The Complete Crime Stories (4 page)

He tuned to Mike and said, “Mike, who's your friend?”

“I don't know, Tony. Some jerk.”

He said to her: “Ruth, who is he?”

“How would I know?”

“He's not a friend, by chance?”

“I never saw him before.”

I bowed to her and waved at Mike. I said: “I'm greatly obliged to you two for your thoughtful if misplaced effort to conceal my identity. You may now relax, as I propose to stand revealed.”

I turned to the guy and said: “I am a friend, as it happens, of Ruth's and in fact considerably more. I'm going to marry her. As for you, you're getting out.”

“I am?”

“I'll show you.”

I let drive with a nice one-two, and you think he went down on the floor? He just wasn't there. All that was left was perfume, a queer foreign smell, and it seemed to hang on my fist. When I found him in my sights again he was at the end of the bar, looking at me over a gun. He said: “Put 'em up.”

I did.

“Mike, get me his money.”

“Listen, Tony, I don't pick pockets—”

“Mike!”

“Yes, Tony.”

Mike got my wallet, and did what he was told: “Take out that money, and every ten in it, hold it up to the light, here where I can see. … There they are, two pinholes in Hamilton's eyes, right where I put them before passing the jack to a crooked two-timing dame who was playing me double.”

He made me follow his gun to where she was. He leaned down to where she was. He leaned down to her, said: “I'm going to kill him first, so you can see him fall, so get over there, right beside him.”

She spit in his face.

Where he had me was right in front of the telephone booth, and all the time he was talking I was working the ring off. Now I could slip it up in the empty bulb socket. I pushed and the fuse blew. The place went dark. The juke box stopped with a moan, and I started with a yell. I went straight ahead, not with a one-two this time. I gave it all my weight, and when I hit him he topple over and I heard the breath go out of him. It was dark, but I knew it was him by the smell. First, I got a thumb on his mastoid and heard him scream from the pain. Then I caught his wrist and used my other thumb there. The gun dropped, it hit my foot, it was in my hand. “Mike,” I yelled, “the candle! In the booth! I've got his gun! But for Pete's sake, give us some light!”

So after about three years Mike found his matches and lit up. While I was waiting I felt her arms come around me and heard her whisper in my ear: “You've set me free, do you still want me?”

“You bet I do!”

“Let's go to Elkton!”

So we did, and I'm writing this on the train, stringing it out so I can watch her as she watches mesquite, sage, buttes, and the rest of the West rolling by the window. But I can't string it out much longer. Except that we're goof happy, and the old man is throwing handsprings, that's all.

Period.

New Paragraph.

California, here we come.

Two O'clock Blonde

M
y heart did a throbby flip-flop when the buzzer sounded at last. It was all very well to ask a girl to my hotel suite, but I was new to such stuff, and before this particular girl I could easily look like a hick. It wasn't as if she'd been just another girl, you understand. She was special, and I was serious about her.

The trouble was, for what I was up to, man-of-the-world wouldn't do it. From the girl's looks, accent, manners, and especially the way she was treated by the other guests, I knew she was class. So I guess ‘gentleman' would be more like what I was shooting for. Up until now I'd always figured I was one, but then—up until now—I'd never really been called on to prove it.

I had one last look at my champagne and flowers, riffled the Venetian blind to kill the glare of the sun, her pale face, dark hair, trim figure, and maroon dress making the same lovely picture I had fallen for so hard. Everything was the same—except the expression in her eyes. It was almost as if she were surprised to see me.

I managed a grin. “Is something wrong?”

She took her time answering me. Finally she shook her head, looked away from me. “No,” she said. “Nothing's wrong.”

I tried to act natural, but my voice sounded like the bark from a dictating machine. “Come in, come in,” I said. “Welcome to my little abode. At least it's comfortable—and private. We'll be able to talk, and …”

She looked at me again and broke out a hard little smile. “Tell me,” she said, “does the plane still leave at two?”

That didn't make any more sense than the fact that she'd seemed surprised to see me. I'd told her quite a lot more, about the construction contract and how I had closed it, with the binder check in my pocket, and other stuff. But a nervous guy doesn't argue. “I thought I explained about that,” I told her. “The plane was booked up solid, and I'm grounded here until tomorrow morning. The home office said to see the town. Have me a really good time. I—thought I'd do it with you.”

“I am indeed flattered,” she said.

She didn't sound flattered, but I asked her once more to come in, and when she made no move I tried a fresh start. “Don't you think it's time you told me your name?” I asked.

Her eyes studied me carefully. “Zita,” she said.

“Just Zita? Nothing more?”

“My family name is Hungarian, somewhat difficult for American. Zita does very well.”

“Mine's Hull,” I said. “Jack Hull.”

She didn't say anything. The burn was still in her eyes, and I couldn't understand it. After the several chats we'd had in the dining room and the lobby, while I waited for lawyers, contractors, and the rest during the week I'd been here, I couldn't figure it at all. There wasn't much I could do about it, but there's a limit to what you can take, and I was getting a burn myself.

I was still trying to think of something to say when the door of the elevator opened, and out stepped a cute blonde in a maid's uniform—short skirt and apron and cap, and all. I'd seen her once or twice around the hotel, but I'd paid no attention to her.

She smiled quick at me, but gasped when she saw who I was talking to. “Mademoiselle!” she said, in the same accent as Zita's. “
Mademoiselle!
” Then she bobbed up and down, bending her knees and straightening them, in what seemed to be meant for bows.

But if Zita minded her being there, she didn't show it at all. She said something to her in Hungarian, and then turned back to me. In English, she said, “This is Maria, Mr. Hull—the girl with whom you have the date.”

“I have the—
what?
”

“Your date is with Maria,” she said.

I stared at her, and then at Maria, and then at Zita again. If this was a joke, I didn't feel like laughing.

“I heard Maria's telephone conversation with you,” Zita said. “I did not know it was you then, of course, but I heard her repeat your room number.” She smiled again. “And I heard her say something about wine.”

“Listen—” I began.

“Wine …” she said. “How romantic.”

“I ordered the wine for you,” I told her. “My date was wit you, not with—”

“Yes, the wine,” she said. “Where was it to be served? On the plane perhaps? It leaves at two, you said, when you told me goodbye a little while ago. You made me feel quite sad. But at two o-clock, with a smile, comes Maria.”

I knew by then what had happened, and how important it is to get names straight before you phone—and to make sure of the person you're talking to before you do any asking. It put quite a crimp in my pitch, and I guess I sounded weak when I go the blueprints out and tried to start all over again.

“Please,” Zita said. “Don't apologize for the maid. She is very pretty, Mr. Hull.
Very
pretty.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but she didn't wait to hear it. She went off down the hall, switching her hips very haughtily. She didn't stop for the elevator, but left by way of the stairs.

I looked at the blonde maid. “Come in, Maria,” I said. “We've got a little talking to do.”

I had some idea of a message, which Maria could deliver when the situation cooled down a bit. But by the time I'd closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I'd closed the door and followed Maria into the living room, I'd come to the conclusion that a message was not such a good idea. So I got my wallet out, took out a ten, and handed it to Maria. “I'm sorry,” I told her, “that we had to have this mix-up. I think you see the reason. Over the telephone, to an American, one accent sounds pretty much like another. I hope your feelings aren't hurt, and that this little present will help.”

Judging by her smile, it helped quite a lot. But as she started toward the door, something started to nag at me. “What a minute,” I said. “Sit down.”

She sat down on the edge of my sofa, crossing her slim legs while I cogitated, and trying to tug the short skirt down over her knees. It was quite a display of nylon, and it didn't make it any easier for me to think. She was an extremely well-built girl, this Maria, and she had the legs to go with the short skirt. I looked the other way, and tried to figure out this point that had popped into my mind.

“There's an angle I don't get, Maria,” I said. “What was she doing here?”

“You mean Mademoiselle Zita?”

I turned around to face her. “What did she come here for?”

“Didn't she tell you?”

“Not a word. Listen, I can't be mistaken. She knew romance was here—with wine ordered, who wouldn't? But she didn't know
I
was here. Until she saw me, I was just Mr. X. Why would she buzz Mr. X?”

I closed my eyes, working on my little mystery, and when I opened them Maria was no longer a maid making a tip. She was a ferret, watching me in a way that told me she knew the answer all right, and hoped to make it pay. That suited me fine. I got out another ten.

“Okay,” I said. “Give.”

She eyed my wallet.

She eyed my ten-spot.

She picked it up.

“It baffles me,” she said.

“Listen,” I told her. “I'm paying you.”

She walked to the door and opened it part way. She hesitated a moment, and then pushed the door shut again and walked back to where I was standing. She looked me straight in the eye, and now she was smiling. It wasn't an especially pretty smile.

“Well?” I said.

The door buzzer sounded.

“Heavens!” Maria whispered. “I mustn't be seen here I'd compromise you, Mr. Hull. I'll wait in the bathroom.”

I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising you, Mr. Hull. I'll wait in the bedroom.”

I may have wondered, as she ran in there, just what compromising was. But as I stepped into the foyer I was thinking about Zita. I was sure it was she, back to tell me some more.

I turned the knob, and then the door banged into my face. When the bells shook out of my ears, a guy was there. He stood in the middle of the living room floor, a big, think-shouldered character in Hollywood coat and slacks.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked him. “And what the hell do you want?”

“My wife's all I want, Mister. Where is she?”

“Wife?”

“Quit acting dumb! Where is she?”

I heard the sharp sound of high heels on the floor behind me. “But, Bill!” Maria said. “What is this?”

I looked around at Maria—and got one of the biggest jolts of my life.

She didn't have a stitch on, except those nylons and that little white cap on her head.

“You damned tramp!” Bill yelled, and made a lunge at her.

I took a seat by the window and watched them put on their act—he chasing her around, she backing away—and I woke up at last to what I'd got my foot into. When Maria had gone to the door and opened it part way, it had been a signal to this big bruiser. She couldn't have been wearing anything under her maid's uniform, or she couldn't have gotten so naked so fast. And now I was the sucker in a badger game, caught like a rat in a trap. This pair had me, and unless I wanted he house detective, and maybe even the police, all I could do was grin and kick in when the bite was made.

When the ruckus began to slacken off a bit, I said, “Okay, Bill, I get it. I don't have to be hit with a brick. What is it you're after? Let's hear your pitch.” I hadn't seem any bulges on him as he circled around, and it seemed to me that a gun was the last thing he should have if his caper went slightly sour and he had to face some cops. I couldn't be sure, of course, but by then I didn't much give a damn.

But all he did was blink.

“What're you after?” I asked him again.

“Dough, Mister. Just dough.”

“How much?”

“How much you got?”

I took out my wallet, squeezed it to show how thick it was, and began dealing out tens, dropping them on the cocktail table. When I'd let eight bills fall, I stopped. “That'll do it,” I said.

“Hey,” he said, “you got more.”

“I think you'll settle for this.”

“And what gives you that idea?”

“Well,” I said, taking my time, “I figure you for tinhorn chiselers, a pair that'll sell out cheap. It's worth a hundred—this eighty and the twenty I already gave her, when I'm sure she'll tell you about—to get you out of here. I'll just charge it to lessons in life. But for more, I'd just as soon crack it open. You want this money or not?”

It wasn't all just talk. From Maria's eyes as she watched the bills, I knew that for some reason they worried her. She looked at them a second, and then said to me, “Will you please bring me my uniform, Mr. Hull? Like a nice fellow?”

I didn't know why I was being got rid of, but when I went into the bedroom and had a peep through the crack in the door, Maria was down on her knees at the table, holding my tens to the light, looking for the punctures that are sometimes put on marked money. Bill was grumbling at her, but she grumbled back, and I heard her say, “Mademoiselle Zita.”

When I heard Zita's name, I saw red. I made up my mind I'd get to the bottom of this if I had to take the place apart piece by piece. The big problem was how. I sat down on the edge of the bed, and the more I thought about it the madder I got. I glared down at Maria's uniform lying there on the bed beside me, and called her a few choice names under my breath. And then, still glaring at the uniform, I suddenly knew I had it. That uniform was going to be good for something besides showing off Maria's legs.

I grabbed the uniform off the bed, went to the window and threw it out. Then I went back to the sitting room. Maria was still on her knees at the table.

“Lady,” I said, “if you want a uniform, you tell Mademoiselle Zita to bring it up here. Call her, and make it quick. Somebody else won't do. I want to talk to
her
.”

“Oh,” I said. “That.”

“Give it to me!” she said. “You took it. You—”

“Well, no, Maria, I didn't,” I said. “Not that I wouldn't have taken it. Not that you misjudge my character. I'm just that greedy. And just that mean. I didn't remember it, that's all.”

“Ah!” she said. “Ah!” She was standing with her feet spread apart and her hands on her hips. I'd never seen a nude woman so completely unconscious of her body as this one was.

Bill came over from the window and slapper her—to make her pipe down with the racket, I suppose—and suddenly I realized I'd pulled a damn good stunt. It was now a question of who was trapped. All three of us were, of course, except that I didn't care any more if the cops barged in or not. I didn't care, but
they
did.

“Get on that phone,” I told Maria, “because you don't get out till Zita comes—unless you go with the cops.”

“Call,” Bill told her. “You got to.”

He went to the phone in the foyer, put in the call, and gave Maria the receiver. She talked a long time in Hungarian, and then she hung up and came back into the living room. “She'll be here,” she said. “She'll bring me something to wear. And now, Mr. Hull, give me that money you threw out with my—”

I clipped her on the jaw, and I didn't pull the punch. Bill caught her as she fell, which was his big mistake. I dived over her head and got both hands on his throat, and we all went down together.

I didn't hit him, or take time to pull the girl away, or anything of the kind. I just lay there, squeezing my fingers into his windpipe, while he clawed at my hands and threshed. I let him thresh for one minute, clocking it by my wristwatch, which was as long as I figured him to last.

When he'd quit threshing, and lay there as limp as Maria was, I let go and dragged him away from her. I reached in his pocked and got my eighty dollars, and then I massaged his throat to give him a chance to breathe.