Deep is the Pit

by Dixon, H. Vernor

  Slim remained in his room for three days following the robbery, then had his luggage taken to the desk to check out. Marty invited him into the office, locked the door, and accused Slim of being one of the gunmen. It almost cost him his life. Slim took the key away from him at the point of a revolver and was going to pull the trigger when Marty started talking fast. He talked faster and more persuasively than he ever had talked in his life before, and finally succeeded in convincing Slim that he, Marty, was on Slim’s side. He even drove Slim out of town to help him evade any curious police.

  He met Slim later in Dallas and the two became fast friends. Slim had spent most of his time in reform schools and various prisons, so he knew everyone of criminal importance in the underworld. Robbery was an art to him and he knew every trick. He also knew all the mistakes that could be made. It was too late for him, however, to start over again and profit from those mistakes. He was too well known. But he taught Marty, in bars, in hotel rooms, on trains, wherever they happened to be. He schooled Marty thoroughly for many months before allowing him in on a job. They pulled four successful jobs together, then Slim was killed while robbing a factory payroll by a coolheaded youngster who failed to succumb to the shock treatment.

  But before he died he had taught Marty that success in anything, especially robbery, was the product of concentrated and elaborate planning. Nothing was ever left to chance. Every risk had to be calculated to its limit and intelligently reduced. The getaway route, when one was used, had to be driven over dozens of times so that the driver knew exactly how to take each curve and the maximum speed that could be allowed without crashing. Except for the initial break, highways and boulevards were to be avoided. The getaway car, always a stolen one, was to be washed thoroughly before being abandoned and set on fire if possible; then the men always transferred to a “safe” machine owned by one of the group. The robbery itself was rehearsed over and over again. No one man did the planning or ran the show. All of them helped and contributed ideas. The job was never pulled until each man was satisfied that his brain could absorb no more and that he could carry off his part blindfolded.

  Marty had made such planning a part of his nature. He applied the same principle to the Stannard Hotel. Within a very few days he knew exactly where everything was located in the eleven floors and basement of the building and where he wanted changes to be made. He had studied the hotel before, on previous visits to San Francisco, but this time he regarded it with the attitude of ownership. It made a difference. He was even amused to find himself searching for means to cut renovating expenses, now that it might be his money that would be spent.

  He did not mind the passage of time, he was busily occupied, but he was nevertheless relieved when Frank Stannard telephoned one afternoon. “I have been giving a lot of thought to your proposition, Mr. Lee. I suppose you know that the hotel is owned by myself, my son, and my niece?”

  “I knew that other members of the family were in it somewhere.”

  “Well, it’s jointly owned by the three of us. They defer to my judgment in matters such as this, yet I feel that you should also explain your ideas to them.”

  “Glad to do it.”

  “Then suppose we get together tomorrow morning at ten in my son’s office. Same building I’m in. George Stannard. Eighth floor. You can’t miss it.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Incidentally, I see no harm in telling you that I would prefer seeing the building remain a hotel. My son and niece also have the same attitude. However, you are going to have to be more explicit in explaining how you intend making it into a profitable establishment. If your idea is not thoroughly sound, then the money you pour into it would mean nothing to us. In case of failure the building would still have to be torn down, so what you lose would not bounce into our pockets but would be sheer waste.”

  Marty was mentally shaking hands with himself, but faked hesitation. “Well, frankly, Mr. Stannard — ”

  “Just a minute. I can assure you that none of us is interested in using your ideas. We are not hotel people. My grandfather built the hotel as a monument to himself, but it has always been a headache to us. We will treat everything you have to say in the strictest confidence.” His voice changed to a sharper tone as he added, “On the other hand, if you feel you can’t explain fully, then the deal is off right now.”

  Marty had no reluctance about explaining his ideas, but had appeared to be so simply to arouse Stannard’s interest and curiosity. There was nothing especially new in what he proposed. Success depended not on any one factor, but rather a combination of sound ideas properly applied. He waited a few seconds, as if thinking it over, then said, “Very well, Mr. Stannard. I’ll come prepared to explain everything.”

  Stannard said heartily, “Fine. Fine. See you at ten tomorrow. Good-by.”

  Marty was jubilant. He went down to the bar and had three highballs in quick succession, a rare thing for him. Marty was not particularly fond of alcohol and had been drunk but twice, the day he had been drafted and the day he was discharged. He quite often went for months without a drink, never frequented bars for lack of something to do or to fill in time, and regarded habitual drinkers as weaklings. Drinking spelled trouble in his vocabulary. Even moderate social drinking did not entice him. It so rarely remained moderate.

  But he was excited over Stannard’s call. All three of the owners preferred not seeing the hotel torn down. They probably had more than a little sentimental attachment for it. That was something in his favor he had not really counted on after meeting Stannard. He had mentioned retaining the Stannard name on the hotel, hoping to get through to the man’s vanity, but had seriously doubted that it would mean anything to him. Stannard seemed to be singularly lacking in vanity. Yet it was now apparent that he had a deep-rooted pride in the family name and was capable of some feeling of sentimentality toward the hotel itself. That information could be used as a strong trading point.

  Marty was still excited the following morning. He was awake at dawn, pacing the floor in pajamas and a light gray robe of heavy Chinese silk. He had breakfast in his rooms and quickly scanned the morning paper. At the bottom of the first page, under the section marked “Bulletin,” he found a Chicago date line reading, “Red Martin, San Francisco bank robber, briefly apprehended by police at Chicago air terminal but managed to escape after knocking out guard. (Details page four.)” He turned to page four and read a short few paragraphs that said very little more than had the bulletin. Red Martin was supposed to have been picked up on the airport, presumably after leaving a plane from the West Coast. But while being escorted to a squad car he had somehow got loose, knocked out his guard, and escaped into Chicago. He was expected to be apprehended again in a matter of hours. A lieutenant of police was quoted as saying, “We have a pretty good idea where to look for him.”

  Marty chuckled and finished his breakfast with relish. Scappy had worked fast. Probably a long-distance call to someone who knew how to make a fix, the promise of a few centuries, and the job was accomplished. He wondered if he should send the five hundred dollars to Scappy and decided against it. If he were remaining in the business it would be suicide not to pay off. But he was out of it, and five hundred, after all, could buy a lot of neckties. To hell with Scappy. He owed him the favor, anyway.

  When it was about time to leave for his appointment, Marty took a shower and dressed with care. He selected a conservative dark brown suit with a faint chalk stripe he had had tailored in New York the year before and a heavy linen shirt with plain solid-gold links in the French cuffs that matched a gold alloy tie clasp. The breast-pocket handkerchief was striped with the same ruby red and acacia yellow of his necktie. He adjusted a tan Homburg to a precise angle on his head and appraised himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Except for the cold blue of his eyes, the ruthless set of his jaw, and the sardonic twist of his mouth, he appeared almost handsome, altogether successful, and a casual man of affairs. He was pleased with the
effect.

  Before he left the rooms he put in his pockets a thin wallet of beautifully hand-tooled Moroccan leather and cigarette case to match. Small gold initials were embossed on each. Marty like things to match. It gave him a sense of unity and purpose.

  When he went down through the lobby of the hotel he decided to walk to Montgomery Street. There was sufficient time and the walk would help to steady him for the meeting. But he was concentrating so intensely on what was to come that he heard a shrill police whistle at least three times before becoming conscious of it. He was crossing a street at that moment, just beyond the middle of the intersection. A number of automobiles had come to a halt, waiting for him to walk by. He paused, looked over his shoulder, and saw the red-faced policeman hurrying toward him. For a split second he was again Red Martin. His body tensed and chilled. He thought of running, but knew the futility of that. He remained where he was, frozen, momentarily numb with shock.

  Even after the policeman reached him, unceremoniously shoved him the rest of the way across the street, and proceeded to bawl him out, it took time for his mind to come out of the state of shock and start functioning again. His relief was so great that his body felt limp. He had simply been crossing the street against the signal. But with relief came the sudden anger that was never far below the surface of his emotions.

  “Of all the damned fool things to bawl a person out about! The way you’re yelling, you’d think I just held up a bank. Don’t you cops have anything better to do than to run around screaming at people?”

  “Look, bud, I’m a traffic cop. When you’re crossing the street you’re traffic. Is that too hard for you to understand?”

  “Who wrote it out for you?”

  “Listen, Mac, I’ll take none of yer lip!”

  “Oh, sure. That badge gives you the right to hand out plenty yourself, but you don’t have to take it. Is that the idea?”

  The policeman closed his eyes for a second, then said wearily, “Run along, Mac. All I hope is a truck runs over you at the next corner.”

  Marty walked on and for the rest of the way to Montgomery Street kept assuring himself that he was safe, that there was nothing to fear, and that he would have to accept policemen as did any normal citizen. It took his mind off the meeting, so that when he entered the office building of the Stannards his brain was working in cooler fashion. It amused him to recognize the fact that the encounter with the policeman had probably been a good thing.

  The receptionist in George Stannard’s outer office was a strawberry blonde, an altogether different variety from Miss Rose. She was fresh, young, pert, and looked as if she had just dropped in from a modeling agency. She wore an expensive tailored suit far beyond the means of a receptionist, she was not rump-sprung, and her soft skin was smoothly tanned. Marty guessed, Field trips with the boss, no doubt. The reception room, too, was functional and modern, designed to impress. Marty wondered what sort of business George Stannard indulged himself in and doubted that any of it was important.

  He was ushered directly into the younger Stannard’s office. His first impression was all he had expected. The light green room, relieved by contrasting rose red on the borders and panels, was spacious and even overly large. It was designed more for entertaining than a place in which to transact business. The enormous single desk in the room, back against the windows, was equipped with radio, telephones, blotters, a disappearing typewriter, Steuben glass ash trays, interoffice phone box, and everything else conceivable by the gadget-minded for the busy young executive. None of it appeared worn with use. There was a deep pastel carpet on the floor, soft couches and executive-type leather chairs scattered about. One whole side wall of the room rolled open to reveal an office bar that could have done service as a saloon. Marty hid a smile. The receptionist, the bar, and the gadgets gave him the key to George Stannard.

  Marty saw him the moment he entered the room. Frank Stannard started toward him from the other side of the room, but Marty’s eyes swung to the son, standing back of the desk. Except for the same green eyes and crisp black hair, he was little like his father. He was well over six feet tall, with the good and yet not hard physique of a country-club athlete. Lines of dissipation about his eyes and mouth were out of keeping with his age, which appeared to be in the late twenties. He had the assured poise of wealth, but his mouth was weak and his manner lacked aggression. Marty sized him up as a man he would never have trusted on a bank job. He would be the first to crack when things got rough. He dismissed him from his mind as being of no real consequence in the hotel deal. He would do whatever Papa wanted.

  Marty shook hands with Frank Stannard and was introduced to the son, who put on a fairly good act of imitating his father’s businesslike attitude. He even shoved some papers about on the desk and looked distracted, as if he had many other and more important matters in mind at the moment. If Marty had ever been capable of feeling sympathy toward any human being, he would have felt sorry for Frank Stannard.

  When the older man said, “I would also like you to meet my niece, Karen Stannard,” Marty blinked his surprise. He had seen no one else in the room. He turned toward the door through which he had entered and saw her in one of the leather chairs. She had been sitting against the wall, so that the door had hidden her as he came in.

  She sat quietly, her legs crossed, one toe bobbing slowly up and down, her eyes fixed on him in an open gaze of intense curiosity and bewilderment. It was obvious that he was not at all what she had expected. Marty was even more bewildered. He had given no thought whatever to the niece, and so had no preconceived notions of her. Yet he was startled and felt the same old burning constriction about his chest. She was the young woman he had seen in the lobby of the hotel, the queen, the duchess, the princess, the never-to-be-attained, the unapproachable. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.

  She got slowly to her feet in a rippling motion that was sheer poetry and approached him with all the regal dignity of moneyed aristocrat and the feline grace of a panther. She seemed taller than she actually was. He thought that her eyes, when she halted before him, would look levelly into his own, and was surprised to find them many inches lower. The perfume she used was light and subtle, mingling and blending with the delicate scent of her beautifully formed body. She did not smile at him, nor did she try to hide her curiosity. The look she gave him was one of frank and reserved appraisal. He felt that her opinion of him, when it did come, would be formed quickly. For the moment, she was curious and puzzled, but neutral.

  When she spoke her voice was faintly husky, but soft. He learned later that she never raised her voice for any reason. “I had thought you would be a much older man, Mr. Lee.”

  “Oh?”

  “My uncle said that you were young, but his idea of youth could be anywhere between twenty and fifty. He also said that you were a very rugged individual. I don’t find you so at all.” She smiled for the first time. “Are you a Jekyll and Hyde sort of person?”

  Marty’s hatred for her and her class was growing. She was worse than the policeman on the corner. With her he had no defenses. She would be the one to see through him, who might conceivably upset everything and ruin all his careful plans. Also, for a moment, he did not know how to answer her. Words refused to form. But he suddenly realized, with a tingling feeling of shock, that she was not looking through him. Nor was she talking at him. She had accepted him on her own level. It was a unique experience, the first time it had ever happened. The hotel deal was responsible for that, of course, but the novel experience was nevertheless exhilarating. The rigidity went out of Marty’s powerful frame and he relaxed.

  “Could be,” he smiled. “I go back under my rock when curfew rings.”

  “I doubt that.”

  She looked down at her hand, which he was still holding, and he lost the pleasant sensation tingling in his spine. He dropped her hand clumsily and felt like swearing out loud. He wanted to smash her across the face and watch the blood run red from her full li
ps. But when she moved away from him to pull a chair close to the desk, he went to her assistance. He shoved it awkwardly against her knees and looked away from the questioning glance she gave him. He felt like a fool. With her present, the meeting could end in a shambles.

  Frank and George Stannard dropped into chairs on the other side of the big desk and indicated one for Marty near Karen. He tried to put his thoughts in order and control his nerves as he sat down. He did not dare think too much of the woman at his side. It would even be better to look at her as little as possible. There was too much at stake to allow his private rage the upper hand. He succeeded in concentrating on the two men, but he was never completely unaware of Karen’s presence.

  Frank Stannard started matters going by referring briefly to his previous conversation with Marty, touching upon his background, and adding the information that he had checked Marty’s references and found them to his liking. He said, “I have already explained what it’s all about to Karen and George. We are all of us agreed that we would rather the building remained a hotel. But we must know how you intend making a profit out of what has been a losing proposition for many years. After all, we would be gambling, too.”

  George smiled, clasped his hands before him on the desk, and said, “Perhaps more so, Mr. Lee. We would be transferring a valuable piece of property to you for virtually nothing down. That is not a small risk.”

  His father snorted, “Hell, that part’s no risk. Why do you think I have attorneys?”

  Karen gave her cousin a slow wink. “Leave it to Papa, Georgie. When he gambles he’s always the croupier. I have no doubt that he will hold all four aces and a joker up his sleeve.” She turned her head slightly to slant an amused glance at Marty. “I tremble for you, Mr. Lee. When you do business with a Stannard you leave your soul in pawn and throw away the ticket.”