Get a Load of This (20 page)

     Hienie half believed him. His mind began to work from another angle. “A mighty slick yarn. Listen, Joe, people don't just go crazy. What's it all about?”
     Joe shook his head. “Gee! I can't tell you that. It'd cost me my job.”
     Hienie put some more weight on his gun arm. “You can either spill it or get out an' walk. Suit yourself. If it sounds reasonable I'll take off the heat and you can forget about this; but if you ain't comin' clean, I'll take a chance an' let the dame go—suit yourself.”
     Joe groaned. “Don't do that, I tell you she's dangerous!”
     “So is Sally Rand, so is Mae West, so what?” Hienie snarled. “Suit yourself, but you're goin' to walk if you don't come clean.”
     Joe blotted his face with his sleeve. “You gotta keep your mouth shut,” he said; “old man Drutten'll go crazy himself if this gets out.”
     Hienie raised his eyebrows. “That would be just too bad,” he said with a sneer. “I'd hate Drutten to get into a lather. Like hell, I would.”
     Joe looked furtively up and down the long, dark road, then he said hoarsely: “She got mixed up with a playboy.”
     Hienie stared at him. “What the hell are you givin' me? Mixin' with playboys don't make you crazy.”
     “Yeah?” Joe's eyes snapped. “Well, this guy sent her crazy. He'd got a bad mind, this guy. I guess from what I've heard he was a real bastard. He got her to his apartment one night an' he did things to her. I ain't tellin' you what he did—but you can take it from me they were raw. She ran out of the apartment screamin' like hell, without any clothes on, slap into a copper's arms. There was an awful stink. The cops got hold of this guy and his dog—”
     “His dog?” Hienie said.
     Joe shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, he had a dog as big as an elephant.” He lowered his voice. “I guess it was the dog that sent her crazy.”
     Hienie sat back. “Hell!” he said.
     “That's how it went. They got her back home, and they couldn't do a thing with her. She'd just sit around broodin', not sayin' a word. I guess old Drutten had a bad time. Then she got on the booze; she got so she must have a man.” Joe shook his head. “It was a bad business. They kept her locked up, away from any guy, until one day one of the old man's chauffeurs ran into her just after a drinking jag. Of course, she encouraged him, and after that they put her in a home.” Joe shuddered. “She's bad when she gets with a man. She fixes him. That dame's got a hell of a way of fixin' a guy. When she fixes him, she fixes him good.”
     Hienie wasn't listening. He was already making plans. Boy! What a set-up. He'd only have to take the dame to her pa and tip the old man how much he knew, and he'd be in the gravy for the rest of his days.
     He turned and looked at Joe. “It stinks,” he said. “I don't believe a word. Joe, you're gettin' out an' you're walkin'.”
     “You double-crossin' son of a bitch,” Joe said furiously.
     “Cut it out, sucker,” Hienie said viciously. “Get out or I'll blast you.”
     Joe hesitated, then opened the door and slid into the road. Hienie got into the driving-seat and started the engine. “Take it easy, pal,” he called, “the first ten miles are the worst.”
     Leaving Joe yelling furiously after him, Hienie drove for some time into the darkness. Then he swung off the highway into a dirt road. When he had gone some miles he considered it safe enough to stop. He opened the panel and put his head through the aperture. “Hyah, Miss Drutten,” he called. “I guess you're safe now.”
     She climbed off the bunk and came over to him. She wore a dark, knitted two-piece suit. Hienie's eyes kept returning to her figure. He thought this dame's certainly got what it takes. Her frontage alone would be worth putting in pickle.
     “You mean I can go? I shan't see that dreadful little man again?”
     Hienie grinned. “That's right, baby; I'll take you back to your pa, just as soon as you've given me the address.”
     She peered at him. “I can't see you—who are you? I'm still awfully scared.” Dark eyes looked into his, and he suddenly wanted her as he'd never wanted a woman before. He wanted to reach out and pull her to him. He wanted to feel her softness yield to him.
     He looked at her, his eyes stripping her. Suppose she was crazy, that didn't stop him giving her a tumble? She couldn't start anything with him. He was acutely aware of his strength. If she did turn nutty, he could look after himself. He wanted a drink badly. Lifting the jar, he took a long pull. The liquor gave him just the little extra courage he needed. “To hell with it,” he thought, and climbed out of the cab. He went round to the back of the ambulance, still carrying the jar. He hesitated for a moment, then he undid the latch and turned the spring lock. He pulled open the door and climbed into the ambulance.
     She came slowly towards him. She had a slow, almost lazy movement, and he could see her rounded thighs move under the woollen skirt.
     He stood just inside the door, staring at her. The back of his throat went suddenly dry. Jeeze! This dame was good. Make no mistake about it. She was a riot. He stepped inside, pulling the door which closed with a faint click.
     There wasn't a great deal of room in the ambulance. Hienie said: “Sit down, baby, an' let's get acquainted.”
     Her eyes were on the jar. “What's that?” she asked.
     Hienie sat down, holding the jar on his knee. “It's applejack,” he said, watching her closely.
     She sat down close to him and put her hand on the jar, just above Hienie's hand. “Applejack?” she repeated.
     “That's right,” Hienie said, shifting his hand further up the jar. For a moment they touched. He felt the coolness of her flesh against his. Deliberately she took her hand away and put it in her lap. Hienie began to breathe heavily. He was going to give her the works even if she squawked her head off.
     She smiled at him. She had a very nice smile. “I've never had applejack before. It's a nice name, isn't it?”
     A tight little grin settled on Hienie's mouth. He got up and went over to the little wash-basin. He took a glass and washed it carefully, and half filled it with liquor. All right, if she was crazy, and she got hot on booze, he'd risk the experiment. The longer he was with her the less he thought of Joe's yarn.
     “Try it, baby,” he said, “you'll find it a tough drink all right.”
     She looked at the glass, reached out, and again her slim fingers touched his. It affected Hienie like an electric shock. He shivered, standing against the wall of the ambulance, watching her.
     She held the glass close to her lips. “It has a nice smell,” she said. Tilting her head, so he could see the white column of her throat, she began to drink. Hienie stood transfixed. The raw spirit slid down her throat like water.
     Hienie said: “For Gawd's sake—how did you do that?”
     She held the glass towards him. “It's nice. I'm so thirsty. May I have some more?”
     He still stood staring at her. “Didn't it burn you? Jeeze! It must have burnt you!”
     A little frown settled between her eyebrows. “Can't I have some more?” There was a slight grating sound in her voice.
     Hienie looked at her sharply, hesitated, then filled her glass. This time he took a long pull from the jar himself. The liquor made him choke and splutter. When he had recovered, he saw she was nursing the empty glass, her eyes on the jar. He put the cork back firmly, and thumped it home with his fist.
     Don't do that,” she said sharply, “I want some more.”
     Hienie shook his head. He felt a sudden confidence. He was no longer nervous of her. He didn't care how mad she might be, he could handle her. “You've had plenty,” he said, putting the jar by the door, away from her. “You don't want too much of that stuff.”
     She put her hand on his arm, and leant close to him. Her breath, smelling of the sweet, sickly spirit, fanned his face. “There's such a lot left—I'm thirsty.”
     Hienie shifted closer to her. She was giving him the works all right. He slid his arm round her back. “Maybe there is, baby, but we've got a lot of time to kill.”
     “But it's so nice,” she giggled suddenly. “It makes me feel tight.” She leant against his arm.
     “Sure it makes you feel tight.” He encircled her waist, letting his hand rest on her hip bone. She looked down at his hand, then swiftly up into his face. He pulled her close to him. “Your pa's got plenty of dough, ain't he?” he said, waiting for her to pull away.
     She didn't move. “Why did you ask that?”
     “I like talkin' about dough.” His hand shifted up, closing over her breast, it felt firm and full, imprisoned in his hand. She shivered and stiffened. Hienie went on talking, trying to keep his voice normal. “I like hearin' about guys with plenty of dough. It must be a swell feeling to give a dame like you just what you want without wondering where the dough's comin' from to pay for it.” He didn't know what he was saying, but he knew he had to keep on talking. He could feel her relaxing against his arm. “I've been a bum all my life. Maybe you wouldn't understand what that means.” He shifted his hand, taking the weight of her breast.
     She made a little face. “Now you're being miserable,” she said, her full lips parting a little. Her long slender fingers gripped his wrist and pulled at his hand.
     “Let it stay, baby, it feels good.”
     She hesitated, keeping her eyes turned away from him, then her hand fell away. Hienie said thickly: “You're a swell kid. Gee! You're a swell kid!”
     She moved her long legs restlessly. “You haven't told me who you are,” she said. There was no interest in her voice.
     Hienie reached down and put his hand under her knees. “I'll show you how to be comfortable,” he said, swinging her legs off the ground, so that she was half sitting, half lying across his knees. He expected some resistance, but she lay limply, her hand hanging by her side. He thought, “It's a push over.” “Ain't this comfortable?” he said, leaning over her. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, she murmured something that he couldn't hear. He pulled her to him roughly and mashed his mouth down on hers. Her mouth opened and he could feel her breath in his throat. Her arms encircled his neck and she began to moan softly.
     His free hand slid over her silken knee, touched warm, smooth flesh, and then she suddenly gripped him, forcing her mouth against his until it hurt. He found it was difficult to breathe and he tried to move his head away, but she moved with him. He jerked his hand from her, trying to push her off, the blood drumming in his head. Her arms were encircling his throat like steel bands, cutting the air from his lungs. In a sudden panic, he began fighting, but he couldn't shift her. Then lights began to flash before his eyes, and he was conscious that she was strangling him, and he couldn't do anything about it.
     Long after midnight, Joe and a State trooper found them. The State trooper stopped his car close to the ambulance and they climbed out.
     “It looks like he's beaten it,” Joe said, looking into the cab. He climbed in and glanced through the aperture. Then he said, “For God's sake,” and almost threw himself out of the cab.
     The State trooper looked at him. “What's up?” he asked.
     Joe pointed a shaky finger at the ambulance. “I warned him, but he wouldn't believe me.”
     The trooper pushed past him and climbed into the cab. He remained at the aperture for several minutes, then he got down slowly. He looked bad. “The poor bastard,” he said unevenly. “The poor bastard. Hell! She didn't ought to have done that. I guess no dame ought to do that to any guy.” He spat in the road. “It's the only fun some guys have got.”

     
     They occupied the end part of the long chromium and mahogany bar. They sat on high stools, their shoulders touching and their concentration on each other intense. For them, the 'Silver Coast' bar did not exist, and Mandell, the barman, listened to their conversation with amused tolerance. He leant against the counter, aimlessly polishing a small square of shiny mahogany very slowly with a soft duster. It was quiet in the bar with only these two and three men in white ducks who stood at the far end of the bar. The sun came through the chinks of the heavy sunblinds, making sharp little patterns on the coconut matting. It was noon, and very hot for the time of year.
     Mandell left off polishing the bar and took out a clean white handkerchief to chase away a little trickle of sweat he felt running behind his ears. He put the handkerchief away and glanced over at the two sitting close to him.
     She was tall and high-breasted. Her long silky hair was blue-black and hung on her crisp white collar in an ordered upward sweep. Her face interested Mandell very much. He liked her large deep blue eyes and her beautifully painted mouth. Her skin was clear and white, except for a touch of rouge high up on her cheek-bones. Mandell particularly liked her slender, beautifully shaped hands.
     Her companion was a heavily built man with a fleshy, strikingly handsome face. His square jaw-line and light blue eyes gave him a look of authority which comes, sometimes, to wealthy men. Mandell envied him his tailor and envied him his figure; he also envied him his companion.
     They were drinking Bar Specials, made with rum and absinthe; and Mandell had a large shaker by his side ready to replenish their glasses.
     They had been talking about Havana for some minutes, and Mandell gathered that this was her first trip. Her companion seemed to know the place well, and from what he said he must have been living there for some time. Mandell couldn't quite make out when these two first met. He could tell without any difficulty that the man was just crazy about her. He wasn't sure whether it was reciprocated or not.
     She said quiet suddenly, “Oh, must we talk geography any more?”
     He fiddled with his long, frosted glass. “I'm sorry, I thought it would interest you. It is so lovely here. I've been looking forward so much to showing you around, I guess I got carried away.”
     “Do you like it better than Stresa?”
     He seemed undecided. “It's different. Stresa was lovely, too, wasn't it?”
     She moved a little forward on her stool. Her eyes became for a moment very animated. “Do you remember the little albergo at Arolo?” she asked. “You couldn't speak a word of Italian—and the fun we had. Do you remember Anita?”
     He nodded. “The innkeeper's daughter? I always think of something rude when I say that. She called me
poverino
because the sun blistered my nose.” He laughed. “I guess we had a swell time there. She used to chatter away to me in the early morning when you were still asleep, and I didn't know what she was talking about. You know, I must really learn Italian before we go there again.”
     “Do you think we'll ever go there again?” she asked, her face becoming sad. “It seems such a long way off.”
     “Of course we'll go there again. Don't you want to swim in the lake once more? Do you remember the time when that old snake fell out of a tree and scared you? We were just going in and you absolutely refused to swim that day.”
     She shivered. “I hate snakes,” she said. “You know I hate snakes.”
     “I was only teasing,” he said quickly; “I hate things like that too, but I'm glad I came here. There is something solid and primitive about this place that Italy hasn't got. Italy is ice-cake buildings and post-card skies. Here you feel the pulse of the people. The streets have run with blood and the buildings still echo with the groans of the oppressed. Look at it, look at the sea, the flowers, the people. Don't you think they are more solid, more real than Italy?”
     She said: “Yes, everything now is more real and more solid. The touch of fairyland has gone away.”
     “Why do you say that?” he asked, turning his head to look at her. “The touch of fairyland has gone away. That sounds so sad and final.”
     She didn't look at him. “Do you remember the fireflies at Arolo? The banks of the lake in the moonlight with hundreds of fireflies like silver sparks glowing in the grass?”
     “There is something wrong,” he said. “Tell me, isn't there something wrong?”
     “Do you feel it too?”
     “Then there is something. What is it?”
     “I've told you.”
     “Please don't be mysterious. Tell me.”
     She took a nervous sip from her glass and didn't say anything. Mandell wondered why she looked so tragic. He thought this talk about fairyland was under the arm. He liked straight dealings himself and fancy language gave him a pain.
     “Are you sorry you've come?” the big man asked. “Is that it? Would you rather we had gone to Europe instead?”
     She shook her head. “No, it's not that. You see, the edges are frayed now. Please don't make me say it. You must feel as I feel.”
     He stretched out his hand to take hers, but she avoided him. “Why must you talk in riddles? First, the touch of fairyland has gone, and now the edges are frayed. What do you mean?”
     She finished her drink. “I'm trying so hard to be kind,” she said. “Can't you see that? Things don't mean the same to me any more—there, I've told you.”
     Still he couldn't grasp what she meant. He signalled to Mandell to fill the glasses. Mandell gave an elaborate start, as if he had just noticed them, and brought the shaker over. “You like these, sir?” he said agreeably.
     “Yes, they are very good,” the big man said, smiling vaguely, “very good indeed.”
     Mandell pushed the glasses a few inches towards them and then stood away, taking up his old position.
     “What was it you were saying?” the big man asked, taking up the thread of the conversation. “Are you bored with travelling? Do you want to settle down?”
     She said, “Yes.”
     “But where? Here?”
     She shook her head. “No. It wouldn't be here.”
     There was a long pause, then he said: “I love you so much that I will go wherever you wish. Tell me, and we will make plans.”
     She faced him. “Can't you understand”—there was an edge on her voice—“I can't bear any more of this? I've tried and tried to tell you, but you won't understand. I can't go on with this any longer.”
     “Don't get angry. I understand that. I am quite willing to do what you want. Really, you can please yourself.”
     She said very intensely, “We must part.”
     He slopped his drink on the mahogany top of the bar. “We must part?” he repeated. “You mean you don't want me any more?”
     “I tried so hard to tell you nicely, but you are so sure of yourself. You have always been so sure of yourself.”
     “No, you have mistaken me if you think that. I have never been sure of myself, but I've been sure of you. It isn't the same thing. I thought your love for me was as enduring as mine for you. You mustn't say I was sure of myself. I trusted your love. I had to have something I need not doubt. Don't you understand! With all this horrible chaos in the world, with lies and envy and sordid business, I hung on to the one thing I thought would never forsake me.”
     She said, “I'm very sorry.”
     “Of course”—he passed his fingers through his hair—“I know you are. When did it happen? Recently?”
     She said: “Now I've told you I don't want to talk about it any more.”
     “You can't leave it like that. I'm crazy about you. You know I'm crazy about you. Have I done anything that decided you?”
     She shook her head. “I'm bad,” she said softly; “I thought I could find the happiness I wanted with you, but I haven't. I must live my life. I have not the courage to pretend. You wouldn't want me to pretend, would you?”
     “Why do you say you're bad? Is it because there is someone else?”
     She hesitated a moment, then she said: “Yes, yes. I didn't want to tell you, but I must. You are bound to hear sooner or later.”
     With the morbid interest of a lounger at a street accident, Mandell watched the big man dispassionately. He noticed that he had suddenly gone very pale and it was only with difficulty that he controlled himself.
     “I see,” he said.
     “No,” she said quickly, “you don't. You couldn't possibly. You are thinking that I have wounded your pride. I know how men feel when this happens. But it won't wound your pride. I'm so glad about that because you have been so very sweet to me. You have, and I have appreciated—”
     “Please,” he said, “don't talk like that. You are making my love sound like a donation to a hospital. It wasn't like that. I gave you everything, and I suppose it just wasn't enough.”
     Mandell saw her flinch and he raised his eyebrows approvingly. He thought this big guy was taking it lying down. What this dame wanted was fireworks. He sniffed contemptuously. All this talk about fairyland and frayed edges—it was just so much crap.
     “I'm going away with Margaret Whitely,” she said quietly.
     The big man's colour came back, making his face congested. “Who?” he said, staring at her.
     “Yes. Oh, I know what you are going to say, but I've thought and thought and thought. I must please myself.”
     He seemed now to be quite controlled again. When he spoke, it was in an irritatingly soothing voice that one might use to a child. “My dear, surely you have got over that nonsense now?”
     She shook her head. “Please don't try and be understanding,” she said. “I know how you feel about it, but I've really made up my mind once and for all.”
     He lit a cigarette, holding the heavy gold case thoughtfully in his hand. “Does Margaret know about us? Does she know what she is doing to us?”
     “She has waited for me. She knew that this would come to nothing. She told me a year ago. She waited and, you see, she was right.”
     “Are you being perverted? Isn't it rather a beastly thing to do?”
     “I suppose I must expect to hear that sort of thing, but it will not stop me. Margaret and I can't be parted any longer.”
     “I think I would rather it had been a man.”
     She shook her head. “No, you are wrong. You would not have taken it as you are taking it now. You wouldn't have been patient. You would have got into a terrible rage and you would have wanted to kill him.”
     He made a little grimace. “I suppose I should,” he admitted. “This is so out of my hands. I feel there is something so repugnant about it that I don't want to have anything to do with it.”
     She reached out and gathered up her bag. “Good-bye, Harry,” she said; “thank you for everything.”
     “Don't go,” he said quickly. “You can't leave it like this. For God's sake, think what you are doing.”
     She slid off the stool. “There is really nothing more to be done; it is all settled. I just didn't want to hurt you. I'm so sorry.”
     He said very bitterly: “Then last year doesn't mean anything? It is just so much dust... nothing.”
     She bit her lip, then put her hand on his arm. “You see why I ought to go quickly? We shall be saying cruel things in a moment and we shall be sorry. Good-bye, Harry,” and she went out of the bar quickly, moving lightly and gracefully.
     Mandell watched her go regretfully. The conversation had amused him. As she passed through the door, a girl came in and stood looking round the bar. Mandell's lips tightened. He recognized the type immediately. That was one thing he wouldn't stand for in his bar. He said to the big man, “You'll excuse me if I come through the barrier, sir, there's a dame blown in who looks very doubtful. I'm just goin' to tell her to beat it.”
     The big man looked over his shoulder at the girl. He got off the stool. “Doubtful, did you say?” he said. “Why, you big stiff, she's a goddam certainty,” and he walked across to the girl who met him with a professional smile and they went away together.