Savage Night

by Jim Thompson

  “Stop that! Stop it this minute!” The doctor gripped him by the head with one hand. “Hold still!”

  Jake held still. He had to. The way the doc was gripping him, he might have got his scalp peeled off.

  The doctor pulled back first one eyelid, then, the other. He stood up, brushing at the knees of his pants, and nodded to Kendall.

  “You tell me how this happened, Phil?”

  “Why, yes, Doc.” Kendall took the pipe out of his mouth. “I don’t know as I can add anything to what Mrs. Winroy—”

  “Mrs. Winroy was somewhat excited. You tell me.”

  “Well, let’s see. She and I—Mrs. Winroy and I—were in the living room, reading the Sunday papers, and Miss Dorne was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Isn’t that right, Ruth?”

  “Y-yes, sir.”

  “Never mind all that. Just the essentials.” The doctor glanced impatiently at his watch. “I can’t spend all morning on—on—You heard Winroy coming down the stairs, making plenty of noise about it. Go on.”

  “I got up. We both got up, I believe. We supposed that—uh—he was just—”

  “Drunk. Go on.”

  “We went out into the hall and he staggered past us, mumbling that he’d been doped—that the wine had been doped, or something of the kind. His speech was very unclear. He came into the dining room and collapsed, and we—Mrs. Winroy—called—”

  “He was carrying the wine bottle with him, eh? Very carefully corked?” The doctor’s face was flushed; the red seemed to go clear up into his eyes. “Let me see it again.”

  Kendall took the bottle from the table and handed it to him. He sniffed it, tasted it, took a man-size swallow of it. He brushed his mouth sourly, glancing at Fay.

  “He take sleeping pills? How many—how often?”

  “I—I don’t k-know, doctor.”

  “Know how many he has? Whether any great number is missing?”

  “No, I—” Fay shook her head “—I brought him some back from the city, but I don’t know how many he had—”

  “Did, eh? Have a prescription? No? Know that’s illegal? Never mind. No bearing here.”

  “He’s n-not—?”

  The doctor grunted. He dug the toe of his shoe into Jake’s ribs. “Cut it out. Stop it. Get up from there,” he snapped.

  Jake’s eyes wavered open. “S-something…in the—”

  “There’s something in it, all right. Alcohol. Twenty percent by volume.”

  He reached for his medicine kit, nodding grimly at Fay. “Nothing wrong with him. Not a thing in the world. Throw a pail of water on him if he doesn’t get up.”

  “But, I—” Her face was red, too, now. Even redder than his. “Why…I just don’t understand—”

  “Exhibitionism. Wants attention, sympathy. They hit that stuff long enough they don’t make much sense…No, he’s not drunk. Hasn’t had enough.”

  Fay grimaced, trying to smile. “I’m terribly sorry, doctor. I’ll…if you’ll send a bill—”

  “I will. And don’t call me again, understand? I have sick people to take care of.”

  He slapped his hat on his head, shook hands with Kendall and slammed out of the house.

  Jake sat up. He pushed himself up to his feet, stood weaving, his head sagged, staring at the floor.

  “Ruth”—Fay kept her eyes on him—“haven’t you some work to do?”

  “I—Yes, ma’am.” Ruth pivoted on the crutch and scuttled back to the kitchen.

  “Jake.” Fay moved toward him slowly. “Jake. Look at me!”

  “Somethin’…something wrong,” he mumbled.

  “Oh,” she said hoarsely. “Something was wrong, huh? Something wrong. You—you frightened us all half to death—make a big scene here on Sunday—and a-and let me in for a bawling out from that damned snotty Dodson, and—and something’s wrong! Is that all you’ve got to say? Look at me, Jake Winroy!”

  He kept his eyes on her feet, mumbling that something was wrong. Moving backward as she came toward him.

  He reached the door, and there, as he had that first night, he whirled and made a break for it. I heard him trip and stumble on the steps, but he didn’t fall as he had the other time. He got through the gate, and glancing out the window I saw him heading for town at his sagging, loping walk.

  Fay turned back toward us. Her lips were trembling, her hands clenching and unclenching. She shrugged—or tried to. She tried to smile. She said, “Well, I g-guess that’s t-tha—” Then she sank down into a chair at the table, and buried her head in her arms.

  Kendall touched me on the elbow and we went out in the hall together. “Not the most pleasant way to spend the Sabbath, eh? You look like you might be able to use a small libation, Mr. Bigelow.”

  “I could,” I said. “It wouldn’t even have to be small.”

  “So? You will do me the honor, then.”

  We crossed the street to the bar. There were quite a few people in the place, but the bartender came around from behind the counter fast and showed us to a booth.

  He’d never done that for me. I’d never seen him do it for anyone else. Kendall seemed to take it as a matter of course. I wondered about it—this and the way the doctor had kind of kowtowed to him—and I guess I showed it.

  “I’ve lived here the better part of my life, Mr. Bigelow. Or should I say the larger part of it? I grew up with many of these people. I taught school to many.”

  The bartender brought our drinks, double Scotches. Kendall rocked the ice in his glass, looked up at me slowly. His eyes were twinkling.

  “Odd about Winroy, isn’t it? Now, he above all people should know that if you had been sent here to kill him—if you had, Mr. Bigelow—”

  “That’s not a very pleasant if,” I said.

  “Sorry. Thoughtless of me. Make it a hypothetical person, then. What good would it do for Winroy to dispose of him? He’d only be postponing the inevitable.”

  “Yeah?” I said. “I guess I don’t know much about those things.”

  “But it’s so elementary! They—his former associates, that is—would be even more determined, if anything. Suppose the officers charged with executing our laws allowed a malefactor to go unpunished, merely because punishment was difficult or dangerous to render him. We’d have chaos, Mr. Bigelow. It simply couldn’t be allowed.”

  I raised my glass and took a drink. “I guess you’re right,” I said. “It would be that way, wouldn’t it? But a mal—a criminal usually does try to get away. He may know it won’t do him any good, but he’s got to try; he can’t just sit.”

  “Yes. Yes, I suppose so,” he nodded. “While there’s life there’s hope, et cetera. But Winroy—”

  “I—I don’t know what all this has to do with me,” I said. “What you said a moment ago; it sounded like you thought he’d tried to get me in trouble.”

  “And? Surely you were aware of that.”

  “Why, no.” I shook my head. “I thought it was like the doctor—”

  “Tell me, Mr. Bigelow. What do you think the doctor’s reaction would have been if there had been a quantity of amytal in the wine? What do you think would have been the end result of the ensuing course of events?”

  I stared at him. What did I think? Jesus Christ, I didn’t have to think!

  He nodded slowly.

  “Yes. He tried to—uh—frame you…that’s the expression, isn’t it? You are here by the grace of God, and, I might say, due to my innate distrust of and dislike for the man. Here, instead of in custody on a charge of attempted murder—or worse.”

  “But—for God’s sake!” I said. “How—?”

  “Winroy is not notably an early riser. Neither is he inclined to show consideration to others in the matter of quiet. So, when I heard him moving about early this morning—moving with attempted but not too successful stealth—I was disturbed. I got up and listened at my door. I heard him creep out of his room and enter yours. When he came out and went downstairs, I investigated. I—I hope you don’t
think it was presumptuous of me to enter your room, but my thought was that he might have harmed—”

  “I don’t. That’s all right,” I said. “Just—”

  “He was too obvious about it. If he’d used any subtlety at all, but…It was a box of amytal, Mr. Bigelow. He’d emptied six of the capsules and left the empty ones in the box with the full ones. And he’d placed the box behind the window curtain, where anyone who suspected wrongdoing would have no difficulty in finding it. Well, I suspected. I saw what he must intend. I went into his room and examined his wine with a result which you are, of course, aware of. I might have simply called him to account, but it seemed best to thwart him. To make him appear so painfully ridiculous that any future similar attempt would be knocked in the head at the outset…You see that, do you not?”

  I saw it. Jake wouldn’t pull another stunt like that.

  “I disposed of the amytal capsules in the toilet along with the wine. Then, I washed the bottle out, and refilled it to its former level from a bottle I had. I am not what is ordinarily thought of as a drinking man, but a small glass of wine, sometimes, when I am turning through a book—”

  “He had to take a drink of it,” I said. “He’d want to have at least a little of the amytal in him. It’s a wonder he didn’t—”

  “Notice the taste?” Kendall chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “Well, I don’t imagine he’s accustomed to drinking amytal and liquor, so he’d hardly know what taste to expect. And I imagine it did taste rather peculiar to him. It’s much better wine than he’s accustomed to drinking.”

  I looked down at the table. “Gosh,” I said. “I hardly know what to say. Except thanks. I don’t like to think what would have happened if—”

  “Then don’t. And I enjoyed doing it, Mr. Bigelow. I can’t remember when I’ve had such an interesting experience.”

  “What do you think?” I said. “Do you think I should move out?”

  “What do you think?”

  I hesitated. Was he or wasn’t he? If he was tied up with The Man, I’d better not be thinking about moving. But if he wasn’t, well, moving would be the first thing I’d think of.

  “I’ve been trying to make up my mind,” I said. “I’d hate to. People would naturally wonder about it, and it’s reasonable there—the price, I mean. And with us working together and the bakery so nearby, it’s—”

  “I don’t believe I’d move, if I were you.”

  “Well,” I said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to.”

  “I hope you don’t. I very much hope so. Of course, I wouldn’t want you to let me influence you against your better judgement.”

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “I admired you a great deal at your first encounter with Winroy. Your complete self-possession. Your self-control, nerve, in the face of an alarming and awkward situation. Frankly, I was a little envious of you; you shamed me. I had just about arrived at a point where I was ready to move myself. In other words, I was going to allow this drunken lout, a convicted gangster, to dictate to me. That would have been wrong of me, Mr. Bigelow. Very wrong. But I needn’t tell you that, of course. I can’t tell you how disappointed I’d be, if you should—well, it sounds rather harsh but I’ll say it. If you should turn tail and run.”

  “I’m not going to,” I said. “I’m going to stay, all right.”

  “Good. Excellent. We shall stand shoulder to shoulder in this matter. You may depend on my fullest support, moral and otherwise. In case of difficulty, I believe you will find that my word carries far more weight in this community than Winroy’s.”

  “I’m sure it does,” I said.

  “Well—” He raised his glass. “By the way, am I mistaken or did Sheriff and Mrs. Summers drive you home?”

  “I ran into them downtown this morning,” I said. “I went to church with them.”

  “Splendid! Those seemingly small things—they mean a great deal in a town like this…Another drink?”

  I shook my head. I wanted one, but I didn’t think I’d better take it.

  He might get the idea that I needed the stuff to keep going.

  We went back to the house, and he and I had dinner together alone. Fay was in her room, I guess, still too upset and sore to eat.

  We finished eating, and he went to the bakery. And I went right along with him. We came back at seven for sandwiches and coffee and so on—what they usually feed you for Sunday night supper wherever you are. Then we returned to the bakery, and I stuck with him until he knocked off at ten o’clock.

  I was afraid to be there in the house with Ruth when all the others were out of the way. I hoped she got the idea fast that I didn’t know her from now on.

  Sunday is a big night in a bakery, Kendall explained. On Saturday there’s practically nothing to do, since most retail outlets are closed the following day. But on Sunday you’re baking for Monday, and with almost everyone run out of stuff over the weekend, it’s the busiest day of the week.

  He had plenty to do out on the floor, and most of the time I was by myself in the stockroom. I kept busy, as busy as I could. It would have looked funny to loaf around for seven or eight hours. He gave me a set of his whites to wear—we were about the same size—and I went all through the stock, getting familiar with it and taking inventory of everything but the bulk stuff.

  “You can inventory that tomorrow,” Kendall said, when he dropped in on me during a lull. “You’ll need someone to help you weigh it, and give you the tare—the weight of the various containers. That would have to be deducted from your gross weight, understand, to give you the net.”

  I nodded, and he went on:

  “These bulk items, they’re the things that have given us trouble. Not at all surprising, either, with everyone chasing in and out of here, tossing their batches together by guess and by golly. Now here”—he tapped a heavily insulated barrel—“is a plaster-of-Paris compound—”

  “Plaster of Paris,” I said. “You put that stuff in—in—?”

  “In bread. A few ounces in a large batch of bread does wonders for the texture, and of course it’s completely harmless. A very little more than a few ounces, well, you’d have something resembling paving blocks.” He smiled, his eyes gleaming behind the glasses. “Your dough would be wasted unless, say, you cared to pelt our friend Winroy in the head with it.”

  “I see,” I laughed. “Yeah.”

  At ten o’clock we dressed out together. Quite a few of the other workmen were changing clothes at the same time, but he didn’t introduce me, as I kind of thought he should. We started up the stairs to the street. And the locker room had been plenty quiet a moment before, but the minute we left you could hear the talk starting up.

  “By the way,” he said, as we walked home. “I was very favorably impressed by your industry tonight, Mr. Bigelow. I felt justified in beginning your pay instead of waiting until tomorrow.”

  “Well, thanks,” I said. “Thanks very much, Mr. Kendall.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Bigelow.”

  “About”—I hesitated—“about my name, Mr. Kendall. It seems kind of funny for you to be mistering me. Wouldn’t you rather call me Carl?”

  “Would you prefer that I did?”

  “Well, I—it would be all right,” I said.

  “I’m sure it would. But I think we might well leave things as they are.” He paused to knock out his pipe on the gate-post; then we went on up the walk together. “Man is forced to give up so much of his dignity by the mere exigencies of existence. It seems to me that he should cling sturdily to the few shreds that are left to him.”

  “I see,” I said. “I just didn’t want you to feel—”

  “Moreover, as a somewhat more than casual student of human nature, I believe you resent being called by your first name, at least on short acquaintance. I think our reactions are much the same in that respect.”

  The house was quiet, dark except for the hall lights. We said good night, whispering, and he went to his room and I went to mine.<
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  I took out my contact lenses. I took out my teeth, and stood in front of the mirror massaging my gums. They ached; they always did. There was something wrong with the jawbones—they were soft and they weren’t shaped right. I’d never had a set of teeth that didn’t make my mouth hurt. Not too bad, understand. Just a steady nagging ache that chewed away at you a little at a time.

  I put the teeth back in, and went to bed.

  It was after midnight when she slipped into my room. She said that Jake had come home early and gone straight to bed, and that if he knew what was good for him he’d stay there.

  It was funny, her ordering him around. We were going to kill him, yet she was going right ahead scolding and fussing, threatening what she’d do if he didn’t behave himself.

  “Damn him, anyway,” she whispered angrily. “I was never so scared in my life, Carl.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It gave me quite a jar, too.”

  “Why in the world do you suppose he did it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Like the doctor said probably, so mixed up and screwed up he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “Yeah, but…but gosh! Whew, I was scared!”

  I didn’t tell her about Kendall. I had nothing to gain by it, and a hell of a lot to lose. She might say something or do something that would tip him off. Or she might…well, I didn’t like to think about that but I had to: The fact that she might not be on, or stay on, the level with me.

  Kendall had saved my neck this morning. He couldn’t have done it if Jake had been wise to him. And if I needed help from Kendall in the future and Jake was wise to him…

  You see? Kendall was The Man’s ace in the hole…dammit, he just about had to be. But he was mine, too, up to a point. As long as I kept my nose clean with The Man Kendall was on my side…he didn’t have to be; he could be leading me on, trying to get me to tip my hand. I couldn’t open up with him. I couldn’t lay it on the line with her.

  The only person I could trust was Charlie Bigger, Little Bigger. And that sawed-off son-of-a-bitch, I was beginning to have some doubts about him.

  Talk about Jake being on a spot. Compared to me, Jake didn’t have anything to worry about.