Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  Karen sighed and said, “It’s really a shame a man like that doesn’t direct his talents into more legitimate channels.”

  Tony chuckled. “Yeah, but they never do. Here he’s back again already robbing this hotel.”

  Karen gasped and stared at Marty. “You never told me that, dear. Was that really Red Martin who held up the service room?”

  Marty shrugged, his anger growing within and spreading deep roots. “How should I know? The F.B.I. thinks so. Something about techniques.”

  Tony stated flatly, “It was him.”

  Karen ventured, “But I don’t remember anyone saying one of the men was a redhead.”

  Tony explained, “He wasn’t seen this time, but he was there. He works that way, too, from all I’ve learned about him. It was too smooth to be anyone else. He had to be there.” He moved toward the door and, the gutter urchin never failing to recognize royalty, gave Karen an oddly stiff and formal little bow. “Well, thanks for the drink, folks. I gotta run.”

  Marty barely waited for the door to close behind Tony before snapping to his feet. He paced the floor before Karen, his face dark with rage, but afraid to touch her, afraid of what he might do. “Of all the damned fool stunts,” he growled. “What the hell gave you the idea to go see those men? Didn’t I tell you to stay away from them? Didn’t I?” he shouted.

  She blinked at him, not quite believing what she was seeing. “Marty,” she said quietly, “I never allow anyone to shout at me. You will please lower your voice.”

  “Nuts. You get something in your head and make it stick. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s some goddamned fool woman seeking thrills because she has nothing better to do. Understand?”

  He paused before her, trembling with his anger. Karen saw that he was serious and her face slowly paled. She said through bloodless lips, “I’m afraid I don’t follow you, Marty. I have never considered myself a goddamned fool woman at any time, I don’t seek thrills, and inasmuch as I do own stock in that bank, my curiosity toward those two men is certainly normal enough. I believe you owe me an apology.”

  Marty was glaring at her, but failed to note the sudden shocked coldness in her eyes. “Apology!” he cried. “I told you to have nothing to do with those characters. I told you. Understand?”

  She said softly, but with a deadly cutting tone, “I am capable of making my own decisions.”

  Marty paid no attention to her words. “And that Tony Arturo character! He’s as slimy as a snake. I know the breed.”

  “I guess you do, probably too well.”

  “Jerks like Arturo gamble nothing. They take it away from the suckers. You stay away from him. You hear? And, by God, don’t you ever invite him up here again.”

  Karen shook her head, as if to shake away a nightmare, then looked coolly and directly into Marty’s hot eyes. “If I can’t invite to your rooms whoever I please, then I am not welcome, either.”

  “Are you kidding? Say, what the hell is this? This is your husband you’re listening to, goddamn it. Don’t give me that freeze act. You may be able to get away with it in bed, but — ”

  Then he saw the stricken, appalled, shocked, little-girl-in-pigtails, wounded-animal look flooding her eyes and twisting her mouth into a shattered grimace and came to a halt. He realized he had hurt her — and badly. But knowing he was wrong only made him feel trapped and increased his rage.

  She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and murmured, “Scratch the surface — ”

  He roared, “I’ve told you what’s under the surface. You knew you weren’t marrying a pantywaist.” He reached down suddenly, placed his hands on her arms just below the shoulders, and lifted her into the air. He shook her violently. Her hair burst loose and tumbled about her pale face. “Well, didn’t you? You wanted to marry a man, didn’t you? O.K., you got one. I’m no poodle on a string. Understand?”

  She looked into his eyes without fear, but with deep disgust. “You will please let go of me, Marty.”

  Her words were whispered, but there was a command in them that went over and beyond his rage. He relaxed his grip on her arms, glared at her a moment longer, but then stepped away. She turned away from him and went into the bedroom. When she returned her hair was again in place and she had repaired her make-up. She picked up her purse and gloves from the couch and walked to the door. There she paused to look back at him. He was watching her curiously, his anger dying, a nagging worry coming into life.

  “Marty.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I am truly sorry that I have apparently been sexually inadequate. For a while, I thought that was probably due to my amateur standing. Believe me, I have not been giving you a freeze act in bed. I have gone far out of my way to co-operate — in your type of love. I see I have failed.”

  Marty took a step toward her, but the danger signals in her eyes stopped him. “What the devil are you talking about? Of all the nonsense — Just because I blew my top and said something I didn’t mean — ”

  “You meant it, Marty. You said it honestly, without considering the effect. You didn’t even say it to hurt. It was a simple statement. I’m sorry if you feel that way.”

  “We’ll go out to dinner — talk it over — ”

  “I am going out to dinner — alone — to think it over. Good-by, Marty.”

  She was gone, the door closing softly, before he had another chance to protest. He swore under his breath, lifted his highball from an end table, and drank it down. He mixed another and stood at one of the windows to look over the city. All anger had drained out of him and he felt at ease. She’d be all right. She’d come around, once she thought it over, when he saw her later that night, when he took her in his arms and forced himself to apologize for the whole mess. She’d be all right.

  But when he went to the apartment just before midnight she was not in the living room or the study. He walked back to the bedroom, expecting to find her asleep, but she was not in bed. He was about to leave the room when he noticed the dressing-room door open — and the startling fact that the dressing room was bare. All of her clothes had been removed. Marty felt frustration and panic stealing slowly over him. He thought of ringing for one of the servants, but decided against that. He stepped into the hall and started toward the study. As he was passing the door to the adjoining master bedroom his nostrils caught a faint whiff of perfume. He paused and sniffed at the door. It was Karen’s favorite scent. He tried the knob, to discover that the door was locked from the inside. So that was where she had gone.

  He knocked on the door and called, “Karen.”

  He waited and after a moment her voice came dimly from the inside. “Yes?”

  “Marty. Unlock this door.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry, hell. Open this door and be damned quick about it.”

  “I prefer having it locked.”

  Marty stepped back and stared at the door and again a wave of black rage swept through him. He turned sideways to the door, pulled his right elbow tight against his body, and hurled his shoulder against the door. On the second attempt the lock gave way; the door splintered slightly and swung open. Marty staggered into the dark room, regained his balance, and walked to the side of the bed. Karen was sitting up, watching him. Marty said nothing. He grabbed her arm, dragged her from the bed, then lifted her in his arms. He carried her out of the room, down the hallway, and into their bedroom. He dropped her unceremoniously on the bed.

  “Now,” he said, between clenched teeth, “that’s where you belong. Stay there. Don’t ever pull a trick like that again. Understand now, once and for all, no woman ever locks a door on me.”

  He waited, but she had nothing to say. She simply turned away from him and got under the covers. Marty stared at her, then ripped off his clothes and got into bed. He felt a wild need to possess her and took her in his arms. She submitted without protest. She was passive, completely passive. It was not until later, when he turned over to sleep, that he realized that somehow, som
ewhere, by her passivity, her silence, she had managed to defeat him. She may as well not have been there at all.

  Chapter Eleven

  TONY ARTURO stayed on at the Stannard Hotel for a week, trying to run down any information pertaining to Red Martin, then returned to Lake Tahoe. But before he left he arranged for a permanent room at the Stannard. It was obvious that he was going to spend considerable time there.

  Marty was not especially worried about Tony, as Karen’s strange new attitude was commanding all of his attention. She returned her clothes to their bedroom and seemed to settle back in the familiar routine, but there was a difference. She never again gave her love freely to Marty, She did not resist, she was passive always, but he had to take it. She was interested in his work at the hotel, she was more than willing to help wherever possible, she took her duties as a wife seriously, and she seemed as complacent as ever, but when the lights were out Karen Lee ceased to exist and became simply a body. Nothing else. There was no getting through to her.

  Marty had no idea what to do about such an attitude. He had never before coped with a thing like that. The women he had known had elemental reactions. A row was nothing. You expected a knockdown and drag-out row now and then. Quite often it helped clear the air. Besides, he reasoned, all he had done, really, was assert his authority as a husband. What the hell had she expected him to be like, one of those society pimps? Of course, there had been that slip of the tongue. That had hurt her. But she had no reason to keep on pouting about it. After all, it was pretty true, in a way. She hadn’t deliberately been pulling a freeze act on him, but it amounted to the same thing. She really hadn’t been very good, not like Dotty. Not at all like Dotty.

  Thinking about Dotty got into his blood and into his loins. Now, there was a woman a man could enjoy. But thinking about her was not enough. Marty used the key again and let himself into her apartment. When Dotty realized why he was there she burst into laughter that was close to hysteria. But she did not throw him out. She welcomed him back with open arms. She had been missing him, too.

  Marty returned often and was soon content with the arrangement. His needs were well taken care of and it was no longer necessary for him to bother Karen. He figured that now she could relax, at least until she got over whatever was bothering her.

  He became interested in the Wilton Plaza Hotel in Santa Barbara at that time, and that took his mind off the new worries. The Wilton Plaza, like the Stannard, was also an old, rambling hotel that had seen better days and in recent years had become a liability. The owners, however, could not tear it down to build anything else on the site, as the property was not well situated for anything else but a hotel. They were stuck with it as such and anxious to unload.

  When they approached Marty he pretended only casual interest, but was actually excited. It could be the second step toward a string of hotels. He could start planning again.

  He and Karen flew down to Santa Barbara and spent a week looking over the hotel. It was a large stone-and-frame building and more the resort type, with tennis courts, swimming pool, broad lawns, and verandas, a private beach on the ocean, and famous gardens that were still beautiful. As it had been with the Stannard, most of the guests were elderly and wealthy. But even at the peak of the season the building was only three-quarters occupied. Marty recognized at once that the main difficulty was management inertia. There was really little wrong with the hotel that a younger staff and a lot of fresh paint could not correct. Filling the rooms would be simple. But it also had a wonderful profit potential in the same night-club treatment Marty had used on the Stannard. If handled properly, the Wilton Plaza could be the play mecca for the heavy-spending Hollywood crowd. Marty felt that he knew how to handle it.

  He and Karen also spent the week partying, as she knew all the prominent people in town. She seemed to be trying, rather desperately, to recapture something that had been lost. Marty went along with her, enjoying himself more than he would have thought possible. He was getting used to the company of powerful and wealthy people. His resentment had gone and in its place was a feeling of secure acceptance. It no longer entered his mind, or did so rarely, that it was still Karen’s name that opened all doors.

  When they returned to San Francisco, Marty told her, “I can get that hotel for peanuts, if I offer to cut in the present owners on a percentage of the profits. They have a white elephant on their hands, but they think I’m the wonder boy who can do something about it. If I offer them anything at all that takes them off the hook, they’ll go for it.”

  Karen nodded coolly, interested though not enthusiastic. “Then make them an offer. You have too much drive and imagination for one hotel. You should have dozens.”

  Marty wondered if there was a touch of sarcasm in her voice, but smiled and said, “Hold on a minute. Let’s take one at a time. There’s a catch. I’m making money, but practically ninety per cent of it has to be plowed back in notes. Now, you know damned well I didn’t marry you for your money — ”

  There was definitely no sarcasm as she said, “Yes, that’s true. That’s one of the few things I do know to be true. It was obvious to me and to Uncle Frank, too, that you were hardly even conscious of my wealth. But I have it and I won’t mind backing you.”

  “I may not need it,” he said. “But as long as I know it’s available I can get the ball rolling.”

  “Any time, Marty. Just think of it as a straight business proposition.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  He opened negotiations with the owners of the Wilton Plaza and made an offer that was so ridiculous it was instantly refused. But the bargaining started. Marty then brought Frank Stannard into the deal as unofficial advisor, which pleased Frank. He also brought other influential interests to bear and added as much weight as possible. The other side weakened and counteroffers were made. Marty soon saw that the deal was going to be made in his favor.

  At lunch one afternoon, Frank told Marty, “This may turn out to be bigger than you figure on. Albert Bentley is interested.”

  Marty shook his head. “No dice. I don’t want him in it. He’s too big for me to handle.”

  “That isn’t what he has in mind. He doesn’t want to get into the deal with you. His interest lies only in how you manage it. You remember at your wedding reception he said that your one lone success didn’t prove anything to him. But another successful venture might. So he’s keeping an eye on you.”

  Marty was pleased and flattered, but not excited. Bentley was much too big. The best he could offer Marty was possible management of the Bentley chain, which Marty would never take. He liked the feeling of ownership too well.

  He got in touch with Wayne Howard, who had decorated the Stannard, and sent him down to Santa Barbara to look over the Wilton Plaza. Wayne returned to San Francisco with the information that the renovating job would be costly, but that the possibilities were excellent.

  They went to the apartment and had cocktails while talking over business. Marty restlessly paced the floor of the study, but Wayne was relaxed in a deep chair near the wide windows, his eyes drinking in the panorama of the city.

  Marty said, “Things are different this time, Wayne. I won’t be able to get down there often enough to supervise everything. I’ll have to leave that up to you. I’ll take care of the architects and contractors, but you’ll have to run the job. Would you mind doing that?”

  Wayne shifted his eyes to Marty and said bluntly, “Things are a lot different this time. I’m not working for glory any more. I’ve had that. I admit that doing the Stannard really put me in business in a big way, but now I’m in it for all I can get. This time you pay. And if I have to boss the whole job, you’ll pay for that, too.”

  Marty said lightly, “I never expected it to be any other way.”

  Wayne was perplexed. He frowned and studied Marty more carefully. “You know,” he said, “you’ve changed. You’re not as tough as you were.”

  Marty went to the wall bar, opened a bottle of beer, and
filled a glass. He sipped at the drink, then winked at Wayne. “It’s still there, underneath. But I like your work and I know I can trust you. So I’m willing to pay.”

  “You’re only half right. You know that if you wanted to you could dig up another up-and-coming young decorator and use him as you did me with the Stannard. That wouldn’t be hard to do. I could even recommend it. But you’re not gambling any more. Now you’re playing it the safe way.”

  Marty shrugged, not especially interested in the conversation. “Maybe.”

  “You’ve changed in other ways, too. Would you like to know something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “O.K. My original estimate of you was that you were undoubtedly a thoroughly unethical person. I don’t think you’re quite that way any more. Maybe successs has made an honest man of you. Success and” — he waved a hand to indicate the luxurious apartment and, by implication, the marriage — ”this, too.”

  Marty leaned back against the wall, revolved the beer glass in his fingers, and fixed his eyes coldly on Wayne. “I should throw you out of here on your ear.”

  Wayne smiled and shook his head. “That might not be so easy. But that’s one of the things I mean. Six months ago you would have tried it.”

  Marty started to laugh. “I guess you’re right. Let’s leave it go at that.”

  “Still want me on the job?”

  “More so than ever. We know where we stand with each other, and besides, you’re honest.”

  “Skoal.”

  They were still in the study, watching the city light up with approaching darkness, when Karen came home from a shopping tour. George was with her. He shook hands with Wayne, but took Marty’s arm, steered him away from the others, and trapped him in a corner of the room. He knew all about the new venture and wanted to get in on it. Marty explained that he had no desire or need for a partner.

  George argued, “But damn it, Marty, you have to use someone’s cash. You haven’t approached the old man on financing, so he figures Karen is backing you. That’s all well and good, but she isn’t going to take an active interest. If I were in it I’d be in actively. That’s what I need.” He looked slightly embarrassed as he admitted, “You know darned well I just go through the motions of being a businessman. I don’t really have much to do and the old man makes most of my decisions for me.” He said hopefully, “But with you I could really get on the ball, and that’s what I am after. Now, how about it?”