Wild Town (8 page)

I
t was the second time, since the date of his employment, that Bugs had talked with Hanlon. The first occasion had been about ten days after he came to the hotel, when, at the old man’s request—or order—he had taken him along on his nightly tour of the building.

Hanlon had had to be in his wheelchair, of course, and in place of the stairs they had moved from floor to floor in one of the out-of-use elevators. The cars were very simple to operate, Bugs learned. Hanlon had taught him all there was to know about it in a few minutes, also showing him how to open the elevator door from the outside.

Thinking back on that evening, several incidents which had had no meaning for him at the time began to acquire significance.

Bugs had unlocked the car—you did it by inserting a short rod through two holes in the door and bearing downward. He had started to wheel Hanlon into its darkened interior, and the old man had gripped the wheels of his chair, holding it immobile. If Bugs didn’t mind, he said wryly, he’d like the car’s lights turned on before entering it.

Bugs turned them on. Studying him shrewdly, Hanlon had explained the reason for his request.

“Like to make sure the car’s actually there, y’know. Can’t really tell without the lights on. Might not be anything but the empty shaft.”

“But why wouldn’t it be there?” Bugs looked at him blankly. “If I left it with the door closed—”

“Isn’t exactly hard to open, is it? Do it with practically anything strong enough to bear a little weight. Yeah”—Hanlon nodded slowly—“things like that have happened. A bellboy gets impatient and takes a floored car. Or a maintenance engineer thinks it’s been stalled, and takes it for a test trip. Or maybe it’s just a fluke; the thing slips on its cables. That’s happened, too, with cars that get a lot of heavy service. Anyway,” he concluded, “I don’t enter any elevators unless I’m sure there’s one to enter.”

He had said, rather shyly, that there was a swell view from the roof, so Bugs had taken him up there. He had wheeled him up close to the parapet, and together, fourteen stories up, they had looked out over the twinkling, thundering, garishly-lit forest of derricks. The smell of crude oil was in the air; the smell of natural gas, fresh from its mile-deep storehouses; the smell of drilling mud, and salt water and sulphur.

Hanlon sniffed the breeze hungrily. Wasn’t that something? he asked. Wasn’t that really something? Bugs said it smelled a lot like rotten eggs to him. The old man stiffened but ignored the comment.

“That’s death out there, Bugs. All over out there. All dressed up, and with his pockets full of dollar bills…It’s the most dangerous business in the world, did you know that? Coal-mining, construction—they aren’t in it with the oil fields. Well, it’s not so bad now that the big companies have moved in, but the kind of operation I used to run, that the average wildcatter runs—God Almighty! Insurance costs you practically as much as your payroll…Yep, it’s death everywhere you turn, and Bugs, it never bothered me much. Not out there. I met the old boy day after day, and I didn’t like him naturally. But I wasn’t worried about him, I wasn’t afraid of him. Out there…”

A gust of wind whipped across the roof. It snatched the robe from the old man’s knees, and Bugs grabbed at it, his arm striking against and rocking the chair. Instantly, he found himself looking down the barrel of a gun which the robe had concealed.

“Hey!” he grunted, more surprised than alarmed. “What are you doing with that?”

Hanlon hesitated; laughed apologetically. “You know, I’d forgot I had the thing with me? I was cleaning it today, and I must have shoved it in my pocket afterward. Didn’t discover it until now, just as that robe blew off, and when I made a grab for the robe…”

He left the sentence unfinished. Bugs held out his hand. “Mind if I take a look at it?”

“Why?”—sharply. “Why do you want to look at it?”

Bugs was immediately haughty. “If you put it that way, I don’t want to. Forget I asked you.”

Hanlon handed it to him, insisted that he look at it. But the gun was kind of a pet with him, apparently, for he kept his eyes on it every second. Bugs could understand his attitude—what he thought was his attitude. He liked a good gun himself. Somewhat mollified, he examined it and started to hand it back.

“Carry it for me, Bugs. Keep it until we get back to the suite…”

“That’s all right,” Bugs said, misunderstanding. “I just wanted to look at it.”

“No, I’d like to have you do it. It’s kind of awkward for me in this chair.”

Bugs carried it back to the suite for him. There Hanlon asked him to prepare a dose of his medicine. “It’s in the cabinet above the sink. The round bottle with the blue-and-white label. I take three drops in a half-glass of water.”

Bugs entered the bathroom. He drew exactly one-half glass of water, and cautiously dripped exactly three drops of the fluid into it. He turned to leave, and there was Hanlon, his chair wheeled up into the doorway.

“Thought I’d have you give me a drink of cold water first,” he explained. “Mouth seems to have got a little dry up there on the roof.”

Bugs gave it to him, gave him the medicine. He said then that he guessed he’d better be shoving off unless Hanlon wanted something else.

“Nothing, thanks. And Bugs”—he grinned in an odd way—“thanks very much for the excursion. I can’t tell you how much good it’s done me.”

“Glad to do it,” Bugs said gruffly. “Any time you’d like to go again, just holler.”

“We-ell…I wouldn’t feel right about asking you, telling you to do it. It’s a lot of extra work for you, and you’re not paid to play nursemaid.”

“Hell, it’s no trouble. I really don’t mind at all, Mr. Hanlon,” Bugs insisted.

“Well, I’ll leave it up to you, anyway,” Hanlon said. “I’m usually up pretty late. Any time you feel like you’d like to have a little company, or there’s something you’d like to talk to me about, why, just stop by. Don’t need to call beforehand. Just knock on the door, and I’ll be rarin’ to go.”

Bugs was touched by the old man’s eagerness. Moreover, he sensed Hanlon’s very genuine liking for him, and, appearances to the contrary, he hungered for liking. So he said they’d be seeing a lot of each other; he’d be dropping by soon and often. And he really meant to. And then he had got to mulling over the implications of the situation—implications which would never have occurred to anyone but him—and he had never dropped by. Nor did he intend to, unless so ordered.

It just wouldn’t do, you see. Hanlon would misunderstand. Hanlon would think he was sucking up to him, that he was the kind of guy who went around brown-nosing the boss. If he was ordered to wheel him around, okay. He
did
want to keep his job, so he’d follow orders to the letter. But even then he wouldn’t knock himself out being pleasant, as (in his own mind) he had done before. He’d make it clear that this wasn’t his job, that he wasn’t a
nursemaid
—to use a term which the old man had tactlessly used himself.

…He knocked on the parlor of Hanlon’s suite. Receiving no answer, he unlocked the door with his emergency key—a key used in opening doors locked from the inside—and went in.

Hanlon was on the terrace, his chair drawn up to an umbrella-shaded table. He heard Bugs’s entrance, and gestured a greeting to him. And Bugs crossed the room and went out through the French doors.

“Coffee?” The old man motioned to a chair, and poured from a silver pot. “Sorry if I got you out of bed, Bugs.”

“That’s all right,” Bugs said, not too graciously. “What’s on your mind, Mr. Hanlon?”

“Westbrook.” Hanlon took out a cigarette, looked at Bugs over the tip. “I tried to get in touch with him early this morning. When I couldn’t, I had his room checked. It hadn’t been slept in. He’s nowhere in the hotel. I wonder if you know where he could have gone to?”

“Me?” Bugs set down his cup, and it rattled slightly against the saucer. “How would I know?”

“I just asked…give me a light, will you?”

Bugs held a match for him. Hanlon gripped his hand and steadied it, looking into his eyes.

“Did you talk to him yesterday, Bugs? Or last night, I should say?”

“No.”

“Sure about that? One of the maids, that pretty little Vara gal, saw him last night on your floor. According to the telephone operator, you were still in your room at the time. I don’t know of any reason why he would have been up there except to see you.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Bugs’s forehead. A weak, silly laugh welled out of his throat.

“Oh, well, yeah,” he laughed again. “Ollie did stop by to see me for a few minutes. But it was after midnight, y’know; think it was, anyhow. It was this morning, not last night. When you asked me if I’d seen him last night, why—why—”

“Never mind.” Hanlon grimaced distastefully. “What did he want to see you about?”

“Nothing much. I—Look, Mr. Hanlon.” Bugs had a seeming inspiration. “I didn’t want to tell you about his coming to see me, because he’d been drinking quite a bit. I thought if you found out he was wandering around—”

“I need you to tell me that Ollie drinks? You think I didn’t know it? Now,
you
look!” Hanlon crashed his fist down on the table. “I wasn’t born yesterday or even the day before. I’ve been around, get me? I’m not stupid, get me? I’m supposed to be smart, get me, and I damned well am. And if you’re half-way smart, you’ll start talking!”

He leaned back in his chair, shakily. After a moment, he said. “All right, I’m waiting.”

Bugs nodded. “All right. I didn’t want to tell you about it because…well, you’ll see why. Ollie did a quarterly audit of the books last night. He discovered a big shortage—better than five thousand dollars. He couldn’t prove it, but he was sure that Dudley had knocked down the money.…”

“That’s right,” Hanlon said, as though he were following a recitation with the text. “I knew it was something like that. I warned Ollie against the bastard. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I told Ollie at the time that if there ever was a sneak and a sharper—Excuse me, Bugs. You were saying!”

“Well, that’s about it. He was worried to death. He figured this place was his last chance, if he lost out here he’d never get another job, and he was sure you’d fire him.”

“And he didn’t miss it either! When you warn and warn a man about something, and he still goes right ahead and…well,” Hanlon sighed grudgingly, “I guess I’d probably give him another chance. Shouldn’t but I would. He’s a mighty good little man, and I can’t really fault him for being loyal to his friends.”

Bugs was calming down a little. He said it was nice of Hanlon to feel that way.

“Just practical, Bugs. Just practical.” The old man leaned forward confidentially. “Do you suppose he will show up again? In a few days, you know, as soon as he snaps out of his drunk?”

“Well, sure. Why not?”

“You can’t think of any reason why not? Don’t try to cover up, Bugs, for him or me. It just wouldn’t wash. I’d hate it if it’s like it could be—like I was afraid it might be. It would cause a hell of a scandal, get us into a whopping lawsuit if Dudley had anything as close as a fourth cousin. But I still couldn’t go for a cover-up. So if Ollie had anything to do with what happened to Dudley—”

“He didn’t,” Bugs said steadily. “He knew it wouldn’t do him any good to see Dudley.” He elaborated briefly, explaining the matter as Westbrook had explained it to him. Hanlon seemed something less than satisfied.

“We-ell, I’ll buy that part. Ollie’s a practical guy, drunk or sober, and he wouldn’t have talked to Dudley when he knew it wouldn’t make him anything. Still, he is missing. And five thousand dollars is missing. And Dudley is dead.”

“Dudley could have spent the money,” Bugs shrugged. “He could have had it cached somewhere. And as low as Ollie was feeling…”

“Yes, I can see that, too. He can’t face the music, so he just goes off on a bat. He’s done the same thing in other places. But this suicide—” Hanlon lingered over the word. “As a cop, Bugs, doesn’t that jar the hell out of you? Dudley’s stolen the money. He’s gotten away with it; he can’t be touched. That being the case, why—”

“It beats me.” Bugs shook his head soberly. “Probably there was some trouble in his past. Something that finally caught up with him.”

“Well, yes. That could be, of course. And, of course, if a suicide behaved logically he wouldn’t be a suicide. Yes, that figures. It’s not so unreasonable when you look on it that way. You’ve taken a great load off my mind, Bugs.”

Bugs murmured modestly. He held another match for Hanlon’s cigarette.

“But I’m still left with one question”—the old man blew out the flame. “Rather, I’m left without the answer to one question. I wonder if you’d like to supply it.”

Bugs looked blank. Or tried to. But he knew what Hanlon meant; it was the question he’d been dreading…Why had Westbrook visited him the night before? Just to babble? Just to explain his predicament, to weep on a friendly shoulder? Or for another and very practical reason?

That was the question troubling Hanlon, Bugs knew. Essentially the only question. The one he’d been leading up to right from the beginning. And he knew something else: that Hanlon didn’t really give a whoop about Dudley,
per se.
That he was only mildly worried, if at all, about the possibility of a scandal or a lawsuit. He was interested in Dudley’s death, only in so far as it might be the forerunner of his own. For if Bugs had killed Dudley, if he would kill for money…

And Bugs couldn’t admit what he knew. He couldn’t confess to his growing conviction—or suspicions—that he had been hired for the purpose of murdering Hanlon. Obviously, he couldn’t. The admission that he entertained such suspicions, while continuing to remain on the job, would be damning in itself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bugs said. “Maybe you’d better tell me.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Bugs. I’m not doing Ford any favors, and I’m not interested in playing cops and robbers…or killers. Anything you say will be strictly between us. So if it was an accident—or even something a little more than that. If you were just trying to do Ollie a favor, and you lost your temper or—”