Doorway to Death

by Dan J. Marlowe

  Max was gone, and Dutch was gone, and Dumas—if that was his name—was gone, all violently, and judging from their temper the police knew little more than he did. Johnny ran a comb through thick, damp hair; it was just about time that a thread frazzled somewhere on the fringe and gave a man something he could follow up to the counterpane.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to divorce his mind from his still queasy stomach. He opened a drawer and looked in at a carton of cigarettes, changed his mind, and closed the drawer again. He went back into the bathroom and wrung out a towel in cold water, returned to the bed, stretched out, and placed it over his eyes. Deliberately he tried to make his mind a blank; he tried to withdraw physically from the painful hammering just behind his eyes.

  The phone woke him. Bright sunlight poured in the room as he sat up with a start, and he blinked as he reached for it. “Yeah?”

  “It's Sally.”

  “Christ.” Unbelievingly he looked at the sun. “You still downstairs?”

  “I'm at the apartment. It's noontime.”

  “Noontime! Man, was that ever a blackout—”

  “I sent Paul up to look at you. He said you were sound asleep, so I told him to leave you alone. He didn't have any trouble the balance of the shift.”

  “You callin' for anything special?”

  “Well, you wanted to know about anything that looked even a little bit unusual—”

  “So what's unusual?”

  “Well, we wouldn't notice it on our shift, but Myrna mentioned when I relieved her last night that 1224 has had every meal in her room since she checked in three days ago.”

  “Sick, probably.”

  “Myrna says not. I looked at the registry card, and she's a Mrs. Carl Muller, from Bremerhaven, Germany.”

  Johnny frowned. “Could be something, at that You did right to call me. I'll probably be by the place in an hour or so, ma. Put some beer in the refrigerator, huh? See you soon.”

  He swung his legs off the bed to the floor and stood up. His eyes were as gritty as though they had been well sanded, but outside of that he felt fine. He dropped to the floor and did a dozen pushups, then went into the bathroom and shaved. He dressed leisurely; he couldn't remember the last time he had been up this early in the day. He felt good.

  He rode the main elevator down to the lobby and walked back through the bar to the kitchen, returning to normal after the luncheon rush. He waved to Hans, the first cook, standing to the left of the big range, a tall man with a perpetually sour expression. “Have someone throw a few eggs in a skillet for me, Hans? 'N a handful of home fries.”

  Johnny drew a big mug of steaming coffee from the big urn and carried it over to the butcher's block in the corner which he always used as a table. He upended a ginger ale case for a seat, and seated himself as Hans himself silently placed on the block a platter containing a half dozen eggs sunnyside up and a heaping mound of potatoes.

  “Thanks, Hans.” Johnny sugared his black coffee liberally, and looked up at the tall man standing beside him, and at the look on Hans's face he remembered. “Oh. Last night.” Johnny shook his head. “Rough. Police talk to you yet?”

  “They were here this morning.” Displeasure wrinkled Hans's brow. “They don't know any more than I do.”

  “They got a way of worrying things till they come up with an answer. Freddie say anything? He going to give you a shot at the job?”

  “I am to talk to him this afternoon. I certainly hope—”

  “Possession is nine points of the law,” Johnny reminded him. “You're on the ground, and you're producin'. That's the main thing.”

  Hans shrugged, not too cheerfully, and walked away to supervise a boy cleaning the interior of a small refrigerator. Johnny attacked his eggs. One thing about a kitchen run by Dutch and Hans, he mused: the sauces and the relishes might have a little less tang or brio than in a French kitchen, but damn if you couldn't literally eat off the floor. Cleanliness came even before godliness with these people.

  He ate steadily, only an occasional twinge in his jaw reminding him of the skirmish of two evenings ago. He lingered over his coffee, then looked up and around for Hans as the memory of Sally's telephone call came to him. “Hans!”

  “Yes?”

  “Who's rushin' the trays upstairs these days?”

  “Richie Gordon.”

  “He around?”

  “In the boiler room, probably. He always is.”

  Johnny finished his coffee, stacked his dishes and carried them over to the rack. He re-crossed the long room to the rear, opened the massive fire door and descended the spiral metal staircase to the storeroom below. He threaded his way through the narrow passageway created by the high piled cases of canned goods on either side and approached a huge door heavily padded with asbestos. The door opened outward as Johnny reached for it, and he peered through the gloom dispelled scarcely at all by the widespaced naked light bulbs. “Eddie? Richie in there?”

  White teeth shone in the dark face, but the rich voice was disconsolate. “He shuah is, Mist' Johnny. Him an' all the money.”

  The heavy door creaked shut behind Johnny as he stepped inside and joined the tightknit kneeling semicircle. A slim, uniformed youngster with the face of a choir boy was speaking earnestly to the medium-sized green dice he held in his hand. “—one's for the coach and carriage, children ... hit it quick for papa, and we're over the hill and far away. Little big ol' natural comin' up... I can feel it... I can feel it jus' as plain—”

  “That's what she said,” a basso profundo growled from his audience. “Throw the damn dice, Richie.”

  The boy's arm swung forward, and the dice clanked off the furnace front, spun dizzily, and stopped, and the boy leaped into the air, straight as an arrow. “Eleven! Nice little dice—”

  Heavy breathing and disgusted mutters drifted upward; green money fluttered downward, and Fred, the day bartender, straightened stiffly and backed out of the circle, shaking his head ruefully as he caught Johnny's eye. “Ain't that kid somethin'?”

  “You boys are missing a bet, Fred. The kid's lucky. You ought to make up a pot and take him around to a real game. He ties a few passes together there, you guys'll have had a good season, and God knows seems like every time I walk in here he's either puttin' on a hand or just finished one.

  “Maybe you're right, at that. He's sure enough got us all working for him here. You'd think this game was a benefit. We'll play hell gettin' our money back from him, the way he's goin'.”

  The boy rubbed the dice briskly on his sleeve, speaking to them as equals. “—whisper to me one time, now, and we burn down the grandstand... comin' up, comin' out, comin' out, comin' up... one time now... hah!”

  He rolled a nine, and made it right back; threw a four, and rolled interminably before taking down the money with two deuces; rolled a seven; rolled an eleven, and sevened out looking for an eight. The circle around him was decimated; silent figures on their knees glumly watched the boy stuff loose bills in his pockets, and the dice lay idle on the floor. The spirit, as well as the money, was gone from the game.

  Johnny caught the boy's eye. “Got a minute, Richie?”

  “Sure thing, John.”

  Johnny led him into a corner, and looked down into the precociously wise hazel eyes in the young face. “1224, Rich.”

  The boy made a wry face. “Not a dime.” *

  “Not for three a day?”

  “Notfornothin'.”

  “She sick?”

  “Naah.”

  “What's she look like?”

  Richie's arm made a sweeping gesture. “Like a million more middle-aged dames. Kinda gray, kinda mousey—”

  “I might make that run for you tonight, kid. Or tomorrow.”

  The hazel eyes examined Johnny thoughtfully. “Now that'd be a brand change, for sure.”

  “Let it be my problem, huh? If you think I'm around, give me a buzz upstairs.”

  Richie shrugged. “Be my guest. I st
ill think—”

  “Your career's not in thinkin', kid.”

  Richie smiled, bent swiftly, and picked up the dice. “Little head-to-head, John?”

  “Not with you, Rich. I believe you.”

  On the way back upstairs he remembered that he had told Sally he would come up by the apartment. His pace quickened a little; it seemed like a better idea now than when he had first thought of it. He whistled tunelessly as he ran up the metal stairway.

  Chapter VI

  Johnny lay on his back in tee shirt and shorts in the wide bed in the pocket-sized apartment, and through the big double door watched Sally's slipclad figure at the ironing board in the kitchenette. He tried to drain the last of a can of beer without lifting his head from the pillow, and half sat up abruptly as a thin trickle ran down his chin onto his chest.

  “Slob!” Sally jeered. “Hey! Don't you dare use that pillow case for a bar rag! Here!”

  He caught the freshly ironed handkerchief she threw him, and mopped himself off. He stretched out again, bare feet digging luxuriously into the sheet. “Thanks, ma. I'll get around to puttin' you on the payroll next week. Any more beer in the box?”

  “Did you leave any? I'll look soon's I finish this blouse.”

  Idly his glance followed the slender figure manipulating the iron, the thin white shoulders dipping and swaying as she moved the lace-edged blouse around the board. “By God, you're a slat, kid. I'll bet seven to ten I can spit right through you.”

  “I'll take that bet,” she said placidly, and then backed away from her ironing as Johnny sat up suddenly. “Johnny! No! Don't you dare, Johnny Killain!”

  “Whattya mean, 'Don't you dare!'“ he queried as he came off the bed in a smooth flowing rush and charged the doorway. “Didn't you take the bet?”

  “No!” Sally cried, and fled the kitchenette with Johnny a noiseless barefooted stride behind. Blindly she circled a chair in the living room, panting with helpless laughter, only to be engulfed as he put one foot in the center cushion and bounded clear over the back to scoop her up in his arms and bear her in triumph back to the bed. She squealed as he held her head high over the bed and dropped her, and the squeal changed to a squeak as the big arms caught her on the first bounce and squeezed her.

  “How anything ... as big as you can... move so fast?” she murmured breathlessly as he dropped down beside her.

  “Developed it runnin' from women.”

  She hooted and drove a sharp-knuckled little fist just below his rib cage, and he leaned up over her and pinioned both thrashing small hands in one of his. He ran his free hand lightly over the ever so slightly rounded stomach, and a long shiver ran through the slim body. He looked down at her quizzically. “Where's all the fight gone now, ma?”

  “Stop it!” she protested, but it was a weak protest; her color had flared high. He slid her closer to him, then rolled over on his back, threw an arm under his head and stared up at the ceiling.

  “You know this Myrna on the board days, ma?” he broke the cosy silence after a moment.

  “Yes?”

  He turned his head on the pillow to see her face. “I mean... Do you know her? Know her at all?”

  “I know her very well.”

  “I don't mean like knowin' someone works the opposite shift from you. I got a reason for asking.”

  “I said very well, didn't I? She used to live with me.”

  “She did? I never knew that. Where?”

  “Right here. Till just before you decided you wanted to play house.”

  Johnny stared, then rolled slowly toward her. “You mean she had this place with you, and you busted her out to make room for me?”

  Sally smiled up at him. “Johnny, you child. Do you think only the men have a union in the war between the sexes? Myrna's a realist. Neither she nor I is the type to be cut in on every dance at the senior prom; far from it. So when she began to think from watching you that you were beginning to get ideas about me, she suggested that she step out and give me a little elbow room. Greater love hath no woman ... for another.”

  He whistled shrilly through his teeth. “By God, it's against the articles of war. Sherman didn't know the half of it. Wait'll the next time I get hold of one of these free-will advocates. It's a cinch that crowd never run up against a coupla ninety five pound designin' females.” He grinned suddenly, and dropped back on the pillow.

  “Why did you say you had a reason for asking, Johnny?”

  He frowned, and his eyes returned to the ceiling. “I need a stakeout on that board on her four-to-twelve shift.” He raised up to look down at Sally again. “You figure she's safe, then? I can ask her to do a little business with us?” He watched Sally's pursed lip hesitation. “What's the matter?”

  “Well... she thinks a little... oddly.”

  “Like what?” he demanded.

  “She's... well, money conscious. She's ... oh, stop pinning me down!” A clear, bright color invaded the thin features. “Let's just say she thinks like an adding machine.”

  He stared down at her. “Let's just say instead that her practical nature moved her out of here so I could keep you in befittin' style? That she couldn't see you passing up this golden—”

  “Johnny!”

  “Well?”

  She refused to look at him. “She thinks like that, that's all. And if she thought there were any money connected with anything like that you asked her to do at the hotel—”

  Johnny grimaced. “Rembrandt couldn't give me a better picture, ma. I sure as hell don't want her shoppin' around for a higher bidder. Still, I need her so bad I'll just have to figure an angle.” He stared at the wall behind her, lost in thought.

  “Johnny—”

  He looked down suddenly at the timidity in the soft voice.

  “Johnny—”

  “—you don't think I'm... that I feel—”

  In a swooping lunge his arms burrowed beneath her, circled, and tightened, and her breath whuffed from her lungs. “Hell, ma, you haven't got brains enough to feel like that.” He buried his face in the little hollow between the slim neck and the slightly angular shoulder, and she squirmed.

  “Your breath tickles!” He lipped at her neck, and she stiffened. “Johnny! I don't want to have to wear a high-necked collar in all this heat!” When she felt his purposeful movement she placed a palm against the big chest. “Let me up first. The door's unlocked.”

  Reluctantly he let her go, and she slid off the bed; her voice drifted back to him from the other room. “Mrs. Hogan told me they're taking up some kind of a collection in the neighborhood. There was a knock on the door just before you came, but there wasn't anyone there when I opened it. They'll be back, though.”

  She dropped back down on the bed beside him, and he reached for the slim body, the bass voice a buzzing vibrancy. “Put this on the collection plate, ma.”

  He was just out of the shower when he heard Sally's voice at the bathroom door. “I think that's the collectors at the door now. Don't come out unless you're decent.”

  At the mirror he ran a hand over his chin and decided against shaving. Have to shave again before he went on duty anyway. You need a haircut, too, he told the face in the mirror. You've got time for everything but that.

  He became conscious of the hum of a masculine voice carrying through the bathroom door. He couldn't hear Sally replying. He smiled; must be a good man out there if he could keep Sally from getting a word in for herself. Still, collectors. If they couldn't talk, what could—?

  A Neanderthalic sub-current stirred the short hairs on the back of his neck, and his scalp tightened. Sally—

  He gave himself no time to think; he snatched up the wet towel and knotted it around his waist, and quietly opened the bathroom door. He couldn't see the apartment door, but he could see Sally. She was backed out into the center of the living room, eyes enormous, and with her clenched knuckles pressed tightly to her lips. He could hear plainly now the snarling cadence.

  “—big b
astard to keep his nose where it belongs. The boss don't like it, and I got a word or two for him myself. We aren't fooling. You get him off the grass he's on, or we're comin' after the pair of you. You tell him—”

  Johnny had crossed the bedroom and appeared soundlessly in the doorway. Sally's expression froze at the sight of him, and the redheaded man from the street scene of two evenings ago whirled to face the doorway. He stood just inside the partly ajar apartment door, a hand on its knob, the other hand deep inside a jacket pocket.

  “Why don't you tell him yourself, Eddie?” Johnny inquired softly, and dropped his hands to the top of the straightback chair just inside the living room.

  The red-haired man stared morosely, obviously reviewing his orders. “Don't push your luck, mister. If I had my way I'd grease the chute for you right this minute. Don't you get any—”

  His right arm relaxed and dropped to his side, and in one fluid motion Johnny picked up the chair upon which his hands rested and with every ounce of strength in his body slammed it across the room in the direction of the red-haired man. Sally's choked scream coincided with Eddie's instinctive snatch at the doorknob in his hand as the dark blur of the chair flew at him knee high, and the door flared out like a bullfighter's muleta and caught and deflected the chair to the wall. It splintered itself with a shocking crash, and plaster flew in a powdery haze.

  Johnny's barefooted follow-up rush foundered on the throw rug just inside the door which dropped him heavily. From his knees he struggled upright, the drumming sound of running feet echoing in his ears.

  “Johnny! You can't chase him like that—!”

  From the door he looked down at his loincloth and bare feet, hesitated, and then returned to Sally still in the room's center. He put his arm around her; he could feel the trembling of her body through the thin robe, and after a moment he picked her up and sat down on the couch with her on his lap. She clung to him tightly, but in a little while the trembling stopped. “That's better, ma. You all right?”