The Long Ride (6 page)

They were all assigned to the fourth floor. John followed the bellboy into his room, noting that the Garwiths were two doors down, Harry Wells four. Mrs. Landry, Miss Kennicot and Mrs. Moore were on the opposite side of the hall. John tipped the bellboy, examining the room quickly. It was small but carefully arranged and newly furnished.

When the bellboy had gone, John waited beside the door. After a few minutes he heard a door down the hall opening and closing. He walked to the telephone and got the desk. “Manager, please.”

In a moment a nasal-sounding voice said, “Yes? Mr. Brander speaking.”

“This is John Benson. Room four-oh-eight. I just checked in.”

“Yes, Mr. Benson. Is anything wrong?”

“The plumbing seems to be in trouble up here.”

“The plumbing?”

“That’s right, Mr. Brander. I’d like you to come up and look at it.”

“What is it? A worn washer? I can send our maintenance man up immediately—”

“It’s more serious than that, Mr. Brander. I don’t want your maintenance man. I want you to come up personally, at once.”

“Well, but I—”

“Now,” John said, and hung up. He walked to the window. His room faced the street bordering the front of the hotel. He saw Harry Wells step to the curb and stand there, unmoving. He picked up the telephone again, opening his wallet with his free hand and looking at one of the numbers written in pencil on a business card announcing his own name and his advertising agency in Lafayette, Indiana. He gave the number to the PBX operator and in a moment heard a woman’s voice saying, “Hello?” A baby was crying behind her.

“Is Mr. Harnet there, please?”

“Yes, I’ll call him.”

The baby stopped crying. A man’s voice sounded: “Yes?”

“Mr. Harnet, this is John Benson. I stopped in Loma City for a few days on my way west to see a friend, and I met Don Harkert. He said he was an old friend of yours. When I told him I’d be going through Cheyenne, he asked me to give you a ring, to send on his regards.”

“Well, that’s very nice. Yes, Don and I are old friends. How is he?”

“Very good. He says he hopes to get over here this fall and do some hunting. Jackson Hole was all he could talk about.”

“Well, we’ll be glad to see him. How are you traveling, Mr. Benson?”

“Car. I’m riding with several others.”

“I see. Where are you staying?”

“The Plateau.”

“Well, listen. Couldn’t you drop over this evening, Mr. Benson? How about dinner? We could—”

“Thanks very much, Mr. Harnet. I’m afraid not.”

“Well, anyway, I’m glad to hear Don’s fine and that he’s coming along this fall. Going to Los Angeles, Mr. Benson?”

“San Francisco. Don tells me you’re in the florist business. How’s business?”

“Excellent, Mr. Benson.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Some day I’d like to try my luck at Jackson Hole myself.”

“I hope you will, Mr. Benson.”

“Good-by, Mr. Harnet.”

“Thanks for calling, Mr. Benson.”

He hung up and looked out the window, noting that Harry Wells was still standing at the curb, motionless, watching the occasional cars passing. The neighborhood was quiet. A small park was across the street, with a fountain in the center and green benches along the diagonal walks. Beyond that were old but neat frame houses.

What, John thought, am I doing here? And why isn’t Maggie here with me?

He shook his head, forcing himself back to reality. Maggie’s dead, he thought; whip yourself with that fact until you bleed enough to know it, once and for all. Strange city, strange people all around, everything you’ve gotten used to, grown to love, either smashed or somewhere else. You’ve got to start over. There’s no other way.

He thought of telephoning the boys in Chicago. But he gave the thought up quickly. One thing he was sure of: Garwith had faked his attack. And that meant that he’d wanted to stop in Cheyenne for a definite reason. Whether or not this hotel, the Plateau, had anything to do with it was the problem. If it did, then he could not allow himself to telephone his sons in Chicago, because they might just very well innocently give something away, something that could be picked up on the switchboard. And for the same reason he had not done so with the call to Harnet a few moments ago, he did not want to go to a public booth—with a telephone in his room, it might look suspicious. And he could not afford to alert either Garwith or Harry Wells. Or, in fact, Margaret Moore, if she were possibly mixed up in this some way.

There was a tap at his door. He opened it. Margaret Moore stood smiling at him.

“Well,” he said. “Hello.”

She nodded. “Nice room, John?”

“Very nice, Margaret. Come in?” He looked down the hall and saw the elevator doors open. A small man in a white linen suit and brilliant blue tie stepped out, and moved with a quick, nervous stride down the hall.

Margaret Moore followed the direction of his eyes. “I didn’t stop to invite myself in, John. I simply wanted to induce you to invite me downstairs for a cup of coffee. That could lead to dinner. I’m not particularly backward, if you haven’t guessed.”

He smiled. “I’ve always hated backward people. Sure. I’d like to.”

The man in the white suit and brilliant blue tie arrived. He had wispy gray hair and a look of disbelieving hurt in his eyes. “Mr. Benson,” he announced, “I’m Mr. Brander, the manager of the Plateau, and I find this very distressing.”

John looked at Mrs. Moore. “I’m having a little trouble with the plumbing.”

“Really,” Mrs. Moore said.

“What,” Mr. Brander said, “could possibly be wrong with the plumbing? We simply don’t hire out our rooms in a state of disrepair. We—”

“I’ll show you in a moment,” John said to him. Then to Mrs. Moore: “Could you wait a moment in your room for me, Margaret? I’ll pick you up just as soon as we get this straightened out.”

“This truly dismays me,” Mr. Brander said. “I don’t know when one of our customers has insisted that I, as manager of this hotel, come up to check faulty plumbing. We’ve just never had any plumbing problems at the Plateau.”

“All right,” Mrs. Moore said, nodding, looking at Mr. Brander curiously. “Fine, John.” She crossed the hall. John shut the door gently as Mr. Brander strode into the bathroom.

“Now,” Mr. Brander called in his hurt voice, “what is it here that’s gone wrong?”

“Mr. Brander,” John said, “come back, will you?”

Mr. Brander came back into the room, staring at John haughtily. “This is
most
peculiar, Mr. Benson. I—”

“Just a moment, Mr. Brander.” John stepped to the suitcase rack and opened one of his bags. Carefully he pulled the lining open at one side. He removed a card and handed it to Mr. Brander. Mr. Brander examined it, then looked up blinking. “FBI.”

“That’s right,” John said, and replaced the card, shutting the bag.

“Well,” Mr. Brander said nervously. “We wouldn’t want the plumbing defective for anyone, Mr. Benson. Especially for the FBI. If you’ll just tell me—”

“The plumbing’s fine, Mr. Brander.”

“It is?” Mr. Brander said, blinking. “Well, but—”

“I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Brander. Sit down, won’t you?”

“Oh,” Mr. Brander said. He stood there for a moment, nodding, then suddenly sat down. “Oh, I see.” He nodded again. “I see it all now! My goodness! What’s gone wrong, Mr. Benson?”

“How long have you been managing this hotel, Mr. Brander?”

“Twenty-two years, Mr. Benson. That is an absolute accurate statement. It was twenty-two years day before yesterday.”

“This looks like quite a new hotel.”

“We moved in here five years ago. Before that we were two blocks down. But it was always the Hotel Plateau. And I’ve managed it without serious trouble for twenty-two years. I just hope nothing’s gone wrong now to destroy the reputation I’ve worked so hard to build up. This hotel is owned by Mr. Emil Crabbe, one of Wyoming’s principal cattle men. I’ve always been able to look Mr. Crabbe straight in the eye because I’ve run the hotel as conscientiously as I know how. I’m married, Mr. Benson, to a wonderful girl I met in nineteen thirty-five right here in Cheyenne, and she’s given me two fine boys, one of whom is now a doctor in Phoenix, Arizona, the other of whom is a lawyer in Pasadena, California. I am the grandfather of seven boys and girls. I take pride in my life, Mr. Benson. I just hope nothing has gone seriously wrong.”

John examined him closely, then smiled. “I’m sure it hasn’t as far as you’re concerned, Mr. Brander. All I want is your co-operation.”

“By golly, you’ll get that, Mr. Benson.”

“Good. Now, who runs your PBX board?”

“Alice Begley. Same fine woman who’s run it for the past fifteen years.”

“You recommend her character, Mr. Brander?”

“I’d put my life on it.”

“And your desk clerks?”

“Joe Curry, Albert Thompson. I’ve known them both as long as I’ve lived in Cheyenne, which is all of my life.”

“The rest of your employees?”

“There isn’t anyone in this hotel who has less than ten years of service, Mr. Benson. Except Albert Thompson’s son. He’s sixteen and only works for us summers.”

“All right. Fine.”

“What is it, Mr. Benson? What is it all about?”

“Just a routine check, Mr. Brander. That’s all I can tell you. This is, of course, a private conversation.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that. How about my wife? Can I tell my wife?”

“If you make sure it’s just going that far.”

“I promise.”

“All right. Now all I’d like, Mr. Brander, is that you tell me anything that goes on that might seem unusual concerning any of the people I’m riding with. Again—this has got to be kept just between you and me. You came up here to check the plumbing, nothing more. If you discover anything—and you are positive you can trust your PBX operator or whoever’s on the switchboard—then call me when I’m in my room. Your Miss Begley doesn’t work around the clock, does she?”

“No, sir. Daytimes is all. Albert takes over both the desk and the board after eight o’clock. But you can trust everybody in this hotel, including Albert—I guarantee it. Just anything unusual at all?”

“That’s right, Mr. Brander. Anything at all unusual between now and the time we leave, which will be tomorrow morning.”

Mr. Brander stood up, looking determined. “You can count on me, sir.”

“I’m sure I can, and I thank you very much. You’ve been very kind and co-operative.”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Brander said, moving to the door. He stopped, looking quite serious. “I, of course, don’t know what you’re going after, Mr. Benson. I suppose it’s murdering, thieving, dope, something like that. But I’ll tell you I’m relieved to find out there isn’t anything wrong with the Hotel Plateau’s plumbing.”

“I’m sure,” John said, “that the Plateau’s plumbing is undoubtedly in superb condition, Mr. Brander.”

“I feel I can breathe again,” Mr. Brander said, and disappeared.

John stepped to the window and looked out as the last light of the day escaped a dimming Cheyenne. Harry Wells was still standing below, unmoving, a cigarette between his lips, the faint breeze picking up the smoke and curling it away from him. John looked across the street at the park. A blue Chevrolet came to a stop on the opposite side of the block. A man in a light gray suit and matching straw hat got out, a newspaper under his arm, and strolled into the park. He stopped and sat down on a bench and opened the newspaper.

All right, John thought. That’s taken care of.

He washed his hands, brushed his hair, then stepped out into the hall and walked to Margaret Moore’s door. He’d done all he could do for the moment. Until tomorrow morning it would be up to either Allan Garwith or Harry Wells, or both, to do something. Until then all he had to do was wait, keep calm, and be ready to act if he had to. Right now he could afford to concentrate on Margaret Moore. And that, he thought, knocking lightly on the door of her room, remembering the look in her eyes when she’d come straightforwardly to his room, was not going to be difficult.

CHAPTER

Harry Wells finished his cigarette, standing beside the street running in front of the hotel. The breeze was definitely cooling now. Wells was grateful for that. When he was tense, he sweated. And that took the creases out of things, clammed up his clothing. He liked things crisp and fresh and well-pressed. Well, he thought, when he got his hands on that money, he was going to pick some place in this world where it was cool all of the time.

He turned, looking up at the fourth floor. He would like to kick Garwith’s door down and walk in and throttle him just like he had that kid in the motel back in Loma City. But he couldn’t do it. He had to wait until Garwith made a slip. He lifted a hand and rubbed a cheek angrily. He was getting tired. He hadn’t really slept since this thing started. And now he certainly couldn’t relax. What was he going to do next?

There was a small dull ache in the back of his head. That always happened when he was perplexed and couldn’t immediately figure out what to do.

He had to keep track of that guy, every minute. He was certain Garwith didn’t slightly suspect who he was.

But Garwith just might pick up and leave, any time. He couldn’t afford to lose him.

But what to do? The small ache in his head was annoying, as he tried to sort out the possibilities. He couldn’t stand here all night.

He turned around, looking up the broad steps at the hotel. He frowned a little, then got his wallet from his hip pocket and removed a ten-dollar bill.

He walked into the lobby, the bill folded in his left hand. He stopped at the desk, trying to make his brain work, so that he could do this right.

The man behind the desk was a different clerk than the one who had registered them. He was tall, massive-shouldered, with a weak, stolid face. He stood in stoop-shouldered dignity, looking as though he had handled this job long enough that he no longer had to apologize for anything in this world.

“You the clerk for the night shift?” Wells asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Listen, how would you like to make yourself ten bucks?” He looked around. The lobby was empty.

“You’re with the large party that just checked in?”

“I’m riding with them. How about it?”

The clerk’s eyes had narrowed slightly. There was a very faint twitching of his nose. “I think you misunderstand this hotel, sir. We have been in business, honorably, for a good number of years now.”

“Listen,” Wells said. “I don’t care how long you’ve been in business.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. This is definitely not that kind of hotel. I wouldn’t consider involving myself.”

Wells blinked, finally understanding. “I’m not talking about that.” He shook his head angrily. “This is something personal between me and one of the people I’m riding with.” He nodded, growing more positive with each second that he had figured this out right. “Did you see that guy who’s got one arm?”

“I’m afraid not, sir,” the clerk said, still suspicious and haughty.

“Well, that’s all you have to know. He’s got one arm. You can’t miss him, even if you’re half asleep.”

“I guarantee you, sir,” the clerk said, eyes flashing, “that I’m never half asleep on this job.”

“All right. Only it’s the guy with one arm. Now. He borrowed some money from me.” His nerves jumped a little, when he said that. Then he felt calm again. This was the way to handle it, he was sure of it. “He borrowed five hundred bucks. I somehow got the feeling I might have made a mistake. Do you follow me?”

The clerk shook his head, frowning. “I’m afraid not, sir.”

“I don’t want him running out on me with that five hundred. It’s worth ten bucks to me to see he doesn’t. Now I’m tired. I’d like to get some sleep. So—I give you ten bucks. Put it on the counter for you just like this. And I go up and go to bed and get myself some sleep. You call me if the guy with one arm comes down. You see what I mean?”

The clerk was nodding, at last. “Well, now that’s quite another matter. I thought at first—”

“I know what you thought. How about it?”

“Of course,” the clerk said, putting his hand on the ten-dollar bill. “We’re always happy, at the Plateau, to be of any reasonable and honest service that we can.”

“All right,” Wells said. “One thing more. Don’t tell anybody about this. The guy’s got a decent wife. I don’t trust him, but his wife’s okay, see? So I got to ride with these people to the Coast. So I don’t want to get people upset thinking I’m afraid maybe that one-armed guy would run off with that money he owes me. Follow?”

“Now,” the clerk nodded, “I follow you perfectly.” He tucked the bill carefully into the breast pocket of his suit.

“This is just between you and me,” Wells said. “If it gets any other way, I’m not going to like it.”

“Of course not, sir. You may rest assured.”

“I hope so,” Wells said. “Otherwise I’ll come down here and break your neck with my bare hands.”

The clerk blinked, realizing the intensity with which Wells had spoken his last words to him. Then Wells made a brisk about-face and walked to the elevator. In a few moments he was in his room.

There, he considered it and was positive he’d handled this right. Relaxing a little, finally, he was more weary than ever. He looked at his watch and realized he hadn’t eaten. But he was tired, tired…

There was a knock on his door. He opened it carefully. Mrs. Landry stood in the hall.

“Hello, Mr. Wells!” she said brightly. “How is your room? All right?”

“What?” Wells said. “Oh, yeah. It’s all right.”

“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad to hear it. What do you plan for dinner, Mr. Wells? I’m just out gathering up those who want to go to dinner together. Miss Kennicot’s freshening up, and I thought I’d go around and ask everyone. I haven’t asked the Garwiths, you understand. I felt so sorry for that poor boy. But I’ll just have to leave it up to them if they want to have dinner with any of the rest of us. How about you, Mr. Wells? Would you like to join us somewhere?”

“I’m a little tired. I’m just going to bed.” And how was he going to explain that, he thought, if the clerk downstairs told him Garwith and his wife had gone out, say for dinner, and he’d have to follow them? Why didn’t the old lady mind her own business? They ought to throw a net over both her and that Kennicot woman. “I think I’ll just skip dinner. I’m just not hungry right now.”

“Oh, you do look tired, Mr. Wells. But it isn’t good to skip your dinner. An Army man like you? I’ve heard how Army people eat lots and lots of good food.” She snapped plump fingers. “Of course—I just thought of it. We didn’t eat all of those sandwiches I had packed. They won’t last for tomorrow. Now you just wait a minute. I’ll get those sandwiches for you.”

“Mrs. Landry—” Wells began.

“No argument, Mr. Wells. I’ll just be a minute.” She hurried down the hall and disappeared into the room she shared with Miss Kennicot. As the door opened and shut, he could hear Miss Kennicot singing lustily. He closed his eyes and swore silently. Then Mrs. Landry reappeared, carrying a basket. She handed it to him, patting his hand. “Now, you just take that, Mr. Wells. You just go into your room and eat those sandwiches and then get yourself a nice long rest. We won’t be leaving until eight o’clock tomorrow morning, remember, and I’ll bet that’s late in the day for a good Army man. Sleep tight, Mr. Wells. Pleasant dreams.”

Wells stepped back into his room. He put the basket on the bed angrily. Christ, he thought. The damn stupid woman.

His single suitcase was resting on the rack at the foot of the bed. He opened it and looked at it carefully. Socks had been rolled into pairs, the top of one fitted around the whole to make a neat bundle. The bundles were carefully lined in a tight row. White shorts and T-shirts had been similarly rolled and fitted in absolute rows. Everything in that bag was precisely placed, including his gun, and Harry Wells was ready for a complete showdown inspection any second. The iron, the item that severely weighted the bag, was at the back end of the bag. He removed it and placed it on the top of a bureau. Then he took out a thick, browned length of heavy cloth that he used to place over whatever surface he used for his pressing.

He removed his billfold, Zippo lighter, keys and change from his pockets, then took off his suit and shirt and underwear, standing in lean, bare hardness.

He hung the suit in the closet. He wouldn’t, he thought, do any pressing until tomorrow, so he would be leaving here with everything in its best shape.

He carried his shirt and underwear into the bath and filled the washbasin with lukewarm water, to let the clothing soak. Then he returned to his suitcase and removed a large bar of Ivory soap; you couldn’t beat Ivory, he’d decided a long time ago, for the suds. Finally he took out a clean T-shirt and a pair of shorts and placed them carefully on the bag. Before he snapped the bag shut, he looked at the gold-framed picture he’d placed on the bottom of the bag. He took it out, careful to rearrange the socks he’d disturbed.

It was a picture of himself in khakis faded almost white from the sun and constant washing; there was a short strip of neatly laced leggings beneath the bloused trousers, and his hair was clipped neatly at the temples. He’d looked very lanky, brown and bone-young. He’d been a staff sergeant then, and you could see the stripes on the sleeve the girl was holding with one possessive hand. The girl was small, dark, with high cheekbones and large, animal-bright eyes; she had long black hair and wore a thin dress that showed the good lift of her breasts, the thick, ripe set of her hips. The picture had been taken in Panama in 1943.

He placed the picture on the bureau and returned to the bath, to hand-scrub the clothing in the sink. A long time ago, Panama and Pooli. Pooli—what a name. But she’d been fine. Part French, part Chinese, part Spanish, part Indian—the best of all of those bloods. Panama had been no good otherwise. Stinking hot, and he’d been nervous down there in an RA garrison, drinking PX beer and local rum, while the war got into a full-scale operation.

But there’d been Pooli, eager, soft, lazy, spitting, seductive, abandoned, loving, all wrapped up into one little French-Chinese-Spanish-Indian girl.

How long had it been? Too long. She’d written him some pathetic letters in horrible grammar that had made even him wince. He’d never answered them. All he had to do was think of that stinking heat down there, and he didn’t even want to write to her. But she’d been the best woman he’d ever had, worth that fight he’d had in the beginning to get her.

He paused, soapy white shirt in hand, and remembered that Panamanian bar, dancing with Pooli, and that sergeant from another battalion who’d come up and announced Pooli was his and had been for six months. His eyes narrowed a little, as he remembered how they’d gone at it, all over that bar. How the sergeant, a tall, blond, blue-eyed, mean son of a bitch from New Jersey, had finally pulled a knife.

He’d really had to go for him then, smashing the bastard’s head with a bottle, finally slamming him against the railing of the bar. They carried him out of there. Dead. And he’d been ultimately glad for that knife, because the knife made it self-defense on his part. The Army hadn’t wanted trouble down there, and the bastard from New Jersey had a reputation for trouble. They hadn’t even put it on his record, let alone shaved his stripes.

He shrugged, dipping his shirt. Long time ago. But when he got this done, got the money from Garwith, he might go down and see how fat Pooli had gotten, how many illegitimate kids she had running around after her.

But, he thought, probably not. Too hot down there, even for a short visit. No, he was going where it was cool, where you could put on clean clothes and have them stay neat and fresh and well-pressed for hours. Alaska maybe. That sounded all right. Iceland, Norway, Sweden. Anywhere where you didn’t sweat all of the time.

When he’d washed his clothes, he showered for twenty minutes, scrubbing and rinsing himself steadily. He stretched a cord from his bag between two chairs near a window and hung the clothes to dry. They would be just right for pressing in the morning, he thought.

Then he sat down on the bed in fresh shorts and T-shirt and put a cigarette between his lips, looking disdainfully at the basket containing the sandwiches. He snapped the Zippo lighter. It failed to light. He looked at it carefully.

He tried again, frowning. It failed again. Slowly he took it apart. The flint was all right. But he could see that the fluid was running out. He got the fluid can from his bag and soaked the cotton. He could see, because the fluid had run low, that the wick had burned down. But he didn’t have another wick.

He reassembled the lighter, attempting to lift the wick slightly, and tried once again. It sparked, but it wouldn’t light. He tried it over and over, a look of stubborn concentration in his eyes, a faint ache starting at the back of his head once more.

He took the lighter apart again, absently taking a sandwich from the basket beside him. He ate the sandwich. Then assembled the lighter and tried again. It wouldn’t work. He took it apart again, oblivious of time. He worked for forty minutes, consuming the sandwiches, all of them, without realizing he had. Still the lighter wouldn’t work.

That impassive look of stubborn concentration never left his eyes. He assembled and reassembled the lighter, never working faster or slower than he had the first time. Finally he realized an hour had gone by. He placed the lighter on the night stand and turned out the lights and lay back in bed. He would have to get a wick somewhere tomorrow.

He closed his eyes; then, after a few minutes, he sat up and switched on the lights again. He picked up the lighter and took it apart again.

He looked very much as he had when he’d been sitting on his bunk one summer evening at Fort Dix in 1944, just before his division shipped overseas into combat. Then he’d been perplexed with a faulty ejector spring on his carbine. The rifle needed a new spring. He could have walked over to the supply room and gotten a new one. But instead he attempted to make the old one work. He’d repeatedly taken apart and reassembled the rifle’s mechanism, the same look in his eyes as he had now.