myself making a grab for that gun.'
'Well,' Dusty smiled engagingly, 'I probably wouldn't do it again either. I was just scared, I suppose, afraid I was going to get killed next.'
'And you weren't far wrong at that.' The detective shook his head, frowning. 'That Bascom – y'know, I just can't figure him. Even if Tug had shot square with him, he must have known that he'd be on a spot. We'd investigate him, and find out about his record. The hotel had already got a letter about him – you know about that, I guess – and-'
'But they didn't pay much attention to it. Bascom had worked there for years, and he'd never given them any reason to suspect him. One anonymous letter wouldn't have counted much against a record like his.'
'Yeah. Well, maybe not then. Maybe we wouldn't have checked on him. The way he thought the deal was going to be, it would have left him looking pretty good. Tug grabs him before he knows what's happening. He doesn't even touch the boxes himself. So maybe…'
His voice wandered on absently, aimlessly, a dull probe seeking the non-existent. And a sudden hunch sprang into Dusty's mind.
If his and Bascom's roles had been reversed, if he had been killed and if Bascom had quoted Tug as saying 'Here's your cut…'
Why not? A bellboy was about as low down the ladder as you amid get, while a night clerk was a minor executive. His story would have been believed. He would have been the hero, and Dusty the dead villain… Doubtless, Bascom had believed it would be that way. And, doubtless – perhaps – Had Tug planned it that way in the beginning?
It wasn't nice to think about. There was no sense in thinking about it, and there were much more pleasant things to dwell upon. Marcia Hillis, for example, and fifty per cent of two hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars.
'Well' – the detective stood up. 'Guess I'd better be running along. If you should happen to think of anything, why…'
'I don't know what it would be but I'll certainly let you know.'
'Fine. Appreciate it.' He turned dispiritedly toward the door, a big man with sagging shoulders and a tired gray face. 'Oh, yeah,' he paused. 'Guess I didn't tell you, did I? We found those guys that were with Tug.'
'Found them! W-what-?'
'Uh-huh. In the river. Tied together with bailing wire. Looks like they'd been there since the night of the hold up.'
'W-well' – Dusty swallowed. 'Why… What do you suppose -?'
'Tug, of course. To beat them out of their split. Seems like they should have figured on it, and given it to him instead. But, well, that's the way things go.'
He left.
Dusty walked over to the window, pulling his bathrobe around him. So Tug's boys had got it, too. Tug had double-crossed them, just as he had Bascom. And what about it, anyway? What difference did it make? Tug wouldn't double-cross him, because he damned well couldn't, and that was all that mattered.
He'd be out of the hospital tomorrow. In a few days, as soon as his shoulder limbered, up a little more, he'd be back to work. Then, the split of the money – Tug would get in touch with him about that – and then…
He turned away from the window. He sank down into an easy chair and leaned back, propping his feet up on the bed. The money. He still didn't know how Tug planned to collect his share. The gangster had impatiently pointed out that they'd have to wait and see, mat circumstances following the robbery would dictate arrangements. And that was true, of course; it was just about the way it had to be.
But still – hadn't he been pretty offhand about it? Had he been concealing something on this point as he had on the other?
Well… Dusty shrugged, dismissing the idea. That didn't matter either. Tug could only get to the money through him. There was no. way that Tug could do him out of his share. That was the important thing, so to hell with details.
… A nurse brought his dinner on a tray. He ate leisurely and read the evening papers. There was a brief item about his leaving the hospital tomorrow. There was a long story about the discovery of the murdered gangsters. He laid the papers aside, yawning, and glanced at his wristwatch.
He had told his father not to visit him tonight, since it was his last night here, and he hoped to God that he wouldn't. Not that the old man hadn't looked presentable on his nightly visits, but – well, he'd just rather not scare him. His concern made Dusty uncomfortable. His presence was a reminder of a perplexing and seemingly insoluble problem. Dusty just couldn't think when his father was around. There was a stumbling block in his mind, an obscuring shadow over the pleasant picture of his thoughts.
Marcia Hillis was working with Tug. He had become more and more sure of that fact. He was also sure of his attraction for her – strange how very sure he was of that. And now that her work with Tug was done, now that he had money, it would only be a matter of time until they were together.
That was the way it would be. It was the way it had to be. It wasn't just wishful thinking – by God, it wasn't! He had lost her once, lost the only woman in the world. And, now, miraculously, she had reappeared, she had come back into the aching emptiness of his life. And this time, this time, he would not let her get away.
He would have her. It was unthinkable that he might not. In his mind, the possession was already accomplished; they were already together, he and Marcia Hillis, delighting in one another, delighting one another. And there was no room in the picture for his father. With his father, there was no picture.
How could he explain her to the old man? How could he explain the money? He wouldn't have to explain right away, of course. It would be months before he dared quit the hotel and move on to another city – another country. But the time would come. Or, rather, it would never come, as long as his father lived.
As long as he lived…
Dusty had no visitors that night. In the morning, the doctor gave him a final examination and a nurse brought his clothes. He took an elevator downstairs. Unused to exercise, he wobbled a little as he started across the lobby to the street. And a soft hand closed over his arm.
'Let me help you, Mr. Rhodes,' said Marcia Hillis.
FIFTEEN
He wasn't surprised, merely startled for the moment. He had been expecting to see her, and her appearance there, as he was leaving the hospital, virtually explained the reason behind it. She wasn't quite through with her assignment with Tug. There was one more thing to be done. He knew what it was, and how it was to be done, almost before she said a word.
'They' took a cab to his house. She assisted him inside, was received with absent matter-of-factness by the old man. He was glad, he said, that Bill had hired her. They would need someone, with Bill just out of the hospital, and he himself wasn't much help he guessed.
'Now, nonsense, Dad!' Dusty was almost exuberant in his happiness 'You do a lot more than you should. I've been meaning to get someone in before this to make things easier for you.'
'Well, now,' Mr. Rhodes beamed. 'I – that's certainly nice of you, son.'
'You must have had a hard time while I was gone. So today you get a vacation. Go to a good show, get yourself a good meal; just take it easy and enjoy yourself.'
He pressed a ten-dollar bill upon Mr. Rhodes. He saw him out the door, watched for a moment as he trudged down the walk toward the bus stop. That would take care of the old nuisance. It was worth ten times ten dollars to get rid of him for a while.
He was on the point of saying as much when he turned back around, but the look on Marcia's face stopped him. There was a tenderness in her eyes, a warmth in her expression, that he had never seen before.
'You know,' she said softly, 'I think I like you.'
'Think?'
'Mmmm,' she said, and laughed. 'And I think I'd like some coffee, too. So if you'll introduce me to your kitchen, show me where you keep things…'
She made coffee, donning an apron he gave her. He watched her, dreamily, as she moved about the kitchen, drinking in every delicious detail of her. The hair, the compactly curving body, the clothes, the – The clothes. He
