Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  “Is he moving in?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “You got a marriage license in mind?”

  She snapped at him, “So what’s wrong with that? You made it.”

  “There’s plenty wrong. I know a little about George. When he marries it’s going to be some doll who’s been raised on his own side of the fence. Until then, sure, he’ll play around. He might even fall in love with you. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. But he won’t marry you.”

  “I still say, you made it.”

  Marty was exasperated. “Goddamn it, you little nitwit, there’s a difference. Not just between you and me. Between George and Karen. She knows I’m out of another world. It makes no difference to her. She has guts and knows what she wants. George is a weakling. In spite of his position and all his dough, he feels insecure. You would make him feel even more so. He would always worry about how you would be accepted. You see what I mean? So he has to marry someone in his own set. No worries. No adding to that feeling of insecurity. That’s the way it will be.”

  She cocked her head to one side and stared at him thoughtfully through narrowed lids. “Marty, why did you come here tonight?”

  He got to his feet and paced the floor before the bed. After a moment he shrugged. “No particular reason.”

  “You never do anything without a reason. It isn’t sex. You haven’t made a move.”

  “I don’t intend to.”

  “Got religion?”

  “Call it that.”

  “She must be some gal. But I’ll tell you why you’re here. You got worried a little. About me. About what I could do to that beautiful marriage. This is a funny hour for you to be out right after you get back. Where are you supposed to be?”

  “At the hotel.”

  “You’re more worried than I thought. Marty,” she smiled, “you and I could use a little talk.” She threw back the covers, swung out of bed, and stepped into some slippers. She took a lacy negligee from the closet, pulled it over her shoulders, and belted it about her waist. “Let’s go out in the kitchen.”

  Marty sat at the table while she scrambled eggs and boiled some coffee for him. As he ate she sat opposite him with a collection of ice, a bottle of gin, limes, and quinine water. Her idea of a tonic and gin was mostly gin.

  “Darling,” she said, “you remember opening night at Chez Rouge, that brush-off I got? I’ve been brushed off before, God knows, by experts, but that night it hurt. I didn’t mind that Stone babe so much. Later I figured what she was after. But I did mind George just standing back and not doing anything about it. I thought he was a friend, or at least a gentleman. So I made up my mind to get even with him and make him sweat sometime. From then on I let him make a big play and think he was getting away with it. He didn’t. He really sweated. That guy suffered.”

  Marty looked across at the outlines of her body and grunted, “No doubt.”

  “Then I got tired of it. It wasn’t really much satisfaction. Kind of a negative thing. Know what I mean? But all of a sudden you marry a Stannard.”

  “And that gave you ideas.”

  “Plenty. It could be done. Here you are, a gunman, a bank robber, a killer — ”

  Marty snapped erect and gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white. “You crazy woman! I’ve warned you before — ”

  She rested her forearms on the table and looked levelly into his eyes. “Let me tell you something, darling. You don’t scare me at all any more. You make one wrong pass at me and I guarantee you’ll be behind bars before you know what happened. Do we understand each other?”

  Marty continued glaring at her with murder in his eyes for a long while, but at last began to relax. There was no real danger. “Watch what you’re saying,” he growled. “You can’t be too careful.”

  Her lids closed almost all the way to hide a smile of triumph. “Anyway, it can be done, so I get thinking about Georgie and we get a little closer than we have been.”

  “You’re stupid. You’re going about it the wrong way.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no. You don’t know how badly that boy’s sexual education has been neglected.”

  Marty stared at her, then burst into a hearty laugh. “Now, wait a minute. Not George. Why, he’s been playing around for so long — ”

  “You know, darling, you’re like all men. Quantity. That’s the big thing. Leave me let you in on a little secret. It’s quality that counts. Strictly quality. It’s not how many you do it with, but how it’s done. You — well, you’re kind of a natural. That’s rare, though. Georgie is not a natural. He’s a babe in the woods. He thought he knew all the answers. He knew from nothing. But he’s learning, and he’s slap-happy about it.”

  Marty was feeling at ease again and continued laughing. “This is the damnedest thing! Are we smoking the same weed?”

  She had to laugh, too, then said seriously, “I’m telling you for a reason. I can handle Georgie-boy — up to a point. I can make him want me — badly. But I don’t know if I can make him want me badly enough to make me Mrs. George Stannard.”

  “I’ve been telling you — ”

  “You’ve also been telling me he’s a weakling and I’ve already found that out for myself. He is. He can be persuaded. And that, darling,” she said, leaning back in her seat, “is where you come in.”

  Marty shoved his coffee aside with an angry gesture and got to his feet. “Oh, what the hell.” He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Dotty caught him by the arm before he reached the door and turned him about. Her anger was white-hot, more than equal to his own.

  “You listen to me,” she cried. “I’m no more of a bum than you are and I can go just as high. Get that through your head. I’m going to be Mrs. George Stannard. You hear?” she screamed. “Mrs. George Stannard.”

  “Cripes, lower your voice.”

  “You should talk. You’re the one who gave me the idea. And you’re the one who’s going to put it across for me.”

  Marty dropped his hands onto her shoulders, wanting to placate her. “Anything I can do, of course, but you should know — ”

  “I know you can do it. He follows you around like a puppy. You got the whole family buffaloed. It gets me, but they all think you’re somebody great. George almost idolizes you. Believes everything you say. I know how he feels. When you mentioned insecurity you should have said inadequate, too. He feels inadequate. But you seem to supply what’s missing in him. So he relies on you.”

  “You’re only partly right. But, even so — ”

  “I’m all the way right, and you know it. He’s a weakling and you can influence his thinking. He’s going to ask you about me. He probably thinks you know all about me because of that one blind date and me working for you in the hotel. He thinks you know all about women, anyway. So he’ll get around to it one of these days. Not yet, it hasn’t gone that far, but soon enough.”

  “So you want a few kind words.”

  “I want a hell of a lot more than that. I know what you can do with him. You can get him to forget his snotty attitudes about what side of the fence I’m on. You can get him to believe that marrying me would be the best thing in the world for him. And that,” she said, her voice dying down, “is what I expect of you.”

  Marty asked coldly, “Anything else?”

  “I mean it, sweetheart. Don’t get me wrong. I’m deadly serious. Mrs. George Stannard. You know what that would mean to me. The hell with everybody. I wouldn’t have to fight and connive and chisel and cheat to get somewhere. I’d have it made. Even the movies. They’d be a pushover with the Stannard name.” She put her arms about his neck and rubbed a cheek against his. “So you’ll do it for me. Won’t you?”

  Marty dropped a hand and playfully slapped her buttocks. She had run out of steam and he was not worried. Dotty’s kite was very definitely fixed to his string. She would never be stupid enough to cut it. Besides, she could be right. If he could turn that trick for her, she
would be kicked so far upstairs that he would never again have to give her another thought.

  He tilted her chin to look into her eyes. “Sounds like I haven’t much choice in the matter.”

  “You’ll do it?”

  “I’ll see what can be done.”

  She said quickly, “Don’t rush it, though. It hasn’t reached that stage. Wait till I begin taking the candy away from baby.”

  “O.K.,” he laughed.

  “That’s when he’ll come to you. Wish me luck?”

  “Anything you say, sweetheart.”

  “Thanks, Marty. Play it right for me.”

  “Sure.”

  He didn’t have to play anything. George was in the habit of dropping by the hotel almost every day, he stopped in at the apartment for cocktails quite often, and Marty also ran into him at most of the parties they attended, but George never mentioned Dotty. Either Dotty was taking her time setting him up, or George was not as interested as she imagined. Marty was content to let matters drift.

  His personal appearance altered quickly with marriage and success. The leanness disappeared from his face, tension left his body, and the cold look of hostility and suspicion in his eyes began to recede. He played golf as often as possible with carefully selected partners and added a deep tan to his face and arms. He was fully relaxed, so his hard frame also began to take on a few extra pounds. In the space of a few short months Marty had difficulty recognizing himself even as Marty Lee. He was quite pleased with the change.

  There were few cracks in his armor, but one appeared one morning as he and Karen were having breakfast in the apartment. She knew that he had never become quite accustomed to her beauty and wanted it to remain that way. She dressed as carefully for breakfast as she would have if they were going out in the evening. Her hair was combed and sleekly brushed, the peasant-style dress she was wearing had been imported from a famous Swiss dress designer, and the custom-made slippers she wore were as fragile as paper. Marty, too, was always dressed for breakfast, though he did not wear a coat. Once he had come to the table wearing a smoking jacket. Karen’s eyes had widened and she had had difficulty suppressing a smile. Marty dropped the jacket in an ash can. After that it was shirt sleeves, but with a tie.

  She was reading the morning paper while he was sipping his coffee and glancing through the sports section. He had become quite a fan of the San Francisco Seals and followed their ups and downs with deep attention. Whenever they dropped a game, which was often, he had to read all the reports on the whys and wherefores the following morning. That, however, was as far as it went. He never bothered to watch them play. Marty could never find even an artificial interest in watching group activities.

  He looked up from the paper and across the table at Karen. “Say, hon. It says here in the paper about this guy O’Doul — ”

  But she interrupted by looking up from her paper with a thoughtful frown. “Marty,” she asked, “did you ever run into a person named Red Martin?”

  Marty felt on fire, as if he had suddenly been plunged into a vat of boiling metal. His heart slowed, the blood drained from his face, and his mouth twitched dangerously.

  Karen blinked her surprise and concern. “Why, Marty, what on earth is the matter with you?”

  He swallowed hard and ran his tongue over dried lips. When he felt that he had his nervous system again under partial control he said, “Nothing. Why should there be? What was that you asked me?”

  She frowned at him for a moment, then turned her attention back to the paper. “He’s a gunman, a bank robber, and a killer, too, I guess. It seems that way from all accounts. The police are looking for him. It says here, where it gives his description, that he has tiny ring marks about his eyes, so he must have fought in the ring at one time.” She looked up again to smile at Marty. “I thought you might have run into him there, you know, when you were fighting.”

  He felt the blood return slowly to his face. He gulped down his coffee in one searing swallow and refilled the cup. His nerves were firmly under control. He looked off into space, as if deliberating, then shook his head. “I don’t remember. Maybe he fought under some other name. Does it say? Here. Better let me read it.”

  He took the paper from Karen and read the news report. Joe and Hank had been picked up in St. Louis and were being returned to San Francisco for the Farmer’s Valley Bank job. That did not surprise Marty. After all, the cops had their fingerprints. He remembered that one of them had dropped something in the bank. But then, operators like Joe and Hank were always being picked up. It was inescapable. Nor did it surprise him that they had talked and implicated Red Martin. His description was complete and well done. What was surprising was that the F.B.I. and the police of various cities had finally put together a complete list of Martin’s crimes. That would seem to indicate fingerprints, Marty’s one fear. He read the account carefully, but there was no mention of fingerprints. In fact, the wording indicated that it had been done through description and technique. In which case he was still safe. There was no Red Martin.

  He put the paper aside and smiled at Karen. “Quite a character, that fellow. It’s possible I did know him at some time or other. I used to know a lot of odd characters.”

  Karen asked excitedly, “Bank robbers, too?”

  Marty laughed. “Could be.”

  “You know, we own stock in the Farmer’s Valley Bank. Maybe the police would let me have a look at these men when they arrive. Do you think it could be arranged? I’ve never seen a bank robber. I’d like to see what one looks like.”

  Marty was almost tempted to tell her that she knew already, but shrugged and said, “They look the same as other people; short ones, tall, fat, all kinds. Why bother with it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You know about their kind of people. I don’t. Are they really as vicious as all the papers make out?”

  Marty leaned back in the chair and chuckled tolerantly. “Fascinate you, don’t they? Let me tell you something about them. They don’t kill for fun, if that’s what you’re thinking. The sound of a gun going off is the last thing they care to hear. Too many complications. All they care about is getting the job over with as fast as possible and getting away with all the money in sight. If anyone is stupid enough to get in their way, then someone gets killed. But that’s the last thing they want. The thing you have to understand, Karen, is that a couple of men like that for a short space of time are pitting themselves against all organized society, their only safety lying in speed, shock, and the muzzles of their sawed-off shotguns. So, if they have to, they’ll use those guns.”

  Karen was more interested than ever. “You do know something about them. Tell me more.”

  Marty tossed his napkin aside and got up from the chair. The conversation was dangerous. He could make a slip. “Some other time, Karen. I have to get down to the hotel.”

  “But you will arrange it with the police? I’d enjoy seeing them so much.”

  Marty was tempted to acquiesce, for a moment. But Karen would expect him to go with her and that would be pushing luck too far. He doubted if either Joe or Hank would recognize him, he had changed too much and his acquired background was beyond their understanding, but it would be stupid running a deliberate risk of that kind. They had never been as close to him as had Dotty, he had seen as little of them as possible while setting up the bank job, they had never known where he lived, nor had he ever been to their rooms. Even so, the risk was there. Taking that danger would be worth it if he thought it necessary, but the chances were a million to one that Hank and Joe would ever cross his path.

  He came around the table, pulled Karen to her feet, and slid his arms about her yielding body. “Look,” he said. “You play in your own back yard. You can get your fill of bank robbers in the movies. They’re far more interesting and it’s safer that way. The real article isn’t something to fool around with.”

  “But I don’t intend — ”

  “I know, I know. Just your idea of a little thrill,
something to kill time, to talk about. Forget it. You’re too beautiful to get interested in things like that.”

  “Well, thank you, sir.”

  He had a worrisome day at the hotel. He thought of the many times his pictures had been in the papers during recent months. There was no difference between brown hair and red in a photograph. His pictures had probably been seen by hundreds of people in the underworld who had known Red Martin. Of course, he was altered in many ways — no mustache, hair combed differently, shorter sideburns, no puffiness about the mouth, and the fuller cheeks and composure of success — but some of them may have noticed similarities. Some may even have wondered about it. They would not wonder long. His greater protection was in his position. No one in his right mind would ever try to connect Red Martin with the owner of a great hotel and husband of the Stannard heiress. His security was as good as ever and growing every day.

  He was not at all concerned about Hank and Joe. They would be tried for the robbery, convicted, and sent to prison. Most of the men he had worked with ended that way, if not dead. It was to be expected. But there was no way they could implicate Marty Lee. They had not known his address in the city and the police had bypassed it. He could dismiss them from his mind.

  One afternoon, in the lobby of the hotel, he was brooding about the relative security of his position, when his past came suddenly and shockingly to life. He was standing just in front of the door to his private office, looking idly over the guests in the hotel, but thinking of other matters. He began to feel restless, uneasy, as if he were being watched by someone. His body tensed. He knew the feeling, an ingrained intuitive sense of danger.

  He glanced toward the elevators and found the eyes that were fixed on him. The man was waiting for an elevator, standing by the side of his luggage and a bellboy twirling a room key. His eyes, fixed on Marty, were unwavering in their appraisal. He was a man slightly above medium height, slim, well tailored, and with an aristocratic bearing, the kind that appeared at ease whatever his surroundings. There was a touch of gray at his temples, his thin nose had a high bridge, there were faint pockmarks in his skin and tiny traces of scars about his face and chin. He was the perfect picture of a man who had done considerable knocking about the world, yet managed to maintain the composure of a gentleman.