Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  Frank chuckled. “Then you approve the last papers we drew up?”

  “Look. It was my own attorney who presented them. I’m not paying that character for doodling on the margins.”

  “Good enough. I’ll call you back. Better hang around the hotel.”

  Marty shrugged and replaced the phone in its cradle. He doubted that anything new was going to take place, but remained in his rooms, anyway. Just before the dinner hour he answered a knock at the door. When he opened it George Stannard was standing in the hallway. He had evidently been playing golf all morning, as he was still wearing slacks and a sports jacket and there was a new touch of redness over his tanned skin. He came briskly into the room, a brief case tucked under his arm, and took the chair Marty indicated. He looked questioningly about the room and Marty realized what he wanted. He opened a mahogany liquor cabinet near the bedroom door and got out Scotch, soda, and glasses. He called room service and had a boy bring up a silver bucket of ice. He mixed two highballs, doubling the quantity of Scotch in George’s glass. George dropped his businesslike pose the moment the glass was in his hand. He raised it toward Marty and said, “Here’s to your luck.”

  Marty was tired and sagged into a chair opposite George and near the windows. He looked out over downtown San Francisco, dusk settling over the buildings like heavy soot. What, he wondered, does Happy Boy want?

  George raised his glass again, his lips twisted in a smile, eager lights dancing in his green eyes. “Well, Marty, how about drinking to your hotel?”

  Marty was too tired to be stirred. “My hotel?”

  George’s grin broadened. He put his glass aside, opened the brief case, extracted a bound sheaf of papers, and got up to drop them onto Marty’s lap. “There they are. I’m sure you will find everything in order. Your attorney helped draw up these finals a little while ago.”

  Marty sat up a bit straighter, but still not excited. “Is this it?”

  George returned to his chair and dropped into it with a heavy sigh, as if he had been working hard all day long. He even brushed a weary hand over his forehead. “Right. I’m here to pick up your check. The moment that’s deposited in the bank you own the hotel — or at least eighty per cent of it. Now, do you care to drink to it?”

  “Yeah.” Marty glanced quickly through the papers. He saw that they were exactly what he had been battling for and that they were all signed by the three Stannards. They lacked only his signature. He reached dazedly for his untouched glass. He raised it toward George, said, “Thanks,” and sipped slowly at the drink. He started to smile. “Yeah. This is it, all right.”

  George chuckled. “Pretty surprised, eh? But that’s the way we Stannards do things. We’re all alike that way. Once we make up our minds, that’s it. I don’t mind telling you, Marty, I was for you all the way. But, naturally, we have our own interests to consider, and besides, it has been a damned big deal.”

  Marty said generously, “I appreciate your attitude, George. And I’m grateful. Any time you want me to knock off — I mean, any time you want a favor from me, just yell.”

  “Don’t worry. I will. You’d be a handy man to have around when things got rough. Sometimes I get in spots like that.” He winked broadly. “You know.”

  “Sure. Good-looking fellow like you, with all your dough, the gals must give you plenty to worry about.”

  “Sometimes.”

  He looked into his empty glass and rattled the ice. Marty burst into a laugh. “For God’s sake, George, we aren’t wearing white ties. Help yourself.”

  George helped himself. He did all of the drinking and most of the talking. He affected the pose that he had been mainly responsible for the whole deal, but behind the scenes, of course. Marty knew that his father had sent him over to close it just to make him feel important, but he did not mind. He was having his own difficulties. He had to keep telling himself over and over that he now owned one of the nation’s famous hotels, even if it was in the red. It was still too big for him to grasp the accomplished fact. He was absorbing it, rather, by a process of osmosis, a drop at a time.

  George said, “I guess you’ll be doing a lot of celebrating tonight.” He added pointedly, “I kind of envy you.”

  Marty frowned and shook his head. “I hadn’t thought of it, George. It’s hard for me to think at all, let alone bust loose on a binge. I’m not much of a drinker, and I don’t really know anybody in town.”

  George laughed. “You could twist my arm, old boy.”

  Marty thought, Well, I’ll be damned. A Stannard, a gold-plated, diamond-encrusted, triple-dyed Stannard, wanting to do the town with me. If only some of the boys could see this!

  “That’s damned nice of you,” he said. “Kind of silly, a man going out on his own. And I guess this does call for some sort of celebration as soon as I get over the shock. But you know something? You’ll have a hard time believing this, but I don’t know one, single, solitary woman in this town to invite along. How do you like that?”

  George was already feeling his drinks and rocked with laughter. “I’ll take care of that. Just leave me at that phone, that’s all. Couple little numbers I got in mind.”

  George went into the bedroom and was busy with the telephone for a while. When he returned to the sitting room he told Marty, “We’re all set. Little doll named Leila White. She’s a chorus girl between engagements. You know, out of work. She’s getting a friend for you.”

  “When do we pick them up?”

  “Nine o’clock. That gives us a couple of hours. You change clothes and come along with me while I get out of these rags. Make it a tux.”

  Marty had a quick shower and dressed in the bedroom while George was helping himself to more Scotch. Marty’s tuxedo was a deep midnight blue, tailored in a small Beverly Hills shop that catered exclusively to movie stars. The tailor had more business than he could handle and had been reluctant to add to his clientele, but when Marty had peeled off his coat and the tailor had a closer look at his compact physique he had taken him on with pleasure. Marty had no infirmities to hide, so the suit had been designed to accent the squareness of his shoulders, the solid depth of his chest, and the slimness of his hips and long legs. With it he wore a soft shirt with turned-down collar, small garnet studs and links, a narrow maroon bow tie, and a matching initialed handkerchief. A Homburg and lightweight imported, hand-stitched camel’s-hair topcoat completed the ensemble.

  On virtually anyone else the perfection of the costume would have seemed slightly overdone, even ostentatious. Marty, however, carried it off well because of the ruggedness of his features and the obvious fact that the rippling under the expensive cloth was muscle, not padding. He surveyed himself in the long mirror, looking for traces of Red Martin. The only thing left was the terrible, urgent drive in his eyes. Otherwise, he looked as if he could be the owner of the Stannard Hotel. His back straightened another fraction as he rejoined George with a new assurance creeping into his being.

  As soon as Marty had written out a check, signed the Stannard contracts, and replaced four of them in George’s brief case, the two men left the hotel and took a taxi to George’s home. Whenever he had thought of George at all, which was rarely, Marty had pictured him living somewhere in an ultramodern apartment. He was surprised when the taxi stopped in the small circular driveway before the old Stannard mansion on Pacific Street. Aside from a few apartment houses, it was the largest building in the area. Originally it had been a bastard Greco-Victorian design, similar to other early architectural abortions, but had been “modernized” twenty-odd years before. It was a square, four-storied building of granite and marble, with tall, narrow windows along the first floor, each with a small artificial balcony. Every other window of the second floor was bayed out, even to a curve in the glass itself. It was situated on a corner, the grounds running a half block in either direction, where the hill fell away steeply, giving a sweeping panoramic view of the Golden Gate, the red bridge, and the soft Marin hills beyond.


  Marty’s eyebrows lifted as they got out of the cab and crossed the entrance portico to a brass-studded oak door at least four inches thick. George was pleased with his reaction. “Quite a pile, isn’t it?”

  “Very cozy. You could hire it out as an annex to the civic auditorium. Don’t you rattle around in here?”

  George unlocked the door and stepped aside to let Marty precede him into an enormous hallway paved with onyx marble and hung with original Florentine tapestries. A butler came leisurely toward them through an archway, but George halted him with a request. “Send up some ice cubes, Max.” They went up a wide, curved marble stairway to a second-floor landing larger than most apartments. George led the way down the hallway of the left wing. The carpeting was so thick that Marty felt he was sinking in to his ankles.

  As they walked George said, “I live here alone, except for the servants; cook, butler, and three maids to keep the place in order. Frank moved out when — well, when my mother died. Too many memories.”

  “Karen told me she died with her parents. Wasn’t it a boating accident?”

  “Yes. Lake Tahoe. Just one of those things. They were out fishing in a small boat when a storm blew up. Sometimes that lake can get worse than the ocean, and up in the mountains those storms can come up in a hurry. They were all drowned.” He paused, stared thoughtfully into space for a moment, then continued on down the long hallway. “I was pretty close to my mother. Wonderful woman. And she loved this old house. That’s one reason I stay in it.”

  “But your father won’t.”

  George paused to open a door and Marty walked into the oak-paneled sitting room of a spacious apartment. Heavy drapes hung over the tall windows. When George switched on the lights Marty swept his eyes about in a quick inspection of the room. It looked like the lounge of one of the better men’s clubs: tall, glass-doored bookcases, a heavy long table of oak piled high with magazines and bric-a-brac, a desk in one corner, thick wall-to-wall carpeting, deep leather chairs, a large brick fireplace, original oil paintings on the walls, and dozens of framed photographs everywhere, recording George’s history and that of his family. Marty was more impressed than he cared to admit even to himself. It was not the wealth represented in the room that got through to him, but rather the continuity it presented of a certain, secure aristocracy. Regardless of George’s shortcomings as an individual, he had but to walk into that house, into that room, and he took on stature. Marty frowned. He did not like it. It represented something he could never achieve, that would always be beyond him.

  George said, “No, Frank won’t stay here. He lives in a couple of junk-filled rooms at the University Club. He and Mother were nothing alike. I’m damned if I know how those two ever got together, but they were crazy about each other. When she died I almost lost the old man, too. He was practically in a coma for months. When he snapped out of it he became — well, you know how he is. All business. Nothing else counts.”

  “Wasn’t he always that way?”

  “No. That’s a recent development. Grand guy, though. You kind of like him yourself, don’t you?”

  Marty threw his topcoat over the back of a chair and lifted an old dueling pistol from a pair in a plush-lined box on the long table. He smiled as he examined the gun. Bad balance. No power. Inaccurate. A gun like that would be a liability. He wondered how anyone ever managed to get killed by one and doubted that they were ever as dangerous as tradition claimed.

  He ran his fingers along the carving of the gun barrel, but turned his head to look at George, who was watching him with a curious smile. “Sure, I like him. Rugged customer. But you know where you stand when you do business with a man like your father.”

  “You mean you do, because you’re just as cold-blooded as he is. Most people don’t know how to get along with him at all.” George nodded at the gun. “You know what that weapon is? The pair of them used to belong to Lafitte, the pirate.”

  Marty looked back at the gun with new interest. A pirate? The guy must have been a jerk. Give him a good, sawed-off shotgun and he would face a dozen guns like that.

  The butler came in with the ice and placed it on the table. He opened a cabinet and placed on the table a bottle of Scotch, soda, and some glasses. He left the room without a word being said. George mixed the drinks and took his own into the bedroom. The butler returned with some small logs and kindling, which he put in the fireplace. He touched a match, waited for the logs to catch hold, and again left the room with a nod at Marty. “Good night, sir.” Marty chuckled. Very smooth.

  George called to him after a while, so he went into the bedroom. It was almost as large as the sitting room, with its own fireplace, the same paneled walls, dozens of family photographs and comfortable furnishings. The only modern touch, other than a short-wave radio for picking up police calls and listening in on airport towers, was a huge, studio-type bed at least eight feet square. In that room, however, it did not seem overly large. Marty sat on the edge of the bed, watching George knot his tie and listening to him discourse on family history. Marty’s eyes swung to the open door of an enormous closet. It was packed with George’s clothes, but also contained women’s nightgowns, pajamas, negligees, and slippers.

  Marty laughed and said, “I see you’re well equipped.”

  George glanced at the closet and laughed with him. “Certainly. Any little thing their lovely hearts desire. There is also an ermine coat for special dates. Certain types can’t resist it, even if it is for an evening only.”

  “This place should be good sex bait.”

  “Oh, it is. My only trouble is getting rid of them later without damaging the bank account too severely.”

  “Yeah. But this is your father’s house. Doesn’t he squawk?”

  “Please, Marty. In the first place, he doesn’t give a damn, and in the second place, he hasn’t been in the house in years. When he has to entertain he uses Karen’s place. She has an apartment on Nob Hill.”

  Marty said casually, “She’s quite a gal.”

  George shrugged his arms into a loose-fitting jacket and turned toward Marty. His expression was serious. “She’s more than that. Too bad she’s my cousin. I was in love with her most of my life. She was never one of those knobby-kneed kids with braces on their teeth.”

  “Always beautiful?”

  “Always. She’s the real aristocrat of the family. Oddly enough,” he smiled, “she seems to like you. And I don’t get it. You aren’t her type at all.”

  Marty got to his feet with a laugh. “Maybe it’s because I’m so pretty, too.”

  “I think it’s because Frank says you remind him a little of Eli Stannard, our great-grandfather. He was the old boy who started things moving. For some reason or other, Karen has always cherished the old boy’s memory. If Frank says you’re a little like him, then Karen is bound to be interested in you.”

  Marty clicked his tongue against his teeth. “And I thought it was my beauty.”

  George laughed as he selected a topcoat and threw it over his arm. “Let’s get going. Leila and her friend should be ready by now.”

  George decided that, with a night of drinking before them, it would be wise not to drive, so he called a taxicab. They crossed town to the Mission district and stopped before an old apartment building on Valencia Street. George disappeared, to return a few minutes later with Leila. She explained breathlessly that they could pick up her friend at a downtown hotel and settled back in the seat between Marty and George. She had red hair as artificial as Marty’s had been and was rather petite, with tiny hands and feet, delicate features, and wide, staring eyes. She was so nearsighted that she had almost to rub noses with Marty to know what he looked like. He was astonished by her large breasts, out of all proportion to her tiny size. He thought they were as artificial as her hair, until she threw her coat back, revealing bare shoulders, a low-cut gown, and the obvious fact that she was not even wearing a bra. Marty chuckled quietly to himself. George was evidently going to have a pleasant evening.r />
  When the cab stopped before a Geary Street hotel, Leila went in to get her friend. Marty and George stood on the sidewalk, waiting for her. Marty took a cigarette case from his pocket, saw that it was empty, and walked to a corner drugstore to buy a fresh package. An elderly woman was haggling with the druggist about the price of some article, so Marty had to wait. It was ten minutes before the druggist could get around to him. Marty ripped open the package, filled his case, and hurried back to the cab. George, Leila, and her friend were already inside. He slid onto a drop seat and slammed the door as the taxi pulled away from the curb.

  He turned to look at Leila’s blonde friend, who was frowning and regarding him curiously, and his body was suddenly numb and cold with shock. Leila was saying, “And this is Mr. Marty Lee, Dotty. Mr. Lee, I would like you to meet Dotty Kimball.”

  Dotty placed a hand in his and leaned forward to appraise him more closely. Marty wanted to run, to hide, to disappear, but he was trapped. He thought wildly of making some quick excuse and getting out of the cab, but knew that was no good. There was no possible way out of the situation. He would have to bluff his way through it and knew that was no good, either. Sooner or later, probably very soon, Dotty would recognize him. She could not fail. They had been too intimate for her not to recognize him, in spite of his changed appearance.

  George was watching them curiously, aware of Marty’s tension and Dotty’s close scrutiny. “Have you two met before?”

  Dotty shook her head, still frowning, her expression puzzled. “I don’t know. Somehow — I can’t figure it out — you seem familiar to me, Mr. Lee.”

  Marty was afraid his voice would give him away. It was one thing he could not alter, but he had to say something. “Possibly the little Club? I heard you singing there not long ago. But I don’t remember meeting you. Maybe you just saw me at one of the tables.”