“I’ll give you a case history. We’ll take Burke. I needed a lusty playful guy with a rich wife who has a narrow moral outlook. After a little research I located Burke in a city about two hundred miles from here.
“He fit my requirements. He was supporting this character he calls Millie. He’s been married for eighteen years to a fantastically ominous woman. She’s a modern-day dragon. I saw her. The kind of a woman who can word-whip you till your ears bleed. Burke’s never worked. He has a drawing account. She keeps a pretty close watch on him, but he’s been clever enough to keep this Millie on the side.
“I met Burke at a bar. I told him about this place I had bought and promised him that he could come up here and nobody would know where he was and nobody could find him. I got him a doctor’s prescription to take a rest. He asked me if Millie could come along. He trusted me. I told him that she could. I brought them in here.
“In my safety-deposit box I’ve got a series of negatives of Burke and his Millie. I haven’t made him any offer. He doesn’t know what I want, but he’s pretty damn sure I want money. I do. I want lots of it. Now comes the psychology. I just keep him here and let him stew, imagining what will happen when his wife tosses him out without a dime. That frightens him. At the proper moment I’ll make a contract with him that will give me a neat little income each month for as long as he lives.”
The little man licked his firm lips and grinned at Post. “That’s one case history. We’ve just started here. There’ll be lots of them. I got the idea that you isolate people and they lose courage. They can’t go out on the street and see thousands of other people around them. They sit and look at the lake and think. Things bother them. I like to think that I’m a doctor of mental ills. I don’t cure them—I rub a little salt in them and let the bucks drop into my hand. The trouble with most operators who start this kind of a racket—they’re out of touch with their customers. I just bring the customers right here to me and let them sweat it out. Then they don’t get out of hand.”
“How about the Bendersons?”
“A good question. I got him up here on the spur of the moment just because he has more bucks than anybody I ever met before. His pappy founded shipbuilding outfits and clock companies. He’s lousy with it. I’ve done research on him, and the guy has never stepped out of line far enough so I can put the pressure on him. It’s taken me a couple of weeks to get an idea. I’ve got one now.” He gestured toward the sleeping man in the bunk.
“Why tell me all this?”
“Because you’re staying here and you’re going to be right in it with the rest of us. I needed another guy and the one I was looking for is a guest of the government for an indefinite period. I was mad. I stopped the car and went into that little bar for a drink. There you were. Pennies from heaven. All wrapped up in a fight. I figured that I might be able to use you, and I turned out to be right.”
“I still don’t get it. How the hell can you use me? I’m not interested in your racket. I’m not interested in any racket. I just want to be left alone. That’s all. First chance I get, I’ll leave. It won’t be worth my time to go to the cops. I’ll just leave.”
“I don’t believe it, Post. I think you’ll be glad to stay. I got something I want to show you.” He slipped the familiar wallet out of his jacket pocket and found a clipping in it. He handed the clipping to Post.
He read: “HESSLER KILLER IDENTIFIED. Police today stated that they have identified Walker Post, age 31, as the man who brutally kicked Victor Hessler to death in Donovan’s Bar on West Street four days ago. Post is still at large. After Hessler died a few hours after the fight, police checked all places in the city where transients stay. Mrs. Mary Cortez of 88 Plant Street stated that a man named Walker Post had checked out of her rooming house a few hours after the fight. She stated that Post left no forwarding address and that he seemed nervous and upset. She stated that his face and lips were cut and bruised. A picture of Post was obtained from his previous employers, a prominent architectural firm, and the picture was positively identified by Mr. Donovan and the two companions of Hessler as the man who had kicked Hessler to death. Police expect an early arrest. Post is described as being of medium height, brown hair, gray eyes, wide shoulders. He is sullen and dangerous. He is a veteran of the war in the Pacific.”
Post sat and read it again. It gave him a strange feeling, as though he were reading about someone else. So he had killed the one they called Hessy. He remembered the boy’s brown arms, the way he had hooked his thumbs in his belt. He felt sudden regret and contempt for himself. He glanced up. Drake was wearing his superior smile. Post wanted to smash him in the face. Instead he handed the clipping back, holding his hand as steady as he could.
Drake took it and tucked it away. “So you won’t leave?”
“I don’t know. I may still leave.”
The smile didn’t fade. “Here’s some more amateur psychiatry, Post. You are now running up against a primary instinct for self-preservation. I admire you. You can make yourself look calm. You know you’ve got to be cold. But it’s only on the outside. On the inside you’re afraid. No man is so depressed that he won’t fight against an outside force that wants to kill him or imprison him. A man on his way to a high building from which he wishes to leap will skip out of the path of a truck. Your face is a lie.”
Post shrugged. “Those are pretty words, Drake. Maybe you’re trying to talk yourself into the idea that you got me hooked here because I killed a man. I can’t tell you right now whether you have or not. I may leave. I may not.”
“You leave and they’ll pick you up.”
“So I get picked up.” Even as he said it, he felt a quiver of alarm. He knew he didn’t want to go back out to where they could find him. He wanted to stay hidden in the woods. Suddenly the quiet lake seemed like exactly the proper spot to be. The proper spot in which to stay. He kept all expression off his face. He had killed and he had run away. If they caught him, he would grow old in prison. The free existence which had become so unbearable during the past months became suddenly desirable. He stared steadily at Drake and shrugged again.
“You’re pretending, Post. No man willingly goes to the cops on a thing like this. I’m going to prove you’re pretending. If you’re so anxious to go, I’m going to do you a big favor.”
He got up and walked to the doorway. He called Strane. The tall man shambled in. “Rob, we’ve got an experiment here. Post killed a man back in town and the cops want him. He says he doesn’t care. I’m going to let him go. Don’t stop him. Pack up your stuff, Post, and shove off.”
Drake came and stood in front of him. Strane was in the doorway. “So the great man of indifference starts to care. Suppose I force you to leave?”
“Then they pick me up and I tell them what I know about this place.”
“And what do you know? Burke won’t talk. Benderson’s got nothing to talk about. You saw the other clipping. This is a health resort. I think you better write me a check. Strane, go through his stuff.”
Post tried to grab the suitcase but Strane brushed him aside. He sat while Strane pawed through his clothes. He found the checkbook inside one of the flap pockets. He handed it to Drake. Drake riffled through the stubs.
He handed it to Post. “About two thousand ought to be fine. Make it two thousand even. Don’t make it out to me. Make it to cash. I think I can get it cashed without identifying myself with a guy the police want.”
Post held the checkbook and his hands felt numb. He wondered how Drake had known about the checkbook. Strane and Drake stood over him. Drake handed him a pen. He didn’t try to write a check.
“I promise you, Post, that if you don’t write it, you’ll be out of here and in the hands of the police in two hours. Consider it a fee for being at my rest camp. You’ll still get your keep. I’m not a bad guy. I won’t even stop your wages.”
Somehow the money didn’t seem important. He knew that it was his last crutch, his last chance to spend idle empty days
in small rooms stinking of stale beer. If Drake hadn’t demanded it, it would have gone slowly and the day would have come when there would have been no money to buy liquor or food or a roof. He wrote out the check and tore it out. Balance: twenty-one dollars and fourteen cents. He wrote that down at the top of the next stub.
He stood up. He wanted to walk down by the lake. He wanted to sit and think it all out. It had happened so quickly. He walked toward the door. Drake leaned against the doorjamb. He said softly, “I like to have a man know who’s running the show. I want people to jump when I talk. Suppose you call me Mr. Drake for a while.”
Post stopped. The smaller man’s head was near his right shoulder. Without looking he slapped his left hand around, palm open. Drake clattered onto the board floor. Post walked heavily toward the lake, his hand stinging.
He heard Drake call, “Strane! Get him. Bring him in here.”
He turned as he heard heavy feet pounding across the clearing toward him. He didn’t turn quickly enough to meet the rush. Strane’s shoulder caught him in the chest and slammed him onto the ground. He jumped up and Strane grabbed his wrist. There was a sharp pain in his arm as he was spun around. Then his hand was held up against the small of his back and he was marched back to the bunkhouse.
Drake stood in the door. His dark eyes were narrowed. There was a dull red discoloration across his swarthy right cheek. His nostrils were dilated.
His voice was hoarse as he said, “How about the suckers, Strane? They likely to come around this way?”
“Not this time of day, boss.”
“Then give this chump a going-over. Make it last.”
Post braced himself. The fight in the bar had given him a certain amount of confidence. He wanted to hit something with his fists. He wanted to wipe out the fear that was in his heart.
Strane came in slowly, his face solemn, his big hands swinging low at his sides. When he was close he stuck his left arm out. Post knocked it aside. Drake slid in and sat on the edge of a bunk. He kept licking his lips. He leaned forward and his eyes were bright.
Post tried a quick chop at Strane’s jaw. He never knew if the punch landed or not. He went spinning back into blackness with fire against the side of his face.
He came to on his back on the floor. His shirt was soaked with water. His hair was wet. His face felt swollen. He heard Drake say, with annoyance, “He’s coming out of it. Now get him up on his feet and make it last a while.” Strane mumbled something.
“That’ll do, Strane. Put him in his bunk.” He was dimly conscious of being carried. He lay in the bunk after they had gone and became conscious of the stinging pain in his face. After a time he climbed out of the bunk. He held on to the side post for a time. When he had the strength, he walked over to the steel mirror. A stranger’s face stared back at him. His lips were puffed. One eye was already dark. The entire left side of his face was so swollen that the lines of the cheekbone and jaw were gone.
He poured water into the chipped basin and washed his face. It didn’t feel any better. He sat for a long time on the bunk. He looked down at the floor. A small green caterpillar humped its way across the stained boards with anxious urgency. He heard the far-off murmur of voices. A breeze rushed through the pines.
He had no clear idea of his own thoughts and feelings. He was confused. He wanted to retreat into the lethargy to which he had become accustomed. It escaped him. He felt no anger. He felt no humiliation. In his mind was a feeling of disgust. And there was something else growing inside him. It was something new for him. He hadn’t felt it for a year. It was a growing sense of excitement and anticipation. But as yet it wasn’t strong enough to guide him. It flickered in the back of his mind like a candle behind blinds.
After a half hour Drake came in. He stood for a moment, looking at Post. Post didn’t look up.
“Are you okay now?”
“Fine.”
“That was necessary. I can’t take chances on discipline. I’m carefully guarded. Frick and Strane are careful of me. Each month I have to mail a letter to the West Coast. If I should die suddenly, and not mail the usual letter, Frick and Strane would be hunted by the police with the same energy that they’re hunting for you. A friend holds the information, which he’ll turn over to the police the first month he doesn’t hear from me.”
“Sure. You’re a brilliant man. You’re a genius. But you enjoyed watching Strane slug me, didn’t you? You got a real bang out of it.” He stared up at the slim man and his face felt hot.
Surprisingly, Drake looked uncertain. He turned slowly and walked out. Nan Benderson met him at the door. She was wearing slacks and a halter. She looked calm and poised.
“I wanted to ask you something, Mr. Drake. I couldn’t ask you while you were talking to Dad. Have you got a moment?”
He took her arm and led her away from the door. She glanced back over her shoulder. Post thought he saw her eyes widen as she saw his battered face. He couldn’t be certain.
In the afternoon he sat on the lakeshore in the sun. Later he walked around the lake. As he came down the south shore he felt a sense of anticipation. He thought that he might see her on the rocks. He slowed his pace as he saw that she wasn’t there. He was well beyond the Benderson cabin when he heard a scuffling on the rocks behind him. Miss Benderson and Drake were there. He turned and stopped.
They walked up to him, and Miss Benderson put out her hand to him. He took it awkwardly. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Post,” she said. “Stop up at the cabin and visit with us sometime, won’t you?”
He felt something pressing into the palm of his hand. He started to stammer and Drake interrupted smoothly. “I’m afraid that Post won’t have any time for social gatherings, Miss Benderson. Besides, I don’t believe your father should have visitors.”
She released his hand and he closed it around the small object in his palm. The girl and Drake stared at each other, and Post felt the cool animosity in their eyes. She nodded and said, “Well, I must get back up to the cabin and start dinner.” She walked quickly back across the sloping rocks. Post shoved the thing she had given him deeper into his pocket and followed Drake back to the compound.
When they were near the bunkhouse, Drake turned to him. “Tomorrow you take a one-third guard trick. Four on and four off. Fix the hours with Rob and Sam. Just keep your eye on the trail and keep our four guests from trying to use it. Be polite, particularly with the Bendersons. Use any excuse you can think of. But don’t let them get past you. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Drake,” he answered, his voice flat. Drake left him and he walked into the kitchen. It was empty. He fished the item out of his pocket. It was a small wad of paper. He unfolded it partway, not so far that he could see the writing. He held it in his hand. He realized he didn’t want any complications. He didn’t want to owe anyone anything, or have anything owed to him. With cool precision he tore it into scraps and dropped it into the wood stove. He looked at his watch. He’d have a chance for a nap before supper.
He realized that it was his last undisturbed night, and yet he slept poorly. When the gray dawn outlined the window near his head and the birds began to clamor, he finally drifted into a restless sleep. Once the low moans of the unconscious stranger awakened him and he listened. All he could hear were the snores of Frick. He went back to sleep.
When he awoke the second time, the sun seemed high. He dressed slowly and walked across to the kitchen. Breakfast was over. There was a cold fried egg in the greasy pan. He opened a tin of orange juice and drank it. He heard voices outside the kitchen window and he walked over.
Drake was giving Strane orders. “I’ve talked to Burke. I scared him. He and that woman won’t move out of the cabin all morning. That’ll give me the time I need. You go up to Benderson’s cabin and send the old man down here to me. You stay there and make sure the girl doesn’t come down here. He may call out to her and she may hear him. Keep her there. But if you lay a hand on her, except to keep her from getting out the door,
I’ll make you wish you never met me. Understand?”
“Sure boss. Sure.”
Drake looked up and saw Post’s face in the kitchen window. “There you are. Come out here and watch. I want to educate you a little more. This lesson is called how to make a half million dollars. Let’s go look at my new guest while Strane sends Benderson down here. Frick’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Post followed him over into the bunkhouse. He helped Drake lift the small man down from the high bunk. The man was blue around the eyes and his clothing stank. Drake put him on the floor and slapped him on both cheeks. The man didn’t open his eyes.
“Good. He’ll last until I’m ready for him.”
Post noticed that Drake was excited. His dark eyes were wide and he walked around nervously. He was dressed in a yellow-orange sports shirt and trim gray gabardine trousers. The orange shirt made his skin look more sallow than it had before.
Post wondered who the small man could be. He asked.
“This, Post, is that unique man, the man who has nobody and nothing. He has no home, no relatives, no friends and no money. He’s the essence of anonymity.”
Drake hurried out of the bunkhouse. Mr. Benderson was coming down the alleyway between the two buildings. He walked carefully. It was the first time Post had seen him. He was a tall, frail old man with a gray hairless skull. He wore rimless glasses over his faded blue eyes. The gray folds of his cheeks sagged over the bone structure. Even though he was slightly stooped, he had an air of pride and authority.
He glanced up as they stepped out to meet him. “Ah, Mr. Drake! Your man said you’d like to talk to me.” When he smiled his eyes were young.
“Yes, Mr. Benderson. This is Mr. Post, another of my men. Mr. Post is going to sit in on this little conference—that is, if you don’t mind.”
“How do you do, Mr. Post. Why should I mind? I’m feeling excellent, sir. Excellent. This air, this quiet, it’s worked wonders for me. And for Nan too.”
“Post, you better sit over there out of the way. Lean against the bunkhouse. Mr. Benderson and I will have our little … discussion out in this cleared space. Are you certain you’re not too tired to stand, Mr. Benderson?”
More Good Old Stuff Page 22