by Lionel White
There was a movement and then Paula struck a match. She found the key in the bag she’d carried into the room and a moment later she had the handcuff unlocked. She left it dangling at the side of the bed and seconds later had rounded the bed and crawled under the covers. Joyce sensed that she was completely naked. She was about to say good night when Paula spoke.
“Now go ahead and go to sleep,” she said. “An’ if you wake up first, wake me so I can get that cuff back on you.”
The chimes which struck on the hour and half-hour rang out twice more before Joyce finally fell asleep.
Cribbins had taken the bottle of whisky and poured a shot into the cup of black coffee. He was sipping it when Luder returned to the kitchen. The older man carefully closed the door behind him as Cribbins watched him, an expression of inquiry on his thin, almost esthetic face.
“He’s out like a light,” Luder said. “The dog is in with him, tied up to the leg of the table.”
“He take another one?”
“Yeah. Melted it up in a spoon and gave himself a shot in the arm. It’s the third one today that I know about. He was talking pretty crazy for a few minutes and then he just lay back and passed out.” Luder pulled a chair over to the table and sat down, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. “I wish he wasn’t in on this,” he said. “He makes me nervous.”
“He makes me nervous, too,” Cribbins said. “But what the hell, we needed him. He had the machine gun; he was willing and able to use it. That’s one of the troubles with this kind of caper. You always need a guy like Santino.”
“You shouldn’t needle him about the girl, Harry,” Luder said. “You know how he is.”
“I know how he is. But don’t worry. The girl doesn’t mean a thing to him. He’s just mean. Mean and crazy.”
“That’s what worries me—he’s crazy.”
Cribbins shrugged. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I can handle a punk like him any day. Anyway, it’ll end in another few days. As soon as Mitty and Goldman show.”
Luder lifted the coffee and sipped. His eyes were troubled when he spoke. “There’s still the girl upstairs,” he said. “What do we do about her, Harry?”
For a moment Cribbins stared straight ahead and said nothing. Then he shook his head and spread his hands out, palms up. “She invited herself in on this,” he said. “Nobody asked her. Nobody wanted her.”
Luder nodded. “Sure,” he said. “But that don’t change it—she’s here. So what are we going to do?”
“There’s only one thing to do,” Cribbins said.
Luder looked at him for a long minute and then shook his head. He said, “I don’t like it at all.”
“We’ve already knocked off one guy,” Cribbins said.
“That was different.”
Cribbins reached for the bottle and poured a small shot into the coffee cup. “Look,” he said. “I don’t like it either. But it isn’t a case of liking or not liking. It’s one of those things. In this business a lot of things happen that you don’t like. A lot of innocent people sometimes get in the way and get hurt. It’s tough, but that’s the way it is.”
Luder still sat there, slowly shaking his head. “She’s just a kid, Harry,” he said. “just a kid!”
Cribbins got up suddenly, slamming the cup down on the table.
“God damn it,” he said, “go to bed and leave me alone. Just don’t think about it. Nothing’s happened to her yet. I don’t know what is going to happen, but let’s let it go for tonight. I’ve had about all I can take, with that God-damned creep inside and everything else.”
Cribbins had two more drinks, sitting alone at the table and staring into space. Finally he looked down at his watch, nodded and stood up. He left the kitchen and entered the living room. He walked very quietly and the dog didn’t awaken when he opened the door to the dining room.
Luder lay on one cot, flat on his back, his mouth open and snoring gently. He had loosened his tie and removed his shoes. Across the room, Santino stretched out on the other cot. He lay facing the wall and Cribbins knew that he was dead to the world.
A moment later and he had turned and found the staircase. He removed his shoes before he started to climb to the second floor.
It was the movement of the bed which awakened Joyce. For several seconds she just lay there as consciousness slowly came back, lay in a state of semi-stupor, trying to put things together and trying to bring her mind into focus. She knew where she was. She was in a bed with a strange girl in an old mansion up in northern Westchester. She was in a bed, and …
It was the sound of the heavy breathing and the sudden soft moans which snapped her into complete reality. For a brief moment she thought that the other girl must be having a nightmare. She started to lean over and awaken her, when the realization suddenly struck her. In that brief moment she could feel the blood rush to her head and for a moment then she thought she would faint.
It was a sensation like none she had ever before experienced—a sensation of utter shock and surprise, to be followed a split second later by a terrible feeling of embarrassment and humiliation.
She wanted to cry out in protest, wanted to do anything but just lie there. She closed her eyes tight and held her breath until she thought that her lungs would burst. There was nothing she could do. It went on and on and it seemed it would never stop, and then suddenly the bed was still and the moans were ended and there was nothing but the heavy breathing.
There was the sound of the muffled voices then and once more the bed creaked and she could tell when he had lifted his weight off of it and got to his feet.
Joyce lay still, scarcely breathing. She felt as though she herself had been ravaged.
Cribbins was halfway down the stairs, walking carefully in his stocking feet in the semidarkness of the early dawn, when he heard the sounds coming from below. He stopped instantly, his hand going instinctively to his left armpit, before he realized he’d left his shoulder holster with the revolver in it down on the kitchen table.
He cursed under his breath and strained his ears to listen. The sounds were coming from the dining room. It was a sort of scuffling noise and then suddenly there was a series of short, sharp barks.
He breathed a sigh of relief, remembering the dog. He went to the kitchen first and strapped on the shoulder holster, but didn’t bother with his shoes. Then he moved through the hallway and opened the dining-room door. The first streaks of daylight were penetrating the faded curtains at the tall windows at the end of the room.
Flick was standing straight-legged, straining at his leash and whining. Cribbins took a step into the room and looked over at the cot on which Luder slept. Luder’s eyes were open and he was watching him.
“What’s wrong with the mutt?” Cribbins asked in a low, irritated voice.
“He wants out,” Luder said. “They always have to go out the first thing in the morning.”
“Can’t he wait?”
“He could,” Luder said, “but it might not be so pleasant!”
“All right,” Cribbins said, “I’ll take him out. I could do with a little fresh air myself.”
Luder closed his eyes again as Cribbins crossed the room and untied the dog’s leash. Flick began to dance and jump and Cribbins spoke softly to him. He turned and started for the door. He didn’t notice that Santino had turned over in his sleep and was no longer facing the wall; he was unaware of the other man’s cold narrow eyes on him as he left the room.
Cribbins stopped in the kitchen long enough to put on his shoes. He had to drop the leash and the dog dashed madly around the room.
Cribbins looked up and noticed the rag lying on the chair on which his foot rested. It was a piece of silk with a couple of knots tied in the center, and he remembered that Luder had been using it when he played with the dog the previous evening.
Cribbins reached for the rag and tossed it to Flick. “Here,” he said, “for God’s sake play with that. Calm down a little, will you, boy? I’ll be ready
in a second.”
Flick had the rag in his mouth a few moments later when the two of them left the house by the side door and walked down the drive toward the old carriage house. They stopped once or twice while Flick investigated some tree trunks, but apparently they failed to suit him and he struggled on, straining at the slender leather lead.
Flick found a post at the side of the carriage house and he stopped, dropping the rag. He circled several times and then finally decided to do what he had to do.
Cribbins drew a sigh of relief as the strain on the leash was taken off and he tucked the end of it under his arm to reach for his cigarettes.
He was in the midst of striking a match when the rabbit leaped out from behind a bush not ten feet away. Cribbins didn’t see the rabbit, but his oversight was more than made up for by Flick. The poodle didn’t even bother to lower his left hind leg; he took off with one gigantic leap, simultaneously releasing a series of howls.
Although he burned the fingers of his right hand in his attempt to grab the departing lead, Cribbins’s efforts were futile. The dog was already a hundred yards away.
Joyce learned of Flick’s escape a couple of hours later when Paula brought her downstairs to have breakfast. Paula had gotten up around seven-thirty and although Joyce was awake at the time, she was unable to look at the other girl or speak to her. Once, while Paula was pulling on her clothes, Joyce opened her eyes and she saw that the other girl was watching her covertly. There was an amused, sly look on her face and Joyce quickly closed her eyes again and pretended to be asleep.
When Paula was fully dressed she reached over and shook Joyce lightly.
“Okay, sister,” she said. “I know you’re awake. If you wanta hit the can you better get up and come with me. The cuffs go back on otherwise.”
Joyce sat up, avoiding Paula’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said in a low voice.
Paula stepped out of the room and returned a moment later and handed Joyce her clothes. “Might as well get dressed,” she said.
They went into the bathroom together and washed, Joyce borrowing a comb from Paula in an effort to make herself presentable.
They returned to the room and stayed there until Luder came up and knocked at the door around eight o’clock. “Come on down and get it,” Luder said. “Thought I’d give you a break, kid,” he continued when Paula opened the door. “Cooked up the breakfast myself. Coffee, eggs, bacon and the works.”
The two girls followed him downstairs, and as they reached the landing, they could hear the arguing going on in the kitchen. When Joyce entered the room, Cribbins was seated at the table and Santino was standing over at the stove. The little man gave her a poisonous look.
“Bright,” he said. “Real God-damned bright! I told you we shoulda shot that damned dog.”
“The dog’s gone,” Cribbins said. “There’s nothing we can do about it. After breakfast, Paula can go out and see if she can round him up. But what the hell does it matter? There’s a million dogs around.”
“He could go home,” Luder said. “It sometimes happens. I remember once … “
“That’s what I’m telling you. Suppose he does make it back home,” Santino said. “Why, Jesus … “
Cribbins stood up and stretched. “Yeah, suppose he does? You expect him to tell where he’s been? You think he’s a talking dog?”
“What happened?” Paula asked. “Did the mutt get away?”
“Shut up and keep out of this,” Santino said. He swung around viciously and spit the words out at her. “It’s your fault, anyway. The dog shoulda been up in that bedroom last night—not you.”
“Lay off her,” Cribbins said. “Lay off her, Santino. I’ve told you … “
“Maybe you better lay off her.” The little man turned to Cribbins and stared at him coldly. “You think I’m stupid or something? You think I don’t know what went on last night, eh?”
He crossed the room suddenly and grabbed Joyce’s arm. “He was up there last night wasn’t he?” He demanded. “Up there with the two of you. Jesus, he’s a real dilly, this boy, now isn’t he? One dame isn’t enough for him. He has to climb in bed with two of them. Go on,” he yelled, pulling Joyce so that she almost stumbled. “Go on—tell us. Which one of you did he have first?”
“Let her go!”
Cribbins moved as he spoke and as he crossed the room he pulled the revolver from the shoulder holster and quickly flipped it in the air so that he was holding the gun by the barrel. He started to raise it over his head.
Quickly Luder jumped between the two men. “Harry, for God’s sake!” he said. “What’s the matter with you two, anyway? Are you trying to wreck everything?”
Santino jerked Joyce around so that she stood between himself and Cribbins. He held her with one hand, and even in that tense moment she was amazed at the strength in the little man’s hands. The hand which wasn’t holding her arm had gone to his pocket and in a second he had the switch-blade knife half raised.
For a minute he and Cribbins stared at each other. “Drop it,” Luder said. “Drop it!”
Santino was the first to break. Slowly he lowered his arm, taking his hand away from Joyce while he closed the knife.
“Tell him to lay off me then,” he said in a tight voice. “Tell him to lay off me and to keep his paws off of property which don’t belong to him.”
Paula spoke. “I’m nobody’s property,” she said. “You might just as well know it now, Santino.”
Santino turned and stared at her and then slowly walked over and sat down at the table. “So that’s the way it is.”
“That’s the way it is,” Cribbins said.
Luder moved to the stove and picked up the coffee pot. “Oh, let’s just have some breakfast,” he said.
Santino looked at him and then his twisted mouth opened in a crooked smile.
It was after they had eaten and the men had left the room that Joyce first missed the scarf. She and Paula had finished the dishes and while Paula was again making up her face, Joyce asked if she might have her bag back. She wanted to get her comb out of it. The girl shrugged her shoulders and said sure.
“Except you won’t find your wallet,” she told Joyce.
She brought the bag in from the front room where it had been tossed and Joyce, going through it, noticed that her scarf was missing. She remembered having taken it with her on Monday morning when she had left the house with Bart, remembered having stuffed it into her bag when she had taken it off the previous evening.
It was odd how the loss of the scarf upset her. Her wallet was gone and so was the cashier’s check for twenty-six hundred dollars, but somehow it no longer seemed to matter to her. The scarf was something else again. It had been a present from Bart, the first thing he had ever given her.
It was nothing but a silly little piece of blue and yellow silk, and it probably wasn’t worth more than a dollar, but its loss seemed to bring everything that had happened into sharp focus and she had a hard time keeping the tears from her eyes.
Flick’s escape from the white house in Cameron Corners may have brought a certain sense of relief to Joyce Sherwood, but it created a definite moral problem for a middle-aged poultry farmer by the name of Corwell Harding.
Harding was a retired mail carrier who a few years back had bought a farm at the edge of the village and he lived mainly on the proceeds of a small pension. He also raised fryers for the market and sold eggs. He was a childless widower and he didn’t really need a lot. The eggs and the fryers which he sold to the new supermarket gave him a little extra money and made his life a bit more comfortable.
Things would have been fine for him, if it were not for the weasel. The weasel had started coming around nights, a couple of weeks ago, and within a short time had managed to kill off almost half of his flock of white leg-horns, including some of his best layers. It was on Wednesday morning, while he was out checking up on the night marauder’s most recent slaughter, that he first saw Flick.
Wi
thout hesitancy the dog came when he called him. Harding rubbed the poodle behind the ears and was pleased when the dog put his paws up and looked pleadingly into his eyes. He took the dog inside and fed him, noticing the leash attached to his collar. Harding didn’t know a great deal about dogs, but he realized that this was probably a valuable animal. He guessed it had escaped from a passing car. He knew he hadn’t seen it around the village before.
Then it occurred to him that a dog around the place might be very good protection. He could leave him loose on a long rope at night near the coops; it might solve the weasel problem.
There was only one trouble. The dog had a rather expensive collar around his neck and he must belong to someone. Harding reached down and examined the collar. He noticed at once the license tag attached to it.
If it wasn’t for that license, with its identifying number, he’d be perfectly safe in keeping the animal. Should the owner show up, he could tell the truth and say the dog had just drifted in and he’d given it a home. But the collar was there, with the license tag on it.
Almost subconsciously he undid the buckle, stood up, and walked over to the kitchen cabinet over the stove.
Once more he looked at the tag and then slowly he opened the cabinet and placed the collar on the shelf.
It was something he was going to have to think about. Harding was essentially an honest man, but after all, the dog had just drifted in; he hadn’t stolen him.
He opened the icebox, looking for some more meat scraps. He’d have to think this over, but in the meantime, the animal appeared to be famished.
At eight o’clock on Wednesday evening a multicolored hound of mixed ancestry, making his usual nightly rounds of garbage cans in the neighborhood, stopped at the same post in back of the carriage house which Flick had found to be so much to his liking some fourteen hours earlier. The hound immediately performed the same act which Flick had been performing when he’d been disconcerted by the sight of the rabbit. Then the hound leaned down and sniffed and his nose came into contact with the knotted rag which Flick had dropped.
