Son, you can't ask a man to forgive and forget the biggest thing in his life.”
“What?”
“No matter if I was second best in everything else—in
“You mean you wanted to hold it over Daisy all her life. Is that it?”
“No. I loved Daisy. You should know that.”
“Bull! You did the 'right thing' and wanted to make damn sure she'd never forget it—you wanted to punish her! What did it do, keep you on that righteous kick all your life?”
“That's not so. Daisy is dead and I'm still young enough to—I can't even think of marrying again.”
“My God, Nate, I used to think of you as a man, but you're sick, crawling with self-pity!”
“What if I am?” he asked loudly, staring up at me. 'You're only a kid and can't understand what I've been trying to tell you. When a man has nothing else, even self-pity can be the most important thing in his life. It's been something I've clung to all these years. I can't give it up now.”
“But clinging to
“That's an unfair lie. We tried to have children. And I always treated Daisy well, better than any—”
“I know. You did the 'right thing,' and you're stuck with it—in your own crazy mind,” I said, picking up my garrison cap, straightening my jacket and shirt. Heading for the door, I called back, “Good-by, Nate. I wish to God I'd never come back, never seen you like this.”
“Bucky!” It was a wail that made me stop at the doorway.
Fumbling for words, Nate said, “Good-by, Son. I've been thinking of moving. I may be transferred to our L.A. office. I'll send you my address.”
“Don't bother.” I started down the stairs.
“Son! Wait.”
“I'm waiting.”
“Bucky if... if it means so much to you... After all, you're the only thing real I have left in life. Well, I'm willing to give you my name.”
“Thanks, Nate.”
“Tomorrow I'll see a lawyer and start—”
“Don't bother. When I said thanks I meant thanks for making it so it doesn't matter a damn to me now if I have your name or not. Good-by!” I rushed down the stairs.
I rang Elma's bell. When she came out I told her, “Let's get back to the hotel.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I have to be careful, Bucky. You know my old man and Mama gave me hell about staying—”
“Tell her we're getting married in the morning.”
“Bucky! You kidding?”
“Aw, I have this G.I. insurance, can get an allotment. You've been good to me—why shouldn't you get it?”
Over a fat kiss, Elma said, “You don't know how good 111 be to you from now on! Let's go, lover.”
“Don't you want to tell your folks?”
Elma uttered her favorite word, then added, “We're engaged, aren't we? My old man would think we're lying and—I'll tell Ma later, when I show her the ring.”
3—
There was a knock on the end wall. Doc sat up, moving fast and quietly. The room was out of an old movie, with a false wall and a phony closet on the other side. Of course, I'd only seen the house once from the outside—when we came in, and I hardly had my mind on it—but from the street it looked like a narrow, rundown frame house. Yet on the inside, from the little I'd seen, it was very roomy, including this hidden room.
I was on my feet. Doc put the useless gun in his holster as the knock was repeated twice. He called out, “Yes?”
The entire wall—it was about eight feet wide— swung open silently and the old bag who owned this trap came in. She was a real creature, about as low as they come: a horribly overpainted face that looked like a wrinkled mask; her few stumpy teeth all bad; watery eyes; stringy bright blond hair atop a scrawny body and dirty house dress; torn stockings over veined, thin legs; and broken men's shoes acting as slippers. The very least she needed was a bath. The biddy's eyes said that at one time or another she had tried everything in the book—the wrong book.
She held an afternoon paper in her claw as she talked to Doc. She had ignored me from the second we'd come. In a rusty voice she asked, “Whatcha think, Doc, you're playing with farmers? Handing me this gas about being in a jam over some lousy investigation, ya got to hide out for a few days. A million bucks!”
She waved the newspaper like a red flag, her tiny eyes trying to X-ray the three suitcases.
I glanced at the paper. There it was, all over the front page:
SEEK TWO CITY DETECTIVES
IN MISSING $1,000,000 RANSOM
Of course I had expected it. It wasn't any secret. Yet actually seeing the headline, our pictures, was like stopping a right hook below the belt.
Doc yanked the paper from her hand, spread it out on his cot, and sat down. He even yawned as he started reading the story. I sat on the edge of my cot, my legs blocking the “door.” Without looking up from his reading, Doc said, “Okay, Molly, now you know. What about it?”
“Great Gordon Gin, you really got a million in them bags?” the old witch said, excitement making her voice shrill.
“We have clothing in those suitcases,” Doc said calmly, dropping the paper, facing her. “What's on your mind, honey?” Doc's sharp face was relaxed but his eyes were bright.
“You know what's on my mind! This makes a difference. They'll be combing the city tight! I'm taking a hell of a risk in—”
“How much, Molly?” Doc cut in.
“This changes our deal!”
“How much do you think it changes it?”
I could almost see her pin-head making like an adding machine.
“It'll cost you a thousand bucks a day!”
Doc shrugged. “I'm hardly in a position to argue, my dear. Okay.”
A grand a day—each!” this walking fright rasped. Doc grinned. “All right, but don't push it too far, Molly. Two grand a day it is. And at least give us some decent food—my stomach is tired of your canned slop.”
“Food shouldn't worry you.”
“Oh, but it does. I pride myself on being a gourmet.”
“Skip the big words. I want my money now, and two grand every morning—in front. I ought to ask you for back rent at the same rate but I'll give you a break.”
“Thank you, my sweet. Your kindness is blinding.”
“None of your smart lip, Doc. Give me my two grand for today.”
“Of course.” Doc picked up his coat, which was crumpled over his pillow. Pulling out some bills, he counted them swiftly. “I only have twelve hundred here. I—”
“No funny stuff, Doc. I want all my money. Open them bags!”
“You wish to be paid off in clothing? Stop screaming; you'll get the money.” Doc looked at me. “Give me some cash, Bucky.”
As he walked over to me I knew what was going to happen, what
My coat and holster were hanging on the back of the one chair. Doc did it neatly—grabbing my pillow with his left hand, yanking my gun out with his right. It was practically all one motion, his back toward Molly. He spun around and shot the old biddy twice in the body. She fell face down, as if her legs had been yanked from under her, the muffled shots echoing in the room like tiny thunder. The acrid stink of gunpowder filled the place, a welcome odor compared to the usual stale smell. And my pillow needed ventilating.
Without a sound, Molly turned on her side, curling up like a burning worm, hands pressed to her scrawny belly. Her mouth was wide open and her plates came loose, pushed half across her lips. Her eyes were staring down at her stomach too, as if she had forgotten all about us, was so busy dying she was in a world of her own. After a few seconds the look in her eyes was too steady and I knew she was dead.
Handing me my gun, Doc listened carefully for a few seconds, one slim hand up for silence. Then he asked softly, “You knew it would come to this, Bucky?”
“Yeah.” I holstered the rod. I didn't feel a thing at seeing the witch die. It had been so different when Betty was killed. That had ripped me wide open. I pointed to the corpse with my shoe. “What do we do with that?”
Doc knelt and took her pulse. When he let the thin, pale hand fall it made a sharp sound against the floor. Doc stepped through the “door” and returned a second later, dropping a worn rug on the floor. “Wrap this around her before she bleeds all over our room. We'll park her in an upstairs closet, let the rats decide if she's worth eating.”
“Do you think she told anybody?” I asked, kicking the rug over Molly, wrapping her in it as if she was a hunk of baloney.
“Not this pig. She probably figured on going for the dough alone by killing us in our sleep.”
