about the deposit-box cache; her dead coldness, her refusal to be swayed or persuaded. He remembered her fury over nominal trifles, because he had spoken to her sharply or thoughtlessly; frightening fits of anger which might hang on for a day or more and in which she was hardly responsible for what she did.
He had told her a thousand lies, one piling on top of the other as he sought to cover them up. He had made her a thousand promises, knowing quite well that there was hardly a chance in the world that he'd be able to keep them. He.
'
He got off the plane and went up the ramp. As he came out into the waiting room, he heard himself being paged over the public address system. He stopped dead still, then moved toward the information desk, a sick dread welling in his heart.
The message was from Red. A perfectly innocent one. Miss Corley was waiting for him in the parking area.
Mitch collected his baggage and went out to her.
She was standing at the side of the car. She was wearing a black semi-formal gown, short and low cut. Her gloves were long and white, and a white mink stole draped her shoulders, and she carried a small mesh evening bag.
He stopped a couple of steps short of her. Not knowing quite what to say, noting her strained taut expression. Then, he made a tentative motion of taking her in his arms.
'Don't!' She stepped back quickly. 'I-I mean you'll muss me up!'
'Red,' he said. 'Let me explain, will you? I-'
'No.' Her head jerked nervously. 'There's nothing to- We don't have time to talk now.'
'Because of Zearsdale, you mean? But we can't go to a party with things like this!'
'Well, we are going! We promised to go, and we will. If a person doesn't keep his promises, he-he-' She broke off, turning away from him. 'Let's get this over with, Mitch.'
She opened the door of the car and climbed in, the dress riding high on her legs. Mitch put his baggage in the trunk, and slid behind the wheel. He didn't know what the right way of handling this was-if there was a right way-but he knew that what he was doing was all wrong. He should be leading, instead of following her lead. He should not, for God's sake, be taking her to a party at a time when she was about to cloud up and rain all over him.
He saw the small mesh bag in her lap, and started to reach for it. She snatched it away.
'Don't! Don't you touch that!'
'But-But I was just going to put it in my pocket for you.'
'I don't want you to! I want to carry it myself!'
'I see,' he said. And he did see. That much anyway.
He knew why she wanted to keep possession of the bag.
He started the car. He guided it out of the parking lot and drove swiftly toward Zearsdale's house. Neither of them spoke. Red seemed on the point of it, a time or two; he could sense the occasional glances which she stole in his direction, hear the hesitancy in breathing which precedes speech. But he couldn't and wouldn't help her out any, now that he knew what he did. So she also remained silent.
He turned into the driveway of the oil man's home, feeling very dead inside, and deeply puzzled, although he no longer gave a particular damn about anything.
Why was she doing this? What kind of sense did it make to go to a party when she was planning a thing like that?
He parked the car, and helped her out. They went up the steps together, Red keeping a little away from him. Her lips were set in a nervous little smile. The color was high in her cheeks.
Zearsdale himself answered the door, as he had the night of Mitch's visit. Chatting amiably, he guided them into a small reception room and offered drinks. Red shook her head, a slight frown on her face.
'Not now, thank you. Are we the first ones here?'
'First?' said Zearsdale.
'Your first guests,' said Mitch, and he too was frowning a little. 'There doesn't seem to be anyone else here.'
Zearsdale said casually that there were others around. 'It's a big house, you know. How about you? Drink?'
'No, thanks. We'll have one with the others, if you don't mind.'
'Better have something,' Zearsdale said, and then as Mitch again declined firmly, 'Well, come along then. Got some pictures I want to show you.'
Somehow, he got himself between them as they left the room. He was still between them when they entered another, somewhat larger than the first. A motion picture screen hung from a stand about halfway down the room. Near the door they had entered stood a heavy 16-mm projector.
'Now, you sit down there, Corley. That's right, over there!' Zearsdale pointed. 'And you, miss-may I call you Red?-you sit over here, Miss Red. The others have already seen these pictures, so-Sit down, Corley!'
'No,' said Mitch. 'No, I am not sitting down, Zearsdale. I'm walking out of here, and Red is coming with me, and don't try to stop us.'
The room went silent. Zearsdale's expression froze between joviality and anger, and for a moment he looked pudgily foolish as he tried to adjust to the situation. Mitch silently cursed himself.
The mirrored ceiling above the crap table-the sudden clatter from the room above as he and Zearsdale had gambled. And then today, the way Zearsdale had thrown his weight around with Gidge Lord. Using the muscle of all his millions to make sure that he, Mitch, attended this 'party.'
How could he have missed it, for God's sake? How could he have led Red into the trap?
Red. He looked at her, so small and helpless, almost lost in the huge lounging chair. He looked at her, and her unreasoning anger-the deadly evidence of her intentions-was wiped away. And nothing mattered but getting her out of here safely.
He smiled at her, spoke with firm reassurance. 'Don't be afraid, honey. We'll leave now.'
She smiled back at him tremulously. Started to rise. Zearsdale's heavy hand came down on her shoulder, shoving her back in the chair.
'She stays,' he said. 'You're both staying.'
'Zearsdale'-Mitch moved toward him. 'You are so wrong.'
Zearsdale stood where he was. Red let out a little scream- a warning. Mitch started to wheel, and a fist exploded against the back of his neck and a kidney punch blazed fire through his body. And then he was yanked backwards, slammed down into a chair with spine-rattling force.
26
Three men stood over him. Young wiry types, preening in their toughness. Smelling faintly of pool- chalk and bowl-and-pitcher bathing. If you knew anyone who knew anyone who knew anyone, you could pick them up for a couple of bills each. But you had to catch them fast, for the man with the scythe was already reaching for them.
One of them, at least one out of three, was destined for the death cell. The lad with the tiny head and the close-set eyes was a likely candidate. The second youth? Well, to him who passeth it out, shall be returned a hundred fold. So beat his head in-he never used it, anyway- -and leave him in some dark alley with his brains spread out around him. As for the third young man (call him Pretty Boy), here surely is a victim of five-dollar sinning, for he will never spend five dollars to visit a doctor. So he also, in a different way, is a sure prospect for
