Doorway to Death

by Dan J. Marlowe

  “Wha' happened?”

  “You passed out,” Johnny told her.

  “Oh.” She closed her eyes again, and the cabbie spoke quickly.

  “Where you want to go, lady?”

  The eyes opened, but they didn't see him. “Home,” Shirley said promptly. “Feel awful.” The eyes closed positively.

  “Well, look, lady—” The cab slowed again as the driver turned to look at the again comatose Shirley. He bristled as he felt Johnny's eyes on him. “Look, Jack... you don't like the way I'm doing this maybe you'd like to walk the rest of the way? I—”

  Johnny's voice cut across his like a razor. “I've had a hard day, Mac. You expect to enjoy your meal tonight, you get over to East 65th, and fast.”

  The cabbie muttered under his breath, but the cab accelerated. They rode in silence until they entered the block, and Johnny leaned over and shook Shirley awake. “Can you walk?”

  “Certain'y I c'n walk,” she said indignantly, but made no effort to prove it as Johnny paid the disapproving driver. When he had helped her onto the sidewalk, however, she didn't do badly with the assistance of his hand beneath her elbow, and in the elevator the bored operator took no more than one look at them. They emerged in good order on the third floor, and Shirley's key in Johnny's hand admitted them. He snapped on the lights in the tiny hallway; he had been there before, but he looked again with fresh interest.

  To the left of the hallway was a sunken living room with pastel love seats and kidney shaped glass tables. The heavy drapes were dove gray, and the carpeting and the ceiling a rich moss green. The massive fireplace extended up the wall where it formed itself into an oversized chimney festooned with hanging copper skillets and mugs. A mahogany baby grand crowded the nearer corner, and a strangely anachronistic grandfather clock stood sentinel at the far end of the room. On the upper level to the right a room that would have been a dining room if it had had a table was dominated by filled bookshelves around the walls and spindle-legged, sharply-angled ultra-modern chairs.

  Shirley descended the two steps to the living room level with no more than a moderate stagger and made a beeline for the tiny portable bar. “Feel awful,” she announced as she opened the cabinet. Johnny believed her; from his position a little above her he could see plainly the white face and the dark circles under the eyes. He opened his mouth to protest at the size of the drink she poured for herself and closed it again. A little more, or a little less... what difference? The tall girl threw back her head and drained the glass in three long swallows, and Johnny stirred himself. When that jolt hit her, he was going to need a place to put the body.

  He knew that the bedroom was off the living room, but it took him a moment to find it. Some facet of Willie's outlook on life had made him insist that the bedroom be camouflaged; the door was a heavy-hinged affair set flush with the wall and covered with the same somber hunting scene wallpaper, so carefully blended that despite his prior knowledge Johnny was surprised when under his probing a section of the wall slid silently back, revealing the extremely feminine bedroom within.

  He turned to Shirley; she was half on and half off a love seat, and she was fast losing the battle to retain her precarious balance. He caught her in mid-air as the whites of her eyes rolled up, and he carried her into the bedroom, transferred her dead weight to one arm and with the other stripped the satin coverlet from the huge bed. Despite her height and very respectable dimensions she looked lost when he placed her in its center.

  He pulled out the pillows above her head to prop her in with so that she couldn't roll out, straightened, and looked down at her thoughtfully. After a moment he bent forward, delicately lifted an eyelid, and studied the eye carefully. He straightened again, and rubbed his chin; he sat down on the bed finally and purposefully repeated his barroom examination of the girl's arms, this time pushing the brightly colored sleeves up to her armpits. He shook his head, baffled, considered a moment, then stood up abruptly and in the manner of a man husking an ear of corn ripped and tore her out of the gold toreador pants in great, tearing handfuls.

  And saw what he was searching for....

  On the milky inner thigh and extending up into the lace on the pale blue fragile looking panties a cluster of tiny red dots broke the ivory surface; Johnny stared down at the unsymmetric pattern with a little shrinking feeling as the girl murmured something unintelligible and half-turned into the pillow bank. And anger and disgust boiled over, and he exploded a hard palm upon the pale blue fragility. A tiny bubble of sound floated up from the bed, and then silence.

  Johnny strode out of the bedroom, and re-set the door flush with the wall. He turned out the lights, closed the apartment door behind him, and listened for the click of the lock. He avoided the elevator and headed for the stairs. On the three flights to the street his mind was a jumble, but two things pushed into the forefront... Willie Martin, and a white thigh with needle punctures. He set out for the hotel at a fast walk; he needed to think, and he thought better on his feet.

  Johnny waited in the twelfth floor corridor until he heard Richie's shrill whistle as the boy stepped off the automatically piloted kitchen service elevator, and heard the whistle break off abruptly as Richie turned the corner and sighted him. “Hey! You were serious the other afternoon—”

  Johnny lifted a corner of the napkin covering the tray Richie was carrying and studied the uninspired effort of an overworked kitchen crew. “I can see they miss Dutch already.” He lifted the tray and balanced it aloft easily. “I'll leave your tip with Hans, Rich.”

  The boy snorted. “She hasn't sprung for a nickel yet. She tips you, I'll begin to believe a few of these stories I hear about you.”

  “Stories?”

  “Bedtime stories.” Richie smiled, opened his mouth to continue, and checked himself at some indefinable thing in Johnny's look. “Forget it,” he said abruptly. “I got a big mouth.” He drifted off down the corridor, turning once to look back, and Johnny smiled and walked the few steps to 1224.

  He started to tap gently, and changed his mind; Richie would not tap gently. He hit the door four sharp raps with the ring on his right hand, and it opened a crack immediately. At sight of the tray it opened wider, and then as the occupant noticed his bulk it started to close again. The woman did her second double take when she verified the uniform, and he pushed past her indecision and strode briskly to the card table already set up in the room's center.

  He deposited the tray on the far side of the table, and with easy familiarity he unrolled the silver from its napkin container and made the place setting. He filled a glass with icewater and placed a spare napkin under the sweating pitcher. He transferred the aluminum covered dishes from the tray, lifted the lids for a last minute check, tucked the unloaded tray under his arm, and with an indeterminate slight bow in the woman's direction drew back her chair for her to seat herself. He looked directly at her for the first time since he had entered the room, and she returned his look with grave interest.

  “Thank you. The boy leaves everything and rushes off.” Her English was more careful than accented, and she was not as old as Richie's description would have led him to believe. Forty five, possibly. She was tall and inclined to plumpness, and what had been dark hair was liberally streaked with gray. Her face was lined, but the remnants of what must once have been striking good looks were still evident, if you excepted the eyes. Johnny felt that he had seen eyes like that before: dead, with scarcely enough spark in them to betray a discernible emotion.

  “It's his youth. We'll correct him.”

  “Not too harshly, I trust.” She smiled as she spoke, and Johnny returned the smile. With a nod of his head he indicated the withdrawn chair, and he slipped it forward beneath her as she seated herself. She glanced back over her shoulder as she picked up her napkin. “You are from Europe?”

  “I've been there. Not lately.”

  She nodded in satisfaction at a solved problem. “That is where you learned the European style of service.”<
br />
  “It's a different life. A different world.”

  “That is so, indeed.” She looked down at her plate, and he turned to leave. At the door he could see that although she had not turned her head more than a few degrees she could observe him from the corner of her eye. He closed the door softly from the outside, pivoted, and almost bumped into Ronald Frederick. The manager sidestepped, murmured an apology and was three strides on past when second thought pulled him up short. He paused and turned.

  “Johnny? In uniform? On this shift? And on room service?”

  Johnny cursed his luck, and the tray under his arm. The chance of running into Freddie like this was infinitesimal, but here he was. “Just tradin' a couple hours with one of the kids.”

  Ronald Frederick stared. “Indeed? I'd scarcely have thought you felt it necessary.”

  “Owed the kid a favor.” He tried to keep his voice light; he groped for a diversion. “Had a call from Joe Dameron today.”

  The little man smiled briefly. “I'm afraid we're not in the lieutenant's good graces. Too many unexplained—ah—- events.”

  “Joe figures to explain 'em. Had me looking at a million pictures. They identified the guy Dutch got, you know. Frenchy somethin'-or-other from the coast. Joe thought I might recognize someone I'd seen him with around here.”

  “But you didn't.”

  “That's right... I didn't.”

  “Of course I suppose I realized at least subconsciously that the police were still working on the—ah—homicides, but when there is so little surface activity—”

  “Joe's a whittler and a bulldog. Don't underestimate him.”

  “I'm not inclined to. You're taking your regular shift?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The manager nodded and turned to go. Whatever he had been given to ponder in the conversation did not prevent his quick but thorough scrutiny of the number of the room from which Johnny had emerged, and Johnny shook his head as he started in the opposite direction for the elevator. So much for the attempted diversion; a rearguard action was now indicated.

  He dropped Richie's tray off in the kitchen and continued on through the huge room which was a beehive of controlled frenzy at the height of the dinner hour. He went out past the bar to the lobby and across to the telephone switchboard, where he interrupted Myrna's drowsy gum-chewing in the mealtime lull on the board.

  In the light of Sally's warning he would have liked to have had a story ready with which to go up against this girl, but now there was no time. This one he would have to play by ear.

  Myrna Hansen was a slender girl whose very ordinary features were dwarfed by large horn-rimmed glasses, and both features and glasses were dominated in turn by a tousled mop of orange-tinted hair. The eyes behind the horn rims were an indeterminate shade of blue, and set a little closely together, and they examined his uniform at first sleepily and then more alertly as she nodded to him. “You're quite a stranger, Johnny. Someone sick on this shift?”

  “Tradin' a few hours. How you doin', sugarpuss?”

  The thin mouth pursed itself appraisingly. “Skip the preliminaries, man. If you want something, say so.”

  Johnny changed gears. “Matter of fact, I do. I wanted to say thanks.”

  The glasses estimated him carefully. “Thanks? To me?”

  “Yeah. Ma told me how you'd rolled out of the bunk to make room for me.”

  “Oh, that.” She settled back in her chair. “She shouldn't have told you that. Sally's a little naive in a lot of ways.”

  “And you're not?”

  She looked at him levelly. “That's right, Johnny. I'm not.”

  “I believe you,” he grinned at her, “but regardless, I figure I owe you a little something. I like to pay my bills.”

  She sat there with the orange head under the headphone cocked suspiciously to one side, testing his voice for hidden inflections. “Am I supposed to ask how you'd like to pay this one?”

  He shrugged. “You did me a favor, kid. I'd scratch your back for free when you gave me the word. You want a dress pressed? A cake baked? A car stolen? A church bombed? A man killed? Call Johnny. Service with a smile.”

  “I see.” She looked up at him thoughtfully, started to say something, and changed her mind. When she did speak it was briskly. “I'll take it under advisement. Meantime, now that you've made your little speech, why did you really stop here?”

  This time his grin was reluctant; this was a shrewd little witch. “That's the next order of business, but don't forget I meant what I said.” He leaned forward over the railing. “In the next thirty minutes you're gonna get a call on the board here from outside.” She watched him carefully as he spoke. “The caller is going to ask you about the atomic blonde dazzler in 1224.”

  Her eyes left his face to range the alphabetized room listing posted at the right of her switchboard, and her voice was flat and positive when she looked back at him. “1224's no atomic blonde dazzler.”

  “But you're goin' to say she is. You can send me the bill.”

  “I don't send bills,” she said coolly. “I collect dividends.”

  Johnny had already made up his mind. He took a small notebook from his uniform breast pocket and handed it to her. “Scribble your name and address in here so I can add you to my Christmas list.”

  She took the notebook, hesitated, and handed it back to him. “You can write, can't you? Here's a pen.”

  Shrewd. Nothing in her own handwriting. He opened the notebook and reached for the pen. “Shoot.”

  She withdrew the pen. “On second thought, I don't believe I want my name and address in your little black book. I could be in bad company. You know where to find me. If and when it becomes dividend time, you can put it in a bushel basket, and leave it right here.”

  Johnny returned the notebook to his pocket. “It does simplify things, doesn't—”

  The switchboard buzzed, and she held up a warning finger. “Good evening, Hotel Duarte. May I help you?” As she listened her head swung sharply from the board around to Johnny. “What room number was that again, please?” Slim fingers twisted the phone cord. “You know I'm not supposed to give out information like that, don't you? I could get in trouble.” She leaned back in her chair so that she could watch Johnny's expression. “I'd have to know who was calling.” A corner of the thin mouth quirked upward. “Well, I suppose if it's only idle curiosity... well, yes. That's right. Yes. Very striking. Yes.” She reached for the key. “No. Blonde. Yes. You're welcome.” She flipped the key and turned back to Johnny. “Well?”

  “You played it like Bernhardt, kid.”

  “Don't I know that voice?” The thin girl frowned, trying to think. “He was disguising it, or trying to, but I'm sure—”

  “Thanks for goin' along with the gag, Myrna. You'll be a little heavier when you leave at the end of your shift.”

  She nodded almost absently, but he could feel her eyes on him all the way over to the elevator. This girl was a twenty minute egg, for sure; if he had to make much use of her she was going to present a problem eventually. On the way up in the elevator he reviewed the tight little sequence of events, but his mind kept straying from the thin girl with the orange hair and possible problem she might present to the eyes of the gray-haired woman in 1224. Mrs. Girl Muller; Johnny shook his head slowly as he paused in the corridor outside his room and fumbled at the clip on his wristwatch band for his key.

  “You've seen eyes like that before, Killain,” he told himself. “Not yesterday, or the day before, but you've seen them. On the wrong side of the barbed wire.”

  He looked down unseeingly a moment at the key in his hand before inserting it in the lock....

  He had opened the refrigerator door and reached for the frosted bottle of beer when the phone rang, and he closed the door. “Yeah?”

  “It's Paul, Johnny. I'm on the board.” There was a subdued hint of urgency in Paul's usually phlegmatic voice.

  “Where's Sally?”

  “
Ladies' room. Look, Johnny; there's a charged-up cowboy down here in the lobby you ought to take a look at.”

  “What's he look like?”

  “Kind of slim, pale face, red hair, freckles, a little—”

  “I know him. What's his pitch?”

  “He walked in from the street and asked Vic where you were. Vic told him you weren't around right that minute, and he said he'd wait. He's sitting in the front row of lobby chairs, facing the elevators, half cocked around in the chair so he can see the whole lobby by turning his head.”

  “Drunk?”

  “I don't think he's drunk—”

  “Snowed, then. That's lovely.” Johnny remembered the stark expanse of freckles in the dead white, reckless face.

  “It figures. Listen, Paul. He's trouble. I'll have to come down and get him. From what you say, the only way I can get at him is to drop down to the sub-basement and go around the building and come in the help's entrance. One flight up from there'll put me in the lobby, behind him. You wait three minutes, and then let the board go for itself. Get over to the desk and keep an eye on that lobby entrance, and when you see me there you give me some good loud entrance music. Anyone else in the lobby now?”

  “Old man Tompkins is asleep in his chair.”

  “It would take you twenty minutes to wake him up and get him moving. Leave him alone. Get Vic out of the way. Send him out on some errand and tell him I said to go.” He thought a minute. “Get this, now. When you set me up on the entrance, dig yourself a hole. If this boy catches me on the way across the lobby to him he might figure you for the diversion and knock an ear off you just for fun. When's Sally due back?”

  “Ten minutes. Little more, maybe.”