Doorway to Death

by Dan J. Marlowe

  “I do have a choice. I think that even you will agree that this revolver gives me a choice. I'm not about to give away fifty percent of three months' effort merely because you suggest it.”

  “You can't find him without me, Freddie. You need me.”

  “Only up to a point.” Ronald Frederick smiled. “You see, Johnny, there's a very important point at which your premise ceases to be valid. Frenchy Dumas did not hire me. I am answerable only to—” He tried to cover the apparent slip by gulping at his drink. “You know, this sort of—ah— violent activity differs radically from my past operations, which is why Lieutenant Dameron and his associates have been unable to 'make' me.”

  He cleared his throat gently; the mild eyes were unclouded again. “That night in the kitchen was a disaster, of course. Frenchy's initial carelessness in permitting himself to be followed into the hotel resulted in a kangaroo court and a body. When we took it to the kitchen to dispose of it temporarily, we stumbled over the old man. Frenchy lost his head—if you don't mind a grisly little joke, almost literally.”

  Ronald Frederick smiled again. “Man proposes, the saying goes; through one oversight in an otherwise straightforward master-plan, upon Frenchy's death I was placed in the unfortunate position of being unable to identify the courier or myself to him. In that respect the good lieutenant was entirely right in his deductions.” He sipped at his drink. “So there I was, until now. Your appearance is providential; you've saved me a good deal of embarrassment.”

  “So let's hear the deal, Freddie.”

  The slender features hardened. “There is no deal. I've considered you rather carefully in your various aspects since you first came to my attention, and I'll tell you truthfully it was with some regret that I decided I couldn't afford the luxury of your dynamic support. I could buy you, but intuition tells me you wouldn't stay bought. When we go upstairs, I'll—”

  “I'm in for fifty percent, or we don't go anywhere,” Johnny cut across the mild voice.

  The little man's smile was unruffled. “Don't you suppose I've taken the measure of the man a little better than that, Johnny? Certainly you could sit here and defy me, receive a bullet in your head, and leave me to get away as best I could without the material for which I've expended so much time and trouble. But do I really need to say why I'm sure that won't be necessary? Isn't it much more in keeping with your character that you'll cheerfully accompany me upstairs and look forward confidently to turning the tables upon me at some stage of the proceedings?”

  “You must be quite a poker player, Freddie.”

  “I've played the game. Well?”

  “Seems to me if I got to take you, I might as well do it right here. Unless there's a financial point to my takin' you on upstairs?”

  “If you were to take me on successfully, a point in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million, handled in the proper channels?”

  “Dollars?”

  “Dollars. My share—” He smiled. “—yours if you can make it yours—will approximate that.”

  “I'd like to see a quarter million on the hoof at that.”

  “You'd be disappointed. It's microfilm, probably in a capsule no larger than your little finger.”

  “Microfilm? What the hell—”

  “I suppose you thought it would be at least the crown jewels? Jewels are out of date in this commercial modern world, Johnny. These films are a complete reproduction of some very recent developments in oil. Evaluations, leases, maps, tentative agreements, drilling sites, proposals. And they didn't come from the papers of a private company.” The manager shifted in his chair. “We're wasting time. Have you decided?”

  “Let's go upstairs.”

  “Fine. One word of advice—”

  “Yeah?”

  “The time will come upstairs when you sense the opportunity or the necessity of rushing me. I'm aware that due to your tremendous animal vitality you may expect that the impact of a bullet will not stop your charge. Don't count upon it. This revolver carries a lead bullet without a jacket. The rifling in the chamber is a bit worn. The combination results in a slug that wobbles even at a short distance, and I feel I should point out to you that such a slug in the back of your head would make it extremely difficult to identify you from your pictures.”

  “You mean it'd take my face off on the way out.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I'll draw cards to the proposition that you can't hit me in the head, Freddie. And if you hit me anywhere eke it's not gonna do you much good, because I'll anyway reach you, and when I do you're odds on to pray for a better world.” He stood up slowly and easily, put down his glass gently, and walked over to the desk. He leaned forward deliberately with his hands resting knuckles down on the surface and stared down at the little man who had backed off in his chair a precautionary few feet at Johnny's approach. “Come on, you little bastard. Let's see how much nerve you've really got.”

  “Fine,” Ronald Frederick said again as he got to his feet. “We won't use the elevator; I'd be a little too accessible to you. How many flights on the stairs?”

  “Six.” Johnny walked to the door, slipped off the chain latch, and unbolted it. He glanced out into the deserted corridor, and without looking behind him started for the door down the hall marked EXIT. In back of him he could hear the whisper of the little man's feet on the carpeted floor.

  “Careful!” Ronald Frederick snapped as Johnny put his hand on the fire door which opened outward onto the landing. “Move slowly and hold that door open.” Johnny glanced over his shoulder; over the shortened distance the revolver was openly trained upon his back, and for the first time the manager's face was strained and ugly.

  Johnny shrugged. Ronald Frederick followed him through the door, body tensely withheld to maintain the maximum distance between them, and Johnny turned to the stairs. On the first turn he could see from a corner of his eye that the revolver had been thrust beneath the manager's jacket so that only the butt emerged; it was unlikely that a casual glance would notice it.

  Johnny climbed steadily and behind him he could hear increasing sounds of distress. At the twelfth floor landing the manager called a halt. “Hold it for a moment.”

  Johnny turned to look at the slender figure stationed a consistently careful ten feet away, a hand on the protruding mm butt, the chest heaving and a faint sheen on the forehead. “Nerves gettin' you, Freddie?”

  The little man's attempt at a smile was only partially successful. “I prefer to consider it a lack of condition, but on the other hand, we are not all nerveless invertebrates like yourself.”

  “If you were gonna walk away from this, Freddie, I'd suggest a gym class. Since you're not, it doesn't matter.”

  “Subtlety is not your forte, Johnny.” The revolver muzzle emerged from under the manager's arm and considered Johnny appraisingly. “You can put away the psychological needle. Let's go.”

  In the twelfth floor corridor Johnny made two left turns with Ronald Frederick on his heels and came to a stop at the second door on the right, and the little man glanced up at the room number 1224 and shook his head gently.—His voice was hushed. “I seem fated to consistently underestimate you, Johnny; here I had the solution in my hand. Was that a spur-of-the-moment backfire about the blonde when I stumbled over you coming out of here that evening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It's a pity we couldn't have collaborated upon this affair. Truly a pity. I could have used your flair for ingenuous action.” He frowned suddenly, and the lowered tone took on a suspicious edge. “You say our man is in here? I did verify from the housekeeper that it was a woman in the room. At the time it seemed to substantiate your—ah— histrionics.”

  “That's his wife. He checked in this mornin', and they gave him 1226 and threw open the connectin' door to make a suite with the bathroom in between.”

  “Mmmm. The woman complicates matters. However, we're committed. Here.” He tossed Johnny a pass key. “Lock the door of 1226. Quietly.”<
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  Johnny inserted the key and turned it delicately until it caught with only the very faintest click of tumblers. The manager nodded, listened a moment until he was satisfied that the faint sound had attracted no attention inside, and motioned Johnny back to the door of 1224. “Get us inside. Walk in ahead of me. And remember: whatever happens in that room, my eyes will never leave you.” The voice was tense but in good control; the manager re-checked the position of the revolver under his jacket to make sure it was as nearly concealed as possible and stationed himself so that Johnny's bulk as he rapped on the door partially concealed him.

  The door opened with its usual caution, but when the woman saw Johnny she smiled and opened it wider. “Good evening. I missed you at dinner. I wanted my husband to meet my benefactor.”

  “Got tied up, ma'am. This is our manager, Mr. Frederick, with me. The floor below is complainin' about a leak. Could we take a look?”

  “Why, I guess—”

  Johnny walked forward slowly into the center of the bedroom, stopped, and turned. Ronald Frederick was closing the door, and as he stood with his back to it his eyes ranged the room quickly. Johnny could see him glance at the card table with its customary tablecloth and the remains of dinner for two. An open bottle of wine with its contents a third gone stood sentinel amidst the dirty dishes. A wine glass still half full was at one end of the table, and an empty counterpart was still in its inverted before-using position at the other. On the floor three bulging valises, one partly open, took up more than their share of space.

  A heavy voice called from the room beyond. “Erika! You haf trouble?”

  “It's nothing, Carl. A leak on the floor below. They're checking—“ Her glance returned to Johnny fleetingly before it passed on to Ronald Frederick, and the tenseness in the air began to communicate itself to her. Her smile shrank, and her features became tight and lifeless as she gestured stiffly to her left. “There is the lavatory. If there is a leak—”

  “Call in your husband, please.” Ronald Frederick's voice was crisp. He was standing in profile to her; she had not seen the revolver, but she did not miss the edge in his tone, She was uneasy, but not yet alarmed.

  “It is about his papers? I'm sure—”

  “Call him, please.”

  She hesitated, and then her head turned and her hand went apprehensively to her lips as quick shuffling steps sounded on the tile of the bathroom floor, and a beefy blond man appeared in the doorway. “There is no leak, Erika—”

  The immobility of the tableau before him caught him in mid-air. He sucked in his breath sharply and seemed to try to pull his bulk together. He was very blond, with light blue eyes, and a florid face streaked with mottled veins, the face of a drinker. He had on a white shirt that seemed too small for him, a carelessly knotted tie, and a pair of seaman's trousers. He was in stockinged feet.

  Johnny spoke first. “Herr Muller—”

  The blond man turned to him alertly. “]a?”

  “I'll do the talking, Johnny,” Ronald Frederick interposed smoothly, and the blue eyes swung to him. “Herr Muller, we are here concerning a matter involving a Herr Dumas.”

  Carl Muller nodded slowly and turned to his wife. “Leaf us, Erika.”

  “Carl—”

  “Leaf us.”

  She crossed the room slowly, circled the card table, and disappeared into the bathroom. In a second they could all hear the closing of the door beyond that led into the other room of the suite.

  “Very well done, sir,” the manager said approvingly, and the blond man looked at him steadily.

  “Mein hen,

  the man Dumas wass to meet me himself.”

  “There was no time to inform you of a necessary change in plans.”

  “You haf the word, then?”

  Ronald Frederick looked over at Johnny. The fractional turn of his body disclosed the gun butt in his grip to Carl Muller, who took a half step backward as Johnny spoke after a momentary hesitation. “Samud.”

  The blond man's hands had come halfway up to his belt line in the beginning of the assumption of a defensive posture. “Ja,” he said slowly, head cocked to one side as though extracting every morsel of inflection from the syllable. “That iss the word—” He looked from Johnny to Ronald Frederick and back again, looked down at the floor and rubbed a palm on his trouser leg, and looked up again at the little manager as Ronald Frederick spoke impatiently.

  “Well, sir? You say that is the word?”

  Carl Muller nodded and rubbed his hands together nervously. “Ja. Das ist daswort. I get you—” With a scarcely concealed eagerness, he dropped to his knees and flung open the partially closed nearer valise, his hands rummaging beneath a pile of loose clothing. The watching manager frowned and jerked the revolver out into the open from beneath his jacket. “Just a minute, Muller. I don't—” The kneeling man whirled with a whistling gasp of satisfaction. Black steel glinted in his palm as he tried desperately to reverse the gun he had blindly gripped by the barrel.

  “Drop it—!” Ronald Frederick cried out sharply, and in the same instant the gun in his hand jerked up and back as it went off, and the blond man was smashed backward against the valises where he hung pinned motionless a long instant before he plunged sideways to the floor where the gun clattered loosely away from the body. The noise had been no more than a smart clap of the hands.

  Johnny walked over and looked down at the glazing eyes. There was a small hole high on the forehead and no back to the head at all. He noted that the white shirt no longer seemed to fit the blond man tightly, and he looked across at the whitefaced, staring manager. “You didn't overestimate the package in that peashooter much. Well, what now? You sure handled that one like a high school kid in the kip with his girl friend the first time. That was the man with the stuff, remember?”

  “I had to,” Ronald Frederick whispered. He cleared his throat, and his voice was firmer. “I had to. And get away from that gun.” He drew a long, shuddering breath. “Lock this door here. Come on. Move.”

  Johnny locked the door, and when Ronald Frederick motioned with the revolver, he moved back to the center of the room. For an instant it was quiet, and then the manager's head came around abruptly as they heard the door open at the far end of the bathroom and the unhurried tap-tap of high heels on the tile. Automatically the revolver swung over and lined up on the bathroom door before the little man remembered and realigned it on Johnny.

  Erika Muller appeared in the doorway and glanced first at Johnny, next at Ronald Frederick, and lastly at the body on the floor. Her expression had not changed at all from the time of her exit from the room. She crossed the room swiftly and looked down at the blond man, and only the tightly clenched hands betrayed any emotion. “Carl—” she said softly. “You poor, pitiful fool—”

  She turned away at last and looked at them, face and voice devoid of emotion. “Well, gentlemen?”

  Johnny looked at the still whitefaced manager, who attempted to pull himself together with a visible effort. The tip of his tongue circled his lips swiftly. “Ah... Frau Muller. You know why I am here?”

  “No.”

  “You know where the package is? The capsule?”

  “No.”

  He took a deep breath. Johnny realized that the little man had come back a long way; he was very nearly in control of himself again. “I think that you do. I think that you realize that the only thing I can afford to believe is that you know. The capsule, please? Where is it?”

  “I do not know.”

  He made an abrupt movement as the tension built up in him again and then pulled himself up. With a plainly deliberate effort he forced himself to speak slowly and calmly, but the perspiration stood out on his face in great, beaded drops. “I would recommend that you listen to me carefully, Frau Muller. We are more than likely all dead people in this room.” The revolver waved at Johnny. “This man, you, and more than likely myself before I can get away. That is realistic enough, surely? But I am not leaving w
ithout the capsule, is that clear? I am not leaving without it.”

  His voice rose; he struggled to hold himself together. “If you give me the capsule, I promise you a merciful exit from this world.” He glanced at the body on the floor. “As quick as his, but if you persist in this foolish denial then I shall have to hurt you badly, and you will tell me in time, anyway.”

  She swallowed visibly, but her voice was firm. “I do not know.”

  Color flooded back into the little man's features with the furious blood of anger, but again he took himself in hand. The revolver gesticulated at Johnny. “Stand back in that corner.” With a careful eye on the corner he approached the card table on which the remains of dinner still rested. With the revolver unwaveringly in one hand he worked awkwardly with the other as he turned over the unused wine glass and slopped it half full from the bottle. With quick, jerky movements he reached into an inside pocket and removed a small vial containing a colorless liquid. He had difficulty in dislodging the cap one-handed, but finally managed it and poured the contents into the half-filled glass of wine. He turned again to Erika Muller, and his voice was taut and explosive. “Frau Muller, the wine in this glass is now poisoned.”

  He picked up the glass from the card table, crossed the room to her side, and pressed it into her reluctant hand. She stared down at it fascinatedly, and Ronald Frederick—wiped impatiently with the back of his hand at the perspiration trickling from his brow. His voice was like a sword. “I will lock you in the other room, Frau Muller, and I will give you five minutes to make up your mind. When I open the door if you give me the capsule, I give you my word that you will never know the moment of departure. If I open the door and you still deny knowledge of its whereabouts, I will beat it out of you with the butt of this gun.”

  He paused to examine her rigid features. “There is a third possibility, of course. You really might not know. I believe that you do know, but there is that possibility. I've given you the poisoned wine because no one should die without hope. If you honestly don't know, then drink the wine, because it will afford you a better exit than I will, for I cannot permit myself to believe that you do not know.” He motioned to the bathroom. “Inside please.”