The Chinese Doll

Chapter 14

The train rattled on, whistling mournfully for every crossroad. Little patches of frost clung to the edges of the dirty windows; the day was beginning to grow gray with the approach of evening.

I studied Eleanor for a long time.

There wasn’t anything readable in her face. Her eyes, other than for their calculating hardness, were just blank pieces of glistening glass set in the dark skin. She was bareheaded and wore her jet-black hair pulled tight at the nape of her neck. Sitting there so distant and aloof she reminded me very much of Leonore.

But Leonore had been warm and capable of pleasure, almost friendly to me. Leonore had the stuff to inspire dreams. In men other than me, for a fact.

At the moment and in the watchful presence of the greasy man, at least, Eleanor was no friend of mine. That observation brought a small measure of comfort. Apparently no one knew of my recent visit with her and accordingly she was under no suspicion, was still safe.

I continued to hunt for something in her eyes.

The greasy gunman turned to me.

“Y’see that brake cord up there?” He pointed to the wooden handle on the end of a rope, protruding from the forward wall of the coach.

I glanced up at it and said yeah.

Then he said, “Y’see that car out there?” And pointed to a large black sedan on the highway, pacing the train.

I turned to take it in. There wasn’t much more of a description I could give it, other than it was a large black sedan. It looked like a Cadillac and it was undoubtedly a damned fast car. There was one man in it, driving. I repeated my yeah.

Greasy continued, “Y’know we can stop this can and get th’hell outta here in a hurry?”

“Yeah.”

“And y’know I don’t givva damn whether I bump ya or not?”

“I guess so.” I shot a side look at Eleanor. She was watching the black sedan without expression.

“Okay fella. You’re wise. Na’don’t try anything funny. Be a good egg and we’ll get off at the next stop. Be stupid and we get off now — but you don’t. Get me?”

“I get you all right.”

“Y’got a ciggie, fella?”

I had to grin at the abrupt change. He was one of those trustworthy badmen who followed orders to the letter — trustworthy from his employer’s standpoint — and his imagination didn’t go much farther than the brisk, cold words that made up the orders.

I gave him a cigarette and offered the pack to Eleanor. She declined with a short jerk of her head. Greasy lit his and then held the match for me. He glanced around, noticed the little sign at the front of the car reading:

and dropped the match in his trouser cuff. We puffed in silence. I folded the newspaper and laid it in my lap. The minutes dragged by and still the sedan paced us, remaining about level with our coach.

After several miles and twice that many minutes had passed a small five- or six-year-old girl began running up and down the aisle, clutching a crinkled paper cup. About the third time she went by I noticed that Eleanor followed her with her eyes. There was almost an expression in the eyes.

Uncountable trips later the little girl suddenly stopped at our seats. She inspected the three of us and finally smiled up into Eleanor’s face, offering a timid, “Hello.”

Eleanor unbent to return the smile. “Hello.”

The child asked, “Are you going home with us?”

Eleanor replied that we were not; that we were getting off pretty soon now. On the “we” business the kid resumed her inspection of us, Greasy and me. She decided that I was all right and gave me the flashing smile. My seat companion got no more than a careful, disapproving scrutiny — not that it bothered him any. He continued to smoke, flicking off the hot ashes in the palm of his hand.

The kid noticed that and stared at him once more, round-eyed. Then she turned to Eleanor.

“I’m going home to see my daddy. Is he your daddy?”

Eleanor said no, we were just friends. I thought she stressed the “friends” ever so slightly for my benefit, but I couldn’t be sure.

The girl asked, “Why don’t he put the ashes down?”

“He doesn’t want to get the floor dirty.”

“Well what’s he going to do with them then?”

Eleanor suggested, “Show her, Paul.”

Paul obligingly tipped his hand and emptied the ashes into the cuff of his trousers. The little girl studied the cuff and abruptly sped off down the aisle. I thought that would be the last of her, but she was back in less than a minute with another paper cup.

“He can put them in this.” She handed the cup to Eleanor who passed it to greasy Paul. Paul dumped the ashes out of his cuff into the cup, fingered around for the match a moment, and threw that in too. I wondered if greasy Paul was always so thoughtful of the floor. Any floor. If he was, he certainly wasn’t the sloppy gent who had messed up Eleanor’s bathroom.

Eleanor thanked the child and she sped off down the aisle. She passed back and forth several times after that but she didn’t stop. Eleanor watched her, smiling and amused.

The train began to slow its speed. The conductor opened the door behind us to shout the meaningless name of a town ending in “—field. This way out.”

I stamped cut my cigarette and glanced at Eleanor. She was inspecting her face in a small mirror.

Paul nudged my liver with the pocketed gun.

“This is th’place, fella.”

He stood up and stepped out into the aisle. Eleanor followed him. The newspaper fell from my lap as I stood up and I kicked it under the seat. The man and woman stood about two feet apart, waiting. I was supposed to get in between them.

Paul ordered, “Follow her.”

I did. He brought up a close rear, crowding me forward against Eleanor.

The engine began its reliable jerking routine, preparing to stop. The first jerk caught Eleanor off guard and threw her back against me. She fell against my chest and I put up my hands to steady her. Her body seemed tense and she quivered to my touch. She grabbed the seat handles on either side and regained her balance. I followed to the end of the car.

The child and her mother were occupying an end seat. As we went past the kid looked at Eleanor and said goodbye. Eleanor returned it. On an impulse, I did too. The kid waved. We went through the door and down the metal steps. The cold wind smacked me in the face.

According to the dingy, painted sign over the small station this whistle-stop was Pleasantfield. East of the Mississippi people live in pleasant-sounding places. West of the river however they are more honest.

The sedan had pulled up behind the station. If it were not for the snow and the cold there would have been a handful of Pleasantfield loafers on hand to watch the train go by. And so see me get in the sedan. I wondered if the little girl was watching us through the train window.

I also wondered if it would be a hole in the ice for me. I was no skater, either. At least I would find out how it had been done — the hole in the ice business I mean. Was it a tap on the side of the head, a dazed moment while the skates were fastened on, and the plunge into the water? It would be a light tap — I had to stay alive to swallow water. For a few minutes.

The Chinese girl settled herself in the front seat beside the driver and threw back her coat. It was warm in the car. Paul put himself in the rear seat with me, sitting back in one corner, half-turned, facing me. The gun was out of his pocket. It was a blue Colt automatic. He handled it in a curious way: he let it lie in the flat of his hand and he held his hand sideways, palm and gun up. I saw that his index finger was missing, he used his long finger on the trigger.

The moment the sedan pulled away from the station I sensed a change in attitudes. No one said anything; no one had to. It was in all our thoughts. We no longer were the traveling companions we had been for the benefit of the train passengers. There was no one else around to see, no need to keep up a pretense. I was definitely and openly on the short end of the stick.

The man behind the wheel drove back to the highway and turned west. We rapidly overtook the train and in minutes it was far behind. The driver pulled a wrinkled pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and gave them to Eleanor with an unintelligible grunt. She put three between her lips and lit them, after which she placed one in the driver’s mouth, handed one to Paul and kept the last for herself. Then she put the pack in the coat pocket. I gazed out the window and watched the snow banks zip by.

We drove perhaps ten to twelve miles without a word being said. Abruptly the driver glanced at Eleanor and grunted, “Now.”

She held out her hand to Greasy and he gave her the Colt automatic. She handled it the right way, with a bead on the bridge of my nose. The eyes behind the gun were cold and hard once more. I sat without moving.

Paul said to me, “C’mere,” and yanked a long white scarf from a side pocket of the car. He wrapped the scarf tightly around my head and face, covering my eyes and nose. When he finished I had to breathe through my mouth if I wanted to breathe at all. And I did. It wasn’t easy.

The driver grunted a question. Paul struck a match. I felt myself growing panicky and gulped in a great mouthful of air. The heat of the match was near my lips. There was a moment’s silence.

Then Paul answered, “Okay.”

The sedan whirled sharply and sped down a gravel road, the tires throwing up tiny rocks against the underside of the car. I had fallen over against the greasy gunman and he pushed me upright.

The road curved several times in long easy glides; at other times the driver would make sharp turns around the square corners common to country crossroads. He was robbing me of my sense of direction and doing a good job of it. The pace was kept up for the better part of ten or fifteen minutes and then the sedan straightened out and leaped ahead. After that there was only the natural, slow curves of the roads.

Someone in the front seat, and I guessed it was Eleanor, turned on the car radio. It was set at a Croyden station which came in strong. She listened to some dance music interspersed with inane commercials until the end of the fifteen minute program and then just played around over the dial to see what could be found. Her choice finally settled on some soft chamber music out of Chicago.

The car dipped down a shallow incline and the radio completely blanked out for a few seconds. It came in again as we sped up the other side of the incline.

I puzzled over that.

Suddenly I remembered the obvious answer. We had passed under a solid bridge. There is a huge, cement railroad bridge just outside Boone that knocks out automobile radios like that. A two-lane highway dips underneath while a couple of railroads pass overhead. Radio waves don’t follow the cars under the bridge.

The one we had just passed under was not the one on the outskirts of Boone. I didn’t know where it was but it could be found again in a hurry, if need be, by simply following the railroad lines between Boone and Croyden. With Pleasantfield not too far in the background.

It was funny to think of their elaborate safety precautions being tossed to the winds by a little quirk like that.

The car slowed to a crawl, turned sharply to the left, and the gravel road was behind us. Outside a barking dog bounded alongside the sedan. In short minutes we stopped.

Paul took my arm, “C’mon.”

I stumbled out into the snow; the dog sniffed at my feet. Eleanor took my other arm to guide me along a brick wall, digging strong fingers into my wrist that might have been a message of some kind. The dog stayed close to my heels.

Paul instructed, “Four steps up.”

We went up. A door opened, let us through, and closed again behind us. A spring lock snapped.

Eleanor said, “Pull the blinds.”

Somebody answered, “Aw, the shutters are closed.”

“Pull the blinds!” she snapped.

They were pulled, three of them. The white scarf was unwound from around my head and the first thing I did was to suck in great gobs of air — through my nose. It was like coming out from under a blanket.

I was in a room. That’s all, an ordinary room with old wallpaper. There was an enameled-top table, plain chairs, an old fashioned cook stove such as advertised in mail-order catalogues, a tall cabinet, and a white pail of water.

Eleanor and three men stood around me: Paul, the driver, and a stranger. The stranger examined me.

“He don’t look so tough,” was his opinion.

Eleanor told him, “You go back with the car.”

The guy squinted at her in disbelief. The farmhouse kitchen was quiet; we were all waiting to see if the man would do as Eleanor ordered. Outside the locked door I heard the dog sniffing at the crack.

The man stared at me and turned to Eleanor.

“No kiddin’? Don’t I get to stay and—?”

Negative waggle from Eleanor. “You go back.”

That disappointed him no end. I could read easily enough what was on his mind. He wanted to stay and play with me. He stood there a moment, not in hesitation but in open frustration, and then walked into the next room. When he returned he was dressed for outdoors. Without anything more, he and the driver walked out to the car, clicking the lock behind them. We listened to the big car fade away in the distance, accompanied by the excited barking of the dog. Afterwards the dog came back.

Paul asked, “D’ya hear that dog?”

I said my usual yeah.

He showed me the Colt. “D’ya see this?”

Again yeah.

“Stay wise, fella. Y’been okay so far.”

I got a drink of water from the pail and sat down to prop my feet on the rungs of another chair. I let my overcoat fall over the back of the chair, and kept my hat on.

Eleanor went into the other room, removed her coat, and came back to hold the gun while Paul stepped outside. He returned with an armload of wood. The woodbox was behind the stove. He tossed his clothes into the next room and looked at Eleanor.

“I’m hungry.”

She nodded and moved to the cabinet. There were dishes as well as groceries in it. I set the table while she fixed supper. Paul watched me in open amazement. I stole a glance at Eleanor. She was grinning.

She made good griddle cakes, fried bacon and eggs, and filled an oversized coffee pot nearly full. I discovered a quart jar of home-canned peaches in the bottom of the cabinet and suggested we have them for dessert. Eleanor was a swell cook.

At first they decided that one of them should watch me while the other ate — Paul eating first, of course. I laughed at them and assured them it was a damn fool idea; I was hungry too and intended to eat. Just eat. I sat down and started in on the cakes. They watched me in hesitation for a few minutes and gave up. Paul kept the gun by his plate. He ate as though my touching the dishes had poisoned them.

For a long time after supper nothing happened. They seemed to be waiting for something or somebody.

I helped Eleanor with the dishes while the greasy gunman sat across the kitchen and sneered. I think it embarrassed him to see me doing that. He was beginning to have vague ideas as to what constituted courtesy, or just plain helpfulness, and didn’t quite know what to do about it.

Later on the three of us played poker with kitchen matches because Eleanor had no money with her. At first it had been a two-handed game but the natural gambler in Paul could stand only so much temptation, and he joined in.

“Y’seem to be taking this easy,” he commented.

“Why not?” I shrugged. “I can’t help it.”

“Y’coulda kept your nose clean.”

Eleanor flashed him a warning glance.

He couldn’t resist a parting lick, “The chair yu’sittin’ on ain’t so damned cold!”

Eleanor frowned openly. Paul subsided with a grimace that said he knew better. We played poker.

About nine o’clock I wanted to go outside and put on my coat. Paul followed me without his. The dog sat on the porch and glared at me. I said, Hi, pooch, and pooch growled.

The countryside was beautiful at night with untracked snow stretching across the fields, reflecting the moon. To me it was just another farm. A row of gently moving evergreens framed what must have been the north side of the house. Not too far off was a red barn looking black under the moonlight, a corncrib, and a tool shed. There were no cattle and but for us, the place seemed deserted.

“C’mon,” Paul insisted. “I’m gettin’ cold.”

We went back up the brick walk. As we climbed the steps a telephone jangled inside. Paul shoved me through the door in his eagerness to get inside. Eleanor was out of sight.

She came back into the kitchen and looked at us strangely.

“Well?” Paul demanded.

Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t quite understand.”

“C’mon, give! Do we or don’t we?”

“No, Paul. The boss said no.”

“No?” He was incredulous. “What th’hell do we do?”

Eleanor indicated me, “Just once over lightly.”

The boss had said no. The meaning was clear.

Paul was still behind me. His knotted fist caught me across the side of my head. I went to my knees under the staggering blow, a thick darkness struggling to erase my eyesight. I hadn’t expected him to move so quick or to strike from behind. He did both. The words were hardly out of her mouth. I tried to spin away from him, using my knees as pivots. He waited until I was broadside to him, and a blunt, powerful kick in the ribs knocked me to the linoleum floor.

I rolled to the wall away from the stove and tried to claw my way upright. His next blow came in the back of the legs and knocked me down again. He was close. I went over backwards from my half-standing position, my head knocking him in the stomach he was so close. He jumped back as I fell, one hand clutched to his stomach.

Eleanor had reached for the kitchen table and was pulling it across the room, out of the way. She held the gun. My bosom buddy, Eleanor. For me she would gladly hold my coat.

I tried to get out of my overcoat and stopped in midthought. It would be added protection from the rib blows. They could stand only so much. Paul was coming in again, swinging his foot.

I reached up with both hands, caught it and twisted it savagely. He went to the floor, howling and cursing me as he fell. His body was heavy and solid and the old house shook when he hit. I held on to the foot and tried to twist it the other way when his fall straightened it out again. Too late I remembered he had a second foot. It caught me full in the face, the hard heel smashing against my mouth.

Outside the dog was howling madly.

Paul wriggled free and tried to get to his feet. I braced myself on my hands, found blood on the floor beneath them, and as he stood upright, threw myself at his legs. He went over backwards.

Paul’s head struck the kitchen wall. His clubbed fists were swinging in long arcs, trying to reach me. I fell on top of him and began pounding his face.

Eleanor let me get in two licks. Exactly two.

I had forgotten Eleanor, forgotten that she held a gun. Until its handle whacked me on the back of my head, just above the hairline. There was blood in my mouth, blood and shirt buttons. I couldn’t account for the buttons.

And then there was nothing.

I’ll write again, tomorrow, Louise. Now I’m supposed to go to sleep.