by Lionel White
I turned the car around and started back up Route 301 toward Whispering
Willows.
I wasn’t planning on actually going to Whispering Willows, but I wanted to be near it. I wanted to be very close. Because I knew one thing. I knew that sooner or later I would be arrested and questioned and I didn’t want anyone to get the idea I was running away. I also figured that when the alarm went out to pick me up, about the last place the police would look would be in the neighborhood of the place where I had recently checked in and departed from. And I wanted to have all the free time I could get. I was going to need every minute of it.
I was no longer interested in the three hundred and some odd thousand dollars. I was no longer even interested in meeting Marilyn K. in the bedroom of a Washington D.C. hotel; I was only interested in one thing. I was interested in clearing myself on a charge of murdering a deputy sheriff and possibly murdering a gentleman named Marcus, who had excellent taste in girls, but a very poor sense of self-preservation.
I knew exactly where I was going to spend the rest of the night. I was dead tired and I needed rest and sleep. 1 had had a very busy day. I’d been beaten over the head and I had had quite a few thrilling experiences. And I had spent those two or three hours locked in Marilyn K’s arms and that was an experience which alone would have called for a week’s convalescence on the part of a heavy weight discus thrower.
I was heading for Cutter’s Cabins, a quiet little unsuccessful tourist camp where the units rented for five dollars a night and the little dark-eyed owner was too proud to take charity.
The vacancy sign was still burning up electricity when I pulled up in front of the place, but the office was dark. I left the car around at the side, where it wouldn’t be noticed from the road, and walked back and found the doorbell. There was a dim light over the door and a small, typewritten sign: Please Ring for Rooms.
I rang.
She must have been lying down somewhere in a room behind the office, because I didn’t have to wait for more than a minute at the most. A light went on inside and then the door opened and she was standing there, a faded dressing gown wrapped around her tiny figure, her bare feet thrust in a pair of sandals. She might have been sleeping, but her hair was neat and combed and her face was clean and clear-eyed and she looked wide-awake and as cute as a button. She recognized me at once.
“Why Mister—Mister—I guess I have forgotten your name. You’ve come back.”
“I have come back,” I said.
She stepped to one side, inviting me in. I entered and closed the door.
“Decided I would take that room after all, Miss Cutter,” I said.
She looked at me curiously, a little doubtfully.
"You came back,” she said, a little aimlessly, as though she couldn’t quite get over her surprise.
“I need some sleep,” I said.
She cocked her head and stretched her chin and still looked at me oddly and then she shrugged and smiled.
“I can always use the business,” she said. She reached for the registration book and swung it around toward me. She had cleaned up the office and although it still looked shabby, it was neat and she had done the best she could with what she had to work with.
I signed the register and took out my wallet and counted out some singles.
“Still five bucks?”
“Still five bucks. And number six is still empty.”
She took the money and opened the dressing gown and put it in the side pocket of the tailored suit she was wearing under the gown. I looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was well after midnight.
“Don’t you sleep yourself?” I asked, for no particular reason.
She smiled again.
“Well, I just sort of lie down and doze. I wait until about two and then I really get into bed. I don’t want to miss any cars that might stop and I hate to get up after I have really turned in for the night. Nothing ever happens after two around here.”
She handed me the key.
I was about to turn away when she spoke again.
“I guess you didn’t hear about it,” she said.
"Hear about it?”
I swung back to face her. She wasn’t smiling any more.
“That man. Battle. The one who was here this morning when you came in. ’ ’
I tried to make my expression blank.
“Don’t tell me he's been back again,” I said. I wanted to keep it on a light plane. But she wasn't in a mood for fun and laughter.
“He’s dead.”
“Good Lord!” I raised my voice in shocked surprise. “Dead? What do you mean? How—”
“An accident. State police were here. The ambulance passed by a few minutes ago. He was struck by a hit-and-run driver, a bit down the highway. He was killed. Whoever did it, pulled off to the side of the road and just left him there. The police found him.”
I looked shocked but I was unable to look sorry. I wanted to say something but I didn’t have to. She took the play away from me and expressed exactly
my own sentiments.
* “I feel bad because I can’t honestly say that I am sorry about it. He was a
terrible man. But I just can’t stand the thought of anyone being murdered. And that’s what it is when someone kills someone else and just goes off callously and leaves them lying there. It’s really murder, even if it was an accident.”
“I agree with you,” I said. “I can’t say I feel any deep sense of personal loss, but I don’t condone murder.”
She nodded, sagely and again looked up at me curiously.
“Why did you come back here?” she asked.
At first I thought there was a double meaning to her question, but one look into her frank open face, and I knew she was incapable of double meanings. If there had been anything but simple curiosity in her mind, she would have come out with it. She had neither guile nor fear.
“Let’s just say I came back because I am tired and I want to get some sleep, ” I said.
"But why here?” she asked, still curious. “Nobody ever stops here unless every other place is closed. Except maybe a truck driver or someone with almost no money. You look like you have plenty of money. So why did you come back? Not of course, ’ ’ she quickly added, smiling, ‘ ‘that I am not very glad you did.”
“Let’s just say it is because you are very pretty and a very sweet girl and I like you,” I said.
"Well—I like you, too,” she said. She looked up at me, still smiling. I could see why Martin Fleming had flipped for her. I could see why any man would flip for her. And it was a funny thing about the way she said it, “—and I like you, too. ” Coming from the lips of most women, it would sound like an invitation. But coming from her, the remark was simple and direct. She said it the way a child would say it and you knew at once that the words meant exactly what they said. She liked me—no more and no less.
“I m glad you do, I said. And now, if you will excuse me, I'll say good night. Good night and sweet dreams and I am on my way to number six and, I hope, a solid eight hours of undisturbed and dreamless slumber.”
‘‘The mattress is soft and clean but not very fancy, I am afraid. The shower may be a little lukewarm, but it will be hot when you get up. Good night.”
She smiled again and it almost made the day worthwhile. It suddenly seemed awfully important to have someone like me rather than love me.
I found cabin number six and fifteen minutes later, stripped to my shorts, I had verified her statement that the mattress was comfortable. But it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been a slab of concrete. I was so dead on my feet that I was asleep before my head had made a dent in the pillow. I was so dead
beat that I didn’t think anything in this world including the second coming of our Savior could have awakened me for the next eight or ten hours.
But I was wrong. I was very wrong.
I didn’t sleep ten hours and I didn’t sleep eight hours. I didn’t even sle
ep one hour. I slept eight minutes.
And it wasn’t the Second Coming which brought me wide-awake and leaping from the bed.
It was the beam of a flashlight held not more than ten inches from my face. It was the heavy gauntleted hand of a state trooper, banging back and forth across my cheeks.
Chapter Eight
I said; “Go away. Whoever you are, go away.”
The hand which had been slapping my face closed into a fist and I knew that talk wasn’t going to solve my problems. I had only been sleeping, as I have said, a matter of eight or ten minutes, but it was like waking from an overdose of Miltowns. The spotlight hitting my face blinded me and the fist began to be painful. I didn’t want a broken nose so I woke up. And then the overhead light snapped on.
It took a minute or so for me to get my eyes back into focus. There were two of them, big six-footers, leather-belted with wide-brimmed hats. Holsters at their sides. Behind them, barely visible, was an old friend—Martin Fleming, the assistant D. A. Fleming had the floor.
“On your feet, mister,” he said. “Quick.”
I started to twist and get out of bed and then I noticed Sarah Cutter standing over by the door. I don't know why, but I was overcome by modesty. I got up, but I held the sheet around me.
“You are a fool as well as a criminal, ” Fleming said.
I looked at the girl and I felt a surge of bitterness.
“It didn’t take you long to call them,” I said.
“Shut up,” Fleming said. “Get into your clothes. Sarah, you had better leave.”
“I won’t leave,” she said. “This is my place and nobody, especially you, can order me around.” She turned toward me. “I didn’t call them, she said. ‘They were checking and—”
“I asked you to be quiet, Sarah,” Fleming said.
“I won’t be quiet,” the girl snapped. “I want him to know that it wasn 11 who called the police. And anyway, you have no right barging in here and dis
turbing my clients. I’ll—”
It was the bigger of the two state troopers who interrupted. He had a soft deep voice and a Southern accent.
“Just take the lady outside while we get him into his clothes, Mr. Fleming, ’’ he said. You could tell from the way he said it that he didn’t like the little man, but also that he didn’t want any trouble with him.
Fleming muttered under his breath and turned to the door.
“Be careful, men,” he cautioned. “He’s dangerous. You’re dealing with a killer.”
The big one who had spoken grunted. He reached down and swooped up my clothes and tossed them to me.
“Get into them, Buster,” he said.
“Now look here,” I began. “Just what the hell—”
His partner doubled his fist and I let it go at that. I got into my clothes. I tried to talk but they didn’t want any of my conversation. When I asked what the charge was, they said Fleming would do all the talking that would be necessary.
But I didn’t really have to ask any questions. I pretty much figured I already had the answers.
I was just about ready to leave when Fleming returned. He was holding a flashlight in one hand and the tire iron under his arm. In his other hand was a wicked-looking, lead-weighted blackjack.
“Found them in his car,” he said laconically. “He’s our boy, all right.”
The tire iron really threw me. It was mine, all right. There was no question about that. I had been looking at it only a few hours before after Marilyn K. had finished using it. I remembered kicking it out of the way when I had left the motel. But I had definitely not put it in the car.
“You bastard,” I said. “You planted that tire iron.”
He looked at me pityingly, slowly shaking his head.
“I didn’t have to plant it, Russell,” he said. “The name is Russell, isn’t it? It was in your car, all right. Miss Cutter was with me when I found it.”
I didn’t like him and I wouldn’t have taken his word if he told me the sun was shining at high noon, but somehow I did believe him. I could only guess that Marilyn had managed to drop it in the car when I hadn’t been looking.
I suppose you are going to tell me you found that blackjack in my car, too,”
I said.
That s right. I did. Which one did you use for the job? Or did you use both of them? His voice was sarcastic.
Damn you,” I said, “I never saw that blackjack before in my life. Never. Now you just tell me—”
111 tell you nothing,” he snapped. “You are going to tell me. All right, щеп,” he added, turning to the troopers. “Let’s get moving.”
It was the big man who spoke again.
"You want us to take him in to be booked first?”
Fleming shook his head.
“No. I want to stop by the funeral parlor. I want to see his face when he looks at his handiwork.”
A fist in my back pushed me out through the door and the state patrol car was parked there. I got in the back with one of the troopers and Fleming got in front with the other one. He spoke to the driver as the car started.
"Stop at the Whispering Willows for a moment first,” he said. “I want the girl to get a good look at him. She says she don’t know him and has never seen him, but I want to be sure.”
This one really had me baffled. The girl had to be Marilyn and I couldn’t imagine what sort of story she had given them. I couldn’t even begin to guess. I wondered how she was going to justify having checked into the place with me if she had never seen me before. The clerk had seen us together and so had the bellboy. I had a lot of respect for her sense of intrigue, but this time I figured she’d overplayed her hand. This time she’d got herself in a box.
One thing I was determined to do, however. Play along with her, at least until I knew what the score was. She might be double-crossing me—there was every chance in the world that she was. But I couldn’t be sure and I wouldn’t know what to do in any case. So if she wanted to take this line, then I’d go along with her. At least until I knew where I stood.
Of course I was pretty sure where I stood. That remark about a killer had not exactly passed over my head. Even if it had, the sight of the tire iron was enough to give me the outline.
There wasn’t another word spoken until we pulled up in front of the Whispering Willows. I was surprised to see the number of cars in front of the place. Hell, there was even a truck which looked like it was from a television station.
There was a large crowd of people hovering around and they surged toward us as the trooper’s car came to a halt.
I heard someone say, “They’ve got him. They’ve got the dirty murderer.”
And then a couple of other troopers pushed the crowds back and Fleming got out.
‘‘I’ll get the girl,” he said.
He turned and entered the lobby. I didn’t get it at all. I couldn’t figure what all these people were doing at the motel. It didn’t make sense. Battle wasn t that big a story.
I saw her for only a second as Fleming escorted her out the door and toward the car. Just one quick look before the bright spotlight hit me full in the face and blinded me. But one second was enough. It was Marilyn K. all right.
Her hair seemed different, but I guess it was the light. And somehow or other she’d managed to find a neatly tailored tweed suit.
Fleming walked her to the car and said something to her I didn’t understand. I could only make out her silhouette and couldn’t see her features, but I was aware that she didn’t answer him. That she only turned away, crying.
“I’m sorry, Miss Kelley,” Fleming said. “I’ll take you back inside.”
He was gone several minutes this time and when he returned he was alone again.
"All right, boys,”he said. “We’11 go to the funeral parlor now. Iwassureshe was telling the truth.”
He wasn’t as smart as I had figured him. As nasty, but not as smart.
The funeral parlor which they took me to wa
s in the county seat and it took us the best part of a half hour to get there.
There was a light on over the front porch and the windows were all lighted up and I guess we were expected.
They took me by the arms, a trooper at each side, as we went up the path and climbed the steps. A fat man in a black suit opened the door wordlessly, not looking at me at all, and led us through several rooms. He opened a door and held it but I knew what it was. It was the room they keep in undertaking establishments to lay out the bodies and do whatever it is they have to do. Cold, whitewashed, bare. Nothing but a long table on large casters and a glass and chrome medical cabinet with a lot of odd-looking instruments.
We walked over to the sheeted figure on the table and I should have known right then what to expect. But I didn’t. I was listening to Fleming
“You filthy bastard,” he said. “I want you to have a good look. I want you to see what an animal like you is willing to do for money. ”
Even as he reached for the comer of the sheet, I knew what he knew and how he had it figured. They had found Battle and they had found the money. They knew about Marcus and his reputation. They figured that either I had rolled him while he lay there dead in the Caddie and had stolen his dough, and Battle had found out about it and tried to shake me down and I had killed him. Or they figured Battle had found the money when he was the first to arrive on the scene and had taken the money and that then I had caught up with the deputy and murdered him. Either way I was a dead duck. Either way.
“Take a good look, killer,” Fleming said.
He jerked back the sheet.
Forjustasecond, I thought 1 was going to faint. I didn’t have to fake it, did-n t have to pretend shock and surprise.
My hand went up to my face and I rubbed my eyes and staggered and then I looked again.
I hope that never in my life will I ever see anything like it again.
I guess I had looked first for the face, because I was remembering that tire iron and I wanted to see j ust how bad the blow had actually been which had caved in the front of the skull. But what I saw wasn’t a caved in skull. It wasn’t even a face.
