Never Bet Your Life

by George Harmon Coxe

  Now, watching the table across the room where Betty and Carl Workman were finishing their dinner, Dave felt again the unaccustomed fluttering at the pit of his stomach. He was aware that Liza and Gannon were talking right beside him but he knew nothing of what was said until someone tapped his arm.

  “Why,” said Gannon when Dave glanced round, “don’t you go over and ask for a dance?”

  Dave felt the flush come. He saw Liza was eying him amusedly. He looked back at Gannon and grinned.

  “All right, I will.”

  He rose and threaded his way among the couples on the floor. Then he was beside Betty and she was smiling up at him in her friendly, gracious way.

  “Her coffee’ll get cold,” Workman said, kidding, when Dave had spoken his piece.

  “Order her some fresh,” Dave said.

  The girl shook her head as she gave him her hand and stood up. She said she’d finished her coffee, thank you, and Workman said to hurry back.

  Holding her in his arms as they took the first few steps made Dave feel immeasurably better. It made him forget, temporarily, the regulations and confinement of his job, the recent unpleasantness at dinner. Her hair was soft and fragrant against the hinge of his jaw and presently he spoke, wanting to hear her voice, still a little jealous of Workman, not really worried but phrasing his words with mock concern.

  “He’s much too old for you.”

  “Carl?” She looked up quickly to see if he was serious. “He’s only thirty-five.”

  “That’s what I mean.”

  “He’s very entertaining,” she said, glints of humor in her hazel eyes. “He’s a wonderful dancer. Also,” she said, “he has loads of free time.”

  “Yeah,” Dave said, and sighed, wondering again how you could fall in love with a girl and at the same time never see her alone.

  He had liked her immediately he saw her that first night when they had dinner in the Coffee Shop, not knowing then that she was the manager but assuming that she was the head waitress. He liked her even better the following morning when she came to the beach in her two-piece suit that set off her tanned slenderness and firm young curves.

  That was the one morning when John Gannon had been content to stay on the beach, and while he sat under his umbrella with Morning Telegraph and pencil, Dave made the most of his free time. At once aware of the girl’s unaffected friendliness as he stretched out on the sand beside her, he quickly established a common point of interest when he learned she had been born in Boston.

  “In Jamaica Plain, really,” she said. “They made my birthday a holiday. April 19.”

  He’d laughed with her then because April 19 was a holiday peculiar to Boston and its environs, and was celebrated as Patriots’ Day, an occasion unknown in other parts of the country.

  “1931?” he said, guessing.

  “1930.”

  “Which makes you twenty-two.”

  “As of last week.”

  He learned a lot of things in those two hours: that she was an orphan, as he was, that her father, who traveled a lot, had lost his life in a hotel fire when she was seven. About that time her mother had moved to New York where she had found work as a dressmaker, studying secretarial work when she could, and later moving on to establish a residence in a college town so Betty could take advantage of the small residential fees. With her mother’s help and some scholarship aid, she had been able to earn her degree in home economics and, through the alumnae bureau, had found this job at Seabeach, her first.

  She spoke easily of all these things and it came to Dave as he sprawled beside her that there was a lot more to this girl than an unaffectedly pretty face and a nice figure. Even then it occurred to him that if things worked out this might be the girl for him, and when it came time to leave he wanted most of all to ask her for a date that night until, thinking of John Gannon, he knew he could not keep it.

  And so he had looked forward to another morning like this, and when it came Gannon had golf on his mind and there was only time for a quick dip and no time for talk. Then, after lunch, she had issued an invitation of her own. A college friend of hers lived in Boothville, a town twelve miles north, and there was to be a beach picnic that evening after the Coffee Shop closed, and would Dave like to go with her?

  He had to tell her no without then being able to tell her why, and since then, though she began to understand the nature of his job, things were never quite the same. Her friendliness remained but there was reserve too, the implication being there was little point in becoming interested in a man who had no time of his own. Now, remembering all this, he tightened his arm and she glanced up at him.

  “I’m going to change that,” he said.

  “What?”

  “This free-time business. John’s getting fed up and I’m getting fed up. Did you hear him chewing me out tonight in the shop?”

  “A little of it. It was disgusting. I wonder how you—”

  She broke off, as if aware that it was not her place to comment on his job.

  “You wonder how I stand it. How a man with any self-respect could put up with him as long as I have.” He spoke without resentment because he felt as she did, but he had no intention of offering excuses. “Most of the time I didn’t even know what he was talking about. He said something about a will and getting another lawyer down to take care of it, and of that I approve.”

  He hesitated and when she remained silent he said: “He hasn’t been despondent since he’s been here. He doesn’t act like a man with suicide on his mind. I’m going to call the office in the morning and tell them so. If I can get an okay I’ll pull out but”—he grinned down at her—“not until I’ve had a couple of days of doing what I’d like to do.”

  She stood back as the music stopped. She took his arm and started back to the table. “That,” she said, “would be nice.”

  Liza was still in the corner booth when Dave went back. He had seen Gannon go into the gambling room while he had been dancing, and now there was a fresh drink in front of him and Liza announced it was on the house.

  Because he was hot and thirsty, Dave drank quickly. He gave her a cigarette and a light and leaned back in his corner, watching the dancers and wondering why he felt tired until he decided it was the long day on the water that made him feel that way. Gradually he became aware that Liza was watching him guardedly and he wondered about that too, but not for long. He covered a yawn and apologized, and presently Sam Resnik came along to remind Liza it was time for some songs.

  He put his hand lightly on her bare shoulder as he spoke, and as Liza glanced up she covered the hand with her own. Something about the gesture and the sudden shining look in her eyes spoke so obviously of her love that the mere fact of witnessing it gave to Dave a secret pleasure and made him think of Betty.

  Liza nodded wordlessly and stood up, straightening her dress and pulling up the top. She smiled at Dave and asked how she looked, and he said wonderful. By that time Resnik had flipped some switches to lower the room lights and spot the stage. The piano player hit an arpeggio and the snare drum rolled its command for attention.

  Resnik stepped to the microphone, a slim dark man with curly hair and long lashes that gave his eyes a sleepy, hooded look. His smile showed white even teeth beneath a small neat mustache as he looked out over the floor, and his white dinner coat was spotless and unwrinkled. He made a practiced, introduction and then Liza was singing and Dave leaned back, the drowsiness working on him as he concentrated on the tune….

  In that first instant when Dave Barnum opened his eyes he had the impression that he had not been asleep at all; it was only in the next second when full consciousness returned that he knew something was radically wrong.

  It was no one thing. It was a combination of things that seemed to hit him all at once: the dancing couples, the orchestra playing, the table in front of him cleaned of everything but an ash tray, also clean.

  Even then he fought for some understanding. He remembered that Liza had jus
t started to sing, that she normally was on stage for twenty or thirty minutes. Only then did he think to glance at his watch, to see that it was 11:35, to understand that he had been asleep for perhaps an hour and a half.

  Now, a slow panic taking hold of him, he stared across the room to find the table that Betty and Workman had occupied was empty. He could not locate Liza and he saw his waiter and beckoned, still bewildered and just a little scared. Where, he demanded, was Mr. Gannon.

  “Oh, he left,” the waiter said indifferently.

  “Left?” Dave said, trying not to shout. “How long ago?”

  “Quite a while.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “He told me not to.” The waiter slapped an ash from the tablecloth with a flick of his napkin. “He paid the check and said I was to leave you alone. You want anything?”

  Dave put down his exasperation and tried to think. He looked over at the corridor leading to the gambling room, then rose, a dark gleam in his eyes and his bony face set. Moving swiftly to the narrow corridor, he brushed past the guard and strode into the inner room.

  There were two roulette layouts here, both well attended, the players about evenly divided between men and women. There were two blackjack tables where two dealers, tall and shapely blondes with stony faces and hard bright eyes, were busy with their avid customers. A man named Lacey, who was Resnik’s assistant, was watching the roulette tables but Resnik was not present, nor was Gannon. When Dave was sure, he turned and went outside without a word.

  The car was gone from its parking place. Sam Resnik’s car was also missing from its accustomed spot but Dave did not wonder about it. Instead he approached the attendant and found him no more helpful than the waiter.

  “Oh, a long time ago,” the attendant said. “An hour, maybe longer.”

  Dave let it go at that. Understanding that it would take too long to phone for a taxi, he wheeled and broke into a long-legged lope, hearing the attendant call to him but paying no attention as he headed for the motel less than a half mile away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES were interminable, not from the unaccustomed physical effort but from the things that went on inside Dave Barnum’s head, the things the doctors had told him, the precautions he had taken when they had first arrived.

  “Stay with him!”

  That had been the substance of the fundamental warning the doctors had given him. Suicides, they said, were not normal people. Their minds were warped and they could, when opposed, develop a crafty cunning that devoted itself to outwitting those who would thwart them.

  “Humor him, but take precautions!”

  That was the second tenet of the theory. And he had humored Gannon. He had taken precautions. There were no guns in the bungalow, no sharp instruments. Gannon used an electric razor and he himself had cleaned out the kitchen of all its implements except a bottle opener. The sleeping capsules were kept locked in his bag, and that left only the gas heater, about which he could do nothing except sleep each night with the connecting door open.

  The heater had worried him before; it worried him now as he ran through the hot and humid night, feeling the suction of the speeding cars that passed him, the quick breeze that slapped his sweating body.

  He tried to forget about the doctors, arguing now that the whole thing was some silly product of his imagination. There was nothing the matter with Gannon. He had shown no suicidal tendencies. Slipping out like that was probably his idea of a joke, his way of getting even for the constant watchfulness on Dave’s part.

  This was what he told himself but it did little good, so he drove on, mouth open and heart pounding, seeing now the NO VACANCY sign distinctly. Just beyond, and opposite the Coffee Shop, the headlights of a parked ear were suddenly switched on, the brilliance of the high beam blinding him momentarily. He was aware that the car angled into the road and as it accelerated past him he automatically noticed that it was a blue Cadillac convertible. Then it was past and he had swerved off the highway, heading for the grassy area between the long, low units.

  He saw, vaguely, that there was a light on in Stinson’s apartment but the others, those occupied by the transients who would be off in the early morning, were all dark and quiet. Only at the far end were there any other windows alight, and these were in Gannon’s half of the bungalow.

  He did not think of Betty then, or Workman, but kept on until he could see the outline of the bungalow clearly against the night sky. Suddenly he slowed to a walk, fighting for breath and control of his emotions as he realized there was no car in the adjacent port.

  Then why were the lights on?

  This was the question he asked himself as he tried to keep a tight hold on his imagination. He found it hard to walk those last few feet to the edge of the building and the lighted window, which was a little closer than the door.

  He saw then that the window was closed. The angle of the shutters blocked his vision but he thought he saw a shadow move and he could hear the sound of radio music.

  For another moment he stood there incredulously, knowing Gannon never listened to music. Then the tension hit him and he moved instinctively, away from the window, trying the door and finding it locked, darting then to his own door and stepping through it into the darkened room and the lighted connecting doorway beyond.

  Gannon was sitting in the easy chair near the radio, his head back and eyes closed, arms dangling straight down and legs extended, like a man asleep or in a state of collapse. Dave started toward him; then, seeing the wall panel, which had swung outward to reveal the open door of the safe, he felt again the surge of his fears.

  “John!” he said, his voice tight. “John!”

  Reaching down he shook a limp shoulder, felt the forehead which seemed nearly as warm as his own. He could see no sign of injury, no stain on the clothing. Then, because the thought of suicide remained uppermost in his mind, he remembered the sleeping pills. Still not knowing whether Gannon was breathing or not, he wheeled toward his room and the locked bag where he kept them.

  What happened then came without warning. He heard no sound but the radio and the wheeze of his breathing. There was no premonition of danger. He stepped back into darkness, and as he turned toward his bag in the corner something hit him from behind and he went down.

  The next few seconds remained forever vague in his memory and what he heard came as from a great distance. He found himself on his hands and knees, conscious but groggy. Through the roaring that filled his head there came to him the sound of someone moving past him, toward the bed. Then the screen door banged.

  Somehow he got his head up; then he was on his feet, lurching toward that door as his brain began to clear. Not quite knowing how he did it, he was through and on the ground outside, seeing no one on the lawn and, running now, turning the corner of the building toward the beach as some shadow moved diagonally ahead of him.

  It was only an impression. He never really saw the man but he heard a branch crack somewhere ahead and that was enough to keep him going, across the gravel drive to the grassy strip bordering the beach.

  Here the light was better. Directly in front of him were sand and small dunes that stretched in humped and odd-shaped abandon toward the white line of surf which broke upon the beach fifty yards away. To the left was an area of undergrowth and palmetto and beach grass, and Dave angled blindly toward it because it offered the only place of concealment.

  He heard nothing more than the soft crunch of his shoes in the sand. He saw nothing during those first few steps. The ground itself was in deep shadow and presently his toe caught an Unseen root and he went down.

  The fall sobered him and made him think. He rose with the sand in his shoes and now he heard someone call from off to the right. When he turned, some movement caught his eye and he retraced his steps, his gaze focusing on the two figures which had started toward him.

  He saw then that they were in bathing suits, that one was a girl. In the undergrowth b
eside him nothing moved and he understood finally the futility of further pursuit. With that he stood where he was, knees trembling and the throbbing growing in his head.

  They came toward him, Betty and Workman, still dripping, the girl with a towel and a beach robe on her arm and Workman in trunks, an empty glass in one hand, cigarettes and matches in the other.

  Dave said: “Did you see him?”

  “Who?” they said.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We saw you run in there,” Workman said. “At least we thought it was you.”

  “Someone else,” Dave said. “I was chasing him. Or thought I was. He was in the bungalow.”

  And then he was telling them what he knew and they voiced their reactions, Betty in shocked, awed tones and Workman with blunt incredulity. Somewhere in the distance a car started up and quickly accelerated, and then they were hurrying back to the bungalow, turning on the lights as they entered Dave’s doorway and standing finally beside the sprawled figure in the chair.

  Workman knelt quickly and reached for a limp hand, lifting it and searching for a pulse beat, concentrating, then glaring in annoyance at the radio. As he did so the music stopped and the announcer said: “This is John Winner, your WTCX platter spinner telling you—”

  Dave snapped the machine into silence and now Workman put his ear against John Gannon’s chest. When, presently, he straightened, his jaw was lumpy and his gaze was bright and intent.

  “He’s dead.”

  Dave heard the words distinctly and they brought no feeling of shock but only incredulity. He looked at Betty and she stared back at him, her young face pale, her gaze stricken.