The Empty Trap

by John D. MacDonald

  He did not know what he would do next. It no longer seemed necessary to him to work in this place. It no longer seemed possible to take any pride in the cleverness with which he had gotten close to the men he had wanted to kill. Even the two years of hatred seemed, in retrospect, self-conscious and shameful.

  He decided that he would work here until he had found out what he should do with himself, with his life.

  Ten days after the killing of Benny, he awakened and was aware that someone was leaning over him in the darkness of his room. Before he could react, before he could feel anything except surprise, there was a great whirling flash of light inside his head.

  When he awakened he was in a moving darkness. He could hear a sound of metal wheels on stone. There was softness against his face, and he smelled soiled linen. He was curled up, knees against his chest. His head throbbed. The sound of wheels stopped. He heard the sound of a heavy door shutting. Then his world tipped violently and he rolled out across a concrete floor. He sat up, surrounded by dirty sheets and towels. He saw what he had ridden in, one of the wheeled hampers used by the room maids.

  Tulsa Haynes stood over him, hard fists on his hips, Indian face without expression. Harry Danton stood beside Tulsa, one step to the rear. Danton stared intently at Lloyd. He held his hand out so as to shield the bottom of Lloyd’s face from his vision.

  “Maybe you’re right,” Danton said.

  “I don’t see how the hell I can be. I told you just how it was. But I know I’m right.”

  “Get up and walk around,” Harry said.

  “What’s this all about, Mr. Danton?”

  “Get up and walk around like I told you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He walked around while they looked at him.

  “You see it?” Tulsa asked.

  “He’s the same height. But he’s a lot huskier. He moves slower. His voice is deeper.”

  “Right from the minute I saw him, I wondered about him,” Tulsa said. “After Benny disappeared, I wondered some more. I didn’t figure him for Wescott. I figured him as maybe somebody planted here, somebody I seen once or twice long ago. Charlie fingered him. He took a good look and said maybe Wescott. Then the more I look, the more he looks like him.”

  “Would Wescott be damn fool enough to come here?”

  “Maybe. What happened to Benny. You want the proof?”

  “Can you hammer it out of him?”

  “I don’t have to. Take off your socks, Wescott.”

  As Lloyd had only had a two hour break from duty, he had stretched out in socks, dark trousers, white shirt. He looked at Tulsa and Harry. The room had concrete walls, overhead pipes, a single heavy door. He knew it was one of the side rooms in the subbasement. He knew Tulsa would look for the burn scars on the tops of his feet and see them and know.

  “Nice to see you again, Harry,” he said.

  Harry shook his head wonderingly. “You poor damn fool,” he said. He turned sharply toward Tulsa. “You bitched it up.”

  “If you could have watched it, Harry, you wouldn’t say so. Look at him! Look at his face. You tell me why it didn’t kill him.”

  “You’re tough to kill, kid. Thanks for coming back and giving us another chance. Did you get Benny?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “How?” Tulsa asked.

  “I dropped him off a cliff.”

  “Who was next?” Tulsa asked.

  “You.”

  “And then me,” Harry said. “You boys must have gotten the kid real upset. Take care of it, Tulsa.”

  “You want to watch?”

  “I’ve seen it before.”

  Harry turned again at the door and shook his head and said, “You poor damn fool!” He left, pulling the door shut.

  There were two wall lights with pull cords. Tulsa pulled the other one on. He whistled softly. He took off his khaki shirt, folded it, put it on the floor in a corner. He worked his arms and shoulders like a fighter waiting for the bell.

  “Benny was a good boy,” Tulsa said.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “We been together a long time. I’m going to miss having him around. Nobody is going to miss having you around, Wescott. I’m going to make this last. I never had such a good chance to make something last. You know, we may waltz around down here for a week. Nobody’s in any hurry. You in a hurry?”

  Lloyd stood tensely, shifted his weight warily, turning toward Tulsa as he moved around, shadow-boxing.

  “Like this left jab? Lotta snap, hey? Take a good look.”

  The jab snapped his head back. He moved away. He wondered how much his face could stand, if the pinned bones would crush easily, if the nose would tear along the stitched line. But he knew this was a trivial consideration. Tulsa meant to kill him. Tulsa had killed Sylvia with his hands. The bare room provided no possibility of a weapon. Tulsa bounded with rubbery elasticity. He moved from side to side, feinting, clowning, grinning, and Lloyd realized he was being maneuvered into a corner.

  He tried to slip away, but he could not. As Tulsa came in, he swung a right at his face as hard as he could, but it slipped over Tulsa’s shoulder and again he was as helpless as he had been in the motel room at Talascatan. Tulsa wedged him into the corner, pivoting, grunting, with each blow, and it seemed that the fists were tearing holes in his body and his strength was running from those holes. As before, he sagged against the man, chin bouncing on the sweaty shoulder, teeth clacking, room dancing in his vision. He half saw the ear, a small neat folded ear, like the ear of a trim animal. He caught the rubbery texture in his teeth, ripped hard.

  Tulsa leaped back with a whinnying scream, like a horse trapped in a burning barn. He clapped his hand to the torn ear. Blood ran down the side of his face. He charged, maddened with pain, throwing an overhand right which could have and should have killed Lloyd by crushing his head between fist and wall. Though sick and dazed, Lloyd managed to move his head just far enough to the right so the fist grazed his left cheek before smashing into the concrete wall with a force that burst the hard skin over the knuckles and smashed the bones of the hand.

  Tulsa did not scream. He dropped to his knees. He held his right hand across his belly and folded his body over it until his face almost touched the floor. Lloyd, moving away from him, stumbled and fell. It seemed to take a long time to get up. From heart to groin he felt as though flesh had been hammered loose from bone.

  He tottered over to Tulsa, raised his stockinged foot, stamped Tulsa’s head against the floor. Tulsa rolled toward him, swept his feet out from underneath him, clambered onto him, found his throat with the big undamaged left hand. Lloyd had time to tense his throat muscles. Tulsa pressed his face against Lloyd’s chest and the big hand tightened. Lloyd tried to get hold of one of the fingers and pry the hand open. But the fingers were strong and slippery and the tips were buried in the flesh of the side of his throat. He felt the darkness coming. He could not get a grasp on the very short dark hair in order to lift the head and reach for the eyes. The muscles of his throat were losing strength and being compressed inward. He worked his hands under the dark head, feeling for the eyes. Darkness was upon him then, but he managed to get his thumbs into the corners of the eyes. As he exerted pressure, Tulsa gasped and rolled away from him.

  Lloyd was on one knee before his vision cleared enough so he could see the big shoe swinging toward his face. He grabbed the ankle and gave a twisting heave and Tulsa went down. Lloyd got up and wavered over to the wall and leaned against it, breathing hard. Tulsa turned to face him, still on his knees.

  He got up very slowly. The broken hand dangled at his side. He moved toward Lloyd, left fist ready. Lloyd pushed himself away from the wall. He planted his feet. He swung at the man’s face, swung leaden arms as hard as he could. He knew the blows were landing. He could feel the jar in wrists and arms. He was clubbed hard on the side of the head and knocked back against the wall. He came out and swung again, weaving, panting. A blow to the chest
knocked him back. Once again he came out and then he found he was moving away from the wall. A kick landed high on his thigh. Then Tulsa fell against him, grabbed him around the waist, shoulder wedged under his chin. His rib cage creaked and bent. He was being bent backward at the waist. He felt behind himself. Tulsa had his left hand locked on his right wrist. He felt and found the broken hand and began to knead it, and felt the gritting of the broken bones. Tulsa inhaled sharply several times and then flung himself back.

  Lloyd plodded after him and caught the left wrist in both his hands. Tulsa tried to twist free but he could not. He held the wrist and twisted it inward. Tulsa resisted. They stood there motionless. He felt the resistance slackening. Tulsa’s whole body turned until Lloyd was behind him. He pulled the wrist higher until it was between Tulsa’s wide shoulders, until the man began to bend forward from the waist. Then, with what was left of his strength, he pushed him forward, off balance, pushed hard, gained speed, ran him head-on into the concrete wall fifteen feet away. Tulsa fell and Lloyd fell on him. He pulled himself free. He crawled a few feet away and sat down with his back against the wall, head on his knees, hands resting slack on the floor, eyes closed, drawing agonizingly deep breaths into his lungs.

  It took a long time for his breathing to slow. He got up slowly, and leaned one hand against the wall for support. He moved closer to Tulsa and looked down at him. Tulsa was utterly still. He bent over, grasped a massive upper-arm, and heaved him over onto his back. The eyes were half open. The big chest was still. The left side of the forehead, from temple to brow, was crushed flat.

  Lloyd brought the laundry hamper over. He turned it back onto its side and worked the big body into it. He pulled it back up onto the wheels, and covered him with the soiled linen. He opened the door. He pushed the hamper into a far corner. He turned out the two lights. He walked through the sub basement until he came to a service elevator for the staff wing. He had good fortune. He reached his room without anyone seeing him, and the door was not locked. He washed and changed. There was a small contusion under his left eye, a long scratch over his right eye. It amazed him there could be so little visible damage. But his middle was so sore he moved like a very old man.

  He packed his few belongings and carried the single suitcase down to the car. It was eleven thirty. He walked across the dark grounds and slipped into the heavy shrubbery by Danton’s cottage. He could hear Latin American music. He moved cautiously to where he could look in one of the living room windows. Harry sat at the far end of the room. He was in his shirtsleeves. There was a briefcase on the floor beside him. He was reading typewritten pages.

  The blonde girl was dancing by herself, in a dreamy graceless way. Her hips were heavy and she contributed a vulgar counterpoint of bump and grind. She wore red and white candy-striped slacks and a blue sweater. In her slow circuits of the room she would pause each time by the record player to take her drink from a shelf and take a single swallow.

  He saw Harry speak angrily to her, but could not hear what he said. The girl went over and sat in a deep chair and sulked. He watched Harry and knew this would have to be an end of it, that it should be finished here at this time and in this place. The girl yawned and stretched, got up and wandered out the far door to the small pool. The pool lights were not on. He circled the building, silent, patient, cunning as an animal. He watched and could not see her. Finally he saw the flare of a lighter, and then the red glow of her cigarette. She was sitting in one of the aluminum chairs on the far side of the pool. There was starlight in the open. Avoiding the open places, he began to work his way around toward the girl. When he was quite close she snapped her cigarette into the pool. He waited, thinking she might get up and go in. He heard her sigh. He was close enough to see her tilt her head back and look up at the stars, blonde hair hanging down over the back of the chair. The records still played in the cottage.

  He came up behind the chair. He could smell her perfume. He knelt behind her. He clapped one hand on her mouth, another around her waist, holding her in the chair. She struggled convulsively, high heels clattering on the flagstones. He pulled her head back until she stopped struggling.

  “If you make one sound,” he said, “I’ll kill you.”

  As he started to take his hand away, he heard the quick intake of breath which would give the scream more volume. He put his hand back, moved it until he could pinch her nostrils between thumb and finger. Soon she began to fight for breath. She scrabbled and tore at his hand with her nails. It took strength to hold her in the chair. Her efforts grew weaker and finally ceased. He held her for a few more seconds. When he released her, she slumped sideways over the arm. He lifted her out of the chair and laid her on the flagstones. He ripped open the waist of the slacks and pulled them off over her feet. The material tore easily. Her face was slack in the moonlight, mouth open. He leaned close. She breathed. He pushed half the sweater inside her mouth, tied it in place with a strip of material from the slacks. He tied her ankles, then rolled her over and fastened her wrists behind her. He pulled her into deeper shadows and rolled her under a bush.

  He crouched for a time, listening. He stood up boldly and walked slowly to the cottage, walked through the open doors into the lighted interior. He stood half behind Harry’s chair.

  “Make me another drink, Selma,” Harry said, not looking up. Lloyd did not move. Harry looked up in sudden irritation. Lloyd batted the papers out of his hand, snatched his wrists, yanked him out of the chair, swung him around and pushed him back into a corner away from the windows. He dropped one wrist, hit him hard. The glasses spun halfway across the room. As Harry sagged, Lloyd quickly felt of pockets and waist line. He then stepped back.

  Harry shook his head, straightened himself up.

  “Tulsa?” he asked.

  “Dead, Harry.”

  Harry acceped that. “Now what?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I figured you wrong, kid. Right from the beginning. You turned out real hard. You come right in here and take both of them. That’s a good trick.”

  “Let me know when you’re through talking.” He saw Harry glance beyond him, toward the glass doors. “Selma won’t be coming in.”

  “We can make a deal, Wescott.”

  “No deal.”

  “You can come back. I’ll cover you on Benny and Haynes and Selma. You can take over the hotel again. Run it your own way. I’ll see you get a cut of the casino take. I’ll give you a stock interest in the hotel corporation.”

  “No.”

  “Figure the angles. Do it your way and you’re on the run. Do it my way and you’ll live safe and live good. I can forget you crossed me. Hell, Benny and Tulsa did it. I wasn’t even there.”

  “Your orders, Harry.”

  There was sweat on his forehead and Lloyd could smell the fear. “What good do I do you dead?” he asked. Lloyd knew he had tried to speak calmly, but the voice was pitched too high.

  “What good does Sylvia do me?”

  “Kid, she shilled you all the way. She was all tramp. Hell, she would have taken off with the dough first chance you gave her. She was a bum.”

  “Why did you marry a bum, Harry?”

  “You got Benny and you got Tulsa.”

  “Yell, Harry. You built this place for privacy. Give a good yell and see who comes.”

  “I can understand you don’t want to come back. How about this? I cover for the three of them and give you a hundred thousand in cash.”

  “No thanks. All I want is you, Harry.”

  “What good am I dead? What good does it do you?”

  “I’m not going to kill you.”

  “Huh!”

  “I’m not going to kill you, Harry. You know, you don’t look like a hood. You look like a businessman. All I’m to do is give you a face like the one I’m wearing, Harry. You’re going to look the part. I’m going to give you what you thought Tulsa was going to give me. You’ll live, Harry. I found out I don’t like to kill people
. I’m not in your league. But I can give you a face you won’t even know. Get set, Harry.”

  He put his hands up, palms outward. “Now wait a minute!”

  “Get set, damn you!” He drew his right fist back, shoulder high.

  Harry’s hands fluttered. He made a curious sound. His eyes bulged and he stared at Lloyd, through Lloyd, stared off into some far place with an expression of enormous surprise. His mouth moved, but he said no words. He settled back against the wall and his knees bent slowly until he was crouched on his heels. His face was greyish. His head lowered and then snapped up so that it thumped against the wall, and the cords of his neck stood out. His eyes were turned up out of sight. His head sagged down until his chin was on his chest. Then he toppled over onto his side. His right hand scratched at the rug, his right leg twitched, and he lay still. Lloyd listened to his heart. He laid his ear on the chest and listened. There was a thready uncertain beat. As he listened it stopped. After a pause it beat four more times and stopped and would never beat again.

  He stood up and wiped his hands on the sides of his trousers. He went to the bar and poured himself a stiff drink. In a little while he stopped trembling. He sat down and tried to think clearly. He decided what he would have to do if he wanted to gain time, but he could not bring himself to do it. Not for a long time.

  At last he was able to close his mind, and work efficiently. He took the body into the bedroom. He closed the blinds, turned on the lights. He found silk pajamas under the pillow of one of the beds. He undressed Danton, got him into the pajamas, slid him into the bed, covered him over. He put the glasses on the night stand between the beds. He emptied the trouser pockets, hung the trousers in the closet. There was eight hundred and fifty dollars in the bill clip. He left one hundred and fifty.

  Now the girl. He went out and picked her up, then remembered that as yet she had not seen his face. He put her down, brought out a towel and made a tight blindfold. He could tell by the tensions of her body as he carried her in that she was conscious. He sat her on the edge of the other bed. She sat upright.