A Swell-Looking Babe

by Jim Thompson

  He thought, “Jesus, I can’t stand it!”

  He sobbed out loud, “C-Christ, I can’t stand it! I can’t stand—”

  The floor creaked behind him. He stiffened, choking back a sob, too terrified to look around.

  “I know…” said Marcia Hillis, “but I’ll help you, darling. We’ll stand it together.”

  22

  They were on the lounge. His arms were around her and his face was buried against her breast, and that, to have her again, was all that mattered. He clung to her, wanting nothing more, only half-aware of what she said.

  “It’s all right,” he murmured, over and over. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You do understand, Dusty? It wouldn’t have been any good the other way. To start off like that, with stolen money…I know what it does to people. I know what it did to my mother, and my father—”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I don’t care about the money.”

  “I wanted to ask you to return it. I was so afraid, for you, darling, so terribly afraid of what Tug might do. But I hadn’t had time to get to know you, and I had to act quickly. And—and—”

  “And you weren’t quite sure, were you?” he said. “You felt that I might have killed Bas—that I’d known your dad was going to be killed.”

  “Well,” she nodded reluctantly. “I didn’t want to think that, but…”

  “I don’t blame you,” he said. “You’d just about have to think that. I was the inside man on the robbery, and how could I be unless I knew that—knew everything that was going to happen? But Tug didn’t tell me, Marcia. He didn’t have to explain anything to me. He threatened to kill you if I didn’t do what I was told. That was all I knew, all I could think about. I was afraid to ask any questions, and—”

  “I know, dear.” She brushed her lips against his forehead. “It was too late to change plans then, but I knew—I was sure—that last night before I came to the hotel.”

  “Oh? How do you—”

  “Your father. It was the first time we’d been alone together, you know, and all he could talk about was you. The sacrifices you’d made, everything you’d given up for him. How patient you were with him, how kind and generous. So…. so I knew, Dusty. I was sure. If you were like that, and I knew that you were, then you couldn’t have…”

  “I—I didn’t do much for him,” Dusty said. “No more than I should have.”

  He was smiling to himself, exulting. Not, of course, because of his deception of her—he was sorry that that was necessary—but because of the broad triumph, the justification, which the deception represented. He had been right, after all. The path into the pit had led not to emptiness but fullness.

  “…heart failure, Dusty? The story in the morning paper was pretty vague.”

  “Heart failure induced by alcohol. That’s what the police said. You see, the doctor didn’t want him to know how sick he was, and as long as he’d never gone to any excesses, why….” He explained, his voice muffled against the material of her dress. “It was my fault partly, I guess I knew he was feeling very depressed, and if I’d just bought him what he needed instead of giving him the money—”

  “Don’t! You mustn’t feel that way, darling.”

  “Well…If I’d had any idea at all that—”

  “Of course. You don’t need to tell me that.” She kissed him again, murmured on soothingly, reassuringly…When you loved someone you were sometimes too good for them for their own good. She knew how that was, how it had been with her father. “He thought a great deal of you, too, Dusty. He thought you were, well, not weak exactly, but a little too easy-going. But—”

  Dusty nodded, humbly. He thought, I’ll have to get her out of this neighborhood fast. Get her away before any of these bastards talked to her.

  His arms tightened around her fiercely. Even the thought of losing her was terrifying. God, she couldn’t find out the truth. He’d rather die than have her find out. He would die.

  He held her, tighter and tighter, and still he could not get close enough to escape the fear. There was only one escape from that—there had never been but one escape from The Fear—and…And she laughed, tenderly, and leaned back. She lay back on the lounge, pulling him with her.

  “Yes, Dusty! Yes, darling!” she said, and her voice was eager. And, then, right at that long-waited-for moment, she suddenly frowned and pushed him away. “Dusty! Someone’s stopped out in front.”

  “What? To hell with ’em” he said. “Just—”

  “Don’t! We can’t!” She sat up firmly. “Who is it, Dusty?”

  He released her reluctantly. He turned and looked through the curtains, cursed under his breath. It was a small black sedan. He didn’t recognize the man behind the wheel, although he had a vaguely familiar look about him. But the man getting out of the car was Kossmeyer.

  “My dad’s lawyer,” he grunted. “Now what the hell does he want?”

  “Well…” She looked at him, a trace of a frown on her face. “He might want any number of things. After all, with your father dead…”

  “Yeah. But, right now. Why the hell does he have to come now?”

  The frown disappeared. Her eyes softened again with tenderness. And promise. And she kissed him swiftly. “I know, but it’ll be all the better, darling. You’ll see. I’ll be waiting for you, waiting and ready, Dusty, and…”

  She was gone, back into his bedroom. Frowning, he arose and went to the front door.

  “Well,” he said, curtly. “What do you want?”

  “Maybe,” said Kossmeyer, “I want to give you ten thousand dollars. Or maybe twenty thousand. Or maybe…”

  He opened the screen and came in. He sat down and crossed his short legs, cocked an eyebrow expectantly at Dusty. Hesitantly, his pulse quickening, Dusty also sat down.

  She hadn’t closed the bedroom door. If Kossmeyer got nasty, she’d—But he could fix that, explain it. Kossmeyer had tried to take advantage of the old man. He’d put a stop to it, and the attorney had gotten sore at him.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “Why should you want to give me ten or twenty thousand dollars?”

  “We-el,” Kossmeyer shrugged, “of course, I’m using the verb advisedly. I represent your dad’s insurers, Rhodes. They’re a client of mine.”

  “His insurers?” Dusty stared at him blankly. “What—?”

  “Yeah, you know, the one he carried a policy with. Ten thousand dollars, double indemnity. We got kind of a little problem on it”—Kossmeyer raised his voice as Dusty started to interrupt. “Kind of a little problem. He died of heart failure, y’see, a natural cause. But the condition was brought on by, well, let’s call it poison; that’s what it actually was so far as he was concerned. In other words, the death could be construed as being an unnatural one, in which case, of course, the double indemnity clause would become applicable. Now—”

  “Wait! Wait a minute!” Dusty raised his own voice. “You’ve made a mistake. Dad didn’t have any insurance.”

  “He didn’t, huh? You didn’t know about it, huh?”

  “Of course, he didn’t!”

  “Well,” said Kossmeyer. “Well, let’s see now.” And he took a folded sheaf of papers from his pocket and smoothed them out against his knee. “According to our records, the records of the Great Southern and Midwest States Insurance Company, your father took out this policy approximately four years ago. You were entering college about that time, and I gather that he wanted to make sure of your education. Also, of course, he—”

  Dustly laughed hoarsely, angrily. He said, “I’m telling you you’re wrong. I remember when he took that policy out. My mother was the beneficiary, not me. Anyway—”

  “Your mother was the beneficiary,” Kossmeyer nodded equably. “Naturally, she’d give you such help as you needed, and she was able to give. And, naturally, in the event that her death preceded your father’s, the insurance would simply become part of his estate. It wasn’t necessary to name you the alternate benefic
iary. When he died you’d inherit that estate…as, of course”—the attorney looked up—“you were fully aware.”

  He waited. After a long moment, he said, “You don’t seem very happy, Rhodes. You’re the sole heir to a nice juicy wad, and you don’t seem at all happy about it. It’s kind of surprising, y’know. Certain recent events considered, I’d have said you were pretty hungry for dough.”

  “W-what—what do you mean by that?”

  “Mean? Well, just that there’s some other people around town that aren’t very happy either. The hotel and their bonding company, and the county attorney. They kind of feel that they had their noses rubbed in it, know what I mean? They had to take it, but it left ’em pretty unhappy…But getting back to this insurance policy—”

  “He didn’t have one! It had lapsed! For God’s sake, wouldn’t I know if—if—” Dusty caught himself.

  Kossmeyer grinned, and nodded again. “That’s right, Rhodes. You’d know, all right. Your dad was pretty well along in years when he took that policy out, and he wasn’t in the best of health. He had to pay a premium of almost one hundred and fifty dollars a month. And when he didn’t have it to pay, when he had to depend on you…”

  “I didn’t pay it! I—”

  “No. You gave him the money, and let him pay it. It had to be that way. The only money he had was what you gave him.”

  “But I tell you—Oh,” Dusty said. “So…so that’s what he did with it. I thought he was giving the money to you.”

  “Me? Why would I have dunned him, when I knew he didn’t have it? The only payment I ever received was that one small retainer you gave me back at the start of the case.”

  “But that day I talked to you, you said—”

  “I said that our expenses had been high. I didn’t need to tell you that they hadn’t been paid…What are you trying to hand me, Rhodes?” Kossmeyer grimaced cynically. “You knew where that money was going. Suppose he could have—from what I hear, I know damnned well you wouldn’t have let him—but suppose he could have coaxed the dough out of you a few bucks at a time. Why would he want to anyway? What would be his purpose? The insurance was for your benefit. Why wouldn’t he have told you about it?”

  “I—I don’t—”

  But he did know, of course. The old man had been afraid to tell him. He hadn’t wanted to admit his fear; probably, he had never admitted it consciously. But still the fear and distrust had been there: the knowledge that someone he loved—someone he had to love and be loved by—might be tempted to kill him.

  And now?

  Dusty brought a thoughtful frown to his face. Over his inner turmoil, he spread a shell of composure. Kossmeyer couldn’t prove anything. He had said nothing yet that could not be explained on the grounds of personal malice. The thing now was to stop arguing with him, close the door on his insinuations. Otherwise…

  He closed his mind on the alternative. She had heard nothing thus far that was even mildly damning. She would hear still less than that from now on.

  “I wonder,” he said, thoughtfully. “I wonder why Dad did that. I suppose…well, he probably thought I wouldn’t let him make the sacrifices he had to if I’d known about it. He—”

  “Sacrifices? With your dough?”

  “It was as much his as mine. Anything I had was his, and—”

  “It was, huh?” Kossmeyer’s eyes glinted savagely. “Horseshit! I’ve talked to your neighbors around here! I’ve talked to the people you trade with. I’ve talked to your doctor. And I’ve got the same damned story out of every mother’s son! That poor devil didn’t have two dimes to rattle together. You never did a thing for him that you could get out of doing. It was a disgrace, by God, and the pitiful part about it was the way he stuck up for you—told everyone what a swell guy you were when a blind man could see that—”

  “That’s a lie! I don’t care what anyone says, I—” Dusty paused, forced down the rising tide of panic. “I know what people probably say,” he went on, “but it just isn’t true. I gave him plenty of money, and I didn’t pin him down as to how he spent it. I didn’t know he was using it for those insurance premiums. I—why, my God, don’t you see how the two things fit together? The one explains the other. The fact that he—that he went around like he did proves that he was using the money I gave him to pay for the insurance.”

  “Yeah? It don’t prove anything like that to me!”

  “But don’t you see? If he’d used the money for himself, like I meant him to, he—he—”

  He paused helplessly. He couldn’t express the thought, present it as the pure truth that it was. But Kossmeyer must see it. Kossmeyer was an expert at separating truth from lies, and he must know that—that— Dusty gasped, his eyes widening in sudden and terrified understanding. He had chosen to play the game on the strict grounds of proof: to disregard the rules of right and wrong, truth and falsehood. Now Kossmeyer was playing the same way. Kossmeyer knew that he was guilty, of the old man’s death and more. He knew, and as long as there were no rules to the game…

  Kossmeyer. Just one little man, one small voice that could not be cried down. That was all, but in the world of bend-and-be-silent his littleness became large; he stood a Colossus, the little man, and the small voice was as thunder. Kossmeyer. He was retribution. He was justice, losing every game but the last one.

  He said:

  “At approximately nine o’clock last night, Rhodes, your father bought a fifth gallon of whiskey. You encouraged him to buy it, knowing full well that it would kill him…”

  “No! I—”

  “Where did he get the money then? He’d never had any such sum before. Never more than just enough for the barest necessities of life!”

  “He did! He had plenty! I told you—”

  “…just barely enough. He returned to the house around nine-twenty—Yeah, I can prove all this. I been checking on you since I got the news flash early this morning and I can prove every goddamned bit of it!”

  “But they’re lying! They don’t like me around here! They think that I—”

  “You’re telling me what they think?” Kossmeyer leaned forward grimly. “Save it. I heard enough already to make me sick…You left the house at approximately ten-fifteen. Aside from what anyone might say, you had to leave at about that time to get to the hotel and into your uniform by eleven. Between eleven and eleven-thirty, according to a sworn statement of the medical examiner, your father died. In other words, he was in very bad shape, near the point of death, when you left the house. Now”—the attorney suddenly smacked a fist in his palm—“now, Rhodes. Perhaps you can tell me this. You say you didn’t want your father to die, and yet he was dying before you left for work. He might easily have been saved by prompt medical attention. So I ask you, Rhodes”—smack— “I demand to know, Rhodes”—smack, smack—“why you did not intervene to save his life? Why, instead, you walked callously out of the house and left this helpless old man to die!”

  Dusty licked his lips. He stared at Kossmeyer, staring beyond this moment and into the one that must certainly succeed it…The courtroom. The coldly knowing eyes. The thundered question, Why, Rhodes? Why didn’t you, Rhodes? And the smacking fist, the hammering fist, building a gallows.

  She was hearing all this. Unless he could say something, think of something, she would have to believe it…

  “I—I didn’t know,” he said. “I didn’t see him before I left.”

  “Oh.” Kossmeyer appeared crestfallen. “Well! He was in his room, huh? He had his door closed and you didn’t want to disturb him?”

  “Y-Yes! Yes, that’s right.”

  “Uh-hah. I see. But if the door was closed, how did you know he was in the room?”

  “Well, I—I could kind of hear him, you know.”

  “Yes? How do you mean you could hear him?”

  “I—I mean, I—”

  Kossmeyer was grinning again. Suddenly, briefly, Dusty’s terror became cold fury.

  “To hell with you! I haven’
t done anything! I don’t have to answer your questions!”

  “Sure, you don’t,” Kossmeyer said. “We can let the county attorney ask ’em. That’s one of his boys I got out in the car.”

  “Well, I…” The county attorney. Kossmeyer and the county attorney. They’d had to take lies for truth, and now they would make truth into lies. He’d set the rules for the game, and now…“I spoke to him,” he said. “I called goodnight to him!”

  “Oh?” Kossmeyer was puzzled, he was astonished. “Then you weren’t afraid of disturbing him? You knew he was awake?”

  “Yes! I mean, well, I wasn’t sure. I just called to him softly, and—and—”

  “And he answered you? He said good night, son, or something of the kind? I’d say he must have. Otherwise, since you say you could hear him, he was audible to you through a closed door—otherwise, you’d have been alarmed. You’d have looked in on him.”

  “Well…?”

  Dusty started to shake his head. He changed the shake to a nod. “Y-Yes. He answered me.”

  “What did he say?”

  “W-What…? Well, just goodnight. Goodnight, Bill.”

  “Now, I wonder,” said Kossmeyer. “Now, I wonder if you couldn’t be mistaken. The man was right at death’s doorstep. He was in the throes of alcoholic coma. And yet, when you addressed him, he replied to you. He responded in such a way that—”

  “All right, then! I guess—maybe I didn’t tell him good night! I didn’t speak to him! I just heard him in there, I knew he was all right and—”

  “But he wasn’t all right!”

  “Well I—I mean, it sounded like he was. I could hear him snoring—”

  “You could?” Kossmeyer’s astonishment was grotesque. “I know any number of doctors who will be very surprised at that statement. They’ll tell you that anything resembling somnolence would have been impossible at the time in question. His physical suffering would have been too great, his mental state too chaotic…”

  Was it true or not? Must it have been that way, and no other? He didn’t know. Only Kossmeyer knew, and the game had no rules.