The Intruder

by Charles Beaumont

  His lips parted wider and she felt his tongue moving. Lucy had told her, but still it made a sudden chill go across her flesh. His tongue touched hers and traveled deep. He pulled her closer, until her breasts were pressing against his chest, hard, and then his hands began to move also.

  Ella trembled. She felt an odd pain, a hurting; and when Cramer’s­ fingers traveled to her sweater, she became frightened.

  “Do you want me to do this?”

  She resisted for a moment, but she had only known Hank’s chaste, scared little kisses before, and she did not know how to resist.

  Adam Cramer’s fingers burned across her breasts. But she could not stop him. And she found that she did not want to stop him, either. Something inside her said, It mustn’t happen, and something else said, soothingly, If it does, it won’t be your fault. You told him not to. But he didn’t stop.

  Everything blurred for Ella then. Her mind became a wash of fear and hunger and shame, all bright pain and new feelings she’d never dreamed; but mostly it was the hunger, the scared wanting for the ugliness to happen.

  At the height of the pain, the night stopped. Adam Cramer pulled away and slumped back against the seat of the car. He was breathing heavily, and he was trembling, also.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, in a pinched voice. “Ella, I am.”

  Ella sat perfectly still, trying to shut out the thoughts.

  “I didn’t mean for it to go that far. Will you forgive me?”

  She still felt the touch of his fingers against her naked flesh, the perspiration, the longing that squeezed her heart.

  “It won’t happen again,” he said. “I promise.”

  Still she said nothing.

  He started to touch her, then drew back. “I just wanted you to like me, Ella,” he said, and she’d never heard that particular tone in his voice before. “That’s all.”

  “Why did you stop?” she said suddenly. She hadn’t meant to say it.

  “I had to,” he whispered.

  “Why?”

  She saw his fingers pull together and become fists; in the moonlight, his face appeared to harden.

  Without speaking, he started the engine and drove back onto the highway.

  14

  It had been the identical pattern, the identical story, exactly, and he cursed himself for hoping it might be different. It was this sort of stupidity, he thought, that ruined the finest plans. Of course he felt the same overwhelming pain, the same fury at his body for betraying him; but he was also glad that it had happened. Now the girl would become infatuated with him, perhaps. Which would be a help.

  He walked into the lobby of the Union Hotel. Mrs. Pearl Lambert sat alone in the big room, statue-still, eyes fastened to the flickering television screen.

  “Is it a good one?” he asked cheerfully.

  The old woman glanced up, startled; and grinned. “This couple moved into a haunted apartment because the man is a writer,” she said. “He writes mystery novels. So they moved there to get atmosphere! Then the wife found a body in the bathroom, only it vanished. The husband won’t believe her. He thinks she’s just imagining things, y’see? But the killer knows the woman seen the body and— Sit down.”

  “To tell you the truth, Mrs. Lambert, I’m kind of tired. I thought I might get to sleep early.”

  “You been working hard?”

  “Pretty hard, yes.”

  The old woman looked at him. “I heard about your speech. It kicked up quite a little ruckus. I suppose you know that.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly sure what the word ‘ruckus’ means?”

  Mrs. Pearl Lambert laughed. “I guess I ain’t, either. Anyway, lots of people heard it. Mr. Polling told me—he’s the owner of the car place—and he said he was very impressed. Mr. Polling’s a smart man. Of course he’s sort of mad at us lately. On account of what Sam did.”

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, you know Sam. He’s a fast talker, and he got Mr. Polling to agree to come down almost five hundred dollars on a new car. Just like that!”

  He laughed, but as he laughed, he remembered something—something he’d been asked to do. “Is Sam here now?”

  “Huh? No, he’s over at Farragut. He’ll be back tomorrow though, I guess. Sam comes and goes, all the time. He’s so nice, him and his wife. Don’t you think so?”

  He started for the stairs. “Yes,” he said, “I liked them a lot.”

  “She’s sort of funny, in a way—stand-offish, you might say. Just the opposite of Sam. I mean, you wouldn’t think they’d exactly fit together, if you know what I mean. But he just worships her.”

  “Yes, you can see that.”

  “I like Vy, too, don’t misunderstand me. But she’s a Northerner, you know, and—well, different. Like she belonged in a big city and didn’t know what to do with herself in a little-bitty place like Caxton. She never comes down to talk with any of us, or look at TV, or anything. It’s odd.”

  “How do you mean, odd?”

  “Well now, it’s none of my business. But knowing Sam the way I think I do, you get what I mean, and how he never talks about where they met or anything, I kind of get the feeling there’s a lot to that story.”

  He smiled. “Maybe she’s a murderess,” he said.

  Mrs. Pearl Lambert clapped her hands. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful!”

  “Good night,” he said. “Let me know how the mystery turns out.”

  “I will. Good night!”

  He walked up the dark stairway, onto the buckling linoleum floor. Yellow light poured out from the transom of room 22. He walked by the doorway briskly, and entered his own room.

  He lay down on the bed.

  The heat was still inside him, and the aching between his legs was almost unbearable. As he lay there, he thought of the girl, Ella, and of all the other Ellas in his life. The first had been a Jewish girl named Jeaness. She was fourteen years old, and he’d sat beside her every day for a whole semester, watching the sun on her legs. They were beautiful legs, with a coating of tan gold on them. He used to think that one could scrape the gold away with a knife. And the Jewish girl, unlike the others, obviously had breasts. They were small but pointed and high, and she always wore a locket which fell between them and accentuated them. He’d been afraid, then, to speak to her, because he knew how ugly he was, how repellent all the pimples and blackheads that covered his face were. But then had come the evening of the big dance, and he’d been more afraid to stay at home, alone, thinking of it; so he’d put powder on his face, and ointments, and he’d gone. And when he’d worked up the courage to ask for a dance, Jeaness had said (and the words rang clear in his mind): “Who let you in?”

  Later, when the pimples had disappeared magically, and he’d found ways of gaining popularity, he met the little French girl, Steffie. She was beautiful and desired by all the boys, but now he was adept at campaigns—all sorts of campaigns—and he won an evening with her. It went perfectly, he recalled: perfectly. The dinner at Chapeau Rouge, the drive down Sunset to the beach, along the beach to Malibu, up into the lonely and deserted hills. And after he’d kissed her and felt her breasts and put his hand upon her, she’d told him that she wanted him.

  He stubbed the cigarette out in the glass ashtray and tried not to think of these forgotten things.

  He tried not to remember how, suddenly, he’d been unable to take Steffie, how she’d wept and begged him, and how he could only say, “I can’t, I can’t . . .”

  Or how he’d taken her home and then driven all the way to Tijuana, three hundred miles distant, and paid the first pimp and stayed with a scrawny, stupid Mexican girl all night.

  It had always been that way.

  And now, again, because he’d wanted to, he’d been unable; and the pain of it filled him.

  He got off the bed quietly and walked with great care out into the hallway.

  He stopped at number 22, and knocked softly.

  “Yes?”

  He did not an
swer, but knocked again.

  “Who is it?”

  “Adam Cramer,” he said. “Your neighbor.”

  There was a long pause; then: “What do you want?”

  “A cup of coffee, a little conversation.”

  After almost a full minute, the door opened. Vy Griffin was dressed in a pleated pink robe. Her hair was down, and she wore no make-up.

  “Sam asked me to drop in on you,” he said, smiling.

  “Did he?”

  “Yes. He said he was going to spend the night in Farragut and maybe you could use a little company. If not, I’ll go on back to my room.”

  “That would be a good idea,” she said, staring at him.

  He did not take his eyes away. “Is it what you want me to do?”

  She pulled the robe closer about her. “Yes,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “I’m—tired. I want to go to bed.”

  He took a step into the room. “At ten-fifteen? I thought you never felt sleepy until one or two.”

  “Please, I—”

  “Sam would be very put out with you if he heard that you weren’t hospitable to a friend.”

  “You’re not a friend.”

  “Unkind. Definitely unkind. I only want a little cup of coffee.” He took another step and closed the door. “They usually don’t allow hot-plates in boardinghouses. You must be a special case.”

  Vy Griffin was breathing heavily now. She walked angrily across the room, put the coffeepot under a faucet, snapped on the miniature stove.

  He glanced at the unmade bed. “Why did you say that?”

  “Say what?”

  “That I wasn’t your friend.”

  “I don’t know. I’m tired, that’s all.”

  “You behave as if you were afraid of me. Afraid of something, anyway. Are you?”

  She said “No!” quickly.

  “Well, don’t bite my head off!” He sat down on the chair next to the bed. It was an old bed with a large, soft mattress. The center was indented. The sheets smelled of cheap perfume.

  He turned to gaze at Vy Griffin, and he could tell that beneath the robe she was small and firm and hot. She would have a fine body. “Mrs. Lambert was telling me how Sam jewed-down Mr. Polling,” he said. “Five hundred dollars is a lot to shave off the price of a car. He must be a pretty good pitchman.”

  “He is.”

  “You know, that’s sort of a paradox to me,” Adam went on. “I just can’t connect it with the other side of Sam’s personality. He seems too honest and—simple.”

  Vy Griffin fumbled in a bureau drawer, extracted a cigarette. Adam leapt up and struck a match. The woman met his eyes for a moment, then accepted the light. He did not move away.

  “How do you stand it, anyway?” he asked softly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, this town, you know—I should think you’d get awfully lonesome. Especially with Sam leaving you half the time.”

  “I stand it just fine, Mr. Cramer.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I can’t seem to say a thing that doesn’t upset you!”

  He walked back to the chair and sat down with exaggerated resignation.

  “If you don’t like my personality, you don’t have to subject yourself to it,” Mrs. Griffin said. “What are you after, anyway?”

  “At the moment, a cup of coffee.”

  They were quiet for several minutes, then Vy Griffin said: “I listened to your speech. You had them all buffaloed.”

  “But not you?”

  “No; and not you, either. I know a pitch when I hear one, Mr. Cramer. You’re a good salesman, but I don’t like what you’re selling.”

  “What do you think I’m selling?”

  “I’m not sure. But I don’t like it, whatever it is. And I don’t like you, either. Why don’t you leave right now?” She put the cigarette out and turned toward the window.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Griffin. I was trying to be friendly. Whatever I’ve done or said to make you angry, I’m sorry. Good night.”

  He started for the door.

  “Wait.” The woman turned around slowly. “The—coffee’s ready. There’s no sense in wasting it.”

  She took two cups from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. “Do you want anything in it?”

  He shook his head. “Black is all right. I go both ways.”

  She handed the coffee to him, and he saw that her hand was trembling. Very slightly.

  “I didn’t mean to be rude to you,” she said.

  “I’ll still leave if that’s what you want.”

  “No, there isn’t any reason for you to. No reason at all.”

  “You’re not sleepy any more?”

  “No. Just tired. There’s a difference.” Vy Griffin sat down at the foot of the bed, drew her legs beneath her and adjusted the robe. “Well,” she said, “what would you like to talk about?” Her voice was strangely hard and brittle.

  He sipped the coffee. “Since I’m not very interesting,” he said, “let’s talk about you.”

  “What makes you think I’m interesting?”

  “I know you are. The second I laid eyes on you, I said to myself, Now here’s a fascinating woman. Attractive, sexy, smart, sharp. What’s she doing in a place like this? I wondered. Then I found the answer.”

  Mrs. Griffin stared at him. The black hair was lustrous against her white city flesh, and Adam pondered whether or not she was wearing a brassière. If not, then she was built even better than he’d hoped.

  “The way I figure it,” he said, smiling widely, accentuating his boyishness, “you’re an East Indian princess. You were born of a tragic union between an errant Lascar and an island Queen. Sam adopted you at the age of six, then discovered, suddenly, one day, that you were no longer his little girl but instead a ripe, full-blown woman! Am I warm?”

  Mrs. Griffin was making an effort to remain formal, but a faint smile curled her lips. He looked at her over the coffee cup. His eyes were large and he used them.

  Her smile began to fade.

  “That gives us a great deal in common,” he said quickly. “Actually, you see, I was the first experiment in artificial insemination. My mother was brought up very strictly. When Dad tried to make love to her, she would scream and call the police. Every time. It was one of those little quirks that people have sometimes, you know. Anyway, Dad wanted a child in the worst way, so he talked Mums into going with him to see a doctor, Dr. Schleckinger. ‘We want to have a baby,’ Dad said. ‘What can we do?’ The doctor dropped his stethoscope. ‘Are you serious?’ he demanded. ‘Absolutely,’ said Dad. ‘Well, they have got a new thing called sex—’ And you know what? The minute he said the word, Mums slapped him and took a taxi home. Can you imagine that?”

  Vy Griffin put the empty coffee cup on the floor.

  “But wait. You may not believe this, but they did the whole thing in secret. When Mums got pregnant, she went to a gym to take off weight. Really! No, I’m deadly serious. After it was all over, she was so ashamed she never ventured outside the door. As for me, I developed an overpowering affection for test tubes which lingers to this day. Whence I actually sprang, I didn’t discover until I was seventeen. And who do you suppose it was?”

  Mrs. Griffin shrugged.

  “Doctor Schleckinger!” He laughed. “All that trouble just because of a basic misunderstanding of a pleasant, simple human pursuit. Now there’s a subject for us! Sex. Are you fer it or agin it?”

  Mrs. Griffin stopped smiling.

  “Strike the question. It’s irrelevant!” Adam wiped his forehead. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take off my coat. I’m getting rather hot. Aren’t you?” He removed the jacket and walked across the room to the metal closet. On the bureau was a small antique lamp with a shade of tinted shell. “You know, I hope, that that hundred-watt bulb is giving off a lot of heat. Look at the difference.” He walked quickly to the center of the room and pulled the tiny
chain connected to the overhead bulb. The room was immediately thrust into blackness. He turned on the shell lamp. It put out a soft, violet glow. “See?” he said.

  Mrs. Griffin did not answer. Her breathing was quick and loud.

  “Zip, we’re down five degrees, I’ll bet!” Adam walked to the bed and sat down on the edge, then he reached up and touched Mrs. Griffin’s forehead. “You’re not very comfortable, are you?” he said softly, removing his hand.

  The woman’s voice was a whisper. “Please,” she said.

  “Please what?”

  She was quiet.

  “You want me to leave?”

  She made no sound.

  “Vy, it does get lonely for you, doesn’t it? I know it does. I feel that way myself, a lot of the time. I do.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “I find myself alone in some little town and I almost go crazy because there isn’t anyone who feels things the way I do. And I think how wonderful it would be to meet a person like that and be with that person for a little while. Not for long. Just for a little while.” He could feel the heat of her body through the robe, he could feel the pulsing of her heart through his palm.

  Very firmly he drew her close and kissed her. Her lips were full and soft, but they resisted him, as her body resisted him, and he found that this added to his excitement.

  “You want it,” he said. “I knew that when we met. You may not like me, but you want me, and there’s no point lying.”

  Vy Griffin tore his hand away from her breast. “I love Sam,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said. “But that doesn’t make any difference. We’re not hurting Sam. You won’t tell him, and I certainly don’t intend to. So relax. It isn’t the first time, is it?”

  Her hand stung sharply across his face. He grasped her wrist and forced her across the bed. Without speaking, he untied the cord that held the robe, and remained motionless.

  “Tell me you’re not excited,” he said. “Tell me you don’t want to sleep with me now.” He pulled the robe apart. She was naked beneath it. Her body was white and glistening in the violet light. Adam knelt and kissed her breast and felt the nipple harden against his tongue. He placed his hand, almost casually, between her legs. “Go on,” he said, “tell me you don’t want me. If you do, I’ll leave right now.”