautious…Well, I think that will be enough for today. Uh—I know it isn’t much, but in view of the job’s other advantages—uh—will twelve dollars a week be all right?”

“That will be fine,” I said.

“You can set your own hours—within reason. The ingredients for the various dough batches can be checked out before they’re ready for use, and then you’ll be free to study or do—uh—anything else you like.”

We left the main storage room and entered a smaller one, an anteroom, stacked high with sacks of salt, sugar and flour. At the end of a narrow corridor between the sacks, there was a door opening onto the street. Kendall unlocked it, winking at me.

“You see, Mr. Bigelow? Your own private entrance and exit. No one is supposed to have a key to this but me, but if you should be caught up on your work and feel the need for a breath of air, I see no reason why—uh—”

He gave me one of his prim, dignified smiles, and let me out the door. I paused outside and lighted another cigarette, glancing casually up and down the street. The door—the one I’d just come out of—was well to the right of the entrance to the office. Even if there was someone in there working late, as I would be on an after-school job, I could go in and out without being seen. And straight down the street, a matter of a hundred and fifty yards or so, was the house.