by Hank Janson
‘You really intend to go through with this?’
‘D’you think I wanna lose my arm?’
‘You’re crazy,’ she said. ‘You can’t do it yourself.’
‘I’ll have a damned good try.’
There was a long pause. She said, slowly: ‘You’d better let me do it.’
I turned and stared at her. It was the right answer. I’d make a mess of it myself. I licked my lips. ‘D’you know what you’re taking on?’
Her face was set and determined. ‘You can’t do it yourself,’ she said. ‘Let me do it.’
I turned away from her. ‘Forget it,’ I grunted. ‘I can handle it.’ It was gonna be messy. It was better to keep her out of it.
Her voice was low and contemptuous. ‘You’re afraid of me. You’re afraid I’ll take advantage when you’re ill. It’s your own weakness. You can’t trust yourself, so you can’t trust anyone else.’
I turned back to her, stared at her levelly. She glared back, and suddenly I wanted to make her crack, make her lose her confidence. Without another word, I carried the table across to her, placed it beside the bed. The kettle was boiling again. I brought that over too, more water to clean up the mess.
Her lips trembled slightly. ‘What do I do?’
‘Cut and probe,’ I said brutally. ‘The needle’s in there, deep down, maybe a quarter of an inch down. You cut with the razor, probe with the pliers, draw it out.’
Her face was white, scared. ‘Is this all I have to do it with?’
I smiled grimly. ‘What d’you want? A surgery?’
It wasn’t pleasant for me. You might think I was being brave. The truth was, I was suffering such agony, I was willing to endure anything that might relieve me of pain.
She looked at the razor lying in the cup of whisky. She looked at the sterilized pliers and the bowl of steaming water. She shuddered.
‘Forget it,’ I said. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
She caught her breath, grabbed at me. ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘You can’t do it yourself. I’ll do it.’
I sat on the edge of the bed, rolled up my shirt-sleeve.
She took towels, spread them on the bed. ‘Lie down,’ she instructed. ‘Make yourself as comfortable as possible.’
I lay down as she wanted, watched her all the time. Revulsion was written on her face. But she mastered herself, placed more towels underneath my arm, surrounded it with cotton-wool. She poured whisky on cotton-wool, dabbed it gently on my arm. I winced. ‘I’ll have a shot out the bottle,’ I told her.
She held the bottle for me. I took three deep gulps, big gulps that caused the whisky to burn into my belly, my eyes to water with the sharp bite of it.
Now she’d started, she seemed more confident. She pulled the table close so it would be convenient, took the razor blade from the cup and held it between her fingers. It was a plain blade, difficult to cut with.
She sat with the razor poised, looked at me anxiously. ‘How d’you feel?’
‘Lousy,’ I said. ‘But go ahead, just the same.’
‘You’re ready?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Just you start, don’t waste time. Do it quickly.’
‘I’m going to cut first. Just one cut, long and deep. Are you ready?’
‘Sure,’ I panted. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Don’t watch,’ she instructed. ‘Shut your eyes. It’ll be easier that way.’
I did what she said, shut my eyes. I felt her cool fingers encircle my arm, holding it firmly. I let my body go limp, waiting for the sharp, sudden slash. In the same moment, I realized I’d played right into her hands. She could slash at my throat or at my pulse. I’d played right into her hands and ...
The pain was in my arm, sharp sweet pain, cutting deep and with agonizing slowness. It was as though my swollen arm exploded, and the sharp, cutting pain gave me blessed relief when bursting, throbbing pressure was released.
I opened my eyes, saw her reddened fingers desperately pressing together the raw lips of the deep gash, trying to stem the sharp spurt of blood. There was panic in her blue eyes as she pressed the wound, trying to keep it closed. There was blood on her cheeks and a great red splash on her shoulder, trickling down to her white breasts. The blood musta spurted like a fountain when she cut.
There was cold sweat on my forehead, and there was pain. Hell there was pain. But it was sharp and piercing, not burning and throbbing. And I didn’t feel that it was part of my body. It was an arm with which I had no connection, a limb that was that of a stranger.
‘Whisky,’ I said thickly. ‘Saturate it. Don’t worry about the blood. Start probing.’
As soon as her fingers released the wound, it began to bleed furiously. Hot blood flowed down my arm, dripped from my fingertips. Then she was back with the whisky, sponging with cotton-wool, pouring raw spirits into the lips of the wound. I almost rolled off the bed with the sharp burn of it. My feet drummed on the bed and the fingers of my good arm clutched a thick blanket, tore it.
The whisky stopped a lotta the bleeding. She was biting her lip now, her eyes pained by the horror of what she was doing.
‘Probe for it,’ I rasped. ‘Get it out.’
She fumbled with the pliers, dropped them twice before she got a grip on them. She’d taken so long, the wound had filled with blood again. I pushed her hand away from my arm. ‘Whisky,’ I said tersely.
She held the bottle poised. With my finger and thumb I deliberately pulled the wound open as she tilted the bottle. The raw spirits ran deep into the wound, so that once again I wanted to drum my feet. ‘Quick,’ I rasped faintly. ‘Can you see it?’
She peered. ‘No,’ she said weakly.
‘Feel for it then.’
Her eyes were fluttery. But she probed with her little finger. ‘I’ve got it,’ she said.
‘Can you reach it?’
‘I’ll have to ... cut some more.’
‘Jeepers,’ I yelled aloud. ‘This isn’t a picnic. Snap it up, will ya?’
This time I felt her cutting. Every primitive instinct inside me urged me to wrench away. But I managed to remain still enough for her. I had my head turned from her, my teeth biting into my forearm.
‘I can see it,’ she said.
I didn’t say anything. If I’d spoken, it would have broken my self-control.
‘I’m going to get it now.’
The blunt nose of the pliers was gentle after the cutting blade of the razor. I felt them probing, seemed to hear them grate on the tip of the needle, and then it felt like the bone was being sucked out of my arm.
‘I’ve got it,’ she said. Her voice was faint, like she was gonna keel over.
Without turning to look at her, I said weakly: ‘I’ll be okay ... in a minute.’
Again the sharp sting of spirits in a raw wound, then she was pressing my arm, squeezing the wound so it hurt all over again.
I wrenched my head around to her, my jaws parted with pain. ‘What the hell …?’
‘It’s the poison,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to get it out. I’ve gotta clean it up.’
The needle had been festering, threatening blood-poisoning. The wound had to be thoroughly cleaned and disinfected. Somewhere I found the strength to hold on to my consciousness while she probed, squeezed and swabbed.
‘I think it’s okay now,’ she said.
It made me sick to look at it. A deep gash in my arm, so deep it musta been nearly through to the bone. She cut sticking plaster into lengths, pulled the edges of the wound together and fastened it that way with sticking plaster.
She did it like she was in a dream. When the last piece of plaster had been smoothed into place, she keeled over.
She was kneeling down, so hadn’t far to fall. She went over sideways, and her head hit the carpet with a bang. I felt faint and dizzy. I sat up on the edge of the bed, pushed myself to a standing position and got another bottle of whisky, forced the neck of the bottle between her teeth. It wasn’t surprising she’d fainted. The
room was a shambles. Her arms were slippery to the shoulders with my blood, and it had stained her underclothing too. The carpet was littered with blood-stained swabs of cotton-wool. On the table, still adhering to the blood-stained pliers, was the cause of the trouble, an inch-long piece of broken needle, discoloured and poisonous-looking.
She didn’t come around until I’d cleaned away the swabs, removed the blood-soaked towels from the bed, and with some difficulty lifted her on to it. Her eyes fluttered. She looked up into my face. ‘Tell me ... you’re all right?’ she asked.
I was hazy, weak as a kitten and feeling I was gonna vomit. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’m okay now.’
She worked up a smile. ‘I’m sorry I had to hurt you.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said gruffly. She made a movement like she was gonna get off the bed. ‘Take it easy,’ I said ‘There ain’t no hurry.’
‘Gotta clean up.’
‘That’s okay. I’ve taken care of it. Most of it anyway.’
She looked down at her blood-stained arms. She shuddered. ‘I’d better wash.’
I pushed her back on the pillows. ‘No hurry,’ I said. ‘Take it easy.’
Her blue eyes smiled up into mine. ‘Alright, Lee,’ she said obediently. She closed her eyes, relaxed.
I got more hot water, pulled the table over beside her and washed the blood off her arms. She did the rest of it herself, discreetly lowered the bodice, washed her breasts quickly, shooting me shy little glances from time to time as though to figure out whether I was watching her lustfully or disinterestedly.
I was feeling better already. The smart of the wound was still keen. But it was a healthy kinda pain. The relief from that intolerable throbbing was like finding myself alive again. I said gruffly but sincerely, ‘I sure am grateful for what you’ve done. It took a lotta nerve, and maybe it’s saved my arm.’
‘Something had to be done,’ she said simply. ‘I just had to help.’
‘I’m grateful,’ I said awkwardly. I hesitated. ‘If there’s anything I can do for you …’ My voice trailed off. I knew what she would want. She’d want me to release her. She’d give me her promise she wouldn’t go to the cops. And that would put me in one helluva spot. Because I’d made up my mind she wasn’t gonna get loose from me until I was good and ready.
‘There is one thing you can do for me,’ she said quickly.
My mouth was dry. I was gonna be awful ungrateful after what she had done. ‘Yeah? What d’you want?’
‘My handbag,’ she said. ‘Get my handbag from the car, will you?’ Her hand instinctively went towards her hair, fluffed it. ‘I feel simply terrible, Lee. I haven’t combed my hair and …’ She dropped her eyes shyly. ‘Well, you know how it is, girls always like to have their make-up handy.’
I got up slowly, relieved at the simpleness of the request. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll get your handbag. I’ll get it for you now.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was four days before I was ready to make my next move. My arm was healing rapidly, as good as new. And as was to be expected, Helen had become more and more disgruntled every day as her confinement became more and more wearing. She pleaded again and again to be released, promised she’d do anything she could to help me. She grumbled about the food, complained the chain was rubbing her raw, finally sank into a gloomy, sullen silence, refusing even to exchange monosyllables.
The police were way off track. The FBI were investigating a report that Helen’s car had been seen in the Middle West. Police investigation into the kidnapping had left Cleveland, was spreading throughout the rest of the country. There was no fresh news about Manton.
I’d figured a way to connect with Frisk. I went downtown, made discreet enquiries. I had more success than Manton. He hadn’t been able to find his daughter, had accused Frisk of hiding her away. But she’d turned up at the inquest, had fainted and got herself a certain amount of publicity. A few well-distributed bucks among reporters got me her address over on the North side of town. It was a discreet block of flats in a good-class neighbourhood. Her flat was on the first floor. I pressed the bell half-a-dozen times and knocked half-a-dozen times. It didn’t get me anywhere. I went downstairs to the hall-porter, asked about her.
‘She’s up there, fella,’ he said. ‘That dame never goes out.’ He looked at me curiously. ‘She ain’t sociable,’ he said. ‘Don’t have many visitors.’
I slipped him a buck to silence his curiosity, went upstairs and rang the bell again. This time, I kept my thumb on the bell, determined to wait until the battery ran out or she opened up.
She opened up. She stood in the doorway, swaying slightly and her glassy eyes staring at me uncomprehendingly.
‘Jessica Manton?’
‘Who’re you? What d’you want?’ She slurred her words badly.
She was probably twenty-four or twenty-five. But she looked older. Much older. That was on account of the deathly whiteness of her face and the worn expression in her eyes. Her black hair was dishevelled and dirty, falling untidily across her forehead. She wore a grubby, crumpled silk blouse that was open to the waist, a crumpled green slip stained with spilt wine, and one stocking hung around her ankle. The other stocking was wrinkled and twisted. The smell of gin was heavy on her breath.
‘I wanna have a talk about your father,’ I said.
Her eyes widened and then narrowed. She pressed her weight against the door, began to close it in my face. ‘Scram,’ she slurred. ‘Get outta here. I doan wanna talk.’
I pushed against her, got the door wide enough to slip through inside. Her weight slammed the door. That left her and me on the inside. She stared around at me dazedly, like she didn’t understand how I came to be there.
‘I wanna talk, Jessica,’ I said.
She bleared at me, pushed her hair back from her forehead and scratched herself through her slip, high up on the inside of the thigh. ‘Who’re you, anyway?’ She swayed slightly.
‘Get me a drink, huh?’ I said. ‘Then we’ll talk.’
‘Drink?’ She crinkled her forehead. Then her eyes brightened. ‘Yeah, less’av a drin’.’
She shuffled along the corridor in her stockinged feet, swaying unsteadily. It led to her bedroom. At least, I guess she called it her bedroom. The windows were jammed tight, the atmosphere thick and unbreatheable, like the room had been lived in for many days. It probably had. The bed was rumpled disorder. She’d probably been lying there when I first rang. There was a half-filled gin bottle beside the bed, and other empty bottles lying around. Her clothes were lying around, too, dropped on the floor as she’d stripped them off.
She sat on the edge of the bed, reached for the gin bottle and sloshed it into a glass like it was water. She drank half of it before she remembered me. She held the bottle towards me. ‘Hey you. Help yourself.’
I found a glass on the sideboard. I smelt it, could tell it had been used. I poured myself a small shot, studied Jessica while I was doing it. She was a pretty dame. But right now she was drugged with liquor. Her stained slip rucked up as she sat on the edge of the bed, and she neither seemed to know or care that I was there. I’d have had to be blind not to know she wasn’t wearing step-ins.
‘I wanna talk a little while, Jessica,’ I said gently.
She stared across at me, scowled. Her eyes were a million miles away. ‘I don’t wanna talk,’ she said thickly.
‘When did you last see Frisk?’ I shot at her suddenly.
It was instinctive to her. Her eyes flicked across the room, rested on a small cabinet. Then her eyes flickered back to mine, cunning and crafty. ‘When’s he coming?’ she asked eagerly. ‘He’ll have to came soon. He knows that, doesn’t he? He’ll have to come soon.’
‘He’s afraid to come,’ I said slowly. ‘He killed your father. He shot him.’
Her eyes were suddenly terrified. ‘What d’you mean, he may not come. He’s got to come.’ Her eyes were wide with desperation. She shouted at me: ‘He’s got to come. He’s go
t to come soon.’
‘Sure, sure,’ I said. ‘He’ll be coming. But did you hear what I said? He killed your father.’
‘He killed my father,’ she repeated dumbly. Her eyes flicked away from mine, stared at the carpet. ‘He killed my father,’ she repeated. But her voice was toneless, as though her words had no meaning.
It was terrible a young girl like her should be so fuddled with drink. ‘When did you last see Frisk?’ I asked gently. ‘How often do you see him?’
Once again when I mentioned his name, her eyes flicked to that little cabinet. Then her eyes were back on mine again, crafty and cunning. ‘When is he coming?’ she asked eagerly. ‘He’s gotta come soon.’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘He’ll come soon.’ At the same time, I drifted a coupla paces towards that cabinet. She took another gulp at her drink, finished it off. Mechanically, she scratched at the inside of her thigh. This time, she pulled up her slip to do it. It was then I saw the rash of pinpricks, red and ugly against her white skin. It was then I remembered the hypodermic Gunn so conveniently had at hand, and it was then that I crossed the room swiftly, tugged at the drawer of the cabinet.
It was locked.
She landed on my shoulders just a second later, knees gripping my waist and hands tearing at my hair so I went over backwards, surprised by the suddenness of her attack.
She rolled from underneath, clung to my arm and tried to gnaw my hand off. I jerked free, thrust at her so she went over backwards, sprawling on her hereafter. I’d climbed to my knees by the time she launched herself at me again, bearing me sideways on to the carpet. Then she was sitting half on my chest and half on my neck, tugging at my hair with one hand, trying to gouge my eyes with the other.
I grabbed her wrists, had my work cut out hanging on to them. I tried to squirm away from beneath her. But the full weight of her body was pinning me down, her eyes wild and crazy. For a moment, it seemed like a deadlock. She couldn’t blind me and I couldn’t squirm her weight from off my chest and neck. Then she got a new idea, clamped her thighs together, tried to suffocate me.
I had an answer to that. Not a pleasant one. I moved my head, dug my teeth deep into hot, burning flesh.
