Recoil

by Jim Thompson

  I turned the corner and idled the car up the street. I didn’t feel like seeing a show. I didn’t want to go to the library. I didn’t want a drink either, but I had to do something. I ran the car on a parking lot, waiting in it while the attendant parked another car.

  He came hustling up to me, a big smile on his face. And then the smile froze, and I knew that that was the last place in town I should have come to.

  “Yessir,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “How long you going to be, sir?”

  “Just long enough to get a tire fixed,” I said. “You fix them, don’t you?”

  “Well—uh—” He hesitated, staring at me.

  “Well, how about it?” I said irritably. “I haven’t got all day.”

  “Uh—” Some of the suspicion went out of his face and a flush of anger replaced it. “I can get it fixed for you, mister. You leave your car here, and I can have someone come and fix it.”

  “Oh, hell,” I said. “I’ve got no time for that routine. Where’s a garage near here?”

  “Y-you—you work for the state, mister?”

  “Work for the state?” I snorted. “Would I be driving a wreck like this if I worked for the state? Now do you know where I can get a tire fixed or not?”

  He shook his head. Not in answer to my question but to the one in his mind. I wasn’t the same guy; he wasn’t going to be a hero.

  I said something under my breath about dumbbells, just loud enough for him to hear it.

  A couple of cars drove in just then, and he didn’t have a chance to say anything more and I didn’t have to. He trotted off sullenly, and I drove away. Within the next ten minutes, I drove a good five miles away.

  I picked a quiet residential street, brought the car down to a steady fifteen miles an hour, and turned the radio to catch the police calls. I drove and listened until noon, and nothing came over the air. They weren’t looking for me. Yet.

  Around noon I stopped at a drive-in and had a hamburger and a bottle of beer in the car. The check brought my nine dollars down to less than eight-fifty. It also started me to thinking again about that one hundred and fifty that Doc had appropriated.

  The more I thought about it the more certain I became that he’d taken the money to keep me from running away. He’d never intended to open any bank account for me and he didn’t now. And then something had happened, or was going to happen, that made it unsafe for me to have that money longer.

  It couldn’t have anything to do with Eggleston, since he couldn’t have foreseen how I’d be involved in that. And the only thing impending was the Fanning Arnholt scheme. So, somehow, he must be intending to use me in that. I was going to be used, and not several weeks from now but tonight.

  I grinned to myself, thinking of Madeline and Hardesty. This was going to spoil their plans. The thing was going to explode on them before they were ready for it, and they’d have to do their own dirty work, whatever it was, instead of dragging me in on it.

  They weren’t going to like that. Not a bit. Hardesty in particular, with the secure and respectable position he held in the city, was going to hate being caught with his neck out. There’d be a blow-up between him and Doc and Madeline. I might get enough to clear myself of Eggleston’s murder.

  I wondered how Doc was going to wind up the Arnholt scheme tonight, something that even I could see should take two or three weeks. And I remembered those rare out-of-character glimpses I’d had of him, as on my first night out of Sandstone, and I knew exactly how he was going to wind it up. I felt certain that this, if nothing else, would bring on a quarrel with Madeline and Hardesty.

  Madeline…

  I tried not to think about her. When I thought about her I hated myself because, well, I couldn’t hate her. I couldn’t no matter what she’d done or might do, and I knew I never could.

  Slowly, the afternoon passed. I drove around until three and had more beer at another drive-in. And then I did more driving, still sticking to the residential streets, and around five o’clock I stopped at a neighborhood bar and restaurant.

  I sat down at the end of the bar and had a ham sandwich, potato salad and coffee. It was a small, sidestreet place and I was the only customer. My ankles ached from the day’s almost steady driving. I decided to kill some of my remaining time there.

  After I’d eaten I had a brandy and dropped a few nickels in the juke box. I rolled dice with the bartender for drinks and won once and lost twice. By seven o’clock I was pretty well relaxed; as relaxed as I could be under my circumstances.

  And, then, the cop came in.

  He was a big, lumbering fellow with a broad red face, and he had little round unblinking eyes. He came through the door slowly, twirling his club as though it were an extension of his fingers, and stopped at the front of the bar. He looked the place over, walls, ceiling, floor and fixtures; studying it as if he might be considering its purchase. Then, he lumbered down to us.

  The bartender finished his roll and passed the cup to me. I picked it up, numb fingered, and the cop swung the club up, caught it, and pointed it over his shoulder.

  “That your coupe out there?”

  “Yes,” I said, easing my feet off the stool rungs. “It’s mine.”

  “Buy it new?”

  “No.”

  “How long you had it?”

  “Not very long,” I said.

  He stared at me blank-faced. The club came down and began to twirl again.

  “What’d you pay for it?”

  “A hundred and seventy-five.”

  “Who’d you buy it from?”

  “Capital Car Sales.”

  He caught the club under his arm, took a pencil from the side of his cap and a notebook from his hip pocket. He wrote in the book, his lips moving with the movement of his hand. He closed it, returned it to his hip and replaced the pencil in its clip.

  “Been lookin’ for a good cheap coupe,” he said. “Think I’ll go down and see them people.”

  And then he turned and lumbered out, the club spinning and twirling at his finger tips.

  I had two more drinks, stiff ones, and got out of there.

  At eight-fifteen I turned up the long wooded drive which led to Dr. Luther’s house.

  Three blocks from the house, a convertible was parked against the curb. I was swinging out to pass it when a woman stepped into the beam of my headlights and held up her arm.

  Lila.

  “Oh, Pat,” she said, as I stopped beside her. “I’m so glad you came along. I seem to be out of gas.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “If you’ll steer your car, I’ll push it home for you.”

  “Oh, that’s a lot of bother,” she said, and she opened the door of my car and climbed in. “Let’s just leave it here. I’ll send one of the boys back after it.”

  I closed the door for her, but I didn’t drive on. She could have walked home in five minutes. Why wait for me? For obviously she had waited for me.

  I turned and looked at her, and she smiled at me brightly in the darkness. “Well, Pat? Hadn’t we better be going?”

  “Doc told you to wait there for me, Lila,” I said. “Why?”

  “Now what are you talking about, Pat?” she laughed. “I told you I was out of gas.”

  “Do you know what you’re doing, Lila? Or are you just running blind, doing as you’re told?”

  She shook her head, not answering.

  “Lila,” I said. “I think you’re pretty straight. I think you’d like to be straight. But you’re mixed up in something damned bad. If you keep on, the same thing that happened to Eggleston may happen to you.”

  “Eggleston?” Her voice was puzzled. “Who’s he?”

  “You know who he was. The private detective.”

  “I don’t know anyone named Eggleston—any private detectives.”

  “Don’t hand me that,” I said. “You had an appointment with him last night…and he was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” she said blankly. “
And I had an appointment with him? You’re joking, Pat!”

  I grabbed her by the arms and started to shake her; and then I let go and slid under the wheel again.

  “Yes,” I said, “I was joking. Now I’ll drive you home.”

  “I really don’t know anything about it. Honest, I don’t.”

  “No,” I nodded. “You don’t. Eggleston’s appointment was with Mrs. Luther. You’re not Mrs. Luther.”

  26

  She gasped and whirled on me.

  “That’s not true! Why—why—” she laughed, a little hysterically, “I never heard of such a thing!”

  “All right, then,” I said, “we’ll say that you are Mrs. Luther. You’re Doc’s wife and marriage doesn’t mean a thing to you. You’re Doc’s wife and you killed Eggleston last night or you had him killed.”

  That got her; hit her hard from two directions. It hurt her pride deeply, and it frightened her even more.

  “Y-you—you guessed it,” she said, at last. “I didn’t tell you!”

  “No,” I said. “You didn’t tell me. Doc did. He told me enough so that I should have seen it. How did it start, Lila? Were you a patient of his?”

  “N-not”—she shivered—“not at first. I met him on the train, years ago—about ten years, I guess it was—when he was coming here for the first time. I—I’d been losing a lot of sleep, and I thought I might be going crazy. He talked with me, and afterwards I felt better. And when he opened his offices here, I started consulting him. I—he found out what was worrying me.”

  “What was it?” I kept my voice gentle, sympathetic. “Had you killed someone?”

  “My husband. I—I didn’t mean to—I don’t think I meant to—but I guess that doesn’t matter. I was tired, of waiting on him, I suppose, and I gave him too much of the medicine. They all said I’d killed him. They couldn’t prove anything, but they kept saying it. I had to leave there.”

  “And Doc picked up where your neighbors left off,” I said. “He convinced you that you had committed murder. I imagine he even got you to admit it, didn’t he?”

  She turned and looked at me, eyes widening. “You sound like—like you don’t think I—”

  “Of course, you didn’t do it intentionally,” I said. “Doc wanted to use you so he made you believe you’d killed your husband. Let’s see if I know what happened, then, after he had you start posing as his wife. He—”

  “No need to guess about it, Pat,” she said, and she told me how it had been.

  Doc had used her in a kind of high class badger game with the capital big shots. He didn’t take money. Money might have led to a charge of blackmail and, at any rate, the easy money crowd seldom had heavy cash assets. So, when Doc caught his “wife” in a compromising situation with one of the big boys, he simply demanded to be cut in on the political gravy. That gave him his “in,” enabled him to get out of the game fast. For, of course, it couldn’t be worked indefinitely. As it was, talk began to circulate that Lila Luther was too promiscuous to actually be so, and that Doc seemed jealous only when he could profit by it. His victims couldn’t charge him with blackmail, but they could run him out of town if they learned the truth. They could fix it so that, even in the shadiest political circles, no one could afford to become involved with him.

  “I guess that’s why he hates me so much,” Lila concluded. “It’s been years since I’ve been of any use to him but he’s had to go on keeping me. He’s had to treat me as a man in his position would be expected to treat his wife. I guess, in the long run, I’ve gotten a lot more from him than I got for him.”

  “How have you felt about it, Lila?”

  “I don’t know, Pat.” She shrugged wearily. “I don’t know any more. I put up a fight at first, but then I just kind of gave up. I’m not very bright; there’s no point in telling you that. There’s no work I’m any good for, and Doc had that hold over me, and, well, I just gave up. I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “Do you know what Doc’s plans are about Fanning Arnholt?”

  “Fanning Arnholt?” She looked blank.

  “The textbook deal.”

  “I don’t know anything about it, Pat. Really I don’t.”

  I threw a few more questions at her, trying to trip her up. But she was telling the truth. She didn’t know anything of Doc’s plans. She simply did as she was told, and no questions asked.

  “I’ll tell you something,” I said, “and I want you to believe me, Lila. You’re on a hell of a spot. Almost as bad a spot as I’m on. Doc isn’t going to be around any more after tonight. You’re going to be left alone, without any money and probably even without a place to live, and you’re going to be right in the middle of one of the biggest scandals that ever hit Capital City.”

  She turned on me, startled. Then, she laughed, incredulously. “But—how? Why? I mean—”

  “I can’t explain now. It would take too much time; it wouldn’t make sense to you. But here’s something to think about. Since you aren’t Mrs. Luther, who is?”

  “Who?” She laughed again. “Why—well, no one. I mean, Doc just made—”

  “Huh-uh. He didn’t make the story up. He’d know it would be checked. He was married under exactly the circumstances he said he was, and his wife followed him here after he reestablished himself. He’s kept her out of the dirty work—as much of it as he could—and used you instead. And now that the elections are going sour…Well, what do you think is going to happen, Lila?”

  “I…” She frowned, trying to think and getting absolutely nowhere. “I don’t—Tell me what to do, Pat.”

  “You were supposed to pick me up here tonight?”

  “Yes. I was supposed to make it look like—like we’d been out together.”

  It seemed like the showdown, but I couldn’t be positive. And if I jumped the gun, there wouldn’t be any proof. I could set the deal up only once, and if it fell through I’d never get another chance.

  “Tell me what to do, Pat.”

  I hesitated. Then, I took a notebook and a pencil from my pocket. “Do exactly what you first intended to,” I said. “But do this also. When—if—I give you the nod, excuse yourself and call this party. Tell her to go to—”

  I hesitated again…To go to Doc’s house? No. No, he couldn’t leave from there. There’d be things he’d have to take with him—clothing, toilet articles and so on—and he couldn’t take them from the house.

  “…tell her to come to this address, and bring some help with her. Tell her to stake the place out and…”

  I ran through it a couple of times, spelling it all out. Because it was simple enough, but so was she. I tore the page from my notebook, watched her tuck it into her purse and stepped on the starter.

  I drove on to the house. I parked the car in the garage, and opened the door for her. She followed me up the drive, lagging a few steps behind; then, as we neared the porch, she caught up with me and linked her arm through mine.

  She clung to it tightly, letting her long soft hip brush against me. We entered the hall, and she pulled me around suddenly and kissed me on the mouth.

  I grinned and patted her on the arm. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t wipe off the lipstick.

  It was just eight-thirty. Arm in arm, we went down the hall and into my room.

  There were about a dozen people in the room. Doc was there, of course, and Hardesty. Then there was Burkman, Flanders and Kronup, and a couple of the textbook men. The others I didn’t know, although I’d seen most of them around the house or the capitol from time to time.

  My bed had been pushed against the wall, along with the desk, table and reading stand. Doc was sitting on a stool in front of the radio. The others were lounging in a half-circle of chairs facing the instrument.

  The air was blue with cigar and cigarette smoke. Everyone except Doc had a glass in his hand.

  Lila and I sat down in two straight chairs, the only unoccupied ones, and for a moment every eye was on us—and the room was completely si
lent.

  Every eye was on us, and then on Doc, watching his startled scowl, the protruding teeth that bared suddenly, unconsciously it seemed, in anger.

  He stared at us, turning the dial of the radio. “This is it,” he said slowly.

  And the announcer’s quick, falsely excited voice filled the room:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we take you tonight to Orpheum Hall where Mr. Fanning Arnholt, president of the National Phalanx, is speaking on ‘Our Schools—Battleground of the Underground.’ As you doubtless know, Mr. Arnholt has long been in the vanguard of those alert and courageous citizens who are fighting the good battle against subversive influences. He has—”

  Then they were all staring at the radio which had suddenly gone dead.

  “I don’t know.” Doc shook his head at their unspoken question. “The thing’s working all right. It—”

  “If you will stand by for just a moment”—it was the announcer again—“there seems to be…Mr. Arnholt was right here on the platform with me a moment ago, but he seems to have been called away. I wonder—yes, there he is now! He’s talking to some other gentlemen, and he looks quite—quite ill. And…Stand by, please!”

  The two textbook men looked at each other nervously. Someone said, “What the hell?” and there was a chorus of “Shhs.” I glanced at Lila. I nodded. I hadn’t known quite what to expect, but I knew this was the beginning of it. She got up and left the room quietly. And I saw, or thought I saw, a peculiar look in Doc’s eyes. But he didn’t say anything, and no one else seemed to notice her departure. They were all too interested in what was—or wasn’t—coming from the radio.

  It wasn’t completely silent, now. We could hear the subdued roar of the audience, and the sound of several voices, apparently near the microphone. Two of them rose above the others:

  “But Mr. Arnholt is the scheduled speaker…”

  “…isn’t speaking…we’re paying for time…”