The Desperate Hours

by Joeseph Hays

  “If you don’t want to talk, sir, it can wait till we get to your house.”

  The significance of the young man’s intention struck Dan for the first time then. What did the boy know? How much had he guessed? And what would it mean? Of one thing Dan was staunchly certain: Chuck Wright must be prevented, at all costs, from taking him all the way home.

  Dan was tempted to close his eyes again, to stretch his knotted muscles, pushing aside everything. He had done his part. He had done everything within his power. Wasn’t it only fair now that he should have these few minutes of blankness?

  But even as he thrust the temptation aside—with an effort summoned from some deep recess of his character that he had not known existed in him—a slyness took over his thoughts. The boy wanted an explanation. He had to have one. He was stubborn and he would go into the house and demand to know what this was all about. Very well, then Dan would give him an explanation.

  The idea came to him from nowhere. “You haven’t got a little drink on you, have you?” Dan asked.

  He heard the abrupt catch of breath ; he watched covertly the young man’s rather blunt-looking profile as the lips opened, then closed, then opened again.

  “Not a drop,” Chuck Wright said quietly.

  Dan was careful not to let his words blur. “Damnation,” he said. “Thought you were the drinking type, Chuck. You never know, do you? Can’t make snap judgments, can you?”

  “No, you can’t,” Chuck agreed thinly, an incongruous disapproval replacing the surprise in his tone.

  “Shows to go you,” Dan said. “Tell you what, Chuck, old fellow—now that you’re into my little family secret, y’see, you can skip taking me home. Just drop me off at that liquor store in Broad Ripple and I’ll walk rest of the way.”

  “Anything you say, Mr. Hilliard.”

  “Not shocked, are you, Chuck? You won’t hold it against Cindy, will you, fellow? Man in my position … discreet. I’m always discreet about it. Notice the neighborhood I was in tonight? Nobody knows me there, of course. Nice people, though. Can’t afford to be snobbish.” He halted himself, for fear of going too far. He had made his point; the effect was in young Wright’s set face and manner.

  But what had he forgotten? His mind wasn’t working properly. Something-

  Then it came to him, in the long silence, and he spoke again, minutes later: “Lost my car tonight. Parked it in front of a bar. Thought I did. Gray car.” In what he vaguely hoped was a man-to-man manner, he lowered his voice: “Own private car, y’know. For own private pleasures. You sure you don’t have a drink?”

  “Positive.”

  After that, more silence as the corners rolled by, the blocks, the miles. Had he covered everything now? Did Chuck believe him?

  The stiff and unnatural silence held until Chuck brought the long convertible to a stop along the curb in front of the lighted store in which, only last night, Dan had bought the whisky for Robish.

  “It’s a long walk from here to your house,” Chuck said at last as Dan opened the door.

  Long walk? Dan looked back in his mind over the miles he had already walked and those that he had thought he would have to walk, and he choked down a wild giddiness.

  Was he making a mistake? Would this competent-looking young man make an ally? If he loved Cindy, as he had practically admitted he did in the office this afternoon-

  “Wouldn’t want to embarrass Cindy, would we, Chuck?” he said in conspiratorial tones, standing on the sidewalk. “Cindy already embarrassed enough about her father. Worried sick. Poor Cindy. Don’t hold it against her, Chuck.”

  “No,” said the boy bleakly.

  “Won’t mention it to her, will you, Chuck?”

  “No.”

  Standing unsteadily but not drunkenly on the sidewalk, hearing Chuck Wright’s “Good night,” clipped and short—no sir now—Dan felt the weakness clamp down on him again. The torture of those miles and the activity of the night clutched at his legs, dug at the backs of his knees. When the red taillights had blurred in the distance, he stepped from the curb, crossed the still-damp street, feeling the sharp bite of wind against his drained face.

  A cloud of astonishment filled his brain: Where had the cunning come from? How had he thought to make up that story? And, more important, had he been believed?

  Even though he stayed on a dim and untraveled street, walking east, he saw a police car halfway down the second block. He made a turn at the corner and quickened his steps. But the possible meaning of what he saw didn’t strike him fully until, three blocks later, he saw another, this one parked alongside a dark ice-cream parlor. A wide white stripe ran down the side of the car, and he made out the words “State Police.” This time he almost broke into a run, the impulse a shooting sensation down his legs. The boulevard itself looked deserted.

  An awesome urgency drove him forward. Now he had forgotten all physical pain, the gray sedan, the long tormented hike, Chuck Wright. A leaden anguish weighed him down. He pulled his hat lower with a vicious wrench of which he was not even conscious. Bent forward at the waist, lips tight against the compulsion pulling at him, he warned himself, over and over: Don’t run. Remember, if they stop you, you’re tight. Walking home from the bus. Don’t run.

  Then, after a moment of blankness, he was, by some miracle, turning into his own driveway. There was a light in the living room. Cindy’s car and the family sedan remained in the driveway. The garage door was closed. Nothing moved, inside the house or out. The profound quiet sent him charging the last few yards to the side door.

  The living room, beyond the dimness of the sun porch, was deserted. What did it mean? He rattled the door handle.

  Silence. Then, in the distance, a train whistle hooted forlornly on the wind.

  The hall was only partially in view. He heard himself calling in a whisper. Cindy appeared then, coming across the living room swiftly. He heard her words: “It’s Dad.”

  Still, when she faced him, the door open, he knew that it had not been his approach that had caused the electric tension, the terrible silence.

  Cindy was white. Not pale. White. “It’s Ralphie,” she said, her voice quivering for the first time.

  Dan pushed past her, the run breaking through his legs like a wave…

  5

  For possibly five seconds Dan Hilliard stood motionless in the hall, held rigid in the shock of stark terror over the nightmare scene before him. He had been expecting something like this for so long that now that it was before him, he had to fight his way briefly through a cloud of stunned incredulity.

  He saw Eleanor on the lower steps, her eyes unrecognizable with fright. He heard Cindy pause behind him on the edge of the living room. Glenn Griffin lounged in the dining room doorway across the hall. Dan saw Robish then: the savagely parted lips, the jaundice-colored skin of his face a blackish red now. The big man had been staring up the stairs, but he turned the revolver on Dan as Dan felt a movement go through his body, an impulse that Robish sensed before Dan knew he had moved a half-step.

  “Where’s Ralphie?” Dan asked.

  “Upstairs,” Eleanor said quickly. “Sleeping.”

  Glenn Griffin’s dark eyes glinted with mockery. “This time I ought to let Robish handle him, Pop. That kid’s going to foul up everything.”

  “Put that gun away,” Dan said in a dry whisper, remembering the parked police cars.

  It might have been the whispered tone, or it might have been the squared hulk of Dan’s body, very still, very tense; or it might have been the terrible shimmering blackness in Dan’s eyes—whatever caused it, Glenn recalled something about this man Dan Hilliard and he took a step toward Robish.

  “Forget it, Robish,” Glenn Griffin advised, his gaze still on Dan with a narrowing caution—no derision now, no sardonic grin. “The old lady covered it on the phone. That dumb teacher don’t suspect a thing.”

  It occurred to Dan to ask what all this meant, but everything was happening too fast. He saw Robish lo
wer the gun then, almost automatically ; but the downward arc broke. Something came over the brute face; bafflement trembled there, and then there was a hardening of his jaw muscles that spread rigidly down the immense body. “You don’t give the orders any more,” the heavy voice said. “I got this now.” Not so slowly then, he brought the gun up again, and this time it was directed at Glenn Griffin’s belt.

  The inevitability of this—for Dan had known somehow that this also was coming—left in Dan no place for surprise. Robish had forgotten Ralphie now—and whatever Ralphie had done to rouse that murderous instinct—and Dan could see the slow grinding of that dull and unpredictable mind behind the massive forehead. Glenn Griffin saw it, too. He, also, must have watched Robish’s thoughts flash to the waiting car outside, to the possibility of what he might do. Uncertain rebellion turned to flat decision across the bleak face. Robish could kill them, one or all of them, and be in that car and on his way in a matter of seconds. No more nerve-eating wait, no more following Griffin’s orders.

  The stupidity of the man’s thinking also failed to surprise Dan in the least. In that instant he knew that, any second now —and he must not wait too long—he would have to act.

  With the gun inching toward his stomach, clutched in the dark hairy hand of the big man, Glenn Griffin began to laugh. At first it was a defiant crackle of sound, but staring at the intensity on Robish’s face, Griffin seemed abruptly to lose control and the laugh died in a series of odd gurgles. His hands came up to his face, fluttered there, and then his jaw was working without sound.

  Dan felt himself take a step toward Eleanor; then his muscles locked as Robish growled, “Don’t move, Hilliard.” Glenn Griffin uttered a long but broken breath that sounded like, “For Chrissake, Robish—”

  At this Robish bellowed—a wild animal cry, vast and awesome and hollow, the cave of mouth open.

  Glenn Griffin’s terror-stricken words caught and reflected Dan’s immediate thought: “You’re nuts, Robish.” But as he heard the words, Dan knew at once that Griffin could not have said anything more dangerous.

  Robish brought the point of the revolver against the young man’s stomach in a vicious jab that doubled Griffin over with a cry of pain. Then, his back against the door frame, he began to slither toward the floor, his hands still fluttering in that odd terrified way at his chin. He was beginning to utter a low sighing sound, all breath and high-pitched plea.

  Should he move now? This was it. He was in the midst of it now, everything gone, all his efforts ruined. Should Dan Hilliard act now?

  “I’m nuts!” Robish bawled. “Yeh, I’m nuts, Griffin. Doing your dirty work. You, you bastard, you’re the general, ain’t you?”

  Dan judged the distance. Immediately after the explosion, if he could leap fast enough in the confusion, if he could hit Robish hard enough the first time-

  “I konk the guard, I plug the old guy, I-”

  Then, from above, from the darkness of the upper hall, another voice cut across Robish’s low snarl: “Throw it on the floor, Robish.”

  Robish turned his head, peered unseeing into those shadows above Eleanor’s body, blinked. Without volition, Dan moved then, but not in the swift way he had been calculating. He stepped carefully and cautiously toward his wife, reached his right arm around her waist, and he was drawing her away from the stairs when Hank Griffin, still invisible above, spoke again.

  “Throw it on the floor, Robish. Now.”

  Under his arm, Dan could feel small shivers passing up and down Eleanor’s body.

  But he was watching Robish, wondering. He saw the temptation to whirl firing; he saw that slow, prison-broken mind tearing its attention from Glenn Griffin who half-lay, half-sat slouched against the door frame. Griffin’s eyes were wide and glassy, as though he still had not comprehended what was happening, until he saw Robish toss the gun to the rug.

  It lay there, black and deadly, between Glenn Griffin and Dan, as Robish stepped back, glowering with yellow eyes up the stairwell.

  Eleanor must have read the thought in Dan’s mind before he was aware of it himself. “No,” she whispered, clinging to his arm. “No, Dan.”

  At the head of the stairs there was no movement. The whole house seemed locked in unnatural stillness after the snarls and cries. Finally, Glenn Griffin reached out and picked up the revolver. He stood up, very slowly. The soundless pantomime seemed to go on and on. Glenn Griffin reached for his swagger, lifted his shoulders, took a deep breath—but in the breath was a shudder and he closed his mouth. Then his eyes met Dan’s.

  With a start that made him wonder again whether he had made a mistake by not acting, Dan caught the furious glare of shame: the memory of those few moments of clawing terror and the knowledge that Dan and the others had stood witness to the cowardice. What would this mean? In what direction would it push Griffin?

  Behind him Dan heard his daughter take a deep draught of breath. His own lungs burned. Then, breaking the silence, Hank Griffin came down the stairs, stepping quickly, his right arm hanging at his side. He paused on the bottom step, glanced at Robish who stood bearlike and still now, his arms dangling; then at his brother. What Dan heard then was not so much the content of the younger Griffin boy’s words as the flattened note of finality in his tone: “Let’s go, Glenn.”

  Glenn Griffin frowned, said nothing.

  “This is our chance, Glenn,” Hank said, gently, reasonably. “We can’t hold them and Robish, too. And maybe the coppers traced Helen, maybe they’ve got her, maybe they’ve traced her call here. This is going on too long, Glenn. They’re bound to get here sooner or later. They’re not dumb.”

  “All cops are dumb,” Glenn Griffin said, and his voice was soft, too.

  “Everybody’s dumb, ain’t they?” Hank Griffin asked. “That teacher. The one the kid slipped the note to. Just because she called back and said she knew it was all a joke, just kid stuff, a game—you think she believes that herself? How do you know there wasn’t some smart cop right at her elbow?”

  “Don’t get scared, kid. Don’t be like Robish here. Jumpy.”

  “I’m not jumpy!” Hank Griffin cried suddenly, and Dan saw his mouth trembling oddly. “But I’m not going to the chair just cause Robish got trigger-happy and you let him. You think the cops ain’t working on that right now? You can’t knock off everybody comes to the door. Why don’t you send him after that teacher now, Glenn? Sure. Shoot up the whole damn city—play safe!”

  “Shut up,” Glenn Griffin said softly. “Get back to the kitchen and stay shut.”

  Hank Griffin was shaking his head, and very slowly, very deliberately. “Come with me, Glenn.”

  Glenn lifted his shoulders in that angular and arrogant way. “Tomorrow. After we get the dough.”

  “What good’s the dough gonna do you in the death house?” He was shouting then, his mouth twisting and out of control.

  Robish watched this with no expression, only a scornful alertness in his quiet.

  “You heard me,” Glenn Griffin said then, and he was still quiet, but the anger was there, hard and bitter. “We’re gonna stay, see. I’m going to pay off Webb. I got to have that dough for Flick so he’ll take care of Webb.”

  The younger brother stepped down. “Then I’m going, Glenn. By myself.”

  After that, the silence came back, intensified, deeper.

  Finally, Glenn Griffin grinned. “Go ahead, kid. On your own they’ll have you back in stir in less’n a hour.”

  Hank Griffin glanced toward Dan, but his gaze went beyond—to Cindy. “I’m going, that’s all.” He moved into the lighted living room.

  “Goddammit!” Glenn Griffin yelled. “You’ll do what I say, you little jerk! I got you this far, both you dumb cons, and I’ll get you the rest of the way!”

  Hank did not pause until he reached the door of the sun room; then he turned. “Yeh,” he said bitterly, low, “you got me this far. And where the hell is that? I’m asking you. We’re all headed for the chair, that’s whe
re. Only count me out.” Then his voice dropped even lower: “Come along, Glenn.”

  “I oughta—”

  Both guns came up at the same instant. Hank Griffin was shaking his head.

  “It’d break my heart, Glenn, but I’d do it. You can’t stop me. So long, Glenn.”

  Hank Griffin backed through the sun-room door, turned and ran, his steps sharp on the tiled porch. Dan had seen the sharp glisten of fear in the young eyes, and he wished he had not witnessed the scene, but he could only stand by and watch what was to follow, wondering.

  “He’s gonna take the car,” Robish said.

  “Like hell!” Glenn Griffin touched the light switch, plunged them all into total, shocking darkness; Dan felt him brush past, heard him crouching at the window overlooking the driveway, heard that window grind open. “Stay away from that car, you dumb punk!”

  Outside, a door slammed. It was strange, Dan thought, that with your senses battered and deadened by too much happening too fast, you could still recognize minute details: the door that closed was on Cindy’s coupe. The motor turned over, caught, purred.

  Above this sound, though, and closer, Dan heard another. It was Glenn Griffin shouting wildly, a long series of blasphemy and lewdness erupting from the frustration in him as the motor faded down the boulevard.

  Hank traveled west four full blocks before he saw the first patrol car. Even in the darkness, he spotted it from a distance because the years had sharpened his awareness and caution in matters of that sort until now his reactions were almost instinctual. He made a sharp right turn, so that he wouldn’t have to pass it. A half-block farther on, in the shadow of a dark service station, he saw another. This time there was no way for him to avoid passing it.

  He touched the automatic in the pocket of that sweater he’d found in the upstairs closet of the Hilliard house. He’d use it if he had to. If he was going to be charged with murder, why not make it one that he, not that ape Robish, committed? His palms were cold and moist.