A Ticket to Hell

by Harry Whittington

  “Oh, my God. Oh, God.”

  “Yes. It isn’t pretty. That’s why I can see it so clearly. It’s my eternal view on life. I always get to see the ugly side of everything.”

  His voice was so bitter that she looked up, seeing him as a person for the first time.

  He laughed. “Never mind me. Let’s talk about why your husband tried to kill you. First, it wasn’t just that he wanted you dead, wanted to be rid of you. You’ve already hinted that he wanted something.”

  “Money.”

  “Ah, yes. Money. You have money. Pretty Boy doesn’t. He couldn’t get his hands on enough of it, quickly enough, so he wanted you to die. Am I right so far?”

  She lowered her head, nodding.

  “So, that rules out any crimes of passion with Martin. He wants you to die, but he doesn’t want it messy. He wants to get away with it. He wants to get all your money. There’s just one thing—if your father hates Martin so terribly, how does he expect to collect, even if you’re dead? Looks like Father would see he never got a dime.”

  “Inheritance.” She whispered it. “Oh, I see now. How right Father was, how wrong I was—and what a fool. I see what Martin has wanted all along. I was bitter against Father. I wanted to show him. I wanted to prove to him how much I loved Martin and how much Martin loved me. Mother had left me half a million dollars. I made a will, leaving all of it to Martin.”

  “Was that Martin’s idea? Or yours?”

  Her mouth twisted. “I know now. It was Martin’s idea. At the time, it sounded like mine. I remember Martin kept telling me I didn’t have to do it.”

  “And all the time leading you to the lawyer’s office?”

  “I suppose so. Yes. It doesn’t leave me very much, does it?”

  “It leaves you lucky to be alive. And it brings us right back to whether Martin would try to kill you. Looks to me like he’s got to have a plan that looks clever—at least to him—since I could point out at least twenty points in his last plan that weren’t clever at all. For instance, did you leave Martin any insurance?”

  “No.”

  “He wouldn’t let you? Well, he was smart enough to stay away from the insurance angle, anyhow. So it looks like the surest way for you to stay alive is to get back to your lawyers and change your will again. Leave your money to a home for needy cats.”

  “But how will I get there? What will I do?”

  “It’s easy. Get in touch with Father. Move out of here. Leave no address. Wire your lawyer. Tell him to kill that will, as of this minute. Run.”

  “But I would be alone.”

  “That happens.”

  She burst into tears. “But I can’t stand to be alone. I was always so lonely. I married Martin because I was so alone. I can’t stand to be lonely.” Her voice hardened. “I may as well tell you the truth. I knew all along I was wrong. I knew from the first. Martin never loved anyone but himself. But I couldn’t stand to be alone. I had nobody but Martin. You know what I thought? I thought if I did everything Martin wanted, everything he asked, he’d love me—and never leave me.”

  “Well, now you know.”

  “Yes. Now I know.”

  “You’re wasting time. Get over there, get some clothes and clear out.”

  She shook her head. “I’m afraid. Please. In the name of God. I’ll pay you anything—”

  “I’m not as pretty as Martin. I don’t put a cash value on myself.”

  “Oh, God. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. But—what else have I got but money.”

  Ric smiled. His voice softened. “Look. You’re low now. But what the hell? Just because a foul ball couldn’t see you for the money. Plenty of guys would take you if you didn’t have a dime—”

  “Then let me stay with you. Just for a little while. Just until Martin comes back—and goes away. Please. I’ll do anything if you’ll let me stay with you.”

  Ric exhaled heavily, shrugged his coat up on his shoulders. He shook his head, his voice was cold and final.

  “I’m sorry. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t let you stay here.”

  “You’ve got to help me. In God’s name, I’m in trouble.”

  “Honey, you can pick up that phone, call Papa and all your troubles will be over. You don’t know anything about trouble. I’m telling you real nice—but for the last time. Get out.”

  He picked up her housecoat, felt the soft rich texture of it for a moment, then he wadded it up and tossed it into her lap.

  Chapter Seven

  She clutched the housecoat in her hand and moved slightly on the bed.

  He thought she was going to leave. She was clinging to the housecoat as though it offered some strength, as though it were a boulder or a straw.

  There was no sound. In the distance he could hear the faint swish of tires as cars raced by on the highway. She remained on his bed, barely breathing, staring at him.

  He turned and walked toward the door. A single sob escaped her mouth. He turned and looked at her.

  It was a mistake to look at her, because when he looked at her he had to see her eyes—her frightened and desolate eyes.

  “Look,” he said. “I know how you feel.”

  “The hell you do.”

  “I know how you feel. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing—not even if I wanted to.”

  He had felt lost and alone many times in his life. There was never a moment he could remember when it wasn’t a struggle to exist, a lonely struggle. But for the first time he was looking at someone else who was lost.

  “It’s not as though you are alone. Nothing stands between you and safety except your pride. Call your father.”

  “If he helped me—he couldn’t keep Martin away from me.”

  “What makes you think I can?”

  She didn’t answer that. She stared at the housecoat clutched in her fist.

  “And he’s so far away. There’s a chance he would think I was drinking—he might not believe me. Don’t you see how it is? Father and I have been separated a long time. Three years—by Martin. I’ve stood against Father with Martin on every score. Father was hurt and bitter. Suddenly, I call and tell him Martin is trying to kill me—”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “And Father would either have Martin hunted down and killed, or he’d tell me—” she did not finish it.

  “You made your bed.”

  She slumped there. “It’s a chance I’m afraid to take.”

  “Hell, you’re still not alone. Call the State Police. Tell them what Martin did to you.”

  She shook her head. “You can help me. I look at you and I know it. You’re not afraid. You’re big and you’ve never been afraid.”

  His mouth twisted, but he did not set her straight.

  “That’s out. I told you. Even I wanted to, it’s still out. I don’t even want you found in here. I’ve all the trouble I can take.”

  “If you’ll help me, get me out of here, get me to my father and help me explain it all to him, I’ll make him help you— no matter what it is.”

  He smiled, shook his head. “I don’t know who your father is. But he can’t help me.”

  Her mouth trembled. Her eyes were blurred with tears. “Why did you pull me out of that room?”

  He breathed heavily, then answered softly. “I thought you were too pretty to die.”

  She looked at the housecoat, at her wrinkled skirt and at her loosely buttoned shirt.

  “Did you think I was pretty?” She lifted her head.

  She stared up at him, her breasts pressing against the fabric of her shirt, forming there and then fading slightly. He could not pull his gaze away. The tears dried in her eyes and something else replaced them. Her voice was very low. “You liked to look at me,” she said.

  She leaned back, straightening her shoulders, her breasts pulling taut. Her lips parted slightly. He saw in her what he had seen in the afternoon when she’d lain beside the pool. There was the same firm, soft-texture
d beauty and something else that went deeper—the hungry and unsatisfied part of her that Handsome had never plumbed, never reached, never even known. What a woman she would be for the man who really woke her up. He had thought a lot about dying before, because he lived precariously with death at his shoulder. But this was the pleasantest way he could imagine to die.

  “Look at me,” she whispered. “Look at me. Nobody’s ever had me—nobody but Martin.”

  His eyes touched the bold stare. He smiled. “Oh, you’re practically factory-fresh all right.”

  “You know I am. Don’t you?”

  He waited.

  “You looked at me. You dressed me, and you touched me—and you wanted me.”

  She sprang forward from the bed. She came off it so the springs sighed, and her feet touched the carpet. She threw herself against him.

  Her face was turned up against his face. He felt the warmth of her breath against his chin, against his mouth.

  “You like me? You like my body? You liked looking at it. Did you like to touch my body?”

  The sounds outside the room were gone, and all the memories and plans he had brought into it with him were gone. There was nothing but her body pressing against his body, the way her legs trembled as though she could hardly stand straight.

  “Touch me. Touch my breasts. Hold them. You can touch them. You can hold them. You can do anything to me. Anything.”

  His hands closed on her waist. His fingers almost met. He felt a pulse throb at the base of his throat. He thought about her lying on the edge of the pool, lying on his bed, the way she would lie there now, the way she would open her arms and give herself to him, the way he would take her.

  “You can have anything you want. Anything. You know you can.”

  It was as though she had thrown a handful of cold water from the pool into his face. He wanted her no less. He could not remember when he’d wanted a woman so terribly. She was offering him her body, but it was on a cash value.

  He stepped back from her. “You’ve got your clothes on,” he said. “You’d better get out of here. I might tear them off you.”

  She swayed toward him. “I want you to.”

  His voice was cold. “If I did, I’d have you and I still wouldn’t help you. It’s nice merchandise you’re offering to sell. I’m just not buying.”

  Something flared in her eyes, but quickly died. She was fighting for her life, and there was no time for anger. But she was smart enough to see she could not buy him.

  Her shoulders sagged. She looked around, not knowing where to go.

  “I told you what to do. Call the State Police. Tell them what Martin did. They’ll pick him up. You’ll be safe.”

  Her mouth twisted. She looked at him coldly. “It doesn’t matter to you.”

  “You’ll be safe.”

  “Will I? You think I don’t know Martin is too smart, too charming, too smooth, too clever for me. He’s too gifted a liar. He’d have them laughing at me. Even if—she paused. “Even if you were my witness.”

  He stopped her. “I can’t be a witness. No matter what happens I can’t be a witness. I’ll swear I didn’t see a thing. I’d have to—if I appear, and I wouldn’t appear. I couldn’t.”

  Eyes brimming, she looked at him, looked about the room. She spread her hands, completely lost and alone. “You see?” she said. “You see how it is?”

  Chapter Eight

  Ric walked to the window, glanced through a slit he made in the blinds. People sat in the lounge chairs out there, talking and laughing. They were enjoying the only part of the desert night that was going to be bearable. Earlier it was hotter than hell, later it would be colder than the inside of an iceberg.

  “You can’t stay here,” he said. He did not look at her again. “There are people around. Too many people. Pretty Boy wouldn’t try anything.”

  Her bitter laugh was the only answer.

  “All right. He tried to kill you. You’ve got to face that. But maybe he doesn’t intend to come back. Maybe he thinks it would be cleverer to let the maid find you.”

  He knew that she shivered, but he did not look at her.

  “He’s tried to kill you once. Not very likely he’ll fool around here any more.”

  “You don’t believe that. You know better.”

  He exhaled. “He was fool enough to try to kill you. Maybe he’s smart enough to stay away.”

  Her bitter laugh clawed at him. “Anyhow, you’re too busy. If you were going to let him kill me, why didn’t you just leave me over there the first time?”

  He spun around. “God almighty. I didn’t know I’d have to adopt you.”

  She stared at him. Her lips were taut and her face starkly white. It was clear enough that she wanted to tell him where to go. She wanted to walk out and take her chances and spit on him. But she couldn’t do it yet; the shock was too real, too near, the danger too close. She wanted to walk out on him but she couldn’t walk at all.

  He watched the people along the walk across the lighted court. They were sprawled in the cool night air, letting it eat the heat that had stored in them all day.

  He released the blind, turned around.

  The telephone rang and the sound was like something hurled into their faces. The girl cringed away from it on the bed and for a moment Ric stared at the instrument numbly. This was it. He could stop fooling around. It didn’t matter what in hell happened to her, she had to get out now. For him, she and her woes no longer existed.

  The phone rang again before he could reach it.

  He felt his face creased with a frown, pulled taut. He stared at the girl on the bed, but didn’t really see her. His hand gripped the receiver so tightly sweat squeezed from his palms.

  He said, “Hello.”

  There was a hum, the sound of tension that went all through him, making him part of the phone, part of the wires. The line was open.

  “Hello.”

  What hellish kind of game was this now? What they did to his nerves could not be important to them. How could they know they were connected with him? They didn’t know the sound of his voice.

  “Hello. Hello.”

  He remembered then. The call would come through the switchboard at the front office. They could call and ask to be connected to Mr. Ric Durazo’s room. Sure. And when he answered, they didn’t have to recognize his voice. They would know all they needed to know at the moment. He was there, waiting.

  “Hello.”

  There was the soft click as though the receiver at the other end of the line had been replaced quietly, the caller satisfied. He went on standing there with the phone buzzing in his ear and then at last dropped it back in its cradle.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Ric’s head jerked up and he looked at her as though surprised to see her still in his room.

  “There’s nothing the matter.”

  A frown line indented her forehead between her eyebrows. She tried to keep her voice light.

  “You sweat like that every time your phone rings?”

  He hardly heard her. He glanced at the phone, slowly drew the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Who are you?” Her voice was soft, faintly worried. “Something is wrong. Tell me.”

  “You ain’t got your own woes?”

  “What’s the matter?”

  His voice sharpened.

  “You run a lonely-hearts forum?”

  “I don’t run anything. You should see your face.”

  “Listen, baby. If you’d get out of here, you wouldn’t have to see my face. And I wouldn’t have to listen to you.”

  “I only want to help, if I can.”

  “You can. You can get out.”

  She caught her underlip between her teeth, staring at him. After a long time, she pushed herself up from the bed.

  He stood tensely, watching her, thinking about that phone call.

  She staggered slightly, walking toward the door. From the court he heard a sudden burst of laug
hter, and nearer, the uneven way she breathed. He did not move.

  She was still as unsteady on her feet as she had been when she threw herself against him. He was afraid her knees would buckle under her.

  She opened the door, dragging her housecoat behind her. The sounds of subdued laughter and talk flooded into the room.

  She did not close the door after her. She left it ajar and walked in that benumbed way across the grass court. He stood there watching her.

  She stopped outside her door. She reached for her door knob. For a moment she could not force herself to touch it. He saw her shoulders move in a shudder.

  He strode to the door and closed it. The sound of the lock clicking was loud and final.

  Chapter Nine

  He had closed the door but the tension remained in the room like the air in an electric storm. It had been bad enough with her in the room. It was worse alone with the phone.

  He paced the room, stopping beside the window. He wanted to open the blinds, but instead he jerked the cord, shutting them tighter. The sounds, whatever else happened out there, were of no concern to him. That girl meant no more to him than any other of the women stopping overnight in the motel.

  He tried to sit down, but could not stay in the chair. He kept thinking about her lying on the bed, her arms spread, her legs parted, soft and golden and shadowed. Fine. Drive yourself nuts now about a woman you’ll never have. They’re the only kind who ever really charm you, eh, Durazo? You simple-minded bastard.

  He walked back and forth before the telephone, unable to escape himself or his thoughts. Funny, a woman like the Davis bag could shake them all day; offer everything she had, a quick roll, quickly forgotten, but he could throw her out. What was the matter with him? Why didn’t he pick up that phone and call Peggy? The old man waited until the sun went down and then he ran into town to shoot pool— probably the only rest the poor devil got. No wonder he never got out of that padded wicker chair. And there she was, her lips damp and her eyes naked—and he couldn’t make himself care.

  The phone rang again.

  The breath exhaled from him in a long sigh. This was what he needed; the long drive out here, the endless cups of coffee, the building tension, had tired him. Now his body craved action.