The Expendable Man

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  “Now you just take it easy,” the policeman repeated. “We’ll see.”

  He heard Venner on the periphery telling the onlookers, “It’s all right, folks. Go on home. Go on now.”

  And he heard a woman twanging, “Well, if they want a witness, I’ll testify. It’s dreadful.” It wasn’t the voice which had dismissed Hugh on seeing the color of his face.

  The policeman opened the rear door of the Cadillac. “You’d better sit down.” He directed Hugh, helped him to sink down to the floor of the car. Hugh’s head was thudding, there was blood in his mouth. But he remained almost upright, his feet pressed to the dust of the road, his shoulders held by the door hinges. He managed to say, “Thanks.” With his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands, he could possibly keep from passing out again.

  When the mist cleared, he saw that Venner was standing in front of him. There was a satisfied stench about him. “If you were looking for trouble, you found it.”

  Hugh managed to extract his handkerchief from his pocket. He dabbed at his mouth. The teeth seemed intact, the blood was coming from a cut or tear of his lip. He couldn’t talk too well but he said, “It was Fred Othy.”

  “That figures.” Venner didn’t seem too interested.

  The officer came into the shadows. “Do you feel up to talking? Do you want to tell me what happened?” His pencil and notebook were visible.

  “They ambushed me.” Hugh might as well tell it now, he wouldn’t be feeling any better later.

  “They?” The officer was one of the new type, educated, courteous.

  “Fred Othy and the girl. She was driving the car.”

  Venner snickered, “She must have been a wildcat.”

  “She didn’t get out of the car.” To the other man, Hugh said, “I didn’t get to see her.”

  “How’d you know she was a girl if you didn’t see her?” Venner jeered.

  “I heard her voice. A girl’s voice. She was laughing. She kept laughing.”

  The officer was writing it down in his little book.

  Venner said, “You sure do have trouble with Othy and his girls.”

  Out of sick anger, Hugh asked, “Why aren’t you chasing Othy instead of standing here cracking lousy jokes?” He was past caring about Venner’s reaction.

  There was reaction, immediately. Venner made an abortive forward movement but the officer was there, Hugh’s protection. At the same time a siren screamed around the Van Buren corner.

  Venner snarled, “Mind your tongue, nigger. I could give you some real trouble.”

  The police ambulance came to a short stop. The attendants were out of the cab advancing to Hugh. He would not, must not, go with them.

  Venner turned his ill-temper in their direction. “It took you bums long enough to get here.”

  As they converged on Hugh, one said, “We had a three-car crack-up on the Mesa highway.”

  He was afraid to come to his feet, he might spin out again. He managed to lift a painful grin. “I may not look it but I’m okay.”

  “That’s what they all say,” the stocky one said. “Let’s ride in to the hospital and find out.”

  “I’ve heard all the excuses, I’ve ridden the wagon myself.” With difficulty, Hugh fumbled his wallet from his hip pocket. “I’m a doctor.” He passed over his credentials. “If I find I need help, I’ll call Dr. Willis. He’s my brother-in-law.”

  Dubiously, the attendant returned the wallet. “You’re sure we can’t do anything for you?”

  “Not a thing. Thanks just the same.”

  His companion said to the policeman, “You’ll put it in your report? Refused medical assistance.”

  “It’ll be there.”

  Hugh expected possible trouble from Venner but the detective merely bared his teeth. It might be a laugh. Hugh was beginning to breathe more normally. He’d be able to drive home, it wasn’t far.

  The ambulance wheeled away. The policeman said, “Now if I can finish the report—”

  The ambulance diversion had given time for Hugh’s head to stop spinning. He gave his name, the reason he had been out at this hour—returning home from a visit to a friend, even the fear of trouble which had caused him to take a circuitous route.

  “You mean you’re still getting phone calls?” Venner smirked.

  “Yes,” Hugh said, still not caring. “My lawyer telephoned me that the police couldn’t find Fred Othy. He was afraid Othy might be hunting for me.”

  Venner said to the officer, “How do you like that Skye Houston, running us down after all the errands we do for him?” He jerked his head toward Hugh. “His lawyer.” As the officer continued to look puzzled, Venner snorted, “Don’t you know who this guy is? He’s the nigger brought the canal kid to Phoenix.”

  Somehow the officer hadn’t connected it. He was surprised, then thoughtful. Hugh tasted fear. Possibly the police could take him in on some charge. Disturbing the peace? Or for his own protection? Any excuse would suit Venner. A second beating couldn’t be distinguished from the first. Particularly after Hugh refused attention from the ambulance crew; there’d be no report on his injuries.

  Hugh appealed, “I’ve given Marshal Hackaberry all the information I have. It’s my lawyer who located Fred Othy.”

  The officer wrote something, then directed, “Go on with tonight.”

  Hugh continued his recital, omitting the racial slurs only. Before Venner, he would not speak them. He concluded with a ghost of a smile, “It’s a good thing you came when you did. I would have killed Othy.”

  Venner snorted but the young officer understood. And he asked again, “You didn’t get a look at the girl?”

  “No. I didn’t know it was a girl in the car until I heard her voice. Then it was too late.”

  “Could you describe the car?”

  Hugh shook his head and hammers thudded. “A dark sedan. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s the best we could do. He wasn’t using lights.” The officer put the notebook away. “We were cruising the neighborhood looking for Othy when we spotted the fight. As soon as we turned into the block, this dark sedan took off. It was souped up.” He said, “I put it on the radio at once but I couldn’t go after the car. I didn’t know but what you were dying—or dead.”

  Hugh was grateful for the kindness but he wished they’d taken after Othy and let him wait.

  “He won’t get away, don’t worry about that.” The officer straightened his cap. “Do you want to come down and file a charge against him?” He knew that Hugh wouldn’t but he had to ask.

  “No,” Hugh told him. “He’s wanted for something more serious than assault and battery.”

  Venner shrugged. “Maybe he is. Maybe he ain’t.”

  Hugh said flatly, “He is.” He hoped to hell he’d be around when Venner ate dead crow. Slowly he started to push himself to his feet. He wavered and caught onto the door frame.

  The young officer was quickly at his side. “Don’t you think you’d better let me get you to a hospital?” he appealed.

  “It won’t be necessary.” His entire body agonized with the pain; he didn’t know if he could make it but he must. To remain under police jurisdiction meant under Venner. “My head’s clear. It’s just that I took a thumping.” He pushed shut the rear door of the car. The slam of it was like a nail sledged into his brain. But he kept smiling. “If there’s any damage I can’t repair myself, I won’t hesitate to call a doctor.”

  Every step was agony as he shuffled to the front of the car. He hoped it wasn’t showing too much. They stood watching him, the officer anxious, Venner with malicious satisfaction. Hugh managed to open the front door and to slide under the wheel.

  He remembered to turn his head to the window to say, “Thanks for turning out my car lights.” He didn’t know if the officer was responsible but there was no one else to thank.

  The motor caught. The wheels came out of the soft dust onto the road. He hoped the police car wasn’t going to follow him. He
had realized by now that he couldn’t go home, not near two in the morning in this condition. There was only one place he could go, back to Ellen. She might be frightened at his appearance but she wouldn’t panic, she would cope.

  The policeman and Venner had returned to the cruiser. Their engine sounded, their headlights went on, their blinker off. Hugh held his car, lighting a cigarette as excuse for the delay. It looked as if they were waiting for him to make the first move, but something must have come on their radio, for they made a sudden U turn and sped to McDowell. Hugh drove on slowly, cautiously, to Washington, at the next corner taking the cross street to The Palms. From one inch to the next he didn’t know if he would be able to make it.

  He had to make it. If he fainted at the wheel, he would be picked up by the next cruiser. He would be at Venner’s mercy. And Ringle’s. He took particular care in making the turn into the motel grounds. He knew the twisting pain it would bring. There was a black Jaguar in front of Ellen’s unit, he had to park four spaces away. He inched his car into the curbing, cut the engine and the lights.

  He couldn’t move, but he must before the blackness closed in again. A few more moments and he could rest. He slid out of the car, cautiously closed the door. He mustn’t disturb the guests, if one should see him they would call the police in panic. Not until he reached Ellen’s door did he realize that through sleep she would never hear his knock on it. Not unless he hammered loud enough to wake others.

  Painfully, pushing one foot in front of the other, he felt his way through the arch and around to the front of the apartments. One more slow step, one more, just one more and he was there. To his relief, the drawn draperies were yet alight. She must still be reading. With one hand pressed against the door screen to keep himself from falling, he tapped with the other.

  Almost at once the curtain was pulled aside to reveal her startled face. He swayed away from the screen while she unlatched it and held it open for him. He tried to say something but words wouldn’t come. He shook his head and that was wrong. His eyes were swollen almost shut but he saw ahead of him a chair. Blindly, he stumbled toward it. Just before he fainted, he thought with incredible surprise that he saw Skye Houston’s outraged face bending over him.

  When he half opened his eyes, he was in a strange bed in a strange room. It wasn’t a hospital room, you couldn’t fool him on a hospital room. He went under again at once but not completely. Far, far away he could distinguish voices. He couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  He was drugged. At least he was conscious enough to recognize that. He fought against drifting away, fought to force his eyes to reopen. He couldn’t see faces, only shapes, but the voices were coming through. In particular Skye’s voice, cold, decisive. “You can’t question an unconscious man.”

  “How long’s he going to stay unconscious?” That was Ringle.

  “Do you think he’s feigning?” The anger was more intense. “You’ve had your own doctor check Dr. Willis’ hospital report. What do you want, a miracle?”

  “Take it easy.” That was Hackaberry. “We know he’s in bad shape. Othy lost his temper and—”

  “Lost his temper!” Skye exploded viciously. “He tried to kill Densmore.”

  “All right. So he defended himself brutally when Densmore ran him into the curb—”

  Hugh struggled to speak and felt a quick hand on his pulse. He opened his eyes full wide upon Edward’s grave face. Edward gave the slightest shake of his head.

  Ringle shouted, “He’s coming out of it.” He must have been at the foot of the bed.

  Before his words were completed, Hugh’s eyes were reclosed and he had already started to drift into oblivion.

  Distantly he heard the marshal’s quick “Is he conscious?” and the beginning of Edward’s explanation.

  As easily as he’d faded out, he returned to the room. Edward’s thumb and fingers were still holding his wrist.

  The marshal was still declaiming, “—he turned himself in as soon as he found out we were looking for him. Does that sound like he’s lying?”

  Only moments had passed.

  Skye said, “He knew he’d been spotted when he tried to kill Hugh.”

  “That’s just it, he hadn’t been. No one but Hugh had seen him. Othy didn’t have to tell us about it.”

  This time Hugh didn’t open his eyes; Ringle might and probably was still hawk-watching the bed, waiting for the least quiver of lids. But he did rub his thumb against the doctor’s wrist, in order that Edward might know he was listening. Edward’s fingers tightened in understanding.

  “We’ll prove he’s lying,” Skye orated. “About everything.”

  How? Hugh wondered bleakly. So far, without Othy’s lies, they hadn’t been able to prove Hugh’s innocence. He wondered more bleakly what Othy had said, whether he’d accused Hugh of both the murder and the abortion. The police wanted to believe Fred O., he was one of their own, not a dark alien stranger.

  All at once Hugh was again ebbing and flowing. He mustn’t go now, it was important he hear this. Frantically, he tried to remain on shore, but helplessly, he was wafted away.

  When he woke there were no voices. He was in the same bed in the same room. He saw his hands on the whiteness of the sheet. They were clean hands. Swollen, stained with methiolate, bandaged across the right knuckles, but unbloody, ungrimed, clean. He noticed the sleeves above his hands. Someone had undressed him, washed him, put him into white pajamas. Not his own pajamas, his were blue.

  He didn’t know if his voice would carry. His mouth hurt. “What time is it?” It was twilight.

  “He’s coming out of it.”

  He smelled Ellen’s perfume. He managed to lift his eyelids. Just to see her face. She was a blur bending over him. He croaked, trying to grin, “Hello. I must look awful.”

  “You do.” She turned away. He couldn’t lift his hand to deter her.

  But his eyes were focusing and he saw at the foot of the bed Skye Houston and Dr. Edward. He said, “Hello,” to them too.

  Their faces suddenly seemed to fill out. Edward came around to the side of the bed and took the pulse again. “He’ll come out of it in a few minutes.” The police must be gone.

  “I am out of it.” They didn’t seem to hear him. If he could turn his head, he could find Ellen. He tried to say her name but it wouldn’t come forth. He tried whispering, “What time is it?” He said aloud, “What time is it?” He didn’t know why he kept asking.

  Skye looked at his wrist. “Almost six o’clock.”

  “I thought it might be tomorrow,” he whispered. It didn’t hurt as much to whisper.

  All he wanted now was to sleep, but Edward kept saying, “Come on, Hugh. Open your eyes. Come on, you can open your eyes.” The new medical theory, only enough drug to accomplish what must be done for patients, then bring them out of it as quickly as possible.

  “I’m not asleep,” Hugh said, and, “Ellen?”

  “Yes, darling.”

  He didn’t know if that was what she said but she was beside him, holding his hand.

  He closed his eyes. “You know I didn’t do what he said.”

  “I know.”

  “It was he who ran me off the road.”

  “We know,” Skye said. “You’ve told us often enough.”

  He couldn’t remember. He tried to joke. “I’ve been talking in my sleep?”

  “Constantly.”

  “Othy hit me. And she kept laughing, laughing . . .” He opened his eyes and peered for Edward. The doctor was on the other side of the bed. “Hysteric, you know.” Politely, he redirected his attention to Skye. Skye was his lawyer, the one who was going to get him out of this trouble. “The police officer has the report. And Venner. White-trash Venner.”

  “I’ve seen it,” Skye stated.

  Then they must have known Othy attacked him. Unless damn Venner altered the report. He’d been asleep all day, he shouldn’t be so tired. But of course, it was the medication, to kill pain, maybe an e
xtra dose to keep him quiet when the marshal came. He had to know why the marshal came. His voice sounded slow, too faint, and he shook his head in annoyance. That was a mistake. A million pains jumped within his skull. But they woke him up. He saw the patio beyond French doors. He was at Skye’s.

  “Why was the marshal here? And Ringle?”

  “You were conscious?” It was Ellen who asked.

  “Briefly.” He didn’t look at her but his fingers tightened on hers. “Why?” he asked.

  Houston’s expression was troubled.

  “I have to know,” Hugh said. “I’m strong enough.”

  Without embellishment, Skye recited, “Othy turned himself in early this morning. Admitted he’d lied before, out of fear. Admitted Bonnie Lee came to him in her trouble. He still denies he fathered the baby, insists it was one of her Indio friends.”

  That much could be true. She would have fastened onto the one who could do the most for her. Unlike the high school boys, Fred O. had a job, lived in a big city.

  “She had fifty dollars.”

  “No! She had seventeen cents and the little I gave her.”

  “Fifty dollars hidden under the lining of her handbag.” She’d kept it clutched to her. “Some of it she earned; some she took from her father’s wallet. Othy drove her to your motel. When she came out, it was done. The police lab has moved into that unit; Ellen is staying here.”

  “They won’t find anything.”

  Skye said, “Let them probe. It will give us more time. I’ve spent the day asking questions of anyone and everyone who admits knowing Fred O.”

  Hugh demanded, “He says I killed her?”

  “He’s read the autopsy report too; he knows how badly she was cut up. He says he didn’t know where to take her, what to do with her. She couldn’t travel back home in that shape. Neither of them had motel money. He’d parked the car while he tried to figure out what to do, it just happened to be on Indian School Road. Suddenly she started gasping, and keeled over, dead.”

  If true, it made the abortionist and the murderer one man.

  “He admits he panicked. He put her in the canal. He says the head blow was caused by some debris in the canal. He brought in a jacket and travel bag he says were hers.”