stumblebums, and they'd got him in twice the mess he'd already been in, and –
The four were just emerging from the elevator. They passed within inches of him as he paused near the check stand, too stricken to proceed into the lobby proper. Blinded, choking with sickness and terror.
Hell, why had they had to do it like this? Why try to do it so damned right that it was bound to be wrong? They shouldn't have bothered with her baggage or her bill. Just left the bags in her room, and let the bill go unpaid. Of course, that would cause troublesome inquiries eventually. The hotel would chalk her up as a skip, and her name and description would be circularized in, every hotel in the country. Her baggage would be opened and examined. Her hometown police would be notified. And if it appeared that she was a responsible person – that she'd simply dropped out of sight in this city – well, it could be tough for anyone who'd had contact with her. But that would be better than this, wouldn't it? You'd stand a chance that way, and this way there was no chance. You were licked before-you started.
… The baggage porter was heading toward the taxi entrance. She was proceeding up the lobby toward the cashier's cage. Quite alone, now, for the two men had dropped well behind. They had paused to talk', casually, letting her go on alone. Leaving her to scream or run – to appeal to that blurred figure who stood in front of the cashier's cage.
She went forward slowly, stiffly, like a person walking in her sleep. She was almost there, almost safe, completely beyond the reach of her guards.
Why doesn't she do it? Dusty though angrily. Just do it and get it all over with.
A voice rang in his ears, booming, familiar. Tug Trowbridge's confident, ever-cheerful bellow. It penetrated the chaos of Dusty's mind, clearing his terror-blurred vision.
Tug. It was he who stood at the cashier's window. Now, he stepped back politely, making room for the woman, and called again to the two men:
'Hey, you guys! Been waiting for you'
They looked up. They allowed themselves to discover him. They joined him.
The three of them stood in a semi-circle, only a few feet withdrawn from the cashier's cage. Ringing her in (although no one would have suspected it), while they held inaudible but patently earnest conversation.
She finished paying her bill. She picked up her change awkwardly, and turned away from the wicket. And Tug put an end to the conversation with another bellow.
'Well, that's that,' he announced to the lobby at large. 'We'll get busy on it right way, and – hey, you lug! Get out of the lady's way, will you?'
The man addressed stepped out of the 'lady's' way. They all stepped out of her way, gesturing and murmuring politely.
She stood motionless for a moment Then, head bowed a little, she started toward the taxi entrance. The three men fell in behind her.
They followed her down the steps, and out to the street. They lingered on the walk while she tipped and dismissed the porter. Then…
Heart pounding with relief, his exultation growing again, Dusty moved out into the lobby at last. He stepped over to the front post, with its direct view of the sidewalk, and watched this final and most important step.
Not that he doubted its success. He and Tug had swung the deal this far, and they could swing this. But just how – now was something he hadn't thought through. It was a fearful stumbling block which only Tug knew how to surmount.
She had a cab waiting. It was her cab, called for her by the porter, and her baggage was loaded into it. And if they tried to pile in with her…
They did pile in with her. They almost shoved her inside and climbed in themselves. The door slammed, and the plain black vehicle pulled away from the curb, disappeared in the traffic. And Dusty was puzzled for a moment, but only a moment.
Naturally, the driver hadn't squawked. He was one of Tug's boys. He'd been posted at the entrance in advance, and with a cab already there,-why should the porter have called another one?
Dusty grinned. He turned back around, grinning, and looked straight into Bascom's eyes.
His throat went suddenly dry; his contorted lips felt as stiff as stone. For, obviously, Bascom knew. He had seen it all, and he knew what it was all about. He didn't know why it had happened, perhaps, but he knew what had happened. The fact of his knowledge was spread like a picture over his pale, old face.
'W-well?' Dusty said. And then louder, boldly, 'Well?' for something else was spread over the room clerk's face: Terror and x sickness far greater than he, Dusty, had known that night.
'Bill…' Bascom's voice was quaveringly servile. 'I – you don't hold any grudge against me, do you, Bill? I know I may have appeared to give you a pretty rough time, but it was only because I-'
'Yeah?.' Dusty's grin was back. 'What are you driving at?' 'I don't want anyone else to suffer for it, Bill. For the way you might feel about me. You wouldn't do that, would you? You wouldn't try to put me on a spot by- by-' Dusty's grin widened. Bascom was scared out of his wits, and he damned well should be. The woman was his responsibility. He'd been flagrantly stupid in ever letting her have a room. Now, if something happened to her – if, through her, the hotel became involved in a scandal – Bascom's name would be mud.
Dusty stared at the clerk. He shrugged contemptuously. 'I don't know what you're talking about,' he said.
'Please, Bill. I know how you feel about me, but-'
'Do you? Well, that's good.'
The old man's eyes blazed. Then all the fire went out of them, leaving nothing but lifeless ashes.
'I've got some calls here for you, Bill. I took care of them for you while you were gone.'
'Well,' said Dusty, ironically. 'Well, well. Now, that was certainly thoughtful of you, Mister Bascom!'
He shuffled through the call slips, then glanced at the lobby clock. Yawning, he flicked the slips with a finger, scattering them over the counter, sending some of them down behind the counter. 'Save them for the day shift,' he said. 'I'm about due to knock off.'
EIGHT
The exalted mood lasted until he reached home. It began to fade as he ascended the steps of the shabby old house. After five minutes with his father it was gone completely.
Dusty could not say what it was about the old man that wrought such a sudden and sharp change in his mood. Perhaps, he admitted glumly, a little guiltily, there was really nothing. Mr. Rhodes had made himself fairly presentable. He looked and talked almost as well as he had in the old days, and for once – for once! – he did not need money. Still, there he was; that he was at all was the trouble. Someone who provided nothing, yet had to be provided for. Someone to be accounted to. Someone who served as a reminder of things that were best forgotten.
Feeling ashamed, Dusty gave the old man five dollars. ('Spend it on anything you want to, Dad.') But the gift, admittedly made for his own sake and not his father's, did nothing to dispel the pangs of conscience. He retired to his room, writhing inwardly, gripped in the black coils of an almost unbearable depression.
He undressed quietly. He turned on the electric fan, and lay back on the bed. He lighted a cigarette… and as the minutes ticked by he continued to light them. One from the butt of another.
The humid summer air moved back and forth across his body. It did not actually cool, but it dried. And always there was more to dry. He thought, forcing himself to think back to the beginning – the only beginning he was aware of – and the perspiration rolled out of his pores, dried under the lazy exhalations of the fan.
… Yes, he remembered. He had been five at the time of the adoption. He knew that they were not actually his parents. But it had been an easy thing to forget. She made it easy, starved as she was for the motherhood she could not naturally achieve.
He was her own-est, dearest baby, Mama's very own darling-est sweetest boy. The days were one long round of petting and coddling, of wild outpourings of affection. She could not do enough for him. She would bathe him over and over, change his clothes a dozen times a day.
The old man – not an old man, then, but much older than she was – had protested mildly. But he never actually interfered. He was very much in love with her, very happy in the status of family man. And it took no more than a few tears or a hurt look from either of them, woman or boy, to silence him immediately.
Only once, to 'Dusty's recollection, had his Dad (call him that; he had always called him that) demonstrated
