Night of Violence

by Louis Charbonneau

  She walked out. Horace Stockwell was just inside the door, watching her, and she smiled brightly at him as she went by.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Stockwell,” she said cheerfully.

  “Goodnight,” he said, still not sure of himself.

  When she was out in the courtyard and heard Stockwell close the door behind her, Marina took a deep breath, reacting to the tension. She walked slowly across to Art, who was waiting for her.

  Art smiled. “Thanks,” he said. “Looked like I was caught with my hand in the cookie jar—until you stepped in.”

  His smile, calm and friendly, a just-between-us-boys smile, brought fury to her, an anger deeper and colder than any she had ever known.

  “Get yourself another watchdog,” she said coldly. “I quit!”

  She swept past him, marching directly over the office and slamming the door behind her. There the anger dissolved into pain, and she leaned her forehead against the door, fighting to control the convulsive sobbing that racked her body.

  She heard a sound behind her and turned quickly. The man who had registered as Albert Harrison was just coming through the open counter toward her.

  22

  Lew Cutter had kept worrying about the two men who had come out of the unit across the way. He had missed their arrival—they must have come while he was counting the money in the brown suitcase—and he hadn’t got a good look at either of them. But he had been watching when the big man came out alone and walked across toward the café. A few minutes later the second man, a small wiry figure, had crossed the courtyard, moving toward the office. And while Cutter was still puzzling over them, the small man suddenly reappeared, hugging the wall and moving surprisingly quickly. He came toward Cutter’s window until he reached the driveway, where he cut to his right and disappeared around behind the front row of units. Cutter waited but neither of the two men appeared again.

  Their movements were furtive, unnatural, and Cutter was worried. He was sure now that the big man had not gone across to the café. He had started in that direction, but Cutter was sure that he had not gone across. From his point of view, Cutter could see their car, a maroon Packard, and he had a vague memory of such a car passing him on the highway earlier in the day. The more he thought about them, the more nervous he became. He had a sharp, clear presentiment of danger, and he couldn’t ignore it.

  On a hunch, Cutter went into the back bedroom. He stood for a long time beside the window, peering out at the wilderness behind the motel, the surprisingly untamed desert that lurked so close. The emptiness of it, and the absolute quiet, made Cutter uneasy. The night was full of shadows, stirring.

  He returned to the front room. The courtyard was quiet and empty. Cutter weighed the comparative risks of leaving his unit and finding out about the two men or staying and waiting, not knowing whether there was any reason for fear or not. He decided that it would be safer—and a lot easier on his mind if he was going to sleep at all—to know. It was always safer to know where you stood.

  He went out through the window in the back bedroom. Creeping slowly and carefully, he circled his unit and crouched behind his car at the side, where he had a clear view to the highway. The two men were not in sight. Cutter watched for a while, then moved forward to the front of the motel. Just as he started across toward the courtyard, the black Cadillac which had driven off a little earlier pulled in and stopped. Cutter rounded the corner as the tall dark-haired girl ran out of the office. She trotted across toward the Cadillac. Cutter looked in the office window. No one was there.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the girl and at the man in the Cadillac, in time to see the motel owner himself coming out of the unit across the way. Cutter made his decision without hesitating. He slipped into the office.

  A section of the counter stood open, and he saw the red leather-bound register on the desk. He went directly to it. The two men were the last to register. Brown and Smith. From Los Angeles. All the facts clicked together in Cutter’s mind. Phony names. Los Angeles. The stealthy, unexplained movements. He felt a constriction of the muscles in his stomach, the queasy, tightening grip of fear. The office seemed very bright and exposed, and his rooms were a long way off. Where the hell had the two men gone?

  Cutter heard the quick hard patter of footsteps outside and whirled. The tall girl ran into the office and slammed the door. She hadn’t seen him. She leaned against the door, and Cutter was startled to hear a choking sob. He moved forward quickly toward the opening in the counter, but he wasn’t quick enough. The girl turned and saw him. Her eyes were bright with tears, and in them was a startled look. As Cutter moved toward her, an apologetic smile forming on his lips, he saw the surprise shade into suspicion.

  “What are you doing?” the girl asked sharply.

  “I was looking for a map,” Cutter said easily. “I wanted to check—”

  “No, you weren’t! You were doing something at the desk!”

  “I was just looking for—”

  “You’re not Sleepy Summers,” the girl said accusingly. “There’s something wrong about you. You registered for four people and you’re alone!”

  “That’s true,” Cutter said. “But—”

  “I’m going to tell Art. He should call the police!”

  The girl grabbed the handle of the door and Cutter moved quickly, catching her wrist.

  “Now don’t get excited,” he said, “let me explain.”

  “You’re up to something,” the girl said angrily.

  Suddenly she pushed him away, and the strength of the shove caught him by surprise. Cutter fell back, almost losing his balance. The girl reached for the door handle. Cutter stepped in quickly just as the door started to open. He spun her around with one hand and kicked at the door. He got his feet planted firmly and brought his right fist up in a jarring punch that had all his weight behind it. His knuckles caught the point of the girl’s chin, and he heard the sharp click of her jaws snapping together. She pitched forward. He caught her in his arm. Her body was completely limp.

  Cutter cursed savagely at his luck. He would run into an hysterical woman! Women would kill him yet, God damn them! The motel owner would be back any second—and he couldn’t leave the girl here for the man to find. As soon as she came to, she’d talk.

  Glancing around quickly, Cutter saw the door leading to a room in back of the office, and he remembered seeing a door at the back. He half carried, half dragged the girl’s limp figure through the office and into the room in the rear, which was a small kitchen. He got the back door open and peered out. There was no one in sight.

  Cutter lifted the girl over his shoulder and stepped out, pausing to close the door behind him.

  23

  In the rear bedroom of Unit 7, Lois Herman lay very still. She could hear her father snoring in the front room, and she knew that he and Mom had been asleep for a long time. But Frank was still twisting and turning restlessly on the twin bed adjoining hers, muttering sometimes to himself, and she knew he wasn’t yet completely asleep.

  She lay still and waited, thinking about Sleepy Summers. She remembered the way his eyes had licked over her body very quickly before shifting up to her face. She knew that look and what it signaled. But when Sleepy looked at her that way it wasn’t like it was with the boys she had known. They were kids. With Sleepy it was different. She wanted him to stare at her like that. It gave her a strange, goose-pimply feeling.

  Sleepy was simply worried about people knowing that she was in his room with him. People would talk, and a man in Sleepy’s position couldn’t afford to have talk. It might even get into one of those magazines that wrote dirty stories about all the movie stars. But if nobody knew, then he wouldn’t have to worry.

  She listened attentively. Frank had not moved for several minutes. His breathing was deep and regular. She heard the long intake of his breath, followed by a thin, unmistakable snore.

  Quietly, Lois pushed back the covers and eased out of the bed. She slipped off her pajamas an
d pulled on a skirt and sweater, with nothing else underneath them. She didn’t put on her shoes.

  The window was open far enough to let her slip through. She had made sure of that before going to bed. The outside screen had worried her, but it turned out to be no trouble. It swung outward from the bottom. She slid through the opening and lowered herself toward the ground. She had to drop the last foot or so and a stone cut sharply into the sole of her bare foot. A gasp of pain escaped her lips. For a moment after that she didn’t move, but there was no sound from inside the room. Frank still slept. Her pulse pounded in her ears like heavy surf on the shore.

  Her plan had been to go around behind Sleepy’s unit and to come up to the front door. At this time of night no one would see her. But as she slipped past the rear bedroom of Sleepy’s unit she saw that the window was open and the screen was loose. Her heart seemed to flip over.

  The window was low enough so that she could peer over the edge of the sill. The room seemed to be empty.

  “Sleepy?” she whispered.

  There was no answer.

  “Sleepy!”

  She was afraid to call out any louder. Nervously she glanced back toward her own room, half expecting to see Frank’s head poking out of the open window. She hesitated. Maybe Sleepy would be mad. Then she remembered the way he had looked at her and called her “Lois,” in that dreamy voice of his.

  Lois put her arms over the window sill and pulled herself up. This time the screen gave her trouble, flopping against her back. She almost fell back once, but finally she got one knee over the edge of the sill, and after that it was very quick. She almost tumbled head first into the room.

  There was still no sound from the front bedroom. Lois crept forward silently on her bare feet. There was a heavy thudding now in her temples, and she could feel the heartbeat deep inside her chest, like the heavy pounding of an engine in a boat.

  “Sleepy?” she whispered again.

  He wasn’t there.

  For a long moment Lois stood in the doorway, feeling an agonizing dismay. His bed hadn’t been slept in. He had gone! Maybe it was because she had recognized him. And the way he had spoken her name hadn’t meant anything at all. He was just trying to get rid of her. Close to tears, Lois took a step into the room. She saw his suitcase against the wall on the far side of the bed. Her intense relief made her feel weak, and she started to giggle.

  Probably he had only gone across to the café or somewhere like that. He would be back soon. Lois walked across to the bathroom and closed the door. There was just enough light to see her reflection dimly in the mirror. Her eyes seemed unusually large and dark against her pale face. Staring at the mirror, Lois had a sense of strangeness, as if the image wasn’t hers at all, only the picture of a young, excited girl, someone she didn’t know.

  She stood listening for a sound from the front bedroom. With her fingers she slowly smoothed the sweater over her prematurely full breasts. The action made her conscious of the fact that she wore nothing beneath the sweater. She could feel the cool air stirring against her bare legs underneath the skirt. Slowly the knowledge of what she was doing stole over her. She thought of what Daddy would think if he knew where she was, if he saw her now. Her face became hot, and she felt a creeping sense of shame. For the first time she thought of her stealthy entry into Sleepy’s rooms as wrong and cheap and vulgar. Even dangerous.

  A thump came from the bedroom. Lois felt a flutter of panic. Shuffling footsteps crossed the floor of the front room, and the springs of the bed creaked loudly. Lois looked frantically at the bathroom window, suddenly wishing that she wasn’t here, that she was safe in her own bed. But the window was too small. There was no way out.

  Her lips tightened. This was being silly. Childish. The man in the bedroom was Sleepy Summers. Every girl she knew would have given anything to trade places with Lois at this very moment, to be alone with Sleepy Summers, and to hear him whisper her name. Wasn’t this what she had dreamed about so often?

  Lois stared at the closed bathroom door. She took a step toward it. Slowly, timidly, her hand went out and turned the knob. As the door swung toward her and she stepped tentatively into the doorway, there was an embarrassed smile on her lips.

  24

  Phil Nelson, driving very carefully, turned off the highway toward the motel. The red sign still announced that there was a vacancy at the Hideaway Motel. There was a man standing out by the road, staring off into the night. He glanced over as Phil passed him. It was the motel owner. Phil waved at him, but the man apparently didn’t see the wave. He didn’t move.

  Phil eased the Buick to a stop in front of his room. Before getting out of the car he fumbled for the motel room key and found it in his coat pocket. He got out and locked the Buick. There were brochures and samples in the back seat, for which he had a deposit on file at the offices of American Features Syndicate. If he lost them, he lost his deposit.

  He peered out toward the highway at the man standing there, silent and alone. Phil wondered what the man was doing there. Probably he wasn’t doing anything at all. Probably he liked being alone. After all, why else would a man want to run a motel like this one, out in the middle of nowhere?

  It took Phil a minute to fit the key into the lock of his door. The end of the key kept missing, the way thread kept probing past the eye of a needle. Man, you’ve had your quota, Phil thought. What do you need another bottle for?

  The key slipped into the lock and turned. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. Almost instantly he had that prickling sensation of someone being in the room with him, watching. He caught a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, and then the side of his head caved in. Phil fell forward, limp and relaxed when he hit the floor. For a moment there was only a dazzling darkness. Then the pain came. Astonishing, incredible pain that stabbed through his head and seemed to pierce the back of his skull.

  Hands pulled roughly at him, turning him over and hauling him to his feet. Phil’s mind was still not clearly functioning. He couldn’t grasp what was happening to him. There was no reality to it at all.

  His arms were twisted viciously behind his back, and Phil gasped with pain. A hot, rough hand pressed over his mouth, gagging him. Then a light went on.

  A man was just moving his hand away from the desk lamp when Phil saw him. He was small, no bigger than Phil himself, but his face had a tough, confident look that Phil’s never had. Phil had never seen the man before.

  I’m being robbed, he thought suddenly, and with the knowledge came a sense of outrage. They were crooks! He struggled against the suffocating grip or the hand over his mouth, and the painful twisting pressure on his arms locked behind his back. Close to his ear, the man behind him laughed.

  There was a look of disgust on the small man’s face. “That ain’t him,” the small man said. “That ain’t the bastard at all.”

  “What?”

  “I told you. All that junk in the suitcase. It’s just a goddamned punk salesman.”

  The phrase cut through the fog in Phil’s mind clearly and distinctly. Abruptly he felt a release of the pressure on his arms and the hand came away from his mouth. He was free. He staggered forward a step before catching his balance.

  Swaying, Phil turned his head to look at the man who Had held him, a huge brutal-looking man.

  “Too bad, Mac,” the big man said. “Guess we made a mistake. We must have got into the wrong room.”

  “Sure,” Phil said hoarsely. Anger was burning inside him, a wild, bitter anger. “Sure, you made a mistake! You’ll see what kind of a mistake you made!”

  He plunged toward the door. The sudden movement caught the two men by surprise and he almost made it. His hand was on the doorknob when the big man caught him from behind by the neck. He pulled Phil back and slammed him against the wall.

  “Where do you think you’re going, punk?”

  Punk! A punk salesman! He’d show them! Phil twisted away from the heavy hand.

  “You can’t r
ob me,” he cried. For the first time he thought of shouting. “Help! Police! Help!”

  Phil saw the ugly look on the big man’s face as he moved in. “You asked for it,” the man growled.

  Phil flung himself forward. His fist slapped against the big man’s cheek. Then a blow caught Phil on the side of the head, slamming him back against the wall. There was a thunderous roaring in his ears and the room blurred. He saw a fist coming toward his face, watched it with startling clarity as if it were moving in slow motion. The fist exploded against his mouth. Something sharp cut through his lip and he tasted blood in his throat.

  Phil tottered forward, completely helpless. Something hit him in the chest, and he felt a crumpling weakness there, followed by a sharp cutting pain that lanced through his chest and pierced his heart. He fell a long way, floating helplessly, and he knew he was floating because there was no jar when he landed, yet he was sure that he had reached the floor.

  Dimly he heard voices. “Jesus Christ, Pete, you don’t have to kill the son of a bitch!”’

  “He saw us.”

  Phil waited for it to come and he felt a strange relief, as if all the burdens had been lifted off his back. When the explosion came, it didn’t sound very close at all, but he knew that it was the sound of a gun and he braced for the impact.

  He was surprised when it didn’t come. The voices and the pain and the fear all dissolved at once, like music ending, and there was only a vast silence.

  Then nothing at all.

  25

  Art’s first impulse, when Marina marched into the office and slammed the door behind her, was to follow her and explain. The only reason he had joked about almost being caught with Lucy was that he wanted to treat it lightly, to let Marina know without saying it that Lucy didn’t mean anything any more. He had finally been able to look directly at her and turn away, feeling no regret. But Art realized, as soon as he spoke the words, that his joke had not said what he wanted it to say.