Up a Winding Stair

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  “Look, Elsie — ”

  She shook her head and continued. “But I learned right away what had happened and how stupid I’d been and knew the trouble I was in. I was the only one ’sides the lady who knew the combination and I knew no one’d believe me about Al and even if they did it wouldn’t make any difference ’cause I’d go to jail anyway. It isn’t good for colored people in jail, Mr. Holt. It isn’t good at all. I ran away. I had to run. You see why I had to run, don’t you? I came here and got this job and I been safe here. I thought I was safe. I thought I was safe till just a few minutes ago when I saw those papers and then the bell rang from this room.”

  “Come over here.”

  “I know. It just won’t do me any good to say anything. Will it?”

  “Come over here.”

  “I’ve never had a lover, Mr. Holt. Sounds funny, don’t it? I’d never expect you to believe that, looking at me, ’cause of the way I’m built, but it’s true. You’re going to be the first one, though, anyway, aren’t you? I know. I know your kind of eyes. I knew when I heard the bell ring from this room. Things like that I guess you just know.”

  Clark shouted, “So then what are you stalling about?”

  “I’m not stalling, Mr. Holt. I’m just scared.”

  “You’re more scared of jails, though.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m more scared of jails. Maybe — if you’ll just be easy with me — ”

  She closed her eyes tightly and stood there facing him, body rigid, arms stiff at her sides, her eyes still closed and tears coursing down her cheeks. She came toward him then, like a sleepwalker. Clark stared at her and sharply caught his breath. It was just the way he had known it would be, the two women in one and Ione moving toward him as much as Elsie.

  He turned off the light and took her in his arms. A tiny, low moan came from her lips, but then she was quiet.

  Chapter Four

  JOEY WAS UNCOMFORTABLE at the breakfast table on the terrace. As soon as Elsie left them alone he told Clark, “When I come home last night I wanted to gab a while. I went in your room and turned on the light. You was asleep, but Elsie was awake. She was starin’ at the ceilin’. She didn’t even look at me. Why’d you do it, kid?”

  Clark was wearing pajamas and a silk robe, with a gay scarf wrapped about his neck, an affectation he had noticed in movie magazines. He smiled softly, thinking of the night, and winked at Joey.

  “Why not? You don’t see many figures like hers walking around.”

  “So, O.K. She’s got it. But you didn’t get it free. I know somethin’ about good-lookin’ queens and she ain’t that kind. You hadda put on the screws.”

  Clark shrugged. “What’s the difference? Jealous?”

  Joey laughed and said, “Sure, in a way,” but then he said seriously, “I don’t think it was smart. When I play around I stay away from home and business. This is too close.”

  “Aw, the hell with it. You’re sore because you didn’t get there first.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Maybe you’re right. But take it easy, kid. You never know what a gal’s thinkin’.”

  Clark grunted and finished his breakfast hurriedly. Then he changed to golfing clothes, drove to the Pebble Beach caddy house, and stood a few yards away from the first tee, swinging a wood to limber his arms. Four men came out and approached the tee, all four of them Montgomery Street brokers from San Francisco. They played together every Sunday morning at nine, rain or shine. They were good, consistent players, they were wealthy, and they wagered heavily. Joey had learned that whenever they got into arguments their bets ran high into the thousands. But they were no pigeons and it was strictly a one-shot deal.

  Clark hoped Joey’s timing was right. It was. A bellboy came hurrying from the direction of the Lodge, spotted the four men at the tee, and drew one of them aside. He whispered a few words and the man’s face turned pale. Clark grinned. That particular broker always brought his mistress down with him from San Francisco and kept her in a Carmel hotel for the week end. The bellboy was telling the man that someone had telephoned to warn him that his wife was on her way to Carmel. No, sir, the caller had not given his name. The caller, of course, had been Joey.

  The little strategem worked. The man rejoined his companions, whispered something quickly, then hurried away as fast as his dignity would allow. When he passed the caddy house he was running full speed toward his car. He was understandably in a hurry to get the woman out of the hotel and as far away from Carmel as possible.

  The three men left standing at the tee looked morose and exceedingly glum. Their Sunday was ruined. Even when Clark approached, announced that he was a single, and asked to fill out their foursome, they were none too happy. They were hard-hitting golfers, they took their game seriously, they always paired off against each other, and they thoroughly enjoyed taking each other’s money, particularly in large sums if possible. A stranger upset their weekly pattern. They were even inclined not to play at all, but when Clark informed them that his handicap was three they brightened a bit. When he said also that he liked a little betting to sweeten the game they became almost cheerful and decided to play after all. They tossed coins and Clark drew Mr. Allen as his partner against the other two men, McMullough and Vanellen.

  They suggested playing best ball at five hundred dollars a side and five hundred on game. Clark was agreeable and they beamed at him. He took a par on the first hole, birdied the second, went one over on the third with a missed putt, and parred the fourth. Allen slapped him on the back and the two others knew they had a rough game on their hands. But they had observed his tendency to slice faintly, and figured that he would get into trouble sooner or later and that they at least stood a slim chance of winning. Allen suggested raising the ante to a thousand on the fifth tee and Clark thought it over a moment, then agreed. They stood even up on the ninth tee, all of them playing well and all of them happy with the seemingly even way the game was going.

  Vanellen cocked an eyebrow at his friends, then squinted at Clark. “Look here. Mr. Holt. This is one hell of a good game. Now, I don’t know what you can afford, but when we get going this good we liken to sweeten the pot even more. I’m willing to go for five thousand each way.”

  McMullough nodded. “I’ll go.”

  Allen scratched his head and said, “How about it, Holt? That slice of yours worries me, but if you think you can handle it I’ll go. We’re all well within our handicaps. Think you can keep it that way?”

  Clark stared thoughtfully into space for a moment, then said, “Well, it is a bit steep, but you don’t have anything to worry about, Allen. That slice never bothers me too much. Sure, I’ll go.”

  None of them ever knew what happened, or were ever suspicious. Clark secured the first side by a birdie on the ninth, got into trouble after that with his slicer whenever his partner was doing well, and stayed out of trouble when the others were doing well. In fact, he made it seem as if Allen was the hot one of the team, even though he had to put on pressure for two birdies and a par on the last three holes to take the last side and the game.

  They paid off in the bar and Clark pocketed a check from Vanellen for seventy-five hundred dollars. Allen jubilantly took the other check from McMullough. The losers were not too dispirited. It looked to them as if Allen had been carrying the heavier load and that Clark had simply been lucky on the last three. They wouldn’t even allow Clark to buy a drink when they saw that he was on ginger ale. They parted the best of friends.

  But quite aside from what he had won, the larger benefit would accrue when word went around, as it would now, that Clark was willing to play for large sums. Every crack money player in the area would have his eyes on him.

  He was pleased with himself and stayed on at the bar after the other three left, thinking of how the game had gone. He saw Hibbard and Faye Hicks come into the room and almost choked over his glass. Hibbard, as usual, looked and dressed like a tired businessman, but Mrs. Hicks was resplendent in loud plaid slacks, a bolero
jacket, and a beret cocked on the back of her head. She was carrying another, smaller camera in a leather case, and a light meter dangled from a cord about her neck.

  The moment they seated themselves at a table in a corner of the room and ordered double Gibsons over ice, Mrs. Hicks spotted Clark at the bar and waved gaily, the many bracelets clanking on her wrist. She leaned over the table for a whispered consultation with her husband. He looked in Clark’s direction, frowned, and shook his head, but then shrugged and got to his feet. He approached Clark, introduced himself, and shook hands with a limp grip.

  “Mrs. Hicks,” he said, “would like your company at our table. Have you had lunch?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good.” He looked doubtful as he asked, “You don’t mind? It would be a pleasure for us.”

  Clark was just as doubtful, but he had nothing else to do at the moment, and wealth and the possessors of wealth always interested him, anyway. He followed Hibbard to the table, shook hands with Mrs. Hicks, and sat at her side. She beamed upon him as if she had personally molded his image.

  “Oh, that dreadful photograph,” she said. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for it, Mr. Holt. I so much wanted it to come out nice, but something went wrong with the developing fluids, I think.”

  Clark asked politely, “You do your own developing, Mrs. Hicks?”

  “Oh, indeed, yes. I do all my own work from the click of the shutter to the finished product.”

  Hibbard said mildly, “Not color, dear.”

  “Well, no,” she pouted, “not color. I’m afraid color is beyond my poor talents. But black and white — I would never dream of letting anyone else touch my work. I always say that any art should never bear the imprint of more than one personality. Don’t you agree?”

  It cost him nothing, so he replied, “Sure. Photography is evidently quite a hobby of yours.”

  She knitted her brows and said seriously, “Not quite a hobby. It goes beyond that. Of course, I am not a professional — how I dislike that term, anyway — but, on the other hand, I am not an amateur, either.” She fumbled about in space for a moment, could not quite decide what to call herself, and abruptly dropped the subject. “I hear you’ve taken the Nyland house.”

  “Yes.”

  “Lovely house. Just lovely. But isn’t it difficult to heat, what with that line of bedrooms down that long corridor?”

  “I hadn’t noticed any problem. It’s very pleasant.”

  She nodded, but said, “Any house constructed with a long wing like that would be a little on the cold side.”

  “But really, it isn’t. I suppose it would seem so, but — ”

  His words made not the slightest impression on her. “Yes, it would have to be cold. No heating system could be adequate for that corridor. Evidently you’re the kind who likes cool bedrooms.”

  “Believe me, Mrs. Hicks, I can adjust that heating system to turn the bedrooms into ovens.”

  She gazed into his eyes and said, “I imagine even an icy-cold room would suit you more. You look like an athlete. Are you an athlete, Mr. Holt?”

  He shook his head, wondering how they had jumped from photography to cold bedrooms to athletics in so few words. “Not exactly,” he replied. “Just golf.”

  “Somehow I seem to picture you in tights, swinging high up on a bar under the big top.”

  Hibbard interrupted with a coughing fit and, before she could go back to the subject, hurriedly beckoned a waiter to order lunch. She chatted on about whatever came into her head, but all that nonsense came to a halt the moment food arrived. She chewed her food slowly and deliberately, giving it her undivided attention. Food was a serious matter. Clark was fascinated. She bit off a piece of sandwich with large, strong teeth, slowly ground it down to meal, while staring vacuously into space, and chewed and chewed and chewed and finally swallowed it in a highly visible manner. Each bite was the same and nothing interrupted the bovine rhythm. She did not actually eat her meal; she destroyed it with the heavy-footed measured tread of a giant squashing ants. When she had finished, victory was complete; there was not a crumb left.

  Hibbard was the opposite. He bit off a piece here and there, pulled the rest to pieces with nervous fingers, and scattered it about his plate so that it would seem as if he had eaten something. No more than an ounce or so actually got into his mouth. He chose that period of his wife’s concentration elsewhere to gulp down three double Gibsons before she finished her meal and her attention came back to her companions.

  She touched her lips daintily with a napkin and announced, “I simply can’t stand cold bedrooms. Other than that, though, that Nyland home really is very lovely. We’ve visited there often, haven’t we, pet?”

  Hibbard grunted, “Couple times.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed it.” She looked curiously at Clark. “But isn’t it terribly large for a bachelor? You are a bachelor, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. It is large for a single man.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I like space. I like privacy.”

  “And you’re willing to pay for it. So am I. These little boxy affairs they build today — ” She shuddered. “How terrible!”

  Hibbard said, “Someone has to live in them. They’re all some people can afford.” He ordered another drink, then asked Clark, “What business are you in, Mr. Holt?”

  Clark lied, “Aviation.”

  Hibbard blinked at him with his first sign of interest. “Oh? Airlines?”

  “No. I export airplanes, parts, and supplies to various foreign countries, especially Brazil.”

  Mrs. Hicks was again beaming at him. “But how perfectly romantic! Do tell us about it. I’m so terribly ignorant about such things.”

  Clark launched forth into a modest dissertation on aviation export, making it appear as if he were one of the key figures in foreign surplus, but, naturally, the manipulator behind the scenes. He was so used to the lie that he almost believed it himself and told it well, but he almost got into trouble a few times. Hibbard, though an alcoholic and with but half of his brain functioning, nevertheless still retained a certain shrewd grasp of higher finance. He had been cleaned himself and knew the tricks. He asked an uncomfortable number of questions for which Clark had no ready answers. Whenever that happened Clark grinned and gave him a sly wink, as if to say, “We don’t tell all our secrets, do we?” Hibbard was satisfied and even slightly impressed. Mrs. Hicks was smilingly thoughtful.

  Clark had a hunch that she never accepted anyone’s word for anything, but that she would believe anything printed in black and white. He casually extracted a business card from his pocket and gave it to her. The card announced to the world that Clark A. Holt was Pres of various and sundry aviation enterprises with a list of addresses in Rome, Casablanca, Rio, New York, Los Angeles, and elsewhere. Mrs. Hicks became a believer.

  In a short time they were swapping first names and were on the best of terms. Faye seemed compelled to give an accounting of herself, as well, and every few minutes managed to throw in a hint concerning her own affluence. Clark summed up the broad hints and was staggered by the total. She had to be not simply wealthy, but vulgarly rich. Clark stared at Hibbard and felt hunger gnawing in his vitals. God, to be in his shoes, with all that beautiful green stuff lying around and a stupid woman to take it away from!

  The idea made him almost ill and he shoved back his chair to get away from them. Faye looked alarmed and gasped, “Oh, but you can’t go now!”

  “I’m sorry. A friend of mine — ”

  She was actually distressed. “Oh, no. We’re just getting to know each other and I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed myself so much.”

  Hibbard said gently, drunkenly, “But if the man’sh got ’nother ’pointment — ”

  “I won’t hear of it. We’re due at the Ransons’ for a cocktail party. Clark, you simply must go with us.”

  Ione, he thought. “Well,” he said, “I’ve just recent
ly met them — ”

  Faye cried, “They’d simply love to have you.”

  “Well-”

  She said flatly, “It’s settled. Of course, I have to change. I suppose you do, too. Why don’t we pick you up at your house in about forty-five minutes?”

  Yes, he thought, it would be better than walking in by himself, cold. “O.K. I’ll be ready.”

  He drove home and quickly changed clothes, excited at the thought of seeing Ione again, and so soon. He walked down the corridor to the living room, shaved, powdered, wearing a handstitched gabardine suit, looking every inch the successful young businessman, fitting perfectly into his surroundings. His feeling of well-being, however, was jarred slightly when he stepped into the huge living room. Elsie was just coming out of the library and crossing the room, carrying an empty silver tray. Her stride broke when she saw him, her eyes went down, her teeth clamped whitely on her lower lip, then her pace quickened and she hurried out of the room. Clark watched her go, shrugged, and walked into the library.

  Joey was at the desk with the loose-leaf binder, jotting down information on possible pigeons. No data was too trivial to find its way into that notebook. Minor matters often indicated major weaknesses.

  He glanced at Clark, his eyes narrowed shrewdly, then he grinned. “Looks like you did all right. All gussied out. How much did you take?”

  “Seventy-five hundred. We were playing best ball for fifteen grand. I had to split with my partner.”