“Tony,” she said, looking up at him, her movement turning the muzzle of the gun slightly away. “I’m going to call Tony and have him come down here. Then, darling, I am going to enjoy watching you do a lot of fancy sweating.”
Marty leaped. He dropped into a sudden half crouch, threw himself forward, and fell on Dotty. The chair fell and the two of them went over and there was the bark of the gun and a searing pain and Marty’s brain was spinning in a red void and he felt himself sinking and falling through limitless space and there was nothing but pain and walls and waves and screaming sirens of pain.
The pain went on and on and there was a roaring in Marty’s ears, but his eyes cleared a bit and he was able to see vaguely. He was lying on the floor against the wall. His stomach was ripped open and he saw his life ebbing on the floor in the spreading pool of blood. He made an effort and shoved himself to his elbows and looked up and saw Dotty standing a few feet away staring down at him with the gun in her hand. She seemed rather horror-stricken, but he could not be sure of that, and anyway the look faded from her face and she was beginning to smile.
He watched her through a red mist that thickened and thinned with each slowing beat of his heart. She went to the bureau, got out one of his handkerchiefs, took it into the bathroom, where she soaked it with an after-shave lotion. She rubbed the handkerchief over the gun, thoroughly cleaning away her fingerprints. She also emptied it of bullets, but replaced the one exploded cartridge case. She wrapped the handkerchief around the barrel and returned to Marty, holding the gun by the muzzle. She got down on her knees, her face close to his, still smiling.
“Marty, can you hear me?”
He blinked at her and opened his mouth, but could not make a sound. He tried to reach for her, but could not lift himself from his elbows.
“The great Red Martin,” she laughed. “The great Marty Lee. You aren’t so great now, sweetheart.”
Marty gritted his teeth, worked his jaws, and forced out words. “You — you — you’ll never — get away — ”
“Oh, yes, I will.” She lifted his right hand and it fell to his side. “You see, darling, you have just committed suicide. Isn’t that clever of me? Now, be a good little boy and get hold of the gun.”
He tried to shove her hand away, but did not have the strength. She closed his hand around the butt of the gun, pressing down on his fingers. She left him holding to the gun and stood up. She stared down at him and burst into a wild fit of laughter.
“The big, bad, bold killer,” she gasped. “My God! The great, big, shining light of the hotel world. So you had it by the tail on a downhill pull. What a laugh! You don’t look so great to me. And,” she screamed, “I hope you fry in hell!”
She spun about on her heel and left the room, still laughing. Marty heard her go and heard the hall door slam and lock. He tried to shove himself back to his elbows, but collapsed into the widening pool of blood. His eyes started to close. When they were mere slits he looked out across the floor. He saw Dotty’s gold purse lying on the carpet, where it had fallen in the scuffle, and her personal belongings scattered about. Marty chuckled. He was smiling when his eyes closed.
THE END
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Copyright © 1952 by Fawcett Publications, Inc.
Copyright Registration Renewed © 1980 by H. Vernor Dixon
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This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 10: 1-4405-6289-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6289-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-6290-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6290-7
Deep is the Pit Page 26
