A Swell-Looking Babe

Sure, he'd known; and he knew what must certainly happen after this. And what the hell of it? All that mattered now was getting to shore… getting away with it.

Swiftly, he unlocked seven of the little vault doors, yanked out their long steel boxes. He placed them on the desk, to one side of Bascom, and Tug gave him a tightlipped grin of approval.

"Atta boy! Now, reach around him, kid – I got the bag under my coat – and… Swell. You're doing fine. Now stuff the dough into it, and-"

"What about a count on it?"

"Count!" Tug let out a surprised grunt, then chuckled softly. "A real pro, ain't he, Bask?" Bascom was silent. "A good idea, kid, but make it fast. Just riffle through it. Don't matter if you're a grand or two off."

Dusty nodded. He flipped back the lid of the first box, turned through the thick sheaf of bills. They were all hundreds and fifties,,with a preponderance of the latter. Large enough to total high without bulk, small enough for easy negotiation.

"Twenty-seven thousand." He glanced at Tug. "Okay?"

"Yeah, yeah! For Christ's sake, Dusty!"

There was twenty-four thousand, five hundred in the next box. The third held thirty-eight thousand, fifty.

The fourth…

All together there was two hundred and thirty-two thousand. Approximately that much. Tug nodded impatiently as he repeated the figure.

"Yeah, hell. It's close enough anyway… Now, you remember the combo on that bag? One turn right from zero, back left to ten, right to forty, and then left to--"

"I know. All the way, ten, forty, thirty… What about your own box, here? Haven't you got -?"

uneasiness of the two men at the doors. Why, they were jumpy. They were, and he was not. He was grinning secretly, patronizingly, as he entered and locked the door of the cashier's cage.

Everything was all right. It was exactly eight minutes since Tug had thrust his gun into Bascom's ribs. How much better could they want it?

"That goddamned phone, Dusty! Maybe you ought to – "

"Huh-uh. The operator will figure I'm busy. She'll stop, and call back in a few minutes."

"You sure? She won't – " The ringing stopped, but Tug still looked anxious. "She won't call someone, tell 'em that she – "

Dusty shook his head. "What's the difference, anyway? It's all over, isn't it?"

"Well… well, yeah," said Tug, almost wonderingly. 'I guess it just about is, kid."

"Bill!" Bascom spoke for the first time. "Listen to me, Bill! It doesn't matter about me, but you've got to prom – "

Tug's gun exploded. Bascom reeled backward, clutching his chest, and Tug fired again. And again. The clerk's body jerked. Slowly, it began to bend at the waist. It sagged down and down, and he was clawing at his chest, now, gasping and clawing – a terrible rattle in his throat. Then, his knees swayed and crumpled, and blood gushed from his mouth, and he pitched forward to the floor.

The raiding ceased. He lay silent, motionless.

"All right, kid" – Tug's gun swerved and pointed at Dusty. "Here's your story…"

He spoke swiftly. He said, "Got it?" And then, "Now, just take it easy – we got to make this look good – but just take it easy and – "

And he fired again.

Dusty screamed. He staggered and went down, on top of Bascom's body.

Tug cursed shakily. "Jesus Christ! Forget it, will you? Just get the thing checked and get back here!"

Dusty snapped the bag shut, spun the knob of the combination lock. He unlocked the cage, and hurried down the long counter, snatching up the checkroom key from the bell captain's stand.

He emerged from behind the counter, turned into the alcove which bordered one side of the check stand. The baggage-receiving space opened onto that. He unlocked its long window, vaulted the brass-surfaced counter, and turned on the light switch.

Two cigar boxes were nailed to the wall immediately below the switch. Dusty took a rubber band from one, and an orange-colored oblong of pasteboard from another. He affixed a check to the bag, shredded its stub into a wastebasket, took a long look at the number as he slid the bag onto the shelf. Four, nine, nine, four. Forty-nine, ninety-four. Forty-nine and reverse. That would be easy to remember.

He switched off the light, vaulted back over the counter, relocked the window. Hurrying back down into the lobby, swift but sure of himself, unpanicked, he heard the ringing of the bell captain's phone. And yards away he saw the alarm on Tug's face, and the sudden

uneasiness of the two men at the doors. Why, they were jumpy. They were, and he was not. He was grinning secretly, patronizingly, as he entered and locked the door of the cashier's cage.

Everything was all right. It was exactly eight minutes since Tug had thrust his gun into Bascom's ribs. How much better could they want it?

"That goddamned phone, Dusty! Maybe you ought to-"

"Huh-uh. The operator will figure I'm busy. She'll stop, and call back in a few minutes."

"You sure? She won't – " The ringing stopped, but Tug still looked anxious. "She won't call someone, tell 'em that she – "

Dusty shook his head. "What's the difference, anyway? It's all over, isn't it?"

"Well… well, yeah," said Tug, almost wonderingly. 'I guess it just about is, kid."

"Bill!" Bascom spoke for the first time. "Listen to me, Bill! It doesn't matter about me, but you've got to prom – "

Tug's gun exploded. Bascom reeled backward, clutching his chest, and Tug fired again. And again. The clerk's body jerked. Slowly, it began to bend at the waist. It sagged down and down, and he was clawing at his chest, now, gasping and clawing – a terrible rattle in his throat. Then, his knees swayed and crumpled, and blood gushed from his mouth, and he pitched forward to the floor.

The raiding ceased. He lay silent, motionless.

"All right, kid" – Tug's gun swerved and pointed at Dusty. "Here's your story…"

He spoke swiftly. He said, "Got it?" And then, "Now, just take it easy – we got to make this look good – but just take it easy and-"

And he fired again.

Dusty screamed. He staggered and went down, on top of Bascom's body.

FOURTEEN

Instinctively, he had tried to dodge the bullet, and the attempt came close to being fatal. Tug's aim was thrown off. The bullet went into Dusty's arm at an angle, and creased a furrow across his ribs. He was not seriously injured but he might have been. It looked as though Tug had tried to kill him.

So now he was a hero, above dispute and suspicion. A plucky young man who had tried to wrest a loaded gun from a murderer's grasp. The newspapers carried daily reports on his condition. The hotel, in addition to paying his hospital bills, had given him a check for three hundred dollars. Detectives had taken him back and forth through his story repeatedly, but they were respectful, apologetic, about it. They were at a dead end in the case, had been almost from the beginning. And they had to go through the motions of doing something.

A detective was with him today, the last of his nine days in the hospital. He had just happened to be in the neighborhood, he explained, rather abashedly. So if Dusty wouldn't mind, since he'd be going home tomorrow and they wouldn't be bothering him any more…

Dusty felt a little sorry for him. He said it was no bother at all. "I don't think I've overlooked or forgotten anything, but I might have."

"Well… Now about the time, then. Were you and Bascom always in the cashier's cage at two-thirty?"

"Almost always. Of course, I might have a bell – a call – or Bascom might have to leave for a minute. But we'd almost always be there at that time."

"Why that particular time instead of some other?"

"It was the quietest part of the shift, for one thing. We weren't so apt to be interrupted. Also, there'd seldom be any room charges after that time. If we tried to do it before that, while the coffee shop was still open and a lot of people were still up-"

"Uh-huh, sure. But what about the tag end of your shift, say up between six and seven in the morning? You'd start getting more charges, then, wouldn't you?"

"A few. Bascom would put them on the room accounts as fast as they came."

"Why didn't you do them all at once? If you'd done that, held up your cashier work until there were other people around…" The detective broke off with a sheepish look. "How stupid can I get, huh? I ask you why you don't do something when you'd've been too busy to do it."

"That's right." Dusty smiled sympathetically. "I wouldn't have had

time to help. Bascom would have been busy with people checking in

and out."

"Yeah, sure," the defective nodded. "Now, what did you think when you saw Tug and his two thugs heading down the stairs? didn't that strike you as pretty screwy? I know he was paying the hotel big money and he'd never caused any trouble before. But two-thirty in the morning – three guys hiking down nine flights of stairs at two-thirty in the morning – you must have-"

"It's like I told you," Dusty said. "I figured that the nightbell on the elevator must have gone out of order. They'd signaled and when didn't come with the car they'd walked down."

"But what would they be doing up at that hour, anyway? I know you told me, but it just don't seem like-"

"I'm afraid it's about all I can tell you. We were used to seeing Tug up late. He. usually came in late, with a couple of his men, and sometimes he came back downstairs with them when they left."

"Well" – the detective sighed and leaned back in his chair. Then, he straightened up suddenly. "Wait a minute! You say you figured the elevator bell was out of order. But if that had been the case he'd have called you, wouldn't he? When the elevator didn't come he'd have telephoned downstairs from his room?"

… Dusty hesitated. It was a point that had been overlooked until now. "You're right," he said. "I should have thought of that. But I just wasn't suspicious of Tug like I might have been of some people, and there wasn't any time to think. I saw him and those fellows coming down the stairs. The next thing I knew, he'd grabbed Bascom and shoved a gun in his ribs. All I could think of was that I'd better do what he said or he'd kill Bascom."

"Uh-uh, sure." The detective sighed again. "Now what was it Tug said there at the last, just before he pulled the trigger on Bascom?"

"He said, Here's your share. Or maybe it was, Here's your cut."

"And that didn't register on you, either? It didn't occur to you that Bascom must have been working with Tug?"

"Look. Officer" – Dusty spread his hands. "Here's a man I've.waited on for more than a year, a man who's always been friendly, a star guest of the hotel. And suddenly he holds us up, and shoots the man I'm working with. All within the space of a few minutes. You don't do much reasoning at a time like that. Maybe you would, but-"

"Okay, okay," the detective said hastily. "I didn't mean to sound like I was faulting you, Mr. Rhodes. You were a lot more clearheaded than most people would have been, showed a hell of a lot more guts. Me, I can't see myself making a grab for that gun."

"Well," Dusty smiled engagingly, "I probably wouldn't do it again either. I was just scared, I suppose, afraid I was going to get killed next."

"And you weren't far wrong at that." The detective shook his head, frowning. "That Bascom – y'know, I just can't figure him. Even if Tug had shot square with him, he must have known that he'd be on a spot. We'd investigate him, and find out about his record. The hotel had already got a letter about him – you know about that, I guess – and-"

"But they didn't pay much attention to it. Bascom had worked there for years, and he'd never given them any reason to suspect him. One anonymous letter wouldn't have counted much against a record like his."

"Yeah. Well, maybe not then. Maybe we wouldn't have checked on him. The way he thought the deal was going to be, it would have left him looking pretty good. Tug grabs him before he knows what's happening. He doesn't even touch the boxes himself. So maybe…"

His voice wandered on absently, aimlessly, a dull probe seeking the non-existent. And a sudden hunch sprang into Dusty's mind.

If his and Bascom's roles had been reversed, if he had been killed and if Bascom had quoted Tug as saying 'Here's your cut…'

Why not? A bellboy was about as low down the ladder as you amid get, while a night clerk was a minor executive. His story would have been believed. He would have been the hero, and Dusty the dead villain… Doubtless, Bascom had believed it would be that way. And, doubtless – perhaps – Had Tug planned it that way in the beginning?

It wasn't nice to think about. There was no sense in thinking about it, and there were much more pleasant things to dwell upon. Marcia Hillis, for example, and fifty per cent of two hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars.

"Well" – the detective stood up. "Guess I'd better be running along. If you should happen to think of anything, why…"

"I don't know what it would be but I'll certainly let you know."

"Fine. Appreciate it." He turned dispiritedly toward the door, a big man with sagging shoulders and a tired gray face. "Oh, yeah," he paused. "Guess I didn't tell you, did I? We found those guys that were with Tug."

"Found them! W-what-?"

"Uh-huh. In the river. Tied together with bailing wire. Looks like they'd been there since the night of the hold up."

"W-well" – Dusty swallowed. "Why… What do you suppose -?"

"Tug, of course. To beat them out of their split. Seems like they should have figured on it, and given it to him instead. But, well, that's the way things go."

He left.

Dusty walked over to the window, pulling his bathrobe around him. So Tug's boys had got it, too. Tug had double-crossed them, just as he had Bascom. And what about it, anyway? What difference did it make? Tug wouldn't double-cross him, because he damned well couldn't, and that was all that mattered.

He'd be out of the hospital tomorrow. In a few days, as soon as his shoulder limbered, up a little more, he'd be back to work. Then, the split of the money – Tug would get in touch with him about that – and then…

He turned away from the window. He sank down into an easy chair and leaned back, propping his feet up on the bed. The money. He still didn't know how Tug planned to collect his share. The gangster had impatiently pointed out that they'd have to wait and see, mat circumstances following the robbery would dictate arrangements. And that was true, of course; it was just about the way it had to be.

But still – hadn't he been pretty offhand about it? Had he been concealing something on this point as he had on the other?

Well… Dusty shrugged, dismissing the idea. That didn't matter either. Tug could only get to the money through him. There was no. way that Tug could do him out of his share. That was the important thing, so to hell with details.

… A nurse brought his dinner on a tray. He ate leisurely and read the evening papers. There was a brief item about his leaving the hospital tomorrow. There was a long story about the discovery of the murdered gangsters. He laid the papers aside, yawning, and glanced at his wristwatch.

He had told his father not to visit him tonight, since it was his last night here, and he hoped to God that he wouldn't. Not that the old man hadn't looked presentable on his nightly visits, but – well, he'd just rather not scare him. His concern made Dusty uncomfortable. His presence was a reminder of a perplexing and seemingly insoluble problem. Dusty just couldn't think when his father was around. There was a stumbling block in his mind, an obscuring shadow over the pleasant picture of his thoughts.

Marcia Hillis was working with Tug. He had become more and more sure of that fact. He was also sure of his attraction for her – strange how very sure he was of that. And now that her work with Tug was done, now that he had money, it would only be a matter of time until they were together.

That was the way it would be. It was the way it had to be. It wasn't just wishful thinking – by God, it wasn't! He had lost her once, lost the only woman in the world. And, now, miraculously, she had reappeared, she had come back into the aching emptiness of his life. And this time, this time, he would not let her get away.

He would have her. It was unthinkable that he might not. In his mind, the possession was already accomplished; they were already together, he and Marcia Hillis, delighting in one another, delighting one another. And there was no room in the picture for his father. With his father, there was no picture.

How could he explain her to the old man? How could he explain the money? He wouldn't have to explain right away, of course. It would be months before he dared quit the hotel and move on to another city – another country. But the time would come. Or, rather, it would never come, as long as his father lived.

As long as he lived…

Dusty had no visitors that night. In the morning, the doctor gave him a final examination and a nurse brought his clothes. He took an elevator downstairs. Unused to exercise, he wobbled a little as he started across the lobby to the street. And a soft hand closed over his arm.

"Let me help you, Mr. Rhodes," said Marcia Hillis.

FIFTEEN

He wasn't surprised, merely startled for the moment. He had been expecting to see her, and her appearance there, as he was leaving the hospital, virtually explained the reason behind it. She wasn't quite through with her assignment with Tug. There was one more thing to be done. He knew what it was, and how it was to be done, almost before she said a word.

"They" took a cab to his house. She assisted him inside, was received with absent matter-of-factness by the old man. He was glad, he said, that Bill had hired her. They would need someone, with Bill just out of the hospital, and he himself wasn't much help he guessed.

"Now, nonsense, Dad!" Dusty was almost exuberant in his happiness "You do a lot more than you should. I've been meaning to get someone in before this to make things easier for you."

"Well, now," Mr. Rhodes beamed. "I – that's certainly nice of you, son."

"You must have had a hard time while I was gone. So today you get a vacation. Go to a good show, get yourself a good meal; just take it easy and enjoy yourself."

He pressed a ten-dollar bill upon Mr. Rhodes. He saw him out the door, watched for a moment as he trudged down the walk toward the bus stop. That would take care of the old nuisance. It was worth ten times ten dollars to get rid of him for a while.

He was on the point of saying as much when he turned back around, but the look on Marcia's face stopped him. There was a tenderness in her eyes, a warmth in her expression, that he had never seen before.

"You know," she said softly, "I think I like you."

"Think?"

"Mmmm," she said, and laughed. "And I think I'd like some coffee, too. So if you'll introduce me to your kitchen, show me where you keep things…"

She made coffee, donning an apron he gave her. He watched her, dreamily, as she moved about the kitchen, drinking in every delicious detail of her. The hair, the compactly curving body, the clothes, the – The clothes. He couldn't be sure of it, but she seemed to be dressed the same as she had been the last time he'd seen her.

She turned around suddenly, surprising him in his looking. She said, "Yes? Something on your mind, Dusty?" And he hastily shook his head.

"I was just wondering about your clothes. I mean, you'll be here for some time and…"

"Oh," she shrugged. "Well, I'll pick my baggage up in a day or two. It wasn't convenient this morning."

She set the coffee on the table, and sat down across from him. Hand trembling a little, he lifted the cup. Reaction was setting in; he at last felt surprise – wonder at this incredibly wondrous happening. She was actually here! They were really together. And, of course, he had known that they would be, but now that they were…

He had to put down the coffee cup. Fingers fumbling, he managed to light a cigarette and hold a match for hers. She smiled sympathetically, steadying his hand with her own.

"You don't have your strength back yet, Dusty. Why don't you lie down for a while?"

"I'm all right. We've got a lot to talk about, and-"

"You can lie down and talk. Come on, now, before you wear yourself out completely."

She guided him into his bedroom. He stretched out on the bed, and she sat down at his side.

"Well, Dusty…" She smoothed the hair back from his forehead. "You didn't seem very surprised to see me today."

"I wasn't. I was pretty sure you must be working with Tug."

"You were? And how did that make you feel about me, Dusty, about being tricked into -?"

"It didn't change anything. I figured you were probably in the same boat I was in. You were on a spot, and you had to follow orders."

"did you, Dusty?" She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you understood. Some day I'll tell you how it was, but-"

"It doesn't matter – nothing mattered but you. Right from the first time I saw you."

The statement sounded awkwardly blunt, a little ridiculous. But she smiled gravely, obviously pleased.

"I'm glad, Dusty. Because, you see… well, I rather felt the same way. It was the way you acted, I guess, as though you'd been waiting for me, expecting me. I felt like you were someone I'd known a long time ago, and – Oh, I don't know," she laughed. "Anyway, I don't suppose a girl should admit such things, should she?"

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I mean – I don't mean you should -"

"I know what you mean, Dusty. I know."

She bent down, pressing her mouth against his. Then, as his arms went around her, she slid firmly out of his embrace.

"Not now, darling. I hope there will be more later – a great deal more." But, now, I don't know."

"But why?" He started to sit up, and she pushed him back down." "You said you liked me, felt the same way as I did. I'll have plenty of' money, and-"

"The money isn't too important to me, Dusty. Not nearly as much, I'm afraid, as it is to you. I like it, yes, but I've never had a great deal and I've gotten along all right without it. I could keep right on getting along without it. I wonder if you could."

"But I – we won't have to!"

"Won't we? That money won't last forever, no more than ten, years, say, if we're only mildly extravagant. What would you do when it's gone?"

"Well, I-" He shook his head impatiently. "What would anyone:

do? Marcia, I-"

"Not anyone. You. I'm quite a bit older than you are, Dusty. I won't be young ten years from now, but you will. How would you feel then – broke and saddled with a middle-aged woman? What would you do about it?"

"What?" he frowned. "I – look, Marcia. I want you to marry me not just-"

"I hoped you did. But that still doesn't answer my question. What happens when my looks are gone, and the money's gone? Would there still be something left for you, something more important than money or appearances? I'd have to be sure of that, Dusty. I have to know you better than I do now."

"I… I don't know what you mean," he said slowly. "I don't see what you're driving at."

"Murder, mainly. Murderers. If a man kills to get himself out of one unpleasant situation, he'll do it again."

She nodded calmly, staring down at him in the shade-drawn dimness, and a cold chill raced up Dusty's spine. He was suddenly conscious of the room's quiet, of their isolation here.

"B-but-" He gulped. "But I haven't killed anyone!"

"Not actually, perhaps, but technically. You knew Bascom was going to be killed!"

"But I didn't! Tug didn't tell me a thing about it. He told me – told me that no one would be hurt."

"And you believed him?"

"Why not? I didn't know anything about things like that. All I knew was that you were in trouble, that you might get killed if I didn't do what Tug told me to."

"That isn't what you said a moment ago. You said you knew I was working with Tug."

"Not at the time. Even afterwards, I wasn't positive. I – Who are you to talk, anyway? You got me into the deal. If it hadn't been for you, I-"

"Would it have made any difference, Dusty? You don't think you might have been in it anyway?"

"How could I have been? What do you mean? Dammit" – he sat up, scowling. "I could ask some questions myself. What about you knowing that Bascom was going to be killed? You quiz me about it when you must have known yourself that-"

"I didn't. If I had, I'd hardly be concerned about your being involved."

"Well, I didn't know either."

"I hope not, Dusty. I want to believe that you didn't. So let's not discuss it any more now, shall we not? Give me a little more time, tell me how we're going to get the money out of the hotel, and men – well, we'll see then."

"But, why? What's there to -?"

"Why not? We'll have to wait anyway. We've just met, supposedly. You'll have to go on working at the hotel"

"Yes, but – but, Marcia…"

He broke off, unable' to say what he had intended to, to point out the incongruity of the situation. She was in this thing as deeply as he, she was closer to Tug apparently than he was. She'd been around – she damned well had to know what the score was. So why then all this squeamishness? Why all the fuss about Bascom's death?

It didn't add up. Even taking that older-than-you-are, what-about-the-future stuff at its face value it didn't fit together. So maybe they had to be careful for a while. Maybe it was logical for her to go slow on tying herself up permanently. But they were alone now, and she'd been around from way back. And yet he couldn't even give her a feel without –

"Oh," she said, and it was as though he had spoken the thought aloud. "I see, Dusty, and I don't blame you. I haven't been everything I should be, and-"

"Nuts, nonsense," he said quickly. "Now about the money. Come around to the hotel any time after I go on duty, a little after twelve, say. You, want to get something out of a suitcase you've left in the checkroom – a lot of people do that – and-" understand. I supposed you'd do it that way."

"Well, uh – that's all there is to it, then."

She nodded, went on looking at him. At last she said absently, "Perhaps we shouldn't wait. Perhaps it would be better now, since you feel as you do. Since it's so important – or unimportant."

"Now, wait a minute!" His face flushed. "I haven't said anything! My God, you can't blame me for wanting to – to-"

"I don't. Nor for thinking what you think."

She got up and left the room. He heard the front door close, and the snap of the lock, and men she was back again.

She toed off one shoe, then the other. Quite casually, she unfastened the snaps of her dress, slipped it up and over her head. The slip came next. Then – then the other things. All that remained.

And then she stretched out at his side. And waited.

He was too startled to move for a moment; it had all happened so swiftly. Then, his senses responded to the wonderful reality of her, and he moaned and…

She lay supine, docile, under his hungrily groping hands. They roamed over her body unhindered, nothing forbidden nor withheld. And her mouth received his in long, breathtaking kisses. It was almost too much, more ecstasy than he could bear. To have her at last, after all these years of hunger and hopelessness, to have this – the impossible dream come true – his for the taking.

He moaned again. He turned, pulling her body under his and then he opened his eyes. Looked into hers.

"What – what's the matter?" he said.

"You mean," she said, "you're not enjoying yourself?"

"Look. If you didn't want to, why -?"

"I thought I explained. To see how important this was to you – how much value or little value you placed on it."

"But that – that's crazy! What does it prove? For God's sake, Marcia, you can't-"

"To me, it proves a great deal. To you – well, I'm waiting to find out."

"B-but-" But it was impossible, unbearable! He couldn't stop now. Jesus, he couldn't! He couldn't! But if he didn't…

He bit his lip. Suddenly, he thrust himself up, dropped down panting at her side. And he lay there, eyes clenched, trembling from the terrible effort. It was all right now. He was exhausted, now, drained dry of strength – weak as he was disappointed.

Her arm went around his neck, pulling his head against her breast. She held it there, gently, stroking his hair.

"You'll be glad, darling," she whispered. "You'll see. You'll be so glad you waited."

"All right," he said. "I… all right."

"You don't hate me, do you, darling? Please don't. No matter what I – how I act. Because I won't be doing it to hurt you. I love you and I want you to love me, to keep on loving me, and if we don't get started off right…"

"All right," he repeated. "I said it was all right, didn't I?" "And I said you'd be glad," she whispered. "And you will…"

SIXTEEN

Although there was still Some, soreness in his shoulder, he went back to work two days later. He wanted to get the pay-off made and over with. He wanted to – had to – get away from his father. For, that first day excepted, the old man had hardly left the house. And when he did leave on some errand, he was back within minutes.

He was always hovering around Marcia, offering to do things for her, inquiring about her comfort. He was always underfoot, butting»into their conversations, making a thoroughgoing pest of himself. He stayed up at night until they retired. If they went to the kitchen to fix coffee, or out the' porch for a breath of air, he tagged along. They couldn't get rid of him. Marcia, for her part, showed no desire to.

Once Dusty did manage to get her alone for a few minutes, and he made some sarcastic remark about the old man. She looked at him sharply?''

"Why Dusty," she laughed, half-frowning. "What a thing to say about your own father! He's just been very lonely, that's all. Surely, you don't begrudge-"

"Oh", hell," he snapped. "I've been here right along, haven't I? Why would he be lonely?"

"Yes," she said. "Why would he be?"

He smoothed over the incident, told her laughingly that he guessed he was just jealous. And after that he went out of his way to be pleasant to Mr. Rhodes. But the effort told on his nerves. If he had to keep it up one more day, he felt – just one more day – he'd crack up.

She came out to his car with him the night he returned to work. It was dark, moonless. There was a threat of storm in the heavy, overheated air. She kissed him, remained within the circle of his arms for a moment.

"A little after twelve, then, darling?"

"Or later. Whenever Dad goes to sleep."

"I come to the side entrance in a taxi," she recited. "I have the taxi wait and come inside. If you're not there, I speak to the clerk and he'll have me wait until you return. I – He will, won't he, Dusty? He wouldn't offer to open the checkroom himself? "

"Not a chance. It would be beneath him, see, bellboy's work, and it would make me sore. He'd be cheating me out of a tip."

She nodded, still clinging to him. He bent his head a little and touched his lips to the sweet-smelling hair.

"About Tug, Marcia. I haven't asked before, and I don't want you to tell me if you'd-"

"It's a dangerous secret, darling; it could be one. There's nothing to be gained by your knowing, and everything to lose."

"Well" – he hesitated. "But is it safe for you? You know where Tug is. Once you give him the money, he might figure that-"

"I won't give it to him. I'm going to leave it in a certain place where he can get it. Don't worry, Dusty." She patted his cheek, lovingly. "Everything's going to be all right."

They kissed again, stood whispering together a moment longer. At last she stepped back, and he reached for the door of the car. A streak of heat lightning raced across the sky. He paused on the point of sliding into the seat.

"Your clothes," he said. "Want me to drive you in tomorrow, and pick them up?"

"Clothes? Oh, yes. Maybe that would be a good idea."

"Well. Anything else? Sure you can get all the dough in that bag of yours?"

He knew that she could. It was an outsize shoulder bag, and she would remove the contents before coming to the hotel. She nodded absently to the question but she continued to stand there at the curb, a small frown on her heart-shaped face.

He glanced at the radiant that of the dashboard clock. Nine-fifteen, and he was supposed to be in uniform by ten tonight. They were taking his picture for the morning papers.

"I've got to run, Marcia. Is there something else – anything bothering you?"

"We-el… Oh, I guess not," she laughed ruefully. "I don't think I should mention it, anyway."

"Why not?"

"Because. It just isn't my place to suggest it. After all, it must have already occurred to you, and as long as you haven't said anything…"

"About what? What are you – Oh," he said slowly. "Well…" And his voice trailed off into an uncomfortable pause.

Actually, he had thought very little about it, how he was going to get his •share of the money out of the hotel. A problem so simple required little thought. Unlike Tug, he had unlimited time. He could take months at the task, carrying it out in his wallet a few hundreds at a shift. It was the easiest way and the safest way. The Manton's bellboys made good money. No suspicion would attach to one with a mere few hundred in his possession.

He explained this to her, and she nodded her understanding.

There was no sign of resentment or hurt in the upturned face. Still, however, his discomfort grew: he felt awkward, constrained to go on explaining. And the more he said – logical as it was – the worse it sounded.

It might be difficult to open the money satchel, take out Tug's share and transfer it- to her bag. It could certainly be done, all right, but there might Be difficulties. The safest and simplest thing to do would be to give her the satchel itself, with all the money. And why not do it? Let her hold Tug's share and his.

Why not, unless…

She touched his arm gently. "I understand, darling. Now, run along and don't think anything more about it."

"It's nor- he hesitated-"I wouldn't want you to think I didn't trust you. It's just that I'd planned it the other way, and-"

"Of course" She urged him into the car, closed the door after him. "Why wouldn't you trust me? After all, you're practically trusting me with your life."

"Well… well," he murmured, feebly. "I'll, uh, see you, then."

He drove to the hotel, downcast, feeling that he had acted like a suspicious fool. He decided – half-decided – -to give her the satchel when she came that night. Why not? Either she was completely trustworthy or she was not to be trusted at all. If Tug's money could be trusted to her, then so could his own.

Or couldn't it? Why couldn't it be?

Frowning, he buttoned his uniform jacket, adjusted the wing tips of his shirt collar. Why? Well, there was one reason. One hideous, heart-wrenching reason. She might not be finished with Tug after the pay-off, nor he with her. She might be much more to Tug then she pretended to be. And if she was – well, she had pointed it out herself. A hundred and sixteen thousand dollars wouldn't last forever; it would be gone in a few years. But with two hundred and thirty-two thousand…

Furiously, Dusty pushed the terrible thought out of his mind. No! A thousand times no; she couldn't be Tug's woman. She was his. She liked to be, and she was. And just to prove it – to prove his complete faith in her – he would give her me satchel tonight.

Maybe. Probably. Surely. Unless he thought of some really good reason for not doing it.

He finished dressing and left the locker room. Tolliver, the superintendent of service, and Steelman, the manager, were waiting for him in the latter's office. Tolliver called to the two photographers in the reception room. They sauntered in and set up their equipment.

The first pose was of Dusty shaking hands with the manager, while Tolliver looked on beaming. Then he posed between the two men, each with a hand on his shoulder. Finally, he was photographed by himself, arms folded in the traditional manner of bellboys "standing post."

Repeatedly, he had to be reminded to smile. Toward the last, the photographers became quite sharp with him, and the two executives were showing signs of annoyance.

Dusty returned to the locker room for a brief, pre-work smoke. His lips twisted in silent mimicry, Lets see a smile Rhodes – a SMILE DAMMIT – don't you know how to smile? And scowling he hurled away the cigarette, and started up the steps. To hell with them. To hell with the hotel. She would take his dough out tonight with Tug's, and the sooner they fired him after that, the better. The money would be waiting for him when he got home in the morning – she and the money. And as soon as he figured out an angle on the old man, how to shake the old bastard without causing trouble…

That was the way it would be. It would – could – be that way if he was sure of her.

Preoccupied, now and then frowning unconsciously, he began the night's duties. A few minutes before midnight, he went behind the keyrack and manipulated a series of light switches.

"And just what," said a chilly voice at his elbow, "do you think you are doing?"

Dusty jumped, startled. It was Mr. Fillmore, the night clerk hired to replace Bascom. He had come from a smaller, second-rate hotel, and the Manton was a big step upward for him. Unsure of himself, fearful mat his authority might be infringed upon, he made a point of appearing the opposite? He knew his job, by golly. He was in charge here, not some smart-alecky bellboy.

"I asked you what you were doing," he repeated. "Who told you to fool around with those lights?"

Dusty explained curtly; he had taken an immediate dislike to the clerk. "We always do this at midnight, dim the lobby and light up The-" –

"But it's not midnight yet. Won't be for five minutes. You put those lights, back on, understand? When I want them off, I'll tell you,"

"I've got a better idea than that," said Dusty. "Do it yourself."

Turning on his, heel, he left the desk area. He kept his back turned as the clerk emerged from behind the key-rack and spoke to him sharply across the counter.

"We may as well get this clear right now, Rhodes. The hotel appreciates what you did, and they've shown that appreciation, but you're still a bellboy. While you're at work you have no more rights or privileges than any other bellboy. It – uh – it has to be that way, understand? I'm sure that Mr. Tolliver or Mr. Steelman will bear me out. I hope – I'm certain, of course – that it will never be necessary for me to report-" –

"Go ahead," Dusty grunted, still not looking around. "Go ahead and report me and see what they say."

"Well, uh-" Fillmore cleared his throat-"well, now, I wouldn't want to do that. Not at all. Sure we're going to get along fine, now that this little misunderstanding is cleared up, and…"

He left the sentence unfinished, moving up the counter to the room-clerk section. He busied himself there, coldly furious, angry as only the self-fearful can be when character and circumstance conspire to make them ridiculous… He'd been in the right, hadn't he? But that smart-aleck – he'd acted snooty from the minute he stepped on the floor tonight – had gotten gay with him. Crowded him into saying things that he hadn't meant to say. Well, maybe, certainly, he couldn't do anything about this. He'd look foolish if he tried. But just wait! Something else would come up. He'd put that young punk in his place yet!

There was a squeal of brakes at the side entrance. Instantly, Fillmore arose from his stool, stood briskly alert as a woman got out of the cab and came through the double doors to the lobby. She ascended the three steps from the foyer, paused for a moment in the muted glow of one of the huge chandeliers. Fillmore gaped, his fearful fussy old heart missing a beat. He'd never seen a woman who looked like that. She was so beautiful that it almost hurt to look at her. He hoped she didn't want a room. He'd have to turn her down, of course, a woman alone at this time of night, and he could see that she was a lady. As much a lady as she was beautiful.

Gratefully, he noted that the cab was waiting for her. (She didn't want a room, then.) Jealously, he watched as she started across the lobby and Rhodes stepped forward to meet her. Now there was presumption for you. There was sheer gall. Accosting a lady – asking if he could help her – instead of allowing her to proceed to the desk!

Fillmore's eyes glinted. He moved down the desk quickly, leaned over the counter.

"Yes, madam?" he called. "Can I be of service to you?" Rhodes whirled around, frowning. That would show him, by golly! The lady looked momentarily surprised, then smiled at him warmly.

"Could you, please? I left a bag here recently when I checked out of the hotel. I see that your checkroom's closed, but I wonder if-"

"Certainly. The boy will get it for you." Fillmore snapped his fingers. "Front, boy! Get the lady's bag out of the checkroom."

He slapped the key upon the counter. Rhodes snatched it up, tight-lipped, strode down the lobby and rounded the corner of the corridor to the checkroom window. The lady followed him after a gracious smile at Fillmore.

The clerk grinned to himself. He flicked an invisible speck of dust from his suit, silently crying down the small voice of his conscience. Petty? A show-off? Nonsense. This was a smart hotel – a real swell place. And its executives, and, by golly, he was an executive!, were supposed to conduct themselves accordingly. Maybe it wasn't absolutely necessary here at night, so much spit and polish, but he would never be criticized for it. It was a kind of bonus. He was giving more than was expected of him.

Fillmore's bony hands clenched and unclenched, exultantly. So perhaps" he couldn't complain about Rhodes… not unless he did something completely out of the way. But neither could Rhodes complain about him. He wouldn't get very far, by golly, if he tried. He could keep that smart-aleck on his toes all night long, make him toe the line. And Rhodes would have to take it or else. If he rebelled, refused to do as he was told –

Well, discipline, the chain of command, had to be maintained, didn't it? The' management would have to uphold a clerk against a bellboy. They, would have to do it or fire him, and how could you fire a man for being utterly correct? So…

"Fillmore glanced up at the lobby clock. He straightened his shoulders, and his. head reassumed its imperious tilt… Three minutes, no, now ft was four minutes. Four minutes to get a bag out of the checkroom, and he hadn't done it yet! Now that was fine service for.you. That was certainly a fine way to run a hotel.

He waited until the big hand of the clock jerked again, marking off another minute. Then, easing open the door of the desk area, he moved silently down the lobby. Perhaps, he thought, Rhodes was sneaking a. smoke, loitering along the baggage racks while the lady waited. Or perhaps… perhaps he was trying to pull something funny. Trying to flirt with her. He was a good-looking punk – too darned good-looking to be trustworthy! Probably had the idea that he could crook a finger at a woman, and she'd come a-running.

Fillmore paused at the corner of the areaway, straining his ears to listen. He could hear them – what sounded like an argument – but he couldn't hear what they were saying. The bellboy's voice was strained. The lady's was softly insistent, faintly wheedling.

Fillmore hesitated, teetering in nervous indecision. Perhaps – well, it might be well to go a little slow. Rhodes was something rather special with the hotel management. He had risked his life in the hotel's interests, and if things came to a showdown –

But things wouldn't! He wasn't doing anything out of the way. After all, what was wrong with making an inquiry, intervening, where there was obviously some difficulty between a patron and an employee?

Fillmore patted his tie, threw back his shoulders and stepped around the corner.

"What's going on here?" he said briskly. "What's the trouble, Rhodes?"

Rhodes' face went white. So he had been up to something! The woman also seemed perturbed, but she managed a smile. She nodded at the bag, a kind of dispatch case, which the bellboy was holding.

"I've misplaced my baggage check," she said. "Can't I please get the bag without it?"

"Well, I – uh -" Fillmore hesitated.

"Please? My husband just returned to town tonight, and he's very anxious to have these papers. I know it's rather unusual, but I have been a guest here – this bellboy admits he remembers me and…"

She looked at Fillmore winningly. He stared uncertainly at Rhodes. He'd had the same problem before at other hotels, and he'd known how to handle it. But at the Manton – well, it might be different here. Rhodes knew what the custom was better than he did.

"Well," he said. "I hardly – you do remember this lady, Rhodes?"

Rhodes hesitated. He said, his voice strangely tight, "I remember."

"And you can't – I'm not ordering you to, understand – you can't release a piece of baggage without a check? You don't do that under any circumstances?"

"No."

"Not even if the owner identifies the contents?"

"N-no. I mean, she- she-"

"Answer me! Speak up!" Fillmore was sure of himself again. His voice rang with authority. "That is the custom, isn't it?… I'm sorry you were delayed, madam, but if you'll just identi-"

"But I already have! I satisfied the boy that it was my bag, but apparently" – she laughed a little wryly- "he wasn't satisfied with the tip I gave him."

"Oh, he wasn't, eh?" Fillmore's lips tightened grimly. "Give me that bag, Rhodes, do you hear me? Give it here instantly!"

Reaching across the counter, he snatched the bag from the bellboy's hand, presented it to the lady with a courteous bow. "I'm extremely sorry about this, madam. May I see you to your cab?"

Murmuring apologies, muttering sternly about the bellboy's conduct, he escorted her out into the lobby. At the steps to the side entrance, she interrupted, laying a hand on his arm.

"He won't lose his job because of this, will he? I'd feel dreadful if I thought he would."

"But, madam. The Manton cannot and will not tolerate discourtesy on the part of-"

"Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean to be discourteous. It was more thoughtlessness than anything else… Promise?" She gave his arm a little squeeze,. "Promise he won't be fired."

"Well," said Fillmore, and then, grandly, "Very well. I understand that he does need his place here. Has his father, a semi-invalid, depending on him."

"I know." said Marcia Hillis. "I mean, I thought he must be upset about something."

SEVENTEEN

Dusty never knew how he got through that night. It seemed endless, and each of the year-long moments was a nightmare of soul-sickening rage, of rage and hate and frustration – repressed, seething inside him, until the mental sickness became physical. He wanted to kill Fillmore, to choke him with his bare hands. He wanted to hide in a dark, corner and vomit endlessly. He wanted…

He wanted the unattainable. He wanted what he had always wanted – her. And now he was not going to have her. She was Tug's woman, obviously, irrefutably. Everything else had been pretence, all the caresses and the whisperings and the promises. All for Tug, nothing for him. They'd be together now, on their way out of the country together. They'd be laughing – she'd be laughing, as she told how she'd hoodwinked him. He'd been on the point of giving her the satchel. He couldn't bear to see her hurt, to have her think that he didn't trust her. Goddam, oh, Goddam! And he'd been just a little suspicious of her last-minute firmness, her insistence, but if she'd kept up the act a moment longer…

But it hadn't been necessary for her to keep it up. He hadn't had time to reach a decision. That goddamned stupid Fillmore had butted in, and there'd been nothing to do but let her have the bag. Jesus, what else could he do? Call her bluff? Say that she hadn't identified the contents, and risk Fillmore's taking over, calling the house dick maybe or the manager? He couldn't do that and she knew it, knew that he'd have to do just what he had done. Let her go, and keep his mouth shut. Let her take the money, and herself, to Tug. Tug's money, his money – the whole two hundred and thirty-two thousand.

And the terrible part about it was that he couldn't hate her. He tried to, but he couldn't. He wanted her as much – Christ, he wanted her more! – as he ever had.

Still sick and seedling, he drove home that morning. A kind of vicious delight welled up in him as Mr. Rhodes met him at the door, mumbling worriedly about Miss Hillis' absence. He shoved past the old man. He turned and faced him, his pent-up fury spewing out at this easy and defenseless target.

"So she's left. What about it? What business is it of yours, anyway?"

"B-but-" Mr. Rhodes gave him a startled look. "But I – where could she have gone to? Why would she have left, gone away at night, without saying anything? Everything was all right when I went to bed. We'd sat up talking rather late, and then I helped her make down the lounge and-"

"I'll bet you did. It's a goddamned wonder you didn't try to go to bed with her. Christ knows, you haven't left her alone for a second since she's been here!"

"B-but-" The old man's mouth dropped open. "Son, you can't mean-"

"The hell I don't! That's probably why she left, because she couldn't stand the sight of you any more. She had all she could take, just about like I've had all I can take… Yes, you heard me right, by God! I'm sick of you, get me? Sick of looking at you, sick of listening to you, sick of-"

The phone rang. Raging, he let it ring on for a moment. And then he snatched up the receiver and almost yelled into the mouthpiece.

A muted chuckle came over the wire. "Something riling you, kid?" said Tug.Trowbridge.

Dusty's hand jerked. His fingers went limp, and the receiver started to slide from his grasp.

"Now get this," kid," Tug went on swiftly. "I'll be by the side entrance there tonight, tomorrow morning rather, at one o'clock. Driving, yeah. I'll give three short taps on the horn, and – Dusty! You listening to me?"

"I'm l-lis- You can't!" Dusty stammered. "You – "

"Why not? I'll have this little collapsible bag you can slip under your jacket. You put mine in that, and bring it back out again, just like I'd given you a check on it. What – "

"But I – "

"Yeah?" Tug chuckled again. "Kind of surprised you, huh, thought it would be more complicated? Well, that's it. One o'clock tonight.

Three taps on the horn." "Wait!"

"Yeah? Snap into it, kid."

"I've got to see you," said Dusty. "Something's – I've got to see you!"

"Huh-uh. No, you don't. You just-"

"But I can't! I m-mean-" He wouldn't dare tell Tug the whole truth. Tug had filled three men for that money, his share of it, and he would not believe the truth if he heard it. He would thinly that – "I mean, that's what I've got to see you about."

Heavy silence for a moment. Then, softly, "You wouldn't be hungry, would you, kid? You wouldn't want it all… and that ten grand reward besides'?"

"No! My God, you know I wouldn't – that I couldn't do that."

"Yeah. Well, just so you know it, too, that you'd hang yourself if you tried it. They nab me and you're sunk, or you try putting the blocks to me and you're-"

"I'm not! It's-I can't explain now, but I've got to see you, now-"

"All right," Tug cut in, curdy. "I don't like it, but all right. Same place in about an hour."

The line went dead.

Dusty hung up the receiver, glanced at his father. The old man was slumped down into his chair, staring vacantly into nothingness. There was a stunned look on his face, a look of sickness that transcended sickness in his eyes. He was obviously unaware of the telephone conversation. It had meant nothing to him. Nothing, now, meant anything to him.

Dusty took a bill from his wallet, the first one his fingers touched, and flung it into his lap. A ten-spot, too damned much – anything was too damned much – but he had an idea that it wouldn't be much longer, now; with the props kicked out from under him, the old bastard might have sense enough to the. Meanwhile, it was worth any amount to crack the whip and see him cringe. To toss the bill at him as though it were a bone to a dog.

He waited a moment for the old man to speak – hoping for, wanting the opportunity to shut him up again. Then, as his father remained silent, he slammed out the door and headed for his rendezvous with Tug.

Things could be a lot worse, he thought. Yes, sir, they were not nearly as bad as they had seemed a while ago. He'd lost her, but at least she hadn't gone to Tug. She'd been working for herself, not Tug, and somehow that was not so hard to bear. He'd lost everything he wanted, but the loss had done something for him. It had pushed him to the point of losing, getting rid of, something he didn't want – someone who, he realized now, he had always hated. Yes, hated. Hated, hated, hated! Hated when he had touched her, the woman who was all woman. Hated – hated him – if he even came near her. Hated and wanted him to the. As he probably would the soon, now that he was completely stripped of reason to live.

And perhaps… perhaps she was not lost yet: the she reborn in Marcia Hillis. Perhaps, with the ten thousand dollars in reward money, he could find her and…

He turned off the highway, crossed over the railway tracks to the abandoned road on the other side. A car was parked just beyond the crest of the first hill. It was old and battered, but there was a look of sturdiness about it and the tires were new. The man behind the wheel was heavily bearded, dressed in faded overalls and jumper, and had an old straw work hat pulled low on his forehead. A sawed-off shotgun lay across his knees. He gestured with it impatiently as Dusty greeted him.

"So you wouldn't have known me. So forget it and start talking. What the hell did you have to see me about?"

EIGHTEEN

Tug cursed. He mopped his face with a blue bandanna handkerchief and went on cursing, pouring profanity through the polka-dot folds until he was strangling and breathless.

"Those bastards! Those stupid, blockheaded sons-of-bitches! Boy,! wish I hadn't already bumped 'em off! I'd like to do it all over again."

"Then you intended to kill her all along," Dusty said. "All that stuff you told me" about how much she liked me and how you'd fix things up-"

"You kicking about it?" Tug turned on him fiercely. "You let her screw you for your share of the dough, and you're kicking?"

"I just want to get things straight. If you'd told me the truth in the first place…"

"Well, now you got it straight. We'd snatched her, hadn't we? Yeah, 1 know what you thought, but sure it was a snatch. So naturally he had to be bumped off. And if those stupid jerks had had any sense-" Tug broke off, choking, ripped out another string of curses. I should have known better'n to trust 'em with a dame like that. I should have known they'd try to keep her around a while, take her for a few tumbles before they knocked her off."

"But I don't understand. If she got away from them-"

"If? What the hell do you mean, if?"

"But why didn't they tell you?"

"Because they didn't know about it, goddammit! She made the break the night of the robbery, while we were all busy at the hotel. It had to 've happened, then. You can see that, can't you, for Christ's sake? If she'd got away before then, there wouldn't have been any hold-up. She'd have yelled to the coppers."

Dusty frowned. He stared out through the grimy windshield at the sun-sparkled pavement. Back in the hillside underbrush a raincrow. cawed dryly. A gust of hot wind rolled over the abandoned fields, rattling the yellowed, waist-high weeds.

"She knew all about me," Dusty said. "She knew where the money was, that we hadn't settled on a way of splitting it up. So if she wasn't working with you-"

"Goddammit, does it look like she was? She didn't know nothing – it was just guesswork. She figured we couldn't decide on how to divvy the dough until afterwards. I wouldn't know when you'd be going back to work. I wouldn't know how soon I could get in touch with you and-"

"She couldn't have guessed everything," Dusty said. "She couldn't have guessed that the money would be in the checkroom. Someone told her, that and everything else."

Tug shrugged irritably. "What's the difference? You got screwed, dial's the main thing, so that means I take a screwing, too. To hell with her. What the hell difference does it make if-"

"I want to know," Dusty insisted. "I've got to know."

Tug hesitated, shrugged again. "All right. It don't make me look real pretty, but – I guess I don't, anyhow, huh? And it's got no connection with you. I've been playin' pretty rough, but I couldn't cross you if I-"

"Who was she?"

"Bascom's daughter. She was a dancer like I said; that part was on the level. Hillis was her stage name, and-"

"B-Bascom's – his-?"

"You want me to tell you or not? We ain't got all day. Every cop in town is looking for me. Yeah, his daughter. I slapped the truth out of her that morning. He'd had her check in there at the hotel. He'd done everything he could to make you quit and it hadn't worked, so she set you up for the push. She'd accuse you of attempted rape, see, tell you she'd file charges if she ever saw you again. If you got stubborn she'd actually call Bascom – her father, only you wouldn't know that – and the way things would be stacked against you, you'd have to quit. So… so dial's the way it was, kid. Me and the boys put the snatch on her. Bascom saw that I'd found out about him trying to cross me, and he figured she'd have a lot better chance of living if he got back on the track and stayed there. I kind of let him think that, see? He knew he was a goner himself, whatever happened, and all he could do now was-"

"Bascom," Dusty said slowly. "Why did he want me to quit? Why did he" do all that", try so hard to- to-" He broke off, staring at Tug. Tug's eyes shifted uncomfortably. "Oh," he said. Then, "Well…"

Tug coughed and spat out the window. He shifted the shotgun slightly, mumbled something about, Christ, the goddamned heat.

"You were going to kill me," Dusty said. "Someone had to be killed and I was supposed to be it."

"What the hell?" Tug said, gruffly. "It was just business, kid, nothing personal, I really wanted it to be Bascom, right from the •beginning, but-"

"Yes. He made a better fall guy, didn't he? But why did it have to be him or me? What difference would it have made if I'd quit or got •fired and another bellboy had taken my place? You could still have gone right ahead and-"

"Huh-uh. It had to be someone that'd been there quite a while.

Someone who knew the ropes and who'd have had time to pal up with me. Nope, if Bascom had got rid of you there wouldn't have been any hold-up.. We'd have had to wait until the next racing season, and he knew I couldn't wait."

Dusty nodded. He had no more questions. None, at least, that Tug could answer. She'd spent two days there at the house, talking to him, probing him, watching him. And perhaps she'd been drawn to him, as she'd said; perhaps she'd felt pretty much the same about him as he felt about her. But there'd been some doubts in her mind. She hadn't been sure of his guilt, whether he'd been a willing and knowing accomplice to her father's murder, but neither had she been unsure. So – well, there was the answer: the clue to the exact amount of her sureness and unsureness. She had left him here practically penniless, to face Tug empty-handed with a story which might not be believed. She had been sufficiently sure-unsure to put him on a spot where he might have been killed, or –

Or? Dusty's pulse quickened suddenly… Tug. She'd have had no doubts about his part in the murder. Tug would have been the guy for her to get, and what better way was there – what other way, rather – than this one? She could only get to Tug through him. By making off with all the dough, she probably figured on –

Nuts. Nothing. It was all a pipedream. She'd wanted the money i period. She'd got it period. That was all there was to it. That was as far as she'd thought. Like she'd pointed out, a hundred-odd grand wouldn't last long- – only half as long as twice that much. So –

But maybe not! Jesus, maybe the pipedream was true! And there was nothing to lose by believing in it, nothing to lose regardless. Tug couldn't be told the truth. God, what he might do – would probably do – if he was told! Tug had to the, and –

Tug was watching him, studying him. Dusty lit a cigarette casually and thumbed the match out the window.

"Well? "he said.

"It ain't well," Tug grunted. "It ain't a goddamned bit well, but I guess I got to take it. Christ, if I'd known it was going to turn out this way, all that planning and sticking my neck out for a lousy fifty grand or so-"

"Fifty?" Dusty pretended surprise. "But she only got my half. Yours is still-"

"Who you kiddin'?" Tug glared at him savagely. "You'd just hand it all over and like it, huh? You wouldn't try to pick yourself up a few bucks – about ten thousand of 'em – some other way? Don't crap me, kid. Don't act stupid any more than you have already. You wouldn't play with me any longer'n it paid you, so I'm paying. I'm splitting with you right down the middle."

"Well," Dusty murmured. "I'll, uh, certainly appreciate-"

"Screw your appreciation. Forget it. Just don't pull anything funny, get me? Because maybe I'd get bumped off, but it wouldn't make you anything. They'd want to know why I was there, see, and they'd turn that place upside down to find out. And…"

And they wouldn't find anything. They might be suspicious, but they'd have no proof.

"All right," Tug concluded. "You better get going. I'll see you at one tomorrow morning just like I gave it to you over the phone."

"Suppose I can't be there right at one? I might get tied up on a call and-"

"Well, right around one then. Say five minutes of until five minutes after. I'll circle the block until I see you on the floor. And make sure you have my money."

Dusty nodded. He pushed open the door of the car and started to get out. Tug's voice, strangely strained and faltering, brought him to a halt.

"I – I always been nice to you, ain't I, kid? Always treated you like a friend, gave you plenty of dough without never makin' you feel cheap to take it?"

"Yes,".Dusty agreed warmly. "You were always swell to me, Tug."

"Maybe it..sounds like: the old craperoo, now. But, well, I couldn't've gone through.with- the first deal. The boys thought I was nuts knockin' myself out to take you off the spot and put Bascom on it. It was risky as he'll, y'know, and they gave me a pretty bad time about it. But I had to do it. I guess, kid – I know you probably won't believe me – but I guess there probably wouldn't have been any deal if you hadn't agreed to come in. I'd've just taken what dough I had and skipped."

Dusty murmured inaudibly, lowering his eyes to conceal their contempt. So this was the way a hard guy acted, this was the great Tug Trowbridge when the chips were down! Scared stiff, pleading. Whining about friendship.

"I… it'll be all right, won't it, kid? You ain't- – there ain't no reason why it wouldn't be all right?"

"How" – Dusty hesitated-"how do you mean?"

"I mean I won't be walkin' into a trap. You wouldn't-"

"I couldn't. You know that yourself."

"Yeah, but I been thinkin', kid. If that dame got away with all the money…" Tug's hands came down on Dusty's shoulders. They gripped fiercely, then gently, humbly. "Just tell me the truth, Dusty. That's all the break \ want. She didn't get it all, did she?"

Dusty shook his head. He said, "Of course not. Why would I give it all to her?"

"Don't be afraid to tell me, kid. If that's what happened, just tell me, for God's sake, an'…"

"Afraid?" said Dusty, and now it was an effort to hide his disdain. "Why would I be afraid of you… Tug?"

NINETEEN

Mr. Rhodes was in the kitchen when he reached home. His thin hair was damp from a recent shower, and his face was freshly shaved. He had done the little that he could to make himself presentable, someone not to be ashamed of, and now bustling about the cupboards and stove, he was demonstrating his usefulness, proving that here indeed, aged and ill or not, was an asset.

Dusty stood in the doorway watching him, grinning to himself. Contemptuously amused, his hatred challenged by what he saw. He had left Tug oddly exhilarated, elated and restive; he had been expecting an ordeal with the gangster and his nerves had been keyed for one. And there had been nothing to unkey them, no outlet for the building mass of nervous energy. Tug had been a virtual pushover, almost laughable there at the last. He was as bad as this old fool, still clutching at, fighting for, life – pleading for what he could no longer demand.

"Bill" – the old man kept up his brisk movements, spoke without turning around-"it was all my fault, this morning. You were tired and you've been under a lot of strain, and – well, anything you said, I know you didn't-"

"I meant it," said Dusty. "I meant every goddamned word of it."

"B-but – no! No, you didn't. Why would you-" A cup slid from Mr. Rhodes' hands, clattered and shattered against the sink.

Dusty laughed, jeered. His excitement was fresh water for the old seeds of hatred.

"Would you like to know a little secret, Dad? Would you like to know how your name got on that petition? Well, I'll tell you. I-"

"I- I-" Mr. Rhodes turned around at last. His eyes swept over Dusty, unseeing, blindly, and he moved dully toward the door. "I – I think I'd better lie down," he said. "I- I-"

"Oh, no you don't!" Dusty snapped. "I've been wanting to tell you for a long time, and now, by God, I'm-"

"I already know," the old man said absently. "Your mother – she and I, I think we both must have known right from the beginning, but we couldn't admit it. Now… now, I think I'd better lie down…"

He entered his bedroom and closed the door.

Later, that day, when he had gone to bed, Dusty heard his father wandering around the house, moving back and forth through the rooms, aimlessly at first, then still aimlessly but with a kind of frantic desperation. He heard him leave the house, and, falling asleep, he did not hear him return. But when he left for, the hotel that night, the old man was back" in his room. Dusty listened at the door for a moment, to the blurred, muffled sounds, that seeped through the panels.

It sounded like he was praying. Or singing. Kind of like he was praying and singing together. And occasionally there was something like a sob… choked, strangling, raiding.

Dusty went on to the hotel.

At twenty minutes of one, he stepped into one of the lobby telephone booths and made a call to the police.

… They took no Chances with Tug. They picked him up in their floodlights from a mezzanine window of the hotel, from a second story window across the street. They shouted to him once. And perhaps he didn't understand the command, perhaps he was too startled to obey it? or perhaps – for he thrust the shotgun through the car window – he was starting to obey it. But the police did not deal in perhapses where Tug Trowbridge was concerned; they were resolving no doubts in his favor.

Five minutes after he drove up to the hotel, he was on his way to the morgue. Within the same five minutes, two detectives were searching the checkroom and two others were escorting Dusty to the police station, and still another two were speeding toward Dusty's house.

They found nothing there, of course; no trace of the loot from the robbery. Only the lifeless body of an old man, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey.

TWENTY

He had met most of the detectives before. They had talked to him at the hospital, visited him so often that they had become friendly, addressing him by his first name or nickname. But there was nothing friendly about them now. Curt and cold, they took turns at the questioning, asking the same questions over and over, making the same accusations over and over. Calling him you and bud and buster or, at best, Rhodes.

He sat on a hard chair under a brilliant light. Their voices lashed out from the shadows, impassive, relentless, untiring.

"Stop stalling…"

"We got you cold, bud…"

"Tell the truth and we'll make it easy on you…"

"Why did Tug want to see you? Come on, come on! you didn't have the loot stashed, why-"

"I told you!"

"Tell us again."

"He – all I know is what he said when he called me. Just before I called you. He said he was broke, and he wanted me to help him and-"

"Sure he was broke. He'd left the dough with you, and you wouldn't give him his cut."

"Why'd he come to you for money? What made him think you'd give him any?"

"Come on, come on!"

"I'm trying to tell you! He'd always been pretty nice to me, a lot of big tips, and I suppose he thought-"

"He was a pal of yours, wasn't he? You were like that. Ain't that right? AIN'T THAT RIGHT?"

"No! I mean he was nice to me, but-"

"Yeah. Cut you in on that robbery, didn't he? Made you his inside man, didn't he? Gave you the loot to stash, didn't he? Come on, why don't you admit it?"

"No! I didn't have anything to do with the robbery!"

"Why'd Tug want to see you then?"

"I told you why! I told you all I-"

"Tell us again…"

The door of the room burst open, and a man rushed in. "We found it, guys! We found the dough! Right where we thought it would be!"

"Swell. Attaboy!" The detectives congratulated him, turned back to Dusty. "Well, there you are, bud. Stalling won't get you anywhere now."

"I'm not stalling! I just don't-"

"You heard what the man: said. They found the dough there at the hotel."

"They couldn't have! I mean-"

"Yeah, we know." Because you didn't stash it there. Tug thought

you did, but you'd sneaked it but."

"I d-didn't!"

"Leave? him alone, you guys. Rhodes an' me understand each other… Now, look, kid (whispering), whyn't you and me make a little deal, huh? You just give me your word you'll take care of me, whatever you think's fair, and I'll make these jerks let you go. We can pick up the loot together, an'… What's the matter? Don't you trust me?"

"I don't know where it is! I didn't have anything to do with it! I--"

"Aaah, come on… Why did Tug want to see you, then?"

"I told you!"

"Tell us again."

… They gave up on him at seven that morning. Around ten 'o'clock, he was taken out of his cell and driven to the courthouse. The two detectives escorting him asked no questions, seemed almost indifferent to him. While he sat down on a bench outside the county attorney's office, they wandered away to the water cooler, stood there chaffing and joking with a couple of deputy sheriffs.

Dusty looked down at the floor dismally, listening to them, half listening. He raised his head, startled, then casually moved down to the end of the bench. The door to the county attorney's office was slightly ajar. He could hear two men talking inside. Arguing. One of them sounded irritable and stubborn; the other – the one who apparently was winning the argument – as placatory and resigned.

"Now, you know I'm right, Jack. We both know that kid is guilty as hell. He had to be, and the fact that the money has been returned – "

"Every nickel of it, by mail, Bob. And there's no clue to the sender. Under the circumstances, and regardless of our personal feelings, we have no case. Our only chance of sticking Rhodes was in tying him up with the money. Now that it's been returned…"

Dusty blinked. The money returned? It must be some kind of trap. This conversation was for his benefit; they meant him to hear it, so that – -So that?

"He had an accomplice! When the accomplice saw Rhodes was in trouble, he-"

"But he wasn't in trouble at the time. The package was postmarked yesterday afternoon."

"He mailed it himself, then. That's ill Tug was turning on the heat, and… and, uh…"

"You see, Bob? You're talking in circles. If Rhodes had had the money, he could have paid off. Tug wouldn't have been turning on the heat, as you put it."

"But – but this just doesn't make sense, Jack; It leaves everything up in the air. Aside from the money, a man was murdered and – "

"You can't separate the one from the other, Bob. And who cares about that clerk, anyway? He was a crook a fugitive from justice."

"Yes, but goddammit, Jack-"

"I know. There are a lot of loose ends. But they don't lead to Rhodes. They don't, and we can't make them."

"Well…"

"The hotel is satisfied. So is the insurance company. As long as they don't want to prosecute, why should we knock ourselves out? We can't win. Ten to one, the thing would never go to trial. He'd get a dismissal before – "

"Yeah. Well (grudgingly), all right. But I'm telling you something, Jack. Maybe we can't stick him on this, but I'm telling you. If that bastard ever pulls anything else – if he even looks like he's going to pull anything else – he's a dead pigeon! I'll hang him, by God, if I have to pull the rope myself!"

"Sure, ha, ha, and I'll help you. I feel the same way."

TWENTY-ONE

He no longer had a job. He did not have to be told that he could not return to the Manton. And he did not care particularly – he felt dead, inside, uncaring about everything. But the fact remained that he was now without income, and practically broke. As for that reward on Tug, well he grimaced at his foolishness in ever expecting to collect that reward. He had started to. mention it to that county attorney, just started to. And the guy had blown his top. He'd yelled for the other guy to have him thrown back in the can, to throw him in and throw the key away. And the other guy had jerked his head at the door, and told him to beat it while he was still able to.

"You're a lucky boy, Rhodes, but •don't lean on it too heavy. The next time we pick you up…"

So Dusty had got out of there fast and, now, a dozen blocks away from the courthouse, he was just slowing down. It was almost noon. The humid heat poured over him stickily. His shirt was sweat-stuck to his backhand his felt that he stank with the stench of the jail.

He walked two more blocks to the railroad station, and bathed in one of the.men's room showers. He got a shave in the station barber shop, and, afterwards, coffee and toast in the grille. The food stuck in his throat. He was hungry, but it seemed tasteless to him.

Leaving the grille, he moved out into the waiting room, stood

uncertainly in its vaulted dimness staring up at a bulletin board. Not

that he was going anywhere, of course. How could he? Where would he want to go? He simply stood there, staring blindly, looking not

out but inward, puzzled and pitying himself much.

Bascom? Well, Bascom's life was forfeit anyway, wasn't it? Having nothing to lose he could lose nothing. And his father, Mr. Rhodes- – well, he too had been a dead man already. Death had simply put an end to futility. And as for Tug Trowbridge, a mass murderer, not worth a second thought, deserving exactly what he had received. And Marcia Hillis…

Why? Why, in the name of God, had she done it? What had she hoped to gain by doing it?… He had a feeling that long, long ago, he might have understood. But, then, naturally, back there in time, there would have been nothing to understand. The situation would not have been posed then; he would have been incapable of bringing it about. Back there, so long ago, yet such a short time actually, he had been just another college student, and if he had been allowed to, go on, if he had been given the little he was entitled to without being impelled to grab for it…

He left the railroad station, and walked quickly back toward the business section. He couldn't think about Marcia Hillis – face the riddle and reproach which she represented. He couldn't stop thinking about her.

Why? Why had he been singled out for this black failure, this bottomless disappointment? Why not, for example, some of those loud-mouthed clowns, the office holders and professional patriots, who had advanced themselves by ruining the old man? Mr. Rhodes had said that time, that history, would take care of them. But they had not been taken care of yet; they were still riding high. And he, he who was basically guilty of no more than compromise; he who, instead of fighting circumstance, had tried only to profit from it-

He was no better off than the old man. Alive, yes, but robbed of any reason to live.

… He got his car off the parking lot, drove it to a nearby sales lot. It was a good car; the dealer readily admitted its quality. But it seemed that there was just no demand for this particular make and model any more. The public, for mysterious and unreasonable reasons, just didn't want 'em at any price. Of course, if Dusty wanted to get rid of it bad enough… Dusty did. He accepted five hundred dollars without argument, and caught a bus homeward.

The money would just about take care of the old man's funeral, he supposed. Maybe he could get out of paying for it, but it would be troublesome, no doubt, and he'd had enough trouble for a while. Better get the old bas – better get him buried and forget him. Get it over with the fastest and least troublesome way possible. Probably it would have looked better if he'd gone by the funeral parlor this morning – but to hell with how it looked. He didn't have to care about looks. He was through pretending, and if people wanted to make something out of it, let 'em try.

He got off the bus, started past the little lunchroom-bar which his father had used to patronize. And inside he heard the creaking of stools, sensed the unfriendly eyes staring out at him. It was the same way when he passed the neighborhood grocery store, the barber shop and filling station, the open windows and doors of the dingy houses. Bums, loafers, white trash, scum floating from one day's tide to the next. And they were giving him the cold eye!

It couldn't be because he'd been in jail, a prime suspect in a quarter-million-dollar robbery. Jail was no novelty for the habitues of this neighborhood. So it must be because of the old man – they must think that"… It was unreasonable. They hadn't the slightest grounds for thinking that he had brought about Mr. Rhodes' death. But still, obviously, they, did think that. Rather they knew that he had.

He began to walk faster. He was a little breathless when he reached the' house, and he almost ran up the steps and into the living room. Relieved, and suddenly ashamed of the feeling, he sank down into a chair. He mopped his face, leaned back wearily with his eyes closed. The room seemed to echo with the beating of his heart, faster and louder, louder and faster, running a deafening race with his breathing, and suddenly frightened, he opened his eyes again.

Now he was looking into his father's room – in at the bed. And something was… something wasn't, of course, it was only a shadow, but –

He stood up. He backed out of the room, turned toward his own bedroom. And through the half-opened door, stretched out on the bed, he saw another shadow. He closed his eyes, reopened them. It was still there. A shadow, only, only an illusion born of the dimness and his imagination. But he backed away again. He entered the kitchen, and the shades were drawn high there and the sunlight streamed in. But somehow it was worse than the other rooms. He could see too clearly here, and the seeing was worse than the imagining… The cupboards, recently rearranged so neatly. The sink, still half filled with dishwater. The shattered cup on the floor…

But mere was no place else to go. He was will-less to go elsewhere. He stood self-deserted, abandoned to a wilderness of the unbearable. For the wilderness would be everywhere now. It would always be everywhere.

Only she could have taken him out of it, filled the yawning emptiness, imparted meaning, and aroused desire. She could have done that, but only she. Pursuing her, he had climbed deeper and deeper into the pit, only to find nothing at the bottom but… but the bottom.

Blindly, he stumbled into a chair. He dropped down at the oilcloth-covered table and buried his face in his arms.

He thought, "Jesus, I can't stand it!"

He sobbed out loud, "C-Christ, I can't stand it! I can't stand-"

The floor creaked behind him. He stiffened, choking back a sob, too terrified to look around.

"I know…" said Marcia Hillis, "but I'll help you, darling. We'll stand it together."

TWENTY-TWO

They were on the lounge. His arms were around her and his face was buried against her breast, and that, to have her again, was all that mattered. He clung to her, wanting nothing more, only half-aware of what she said.

"It's all right," he murmured, over and over. "It doesn't matter."

"You do understand, Dusty? It wouldn't have been any good the other way. To start off like that, with stolen money… I know what it does to people. I know what it did to my mother, and my father-"

"It's all right," he said. "I don't care about the money."

"I wanted to ask you to return it. I was so afraid, for you, darling, so terribly afraid of what Tug might do. But I hadn't had time to get to know you, and I had to act quickly. And – and-"

"And you weren't quite sure, were you?" he said. "You felt that I might have killed Bas – that I'd known your dad was going to be killed."

"Well," she nodded reluctantly. "I didn't want to think that, but…"

"I don't blame you," he said. "You'd just about have to think that. I was the inside man on the robbery, and how could I be unless I knew that – knew everything that was going to happen? But Tug didn't tell me, Marcia. He didn't have to explain anything to me. He threatened to kill you if I didn't do what I was told. That was all I knew, all I could think about. I was afraid to ask any questions, and-"

"I know, dear." She brushed her lips against his forehead. "It was too late to change plans then, but I knew – I was sure – that last night before I came to the hotel."

"Oh? How do you-"

"Your father. It was the first time we'd been alone together, you know, and" all he could talk about was you. The sacrifices you'd made, everything you'd given up for. him. How patient you were with him, how kind and generous. So… so I knew, Dusty. I was sure. If you were like that, and I •knew' that you were, then you couldn't have…"

"I- I didn't do much for him," Dusty said. "No more than I should have."

He was smiling to himself, exulting. Not, of course, because of his deception of her – he was sorry that that was necessary – but because of the broad triumph, the justification, which the deception represented. He bad been right, after all. The path into the pit had led not to emptiness but fullness.

"… heart failure, Dusty? The story in the morning paper was pretty vague."

"Heart failure induced by alcohol. That's what the police said. You see, the doctor didn't want him to know how sick he was, and as long as he'd never gone to any excesses, why…" He explained, his voice muffled against the material of her dress. "It was my fault partly, I guess' I knew he was feeling very depressed, and if I'd just bought him what he needed instead of giving him the money-"

"Don't! You mustn't feel that way, darling."."Well… If I'd had any idea at all that-"

"Of course. You don't need to tell me that." She kissed him again, murmured on soothingly, reassuringly… When you loved someone you were sometimes too good for them for their own good. She knew how that was, how it had been with her father. "He thought a great deal of you, too, Dusty. He thought you were, well, not weak exactly, but a little too easy-going. But-"

Dusty nodded, humbly. He thought, I'll have to get her out of this neighborhood fast. Get her away before any of these bastards talked to her.

His arms tightened around her fiercely. Even the thought of losing her was terrifying. God, she couldn't find out the truth. He'd rather the than have her find out. He would the.

He held her, tighter and tighter, and still he could not get close enough to escape the fear. There was only one escape from that – there had never been but one escape from The Fear – and… And she laughed, tenderly, and leaned back. She lay back on the lounge, pulling him with her.

"Yes, Dusty! Yes, darling!" she said, and her voice was eager. And, then, right at that long-waited-for moment, she suddenly frowned and pushed him away. "Dusty! Someone's stopped out in front."

"What? To hell with 'em," he said. "Just-"

"Don't! We can't!" She sat up firmly. "Who is it, Dusty?"

He released her reluctantly. He turned and looked through the curtains, cursed under his breath. It was a small black sedan. He didn't recognize the man behind the wheel, although he had a vaguely familiar look about him. But the man getting out of the car was Kossmeyer.

"My dad's lawyer." he grunted. "Now what the hell does he want?"

"Well…" She looked at him, a trace of a frown on her face. "He might want any number of things. After all, with your father dead…"

"Yeah. But, right now. Why the hell does he have to come now?"

The frown disappeared. Her eyes softened again with tenderness. And promise. And she kissed him swiftly. "I know, but it'll be all the better, darling. You'll see. I'll be waiting for you, waiting and ready, Dusty, and…"

She was gone, back into his bedroom. Frowning, he arose and went to the front door.

"Well," he said, curdy. "What do you want?"

"Maybe," said Kossmeyer, "I want to give you ten thousand dollars. Or maybe twenty thousand. Or maybe…"

He opened the screen and came in. He sat down and crossed his short legs, cocked an eyebrow expectantly at Dusty. Hesitantly, his pulse quickening, Dusty also sat down.

She hadn't closed the bedroom door. If Kossmeyer got nasty, she'd – But he could fix that, explain it. Kossmeyer had tried to take advantage of the old man. He'd put a stop to it, and the attorney had gotten sore at him.

"What do you mean?" he said. "Why should you want to give me ten or twenty thousand dollars?"

"We-el," Kossmeyer shrugged, "of course, I'm using the verb advisedly. I represent your dad's insurers, Rhodes. They're a client of mine.."

"His insurers?" Dusty stared at him blankly. "What-?"

"Yeah, you know, the one he carried a policy with. Ten thousand dollars, double indemnity. We got kind of a little problem on it" – Kossmeyer raised his voice? as Dusty started to interrupt. "Kind of a little problem. He died of heart failure, y'see, a natural cause. But the condition was,. brought on by, well, let's call it poison; that's what it actually was so far as he was concerned. In other words, the death could be construed as being an unnatural one, in which case, of course, the double indemnity clause would become applicable. Now-"

"Wait! Wait a minute!" Dusty raised his own voice. "You've made a mistake. Dad didn't have any insurance."

"He didn't, huh? You didn't know about it, huh?"

"Of course, he didn't!"

"Well," said Kossmeyer. "Well, let's see now." And he took a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket and smoothed them out against his knee. "According to our records, the records of the Great Southern and Midwest States Insurance Company, your father took out this policy approximately four years ago. You were entering college about that time, and I gather that he wanted to make sure of your education. Also, of course, he-"

Dusty laughed hoarsely, angrily. He said, "I'm telling you you're wrong. I remember when he took that policy out. My mother was the beneficiary, not me. Anyway-"

"Your mother was the beneficiary," Kossmeyer nodded equably. "Naturally, she'd give you such help as you needed, and she was able to give. And, naturally, in the event that her death preceded your father's, the insurance would simply become part of his estate. It wasn't necessary to name you the alternate beneficiary. When he died you'd inherit that estate as, of course," – the attorney looked up – "you were fully aware."

He waited. After a long moment, he said, "You don't seem very happy, Rhodes. You're the sole heir to a nice juicy wad, and you don't seem at all happy about it. It's kind of surprising, y'know. Certain recent events considered, I'd have said you were pretty hungry for dough."

"W-what – what do you mean by that?"

"Mean? Well, just that there's some other people around town that aren't very happy either. The hotel and their bonding company, and the county attorney. They kind of feel that they had their noses rubbed in it, know what I mean? They had to take it, but it left 'em pretty unhappy… But getting back to this insurance policy-"

"He didn't have one! It had lapsed! For God's sake, wouldn't I know if – if-" Dusty caught himself.

Kossmeyer grinned, and nodded again. "That's right, Rhodes. You'd know, all right. Your dad was pretty well along in years when he took that policy out, and he wasn't in the best of health. He had to pay a premium of almost one hundred and fifty dollars a month. And when he didn't have it to pay, when he had to depend on you…"

"I didn't pay it! I-"

"No. You gave him the money, and let him pay it. It had to be that way. The only money he had was what you gave him "

"But I tell you – Oh," Dusty said. "So… so that's what he did with it. I thought he was giving the money to you."

"Me? Why would I have dunned him, when I knew he didn't have it? The only payment I ever received was that one small retainer you gave me back at the start of the case."

"But that day I talked to you, you said-"

"I said that our expenses had been high. I didn't need to tell you that they hadn't been paid… What are you trying to hand me, Rhodes?" Kossmeyer grimaced cynically. "You knew where that money was going. Suppose he could have – from what I hear, I know damnned well you wouldn't have let him – but suppose he could have coaxed the dough out of you a few bucks at a time. Why would he want to anyway? What would be his purpose? The insurance was for your benefit. Why wouldn't he have told you about it?"

"I-I don't-"

But he did know, of course. The old man had been afraid to tell him. He hadn't wanted to admit his fear; probably, he had never admitted it consciously. But still the fear and distrust had been there: the knowledge that someone he loved – someone he had to love and be loved by – might be tempted to kill him.

And now?

Dusty brought a thoughtful frown to his face. Over his inner turmoil, he spread a shell of composure. Kossmeyer couldn't prove anything. He had said nothing yet that could not be explained on the grounds of personal malice. The thing now was to stop arguing with him, close the door on his insinuations. Otherwise…

He closed his mind oh the alternative. She had heard nothing thus far that was even mildly damning. She would hear still less than that from now on.

"I wonder," he said, thoughtfully. "I wonder why Dad did that. I suppose… well,,he probably thought I wouldn't let him make the sacrifices he had to if I'd known about it. He-"

"Sacrifices? With your dough?" "It was as much his as mine. Anything I had was his, and-"

"It was, huh?" Kossmeyer's eyes glinted savagely. "Horseshit! I've talked to your neighbors around here! I've talked to the people you trade with. I've talked to your doctor. And I've got the same damned story out of every mother's son! That poor devil didn't have two dimes to rattle together. You never did a thing for him that you could get out of doing. It was a disgrace, by God, and the pitiful part about it was the way he stuck up for you – told everyone what a swell guy you were when a blind man could see that-"

"That's a lie! I don't care what anyone says, I-" Dusty paused, forced down the rising tide of panic. "I know what people probably say, he went on, "but it just isn't true. I gave him plenty of money, and I didn't pin him down as to how he spent it. I didn't know he was using it for those insurance premiums. I – why, my God, don't you see how the two things fit together? The one explains the other.

The fact that he – that he went around like he did proves that he was using the money I gave him to pay for the insurance."

"Yeah? It don't prove anything like that to me!"

"But don't you see? If he'd used the money for himself, like I meant him to, he- he-"

He paused helplessly. He couldn't express the thought, present it as the pure truth that it was. But Kossmeyer must see it. Kossmeyer was an expert at separating truth from lies, and he must know that – that – Dusty gasped, his eyes widening in sudden and terrified understanding. He had chosen to play the game on the strict grounds of proof: to disregard the rules of right and wrong, truth and falsehood. Now Kossmeyer was playing me same way. Kossmeyer knew that he was guilty, of the old man's death and more. He knew, and as long as there were no rules to the game…

Kossmeyer. Just one little man, one small voice that could not be cried down. That was all, but in the world of bend-and-be-silent his littleness became large; he stood a Colossus, the little man, and the small voice was as thunder. Kossmeyer. He was retribution. He was justice, losing every game but the last one.

He said: "At approximately nine o'clock last night, Rhodes, your father bought a fifth gallon of whiskey. You encouraged him to buy it, knowing full well that it would kill him…"

"No! I-"

"Where did he get the money then? He'd never had any such sum before. Never more than just enough for the barest necessities of life!"

"He did! He had plenty! I told you-"

"… just barely enough. He returned to the house around nine-twenty – Yeah, I can prove all this. I been checking on you since I got the news flash early this morning and I can prove every goddamned bit of it!"

"But they're lying! They don't like me around here! They think that I-"

"You're telling me what they think?" Kossmeyer leaned forward grimly. "Save it. I heard enough already to make me sick… You left the house at approximately ten-fifteen. Aside from what anyone might say, you had to leave at about that time to get to the hotel and into your uniform by eleven. Between eleven and eleven-thirty, according to a sworn statement of the medical examiner, your farther died. In other words, he was in very bad shape, near the point of death, when you left the house. Now" – the attorney suddenly smacked a fist in his palm-"now, Rhodes. Perhaps you can tell me this. You say you didn't want your father to the, and yet he was dying before you left for work. He might easily have been saved by prompt medical attention. So I ask you, Rhodes" – smack – "I demand to know, Rhodes" – smack, smack-"why you did not intervene to save his life? Why, instead, you walked callously out of the house and left this helpless old man to the!"

Dusty licked his lips. He stared at Kossmeyer, staring beyond this moment and into the one that must certainly succeed it… The courtroom. The coldly knowing eyes. The thundered question, Why, Rhodes? Why didn't you, Rhodes? And the smacking fist, the hammering fist, building a gallows.

She was hearing all this. Unless he could say something, think of something, she would have to believe it…

"I- – I didn't know," he said. "I didn't see him before I left."

"Oh." Kossmeyer appeared crestfallen. "Well! He was in his room, huh? He had his door closed and you didn't want to disturb him?"

"Y-yes! Yes, that's right."

"Uh-hah. I see! But if the door was closed, how did you know he was in the room?"

"Well, I- I could kind of hear him, you know." "Yes? how do you mean you could hear him?"

"I – I mean, I-"

Kossmeyer was grinning again. Suddenly, briefly, Dusty's terror became cold fury.

"To hell with you! I haven't done anything! I don't have to answer your questions!"

"Sure, you don't," Kossmeyer said. "We can let the county attorney ask 'em. That's one of his boys I got out in the car."

"Well I…" The county attorney. Kossmeyer and the county attorney. They'd had to take lies for truth, and now they would make. truth into lies. He'd set the rules for the game, and now… "I spoke to him," he said. "I called goodnight to him!"

"Oh?" Kossmeyer was puzzled, he was astonished. "Then you weren't afraid of disturbing him? You knew he was awake?"

"Yes! I mean, well, I wasn't sure. I just called to him softly, and- and-"

"And he answered you? He said good night, son, or something of the kind? I'd say he must have. Otherwise, since you say you could hear him, he was audible to you through a closed door – otherwise, you'd have been alarmed. You'd have looked in on him."

"Well…?"

Dusty started to shake his head. He changed the shake to a nod. "Y-yes. He answered me."

"What did he say?"

"W-what…? Well, just goodnight. Goodnight, Bill."

"Now, I wonder," said Kossmeyer. "Now, I wonder if you couldn't be mistaken. The man was right at death's doorstep. He was in the throes of alcoholic coma. And yet, when you addressed him, he replied to you. He responded in such a way that-"

"All right, then! I guess – maybe I didn't tell him good night! I didn't speak to him! I just heard him in mere, I knew he was all right and-"

"But he wasn't all right!"

"Well I – I mean, it sounded like he was. I could hear him snoring-"

"You could?" Kossmeyer's astonishment was grotesque. "I know any number of doctors who will be very surprised at that statement. They'll tell you that anything resembling somnolence would have been impossible at the time in question. His physical suffering would have been too great, his mental state too chaotic…"

Was it true or not? Must it have been that way, and no other? He didn't know. Only Kossmeyer knew, and the game had no rules.

"I'll tell you what you heard, Rhodes. I'll show you…"

"N-No! Don't!"

"Yes," said Kossmeyer. "He'd been poisoned. He was in agony, out of his mind, and-"

His face sagged. Its lines became aged and gentle, and then they tightened, and the folds of skin swelled outward. He swallowed. His neck veins stood out like ropes. A thin stream of spittle streaked down from the twisted mourn, and he gasped and mere was a rattle in his throat – a sound overlaid by other sounds. Mumbled, muttered, crazily jumbled yet hideously meaningful. And the gasping rattle, the rattle and the choking. The choking…

Dusty closed his eyes. The sounds stopped, and he opened them again. Kossmeyer was standing. He jerked his head toward the door.

"You made one mistake, Rhodes! One big mistake. You didn't figure on having to tangle with me."

"But I didn't! I m-mean, you know I didn't kill him! I didn't know about the whiskey or the insurance policy-"

"You'll have a chance to prove it. Come on!"

"Come-? W-where?"

Not that it mattered now. For he had heard it at last, the terrible sound he had been waiting to hear. The closing of a door. Softly but firmly. Finally.

Shutting him out of her life forever.

"Where?" said Kossmeyer. "did you say where, Rhodes?"

Kossmeyer's legs were very close together; they seemed fastened together. And his hands were behind him, as though pinioned. His head sagged against his chest, drooped on a neck that was suddenly, apparently, an elongated rail of flesh. And gently, as a light breeze rustled the curtains, his body swayed.

He was hanging.

He was hanging.

In the quiet, "summer-bright room, Dusty saw himself hanged.