Marty drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, glanced once more at Karen and the guests and the new world he had brought into being at the stock of a sawed-off shotgun, then turned away. His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned as he hurried down the hall. Once he had committed himself, he moved fast and with decision. He skirted the service bar, went down a dim passageway to the rear of the hotel, and stepped into an automatic service elevator. He went to the seventh floor, slid cautiously into the main hallway, saw that it was empty, and hurried to his rooms. His pulse was pounding with mounting excitement and the dangerous “feel” of the game he was playing.
He ripped off his jacket as he went through the sitting room of the suite into the bedroom and tossed it on the bed. He kicked off his trousers and shoes and stepped into the bathroom, shedding tie and shirt as he moved. He carefully applied the false red mustache to his upper lip, then slid the two pieces of sponge rubber between his lips and teeth. He opened the box of adhesive powder, rubbed the red dust in his hands, and worked it into his hair. It was not so effective as a dye and would appear false under too close examination, but it was good enough for a quick job. When he had finished working in the powder his hair was a fiery red. He combed his hair to the Red Martin part, washed his hands and some of the dust from his neck and forehead, and went back into the bedroom. He took the revolver out of a drawer, spun the magazine, and placed it on top of the bureau. He hurried into a shirt, tie, shoes, and the gray suit he had worn on the last bank job. He placed the snap-brim hat on his head at a cocky angle and appraised himself in a mirror. He was again Red Martin. His features were altered and the shade of his eyes again appeared to be green. Even Karen would not be able to recognize him. He could masquerade safely, for at least a little while, as the gunman and killer.
He put one item in a coat pocket, a passkey that would unlock any door on the eighth floor, including Tony’s. Knocking on that door would give Tony the advantage. Marty was not thinking of allowing anyone an advantage.
As he started out of his rooms, he reveiwed the whole situation from Dotty’s angle. He assumed that she would have been surprised when Tony informed her of the call from Red Martin. But then she would figure that, in some manner, Marty had learned of her contact with Tony and that he meant to take the play out of her hands. The fact that he wanted her present would not be alarming to her. In his shoes, she would have insisted on the same thing.
There was only one real risk and that was that Dotty might sense danger. The angles involved, however, would not indicate its presence. There was no way for her to suspect that he would run the tremendous risk of masquerading as Red Martin in his own hotel, or anywhere else, for that matter. She knew well what he had at stake, his position, his success, and the millions involved. There was but one way for her to think: that, inasmuch as she knew his identity, anyway, and was about to give it away, he would show up as Marty Lee and take the easier and safer way out of paying off Tony.
From her angle, also, there was apparently no danger of violence. Marty Lee, successful businessman, could not afford to run that risk. She knew that he had been a killer and that he still had the instincts of one, but she would also figure that, in his usual cold-blooded manner, he would balance all factors involved and come up with the safer solution — the pay-off. It was the only way Dotty could figure the angles. She would not be afraid of him.
Marty smiled. Naturally, there was no way for her to know of his beautiful plan and that the F.B.I. was assisting him in its execution. Who would ever be able to figure that one out? Not Dotty.
Marty stepped out into the corridor, but there was no way to close the hall door without locking it. He left it slightly ajar, as he might wish to return without sufficient time to fumble for a key and get it unlocked. He went down the hallway and back to the service elevator, which he took down to the basement. From there he went through the boiler room and into the garage. He slid behind the cars so that he would not be seen by the two attendants and in a moment was out on a side street. He began breathing easier. So far, so good.
He walked around the corner to the front of the hotel and went through the main entrance into the lobby. No one paid any attention to him, though he felt as if every eye was on him. But that feeling was oddly familiar and he smiled about it. He walked through the lobby and into the Hollywood Bar, which was fairly crowded. He had a fifty-dollar bill in his pocket, which he placed on the bar as he ordered a straight shot of bourbon. He deliberately spilled the drink across the bar, ordered another, and argued with the harassed bartender about his change. The bartender, he knew, would remember the redhead well, when the police later questioned the staff.
He went back into the lobby and approached the main desk. Cleaver was behind the desk, looking every inch the smooth and suave young hotel clerk. But as he saw the redhead approach his smile faded, he sucked in his breath sharply, his body tensed, and his eyes narrowed to cold pin points of light. Marty felt like laughing. The F.B.I. man was at last face to face with the fabulous Red Martin. It was even obvious in his expression that he would talk about this particular moment for many years to come. However, Marty had to admire the way he collected himself after the initial shock and was again smiling affably.
Marty stopped just before him and asked the number of Tony Arturo’s room in a husky voice he hoped would not sound unduly familiar to Cleaver. “He’s expecting me,” he said.
“Sorry, sir, but we are not allowed to give out room numbers.”
“Then what the hell. How do I see him?”
“I will call him for you, if you wish.”
“No, no. I’ll use a phone myself. What did you say was his room number?”
Cleaver smiled broadly. “Now, please. Just tell the operator his name and she will connect you.”
“There ain’t no other Arturo stopping here?”
“No, sir. It’s not a very common name.”
“Yeah. But I gotta be sure. This one is Tony Arturo from Lake Tahoe.”
“Yes, sir, the same.”
“I guess he’s in. Huh?”
“I believe so.”
“Yeah. Well, thanks.”
He went to a house phone close by and lifted the instrument, but held a finger on the cradle. He stood there a minute, as if talking to someone, then replaced the phone. He walked by the desk and called to Cleaver, “Yeah, he’s in. Thanks.” He noticed Cleaver reach for a telephone as he started across the lobby toward the elevators. Ten minutes, he thought, for the police and the F.B.I. agents to get there. Another five minutes to block off all the exits and then get in position upstairs. Plenty of time for what he had to do and even time left over to get back to the Bali Room. It was perfect.
A moment later he was standing in the hallway of Tony’s floor. He felt exultant at how smoothly everything had gone. As far as Cleaver and the police were concerned, the hunted Red Martin was now definitely in the Stannard Hotel. No one would ever doubt that fact. And in a short while they would also feel, just as positively, that he was trapped on the upper floors and all they had to do was take it easy and close in with minimum risk.
The balance of the plan was simple. He would slip the key into the lock and open Tony’s door before anyone inside had a chance to move. In all probability, Tony would have at least one man hidden in the bathroom as bodyguard. That would be a natural precaution. Also, Tony would be a fool not to have a gun on his own person, and Tony was no fool. But there was no risk in any of it. It was all going to happen too fast. Even if Tony did manage to get to his gun, there was no danger in that. He would never get off that first shot. But, assuming the wildest of improbabilities, if Tony did get one off it would be a snap shot with the chances a thousand to one that the bullet would plow into the floor. Marty knew how those things went. Personally, he did not believe in snap shooting. It took only a split second longer to extend your arm into the proper firing position and take aim on a target you could not possibly miss in the close range of a hotel room. With a
.357 Magnum one slug was enough to tear Tony apart and the second slug would do the same for Dotty. A third might have to be wasted on the bathroom door. But that left three to finish off the job with Tony and Dotty, more than enough. Because of the silencer, the shots would probably not be heard by anyone, though that did not matter too greatly. Marty would then slip down to his own rooms, get out of the Red Martin costume, and be back at the party not more than twenty minutes after he had originally left it.
The balance of the plan was also coldly beautiful. In all probability, he would be called upon, as Marty Lee, to assist the police and the F.B.I. agents in the closing of their trap. Red Martin, of course, would not be found, and it would have to be assumed that he had somehow managed again to elude capture. Tony and Dotty, though, would be found. Again, there was but one logical assumption. Red Martin had come to kill rather than to pay off. Dotty had been rubbed out too, simply because she had been a witness. It all made a wonderful pattern. Simple. Easy. Perfect. And Marty Lee, tycoon of the hotel world, would be completely safe and secure forever.
He started down the hallway toward Tony’s rooms, tightening the gloves that would leave no fingerprints on the doorknob or elsewhere. He stopped before Tony’s door and reached under his coat for the gun. His hand came to a frozen halt. The gun was not there. He searched frantically, but the gun was nowhere on his person. He wondered if he could have dropped it, but suddenly remembered with sickening clarity that he had left it on the bedroom bureau.
Marty felt cold sweat on his forehead. His brain was not working so clearly, after all. To forget the gun, which was, after all, the most important detail, was inexcusable. But that was easy to rectify. It was on the bureau just one floor below, a matter of two or three minutes at the most to get it and return. There was still ample time to get the job over with and get back to his own rooms before the police arrived and filtered upstairs. They would not be in a hurry, anyway. No one, especially the police, was ever in a hurry to tangle with a known killer. It was better to go through with it now. The greater risks had already been taken. The rest would be easy.
That was the sensible thing to do — get it over with. He hurried to the service stairs and started running down to the seventh floor.
Chapter Fifteen
MARTY rushed through the open door of his suite, slammed it shut, and hurried across the sitting room. He stepped into the bedroom and came to a halt just inside the door. The color drained from his face and a tiny muscle started twitching at a corner of his lips. Dotty Kimball was standing by the bureau staring at him.
The two were silent for minutes that seemed hours. Dotty’s shock was almost as great as Marty’s. Her face had also paled and her features were drawn. She moved a hand slowly back and forth across her eyes as if trying to remove something she did not wish to see. She turned her head to look at the gun on the bureau, then glanced back into the bathroom at the box of red dust and the red powder spilled on the bowl. Her eyes came back to Marty’s, a viciously cold light in their depths.
“Good God,” she mumbled. “I thought of it — I tried to figure it this way — but it didn’t make sense. No one could have made me believe you would dare to run this risk.”
It took Marty’s paralyzed nerves a longer time to recover. But when feeling did flood back into his body, it came on the crest of a violent, black rage. Of all the stupid things to happen! His beautiful plan shot full of holes!
Marty glanced briefly at the gun, then back at Dotty. “What the hell are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be in Tony’s room.”
“I know. Funny, isn’t it? But my taxi had a flat tire and I had trouble getting another.”
“So you were late. That doesn’t explain what you’re doing in here.”
“Habit,” she said, “That’s also pretty funny. Just a simple habit. I gave this floor number to the elevator operator. I didn’t realize I was on the wrong floor until I was right at your door.”
“Jees!”
“Then, when I saw the door was open, I got curious. I guess,” she said, her voice deadly and flat, “this is one time curiosity saved the cat.”
Marty took a slow step in her direction. “You’re jumping to conclusions.”
She put her arm back on the bureau, her fingers a few inches from the gun. “I don’t think so, sweetheart. I don’t know how you figured you could get away with it, but it’s plain enough, now, what you intended doing. In that get-up you’re Red Martin again, the gunman, the killer. That’s what you had in mind. Did you intend knocking off Tony, too?”
He edged another step closer. “You’re out of your mind. Why should I knock off anyone?”
“Plenty of reasons, any one of which would make you nice and safe again. Yes, I guess you were going to rub out Tony, as well. It would have to be that way. But, you know, I didn’t think you would try to work it that way. I underestimated you. I figured your high and mighty position had softened you, that a pay-off would be the safer way for you to do it.”
Marty attempted a reassuring smile as he moved another step toward her. “You’re so wrong, Dotty. Naturally, I intended making the pay-off. But I didn’t want Tony to know my identity. I figured I could talk you out of that.”
“Oh, no, you didn’t. Somehow, you found out about me and Tony.” She screamed vindictively, “You knew damned well I was going to make you sweat, you rat. You knew you couldn’t argue me out of it. You knew it. Now I can see you never intended paying off anyone, except with a couple of bullets. That’s the way you were going to do it. That’s why you’re Red Martin again. You aren’t kidding me.”
The waves of violence sweeping through Marty pounded at his temples in hammer-like beats. He started walking forward slowly, toward the bureau, toward the gun. Dotty watched him, her eyes narrowing. Suddenly she realized his intent and spun about to grab the gun. She held the muzzle unwaveringly on Marty as if she knew how to handle it. Marty came to a halt a few feet from her.
Dotty said crisply, “Not another step. Believe me, darling, I’d enjoy spilling your guts out on the floor. Of all the dirty double-crossers! You knew what that marriage to George would mean to me. My last chance. Understand? My last chance. And you killed it for me.”
Marty remained where he was. He recognized death when he saw it. He had faced it so many times before. There was no dodging that gun and there was no doubting Dotty’s desire to use it. The slightest false move and she would squeeze the trigger with pleasure. Perspiration was heavy on Marty’s face and the palms of his hands. His beautiful plan was ended. A flat tire and an unlocked door had collapsed his whole world. The rage within him gave way to an accompanying feeling of nausea. He was trapped. Any other person in the world he could get around, somehow. Not Dotty. Never Dotty.
His shoulders sagged. He nodded toward the bathroom and asked hollowly, “Do you mind?”
She asked suspiciously, “Do I mind what?”
“I’d better change — wash my hair — get out of these clothes.”
She studied him for a long while, then smiled. “I guess it would be a good idea. This should be interesting to watch. The change from killer to businessman. Yes. Go ahead.”
She walked around him and crossed the room. She dropped into a chair in a corner where she had a clear view of the bedroom and bathroom. She crossed her legs and rested the gun on one knee, her finger tense on the trigger, her other hand holding a gold purse in her lap.
Marty turned his head to watch her. There was no hope. She was in full control. It was all over.
He took off the gray suit and hung it in the closet. He changed his shoes, stripped off his shirt, and stepped into the bathroom. He flushed the false mustache and the two pieces of sponge rubber down the toilet bowl, then proceeded to lather his face and hair and wash thoroughly. When he dried himself all traces of Red Martin had disappeared. He dumped the remaining powder into the bowl, broke the box into little pieces, and flushed them away. His brain was spinning, whirling off at all angl
es, but there were no answers. He came back into the bedroom and started dressing in his dinner clothes. When he had finished he put the other things neatly away in the closet. He glanced about and saw that there was nothing left of Red Martin. He nodded grimly at his reflection in the mirror.
He turned about and stood in the middle of the floor, facing the gun. One part of his mind was appraising Dotty’s lush, blonde beauty and the low-cut gown she was wearing and the smoothly rounded shape of her legs and thighs and remembering her and how they had been together. The other part of his mind was beginning to work again, beginning to figure the angles.
“You probably won’t believe me,” he said, “but I was not the one who wrecked your setup with George.”
She sneered at him. “Oh, sure. I’ll bet you were out buying the ring for me.”
“It was my wife. Karen told him.”
“Oh, but naturally. She and I have so much in common. We’re such close friends.”
“George came by our place one night. He said he was going to get married.”
“I know. It was that close. Oh, you bastard. It was that close.”
“Listen, Dotty. I had no intention of telling him anything. But Karen knew about you and me. When she heard it was you he had in mind, she told George. I didn’t do it. Karen told him about us.”
“You lying double-crosser! Trying to shove it off on your wife. George told me how it happened. He said it was you. He had no reason to lie about it.”
Marty moved closer until he was standing just before Dotty. The gun muzzle had not wavered, but she had allowed him to come closer. Just thinking of how close it had been with George had clouded her mind with hot anger. She was no longer thinking clearly, at least for the moment, or being as cautious as she should have been. But with that gun in her hand she was power. Once it was taken away from her, though, and she could be made to listen to reason, or bought off …
“O.K.,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to believe me. Now, what’s on your mind?”
Deep is the Pit Page 25
