Frails Can Be So Tough

by Hank Janson

  ‘Let me go,’ she said fiercely. ‘Let me go.’

  I was aware of something else, too. That shoulder-strap had broken again, and one milk-white, naked breast was bewilderingly close to me.

  ‘Let me go,’ she panted desperately, and the strengthless movement of her body made me acutely conscious of only a handful of flimsy underwear between us.

  ‘You asked for it,’ I told her grimly. My weight still imprisoned her, my fingers maintained their firm grip around her wrists. But she wasn’t struggling any longer. Her eyes were angry and defiant. ‘Let me go, you swine,’ she burst out fiercely. Then, understanding the way I was looking at her, she made an effort, raised her head so she could stare down at herself. That was when she realized the shoulder-strap had broken again. There was nothing she could do about it. Her head fell back again like she was exhausted. She said, bitterly: ‘You beast. You absolute beast. Why don’t you let me go?’

  ‘Gonna promise to be good?’ I demanded. I hadn’t started this, but now it had happened, I was getting ideas about this dame. I liked holding her down that way, thrilled at the touch of her, found my eyes repeatedly drawn to that exposed breast, drinking in the rounded, firm perfection of it, its nearness exciting me strangely. ‘Gonna quit struggling?’ I demanded, and knew I was playing for time, knew I was savouring every moment and that my question was unnecessary. She’d exhausted herself.

  There was a pucker of annoyance to her forehead. She was still breathless, her lips parted as she panted. Her chest was heaving jerkily. Her voice and tone changed.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ she pleaded. ‘You’re crushing me.’

  I stared into her blue eyes. They were fearless and contemptuous.

  ‘You gonna be good?’ I asked unnecessarily, still playing for time, and my eyes slipped down from her face, down towards that other attraction that was so disturbingly close.

  ‘Anything you say. Just leave me alone.’

  I looked into her eyes again. ‘You promise you won’t start anything if I release you?’ I asked. I noticed her lips were ripe and red. I noticed other things, too, in that moment. I was breathing more quickly than I should have been, there was a kinda haziness floating at the back of my mind, and she was close – so desirably close!

  The pucker in her forehead became a frown of pain. ‘Please,’ she panted. ‘Let me go.’

  Her eyes were staring into mine. My face was close to hers. I forgot everything, forgot she thought me a murderer, that I’d made her my prisoner; forgot everything except her being so close to me. ‘I’ll let you go,’ I said thickly. I added, meaningfully: ‘In just a minute.’

  Her eyes were staring defiantly and contemptuously into mine as I lowered my lips towards hers. At the last minute, she swiftly twisted her head on one side, arched her head up and away from me.

  The chances were she would have bitten me anyway, and the roundness of her body was close to mine, fascinating, milk-white magnetism, wholly irresistible.

  There was a red haze at the back of my brain, a heady rush of blood goading me on, the smell of her in my nostrils and a forgetfulness of everything except this one thing.

  I kissed her.

  I kissed her deliberately, caressingly and tenderly.

  Instantaneous reaction seared through her at my touch. Her arms, thighs and body were instantaneously rigid, muscles drawn taut in a glorious moment that lasted a lifetime.

  My lips burned, my emotions fused, soared to tremendous heights and hovered, drawn out into a slender tightrope of ecstasy that was taut, vibrating and as rigid as her body against mine.

  Time had no meaning. Everything was oneness in a single moment of happiness. Rigidity strained to snapping point, ungovernable emotions captured and trembling on my lips, held there on the pinnacle of ecstasy, enduring unbearable delight until the very last moment. The touch of her, the smell of her skin, and the closeness of her! Infinite pleasure stretched with the rigidity of her body. Time had no meaning.

  She relaxed suddenly as though a main spring inside her had been wound too far and had suddenly snapped, releasing in that moment all her tautened nerves and sinews so she was soft and boneless.

  It lasted but a moment. She became possessed of a tremendous strength, fierce, angry strength that was bewildering in its completeness and unexpectedness. Her desperate wrists twisted from my hands, and the muscle of her body hardened and tautened, thrusting upwards at me with savage determination so I found myself rolling sideways, clutching desperately at the bed to save myself from falling.

  It was a return to reality with startling, cold abruptness. I was between her and the bathroom. The chain around her waist was stretched taut and rigid as she knelt on the bed as far from me as she could get. Her eyes were strange and watchful, as though calculating my next move. But questioning, too, as though there was something she didn’t understand.

  I brushed my hand across my forehead, stared at her levelly, and was surprised to find I was trembling. I hadn’t intended anything like that should happen. But it had happened! I wanted her to know it was just that something came over me and …

  ‘If you feel ...’ I began.

  ‘Get away from me,’ she spat. ‘Get away from me, you beast.’

  There was something strange and enigmatic about her eyes. She was angry with me. She had a right to be. But her eyes weren’t all that angry.

  ‘Get away from me. Don’t dare come near me!’

  I was still hot and trembly. I did what she asked, crossed to my side of that invisible boundary line. She moved too. She curled herself up on the bed, still watching me with that same enigmatic expression in her eyes. She’d cupped her truant breast, was holding it gently with both hands like she would hold a live bird, not firmly enough to hurt it but not so loosely it could fly away. I found I was noticing all kinds of things I hadn’t noticed before; the gentle curve of her thighs as she sat with legs doubled up, the brevity of her cami-knickers, wide-legged so she showed her thighs almost to the hips.

  She’d calmed now I was at a distance. She asked intensely. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Just for the record,’ I told her hoarsely, ‘I hadn’t planned anything like that. It just kinda happened.’

  ‘Don’t dare come near me again,’ she said. But her voice lacked conviction. She was still cupping that breast with both hands like it was a piece of birthday cake she wanted to carry home carefully and show everyone.

  ‘Just don’t try anything smart again,’ I retorted grimly. ‘If you try that again, I’ll weigh you down with chains so you can’t even move.’

  ‘Just keep away from me,’ she said. But she said it mechanically, like the words were meaningless.

  I shouldn’t have stared at her, but I couldn’t help myself. Seeing her was reliving again that fleeting moment of sweetness. And that strange, enigmatic expression in her eyes still baffled me. It was as though she wanted to ask a question and doubted I knew the answer.

  I was relieved when she looked away from me. She half-turned her shoulder to me, but not so I missed anything when she examined her breast. She knew I could see, because she shot me a quick, up-and-under glance from her blue eyes. But she made no attempt to cover up, took her time tying the broken shoulder-strap. When she got the bodice adjusted, she leaned back on the pillows, lay there curled up, watching me with that same strange expression in her eyes, as though something had happened to her that she didn’t understand.

  I went through to another bathroom, cleaned up the scratches on my neck and dabbed antiseptic on my cheek where she had bitten it. My neck bothered me most. It was inflamed and painful, skin rubbed raw by the chain. There was nothing I could do except hope it wouldn’t get more painful. My arm was still painful. I stripped off my jacket, examined the tiny puncture where the needle had entered. The skin around it was badly inflamed. I touched it tenderly, and darts of pain stabbed through my arm.

  An unpleasant suspicion came into my mind. I probed with my fingers, clenched my
teeth against the sudden pain twinges.

  I went back to my room. The dame was lying on the bed, watching me through half-narrowed eyes.

  ‘I’m going out,’ I said. ‘I’m warning you. Just one tricky move, and you’re in trouble. I don’t wanna be bothered with you. If you’re smart and sit quiet, you can have what you want. Try anything smart and you’re gonna be chained down so you can’t move. Take your choice.’

  She didn’t say anything, just stared.

  ‘D’you want anything?’ I asked. ‘Anything within reason.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘Get me a newspaper.’ She was still staring at me.

  ‘Newspapers,’ I told her tersely, ‘are what I am going out for.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  I got my car out from the garage, pointed its nose in the direction of town, and arrived some thirty minutes later. It was early afternoon and the mid-day newspapers were on sale. I stopped when I reached the outskirts of town, bought half-a-dozen papers, drank coffee in a drugstore and glanced through the papers slowly and carefully.

  Manton’s body had been discovered. It was on the second page. Manton’s body discovered in a car on the high-road, with two bullet wounds in the chest. Foul play was suspected.

  One thing was certain. That news item would get Frisk worried. He’d be even more anxious to find me than the police. The police didn’t even know about me! Frisk wouldn’t be happy knowing I could put the finger on him at any time.

  Two sharp pangs of pain stabbed my arm when I got out dough to pay the check. It was the pain that decided me. I’d have to hide out for a while. I’d buy enough supplies to see me through for a few days while Frisk’s men hunted around fruitlessly. And if I was gonna hide out, I’d better do something about this arm.

  There was a doctor’s surgery nearby. Three folks were already in the surgery. I had to wait half an hour for my turn.

  He was a short, podgy guy with hard, earnest eyes. He looked at me like he was trying to see into my brain, and said in firm, precise tones: ‘You’re a stranger around here?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I agreed. ‘Just passing through. I guess you …’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ He acted like he had a pressing appointment he wanted to keep.

  I shrugged off my jacket. ‘I’ve got something in my arm,’ I told him.

  He hemmed with a thoughtful air when he saw the discolouration of the skin. He came right up close, tut-tutted some more, levered my arm around. It hurt, and I winced.

  ‘Got something there right enough,’ he grunted. He prodded some more. ‘That hurt?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure does.’

  He stared at me strangely, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a packet of cigarettes. With an unprofessional rudeness, he lighted a cigarette, walked around his side of the desk and sat down, leaving me standing there with my shirt cuff rolled up.

  I watched him through narrowed eyes. He acted like I wasn’t there, fumbled in his desk drawer, came up with a diary, which he opened and inspected.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Er … doctor!’

  He looked up. ‘Well?’ His voice was cold.

  ‘If there’s something in my arm, maybe I ought to have it out.’

  ‘You’ve got something there, right enough,’ he said firmly. ‘What is it?’

  I moistened my lips. ‘Maybe it’s a splinter.’

  He looked at me for a long while, very steadily. ‘What’s your name?’

  I licked my lips again. ‘Richardson,’ I said. ‘John Richardson.’

  ‘My advice, Mr John Richardson, is go to hospital.’

  I didn’t wanna go to hospital. I wanted my arm doctored so I could get back quick to the house. ‘There can’t be much to it, doctor. Can’t you fix it for me?’

  He leaned back in his chair, rested his fingers on the desk top. ‘I’ll be frank, Mr Richardson,’ he said. ‘You’re a drug addict. No, no, no …’ He held up one hand to silence my protest. ‘You don’t have to deny it. I’m a doctor, and I can tell. I can see by your eyes you’ve recently taken a large dose. But it’s not my job to do the work of the police. If you’ve snapped a needle in your arm, you can go to hospital to have it extracted.’

  I leaned forward across the desk. ‘Look, doctor,’ I pleaded. ‘Get it out for me, will you? I’ll pay you. I’ll pay good.’

  His eyes were suddenly much harder than I’d noticed they could be. ‘I’m doing you a favour,’ he said. ‘You don’t know it now. Maybe you’ll know sometime. If I take out that piece of needle, you’ll go away happily, give yourself other doses. After a time, you’ll become an addict, no hope for you at all.’

  ‘So what happens at the hospital?’

  ‘They’ll take it out for you,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ll have a coupla cops around, too. They’ll be wanting to know where you got the stuff. You’ll have a few questions to answer.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I should feel sorry for you, Mr Richardson – but I don’t. I’ve seen enough drug addicts to want the whole system stamped out, those who supply it and those who buy it.’

  He wasn’t arguing. He was just telling me. I reached for my jacket. My arm was hurting a whole lot more now. It was swollen and an angry red.

  ‘I suppose it’s no good telling you it was an accident, that I’m not a drug addict?’ I asked bitterly.

  ‘Not the slightest,’ he said smoothly. ‘My advice is go to hospital. They’ll take it out for you.’

  I glared at him, walked towards the door. I had my hand on the door knob when he called: ‘Just one more thing, Mr Richardson.’

  I turned; his eyes were level, his voice firm. ‘You’ll have to go to the hospital, you know. That arm’s in a bad way. Signs of blood poisoning.’

  I glared at him, shut the door behind me and hurried into the street. His words kept re-echoing around in my mind. Blood poisoning. Blood poisoning. Blood poisoning. Why, guys could die of blood poisoning. Guys had arms amputated because of blood poisoning!

  ‘Go to hospital,’ he had said. But that was crazy. They’d dig out that needle, but the cops would ask questions. They’d want to know who supplied the dope. Where I came from, where I lived. They might tie me in with Manton’s death. They might search my house, find the dame chained up there.

  Even if they didn’t, they might keep me in jail for weeks. And all the time, the dame would be chained up, slowly dying of thirst and starvation.

  I’d have to take a chance. I’d have to wait and see if my arm got better. Maybe the doctor was trying to scare me. Maybe that broken needle would work its own way out.

  I pulled my hat down over my eyes, bought up a good stock of provisions and carried them back to the car. As I was thumbing the starter, a newsboy came running along the street yelling out: ‘Extra. Extra!’

  My belly lurched. Maybe it was something new on Manton. I called him over, bought a paper from him. There was a big flaming headline which I barely glanced at. Something about the missing daughter of a millionaire. I skipped the front page, searched for further news of Manton. It was the same report, word for word, as the other papers had it. My belly settled itself. I refolded the paper, tossed it to one side. It fell so I could see a photograph on the front page. It caught my eye. I picked up the paper, stared at the photograph. Then my belly really did lurch. The photograph was of the dame chained up in my room. My fingers were trembling when I opened up the paper, read the headlines once more.

  I was in a kinda dream by the time I got through reading it all. Her name was Helen Gaskin. She’d been missing since that morning. While motoring from Chicago to Cleveland, she had simply disappeared, car as well. The police were patrolling all main roads into town and making widespread enquiries.

  She was something extra special, was Helen Gaskin. She was extra special on account of her father. He was one of Cleveland’s industrialists. They described him as a millionaire. Maybe he didn’t have that much dough, but he probably had plenty.

  It was the final paragraph that real
ly shook me. The paper stated the police feared Helen Gaskin may have been kidnapped.

  Kidnapped!

  There was a nasty ring to that word – kidnapped. It had the ring of the clanging of the iron door of the condemned cell. Kidnapping’s a capital offence. It used to be a paying proposition to snatch a rich guy’s kid and hold it to ransom. A parent would bend over backwards trying not to let the law know he was paying ransom. Once in a while, the kidnappers got the dough and bumped off the kid as well, so they wouldn’t run risks of being caught.

  Kidnapping became a profitable business, the ransom market became flooded with operators. That’s when the government stepped in. They put down kidnapping good and hard. They put it down by the simple expedient of awarding a snatcher the death sentence.

  Kidnapped!

  I could protest I didn’t intend holding Helen to ransom. But she sure was kidnapped. And that’s where the rub came. Because if she’d been a thirty-dollar-a- week city typist, it would have been a charge of ‘detained against her will’. But Helen’s father owned a million bucks. That made my crime a major offence. I was a kidnapper!

  It felt like there was wet sand in my belly. Soggy, heavy deposits of sand. I could see what a jam I was in. There was a grave risk that enterprising cops would tie me in with Manton’s death. The dame would certainly tie me in with it. And all the time I was imprisoning the dame, I was continuing the offence of kidnapping. And kidnapping was a capital offence!

  The world was grey and bleak, with no beginning and no future. Way down the street, I saw a harness cop strolling wards me. It was probably my imagination, but it looked like he was watching me keenly. That dull weight of despair was still heavy in my belly and my head ached. I wondered what I should do, if I should struggle on and hope, or if I should throw in my hand.

  The cop was nearer now. He seemed to be watching. Automatically I fumbled for the ignition key, switched on the engine. I slipped in the gear, pulled away from the kerb before the cop reached me. He never so much as I raised his eyes as I passed. I changed gear, headed towards my house. Halfway there, my arm began to throb, and I knew things were really bad.