Deep Is the Pit
H. Vernor Dixon
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Also Available
Copyright
Chapter One
NIGHTS he had lain sleepless in narrow berths listening to the cry of steel on steel and the sharp whistles of the trains crossing the vast reaches of America’s prairies. Days he had spent in the mountains and the deserts and the concrete canyons of the cities. Times he had stood quietly at the rails looking down into the deep surge of the oceans and feeling the beat of the propellers up through the soles of his feet to end tingling in his spine. Years upon years were in him of time in hotel lobbies, at cigar counters, in cocktail rooms and saloons, gilt-mirrored restaurants and short-order lunch rooms, the movies and theatres and operas, busses and streetcars, taxis, limousines, airliners, and the boardinghouses, inns, resorts, motor courts, and lodges of America. He had walked clear-eyed through growing yellow corn and slept off a hangover in a skyscraper penthouse. He had lifted a child with a skinned knee to wipe his tears and the same day had murdered a man without anger. He was the product of his dreams and his desires and all he had seen and felt and all that had happened to him and the women he had had and the men he had known and what he wanted out of life and his own manner of achieving it. He was a unit, a total sum, the smoothly polished end result of a personal production chain. He was complete.
Marty Lee knew exactly where he stood in his scheme of things and exactly where he was going. His schedule called for one more bank job and that would be the last. Nothing could have forced him to change it.
He had planned that they would be inside the bank no more than one minute. The “shock treatment,” he called it. Get in and get out before anyone had a chance to recover. Joe, the driver, young, excited and alternately hot and cold with fear, double-parked the stolen car and kept the engine running. Marty and Hank crossed the sidewalk and entered the bank promptly at ten-fifteen. They went in fast, but not so fast as to arouse interest. No one paid any attention to them until they were inside. A few people were in line before the tellers’ cages on the left. Bookkeepers and a statements clerk were busy at the far end. The bank executives were at their desks on the right, going through the morning mail. There was no guard.
Hank stood just to the side of the main entrance, his sawed-off shotgun giving authority to his crisp announcement, “This is a stick-up, folks. Don’t go getting excited and nobody’ll get hurt. Don’t move.” Marty cradled his own shotgun under his arm, vaulted lightly over a counter, and proceeded to fill the canvas bags he had brought along with the money made ready to meet an insurance-company payroll. No one made a move to stop him. Nothing went wrong. Three weeks of detailed and concentrated planning paid off. It was the one technique Marty had discovered to be infallible: thoroughness in the planning and speed in execution.
They were out of the bank a few seconds after ten-sixteen.
Hank got in the front seat of the car with Joe, and Marty slid onto the back seat just as the burglar alarm began clanging on the front of the bank. Marty grinned and yelled at Joe, “Get rolling, kid.” Joe had been a hotrod driver ever since his legs had been long enough to reach the pedals. He spun the car around the corner, went through gears, and dropped a heavy foot on the accelerator. He went through two red lights, then turned onto Pine Street, an arterial boulevard. Traffic was light at that hour of the morning and little of it was going their way, which was out of the business district. In less than two minutes they had traveled a mile and a half from the bank. There were no sirens following.
The hard knot in Marty’s stomach gradually loosened and disappeared. He leaned forward, squeezed his gloved fingers into Joe’s shoulders and told him to slow down. He twisted about, with one knee on the seat, and turned his attention to the canvas bags. As Joe weaved through the San Francisco streets, Marty counted the money. At the end he was grinning broadly. One hundred and thirty-eight thousand dollars. Not bad, he thought. Not bad at all. But good planning would do it every time. It always had.
Joe brought the car to a halt near Kezar Stadium. Hank and Marty looked cautiously up and down the street, saw that no one was paying any attention to them, and jumped out and slammed the doors. Joe stepped on the gas and in a moment had disappeared. Marty and Hank crossed the street to an old third-class apartment house, unlocked one in a long row of garage doors, and went inside. They got into Hank’s automobile, a flashy convertible he had bought the week before, and dumped the money on the seat. Tension drained out of Hank and he started to smile. He burst into loud laughter when Marty told him what their haul had been.
Hank wiped the tears of laughter from his eyes and slapped Marty on the knee. “I told Joe we’d clean up if we strung along with you. You know how to get things done. And no trouble. For a second there I thought maybe that old babe just inside the door would start screaming, but she didn’t peep.”
Marty nodded. “It happened too fast for her. That’s the way you have to do it. Fast. Give them time to get over that initial shock and trouble starts. Someone gets the idea he’d like to be a hero, and blooie — all hell breaks loose.”
“Yeah. I seen it that way.”
“Now, how about Joe?”
“Don’t worry about that kid. He gets scared and excited, sure, but he don’t lose his head. He’ll ditch the car in Golden Gate Park, near the museum. He’s got some sponges and there’s a water tap he can use to wash down the inside of the car. Joe’s careful that way.” A nervous reaction twitched the muscles at the corners of his mouth. He wiped perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Yeah, the kid’s all right.”
Marty’s eyes narrowed as he watched Hank. The other man could go to pieces if he didn’t have something to do. Marty shoved the money toward him. “Better make your own count.”
Hank blew out a deep breath of air, rubbed his hands over his face, then counted the money. He gave 10 per cent to Marty for having instigated the job and planned it, then divided the balance three ways. Marty placed his share in a brief case he had planted in the car.
Hank slid a hand into the inside pocket of his coat, then quickly investigated all his pockets. He glanced at Marty with a puzzled frown. “You got my cigarette case?”
“Your what?”
“That case of mine, the flat gold one with that funny blue peacock on it. You got it?”
“No.”
“That’s funny. I was using it just — ” He paused and swallowed hard and sudden fear was in his eyes. He said dully, “I remember now. For some damn-fool reason, I had it in my hand when we went into the bank. You know the case.”
“Yes, I know it well. Joe bought it for you.”
“Yeah. I dropped it. I remember dropping something just when I lifted the gun. That was it. God, Red, it’s in the bank. What the hell do I do about that?”
Marty hid a smile. They were all alike. Stupid jerks. They would never learn, and so the penitentiaries were full of them. You could tell them over and over again never to take anything on a job except the tools needed, and every time they would have something that if lost could possibly be traced to them. Naturally, too, the case would have Hank’s fingerprints, and within a few hours the police would know the
identity of at least one of the men.
Marty got out of the car, tucked the brief case under his arm, and looked back in at Hank. “Tough luck, boy. You know the score. Now you can’t move the way you wanted.”
“Maybe nobody’ll think to connect the case — ”
“Look, Hank. In this business you always have to assume the worst. Think that way. So listen to me. Where were you going from here?”
“Seattle. I was gonna drive up. Joe’s going down to L.A., but he’ll meet me in Chicago next month.”
“O.K. Do you owe anything on this car?”
“I paid cash for it.”
“Good. As soon as you give Joe his money, take this car to a secondhand lot and sell it right away.”
“Jees,” he whined, “I’ll lose dough.”
“That’s better than losing ten years. Get rid of the car and don’t wait until the alarm goes out. Take a bus to Stockton and another bus from there to Sacramento. Take a train from there to Portland and from there go to Seattle on another bus. Maybe from there you can fly back to Chicago, though I wouldn’t use an airliner myself. Not enough people.”
Marty had done his thinking for him, so the fear faded from Hank’s eyes. He scratched his head nervously and squinted at Marty. “You don’t figure in there nowhere.”
Marty chuckled. “This is where I get off, Hank. This is where we go our separate ways.”
“Hey, you can’t run out on us. You gotta wait for Joe.”
“No dice. We’ve been together long enough. You can pay off Joe. I’m leaving now.”
“Aw, now, what the hell. Only one job together? Jees, the way you handle things, we can turn over dozens. How’ll we ever get with you again?”
Marty shook his head, his lips pulled into a thin line. “I never operate that way, Hank. You won’t see me again. I never use the same men a second time. That’s why I’ve never been picked up and why I don’t have a record. No one knows anything about me except that I’m Red Martin. And I’ll tell you something about that. There is no Red Martin. And there isn’t going to be — again.”
“You’re nuts. But if that’s the way you want it — ”
“Tell Joe good-by for me.”
“Yeah. Be seeing you, Red.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Marty opened the garage door a crack and looked up and down the street. The few people in sight were not looking in his direction. He looked back at Hank and thoughtfully appraised the convertible. He had been in the car only once before, that same morning, and had also been wearing gloves at that time. There was no danger of fingerprints. The car was safe for him.
He waved to Hank, stepped outside, and closed the door. He walked briskly down the street and around the corner, the brief case under his arm, appearing possibly to be a bill collector, an insurance agent, or a small business man of some kind. At that time, at the end of that job, there was little about him that placed him apart, except a red mustache and flaming red hair. He was a fraction over six feet tall, slim, yet powerfully built about the shoulders and chest. He wore an ordinary double-breasted gray suit, black shoes, and a snap-brim hat cocked on one side of his head. Even his tie was conservative. But for the red hair, no one would ever give him a second glance. Red Martin’s appearance was ordinary. Marty Lee, however, was an altogether different person.
He walked in the sun until he had reached Stanyan, then turned onto Haight Street, a middle-class business section of small stores, shops, bars, cheap restaurants, apartments, and rooming houses. A few blocks down the street he went up a narrow stairway to a small rooming house situated above a delicatessen. There was no one on the landing. He went down the gloomy hallway smelling of food and sweat and dust and mildew, unlocked a door at the rear of the building, and stepped into his own room.
The room was flooded with sun from two windows, but otherwise was grimy and run down. There was a sagging bed, a bureau, two chairs, a worn-out rug, a chipped-tile bathroom, magazines scattered about, a portable radio, and a suitcase on one of the chairs. Marty had taken the room for one month. This was the last day of that month.
Tacked on the wall above the bed was a pin-up portrait of a fleshy nude. On the edge of the bed was seated a woman who, though fully clothed, seemed more naked than the nude. She was leaning on one elbow, idly looking through a magazine, her long, slim legs crossed and her dress pulled up to reveal a bit of gleaming thigh. A lightweight cloth coat was thrown back off her shoulders. The neckline of her dress was so deep that, in the position she had assumed, one breast was almost wholly exposed. Every curve of her unusually good figure was tightly molded in the clinging dress. Her hair was thick, glossy, and blonde, rolled under at shoulder length. There were faint shadows under her eyes and a suggestion of hardness about her mouth, but the composition of her features was strikingly attractive: large, well-spaced eyes, a thin, rather high-bridged nose, well-rounded chin, and a large, generous mouth shaped for love and laughter. Her clothes were on the flashy side, designed strictly to arouse interest, but not too badly overdone. She appeared to be what she was, a night-club performer who had not yet made the grade.
She smiled lazily at Marty and gave him a casual wave of her hand. Then she yawned and sighed and complained, “Where have you been, darling?”
Marty’s face flushed with annoyance that was close to anger. He crossed the room, placed his hat and brief case on the bureau, and turned to face the blonde. She raised a questioning eyebrow as he pulled the gloves from his hands.
“Gloves? You wear gloves on a warm day like this?”
Marty slapped the gloves down on the bureau and took two quick steps to stand before her, looking down into her eyes. “How the hell did you get in here?”
“Why, darling, your landlady let me in, of course.”
“I’ve told you never to come to this place. You know damned well I always meet you at your hotel. What’s the idea?”
She rolled to her back and clasped her hands behind her head. Marty looked down at the lush curves of her body, but his annoyance continued to grow. She read the storm signals in his face, but her eyes were unperturbed.
“I was just about to ask you the same thing. That’s why I’m here. I think you’re walking out on me.”
“Oh, hell!”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, sweetheart. I know the signs. You pick me up down in L.A. two months ago when I’m out of work and broke. You bring me up here and install me in a fairly nice hotel, but you take this room in a fourth-rate joint. O.K. That’s your business. Yesterday I learn you’ve paid for my room in the hotel for another month in advance. Also you pay a hundred-dollar credit for me in the coffee shop. That’s very nice, it’s wonderful, it’s generous, but I get suspicious. So I come over here and your landlady tells me this is the last day you have this room, though you say nothing about it to me. It adds up.” She raised her hands before her face, palms out, and studied the brilliant red coating of the long fingernails. “Doesn’t it?”
Marty returned to the bureau to stand with his back to the blonde. He opened his coat, drew a .38 revolver from under his belt, and slipped it into the brief case. He pulled off his coat and draped it over a chair. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after eleven. There was a margin of two hours and that was plenty of time for the few odds and ends yet remaining to be done. His shoulders loosened and he relaxed.
He dropped to the bed at the blonde’s side, propped himself on an elbow, and ran his free hand under her blouse. “Yes,” he said, “it adds up. Sorry, kid, but that’s the way it is. I’m pulling out.”
She bit her lip, then shrugged. “Well, it’s been fun being with you, Red.”
“I’ve enjoyed it, too.”
“You never promised anything.”
“No.”
“You told me it wouldn’t last.”
“It couldn’t.”
“But why?” she cried. “Why not? We go well together. Sometimes I think you’re the mos
t ruthless person I’ve ever met, but we get along and I like the way — ”
“Let it go, Dotty. It’s no good and I can’t explain. I’m leaving.”
“Have I done — ”
“No, no. It isn’t you. It’s something else, something that started a long time ago, and now it has to come to an end so something else can get under way. You aren’t in it. There’s no way you can be in it.” He pressed his lips down on hers and his hand explored her breasts and the softness and warmth of her thighs.
“Red — ”
“Be quiet.”
“Please, Red, not now.”
“Just lie still, baby.”
She made a move as if to squirm away, but was suddenly in his arms with a passion that was as intense and wild and abandoned as Marty’s. There was no gentleness in their love-making. It was pure animalism, with no thought other than the satisfaction of self. Yet, because the chemistry of their natures was so similar, they gave without meaning to give and managed to achieve rapport in mutual crisis. They parted, not through a lessening of desire, but only when they were completely sated and exhausted.
Later, Marty sat on the edge of the bed and watched her as she wearily combed her hair before the cracked mirror above the bureau. She shrugged her shoulders into the cloth coat and turned to face him. “I’ll be going now, Red.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll miss you.”
“Same here. Got any plans?”
“Oh, you know, the usual. I still think I’ll see Dotty Kimball in lights a mile high. I really am good, Red. Honest. My voice stacks up with the best. Just all the wrong breaks so far.”
He smiled, more to himself than for Dotty’s benefit “You’ll get there. Why don’t you try New York?”
She laughed wryly and rubbed her fingertips together in the age-old gesture of money. Marty frowned and looked away from her, momentarily thoughtful. New York. That might not be a bad idea. That would place the whole country between them. It would be worth the investment. He got to his feet and opened the suitcase. He took out a bulging wallet, counted out ten one-hundred dollar bills, and handed them to Dotty. “O.K., go ahead and try it. You and New York should get along.”
Deep is the Pit Page 1